CHAPTER XI.
A DEATH IN THE CLOAK-ROOM.
When Faith reached the cloak-room she found a scene of the wildest confusion. A number of clerks and cash girls were surrounding Miss Jennings, who lay on the floor upon a pile of wraps which they had hurriedly thrown down for her. Mr. Gibson, the manager, was bending over her with a glass of water in his hand, and was giving orders right and left in an excited manner.
"Go for a doctor, some one!" he cried. "No, get an ambulance—that will be better! The officer on the corner will call one for you. It will never do to have her die here! The newspapers would all get it, and goodness only knows what they would say about us."
He raised his head as he spoke and found himself face to face with the new packer in the ribbon department. She was as white as chalk and her eyes were flaming with anger.
"How dare you send her to a hospital when she is so ill?" she whispered, sharply. "Get a physician here at once, sir, and a glass of wine instead of water."
She pushed her way through the group of frightened girls and looked upon her friend, whom she saw at once was unconscious from weakness.
"Stand back a little, girls, and give her air," she cried, firmly. "There is none too much ventilation in this place, Mr. Gibson; quick—lower the windows if you can, sir."
Without dreaming of disobeying, Mr. Gibson sprang to the window. There was something so commanding in her manner that she fairly over-awed him. The next moment he had dispatched cash girls for a doctor and some wine, even taking the money out of his own pocket to pay for the cordial.
Faith had succeeded in clearing a circle about the fainting girl, and was just looking for something with which to fan her, when two people—a man and a woman—entered the door of the cloak-room, and stopped short when they saw the unusual spectacle.
"It is just as I thought—she is dying," said the woman, softly.
Faith recognized the voice at once. It was the lady whom she had just left talking to Miss Fairbanks at the ribbon counter.
"You see, Mr. Denton, my words have come true! You are killing these young women by overwork and bad air, yet you dare to resent any interference in the matter."
Faith was kneeling by Miss Jennings now and had raised her head to her lap. There was a quiver of the girl's eyelids. When the wine came at last she was able to swallow it.
"This is dreadful!" said Mr. Denton, in a tone of genuine distress. "Here, Mr. Gibson, do all you possibly can for that young woman, and for Heaven's sake, try to keep this out of the newspapers."
"Can I help you, dear?" said the lady, going over to where Faith sat by her friend, "or am I merely exhausting the air that the poor child should be breathing? You were a brave girl to come to her rescue as you did. If any trouble results from it, be sure and let me know it."
She dropped her card into Faith's lap, and left the place with Mr. Denton.
The doctor was just entering and there was no spare room. She had seen at a glance that Faith could do all that was needed.
A few minutes later Miss Jennings opened her eyes. When she saw Faith bending over her she smiled very happily.
"You are better, dear, aren't you?" whispered Faith, as she tried to return the smile.
Miss Jennings shook her head gently. "I am satisfied," was her low answer.
"But I want you to be happy, Mary," cried Faith, who saw death in the poor girl's face. "Look up, dear; there is One who loves you. Can you not believe it?"
"I trust it is so," said the dying girl, faintly, "I have not believed, but I may have been mistaken."
"You were indeed, Mary, but you were not to blame! Poor child, yours has been a sad lot, but there is happiness coming."
There were stifled sobs from many of the girls who were standing in frightened groups about the room. The hush upon each lip spoke only too plainly of death's presence.
"Poor Dick!" sighed Miss Jennings. "If it were not for Dick—"
Dick was the crippled brother who was her only charge.
"I will take him to live with me, Mary," whispered Faith, nobly. "My mother will love him and so will I—but what is it, dear?"
Miss Jennings was trying to say something more. Her voice was so low that only Faith could hear it.
"Will He forgive indifference, rebellion, distrust?"
"Though your sins are as scarlet, He shall wash them white, dear Mary. As we forgive our enemies, so He will forgive us."
The dying girl raised her eyes. Strangely enough their gaze rested upon the face of Mr. Denton.
He had come back to the scene only a moment before, and for perhaps the first time in his life, pangs of remorse were seizing him.
"I—forgive—" murmured the poor girl, still gazing at Mr. Denton. Her eyes closed slowly as she spoke.
With a fearful groan, Mr. Denton fled from the place.
The physician had done what he could, but his efforts were useless. Another life had gone out at the very dawning of its day; crushed out by the injustice and the greed of fellow-beings. Faith choked back her sobs as well as she could, and looked on in amazement at what followed the tragedy. An undertaker was called and placed in charge of the body, and the utmost concern seemed to be felt about all the arrangements, especially by Mr. Gibson, who had been put in charge of the matter by the firm.
Faith would not have understood such a sudden "change of heart" if she had not been enlightened by one of the other women.
"They know it's bound to get into the papers," she whispered, "so they are making a big bluff, you know. They don't really care about Miss Jennings."
Faith put on her hat without waiting to hear more; Such hypocrisy as this completely overcame her.
Miss Fairbanks was not consulted regarding her movements now, for the young girl quite forgot the rules and regulations of the establishment. As quick as she could she started to go up-town in search of the humble rooms where she knew she would find the crippled boy whom she had taken under her protection.
As she left the store a young man joined her. She gave a sharp glance at his face. It was Mr. Watkins.
Involuntarily the young girl extended her hand, and in that sympathetic clasp both knew that their love for the dead girl was mutual, and that forever after between them would be the firmest friendship.
Mr. Watkins insisted upon accompanying Faith on her errand of mercy, and as he seemed to need her tender consolation and sympathy, Faith was glad to allow him to share her mission.
He had heard of his sweetheart's death only through the gossip of the store, so Faith told him of Mary's calm resignation, and her belief that she died happy in the faith of a true Christian.
The crippled boy, Dick, was a sweet little fellow of six years, and in spite of the added expense, Mrs. Marvin was glad to have him with her. He would give her something to think of, she said, in the long days to come, when Faith would be away at business. She set about to comfort the little fellow at once.
Faith was too disturbed to go back to the store that day, and as it was to be closed the next day on account of the funeral of young Mr. Forbes, she had time to think over the outlook for the future.
"I am sure Mr. Denton is not a bad man, mother," she said, as they sat with Mr. Watkins in the little parlor. "His face showed the deepest agony. I am sure he has a heart. Oh, if only I could reach it, perhaps things would be different."
"But you say that lady, the Government Inspector, was with him at the time. His distress may have been feigned," answered her mother, suspiciously.
"I don't think so, mother, for there were tears in his eyes. I think he is merely neglectful. He leaves the consideration for employees entirely to his partners."
"Many business men are that way," remarked her mother, after a minute. "They are so concerned about their financial matters that they ignore what is more sacred—their duty toward their fellow-beings. By the way, I have just read of two more failures, one a shoe store and the other a grocery store, and both because of the department store evil! How can small dealers, with only a few hundred dollars behind them, expect to compete with firms whose capitals reach the millions? They are only the poor little fishes in the sea, while the department stores are sharks, sharp-toothed monsters of destruction!"
"I have heard of one department store in Philadelphia, I think, where the proprietor gave situations to a lot of men after he had bought them out or completely ruined their business. That is better than nothing," said Mr. Watkins thoughtfully.
"It is the only recompense possible in such an unjust transaction."
"They do not think it unjust; they call it simply business,'" said Faith bitterly. "The one who sells the most goods is considered the smartest. It is a case where might makes right—the survival of the fittest."
"In other words," replied Mrs. Marvin, "a rich corporation justifies its methods on the grounds that it has a right to transact business on a scale corresponding to its pecuniary ability—there is no question of morality involved. Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. Yet there are people who believe that there is no future punishment for these malefactors."
"God will punish them according to His judgment, mother. It may be here and it may be hereafter. We have nothing to do with their wrongdoing. We must suffer and be brave—that is our duty and our mission."
"And do you see no injustice in that?" cried Mr. Watkins sharply.
"Was it right that poor Mary should be born to poverty and disease and wear her young life out in agony, while so many of the wicked are flourishing? Oh, I have tried not to question or even to think, but the promise of salvation grows daily more dull in my ears. I doubt the mercy of God and I cannot help it!"
CHAPTER XII.
A COMPLICATION OF TROUBLES.
Faith could think of no words then to comfort Mr. Watkins. His grief was too poignant. She changed the subject.
When he left the house to go home, she put on her hat. There was something she wished to say to him that she could not say before her mother. There was an errand at the grocery that gave her an excuse, and as the hour was not late, Faith welcomed the opportunity.
As soon as they were in the street she told him her experience with the store detective and asked his advice in case she should be annoyed in the future.
Before the words were fairly out of her mouth she wished she had not spoken. There was confusion and shame upon her companion's face, and his lips trembled strangely when he tried to answer her.
For a moment Faith could hardly believe her senses. She stared at him stupidly, while her limbs trembled beneath her.
Instantly a suspicion darted through her brain. She remembered that he, too, had been in the superintendent's office that evening, and that it was possible, even probable, that he knew something about the money.
"Oh, Miss Marvin, this is dreadful!" he managed to say at last. "I did not dream that they would settle upon you! I thought, that is, I hoped, that they had dropped the matter!"
"Then you knew of it," said Faith, her voice sounding faint and far away.
"I knew it, yes," said Mr. Watkins. "In fact, I was sent by Mr. Forbes to stop you, but you had gotten out of the building."
"Is it possible?"
Faith was coming back to her senses now.
"Tell me all you know of the matter, Mr. Watkins," she said, sternly, "and tell me the exact truth. Don't attempt to hide anything!"
Mr. Watkins controlled himself and told her the whole story—how the superintendent had suspected her of stealing the money and sent to have her brought back at once and had been disappointed.
"An hour later," he continued, "he got a telegram from his wife. His son was dying and he had to go home. Since then there had nothing been done about the robbery."
Faith drew a long breath after the young man finished.
"So appearances are against me," she said, with a sigh. "I am at the mercy of a rascal like that detective, Hardy."
Mr. Watkins said nothing, but he was as pale as death. When he tried to comfort her the words nearly choked him.
Faith saw it and pitied him even while she wondered. A few moments later she bade him a cordial "good-night." If there was any suspicion in her heart it did not show in her manner.
She was walking slowly home from the grocery, plunged in the most serious thought, when a well-dressed man of middle age appeared suddenly before her.
"I beg pardon, miss," he said, raising his hat, "but I am a stranger in this neighborhood and am looking for a certain number. If you live about here perhaps you will kindly direct me."
"I will, with pleasure, sir. What number do you wish?" asked Faith.
As she spoke she paused directly in the glare of a gas lamp.
As the light fell on her face the stranger stopped abruptly.
"By Jove! What luck!" he cried, gayly. "The very angel I was thinking of!"
"What do you mean, sir!" cried Faith, who was now thoroughly frightened. "If you wish me to direct you, state the number that you seek at once! I am not in the habit of being addressed by strangers!"
"My dear child, don't get angry. I shall not harm you," said the man, politely, "but you surprised me out of myself. I did not dream of meeting you."
As Faith still stood staring at him he continued, speaking hurriedly, and his manner became so chivalrous that the young girl soon accused herself mentally of rudeness.
"You see, it is this way, miss. I was thinking of the sweetest little girl in the whole big world, and when I saw your face you were so much like her that to save my soul I could not help that exclamation. You will pardon me, I am sure, for I meant no harm whatever! I am old enough to be your father, so you see you have no reason to fear me."
"I spoke hastily," said Faith, slowly. "I had no wish to be rude, but you must admit that I had cause to feel a little startled."
"You did, indeed, and I apologize humbly, but am I not right in thinking that I have seen you somewhere before? Are you not employed in the department store of Denton, Day & Co.?"
Faith looked at him in surprise.
"I have worked there two days," she began, a little hastily.
"And I have seen you twice," replied the stranger, promptly. "Your face is a sweet one. I could not forget it."
The words were spoken so quietly that Faith could not resent them. She was moving slowly toward her home now, feeling a little bit nervous.
"That is a dreadful life for a girl," went on the man, very quietly. "It is agony for the poor things, both of mind and body!"
"You are right, sir," cried Faith, who had thought instantly of Miss Jennings. "The shop girls' life is one continuous drudgery. She is the slave of circumstances and the victim of conditions."
"I am surprised that so many enter the life. There are surely other vocations. They choose the hardest one possible."
"But do they choose?" asked Faith, who had become interested in spite, of herself. "Are they not driven this way or that, according to their opportunities? In my case there was no choice. I had tried everything else. Hard as it is, I am thankful for my present employment."
The man looked at her sharply. There was genuine sympathy in his face. Almost involuntarily he broke out in violent sentences.
"You girls are to blame in great measure for all this, and where the fault is not yours it lies with your parents! Instead of cultivating your graces you bedraggle them with labor! Instead of marketing your smiles you trade in blood and sinew! Every day in that store means a year off of your life; every anxious moment means an inroad into your rightful happiness! Why will you not see the folly of your ways? Why can you not understand that it is a false morality which is killing you? Why, if I were a girl"—his voice had dropped to the most persuasive cadence—"I should value my beauty too highly to hide it behind a counter, and my subsistence should be the boundless reward of affection, rather than the niggardly recompense for wasted tissues! Of course, I shock you, because you have done no thinking for yourself. A lot of narrow souled ancestors have done thinking for you. They have brought you here to let you shift for yourself, but woe to you if you offend one of their petty notions of honor. See, child! I have money, I have constant ease. Could you blame me for offering to share it with youth and beauty?"
As he breathed these words he gazed at Faith eagerly. The soul in the man had vanished. He was dangerously in earnest.
The thrill that flowed through Faith's veins as he spoke was not of fear, for, child that she was, she understood his meaning, and his words stirred the deepest channels of her soul—she was more grieved than shocked at the man's distorted reasoning.
"You are all wrong," she said, sadly. "You cannot understand! There are some things more precious than gold to us, more precious even than comfort or affection. Not for the world would I lose this 'something' which I possess! It is the haven of my soul at the hour of every trial. It is the one solace of my life in the desperate condition that I have reached. You, a man of years, should not argue so wrongfully. It is wicked to place temptations before the young and wretched."
She had regained her composure as she finished speaking, and a tinge of righteous indignation made her voice vibrate strangely.
"Is it wrong to do good?" asked the man, a trifle sullenly. "Surely comfort, ease, health are the best a man can offer. Nature did not create you girls for a life of toil. You were made for love, for homage and adoration. Yet when one offers you these you turn to your nameless 'something' and, like the martyrs of old, suffer torture and death rather than accept what is your due. It is incomprehensible, truly!"
"Hush! Your words are an insult! I will not hear them. It is true that my knowledge of the world is limited, but this much I know: the God of righteousness has placed me here for a purpose, and that purpose is not to play the coward in time of trouble or to prove traitor to the highest, holiest instincts which permeate my being! Working girl I am and may always be, but my lot is a queen's beside what you suggest! God pity the poor women who have not the wisdom to see it."
She was standing before him now like a beautiful statue, one arm uplifted to emphasize her utterances.
"My God! You are superb! Magnificent!" muttered the man involuntarily. "I would give my life to be worthy of such a woman!"
Faith's arm dropped suddenly, and she drew away with a gasp. There was a look in the man's face that frightened her for a moment.
"You have taught me a lesson," he said, almost hoarsely. "I thank you, child, and I bid you good-evening."
"But the number," cried Faith, as he was turning away. "You wished me to direct you to a certain number."
"Never mind it now. I can find it," was the answer.
He was walking swiftly away in the darkness of the street, when a figure approached him from the opposite direction.
The two met directly under the gas lamp where Faith had been standing a moment before, and as they met Faith heard a sharp exclamation.
Her sharp eyes recognized the newcomer at once. It was no other than Bob Hardy, the store detective.
CHAPTER XIII.
A HEAVENLY INSPECTOR.
When Faith Marvin reached home after her unpleasant interview with the well-dressed stranger, she was in a state of nervousness that nearly bordered upon hysterics. The fact that Bob Hardy was a witness to what she had supposed was a mere accidental meeting gave her an instinctive clue to the identity of the man, and her cheeks flushed with shame as she connected him in her thoughts with that insulting proposition of the detective.
She had tried to compose herself, as usual, before going into her mother's presence, and succeeded so well that when they retired Mrs. Marvin had no suspicion of the interview. Neither did Faith acquaint her with the extraordinary suspicions against Mr. Watkins, which she now felt ashamed to think she had harbored for a second.
She was much troubled in mind about the latter, for while she felt in her heart that Mr. Watkins was innocent she could not help thinking that he, too, was shielding a thief. She wondered if it was because he felt the same on the subject as had his sweetheart, Miss Jennings. She said her prayers quietly and felt more tranquil after. There was a balm in religion for her trusting heart, which she begged with all her soul to share with others.
It was during this hour that she thought of Mr. Forbes, whom she knew was to bury his only son on the morrow. Suddenly the thought flitted through her head that perhaps employees were somewhat to blame for not expressing more sympathy for their employers in all serious matters.
"Perhaps they think us as heartless as we think them," she whispered to herself; then the impulse came over her to write Mr. Forbes a letter.
She rose quietly, so as not to wake her mother, and penned him the note. It came straight from her heart. She told him she was sorry for his sorrow. Early the next morning she went out and mailed it. Little Dick went with her, hobbling along on clumsy crutches. The child had fallen in love with her at once, and, although he often cried for his sister, Faith could always cheer him and change his tears to laughter.
Late in the afternoon she rode down to the undertaker's. She had not become reconciled yet to parting with Miss Jennings.
As she reached the door two women were just leaving; they were Miss Fairbanks, the buyer, and Maggie Brady. Faith was startled for a minute, for she could not understand their interest. Neither one of them had ever shown the faintest liking for the dead girl, but now she noticed with surprise that they had both been crying. "Truly, every cloud has a silver lining," she murmured to herself, "and who knows but what this is the first glimpse of the lining! Oh, I do hope it will soon show itself to poor Mr. Watkins."
The two women had passed her with a mere nod of the head. She opened the door of the establishment and confronted Mr. Watkins.
"Oh, what is it?" she cried, involuntarily, as she saw his face. "Don't, dear Mr. Watkins; don't take it so badly."
Mr. Watkins put his hand on her arm as she spoke. He was so faint and weak that he seemed obliged to lean on something.
"I—I have explained that matter about the money," he whispered, hoarsely. "Hardy will not annoy you any longer. The thief has been discovered."
He looked so wretched that the tears sprang to Faith's eyes.
"I am glad it is explained," she answered, hastily, "but you are ill, Mr. Watkins. You should go home this minute."
"Home—home!" repeated Mr. Watkins in a vacant manner.
Then with a fearful groan of agony he collapsed completely. As he fell to the floor several of the undertaker's clerks rushed forward and lifted him up.
"Another victim of conditions, of greed and avarice," said a voice in Faith's ear.
She turned quickly and recognized Miss Alma Dean, the woman inspector, whose card she had in her pocket.
Without waiting for Faith to answer, the lady went on speaking. The men were laying Mr. Watkins on a sofa not twenty feet away from the body of his dead sweetheart.
"That poor fellow was a picture of health two years ago, before he entered the employ of Denton, Day & Co. I know his mother well; she is a lovely woman, and he has a younger brother who is also in that store, and liable to follow in this poor chap's footsteps. I just came in to look at that poor girl. I want to stamp her face indelibly upon my memory. Thank fortune I am in a position to remedy some of the evils in this world. As Government Inspector I can do considerable, but I must learn the length and breadth of the evil before I am fit to attack it."
Faith listened breathlessly to every word. The proprietor of the place was also listening, and as she finished, he nodded his head as though he quite agreed with her.
Mr. Watkins was rapidly reviving under the kind care bestowed upon him, but before he was fairly alive to his surroundings Miss Dean took Faith's hand and led her out on to the sidewalk.
"They will take him home—they are very kind people," said the lady, sadly, "but now, dear, you and I are confronted with a problem. How are we to prevent the repetition of this horror?"
As Miss Dean asked the question she did not really seem to expect an answer from Faith; it was more like a spoken expression of thoughts that were vexing her, made to one whom she knew was thoroughly sympathetic.
"This is the saddest demonstration of injustice that I have ever witnessed," she went on, slowly, "yet I know it is mild in comparison with others. It lacks the hideousness of exposure, so far as you see. We only know that one more crime has been added to the list, yet the details of that crime have been carefully spared us."
Faith knew that she referred to poor Mary's death, but she could find no words with which to manifest the depth of her sorrow.
"The fear of the law is our only hope, I guess," went on Miss Dean. "They must be forced to comply with certain regulations. Many of the stores are doing so, under no compulsion whatever, but these people seem deaf to everything but the jingle of their dollars."
"But the law cannot change their hearts," muttered Faith, at last, "so the cure that it effects must of necessity be superficial. Oh, if only the fear of the Lord could be instilled into their system. If they could only be made to feel that to Him they are accountable!" She spoke with enthusiasm, her eyes and cheeks brightening.
"You are a good ally," said Miss Dean, watching her, "but, my dear, the day of miracles is ended."
"But with God all things are possible! It would be no miracle for Him! I did not mean to infer that I or any human being could reach their hearts, still our words and our prayers, are they not noble weapons?"
"I am not so sure," said the inspector, gravely. "I think, dear, I am better fitted to experiment on a purely worldly basis. For instance, I have already reported the condition of that cloak-room, the drainage, ventilation and unsuitable location. Then I have mentioned the inadequate fire appliances in the building as well as the long hours you girls are obliged to stand and the short time which you are allowed for luncheon. I think that several of these matters will be changed at once, but there are others which will take longer or which may never be accomplished."
"It will make them very angry, will it not, when they hear of your report? And the alterations will be expensive, especially when it comes to altering the cloak-room."
"Oh, well, we inspectors cannot worry over any personal feelings, my dear. Our duty is to make right all wrong conditions. We are to look after the health of people, not their money. The only question is how to do this in the quickest possible manner."
Faith glanced at her sharply. She was a handsome woman. There was a resolution in her face that commanded instant admiration.
"I am glad to have seen you to-day," Miss Dean said as they reached the corner. "I find my sympathies are more and more enlisted through acquaintance with you girls. Why, I feel that I would like your employers to spend millions in making your labors a little lighter."
She smiled pleasantly as she spoke and offered Faith her hand.
"Good-by, dear," she said brightly, "there's a good time coming."
Faith watched her as she boarded a car—she was so ambitious, so full of vigor and so nobly intentioned.
"If she were only an inspector sent from God, now," she whispered, then a tremor shot over her frame at such a wonderful suggestion.
"Why should I not be an inspector sent from God," she murmured, "to seek out the dark places and let in the light? If it is only a candle flame it will help a little."
She turned abstractedly, almost dazed by her thoughts.
The next instant she was brought almost rudely to her senses. Some one had called her by name. She turned and faced young Denton.
CHAPTER XIV.
MR. FORBES TALKS ON RELIGION.
About two hours before the meeting of Faith and young Denton, Duncan Forbes returned from burying his son, and sat down disconsolately in the library of his handsome residence.
Although only the junior partner in the firm of Denton, Day & Co., still his interest, together with his salary as superintendent of the establishment, brought him in every year a princely income.
Then there were other investments of a varied nature, all of which had proven more than ordinarily successful, yet now in his hour of sorrow he could feel no atom of thankfulness, and every hour of his busy life seemed to him to have been wasted.
As he sat staring at the fire he could hardly restrain his feelings, for the words "God will punish you" were ringing in his ears even more clearly now than when he first heard them.
He tried to go over the incidents of that morning when a poor applicant in his office had wrought such havoc with his conscience.
He remembered the five hundred dollars of which he had been robbed, and he also recalled vaguely the conversation he had with a woman inspector in the store immediately after. Then came the message regarding his son's condition, then the death chamber, the grave, and now—desolation. The door opened softly and a servant entered. She bore a tray upon which were laid a number of letters.
After she had gone Mr. Forbes rose and looked them over. He did so listlessly. He had no heart for business.
The first three were business letters, referred to him by the firm with a brief note, stating their importance as an apology for the intrusion.
The next two letters were letters of condolence from members of his church. The last was a cheap envelope, neatly sealed and addressed modestly.
This last he turned over and over between his fingers. There was a vague thought in his brain to which he could give neither shape nor utterance.
Could it be possible? He asked the question and then sneered in answer. The thing was incredible, that he, Duncan Forbes, tyrant and slave-driver, should be remembered by his victims, yet the envelope was redolent of sympathetic surprises.
He tore it open finally and glanced at the words. For just a moment the flame of appreciation sprang up within him.
The note was from Faith Marvin, the new packer whom he had employed. She was "sorry for him," she said, "in this hour of his affliction."
He laid it down with a sigh that ended in a groan. His brow darkened as he looked at it. He was aroused and puzzled. The door opened again and his pastor entered. He came unannounced and in a shrinking manner.
Mr. Forbes turned toward him indifferently and held out his hand. He realized that this call was obligatory. He had been paying for it yearly.
As the two men sat down the minister coughed a little, then he folded his hands meekly—his host knew what was coming.
"I trust that you have become reconciled to this separation, dear Brother Forbes," he began solemnly, "and that you can say in your heart 'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.'"
Duncan Forbes did not answer for the space of a minute, during which time his pastor watched him furtively from under his eyebrows.
"My son was my all," he muttered finally. "It is for his sake alone that I have lived and labored—that by the sweat of my brow I have accumulated my fortune."
The minister sighed with unaffected sympathy.
"Yet God in His mercy has taken him from you. He who seeth the end from the beginning knew what was best, dear brother, for your soul's salvation."
"But of what use is my life now?" questioned Mr. Forbes sharply. "I am a broken reed with no ambition to lean upon. A man whose heart has been plucked by its roots from my body. Is there anything in our religion which can solace me, do you think? Is there a recompense for the sufferings of a heartbroken father?"
"There is balm for every wound, Brother Forbes, if we seek it. Others have suffered your loss and been able to find it."
Duncan Forbes sat back in his chair and stared straight before him. The words had brought to his mind unpleasant visions.
In an instant he was back in his store again, where scores of pale-faced, hollow-eyed youths and maidens were moving about. They all had mothers and fathers or some one who loved them, yet, unlike his Jack, they were weighed down by poverty, the millstone of disease was about their necks, and he, Duncan Forbes, was relentlessly grinding the very spirit out of their frail bodies.
He shuddered involuntarily and that brought him back to his senses.
"Religion! what is it?" he asked unpleasantly. "Has it any practical value in the lives of mortals? I have been a church member for forty years, paying my dues in accordance with the terms of that institution and shirking none of its responsibilities. Now, at the hour of sorrow, I find myself facing my grief alone; there is no power in the church that can help me to bear it. What is religion, I say? Is it a mere mummery of speech? I have been religious all my life; now I find nothing in it!"
"The fault is in you," said his caller, gravely.
Both men had risen and stood facing each other.
"You have been too occupied with other things, brother—too busy, you might say, with worldly matters to search for the spirit that pervades what you call 'mummery.' Surely in your love for Jack you appreciate something of the love of Christ for man; in your dealings with men and women you can realize His interest in humanity, and through your wealth you have the power to reap a harvest of good, yet how have you improved these opportunities?"
Mr. Forbes looked surprised, as well he might. They were the first words of a personal application of belief that his ears had listened to since he could remember.
"But religion has no part in worldly affairs," he said sullenly. "To be born for heaven is to be lost for earth; surely we should take each condition in the order that it comes—wealth, position first; prayer and praise hereafter; earth for the body and heaven for the soul; goods and chattels now, faith our stock in trade for the future. This is practical, is it not? This is good, sound reasoning. You are a minister of the Gospel, yet you can't deny it!"
"I can and do!" cried the minister bravely. "A belief that does not shape the life of the believer is not religion! Faith that does not light the path of the present is not the inspiration of Heaven! The Spirit of Christ is an ever-present reagent, neutralizing every rancor of human strife and blending all grief into harmonious concord. Every human act should be weighed in the balance of a man's belief. If he sacrifice divine faith to worldly ambition, he is in need of the chastening rod, and God will surely punish him!"
"You do not preach that from your pulpit, Dr. Villard," he said slowly, "and there is hardly a man in your congregation who does not need it."
Dr. Villard's thin face turned to a sickly pallor. It was a just retribution. He accepted it meekly.
"We ministers are but human," he began, softly.
There was a rap on the door. It came as a welcome interruption.
When Mr. Forbes opened the door he saw his assistant, Mr. Watkins. The young man's face was the color of a corpse, and his hollow eyes were red from weeping.
"I must see you, if only for a minute, sir," he said hastily, then as he caught sight of the visitor a flush spread over his features.
True to his nature, Duncan Forbes scowled heavily for a moment. He would have sent Mr. Watkins away if his guest had not prevented it.
"As you would be done by, Brother Forbes," he whispered quickly.
The next moment he was gone and Mr. Watkins had entered.
CHAPTER XV.
A PLAIN TRUTH FROM MR. WATKINS.
Duncan Forbes roused himself to hear his second visitor's errand. He knew that it must be something important, yet he felt bored and disinterested.
Business matters were far from his thoughts to-day, yet for forty years they had consumed his entire attention.
Mr. Watkins seemed to be struggling for words—he looked pained and embarrassed. He shifted his hat from one hand to the other, and his thin face reddened and paled alternately.
For the first time in his life Duncan Forbes looked upon his assistant as another man's son—the loved and loving child of another father. It was a queer sensation; he could not get used to it; then came a memory of Jack, and his emotion conquered for the moment.
"You are excited, Watkins; sit down," he said huskily. "Something else has gone wrong at the store, I suppose. Well, let it go; it can wait until to-morrow."
"No, sir, it can't wait!" blurted out Mr. Watkins. "If it could I should not have come, knowing as I did of your dreadful sorrow!"
Again the thrill of surprise shook the man's every fibre. Another of his victims had remembered that it was his day of grief, and the very tones spoke of sympathy for his affliction.
"Well, then, what is it?" He spoke with some of his old sternness. "Speak out, Watkins; you know my habits. I always expect promptness in these errands."
"But this is purely personal, sir!" answered Mr. Watkins, sadly. "I have come to see you about that five hundred dollars that was taken from your desk last Monday morning."
"What of it?" asked Mr. Forbes with much of his old interest returning. He had been too long a slave to money to loose the bondage immediately.
Mr. Watkins was trembling now so that he could hardly speak. In his weak condition of health the recent deluge of trouble was telling upon him.
"She took it, I suppose, that girl that I employed that morning," said Mr. Forbes, trying to hurry matters. "Has anything been done? I told Hardy to look after it."
He picked up Faith's letter again and glanced at it absently. When he saw the name he dropped it as if it had stung him.
A great wave of color purpled his heavy face, and instantly he was the same old tyrant, raging furiously at the creatures whom fate had made his victims.
"See here, Watkins! Here's her letter! Can you believe such deceit! She not only cursed me that morning with her religious cant, but she stole my money as well; now she mocks my sorrow with a letter like that—she is 'sorry' for me! Do you hear, Watkins? She is 'sorry!'"
The great veins were standing out like cords upon his forehead, and he began pacing the floor in a perfect frenzy of anger.
"Tell Hardy to arrest her and have her locked up at once! I'll make an example of her before the whole store! The idea of her daring to write me a letter!"
"But, Mr. Forbes, please listen!" cried Mr. Watkins at last. This injustice to Faith had brought him to his senses. "It was not Miss Marvin who stole the money! She is a good girl, sir, the best I ever knew, and she is sorry for you, sir; if she wasn't she would not say so!"
"But the money!" roared Mr. Forbes. "Who took the money? If it wasn't the girl, why didn't you say so?"
"I couldn't, sir, at first, but I will say it now; but for pity's sake be merciful, sir. The thief was my own poor brother!"
"What! the boy who tends door?" asked Mr. Forbes in great astonishment.
"Yes, sir; poor Sam took it! He stole it for our mother!"
Mr. Forbes stared at him some time before he spoke again.
"And the girl," he asked finally. "Has Hardy been following her?"
"He has indeed," said Mr. Watkins quickly, "but I dare not report his actions; I have no proofs to offer. Hardy would doubtless deny all that she could say of him, for a girl is helpless in the hands of a villain like Hardy."
"I have found him a good detective," said Mr. Forbes, slowly, "but if you knew who took the money why didn't you tell him?"
"How could I, sir?"
Mr. Watkins had begun to tremble again.
"The knowledge of his sin is already killing my mother; if it becomes public she will die. I was waiting for you to come back to business."
"Well, the boy must be punished!" said Mr, Forbes decidedly. "I cannot be accountable for what may follow."
"Do you mean that you will arrest my brother?" cried Mr. Watkins, "when you know that by doing so you will blast his character forever and drive a poor woman to her grave who has never wronged you?"
"The boy should have thought of that," answered Mr. Forbes, grimly. "I deal with my employees, not with their futures or their mothers."
"But if I return the money! See, I have a part of it here!"
Mr. Watkins almost cried with agony as he held out two hundred dollars.
Mr. Forbes took the money and counted it carefully.
"Let's see, Watkins, your salary is twelve dollars a week," he said slowly. "If I deduct five dollars a week to cover the balance of this, it will be just sixty weeks before I could get my money."
"If I could only find the rest," said Mr. Watkins, groaning; "but Sam says he lost it, and I think he tells the truth. If he hadn't lost it he would have given it all to mother."
Mr. Forbes was drumming lightly on a table by his side. It was evident that two emotions were struggling within him.
"Here is the evening paper, sir," said a maid at the door.
Mr. Watkins moved automatically and handed it to his employer.
"Hey! What is this! A death at our store yesterday, Watkins?"
Mr. Forbes had caught sight of a headline half across the paper.
Mr. Watkins bowed; he could not speak. His employer opened the paper and scanned it hastily.
"Ah! That's right! That's right! Gibson is a clever man! He makes the thing sound right before the public! Denton, Day & Co. will pay for Miss Jennings' funeral, yet they say there is no heart, soul nor conscience in a big corporation!"
He almost laughed as he ran his eye down the columns of the paper, and for a moment his manner became almost confidential.
"That's one of the tricks of our trade, Watkins," he said with a chuckle. "We cater to the weaknesses and foibles of the public, and there's nothing that appeals to them like a report of generosity. Of course, they never stop to think that the poor creatures are much better off dead than alive, and that they really have no hold on the sympathies of others. It's a fad among rich people to weep over the poor! Some of them will probably send flowers to the funeral of that woman, and think themselves angels of light for doing it! I tell you, religion is a trade mark in all lines of business, and I've decided in the last few days that that's about all it's good for!"
He laid the paper down with a smile of satisfaction, then turned toward Mr. Watkins to resume the former conversation.
But a look at the young man's face checked the words upon his lips. The scorn in those hollow eyes burned even through his callous nature.
For a moment he saw himself much as his assistant saw him, a man whose greed of gold never reached its limit, even though lives were sacrificed in his service.
He could not speak although he tried to repeatedly, for the glare of his assistant's eye transfixed him like a magnet.
With one hand upon the door, Mr. Watkins paused to answer:
"The papers don't know it all, Mr. Forbes," he whispered shrilly; "or, if they do, they don't dare to tell what they know. If they did they would add that it was the least you could do—to pay for her funeral after your firm has killed her!"