The St. Charles herald. [volume], April 14, 1917, Image 3

About The St. Charles herald. [volume] (Hahnville, La.) 1873-1993

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TEEL
By CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY
Father amdl Son
Here Is a Powerful Story of Failure and Sacrifice and Love and Courage and Success
Copyright by Fleming H. Revell Co.
three crushing sorrows bear down upon young
BERTRAM MEADE—DEATH, LOSS OF REPU
TA TION AND LOSS OF FRIENDS
Meade ' Sr -> P'*»« ■ flreat international bridge for the
martlet Construction company. His eon, Bertram Meade, Jr., resident
engineer at the bridge site, and Helen Illingworth, daughter of Colonel
ingworth, president of the Martlet concern, are engaged to marry as
4 °*H j* I ®, worl< '* The young engineer had questioned his
tamer's judgment on certain calculations and was laughed at for his
fears. The bridge collapses and 150 workmen die. This installment
describes a memorable scene in the elder Meade's office.
L
L
CHAPTER VII.—Continued.
"I haven't lost any confidence, sir.
iWe all make mistakes. I made one,
you know, and you took me up."
"It's too late for anybody to take
me up. Men can't make mistakes at
imy age. No more df that We have
still one thing to do, set the boy right
before the world."
"But if I were your son, sir, said
ithe secretary, "rather than see you
ruined I would take the blame on my
self. He can live It down."
"But he Is not to blame. On the
j contrary, he was right, and I was
wrong. Here, Shurtliff, Is his own let
ter. You know it; you saw him give
It to me. You heard the conversation,
and I have written out a little account
explaining it, stating that I made light
of his protests, acknowledging that he
was right and I was wrong, taking the
whole blame upon myself. He will be
back here tonight, I am sure. I intend
ed to give It to him."
"Ob, don't do that, Mr. Meade."
The telephone bell rang.
"The bridge !" clamored the insistent
bell.
Staggering almost like a drunken
man, Shurtliff left his place by the
door, reached his thin hand out and
lifted up the telephone, Its bell vibrat
ing, it seemed, with angry, venomous
persistence through the quiet room.
"It's a telegram," he whispered.
"Yes, this is Mr. Meade's private sec
retary. Go on," he answered Into the
mouthpiece of the telephone.
There was another moment of ghast
ly silence while he took the message.
It was typical of ShurtlllTs character
that In spite of the horrible agitation
that filled him, he put the Instrument
down carefully on the desk, method
ically hanging up the receiver before
he turned to face the other man. He
spoke deprecatingly. No woman could
exceed the tenderness he managed to
Infuse into his ordinarily dry, emotion
less voice.
"The bridge Is In the river, sir."
"Of course ; any more."
"Abbott—and one hundred and fifty
men with It"
"Oh, my God !" said the old man.
He staggered forward. Shurtliff
caught him and helped him down Into
the big chair before the desk. The
news had been discounted in his mind,
still some kind of hope bad lingered
there. Now It was over.
"We must wire Martlet," he gasped
out
"The telegraph office said the mes
sage was addressed to you and Mart*
let >o they have got the news, sir."
"It won't be too late for the last edi
tions of the evening papers, either,"
F
«We Must Wirs Martlet," He Gasped
Out
Mid the old man. "Shurtliff, I was
going to give these documents to the
boy when he got bade, but I want them
to appear simultaneously with the
news of the failure of the bridge.
Walt" He seised the peu and signed
his to the brief letter of excul
pation.
The writing In the body of the doc
ument was weak and feeble, the rtgna
twT strong and bold. He gathered
tiie papers up loosely.
"Here," be said, "I want you to take
them to a newspaper-the Gasette
tbat will he certain to i*™« anextra
tflt Is too late for the last edition.
I want this letter of his with mine to
go side by side with the news. There
must not be a moment of uncertainty
about it."
"Mr. Meade, for God's sake—"
"Don't stop to argue with me now.
Take a taxi and get there as quickly as
you can. You are carrying my honor,
and my son's reputation. Go."
J
CHAPTER VIII.
For the Father.
Two and one-half hours later a
group of anxious reporters, clustered
at the door of the Uplift building, were
galvanized into life by the arrival of a
taxicab. Out of it leaped Bertram
Meade. He was recognized instantly.
"You know about the bridge,
Meade?" asked one, forcing his way
through the crowd, which broke into a
sudden clamor of questioning.
Meade nodded. He recognized the
speaker, their hands met. This was a
man of his own age named Rodney,
who had been Meade's classmate at
Cambridge, his devoted friend there
after. Instead of active practice, he
had chosen to become a writer on sci
entific subjects and was there as a
representative of the Engineering
News. There were sympathy*and af
fection in his voice and look, and in
the grasp of his hand.
"Have you seen my father, Rodney?"
Meade asked, quickly moving to the
elevator, followed by all the men.
"At the bouse they said he was not
there, and here at the office we get
no answer."
As Meade turned he saw his father's
secretary coming slowly through the
entrance. "Shurtliff," he called out
"My father?"
"I left him in the office two hours
ago. He told me to—to—go away and
—leave him alone. I have been wan
dering about the streets."
Outside in the street the newsboys
were shrieking:
"Extry ! Extry ! All about the col
lapse of the International bridge. Two
hundred engineers and workmen lost"
Shurtliff had one of the papers in
his hand. Meade tore it from him.
"Who Is Responsible?" stared at him
lu big red headlines.
"Gentlemen," said Meade, "I can
answer that question"—he held np the
paper so that all might see—"the fault
—the blame—is mine."
"We'll have to see your father,
Bert," said Rodney.
"He Is In this building, we know,
and he'll never leave It without run
ning the- gantlet of ns all," cried an
other amid a chorus of approval.
Meade realized there was no escape.
They all piled Into the elevator with
him and Shurtliff. They followed him
np the corridor. He stopped before
the door of the office.
"I forbid you to come In," he Said.
"This Is my father's private—"
"Have no fear, Bert," said Rodney
firmly. "We don't intend to break in.
We understand how you feel. We will
wait here until you say the word, and
then all we shall want will be a state
ment from your father."
"Thank you, old man. Come, Shurt
liff," said Meade, turning his key In
the lock. The two men entered and
carefully closed the door behind them.
The door was scarcely shut when
Helen Illingworth left the elevator and
came rapidly up the corridor. She had
called at the office before and bad no
need to ask the way. The reporters
gathered around the door moved to
give her passage while they stared at
her with deep if respectful curiosity.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," she began,
"but I am very anxious to see the
younger Bertram Meads."
"He has Just gone into the office,"
answered Rodney respectfully.
The girl raised her hand to knock.
"A moment, please; perhaps yon had
better understand the situation. The
International bridge—"
The girl came to a sudden determi
nation. Sie could not declare herself
too soon or too publicly.
"My name Is Illingworth," die said,
and as the hats of the surprised report
mu came off, die continued, "I am the
daughter of the president of the Mart
let Bridge company, which was erect
ing the International."
"Yes, Miss mtngwortit," answered
Rodney, "and did yon come here to
represent him?"
"I am Mr. Bertram Meade, Jr.'s,
promised wife, and I am here because
It Is the place where I ought to be.
When the man I love Is in trouble, I
must be with him."
V I
to
as
a
a
a
a
at
a
She raised her hand again, but Rod
ney was too quick for her. He knocked
lightly on the door, and then struck
it heavily several times. The sound
rang hollowly through the corridor, as
it always does when the door of an
empty room is beaten upon. There
was no answer for a moment.
"Oh, I must get in," said the wom
an.
Rodney knocked again, and this time
the door was opened. Shurtliff stood
in the way. He hud been white and
shaken before, but now so anguished
and shocked was his appearance that
everybody stared. Shurtliff moistened
his lips and tried to speak. He could
not utter a word, but he did manage
to point toward the private office.
"Perhaps I would better go first,"
said Rodney, as the secretary stepped
back and gave them passage.
Helen Illingworth followed, and then
the rest. Young Meade was standing
erect by his father's chair. The great
bulk of the old engineer was slouched
down, his body bent over, his head
.on the desk, face downward. One
great arm, his left, extended, shot
straight across the desk. His fist
was clenched, bis right arm hung limp
by his side. He was still.
There was something unmistakably
terrible in his motionless aspect. They
had no need to ask what had hap
pened. A sharp exclamation from the
woman was the only sound that broke
the silence, as she stepped to her lov
er's side.
"You can't question my father now.
gentlemen," said Meade ; "he is dead."
In the outer office they heard Shurt
liff brokenly calling the doctor on the
telephone and asking him to notify the
police.
"Did he—" began one, hesitatingly.
"He was too big a man to do himself
any hurt, I know," answered Meade
proudly, as he divined the question.
"The autopsy will tell. But I am sure
that the failure of the bridge has
broken his heart"
"And we can't fix the responsibility
now," said Rodney, who for his friend's
sake was glad of this consequence of
the old man's death.
"Yes, you can," said the young man.
He leaned forward and laid his right
hand on his dead father's shoulder.
Helen Illingworth had possessed her
self of his left hand. She lifted it and
held it to her heart The engineer
seemed unconscious of the action, and
still it was the greatest thing he had
ever experienced. Meade spoke slowly
and with the most weighty delibera
tion in an obvions endeavor to give hls
statement snch clear definiteness that
no one could mistake It
'Here in the presence of my dead
father," he began, "I solemnly declare
that I alone am responsible for the de
sign of the member that failed. My
father was getting along in years. He
left a great part of the work to me. He
pointed out what he thought was a
structural weakness lu the trusses, but
I overbore hls objections. I alone am
to blame. The Martlet Bridge company
employed us both. They said they
wanted the benefit of my father's long
experience and my later training and
research."
"Do you realize, Meade," said Rod
ney, as the pencils of the reporters
flew across their pads, "that In assum
ing this responsibility which, your fa
ther being dead, cannot be—"
"I know it means the end of my ca
reer," said Meade, foreing himself to
speak. "My father's reputation Is
dearer to me than anything on earth.'
Even than I?" whispered the
woman.
Oh, my God!" burst out the man,
and then he checked himself and con
tinued with the same monotonous de
liberation as before, and with even
more emphasis, "I can allow no other
Interest In life, however great, to pre
vent me from doing my full duty to my
father."
He had been fully resolved to pro
tect hls old father's fame had the fa
ther survived the shock. The appeal
of the dead man was even more power
ful than If he had lived. Meade could
not glance down at that crushed,
broken, impotent figure and fall to re
spond. It was not so much love—never
had he loved Helen Illingworth so
much as then—as It was honor. The
obligation must be met though his
heart broke like hls father's ; even If it
killed him, too.
And the woman! How If It killed
her? He could not think of that He
could think of nothing but of that in
ert body and its demand.
"Have you no witnesses, no evidence
to substantiate your extraordinary
statement?" asked Rodney.
"I can snbstaaflpte It" said Shnrt
Uff, coming into the room, having fin
ished hls telephoning. "The doctor and
the police will be here Immediately,
but before they come—" and he drew
himself up and faced the reporters
boldly. "Gentlemen, I can testify that
everything that Mr. Bertram Meade
has said is true. I happened to be here
when my dead friend and employer got
the telegram announcing the failure of.
the bridge and, although he knew it
was hls son's fault, he bravely offered
to assume the responsibility and he
told me to go to the newspapers and
Rod
as
an
time
and
that
then
One
shot
fist
the
lov
the
the
has
of
hls
de
My
He
He
a
am
to
Is
so
it
tell them that it was his fault und that
his son had protested in vain against
his design."
"Why didn't you do it?" asked one
of the reporters.
"I couldn't, sir," faltered the old
man. "It wasn't true. The son there
was to blame."
He sank down in his seat and cov
ered his face with his hands and brok
into dry, horrible sobs. It was not easy
for him either, this shifting of responsi
bility.
"You see," said young Meade,
guess that settles the matter. Now you
have nothing more to do here."
"Nothing," said Rodney at last, "not
in this office at least. We must wait
for the doctor, but we can do that out
side."
One by one the men filed out, leav
ing the dead engineer with his son, the
secretary, and the woman in the room
"Bert," said the woman, laying her
hand on hls shoulder, "why or how
feel it I cannot tell, but I know in my
L
?
"He Will Point Out Some Way—*
heart that you are doing this for your
father's sake, that what you said was
not true. Things you have said to
me—"
"Did I ever say anything to you,"
began Meade in fierce alarm, while
Shurtliff started to speak but checked
himself, "to lead you to think that I
suspected any weakness in the bridge?"
# The woman was watching him keen
ly and listening to him with every
sense on the alert. Nothing was es
caping her and she detected in his
voice a note of sharp alarm and anx
iety as if he might have said some
thing which could be used to discredit
hls assertion now.
"Perhaps not in words but in little
things, suggestions," she answered
quietly. "I can't pat my hand on any
of them, I can hardly recall anything,
but the impression is there."
Meade smiled miserably at her and
again her searching eyes detected re
lief in his. „
"It is your affection that makes you
say that," he said, "and as you admit
there is really nothing. What I said
just now is true."
It was much harder to speak the
He to this clear-eyed woman, who loved
him, than to the reporters. He could
scarcely complete his sentence, and in
the end sought to look away.
"Bertram Meade," said the woman,
putting both her hands upon hls shoul
der, "look me in thé face and tell me
that you have spoken the truth and
that the blame is yours."
Meade fried hls best to return her
glance, but those blue eyes plunged
through him like steel blades. He did
not dream in their softness could be
developed such fire. He was speech
less. After a moment he looked away.
He shut his lips firmly. He could not
sustain her glance, but nothing could
make him retract or unsay his words.
"I have said it," he managed to get
out hoarsely. »
'It's brave of you. It's splendid of
you," she said. "I won't betray you. I
don't have to."
'What do you mean?" asked the
man.
But the woman had how turned to
Shurtliff. In his turn she also seized
him In her emotion and she shook him
almost eagerly.
"You, you know that it is not true.
Speak!"
But she had not the power over the
older man that she had over the young
er. The secretary forced himself to look
at her. He cared nothing for Miss Il
lingworth, but he had a passion for
the older Meade that matched hers for
the younger.
"He has told the truth," he cried al
most like a baited animai. "No one is
going to ruin the reputation of the
man I have served and to whom I have
given my life without protest from me.
It's hls fault, his, his, his!" he cried,
his voice rising with every repetition
of the pronoun as he pointed at Meade.
Helen Illingworth turned to her lover
again. She was quieter now.
"I know that neither of you is telling
the truth," she said. "Lying for a
great cause, lying in splendid self-sae-1
riflee. You are ruining yourself for
your father's name and he is abetting,
Why? It can't make any difference to
I
him now. But it makes a greet differ
ence to me. Have you thought of that?
I'm going to marry you anyway. Only
tell me the truth, Bert. By our love I
ask you. If you want me to keep your
secret I'll do it. But if you won't tell
me I'll get that evidence, I will find
out the truth, and then I shall publish
it to the whole world and then—"
"And you would marry me then?"
asked Meade, swept away by this pro
found pleading.
"I will marry you now, instantly, at
any time," answered the girl. "Indeed
you need me. Guilty or innocent, I am
yours and you are mine."
"Listen," protested the engineer,
"nothing will ever relieve me of the
blame, of the shame, of the disgrace of
tills. But I am a man. I have youth
still, and strength and inspiration. Un
til I can hoty up my head among men
I am nothing to you and you are free.'
There was a finality in his tone
which the woman recognized. She
could as well break it down as batter
a stone wall with her naked fist. She
looked at him a long time.
"Very well," she said at last, "unless
I shall be your wife I shall be the wife
of no man. I shall wait confident in
the hope that there is a just God, and
that he will point out some way
CHAPTER IX.
The Unaccepted Renunciation.
The doctor and the officers of the
law entered the outer office. In spite
of the brave words that had been
spoken by the woman, the man conld
only see a long parting and an uncer
tain future. He realized it the more
when old Colonel Illingjvorth entered
the room In the wake of the others.
After he had recovered himself he had
hurried to the station in time to catch
the next train and had come to New
York, realizing at once where his
daughter must have gone.
"My father is dead," said Meade as
the doctor and the officers of the law
examined the body of the old man
The son had eyes for no one but the
old colonel. "The failure of the bridge
has broken bis heart; my failure, I'd
better say."
"I understand," said Illingworth. "He
is fortunate. I would rather have died
than have seen any son of mine
forced to confess criminal incompe
tency like yours."
"Father," said the girl with a reso
lution and firmness singularly like his
own. "I can't hear you speak this way,
and I will not"
"Do you go with him or do you not?"
thundered the colonel.
It was Meade who answered for her.
"She goes with you. I love her and
she loves me, but I won't drag her
down in my ruin."
"I am glad to see honor and decency
are in you still," said the colonel, "even
if you are incompetent."
If you say another word to him I
will never go with you as long as I
live," flashed out Helen Illingworth.
"I deserve all that he can say. Your
dnty la with him. Good-by," said
Meade.
"And I shall see you again?"
"Of course. Now you must go with
your father."
Helen Illingworth turned to the colo
neL
"I shall go with you because he bids
me, not because—"
"Whatever the reason," said the old
soldier, "you go." He paused a mo
ment, looking from the dead man to
the living one. "Meade," he exclaimed
at last, "I am sorry for your father,
am sorry for you. Good-by, and
never want to see you or hear of you
again. Come, Helen."
The woman stretched out her hand
toward her lover as her father took
her by the arm. Meade looked at her a
moment and then turned away delib
erately as if to mark the final sever
ance.
With bent head and beating heart,
she followed her father out of the
room. There he had to fight off the
reporters. He denied that hls daugh
ter was going to marry young Meade.
She strove to speak and he strove to
force her to be quiet. In the end she
had her way.
"At Mr. Meade's own request," she
said finally, "onr engagement has been
broken off. Personally I consider my
self as much bound as ever, bat in
deference to hls wishes and to my fa
ther'»—"
"Have you said «hough?" roared the
colonel, losing ail control of himself at
last. "No, I will not be questioned or
Interrupted another minute. Come."
He almost dragged the girl from the
room.
Within the private office the phy
sician said that everything pointed to a
heart lesion, but only an autopsy would
absolutely determine it. Meanwhile the
law wonld have to take charge of the
body temporarily. It was late at night
before Bertram Meade and old Shurt
Uff were left alone. Carefully, seeing
-that no one was present in the suite
of offices Meade turned to Shurtliff.
a j
for
j
"Get me that memorandum I wrote
to my father. You know where he kept
It."
"Yes, sir, separate from the other
to papers concerning the International, in
that?
Only
I
your
tell
find
pro
at
am
the
of
Un
men
tone
She
She
wife
in
and
the
spite
been
had
New
his
as
law
the
I'd
"He
died
his
her.
and
her
I
I
old
mo
to
a
to
in
at
a
the third compartment." He turned
the big safe door slowly. The third
compartment was empty. "It's gone,"
he said.
Meade went to the safe, a small one,
and examined it carefully and fruitless
ly. His letter was not there with the
other papers, where it should have
been if it were in existence. It was
not anywhere.
"Father told me he was going to de
stroy it, but I rather thought he was
keeping It to have some fun with me
when the bridge was completed," he
said at last.
"Yes, sir, that was hls Intention. Ia
fact, I know he did not destroy it at
first. He told me to file It with the
plans. He must have destroyed it
later. I haven't looked in this com
partment for weeks."
"I'll never forget the lie you told to
back me up, Shurtliff. I can see you
loved him as much as I."
"No one will ever know the truth
from me, sir. You saved your father'»
name and fame."
"I think we had better search the
office now. I wouldn't have that paper
come to life for the world," said Meade..
Shurtliff was the most orderly of
men. The care of the old engineer'»
papers and other arrangements had de
volved upon him. The search was soon
completed.
"I guess he must have destroyed it,"'
said the young man, "but to be sure f
will examine his private papers at
home. Good night. You will be going
yourself?"
"In a few minutes, sir."
"Come to me in the morning after!
the autopsy and we will arrange for,
the funeral," said the younger man oa
he left the office.
Shurtliff waited until his footsteps
died away in the hall. He waited un
til he heard the clang of the elevator
gate. Even then he was not sure. He
got up and in hls catlike way opened
the door of the office and peered down!
the hall. It was empty. He stood in
the door waiting, while the night ele
vator made several trips up and down
without pausing at that floor. He sat
down at the dead man's desk. From hls
pocket he drew forth a packet of pa
pers.
* • ' — 0 ~- •' * * ,
There were no legal proceedings, al
though there were many inquests at
the bridge. The cause of the failure
was clear. It was recognized by every
one, whose opinion was worth consid
ering, that the disaster had resulted
from a mistake which any engineer
could have made. As a matter of fact
there was no experience to guide th®
designers. There never had been such
a bridge before. Certain elements of
empiricism had to enter Into their cal
culations. They had made the plan
after their best Judgment and it had
failed. They could be blamed, evea
vilified as they were in the press, but
that was the extent of their punish
ment.
The bitter weight of censure fell en
tirely upon Bertram Meade. His ruin
as an engineer was Immediate and ab
solute. He was the scapegoat. No onei
had any good to say of him except Rod
ney, who fought valiantly for his friend
and classmate, at least striving to
mitigate the censure by pointing ont
the quick and ready acknowledgment
of the error which might have been
ascribed to the dead man without fear
of contradiction.
An effort was made by competitor»
and stock speculators to ruin the Mart
let Bridge company. By throwing into
the gap their private fortune» to th*
last dollar and by herculean work oft
the part of their friends, the directors
saved the Martlet company, although
Its losses were tremendous and almost
insupportable, not only In money, but
in prestige and reputation. Colonel;
Illingworth came out of the struggl»
older and grayer than ever. The terrific
combat had left him almost broken for:
a time, and hls daughter saw that ltj
was not possible even to mention Bert
ram Steade to him, then. y
The funeral of the great engineer!
had been strictly private. Only hl»!
confreres, men who stood high taj
scientific circles, certain people for!
whom he had made great and succea»-i
ful designs, a few others whose tiW
were personal, had been invited to thej
house for the services. The interment!
was In the little Connecticut town of)
Milford, in which the older Meade h«»
been born, and from which he had gooei
forth as a boy to conquer the world.
Th» next installment telle of
young Meade's big move, which
leads to oven more startling oon
sequences than the recent hap
penings in his life.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Optimistic thought.
A bad custom Is better broke» than!
kept