CONTRACTS
They had carried the Interpreter back to his wheel chair in the hut on
the cliff.
John, Peter Martin and the two young women were bidding the old basket
maker goodnight when suddenly they were silenced by the dull, heavy
sound of a distant explosion.
A moment they stood gazing at one another, then John voiced the
thoughts that had gripped the minds of every one in that little group:
"The Mill!"
Springing to the door that opened on to the balcony porch, John threw
it open and they went out, taking the Interpreter in his chair. In
breathless silence they strained their eyes toward the dark mass of the
Mill with its forest of stacks and its many lights.
"Everything seems to be all right there," murmured John.
But as the last word left his lips a chorus of exclamations came from
the others. Farther up the river a dull red glow flushed the sky.
"McIver's!"
"The factory!"
The Interpreter said, quietly, "Jake Vodell."
With every second the red glow grew brighter--reaching higher and
higher--spreading wider and wider over the midnight sky. Then they
could see the flames--threadlike streaks and flashes in the dark cloud
of smoke at first but increasing in volume, climbing and climbing in
writhing, twisting columns of red fury. The wild, long-drawn shriek of
the fire whistles, the clanging roar of the engines, the frantic rush
of speeding automobiles awoke the echoes of the cliffs and aroused the
sleeping creatures on the hillsides. The volume of the leaping,
whirling mass of flames increased until the red glare shut out the
stars.
The officers of the law who were hunting Jake Vodell heard that
explosion and telephoned their stations for orders. The business men of
the little city, awakened from their sleep, looked from their windows,
muttered drowsy conjectures and returned to their beds. Mothers and
children in their homes heard and turned uneasily in their dreams. The
dwellers in the Flats heard and wondered fearfully.
Before morning dawned the telegraph wires would carry the word
throughout the land. In every corner of our country the people would
read, as they have all too often read of similar explosions. They would
read, offer idle comments, perhaps, and straightway forget. That is the
wonder and the shame of it--that with these frequent warnings ringing
in our ears we are not warned. With these things continually forced
upon our attention we do not heed. With the demonstration before our
eyes we are not convinced. We are not aroused to the meaning of it all.
In his cell in the county jail, Sam Whaley heard that explosion and
knew what it was.
The Interpreter was right when he said, "Jake Vodell."
It was an hour, perhaps, after the Interpreter's friends had left the
hut when the old basket maker, who was still sitting at the window
watching the burning factory, heard an automobile approaching at a
frightful pace from the direction of the fire. The noise of the
speeding machine ceased with startling suddenness at the foot of the
stairway, and the Interpreter heard some one running up the steps with
headlong haste. Without pausing to knock, Adam Ward burst into the room
and stood panting and shaking with mad excitement before the man in the
wheel chair.
The Mill owner's condition was pitiful. By his eyes that were
glittering with wild, unnatural light, by the gray, twitching features,
the grotesque gestures, the trembling, jerking limbs, the Interpreter
knew that the last flickering gleam of reason had gone out. The hour
toward which the man himself had looked with such dread had come. Adam
Ward was insane.
With a leering grin of triumph the madman went closer to the old basket
maker. "I got away again. They were right after me but they couldn't
catch me. That roadster of mine is the fastest car in the county--cost
me four thousand dollars. I knew if I could get here I would be safe.
They wouldn't think of looking for me here in your shanty, would they?
They can't get in anyway if they should come. You wouldn't--you
wouldn't let them get me, would you?"
"Peace, Adam Ward! You are safe here."
The insane man chuckled. "The folks at the house think I am in my room
asleep. They don't know that I never sleep. I'll tell you something. If
a man sleeps he goes to hell--hell--hell--" His voice rose almost to a
scream and he shook with terror.
"Did you see it? Did you see when hell broke out to-night over there
where McIver's factory used to be? I did--I was there and I heard them
roaring in the fibres of torment and screaming in the flames. They
called for me but I laughed and came here. They'll never get Adam Ward
into hell. They don't know it yet, but I've got a contract with God. I
fixed it up myself just like you told me to and God signed it without
reading it just as Peter Martin did. I'll show them! It'll take more
than God to get the best of Adam Ward in a deal."
He walked about the room, waving his arms and laughing in hideous
triumph, muttering mad boasts and mumbling to himself or taunting the
phantom creatures of his disordered brain.
The helpless Interpreter could only wait silently for whatever was to
follow.
At last the madman turned again to the old basket maker. Placing a
chair close in front of the Interpreter, he seated himself and in a
confidential whisper said, "Did you know that everybody thinks I am
going insane? Well, I am not. Nobody knows it, but it's not me that's
crazy--it's John. He's been that way ever since he got home from
France. The poor boy thinks the world is still at war and that he can
run the Mill just as he fought the Germans over there. There's another
thing that you ought to know, too--you are crazy yourself. Don't be
afraid, I won't tell anybody else. But you ought to know it. If a man
knows it when he is going crazy it gives him a chance to fix things up
with God so they can't get him into hell for all eternity, you see. So
I thought I had better tell you."
The Interpreter spoke in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. "Thank you, Adam,
I appreciate your kindness."
"I was there at the Mill tonight," Adam continued, "and I heard you
tell them who killed Charlie Martin. And then those crazy fools went
tearing off to hunt Jake Vodell." He chuckled and laughed. "What
difference does it make who killed Charlie Martin? I own the patented
process. I am the man they want. But they can't touch me. I hired the
best lawyers in the country and I've got it sewed up tight. I put one
over on Pete Martin in that deal and I've put one over on God, too.
I've got God sewed up tight, I tell you, just like I sewed up Peter
Martin. They can howl their heads off but they'll never get me into
hell."
He leaned back in his chair with the satisfied air of a business man
crediting himself with having closed a successful transaction.
Then, with a manner and voice that was apparently normal, he said, "Did
I ever tell you about how I got that patented process of mine,
Wallace?" The Interpreter knew by his use of that name, so seldom heard
in these later years, that Adam's mind was back in the old days when,
with Peter Martin, they had worked side by side at the same bench in
the Mill.
Hoping to calm him, the old basket maker returned indifferently, "No,
Adam, I don't remember that you ever told me, but don't you think some
other time would be better perhaps than to-night? It is getting late
and you--"
The other interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Oh, that's all right.
It's safe enough to talk about it now. Besides," he added, with a
cunning leer, "nobody would believe you if you should tell them the
truth. You're nothing but a crazy old basket maker and I am Adam Ward,
don't forget that for a minute." He glared threateningly at the man in
the wheel chair, and the Interpreter, fearing another outburst, said,
soothingly, "Certainly, Adam, I understand. I will not forget."
With the manner of one relating an interesting story in which he
himself figured with great personal credit, Adam Ward said:
"It was Pete Martin, you see, who actually discovered the new process.
But, luckily for me, I was the first one he told about it. He had
worked it all out and I persuaded him not to say a thing to any one
else until the patents were secured. Pete didn't really know the value
of what he had. But I knew--I saw from the first that it would
revolutionize the whole business, and I knew it would make a fortune
for the man that owned the patents.
"Pete and I were pretty good friends in those days, but friendship
don't go far in business. I never had a friend in my life that I
couldn't use some way. So I had Pete over to my house every evening and
made a lot over him and talked over his new process and made
suggestions how he should handle it, until finally he offered to give
me a half interest if I would look after the business details. That, of
course, was exactly what I was playing for. And all this time, you see,
I took mighty good care that not a soul was around when Pete and I
talked things over. So we fixed it all up between us--with no one to
hear us, mind you--that we were to share equally--half and half--in
whatever the new process brought.
"After that, I went ahead and got all the patents good and tight and
then I fixed up a nice little document for Pete to sign. But I waited
and I didn't say a word to Pete until one evening when he and his wife
were studying and figuring out the plans for the house they were going
to build. I sat and planned with them a while until I saw how Pete's
mind was all on his new house, and then all at once I put my little
document down on the table in front of him and said, 'By the way, Pete,
those patents will be coming along pretty soon and I have had a little
contract fixed up just as a matter of form--you know how we planned it
all. Here's where you sign--'"
Adam Ward paused to laugh with insane glee. "Pete did just what I knew
he'd do--he signed that document without even reading a line of it and
went on with his house planning and figuring as if nothing had
happened. But something had happened--something big had happened.
Instead of the way we had planned it together when we were talking
alone with nobody to witness it, Pete signed to me outright for one
dollar all his rights and interests in that new patented process."
Again the madman laughed triumphantly. "Pete never even found out what
he'd done until nearly a year later. And then he wouldn't believe it
until the lawyers made him. He couldn't do anything of course. I had it
sewed up too tight. That process is mine, I tell you--mine by all the
laws in the country. What if I did take advantage of him! That's
business. A man ought to have sense enough to read what he puts his
signature to. You don't catch me trusting anybody far enough to sign
anything he puts before me without reading it. Why--why--what are you
crying for?"
Adam Ward was not mistaken--the Interpreter's eyes were wet with tears.
The sight of the old basket maker's grief sent the insane man off on
another tangent. "Don't you worry about me. Helen and John and their
mother worry a lot about me. They think I'm going to hell."
He sprang to his feet with a hoarse inarticulate cry. "They'll never
get me into hell! God has got to keep His contracts and I've fixed it
all up so He'll have to save me whether He wants to or not. The papers
are all signed and everything. My lawyer has got them in his safe. God
can't help Himself. You told me I'd better do it and I have. I'm not
afraid to meet God now! I'll show Him just like I showed Pete."
He rushed from the room as abruptly as he had entered. The Interpreter
heard him plunging down the stairs. The roar of his automobile died
away in the distance.
In an early morning extra edition, the Millsburgh _Clarion_ announced
the death of two of the most prominent citizens.
James McIver was killed in the explosion that burned his factory.
Adam Ward's body was found in a secluded corner of his beautiful
estate. He died by his own hand.
The cigar-store philosopher put his paper down and reached into the
show case for the box that the judge wanted. "It looks like McIver
played the wrong cards in his little game with Jake Vodell," he
remarked, as the judge made a careful selection.
"I am afraid so," returned the judge.
The postmaster took a handful from the same box and said, as he dropped
a dollar on the top of the show case, "I see Sam Whaley has confessed
that the blowing up of the factory was all set as part of their
program. Their plan was to wreck the Mill first then McIver's place.
Where do you suppose Jake Vodell got away to?"
"Hard to guess," said the judge.
The philosopher put the proper change before them. "There's one thing
sure--the people of these here United States had better get good and
busy findin' out where he is."
It was significant that neither the philosopher nor his customers
mentioned the passing of Adam Ward.
BOOK IV
THE OLD HOUSE
"_Tell them, O Guns, that we have heard their call,
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside, That we will onward till
we win or fall,
That we will keep the faith for which they died_."
CHAPTER XXX
"JEST LIKE THE INTERPRETER SAID"
It is doubtful if in all Millsburgh there was a soul who felt a
personal loss in the passing of their "esteemed citizen" Adam Ward.
During the years that followed his betrayal of Peter Martin's
friendship the man had never made a friend who loved him for
himself--who believed in him or trusted him. In business circles his
reputation for deals that were always carefully legal but often
obviously dishonest had caused the men he met to accept him only so far
as their affairs made the contact necessary. Because of the power he
had through his possession of the patented process he was known. His
place in the community had been fixed by what he took from the
community. His habit of boasting of his possessions, of his power, and
of his business triumphs, and his way of considering the people as his
personal debtors had been a never-failing subject of laughing comment.
Men spoke of his death in a jocular vein--made jests about
it--wondering what he was really worth. But one and all invariably
concluded their comments with some word of sincere sympathy for his
family.
Because of the people's estimation of the Mill owner's character, the
publication of his will created a sensation the like of which was never
before known in the community.
One half of his estate, including the Mill, Adam Ward gave to his
family. The other half he gave to his old workman friend, Peter Martin.
Millsburgh was stunned, stupefied with amazement and wonder. But no one
outside the two families, save the Interpreter, ever knew the real
reason for the bequest. The old basket maker alone understood that this
was Adam Ward's deal with God--it was the contract by which he was to
escape the hell of his religious fears--the horrors of which he had so
often suffered in his dreams and the dread of which had so preyed upon
his diseased mind.
When the necessary time for the legal processes in the settlement of
Adam Ward's estate had passed, John called the Mill workers together.
In his notice of the meeting, the manager stated simply that it was to
consider the mutual interests of the employers and employees by
safeguarding the future of the industry. When the workmen had
assembled, they wondered to see on the platform with their general
manager, Helen and her mother, Mary and Peter Martin, the city mayor,
with representative men from the labor unions and from the business
circles of the community, and, sitting in his wheel chair, the
Interpreter.
To the employees in the Mill and to the representatives of the people
the announcement of the final disposition of Adam Ward's estate was
made.
The house on the hill with the beautiful grounds surrounding it became
in effect the property of the people--with an endowment fixed for its
maintenance. It was to be converted into a center of community
interest, one feature of which was to be an institute for the study of
patriotism.
"We have foundations for the promotion of the sciences, of art and of
business," said the legal gentleman who made the announcements. "Why
not an institution for the study and promotion of patriotism--research
in the fields of social and industrial life that are peculiarly
American--lectures, classes, and literature on the true Americanization
of those who come to us from foreign countries--the promotion of true
American principles and standards of citizenship in our public schools
and educational institutions and among our people--the collection and
study of authentic data from the many industrial and social experiments
that are being carried on--these are some of the proposed activities."
This Institute of American Patriotism would be under the leadership of
the Interpreter and would stand as a memorial to the memory of Captain
Charlie Martin.
When the mayor, in behalf of the people, had made a fitting response to
this presentation, John told the Mill men that their employer, Pete
Martin, would make an announcement.
The old workman was greeted with cheers. Some one in the crowd called,
good-naturedly, "How does it feel to be an owner, Uncle Pete?"
Everybody laughed and the veteran himself grinned.
"I guess I'm too old to change my feelings much, Bill Sewold," he
answered. "And that's about what I was going to tell you. The lawyers
say that I own half of our Mill here and that I can do what I please
with it. But I can't some way make it seem any more mine than it always
was. Mary and I are agreed that we'd like to do what we know Charlie
would be in for if he was here, and we've talked it over with John and
his folks and they feel just like we do about it.
"The lawyers can explain the workin's of the plan to you better than I
can; but this is the main idea: The whole thing has been made over into
a company with John and his mother and sister owning one half and me
the other. What John wants me to tell you is that he and his folks are
turning one half of their interest and Mary and me are turning one half
of our interest back to you workmen. So that from now on all the
employees of the Mill will be employers--and all the employers will be
employees. With John and me and our folks owning one half, you can see
that we're figuring on keeping the management in the proper hands, John
will be in the office where he belongs and the rest of us will be where
we belong. Considering our recent demonstration, I guess you'll all
agree that a lot of us need to be protected by the rest of us from all
of us. And now all we have to do is to work. And I'd like to see Jake
Vodell or any other foreign agitator try to start another industrial
war in Millsburgh."
It was the Interpreter who asked the assembled workmen to endorse a
petition to the governor asking clemency for Sam Whaley. The ground
upon which the petition was based was that the guilty principal in the
crime was still at liberty--that others, still unknown, were involved
with him--that Sam Whaley by his confession had saved the Mill and the
community from the full horrors planned by the agitator, and that under
the new standard of industrial citizenship the former follower of the
anarchist might in time become a useful member of society.
A solemn hush fell over the company when Peter Martin, Mary, John and
Helen were the first to sign the petition.
The old house is no longer empty, deserted and forlorn. Repaired and
repainted from the front gate to the back-yard fence--with well-kept
lawn, flowers and garden--it impresses the passer-by with its air of
modest home happiness. To Helen and her mother who live there, to John
and his wife, Mary, and to the old workman who live in the cottage next
door, the spirit of the old days has returned.
The neighbors in passing always stop for a word with the gray-haired
woman who works among her flowers just as she used to do before the
discovery of the new process, or with her sweet-faced daughter. The
workmen going to or from the Mill always have a smile or a word of
greeting for the mother and the sister of their comrade manager.
Nor is there a man or woman in all the city or in the country round
about who does not know and love this Helen of the old house, who is
giving herself so without reserve to the people's need, who has, as the
Interpreter says, "found herself in service."
But when the deep tones of the Mill whistle sound over the city, the
valley and the hillsides, there is a look in Helen's eyes that only
those who know her best understand.
And often in these days the neighborhood of the old house rings with
the merry voices of Bobby and Maggie and their playmates. From the
Flats--from the tenement houses--from the homes of the laborers, they
come, these children, to this beautiful woman who loves them all and
who calls them, somewhat fancifully, her "jewels of happiness."
"Yer see," explained little Maggie, "the princess lady, she jest couldn't
help findin' them there happiness jewels--'cause her heart was so
kind--jest like the Interpreter said."
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Helen of the Old House, by Harold Bell Wright