Edith, glancing casually into the “ready-made” library, stopped abruptly, seeing Bibbs there alone. He was standing before the pearl-framed and golden-lettered poem, musingly inspecting it. He read it:
FUGITIVEI will forget the things that sting:The lashing look, the barbed word.I know the very hands that flingThe stones at me had never stirredTo anger but for their own scars.They've suffered so, that's why they strike.I'll keep my heart among the starsWhere none shall hunt it out. Oh, likeThese wounded ones I must not be,For, wounded, I might strike in turn!So, none shall hurt me. Far and freeWhere my heart flies no one shall learn.
FUGITIVEI will forget the things that sting:The lashing look, the barbed word.I know the very hands that flingThe stones at me had never stirredTo anger but for their own scars.They've suffered so, that's why they strike.I'll keep my heart among the starsWhere none shall hunt it out. Oh, likeThese wounded ones I must not be,For, wounded, I might strike in turn!So, none shall hurt me. Far and freeWhere my heart flies no one shall learn.
“Bibbs!” Edith's voice was angry, and her color deepened suddenly as she came into the room, preceded by a scent of violets much more powerful than that warranted by the actual bunch of them upon the lapel of her coat.
Bibbs did not turn his head, but wagged it solemnly, seeming depressed by the poem. “Pretty young, isn't it?” he said. “There must have been something about your looks that got the prize, Edith; I can't believe the poem did it.”
She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder and spoke sharply, but in a low voice: “I don't think it's very nice of you to bring it up at all, Bibbs. I'd like a chance to forget the whole silly business. I didn't want them to frame it, and I wish to goodness papa'd quit talking about it; but here, that night, after the dinner, didn't he go and read it aloud to the whole crowd of 'em! And then they all wanted to know what other poems I'd written and why I didn't keep it up and write some more, and if I didn't, why didn't I, and why this and why that, till I thought I'd die of shame!”
“You could tell 'em you had writer's cramp,” Bibbs suggested.
“I couldn't tell 'em anything! I just choke with mortification every time anybody speaks of the thing.”
Bibbs looked grieved. “The poem isn't THAT bad, Edith. You see, you were only seventeen when you wrote it.”
“Oh, hush up!” she snapped. “I wish it had burnt my fingers the first time I touched it. Then I might have had sense enough to leave it where it was. I had no business to take it, and I've been ashamed—”
“No, no,” he said, comfortingly. “It was the very most flattering thing ever happened to me. It was almost my last flight before I went to the machine-shop, and it's pleasant to think somebody liked it enough to—”
“But I DON'T like it!” she exclaimed. “I don't even understand it—and papa made so much fuss over its getting the prize, I just hate it! The truth is I never dreamed it'd get the prize.”
“Maybe they expected father to endow the school,” Bibbs murmured.
“Well, I had to have something to turn in, and I couldn't write a LINE! I hate poetry, anyhow; and Bobby Lamhorn's always teasing me about how I 'keep my heart among the stars.' He makes it seem such a mushy kind of thing, the way he says it. I hate it!”
“You'll have to live it down, Edith. Perhaps abroad and under another name you might find—”
“Oh, hush up! I'll hire some one to steal it and burn it the first chance I get.” She turned away petulantly, moving to the door. “I'd like to think I could hope to hear the last of it before I die!”
“Edith!” he called, as she went into the hall.
“What's the matter?”
“I want to ask you: Do I really look better, or have you just got used to me?”
“What on earth do you mean?” she said, coming back as far as the threshold.
“When I first came you couldn't look at me,” Bibbs explained, in his impersonal way. “But I've noticed you look at me lately. I wondered if I'd—”
“It's because you look so much better,” she told him, cheerfully. “This month you've been here's done you no end of good. It's the change.”
“Yes, that's what they said at the sanitarium—the change.”
“You look worse than 'most anybody I ever saw,” said Edith, with supreme candor. “But I don't know much about it. I've never seen a corpse in my life, and I've never even seen anybody that was terribly sick, so you mustn't judge by me. I only know you do look better, I'm glad to say. But you're right about my not being able to look at you at first. You had a kind of whiteness that—Well, you're almost as thin, I suppose, but you've got more just ordinarily pale; not that ghastly look. Anybody could look at you now, Bibbs, and no—not get—”
“Sick?”
“Well—almost that!” she laughed. “And you're getting a better color every day, Bibbs; you really are. You're getting along splendidly.”
“I—I'm afraid so,” he said, ruefully.
“'Afraid so'! Well, if you aren't the queerest! I suppose you mean father might send you back to the machine-shop if you get well enough. I heard him say something about it the night of the—” The jingle of a distant bell interrupted her, and she glanced at her watch. “Bobby Lamhorn! I'm going to motor him out to look at a place in the country. Afternoon, Bibbs!”
When she had gone, Bibbs mooned pessimistically from shelf to shelf, his eye wandering among the titles of the books. The library consisted almost entirely of handsome “uniform editions”: Irving, Poe, Cooper, Goldsmith, Scott, Byron, Burns, Longfellow, Tennyson, Hume, Gibbon, Prescott, Thackeray, Dickens, De Musset, Balzac, Gautier, Flaubert, Goethe, Schiller, Dante, and Tasso. There were shelves and shelves of encyclopedias, of anthologies, of “famous classics,” of “Oriental masterpieces,” of “masterpieces of oratory,” and more shelves of “selected libraries” of “literature,” of “the drama,” and of “modern science.” They made an effective decoration for the room, all these big, expensive books, with a glossy binding here and there twinkling a reflection of the flames that crackled in the splendid Gothic fireplace; but Bibbs had an impression that the bookseller who selected them considered them a relief, and that white-jacket considered them a burden of dust, and that nobody else considered them at all. Himself, he disturbed not one.
There came a chime of bells from a clock in another part of the house, and white-jacket appeared beamingly in the doorway, bearing furs. “Awready, Mist' Bibbs,” he announced. “You' ma say wrap up wawm f' you' ride, an' she cain' go with you to-day, an' not f'git go see you' pa at fo' 'clock. Aw ready, suh.”
He equipped Bibbs for the daily drive Dr. Gurney had commanded; and in the manner of a master of ceremonies unctuously led the way. In the hall they passed the Moor, and Bibbs paused before it while white-jacket opened the door with a flourish and waved condescendingly to the chauffeur in the car which stood waiting in the driveway.
“It seems to me I asked you what you thought about this 'statue' when I first came home, George,” said Bibbs, thoughtfully. “What did you tell me?”
“Yessuh!” George chuckled, perfectly understanding that for some unknown reason Bibbs enjoyed hearing him repeat his opinion of the Moor. “You ast me when you firs' come home, an' you ast me nex' day, an' mighty near ev'y day all time you been here; an' las' Sunday you ast me twicet.” He shook his head solemnly. “Look to me mus' be somep'm might lamiDAL 'bout 'at statue!”
“Mighty what?”
“Mighty lamiDAL!” George, burst out laughing. “What DO 'at word mean, Mist' Bibbs?”
“It's new to me, George. Where did you hear it?”
“I nev' DID hear it!” said George. “I uz dess sittin' thinkum to myse'f an' she pop in my head—'lamiDAL,' dess like 'at! An' she soun' so good, seem like she GOTTA mean somep'm!”
“Come to think of it, I believe she does mean something. Why, yes—”
“Do she?” cried George. “WHAT she mean?”
“It's exactly the word for the statue,” said Bibbs, with conviction, as he climbed into the car. “It's a lamiDAL statue.”
“Hiyi!” George exulted. “Man! Man! Listen! Well, suh, she mighty lamiDAL statue, but lamiDAL statue heap o' trouble to dus'!”
“I expect she is!” said Bibbs, as the engine began to churn; and a moment later he was swept from sight.
George turned to Mist' Jackson, who had been listening benevolently in the hallway. “Same he aw-ways say, Mist' Jackson—'I expec' she is!' Ev'y day he try t' git me talk 'bout 'at lamiDAL statue, an' aw-ways, las' thing HE say, 'I expec' she is!' You know, Mist' Jackson, if he git well, 'at young man go' be pride o' the family, Mist' Jackson. Yes-suh, right now I pick 'im fo' firs' money!”
“Look out with all 'at money, George!” Jackson warned the enthusiast. “White folks 'n 'is house know 'im heap longer'n you. You the on'y man bettin' on 'im!”
“I risk it!” cried George, merrily. “I put her all on now—ev'y cent! 'At boy's go' be flower o' the flock!”
This singular prophecy, founded somewhat recklessly upon gratitude for the meaning of “lamiDAL,” differed radically from another prediction concerning Bibbs, set forth for the benefit of a fair auditor some twenty minutes later.
Jim Sheridan, skirting the edges of the town with Mary Vertrees beside him, in his own swift machine, encountered the invalid upon the highroad. The two cars were going in opposite directions, and the occupants of Jim's had only a swaying glimpse of Bibbs sitting alone on the back seat—his white face startlingly white against cap and collar of black fur—but he flashed into recognition as Mary bowed to him.
Jim waved his left hand carelessly. “It's Bibbs, taking his constitutional,” he explained.
“Yes, I know,” said Mary. “I bowed to him, too, though I've never met him. In fact, I've only seen him once—no, twice. I hope he won't think I'm very bold, bowing to him.”
“I doubt if he noticed it,” said honest Jim.
“Oh, no!” she cried.
“What's the trouble?”
“I'm almost sure people notice it when I bow to them.”
“Oh, I see!” said Jim. “Of course they would ordinarily, but Bibbs is funny.”
“Is he? How?” she asked. “He strikes me as anything but funny.”
“Well, I'm his brother,” Jim said, deprecatingly, “but I don't know what he's like, and, to tell the truth, I've never felt exactly like I WAS his brother, the way I do Roscoe. Bibbs never did seem more than half alive to me. Of course Roscoe and I are older, and when we were boys we were too big to play with him, but he never played anyway, with boys his own age. He'd rather just sit in the house and mope around by himself. Nobody could ever get him to DO anything; you can't get him to do anything now. He never had any LIFE in him; and honestly, if he is my brother, I must say I believe Bibbs Sheridan is the laziest man God ever made! Father put him in the machine-shop over at the Pump Works—best thing in the world for him—and he was just plain no account. It made him sick! If he'd had the right kind of energy—the kind father's got, for instance, or Roscoe, either—why, it wouldn't have made him sick. And suppose it was either of them—yes, or me, either—do you think any of us would have stopped if we WERE sick? Not much! I hate to say it, but Bibbs Sheridan'll never amount to anything as long as he lives.”
Mary looked thoughtful. “Is there any particular reason why he should?” she asked.
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “You don't mean that, do you? Don't you believe in a man's knowing how to earn his salt, no matter how much money his father's got? Hasn't the business of this world got to be carried on by everybody in it? Are we going to lay back on what we've got and see other fellows get ahead of us? If we've got big things already, isn't it every man's business to go ahead and make 'em bigger? Isn't it his duty? Don't we always want to get bigger and bigger?”
“Ye-es—I don't know. But I feel rather sorry for your brother. He looked so lonely—and sick.”
“He's gettin' better every day,” Jim said. “Dr. Gurney says so. There's nothing much the matter with him, really—it's nine-tenths imaginary. 'Nerves'! People that are willing to be busy don't have nervous diseases, because they don't have time to imagine 'em.”
“You mean his trouble is really mental?”
“Oh, he's not a lunatic,” said Jim. “He's just queer. Sometimes he'll say something right bright, but half the time what he says is 'way off the subject, or else there isn't any sense to it at all. For instance, the other day I heard him talkin' to one of the darkies in the hall. The darky asked him what time he wanted the car for his drive, and anybody else in the world would have just said what time they DID want it, and that would have been all there was to it; but here's what Bibbs says, and I heard him with my own ears. 'What time do I want the car?' he says. 'Well, now, that depends—that depends,' he says. He talks slow like that, you know. 'I'll tell you what time I want the car, George,' he says, 'if you'll tell ME what you think of this statue!' That's exactly his words! Asked the darky what he thought of that Arab Edith and mother bought for the hall!”
Mary pondered upon this. “He might have been in fun, perhaps,” she suggested.
“Askin' a darky what he thought of a piece of statuary—of a work of art! Where on earth would be the fun of that? No, you're just kind-hearted—and that's the way you OUGHT to be, of course—”
“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan!” she laughed.
“See here!” he cried. “Isn't there any way for us to get over this Mister and Miss thing? A month's got thirty-one days in it; I've managed to be with you a part of pretty near all the thirty-one, and I think you know how I feel by this time—”
She looked panic-stricken immediately. “Oh, no,” she protested, quickly. “No, I don't, and—”
“Yes, you do,” he said, and his voice shook a little. “You couldn't help knowing.”
“But I do!” she denied, hurriedly. “I do help knowing. I mean—Oh, wait!”
“What for? You do know how I feel, and you—well, you've certainly WANTED me to feel that way—or else pretended—”
“Now, now!” she lamented. “You're spoiling such a cheerful afternoon!”
“'Spoilin' it!'” He slowed down the car and turned his face to her squarely. “See here, Miss Vertrees, haven't you—”
“Stop! Stop the car a minute.” And when he had complied she faced him as squarely as he evidently desired her to face him. “Listen. I don't want you to go on, to-day.”
“Why not?” he asked, sharply.
“I don't know.”
“You mean it's just a whim?”
“I don't know,” she repeated. Her voice was low and troubled and honest, and she kept her clear eyes upon his.
“Will you tell me something?”
“Almost anything.”
“Have you ever told any man you loved him?”
And at that, though she laughed, she looked a little contemptuous. “No,” she said. “And I don't think I ever shall tell any man that—or ever know what it means. I'm in earnest, Mr. Sheridan.”
“Then you—you've just been flirting with me!” Poor Jim looked both furious and crestfallen.
“Not one bit!” she cried. “Not one word! Not one syllable! I've meant every single thing!”
“I don't—”
“Of course you don't!” she said. “Now, Mr. Sheridan, I want you to start the car. Now! Thank you. Slowly, till I finish what I have to say. I have not flirted with you. I have deliberately courted you. One thing more, and then I want you to take me straight home, talking about the weather all the way. I said that I do not believe I shall ever 'care' for any man, and that is true. I doubt the existence of the kind of 'caring' we hear about in poems and plays and novels. I think it must be just a kind of emotional TALK—most of it. At all events, I don't feel it. Now, we can go faster, please.”
“Just where does that let me out?” he demanded. “How does that excuse you for—”
“It isn't an excuse,” she said, gently, and gave him one final look, wholly desolate. “I haven't said I should never marry.”
“What?” Jim gasped.
She inclined her head in a broken sort of acquiescence, very humble, unfathomably sorrowful.
“I promise nothing,” she said, faintly.
“You needn't!” shouted Jim, radiant and exultant. “You needn't! By George! I know you're square; that's enough for me! You wait and promise whenever you're ready!”
“Don't forget what I asked,” she begged him.
“Talk about the weather? I will! God bless the old weather!” cried the happy Jim.
Through the open country Bibbs was borne flying between brown fields and sun-flecked groves of gray trees, to breathe the rushing, clean air beneath a glorious sky—that sky so despised in the city, and so maltreated there, that from early October to mid-May it was impossible for men to remember that blue is the rightful color overhead.
Upon each of Bibbs's cheeks there was a hint of something almost resembling a pinkishness; not actual color, but undeniably its phantom. How largely this apparition may have been the work of the wind upon his face it is difficult to calculate, for beyond a doubt it was partly the result of a lady's bowing to him upon no more formal introduction than the circumstance of his having caught her looking into his window a month before. She had bowed definitely; she had bowed charmingly. And it seemed to Bibbs that she must have meant to convey her forgiveness.
There had been something in her recognition of him unfamiliar to his experience, and he rode the warmer for it. Nor did he lack the impression that he would long remember her as he had just seen her: her veil tumultuously blowing back, her face glowing in the wind—and that look of gay friendliness tossed to him like a fresh rose in carnival.
By and by, upon a rising ground, the driver halted the car, then backed and tacked, and sent it forward again with its nose to the south and the smoke. Far before him Bibbs saw the great smudge upon the horizon, that nest of cloud in which the city strove and panted like an engine shrouded in its own steam. But to Bibbs, who had now to go to the very heart of it, for a commanded interview with his father, the distant cloud was like an implacable genius issuing thunderously in smoke from his enchanted bottle, and irresistibly drawing Bibbs nearer and nearer.
They passed from the farm lands, and came, in the amber light of November late afternoon, to the farthermost outskirts of the city; and here the sky shimmered upon the verge of change from blue to gray; the smoke did not visibly permeate the air, but it was there, nevertheless—impalpable, thin, no more than the dust of smoke. And then, as the car drove on, the chimneys and stacks of factories came swimming up into view like miles of steamers advancing abreast, every funnel with its vast plume, savage and black, sweeping to the horizon, dripping wealth and dirt and suffocation over league on league already rich and vile with grime.
The sky had become only a dingy thickening of the soiled air; and a roar and clangor of metals beat deafeningly on Bibbs's ears. And now the car passed two great blocks of long brick buildings, hideous in all ways possible to make them hideous; doorways showing dark one moment and lurid the next with the leap of some virulent interior flame, revealing blackened giants, half naked, in passionate action, struggling with formless things in the hot illumination. And big as these shops were, they were growing bigger, spreading over a third block, where two new structures were mushrooming to completion in some hasty cement process of a stability not over-reassuring. Bibbs pulled the rug closer about him, and not even the phantom of color was left upon his cheeks as he passed this place, for he knew it too well. Across the face of one of the buildings there was an enormous sign: “Sheridan Automatic Pump Co., Inc.”
Thence they went through streets of wooden houses, all grimed, and adding their own grime from many a sooty chimney; flimsey wooden houses of a thousand flimsy whimsies in the fashioning, built on narrow lots and nudging one another crossly, shutting out the stingy sunlight from one another; bad neighbors who would destroy one another root and branch some night when the right wind blew. They were only waiting for that wind and a cigarette, and then they would all be gone together—a pinch of incense burned upon the tripod of the god.
Along these streets there were skinny shade-trees, and here and there a forest elm or walnut had been left; but these were dying. Some people said it was the scale; some said it was the smoke; and some were sure that asphalt and “improving” the streets did it; but Bigness was in too Big a hurry to bother much about trees. He had telegraph-poles and telephone-poles and electric-light-poles and trolley-poles by the thousand to take their places. So he let the trees die and put up his poles. They were hideous, but nobody minded that; and sometimes the wires fell and killed people—but not often enough to matter at all.
Thence onward the car bore Bibbs through the older parts of the town where the few solid old houses not already demolished were in transition: some, with their fronts torn away, were being made into segments of apartment-buildings; others had gone uproariously into trade, brazenly putting forth “show-windows” on their first floors, seeming to mean it for a joke; one or two with unaltered facades peeped humorously over the tops of temporary office buildings of one story erected in the old front yards. Altogether, the town here was like a boarding-house hash the Sunday after Thanksgiving; the old ingredients were discernible.
This was the fringe of Bigness's own sanctuary, and now Bibbs reached the roaring holy of holies itself. The car must stop at every crossing while the dark-garbed crowds, enveloped in maelstroms of dust, hurried before it. Magnificent new buildings, already dingy, loomed hundreds of feet above him; newer ones, more magnificent, were rising beside them, rising higher; old buildings were coming down; middle-aged buildings were coming down; the streets were laid open to their entrails and men worked underground between palisades, and overhead in metal cobwebs like spiders in the sky. Trolley-cars and long interurban cars, built to split the wind like torpedo-boats, clanged and shrieked their way round swarming corners; motor-cars of every kind and shape known to man babbled frightful warnings and frantic demands; hospital ambulances clamored wildly for passage; steam-whistles signaled the swinging of titanic tentacle and claw; riveters rattled like machine-guns; the ground shook to the thunder of gigantic trucks; and the conglomerate sound of it all was the sound of earthquake playing accompaniments for battle and sudden death. On one of the new steel buildings no work was being done that afternoon. The building had killed a man in the morning—and the steel-workers always stop for the day when that “happens.”
And in the hurrying crowds, swirling and sifting through the brobdingnagian camp of iron and steel, one saw the camp-followers and the pagan women—there would be work to-day and dancing to-night. For the Puritan's dry voice is but the crackling of a leaf underfoot in the rush and roar of the coming of the new Egypt.
Bibbs was on time. He knew it must be “to the minute” or his father would consider it an outrage; and the big chronometer in Sheridan's office marked four precisely when Bibbs walked in. Coincidentally with his entrance five people who had been at work in the office, under Sheridan's direction, walked out. They departed upon no visible or audible suggestion, and with a promptness that seemed ominous to the new-comer. As the massive door clicked softly behind the elderly stenographer, the last of the procession, Bibbs had a feeling that they all understood that he was a failure as a great man's son, a disappointment, the “queer one” of the family, and that he had been summoned to judgment—a well-founded impression, for that was exactly what they understood.
“Sit down,” said Sheridan.
It is frequently an advantage for deans, school-masters, and worried fathers to place delinquents in the sitting-posture. Bibbs sat.
Sheridan, standing, gazed enigmatically upon his son for a period of silence, then walked slowly to a window and stood looking out of it, his big hands, loosely hooked together by the thumbs, behind his back. They were soiled, as were all other hands down-town, except such as might be still damp from a basin.
“Well, Bibbs,” he said at last, not altering his attitude, “do you know what I'm goin' to do with you?”
Bibbs, leaning back in his chair, fixed his eyes contemplatively upon the ceiling. “I heard you tell Jim,” he began, in his slow way. “You said you'd send him to the machine-shop with me if he didn't propose to Miss Vertrees. So I suppose that must be your plan for me. But—”
“But what?” said Sheridan, irritably, as the son paused.
“Isn't there somebody you'd let ME propose to?”
That brought his father sharply round to face him. “You beat the devil! Bibbs, what IS the matter with you? Why can't you be like anybody else?”
“Liver, maybe,” said Bibbs, gently.
“Boh! Even ole Doc Gurney says there's nothin' wrong with you organically. No. You're a dreamer, Bibbs; that's what's the matter, and that's ALL the matter. Oh, not one o' these BIG dreamers that put through the big deals! No, sir! You're the kind o' dreamer that just sets out on the back fence and thinks about how much trouble there must be in the world! That ain't the kind that builds the bridges, Bibbs; it's the kind that borrows fifteen cents from his wife's uncle's brother-in-law to get ten cent's worth o' plug tobacco and a nickel's worth o' quinine!”
He put the finishing touch on this etching with a snort, and turned again to the window.
“Look out there!” he bade his son. “Look out o' that window! Look at the life and energy down there! I should think ANY young man's blood would tingle to get into it and be part of it. Look at the big things young men are doin' in this town!” He swung about, coming to the mahogany desk in the middle of the room. “Look at what I was doin' at your age! Look at what your own brothers are doin'! Look at Roscoe! Yes, and look at Jim! I made Jim president o' the Sheridan Realty Company last New-Year's, with charge of every inch o' ground and every brick and every shingle and stick o' wood we own; and it's an example to any young man—or ole man, either—the way he took ahold of it. Last July we found out we wanted two more big warehouses at the Pump Works—wanted 'em quick. Contractors said it couldn't be done; said nine or ten months at the soonest; couldn't see it any other way. What'd Jim do? Took the contract himself; found a fellow with a new cement and concrete process; kept men on the job night and day, and stayed on it night and day himself—and, by George! we begin to USE them warehouses next week! Four months and a half, and every inch fireproof! I tell you Jim's one o' these fellers that make miracles happen! Now, I don't say every young man can be like Jim, because there's mighty few got his ability, but every young man can go in and do his share. This town is God's own country, and there's opportunity for anybody with a pound of energy and an ounce o' gumption. I tell you these young business men I watch just do my heart good! THEY don't set around on the back fence—no, sir! They take enough exercise to keep their health; and they go to a baseball game once or twice a week in summer, maybe, and they're raisin' nice families, with sons to take their places sometime and carry on the work—because the work's got to go ON! They're puttin' their life-blood into it, I tell you, and that's why we're gettin' bigger every minute, and why THEY'RE gettin' bigger, and why it's all goin' to keep ON gettin' bigger!”
He slapped the desk resoundingly with his open palm, and then, observing that Bibbs remained in the same impassive attitude, with his eyes still fixed upon the ceiling in a contemplation somewhat plaintive, Sheridan was impelled to groan. “Oh, Lord!” he said. “This is the way you always were. I don't believe you understood a darn word I been sayin'! You don't LOOK as if you did. By George! it's discouraging!”
“I don't understand about getting—about getting bigger,” said Bibbs, bringing his gaze down to look at his father placatively. “I don't see just why—”
“WHAT?” Sheridan leaned forward, resting his hands upon the desk and staring across it incredulously at his son.
“I don't understand—exactly—what you want it all bigger for?”
“Great God!” shouted Sheridan, and struck the desk a blow with his clenched fist. “A son of mine asks me that! You go out and ask the poorest day-laborer you can find! Ask him that question—”
“I did once,” Bibbs interrupted; “when I was in the machine-shop. I—”
“Wha'd he say?”
“He said, 'Oh, hell!'” answered Bibbs, mildly.
“Yes, I reckon he would!” Sheridan swung away from the desk. “I reckon he certainly would! And I got plenty sympathy with him right now, myself!”
“It's the same answer, then?” Bibbs's voice was serious, almost tremulous.
“Damnation!” Sheridan roared. “Did you ever hear the word Prosperity, you ninny? Did you ever hear the word Ambition? Did you ever hear the word PROGRESS?”
He flung himself into a chair after the outburst, his big chest surging, his throat tumultuous with gutteral incoherences. “Now then,” he said, huskily, when the anguish had somewhat abated, “what do you want to do?”
“Sir?”
“What do you WANT to do, I said.”
Taken by surprise, Bibbs stammered. “What—what do—I—what—”
“If I'd let you do exactly what you had the whim for, what would you do?”
Bibbs looked startled; then timidity overwhelmed him—a profound shyness. He bent his head and fixed his lowered eyes upon the toe of his shoe, which he moved to and fro upon the rug, like a culprit called to the desk in school.
“What would you do? Loaf?”
“No, sir.” Bibbs's voice was almost inaudible, and what little sound it made was unquestionably a guilty sound. “I suppose I'd—I'd—”
“Well?”
“I suppose I'd try to—to write.”
“Write what?”
“Nothing important—just poems and essays, perhaps.”
“That all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see,” said his father, breathing quickly with the restraint he was putting upon himself. “That is, you want to write, but you don't want to write anything of any account.”
“You think—”
Sheridan got up again. “I take my hat off to the man that can write a good ad,” he said, emphatically. “The best writin' talent in this country is right spang in the ad business to-day. You buy a magazine for good writin'—look on the back of it! Let me tell you I pay money for that kind o' writin'. Maybe you think it's easy. Just try it! I've tried it, and I can't do it. I tell you an ad's got to be written so it makes people do the hardest thing in this world to GET 'em to do: it's got to make 'em give up their MONEY! You talk about 'poems and essays.' I tell you when it comes to the actual skill o' puttin' words together so as to make things HAPPEN, R. T. Bloss, right here in this city, knows more in a minute than George Waldo Emerson ever knew in his whole life!”
“You—you may be—” Bibbs said, indistinctly, the last word smothered in a cough.
“Of COURSE I'm right! And if it ain't just like you to want to take up with the most out-o'-date kind o' writin' there is! 'Poems and essays'! My Lord, Bibbs, that's WOMEN'S work! You can't pick up a newspaper without havin' to see where Mrs. Rumskididle read a paper on 'Jane Eyre,' or 'East Lynne,' at the God-Knows-What Club. And 'poetry'! Why, look at Edith! I expect that poem o' hers would set a pretty high-water mark for you, young man, and it's the only one she's ever managed to write in her whole LIFE! When I wanted her to go on and write some more she said it took too much time. Said it took months and months. And Edith's a smart girl; she's got more energy in her little finger than you ever give me a chance to see in your whole body, Bibbs. Now look at the facts: say she could turn out four or five poems a year and you could turn out maybe two. That medal she got was worth about fifteen dollars, so there's your income—thirty dollars a year! That's a fine success to make of your life! I'm not sayin' a word against poetry. I wouldn't take ten thousand dollars right now for that poem of Edith's; and poetry's all right enough in its place—but you leave it to the girls. A man's got to do a man's work in this world!”
He seated himself in a chair at his son's side and, leaning over, tapped Bibbs confidentially on the knee. “This city's got the greatest future in America, and if my sons behave right by me and by themselves they're goin' to have a mighty fair share of it—a mighty fair share. I love this town. It's God's own footstool, and it's made money for me every day right along, I don't know how many years. I love it like I do my own business, and I'd fight for it as quick as I'd fight for my own family. It's a beautiful town. Look at our wholesale district; look at any district you want to; look at the park system we're puttin' through, and the boulevards and the public statuary. And she grows. God! how she grows!” He had become intensely grave; he spoke with solemnity. “Now, Bibbs, I can't take any of it—nor any gold or silver nor buildings nor bonds—away with me in my shroud when I have to go. But I want to leave my share in it to my boys. I've worked for it; I've been a builder and a maker; and two blades of grass have grown where one grew before, whenever I laid my hand on the ground and willed 'em to grow. I've built big, and I want the buildin' to go on. And when my last hour comes I want to know that my boys are ready to take charge; that they're fit to take charge and go ON with it. Bibbs, when that hour comes I want to know that my boys are big men, ready and fit to take hold of big things. Bibbs, when I'm up above I want to know that the big share I've made mine, here below, is growin' bigger and bigger in the charge of my boys.”
He leaned back, deeply moved. “There!” he said, huskily. “I've never spoken more what was in my heart in my life. I do it because I want you to understand—and not think me a mean father. I never had to talk that way to Jim and Roscoe. They understood without any talk, Bibbs.”
“I see,” said Bibbs. “At least I think I do. But—”
“Wait a minute!” Sheridan raised his hand. “If you see the least bit in the world, then you understand how it feels to me to have my son set here and talk about 'poems and essays' and such-like fooleries. And you must understand, too, what it meant to start one o' my boys and have him come back on me the way you did, and have to be sent to a sanitarium because he couldn't stand work. Now, let's get right down to it, Bibbs. I've had a whole lot o' talk with ole Doc Gurney about you, one time another, and I reckon I understand your case just about as well as he does, anyway! Now here, I'll be frank with you. I started you in harder than what I did the other boys, and that was for your own good, because I saw you needed to be shook up more'n they did. You were always kind of moody and mopish—and you needed work that'd keep you on the jump. Now, why did it make you sick instead of brace you up and make a man of you the way it ought of done? I pinned ole Gurney down to it. I says, 'Look here, ain't it really because he just plain hated it?' 'Yes,' he says, 'that's it. If he'd enjoyed it, it wouldn't 'a' hurt him. He loathes it, and that affects his nervous system. The more he tries it, the more he hates it; and the more he hates it, the more injury it does him.' That ain't quite his words, but it's what he meant. And that's about the way it is.”
“Yes,” said Bibbs, “that's about the way it is.”
“Well, then, I reckon it's up to me not only to make you do it, but to make you like it!”
Bibbs shivered. And he turned upon his father a look that was almost ghostly. “I can't,” he said, in a low voice. “I can't.”
“Can't go back to the shop?”
“No. Can't like it. I can't.”
Sheridan jumped up, his patience gone. To his own view, he had reasoned exhaustively, had explained fully and had pleaded more than a father should, only to be met in the end with the unreasoning and mysterious stubbornness which had been Bibbs's baffling characteristic from childhood. “By George, you will!” he cried. “You'll go back there and you'll like it! Gurney says it won't hurt you if you like it, and he says it'll kill you if you go back and hate it; so it looks as if it was about up to you not to hate it. Well, Gurney's a fool! Hatin' work doesn't kill anybody; and this isn't goin' to kill you, whether you hate it or not. I've never made a mistake in a serious matter in my life, and it wasn't a mistake my sendin' you there in the first place. And I'm goin' to prove it—I'm goin' to send you back there and vindicate my judgment. Gurney says it's all 'mental attitude.' Well, you're goin' to learn the right one! He says in a couple more months this fool thing that's been the matter with you'll be disappeared completely and you'll be back in as good or better condition than you were before you ever went into the shop. And right then is when you begin over—right in that same shop! Nobody can call me a hard man or a mean father. I do the best I can for my chuldern, and I take full responsibility for bringin' my sons up to be men. Now, so far, I've failed with you. But I'm not goin' to keep ON failin'. I never tackled a job YET I didn't put through, and I'm not goin' to begin with my own son. I'm goin' to make a MAN of you. By God! I am!”
Bibbs rose and went slowly to the door, where he turned. “You say you give me a couple of months?” he said.
Sheridan pushed a bell-button on his desk. “Gurney said two months more would put you back where you were. You go home and begin to get yourself in the right 'mental attitude' before those two months are up! Good-by!”
“Good-by, sir,” said Bibbs, meekly.
Bibbs's room, that neat apartment for transients to which the “lamidal” George had shown him upon his return, still bore the appearance of temporary quarters, possibly because Bibbs had no clear conception of himself as a permanent incumbent. However, he had set upon the mantelpiece the two photographs that he owned: one, a “group” twenty years old—his father and mother, with Jim and Roscoe as boys—and the other a “cabinet” of Edith at sixteen. And upon a table were the books he had taken from his trunk: Sartor Resartus, Virginibus Puerisque, Huckleberry Finn, and Afterwhiles. There were some other books in the trunk—a large one, which remained unremoved at the foot of the bed, adding to the general impression of transiency. It contained nearly all the possessions as well as the secret life of Bibbs Sheridan, and Bibbs sat beside it, the day after his interview with his father, raking over a small collection of manuscripts in the top tray. Some of these he glanced through dubiously, finding little comfort in them; but one made him smile. Then he shook his head ruefully indeed, and ruefully began to read it. It was written on paper stamped “Hood Sanitarium,” and bore the title, “Leisure.”