Within the Law [66]
freely. There was respect in them, and affection, but there was something else, too, something the older man recognized as beyond his control. He spoke gravely, with a deliberate conviction.
"I owe something to her, too, Dad."
But Gilder would not let the statement go unchallenged. His heavy voice rang out rebukingly, overtoned with protest.
"What can you owe her?" he demanded indignantly. "She tricked you into the marriage. Why, legally, it's not even that. There's been nothing more than a wedding ceremony. The courts hold that that is only a part of the marriage actually. The fact that she doesn't receive you makes it simpler, too. It can be arranged. We must get you out of the scrape."
He turned and went to the desk, as if to sit, but he was halted by his son's answer, given very gently, yet with a note of finality that to the father's ear rang like the crack of doom.
"I'm not sure that I want to get out of it, father."
That was all, but those plain words summed the situation, made the issue a matter not of advice, but of the heart.
Gilder persisted, however, in trying to evade the integral fact of his son's feeling. Still he tried to fix the issue on the known unsavory reputation of the woman.
"You want to stay married to this jail-bird!" he stormed.
A gust of fury swept the boy. He loved the woman, in spite of all; he respected her, even reverenced her. To hear her thus named moved him to a rage almost beyond his control. But he mastered himself. He remembered that the man who spoke loved him; he remembered, too, that the word of opprobrium was no more than the truth, however offensive it might be to his sensitiveness. He waited a moment until he could hold his voice even. Then his words were the sternest protest that could have been uttered, though they came from no exercise of thought, only out of the deeps of his heart.
"I'm very fond of her."
That was all. But the simple sincerity of the saying griped the father's mood, as no argument could have done. There was a little silence. After all, what could meet such loving loyalty?
When at last he spoke, Gilder's voice was subdued, a little husky.
"Now, that you know?" he questioned.
There was no faltering in the answer.
"Now, that I know," Dick said distinctly. Then abruptly, the young man spoke with the energy of perfect faith in the woman. "Don't you see, father? Why, she is justified in a way, in her own mind anyhow, I mean. She was innocent when she was sent to prison. She feels that the world owes her----"
But the older man would not permit the assertion to go uncontradicted. That reference to the woman's innocence was an arraignment of himself, for it had been he who sent her to the term of imprisonment.
"Don't talk to me about her innocence!" he said, and his voice was ominous. "I suppose next you will argue that, because she's been clever enough to keep within the law, since she's got out of State Prison, she's not a criminal. But let me tell you--crime is crime, whether the law touches it in the particular case, or whether it doesn't."
Gilder faced his son sternly for a moment, and then presently spoke again with deeper earnestness.
"There's only one course open to you, my boy. You must give this girl up."
The son met his father's gaze with a level look in which there was no weakness.
"I've told you, Dad----" he began.
"You must, I tell you," the father insisted. Then he went on quickly, with a tone of utmost positiveness. "If you don't, what are you going to do the day your wife is thrown into a patrol wagon and carried to Police Headquarters--for it's sure to happen? The cleverest of people make mistakes, and some day she'll make one."
Dick threw out his hands in a gesture of supreme denial. He was furious at this supposition that she would continue in her irregular practices.
But the father went on remorselessly.
"They will stand her up where the detectives will walk past her with masks on their faces. Her picture, of course, is already in the Rogues'
"I owe something to her, too, Dad."
But Gilder would not let the statement go unchallenged. His heavy voice rang out rebukingly, overtoned with protest.
"What can you owe her?" he demanded indignantly. "She tricked you into the marriage. Why, legally, it's not even that. There's been nothing more than a wedding ceremony. The courts hold that that is only a part of the marriage actually. The fact that she doesn't receive you makes it simpler, too. It can be arranged. We must get you out of the scrape."
He turned and went to the desk, as if to sit, but he was halted by his son's answer, given very gently, yet with a note of finality that to the father's ear rang like the crack of doom.
"I'm not sure that I want to get out of it, father."
That was all, but those plain words summed the situation, made the issue a matter not of advice, but of the heart.
Gilder persisted, however, in trying to evade the integral fact of his son's feeling. Still he tried to fix the issue on the known unsavory reputation of the woman.
"You want to stay married to this jail-bird!" he stormed.
A gust of fury swept the boy. He loved the woman, in spite of all; he respected her, even reverenced her. To hear her thus named moved him to a rage almost beyond his control. But he mastered himself. He remembered that the man who spoke loved him; he remembered, too, that the word of opprobrium was no more than the truth, however offensive it might be to his sensitiveness. He waited a moment until he could hold his voice even. Then his words were the sternest protest that could have been uttered, though they came from no exercise of thought, only out of the deeps of his heart.
"I'm very fond of her."
That was all. But the simple sincerity of the saying griped the father's mood, as no argument could have done. There was a little silence. After all, what could meet such loving loyalty?
When at last he spoke, Gilder's voice was subdued, a little husky.
"Now, that you know?" he questioned.
There was no faltering in the answer.
"Now, that I know," Dick said distinctly. Then abruptly, the young man spoke with the energy of perfect faith in the woman. "Don't you see, father? Why, she is justified in a way, in her own mind anyhow, I mean. She was innocent when she was sent to prison. She feels that the world owes her----"
But the older man would not permit the assertion to go uncontradicted. That reference to the woman's innocence was an arraignment of himself, for it had been he who sent her to the term of imprisonment.
"Don't talk to me about her innocence!" he said, and his voice was ominous. "I suppose next you will argue that, because she's been clever enough to keep within the law, since she's got out of State Prison, she's not a criminal. But let me tell you--crime is crime, whether the law touches it in the particular case, or whether it doesn't."
Gilder faced his son sternly for a moment, and then presently spoke again with deeper earnestness.
"There's only one course open to you, my boy. You must give this girl up."
The son met his father's gaze with a level look in which there was no weakness.
"I've told you, Dad----" he began.
"You must, I tell you," the father insisted. Then he went on quickly, with a tone of utmost positiveness. "If you don't, what are you going to do the day your wife is thrown into a patrol wagon and carried to Police Headquarters--for it's sure to happen? The cleverest of people make mistakes, and some day she'll make one."
Dick threw out his hands in a gesture of supreme denial. He was furious at this supposition that she would continue in her irregular practices.
But the father went on remorselessly.
"They will stand her up where the detectives will walk past her with masks on their faces. Her picture, of course, is already in the Rogues'