For some little while there was nothing heard in the room save the continuous scratch of the doctor’s pen and the occasional crackling of the newspaper as Joseph turned the page. Then, as was expected, awaited, longed for by one of them, the music stealing through the friendly dividing-walls.
“Jean sings to-night,” remarked Joseph softly, scarcely looking up.
His voice startled his companion. “I have never heard her sing before,” he returned, without glancing up, and then cleared his throat as though it had been rasped by something physical.
“It is some of those old French songs what Daniel likes so much to hear,” explained Joseph, his luminous eyes seeking his paper again as though caught poaching.
There were only two in her repertoire, but Jean sang verse after verse, never omitting the refrain of “Lisette’s” so proud, so sad regret for the day’s lost joy:
“Si vous saviez, enfants,
Quand j’ étais jeune fille,
Comme j’ étais gentille—
Je parle de longtemps—
Teint frais, regard qui brille,
Sourire aux blanches dents,
Alors, ô mes enfants,
Alors, ô mes enfants,
Grisette de quinze ans,
Ah! que j’étais gentille.”110
The pen snailed across the paper. Almost, one might say, it kept time to the throb of smiling, coquettish tears beneath the quaint old ballad. And then came “Madame la Marquise,” beginning and ending with a bravura.111 They could hear the faint clapping of Daniel’s hands, and immediately after, the sound of the sweet, sonorous voice of the piano.
Philip laid down his pen—picked up a book. It was his hour of exquisite torture. The girl and her music had, in truth, become his conscience, seeking through his coats of vanity down to the hidden depths of the man, finding within him strange, potential heroisms, mute eloquences, mad, irresistible desires, which, changing with the changing soul of the music, made him, as in mockery, now her knight and hero, now a suppliant poet, now her compelling lover. Her music had thrown down the gates between them—had assumed a face and form—her face and form, and she came to meet him thus, a Child of the Book, with the dream of the Book in her eyes, and though he could not know that through his own distorted dream he had helped to the distorting of hers, he knew that now and forevermore he must read life and himself through her beautiful, denouncing eyes. He was still analyst enough, however, to know that the beauty of those eyes added fuel to the flame of her scorching scoring, satirist enough to say to himself, with grim humor, “For punishment, thou shalt love, without hope, this scorning Jewish maiden whom once thou scornedst.” In a world of artificiality and servile flunkyism she alone, through the echo of her girlish, impetuous, “Egoist, coward, snob,” seemed the one real—and unattainable—thing to him. Translating now her estimate of him and his blind dream of individualism into the vernacular, he called himself “a dam fool!” and when a man arrives at that stage of self-realization, he may be accounted on a fair road to recovery. The words wrenched wide the arms of his love. Often if he could have stopped the music with a blow he would have done so—and regretted it the moment after. But the words sang on in his memory and stooped his soul in reply. The valuation of this firebrand of an inexperienced girl hung like a price-mark upon him, and the price was bitterly low. And still, to-night, as night after night, he found himself engaged in this dumb, unheard, futile wooing, which, as the music ceased, left him looking into space with blank, haggard eyes.
Gradually the mists cleared and he realized that he was gazing at his father’s face.
Joseph was reading, his cigar in the corner of his mouth. Philip’s book lay open before him, his hand supported his head—a trick of habit. His eyes were riveted upon the absorbed face opposite. It seemed as though for the first time he saw it—knew it—the leathery skin, the protruding, bony, wrinkled brow, the long, thick nose, the straight, thin lips. His gaze fell from the grizzled beard to the heavily veined brown hands holding the newspaper—sped again to the quiet face above. Mute testimony of a life—the handwriting on the wall! Between the lines his history lay revealed—and Philip read. Time and space slipped away, the struggle, the yearning, the broken pitchers remained. By a strange fantasy he seemed to see the figure of a man moving alone upon an endless, lonely road—put there, how? Back of him lay the years, the centuries, stretching gigantic arms outward, beyond the man, beyond the horizon, beyond all space, beyond all time. The road of Infinity lay between. And the man? Galley-slave of the Past, lugging forever the memory of a Chain—sport of the ages, auto-da-fes, and yellow patch, hate, and prejudice, and jealous venom, plundered, reviled, stoned, and spat upon—heir of all the ages—unconquerable still—yearning ever toward the wide peace of promise!112 Heart-bound, the threads spread out, caught at the gazer, clutched him close.
“I am his—he is mine,” said his soul. “Amen.”
With an effort toward actuality, he sprang to his feet, and looked at his watch.
“I must be going,” he said hurriedly, his hand falling upon his father’s shoulder. “I have an operation at St. Luke’s—and you are going to bed now.”113
Joseph looked up, taking off his spectacles. “Yes,” he decided, slowly, shoving the glasses into their case. “Perhaps I’m a little tired. What time is it?”
“Just nine. Are you going now?” Joseph was following him.
“I’ll go with you to the door. You say it is an important case? What is it, Philip?”
The doctor shrugged himself into his overcoat, the old man standing by the newel-post, watching him. Philip smiled down at him, giving him certain details which brought a look of wisdom into his father’s face.
“Oh, it’s only an experiment,” Philip concluded, feeling in his pockets for his gloves. “My old friends, the authorities in Europe, have been discussing its practicability for the past ten years. I’m only going to put some of their theories into practice—risking one life for many—but I have strong hopes. Ah, here they are.” He began drawing on his gloves, waiting for the further question fumbling for exit in his father’s agitated countenance. “Well, good night.” He picked up his hat as a spur.
“Oh—hold on, Philip. You know I was to the club to-day.”
“Yes, so our late dinner proved.”
“And—and I heard some news—good news.”
Philip felt his pulse give a leap of premonition, and then lie cold. For no definable reason but for dread of it, and the natural possibility of it, he daily awaited the announcement of Jean Willard’s engagement.
“Ah,” he said, impassively.
“Yes. That was a good idea—waiting till I couldn’t go down and find out, but you can’t hide it from me no more—Houssman told me your name is on the board—for membership.”
His son turned upon him more directly, blank surprise written in his eyes. This suddenly passed, leaving a heavy frown.
“There is some mistake,” he said, shortly. “I have never given any one such a right—never spoken to any one of such a desire. I know no one belonging to your club—intimately.” The arrogrant, masterful voice spoke again.
“It is no mistake,” returned Joseph, thickly, uncertainly. “Houssman said it—he saw it plain—and Frank—and—”
“Then it is the horseplay of some practical joker,” broke in Philip, gruffly. “One of those gentlemanly means of getting even, I suppose. I—my dear sir—father—why should it trouble you?” He caught the old man by the shoulders, the egoist held again in leash by the look of agony quivering over the blanched features—conscious now, with all Jean Willard’s conscience, of his lack of consideration.
“Me?” agonized Joseph, hoarsely, lifting his head in pride. “Me? You think that troubles me? They can go to hell, the whole dam lot of ’em, for all I care! Dam ’em, Philip, dam ’em!”
Philip’s hand still pressed upon the trembling shoulders, his calm eyes gradually cooling the blazing ones beneath his.
“It really isn’t worth speaking about,” he said, lightly, at last. “But I’m glad you heard about it; to-morrow morning I can set them right with a note. I heard Katie go out, I think. Come, let me see you to your room.”
“Nonsense. Good night, Philip; I’m all right—you go to your work.” His voice dragged. He tried to move from the detaining hold. He seemed suddenly little and weak. Philip lifted him summarily and carried him upstairs. It was the work of but a few quick minutes to get him tucked between the sheets.
For a few seconds after the front door closed behind him, a great stillness lay upon the house. Then Joseph May, huddled in his dressing-gown, shuffling in his slippers, made his stumbling way down the stairs up which the adored strong arms had but just carried him.
Huddling, shuffling, groping, he reached the foot at last, and raised his head for breath. To-morrow morning! God in heaven, what was going to happen to-morrow morning? But the meeting—the meeting took place to-night—and the telephone miles away at the end of the passage. Making fun of them, eh? Making fun of both of them. “I hope he gets in,” chuckles Houssman. “I hope he gets in,” grins Frank. “I—” God, God, all of them laughing at him—he could hear them now—and surely the telephone used to be nearer the dining-room door. Ah!
He took down the receiver; the connection was made.
“Hello,” went the strange, hoarse voice over the wire. “Is Altschul there?”
“Who? I don’t understand you.”
“Altschul—the president—Altschul.”
“Got a bad cold, eh? Spell it.”
“A-l-t-s-c-h—”
“Oh, Altschul. Yes. Want him? Wait a minute.” . . . . .
“Hello. Who is this?”
“May. Joseph May. Is that Altschul?”
“Yes. Whom am I talking to?”
“May. Joseph May.”
“Oh—ah—yes. Your voice is somewhat husky, May. How goes it?”
“I want you—I want to say there is a mistake about my son’s name. He never gave no one the right to put it up. You understand, Altschul?”
“But my dear sir—”
“I want you to say it’s a damned low trick—and I want you to take his name off. You understand, Altschul?”
“But my dear sir—”
“I want you to say that Joseph May resigns from your club, now—to-night. You understand, Altschul?”
“But my dear sir, you, a charter member! Nonsense, May, nonsense. Reconsider it. If that regretable matter of Dr. May’s name—you know it has been on the board for full three weeks—if it had come to light in time—”
“Then—the—the meeting is over?”
“I regret exceedingly, but—”
“Then—he—is—”
“A little louder, May. What? I can’t understand you. You know it takes only two balls, and—but we shall sift this to the bottom. Say, May, come down and have a little game, won’t you? It’s a fine night. Say, May?”
He received no answer.
“We’ve been disconnected,” murmured Altschul, turning from the telephone room with threatening gaze.
It was a fine night, warm, soft, balmy, with overhead a cloudless, starry sky. Shortly before midnight, as Dr. May came out of St. Luke’s Hospital, two of his colleagues close upon his heels, it occurred to him that, in all his experience, he could recollect none finer. At the corner of Valencia Street, Dr. Otis grasped his hand for the third time.
“Young man,” he said, “I wish I had your career to live. Or my own over again—with just that added bit of power you taught us to-night.”
Philip laughed. He felt the slight intoxication visible in the brilliancy of his eyes, but his voice was quite steady. “It saves bungling,” he said. “And I believe she’s going to stand it.”
“No doubt of it. Well, sir, I envy you.” The distinguished old physician made as if to add something further, turned fiery under the lamplight, and took off his hat, as he strode toward the car.
Philip strolled on with the young interne, giving him an out-of-class lesson in the joy of his success. At that moment he would have readily staked his life on the truth of the statement that the nearest approach to earthly happiness is the knowledge of perfect success. He felt his powers strong within him, knew that he could leap mountains of untold difficulties.
His brain was still busy with analogous complications as he boarded his car, taking a seat on the side of the dummy where he could best enjoy his cigar. At the corner where transfers were given, two men stepped on, seating themselves close beside the tall, silent figure in the corner. They seemed to be talking confidentially, and Philip, absorbed in his own thoughts, took small notice of them, till just within a block of his stepping-off place, when he was attracted by the mention of his father’s name.
“Don’t tell me. I tell you I’m sorry for Joseph May; and if you’d have heard his poor, shaky old voice over the ’phone two or three hours ago, you’d fully understand this feeling. I hated to have to tell him that the meeting had already taken place and that the black-balling was accomplished. Now, the fellow who conceived the original and brilliant idea of using the club’s roster as a means of canceling some real personal debt or of perpetuating his vulgar joke, is going to suffer for this. Oh, I know the man deserved some sort of drubbing, but the club isn’t a hall of justice—”
The tall, quiet man in the corner swung off, and Altschul spread himself more comfortably while the car spun on. Dr. May’s footsteps rang out sharply on the pavement as he walked toward his home.
He had flung his cigar away. His face was inscrutable as he put his key in the latch.
He noticed that the gas was still burning in the sitting-room as he had left it. Katie had not come home then, he supposed, with a passing sense of surprise, while moving toward the room to turn off the light. Something far down the hall near the telephone caught his attention. He went curiously toward it. He stooped over the dark, huddled mass—straightened himself a moment before looking further.
Then he turned up his father’s face. But it was cold in death.