Evening Star Newspaper, November 17, 1929, Page 101

SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C., NO EMBER 17, 1929. a proposition for this house. He accepted it. In 1912, when he was determined to get rid of his stock, I made him a proposition for that. He accepted it. You say yourself that he never criticized my fairness. Well, may I say, then, that I consider your present language—and also the subterfuges which led up to this inter- view—distinctly shabby?” “I don’t doubt it. But to get back to the main point, I'm ready to sell you my land for $10,000—and conditions.” “Conditions? What conditions?” She looked through the big bay-window to the lawn. “Why—I can’t help remembering what it used to be like, out here, when I lived in this very house. Why the bit of lawn we're squabbling about was just an orchard on a country lane. Then you came along. And what have you done? Made a model village? No, you've built up a wonderful money-making machine—and one of the horridest-looking communities I've ever seen in my life. It—" “I happen to be a manufacturer,” said the president, caustically, “and not a philanthropist. And what concern is it of yours?” “Why,” she said, “in two ways. One is the thing that you'd have done here, if my father had kept his stock—and you'd kept your prom- ises. The other—well, to tell the truth, I couldn't afford to buy such a very fine monu- ment for him. So it occurred to me that may- be you'd like to combine these two ideas, and put up that monument yourself. I'm speaking only figuratively, of course. I mean for you to do what he'd have done, himself. His hous- ing scheme, and——" “I make no conditions whatsoever,” said Bradburn, deliberately. “State your price in cash.” The girl sighed. “You just can’t think of anything but money, can you?” “Mrs. Kent,” he said, “I have never yet con- fused sentiment with business.” “Still, that doesn’t say you're not going to begin, does it? Because, if you don’t meet my terms, you'll never have that land, never, never, mever! And I'm not fooling, either!” ‘The president, tortured anew, closed his eyes. “You think you can dispose of it to anybody else? Do you realize that all I've got to say is, ‘Change such-and-such vent-pipe—move such-and-such exhaust’—and so and so on—to poison that miserable little acre with gases and cover it with soot? Mrs, Kent, only one building will ever be erected on that land—and 'l belong to me!” “That may be so. But I'll still own the last scrap of clean, decent, honest soil in this hor- rible village that you've made! And I'll put up a marble shaft. And I'll have carved on it: “Sacred to the memory of George Fernie, M. D. —who would die of shame, if he could stand here today and look around!” ” Blindly, the president reached for the bell. “That's about enough,” he said. “The man'll show you out.” She stood quivering. “Oh, you needn’t bother ;:ur servants! I know the way. I used to live re.” Behind her, Philip, hat in hand, exclaimed: “Why—why, Noel! Why, what's the matter? What's he been saying to you?” The president clambered to his feet, “What has it got to do with you?” he roared. “And— and you knew this woman, Phil? You knew she——" Speech failed him, and he stood mute, There was a tense of silence. The secretary came bravely forward and put his arm around Dr. Fernie’s daughter, Bradburn's voice was very low. “You've been pretty smooth, Philip—haven't you? Pretty smooth—both of you. How did this—happen?” PHILIP cleared his throat. “I ran across Noel in town, sir—three weeks ago. We—re- membered each other. We talked of the past. She told me of her husband’s death and her reasons for coming to her old home. She'd already heard from you. But she didn’t want you to know—yet—who she was. She had an idea that she wanted to put over. It's been one of mine, too. You know that Dr. Fernie’s plans are still in my files. She thought she could convince you—in her own way. So I didn't think I had any right to interfere. Especially when you wanted to close this deal yourself. So—-" The president’s voice cut like a knife. “So this has been going on for three weeks? You framed it between you to club me into this scheme—with sentimentality as the club? And you, Phil, not an hour ago took her card, and— oh, you're a good actor, Phil! Far too good to be tied down to the chemical business!” He leveled his arm at his son. “And, therefore, you have my permission to quit my room—and my house—and my employ—with this woman that you've ranked ahead of your loyalty to your own father and to your own company!” The girl flushed. “Listen to me, Mr. Brad- burn—"" “I've listened to you quite enough,” he said, in the same cutting monotone. “I begin to realize what your methods are, now. If you fancied you could use my own son as a lever against me, you were never so thoroughly mis- taken.” “One would imagine,” she said, “that meth- ods so like your own would appeal to you. The fact that I love Phil had nothing whatsoever to do with my coming here this afternoon. I came because you asked me, and——" “Will you leave for the same reason?” he de- manded. Philip wet his lips.” “Listen, Father——" The president inclined his head formally. “You've kept your mouth pretty tight shut about this affair, Philip, and you don't need to open it now. Get out!” ‘The secretary had lost color, 12> “Yes, get out.” ‘The silence lengthened. The girl said: “Per- haps we'd better go, then, Phil.” Bradburn’s voice came to her. gotten your bag, this time!” She opened the bag and drew out a little packet of letters. The president’s eyes never flickered. “Philip,” he said curtly, “go and wait in the drawing room until I send for you, or send you a mes- senger.” “But, Father——" “Do you mean “You've for- " 'She stepped back. “That’s because I don’t like the word blackmail!” “Please go, dear,” said the girl. “Your father has something that he wants to discuss with me privately.” ‘The secretary went out, leaving the older man and the girl facing each other. Bradburn still stared as though mesmerized by the packet she was holding. “And where,” he asked frigidly, “did you find them?” y She flushed again. “In—in a tin box.” “You are either very clever, Mrs. Kent,” he sald, “or unscrupulous.” She mismanaged a smile. “I thought that eventually we’d understand each other.” “Have you read them?"” “Yes, of course.” “So this is refined blackmail?” “Your worst fault,” she said indignantly, “is thinking that everybody The Counting Habit. Continued from Fifth Page she has to avoid everything connected with the 13th. It is no longer lucky, but unlucky.” Such & person has shifted the responsibility of making decisions away from herself and placed the responsibility squarely on the turm of magic numbers. If she happened to count 13 children playing in a school yard, her ap- prehensions would be aroused. Something un- pleasant would happen. If she then met a friend at the turn of the corner, her distorted imagination would probably suggest that the friend wished to do her evil and that she had been forewarned. And so the entire life of such a person becomes a maze of ritual counting and fears and expectations. “Nervous people,” said Dr. Seif, “live either in yesterday or tomorrow, but they miss the full consecration to the present moment. It Learned Dr. Samuel Johnson, who counted his footsteps so he could al- ways leave the room with the same foot first. is not how long we live, but what we make of our life today.” But it is difficult even for the normal person to give himself wholly to a present situation with other people, the psychiatrist continued. We have to adjust ourselves continually to other people, but while we talk we may be playing with & button on a coat or jingling J else thinks as you do! If I'd wanted to hold you up, I could have done it ages ago! I only brought them, in case I had to show them to you—and to remind you that I can't be brow- beaten!” “Are you under the delusion that I'm afraid of you?” “No! T never flattered myself that you were. And I'll prove it!”" Forthwith, she tore seven letters into the smallest fragments. “That’s be- cause I don’t like the word blackmail!™ The president swallowed hard. “Why,” he said dazedly, “why, I don’t believe you had read them, then!” “But you're wrong. Do you want me to prove that, to0? They were all written just before Dad broke down in 1911, Shall I tell you what they said?” He didn’t answer, “It seems,” she said coins in & pocket or counting the books on a desk. Dr. Seif’s explanation of these habitual acts is that while we are yielding to the social situ- ation and complying with all the requirements of our everyday world, we keep one small part of ourselves independently to ourselves. That small part of the personality which jingles or counts has retreated to what Dr. Seif calls a “safety island,” where it asserts its independence. Applying to normal life Dr. Seif's theory of why abnarmal people count, it appears that the average person who engages in arithmo-thymia is thereby filling up the mental vacuum which his brain would abhor by spending his time with thoughts that are painless and effortless. If he is counting fence posts, he is not both- ered by the letters he ought to write, nor the rent bill, ner the embarrassing remark he made that morning. Nor, on the other hand, is he solving any of the great and weighty problems of his universe. Perhaps when Prof. Blachowski goes deeper into the subject of arithmo-thymia, as he has promised to do, he will gather statistics on how much time the average arithmo-thymic spends at his avocation and whether this should be cultivated as beneficial mental relaxation or condemned as innocuous desuetude. There are many forms of habits closely allied to the counting impulse which are also waiting for statistical studies and a complete explana- tion from science. The learned Dr. Samuel Johnson tapped with his cane against fence railings in Fleet street as he walked along, and if he missed one, he turned back to touch it. He also had the habit of counting his foot- steps so that he might go out of a door with the same foot first. And counting footsteps, by the way, is still a more widespread habit than you might imagine. Children take notions that they must not step on the cracks in the sidewalk or else they must step on every single crack. A. A. Milne delightfully shows the motive back of this game in one of his poems about Christopher Robin. Christopher imagines that masses of bears wait at the corners to eat silliess who tread on the lines, and he concludes: ’ “It’s ever so ’'portant how you walk, And it’s ever so jolly to call out, ‘Bears, Just watch me walking in all the squares!'” When another child than Christopher Robin steps over cracks, the object may not be to avoid imaginary bears, but there is some vic- torious feeling of having escaped something. Throughout all these mental stunts and habits there runs a thread of the deep-rooted human affinity for magic and superstition. Also, as Prof. Blachowski has pointed out, there is a feeling of satisfaction which arises from set- ting things in perfect order and acting in a precise or rhythmical way. These desires, apparently, are not satisfied by ‘our daily work and amusements, and so 54 per cent of us—in America, no doubt, as in Poland— have arithmo-thymia as a more or less regular (Copyright, 1929.) gently, “that you loved my mother, didn’t you? You tried to persuade her to leave my father, didn’t you? But you found that persuasion stock to suit you, so you made it look as though you were on the ragged edge of nothing, and shook him off, and, as soon as he was shaken off, you began to pay dividends. And it’s in- to see that, after all these years, your of attack hasn't changed in the slightest.” the president shifted his position so as more to meet her eyes. His own were and less steely than before, but the girl on: love your son, and even the fact that he son doesn’'t make any difference. You can make my land unsalable: what of it? You can disinherit Phil: what of it? I've got a little money, and both of us know how to work. You can’t spoil our lives. Why, you're in a terribly bad way, Mr. Bradburn—there’s nobody left for you to frighten—not unless you hire them.” Snl was aware, then, that he was wrestling with an emotion. “This threat you speak - of,” he said, unsteadily, “did your mother—do you know if your mother—assumed that I had carried it out? To injure George?” “Certainly she did! All her life. Wasn't it plain enough?” The president’s lips trembled a little. “Is that true?” “Certainly it is. She told me when I was 16. She never told Dad, though. It would have killed him.” “Then I will tell you the truth,” he said, with Increasing huskiness. “I wrote that—threat— in & mood that I regret. I never meant it. I cannot conceive, now, how I could ever have written it. But I did not carry it out. I wrote George 20 letters—when he was here, when he was in France, when he was in California— begging him to hang on to some of his stock. I can show you carbon copies of those letters— it’s unfortunate that you didn't find the orig- inals . . . in some other tin box. Because I knew what I could do with this business! But your mother influenced him—or so I suspect— to sell out. I bought what stock he had—and paid him three points above the market. I worked 18 hours of the 24. But I hung on. I made it go. I knew that I could make it go. And I never juggled figures, They were bad enough of themselves. Did you ever know that I had to borrow the money to buy George’s stock? I did, though. You see, I was im it even deeper than George was. If he’d have suffered with me for another year or two, I'd have made him rich. But he chose to suffer alone. And now you tell me that your mother thought I swindled him! I never knew she thought that! I never knew it. I suppose she knew that I'd written her—in a sort of des- peration. That was the last time I ever wrote her—or saw her. And now it's too late, it's too late. “Considering what you have thought of me” he went on, “I can hardly blame you for your behavior—or your camouflage—or your phrases, You have courage—which you may have in- herited. I should like to buy your land. On your own terms. As you suggest, a kind of memorial to George.”” Then he turned his head away, and she saw that his shoulders were shaking. “I didn’t know she ever thought I could really be swine enough to do that!” he said brokenly. “I didn’t mean it. And I'd have made them rich!” ‘The girl looked at him keenly. “I could read into your letters all the loneliness and strain and worry you endured. Even when I loathed you, Mother didn't understand you, but I do. She thought you meant what you said. But I've seen enough of life to make allowances. And do you suppose I'd tell a single soul about it—even Phil? Why, I wouldn't do that—any more than Mother told Dad. But, perhaps you'll want to yourself. Take the old land— but won't you please be nice to Phil? Don% you owe it to me—in a way?” “So—in spite of the fact that he’s my son— you're going to marry him?” “Not going to,” she said. “I did—yesterday.” (Copyright, 1929.)