"Neither do I; but we'd both rather wait than give each other up."
"Wait--for how long?"
"How can I tell how long? As long as we have to."
"Till your father and mother die?"
"Oh, gracious, no! I'm not killing the poor lambs. Till they come
round. They'll _come_ round."
"How do you know?"
"Because fathers and mothers always do. Once they see how sad I'll be--"
"Oh, you're going to play that game."
She was indignant. "I shan't play a game. I shall _be_ sad. I'm all
right now while you're here; but once you're gone--well, if dad and
mother want a martyr on their hands they'll have one. I shan't be
putting it on either. I'll not be able to help myself."
"I'd rather they came around for some other reason than to save your
life."
"I'm not particular about the reason so long as they come round. But
you see I'm talking as if the worse were coming to the worst. As a
matter of fact, I believe the better is coming to the best."
"Which means that you think the Whitelaws...."
"I know they will."
"And that I...."
"Oh, Tom, you'll be reasonable, won't you?"
He was silent. Even Hildred couldn't see what his past had meant to
him. A wretched, miserable past from some points of view, at least it
was his own. It had entered into him and made him. It was as hard to
take it now as a hideous mistake as it would have been to take his
breathing or the circulation of his blood.
The farther it drifted behind him the more content he was to have known
it. Each phase had given him something he recognized as an asset.
Honey, the Quidmores, the Tollivants, Mrs. Crewdson, the "mudda,"
had all left behind them experiences which time was beginning to
consecrate. Hildred couldn't understand any more than anybody else what
it cost him to disclaim them. He often wondered whether, had he been
born the son of Henry and Eleonora Whitelaw, and never been stolen away
from them, he would have grown to be another Tad. He thought it very
likely.
Not that Tad hadn't justified himself. He had. His record in the war
had gone far to redeem him. He had come through with sacrifice and
honor. Having fought without a scratch for a year and a half, he had,
on the very morning of the day when the Armistice was signed, received
a wound which, because of the infection in his blood, had resulted
in the loss of his right arm. This maiming, which the chance of a
few hours would have saved him, he took, according to Hildred, with
splendid pluck, though also with an inclination to be peevish. Lily,
so Tom's letters from Henry Whitelaw had long ago informed him, had
married a man named Greenshields, had had a baby, had been divorced,
and again lived at home with her parents.
Tom pondered on the advantages they, Tad and Lily, were assumed to
have enjoyed and which he himself had been denied. Everyone, Hildred
included, took it for granted that ease and indulgence were blessings,
and that he had suffered from the loss of them. Perhaps he had; but he
hadn't suffered more than Tad and Lily on whom they had been lavished.
Tad with his maimed body, Lily with her maimed life, were not of
necessity the product of wealth and luxury; but neither did a blasted
soul or character come of necessity from poverty and hardship, or even
from an origin in crime.
He couldn't explain this to Hildred, partly because she didn't care,
partly because he had not the words, and mostly because her assumptions
were those of her society. She would love him just the same whether
he were the son of a woman who had killed herself in jail, or that
of a banker known throughout the world; but the advantages of being
the latter were to her beyond argument. So they were to him, except
that....
Thus with Hildred he came to no conclusions any more than with her
parents. With her as with them it was an object to keep him from making
any statement that might seem too decisive. If they left it to Henry
Whitelaw and himself the scales could but dip in one direction.
And yet when actually face to face with the banker, Tom doubted if the
subject was going to be raised. He had written, reminding Whitelaw
of the promise he himself had exacted, that on looking for work, Tom
should apply first of all to him. Like Ansley, the banker had made an
appointment at his office.
The office was in the ponderous and somewhat forbidding structure which
bore the name of Meek and Brokenshire in Wall Street. The room into
which Tom was shown was shabby and unpretentious. Square, low-ceiled,
lighted by two windows looking into yards or courts, its one bit of
color lay in the green and red of a Turkey rug, threadbare in spots,
and scuffed into wrinkles. Against the walls were heavily carved walnut
bookcases, housing books of reference. A few worn leather armchairs
made a rough circle about a wide flat-topped desk, which stood in the
center of the room. On the desk were some valuable knickknacks, paper
weights, paper cutters, pen trays, and other odds and ends, evidently
gifts. A white-marble mantelpiece clumsily sculptured in the style of
1840 was adorned above by the lithographed head of the first J. Howard
Brokenshire, also of 1840, and one of the founders of the firm.
For the first few minutes the room was empty. Tom stood timidly close
to the door through which he had come in. The banker entered from a
room adjoining.
"Ah, here you are!"
He crossed the floor rapidly. For a long minute Tom found himself held
as he had been held before, the man's right hand grasping his, the left
hand resting on his shoulder. There was also the same searching with
the eyes, and the same little weary push when the eyes had searched
enough.
"Sit down."
Tom took the armchair nearest him; the man drew up another. He drew it
close, with hungry eagerness. Tom was apologetic.
"I must beg your pardon, sir, for asking you to see me--"
"Oh, no, my dear boy. I should have been hurt if you hadn't. I've been
expecting you ever since I read that you'd landed. What made you go to
Boston before coming here?"