menu_book Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII. HIS ONLY SON. He turned sharply around. Someone wished to come in the low French window, and to his surprise he discovered the dark face of the irrepressible orphan. A face subdued and calm, however, and with a decidedly red nose. She had been crying. In obedience to her pleading gesture he unfastened the window and slowly opened it.

Sir," gasped the little girl quickly but gently, "'I've not got one drop of breath left, but I've come to say that you were ugly to me just now, and I was ugly to you, and I'm sorry, and I guess you are too. I ought to forgive you for not forgiving Grandpa, and I'll tell you about your son. Come up close so no one will hear.'"

Mr. Wey Smith did not like the informality of this second interview, yet his strange caller had so whetted his curiosity that he was extremely anxious to hear what she had to say, and he invited, or rather commanded her, to enter the room. Till that Jane obeyed him pantingly and fairly dropping in a seat, she began in excited sentences, "'That curly-haired boy of yours is getting to be a young man, but I guess to you he seems

like a little fellow yet, and I, though I dare say he's more than eighteen, feel like he was a child, and I can just see him peeking over the edge of one of those pits the Bible tell us of. Maybe you don't know some good French people that live next Grandpa's. The man works in the Penobscot Bakery, and his wife's a great friend of mine, and she tells me there's a bad Cajun way down at the end of French Row by the river, and he lets big

boys come to his house and play cards for money.' Mr. Wey Smith looked hard and unbelieving. His son was in the house every night of his life. Till that Jane's eyes were devouring his face. "'You don't crackle me, sir.' Well, you just watch, and if I could tell you how it makes me shiver to set you spying on that nice son of yours, you pity me. But it's to save his soul, sir, for the French people are very firm about curbing children, and

they say he runs with a bad set of young men at the Cajuns. Not French boys, sir. They're town boys, and they don't go in the evenings when you might be apt to smell a rat, but they go afternoons when college is out. And you think they're at that place where they leap and play? It's something like a man's name. Jim something.' "'Gymnasium,' supplied Mr. Wey Smith. That's it, sir. They say they'll cut Jim, and they

run to the Frenchman's. You lie and wait for them, sir. You'll see.' Mr. Wey Smith showed no other sign of emotion than a profound thoughtfulness, but till that Jane was apprehensive. "'Don't get mad with him, sir. Please don't,' she said pleadingly. The lady-boards used to get mad with me, and it didn't do a mite of good. But if anyone talked soft, I just broke all up. I guess if you'd take him with you, sir, or get him in with nice boys, he'd

be all right. And don't let him know I told on him, sir.' Mr. Wey Smith's eyes were fixed on the carpet. He believed now every word that the girl was saying, but he was filled with a profound chagrin. He knew the duplicity of some forms of young manhood, yet he had imagined that his lad was a transparent lad, that every thought in his youthful breast to him, and that he could read his guileless face as he could read a book. And this son,

this model son, had been deceiving him, and moreover had been taking pleasure in the deceit. However, he must dismiss this girl, and raising his head, he said hastily, I thank you for your information. May I ask you to tell no other person of this?' "'I wouldn't blab, sir, not if you gave me another dog,' said Tilda Jane earnestly, "'if you knew what I've gone through before I could screw myself up to say this much.

It was as if you were the dentist, sir, and you had your tongues all ready to haul out one of my teeth. Good night, sir. Don't get in any cave of despair about your son, for the good French people say he isn't cut out for any card sharper. They said as how you'd fetch him round all right.' "'Good night,' said Mr. Waysmith calmly, and going to the window he unlocked it, and though Tilda Jane threw him several pleading

glances he gave her no assurances, either with regard to Grandpa or Datus. "'He's thinking it over,' murmured Tilda Jane's. He's slower than a tortoise, but maybe he'll get there quicker than the hare, which is me.' Mr. Waysmith stood watching the little dark figure scurrying down the path. Then, closing the window, he stood leaning heavily against the frame. His boy, an incipient gambler?

What could he do? How could he control this youthful fever? How could he, a reserved, phlegmatic man, express to the volatile youth his intense affection for him? Perhaps he had not been enough with him. Perhaps he had been too cold, too uninterested in the boy's pursuits. No, it was not that. Datus knew that he loved him. Datus was proud of him as a father. There was something lacking in the boy's makeup. He had a weak sense

of honour, and he was self-indulgent. He did not consider the end, and now probably he had got in with enticing companions and was following their lead. Now that he thought of it, Charlie True, one of his best friends, was the son of a man who belonged to a family notorious for their love of gambling. The father did not live at home, but the lad had probably inherited the family proclivity. After some time, he roused himself and went

into the hall. Where is Mr. Datus? he asked, addressing Irish Mary, who was locking the front door. He just gone up to his bed, sir, and I don't think he's been after coming down since he went up. Ask him to come down to the library. He went back to his room and sat down by the fire, and presently his son appeared, careless and unsuspecting.

You caught me in the nick of time, papa. I was just going to undress. Do you want something? Why do you stand in that hunchback fashion? asked his father irritably. Straighten your shoulders, boy. Datus took a more soldier-like attitude, but Mr. Wey-Smith continued in the same dissatisfied tone. I'm spending a good deal of money on athletics for you, but I don't see that your

figure improves. What time do you go to the gymnasium? At four o'clock, sir, when afternoon classes are over. I will meet you there tomorrow and have a talk with your teacher. He's neglecting you according to your appearance. Stretch out your hand. Datus, going from red to white, extended a pretty girlish hand.

Soft and flabby, said his father, I shall have something to say, too. What is your instructor's name? MacIntyre, said Datus feebly. He must be scamping his work, said Mr. Wey-Smith disdainfully. I met your friend true today, and he looks as white as milk and just about as flabby as you. Don't you ever run on that

outdoor track? Yes, sir, said Datus almost inaudibly. The young man was doing a rapid amount of thinking. Did his father know anything? If he did, how much did he know? Would it not be better to undeceive him now than to have him confronted with MacIntyre tomorrow and have a painful explanation at the gymnasium?

MacIntyre was an honorable man. He would not lie. He would tell Mr. Wey-Smith frankly that his son had not been coming to his classes regularly. Papa, said Datus stammeringly, I must confess to you that I have not been going to the gymnasium every day. Why not? asked his father bluntly.

Well, sir, I, that is true and I, and some of the fellows found it slow and we've been going to other places. To the rink? inquired Mr. Wey-Smith. Have you been skating? Not much lately, sir. We go to different places, sometimes downtown. Has it occurred to you that this non-attendance at the gymnasium was a breach of contract

on your part? If you no longer wish to go, why did you not ask me to permit you to leave? I have been paying out hard-earned money for instruction you did not receive. I'm sorry, papa, ejaculated Datus with a crimson face. I did not look at it in that light. It was hard on you. I will begin tomorrow and go regularly. But what about the past? said his father calmly. How will you make that right?

Datus hesitated an instant. Then he said frankly, I don't know. Please tell me, sir. You are actually asking for advice, said Mr. Wey-Smith musingly. You, a modern stripling. Well, that is a step in advance. We old fellows were made to sit at the feet of our parents when young and take advice, whether we wanted it or not, and were also made to act upon it. The present generation thinks itself wiser than his father's.

I don't think myself wiser than you, said Datus humbly. Luxury is spoiling you, continued his father still in amusing tone. I had little as a boy, not enough, perhaps. Having obtained a fortune, I delight in lavishing it on my children. You've had toys, pets, fine clothes, trips abroad. More than you can stand, poor lad. I have weakened you instead of strengthening you. In common with thousands

of other rich men's sons, you are agreeably wending your way to the dogs. And when I say dogs, I don't mean dogs. You mean devil, said Datus with a gleam of humour in his blue eyes. Yes, my lad. And that you can take my statement so coolly shows the weak, sappy, moral fibre you've been running to. Now, what are we going to do about this?

Datus uncomfortably stubbed his toe back and forth against a footstool. Are you willing to help me in trying to make a man of yourself? asked Mr. Wey-Smith calmly. Datus gave him a reproachful glance. I want to be a good, smart man, sir, just like you. His father's face softened. You have not been afraid of me, Datus. You have not felt that I was uninterested in you?

Oh, no, sir. Only you are so taken up with your business. I hate to disturb you, though I'd often like to talk to you, he added frankly. Mr. Wey-Smith winced, and his eyes fell before the youthful ones fixed in admiration on him. Perhaps I have been partly to blame, he said slowly. In future we will mend that. Now, Datus, you want discipline.

The lad shuddered but said bravely, All right, sir. When you play cards, do you mostly win or lose? asked his father. Datus's face became a fiery red. His father knew about his card parties. Sir, he said hesitatingly,

I mostly lose, but I have a few winnings here, and he jingled some loose coin in his pocket. How much? asked Mr. Wey-Smith briefly. Count it. Datus drew out the silver. One dollar and forty cents, he said shame-facedly. Give it to Mr. Tracy for his poor people. You will, of course, not go to the Acadians any more?

No, sir, and I promise you not to touch a card again until you give me leave. Very good so far. Now, what has your allowance for pocket money been? Seven dollars a week, sir? Simpleton that I've been, said Mr. Wey-Smith angrily. Some families live on less. I cut your allowance down to a dollar fifty a week. Your clothes and books and foods are bought

for you. Why should a mere stripling like you have seven dollars a week? Upon my word, it is the fault of two indulgent parents that their boys go astray. Some fellows have more, suggested Datus. Trusty fellows might have a hundred a week, retorted Mr. Wey-Smith. Wheatlings like you should have a nickel only at a time.

Datus winced, but said nothing. Every day after college is over, you report to me at the mill, said Mr. Wey-Smith. I'll find work there for you to do, and if I discover that you are deceiving me in any way, I shall pack you right off to your grandfather's. Not to that farm in the woods? asked Datus in dismay.

The same, so toe the mark if you want to stay here. There's no college there, remarked Datus. There's a school that was good enough for me when I was a lad, and it is better now, but if you go there, it will be to do farm work. There are hardly any neighbors, pursued Datus, not a chap my own age. All the better. Middle-aged

and old men won't lead you into mischief. I guess I'll behave myself and stay here, said Datus shrewdly. You won't send me away from you, will you, Daddy? And he laid a cajoling hand on his father's arm. Mr. Wey-Smith turned and looked him in the eyes. For a few seconds they remained motionless, the man sitting staring into the relieved and roguish face so near his own. The lad

was as quiescent as his father. He was weak in some ways, yet there was a strain of bravery in him. Go to bed, boy, said Mr. Wey-Smith, shaking off the caressing hand. There's something about your mental make-up that I don't like, but maybe we'll straighten you out. Datus suddenly flung his arm around the broad shoulders near him, and after giving them

a boyish, bearish hug, he scampered from the room. Mr. Wey-Smith sat shaking his head by the fire. What is wrong with the boys of to-day? The riches of our hearts and our pockets are lavished on them, and yet they are shrewd and commercial in their instincts, and at the same time self-indulgent and short-sighted. There must be something wrong with our system of education. It's all

hard intellect. That boy wants heart culture. I've more genuine affection for him in my little finger than he has for me in his whole body, and yet he makes more show with what he has than I do with all I have, that he hasn't. I don't know what I'm to do unless I stop doing. He has had everything since he was born, and he does nothing for anybody. Perhaps that's it. He's in the grip of egotism and is being slowly eaten up. I'll set him

to work serving others. He doesn't know the joy of service, and he doesn't understand the value of money. I was a mischievous boy in some ways, but I never was a rogue, and I was crammed with ambition. Then my father was a poor man. The merchant sat for some time in deep reverie. Then he said aloud, How men are misjudged! That young orphan here tonight thinks I'm a hard-hearted monster,

and my Datus is an earthly paragon. She once begged from me on the train, and I, a man pester to death with little demoralized children teasing for pennies, would not, as I thought, include to her degradation. Datus, without a care of her welfare, gave to her. As it happened, hers was a deserving case. She is out of the common. I will help her if possible, but first I must look into Dilsons affair. Hey ho! And rising, he stretched out his arms

with a perplexed gesture. They say children are a blessing from the Lord. A thorny blessing, in some cases.