CHAPTER II

JOAN

Wint left the Weaver House at a little before noon, Muldoon trotting sedately at his heels. The street outside the hotel was empty; and Wint was glad of this. He followed it to the railroad tracks, intending to cross the yards and take a back street toward his home. But at the end of the street, he encountered Peter Gergue.

Gergue saw him coming, and stopped, and fumbled in the tangle of hair at the back of his head until Wint came near. Wint would have avoided him, but there was no way to do this, and so he said coldly:

“Good morning, Pete.”

Gergue grinned slowly. “Why--right fair,” he agreed. “Yes’r, it’s a right fair morning--if you look at it that way.”

Wint nodded. He would have passed by, but Gergue stopped him. “I was coming down after you,” he said.

“Why?” Wint asked.

“Oh--I thought you might want company. Heard you was here.”

“Want anything special?”

“We-ell--I did think of congratulating you.”

Wint smiled coldly. “Thanks. That all?”

Gergue rummaged through his hair. “Thought you might have things to inquire about.”

Wint started to say “No” to this, then changed his mind and looked steadily. “You--you mix in politics, don’t you, Pete?”

Gergue looked startled. “Why--some,” he admitted. “Why, yes, I might say--some.”

“Friend of Congressman Caretall’s, aren’t you?”

Gergue spat, and nodded slowly. “I like to help him out--when I c’n manage,” he agreed.

Wint smiled again. “Then you know how this thing happened.”

“Some,” said Peter.

“Explain it to me,” Wint invited. “How was it worked? And--why?”

Gergue grinned slyly. Then he laughed, a shrill burst of merriment of a sort unusual in this man. When this mirth passed, he touched Wint’s lapel. “Cleanest piece of work I ever see,” he declared.

“How was it done?”

“Word o’ mouth! Word o’ mouth! Cong’essman knew folks was expecting something f’om him. He kept ’em expecting. Told everybody he was going to vote for a man named Chase. Got ’em worked up, sittin’ on needles and pins and cockle burrs to know where the trick come in. Everybody knowed they was some trick. Then--last minute--he passed the word to V. R. Kite, and him and Kite passed the word around. Everybody figured it would be a joke on your paw. Whole town took it laughing, and went and done what Cong’essman told ’em t’ do. Writ in your name....”

Wint smiled frostily. “Great joke, wasn’t it?”

Gergue chuckled. “Fine. Take V. R. Kite. Tickled him half t’ death. Like t’ killed Kite.”

“Caretall and my father are against each other, of course.”

“Sure. Your paw comes to the Cong’essman, high and mighty, offering him this ’nd that. That wa’n’t no way to go at the Cong’essman. Amos ain’t used to it.”

Wint nodded. “But why me?” he asked. “Why pick on me?”

Gergue waved his hand. “That made it more like a joke on your paw. Everybuddy knowed what your paw thinks of you. Figured it’d pupplex him. It did, too, Wint. It certainly did pupplex your paw.”

“It would,” Wint agreed. “But--I should think Caretall would as soon see my father elected as me.”

“Yo’r paw had a little too much wind in his sails. Needed a little coolin’ off. Amos gave it to him.”

“But how about Kite?” Wint asked. “Why was he so ready to fall in with it?”

Gergue looked at Wint sidewise. “Why, he don’t like yo’r paw so very much,” he explained, with an appearance of frankness, “and besides that, Kite’s wet, and your paw’s dry. That stands t’ reason.”

“He figured I would be wet, of course.”

Gergue nodded emphatically. “Natural,” he said. “Natural, he figured that way.”

“Did Caretall have that idea, too?”

Gergue wagged his head. “We-ell, now,” he parried, “Amos don’t lay so much on that end of it. He’s a wet man, in politics; but he don’t touch it hisself. I guess he just wanted t’ give you a leg up--see what you’d do. Amos keeps his eye on the young fellows, that way.”

They had crossed the tracks while they were talking, and now they met two men. Wint knew these men casually; they knew him. They were workmen; and they saw Wint and Gergue together, and grinned, and one of them called: “Morning, Mr. Mayor.”

Wint smiled at them amiably. “Good morning.”

“Congratulations!”

“Thanks.” Wint’s cheeks were burning. The men passed by, and he and Gergue started up the hill by a back street that led toward his home. Neither of them spoke. Presently they began to meet other men. One or two men scowled at Gergue, stared angrily at Wint; but for the most part they smiled covertly, and voiced congratulations. Their words seemed to Wint to mark covert jibes.

After a time the two came to a cross street that led toward town; and here Gergue halted and looked at Wint curiously. “Was there anything else?” he asked.

Wint shook his head.

“You wasn’t thinking, maybe, of walking uptown?”

“Not now.”

“Going on home, I guess.”

“Yes.”

Gergue nodded. “All right. When you come uptown, you might stop in and see me.”

“I’ll see,” Wint told him.

“Amos aims to do right by you,” said Gergue.

“Much obliged.”

“You don’t want to hold this against him.”

Wint smiled slowly. “Good-by,” he said.

Gergue nodded. “By-by,” he responded. “I’ll see you again.”

He turned toward town, and Wint watched him for a moment, and then went on toward his home. Muldoon trotted sedately before him, ranging now and then across the street or into a yard to investigate some affair of his own. Wint walked swiftly, for he had an uneasy feeling of nakedness in the light of open day, as though every one he encountered must see the shame that was torturing him. He came to his home through a short cut that brought him by way of an alley to the kitchen door; and when he opened the door and stepped into the kitchen, he saw Hetty Morfee there. Hetty was rolling biscuits on a board, her sleeves rolled to the elbows on her creamy arms; and she turned at the sound of his entrance and stood with the rolling pin in one hand, brushing back the hair from her eyes with the other, and laughing at him softly.

“Oh, you Wint!” she said.

Wint closed the kitchen door behind him and faced the girl. “Is mother here?” he asked.

“She’s in next door.” She nodded her head reproachfully. “You certainly have started something, Wint.”

“Where’s father?”

“Uptown. He telephoned just now to know if you had come home. He ain’t coming home for dinner.”

Wint dropped his eyes for a moment, then lifted his head. “All right,” he said. “I--I suppose he’s mad as a hatter.”

Hetty chuckled softly. “Mad as two of ’em,” she declared. “You certainly have started something this time, Wint.”

He looked toward the biscuit board. “Are those for lunch?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How soon will they be ready?”

“Half an hour. You hungry?” She studied him, solicitude lurking in her eyes.

“Yes. I didn’t have any breakfast.”

The girl moved toward him with the quick instinct of woman. “You poor kid! I’ll get you something now.”

He lifted his hand impatiently. “Never mind. Or--just a glass of milk.”

She laughed, crossing the room toward the pantry. “You just sit down and see.” And while he still stood irresolutely in the middle of the floor, she was back with bread and butter and a glass of jelly and a bowl of milk. She spread these things upon the table, and cut the bread for him, and made him sit down and eat while she hovered over him, her eyes never leaving the brown head as he bent above his plate. Now and then she laughed softly, and more than once she repeated: “You surely have started something this time.”

He ate ravenously. He had not realized his own hunger. But after the second slice, she stopped him. “Now that’s enough,” she declared. “You’ll spoil your dinner.”

He laughed, the first time he had laughed that day. “I guess not,” he declared. “I could eat a house.”

She smiled, carrying the viands back to their places. “Where was you last night?” she asked curiously.

He looked up at her, half resentful, half glad of her friendship and understanding. “Weaver House,” he said.

She made a little grimace. “Golly! You must’ve been pie-eyed for fair.”

He flushed, but he nodded. “Yes.”

“And look what they’ve done to you. It don’t pay, does it, Wint?”

He laughed. “I suppose not.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your paw’s awful mad.”

He got up stiffly. “I suppose so. Well--he’s been mad before.”

“And your maw’s upset.”

“I’ll be up in my room,” he said. “Call me when dinner’s ready.”

She was back at her biscuits, laying them delicately in the pan. “Sure. Go ahead.” The door closed behind him. When she heard the click of a latch, the girl stopped her work for an instant, and looked over her shoulder at the closed door. She remained thus for a space; then brushed her arm across her forehead as though a lock of hair distressed her, and went on with her task.

Wint went to his room, and threw aside his soiled garments, and bathed and was half dressed when Hetty called up the stairs that dinner was ready. He came down into the hall as his mother entered the front door. When she saw him, she lifted her hands, and ran at him, and poured out upon him a torrent of querulous complaint. “Wint, where have you been all this time? Your father is so mad. He’s terrible mad at you. I never saw your father so worked up, Wint. I don’t see what you had to go and do a thing like that for anyhow, Wint. I told Mrs. Hullis this morning I just couldn’t see how you could do it. Your father was so set on getting elected, and everything; and he’d made so many plans, and when he came home last night I said to him--”

Hetty called from the dining-room door: “Dinner’s ready, ma’am.”

“All right, Hetty, I’m a-coming,” Mrs. Chase assured her. “Wint, you come along. I want to talk to you. I don’t see what you’re going to do about it. I don’t see--I said to your father last night that I just couldn’t see how you could--”

Wint broke in: “Mother--please! It wasn’t my doing. I had nothing to do with it.”

“I said to your father last night, when he came home,” she insisted. “He came home so mad, and everything. He was in a terrible state, Wint. He ramped and tore around here like he was a crazy man; and I said to him that I didn’t see how a son could do a thing like that to him. He was tramping up and down, and he kept talking about you, and I said to him that I--”

“I tell you I had nothing to do with it, mother.”

“I think Congressman Caretall ought to have something better to do than to come home here and stir up a son against his father. I told your father so; and I said--”

“He didn’t stir me up against father, mother. It was a trick, a political game. I didn’t know anything about it till they told me I’d been elected.”

“I said to him that I just couldn’t believe it. And he said if it wasn’t true why weren’t you here at home where you belonged? He said you were probably down at Caretall’s, laughing at your father. And I said I just couldn’t see how a son could do a thing like that to a father like him. Because your father has been good to you, Wint. He’s been mighty good to you; and he’s stood a lot. I said to him that he’d stood a lot, and he said you were probably off drinking again somewhere, and that you’d--”

Hetty came in from the kitchen with the plate of biscuits, and set them before Mrs. Chase, and looked at Wint and laughed and pressed her hands to her ears and grimaced at Mrs. Chase’s unconscious head. Wint protested:

“Mother, I--”

Mrs. Chase broke in. “Hetty, those biscuits are just fine. I declare, your things always seem to come out better than mine. I wish I could do it that way. I wish your father was at home, Wint. He likes hot biscuits so. But goodness knows, he wouldn’t have any appetite to eat anything to-day. Hetty told me when she called me to come home that he’d telephoned he wasn’t coming. She told me you had come, and I came right over to tell you that I just didn’t see how you could--”

Wint was glad at last to finish and escape. He went up to his room, his mother’s words pursuing him. The reaction had set in; and he was terribly tired, and sick and full of sleep. He flung himself on his face on the bed, and he tossed there for a space, thinking miserably, and so at last he fell asleep.

He was awakened by a thrumming knock on his door, and sat up and called huskily: “Who’s that?” The door opened, and his father came in.

His father came in, and shut the door behind him. Outside, Wint saw his mother. She was saying something; and the closing door cut off her words. His father ignored her; he slowly turned and faced Wint.

It was late afternoon, almost dusk. Shadows had begun to fill the room. Wint saw that his father’s face was black; and he got up from the bed and stood there for a moment, and he saw that his father was trembling. He took a step forward. “Father,” he said unsteadily, “I want to tell you I had nothing to do with this. I’m sorry. And I’ll do whatever you say to make things right.”

The restraint which the elder Chase had imposed upon himself fled before the wind of passion. He lifted his clenched hands as though he would bring them down upon Wint’s head. “You! You!” he cried. “You’re my son--and you join with drunkards and vagabonds and thieves to make a laughingstock of me.”

Wint protested. “I did not! I knew nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Wint,” his father cried. The elder man’s anger was terrible. It swept away the poise with which he faced the world, it left him nothing but his wrongs; and these wrongs and his own rage somehow transfigured and ennobled him. In spite of himself, Wint had never respected and loved his father so much as then. He cried again, almost pleadingly:

“Dad....”

“Be quiet!” his father cried. “Don’t speak. It is my time to speak. I have kept silent too long. You have disgraced me with your drunkenness; and now you make a joke of me before the world. You....”

“I tell you, I knew nothing of this till it was done.”

“You lie. You lie, Wint! And even if it were true, you have made it possible by--by your debaucheries. You have given them the chance--you have made me the laughingstock--” he flung his arms wide. “Why even the Cincinnati papers have the story, Wint. They--the whole damned country knows....” His voice broke suddenly; his hands dropped at his side. Resentment fought with affection in Wint; and pride stiffened his voice as he said again:

“I told you I’d do anything, dad.”

“Anything? What good will that do? You and Caretall--laughing at me! I won’t stand it! I’ll break Caretall if it kills me. Caretall is a scoundrel, a crook. He’s debauched the town....”

He stopped suddenly, he became cold and still. “Come down to supper, Wint,” he said shortly. “After that, you can get out. I’ve warned you enough--the last time. I’m through.”

Wint stiffened. “Dad....” he said softly.

His father made a fierce gesture. “Be quiet! I tell you I am through.” He whirled to the door, and opened it, and was gone before Wint could speak again. But while Wint still stood quiet, he returned and called: “I know where you were last night. That was enough. That alone. I’m through. Through!”

This time he did not return. And Wint waited for a space, and then, mechanically and automatically, he picked up his hat, and put it on, and went down the stairs. His mother and father were in the dining-room. He heard his mother’s voice. But he did not go in.

He went to the door and out, and down the walk to the street. As he reached the pavement, the door opened behind him, and he looked back and saw his father standing there. For a moment, the two looked at each other; then the elder man turned his head, and went back into the house and closed the door.

Wint walked steadily down the street. He did not know where he was to go; he did not think of this. And so it was without his own volition that he came to Joan’s home, and saw the girl sitting in a chair upon the veranda, a book in her lap.

Her eyes met his. Her eyes were very serious and sad; but Wint turned in, and came to the steps, and stood there before her. She smiled a little wistfully; and he said, under his breath: “Joan.”

She made no move to answer him. He said again: “Joan....” And then: “Joan....”

She bent her head a little, but her eyes held his. “Wint,” she said, so softly he could scarce hear her words. “Wint--I’m sorry. But--I can’t go on. I can’t--trust you, Wint. This is good-by.”

He felt himself shrink a little at the word; and he stood still for a moment till his senses steadied. Then he lifted his head a little.

“I don’t blame you,” he told her.

She said again: “Good-by!” And he nodded and echoed quietly:

“Good-by, Joan.”

For another moment, their eyes held each other. Then his dropped, and he turned and went down to the street again.

* * * * *

Half an hour later, Mrs. Moody was lighting the smoky-lamp in the office of the Weaver House when Wint came in. She saw him and grinned, and her teeth reflected the lamp’s light like pearls. “Why, hello, deary! Back again?” she called.

He nodded. “The same room, please,” he told her.

She bustled across to the stairs, and paused there and looked at him wisely “A little drop first, in the kitchen?” she invited.

He shook his head. “No--nothing.”

And so presently he found himself in the place where he had slept that sodden sleep the night before.