Читать книгу The Patch of Blue (Musaicum Romance Classics) - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 4

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Chris never knew exactly what happened for the next minute or two. Someone kicked him as he lay there across the threshold, and a cruel blow from a heavy club hit his arm. Someone shouted “Kill him!” and then he heard a policeman’s whistle and wild confusion. Someone had caught him from within the door and was pulling him inside the building. Someone else caught his feet from without and pulled. His shoe came off in the struggle. Something hit him on the head with a dull thud. There were wild yells and a sudden blank.

The door was shut when he came to, and he was inside. Anxious faces were about him. He couldn’t quite distinguish them, but he tried to straighten up from the hard couch he was lying on in a storeroom for old records and files.

“I’m all right!” he said unsteadily, as he tried to stand up, thinking of his father somewhere in the building. Then a memory of his mother came and quite brought him back to his senses. His mother must not hear about this. All her worst fears would be justified. She would never feel safe about him again.

Then came, with a pang, the thought of his beautiful car. Where was it? Was it ruined? Oh, what had happened anyway? Why was all that mob out there, and what was going on? Had there been an accident? And had they mistaken him for someone else? He was still dazed from the blow on his head.

Someone brought him a glass of water and he drank it slowly, trying to remember just what happened. His blood was beginning to boil with indignation over the indignity done to himself and his car. He was beginning to be furious with himself for not having jumped into that crowd and seized that fellow who had thrown that brick. What was the matter with him, anyway, that he had weakly submitted to being led away by the police? He should have done some heavy tackling to show that crowd where to get off. What was the use of being a star football player if one couldn’t act in a time of emergency? Of course, it had taken him by surprise, but he should have done something even so. He turned toward the door with a thought of going out yet and getting somebody, but even as he turned things went black before his eyes, and he caught himself from falling by the headrest.

“Better lie down again,” advised an anxious voice that he vaguely identified as one of the cashiers in the bank. Then another put out a kindly hand and tried to lead him to the couch, but the motion brought him back from the confusion of his mind again.

“No, I’m quite all right now, thank you,” he said, blinking at them. “Where’s Dad? I’d like to see Dad.”

They looked at one another, whispered, and one of them stepped to the door and tapped. Another whispered conversation, and he came back.

“Your father’s in consultation, but he’ll see you in about ten minutes,” he said gravely.

Chris sank down on the hard couch again and began to take account of what had happened. It was then he missed his shoe.

“Say, did that hyena get my shoe?” he asked, with a shade of his old grin coming back to his face.

“He sure did!” responded one of the cashiers gravely, looking out of the grating above the door. “What’s left of it is out there in the alley, I guess, but you wouldn’t want to wear it. I have an extra pair in the closet. I’ll get them. Maybe they will serve you for the time till you can do better.”

He brought the shoes, and Chris had recovered sufficiently to laugh at the fit of them. He arose, trying to get back some of his old assurance and poise. Then someone opened the door to his father’s office and beckoned him, and he had to throw his whole energy into the effort to walk steadily through that door. He must not frighten his father. He felt a good deal shaken up, but he was all right.

“You’re lucky you came off as well as you did,” murmured the cashier as he closed the door behind him.

Then Chris walked into his father’s presence and stood in dismay. For the bank president was sitting at his beautiful mahogany desk, with his head down upon his arms on the desktop and a look of utter despair about his whole drooping figure.

“Dad! What’s the matter?” Chris cried in alarm, quickened out of his daze by the sight of the stricken look of his beloved father.

Slowly the father lifted his head, struggled upright in his chair, and looked at him with such a ghastly haggard face that his son was more alarmed than ever. Why, his hair seemed to have silvered more in the few hours since breakfast, and those deep lines in his face were terrible to see.

“What’s the meaning of all this, Dad? Are you sick? Oh, Dad!”

His father passed a trembling hand over his forehead and eyes and struggled to make his voice steady.

“No, Son, I’m not sick. I’ll be all right. It’s—just—been a shock, of course.”

“But—what is it, Dad?” And then with dawning comprehension—“What’s the meaning of all that crowd outside in the street? Has something happened? There hasn’t been a run on the bank? Dad—has there?”

He saw the look in his father’s face that it was true, and sought to find the right word of encouragement.

“But it can’t be anything serious, can it, Dad? Our bank? Your bank?”

“It’s serious, Son,” answered his father huskily. “It couldn’t be more so. There has been a traitor at work inside our ranks.”

“Oh, Dad! But don’t look that way. It’ll be righted somehow.”

“Yes, it’ll be righted,” agreed the utterly sad voice, humiliated to the depths. “It’ll be righted for the depositors, I trust. At least they won’t lose much, we hope, perhaps nothing in the end. But it means utter ruin for us! For your mother and you and me! For your uncle Ben, Mr. Chalmers, and the Tryons.”

Chris looked perplexed.

“But,” he said, looking at his father bewildered, “I don’t understand why you”

“No, you don’t understand, Son. It is too astounding. You couldn’t understand. But Son, it means that we as officers and directors will have to give up everything in order to satisfy our depositors. It means that even our house and furniture must go, everything that will bring in anything. It means that your mother and I will have no home and no income, and I am too old to begin again, Chris. It couldn’t be done!” He ended with a groan, and Chris staggered across the room and laid his hand upon his father’s silver head that was down upon his arms again.

“Never mind, Dad,” he found himself saying bravely over the terrible lump that had come in his throat. “You’ve got me. I can carry on.”

The father’s answer was another groan, and then he lifted his head and the boy saw there were tears in his father’s eyes.

“You don’t understand yet, Chris. It means that I can’t send you, my only son, back to college! It means I can’t buy you the car I promised, nor do any of the other things for you and your sister that I’ve always meant to do. And how are you going to carry on without a college diploma in these days? I can’t do a thing for you. I, too, have failed!”

“There, Dad! Don’t feel that way!” said the boy, patting his father’s arm awkwardly. “What’s the difference? I don’t mind! I oughtn’t to have had a car yet anyway. I–It—” and then suddenly he knew that he must not tell his father what had happened to him and the car as he was coming in. If he was going to be a man and help his father now, that was one thing he would have to take care of himself without his father’s help. Whatever he was liable for that had been damaged, he would pay himself. Perhaps it would be covered by insurance, he didn’t know. But he closed his lips tight and resolved that he would tell nothing about it. His father had enough to bear.

“Look here, Dad,” he began again, “can’t you get out of this place and go home? Does Mother know anything about what’s happened?”

“I trust not,” said the man hoarsely, his whole frame shaken by a convulsive sob. “Not yet.”

“Well, there, what’s the use in taking it so hard? There’ll be some way out. Doesn’t Mother own our house? Can’t you keep that?”

The gray head was shaken solemnly.

“She owns it,” he said wearily. “I put it in her name long ago. But only for her need in case of my death. We talked it over then, about men who did that to protect themselves when they knew they were about to fail. Mother said then, and I know she’ll stick by it now, that she wouldn’t think of keeping a house when others felt we were in debt to them. It wouldn’t be honorable, Son. We’ve got to do the right thing even though we are penniless.”

Chris was silent a moment, taking it all in. Then he answered bravely, “Sure thing, Dad. Of course we have!”

And somehow the father felt a little thrill of comfort from the way the boy said that “we,” including himself in the wholesale sacrifice. The father put out his hand and grasped the hand of his boy. “Thank you for that, Son. You’re going to stand by, and that’ll help a lot. I feel that I’m awfully to blame not to have discovered sooner what was going on, but we’ll work it out, somehow, together. You’ve helped me a lot already, boy. Now, I’m going out there and speak to the crowd.”

“Oh no, Dad!” cried Chris in quick alarm. “Listen! You mustn’t. I’ve been out there. I know what it’s like. The people are seeing red just now. It wouldn’t be safe. Wait till to-morrow, Dad. Wait till you’ve made some kind of statement in the papers. Wait till the people have cooled off a little.”

“No, Son! I’m going now. I’ve got to face the thing or I couldn’t live with myself overnight. There are people out there in distress. Widows, and orphans, who trusted me with their all. They’ve been telephoning all day till I’m nearly crazy. Mrs. Manders, the widow of my old friend. Mrs. Byers, that poor little old paralytic, and those two Johnson sisters, sewing their fingers to the bone making clothes for people and putting it all in here for a rainy day. Oh! It’s a burden too great to be tolerated! But I must tell them I’ll do my best.”

“Oh, but not yet, Dad! Not to-day!”

“Yes, to-day! Now! I couldn’t go home and face my wife with it undone. She would expect it of me. She would want it. Don’t worry, Son, I’ve sent for a band of police to stand about in the crowd lest there might be some lawless ones. There are always those when there is any excitement.”

“You don’t understand, Dad. You mustn’t go out now. It would be suicidal.”

“Yes, I understand. And I must go. You stay here, lad.”

“No, Dad, if you’re going out, I belong with you!” protested Chris.

“Listen, Son, there isn’t any danger, of course, but if there should be, I’d rather you were safe in here to take care of Mother.”

“No, Dad, she’d want me to stand by you!” declared Chris, linking an arm in his father’s.

So they stood when Mr. Chalmers, one of the directors, tapped at the door and entered.

“They’ve come, Mr. Walton,” he said respectfully, almost deprecating, “but I wish you’d be persuaded! The chief says he’ll do his best but he wishes you wouldn’t go to-day.”

“Thank you,” said the bank president, lifting his distinguished-looking head a trifle in a way that meant he could not be persuaded. “I’m ready.” Then he looked down at Chris, whose young head was thrown back with that same look of determination, and smiled gravely, adding, “We are ready.”

Mr. Chalmers opened his lips with a glance at Chris to protest, and another director, Mr. Tryon, in the doorway said, half under his breath, “Oh, do you think that’s wise?” Then they closed their lips and stood back with respect in their eyes for the father and son. There was that in the eye of each other that made it necessary for them to go and to stand together.

The wild-eyed crowd, milling together, battling for the first place next to the great bronze grafting doors, turning feverish glances toward the entrance, calling out threats now and then, pushing, selfish, almost crushing the new, frightened, determined women who had joined themselves to the mob, were suddenly brought to amazement by the unexpected opening of the doors.

Those immediately in front were precipitated into the marble entranceway, falling at the feet of the advancing two, the father and the son.

Two cashiers had opened the doors, swinging them back noiselessly behind the noisy, unnoticing crowd who had stood there for five hours beating upon the door and screaming out threats, and who were now so busy with their own madness they did not even see the opening doors.

Just for an instant the crowd blinked and wavered, as the four bullies who had occupied first place in the doorway rolled backward upon the floor, then four others were quick to mount over them and clamber on, wild for their rights and their money.

But two officers with clubs quickly beat back the throng and brought them to their senses, and the crowd drew closer and cried out with many voices for a helping and their money. The women were pleading now, with clasped hands and tears rolling down their cheeks. It was a wild scene of confusion, and Chris’s heart stood still with the horror and the sadness of it, as he stood for that first instant in the doorway until the fallen men could be removed from their way. The pitifulness of life! For the first time in his few short years, he realized a little sense of the sorrow and the helplessness of a great part of the world. He had never thought before for his fellowmen who were not as fortunate as himself. Now he began to see and understand, and his heart swelled painfully with the greatness of misery, and the thought that, indirectly perhaps, his beloved father, and therefore himself also, had been the cause of it. For the first time he realized the reason for that stone that’d been flung through his beautiful new windshield a few short minutes before, and for that cry he had not recalled until now: “There he is, the son of the president, riding around in a five-thousand-dollar car!” He could see how they had felt, and he was filled with a new kind of shame.

Then out they stepped, the president of the bank with his only son, and a wild cry burst from the mob in the street. One moment they stood there, side-by-side, then the president of the bank raised his hand and the mob hushed for an instant, just one breathless moment. And while the silence hung in space, before it should break into chaos, Christopher Walton Sr. spoke.

“Friends,” he said, and his voice was steady and clear so that it was heard to the utmost edge of the crowd.

Then from across the street there came a missile, swift and hard and sure, aimed straight for the brave man’s face. It was Chris who saw what was coming and drew his father aside, just a hair’s breadth. The ball of slime and mud hit harmlessly the grill of the door before which he stood, and glanced off, only spattering his face. But even then he did not waver. He merely took out his white handkerchief and wiped away the mud from his cheek and eyes, and then lifted his hand again for silence.

The sheer bravery of the act silenced the crowd again for an instant, and while it lasted he spoke.

“Friends, I am here to tell you that you will get back every penny of your savings just as soon as it is possible. I personally pledge to give up all I have, my home and personal property, and I know the directors will do the same. This thing has come about through a circumstance which is just as surprising and heartbreaking to us as to you, and to the last cent we have, we’ll make good. We ask you to go quietly to your homes, and within a few days, just as soon as it is physically possible to find out the extent of our trouble and our resources, we’ll communicate with every one of our depositors and let them know what is coming to them. We ask your cooperation, and it is to our mutual benefit to work together.”

He paused an instant and glanced down at his son, standing so straight and tall beside him, almost reaching his father’s height; then he added, with the first smile that had lightened his sorrowful features all that day, “My son is here beside me to say that if anything happens to his father before his promise is made good, he stands ready to see that it is fulfilled. Isn’t that so, Chris?”

“It sure is, Dad,” answered the son, with a clear ring in his voice.

Then the crowd, always ready to be swayed either way, broke into a cheer, and some of the women openly wept.

Only on the outer edge of the crowd, where the policemen were quietly handcuffing a youth with slime on his hands, was there a low menacing undertone, like a growl of distant thunder.

Then a hand drew the father and son within the sheltering doors again, and most of the crowd turned and drifted slowly, hesitatingly, away.

Sometime later, a closed car drove up around the corner of the alley, back of the bank, and took the Waltons and two of the bank directors to their homes. And the region about the bank, and the streets where they had to pass, were well patrolled.

* * * * *

Mrs. Walton was in a high state of excitement when they finally arrived at home.

“Where have you both been?” she cried tearfully. “I’ve been so worried. I thought there had been a terrible accident and you were both killed. I even tried to telephone the bank, but got no answer except that the wire was busy. I thought I should go crazy.”

“Oh,” said the older Walton sympathetically, “that was because so many people were calling up constantly. I’m so sorry. I never dreamed that you would be worried yet, and I did not want to tell you until it was necessary, not until I could come home and explain it myself. My dear, we have been passing through terrible times this morning.” He passed a frail hand over his furrowed forehead and looked at her with weary eyes. Chris, watching him, seemed to see him suddenly grow old before his eyes. He saw his mother put her hand hastily over her heart in quick premonition, and while his father explained about the run on the bank, it all swept over him what it was going to mean to his mother to lose her home and be poor. Gosh, that was tough on Mother! His little pretty mother! It suddenly came to him that he must somehow stand between her and this so great calamity.

Then, amazingly, he saw her face relax, her fears drop away, her face grow calm, and almost a smile come out upon her lips.

“Oh, is that all?” she said with great relief. “I thought you must have some awful sickness or a stroke, or you were going to have to have a terrible operation.”

Suddenly Chris began to laugh.

“Oh, Mother,” he cried, “excuse me, but—why!—you’re only afraid of the things you imagine, things you get up yourself out of nothing! When it comes to real things, Muz, you’ve got nerve. I’ll say you’re a real little old hero!”

“But Mary,” said the father anxiously, “you don’t understand. It will mean that we will have to give up our house and all the beautiful things you have gathered through the years, rugs and jewels and pictures—”

“Of course,” said Mother, nonchalantly. “Why speak about such trifles. We’ve been poor before. Besides, don’t you remember what the minister said on Sunday, that we must thank God for the hard things that come into our lives as well as for the nice things? There’s probably some wise reason in all this, and maybe by and by we’ll see it. Come on, now, let’s go to dinner. It’s waited long enough. And it’s a good dinner, beefsteak and mushrooms. If we’re not going to be able to afford such things anymore, we can at least enjoy this one—unless, Christopher, you think we ought to give this dinner to some creditor?” she asked with a twinkle.

Christopher Senior took his wife in a tender embrace and smiled, his whole anxious face relaxing, and Chris Junior murmured as he turned away to brush aside a strange blurring that came into his eyes. “Gosh, Mother, you’re a whiz! Who’d ever think you’d take it like that?”

“But I’m getting old, Mother,” said the banker wistfully. “It’s not as if I could begin all over again.”

“So am I,” said Mother cheerfully. “But Chris is young, and an old head and a young head together are more than twice as good as a young head making young mistakes. Come, hurry and carve that steak!”

And, surprisingly, they sat down at that belated dinner, laughing.

If the prowler in the shrubbery outside the dining room window heard that laughter, it perhaps only added fuel to the fire in his heart, his angry heart that wanted his money, wanted it to-night, and meant to get it, somehow, soon.

It was not until Chris got up to his own room a couple of hours later, for they had lingered, talking it out and clinging together for reassurance, that he suddenly realized what this change of circumstances was going to mean to him. On the bed lay a pennant in flaming colors bearing the name of his college. He had bought it to-day to give to Gilda to put on her wall, and now he was not going back to college.

He was filled with the consternation of this fact as he finally put out his light and opened his window, and he failed to see the lurking figure with the menacing pale face in the hedge beyond the rhododendrons. He got into his bed and began to look his misfortunes in the face, and it was not till those still deep, dark hours toward morning that he fell into a light sleep.

And suddenly a shot rang out, almost in the room, and he sprang out of bed in alarm.