Mercedes, remember, lived in the earlier half of this strange century,
now so soon to go to judgment. In these last years, when women seek
men's rights in exchange for woman's reason, reactionary males have
criticised them as children swapping old lamps for new, fine
instruments for coarser toys. As a poet has put it, why does
"a woman
Dowered by God with power of life or death
Now cry for coarser tools,"
and seek to exchange the ballot for Prospero's wand? Like other
savages, she would exchange fine gold for guns and hatchets. (Beads,
trinkets, the men might pardon them!)
A woman of power once said she had rather reign than govern. But
reigns, with male St. Clairs, so soon are over! Mercedes' dynasty had
ended. She knew it before St. Clair was conscious of it, and poor
Jamie knew it when she did.
It was his custom to stay late at the bank, after hours. It closed at
two o'clock; and in those days all merchants then went home to their
dinner. Jamie, unknown to the cashier, would assume what he could of
St. Clair's work, to get him home the sooner to Mercedes. It is to be
hoped he always went there.
As one looks back on the days of great events, one wonders that the
morning of them was not consciously brightened or shadowed by the
happening to come. For, after many years, that morning,--of the
meeting, or the news, or whatever it was,--dull and gray as in fact it
was, seems now all glorified in memory, illumined with the radiance it
bore among its hours. Jamie never could remember what he did that
morning or that day. It was close to half past four by the clock; the
cashier, the other clerks, had gone; the charwoman was sweeping. He
was mechanically counting over the cash in the cash drawer (it had
been counted over before by the teller, so Jamie's count was but
excess of caution); he was separating the gold and silver and
Massachusetts bills from the bills that came from banks of other
States. (These never were credited until collected, and so not counted
yet as cash, but credited to the collection account; in Jamie's eyes,
bank-bills of other States were not so honest as Massachusetts issues,
any more than their merchants were like James Bowdoin's Sons). He was
thinking, with a sadness not admitted to himself, of Mercedes; trying
to believe his judgment a fancy; trying to see, in his mind's eye,
David's arrival home (he had sent him off the half an hour before),
hoping even for kisses by him for Mercedes (for he grudged him not her
love, but wished his the greater). And now, with half his mind, he was
adding up the long five columns of figures, as he could do almost
unconsciously, thinking of other things. He had carried down the third
figure, when suddenly there came that warm stirring at the roots of
the hair that presages, to the slower brain, the heart's grasp of a
coming disaster.
The figure was a 4 he carried down. His count of the cash had made it
a 2.
Nonsense. He passed his hand to his quickened heart and made an effort
to slow his breath. It was his mistake; he had been thinking of other
things, of Mercedes. He leaned back against the high desk and rested.
Besides, what foolish fear to jump at fault for error, at fault of
David St. Clair! He had not been near the cash drawer.
It was the teller's mistake. And this time poor Jamie added up like a
schoolboy, totting each figure. No thought of his Mercedes now.
Fourteen thousand _four_ hundred and twelve, sixty-four cents. The
teller's addition was right.
Jamie looked at the cash again. There were two piles of bank-bills,
one of gold and silver. Among the former was one packet of
hundred-dollar bills in a belt, marked "$5000." This wrapper he had
not (as he now remembered) verified when he had made his count. His
heart stood still; prompting the head to remember that it was a
package collected by the bank's messenger on a discount, by David St.
Clair.
Poor Jamie tore off the band. He sat down, and counted the bills again
with a shaking hand.
There were only forty-eight of them.