Book: Helen of the Old House

H >> Harold Bell Wright >> Helen of the Old House




The agitator rose heavily to his feet. "It is your friendship with this
John Ward that makes you turn from your own class. I have known how it
would be with you. But it is no matter. You shall see. We will make a
demonstration in Millsburgh that will win the men of your union in
spite of you and your crippled old basket maker. If you had a personal
grievance against Adam Ward as so many others have you would be with me
fast enough. But he and his son have made you blind with their
pretended kindness."

Pete Martin spoke now with a dignity and pride that moved Captain
Charlie deeply. "Mr. Vodell, you are wrong. My son is too big to be
influenced in this matter by any personal consideration. Whatever there
is that is personal between Charlie and John or between Adam Ward and
myself will never be brought into this controversy."

Jake Vodell shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Very well--I will go now.
You will see that in the end the working people will know who are for
their interests and who are against them, and we will know, too, how to
reward our friends and punish our enemies. I am sorry. I have given you
to-day your last chance. You have a pretty little place here, heh?"

There was a look in his dark face, as he gazed about appraisingly, that
made Captain Charlie go a step toward him. "_You_ have given us our
last chance? Is this a sample of the freedom that you offer so
eloquently to the people? Instead of the imperialist McIver we are to
have the imperialist Vodell, are we? Between the two of you I prefer
McIver. He is at least sane enough to be constructive in his
imperialism. My father and I have lived here all our lives, as most of
our neighbors have. The majority of the workmen in this community own
their homes just as we do. We are a part of the life of this city. What
have you at stake? Where is your home and family? What is your
nationality? What is your record of useful industry? Before you talk
about giving a last chance to workmen like my father you will need to
produce the credentials of your authority. We have your number, Jake
Vodell. You may as well go back to the land where you belong, if you
belong anywhere on earth. You will never hang your colors in the union
Mill workers' hall. We have a flag there now that suits us. The chance
you offer, last or first, is too darned big a chance for any sane
American workman to monkey with."

Jake Vodell answered harshly as he turned to go. "At least I know now
for sure who it is that makes the Mill workers such traitors to their
class." He looked at Pete. "Your son has made his position very clear.
We shall see now how bravely the noble Captain will hold his ground. As
for you, well--always the old father can pray to his God for his son.
It is so, heh?"

Quickly the man passed through the white gate and disappeared down the
street toward the Flats.

"I am afraid that fellow means trouble, son," said Pete, slowly.

"Trouble," echoed Captain Charlie, "Jake Vodell has never meant
anything but trouble."

* * * * *

Adam Ward did not join his family when they returned from church. A
nervous headache kept him in his room.

In the afternoon John went for a long drive into the country. He felt
that he must be alone--that he must think things out, for both Mary and
himself.

As he looked back on it all now, it seemed to him that he had always
loved this girl companion of his old-house days. In his boyhood he had
accepted her as a part of his daily life just as he had accepted his
sister. Those years of his schooling had been careless, thoughtless
years, and followed, as they were, by his war experience, they seemed
now to have had so small a part in the whole that they scarcely counted
at all. His renewed comradeship with Charlie in the army had renewed
also, through the letters that Charlie always shared with him, his
consciousness of Mary. In the months just passed his love had ripened
and become a definite thing, fixed and certain in his own mind and
heart as the fact of life itself. He had no more thought of accepting
as final Mary's answer than he had of turning the management of the
Mill over to Jake Vodell or to Sam Whaley. But still there were things
that he must think out.

On that favorite hillside spot where he and Charlie had spent so many
hours discussing their industrial problems, John faced squarely the
questions raised by Mary's "no."

Through the chill of the fall twilight John went home to spend the
evening with his mother. But he did not speak to her of Mary. He could
not, somehow, in the house that was so under the shadow of that hidden
thing.

His father was still in his room.

On his way to his own apartment after his mother had retired, John
stopped at his father's door to knock gently and ask if there was
anything that he could do.

The answer came, "No, I will be all right--let me alone."

Later Helen returned from somewhere with McIver. Then John heard McIver
leaving and Helen going to her mother for their usual good-night visit.

Seeing the light under his door, as she passed, she tapped the panel
and called softly that it was tune all good little boys were fast
asleep.

It was an hour, perhaps, after John had gone to bed that he was
awakened by the sound of some one stealing quietly into his room.
Against the dim night light in the hall, he caught the outline of an
arm and shoulder as the intruder carefully closed the door. Reaching
out to the lamp at the head of his bed, he snapped on the light and
sprang to his feet.

"Father!"

"Sh--be careful, John, they will hear you!" Adam Ward's gray face was
ghastly with nervous excitement and fear, and he was shaking as with a
chill.

"No one must know I told you," he whispered, "but the new process is
the source of everything we have--the Mill and everything. If it wasn't
for my patent rights we would have nothing. You and I would be working
in the Mill just like Pete and his boy."

John spoke soothingly. "Yes, father, I understand, but it will be all
right--I'll take care of it."

Adam chuckled. "They're after it. But I've got it all sewed up so tight
they can't touch it. That old fool, Pete, was here to feel me out
to-day."

"Pete--here!"

Adam grinned. "While you folks were at church."

"But what did he want, father?"

"They've got a new scheme now. They've set Mary after you. They figure
that if the girl can land you they'll get a chance at what I have made
out of the process that way. I told him you was too smart to be caught
like that. But you've got to watch them. They'll do anything."

In spite of his pity for his father, John Ward drew from him, overcome
by a feeling of disgust and shame which he could not wholly control.

Adam, unconscious of his son's emotions, went on. "I've made it all in
spite of them, John, but I've had to watch them. They'll be after you
now that I have turned things over to you, just as they have been after
me. They'll never get it, though. They'll never get a penny of it. I'll
destroy the Mill and everything before I'll give up a dollar of what
I've made."

John Ward could not speak. It was too monstrous--too horrible. As one
in a hideous dream, he listened. What was back of it all? Why did his
father in his spells of nervous excitement always rave so about the
patented process? Why did he hate Pete Martin so bitterly? What was
this secret thing that was driving Adam Ward insane?

Thinking to find an answer to these perplexing questions, if there was
any answer other than the Mill owner's mental condition, John forced
himself to the pretense of sharing his father's fears. He agreed with
Adam's arraignment of Pete, echoed his father's expression of hatred
for the old workman, thanked Adam for warning him, boasted of his own
ability to see through their tricks and schemes and to protect the
property his father had accumulated.

In this vein they talked in confidential whispers until John felt that
he could venture the question, "Just what is it about the process that
they are after, father? If I knew the exact history of the thing I
would be in a much better position to handle the situation as you want,
wouldn't I?"

Adam Ward's manner changed instantly. With a look of sly cunning he
studied John's face. "There is nothing about the process, son," he
said, steadily. "You know all there is to know about it now."

But when John, thinking that his father had regained his self-control,
urged him to go back to his bed, Adam's painful agitation returned.

For some moments he paced to and fro as if in nervous indecision, then,
going close to John, he said in a low, half whisper, "John, there is
something else I wanted to ask you. You have been to college and over
there in the war, you must have seen a lot of men die--" He paused.
"Yes, yes, you must have been close to death a good many times. Tell
me, John, do you believe that there is anything after--I mean anything
beyond this life? Does a man's conscious existence go on when he is
dead?"

"Yes," said John, wondering at this apparent change in his father's
thought. "I believe in a life beyond this. You believe in it, too,
don't you, father?"

"Of course," returned Adam. "We can't know, though, for sure, can we?
But, anyway, a man would be foolish to risk it, wouldn't he?"

"To risk what, father?"

"To risk the chance of there being no hell," came the startling answer.
"My folks raised me to believe in hell, and the preachers all teach it.
And if there should be such a place of eternal torment a man would be a
fool not to fix up some way to get out of it, wouldn't he?"

John did not know what to say.

Adam Ward leaned closer to his son and with an air of secrecy
whispered, "That's exactly what I've done, John--I've worked out a
scheme to tie God up in a contract that will force Him to save me. The
old Interpreter gave me the idea. You see if it should turn out that
there is no hell my plan can't do any harm and if there is a hell it
makes me safe anyway."

He chuckled with insane satisfaction. "They say that God knows
everything--that nobody can figure out a way to beat Him, but I have--I
have worked out a deal with God that is bound to give me the best of
it. I've got Him tied up so tight that He'll be bound to save me. Some
people think I'm crazy, but you wait, my boy--they'll find out how
crazy I am. They'll never get me into hell. I have been figuring on
this ever since the Interpreter told me I had better make a contract
with God. And after Pete left this morning I got it all settled. A man
can't afford to take any chances with God and so I made this deal with
Him. Hell or no hell, I'm safe. God don't get the best of me,--And you
are safe, too, son, with the new process, if you look after your own
interests, as I have done, and don't overlook any opportunities. I
wanted to tell you about this so you wouldn't worry about me. I'll go
back to bed now. Don't tell mother and Helen what we have been talking
about. No use to worry them--they couldn't understand anyway. And don't
forget, John, what Pete told me about Mary. Their scheme won't work of
course. I know you are too smart for them. But just the same you've got
to be on your guard against her all the time. Never take any
unnecessary chances. Don't talk over a deal with a man when any one can
hear. If you are careful to have no witnesses when you arrange a deal
you are absolutely safe. It is what you can slip into the written
contract that counts--once you get your man's signature. That's always
been my way. And now I have even put one over on God."

He stole cautiously out of the room and back to his own apartment.

Outside his father's door John waited, listening, until he was
convinced that sleep had at last come to the exhausted man.

Late that same Sunday evening, when the street meeting held by Jake
Vodell was over, there was another meeting in the room back of the pool
hall. The men who sat around that table with the agitator were not
criminals--they were workmen. Sam Whaley and two others were men with
families. They were all American citizens, but they were under the
spell of their leader's power. They had been prepared for that
leadership by the industrial policies of McIver and Adam Ward.

This meeting of that inner circle was in no way authorized by the
unions. The things they said Sam Whaley would not have dared to say
openly in the Mill workers' organization. The plans they proposed to
carry out in the name of the unions they were compelled to make in
secret. In their mad, fanatical acceptance of the dreams that Vodell
wrought for them; in their blind obedience to the leadership he had so
cleverly established; in their reckless disregard of the consequences
under the spell of his promised protection, they were as insane, in
fact, as the owner of the Mill himself.

The supreme, incredible, pitiful tragedy of it all was this: That these
workmen committed themselves to the plans of Jake Vodell in the name of
their country's workmen.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE FLATS


Helen Ward knew that she could not put off much longer giving McIver a
definite answer. When she was with him, the things that so disturbed
her mind and heart were less real--she was able to see things clearly
from the point of view to which she had been trained. Her father's
mental condition was nothing more than a nervous trouble resulting from
overwork--John's ideals were highly creditable to his heart and she
loved him dearly for them, but they were wholly impossible in a world
where certain class standards must be maintained--the Mill took again
its old vague, indefinite place in her life--the workman Charlie Martin
must live only in her girlhood memories, those secretly sad memories
that can have no part in the grown-up present and must not be permitted
to enter into one's consideration of the future. In short, the presence
of McIver always banished effectually the Helen of the old house: with
him the daughter of Adam Ward was herself.

And Helen was tempted by this feeling of relief to speak the decisive
word that would finally put an end to her indecision and bring at least
the peace of certainty to her troubled mind. In the light of her
education and environment, there was every reason why she should say,
"Yes" to McIver's insistent pleadings. There was no shadow of a reason
why she should refuse him. One word and the Helen of the old house
would be banished forever--the princess lady would reign undisturbed.

And yet, for some reason, that word was not spoken. Helen told herself
that she would speak it. But on each occasion she put it off. And
always when the man was gone and she was alone, in spite of the return
in full force of all her disturbing thoughts and emotions, she was glad
that she had not committed herself irrevocably--that she was still
free.

She had never felt the appeal of all that McIver meant to her as she
felt it that Sunday. She had never been more disturbed and unhappy than
she was the following day when John told her a little of his midnight
experience with their father and how Adam's excitement had been caused
by Peter Martin's visit. All of which led her, early in the afternoon,
to the Interpreter.

* * * * *

She found the old basket maker working with feverish energy. Billy Rand
at the bench in the corner of the room was as busy with his part of
their joint industry.

It was the Interpreter's habit, when Helen was with him, to lay aside
his work. But of late he had continued the occupation of his hands even
as he talked with her. She had noticed this, as women always notice
such things--but that was all. On this day, when the old man in the
wheel chair failed to give her his undivided attention, something in
his manner impressed the trivial incident more sharply on her mind.

He greeted her kindly, as always, but while she was conscious of no
lack of warmth in his welcome, she felt in the deep tones of that
gentle voice a sadness that moved her to quick concern. The dark eyes
that never failed to light with pleasure at her coming were filled with
weary pain. The strong face was thin and tired. As he bent his white
head over the work in his lap he seemed to have grown suddenly very
weak and old.

With an awakened mind, the young woman looked curiously about the room.

She had never seen it so filled with materials and with finished
baskets. The table with the big lamp and the magazines and papers had
been moved into the far corner against the book shelves, as though he
had now neither time nor thought for reading. The floor was covered
thick with a litter of chips and shavings. Even silent Billy's face was
filled with anxiety and troubled care as he looked from Helen to his
old companion in the wheel chair and slowly turned back to his work on
the bench.

"What is the matter here?" she demanded, now thoroughly aroused.

"Matter?" returned the Interpreter. "Is there anything wrong here,
Helen?"

"You are not well," she insisted. "You look all worn out--as if you had
not slept for weeks--what is it?"

"Oh, that is nothing," he answered, with a smile. "Billy and I have
been working overtime a little--that is all."

"But why?" she demanded, "why must you wear yourself out like this?
Surely there is no need for you to work so hard, day and night."

He answered as if he were not sure that he had heard her aright. "No
need, Helen? Surely, child, you cannot be so ignorant of the want that
exists within sight of your home?"

She returned his look wonderingly. "You mean the strike?"

Bending over his work again, the old basket maker answered,
sorrowfully, "Yes, Helen, I mean the strike."

There was something in the Interpreter's manner--something in the
weary, drooping figure in that wheel chair--in the tired, deep-lined
face--in the pain-filled eyes and the gentle voice that went to the
deeps of Helen Ward's woman heart.

With her, as with every one in Millsburgh, the strike was a topic of
daily conversation. She sympathized with her brother in his anxiety.
She was worried over the noticeable effect of the excitement upon her
father. She was interested in McIver's talk of the situation. But in no
vital way had her life been touched by the industrial trouble. In no
way had she come in actual contact with it. The realities of the
situation were to her vague, intangible, remote from her world, as
indeed the Mill itself had been, before her visit with John that day.
To her, the Interpreter was of all men set apart from the world. In his
little hut on the cliff, with his books and his basket making, her
gentle old friend's life, it seemed to her, held not one thing in
common with the busy world that lay within sight of the balcony-porch.
The thought that the industrial trouble could in any way touch him came
to her with a distinct shock.

"Surely," she protested, at last, "the strike cannot affect you. It has
nothing to do with your work."

"Every strike has to do with all work everywhere, child," returned the
man in the wheel chair, while his busy fingers wove the fabric of a
basket. "Every idle hand in the world, Helen, whatever the cause of its
idleness, compels some other's hand to do its work. The work of the
world must be done, child--somehow, by some one--the work of the world
must be done. The little Maggies and Bobbies of the Flats down there
must be fed, you know--and their mother too--yes, and Sam Whaley
himself must be cared for. And so you see, because of the strike, Billy
and I must work overtime."

Certainly there was no hint of rebuke in the old basket maker's kindly
voice, but the daughter of Adam Ward felt her cheeks flush with a quick
sense of shame. That her old friend in the wheel chair should so accept
the responsibility of his neighbor's need and give himself thus to help
them, while she--

"Is there," she faltered, "is there really so much suffering among the
strikers?"

Without raising his eyes from his work, he answered, "The women and
children--they are so helpless."

"I--I did not realize," she murmured. "I did not know."

"You were not ignorant of the helpless women and children who suffered
in foreign lands," he returned. "Why should you not know of the mothers
and babies in Millsburgh?"

"But McIver says--" she hesitated.

The Interpreter caught up her words. "McIver says that by feeding the
starving families of the strikers the strike is prolonged. He relies
upon the hunger and cold and sickness of the women and children for his
victory. And Jake Vodell relies upon the suffering in the families of
his followers for that desperate frenzy of class hatred, without which
he cannot gain his end. Does McIver want for anything? No! Is Jake
Vodell in need? No! It is not the imperialistic leaders in these
industrial wars who pay the price. It is always the little Bobbies and
Maggies who pay. The people of America stood aghast with horror when an
unarmed passenger ship was torpedoed or a defenseless village was
bombed by order of a ruthless Kaiser; but we permit these Kaisers of
capital and labor to carry on their industrial wars without a thought
of the innocent ones who must suffer under their ruthless policies."

He paused; then, with no trace of bitterness, but only sadness in his
voice, he added, "You say you do not know, child--and yet, you could
know so easily if you would. Little Bobby and Maggie do not live in a
far-off land across the seas. They live right over there in the shadow
of your father's Mill--the Mill which supplies you, Helen, with every
material need and luxury of your life."

As if she could bear to hear no more, Helen rose quickly and went from
the room to stand on the balcony-porch.

It was not so much the Interpreter's words--it was rather the spirit in
which they were spoken that moved her so deeply. By her own heart she
was judged. "For every idle hand," he had said. Her hands were idle
hands. Her old white-haired friend in his wheel chair was doing her
work. His crippled body drooped with weariness over his task because
she did nothing. His face was lined with care because she was careless
of the need that burdened him. His eyes were filled with sadness and
pain because she was indifferent--because she did not know--had not
cared to know.

* * * * *

The sun was almost down that afternoon when Bobby Whaley came out of
the wretched house that was his home to stand on the front doorstep.
The dingy, unpainted buildings of the Flats--the untidy hovels and
shanties--the dilapidated fences and broken sidewalks--unlovely at
best, in the long shadows of the failing day, were sinister with the
gloom of poverty.

High above the Mill the twisting columns of smoke from the tall stacks
caught the last of the sunlight and formed slow, changing
cloud-shapes--rolling hills of brightness with soft, shadowy valleys
and canons of mysterious depths between--towering domes and crags and
castled heights--grim, foreboding, beautiful.

The boy who stood on the steps, looking so listlessly about, was not
the daring adventurer who had so boldly led his sister up the zigzag
steps to the Interpreter's hut. He was not the Bobby who had ridden in
such triumph beside the princess lady so far into the unknown country.
His freckled face was thin and pinched. The skin was drawn tight over
the high cheek bones and the eyes were wide and staring. His young body
that had been so sturdy was gaunt and skeletonlike. The dirty rags that
clothed him were scarcely enough to hide his nakedness. The keen autumn
air that had put the flush of good red blood into the cheeks of the
golfers at the country club that afternoon whirled about his bare feet
and legs with stinging cruelty. His thin lips and wasted limbs were
blue with cold. Turning slowly, he seemed about to reenter the house,
but when his hand touched the latch he paused and once more uncertainly
faced toward the street. There was no help for him in his home. He knew
no other place to go for food or shelter.

As the boy again looked hopelessly about the wretched neighborhood, he
saw a woman coming down the street. He could tell, even at that
distance, that the lady was a stranger to the Flats. Her dress, simple
as it was, and her veil marked her as a resident of some district more
prosperous than that grimy community in the shadow of the Mill.

A flash of momentary interest lighted the hungry eyes of the lad. But,
no, it could not be one of the charity workers--the charity ladies
always came earlier in the day and always in automobiles.

Then he saw the stranger stop and speak to a boy in front of a house
two doors away. The neighbor boy pointed toward Bobby and the lady came
on, walking quickly as if she were a little frightened at being alone
amid such surroundings.

At the gap where once had been a gate in the dilapidated fence, she
turned in toward the house and the wondering boy on the front step. She
was within a few feet of the lad when she stopped suddenly with a low
exclamation.

Bobby thought that she had discovered her mistake in coming to the
wrong place. But the next moment she was coming closer, and he heard,
"Bobby, is that really you! You poor child, have you been ill?"

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