AN ERROR OF JUDGMENT
Nan stood at her window watching a man turn out of the walk that led
from the front door to the street. Her eyes followed him until the
hedge hid him from sight, and then she sat huddled in the window-seat,
breathing hard from her run upstairs. She went to her desk and
glanced at a page of the pass-book of a trust company that showed the
withdrawal on June 29 of one thousand dollars from her savings account.
There remained a balance of sixteen hundred, and she verified the
subtraction before thrusting the book into the bottom of a drawer under
a mass of invitations she meant at some time to file in a book she kept
as a record of her social activities.
She knew that she had made a mistake, and she was considering the
chances of discovery with a wildly beating heart. The man she had just
closed the door upon had paid two calls on successive days. He had
represented himself as the attorney for her brother, held on a charge
of murder at Belleville. He had plausibly persuaded her that it was
only fair for her to help her brother in his distress; that he was the
victim of unfortunate circumstances, but that an investment of one
thousand dollars for his defense would save her the humiliation of
having one of her own flesh and blood convicted of a murder for which
he was in no wise responsible. It had been intimated in discreet terms
that her relationship to the prisoner could be hidden; it would even be
denied if necessary.
She knew now that she should not have yielded; that in all fairness
to her foster-father she should have reported this demand to him. In
secretly giving money that represented Christmas and birthday gifts
through half a dozen years, for the defense of a man she had not heard
of since the beginning of her life with the Farleys, she justified
herself with the thought that it was kinder to her foster-father, in
his invalid condition, to keep the matter from him. She experienced a
sudden revulsion of feeling the moment the money passed from her hands
in the ten one-hundred-dollar bills the man had specified.
Farley had been seeing much of his lawyer since the row over the Kinney
luncheon. While his wrath at her duplicity seemed to pass, she assumed
that he had not forgotten his threat to disinherit her if she married
Copeland.
She was unwontedly attentive, spending much time reading to him or
playing cards. She knew that he liked having young people about, and
she asked to his room some of the girls and young men who called on
her. She exercised all her arts, which were many, to keep him cheerful,
and if he realized that the change had been abrupt, and that it dated
from his outburst against Copeland, he made no sign. She mustn’t stay
in too much, he said; he didn’t want to be a burden to her.
Eaton had called shortly after his talk with her on the golf links, but
on a night when Farley was receiving the attentions of his masseur. He
had spent the evening and had been at pains to make himself agreeable.
Now that Copeland had been thrust into the background, it occurred to
her that Eaton was worth cultivating. We all maintain more or less
consciously a mental list of people on whom we feel that we may rely in
difficulties; it had occurred to Nan that in a pinch Eaton would be a
friend worth having.
While it was wholly unlikely that Farley would ever learn of her
transaction with the stranger, it was nevertheless a possibility that
would hang over her as long as he lived. She sought comfort in the
reflection that the amount was small, and that Farley had never stinted
her; moreover, that it was her own money, subject to her personal
check; but there was little consolation to be had from such reasoning.
She must talk to some one, and before dinner she telephoned Eaton and
asked him to come up.
Farley had spent two hours with his lawyer that day, and from the
fact that two of his old friends had arrived hurriedly in answer to
telephonic summons, she judged that he had been making a new will and
that these men had been called to witness it.
He ate his prescribed supper, grumbling at its slightness, and watched
her consume her ampler meal with his usual expressions of envy at her
appetite.
“If I could eat like that, I’d be well in a week; it’s all rubbish,
this infernal diet!”
“But we tried disobeying the doctor the other night when the nurse was
out, and you didn’t sleep a wink. You’ll have to be good until the
doctor discharges you!”
“Don’t be silly!” he snapped. “They know mighty well they can’t cure
me; they’re just hangin’ on to me as long as they can for what they get
out of it. But I may fool ’em yet! My grandfather lived to be ninety
and died then from bein’ kicked by a horse; and my own father got up to
seventy-eight, and that gives me eight years more,” he ended defiantly.
“But you worked harder than they did, papa; you never used to come home
to dinner until seven.”
“Of course I didn’t!” he flared. “These young fellows that think four
hours make a day’s work are fools; you won’t see them gettin’ very far
in the world, spendin’ their time flyin’ around in automobiles and
playin’ golf all day!”
“Well, of course, some of the young men don’t amount to much,” she
admitted conciliatingly; “but there are others who work like nailers.
I suppose Mr. Eaton works as hard as any man in town; and he doesn’t
need to.”
“Doesn’t need to?” Farley caught her up. “Every honest man works; a
man who doesn’t work’s a loafer and very likely a blackguard. John
Eaton works because he has the brains to work with! He’s a rare man,
John Eaton. There ain’t many men like John, brought up as he was, with
everything easy; but he’s bucklin’ down to hard work just the same,
like the man he is. You say he’s comin’ up? Well, we’ll let him do the
talkin’. Maybe he can get a laugh out o’ me; he says some mighty funny
things--and they’re mostly true.”
He began feeling about for the evening paper that he had dropped at his
side when his tray was brought in.
“Just find the market page and read through the local stock-list. I
noticed they’ve put a new figure on White River Trust; I used to be a
director in that company. What’s that? Two hundred eighty-five? Let me
see, that’s fifteen dollars more than it was last January when I bought
fifty shares at two-seventy. She’ll go three hundred in five years.
It’s the safest buy in town.”
His long conference with his lawyer had left him tired and irritable.
His doctor had repeatedly counseled Nan and the nurse to keep him
quiet. As they seemed to be on perfectly safe ground, she began reading
the financial comment preceding the general stock and bond list, and
finding that he was interested, she followed it with the letter of a
firm of brokers that buoyantly prophesied a strong upward movement in
the immediate future. She thought he was listening attentively when he
began murmuring half to himself:--
“Two-eighty-five; she’s bound to go to three hundred. Hey? What’s that
rubbish you’re readin’? Wall Street letter? What do I care what a lot
of infernal gamblers say about a better tone in the market! Those
fellows down there don’t produce anything; it’s the boys out here that
grow the corn and feed the pigs that put value in the paper those
fellows down there gamble in! Put that paper down; I want to talk a
little business. How much money you got?”
The question was like a blow in the face. Her wits danced nimbly in her
effort to find an answer, to decide just how to meet the issue.
“Do you mean the housekeeping money?” she asked faintly.
Since Mrs. Farley’s death she had paid the household bills from a
sum deposited to her credit the first of every month. Beyond asking
occasionally how the bills were running, Farley had never questioned
her as to her expenditures. There was a special allowance and a
generous one for her clothing, and when she asked for additions to
the household money to renew linen or pay for repairs, it was always
readily forthcoming.
“No, no!” he ejaculated impatiently. “I don’t mean the house money.
How much you got in the trust company--the savings you’ve been gettin’
three per cent on? You must have over two thousand dollars there. I
been meanin’ to ask you about that; you’ve got too much to keep at
three per cent, and we ought to put it into securities of some kind.
Run along and get your pass-book. If you haven’t got enough to buy ten
shares of White River Trust stock, I’ll bring it up a little so you can
have an even number.”
He was absorbed in mental calculations and did not notice the
reluctance with which she rose and walked toward her room. The trust
company required that books be presented when withdrawals were made,
and she remembered the appearance of the teller’s notation. Farley
had never looked at her pass-book since the day she brought it home
and proudly displayed it. It was the unkindest fate that had turned
his mind upon it at this juncture, and she canvassed all possible
explanations: necessary expenditures in excess of her household and
personal accounts; unusual repairs which she might pretend she had not
wanted to trouble him with in his illness; or benevolences--the latter,
she fancied, more likely to appease than the others in view of his own
generosity to causes that appealed to him. She decided that a frank
confession followed by an appeal to sentiment was the likeliest means
of staying his anger.
She waited twisting her hands nervously, while he examined the book.
“What’s this? What’s this mean, Nan? You took out a thousand dollars in
one lump--to-day! My God, what does this mean? What kind of investments
you makin’, Nan? Yesterday you had with interest--lemme see--twenty-six
hundred dollars, and now you’ve cut it down to sixteen hundred! What
you spendin’ that money for, girl?”
“Well, papa,” she began with the best air of frankness she could
summon, “something very strange and sad has happened. I meant to tell
you all about it just as soon as you were stronger, but I’m glad to
tell you now, for I know you will understand and sympathize--as you’ve
always done whenever I’ve had my little troubles--”
He seemed to be taking this in good part until “troubles” caused him to
sniff.
“Troubles! What troubles you ever had? I guess there ain’t a girl in
town that’s had less trouble than you have!”
“Of course, I didn’t mean it that way, papa; I mean only the little
things, little mistakes and slips I’ve made that you and mamma have
always been kind about. No girl was ever treated as kindly as you have
treated me. And I mean always to be perfectly frank with you; and I’m
going to be now.”
“Well,” he said impatiently.
She felt that her contemplated explanation had been well chosen, but
she must be adroit, risking no word that might spoil the effect of her
disclosure.
She knelt beside him and began in a tone that was eloquent of humility,
yet with a confidence that she hoped would not be lost upon him.
“You see, papa, when you brought me home with you, and you and mamma
began caring for me, I was just a poor little waif, ready for an orphan
asylum. My father and mother would never have been able to do anything
for me if they had lived; and if it hadn’t been for you and mamma, I’d
never have known any of the things I’ve learned through you. I might
have been a dining-room girl right now in some cheap hotel if you
hadn’t opened your doors and your hearts to me. And that has made me
appreciate my blessings--all the comforts and luxuries you have given
me. And it has made me feel, more than you may imagine, for people not
so lucky as I am--the under dog that gets kicked by everybody. And even
when people are wicked and do evil things, I think we ought to think
kindly of them and help them when we can. I know you and mamma always
practiced that. And I’ve tried to; I really have!”
She lifted her eyes and there were tears in them, that seemed to be
born of a deep compassion, a yearning toward all the poor and erring
among mankind. Farley was not unmoved by this demonstration; he shifted
his legs uneasily under the light pressure of her arms. Her spell upon
him had never been more complete; she felt that she might risk much in
the mood to which she had brought him.
“And you know, papa, I have thought a great deal about my brother--who
drifted away with the flood. I haven’t seen him since father and mother
died. Tom is much older than I am, and the poor boy never had any
chance. I hadn’t even heard of him since you brought me away until the
other day. And he’s in trouble, very deep, serious trouble, papa; he’s
been arrested--I’m sure not for anything he really did; but being poor
and without friends it was perfectly natural for him to ask me to help
him. I think you will agree to that. And he sent his lawyer to ask me
for money to use in defending him. I meant to tell you all about it
when you were well; I felt sure I was doing right and that you’d be
glad to have me help him; and it’s all so horrible--”
She felt his form grow rigid, felt his hands roughly push her away, as
he blurted hoarsely:--
“Blackmail! My God, it’s blackmail--or else you’re lyin’ to me!”
She rose and faced him tearfully.
“It’s the truth!” she declared. “He’s my brother--the only one of my
family that’s left. You wouldn’t have me refuse to help--”
“Help him! Turn a thousand dollars of your savings over to a worthless
whelp that’s got into jail! How do you know he’s your brother?--a man
that waits all these years before he shows himself and then plumps down
on you for a thousand dollars! I tell you it’s blackmail, blackmail!
And you hide all this from me just as though I hadn’t any right to know
what kind o’ trouble you get mixed up in! Ain’t you got sense enough
to know you’re touchin’ bottom when you give up money that way? What’s
he threatened you with? You tell me everything there is to know about
this, and I’ll find out mighty quick whether a contemptible scoundrel
can come to my house and carry away a thousand dollars!”
Farley glared at her unpityingly while she told her story, which seemed
preposterously weak when reduced to plain terms. She sobbingly admitted
her fear of newspaper notoriety, her wish to shield him from the shame
of her connection with a man awaiting trial for murder. There was no
mercy in his eyes; he was outraged that she had again deceived him.
“Afraid o’ havin’ your name in the papers, were you? Just as though
blackmailers didn’t always use that club on the fools they rob! And how
many times do you think a man like that will come back, now he knows
you’re easy--now you’ve gone into business with him?”
The maid knocked at the door and announced Eaton, but Farley gave no
heed.
“Payin’ blackmail! You’ve got yourself into a nice mess! And after all
I’ve done to protect you and make a decent woman of you, you’re scared
to death of havin’ some of your relations go to jail--just as though
you hadn’t turned your back on the whole set when we brought you here
and gave you our name. That _ought_ to have made you respectable, if
it didn’t! Afraid of newspapers, afraid of jackleg lawyers! It’s the
rottenest case of blackmail I ever heard! And here I’ve been proud to
think that we’d pulled you out of the river mud and made a high-minded
woman of you, that could stand up with any girl anywhere!”
She waited listening to his deep breaths, watching his tremulous hands;
and then without attempting to answer his indictment, she said meekly:--
“Of course, it was a mistake, papa. I ought to have told you about it;
but it’s my trouble--you must remember that! The shame of the exposure
would be something I’d have to bear alone; that was the way I looked at
it; and I didn’t want you to have the worry of it when you were just
beginning to get well.”
His thoughts had wandered away from her, playing about her offense in
its practical and legal aspects. When she ventured to remind him of
Eaton’s presence in the house, he made no reply. The silence became
intolerable and she stole from the room.