DUSKIN (8 page)

Yet she could not thoroughly enjoy it all, for there, far down the length of the table, she now and then caught sight of a dark head bent deferentially to the pretty girl beside it, and she could not forget the look its owner had given her. And there on the other side of the table, out of sight if she sat back in her place but never out of mind, were those two horrid men with whom she must deal somehow tomorrow. And there, also just ahead a few minutes perhaps, loomed a speech she must make and make it well, as well or better than Caleb Fawcett himself could have made it, and she hadn’t an idea in her head! All the fine points that she had jotted down so carefully for Frederick Fawcett had deserted her. Only the funny story was left, and it had somehow lost its point. Why had she ever thought it was funny?

And then at last, the moment for the speech took her unaware.

The ice cream had been served and geniality was like a sunny atmosphere. For the moment Carol had almost forgotten herself in listening to a story that her neighbor on the left was telling.

He was an elderly man of culture and had traveled a great deal. He had recently returned from a trip to South America and was relating some of his experiences.

Across the table there was another conversation in progress which interested her immensely, and of which she caught an occasional sentence. The people were talking about Joseph Pennell’s pictures and how he had been the first to find art in common labor and construction. Carol was interested in that because she had recently taken a trip to Washington DC and spent several hours going through an exhibit of Pennell’s pictures in the Library of Congress. She had thrilled to the beauty of the intricate network of steel girders towering up into heaven against the smoky background of the city. The artist had caught the lines of grandeur and beauty in even common things and made them live on paper. This seemed to her a great mission in life. Yet the elderly cousin who had traveled much and visited the world’s great picture galleries was decrying the modern idea of “commercializing,” as she called it, art in this way. She said it was a sign of the world’s decadence. She said she did not care for Pennell’s pictures; they seemed to her a travesty, a caricature of art.

Carol’s cheeks grew a shade pinker and her eyes brighter. The neighbor on her left had finished his story and was hastily swallowing his ice cream, and she had an instant to herself. She almost interrupted the conversation across the table, so eager was she to make that woman understand how those noble pictures had thrilled her and how glad she was to see that common labor was at last glorified—a thing to contemplate and enjoy, not an ugly eyesore, a necessary evil that commerce might go on.

It was just at that moment that the hush came, and turning, she saw that Fawcett was standing at her side. To her horror, he was introducing her as the first speaker, the guest of honor who was to start the ball rolling.

Cold horror grappled at her throat, a great blinding wave seemed about to engulf her, the challenge of the universe against her soul confronted her. Somehow she got to her feet. Her face was still vivid and eager from her thoughts. Amid the storm of applause that followed her introduction she groped around in her mind for something to say. She caught at the little old joke she had memorized. It seemed a sickly straw to rest her weight upon, but she told it, amid a hush of interest that she attributed wholly to her Paris frock.

But amazing thing! The joke got across! Laughter bubbled up spontaneously, and applause floated out like a beautiful banner! But what should she say next? Her mind was a blank.

She waited while they laughed and applauded. The quiet smile that had been on her lips when she rose had not had wits to take itself away. It gave no hint of the tumult in her soul. She looked wide-eyed around the table and across to the elderly cousin. Suddenly she knew that there was something she wanted to say to that woman, and there were no other things within her grasp. And because the silence had become tense and she must say something she plunged in and began to describe one of Pennell’s pictures that had impressed her mightily.

The subject was one of New York’s great towering buildings in the making, the steel skeleton nearly completed, clear-cut against a stormy sky where clouds and blended smoke softened the harsh outlines of warehouses, and distance gave a hint of dome and tower and spire. Like a human spider on a network of steel cables, a single being clung, doing some tiny part of the labor on the great structure. Strung far above the world at a dizzying height, where one mismove would hurl him to his death, he worked, nor seemed to know that heaven above and earth beneath were terribly far away.

As Carol described this picture in its clear, bold outlines, the beauty of the noble structure and the beauty of the laborer who toiled suspended above daily peril were blended into one before their eyes, expressing together the very spirit of the steel. She felt suddenly that she had her audience in a spell.

Across the table the elderly cousin was leaning forward as if she had gained a new vision. The man with whom she had been talking listened eagerly as one who finds himself nobler than he knew, and every face was turned toward her with interest. Here was something out of the ordinary! This was no after-dinner speech. This was unique, original! Why, the girl was idealizing industry, putting it on a par with the arts! She seemed to be something of a genius!

All down the table coffee cups were forgotten, ice cream melted, while all eyes were turned to listen to this slender girl in her misty green frock with her red-gold hair and her sweet air of seriousness. Even Schlessinger and Blintz had lost their grins and were listening in wonder.

Across from them the dark head of the young man was lifted, his fine eyes watching her intently. Something sparkled behind the question in his eyes. Was it sympathy? Surprise? Or perhaps a faint mistrust?

As she stopped to take a breath she saw all this, and in a sudden wonder at it asked herself how had she done it and what she should say next. Her mind seemed just as blank for an instant as when she had begun. What scorn they would all feel if she broke down!

She swept them another glance as they still watched her gravely, eagerly, respectfully, and suddenly the thrill of their attention took hold of her once more, and she opened her lips again. Some of the things she said were what she had planned for Frederick Fawcett to say, and some had been seething in her brain all the way from home. She had meant to deal them out to the erring Duskin. But others were thoughts that had never to her knowledge been in her mind before, and as she gave them voice she wondered. It did not seem herself that was talking at all. And when she sat down amid profound applause, she found herself weak with sudden fright and wholly unable to account for the effect she attained.

“That was great!” whispered Frederick Fawcett. “You put us across in great shape. It couldn’t have been better!”

And while he rose to introduce the next speaker, the noted financier across the table bent his venerable silver head and gave her gallant compliment. But Carol scarcely heard what he said, so hard was she striving to control the trembling of her lips, the tendency of her throat to either cry or laugh hysterically.

When she got the better of herself again and looked up, the distinguished-looking young man at the other end of the table was speaking. He was looking straight at her. His eyes were most penetrative. She almost felt that he was talking to her personally. She wished she knew who he was. She had not heard his name this time either. She wished she had listened. He seemed a strong character.

Then suddenly he was done. She saw him look at his watch, rise, and nod farewell to the young woman who had sat next to him, and he was gone.

She found herself disappointed, as if the evening had suddenly gone flat. Searching her heart while others were making brief speeches mainly composed of stale jokes, she realized that she had wanted that man to stay long enough for her to find out if he, too, had approved of what she said. He had watched her with apparent interest, but she was not sure that the later impression had eradicated his first one. She had wanted to know, and now she never would!

A great many people said a great many nice things to her. She could see that Mr. Fawcett was highly pleased, and that some of the men whom he had pointed out as important were much impressed by what she had said. But afterward when she thought over the evening she found it was only a blur of confusion upon which that one young man’s strong face and keen, searching eyes stood out and looked at her. She felt as if he knew that she was only masquerading.

But the last thought before she slept was of the two men, Schlessinger and Blintz. What had become of them, and where would she meet them next?

M
orning brought elation and a sense of triumph as she gradually recalled faces and expressions that showed she had succeeded in what she came to do. After all, that was the important thing. If she could show her employer that she was capable of helping to pull the company out of this temporary embarrassment, surely it ought to be worth a raise in her salary.

But beyond that, even if that were not the result, she felt a satisfaction that she had made good. That she had been able to step into the real business world with men whose names were known the country over and hold her own. Of course, in calm reflection, she realized that she had not said anything really important that she had not heard from Caleb Fawcett over and over again as she sat clicking her noiseless typewriter in her inner office while conversation went on outside. The only thing that she had done that was worthwhile was to get their attention on a few facts by describing that picture she had seen in Washington. If it had not been for that beginning she might never have got her facts across to those hardheaded businessmen. And that beginning had come like an inspiration. She could not really take any credit for that.

Taking it all in all, Carol Berkley was rather humbled than otherwise by her triumph of the night before. She was born and brought up an honest girl, and she knew that no natural brilliance of her own had made her speech such a success. Nevertheless, when she went down later to meet Frederick Fawcett and receive anew his congratulations, she was feeling that now the hardest part of her work was done. If she could meet with the rich and great and not be overwhelmed, surely she ought to find it easy to vanquish a mere upstart just out of college who was too much engaged in amusing himself coming up to Chicago to get down to work and finish his job on time.

Fawcett showed her a copy of the telegram he had just sent off to his uncle in which her appearance the night before at the dinner was spoken of in highest praise. It could not but be gratifying to her to know that her employer, as well as the office at home, would know of her triumphs.

Fawcett insisted that she should stay over until the noon train and see a bit of Chicago. He took her for a drive along the north shore and gave her a glimpse in passing of the notable places, promising if she would come up again some weekend when his wife got home that they would be delighted to entertain her.

Altogether she was well pleased with her trip so far. Fawcett finally seated her in the parlor car of a local train, and she started on her way once more.

She spent the first half hour of her journey writing a letter to her mother and then settled down to the contents of her briefcase. At the last minute before she started from the office at home she had taken from the file all correspondence with regard to the Duskin job, and now she took it out and began to go over it carefully. It would not do to go to Duskin without being thoroughly apprised of the whole situation. She thought she remembered everything pretty well, but she was taking no chance. She must have every little detail at her fingers’ ends. There was no doubt in her mind but that she had slippery men to deal with, and from what those two men, themselves crooked as could be, had said of this Duskin, it would appear that he was the slipperiest of them all.

She opened to the first letters and began to read. Here were Duskin’s credentials. She had not seen them before. Duskin had undertaken the work before she had been promoted to Mr. Fawcett’s private office. They were almost extravagant in their praise. She curled an unbelieving lip. How people lied sometimes in writing letters of recommendation, or else in some cases, how they were deceived in the person they were recommending!

Here, for instance, was this Duskin. One of the letters said—it was from his college president—“I know of no more honorable, conscientious, energetic, promising young man in the whole of my acquaintance than Philip Duskin—” and another, this from the great head of an engineering firm with whom it appeared he had been connected for four years following his college experience—“This young man will accomplish any purpose he undertakes if it is humanly possible to accomplish.”

How could those words be reconciled with the revealing words she had copied down in her office from the conversation of those two crooks? Of course they were
crooks
themselves, but they were not talking for other ears, and naturally what they told each other in privacy must be true. It certainly had sounded as if that young Duskin had joined with them in a scheme to substitute papier-mâché frescoes for the ceilings in place of the carvings which the contract called for. Blintz had even stated the sum they would be able to divide between the three of them. They had implied that Duskin had refused to be a party to the graft unless he shared equally in the booty. They had spoken of other materials where similar propositions had been made to Duskin, and where he had apparently acquiesced. Yet he had succeeded in deceiving his college president and his former employers so that they gave him recommendations like that! Oh, it would be a work of righteousness to expose him to the light of day! A young man ought to suffer for a deceit like that. He deserved to be in jail more than any common thief who stole a few dollars from somebody’s purse.