on the part of philip and sunshine ansley the confidence was such that hildred was permitted to take a walk with tom before his departure for new york.
"we're not engaged," hildred reported as part of her mother's conditions, "and we can't be engaged unless you're proved to be harry whitelaw. mother thinks you're going to be. so apparently the question in the long run will be as to whether or not you want me."
"it won't be that. i'm crazy about you, hildred, more than any fellow ever was before."
"and that's the way i feel about you, tom. i don't care a bit about the things dad and mother think so important. you're you; you're not your father or your mother, whoever they may have been. i shouldn't love you any the better if you became the son of mr. and mrs. whitelaw. it would only make it easier."
it was a windy afternoon in april, with the trees in new leaf. all along the fenway the bridal-veil made cascades of whiteness whiter than the hawthorns. pansies, tulips, and forget-me-nots brightened all the foot-paths. the two tall, supple figures bent and laughed in the teeth of the lusty wind.
rather it was she who laughed, since she had the confidence in life, while he knew only life's problems.
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he had always known life's problems, and though there had never been a time when he was free from them, he never had had one to solve so difficult as this.
"but that's where the shoe pinches," he declared, "that i'm myself, so much more myself than many fellows are; and yet, unless i turn into some one else, i shall lose you."
she threw back her answer with a kind of radiant honesty. "you couldn't lose me, tom. i couldn't lose you. we've grown together. nothing can cut us asunder. one can't win out against two people who're as willing to wait as we are."
he was not comforted. "oh, wait! i don't want to wait."
"neither do i; but we'd both rather wait than give each other up."
"wait—for how long?"
"how can i tell how long? as long as we have to."
"till your father and mother die?"
"oh, gracious, no! i'm not killing the poor lambs. till they come round. they'll come round."
"how do you know?"
"because fathers and mothers always do. once they see how sad i'll be—"
"oh, you're going to play that game."
she was indignant. "i shan't play a game. i shall be sad. i'm all right now while you're here; but once you're gone—well, if dad and mother want a martyr on their hands they'll have one. i shan't be putting it on either. i'll not be able to help myself."
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"i'd rather they came around for some other reason than to save your life."
"i'm not particular about the reason so long as they come round. but you see i'm talking as if the worse were coming to the worst. as a matter of fact, i believe the better is coming to the best."
"which means that you think the whitelaws...."
"i know they will."
"and that i...."
"oh, tom, you'll be reasonable, won't you?"
he was silent. even hildred couldn't see what his past had meant to him. a wretched, miserable past from some points of view, at least it was his own. it had entered into him and made him. it was as hard to take it now as a hideous mistake as it would have been to take his breathing or the circulation of his blood.
the farther it drifted behind him the more content he was to have known it. each phase had given him something he recognized as an asset. honey, the quidmores, the tollivants, mrs. crewdson, the "mudda," had all left behind them experiences which time was beginning to consecrate. hildred couldn't understand any more than anybody else what it cost him to disclaim them. he often wondered whether, had he been born the son of henry and eleonora whitelaw, and never been stolen away from them, he would have grown to be another tad. he thought it very likely.
not that tad hadn't justified himself. he had. his record in the war had gone far to redeem him. he had come through with sacrifice and honor. hav
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ing fought without a scratch for a year and a half, he had, on the very morning of the day when the armistice was signed, received a wound which, because of the infection in his blood, had resulted in the loss of his right arm. this maiming, which the chance of a few hours would have saved him, he took, according to hildred, with splendid pluck, though also with an inclination to be peevish. lily, so tom's letters from henry whitelaw had long ago informed him, had married a man named greenshields, had had a baby, had been divorced, and again lived at home with her parents.
tom pondered on the advantages they, tad and lily, were assumed to have enjoyed and which he himself had been denied. everyone, hildred included, took it for granted that ease and indulgence were blessings, and that he had suffered from the loss of them. perhaps he had; but he hadn't suffered more than tad and lily on whom they had been lavished. tad with his maimed body, lily with her maimed life, were not of necessity the product of wealth and luxury; but neither did a blasted soul or character come of necessity from poverty and hardship, or even from an origin in crime.
he couldn't explain this to hildred, partly because she didn't care, partly because he had not the words, and mostly because her assumptions were those of her society. she would love him just the same whether he were the son of a woman who had killed herself in jail, or that of a banker known throughout the world; but the advantages of being the latter were
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to her beyond argument. so they were to him, except that....
thus with hildred he came to no conclusions any more than with her parents. with her as with them it was an object to keep him from making any statement that might seem too decisive. if they left it to henry whitelaw and himself the scales could but dip in one direction.
and yet when actually face to face with the banker, tom doubted if the subject was going to be raised. he had written, reminding whitelaw of the promise he himself had exacted, that on looking for work, tom should apply first of all to him. like ansley, the banker had made an appointment at his office.
the office was in the ponderous and somewhat forbidding structure which bore the name of meek and brokenshire in wall street. the room into which tom was shown was shabby and unpretentious. square, low-ceiled, lighted by two windows looking into yards or courts, its one bit of color lay in the green and red of a turkey rug, threadbare in spots, and scuffed into wrinkles. against the walls were heavily carved walnut bookcases, housing books of reference. a few worn leather armchairs made a rough circle about a wide flat-topped desk, which stood in the center of the room. on the desk were some valuable knickknacks, paper weights, paper cutters, pen trays, and other odds and ends, evidently gifts. a white-marble mantelpiece clumsily sculptured in the style of 1840 was adorned above by the lithographed head of the first j. howard brokenshire, also of 1840, and one of the founders of the firm.
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for the first few minutes the room was empty. tom stood timidly close to the door through which he had come in. the banker entered from a room adjoining.
"ah, here you are!"
he crossed the floor rapidly. for a long minute tom found himself held as he had been held before, the man's right hand grasping his, the left hand resting on his shoulder. there was also the same searching with the eyes, and the same little weary push when the eyes had searched enough.
"sit down."
tom took the armchair nearest him; the man drew up another. he drew it close, with hungry eagerness. tom was apologetic.
"i must beg your pardon, sir, for asking you to see me—"
"oh, no, my dear boy. i should have been hurt if you hadn't. i've been expecting you ever since i read that you'd landed. what made you go to boston before coming here?"
there was confession in tom's smile. "i had to see some one."
"was it hildred ansley?"
tom found himself coloring, and without an answer.
"oh, you needn't tell me. i didn't mean to embarrass you. the ansleys are very good friends of mine. known them well for years. if it hadn't been for them you and i might never have got together. now give me some account of yourself. it
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must be nearly two months since i last heard from you."
tom gave such scraps of information as he hadn't told in letters, and thought might be of interest. with some use of inner force he nerved himself to ask after mrs. whitelaw, and "the other members of the family," a phrase which evaded the use of names.
the banker talked more freely than he had written. he talked as to one with whom he could open his heart, and not as to an outsider. mrs. whitelaw was stronger and calmer, less subject to the paralyzing terrors which had beset her for so long. tad was doing with himself the best he could, but the best in the case of a fellow of his age and tastes who had lost his right arm was not very good. he could ride a little, guiding his horse with his left hand, but he couldn't drive a car, or hunt, or play polo, or use his hand for writing. he could hardly dress himself; he fed himself only when everything was cut up for him. in the course of time he would probably do better, but as yet he couldn't do much. lily had made a mess of things. it was worse than what he had told tom in his letters. she had eloped with a worthless fellow, whom he, her father, had forbidden her to know, and who wanted nothing but her money. it was a sad affair, and had stunned or bewildered her. he didn't like to talk of it, but tom would see for himself.
he reverted to tom's own concerns. "you wrote to me about a job."
"yes, sir; but i'm afraid it's bothering you too much."
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"don't think that. i've got the job."
the young man tried to speak, but the other hurried on.
"i hope you'll take it, because i've been keeping it for you ever since i saw you last."
tom's eyes opened wide. "over three years?"
"oh, there was no hurry. easy enough to save it. i want you to be one of the assistants to my own confidential secretary. this will keep you close to myself, which is where i want to have you for the first year at least. you'll get the hang of a lot of things there, and anything you don't understand i can explain to you. later, if you want to go into the study of banking more scientifically—well, i shall be able to direct you."
he sat dazzled, speechless. it was the future!—hildred!—happiness!—honor!—the big life!—the conquest of the world! he could have them all by sitting still, by saying nothing, by letting it be implied that he renounced his loyalties, by being passive in the hand of this goodwill. he would be a fool, he told himself, not to yield to it. everyone in his senses would consider him a fool. the father of the whitelaw baby believed that he had found his child. why not let him believe it? how did he, tom whitelaw, know that he wasn't his child? the woman who had told him he was never to think so was dead and in her grave. judged by all reasonable standards, he owed her nothing but a training in wicked ways. he would give her up. he would admit, tacitly anyhow, even if not in words, that she
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had stolen him. he would be grateful to this man—and profit by his mistake.
he began to speak. "i hardly know how to thank you, sir, for so much kindness. i only hope—" he was trying to find the words in which to express his ambition to prove worthy of this trust, but he found himself saying something else—"i only hope that you're not doing all this for me because you think i'm—i'm your son."
leaning toward him, the banker put his hand on his knee. "suppose we don't bring that up just yet? suppose we just—go on? as a matter of fact—i'm talking to you quite frankly—more frankly than i could speak to anyone else in the world—but as a matter of fact i—i want some one who'll—who'll be like a son to me—whether he's my son or not. i wonder if you're old enough to understand."
"i think i am, sir."
"i'm rather a lonely man. i've got great cares, great responsibilities. i can swing them all right. there are my partners, fine fellows all of them; there are as many friends as i can ask for. but i've nobody who comes—who comes very close to me—as a son could come. i've thought—i've thought it for some time past—that—whoever you are—you might do that."
as he leaned with his hand on tom's knee his eyes were lower than tom's own. tom looked down into them. it was strange to him that this man who held so much of the world in his grasp should be speaking to him almost pleadingly. his memories filed by him with the speed and distinctness of lightning. he
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was the little boy moving from tenement to tenement; he was in the big shop on that christmas eve; he was walking with his mother in front of the policeman; he was watching her go away with the woman who was like a fate; he was staring at the christmas tree; he was being pelted on his first day at school; he was picking strawberries for the quidmores; he was sleeping in the same room with honey; he was acting as chauffeur at the inn-club in dublin, new hampshire, and picking up this very man at keene. and here they were together, the instinct of the father calling to the son, while the instinct of the son was scarcely, if at all, articulate.
the struggle was between his future and his past. "i must be his son," he cried to himself. but another voice cried, "and yet i can't be." aloud he said, modestly, "i'm not sure, sir, that i could fill the bill for you."
"that would be up to me. it isn't what you can do but what i'm looking for that matters in a case like this." he stood up. "i'm sorry i must go back to a conference inside, but i shall see you soon again. what's your address in new york?"
tom gave him the name of the hotel at which he was putting up. whitelaw had never heard of it.
"can't you do better than that?"
"oh, it isn't bad, sir. i'm not used to luxury, and i manage very well. i'm quite all right."
"is it money?"
"only in the sense that everything is money. i've a little saved—not much—and i like to keep on the weather side of it. the man who did more for me
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than anybody else—the ex-burglar i told you about—always taught me to be economical."
"all the same i don't like to have you staying in a place like that. you must let me—"
"oh, no, sir! i'd a great deal rather not." he spoke in some alarm. "i've got to be on my own. i must be."
"oh, very well!"
the tone was not precisely cold; it was that of a man whose good intentions were sensitive. tom did something which he never had supposed he would have dared to do. he went up to this man, and laid his hand gently on his arm. instantly the man's free hand was laid on the one which touched him, welcoming the caress. tom tried to explain himself.
"it isn't that i'm not grateful, sir. i hope you don't think that. but—but i'm myself, you see. i've got to stand on my own feet. i know how to do it. i've learned. i—i hope you don't mind."
"i want you to do whatever you think best yourself. you're the only judge." they had separated now, and the banker held out his hand. "oh, and by the way," he continued, clinging to tom's hand in the way he had done on earlier occasions. "my wife wants to see you. she told me to ask you if you couldn't go and lunch with her to-morrow."
since there was no escape tom could only brace himself.
"very well, sir. it's kind of mrs. whitelaw. i'll go with pleasure. at one o'clock?"
"at one o'clock." he picked up a card from the desk. "this is our address. you'll find mrs. white
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law less—less emotional than when you saw her last and more—more used to the idea."
without explaining the idea to which she was more used, the banker released tom's hand with his customary little push, as if he had had enough of him, hurrying out by the door through which he had come in.
