In slicker and high rubber boots Calvin took the long muddy road to the
bank. From every rain-drenched shrub along the way Lavinia Larimore’s
outraged womanhood glared at him. For an hour he tried to work,
conscious of his father’s eyes with their unfeeling condemnation. When
the strain became unbearable, he took a silver-mounted pistol from the
safe--with surreptitious gesture, yet making sure that the object in
his hand did not escape notice--and thrust it into the drawer of his
desk. The threat bore fruit.
Mr. Stone took down hat and umbrella and went forth into the abating
storm. He was not a man to mince words when he had an unpleasant task
before him. Vine greeted him at the door. Her dark cheeks blanched.
“What--where is Calvin? Is he sick? Has anything happened to him?”
“I wish to God he was dead. Viny, I hope you don’t care any too much
for that young scoundrel. He isn’t worthy of the love of a decent girl.”
“He hasn’t-- You mean, he has embezzled money? Mr. Stone, you won’t let
it be found out? I wouldn’t go back on him for--Oh, you won’t....”
“I’d brain him if he ever touched a penny that didn’t belong to him.”
“Then what--what has he done?”
“He was married, yesterday, to a girl in Rochester.”
“Married!” And then, in an incredulous whisper, “married.”
A moment only Lavinia stood numb and baffled. Then the words poured in
a rising tide of indignation, rage, fury. Three years she had waited,
and for this. She might have had any one of a dozen--the finest young
men in Bromfield. Calvin Stone had won her away from them all. He had
deprived her of her girlhood, her opportunities--everything but her
self-respect. She had known for two years that he was a drunkard and
a gambler. She had clung to him, because it was her Christian duty to
reform him. His parents would not have her to blame when he reeled into
a drunkard’s grave. It was fortunate that some fool woman had taken the
burden from her shoulders. She would have stuck to her promise, in the
face of certain misery. The Larimores had that kind of honour--such
honour as all the Calvin and Stone money could not buy. But now she
need no longer keep up the pretense of caring for a man who was not fit
to wipe the mud from her shoes. She had tried to hold together what
little manhood was in him--to spare his parents the disgrace he was
sure to bring upon them.
Once and again the bank president, who was wont to command silence, to
be granted a respectful hearing in the highest councils of the town,
sought to breast the tide of her anger. His interruptions were swept
away like spindrift. He wanted to offer financial restitution, since
no other was possible. She met the proposal with scorn. Money could
not cover up the disgrace of such a consummation. Calvin might rue
his bargain, and come back to plead for forgiveness. The desperately
proffered balm brought a more bitter outburst. She would not be any
man’s second choice. No, the damage was irreparable. It was done.