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.
"Yes; I think so too, in the abstract," said the father. "If the
business were mine, or were business in the ordinary sense of the
term--"
"Why, why did you say it was business at all, then?" The girl put her
arms round her father's neck and let her head-scarf fall on the rug a
little way from her cloak and her arctics. "If you hadn't said it was
business, I should have been in bed long ago." Then, as if feeling her
father's eagerness to have her gone, she said, "Good night," and gave
him a kiss, and a hug or two more, and said "Good night, Matt," and got
herself away, letting a long glove trail somewhere out of her dress, and
stretch its weak length upon the floor after her, as if it were trying
to follow her.