Within the Law [67]
Gallery, but they will take another. Yes, and the imprints of her fingers, and the measurements of her body."
The son was writhing under the words. The woman of whom these things were said was the woman whom he loved. It was blasphemy to think of her in such case, subjected to the degradation of these processes. Yet, every word had in it the piercing, horrible sting of truth. His face whitened. He raised a supplicating hand.
"Father!"
"That's what they will do to your wife," Gilder went on harshly; "to the woman who bears your name and mine." There was a little pause, and the father stood rigid, menacing. The final question came rasping. "What are you going to do about it?"
Dick went forward until he was close to his father. Then he spoke with profound conviction.
"It will never happen. She will go straight, Dad. That I know. You would know it if you only knew her as I do."
Gilder once again put his hand tenderly on his son's shoulder. His voice was modulated to an unaccustomed mildness as he spoke.
"Be sensible, boy," he pleaded softly. "Be sensible!"
Dick dropped down on the couch, and made his answer very gently, his eyes unseeing as he dwelt on the things he knew of the woman he loved.
"Why, Dad," he said, "she is young. She's just like a child in a hundred ways. She loves the trees and the grass and the flowers--and everything that's simple and real! And as for her heart--" His voice was low and very tender: "Why, her heart is the biggest I've ever known. It's just overflowing with sweetness and kindness. I've seen her pick up a baby that had fallen in the street, and mother it in a way that--well, no one could do it as she did it, unless her soul was clean."
The father was silent, a little awed. He made an effort to shake off the feeling, and spoke with a sneer.
"You heard what she said yesterday, and you still are such a fool as to think that."
The answer of the son came with an immutable finality, the sublime faith of love.
"I don't think--I know!"
Gilder was in despair. What argument could avail him? He cried out sharply in desperation.
"Do you realize what you're doing? Don't go to smash, Dick, just at the beginning of your life. Oh, I beg you, boy, stop! Put this girl out of your thoughts and start fresh."
The reply was of the simplest, and it was the end of argument.
"Father," Dick said, very gently, "I can't."
There followed a little period of quiet between the two. The father, from his desk, stood facing his son, who thus denied him in all honesty because the heart so commanded. The son rested motionless and looked with unflinching eyes into his father's face. In the gaze of each was a great affection.
"You're all I have, my boy," the older man said at last. And now the big voice was a mildest whisper of love.
"Yes, Dad," came the answer--another whisper, since it is hard to voice the truth of feeling such as this. "If I could avoid it, I wouldn't hurt you for anything in the world. I'm sorry, Dad, awfully sorry----" He hesitated, then his voice rang out clearly. There was in his tone, when he spoke again, a recognition of that loneliness which is the curse and the crown of being:
"But," he ended, "I must fight this out by myself--fight it out in my own way.... And I'm going to do it!"
CHAPTER XVI. BURKE PLOTS.
The butler entered.
"A man to see you, sir," he said.
Gilder made a gesture of irritation, as he sank into the chair at his desk.
"I can't see any one to-night, Thomas," he exclaimed, sharply.
"But he said it was most important, sir," the servant went on. He held out the tray insistently.
The master took the card grudgingly. As his eyes caught the name, his expression changed slightly.
"Very well," he said, "show him up." His glance met the wondering gaze of his son.
"It's Burke," he explained.
"What on earth can he want--at this time of night?" Dick exclaimed.
The father smiled grimly.
"You may as well get used to visits from the police." There was something ghastly
The son was writhing under the words. The woman of whom these things were said was the woman whom he loved. It was blasphemy to think of her in such case, subjected to the degradation of these processes. Yet, every word had in it the piercing, horrible sting of truth. His face whitened. He raised a supplicating hand.
"Father!"
"That's what they will do to your wife," Gilder went on harshly; "to the woman who bears your name and mine." There was a little pause, and the father stood rigid, menacing. The final question came rasping. "What are you going to do about it?"
Dick went forward until he was close to his father. Then he spoke with profound conviction.
"It will never happen. She will go straight, Dad. That I know. You would know it if you only knew her as I do."
Gilder once again put his hand tenderly on his son's shoulder. His voice was modulated to an unaccustomed mildness as he spoke.
"Be sensible, boy," he pleaded softly. "Be sensible!"
Dick dropped down on the couch, and made his answer very gently, his eyes unseeing as he dwelt on the things he knew of the woman he loved.
"Why, Dad," he said, "she is young. She's just like a child in a hundred ways. She loves the trees and the grass and the flowers--and everything that's simple and real! And as for her heart--" His voice was low and very tender: "Why, her heart is the biggest I've ever known. It's just overflowing with sweetness and kindness. I've seen her pick up a baby that had fallen in the street, and mother it in a way that--well, no one could do it as she did it, unless her soul was clean."
The father was silent, a little awed. He made an effort to shake off the feeling, and spoke with a sneer.
"You heard what she said yesterday, and you still are such a fool as to think that."
The answer of the son came with an immutable finality, the sublime faith of love.
"I don't think--I know!"
Gilder was in despair. What argument could avail him? He cried out sharply in desperation.
"Do you realize what you're doing? Don't go to smash, Dick, just at the beginning of your life. Oh, I beg you, boy, stop! Put this girl out of your thoughts and start fresh."
The reply was of the simplest, and it was the end of argument.
"Father," Dick said, very gently, "I can't."
There followed a little period of quiet between the two. The father, from his desk, stood facing his son, who thus denied him in all honesty because the heart so commanded. The son rested motionless and looked with unflinching eyes into his father's face. In the gaze of each was a great affection.
"You're all I have, my boy," the older man said at last. And now the big voice was a mildest whisper of love.
"Yes, Dad," came the answer--another whisper, since it is hard to voice the truth of feeling such as this. "If I could avoid it, I wouldn't hurt you for anything in the world. I'm sorry, Dad, awfully sorry----" He hesitated, then his voice rang out clearly. There was in his tone, when he spoke again, a recognition of that loneliness which is the curse and the crown of being:
"But," he ended, "I must fight this out by myself--fight it out in my own way.... And I'm going to do it!"
CHAPTER XVI. BURKE PLOTS.
The butler entered.
"A man to see you, sir," he said.
Gilder made a gesture of irritation, as he sank into the chair at his desk.
"I can't see any one to-night, Thomas," he exclaimed, sharply.
"But he said it was most important, sir," the servant went on. He held out the tray insistently.
The master took the card grudgingly. As his eyes caught the name, his expression changed slightly.
"Very well," he said, "show him up." His glance met the wondering gaze of his son.
"It's Burke," he explained.
"What on earth can he want--at this time of night?" Dick exclaimed.
The father smiled grimly.
"You may as well get used to visits from the police." There was something ghastly