I
Franklin Mills stood by one of the broad windows in his private office gazing across the smoky industrial district of his native city. With his hands thrust into his trousers’ pockets, he was a picture of negligent ease. His face was singularly free of the markings of time. His thick, neatly trimmed hair with its even intermixture of white added to his look of distinction. His business suit of dark blue with an obscure green stripe was evidently a recent creation of his tailor, and a wing collar with a neatly tied polka-dot cravat contributed further to the impression he gave of a man who had a care for his appearance. The gray eyes that looked out over the city narrowed occasionally as some object roused his attention—a freight train crawling on the outskirts or some disturbance in the street below. Then he would resume his reverie as though enjoying his sense of immunity from the fret and jar of the world about him.
Bruce Storrs. The name of the young man he had met at the Country Club lingered disturbingly in his memory. He had heard someone ask that night where Storrs came from, and Bud Henderson, his sponsor, had been ready with the answer, “Laconia, Ohio.” Mills had been afraid to ask the question himself. Long-closed doors swung open slowly along the dim corridor of memory and phantom shapes emerged—among them a figure Franklin Mills recognized as himself. Swiftly he computed the number of years that had passed since, in his young manhood, he had spent a summer in the pleasant little town, sent there by his father to act as auditor of a manufacturing concern in which Franklin Mills III for a time owned an interest. Marian Storrs was a lovely young being—vivacious, daring, already indifferent to the man to whom she had been married two years.... He had been a beast to take advantage of her, to accept all that she had yielded to him with a completeness and passion that touched him poignantly now as she lived again in his memory.... Was this young man, Bruce Storrs, her son? He was a splendid specimen, distinctly handsome, with the air of breeding that Mills valued. He turned from the window and walked idly about the room, only to return to his contemplation of the hazy distances.
The respect of his fellow man, one could see, meant much to him. He was Franklin Mills, the fourth of the name in succession in the Mid-western city, enjoying an unassailable social position and able to command more cash at a given moment than any other man in the community. Nothing was so precious to Franklin Mills as his peace of mind, and here was a problem that might forever menace that peace. The hope that the young man himself knew nothing did not abate the hateful, hideous question ... was he John Storrs’s son or his own? Surely Marian Storrs could not have told the boy of that old episode....
Nearly every piece of property in the city’s original mile square had at some time belonged to a Mills. The earlier men of the name had been prominent in public affairs, but he had never been interested in politics and he never served on those bothersome committees that promote noble causes and pursue the public with subscription papers. When Franklin Mills gave he gave liberally, but he preferred to make his contributions unsolicited. It pleased him to be represented at the State Fair with cattle and saddle horses from Deer Trail Farm. Like his father and grandfather, he kept in touch with the soil, and his farm, fifteen miles from his office, was a show place; his Jersey herd enjoyed a wide reputation. The farm was as perfectly managed as his house and office. Its carefully tended fields, his flocks and herds and the dignified Southern Colonial house were but another advertisement of his substantial character and the century-long identification of his name with the State.
His private office was so furnished as to look as little as possible like a place for the transaction of business. There were easy lounging chairs, a long leathern couch, a bookcase, a taboret with cigars and cigarettes. The flat-top desk, placed between two windows, contained nothing but an immaculate blotter and a silver desk set that evidently enjoyed frequent burnishing. It was possible for him to come and go without traversing the other rooms of the suite. Visitors who passed the office boy’s inspection and satisfied a prim stenographer that their errands were not frivolous found themselves in communication with Arthur Carroll, Mills’s secretary, a young man of thirty-five, trained as a lawyer, who spoke for his employer in all matters not demanding decisions of first importance. Carroll was not only Mills’s confidential man of business, but when necessary he performed the duties of social secretary. He was tactful, socially in demand as an eligible bachelor, and endowed with a genius for collecting information that greatly assisted Mills in keeping in touch with the affairs of the community.
Mills glanced at his watch and turned to press a button in a plate on the corner of his desk. Carroll appeared immediately.
“You said Shep was coming?” Mills inquired.
“Yes; he was to be here at five, but said he might be a little late.”
Mills nodded, asked a question about the survey of some land adjoining Deer Trail Farm for which he was negotiating, and listened attentively while Carroll described a discrepancy in the boundary lines.
“Is that all that stands in the way?” Mills asked.
“Well,” said Carroll, “Parsons shows signs of bucking. He’s thought of reasons, sentimental ones, for not selling. He and his wife moved there when they were first married and their children were all born on the place.”
“Of course we have nothing to do with that,” remarked Mills, slipping an ivory paper knife slowly through his fingers. “The old man is a failure, and the whole place is badly run down. I really need it for pasture.”
“Oh, he’ll sell! We just have to be a little patient,” Carroll replied.
“All right, but don’t close till the title’s cleared up. I don’t buy law suits. Come in, Shep.”
Shepherd Mills had appeared at the door during this talk. His father had merely glanced at him, and Shepherd waited, hat in hand, his topcoat on his arm, till the discussion was ended.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” his father asked, seating himself in a comfortable chair a little way from the desk.
In drawing some papers from the pocket of his overcoat, Shepherd dropped his hat, picked it up and laid it on the desk. He was trying to appear at ease, and replied that it was a contract calling for a large order which the storage battery company had just made.
“We worked a good while to get that,” said the young man with a ring of pride in his voice. “I thought you’d like to know it’s all settled.”
Mills put on his glasses, scanned the document with a practiced eye and handed it back.
“That’s good. You’re running full capacity now?”
“Yes; we’ve got orders enough to keep us going full handed for several months.”
The young man’s tone was eager; he was clearly anxious for his father’s approval. He had expected a little more praise for his success in getting the contract, but was trying to adjust himself to his father’s calm acceptance of the matter. He drummed the edge of the desk as he recited certain figures as to conditions at the plant. His father disconcertingly corrected one of his statements.
“Yes; you’re right, father,” Shepherd stammered. “I got the July figures mixed up with the June report.”
Mills smiled indulgently; took a cigarette from a silver box on the taboret beside him and unhurriedly lighted it.
“You and Constance are coming over for dinner tonight?” he asked. “I think Leila said she’d asked you.”
His senior’s very calmness seemed to add to Shepherd’s nervousness. He rose and laid his overcoat on the couch, drew out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead, remarking that it was warm for the season.
“I hadn’t noticed it,” his father remarked in the tone of one who is indifferent to changes of temperature.
“There’s a little matter I’ve been wanting to speak to you about,” Shepherd began. “I thought it would be better to mention it here—you never like talking business at the house. If it’s going to be done it ought to be started now, before the bad weather sets in.”
He paused, a little breathless, and Mills said, the least bit impatiently:
“Do you mean that new unit at the plant? I thought we’d settled that. I thought you were satisfied you could get along this winter with the plant as it is.”
“Oh, no! It’s not that!” Shepherd hastily corrected. “Of course that’s all settled. This is quite a different matter. I only want to suggest it now so you can think it over. You see, our employees were all mightily pleased because you let them have the use of the Milton farm. There’s quite a settlement grown up around the plant and the Milton land is so near they can walk to it. I’ve kept tab this summer and about a hundred of the men go there Saturday afternoons and Sundays; mostly married men who take their families. I could see it made a big difference in the morale of the shop.”
He paused to watch the effect of his statements, but Mills made no sign. He merely recrossed his legs, knocked the ash from his cigarette and nodded for his son to go on.
“I want you to know I appreciate your letting me use the property that way,” Shepherd resumed. “I was out there a good deal myself, and those people certainly enjoyed themselves. Now what’s in my mind is this, father”—he paused an instant and bent forward with boyish eagerness—“I’ve heard you say you didn’t mean to sell any lots in the Milton addition for several years—not until the street car line’s extended—and I thought since the factory’s so close to the farm, we might build some kind of a clubhouse the people could use the year round. They can’t get any amusements without coming into town, and we could build the house near the south gate of the property, where our people could get to it easily. They could have dances and motion pictures, and maybe a few lectures and some concerts, during the winter. They’ll attend to all that themselves. Please understand that I don’t mean this as a permanent thing. The clubhouse needn’t cost much, so when you get ready to divide the farm the loss wouldn’t be great. It might even be used in some way. I just wanted to mention it; we can talk out the details after you’ve thought it over.”
In his anxiety to make himself clear Shepherd had stammered repeatedly. He waited, his face flushed, his eyelids quivering, for some encouraging word from his father. Mills dropped his cigarette into the tray before he spoke.
“What would such a house cost, Shep?”
“It can be built for twenty thousand dollars. I got a young fellow in Freeman’s office to make me some sketches—Storrs—you met him at the country club; a mighty nice chap. If you’ll just look at these——”
Mills took the two letter sheets his son extended, one showing a floor plan, the other a rough sketch of the proposed building, inspected them indifferently and gave them back.
“If you’d like to keep them——” Shepherd began.
“No; that isn’t necessary. I think we can settle the matter now. It was all right for those people to use the farm as a playground during the summer, but this idea of building a house for them won’t do. We’ve got to view these things practically, Shep. You’re letting your sentimental feelings run away with you. If I let you go ahead with that scheme, it would be unfair to all the other employers in town. If you stop to think, you can see for yourself that for us to build such a clubhouse would cause dissatisfaction among other concerns I’m interested in. And there’s another thing. Your people have done considerable damage—breaking down the shrubbery and young trees I’d planted where I’d laid out the roads. I hadn’t spoken of this, for I knew how much fun you got out of it, but as for spending twenty thousand dollars for a clubhouse and turning the whole place over to those people, it can’t be done!”
“Well, father, of course I can see your way of looking at it,” Shepherd said with a crestfallen air. “I thought maybe, just for a few years——”
“That’s another point,” Mills interrupted. “You can’t give it to them and then take it away. Such people are bound to be unreasonable. Give them an inch and they take a mile. You’ll find as you grow older that they have precious little appreciation of such kindnesses. Your heart’s been playing tricks with your head. I tell you, my dear boy, there’s nothing in it; positively nothing!”
Mills rose, struck his hands together smartly and laid them on his son’s shoulders, looking down at him with smiling tolerance. Shepherd was nervously fumbling Storrs’s sketches, and as his father stepped back he hastily thrust them into his pocket.
“You may be right, father,” he said slowly, and with no trace of resentment.
“Storrs, you said?” Mills inquired as he opened a cabinet door and took out his hat and light overcoat. “Is he the young man Millie introduced me to?”
“Yes; that tall, fine-looking chap; a Tech man; just moved here—friend of Bud Henderson’s.”
“I wasn’t quite sure of the name. He’s an architect, is he?” asked Mills as he slowly buttoned his coat.
“Yes; I met him at the Freemans’ and had him for lunch at the club. Freeman is keen about him.”
“He’s rather an impressive-looking fellow,” Mills replied. “Expects to live here, does he?”
“Yes. He has no relatives here; just thought the town offered a good opening. His home was somewhere in Ohio, I think.”
“Yes; I believe I heard that,” Mills replied carelessly. “You have your car with you?”
“Yes; the runabout. I’ll skip home and dress and drive over with Connie. We’re going to the Claytons’ later.”
When they reached the street Shepherd ordered up his father’s limousine and saw him into it, and waved his hand as it rolled away. As he turned to seek his own car the smile faded from his face. It was not merely that his father had refused to permit the building of the clubhouse, but that the matter had been brushed aside quite as a parent rejects some absurd proposal of an unreasoning child. He strode along with the quick steps compelled by his short stature, smarting under what he believed to be an injustice, and ashamed of himself for not having combated the objections his father had raised. The loss of shrubs or trees was nothing when weighed against the happiness of the people who had enjoyed the use of the farm. He thought now of many things that he might have said in defence of his proposition; but he had never been able to hold his own in debate with his father. His face burned with humiliation. He regretted that within an hour he was to see his father again.