Читать книгу The Lever - William Dana Orcutt - Страница 6

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After his interview with Senator Kenmore, Gorham walked rapidly down the slight incline from the Senators' office building to the hotel, where the clerk passed out to him a handful of letters and telegrams. In the lobby, unseasonably crowded by the extra session of Congress, he nodded cordially to three or four men who obviously courted recognition, and ascended in the elevator to his apartment.

"You don't know Gorham?" queried one of the men, turning to his friend—"wonderful man, wonderful organizer, head of the great Consolidated Companies. Thought the Consolidated Companies a myth? Well, well! That's a great compliment to the man and his methods. You'll know both well enough before long. But that's characteristic of Gorham—moves along so quietly that you think he's doing nothing; then you wake up and find that his corporation has tucked away a big government contract you thought you'd tied up yourself. Better keep your eye on Gorham and the Consolidated Companies."

"There you are, daddy!" cried a welcoming voice as Gorham threw open the door, the words being quickly followed by a rustle of skirts and an enthusiastic embrace. "I'm so glad you're back early. You know Allen is coming to dinner, and couldn't we all go to the theatre afterward?"

Alice released her father partially, but still held one of his hands in each of her own. Hat, letters, and telegrams had already fallen in confusion upon the floor, as the result of the girl's onslaught. She caught the look, half amusement, half dismay, upon his face.

"Never mind, daddy dear," she continued, reassuringly; "I'll pick them all up in a moment. You will go with us to the theatre, won't you?"

Gorham looked significantly at the telegrams and the letters on the floor.

"Let me see," he said, doubtfully. "I really ought to work on these papers after dinner. How can I do that and go with you, Puss? There's a problem for you!—unless I could use Riley for a secretary," he continued, jocosely. "That's the only capacity he hasn't served in. Where is he, anyway?"

"Couldn't I help you?" she asked, quickly, without answering his question. "You don't know how much I'd like to. And I'm sure I could," she added, with confidence.

"Tut, tut!" Gorham stroked the soft fair hair affectionately, but discreetly. "Little girls shouldn't concern themselves with such matters."

The girl released him, and, dropping on her knees, gathered up the fallen missives. Instead of handing them to her father, she sat back and looked up seriously into his face.

"Girls are no good, anyhow," she rebelled. "If you would only give me the chance, I know I could help you in lots of ways, and then I'd feel that I was worth something. I just can't stand it to sit around all the time and have things done for me. Oh, why wasn't I a boy!"

"Come, come." Gorham raised her gently to her feet, noting the tears in her eyes, and drew her to him. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, dear; but business and battle are meant for men. The Amazons in ancient history didn't change the order of things, did they? You should be proud to be just what you are. Now give me my letters. There's some one else I want to see, you know."

"She's waiting for you," Alice replied, simply, looking into his face with comprehension. "She's the sweetest thing, daddy," the girl continued. "One moment she is so wise that she seems old enough to be my truly mother; and then again so young and sympathetic as to be just an older sister. I can't tell you how much she does for me every day, or how completely she understands me."

"You and I are mighty lucky to have Eleanor, Alice," Gorham replied, feelingly. "We should both be very grateful to her, dear."

"I am grateful, daddy; and I love her better every day. There's Riley; he'll help you get ready for the theatre."

Gorham made no answer, but patted his daughter's cheek affectionately as he turned from her to the genial face of his valet and general factotum. The old man had been in Gorham's family for forty years, and his loyalty to "Misther Robert" had steadily increased during the period which had elapsed since "Old Gorham," as his original master had been known in Pittsburgh, delivered him over to his son as a part of the house and household effects which constituted the paternal wedding present. Now, ten years Gorham's senior, he still adopted an attitude at once protective and admiring, enjoying that intimacy which is the reward of a lifelong service of loyalty.

"Miss Alice wishes me to go to the theatre to-night, Riley," Gorham remarked as the man relieved him of his coat.

"Yis, sor; 'twill do ye good, Misther Robert—ye wid so manny grand plans in ye'er head. 'Twill do ye good, sor."

"But I have so much to do, Riley," Gorham protested. "The more items I cross off my daily memorandum, the more I find left there to be done."

"Yis, sor; that's right, sor—I know it's right; it's just like th' Widow Cruse's oil jug in th' Bible, sor. But th' widow come out all right, Misther Robert, and ye'll do th' same. I'll have ye'er things ready f'r ye in a minnit, sor."

If Riley was in the conspiracy for the theatre-party, Gorham realized that opposition would be futile, so he turned into his wife's room.

"I thought I heard voices in the hall," Mrs. Gorham greeted her husband, affectionately. "You have returned early, which will give us a little visit together before dinner-time. Has the day been satisfactory?"

Gorham did not reply at once. He held her face between his hands, looking down into the depth of her eyes with a strength of feeling which she could but sense. There was an expression of expectancy, an unspoken desire that she should recognize something which as yet she had failed to see. There was a tenseness which would have frightened her except for the tenderness which accompanied it.

"Why do you look at me like that, Robert?"

"Because I love you, Eleanor," he replied at length. "Isn't that an admission for a man of my age to make? I know it always, but there are times when I must tell you so. Don't call it weakness, dear, or sentimentality. There is a relief which I could never explain in turning from these battles with men and with events to your companionship, which demanded nothing from me except myself."

"Nothing except yourself?" Mrs. Gorham smiled, reassured. "What more could one ask or give? Now that you have confessed, I must do likewise: I simply count the moments every day until you come, but I never should have dared to tell you for fear you would laugh at me. What would this callous world say if it discovered that the great Robert Gorham and his insignificant wife were really in love with each other! But I am so thankful for it, dear. What do the years mean unless they add to one's power to love?"

"The thankfulness is mine, Eleanor," Gorham replied; "but I shan't let you speak of 'the years' at twenty-six. Wait until you add twenty-five more to them and reach my dignified estate."

"It is experience which adds the years, my Robert; and this almost gives me the right to priority."

"I know, I know," her husband replied, drawing her gently to him. "Do you never forget it?"

"You and the dear girls have softened the past into a memory which I can at least endure," she continued, "and you fill the present with so much happiness that I rarely have time to look backward."

"Alice spoke just now of how much you had been to her, and it started something moving in my own heart. That is probably what led me to speak as I did."

"Alice is a darling," Mrs. Gorham replied, happy beyond words at the double tribute received from father and daughter. "Just now she is passing through what seems to her to be a crisis, and she needs assistance from us both."

Gorham looked at her in surprise. "A crisis?" he asked.

"Yes, Robert; and the responsibility is yours: you have passed on to her, as directly as heredity can do it, that love of business which has made you what you are. You have been denied a son, but whether you wish it or not your daughter naturally possesses those very business instincts which you would have been proud to recognize in your son."

"You amaze me," Gorham replied. "Alice is forever trying to persuade me to let her help me and all that, but I have attributed it simply to an affectionate desire on her part to be of service to me."

"It is more than that—there is the reflection of yourself in the girl's soul which demands expression."

"But it would be absurd for her to do anything of that kind."

"Why so? I don't mean for her to go into a business office, of course. But could you not gratify her by explaining certain problems which she could grasp, and then give her an opportunity to work them out herself in some minor personal matter of which you have so many?"

"It seems ridiculous to me," Gorham said, after a moment's silence, "but I will think it over carefully. I am disappointed, I admit, that neither one of my children, especially Alice, should have been a son to perpetuate my name and to continue my work; but that was not to be, and my daughters are all that I could ask."

"They are indeed," she assented, feelingly. "I believe Alice realizes your disappointment and actually reproaches herself, poor child, for not being what you wished."

"Oh, no!" he protested. "I must set her right on that at once. I admit my disappointment, but that does not lessen my appreciation of my blessings. You and the girls are everything to me—and you have given me more than a son in your wonderful conception—the Consolidated Companies is your child, Eleanor, for without your suggestion of an organization founded upon an altruistic basis I should never have thought of creating this corporation which is now certain to be the greatest power the world has seen."