The Banker and the Bear

by Henry Kitchell Webste

  At last one Sunday afternoon in early spring, after months of suspense that seemed years to John, Alice consented to marry him, and John was so happy that he did not blush or stammer, as they had been sure he would, when he told the Sponleys about it. There never was such an illumination as the street lamps made that evening when John walked back to his father’s house ; and something in his big dismal room, the single faint-hearted

  gas-jet, perhaps, threw a rosy glow even over that.

  When he had left Bagsbury and Company to go to work for Dawson, there had occurred no change in John’s personal relation with his father. That relation had never amounted to much, but they continued to live on not un- friendly terms. Quite unconscious that he was misusing the word, John would have told you that he lived at home. Once on a time, when Martha was a baby, before the loneli- ness of his mother’s life had made her old, before the commercial crust had grown so thick over the spark of humanity that lurked some- where in old John Bagsbury, the old house may have been a home; but John had never known it as anything but a place where one might sleep and have his breakfast and his dinner without paying for them. When he and his father met, there was generally some short-lived attempt at conversation, consisting in a sort of set form like the responses in the prayer-book. But one night, as soon as they were seated, John spoke what was on his mind, without waiting for the wonted exchange of

  “ Father,” he said, “ I’m planning to be mar- ried in a few months.”

  “ If your means are sufficient,” the old man answered, “ and if you have chosen wisely, as I make no doubt you have, why that is very well, very well.”

  A little later the father asked abruptly,

  “ Are you planning to live here ? “

  Perhaps, in the silent moments just past, there had quickened in his mind a mouldy old memory of a girlish face, and then of a baby’s wailing, a memory that brought a momentary glow into the ashes of his soul, and a hope, gone in the flicker of an eyelash, that a child might again play round his knees. But when John’s answer came, and it came quickly, the father was relieved to hear him say,

  “ Oh, no, sir, we’re going to look up a place of our own.”

  They were to be married next April, and though that time seemed far away to John, thanks to the economy of the Atlantic National, and to the hours he had with Alice, which merged one into the other, forming in his memory a beatific haze, it passed quickly enough. The only thing that troubled John

  was Alice’s total ignorance of banking and her indifference to matters of business gener- ally. One evening, in Harriet’s presence, he offered, half jestingly, to teach her how to manage a bank; but the older woman turned the conversation to something else, and he did not think of it again for a long time.

  When John had gone that evening, and Alice was making ready for bed, her door opened unceremoniously and Harriet came in. She was so pale that Alice cried out to know what was the matter.

  “Nothing; I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been a hard day for Melville, and that always leaves me a wreck. No, I’ve been waiting for John to go because I want to have a talk with you. I feel like it to-night, and I may not again.”

  She walked across the room and fumbled nervously the scattered articles on the dressing- table. Her words, and the action which fol- lowed them, were so unlike Harriet that Alice stared at her wonderingly. At last Harriet turned and faced her, leaning back against the table, her hands clutching the ledge of it tightly.

  “I’m going to give you some advice,” she

  said ; “ I don’t suppose you’ll like it, either. You didn’t like my interrupting John to-night when he was going to explain about banking. But, Alice, dear,” the voice softened as she spoke, and her attitude relaxed a little, “you don’t want to know about such things; truly, you don’t ! If you’re going to be happy with John, you mustn’t know anything about his business about what he does in the day- time.”

  “What a way to talk for you, too, of all people ! You’re happy, aren’t you ? “

  “ Perhaps I’m different,” said Harriet, slowly ; “but I know what I’m talking about. I shouldn’t be saying these things to you, if I didn’t. How will you like having John come home and tell you all about some tight place he’s in that he doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of, and then waiting all the next day and wondering how it’s coming out, and not being able to do anything but worry?”

  “But I thought the banking business was perfectly safe,” said Alice, vaguely alarmed, but still more puzzled.

  “ Safe ! “ echoed Harriet ; “ any business is safe if a man is willing to wall himself up in

  a corner and just stay, and not want to do anything or get anywhere. But if a man is ambitious, like John or Melville, and means to get up to the top, why it’s just one long fight for him whatever business he goes into.”

  She was not looking at Alice, nor, indeed, speaking to her, but seemed rather to be think- ing aloud.

  “ That is the one great purpose in John’s life,” she said. “ His father’s bank is the only thing that really counts. Everything else is only inci- dental to that.”

  She turned about again, and her hands re- sumed their purposeless play over the table. “ He’ll succeed, too. He isn’t afraid of any- thing ; and he won’t lose his nerve ; he can stand the strain. But you can’t, and if you try, your face will get wrinkled,” she was star- ing into themirror that hung above the table, “ and your nerves will fly to pieces, and you’ll just worry your heart out.”

  She was interrupted by a movement behind her. Alice had thrown herself upon the bed, sobbing like a frightened child.

  “You’re very unkind and cruel to tell me that John’s business was dangerous

  and that he didn’t care for anything even me and that I’d get wrinkled “

  Harriet sat down beside her on the bed. Her manner had changed instantly when she had seen the effect of her words. When she spoke, her voice was very gentle.

  “ Forgive me, dear. I spoke very foolishly ; because I was tired, I suppose. But you didn’t understand me exactly. John loves you very, very much; you know that. When I said he didn’t care, I wasn’t thinking of you at all, but of other things : books, you know, and plays, and politics. And he’s perfectly sure to come out right, just as I said he was, no matter what he goes through. Only I think both of you will be happier if you keep quite out of his business world, and don’t let him bring it home with him, but try to interest him in other things when you’re with him, and make him forget all about his business ; and theonly way to do that is not to know. Don’t you see, dear ? “

  She paused, and for a moment stroked the flushed forehead. Then she went on, speak- ing almost playfully :

  “ So I want you to promise me that you won’t ask John about those things, or let him explain

  Beginnings 23

  them, even if he wants to. It may be hard some- times, but it’s better that way. Will you ? “

  Alice nodded uncomprehendingly ; Harriet kissed her good night, and rose to leave the room.

  “ Are you quite sure he loves me better than the bank ? “ the young girl asked, smiling, albeit somewhat tremulously.

  “Quite sure,” laughed Harriet; “whole lots better.”

  When Sponley came in, still later that even- ing, she told him of John’s offer.

  “ How did he come out with his explanation ?” he asked.

  “ I didn’t let him begin. I changed the sub- ject.”

  “ It’s just as well. He’s lucky if he can ever make her understand how to indorse a check, let alone anything more complicated.”

  “ I fancy that’s true,” Harriet said, and she added to herself, “ of course it’s true. I’ve had all my worries for nothing, and have frightened Alice half to death. But then, she didn’t under- stand it.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad that you understand,” Sponley was saying.

  “ I’m glad, too,” she answered, and kissed him.

&
nbsp; John and Alice were married, as they had planned, in April ; but the wedding trip was cut short by a telegram from Dawson, direct- ing John to go to Howard City, to assume the management of the First National Bank there ; and the house they had chosen and partly fur- nished had to be given up to some one else. Alice cried over it a good deal, and John was sorely puzzled to understand why she should feel badly over his promotion.

  Ah, well, that was long ago ; fifteen seven- teen years ago. They have been comfortable, uneventful years to John and Alice; whether or not you call them happy must depend on what you think happiness means. They have brought prosperity and more promotions, and John is back in the city, vice-president of the great Atlantic National. But his ambition has not been satisfied, for, on the Christmas Eve when we again pick up the thread of his life, his father, old John Bagsbury, crustier and more withered than ever, and more than ever distrust- ful of his son’s ability, is still president of Bags- bury and Company’s Savings Bank.

  CHAPTER II

  DICK HASELRIDGE

  ON this Christmas Eve Dick Haselridge was picking her way swiftly through the holiday crowd, but her glance roved alertly over the scene, and everything she saw seemed to please her. The cries of the shivering toy venders on the sidewalk, and the clashing of gongs on the overcrowded cable cars that passed, came to her ears with a note of merriment that must have been assumed especially for Christmas- tide. To walk rapidly was no easy matter, for the motion of the crowd was irregular ; now fast, across some gusty, ill-lighted spot, now slowing to a mere stroll, and now ceasing alto- gether before a particularly attractive shop window. The wind, too, had acquired a mis- chievous trick of pouncing upon you from an always unexpected direction. Dick scorned to wear a veil in any weather, and her hair blew all about and into her eyes, and as one

  of her hands was occupied with her muff and her purse, and the other with keeping her skirts out of the slush, she would pause and wait for the wind to blow the refractory lock out of the way again. Then she would laugh, for it was all part of the lark to Dick, and start on.

  In one of these pauses she saw a little imp- faced newsboy looking up at her with a grin so infectious that she smiled back at him. The effect of that smile upon the boy was immediate ; he sprang forward, collided with one passer-by, then with another, and seemed to carrom from him to a position directly in front of Dick.

  “ Did ye want a piper, miss ? “ he gasped. He was still grinning.

  “Yes,” laughed Dick, and heedless of the slush she let go her skirt and drew the purse from her muff.

  “ This is jolly, isn’t it ? “ she said, fishing a dime from her purse and handing it to him. “ Oh, I haven’t any place to carry a paper. Never mind. I’ll get it from you some other time. Merry Christmas,” and with a bright nod she was gone.

  They had stood Dick and the newsboy in the strong light from a shop window, and the

  little scene may have been noted by a dozen persons in the crowd that had flowed by them. But one man who had come up from the direc- tion in which Dick was going, a big man, muffled to the eye-glasses in an ulster, had seemed par- ticularly interested. Dick’s back was toward him as he passed, she had turned to the win- dow in order to see into her purse, but there was something familiar about the graceful line of her slight figure, and he looked at her closely, as one who thinks he recognizes but cannot be sure, and when he was a few yards by he looked again. This time he saw her face just as she nodded farewell to the newsboy, and in an instant he had turned about and was off in pur- suit ; but when he came up to where the little urchin was still standing, he stopped, fumbled in his outer pockets, drew out a quarter of a dollar, and held it out to him. “ Here you are, boy,” he said, and hurried after Dick, who was now half a square away.

  When only a few steps behind he called :

  “ Dick ! Dick ! What a pace you’ve got ! Wait a bit.”

  She turned, recognizing his voice ; as he came alongside, he added :

  You never were easy to catch, but you seem to be getting worse in that respect. Beast of a night, isn’t it ? “

  It was dark, and in the additional protection of her high fur collar Dick permitted herself to smile ; but she commented only on the last part of his remark. The wrestle with the gale had put her out of breath, and she spoke in gasps.

  “ Oh, yes but it’s a good beast. Like a big overgrown Newfoundland puppy.”

  He fell in step with her, and they walked on more slowly in silence; for they were good enough friends for that. At length she said,

  “ I thought you were going home to spend Christmas.”

  “ I did expect to, but I couldn’t.”

  Her tone was colder when she spoke. “ It’s too bad that you were detained.”

  “ Detained ! “ he exclaimed. “ You know what I meant, Dick. When mother invited you to spend the holidays with us, and I thought from what you said that you would, why I expected to go, too. But as long as you stay here, why I shall, that’s all : you don’t play fair, Dick.”

  “ That spoils everything,” she said quietly. Then after a moment, “ No, it doesn’t either.

  You shan’t make me cross on Christmas Eve, whatever you say. Only, sometimes you make it rather hard to play fair.”

  He answered quickly: “You’re quite right about that. I suppose I do, and pretty often. How do you put up with me at all, Dick ? “

  She laughed. “ Oh, I manage it rather easily. You’re nearly always good. Just now, for in- stance, walking away out here with me. You’ll come in to dinner with us, won’t you ? “

  “ I think I’d better not. Mr. Bagsbury and I have had about all we can stand of each other for one week. We’re getting used to each other by degrees. I wonder if I irritate him as much as he does me. Do you really like him, Dick ? “

  “ Yes,” she said reflectively, “ I really like him very much. But I don’t wonder that you don’t get on together. The only thing either of you sees in the other is the thing he particularly hates.” She laughed softly. “ But rolled to- gether you’d be simply immense.”

  “ Call it three hundred and sixty pounds,” he said. “Yes, that’s big; as big as Melville Sponley.”

  “As big as Mr. Sponley thinks he is,” she rejoined. “And that’s a very different thing.

  I hate that man. I wouldn’t trust him behind a a ladder ! “

  They had reached the Bagsbury’s house, and Dick held out her hand to him. “ Good night,” she said. “ I wish you were coming in. Thank you for walking home with me.”

  But Jack Dorlin hesitated. “ I wish you would tell me, Dick, whether you mean to set- tle down here to live with the Bagsburys, or whether this is just a visit. If I camp down here near by, and get my piano and my books, and the rest of my truck comfortably set up just before you pack your things and flit away, it’ll leave me feeling rather silly.”

  She laughed, “Why, they want me to stay, and I think I will. I think I’ll try rolling you and Uncle John together. Good night.” She let herself into the house with a latch-key and hurried upstairs to her room ; but before she could reach it, she was intercepted in the upper hall by her aunt.

  “ Dick ! “ she exclaimed, “ where have you been ? I was beginning to be dreadfully wor- ried about you.”

  For reply, Dick turned so that the light from the chandelier shone full in her face. “ Look

  at me,” she commanded. “ Look at me closely, and see if you think there is any good in worrying over a great healthy animal like me.”

  She shook her head at every pause, and the little drops of melted snow that beaded her tumbled hair came rolling down her face ; and then, slowly, she smiled.

  When Dick smiled, even on others of her sex, that put an end to argument. Alice Bagsbury laughed a little, patted her arm affectionately, and said : “ Well, you’re awfully wet, anyway, so run along and put on some dry things. And John is home, and we’re going to have dinner right away, so you’ll have to hurry.”

  “I’ll b
e down,” said Dick, pausing as if for an exact calculation, “in eight minutes. Will that do ? “

  Her aunt nodded and laughed again, and went downstairs, while Dick, laying her watch on her dressing table, prepared to justify her arithmetic.

  It was a sort of miracle that Dick Haselridge was not spoiled. Her mother, John Bagsbury’s sister Martha, remembering her own dismal childhood, had gone far in the other direction,

  and Dick had never known enough repression or discipline at home to be worth mentioning. Dick’s real name, let it be said, was her moth- er’s, Martha, but as her two first boon compan- ions had borne the names Thomas and Henry, her father, so Dick said, had declared that it was too bad to spoil the combination just because she happened to be a girl, so almost from her babyhood she was known as Dick. It was not wonderful that Dick’s father and mother allowed her to do about as she pleased, for her manner made it hard to deny her any- thing. Long before she was ten years old, she had made the discovery that anybody, friend or stranger, was very likely to do what she wanted him to.

  That was a dangerous bit of knowledge for a child to have, and it might have been disastrous to Dick had there not been strongcounteracting influences at work. Her father died when she was but twelve years old, and thereby it came about that for the first time in her merry little life Dick tasted the sorrows and the joys of responsibility. Her mother, in the few years of life that were left her, never entirely recov- ered, so Dick stayed at home to keep her cheer-

  ful, and avert the little worries that came to disturb her.

  Dick was just seventeen when her mother died, and she found herself without a home and without a single intimate friend. For a time she was bewildered by her grief, but her cour- age and her indomitable buoyancy asserted themselves, and she took the tiller of her life in hand, to steer as good a course as she could without the advice or assistance of anybody.