Oliver's footsteps sounded in the outer hall. She rose quickly and met him on the outside, half closing the door, so that she could tell him the dreadful news without being overheard.
"Broken their promises to father? Impossible!
Why? What for? Another invention? Oh, it cannot be!"
He walked quickly toward him. "But father, what about your patents? They can't rob you of them. Suppose this man's motor is better."
Richard did not move. He seemed unwilling to look his son in the face.
"Let me take hold of this thing." Oliver was bending over him now, his arms about his neck. "I'll see Mr. Slade at once. I met him this morning and told him you were here, and he is coming to call on you. He has always stood by me and will now.
These people who have disappointed you are not the only ones who have got money. Mr. Slade, you know, is now a banker himself. I will begin to-morrow to fight this new man who--"
"No, no, my son, you must do nothing of the kind," said Richard leaning his cheek wearily against Oliver's hand, as if for warmth and protection, but still looking into the fire. "It would not be right to take from him what he has honestly earned. The lifting power of his machine is four times my own, and the adjustment of the levers much simpler. He has only accomplished what I failed to do. I am not quite sure but I think he uses the same arrangement of levers that I do, but everything else is his. Such a man is to be helped, not worried with lawsuits. No, my son, I must bear it as best I may. Your poor mother!" He stopped suddenly and passed his hand over his eyes, and in a broken, halting voice, added:
"I've tried so hard to make her old age happier. I fear for the result when the news reaches her. And you and this poor girl!"--and he reached out his hand to Margaret--"this is the part that is hardest to bear."
Oliver disengaged his arm from his father's neck and walked up and down the room, Madge watching him. His mind was searching about for some way to stem the tide of disaster. Every movement of his body expressing his determination. He was not thinking of himself. He saw only Madge and his mother. Then he turned again and faced his father.
"Will you let me try?" he urged in a firm voice.
"No, Oliver! Positively no."
As he spoke he straightened himself in his chair and turned toward Oliver. His voice had regained something of its old-time ring and force. "To rob a man of the work of his brain is worse than to take his purse. You will agree with me, I know, when you think it over. Mr. Gorton had never heard of my invention when he perfected his, nor had I ever heard of his when I perfected mine. He is taking nothing from me; how can I take anything from him! Give me your hand my son; I am not feeling very well."
His voice fell again as if the effort had been too much for him. "I think I will go back to the hotel.
A night's rest will do me good."
He rose slowly from his chair, steadied himself by holding to Oliver's strong arm, stood for an instant looking into Margaret's eyes, and said, with infinite tenderness:
"Come close; my daughter, and kiss me."
She put her arms about him, cuddling her head against his soft cheek, smoothing his gray hair with her palm.
"My child," he said, "you have been a delight and joy to me. A woman like you is beyond price.
I thank you from the bottom of my heart for loving my son."
With something of his old manner he again straightened himself up, threw his shoulders back as if strengthened by some new determination, walked firmly across the room, and picked up his cloak. As he stood waiting for Oliver to place it about his shoulders, he put his hand to his side, with a quick movement, as if smitten by some sudden pain, staggered backward, his head upon his breast, and would have sunk to the floor but for Oliver's hand. Margaret sprang forward and caught his other arm.
"It's nothing, my son," he said, between his gasps for breath, holding on to Oliver. "A sudden giddiness. I'm often subject to it. I, perhaps, got up too quickly. It will pass over. Let me sit down for a moment."
Half supporting him, Oliver put his arm about his father and laid him on the lounge.
As Richard's head touched the cushion that Margaret had made ready, he gave a quick gasp, half rose as if to breathe the better, and fell back unconscious.
When the doctor arrived Richard was lying on Margaret's bed, where Oliver had carried him, he had rallied a little, and had then sunk into a deep sleep. Margaret sat beside him, watching every breath he drew, the scalding tears streaming down her face.
The physician bent closer and pressed his ear to the sleeping man's breast "Has he been subject to these attacks?" he said, in a grave tone.
"I know of only one some years ago, the year the war broke out, but he recovered then very quickly," answered Oliver.
"Is your mother living!"
"Yes."
"Better send her word at once."
