No girl, before she came to love, ever scrutinized a suitor so closely
as old Jamie did St. Clair. The little old Scotch clerk was quicker
far to see the first blossoms of love in her heart than Mercedes
herself, than any mother could have been, for each one bore a pang for
him; and he, who had renounced, and then set his heart to share each
feeling with her, who had wanted but her confidence, wanted but to
share with her as some girl might her heart histories, now found
himself far outstripping her in conscious knowledge. He did not
realize the impossibility of the sympathy he dreamed. He had fondly
thought his man's love a justification for that intimacy from which,
in natures like Mercedes', even a mother's love is excluded.
All Jamie's judgment was against the man, and yet his heart was in
touch with hers to feel its stirring for him. The one told him he was
not respectable; the other that he was romantic. His career was
shadowy, like his hair. In those days still a mustache bore with it
some audacity, and gave a man who frankly lived outside the reputable
callings something of the buccaneer. St. Clair called himself a
gentleman, but did not pretend to be a clerk, and frankly avowed that
he was not in trade. Jamie could not make him out at all. He hoped,
indeed, he was a gentleman. Had he been in the old country, he could
have credited it better; but gentlemen without visible means of
support were, in those days, unusual in Boston.
Poor Jamie watched his daughter like any dowager, that summer. But the
consciousness of his own sin (for so now he always thought of it)
troubled him terribly. How could he urge his lady to repel the
advances of this man without being open to the charge of selfishness,
of jealousy? Jamie forgot that the girl had never known he loved her.
He made feeble attempts to egg on Hughson. The honest teamster was but
a lukewarm lover. His point of view was that the girl looked down upon
him, and this chilled his passion. He had come to own his teams now.
He never drove them. He was a capitalist, an employer of labor; and,
at Jamie's request, he came down one night, in black broadcloth and
red-handed, to pass the night. But it did not work. When Mr. St. Clair
called in the evening, he adopted a tone of treating both Jamie and
Hughson as elderly pals, so that the latter lost his temper, and, as
Mercedes claimed, insulted his elegant rival.
Then Jamie bade Hughson to come no more, for his love for Mercedes was
so true that he felt in his heart why St. Clair appealed more to hers.
But the summer was a long and anxious one, and he was glad when it was
over and they were back in Salem Street. They had made no other
acquaintance at Nantasket. "Society" to Jamie remained a sealed book.
Clever Mercedes was not clever enough to see he knew she blamed him
for it. St. Clair only laughed. "These people are nobody," said he;
and he talked of fashionable and equipaged friends he had known in
other places. Where? Jamie suspected, race-courses; his stories of
them bore usually an equine flavor. But he was not a horse-dealer; his
hands were too white for that.
Poor old Mr. Bowdoin had had a hangdog feeling with old Jamie ever
since that day his son had laughed. He had dared criticise nothing he
noticed at the office, and Jamie grew more crusty and eccentric every
day. James Bowdoin was less indulgent, and soon saw that something new
was in the wind. But the last thing that both expected was a demand on
Jamie's part for an increased salary. Jamie made it respectfully, with
his hat off, twirling in his hand, and the Bowdoins eyed him.
"It isna that I'm discontented with the place or the salary in the
past," said Jamie, "but our expenses are increasing. I have rented a
house in Worcester Square."
"In Worcester Square? And the one in Salem Street?"
"'Tis too small for me family needs," said Jamie. "I have sold it."
"Too small?"
"Me daughter is about to be married," said Jamie reluctantly.
"Dear me!" exclaimed the Bowdoins in a breath. "May we congratulate
her?"
"Ye may do as ye like," said Jamie. "'Tis one Mr. David St. Clair,--a
gentleman, as he tells me."
"Is he to live with you, then?"
"Yes, sir. He wants work--that is"--Jamie hesitated.
"He has no occupation?"
Jamie was visibly irritated. "If I bring the gentleman down, ye may
ask him your ain sel'."
"No, no," said Mr. James. "That is, we should, of course, be glad to
meet the gentleman at any time. What is his name?"
"David St. Clair."
"David Sinclair," repeated the old gentleman.
"Mercedes Silva," said Mr. James musingly.
"McMurtagh, if you please," said Jamie.
"Jamie," said old Mr. Bowdoin, "our business is going away. The
steamers will ruin it. For a long time there has not been enough to
occupy a man of your talents. And the old bookkeeper at the bank--the
Old Colony Bank--has got to resign. I've already asked the place for
you. The salary is--more than we here can afford to pay you. In fact,
we may close the counting-room."
Jamie rubbed his nose and shifted his feet. "Ta business is a goot
business, and t' firm is a fine old firm." It was evident he was in
the throes of unexpressed affection. In all his life he had never
learned to express it. "Ye'll na be closing the old counting-room?"
"I may come down here every day or so, just to keep my trusts up. I'll
use it for a writing-room; it's near the bank"--
"An' I'll come down an' keep the books for you, sir," said Jamie; and
the "sir" from his lips was like a caress from another man.