Later, when he was by himself, all the tempting things they offered would come back to him and stab him to the heart with longing to go. For before they were done with him, the jobs they had secured for him, the fourth-story dormitory, and the condescension were scrapped, and the beautiful suite of rooms with Walt for roommate was even offered free, with the promise to put Dick Bradford elsewhere. There was satisfaction, of course, in the thought that they wanted him so badly. It healed his wounded pride when the dignified alumnus even descended his patronage and humbled himself to tell Chris he was the only man who could come in at this time and tide the fraternity over a certain crisis through which it was passing.
But when it was all over, Chris could only say it was impossible, that he had other obligations that came first.
Of course, on the way home that afternoon, having seen Walt and the alumnus on the two-fifty train, he suffered a reaction and began to think perhaps he had been a fool to refuse such an offer. Perhaps his father would blame him for taking things in his own hands this way. Yet there remained, like a wall of adamant, back in his mind, the knowledge that he should stay and work and help to pay back his father’s debt, if possible. At least help him in his present need.
A deep gloom settled down upon him as he turned his steps toward home. Here was he, with the way open to go back and get his last college year, which any fool would tell him he needed before he would be worth much in the business world, and yet the way so effectually blocked by honor that the offer might as well never have come, save for the satisfaction of knowing how the college people felt toward him.
But when he entered the house and found that his father’s condition had not been quite so good that day, he forgot all about college again as the mantle of anxiety returned upon his weary, young shoulders.
Chapter 5
There came a morning when the doctor came out of the sickroom with a look of bright triumph on his face.
“Well, sir,” he said to Chris, as he got himself into his fall overcoat and took up his hat, “your father’s going to get well. I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure but there might be a setback. He’s come through his worst danger now. The lung is all cleared up, and he’s on the way to health again. From now on you won’t need to keep quite so still when you walk through the hall, and in a few days he’ll be up and around. But don’t worry him about business, hear? Not till he’s strong. Positively not a word. I’ve told him I won’t have it.”
But the sick man seemed strangely apathetic about the affairs of the world. Somehow, in the dimness of that darkened chamber, he had caught a vision of something bigger than earthly things, and he lay back and rested.
One night, shortly before Thanksgiving, when Chris, just in from the crisp outside air, came as usual to the invalid chair to which the Father had been promoted, he looked up and smiled wistfully at his son.
“Sorry, boy, about college, but—maybe there’ll be a way yet,” he said sorrowfully.
“Oh, Dad!” cried the boy, summoning a simulated brightness which he did not feel. “Don’t you worry about college! I’m all right. Just so you get well, that’s all we care.”
“Well, you’re a good boy!” said the father tenderly, “and please, God, I’m going to get well. The doctor promises me that by the fifteenth of December, if I’m good, I may go down to the bank. So, you see, I’m really progressing. And Son, Mother and I have been talking about this house. We think the sale ought to be through as soon as possible for the sake of our creditors.”
“The doctor said you mustn’t talk about business yet,” said the boy, feeling as if his father had struck him.
“No, I’m not going to, Chris, only I didn’t want you to be utterly unprepared if somebody comes here to look at the house. The doctor said it wouldn’t do me any harm. In fact, it is a great relief to me to feel that I am doing all in my power to make up to my creditors. You won’t mind, Chris.”
“Of course not!” said Chris shortly, swallowing the lump that had begun to rise in his throat and the utter rebellion in his heart. He thought bitterly of the deputation that had come from college to say they’d arranged a way in which his last college year could be financed, but he had not even told his mother about it. He knew he was needed at home for a long time yet, and that even if his father regained his usual health and was not actually physically dependent upon him, that he should stay at home and get a job, stick by and make it as easy for the family as he could. He knew this was right. But he was feeling just a little proud of himself, and set up, too, that he had taken the stand, refusing the offer courteously but definitely, and had kept his mouth entirely shut about it. He felt quite a little bitter at the world, and unconfessedly at God, too, for “handing him out such a raw deal,” as he phrased it.
But the next day Chris began to look for a job in good earnest. Up to that time he had not felt that he should be away from the house more than a few minutes at a time, lest he should be needed.
It is true that Chris had, from the beginning, felt easy in his mind about job hunting. Of course, he knew all about the unemployed situation, and that older men than himself, with families dependent upon them, were looking vainly for jobs. He knew this in a general way, but still it never entered his head that he would have a hard time hunting something to do, a real paying job. He felt that his father’s son would be welcomed as an employee in any one of a dozen big concerns in town. He wasn’t expecting to be a bank president right at the first, of course, but he did expect that several places would be open to him at a good salary just because he was Christopher Walton Jr.
He had carefully looked the situation over, weighing the wisdom of undertaking a position as a bond salesman, as a cashier in a bank, as an assistant in a real estate office looking toward a partnership, or something in insurance. They all appealed to him in various ways. A managership in one of those big oil corporations might be good, too. Of course, he expected six month’s training in anything before he would be put in a responsible position with a worthwhile salary.
No, Chris was not conceited, as we usually count the meaning of that word. He was simply judging probabilities by his old standards, as his father’s son, the son of the leading bank president in town. He had, as yet, no conception of what it meant to be a bank president whose bank had closed its doors and put hundreds of poor people in destitute situations. A bank president, it’s true, who had promised to give up everything and stand by his creditors, but after all, a failure. And Chris was yet to find out that even nobility sometimes begets contempt. He even came to the place once where he wondered if some people would not have respected his father more if he had kept his own millions and lived on in his big house, with servants and cars galore. He came to the place where he found that some men respected money more than even honesty—bowed to it, deferred to it, honored those who had it. His young, furious, indignant soul had many things to learn and many experiences to pass through before he found peace.
So Chris started out early the next morning to find his “position,” as he called it, expecting to be able to announce his success to his father on his return.
Chris went first to three best-known bond houses in the city, the heads of which were supposedly personal friends of his father. The head of the first was in conference and declined to see him that day. The head of the second was in a hurry and told him so at once, but informed him coolly that there was no opening with their house at present. They were thinking of dismissing a couple of men, rather than taking on any. Perhaps in the spring. How was his father? He glanced at his watch, and Chris knew the interview was over.
The third one told him frankly that there was no business at present to warrant taking on new men, and that even if there were, he, Chris, should finish college before he thought of applying for such a job. He suggested that money could be borrowed for his last college year. And when Chris indignantly told him he was needed at home and informed him of his invitation to go to college under scholarship
s, the man shook his head and told him it was simply crazy to decline that offer, that his father would never allow him to be so foolish when he was well and ‘round again.
There might, of course, be truth in some of the things the man said, but Chris closed his lips and left. He could not tell this friend of his father’s how utterly destitute they were going to be and how he must work to help his father and mother. He simply closed his lips and left.
All that day he went from place to place, marking each one off his list as he left, his heart growing heavier and heavier, and more bewildered, as he plodded on. The bright prospects, which he had held as many and to be had for the asking, were receding fast.
His sad heart was not made lighter by meeting Gilda Carson, just getting into Bob Tyson’s car. She was home from college for the Thanksgiving holiday, and she tossed him the most casual smile, hardly as if she knew him at all. Never an eager lighting of the face, nor a joyous calling out to him to be sure and come over that evening. Just a cool bow, and she was off, smiling up at Bob as they drove away together.
He frowned and walked half a block beyond his destination, telling his bitter heart that he didn’t care in the least what Gilda did, nor what Bob Tyson thought, nor anything. He didn’t care! He didn’t care! He didn’t care! But yet he knew in his sad heart that he did care. He cared that his pride had been hurt. Gilda herself wasn’t worth caring about, of course. In a sense he had always known that, but he had enjoyed taking the prettiest girl in school about and getting away from others whenever he chose. And to have her freeze him out this way, just because his father had lost money! Well, he was off her for life anyway, and he’d show her, he said fiercely to himself.
He thought, with a pang, of the fellows off in college, the boys he had played baseball with, and football. If the fellows were only back home, about town, it would be different. He wouldn’t feel so alone. Boys never snubbed like girls. If Walt Gillespie were only home now, he would show them all a thing or two. Walt was his best friend. Of course, Walt had been a bit lofty when he first began to tell about his being president of the fraternity, and about Dick Bradford; and come to think about it, Walt hadn’t written since he went back. Of course, college took a lot of time and fellows weren’t keen on writing letters. But—well—if it had been Walt who had to stay home, he wouldn’t have left him cold, without word that way. He might have found time for a postcard. Just some word about the winning of a game or how the frat was going or something.
A new pang shot through him, and his bitterness continued to grow.
He came home at night dog weary, his young face almost haggard, with gray lines about his eyes and mouth. His mother watched him anxiously across the table but asked no questions. She knew, as mothers know without asking, that he had been out to hunt a job and had not succeeded.
Then, next morning, when he started on his rounds among a less aristocratic group of firms, he had his jaw set firmly. Before night he would find something. He would force himself in somewhere. It was ridiculous that nobody wanted him. There was a place for him somewhere. He hadn’t tried but one day, yet. Of course, he would find something before night.
About ten o’clock, as he was passing the station, he spied Betty Zane descending from the train with her suitcase, home for Thanksgiving from her coeducational college.
“Hello, Chris!” She waved to him. “Can’t you take me home in your lovely new car?”
There seemed to Chris’s sensitive ear a mocking tone in Betty’s voice. Betty Zane knew, of course, that he had no new car now. She must have been thoroughly informed of all that happened since she went away. If no one else would tell her, her sharp-eyed kid sister Gwendolen would have done so. Betty was just trying to make him confess that he had no car. Betty was like that. She used to pin a butterfly to her desktop in school and enjoy watching the poor fluttering wings. Chris hardened his heart, remembering Gilda’s freezing bow of yesterday, and he gave Betty a very good male imitation of it, and answered quite rudely for a boy who had been brought up to be courteous, “Nothing doing. I’m out of business. There’s the taxi.”
Betty stared at him and tossed her head, then turned her back upon him, and Chris moved on out of her sight, all the more out of sorts with the world because he knew that he ought to be ashamed of himself.
So he tramped on, bitter and pessimistic. Grand day this, he ought to be ashamed of himself.
Oh, of course, he was glad and thankful that Dad was getting better and Mother wasn’t breaking under the strain. But even that had a sting in it, for what prospect had Dad but bitterness and disappointment? It would be better, perhaps, if they all died together rather than to live on and see such a difference between their former life and now. How could they ever be happy again? Dad would probably find that men in the business world could be just as offish as the young folks. Dad wouldn’t keep that cheery, exalted look long, after he got back into business life again. He would find he was up against it. It was all well enough to be so relieved that his good name was to be cleared and no one have to suffer for the bank’s troubles, but just wait till the excitement blew over. Dad would suffer. Just suffer! And so would Mother, and it was up to him to do something about it. He’d simply got to get a real paying job.
Then he let himself into the house to find that his father and mother were rejoicing, yes, actually rejoicing that the beautiful family car they had had for only about four months, and which had been the delight of their hearts, had been sold at a good price. What did they care how much the old thing brought since they had to give it up?
Father had family prayers as usual, reading a chapter about the goodness of the Lord and actually thanking God that the car had been so well sold! Well, it was just inexplicable, that was all. For his own part, he felt so rebellious at the going of their car that he could hardly make his knees bend to kneel down with them. Thank God for that? There wasn’t a chance!
As they rose from their knees after prayer, Mr. Walton said, with a ring to his voice that his son could not understand, “I heard today of a possible buyer for the house. If that be so, we may soon be on an honest basis.”
“Honest?” burst out Chris.
“Yes, Son,” said the father, turning wise, kind eyes toward him. “I shrink every day from coming out of a house like this when many depositors in the bank that was under my care, people who trusted in me to take care of their all, are almost without food or shelter.”
And Chris perceived that his father and mother were bent on one thing, the paying of their debts, and that possessions meant nothing to them so long as a single creditor had anything against them.
He opened his lips to ask, “But where shall we go, Dad, if the house is sold?” And then was ashamed in the face of such nobility as both parents were displaying, and closed them again.
So, the house was going, too! That was another thing to dread! It was like standing on a tiny speck of land in the midst of a wild, whirling ocean and seeing the land crumble away under one’s feet bit by bit. The car had gone today, college yesterday; the house where he was born would perhaps go tomorrow. And where were all the friends of the years? Would any of them stick, or would they melt away, one by one, till they stood alone in an alien world?
Chapter 6
It was not until the week after Thanksgiving that the buyer came to look at the house. Chris had almost begun to hope that he was a myth and no one would come.
He was a big pompous man who murdered the King’s English and wore an enormous diamond on his fat little finger, as if it were a headlight.
He had a large family of untamed children who swarmed cheerfully, boldly through the house, fingering Mrs. Walton’s embroideries, staring into her private room rudely, yelling at one another from one story to another, and even attempting to be what Chris called “fresh” with him, the son of the house.
They freely discussed the furnishings; laughed at some things as funny and old fashioned; were frankly curious about some of the rich ta
pestries, which the Walton’s had counted among their finer treasures; asked questions without stint, gaining new viewpoints, one could see, with every icy answer that Chris made as he showed them over the rooms at his mother’s request. As he progressed from cellar to attic, his rage and indignation increased. Why did they have to stand this sort of thing from these low-down, common people? It was bad enough to have them buy the house without this torture. If they wanted it, let them take it and keep still. If they didn’t, let them go away! He had no patience with his mother’s smiling sweetness, her gentle courtesy. He knew it was hard for her as for him. Yet she kept her strength and sweetness. How could she? These insufferable people! They were fairly insulting and acted as if the house already belonged to them. One daughter with too much lipstick said she hoped he would call on her often. It would be nice and cozy having someone come who knew the house well, and he’d likely be homesick and would enjoy coming back. He looked at her coldly and said nothing. He waded deep into the waters of humiliation that day.
It was rumored that the father was a bootlegger and had made an enormous sum of money, which he didn’t know how to spend. He was voluble in his delight in the house, offered to buy the pictures and hangings and furniture, even the precious works of art Dad and Mother had picked up abroad. They wanted the house just as quick as the Waltons could possibly get out. They made no question about the price that was asked. They even offered to pay a bonus if they could have possession in two weeks.
Chris, with a furl of disgust on his lip, looked to his father for a quick refusal, but when he saw the relief on that pale, beloved face, and realized that what his father wanted more than anything in life was a speedy release from indebtedness, a quick relief from his depositors, he closed his lips hard on the protest he was about to make. After all, of course it was a good price the man was paying, and a bonus would help, too. He must remember they were paupers and had no right to pick and choose.
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