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A second time that day the eyes of father and son locked. Bonbright's face was colorless; he felt his lips tremble. "At once," said his father, tapping his desk with his finger. Bonbright's sensation was akin to that of falling through space there seemed nothing to cling to, nothing by which to sustain himself. How utterly futile he was was borne in upon him! He could not resist.
The man's mind was poisoned against him; was unable to conceive of a man in Bonbright's place meaning him otherwise than treachery.... It went deeper than suspicion of an individual; it was suspicion of a class. "I'll do what I promised, Jim.... That'll prove it to you."
Hilda knew Ruth had crept away because she had suffered the hardest to bear of all wounds and crushing of hope.... She had gone the morning after Bonbright's father died, leaving no word but that she was going, and she had not gone far. It is simple to lose oneself in a city. One may merely move to the next ward and be lost to one's friends.
But with the sound of Bonbright's footfall on the stairs her resolution vanished. "To-morrow," she whispered to herself, with sudden dread. "To-morrow...." And so she put it off from day to day. In the beginning Bonbright had been optimistic. He had seen her reluctance, her reserves, vanishing in a few days. But they did not vanish.
"It never occurred to me before that being at the head of a business meant meant commanding so many men... meant exercising power over all those lives.... Then there were the wives and children at home...." Bonbright's father leaned forward icily. "Son," he said, coldly, "you haven't been picking up any queer notions in college?" "Queer notions?" "Socialistic, anarchistic notions.
"Only that she is living in their apartment, and he is boarding with one of the men in his department at Lightener's." "Keep your eye on him, Rangar keep your eye on him. And report." "Yes, sir," said Rangar, not himself pleased by the turn affairs had taken, but resolved to have what benefit might lie thereabouts. His resentment was still keen to keep him snapping at Bonbright's heels.
Bonbright's father had left the office an hour before he and Rangar had finished their tour of the works. It was always his custom to leave his business early and to retire to the library in his home, where daily he devoted two hours to adding to the manuscript of The Philosophical Biography of Marquis Lafayette.
It did mark an epoch in the history of the Foote family. It was the Family's French Revolution. It was Martin Luther throwing his inkpot at the devil and overturning the ages. Bonbright's decision required physical expression. Most human decisions require physical expression to give them effect.
News of the wrecking of Bonbright's domestic craft came to his father quickly, carried, as might have been anticipated, by Hangar. "Your son is not living with his wife, Mr. Foote," Rangar announced. "Indeed!" said Mr. Foote, concealing both surprise and gratification under his habitual mask of suave dignity. "That, I fear, was to have been anticipated.... Have you the particulars?"
"I've no doubt you can handle it maybe too well," said Bonbright. They were driven to the hospital and shown up to Jim Hammil's room. His wife was there, pale, tearless, by his bedside. Jim was bandaged, groaning, in agony. Bonbright's lips lost their color. He felt guilty. It was HE who had put this man where he was, had smashed him. It was HIS fault. He walked to the bedside.
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