Chapter 2

That which was the supreme tragedy to the broken girl in the cell merely
afforded rather agreeable entertainment to her former fellows of the
department store. Mary Turner throughout her term of service there had
been without real intimates, so that now none was ready to mourn over
her fate. Even the two room-mates had felt some slight offense, since
they sensed the superiority of her, though vaguely. Now, they found
a smug satisfaction in the fact of her disaster as emphasizing very
pleasurably their own continuance in respectability.

As many a philosopher has observed, we secretly enjoy the misfortunes of
others, particularly of our friends, since they are closest to us. Most
persons hasten to deny this truth in its application to themselves. They
do so either because from lack of clear understanding they are not quite
honest with themselves, from lack of clear introspection, or because, as
may be more easily believed, they are not quite honest in the assertion.
As a matter of fact, we do find a singular satisfaction in the troubles
of others. Contemplation of such suffering renders more striking the
contrasted well-being of our own lot. We need the pains of others
to serve as background for our joys--just as sin is essential as the
background for any appreciation of virtue, even any knowledge of its
existence.... So now, on the day of Mary Turner's trial, there was a
subtle gaiety of gossipings to and fro through the store. The girl's
plight was like a shuttlecock driven hither and yon by the battledores
of many tongues. It was the first time in many years that one of the
employees had been thus accused of theft. Shoplifters were so common as
to be a stale topic. There was a refreshing novelty in this case,
where one of themselves was the culprit. Her fellow workers chatted
desultorily of her as they had opportunity, and complacently thanked
their gods that they were not as she--with reason. Perhaps, a very few
were kindly hearted enough to feel a touch of sympathy for this ruin of
a life.

Of such was Smithson, a member of the executive staff, who did not
hesitate to speak his mind, though none too forcibly. As for that,
Smithson, while the possessor of a dignity nourished by years of
floor-walking, was not given to the holding of vigorous opinions. Yet,
his comment, meager as it was, stood wholly in Mary's favor. And he
spoke with a certain authority, since he had given official attention to
the girl.

Smithson stopped Sarah Edwards, Mr. Gilder's private secretary, as she
was passing through one of the departments that morning, to ask her if
the owner had yet reached his office.

“Been and gone,” was the secretary's answer, with the terseness
characteristic of her.

“Gone!” Smithson repeated, evidently somewhat disturbed by the
information. “I particularly wanted to see him.”

“He'll be back, all right,” Sarah vouchsafed, amiably. “He went
down-town, to the Court of General Sessions. The judge sent for him
about the Mary Turner case.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now,” Smithson exclaimed. Then he added, with a
trace of genuine feeling, “I hope the poor girl gets off. She was a nice
girl--quite the lady, you know, Miss Edwards.”

“No, I don't know,” Sarah rejoined, a bit tartly. Truth to tell, the
secretary was haunted by a grim suspicion that she herself was not quite
the lady of her dreams, and never would be able to acquire the graces of
the Vere De Vere. For Sarah, while a most efficient secretary, was not
in her person of that slender elegance which always characterized her
favorite heroines in the novels she affected. On the contrary, she was
of a sort to have gratified Byron, who declared that a woman in her
maturity should be plump. Now, she recalled with a twinge of envy that
the accused girl had been of an aristocratic slimness of form. “Oh, did
you know her?” she questioned, without any real interest.

Smithson answered with that bland stateliness of manner which was the
fruit of floor-walking politeness.

“Well, I couldn't exactly say I knew her, and yet I might say, after a
manner of speaking, that I did--to a certain extent. You see, they put
her in my department when she first came here to work. She was a good
saleswoman, as saleswomen go. For the matter of that,” he added with a
sudden access of energy, “she was the last girl in the world I'd take
for a thief.” He displayed some evidences of embarrassment over the
honest feeling into which he had been betrayed, and made haste to
recover his usual business manner, as he continued formally. “Will you
please let me know when Mr. Gilder arrives? There are one or two little
matters I wish to discuss with him.”

“All right!” Sarah agreed briskly, and she hurried on toward the private
office.

The secretary was barely seated at her desk when the violent opening of
the door startled her, and, as she looked up, a cheery voice cried out:

“Hello, Dad!”

At the same moment, a young man entered, with an air of care-free
assurance, his face radiant. But, as his glance went to the empty
arm-chair at the desk, he halted abruptly, and his expression changed to
one of disappointment.

“Not here!” he grumbled. Then, once again the smile was on his lips
as his eyes fell on the secretary, who had now risen to her feet in a
flutter of excitement.

“Why, Mr. Dick!” Sarah gasped.

“Hello, Sadie!” came the genial salutation. The young man advanced and
shook hands with her warmly. “I'm home again. Where's Dad?”

Even as he asked the question, the quick sobering of his face bore
witness to his disappointment over not finding his father in the office.
For such was the relationship of the owner of the department store to
this new arrival on the scene. And in the patent chagrin under which the
son now labored was to be found a certain indication of character not
to be disregarded. Unlike many a child, he really loved his father. The
death of the mother years before had left him without other opportunity
for affection in the home, since he had neither brother nor sister. He
loved his father with a depth of feeling that made between the two a
real camaraderie, despite great differences in temperament. In that
simple and sincere regard which he bore for his father, the boy revealed
a heart ready for love, willing to give of itself its best for the one
beloved. Beyond that, as yet, there was little to be said of him with
exactness. He was a spoiled child of fortune, if you wish to have it
so. Certainly, he was only a drone in the world's hive. Thus far, he
had enjoyed the good things of life, without ever doing aught to deserve
them by contributing in return--save by his smiles and his genial air of
happiness.

In the twenty-three years of his life, every gift that money could
lavish had been his. If the sum total of benefit was small, at least
there remained the consoling fact that the harm was even less. Luxury
had not sapped the strength of him. He had not grown vicious, as have so
many of his fellows among the sons of the rich. Some instinct held him
aloof from the grosser vices. His were the trifling faults that had
their origin chiefly in the joy of life, which manifest occasionally in
riotous extravagancies, of a sort actually to harm none, however absurd
and useless they may be.

So much one might see by a glance into the face. He was well groomed,
of course; healthy, all a-tingle with vitality. And in the clear eyes,
which avoided no man's gaze, nor sought any woman's unseemly, there
showed a soul untainted, not yet developed, not yet debased. Through all
his days, Dick Gilder had walked gladly, in the content that springs to
the call of one possessed of a capacity for enjoyment; possessed, too,
of every means for the gratification of desire. As yet, the man of him
was unrevealed in its integrity. No test had been put upon him. The
fires of suffering had not tried the dross of him. What real worth might
lie under this sunny surface the future must determine. There showed now
only this one significant fact: that, in the first moment of his return
from journeyings abroad, he sought his father with all eagerness, and
was sorely grieved because the meeting must still be delayed. It was a
little thing, perhaps. Yet, it was capable of meaning much concerning
the nature of the lad. It revealed surely a tender heart, one responsive
to a pure love. And to one of his class, there are many forces ever
present to atrophy such simple, wholesome power of loving. The ability
to love cleanly and absolutely is the supreme virtue.

Sarah explained that Mr. Gilder had been called to the Court of General
Sessions by the judge.

Dick interrupted her with a gust of laughter.

“What's Dad been doing now?” he demanded, his eyes twinkling. Then,
a reminiscent grin shaped itself on his lips. “Remember the time that
fresh cop arrested him for speeding? Wasn't he wild? I thought he would
have the whole police force discharged.” He smiled again. “The trouble
is,” he declared sedately, “that sort of thing requires practice. Now,
when I'm arrested for speeding, I'm not in the least flustered--oh, not
a little bit! But poor Dad! That one experience of his almost soured his
whole life. It was near the death of him--also, of the city's finest.”

By this time, the secretary had regained her usual poise, which had been
somewhat disturbed by the irruption of the young man. Her round face
shone delightedly as she regarded him. There was a maternal note of
rebuke in her voice as she spoke:

“Why, we didn't expect you back for two or three months yet.”

Once again, Dick laughed, with an infectious gaiety that brought a smile
of response to the secretary's lips.

“Sadie,” he explained confidentially, “don't you dare ever to let the
old man know. He would be all swollen up. It's bad to let a parent swell
up. But the truth is, Sadie, I got kind of homesick for Dad--yes, just
that!” He spoke the words with a sort of shamefaced wonder. It is not
easy for an Anglo-Saxon to confess the realities of affection in
vital intimacies. He repeated the phrase in a curiously appreciative
hesitation, as one astounded by his own emotion. “Yes, homesick for
Dad!”

Then, to cover an excess of sincere feeling, he continued, with a burst
of laughter:

“Besides, Sadie, I was broke.”

The secretary sniffed.

“The cable would have handled that end of it, I guess,” she said,
succinctly.

There was no word of contradiction from Dick, who, from ample
experience, knew that any demand for funds would have received answer
from the father.

“But what is Dad doing in court?” he demanded.

Sarah explained the matter with her usual conciseness:

“One of the girls was arrested for stealing.”

The nature of the son was shown then clearly in one of its best aspects.
At once, he exhibited his instinct toward the quality of mercy, and,
too, his trust in the father whom he loved, by his eager comment.

“And Dad went to court to get her out of the scrape. That's just like
the old man!”

Sarah, however, showed no hint of enthusiasm. Her mind was ever of the
prosaic sort, little prone to flights. In that prosaic quality, was to
be found the explanation of her dependability as a private secretary.
So, now, she merely made a terse statement.

“She was tried to-day, and convicted. The judge sent for Mr. Gilder to
come down this morning and have a talk with him about the sentence.”

There was no lessening of the expression of certainty on the young man's
face. He loved his father, and he trusted where he loved.

“It will be all right,” he declared, in a tone of entire conviction.
“Dad's heart is as big as a barrel. He'll get her off.”

Then, of a sudden, Dick gave a violent start. He added a convincing
groan.

“Oh, Lord!” he exclaimed, dismally. There was shame in his voice. “I
forgot all about it!”

The secretary regarded him with an expression of amazement.

“All about what?” she questioned.

Dick assumed an air vastly more confidential than at any time hitherto.
He leaned toward the secretary's desk, and spoke with a new seriousness
of manner:

“Sadie, have you any money? I'm broker My taxi' has been waiting outside
all this time.”

“Why, yes,” the secretary said, cheerfully. “If you will----”

Dick was discreet enough to turn his attention to a picture on the
wall opposite while Sarah went through those acrobatic performances
obligatory on women who take no chances of losing money by carrying it
in purses.

“There!” she called after a few panting seconds, and exhibited a flushed
face.

Dick turned eagerly and seized the banknote offered him.

“Mighty much obliged, Sadie,” he said, enthusiastically. “But I must
run. Otherwise, this wouldn't be enough for the fare!” And, so saying,
he darted out of the room.