XXIV
The elder Riley felt the tenseness in the atmosphere of the Gorham family, and his inability to discover the occasion for it proved trying to his soul. The mysterious visits of his son James, and the apparent confidences between him and his employer, made the old man feel strongly that, if James were not a part of the new condition, at least he was acquainted with the cause. Patience with Riley had ceased to be a virtue, and he so contrived it that he passed an evening with his son at the latter's lodgings.
Much to his relief, he found James in an unusually agreeable mood; and, although the younger man made no effort to move from the comfortable position he had assumed with the assistance of an extra chair for his feet, the welcome extended was far more cordial than that to which the elder Riley was accustomed.
"Well, well, well," the old man ejaculated, as he closed the door and stood for a moment contemplating the scene before him. James smiled complacently at the look of mingled surprise and admiration his father so plainly showed, as his eye roved from the new pieces of gaudy furniture to the box of cigars upon the table, particularly noting the attitude which the son assumed as the nearest he could imagine to that of a gentleman in repose.
"Well, well, well," Riley repeated, coming down to earth again, and seating himself upon a near-by chair not required for James's feet, which the host had been too preoccupied to think of offering. "Things is comin' good f'r ye, ain't they, Jimmie?"
The old man had discovered a fact which James had no desire to dispute, so he admitted it graciously, at the same time blowing clouds of smoke from his over-fragrant cigar.
"They is," he replied, sententiously; "and soon they'll be comin' better still."
"Ah, Jimmie"—the old man lowered his voice—"are ye goin' ter run f'r mayor?"
"Not—yet," James replied, dwelling upon his words in such a way as to convince his hearer that the delay was wholly a matter of his own convenience. "Politics is movin' some, father, but 'tis in my private capacity that I'm makin' my present strides."
"So," murmured Riley; "an' phwat may ye'er private capacity be, Jimmie?"
"'Tis of a confidential nature," he replied, loftily.
"Has it ter do wid Misther Robert?"
"Him—and others."
"Who is th' others?" the old man persisted.
"That's my affair. 'Tis confidential, I tell you."
"Not wid me, Jimmie," Riley begged; "not when I've watched over Misther Robert iver sence he was a little la-ad, not wid me when I've brought ye up fr'm a howlin' little brat. There can't be nothin' confidential, I tell ye, when it's affectin' thim I loves best in all th' whole wide world. Shure ye'll tell me about it, Jimmie, shure ye will."
In James's present mood, it was easier to talk than to keep silent. If his father really knew the importance of the part he felt himself to be playing in Mr. Gorham's family complication, the old man's appreciation of his son's true position in the community could not fail to be enhanced. James Riley's most vulnerable point was his vanity, and the present opportunity to gratify it was more than he could well resist. The elder Riley, without having analyzed his son's characteristics to this extent, was intuitively conscious of a yielding to his appeal, and he was not slow to follow it up.
"That's th' good la-ad, Jimmie," he said, coaxingly. "Ye knows how tight
I keeps me mouth shut; an' phwat hits ye or Misther Robert hits me."
"Well," James replied, indulgently, blowing another cloud of smoke—"'tis his wife that it's all about."
"His wife!" the old man repeated, surprised and excited—"about Mrs.
Gorham, d'ye say?"
"That is—provided she is his wife. There is them that says she ain't."
"Who says she ain't?" Riley almost shouted the words as he rose excitedly to his feet. "Who says she ain't? By God, I'll kill th' man phwat says that!"
"Slowly, slowly," James answered, soothingly, thoroughly enjoying his father's amazement and excitement. "That's for them to settle as knows how, but it's to me Mr. Gorham must look to help him out. Now, do you understand where I come in?"
"Ah, Jimmie, ye're killin' me wid yer slowness. Out wid it, la-ad! What do they say, an' who done phwat? Out wid it!"
"The divorce was crooked, so they say; and now her first husband is here in New York and wants her back."
"But it ain't true, Jimmie—it ain't true; tell me that."
"I don't know yet myself," James admitted; "but there's a few things I do know what ought to be worth the coin to Mr. Gorham."
"An' ye're goin' ter give 'em ter him?"
"Perhaps," James replied, indifferently—"if he thinks they're worth what I do."
"But Misther Robert has paid ye already, hasn't he? Hasn't these new prosperity things come out iv Misther Robert's pay?"
"He's got what he's paid for," James asserted. "These new tips come to me while I was workin' on my own account. They're worth the coin to either side."
"That's phwat ye meant when ye said there was more prosperity comin'?"
"Sure."
"An' if Misther Robert don't pay ye ye'er price, ye'll sell 'em ter th' other feller who says his wife ain't his wife?"
"Business is business," James replied, sagely.
The elder Riley's lips came close together as he rose quietly yet quickly from his chair. In a moment more he had seized James by the collar, and with a sudden, violent action, made easier by the recumbent attitude, deposited the younger man in a heap on the floor. Too surprised by the unexpectedness of the attack, James made no defence, and before he could even attempt to rise from his humiliating position the old man stood over him, shaking his fist in his face.
"Ye damn dirty spalpeen, lie there f'r a time, will ye? I'll break ivery bone in ye'er body if ye even make a move ter git up. Do ye think I've spint me life f'r nothin' better than ter rear up a blackmailer an' th' like iv ye? Do ye think me an' th' ol' woman, God rist her soul, slaved th' flesh off our bones f'r nothin' better than ter raise a brat who'd sell th' man whose hand was always out f'r me an' mine? It's ye'er fa-ather talkin' ter ye now, James Riley, an' it's ye'er fa-ather who's goin' ter scrape off some iv thim fine airs thim Tammany thieves an' blacklegs has learned ye. It's manny th' time I've licked ye good, Jimmie, when ye was a la-ad, an' it's agin I'll do it if I has ter, ter learn ye honesty. Now git up an' set in that chair an' do phwat I tell ye, if ye know phwat's best f'r ye."
James Riley rose from the floor and sat obediently in the chair his father indicated. Had he chosen to assert his strength, the elder man would have been but a child in opposition; but the fire which flashed from those angry eyes, and the tone in which his father's scathing castigation was administered, took him back twenty years when the same angry flash and the same convincing tones were backed up by a physical force which made them worthy of respect. James Riley was again the offending boy, and his father—stern, severe, unrelenting in his own ideas of right and wrong—held him in a grip he could not break.
"Set there, damn ye," the elder Riley repeated, breathing hard from excitement and from the unusual exertion. "Now tell me phwat ye found out when ye was workin' on ye'er own account."
James tried desperately to summon courage enough to oppose his father's will, but to no avail.
"I've mixed a bit with Buckner—the first husband—that's all."
"An' phwat did ye find out?" Riley demanded, sternly.
James hesitated.
"Out wid it!" the old man shouted.
"He's been married again since."
"Ah, ha! th' feller phwat says me Misther Robert's wife ain't his wife, 'cause th' divorce warn't reg'lar, has been married agin, has he?" Riley's good-humor began to return with this cheerful bit of information. "Then that makes him a liar or a Mormon—take ye'er choice. Which do ye think it is, Jimmie?"
"Liar," James replied, sententiously.
"Right ye are, Jimmie! Right ye are! Liar it is, tho' 'twud serve him right ter be th' other. An' where's his second wife?"
"That's what's a-worryin' him; he don't know."
"Ah, ha!" Riley chuckled, "why shouldn't it? It's bad enough when th' wife don't know where ye are, but when ye don't know where th' wife is an' her apt ter turn up anny minnit! Ah, let him worry; it's good f'r him. What else did ye find out by ye'er mixin's?"
"That's all, so far, but I can get more. Buckner likes me."
The old man's passing amusement was gone, and his indignation returned with full force.
"P'r'aps ye can git th' likin's iv a man who says me Misther Robert's wife ain't his wife, but 'twill be healthier f'r ye if ye gits th' likin's iv Misther Robert himself. Now, ye'll go ter him to-morrer mornin'—d'ye mind—an' ye'll tell him all ye've tol' me, an' there won't be no price asked, an' ye'll keep on findin' out all ye can f'r Misther Robert, an' ye'll play fair, an' ye'll take phwat pay he chooses ter give ye, an' if ye thry anny more thricks like th' dirty wan I've just catched ye wid I'll be back ter see ye, James Riley, an' I'll break ivery damn bone in ye'er body, James Riley. Now, good-night ter ye an' ye'er prosperities. I'll tell Misther Robert ye'll be up ter see him at nine o'clock to-morrer mornin'."
The old man drew himself up majestically, cast one more withering glance on the completely humiliated James, and took his departure.
The next morning nine had not ceased striking on the clock standing on the mantelpiece in Mr. Gorham's study when James Riley was formally and seriously ushered by his father into these, the sacred precincts, where none entered except by its owner's invitation; but it was a far different James from the man who had called upon Mr. Gorham some weeks earlier. The younger Riley's self-assurance was missing, his jaunty air was replaced by a bearing almost timid in its gentleness, his voice had become halty; and when Mr. Gorham first spoke to him he started suddenly, turning his face toward his questioner, and showing apprehension in every feature.
Gorham noticed the change, and, being ignorant of the tragic events of the evening before, was frankly surprised.
"Have you been ill, James?" he inquired, quietly.
"Oh, no, sir—I'm feeling very well, I thank you, sir," James answered in a quick, frightened voice.
"I am glad to hear it," Gorham answered, but his tone suggested incredulity.
"I have been some worrited lately," James added, by way of explanation.
"I s'pose you knows how that tells on a feller, sir."
"Yes, James," Gorham agreed. "It comes to all of us sooner or later. Now tell me what is the important information which your father promised me you would bring with you ?"
"Hasn't he told you, sir?"
"Not a word, James. Has it to do with the matter you have been working on for me, or is it some trouble of your own which has caused the worry you speak of?"
James was seated on the edge of his chair with his thin hands folded and resting on his knees. His eyes roved about the room, looking anywhere except into Mr. Gorham's face. As a matter of fact, he had in reality passed through some "worrited" times since his father's call, and his humiliation was complete. It was a relief to him to know that his father had not discussed the matter with Mr. Gorham, but even that consolation was not equal to the task of restoring him to his former equinimity.
"Well," interrogated Mr. Gorham, helpfully, striving to assist him in what was evidently a serious undertaking.
"You see, sir," James began, "there's another Mrs. Buckner."
"What!" cried Gorham, genuinely surprised and rising from his chair.
"Buckner has been married again, you say?"
"That's what I understand, sir; leastwise that's what he told me. He was drunk when he said it, and perhaps that's why he did say it; but I believe it's true."
James had the satisfaction of witnessing a sight which few men had seen during Mr. Gorham's lifetime—he was visibly excited, and, what was stranger still, he made no effort to conceal his emotion.
"If there is anything in what you say, James, this information is the most cheering piece of news which I have heard for many a day. Now tell me all you know about it."
In another half-hour James Riley was painfully making his way to the nearest subway station, giving no indication, either in his face or in his movements, as to whether the result of his mission had turned out more or less favorably, in its financial probabilities, than would have been the case had he followed his original intentions. He had found his father waiting for him in the front hall after he came down-stairs from Mr. Gorham's library, but the only remark the old man vouchsafed was, "Have ye done phwat I told ye, Jimmie?" Then the door swung upon its hinges while the younger man went out, leaving his father chuckling softly.
"Jimmie's th' fine la-ad, afther all," Riley muttered quietly to himself. "He has th' temptations same as we all has, but he seen his duty when his fa-ather shown it ter him." Then the old man became reflective. "It's sorry I'd 'a' been ter have had ter mess Jimmie all up," he continued—"but I'd 'a' done it. It's lucky f'r him he didn't show fight; it's lucky f'r him, I'm tellin' ye."
In the mean time Gorham had sought Eleanor and Alice, and told them the news which had come to him so unexpectedly. The problem now was to find the second Mrs. Buckner, and as quickly as possible. James had explained to Mr. Gorham that even Buckner himself did not know where the woman was. He had lived in several cities during the last few years. His wife might have died or moved away; but as Gorham pointed out in answer to the doubts Eleanor and his daughter expressed, if it was a fact, there must be a way to find conclusive evidence.
"I cannot delay a moment," Gorham at length declared. "It will take some time at best to run this matter down, and with the certainty so near at hand to prove our fears groundless, I am all impatience to take steps toward securing the actual evidence itself. It is imperative that I leave for Chicago to-morrow, and I must get this investigation under way before then."
Eleanor and Alice sat for some moments in silence after Gorham left the house. The girl watched the older woman, waiting for her to speak. The anxious lines were still in Eleanor's face; her pallor remained, and Alice wondered that she gave no evidence of relief from the nerve-racking strain which she had endured, in the face of so hopeful a turn in the whole situation. Still more, to the girl's surprise, Eleanor rose abruptly from beside her, and walked irresolutely to the window.
"I cannot, I cannot," she cried at last, all the pent-up feeling of the last few moments finding expression in these brief words. Alice was quickly beside her.
"You cannot do what, dear?" she asked, sympathetically.
"I cannot tell him."
"Haven't you told him yet?" Alice asked, a shade of reproach showing in her voice.
Eleanor turned from the window and passed her arm around Alice's waist.
"I have tried a hundred times. The few opportunities when I might have done so naturally found me too weak; at other times it has been impossible. Robert is so sweet and tender with me these days that the mere possibility of having him blame me is the most terrifying thought which I can have."
"It ought not to be so hard now, dear. Everything is going to be straightened out. Already the burden is a good deal lighter than before because now we have something tangible to work upon. This leaves you simply the one thing to think about, and of course father will believe everything you tell him."
Eleanor looked at Alice irresolutely. "It isn't in the nature of man to be so credulous—I doubt if I would believe the story myself if I heard any one else tell it. Under these circumstances, how can I expect more from your father?"
"Because it is—father," the girl replied, feelingly "—because he's the grandest, noblest, truest man who ever lived; because he loves you, Eleanor; and because he believes in you as he believes in himself."
"If I did not know of this belief in me, Alice dear, and was not so jealous of it, perhaps I should not fear to bring the matter to the test. But, of course, you are right. He must know the whole story, and he must know it from me. I only hope that the opportunity may offer itself naturally for me to tell him, under such conditions as will make it appear less incredible than it does just now."
"It doesn't seem to me that that ought to enter into it at all," Alice continued, quietly. "Even if you knew that it would destroy this belief, you could do nothing else than tell him, could you, Eleanor? There could be nothing good come from anything kept from father."
Eleanor felt reproached by the faith which the girl exhibited. "I have done it to spare him," she urged. "If there had been anything in the experience of which I need feel ashamed, I should have felt it necessary to let him know it before we were married. I thought it all over then, and decided it was wiser not to bring the matter up. It was weak and cowardly not to do it, I can see that now, but at the time I thought I was acting for the best."
"If father were to tell you something about his life which seemed incredible, and which might be misinterpreted into something dishonorable to him, would you believe his version of it?"
"Implicitly," Eleanor replied, with much feeling.
"Then do you think he is less loving or less tender or has less faith than you, Eleanor?"
"Not that, dear," Eleanor replied; "but he is a man, and a man's standpoint is essentially different from a woman's."
"I never think of him as a man," the girl replied, simply. "He is so far above and beyond any man I have ever known that I have never thought of him as only that."