"Dear me," said the younger man, "I'm sorry."
"Yes. I'd a bad cold, and I spoke very hoarsely when I went to bed.
And in the night she woke up and heard a croupy sound. It was this,"
and Mr. Bowdoin produced a compressible rubber ball with a squeak in
it. "'James,' said she--you know how she says 'James'?"
Mr. James Bowdoin admitted he had heard the intonation described.
"'James,' says she, 'is that you?' I only squeaked the ball, which I
had under the bedclothes. 'James, are you ill?' 'It's my chest,' I
squeaked faintly, and squeezed the ball again. 'I think I'm going to
die,' said I, and I squeaked it every time I breathed." And Mr.
Bowdoin gave audible demonstration of the squeak of his rubber toy.
"Well, she was very remorseful, and she got up to send for the doctor;
and faith, I had to get up and go downstairs after her and speak in my
natural voice before she'd believe I wasn't in the last gasp of a
croup. But she won't speak herself this morning," added the old
gentleman rather ruefully. "What's the matter here?"
"Jamie has been down, and he says his son-in-law has decided to leave
the bank."
"Dear me! dear me!" The old gentleman's face grew grave again.
"Nothing wrong in his accounts, I hope?"
"He says that he has decided to go to New York to live."
"Go to New York! What'll become of the new house?"
"He has friends there. They are to sell the house."
"What'll become of Jamie?"
"Jamie's going back to Salem Street."
The old gentleman gave a low whistle. "I must see him," and he took
his hat again and started up the street.
But from Jamie he learned nothing. The old man gave no reason, save
that his son-in-law "was going to New York, where he had friends." It
cost much to the old clerk to withhold from Mr. Bowdoin anything that
concerned his own affairs, particularly when the old gentleman urged
that he be permitted to use his influence to reinstate David at the
bank. Jamie grew churlish, as was the poor fellow's manner when he
could not be kind, and tried even to carry it off jauntily, as if St.
Clair were bettering himself. Old Mr. Bowdoin's penetration went
behind that, or he might have gone off in a huff. As it was, he half
suspected the truth, and forbore to question Jamie further.
But it was harder still for the poor old clerk when he went home to
Mercedes. For it was St. Clair who had sulked and refused to stay in
Boston. He had hinted to his wife that it was due to Jamie's jealousy
that he had lost his place at the bank. Mercedes did not believe
this; but she had thought that Jamie, with his influence, might have
kept him there. More, she had herself, and secretly, gone to the
counting-room to see old Mr. Bowdoin, as she had done once before when
a child, and asked that St. Clair might be taken back. "Do you know
why he lost the place?"
She did not. Perhaps he had been irregular in his attendance; she
knew, too, that he had been going to some horse-races.
"Jamie has not asked me to have him taken back," said Mr. Bowdoin.
And she had returned, angry as only a loving woman can be, to reproach
poor Jamie. But he would never tell her of her husband's theft. St.
Clair was sharp enough to see this. Jamie had settled the Worcester
Square house on Mercedes when they were married; and now St. Clair got
her to urge Jamie to sell it and let him invest the money in a
business opening he had found in New York with some friends;
stock-brokerage he said it was. This poor Jamie refused to do, and
Mercedes forgave him not. But St. Clair insisted still on going.
Perhaps he boasted to his New York friends of his banking experience;
it was true that he had got some sort of an opening, with two young
men of sporting tastes whom he had met.
Preparations for departure were made. The furniture was being taken
out, and stored or sold; and each piece, as it was carried down the
stairs, brought a pang to Jamie's heart. The house was offered for
sale; Jamie drew up the advertisement in tears. He did not venture to
sit with them now of evenings; it was Jamie, of the three, who had the
guilty feeling.
The evening before their going came. St. Clair was out at a farewell
dinner, "tendered him," as he proudly announced, by his friends.
Jamie, as he passed her door, heard Mercedes crying. He could not bear
it; he went in.
"My darling, do not cry," the old man whispered. "Is it because you
are going away? All I can do for you--all I have shall be yours!"
"What has David done? I know he has done something"--
"Nothing--nothing is wrong, dear; I assure you"--
"Then why are you so hard to him? Why will you not put the money in
the business?"
Jamie was holding her hand. "My little Mercy," said he, "my little
lady. Forgive me--do you forgive me?"
Mercedes looked at him, coldly perhaps.
"For the love of God, do not look like that! In the world or out of
it, there's none I care for but just you, dear." Then Mercedes began
to cry again, and kissed him. "And as for the money, dear, he'll have
it as soon as I find the business is a decent one."