"Oh, there was no hurry. Easy enough to save it. I want you to be one
of the assistants to my own confidential secretary. This will keep you
close to myself, which is where I want to have you for the first year
at least. You'll get the hang of a lot of things there, and anything
you don't understand I can explain to you. Later, if you want to go
into the study of banking more scientifically--well, I shall be able to
direct you."
He sat dazzled, speechless. It was the
future!--Hildred!--happiness!--honor!--the big life!--the conquest of
the world! He could have them all by sitting still, by saying nothing,
by letting it be implied that he renounced his loyalties, by being
passive in the hand of this goodwill. He would be a fool, he told
himself, not to yield to it. Everyone in his senses would consider him
a fool. The father of the Whitelaw baby believed that he had found his
child. Why not let him believe it? How did he, Tom Whitelaw, know that
he wasn't his child? The woman who had told him he was never to think
so was dead and in her grave. Judged by all reasonable standards, he
owed her nothing but a training in wicked ways. He would give her up.
He would admit, tacitly anyhow, even if not in words, that she had
stolen him. He would be grateful to this man--and profit by his mistake.
He began to speak. "I hardly know how to thank you, sir, for so much
kindness. I only hope--" He was trying to find the words in which
to express his ambition to prove worthy of this trust, but he found
himself saying something else--"I only hope that you're not doing all
this for me because you think I'm--I'm your son."
Leaning toward him, the banker put his hand on his knee. "Suppose we
don't bring that up just yet? Suppose we just--go on? As a matter of
fact--I'm talking to you quite frankly--more frankly than I could speak
to anyone else in the world--but as a matter of fact I--I want some
one who'll--who'll be like a son to me--whether he's my son or not. I
wonder if you're old enough to understand."
"I think I am, sir."
"I'm rather a lonely man. I've got great cares, great responsibilities.
I can swing them all right. There are my partners, fine fellows all
of them; there are as many friends as I can ask for. But I've nobody
who comes--who comes very close to me--as a son could come. I've
thought--I've thought it for some time past--that--whoever you are--you
might do that."
As he leaned with his hand on Tom's knee his eyes were lower than Tom's
own. Tom looked down into them. It was strange to him that this man who
held so much of the world in his grasp should be speaking to him almost
pleadingly. His memories filed by him with the speed and distinctness
of lightning. He was the little boy moving from tenement to tenement;
he was in the big shop on that Christmas Eve; he was walking with his
mother in front of the policeman; he was watching her go away with the
woman who was like a Fate; he was staring at the Christmas Tree; he was
being pelted on his first day at school; he was picking strawberries
for the Quidmores; he was sleeping in the same room with Honey; he
was acting as chauffeur at the inn-club in Dublin, New Hampshire, and
picking up this very man at Keene. And here they were together, the
instinct of the father calling to the son, while the instinct of the
son was scarcely, if at all, articulate.
The struggle was between his future and his past. "I must be his son,"
he cried to himself. But another voice cried, "And yet I can't be."
Aloud he said, modestly, "I'm not sure, sir, that I could fill the bill
for you."
"That would be up to me. It isn't what you can do but what I'm looking
for that matters in a case like this." He stood up. "I'm sorry I must
go back to a conference inside, but I shall see you soon again. What's
your address in New York?"
Tom gave him the name of the hotel at which he was putting up. Whitelaw
had never heard of it.
"Can't you do better than that?"
"Oh, it isn't bad, sir. I'm not used to luxury, and I manage very well.
I'm quite all right."
"Is it money?"
"Only in the sense that everything is money. I've a little saved--not
much--and I like to keep on the weather side of it. The man who did
more for me than anybody else--the ex-burglar I told you about--always
taught me to be economical."
"All the same I don't like to have you staying in a place like that.
You must let me--"
"Oh, no, sir! I'd a great deal rather not." He spoke in some alarm.
"I've got to be on my own. I _must_ be."
"Oh, very well!"
The tone was not precisely cold; it was that of a man whose good
intentions were sensitive. Tom did something which he never had
supposed he would have dared to do. He went up to this man, and laid
his hand gently on his arm. Instantly the man's free hand was laid on
the one which touched him, welcoming the caress. Tom tried to explain
himself.
"It isn't that I'm not grateful, sir. I hope you don't think that.
But--but I'm myself, you see. I've got to stand on my own feet. I know
how to do it. I've learned. I--I hope you don't mind."
"I want you to do whatever you think best yourself. You're the only
judge." They had separated now, and the banker held out his hand. "Oh,
and by the way," he continued, clinging to Tom's hand in the way he had
done on earlier occasions. "My wife wants to see you. She told me to
ask you if you couldn't go and lunch with her to-morrow."
Since there was no escape Tom could only brace himself.
"Very well, sir. It's kind of Mrs. Whitelaw. I'll go with pleasure. At
one o'clock?"
"At one o'clock." He picked up a card from the desk. "This is our
address. You'll find Mrs. Whitelaw less--less emotional than when you
saw her last and more--more used to the idea."
Without explaining the idea to which she was more used, the banker
released Tom's hand with his customary little push, as if he had had
enough of him, hurrying out by the door through which he had come in.