IN NEW YORK
Mrs. James Carbhoy had endured anything but a happy time for several
weeks. She had received no news from her beloved son; her husband had
spirited himself away on business and left her without a word of
definite information as to his whereabouts; while even the trying
presence of her young daughter was denied her, since she had been
forced to dispatch that personification of childish willfulness to
their estate at Tuxedo, that she might be put through a course of
disciplining by her various governesses.
She was alone, she reminded herself not less than three times a day,
and to be alone in her great mansion at Central Park was the limit of
earthly punishment as she understood it. She detested it. She hated
the hot summer landscape of the park; she was worried to death by the
chorus of automobile hooters as the cars sped up and down the great
asphalt way; she felt that the red-and-white stone palaces with which
she was surrounded were the ugliest things ever hidden from blind eyes,
and an army of servants could be, and was, the most nerve-racking thing
she had ever been called upon to endure. For two peas she would pack a
bag--no, her maid would have to pack it; she was denied even that
pleasure--and hie herself to Europe.
This was something of the condition of mind to which she was reduced,
when one morning two events happened almost simultaneously which
changed the whole aspect of things, and created in her something
approaching a desire to continue the dreary monotony of life.
The first was the advent of her mail, with a long letter from her son
_dated at Buffalo Point_, and the second was an urgent request from her
husband's manager, Mr. Harker, desiring permission to wait upon her, as
he had the most encouraging news from the long-lost Gordon and her
husband's affairs generally.
Gordon's mother did not read her son's letter at once. She saw the
heading and glanced at the opening paragraph. The satisfaction so
inspired caused her to set it aside for careful perusal after her
breakfast. Mr. Harker would be up to see her at about eleven o'clock.
That would give her ample time to have digested its contents before he
arrived.
For the first time in weeks she ate an ample breakfast at her customary
early hour. She further forgot to make her maid's life a burden during
the process of dressing, and she even enjoyed glancing over the
advertisements of the daily newspapers. Then came the hour of
seclusion in her boudoir when she yielded herself to the perusal of her
boy's letter.
"BUFFALO POINT,
Near Snake's Fall.
"DEAREST MUM:
"It seems so long since I sent you any mail, and I seem to have so much
news to tell you, and I've so completely forgotten what I have already
told you, that I hardly know where to begin. However, you'll see by
the heading of this letter I am at Buffalo Point, and am glad to say I
have received a visit from the dear old Dad, who is just as happy as
any man of his devotion to work can be--on vacation. His visit to me
here has placed me in a position of great trust in his affairs in the
neighborhood, and I am very proud that, through my own efforts, I have
been so placed. After this I feel that the dear old Dad will never
have cause to question my ability in dealing with big affairs. I feel
he will acknowledge that the seed of his example has really fallen on
fruitful soil, and that, after all, perhaps I shall yet prove a worthy
son of a great father.
"This, I guess, brings me to the discussion of a subject which has kind
of interested me some these last days. It is the modern understanding
of filial duty. I s'pose even such a duty changes in its aspect, as
everything else seems to change, with the passage of time. Chasing
around in the dark days of pre-civilized times filial duty seemed
pretty clearly marked. One of the first duties of a son was, when his
mother wasn't around to claim the privilege, to get in the way when his
father wanted to hit something with his club. He was also kind of
handy as a sacrifice, either well broiled or minced into fancy chunks,
to make his father's Gods feel good and get benevolent. Then he was
mighty useful doing chores around the home, so his father didn't have
to do more work than it took him filling his stomach with Saurian
steaks and Pterodactyl cutlets, and getting drunk on a sort of beer,
which his wife had contracted the habit of making for him in the
intervals between being laid out cold with a stone club.
"There don't seem to be much doubt about those days. A son's filial
duty lasted just as long as his father could enforce it with physical
discipline. When he couldn't do it that way any longer, then the son
and father generally made a big talk together, and whatever odds and
ends of the father could be collected at the finish of the pow-wow were
handed over to some local soup kitchen to make stock.
"Then the son usually took a wife, and so the same old play went on.
"With variations and moderations these things seem to have gone on, on
some such general lines, right down to our present day. In some grades
of present-day life I don't think there's such a heap of change as
you'd guess. The conditions prevail, only the weapons and things are
different. However, that's by the way. The thing that requires
careful study is how far filial duty is justified.
"Filial duty is a pretty arbitrary thing when a man who can really
think looks into it. I maintain that obligation is too much imposed
upon offspring. I contend they don't owe a thing to their parents.
It's the parents who owe to the offspring. This may shock you, but I
hope you will put all personal feeling aside and regard it in the
nature of an academic discussion. First of all, the fact of life is
dependent upon the whim of parents to impose it. It is not a thing
which a child owes gratitude for. Say, take a feller who can't swim,
tie half a ton of lead around his neck and boost him into a whirlpool
full of rocks and things, and ask him for gratitude. I'm open to
gamble when he gets his breath he won't say a thing--not a thing--about
gratitude. Maybe he'll remember every other emotion ever given to
erring humanity, but I don't guess he'd be able to spell the word
gratitude, let alone talk it.
"We'll pass the subject of life for the moment. We've got it. We
didn't want, but we got. And all the kicking won't alter it. Now
filial duty demands obedience, and parents start right in from the
first to make a kid's life a burden that way. Say, we'll take that
whirlpool racket again. It's like two folks standing high and dry on a
rock above it, and firing stones all around the poor darned fool
struggling to win out. It don't matter which way he turns he's headed
off with a rock dropped plumb ahead of him. Those rocks are labeled
'obey.' Say, after about twenty years of dodging those rocks parents
'll tell that feller of all they did for him in his youth, and say he's
ungrateful just because he's learned enough sense to realize his
parents are fools, anyway, and ought to be petrified mummies in a
public museum.
"One of the worst sins of parents toward children is the fact that as
soon as they take to sitting around in rockers, and their hinges start
to creak when they get up, they don't ever seem to remember the time
when their joints didn't have to make queer noises. When folks get
that way they reckon it's the duty of all offspring just to sit around
and gape in fool credulity, while they tell 'em what wonderful folk
their parents--used to be, and how they--the children--if they lived a
century, could never hope to be half as wonderful. A really bright kid
generally hopes that for once his parent is talking truth. I say it
with all respect that the gentlest, most harmless, most inoffensive
father would resort to any subterfuge to have his son think he could
lick creation if he fancied that way; and there isn't a woman so
almighty plain but what she'll contrive to get her daughters--while
they're still children--crazy enough to believe she was the beauty of
her family, and that all their good looks are due to her side of the
matrimonial contract.
"Of course, it isn't a desirable thought to picture your mother playing
at holding hands in dark corners with fellers who never had a
hundred-to-one chance of being your father; also it isn't just pleasant
to speculate on the tricks she had to play to get your father to the
jumping-off mark; neither do you care to dwell on what she thought of
the chorus girls your father was in the habit of buying wine for, and
decorating up with fancy clothes and jewels in his spare moments. You
don't feel it's a nice thing to think of the numbers of times some one
else has had to take off your father's boots for him overnight, and
bathe his aching head with ice-water to get him down town in the
morning to his office. But it wouldn't hurt you a thing if parents
made a point of remembering all these things for themselves, and would
give up making you quit playing parlor games during sermon in church on
Sundays and inventing your own words to the hymn tunes.
"Now let's jump to what I call the breaking-point of filial duty. It's
the point when a kid gets old enough to master the inner meaning of the
expression 'damn fool,' which has probably been liberally applied to
him for years. It's the moment when physical discipline can no longer
obtain for--physical reasons. It's the point when two real live men,
or two real live women, face each other with a contentious situation
lying between them. Where does obligation lie? Does it remain--anyway?
"In Nature it does not. In human nature it remains--chiefly because of
undue sentimentalism. Now sentimentalism should be a luxury, and not a
law. This is obvious to any mind not suffocated by the gases of
decadence. I'd like to say Nature's laws are sane and just, and, since
they are inspired by a great and wise Providence, it's not reasonable
to guess they can be improved upon by a psalm-smiting set of folks, who
spend their whole lives in wrapping 'emselves around with cotton batten
to keep out the wholesome draughts of Nature's lungs.
"So I feel that when the breaking-point of filial duty is reached it is
no longer mother and daughter, father and son, in the practicalities of
life. Take commerce. Father and son are in competition. Each is
fighting for his own. How far is a son justified in emptying an
automatic pistol into his father's food depot, when that mistaken
parent guesses he's yearning to storm his son's stronghold of
commercial enterprise? How far is that father justified in doping his
son's liquor, so he won't lie awake at nights planning to roll him for
his wad next morning? Take a daughter and her momma. Most mothers act
as though they had to live all their lives with their daughters'
husbands. And most daughters act as though they preferred their mommas
should. I ask: how far has a mother right to butt in to run her
daughter's home doings, and so muss up for some one else what she was
never able to do right for herself? Why shouldn't a daughter be
allowed to make her own mess of things, and later on, when she collects
sense, clean it up again the best she knows?
"These are questions in my mind. These are questions I don't just seem
able to answer right myself, and sort of feel they'd have given old Sol
some insomnia, in spite of all his glory over the baby episode he made
such a song about. Well, I put 'em down here, and maybe you can tell
me about 'em, and, anyway, they make some problem.
"Maybe I haven't set out my news to the best advantage, but my mind is
very busy with fixing things as they should go. You see, I'm working
hard in the old Dad's interest, and am hoping soon to get that little
word of approval from him which means so much, coming from so great a
man. I am looking forward to seeing you again soon, and hope to see
your dear, smiling face and pretty eyes just as bright and happy as I
always remember them. Give my love to our Gracie, and tell her that
the only way to get rid of those peculiarly spindle lower legs, which
have always been one of her worst physical defects, is to adopt ankle
exercises. It's a defect, like many others in her character, which can
be improved with conscientious effort and patience.
"Your loving son,
"GORDON.
"P.S.--Your future daughter-in-law is just crazy to be taken into your
motherly fold.
"G."
Mr. Harker's face was wreathed in smiles at the thought of the pleasant
news it was his good fortune to be conveying to the wife of his chief.
His smile remained until he heard the trim maid's announcement at the
door of Mrs. Carbhoy's boudoir. Then the smile vanished, as though it
had never been, and his well-nourished features became an assortment of
troubled bewilderment. Furthermore, within five minutes of his
ushering into the lady's presence he had registered a solemn vow that
celibacy should remain his lot, until the day that saw his ample
remains become a subject for cooking operations by the crematorium
experts.
Mr. Harker was certainly unfortunate in his selection of the moment at
which to pay his call. Mrs. James Carbhoy had had half an hour since
reading her son's letter, in which to pursue that hateful hyphenated
word "daughter-in-law" through every darkened channel of her somewhat
limited mental machinery.
Daughter-in-law! It was everywhere. She could not lose sight of it.
She could not escape its haunting meaning. It pursued her wherever she
went. It was there, lurking amidst the folds of her gowns if she
peered inside the great hanging wardrobes. It danced like a
will-o'-the-wisp in every mirror which her troubled eyes chanced to
encounter. It was interwoven with the patterns of the carpets; and the
wall-paperings found a lurking-place for it amidst the unreal foliage
which adorned them. It laughed at her when she angrily turned away to
avoid it, and when she endeavored to defy it its mocking only
increased. So it was that the unoffending Harker encountered the full
tide of her angry alarm and maternal despair.
Mr. Harker had prepared a well-turned opening for his excellent news.
But it was never used. Even as his lips moved to speak they remained
sealed, held silent by the bitter cry of outraged maternal pride.
"He's married!" she cried. "Married--and I--I have never been
consulted!"
Mr. Harker felt as though he had been caught up in the whirl of a
physical encounter in which his opponent held all the advantage.
Mrs. Carbhoy waited for no comment. She rushed headlong, following up
her advantage, smashing in "lefts" and "rights" indiscriminately.
"It's disgraceful--terrible! The ingratitude of it! After all his
father and I have done for him! To think how we've always guided and
taught him! The callous selfishness! The moment he's out of our
sight--this--this is what happens. He's picked up with some wicked,
designing female, whose father's certain to be a--a--gaolbird--or,
anyway, ought to be. Not a word to a soul. We--we don't know who she
is--or--or what. He don't even say her name. Daughter-in-law!
It's--it's---- Mr. Harker, I'm just wondering when I'll come over all
crazy."
Mr. Harker welcomed the pause.
"You say Mr. Gordon's married?" he demanded incredulously.
"Yes--no. That is, he--he says 'your future daughter-in-law'!"
Mr. Harker breathed a deep relief and strove to smile confidence upon
his chief's wife.
"Ah, yes. Mr. Gordon was always one for the girls. But he wouldn't
make a fool of himself that way----"
In a moment the second round of the battle was raging.
"Fool? Fool? Every man's a fool, if some woman chooses!" cried Mrs.
Carbhoy, and promptly hurled herself into a bitter tirade against her
sex, sparing no race of monsters from likeness to it.
Mr. Harker was forced to submit from sheer inability to compete with
the rapid flow of expression. But later on he had his opportunity at
what he considered to be the termination of the "second round," while
his opponent retired to her corner to be fanned by her seconds.
"Anyway, ma'am, if he's not yet married there's still hope. I guess
Mr. Carbhoy's wise to what's doing with him. You see, he's been there
with him."
"James Carbhoy!" The contemptuous emphasis on her husband's name
opened the "third round," and Mr. Harker felt that the timekeeper had
called "time" before he was ready.
For three full minutes the scornful wife of the millionaire recited an
amplified denunciation upon husbands in general and millionaires in
particular. But even so the round had to come to its natural
conclusion, and when they were both resting once more in their
"corners," Mr. Harker achieved something almost approaching success.
"You know, Mrs. Carbhoy, I was feeling pretty good coming along here in
my automobile. Mr. Gordon's something more to me than just your son.
We're real good friends, and I was feeling as anxious for his future as
maybe you were. Well, when I got word from your husband at Snake's
saying that he'd turned our affairs over to Mr. Gordon I was real glad,
and I felt now here was the boy's chance. Then, day after day, along
come his instructions, and I saw by the grip he'd got on things he'd
taken his chance, and was pushing it through with as much smartness as
Mr. Carbhoy himself might have shown. I was more than gratified,
ma'am. Why, only to-day I've received word of a big coal option he's
taken for us. As he's got it it's something for nothing. Nobody could
have done better, not even your husband, ma'am. I really can't think
there's going to be any mistakes about--strange females."
The man's tribute had a mollifying effect upon the mother. But she was
still the "mother" rather than a creature of logic. She saw her boy
being led to his undoing by some designing creature of her own sex, and
her instinct warned her of the hideous dangers to millionaires' sons
inherent in so guileful a race.
"If I could only feel that he was experienced in the world," she said
helplessly. "But what does our poor Gordon know of women?"
Mr. Harker smiled. He was thinking with the intimacy of one man who
knows another. He knew, too, something of the way in which Gordon's
money had generally been spent.
"We must hope the best, ma'am," he said, with a hypocritical sigh.
"He's evidently not married, so--what do you intend to do about it
while Mr. Carbhoy is on the coast?"
"Do? Do? Why, I shall just go up to Snake's whatever-it-is, or
Buffalo what's-its-name, and--and----"
"I should wait awhile, ma'am, if I were you," Mr. Harker interrupted
her, fearing another outburst. "I'm expecting David Slosson in the
city soon. He's one of our confidential men who's been working up at
Snake's for us. I haven't heard from him for quite a while. He's sure
to be along down soon, because he's got to make a report. Maybe he can
tell us just how things are. Anyway, I wouldn't go up there. It's a
queer, wild sort of place, and in no way fit for you."
"Will Slosson be around soon?"
"Sure, ma'am."
"Then I'll wait," cried the troubled mother, without cordiality. Then
she appealed to the man who had always been something more than a mere
commercial figure in her husband's life. "You know, if anything went
wrong with my boy, Mr. Harker, it would just break my heart. I--I
couldn't bear it. But I tell you right here there's no wretched female
going to play her tricks on our Gordon with me around, and while I've
got James Carbhoy's millions to my hand. And if your man Slosson don't
give us satisfactory news of the boy, then, if Snake's what's-its-name
were the worst place on earth--I should make it."
"If it comes to that, ma'am, there are other folks feel that way, too,"
said the manager earnestly. "But meanwhile I'd say don't worry a
thing."
"I don't!" snapped the mother sharply. "The person who'll need to do
all the worrying is that--female."