The Silent Battle

“No, no,” she protested. “It isn’t true. I—I didn’t love you—I don’t–”

He had captured one of her hands and was leaning toward her, his voice close at her ear, vibrant with emotion.

“You loved me—up there, Jane. The forest knew. The stream sang of it. It was in Kee-way-din and the rain. It was part of the primeval, when we lived a thousand years ago. Don’t you remember? I read it in your eyes that night when I came in with the deer. You ran out to meet me, like the cave-woman to greet her man. I was no longer the fugitive who had built your hut, or made your fires. You had learned that I was necessary to you, in other ways, not to your body—but to your spirit.”

“No. It’s not true.”

“That night you fed me—watched by me. I saw your eyes in my dreams, the gentleness in them, their compassion, their perfect womanliness. Such wonderful dreams! And when I awoke you were still there. I wanted to tell you then that I knew—but I couldn’t. It would have made things difficult for you. Then I got sick–”

“Don’t, Mr. Gallatin!”

He had taken her in his arms and held her face so that her lips lay just beneath his own.

“Tell me the truth. You loved me then. You love me now? Isn’t it so?”

Her lips were silent, and one small tear trembled on her cheeks. But he kissed it away.

“Look up at me, Jane. Answer. Whatever I am, whatever I hope to be, you and I are one—indivisible. It has been so since the beginning. There is no brute in me now, dear. See. I am all tenderness and compassion. One fire burns out another. I’ll clean your lips with new kisses—gentle ones—purge off the baser fire. I love you, Jane. And you–?”

“Yes—yes,” she whispered faintly. “I do love you. I—I can’t help it.”

“Do you want to help it?”

“No. I don’t want to help it.”

“Kiss me, Jane.”

She raised her moist lips to his and he took them.

Past and Future whirled about their ears, dinning the alarm, but they could not hear it, for the voice of the present, the wonderful present was singing in their hearts. The brougham rolled noiselessly on, and they did not know or care. Fifth Avenue was an Elysian Field, and their journey could only end in Paradise.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

She did.

“I can’t see your eyes, Jane. I want to see them now. They’re like they were—up there—aren’t they? They’re not cold, or scornful, or mocking, as they’ve been all evening—not cruel as they were—in the Park? It’s you, isn’t it? Really you?”

“Yes, what’s left of me,” she sighed. “It’s so sweet,” she whispered. “I’ve dreamed of it—but I didn’t think it could ever be. I was afraid of you–”

“Oh, Jane! How cruel you were!”

“I had to be. I had to hurt you.”

“Why?”

“Because of my own pain. I wanted to make you suffer—as I suffered—only more.”

“I did. Much more. You’re not afraid of me now?”

“No, no. I’m not afraid of you. I shouldn’t be—be where I am, if I were.”

He took pains to give her locality a new definiteness.

“I’m not—what you thought I was?” he asked after that.

“No—yes—that is—I don’t know–”

“Jane!”

“I mean—I don’t believe I ever thought you anything but what you are.”

“You blessed child. And what am I?”

“A—a person. A dark-haired person—with a—face.”

“Is that all?”

“No. And an unshaven chin, a soiled flannel shirt, and a brown felt hat with two holes punched in it.”

“Have I always been that?”

“Yes—always.”

“You liked that—that person better than you do this one?”

“I’m—not sure.” She straightened suddenly in his arms and drew away to look at him. “Why—I’ve only known you—I only met you a few hours ago. It’s dreadful of me—Mr. Gallatin.”

“Phil,” he corrected.

“Phil, then. The suddenness of everything—I’m not quite sure of myself–”

“I’m not either. I’m afraid I’ll wake up.”

“You’re not the person with the glowering eyes,” she went on, “and the—the stubbly chin—or the slouch hat and smelly pipe–”

“I’m too happy to glower. I couldn’t if I wanted to. But I’ve got the hat and the smelly pipe. I can make the chin stubbly again—if you’ll only wait a few days.”

“I don’t think I—I’d like it stubbly now.”

He laughed. But she stopped him again.

“I—I wish you’d tell me–”

She paused and he questioned.

“Something bothers me dreadfully.”

“What?”

“You didn’t think—when you—came with me to-night—that I could be convinced—that you could—could win so easily, did you?”

“No, dear. I didn’t—I–”

“Quickly—or I shall die of shame.”

“I had no hope—none at all. I just wanted you to know how things were with me. Thank God, you listened.”

“How could I do anything else but listen—in a brougham—I couldn’t have jumped out into the street. Besides, you might have jumped, too.”

“I would have,” he said grimly.

“It would have made a scene.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And the coachman—Mrs. Pennington would have known. Oh, don’t you see? Mrs. Pennington only introduced us to-night–”

She drew away from him and looked out of the carriage window. They had reached a neighborhood which was unfamiliar to her, where the houses were smaller and the lights less frequent, and upon the left-hand side there was no Park.

“There is some mistake,” she said a little bewildered. “We have come a long way.”

He followed her look and laughed outright.

“We’re above the Park,” he said, opening the door. And then to the coachman. “You got the wrong number.”

“One Hundred and Twentieth, sir,” came a voice promptly.

“One Hundred and Twenty! Where are we now, Dawson?”

“Hundred and Ten, sir.”

Gallatin laughed, but Jane had sunk back in her corner in confusion.

“I said Seventieth distinctly,” she murmured. “I’m sure I did.”

“You’d better turn now,” said Gallatin to the man.

“Where to, sir?”

“To the Battery–”

“Mr. Gal—Phil!” cried Jane.

“I beg pardon, sir,” said Dawson.

Gallatin concealed his delight with difficulty.

“We’ve come too far, Dawson,” he said. “Miss Loring lives in Seventieth Street.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” came a voice.

Gallatin shut the door and the vehicle turned.

Jane sat very straight in her corner and her fingers were rearranging her disordered hair.

“Oh, Phil,—I’m shamed. How could I have let him go past–”

“There are no numbers on the streets of Paradise.”

“It must be frightfully late.”

“—or watches in the pockets of demigods–”

“Will you be serious!”

“Demigods are too happy to be serious.”

“That poor horse–”

“A wonderful horse, a horse among horses, but he goes too fast. He’ll be there in no time. Can’t we take a turn in the Park?”

He stretched his hand toward the door, but she seized him by the arm.

“I forbid it. If Mrs. Pennington knew—” she stopped again in consternation. “Phil! Do you think that Nellie Pennington–”

“I don’t know. She’s a wonderful woman—keeps amazing horses—extraordinary coachmen–”

“Could she have told the man—to mistake me—purposely?”

“I think so,” he said brazenly. “She’s capable of anything—anything—wonderful wom–”

“Phil, I’ll be angry with you.”

“No, you can’t.”

He took her in his arms again and she discovered that what he said was true. She didn’t want to be angry. Besides, what did it matter, about anything or anybody else in the world.

“I don’t know how this could have happened. I’ve hated you, Phil,” she confessed after a while. “Oh, how I’ve hated you!”

“No.”

“Oh, yes. It’s true. I hated you. I really did. You were the living emblem of my disgrace. When you got in here beside me to-night, I loathed you. I’m still angry with myself. I can’t understand how I could have yielded so—so completely.”

“It all happened a thousand years ago.”

“Yes, I know it. Up there—I seemed to remember that.”

“So did I—the same stream, the same rocks, the forest primeval.”

“And the voices–”

“Yes. You couldn’t change things. They were meant to be—from the beginning.”

She drew closer into his arms and whispered.

“It frightens me a little, though.”

“What?”

“That it has happened in spite of me. That I had no power to resist.”

“Do you want to resist?”

“No, not now—not now.”

“You make me immortal. There’s no need to be frightened for me or for you. The strength of the ages is in me, Jane. I’ll win out, dear,” he whispered. “I’ll win out. For you—for us both.”

“I believe it,” she sighed. “It’s in you to win. I’ve known that, too. You must put the—the Enemy to rout, Phil. I’ll help you. It’s my Enemy as well as yours now. We’ll face it together—and it will fall. I know it will.”

He laughed.

“God bless you for that. I’m not afraid of it. We’ve conjured it away already. You’ve put me in armor, Jane. We’ll turn its weapons aside.”

“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

She looked up at him and by the glow of a street lamp he saw that she was afraid no longer, for in her eyes was a light of love and faith unalterable.

She could not know, nor did he, that outside in the darkness beside their vehicle, his weapons sheathed, baffled and thwarted for the moment, but still undismayed, strode the Enemy.

XIV

THE JUNIOR MEMBER

The offices of Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin were in the Mills Building, and consisted of six rooms, one for each of the members of the firm, and three for the clerks, stenographers and library. They were plainly but comfortably furnished, and gave no token of extraordinary prosperity or the lack of it. In no sense did they resemble the magnificent suites which were maintained elsewhere in the building by more precocious firms which had discovered the efficacy of the game of “bluff,” and which used it in their business with successful consistency. And yet there was an air of solidity here which indicated a conservatism more to the liking of the class of people who found use for the services of Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin.

John Kenyon, the senior member, belonged to that steadily decreasing class of lawyers who look upon their profession as a calling with traditions. He belonged to an older school of practitioners which still clung to the ethics of a bygone generation. The business of many big corporations went up in the elevator which passed before the door of John Kenyon’s private office to a floor above, where its emissaries could learn how to take the money that belonged to other people without being jailed, or, having been jailed, how they could most quickly be freed to obtain the use of their plunder. But Mr. Kenyon made no effort to divert this tide. He wanted no part of it in his office. The corporate interests which he represented were for the most part those which required his services to resist the depredations planned upstairs.

John Kenyon would have been a great lawyer but for the lack of one important ingredient of greatness—imagination. His knowledge of the law was extraordinary. His mind was crystal-clear, analytical but not inventive, judicial but not prophetic. He would have graced the robes of a Justice of the Supreme Bench; but as a potent force in modern affairs he was not far from mediocrity. He had begun his career in the office of Philip Gallatin’s grandfather, had been associated with Philip Gallatin’s father, but with the passing of the old firm he had opened offices of his own. The initiative which he lacked had been supplied by Gordon Hood, a brisk Bostonian of the omniscient type; and the accession of young Philip Gallatin four years ago had done still more to supply the ingredients which modern conditions seemed to require. It had meant much to John Kenyon to have Phil in the firm, for the perspective of Time had done little to dim the luster which hung about the name of Gallatin and the junior member had shown early signs that he, too, was possessed of much of the genius of his forebears.

Kenyon had watched the development of the boy with mingled delight and apprehension and, with the memory of the failings of his ancestors fresh in his mind, had done what he could to avert impending evil. It was at his advice that young Gallatin had gone to the Canadian woods, and he had noted with interest and not a little curiosity his return to his desk two months ago sobered and invigorated. Phil had plunged into the work which awaited him with quiet intention, and the way he had taken hold of his problems and solved them, had filled the senior partner with new hopes for his future. He loved the boy as he could have loved a son, as he must love the son of Evelyn Westervelt, and it had taken much to destroy John Kenyon’s belief in Phil’s ultimate success. But this last failure had broken that faith. Through the efforts of Gordon Hood the firm had won the suit for which Phil Gallatin had prepared it, but it was an empty victory to John Kenyon, who had seen during the preparation of the case Phil Gallatin’s chance, his palingenesis—the restitution of all his rights, physical and moral.

Fully aware of John Kenyon’s attitude toward him, for two weeks Philip Gallatin had remained uptown and, until his dinner at Mrs. Pennington’s, to which he had gone in response to especial pleading, had hidden himself even from his intimates. He had sent word to John Kenyon that he was indisposed, but both men knew what his absence meant. John Kenyon had been the one rock to which Phil Gallatin had tied, the one man with whom he had been willing to talk of himself, the one man of all his friends from whom he would even take a reproach. It was on John Kenyon’s account, more even than on his own, that Gallatin so keenly suffered for his failure at the critical moment. The time had indeed come for a reckoning, and yesterday Gallatin had planned to retire from the firm and save his senior partner the pains of further responsibility on his account. He had been weighed in the balance, a generous balance with weights which favored him, and had been found wanting.

But last night a miracle had happened and the visit of renunciation which he had even planned for this very morning had been turned into one of contrition and appeal. And difficult as he found the interview before him, he entered the office with a light step and a face aglow with the new resolution which had banished the somber shadow that for so long had hung about him.

It was early, and the business of the day had just begun. At his appearance several of the stenographers looked up from their work and scrutinized him with interest, and the chief clerk rose and greeted him.

“Good morning, Tooker,” he nodded cheerfully. “Is Mr. Kenyon in yet?”

“No, sir. It’s hardly his time–”

“Please tell him I’d like to see him if he can spare me a moment.”

Then he entered a door which bore his name and closed it carefully behind him, opened his desk, glanced at his watch, made two or three turns up and down the room and then took up the telephone book, Logan—Lord—Lorimer, Loring. There it was. 7000 Plaza. He hesitated again and then rang up the number.

It was some moments before the butler consented to get Miss Loring, and when he did she did not recognize his voice.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Can’t you guess?”

“Oh, Phil! I didn’t know you at all. Where are you?”

“At the office.”

“Already! And I’m not out of bed!”

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry–”

“I’m glad. I didn’t mean to go to sleep, but I did sleep, somehow–”

“I haven’t been asleep. I couldn’t–”

“Why not?”

“It’s so much pleasanter to be awake.”

“I think so, too, but then I dreamed, Phil.”

“Pleasant dreams?”

“Oh, beautiful ones, full of demigods and things.”

“What things?”

“Enchanted broughams. Oh, how did it happen, Phil?”

“It had to happen.”

“I can’t believe it yet.”

He laughed. “If I were there I’d try to convince you.”

“Yes, I think you could. I’m willing to admit that.”

“Are you sorry?”

“N-o. But I’m so used to being myself. I can’t understand. It’s strange—that’s all. And I’m glad you called me. I’ve had a terrifying feeling that you must be somebody else, too.”

“I am somebody else.”

“I mean somebody I don’t know very well.”

“There’s a remedy for that.”

“What?”

“Doses of demigod. Repeat every hour.”

“Oh–!”

“Don’t you like the prescription?”

“I—I think so.”

“Then why not try it?”

“I—I think I ought to, oughtn’t I?”

“I’m sure of it. In a day or so the symptoms you speak of will entirely disappear.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“I—I think they’re less acute already. You really are you, aren’t you?”

“If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be you, don’t you see?”

“Yes, and I’d be frightfully jealous if I had been somebody else.” She laughed. “Oh, Phil! What a conversation! I hope no one is listening.”

“I’m sure they’re not. They couldn’t understand anyway.”

“Not unless they’re quite mad—as we are. What are you doing? Working?”

“Yes, drawing a deed for an acre in Paradise.”

“Don’t be foolish. Who for?”

“Me. And there’s a deed of trust.”

“I’ll sign that.”

“We’ll both sign it. It’s well secured, Jane. Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I do,” slowly.

There was a pause and then he asked, “When can I see you?”

“Soon.”

“This afternoon?”

“I’ve a luncheon.”

“And then–”

“Tea at the–Oh, Phil, I’ll have to cut that. There’s a dance to-night, too, the Ledyards’.”

“This is getting serious.”

“What can I do? I’ve been frightfully rude already. Can’t you go?”

“Not sufficiently urged.”

“Then I shan’t either. I don’t want to go. I want—the acre of Paradise.”

“Where will I meet you, Jane?”

“Here—at four.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Until then, good-by, and, Phil–”

“Yes.”

“Please wear that flannel shirt, disreputable hat and–”

“And the beard?”

“No—not the beard. But I want to be convinced there’s no mistake.”

“I’d rather convince you without them.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt you will,” she sighed. “There’s so much I’ve got to say to you, Phil. I won’t know where to begin–”

“Just where you stopped.”

“But I—I wasn’t saying anything—just then. I couldn’t. There—there were reasons.”

He laughed gayly.

“I’ve still other reasons.”

“Oh!”

“Convincing ones.”

“Phil, I won’t listen. Good-by!”

“Good-by.”

“Hadn’t we better go for a walk?” she asked.

“No—please–”

“Oh, very well,” with a tone of resignation. “There—you see, I’m submitting again. At four, then. Good-by.” She cut off and he hung up the receiver, sitting for a long while motionless, looking out of the window. He took out his watch and was examining it impatiently when the chief clerk came in.

“Mr. Kenyon will see you now, Mr. Gallatin,” he said.

John Kenyon paused in the reading of his mail and looked up over the half-moons in his glasses when Gallatin appeared at the door.

“Come in, Phil,” he said quietly, offering his hand. He sat down at his desk again and formally indicated the chair nearest it. His manner was kindly and full of an old-fashioned dignity, indicating neither indifference nor encouragement, and this seemed to make Philip Gallatin’s position if anything more difficult and painful. Instead of sitting, Gallatin turned toward the window and stood there.

“I’ve come back, Uncle John,” he muttered.

Kenyon glanced up at him, the calm judicial glance of a man who, having no venal faults himself, tolerates them in others with difficulty. There was no family relationship between the men, and Gallatin’s use of the familiar term at this time meant much, and something in Phil Gallatin’s pose arrested Kenyon’s eye, the jaw that had worked forward and was now clamped tightly by its throbbing muscles, the bulk of the squared shoulders and the decision with which one hand clasped the chair-back.

“I’m glad of that, Phil,” he said. “I was on the point of thinking you had given me up.”

“I had. I had given you up. I haven’t been down here because I knew it wasn’t necessary for me to come and because I thought you’d understand.”

“I understood.”

“I wrote you two or three letters, but I tore them up. I wanted to sever my connection with the firm. I wanted to save you the pain of thinking about me any longer. I knew I hadn’t any right here, that I haven’t had any right here for a long while—two or three years, that I had been taking my share of fees I had never earned, and that it was only through your friendship for me that I’ve been encouraged to stay as long as this. I wanted to save you the pain of talking to me again–”

“I’ve never denied you my friendship, Phil. I don’t deny it now. I only thought that you might have–”

Gallatin turned swiftly and raised his hand.

“Don’t, Mr. Kenyon! For God’s sake, don’t reproach me,” he said ardently. “Reproaches won’t help me—only wound. They’ve already been ringing in my ears for days—since the last time–” he paused.

“Never mind.”

Gallatin strode the length of the room, struggling for the control of his voice, and when he came back it was to stand facing the senior partner quite composed.

“There isn’t a man in the world who would do as much for one who merited so little. I’m not going over that. Words can’t mean much from me to you; but what I would like you to know is that I don’t want to go out of the firm, and that, if you’ll bear with me, I want another chance to prove myself. I’ve never promised anything. You’ve never asked me to. Thank God, that much of my self-respect at least is saved out of the ruins. I want to give my word now–”

“Don’t do that,” said Kenyon hurriedly. “It isn’t necessary.”

“Yes, I must. I’ve given it to myself, and I’ll keep it, never fear. That—was the last—the very last.”

Kenyon twisted his thin body in his chair and looked up at the junior member keenly, but as he did so his eyes blurred and he saw, as thirty years ago he had seen the figure of this boy’s father standing as Phil Gallatin was standing enmeshed in the toils of Fate, gifted, handsome, lovable—and yet doomed to go, a mental and physical ruin, before his time. The resemblance of Philip Gallatin to his father was striking—the same high forehead, heavy brows and deep-set eyes, the same cleanly cut aquiline nose, and heavy chin. There were lines, too, in Phil Gallatin’s face, lines which had appeared in the last two years which made the resemblance even more assured. And yet to John Kenyon, there seemed to be a difference. There was something of Evelyn Westervelt in him, too, the clean straight line of the jawbone and the firmly modeled lips, thinner than the father’s and more decisive.

“I’m glad of that, Phil,” he said slowly.

“I’m not asking you to believe in me again. Broken faith can’t be repaired by phrases. I don’t want you to believe in me until I’ve made good. I want to come in here again on sufferance, as you took me in six years ago, without a share in the business of the firm that I don’t make myself or for which I don’t give my services. I want to begin at the bottom of the ladder again and climb it rung by rung.”

“Oh, I can’t listen to that. Our partnership agreement–”

“That agreement is canceled. I don’t want a partnership agreement. It’s got to be so. I’ve been thinking hard, Mr. Kenyon. It’s responsibility I need–”

“You’re talking nonsense, Phil. You did more work in the Marvin case than either Hood or myself.”

“Perhaps, but I didn’t win it,” he said quickly.

“The firm did.”

“I can’t agree with you. I’ll come in this office on the conditions I suggest, or I must withdraw. My mind is made up on that. I don’t want to go, and it won’t be easier for me anywhere else. This is where I belong, and this is where I want to fight my battle, if I can do it in my own way without the moral or financial help of any one—of you, least of all.”

Gallatin paused and walked, his head bent, the length of the room. John Kenyon followed him with his eyes, then turned to the window and for a long while remained motionless. Philip Gallatin returned to the vacant chair and sat leaning forward eagerly.

The senior partner turned at last, his kind homely face alight with a smile.

“You don’t need my faith, my boy, if you’ve got faith of your own, but I give it to you gladly. Give me your hand.” He got up and the two men clasped hands, and Phil Gallatin’s eyes did not flicker or fade before the searching gaze of the other man. It was a pact, none the less solemn for the silence with which one of them entered into it.