A few minutes more of Jamie's life were added to the forty years he
had spent over his desk. He even went through a few columns of
figures. Then he closed the desk, leaving his papers in it as usual,
and went out into the street.
So it was all gone for naught,--all his labors, all his self-denial,
all his denial of help to Mercedes. If he left to seek her, his theft
would be discovered in his absence. He would be thought to have run
away, to have absconded, knowing his detection was at hand. If he
stayed, he could not make it good in time.
What did it matter? She was first. Jamie took his way up the familiar
street, through the muddy snow; it had been a day of foul weather, and
now through the murky low-lying clouds a lurid saffron glow foretold a
clearing in the west. It was spring, after all; and the light reminded
Jamie of the South. She was there, and alone.
He had tried to save his own good name, and it was all in vain. He
might at least do what he could for her.
He did not go home, but wandered on, walking. Unconsciously his steps
followed the southwest, toward the light (we always walk to the west
in the afternoon), and he found himself by the long beach of the Back
Bay, the railroad behind him. The tide was high, and the west wind
blew the waves in froth at his feet. The clearing morrow sent its
courier of cold wind; and the old clerk shivered, but did not know he
shivered of cold.
He sat upon an old spar to think. The train bound southward rattled
behind him; he was sitting on the very bank of the track, so close
that the engineer blew his whistle; but Jamie did not hear. So this
was the end. He might as well have saved her long before. He might
have stolen more. To-morrow he would surely go.
The night came on. Then Jamie thought of getting his ticket. He
remembered vaguely that the railroad behind him ran southward; and he
rose, and walked along the track to the depot. There he asked if they
sold tickets to New Orleans.
The clerk laughed. New Orleans was within the rebel lines. Besides,
they sold no tickets beyond New York or Washington. The clerk did not
seem sure the way to New Orleans was through Washington. A ticket to
the latter city was twenty dollars.
Jamie pulled out his wallet. He had only a few dollars in it; but
loose in his pocket he found that thousand-dollar bill. "I--I think I
will put off buying the ticket until to-morrow," he said.
For a new notion flashed upon him. He had not thought of this money
before. With what he could earn,--the bookkeeper had said the
investigation might be put off a year,--this bill might be enough to
cover the remaining deficit.
He hugged it in his hands. How could he have forgotten it? He turned
out into the night again to walk home; he felt very faint and cold,
and remembered he had had no supper. Well, old Mrs. Hughson would get
him something. She had taken the little house on Salem Street, which
had been Jamie's home for so many years. John and his growing family
still lived in their house, near by.
But Mrs. Hughson was out. He stumbled up the high stairs in the dark,
and lit a lamp with numbed fingers. He had not been often so late
away; probably she had gone to search for him. He must go out after
her. She was doubtless at John's.
But first McMurtagh went to his writing-desk and unlocked the drawer
that he had not visited for years; and from its dust, beneath a pile
of letters, he drew out his only picture of Mercedes. He had vowed
never to look at it again until he could go to help her; and now--
And now he was not going to help her. He had left her alone all those
years; and now he was still to leave her, widowed, in a hostile city,
perhaps to starve. Old Jamie strained his eyes to the picture with
hard tearless sorrow. It was a daguerreotype of the beautiful young
girl that Mercedes had been in 1845.
Was there no way? The thousand dollars he would need if he went after
her. Should he borrow of Mr. Bowdoin? But how could he do so, now that
he had this present from him? Jamie sat down and pressed his fingers
to his temples. Then he forgot himself a moment.
He was out in the street again in the cold. He had the idea that he
would go to John Hughson's; and sure enough, he found the old lady
there. She and John cried out as he came in, and would know where he
had been. He could not tell. "Why, you are cold," said the old lady,
feeling his hand. And they would have him eat something.
In the street again, returning: it was pleasanter in the dark; one
could think. One could think of her; he dared not when people were
looking, lest they should know. He would go to her.
Suppose he told old Mr. Bowdoin, frankly, the debt was nearly made up:
he would gladly lend him. Nay, but it was a theft, not a debt. How
could he tell--now--when so nearly saved?
In the room, Mrs. Hughson was bustling about getting a hot drink. So
nearly! Why, even if David might have lived a year more! And he had
been a slave-catcher. Perhaps he had left her money? Perhaps she might
get on for a year--if he wrote? Ah, here was the hot drink. He would
take it; yes, if only to get rid of Mrs. Hughson. She looked old and
queer, and smiled at him. But he did not know Mercedes' address; he
could not write. Yes, he felt warmer now; he was well enough, thank
you. Ah, by Heaven, he would go! He must sleep first. Would not Mrs.
Hughson put out the light? He liked it better so. Good-night. Just
this rest, and then the palm-trees, and such a sunny, idle sky, where
Mercedes was walking with him. The account had been nearly made up;
the balance might rest.