“It will mean giving up this blessed freedom. All my life I have fled from responsibilities and burdens; now I am going straight out to seek them. Others will depend upon me. If I make mistakes, I’ll suffer because others will suffer. That’s why I’m scared. I’m like the soldier in an ugly bayonet fight; it’s a sickening job, but it’s his job and he must do it. I hope I’m not a coward——”
“Faith,” chirped the practical Phœbe, “you can afford to be anything if you’ve got money.”
“I remember my father”—something in his tone stopped her raillery.
“Tell me about your father,” she interrupted quietly.
“He was a very sensitive man, and the world was very hard upon him. They called him a money-grabber. The cartoonist pictured him with an eternal dollar-mark on his forehead. Any comedian could raise a laugh by merely mentioning his name. Even in serious plays they made fun of him. Yet he never worked for himself. During the big panics he hardly slept. We have a private letter from a president of the United States, written in his own hand, praising father for his work in stopping a national disaster, yet that very president begged him not to disclose the fact that he had written. It would be misunderstood, he wrote; it would damage the government if the people knew.... My father treasured that letter, although it hurt him. But he never complained. He gave even more of his hours to the service of others.... I have seen the brooding anxiety in his eyes.... When he was ill he dare not let it be known—the market would feel it. He could not take holidays like other folks; he could not even be friendly; and he hungered for public appreciation.
“The world tore at his character during muck-raking days, and even struck at his family. Cameras snapped at us wherever we went. I used to hate to look at a newspaper. The boys in school jibed me until I grew positively mute. I think they were envious—some of them—of my public fame. Envy! Merciful heavens!... Father asked only to be let alone, and they gave him ugly notoriety. Even his tragic death was made the subject of horrible jokes.... And I am going to take up the work.... I’m scared, but only because I feel that I may not be worthy.”
“Then what do you do it for?” asked Phœbe. “Come up on the Lake and let the world go to pot. What they say about you in the columns of the Express or the Chronicle won’t keep you awake o’ nights. Why do you mux your life up with finance and all that if you don’t like it? I believe you do like it.”
Some of the brooding anxiety of his father had come into his eyes.
“No,” he spoke thoughtfully, “I think I never shall like it. But I must go forward just the same.”
“Why?”