“You’ll see to it, of course,” said Northwick. “I’m going away in the morning, and I don’t know just how long I shall be gone.” Northwick satisfied his mechanical scruple against telling a lie by this formula; and in its shelter he went on to give Elbridge instructions about the management of the place in his absence. He took some money from his pocket-book and handed it to him for certain expenses, and then he said, “I want to take the five o’clock train, that reaches Ponkwasset at nine. You can drive me up with the black mare.”
“All right,” said Elbridge; but his tone expressed a shadow of reluctance that did not escape Northwick.
“Anything the matter?” he asked.
“I dunno. Our little boy don’t seem to be very well.”
“What ails him?” asked Northwick, with the sympathy it was a relief for him to feel.
“Well, Dr. Morrell’s just been there, and he’s afraid it’s the membranous crou—” The last letter stuck in Elbridge’s throat; he gulped it down.
“Oh, I hope not,” said Northwick.
“He’s comin’ back again — he had to go off to another place — but I could see ‘twa’n’t no use,” said Elbridge with patient despair; he had got himself in hand again, and spoke clearly.
Northwick shrank back from the shadow sweeping so near him; a shadow thrown from the skies, no doubt, but terrible in its blackness on the earth. “Why, of course, you mustn’t think of leaving your wife. You must telephone Simpson to come for me.”
“All right.” Elbridge took himself away.
Northwick watched him across the icy stable-yard, going to the coachman’s quarters in that cosy corner of the spreading barn; the windows were still as cheerily bright with lamplight as when they struck a pang of dumb envy to Northwick’s heart. The child’s sickness must have been very sudden for his daughters not to have known of it. He thought he ought to call Adeline, and send her in there to those poor people; but he reflected that she could do no good, and he spared her the useless pain; she would soon need all her strength for herself. His thought returned to his own cares, from which the trouble of another had lured it for a moment. But when he heard the doctor’s sleigh-bells clash into the stable-yard, he decided to go himself and show the interest his family ought to feel in the matter.
No one answered his knock at Elbridge’s door, and he opened it and found his way into the room, where Elbridge and his wife were with the doctor. The little boy had started up in his crib, and was struggling, with his arms thrown wildly about.
“There! There, he’s got another of them chokin’ spells!” screamed the mother. “Elbridge Newton, ain’t you goin’ to do anything? Oh help him, save him, Dr. Morrell! Oh, I should think you’d be ashamed to let him suffer so!” She sprang upon the child, and caught him from the doctor’s hands, and turned him this way and that trying to ease him; he was suddenly quiet, and she said, “There, I just knew I could do it! What are you big, strong men good for, any—” She looked down at the child’s face in her arms, and then up at the doctor’s, and she gave a wild screech, like the cry of one in piercing torment.
It turned Northwick heart-sick. He felt himself worse than helpless there; but he went to the farmer’s house, and told the farmer’s wife to go over to the Newtons’; their little boy had just died. He heard her coming before he reached his own door, and when he reached his room, he heard the bells of the doctor’s sleigh clashing out of the avenue.
The voice and the look of that childless mother haunted him. She had been one of the hat-shop hands, a flighty, nervous thing, madly in love with Elbridge, whom she ruled with a sort of frantic devotion since their marriage, compensating his cool quiet with a perpetual flutter of exaggerated sensibilities in every direction. But somehow she had put Northwick in mind of his own mother, and he thought of the chance or the will that had bereaved one and spared the other, and he envied the little boy who had just died.
He considered the case of the parents who would want to make full outward show of their grief, and he wrote Elbridge a note, to be given him in the morning, and enclosed one of the bills he was taking from the company; he hoped Elbridge would accept it from him towards the expenses he must meet at such a time.
Then he wheeled his chair about to the fire and stretched his legs out to get what rest he could before the hour of starting. He would have liked to go to bed, but he was afraid of oversleeping himself in case Elbridge had neglected to telephone Simpson. But he did not believe this possible, and he had smoothly confided himself to his experience of Elbridge’s infallibility, when he started awake at the sound of bells before the front door, and then the titter of the electric bell over his bed in the next room. He thought it was an officer come to arrest him, but he remembered that only his household was acquainted with the use of that bell, and then he wondered that Simpson should have found it out. He put on his overcoat and arctics and caught up his bag, and hurried down stairs and out of doors. It was Elbridge who was waiting for him on the threshold, and took his bag from him.
“Why! Where’s Simpson?” he asked. “Couldn’t you get him?”
“It’s all right,” said Elbridge, opening the door of the booby, and gently bundling Northwick into it. “I could come just’s easy as not. I thought you’d ride better in the booby; it’s a little mite chilly for the cutter.” The stars seemed points of ice in the freezing sky; the broken snow clinked like charcoal around Elbridge’s feet. He shut the booby door and then came back and opened it slightly. “I wa’n’t agoin’ to let no Simpson carry you to no train, noway.”
The tears came into Northwick’s eyes, and he tried to say, “Why, thank you, Elbridge,” but the door shut upon his failure, and Elbridge mounted to his place and drove away. Northwick had been able to get out of his house only upon condition that he should behave as if he were going to be gone on an ordinary journey. He had to keep the same terms with himself on the way to the station. When he got out there he said to Elbridge, “I’ve left a note for you on my desk. I’m sorry to be leaving home — at such a time — when you’ve—”
“You’ll telegraph when to meet you?” Elbridge suggested.
“Yes,” said Northwick. He went inside the station, which was deliciously warm from the large register in the centre of the room, and brilliantly lighted in readiness for the train now almost due. The closing of the door behind Northwick roused a little black figure drooping forward on the benching in one corner. It was the drunken lawyer. There had been some displeasures, general and personal, between the two men, and they did not speak; but now, at sight of Northwick, Putney came forward, and fixed him severely with his eye.
“Northwick! Do you know who you tried to drive over, last evening?”
Northwick returned his regard with the half-ironical, half-patronizing look a dull man puts on with a person of less fortune but more brain. “I didn’t see you, Mr. Putney, until I was quite upon you. The horses—”
“It was the Law you tried to drive over!” thundered the little man with a voice out of keeping with his slender body. “Don’t try it too often! You can’t drive over the Law, yet — you haven’t quite millions enough for that. Heigh? That so?” he queried, sensible of the anti-climax of asking such a question in that way, but tipsily helpless in it.
Northwick did not answer; he walked to the other end of the station set off for ladies, and Putney did not follow him. The train came in, and Northwick went out and got aboard.
VII.
The president of the Board, who had called Northwick a thief, and yet had got him a chance to make himself an honest man, was awake at the hour the defaulter absconded, after passing quite as sleepless a night. He had kept a dinner engagement, hoping to forget Northwick, but he seemed to be eating and drinking him at every course. When he came home toward eleven o’clock, he went to his library and sat down before the fire. His wife had gone to bed, and his son and daughter were at a ball; and he sat there alone, smoking impatiently.
He told the man who
looked in to see if he wanted anything that he might go to bed; he need not sit up for the young people. Hilary had that kind of consideration for servants, and he liked to practise it; he liked to realize that he was practising it now, in a moment when every habit of his life might very well yield to the great and varying anxieties which beset him.
He had an ideal of conduct, of what was due from him to himself, as a gentleman and a citizen, and he could not conceal from himself that he had been mainly instrumental in the escape of a rogue from justice, when he got the Board to give Northwick a chance. His ideals had not hitherto stood in the way of his comfort, his entire repose of mind, any more than they had impaired his prosperity, though they were of a kind far above those which commercial honor permits a man to be content with. He held himself bound, as a man of a certain origin and social tradition, to have public spirit, and he had a great deal of it. He believed that he owed it to the community to do nothing to lower its standards of personal integrity and responsibility; and he distinguished himself by a gratified consciousness from those people of chromo-morality, who held all sorts of loose notions on such points. His name stood not merely for so much money; many names stood for far more; but it meant reliability, it meant honesty, it meant good faith. He really loved these things, though, no doubt, he loved them less for their own sake than because they were spiritual properties of Eben Hilary. He did not expect everybody else to have them, but his theory of life exacted that they should be held the chief virtues. He was so conscious of their value that he ignored all those minor qualities in himself which rendered him not only bearable but even lovable; he was not aware of having any sort of foibles, so that any error of conduct in himself surprised him even more than it pained him. It was not easy to recognize it; but when he once saw it, he was not only willing but eager to repair it.
The error that he had committed in Northwick’s case, if it was an error, was one that presented peculiar difficulties, as every error in life does; the errors love an infinite complexity of disguise, and masquerade as all sorts of things. There were moments when Hilary saw his mistake so clearly that it seemed to him nothing less than the repayment of Northwick’s thefts from his own pocket would satisfy the claims of justice to his fellow-losers if Northwick ran away; and then again, it looked like the act of wise mercy which it had appeared to him when he was urging the Board to give the man a chance as the only thing which they could hopefully do in the circumstances, as common sense, as business. But it was now so obvious that a man like Northwick could and would do nothing but run away if he were given the chance, that he seemed to have been his accomplice when he used the force of his personal character with them in Northwick’s behalf. He was in a ridiculous position, there was no doubt of that, and he was not going to get out of it without much painful wear and tear of pride, of self-respect.
After a long time he looked at the clock, and found it still early for the return of his young people. He was impatient to see his son, and to get the situation in the light of his mind, and see how it looked there. He had already told him of the defalcation, and of what the Board had decided to do with Northwick; but this was while he was still in the glow of action, and he had spoken very hurriedly with Matt who came in just as he was going out to dinner; it was before his cold fit came on.
He had reached that time of life when a man likes to lay his troubles before his son; and in the view his son usually took of his troubles, Hilary seemed to find another mood of his own. It was a fresher, different self dealing with them; for the fellow was not only younger and more vigorous; he was another temperament with the same interests, and often the same principles. He had disappointed Hilary in some ways, but he had gratified his pride in the very ways he had disappointed him. The father had expected the son to go into business, and Matt did go into the mills at Ponkwasset, where he was to be superintendent in the natural course. But one day he came home and told his father that he had begun to have his doubts of the existing relations of labor and capital; and until he could see his way clearer he would rather give up his chance with the company. It was a keen disappointment to Hilary; he made no concealment of that; but he did not quarrel with his son about it. He robustly tolerated Matt’s queer notions, not only because he was a father who blindly doted on his children and behaved as if everything they did was right, no matter if it put him in the wrong, but because he chose to respect the fellow’s principles, if those were his principles. He had his own principles, and Matt should have his if he liked. He bore entirely well the purpose of going abroad that Matt expressed, and he wished to give him much more money than the fellow would take, to carry on those researches which he made in his travels. When he came back and published his monograph on work and wages in Europe, Hilary paid the expense, and took as unselfish an interest in the slow and meagre sale of the little book as if it had cost him nothing.
Eben Hilary had been a crank, too, in his day, so far as to have gone counter to the most respectable feeling of business in Boston, when he came out an abolitionist. His individual impulse to radicalism had exhausted itself in that direction; we are each of us good for only a certain degree of advance in opinion; few men are indefinitely progressive; and Hilary had not caught on to the movement that was carrying his son with it. But he understood how his son should be what he was, and he loved him so much that he almost honored him for what he called his balderdash about industrial slavery. His heart lifted when at last he heard the scratching of the night-latch at the door below, and he made lumbering haste down stairs to open and let the young people in. He reached the door as they opened it, and in the momentary lightness of his soul at sight of his children, he gave them a gay welcome, and took his daughter, all a fluff of soft silken and furry wraps, into his arms.
“Oh, don’t kiss my nose!” she called out. “It’ll freeze you to death, papa! What in the world are you up, for? Anything the matter with mamma?”
“No. She was in bed when I came home; I thought I would sit up and ask what sort of a time you’d had.”
“Did you ever know me to have a bad one? I had the best time in the world. I danced every dance, and I enjoyed it just as much as if I had ‘shut and been a Bud again.’ But don’t you know it’s very bad for old gentlemen to be up so late?”
They were mounting the stairs, and when they reached the library, she went in and poked her long-gloved hands well in over the fire on the hearth while she lifted her eyes to the clock. “Oh, it isn’t so very late. Only five.”
“No, it’s early,” said her father with the security in a feeble joke which none but fathers can feel with none but their grown-up daughters. “It’s full an hour yet before Matt would be getting up to feed his cattle, if he were in Vardley.” Hilary had given Matt the old family place there; and he always liked to make a joke of his getting an honest living by farming it.
“Don’t speak of that agricultural angel!” said the girl, putting her draperies back with one hand and confining them with her elbow, so as to give her other hand greater comfort of the fire. To do better yet she dropped on both knees before it.
“Was he nice?” asked the father, with confidence.
“Nice! Ask all the plain girls he danced with, all the dull girls he talked with! When I think what a good time I should have with him as a plain girl, if I were not his sister, I lose all patience.” She glanced up in her father’s face, with all the strange charm of features that had no regular beauty; and then, as she had to do whenever she remembered them, she asserted the grace which governed every movement and gesture in her, and got as lightly to her feet as if she were a wind-bowed flower tilting back to its perpendicular. Her father looked at her with as fond a delight as a lover could have felt in her fascination. She was, in fact, a youthful, feminine version of himself in her plainness; though the grace was all her own. Her complexion was not the leathery red of her father’s, but a smooth and even white from cheek to throat. She let her loose cloak fall to the chair behind her, and showed
herself tall and slim, with that odd visage of hers drooping from a perfect neck. “Why,” she said, “if we had all been horned cattle, he couldn’t have treated us better.”
“Do you hear that, Matt?” asked the father, as his son came in, after a methodical and deliberate bestowal of his outer garments below; his method and his deliberation were part of the joke of him in the family.
“Complaining of me for making her walk home?” he asked in turn, with the quiet which was another part of the joke. “I didn’t suppose you’d give me away, Louise.”
“I didn’t; I knew I only had to wait and you would give yourself away,” said the girl.
“Did he make you walk home?” said the father. “That’s the reason your hands are so cold.”
“They’re not very cold — now; and if they were, I shouldn’t mind it in such a cause.”
“What cause?”
“Oh the general shamefulness of disusing the feet God had given me. But it was only three blocks, and I had my arctics.” She moved a little away toward the fire again and showed the arctics on the floor where she must have been scuffling them off under her skirts. “Ugh! But it’s cold!” She now stretched a satin slipper in toward the fire.
“Yes, it’s a cold night; but you seem to have got home alive, and I don’t think you’ll be the worse for it now, if you go to bed at once,” said her father.
“Is that a hint?” she asked, with a dreamy appreciation of the warmth through the toe of her slipper.
“Not at all; we should be glad to have you sit up the whole night with us.”
“Ah, now I know you’re hinting. Is it business?”
“Yes, it’s business.”
“Well, I’m just in the humor for business; I’ve had enough pleasure.”
“I don’t see why Louise shouldn’t stay and talk business with us, if she likes. I think it’s a pity to keep women out of it, as if it didn’t concern them,” said the son. “Nine-tenths of the time it concerns them more than it does men.” He had a bright, friendly, philosophical smile in saying this, and he stood waiting for his sister to be gone, with a patience which their father did not share. He stood something over six feet in his low shoes, and his powerful frame seemed starting out of the dress-suit, which it appeared so little related to. His whole face was handsome and regular, and his full beard did not wholly hide a mouth of singular sweetness.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 467
