That night, after supper, Sanford sat in his snug little sitting-room
with a baby on each knee, looking as cheerful and happy as any man in the
village. The children crowed and shouted as he "trotted them to Boston,"
or rode them on the toe of his boot. They made a noisy, merry group.
Mrs. Sanford "did her own work," and her swift feet could be heard moving
to and fro out in the kitchen. It was pleasant there; the woodwork, the
furniture, the stove, the curtains--all had that look of newness just
growing into coziness. The coal-stove was lighted and the curtains were
drawn.
After the work in the kitchen was done, Mrs. Sanford came in and sat
awhile by the fire with the children, looking very wifely in her dark
dress and white apron, her round, smiling face glowing with love and
pride--the gloating look of a mother seeing her children in the arms of
her husband.
"How is Mrs. Peterson's baby, Jim?" she said, suddenly, her face
sobering.
"Pretty bad, I guess. La, la, la--deedle-dee! The doctor seemed to think
it was a tight squeak if it lived. Guess it's done for--oop 'e goes!"
She made a little leap at the youngest child, and clasped it convulsively
to her bosom. Her swift maternal imagination had made another's loss
very near and terrible.
"Oh, say, Nell," he broke out, on seeing her sober, "I had the
confoundedest time to-day with old lady Bingham--"
"'Sh! Baby's gone to sleep."
After the children had been put to bed in the little alcove off the
sitting-room, Mrs. Sanford came back, to find Jim absorbed over a little
book of accounts.
"What are you studying, Jim?"
Some one knocked on the door before he had time to reply.
"Come in!" he said.
"Sh! Don't yell so," his wife whispered.
"Telegram, Jim," said a voice in the obscurity.
"Oh! That you, Sam? Come in."
Sam, a lathy fellow with a quid in his cheek, stepped in. "How d' 'e do,
Mis' Sanford?"
"Set down--se' down."
"Can't stop; 'most train-time."
Sanford tore the envelope open, read the telegram rapidly, the smile
fading out of his face. He read it again, word for word, then sat looking
at it.
"Any answer?" asked Sam.
"No."
"All right. Good-night."
"Good-night."
After the door slammed, Sanford took the sheet from the envelope and
reread it. At length he dropped into his chair. "That settles it," he
said, aloud.
"Settles what? What's the news?" His wife came up and looked over his
shoulder.
"Settles I've got to go on that nine-thirty train."
"Be back on the morning train?"
"Yes; I guess so--I mean, of course--I'll have to be--to open the bank."
Mrs. Sanford looked at him for a few seconds in silence. There was
something in his look, and especially in his tone, that troubled her.
"What do you mean? Jim, you don't intend to come back!" She took his arm.
"What's the matter? Now tell me! What are you going away for?"
He knew he could not deceive his wife's ears and eyes just then, so he
remained silent. "We've got to leave, Nell," he admitted at last.
"Why? What for?"
"Because I'm bu'sted--broke--gone up the spout--and all the rest!" he
said, desperately, with an attempt at fun. "Mrs. Bingham and Mrs.
McIlvaine have bu'sted me--dead."
"Why--why--what has become of the money--all the money the people have
put in there?"
"Gone up with the rest."
"What 've you done with it? I don't--"
"Well, I've invested it--and lost it."
"James Gordon Sanford!" she exclaimed, trying to realize it. "Was that
right? Ain't that a case of--of--"
"Shouldn't wonder. A case of embezzlement such as you read of in the
newspapers." His tone was easy, but he avoided the look in his wife's
beautiful gray eyes.
"But it's--stealing--ain't it?" She stared at him, bewildered by his
reckless lightness of mood.
"It is now, because I've lost. If I'd 'a' won it, it 'ud 'a' been
financial shrewdness!"
She asked her next question after a pause, in a low voice, and through
teeth almost set. "Did you go into this bank to--steal this money? Tell
me that!"
"No; I didn't, Nell. I ain't quite up to that."
His answer softened her a little, and she sat looking at him steadily as
he went on. The tears began to roll slowly down her cheeks. Her hands
were clenched.
"The fact is, the idea came into my head last fall when I went up to
Superior. My partner wanted me to go in with him on some land, and I did.
We speculated on the growth of the town toward the south. We made a
strike; then he wanted me to go in on a copper-mine. Of course I
expected--"
As he went on with the usual excuses her mind made all the allowances
possible for him. He had always been boyish, impulsive, and lacking in
judgment and strength of character. She was humiliated and frightened,
but she loved and sympathized with him.
Her silence alarmed him, and he made excuses for himself. He was
speculating for her sake more than for his own, and so on.
"Choo--choo!" whistled the far-off train through the still air.
He sprang up and reached for his coat.
She seized his arm again. "Where are you going?" she sternly asked.
"To take that train."
"When are you coming back?"
"I don't know." But his tone said, "Never."