IV

On her way up to her room that night, Ethel drew up short outside

Graham's bedroom door. She knew that he was in, which was in itself

unusual. She thought there must be something the matter, because she had

seen Graham leave the house in the morning long after his usual time.

She had also watched his face at dinner and had seen in it something

that frightened her. It was true that Peter was her favorite brother,

but she was very fond of and had great admiration for Graham. Also she,

herself, was in trouble. Trouble seemed to be an epidemic in that

family. Her Knight Errant next door, in spite of her signalling and the

fact that she had laid out as usual the cigarettes and the candies, had

deserted her. In order to receive his visits and feed herself on the

excitement with which they provided her, she was still maintaining her

pretence of invalidism, and the worst of it was she now knew that she

had grown to be very fond of the boy, who at first had only been a

source of amusement.

So, with a fellow-feeling for Graham, she listened outside his door. She

wanted very badly to slip in and give her sympathy to her brother and

receive some of it from him. She didn't feel quite as individualistic as

usual. The artificiality of the flapper left her for the time being and

she felt as young as she really was and rather helpless, and awfully

lonely.

Hearing nothing, she tapped gently on the door, opened it and went in.

Graham was sitting in an arm-chair with his elbows on his knees and his

head between his hands. He made a picture of wretchedness which would

have melted the heart of a sphinx. Ethel went over to him and put her

hand on his shoulder. "Is anything the matter, Hammie?" she asked, using

the nickname that she had given him as a child.

Graham didn't look up. "Oh, Lord, no!" he said, with a touch of

impatience. "What should be the matter?" But he was very glad to feel

that touch of friendliness on his shoulders.

"Can I do anything for you?"

"Oh, no. I'm all right--as right as rain."

Ethel knew better. She knew also that she would have said those very

things to Belle if she had been caught in a similar state of depression.

So she sat down on the arm of Graham's chair and put her hand against

his cheek. "I've got about a hundred and seventy-five dollars, if that's

any good to you," she said.

Graham gave a scoffing laugh, but all the same he was very grateful for

the offer. "My dear kid," he said, "a hundred and seventy-five

dollars--that's no better than a dry bone to a hungry man."

"Is it as bad as all that, Hammie?"

"Yes, and then some."

Ethel thought deeply for a few minutes. Her characteristic selfishness,

which had been almost tenderly encouraged at school, had given way

temporarily before her own disappointment. "Well," she said finally,

"I've got four brooches and five rings, a watch and a dressing-case. You

can sell them all if you like."

Then Graham turned round, gave his little sister one short, affectionate

look and put his head down on her shoulder. "Don't say anything,

please," he said. "Just let me stay here for a minute. It does me good."

And he stayed there for many minutes, and the two sat silently and

quietly, getting from each other in their mutual trouble the necessary

help which both needed so much. A strange, new feeling of motherliness

stole over the girl. It surprised her. It was almost like being in

church on Christmas Eve, or listening to the most beautiful melody.

It was a long time since these two had taken the trouble to meet each

other half-way. The thoughts of both went back to those good hours when

Graham had put his little sister on a sled in front of him and pushed

her, laughing merrily, over the hard snow in the park. He had never even

dreamed in those days of money and the fever that it brings, or women

and the pain they make.

And then Graham got up, just a little ashamed of himself,--after all, he

was now a man of the world,--and saw that Ethel's cheeks were wet with

tears. It was his turn to try and help. "Good Lord!" he said. "You don't

mean to say that you're worried about anything. What is it?"

She shook her head and turned her face away. "Oh, nothing--nothing at

all."

All the same she felt much, ever so much better for the kiss that he

gave her, and went along to her own room half-determined to be honest

with herself and go back to school the next day. She was rather startled

to find the smell of cigarette smoke in her bedroom, which was in

darkness. She turned up the nearest light and almost gave a cry of joy

when she found the boy from next door sitting on the window-sill.

"Jack!" she cried. "I thought you were--I thought you had----"

Jack threw his cigarette out of the window and got up awkwardly. "I got

your note just now," he said, "and so I've come."

Ethel went to the door and locked it. All the clouds had rolled away.

She was very happy. She had evidently made a mistake. He must have been

prevented from coming. She wished he'd given her time to powder her nose

and arrange the curls about her ears. As it was, she opened the box of

cigarettes and held out the candies to him.

"No, thanks," said Jack. "I'm off chocolates and I've knocked off

smoking to a great extent."

With a womanly touch which she and all women have inherited from Eve,

who never forgot to stand with her back to the sun and took care, if

possible, to remain in the woods until after breakfast, Ethel turned on

a shaded light and switched off the strong overhead glare which made her

look every day of her fifteen years. Then she sat down with the light

over her left shoulder. She was quite herself again. All was well with

the world.

"Where have you been?" she asked, a little imperiously.

"Nowhere," said Jack.

"Then why haven't you been to see me? I have signalled every night. I

can't understand it."

"I know you can't. That's why I've stayed away."

Ethel was puzzled at the boy's solemn tone. "Of course, if you don't

want to come, please don't. I wouldn't drag you here against your will

for anything."

"Yes, but I _do_ want to come. I stay away for your sake, and I'm not

coming again after this evening."

That was exactly what Ethel wanted to hear. She'd been afraid that Jack

had found some one else. Now she knew differently. "Don't be silly," she

said. "Have a cigarette. Come and sit on the sofa and don't let's waste

time."

But Jack didn't move. He had gone back to the window-sill and remained

hunched up on the narrow ledge, holding on with both hands. "I'm off in

a minute," he said. "I'm just going to tell you one or two things

before I go. Would you like to hear them?"

"If they're pleasant," she said.

"Well, they're not pleasant."

"Well, then, tell me."

For a moment or two Jack remained silent. Perhaps he was trying to find

careful words into which to put his thoughts. When finally he spoke it

was with a suppressed emotion that sent a quiver through the quiet room.

"I can't stand coming here," he said. "I can't stand it. I don't know

what you are--whether you're a mere baby who knows nothing, or an

absolute little rotter. You tell me I can say what I think, so I'm going

to." He got up and went a little nearer to the sofa. "What d'you think

I'm made of? Look at yourself in the glass and then see whether you're

the sort of a girl who can let a man into her bedroom night after night

for nothing. I tell you I can't stand it. I stayed away, not because I

wanted to, but because I didn't want to do you any harm. I was a fool

for coming here at all. If I didn't believe that you are simply a silly

girl I'd stay to-night and come every night as I used to do, but I'm

going to give you the benefit of the doubt. Next time you signal to a

man take care to find out what he's made of and be a bit more careful.

There, now you've got it. Good night and good-bye. I've a darned good

mind to put the note you sent me to-night in an envelope and address it

to your mother. It would save some other fellow from a good deal of

unnecessary discomfort. I'm frightfully sorry to be so brutal, but I

don't believe you know what you're doing. Perhaps this'll be a lesson to

you."

He turned quickly, swung himself out, went up the rope ladder hand over

hand and drew it up after him.

Ethel closed her eyes and sat rigid. The boy might have planted his fist

in her face.

V

Kenyon had taken Mrs. Guthrie and Belle to the Thirty-ninth Street

Theatre that night. A quiet little romantic play, quite unpretentiously

written, had found its way to that theatre either by accident or as a

stop-gap. The manager who put it there had arranged, even before the

opening performance, to replace it at the end of the week with something

which had a punch,--a coarse, vulgar, artificial piece of mechanism such

as he had been in the habit of producing all of his managerial life. His

intention to do this was strengthened by the press notices, which all

agreed that the new piece was a very little play about nothing in

particular and which made too great a demand upon the imagination of its

audience. That last remark of the critics was worth a million dollars to

the play's author. The theatre remained almost empty until the Friday

night of its first--and if the manager had anything to do with it--only

week. The scenery for the new production was already stacked on the

stage. But to the amazement of all concerned, except the author, the

theatre did business. The house was almost full and the box office was

so busy that the young man who looked after it,--a past-master in

rudeness,--became quite querulous. On Saturday night there was a full

house and the booking was so big for the following week that the notices

of withdrawal were taken down and the play with a punch had to find

another home. The manager, greatly put out, watched this little play

sail into a big, steady success, and whenever his numerous

acquaintances--he had no friends--caught him in an unbusy moment, he

would say: "I can't make it out. It beats me. Look at the notices. I

couldn't understand a word of the thing when I read it. I only put it

into the theatre to keep it warm. My word, I don't know what the public

wants." He didn't, and he never would. But the author knew. He had made

a play which appealed to the imagination of his audience.

Peter had watched the party go to the theatre after an early dinner; had

seen Graham go up to his room and his father drive away to a meeting at

the Academy of Medicine; and then, anxious to be alone and think things

over, he too left the house for a long, hard tramp. He went into the

park and walked round and round the reservoir. The night was fine and

clear, and up in the sky, which was pitted with stars, a young moon lay

on her back. From all sides the music of traffic came to his ears in a

never-ceasing refrain, and high up he could see the numerous electric

signs which came and went with steady precision and monotony. Every now

and then he caught sight of the Plaza, whose windows all seemed to be

alight. It gave a peculiar touch of fantasy to that side of the Park.

Peter found himself thinking of some of the things which Ranken Townsend

had said to him. Without bitterness, and certainly without anger, he

began to see something in the artist's bluntness which gradually made

him long, with a sort of boyish anguish, to go in to his own father. The

more he thought about this the more it seemed to him right and necessary

and urgent to beard the Doctor in his den and break down the curious

barrier which shyness had erected between him and his children. He

realized at that moment that he stood desperately in need of a father's

help and advice. It was quite obvious to him also that Graham needed

these things even more than he did. If only they could both go to that

wise and good man who stood aloof and get something more from him than

the mere money with which he was so generous. He knew--no one

better--that he always received from his mother the most tender

sympathy, but how could he discuss with her some of the things with

which he was faced since the Ita Strabosck episode had come into his

life? Kenyon had done much to make it plain to him that it was not good

to continue to walk in blank ignorance of the vital facts with which his

father dealt daily. He was a man and he had to live in the world. His

boyish days among boys were over. They belonged to the past.

It was borne in upon him as he went round and round the wide stretch of

placid water in which was reflected the moon and stars, that his father

should know all about Graham. Certain things that Kenyon had said stuck

to his mind like burrs. If he could persuade Graham to make a clean

breast of it to the Doctor, the brother who meant so much to him might

be saved from a disaster which would not merely affect himself, but

others,--a wife and children perhaps. Kenyon had hinted at this and the

hint was growing in Peter's mind like an abscess. It was time that he

and his brother faced facts and knew them. Who could initiate them

better than the distinguished doctor whose life had been devoted to such

serious questions?

Having brought himself up to this point and being also tremendously

anxious to tell his father of the position in which he stood with Mr.

Townsend, Peter determined to strike while the iron was hot--to go home

and see his father at once. He left the park quickly, and when finally

he let himself into the house was astonished to see how late it was. The

servant told him that his mother and sister had come back from the

theatre and had gone to bed. "Mr. Kenyon," he added, "came back, but

went out again at once. Mr. Graham went to bed early and the Doctor has

not returned yet."

"Good!" thought Peter. "Then I'll wait for him." He gave up his hat and

stick, went through the quiet, dimly lit library, and after a moment's

hesitation opened the door of the Blue Room,--that room in which he had

been so seldom, hitherto only under protest. He had opened the door

quietly and was astonished to see Graham sitting at his father's desk

with the light from a reading lamp shining on his dark head. "By Jove,

Graham!" he said. "You must have been thinking my thoughts. This is

extraordinary."

Graham looked up with a start and thrust something under the

blotting-pad. His face went as white as a sheet and he stammered a few

incoherent words.

Quite unconscious of his brother's curious embarrassment, Peter sat on

the corner of the desk. "I've had it out with myself to-night," he said,

going, as he always did, straight to the point. "I've made up my mind to

make father into a father from now onwards. I can't stand this detached

business any longer. Let's both wait for him and have it out."

"What d'you mean?" asked Graham. "I don't get you." He put his hand out

surreptitiously and scrunched up one of the sheets of note paper on

which he had been writing.

"Listen!" said Peter, with intense earnestness. "I've got to know

things. So have you. I've got to have advice. I've got to be treated as

a human being. What's the good of our having a father at all if we don't

get something from him? I don't mean money and a roof, clothes and

things to eat. I mean help. I'm in a hole about Betty. I want to talk

about my work--about my future. Graham, let's give father a chance. Many

times he seems to me to have fumbled and been on the point of asking us

to meet him half-way. Well, I'm going to do so. Stay here and let's both

see it through. Have the pluck to tell him about your trouble and throw

the whole responsibility on him. It's his and he ought to have it. Wait

a second. Listen! If Ranken Townsend had been your father you never

would have gone near Papowsky. You wouldn't have come within a thousand

miles of Ita Strabosck--that's a certainty."

Graham got up quickly, but kept his hand heavily on the blotting-pad.

"No," he said almost hysterically. "Count me out. I'm not in this. It's

no good our trying to alter father at this time of day--it's too late.

He's microbe mad. He knows nothing whatever about sons and daughters. I

could no more tell him about the mess I'm in than fly over the moon.

He'd turn and curse me--that's all he'd do. He'd get up and preach, or

something. He doesn't understand anything about life. I'd a jolly sight

rather go to mother, only I know it would hurt her so, and anyway my

story isn't fit for her ears. No; cut me out, I tell you. I'm not in

this."

Peter got up and put his hands strongly on his brother's shoulders. He

didn't notice then how near he was to a breakdown. "Graham, old man,

you've _got_ to be--you've just _got_ to be. What Kenyon said is true.

You and I are blind and are damned children wandering about--stumbling

about. We need--we absolutely need a father more than ever we did in our

lives. So do Belle and Ethel. We all think that we can go alone, and we

can't. I know I'm right--I just know it--so you've got to stay."

A puff of wind came through the open window. Several pieces of paper

fluttered off the desk and fell softly on the floor. Peter stooped and

picked them up. On them the words "Hunter G. Guthrie" had been written

over and over again.

He laughed as he looked at them. "What on earth has father been writing

his name all over these sheets for? How funny! What a strange old chap

he seems to be. It's a sort of undergraduate trick, this,--practising a

signature before writing a first cheque."

"Give 'em to me!" said Graham sharply, and he tried to snatch them away.

His voice was hoarse and his hand shook.

Peter looked at him in great surprise. It was impossible for him not to

be aware of the fact that something was dreadfully wrong. As he stood

and looked into his brother's guilty face the fact which stood out most

clearly was that Graham had himself been writing his father's signature

all over those sheets of paper. Why? A man did a thing of that sort for

one reason only.

He seized Graham's hand which was pressed on the blotting-pad, jerked it

up, pushed the blotting-pad aside and picked up the cheque-book that

laid beneath it.

"Don't touch that," cried Graham, "for God's sake! Let me have it! I'll

tear out the cheque. I think I was mad. Oh, God! I'm so worried I didn't

know what I was doing!"

There was a struggle, quick and sharp, and in an instant Graham found

himself staggering across the room backwards.

With his heart standing still, Peter opened the thin, narrow,

brown-covered book. A cheque for three thousand dollars had been made

out to Graham Guthrie. The signature had been forged.

"You've done this," he said. "You've actually--"

Graham was up on his feet. His lips were trembling. He put out a shaking

hand. "My God!" he whispered. "Father's in the library."

The sound of the Doctor's thin, clear voice came through the half-open

door. Frozen with fear, Graham seemed to be unable to move. His very

lips had lost their colour.

With an overwhelming anxiety to hide his brother's frightful fall from

honesty and sanity, Peter pounced on the little book, thrust it into

Graham's pocket, snatched up the give-away slips of paper, tore them

into small pieces and threw them in the basket.

"Don't give me away. Don't let him know. If you do, I swear to God

you'll never see me again!"

There was still something to be done, and Peter did it. He took his

brother up in his arms, realizing that he was, in a way, paralyzed,

carried him to a chair that was out of the ring of light and sat him

down. "Get yourself in hand, quick," he whispered. "Quick, now!"

And Graham, strengthened by his brother's vitality, forced himself into

some sort of control.

Striding to the fireplace, Peter stood there waiting for his father,

with a strange pain going through his body. He felt just as though he

had been told that Graham, his best pal and dear brother, had had an

appalling accident and might not live.

The Doctor's voice, as he gave directions to a servant, came nearer and

nearer.