The Empty Sack Part 6

"It's some one's responsibility, mother."

"Then let some one shoulder it. Bob doesn't have to saddle himself with it, unless-"

Convinced that, in the presence of his father, his mother wouldn't speak too openly, Bob felt safe in a challenge.

"Yes, mother? Unless-what?"

Mother and son exchanged a long look.

"Unless you go-very far out of your way."

"Well, suppose I did go-very far out of my way?"

"I should have to leave it with your father to deal with that."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time dad's been philanthropic."

Collingham looked up wearily. He was sitting with one leg thrown across the other, his left hand stroking Dauphin's silky head.

"You can be as philanthropic as you like outside business, Bob," he said, with schooled, hopeless conviction. "Inside, it's no go. Once you admit the principle of treating your employees philanthropically, business methods are at an end."

"I don't think modern economics would agree with you, daddy," Edith objected. "Aren't we beginning to realize that the well-being of employees, even when they're no longer of much use-"

Collingham looked up with a kind of longing in his eyes.

"I wish I could believe that, Edie, but an efficiency expert wouldn't bear you out."

"An efficiency expert doesn't know everything. He studies nothing but the individual private, whereas a political economist knows what's going on all up and down the line."

To Collingham this was like the doctrine of universal salvation to a Calvinist theologian. He would have seized it had he dared, but for daring it was too late. He had trained himself otherwise. On a basis of expert advice and individual efficiency Collingham & Law's had been built up. All he could do was to grasp at the personal.

"Where did you hear that?"

"You can read all about it in Mr. Ayling's last book, _The Economic Value of Good Will_."

As she pa.s.sed through the French window into the house, her mother turned with a gesture of both outspread hands.

"There! You see! What did I tell you? She has the effrontery to read his books and name him openly."

But too dispirited to take up the gauntlet, Collingham looked, with welcome, toward Gossip, who appeared in the doorway with the tea.

CHAPTER IV

The Folletts came together every evening about six, chiefly by the process known to American cities as commuting. Commuting brought them to Number Eleven Indiana Avenue, Pemberton Heights. Seen from the New York river-front, Pemberton Heights, on top of a great cliff on the New Jersey side of the Hudson, suggests a battlemented parapet. By day, its outline is a fringe against the sky; by night, its cl.u.s.tering lights are like a constellation.

Indiana Avenue is one of those rare spots in the neighborhood of New York where a measure of beauty is still reserved for the relatively poor. The heights are too high for the railways to scale, too inconvenient for factories. The not-very-well-to-do can find shelter there, as the mediaeval peoples of the Mediterranean coast found it in the rock towns where the pirates couldn't follow them. It is hardly conceivable that industry will ever climb to this uncomfortable perch, or that much compet.i.tion will put up rents. Too inaccessible for the social rich, and too isolated for the still more social poor, Pemberton Heights is the refuge of those who don't mind the trouble of getting there for the sake of the compensation.

The compensation is largely in the way of air and panorama. Both have a tendency to take away your breath. You would hardly believe that so much of New York could be visible all at once. The gigantic profile of Manhattan is sketched in here with a single stroke, while the river is thronged like a busy street seen from the top of a tower. City smoke rolls up and ocean mist rolls in while you are looking on. Sunrise, moonrise; moonset, sunset; stars in the heaven and lights along the darkened waterway, afford to the not-very-well-to-do, cooped up all day in kitchens, offices, and factories, a morning and evening glimpse into the ecstatic.

Number Eleven was somewhat withdrawn from all this toward the middle of the plateau. Built at a period when an architect's ambition was chiefly to do something singular, it had a great deal of sloping roof, with windows where you would not expect them. Pemberton Heights being held up bravely to rain and snow, the color of the house was a weatherbeaten brown. Two hydrangea trees, shaped like open umbrellas, and covered now with white blossoms fading to rose, stood one on each side of the front door in the center of two tiny gra.s.splots. There was a piazza, of course, where most of the family leisure was pa.s.sed, and in the yard behind the house there stood a cherry tree. All up and down the street for the length of about half a mile were similar little houses, each with its piazza and its architectural oddity, homes of the not-very-well-to-do, content with their relative poverty. Among themselves they formed a society as distinct and as active as that of Marillo Park, and out of it they got as much pleasure as the Sidebottoms and Collinghams from their more exclusive forgatherings.

In this soil, the Folletts had taken root with the ease of transplantation of the Anglo-Saxon race. Drawn to Pemberton Heights by the presence there of other Canadians, Josiah had bought the little house for seven thousand dollars. On this he had paid four, raising the other three on a mortgage which it was his ruling desire to pay off. The mild, tenacious optimism of his nature convinced him he should be able to do this, in spite of the danger of being "fired" hanging over him for two years. The fact that, though the months kept pa.s.sing, that sword didn't fall inspired the belief that it never would. He had grown so sure of this that with regard to the warning issued by Collingham he had never taken his wife into his confidence. For one thing, it was useless to alarm her when it might be without cause, and for another....

But that was the secret tragedy of Josiah's life. He had not made good the promise he gave when Lizzie Scarborough married him, and the falling of the sword would be the final proof of it. It would mean that his whole patient, painstaking life had fitted him for nothing better than the sc.r.a.p heap. That he should come to such an end he couldn't believe possible. That after nearly fifty years of uncomplaining drudgery he should be flung aside as useless to man in general and worse than useless to his family was not, he argued, in keeping with the will of G.o.d. It was to the will of G.o.d he trusted more than to the mercy of Bradley Collingham, though he trusted to them both.

When he married Lizzie in the little town of Lisgar, Nova Scotia, he had been a bank clerk. A bank clerk in Canada is a kind of young n.o.bleman at the beginning of what may be a striking career, after the manner of a fledgling in diplomacy. The banking inst.i.tutions being few and large, the employees are moved from post to post, much like _attaches_ or army officers. As moves bring promotion, the clerk becomes a teller and the teller a cas.h.i.+er and the cas.h.i.+er a branch manager and the branch manager a wealthy man in touch with world-wide issues. It was the kind of progress Josiah expected when he married Lizzie Scarborough, the kind of future they dreamed of and talked about, and which never came.

Josiah lacked something. You couldn't put your finger on the flaw in his energy, but you knew it was there. He was moved about, of course, but with little or no promotion. Other men got that, but he was ignored.

Harum-scarum young fellows whose ignorance of bookkeeping was a scandal were lifted over his head, while he and Lizzie stared at each other in perplexity.

Hardest of all for him was that, as years went by, Lizzie herself lost belief in him. More tender with him for his failure, she nevertheless saw that he was not the man she had supposed in the gay young days at Lisgar, and he saw that she saw. She gave up the hope of promotion before he did. The best to which they came to aspire was a "raise."

It was bitter for Lizzie because, as she was fond of saying to herself, and now and then to the children, she had been born a lady. This was no more than the truth. Whatever the meaning given to the word, Lizzie fulfilled it, though her claims were more than moral ones. The Scarboroughs had been great people in Ma.s.sachusetts before the Revolution. The old Scarborough mansion, still standing in Cambridge, bears witness to the generous scale on which they lived. But they left it as it stood, with its pictures, its silver, its furniture, its stores, rather than break their tie with England. Scorned by the country from which they fled, and ignored by that to which they remained true, their history on Nova-Scotian soil was chiefly one of descent. A few of them prospered; a few reached high positions in the adopted land, but most of them lacked opportunity as well as the will to create it. True, Lizzie's father was a clergyman; but her sisters married poorly, her brothers dropped into any chance jobs that came their way, while she herself got only such fulfillment of her dreams as she found at Pemberton Heights. Even the move to New York which Josiah had made when convinced that the Bank of the Maritime Provinces held no further hope for him had not greatly prospered them. Five years of drifting between one bank and another were followed by five steady years with Collingham & Law; but even that peaceful time was now at an end.

While the Collinghams were drinking tea on the flagged terrace, and Jennie was on the ferryboat, and Teddy dressing and skylarking after his plunge at the gym, and Follett nearing home, Lizzie was on her knees pinning up the draperies she was "making over" for Gussie. Pansy, the daughter of a bulldog and a Boston terrier, whose pansy-face had in it a more than human yearning, stood looking on, with forelegs wide apart.

Gussie was fifteen, pretty, pert, and impatient.

"Everyone'll see that it's the old thing you've been wearing since I dunno when."

Accustomed to this plaint, Lizzie thought it useless to reply.

"I'd rather not have a rag to wear than a thing everyone's sick of the sight of. Momma, why can't I have a new dress, right out and out?"

"My darling, you'll have a new dress when your father gets his raise. It must come before long; but I can't possibly give it you till then."

"I wish you'd stop talking," came from Gladys, who was busy with her lessons in a corner. "How can I study with all this row going on? Momma, what's the meaning of 'coagulation'?"

Coagulation explained, the fitting finished, and a dispute adjusted between the two children, Lizzie began to spread the table for supper, Gussie helping her. Most of the downstairs portion of the house being thrown into one large living room, the dining table stood at the end nearest the kitchen and pantry. It was a pleasure to watch the supple movements of Gussie's figure, and the flittings of her slim-wristed hands as she took the plates and laid them in their places. Most people said she would one day be prettier than Jennie, but as yet that was only promise.

Quite apparent was the fact that the mother had been more beautiful than any of her daughters was ever likely to become. At fifty-odd, it was a beauty that still had youth in it. Worn with the duties of providing for a husband and four children, it retained a quality proud and aloof. In her scouring and cooking and endless domestic round, Lizzie was like an actress dressed and made up for a humble part rather than really living it. The Scarborough tradition, which had first refused to bend to king against people and again to yield to people against king, had survived in this woman fighting for her inner life against failure, poverty, and sordidness.

She was singing at her work when the front door opened and Josiah came in. He stood for a minute in the little entry, surveying the living-room absently, while Pansy pranced about his feet. Gladys was still at her lessons, Gussie laying out the knives and forks.

"Where's your mother?"

Gladys jumped up and ran to him. She was his youngest, his darling, just over twelve. He had always hoped to do better by her than by the older ones.

"h.e.l.lo, daddy!" With her arms round his neck, she was pulling his face down to hers.

"Where's your mother?" he asked of Gussie, having advanced into the room.

Gussie looked up from her task to inform him that her mother was in the kitchen, but, seeing his gray face and shambling gait, she paused with a fork in her hand.

"You're all right, daddy, aren't you?"