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It was not the grief of a father at the loss of a son; it was the suffering of a man whose supreme motive is the carrying on of family and of family traditions. He had just told Lightener the family became extinct with his passing. Now he reaffirmed it, and, reaffirming it, he felt the agony of ultimate affliction.
At first meeting she seemed only a gray-haired, shy, silent sort of person, not to be spoken of by herself as Mrs. Lightener, but in the reflected rays of her husband, as Malcolm Lightener's wife. But Malcolm Lightener he dominated the room as the Laocoon group would dominate a ten by twelve "parlor." His size was only a minor element in that impression.
She was interrupted in the transcription of a letter by a stern voice behind her, saying: "You're young Foote's anarchist, aren't you?" She looked up frightened into the unsmiling eyes of Malcolm Lightener. "Mr. Foote got me my place here," she said, hesitatingly. "Here take this letter." And almost before she could snatch book and pencil he was dictating, rapidly, dynamically.
Once more in his own office he summoned a boy. "Fetch Mr. Foote from the purchasing department," he said. Malcolm Lightener was acting on impulse again. He had no clear idea why he had sent for Bonbright, nor just what he should say when the boy came but he wanted to talk to him.
"If you'd junk a few traditions," said Lightener, "and import a little modern efficiency and human understanding of human beings you might get somewhere. You quit developing with that first ancestor of yours. If the last hundred years or so haven't been wasted, there's been some progress.
'What is the source of gentleness, The spring of human blessedness, Bringing the wounded spirit healing, The comforts high of heaven revealing, The lightener of each daily care, The wing of hope, the life of prayer, The zest of joy, the balm of sorrow, Bliss of to-day, hope of to-morrow, The glory of the sun's bright beam, The softness of the pale moon stream, The flow'ret's grace, the river's voice, The tune to which the birds rejoice; Without it, vain each learned page, Cold and unfelt each council sage, Heavy and dull each human feature, Lifeless and wretched every creature; In which alone the glory lies, Which value gives to sacrifice?
Mr. Deacon now felt his little jocularities lost before a wall of the matter of fact. He was not pleased. He saw himself as the light of his home, bringer of brightness, lightener of dull hours. It was a pretty rôle. He insisted upon it. To maintain it intact, it was necessary to turn upon their sister with concentrated irritation.
Lightener, "is one of the reasons for the unrest.... That's it. We don't understand what they're up against, nor what we do to aggravate them." "It's the inevitable warfare between capital and labor," said Mr. Foote. "Jealousy is at the root of it; unsound theories, like this of socialism, and too much freedom of speech make it all but unbearable."
It was the morning penny paper that Lightener bought, the paper with leanings toward the proletariat, the veiled champion of labor. He bought it daily. "Huh!" he grunted, as he scanned the first page. "They kind of allude to you." Bonbright looked. He saw a two-column head: YOUNG MILLIONAIRE URGES ON POLICE
After a while he ceased to open them, for they were all alike; all sent to say the same thing that Malcolm Lightener had said. Capital looked upon him as a Judas and flayed him with the sharpest words they could choose. He read all the papers, but the papers reflected the estimated thought of their subscribers. But to all of them the news was the big news of the day.
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