from a dark corner, and Nelson came forward cordially. Both men looked
worn and tired, Nelson tall and thin and dark, with deeply-lined face;
White, short and slight and fair. Both gave an effect of trying to brush
off an habitual and haunting care, to welcome this unexpected visitor.
She had known them since her girlhood; Nelson used to write poetry,
and White had even been in love with her sister once. He was such a
tender-hearted fellow then, he couldn’t bear to have the least of God’s
creatures suffer pain. She answered mechanically the usual inquiries as
to her health, while she was thinking of these things.
“We are glad you happened to come in, Mrs. Stannard,” said Nelson. “We
have just found that there was a little money due your husband still on
that last patent. Write out a check for fifty-six dollars, if you please,
White, for Mrs. Stannard. There, that’s right, I think. There is so much
that’s disagreeable in the business that we’re glad to have something
pleasant to communicate occasionally.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Stannard. She added after a moment, “Thank you.” She was
looking at the appurtenances of the little office, and at the two men in
it. This was where George used to stand when he came here to talk to
them, in this dusty cramped space, the high office desks half shutting
out the light. What had been his feelings? How he had loved them, Nelson
and White—Nelson and White who had killed him!
Something hard in her eyes seemed to strike White.
“We are sorry that we had to dismiss Francis,” he said apologetically.
“It is always hard to have to make changes of that kind, but we depend
entirely on Mr. Ulmer’s arrangements in that department. As I understand,
it was a choice between him and Griggs, and Griggs had the better
handwriting. Francis should improve. It is simply a matter of business.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Stannard again. She sat there, a small, unpretending
figure in her black gown, very fair and young looking in the dingy office
surroundings. She was twisting the white envelope in her fingers, the
weapon that George had unwittingly left her that she was to wield in
behalf of his son—if she wanted to.
“We have missed George a great deal in these last two years,” said Nelson
with a change of tone, and an obvious effort of recollection. “Nobody
had the interest in the firm that he had, Mrs. Stannard. His only fault
was that he was not quite up to date in matters of management; he was
a splendid organizer, but he let his feelings run away with him too
much. This recognizing individual ability is all very well in its way,
but if you are going in to make money the interests of the house must
come first. George never could drive a really sharp bargain—I don’t mind
saying it, Mrs. Stannard, for he owned it himself—and it was a credit to
his heart, of course—he could not keep up to date in that way. The modern
methods of business require _tremendous_ concentration of purpose. White
and I”—he glanced at White, who stood near him, gazing seriously at the
visitor—“have been quite worn out with our efforts lately, but we have
been very successful. Of three firms who were in competition with us at
the beginning of the year, two have broken up and had to give in to our
terms already, and the third will before long. It’s a pretty fair record.
George’s only fault—and that was a credit to his heart—was that he was
not good at such transactions, he let his feelings run away with him.”
“Yes, that was his only fault,” said White.
Oh, if they only would not speak of George! She suddenly felt that it was
the one thing she could not bear.
“How is your wife, Mr. Nelson?” she asked hurriedly.
“My wife? She was well when I last heard from her. She and the children
have been in Dresden—she is there for their education, you know—expects
to be gone three years.”
“It must be very lonely for you. Why don’t you go over, too?” she
hazarded.
“Work, work! That’s what keeps me here. I give you my word, Mrs.
Stannard, the business is so immense now, the operations of the house so
large, that I can hardly take even a day off. Here’s White trying to get
away to his sick boy up in Minnesota for a couple of weeks, and yet we
can’t see how to manage it, just at this time, without losing the firm a
deal that will give us enormous profit.”
“Is your boy ill?” asked Mrs. Stannard, turning sympathetically to White.
His only child was the age of her Francis.
White nodded, with his boyish face suddenly turned grey and haggard, like
that of an old, old man.
“He—he’s crippled,” he answered. “He had a bad fall. Didn’t you hear?
Hurt himself racing. The doctors give us some hope, there’s no immediate
danger, but his strength seems to be going. That’s the main point, you
know—strength. I’ve thought if I could get up to Minnesota just now, to
help his mother—— But I can’t seem to make it out Of course, business
comes first.”
“God _help_ you, Harry!” said Mrs. Stannard, softly. She had risen and he
stretched out his hand and took hers in it, and held it for a moment in a
tight grip, with his head turned away.
“You were always good, Clara,” he said huskily. “I hope He will.”
“You have dropped your letter,” said Nelson, coming forward. “Or perhaps
you do not want it?”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Stannard. “No, I do not want it now.” Send Francis
here, where if he would be successful he must learn to fight against
every impulse of his higher nature? What would his father have said? She
tore the paper into small pieces with fingers that were firmly tense.
“May I put these in your scrap basket? I know that I have taken up too
much of your time, Mr. Nelson, I will say good-bye.”
“I am glad to have seen you, Mrs. Stannard,” he said. He looked at his
partner, who stood, turned from them, his arms resting on the tall desk,
and his head buried in them, and then looked back again at her. She made
a movement of comprehension, and slipped quietly out of the door, and
pulling her veil quickly over her face, went down the long stairs again
that her husband had been wont to traverse, feeling that the dear form
was somehow at her side. But she saw nothing, for her eyes were blinded
by tears, not for White’s sorrow, not for her husband’s death, but for
another and irremediable loss; tears that overflowed and ran down her
cheeks, and seemed to keep welling up exhaustlessly from her heart; tears
from a pity so deep that it had its source in every happiness of high
thought and noble aim and unselfish love that had made her life.
No need to break her faith with the dead! She would not have her boy back
in that house of corruption, for all the gifts of Fortune. No need, no
need, for her to strike at the name of the firm! That name, so loved, so
honoured, slaved for, died for—God in heaven, for _what_ did the Name of
the Firm stand?