It was not until John Scidmore had scrambled aboard the ferryboat on his
way home and had seated himself in his usual place, under the
pilot-house, that his inflated spirits began to collapse. The afternoon
had been spent in a mad rush of business,--an avalanche of petty orders
and details such as periodically afflicts an insurance broker's office.
The sense of security which had enveloped him all day fell away before a
vague uneasiness. Before an audience, he had played his part spiritedly;
without the spur of interested auditors his performance lagged. There
was an element of excitement in serving moral fiction to unsuspecting
listeners, but hoodwinking himself proved a boresome task. The boldest
highwayman had a cleaner record: at least such an outlaw made bold
plays and took great chances. He had not risked so much as his little
finger on his enterprise, and his victim's cheek was still warm with the
kiss of betrayal. Lies, thievery, murder--one by one these suggestions
of outlawry mentally passed in review and sank into insignificance
before this sinister word--_betrayal_. In all the calendar of human
weaknesses, John Scidmore could recall none that served so contemptible
an end as betrayal. And he, John Scidmore, had been guilty of this
crowning meanness.
If the memory of Julia Norris's confidence stabbed him, what of the
attitude of his superiors at the office? _They_ had never even thought
of questioning him. As he looked back on the events of the morning he
was appalled. It seemed that all these years he had built up barriers of
moral responsibility only to see them swept away before a freshet of
fears.
A tramping of feet warned him that the boat was swinging into the slip.
He rose mechanically. The exertion of following the scrambling crowd and
finding himself a seat on the train interrupted his self-accusation. By
the time he was comfortably settled again, he mentally had begun his
defense.
Why should he make such an absurd fuss over confessing his fault to
Julia Norris? She was rich; her husband had left her a cool million. Ten
thousand dollars didn't matter, and besides, she was Kitty's friend. Had
he the right to purchase a quiet conscience at the expense of Kitty's
pride?
What had he given Kitty in the fifteen years of their wedded life? Had
he played the game boldly and well? Did she hold her head high at the
mention of his name? No, he had fallen short of his own standards. How
much more must he have fallen short of her hopes for him! And now he
was lacking the courage to swallow his medicine. He was ready to whimper
and whine at the load which his own inefficiency had forced upon his
conscience. He argued that strong men made bold plays and damned the
consequence; in other words, they took a chance. But his soul was
tricking itself out in a dramatic subterfuge. What he really had
discovered was something to excuse his weakness, and this something
loomed up conveniently in the person of Kitty Scidmore, his wife.
When Scidmore arrived home, he went directly to his room and closed the
door. The thought of meeting Kitty troubled him. But after he had
slipped on an old coat and freshened up, he felt better.
At the dinner table he noticed a tired, pinched look about his wife's
mouth. Julia Norris was every day as old as his wife, but time had dealt
kindly with her. Her face was still fresh and rosy; there was not even a
glint of gray in her hair. Resentment began to move him, resentment at
Julia Norris, at her fortune, at her friendship for his wife, at every
detail connected with his memory of her.
Kitty began to talk. Scidmore sat silent, crumbling his bread. Finally
the dread subject came to life. Kitty looked up and said,--
'Julia was late to-day, as usual. Poor dear Julia, what a generous soul
she is!'
Scidmore began to fidget. 'Late? How did that happen? She left our
office long before ten o'clock.'
'Oh, but you don't know Julia! She did a thousand and one things before
she arrived here. And such a disheveled creature as she was! And so full
of apologies and troubles! Nothing to speak of--she laughed them all
away in five minutes.'
'Then she didn't tell--'
'About the insurance? I should say she did. She was so worried for fear
you'd be distressed about it all. She admitted that _she_ was to blame.
But she knows how conscientious you are, and she was afraid--'
Scidmore impatiently interrupted his wife. 'Julia Norris ought to have
some business sense, Kitty; upon my word she should. And it _has_
worried me. A woman like that--one never can be sure of just what she
does think. It's an even chance that deep down she believes that she
delivered the message to me, and that _I_ neglected it.'
He could feel his face flushing with mingled indignation and disapproval
as he voiced his displeasure.
Kitty got up to pour a glass of water.
'Why, John,' she half chided, 'I'm sure Julia wouldn't be guilty of such
a thought. You don't know her--generous--impulsive. Why, she'd forgive
you for neglecting, if you really had neglected anything. As a matter of
fact she said very decidedly, "If I'd been dealing with anybody but John
Scidmore, I do believe I'd be inconsistent enough to try to blame the
other fellow, but of course I know--"
'Yes,' he broke in excitedly, 'that's just it. That's the way she puts
it, to you. But such a remark as that just bears out what I say--she's
not altogether satisfied. I know what she thinks; I saw it in her face
this morning--_this is what comes of trying to help one's poor
friends._'
His wife stopped pouring water and laid down the pitcher.
'Nonsense. Julia Norris has perfect faith in you.'
'Why should she have?' he persisted hotly. 'Isn't it just as possible
for me to forget, to overlook a telephone message, as the other fellow?
I'm not infallible any more than she is.'
'No,' Kitty returned very quietly. 'I don't think she imagines that you
are infallible. But she knows that if you took her message and forgot
it, you'd admit it.'
He rallied from this blow with a feeling of fierce antagonism.
'Well,' he sneered sarcastically, 'if she's silly enough to have any
such notions, she _does_ need a guardian! As a matter of fact, I'd
conceal my mistakes as quickly as any one else would.'
Kitty began to laugh, a full-throated, indulgent laugh, that made him
bite his lips.
'What a lot of foolish brag you're indulging in, Johnny Scidmore. Well,
after all, let's forget about it; Julia herself laughed it off.'
He crumpled the napkin in his hand. 'Yes, that's just it. _She_ can
laugh over it, while we--why, if we lost ten thousand it would be a
tragedy. I couldn't help thinking to-day after she'd left the office,
suppose, just suppose, I _had_ received Julia Norris's 'phone
message--and forgotten it. The very thought made me sick all over.'
He paused, frightened at the lengths to which his uneasiness had forced
him. His wife's smile gave way to a puzzled look as she returned very
quietly,--
'Do you really think it worth while to face these imaginary situations?'
His resentment flared again at the comfortable evenness of her tone.
'Yes, I do,' he snapped back. 'It helps one to exercise one's morals. I
wanted to know just how I would act in such an emergency. And I've found
out. The very thought frightens me too much. I know that I should feel
morally bound to confess, but I'd never have the courage of my
convictions. Now, what do you suppose you would advise me to do in a
situation like that? What would you tell me to do?'
Kitty Scidmore looked straight at her husband. He dropped his eyes.
'I would not advise you, John,' she said, distinctly. He glanced up at
her. 'You'd not say a word?'