THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
The two weeks which followed the Bivens ball, were the happiest Harriet
Woodman had known since Nan's shadow had fallen across her life. Every
moment was crowded with the work of preparing for her trip, except the
hours she could not refuse Stuart, who had suddenly waked to the fact
that something beautiful was going out of his life. Every day he asked
her to play and sing for him or go for one of their rambles over the
hills. They talked but little. He simply loved to be alone with her.
Harriet watched him with keen joy, and deep in her heart a secret hope
began to slowly grow.
The day she sailed he refused to go with her to the pier.
"Why Jim, you must come with me!" she protested.
"No, I can't, little pal. Sit down at your piano now and sing my
favourite song and I'll say goodbye here."
"But why?" she pleaded.
"I'm not quite sure how I would behave in public."
Without a word she took off her gloves, sat down at the piano and sung
in low tones of melting tenderness. When the last note died away, he
rose quietly, came to her side, and took her hand.
"I never knew, little girl, how my life has grown into yours until I'm
about to lose you."
"But you're not going to lose me. Remember I'm coming back to sing for
you before thousands. And I'm going to make you proud of me."
"I couldn't know how deeply and tenderly I love you, child, until this
moment when I'm about to say goodbye."
The little figure was very still. Her eyes drooped and her lips
trembled pathetically. She knew that he had said too much to mean a
great deal. He had spoken of his love for her as a "child," when long
ago the child had grown into the tragic figure of a woman who had
learned to wait and suffer in silence.
She tried to speak and her voice failed. Her hand began to tremble in
his.
She turned and faced him with a smile, pressing his hand. The cab was
at the door and her father calling from below.
"Goodbye, Jim," she said tenderly.
"Goodbye to the dearest little chum God ever sent to cheer a lonely
unhappy man's soul."
A sob stilled his voice and she turned her face away to hide her tears.
He still clung to her hand.
"It's been a long time," he said hesitatingly, "since you've kissed me,
girlie; just one for remembrance!"
With a quick movement she drew her hand away and started with a laugh
toward the door.
"No, Jim, I'm afraid I'm getting too old for that now."
He made no reply but stepped to her side and grasped her hand.
"Then again, goodbye."
"Goodbye."
He pressed her hand to his lips.
The slender body quivered and her face flushed scarlet. She hurried
down the steps to the cab, turned and threw him a kiss.
He watched the cab roll down Fourth Street toward the pier while a
great wave of loneliness overwhelmed him.
He slowly climbed the stairs toward his room, and passed the door of
Harriet's on the way. It was open and he looked in expecting her to
appear suddenly before him with a smile on her serene little face. He
noted how neat and tidy she had left her nest; not a sign of confusion,
the floor swept clean, everything in its place and the bed made with
scrupulous care. The whole place breathed the perfume of her sunny
character.
On the mantel he saw a love letter she had written to her father.
"How thoughtful of the little darling," he exclaimed. "God knows he'll
need it to-night."
He hurried to his own room with the hope that she might have left one
for him. He searched his mantel and bureau in vain and had just given
up with a sigh when his eye rested on a card fastened over the
old-fashioned grate in the fire place. His hand trembled as he read it:
"DEAR JIM:
"I shall miss you dreadfully, in the strange world beyond the seas.
When you sit here and look into your fire I hope you'll see the
face of your little pal in the picture sometimes.
"HARRIET."
He kissed the card and placed it in his pocket-book.
At night the doctor was not at home. He rapped on his door next morning
and got no answer.
The girl said he had spent the night out--she didn't know where.
As Stuart was about to leave for his office the doctor entered. His
bloodshot eyes were sunken deep behind his brows, his face haggard and
his shoulders drooped. Stuart knew he had tramped the streets all night
in a stupor of hopeless misery.
He stared at the young lawyer as if he didn't recognize him and then
said feebly:
"Don't go yet, my boy, wait a few moments. I just want to know that
you're here."
Stuart took his outstretched hand, and led him into the library. "I
know why you tramped the streets; the old house is very lonely."
The father placed his hand on his head, exclaiming:
"I never knew what loneliness meant before!" The big hand fell in a
gesture of despair. "It's dark and cold, I'm slipping down into a
bottomless pit. There's not a soul in heaven or earth or hell to whom I
can cry for help or pity."
Stuart pressed his hand.
"I understand. I'm younger than you, Doctor, but I, too, have walked
that way, the _via dolorosa_ alone."
The older man glared at him with a wild look in his eyes.
"But you don't understand; that's what's the matter, and I can't tell
you. I'm alone, I tell you, alone in a world of cold and darkness."
"No, no," Stuart interrupted soothingly. "You're just all in; you must
go to bed and sleep. Go at once, and you'll find something to cheer you
in the little girl's room, a love letter for you."
"Yes," he asked, the light slowly returning to his eyes, "a love letter
from my baby?"
"I saw it there after she left. Read it and go to sleep. I'll see you
to-night."
"Yes, yes, of course, my boy, that's what's the matter with me. I'm
just all in for the lack of sleep. I've been raving half the time, I
think. I'll go to bed at once."
When Stuart returned early from his work in the afternoon he found a
group of forlorn women and children standing beside the stoop. A pale,
elfish-looking boy of ten, whose face appeared to be five years older,
sat on the lower step crying.
"What's the matter, kiddie?" he asked kindly.
"I wants de doctor--me mudder's sick. She'll croak before mornin' ef he
don't come--dey all want him." He waved his little dirty hand toward
the others. "He ain't come around no more for a week. The goil says we
can't see him, he's asleep."
"I'll tell him you're here. The doctor's been ill himself."
The boy rose quickly and doffed his ragged cap.
"Tank ye, boss."
He urged the doctor to go at once to see his patients. The work he
loved would restore his spirits. He was dumfounded at the answer he
received.
"Tell them to go away," he said with a frown. "I can't see them to-day.
I may never be able to see them again."
"Come, come, Doctor, pull yourself together and go. I'll go with you.
It's the best medicine you can take."
He answered angrily:
"No, no! I'm in no mood to work. I couldn't help them. I'd poison and
kill them all, feeling as I do to-day. A physician can't heal the sick
unless there's healing in his own soul. I'd bring death not life into
their homes. Tell them to go away!"
Stuart emptied his pockets of all the money he had in a desperate
effort to break their disappointment.
"The doctor's too ill to see you, now," he explained. "He sent this
money for you and hopes it will help you over the worst until he can
come."
He divided the money among them and they looked at it with dull
disappointment. They were glad to get it, but what they needed more
than the money was the hope and strength of their friend's presence.
They left with dragging feet and Stuart returned to the doctor's room
determined not to leave until he knew the secret of his collapse.
From the haggard face and feverish eyes he knew he hadn't slept yet. He
had gotten up at one o'clock and dressed. The lunch which the maid had
brought to his room was on the table by his bed, untouched.
The young lawyer softly closed the door and sat down. The older man
gazed at him in a dull stupor.
"Doctor," Stuart began gently. "I've known you for about fifteen years.
You're the only father I've had in this big town, and you've been a
good one. You've been acting strangely for the past two weeks. You're
in trouble."
"The greatest trouble that can come to any human soul," was the bitter
answer.
"Haven't I won the right to your confidence and friendship in such an
hour?"
"My trouble, boy, is beyond the help of friends."
"Nonsense," Stuart answered cheerfully. "Shake off the blues. What's
wrong? Do you need money?"
The doctor broke into a discordant laugh.
"No. I've just sent Harriet abroad. I've some money laid away that will
last a year or two until she is earning a good salary. What gave you
the idea?"
The last question he asked with sudden sharp energy.
"Actions that indicate a strain greater than you can bear."
"No, you're mistaken," he answered roughly. "I can bear it all right."
He paused and his eyes stared at the ceiling as he groaned: "I've got
to bear it; what's the use to whine?"
Stuart stepped close and slipped his arm about the stalwart figure. His
voice was tender with a man's deep feeling.
"Come, Doctor, you're not fooling me. I've known you too long. There's
only one man on earth for whom I'd do as much as I would for you--my
own gray-haired father down South. You've been everything to me one man
could be to another during the past fifteen years. You have given me a
home, the love of a big tender heart, and the wise counsel of tried
friendship. If there's anything that I have and you need, it's yours
before you ask it, to the last dollar I possess. Come now--tell me
what's the trouble?"
Stuart could feel the big form sway and tremble under the stress of
overwhelming emotion, and his arm pressed a little closer. And then the
tension suddenly broke.
The doctor sank into a chair and looked up with a helpless stare.
"Yes, Jim, I will--I'll--tell--you."
He gasped and choked, paused, pulled himself together and cried:
"I must tell somebody or jump out of that window and dash my brains
out!"
When the paroxysm of emotion had spent itself, he drew a deep sigh and
began to speak in broken accents.
"I was in trouble for money, my boy, in the deepest trouble."
"And you didn't let me know!" Stuart interrupted reproachfully.
"How could I? I was proud and sensitive. I had taught you high ideals.
How could the teacher come to his pupil and say, 'I've failed.' My
theories were beautiful, but they don't work in life. And so I
struggled on until I waked one day to find that I was getting old, that
I had gone to war to fight other men's battles and had left my loved
one at home to perish. The first hideous sense of failure crept over me
and paralyzed soul and body with fear. I was becoming a pauper. You see
I had always believed that a man who poured out his life for others
could not fail. And then I--who had given, given, given, always given
my time, my money, my soul, and body--waked to find that I was sucked
dry, that I was played out, that I was bankrupt in money, bankrupt in
life! The great love I had borne the world suddenly grew faint under
the sense of loneliness and failure. And I gave up. I withdrew my suit
and determined to throw myself on the generosity of the man who owed
his wealth and power to the start I had given him, the man who
destroyed my business and wrecked my fortune. He had made me two offers
that seemed generous when I recalled them. I judged his character by my
own and I went to his house the night of that ball without invitation."
The doctor's voice broke and he paused. And then with the tears
streaming down his cheeks unchecked, his accents broken with
unrestrained sobs he told the story of his meeting with Bivens, of his
abject pleading when he had thrown pride to the winds, of the cruel and
brutal taunts, and the last beastly insult when the millionaire boasted
of his squandering of millions and rejoiced that he could flaunt this
in the face of his suffering and humiliation.
"And then, boy," the broken man moaned, "he left me with a sneer and
told me to stroll over his palace and enjoy the evening. That I would
find his wife wearing a pearl necklace which cost a half million and
jewelled slippers worth enough to finish my baby's education, but that
he would see us both to the bottom of hell before I could have one
penny."
Again the doctor's voice sank into a strangling sob. When he lifted his
head his eyes were glittering with a strange light.
"And then," he went on with quivering voice, "I began to see things
red. The lust of blood was beating in every stroke of my heart. In
vivid flashes of blasphemous fury I saw life from a new point of view.
I began to ask where God lived that such things could be in his world.
I saw the bruised bodies of my fellow beings flung before such men as
Bivens and ground to dust. I saw the lies that pass for truth, the low
fights for gain at the cost of blood and tears, the deeds that laugh at
shame and honour, and gloating over it all the brutal glory of success.
I determined to kill the little wretch as I would stamp on a snake. And
then I saw my baby standing near. My hand grew limp. I felt that I must
save her first and then die if need be. I felt for the first time the
cunning of the elemental man, the force that gave him food and shelter
for himself and babies before the laws of property had come to rule the
world. I reached out my hand and took by cunning what belonged to me by
right."
Again he paused and looked into Stuart's face with a hopeless stare.
"I--stole--a--case--of--jewels!"
Stuart sprang to his feet with an exclamation of horror.
"You--did--what!"
"Yes," the doctor went on hoarsely. "I stole a case of his jewels, and
sent my girl abroad. I'm going to plead guilty now and go to prison. I
shall never again lift my head in the haunts of men."
Stuart sobbed in anguish.
"You see, boy, I failed when put to the test. It doesn't make any
difference about my reputation. Character only counts, and I'm a
thief."
"Shut up!" Stuart cried fiercely, seizing his arm. "Don't say that
again and don't talk so loudly. Whatever you did, you were insane when
you did it."
"No, I had just failed," the older man insisted in dull tones, "failed
in all save one thing. I've done that, at least. And I didn't forget my
honour. I used it for my purpose. I did as old Palissy the great mad
potter. To get the heat required to perfect his greatest work of art,
you know he broke the last piece of furniture in his house and thrust
it into his furnace. So I threw my honour into the flames of hell to
save my little girl's voice. Maybe it was a mistake. I don't know. I
couldn't think then. I only know now that life is impossible any more,
and I'm ready to go. You can send me to prison at once, Jim, I'd rather
you would do it, for I know that you love me and at least no unkind
word will fall from your lips before I receive my sentence. I'll make
no fight. I'm glad I don't have to say all this to a stranger. You can
send me up the river at once. I'm glad you are the district attorney."
"But I'm not. I resigned my office this morning."
"Resigned?" The doctor asked in dazed surprise.
"Yes, to go into business for myself. I had only another month to
serve. You're not going to prison if I can help it."
"But I don't want you to help it. It's the only place to go now--you
see, boy, I can't live with myself any more! Besides I'm old and played
out; the world don't need me any longer."
"Well, I need you," Stuart broke in, "and you're not going to give up
this fight as long as I'm here."
"I'm a failure; it's no use."
"But you've forgotten some things," the younger man said tenderly.
"You've helped to make my life what it is--you haven't failed in that.
You gave your blood to your country when she needed it---you didn't
fail in that. You have forgotten the thousands you have helped, the
hope and cheer and inspiration that passed into their lives through
yours. Failure sometimes means success. The greatest failure of all the
ages perhaps was Jesus Christ. Deserted and denied by his own
disciples, scoffed at, spit on and beaten by his enemies, crucified
between two thieves, crying in anguish and despair to the God who had
forsaken him; yet this friendless crucified peasant who failed, has
conquered the world at last."
Stuart paused and looked at the older man sharply.
"Are you listening, Doctor?" he asked, seizing his arm. "Did you hear
what I just said to you?"
He turned his head stupidly.
"Hear what? No, I can't hear anything. Jim, except a devil that follows
me everywhere, day and night, and whispers in my ear--'thief! thief!'
It's no use. I'm done."
"Well I'm not done. I've just begun. You are not going to give up and
you're not going to prison. We'll go to Bivens's house to-night. We'll
tell him the truth. We'll return the value of his jewels. I'll get the
money to make good what you owe him----" his voice broke.
"Oh, why, why, why didn't you let me know; but what's the use to ask,
it's done now!"
"Yes, it's done and it can't be undone," the older man interrupted
hopelessly.
"But it can and it will be undone. I've influence with Bivens. He'll
drop the matter and no one on earth will know save we three. You can go
on with your work among the poor and I'll help you."
"But you don't understand, Jim," the broken man protested, feebly. "I
tell you I've given up. I can't take your money, I can't pay. I tell
you I've given up. I can't take your money. I can't pay it back."
"You can pay it back, too, if you like. Harriet will be earning
thousands of dollars in a few years. Her success is sure."
A faint smile lighted the father's face.
"Her success _is_ sure, isn't it?" he asked with the eagerness of a
child. And then the smile slowly faded.
"But I shall not be here to see it."
"Yes you will. I'm running your affairs now, and you've got to do what
I say. Get ready. We are going to see Bivens."
"I'll do it if you say so, boy," the doctor answered feebly, "but it's
no use. He'll prosecute me to the limit of the law."
"He'll do nothing of the kind."
"He will--I know him."
* * * * *
Bivens refused point blank at first to see Woodman and ordered his
servant to put him out of the house and ask Stuart to remain for a
conference.
Stuart drew from his case a card and wrote a message to Nan.
"Imperative that I see Cal at once in the presence of my friend
on a matter of grave importance. Please send him down. He is
stubborn."
He handed it to the servant and said:
"Take that to Mrs. Bivens."
Bivens came in a few minutes, shook hands cordially with Stuart and
ignored Woodman.
"I want to see you alone with the doctor," the young lawyer began,
"where we can not possibly be overheard."
The financier's keen eyes looked piercingly from one to the other, and
he said curtly:
"I have nothing to say to this man, but for your sake, all right. Come
up to the library."
Once in the room and the door closed the doctor sank listlessly into a
chair, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. His deep, sunken, bloodshot
eyes were turned within. The outer world no longer made any impression.
Stuart plunged at once into his mission.
"Cal, you and I have been friends since boyhood. I'm going to ask my
first favour of you to-night."
"For yourself, all right; you've got the answer before you ask it."
"We can't separate our lives from our friends, and I owe much in mine
to the man for whom I'm going to speak."
"If you've come to ask me to settle with old Woodman for any imaginary
claim he has, you're wasting your breath. I won't hear it. So cut it!"
Bivens spoke with quick fierce energy. His words fell sharp and
metallic.
"I'm not asking you to settle any old imaginary claim," the young
lawyer went on rapidly, "but a new one that can only appeal to the best
that's in you."
"A new one?" Bivens cried in surprise.
"Yes. I needn't recall what passed between you and the doctor the night
of the ball."
"No, I've quite a clear recollection of it," Bivens answered grimly.
"Let it be enough to say that the torture you inflicted and the sights
he saw in your house drove him insane. Hungry, wretched, in despair
over his misfortunes and the promise he had given his daughter, whom he
loved better than life, in a moment of madness he took a case of your
jewels."
"He took that case of jewels?" Bivens cried with excitement.
"Yes."
The little financier broke into a peal of laughter, walked over to the
chair where the doctor sat, thrust his hands into his pockets and
continued to laugh.
"So, that's what you meant by laughing and sneering in my face as you
left that night, you d----d old hypocrite!"
Stuart suddenly gripped Bivens and spun him around in his tracks.
"That will do now! The doctor is my friend. He's an old broken man
to-night and he's under my protection. He came here at my suggestion
and against his protest. I won't stand for this."
"I'll say what I please to a thief."
"Not this one."
Stuart faced the little dark man with a dangerous gleam in his eye. The
two men glared at each other for a moment and Bivens threw up his hands
in a gesture of disgust.
"Well, what did you come for? To ask me to give him a pension for
robbing me of a case of jewels? I've accused every drunken servant in
the house of the act. Shall I send one of them to the penitentiary and
give the real thief a medal for his skill?"
"I only ask that you allow me to return the value of your jewels and
drop the whole affair."
Bivens's eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened viciously.
"Can the District Attorney of the County of New York compound a
felony?"
"I resigned my office this morning."
Bivens tried to seize Stuart's hand, forgetting for a moment the jewels
in the bigger announcement which meant the acceptance of his offer.
He spoke in low excited tones.
"Congratulations!"
Stuart waved aside the extended hand with a gesture of annoyance.
"You'll drop this case, of course, at my request?"
Bivens looked at the bowed figure crouching in forlorn indifference
before him with a smile and replied quickly:
"I will not."
"I told you I'd make good the amount to-morrow morning."
"What the devil do you suppose I want with your money? Five thousand
dollars is no more to me than five cents to the average man."
He paused, laughed and again stared at the bowed figure.
"I've waited a long time, old man, but I've got you where I want you
now."
The doctor never lifted his head or moved a muscle. His eyes were fixed
in a senseless stare. Only the body was present. The soul was gone.
"I say I've got you now!" Bivens repeated angrily. "Did you hear me?"
Stuart spoke in low tones:
"My God, Cal, can't you see."
"Five thousand!" Bivens cried exultantly--"It's too easy! The day I see
him in a suit of stripes--I've never done such a thing--but I'm going
to take a day off and get drunk."
"You are not going to prosecute him?"--Stuart asked incredulously.
"As soon as I can telephone for an officer."
"You don't mean it?"
"Don't I?" The little man spoke fiercely, his black eyes glowing, his
hands trembling as they opened and closed as an eagle's claws.
"Look here, Cal."
"It's no use Jim, this is my affair."
"You've asked me to share your affairs."
"Not this one."
"Then to hell with you and all your affairs! I'll fight you to the last
ditch"--Stuart's words rang with fierce decision.
Bivens looked at him in amazement.
"What! For this old fool you'd reject my offer?"
"Yes."
"It's a joke! I see you doing it. Defend him if you like. I'll have
good lawyers. I'll enjoy the little scrap. A fight between us in public
just now will be all the better for my first big plans. I'll send him
to Sing Sing if it costs me a million!"
Stuart lifted the doctor from his seat and faced Bivens with a look of
defiance. "You needn't trouble for a warrant. He pleads guilty. Your
lawyers can fix the day for his sentence and I want you to be there."
"I'll be there, don't you worry!"
"And, Bivens, as you're a good church member, you might read over that
passage of scripture: 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay saith the
Lord?'"
"Indeed!"
"Yes, I'm going to show you that you're not Almighty God though you are
the possessor of a hundred million dollars."
"I'll be present at the demonstration, Jim. Good night!"