Over the Pass

by Frederick Palmer

  XXXIV

  "JOHN WINGFIELD, YOU--"

  John Wingfield, Sr. had often made the boast that he never worried;that he never took his business to bed with him. When his head touchedthe pillow there was oblivion until he awoke refreshed to greet theproblems left over from yesterday. Such a mind must be a reliablyco-ordinated piece of machinery, with a pendulum in place of a heart. Itis overawing to average mortals who have not the temerity to say"Nonsense!" to great egos. Yet the best adjusted clocks may have a lapsein a powerful magnetic storm, and in an earthquake they might even betipped off the shelf, with their metal parts rendered quite as helplessby the fall as those of a human organism subject to the constitutionalweaknesses of the flesh.

  It was also John Wingfield, Sr.'s boast to himself that he had never beenbeaten, which average mortals with the temerity to say "Nonsense!"--thatmost equilibratory of words--might have diagnosed as a bad case ofself-esteem finding a way to forget the resented incidental reverses ofsuccess. Yet, even average mortals noted when John Wingfield, Sr.arrived late at the store the morning after Jack's departure for the Westthat he had not slept well. His haggardness suggested that for once thepushbutton to the switch of oblivion had failed him. The smile ofsatisfied power was lacking. In the words of the elevator boy,impersonal observer and swinger of doors, "I never seen the old man likethat before!"

  But the upward flight through the streets of his city, if it did notbring back the smile, brought back the old pride of ownership anddomination. He still had a kingdom; he was still king. Resentment roseagainst the cause of the miserable twelve hours which had thrown themachinery of his being out of order. He passed the word to himself thathe should sleep to-night and that from this moment, henceforth thingswould be the same as they had been before Jack came home. Yes, there wasjust one reality for him. It was enthroned in his office. This morningwas to be like any other business morning; like thousands of mornings tocome in the many years of activity that stretched ahead of him.

  "A little late," he said, explaining his tardiness to his secretary; asuperfluity of words in which he would not ordinarily have indulged. "Ihad some things to attend to on the outside."

  With customary quiet attentiveness, Mortimer went through the mail withhis employer, who was frequently reassuring himself that his mind was asclear, his answers as sure, and his interest as concentrated as usual.This task finished, Mortimer, with his bundle of letters and notes inhand, instead of going out of the room when he had passed around thedesk, turned and faced the man whom he had served for thirty years.

  "Mr. Wingfield--"

  "Well, Peter?"

  John Wingfield, Sr. looked up sharply, struck by Mortimer's tone, whichseemed to come from another man. In Mortimer's eye was a placid,confident light and his stoop was less marked.

  "Mr. Wingfield, I am getting on in years, now," he said, "and I haveconcluded to retire as soon as you have someone for my place; the sooner,sir, the more agreeable to me."

  "What! What put this idea into your head?" John Wingfield, Sr. snapped.Often of late he had thought that it was time he got a younger man inPeter's place. But he did not like the initiative to come from Peter; noton this particular morning.

  "Why, just the notion that I should like to rest. Yes, rest and play alittle, and grow roses and salads," said the old secretary, respectfully.

  "Roses and salads! What in--where are you going to grow them?"

  There was something so serene about Peter that his highly imperious,poised employer found it impertinent, not to say maddening. Peter had alook of the freedom of desert distances in his eyes already. A lieutenantwas actually radiating happiness in that neutral-toned sanctum of power,particularly this morning.

  "I am going out to Little Rivers, or to some place that Jack findsfor me, where I am to have a garden and work--or maybe I better callit potter around--out of doors in January and February, just like itwas June."

  Peter spoke very genially, as if he were trying to win a disciple on hisown account.

  "With Jack! Oh!" gasped John Wingfield, Sr. He struck his closed fistinto the palm of his hand in his favorite gesture of anger, theantithesis of the crisp rubbing of the palms, which he so rarely used oflate years. Rage was contrary to the rules of longevity, exciting theheart and exerting pressure on the artery walls.

  "Yes, sir," answered Peter, pleasantly.

  "Well--yes--well, Jack has decided to go back!" Then there rose stronglyin John Wingfield, Sr.'s mind a suspicion that had been faintly signaledto his keen observation of everything that went on in the store. "Are anyother employees going?" he demanded.

  "Yes, sir, I think there are; not immediately, but as soon as he finds aplace for them."

  "How many?"

  "I don't think it is any secret. About fifty, sir."

  "Name some of them!"

  "Joe Mathewson, that big fellow who drives a warehouse truck, andBurleigh;" and Peter went on with those of the test proof listwhom he knew.

  Every one of them had high standing. Every one represented a value. Whileat first John Wingfield, Sr. had decided savagely that Mortimer shouldremain at his pleasure, now his sense of outraged egoism took an oppositeturn. He could get on without Mortimer; he could get on if every employeein the store walked out. There were more where they came from in a cityof five millions population; and no one in the world knew so well as hehow to train them.

  "Very good, Peter!" he said rigidly, as if he were making a declarationof war. "Fix up your papers and leave as soon as you please. I will haveone of the clerks take your place."

  "Thank you. That is very kind, Mr. Wingfield!" Mortimer returned, sopolitely, even exultantly, that his aspect seemed treasonable.

  John Wingfield, Sr. tried to concentrate his attention on some long andimportant letters that had been left on his desk for furtherconsideration; but his mind refused to stick to the lines of typewriting.

  "This one is a little complicated," he thought, "I will lay it aside."

  He tried the second and the third letters, with no better results. Atanned face and a pair of broad shoulders kept appearing between him andthe paper. Again he was thinking of Jack, as he had all night, to theexclusion of everything else. Unquestionably, this son had a lot ofmagnetic force in him; he had command of men. Why, he had won fifty ofthe best employees out of sheer sentiment to follow him out to thedesert, when they had no idea what they were in for!

  His gaze fell and rested for some time on the bunch of roses on his desk.Every morning there had been a fresh bunch, in keeping with the customthat Jack had established. The father had become so used to theirpresence that he was unconscious of it. For all the pleasure he got outof them, they might as well have been in the cornucopia vase in thelimousine. His hand went out spasmodically toward the roses, as if hewould crush them; crush this symbol of the thing drawn from the motherthat had invaded the calm autocracy of his existence. The velvetyrichness of the petals leaning toward him above the drooping grace oftheir stems made him pause in realization of the absurdity of his anger.A feeling to which he had been a stranger swept over him. It was like abreaking instinct of dependableness; and then he called up Dr.Bennington.

  "Well, he has gone!" he told the doctor, desperately.

  "You did not tell him the truth!" came the answer; and he noted that thedoctor's voice was without its usual suavity. It was as matter-of-fact tothe man of millions as if it had been advising an operation in adispensary case.

  "No, not exactly," John Wingfield, Sr. confessed.

  "I told you what his nature was; how it had drawn on the temperament ofhis mother. I told you that with candor, with a decently human humilityappealing to his affections, everything was possible. And remember, he isstrong, stronger than you, John Wingfield! There's a process of fate inhim! John Wingfield, you--" The sentence ended abruptly, as if the doctorhad dropped the receiver on the hooks with a crash.

  Phantoms were closing in around John Wingfield, Sr.... His memoryranged back over the days of ardent y
outh, in the full tide of growingsuccess, when to want a thing, human or material, meant to have it....And in his time he had told a good many lies. The right lie, big anddaring, at the right moment had won more than one victory. With JohnPrather out of the way, he had decided on an outright falsehood to hisson. Why had he not compromised with Dr. Bennington's advice and triedpart falsehood and part contrition? But no matter, no matter. He wouldgo on; he was made of steel.

  Again the tanned face and broad shoulders stood between him and thepage. Jack was strong; yes, strong; and he was worth having. All the olddesire of possession reappeared, in company with his hatred of defeat.He was thinking of the bare spot on the wall in the drawing-room in placeof the Velasquez. There would be an end of his saying: "The boy is thespit of the ancestor and just as good a fighter, too; only his abilitiesare turned into other channels more in keeping with the spirit of theage!" An end of: "Fine son you have there!" from men at the club who hadgiven him only a passing nod in the old days. For he was not displeasedthat the boy was liked, where he himself was not. The men whom he admiredwere those who had faced him with "No!" across the library desk; who hadgot the better of him, even if he did not admit it to himself. And thestrength of his son, baffling to his cosmos, had won his admiration. No,he would not lose Jack's strength without an effort; he wanted it for hisown. Perhaps something else, too, there in the loneliness of the officein the face of that bunch of roses was pulling him: the thrill that hehad felt when he saw the moisture in Jack's eyes and felt the warmth ofhis grasp before Jack left the library.

  And Jack and John Prather were speeding West to the same destination!They would meet! What then? There was no use of trying to work in anoffice on Broadway when the forces which he had brought into being overtwenty years ago were in danger of being unloosed out on the desert, withJack riding free and the fingers of the ancestor-devil on the reins. JohnWingfield, Sr. called in the general manager.

  "You are in charge until I return," he said; and a few hours later he wasin a private car, bound for Little Rivers.

  PART III

  HE FINDS HIS PLACE IN LIFE