XXV
“Ah, Mr. Ward, ah! Heh! Won’t you sit down, sir, won’t you sit down?”
Hunter had risen from his low hollow chair, and now stood bowing, or rather stooping automatically to a posture lower than was customary with him. The day before or that afternoon, Ward would have noticed Hunter’s advancing senility. The old banker stood bent before his deep, well-worn green chair, its bottom sagging almost to the floor. He had on large, loose slippers and a long faded gown. The light glistened on his head, entirely bald, and fell in bright patches on the lean, yellow face that was wrinkled in a smile,—but a smile that expressed nothing, not even mirth. He stood there, uncertainly, almost apologetically, making some strange noise in his throat like a chuckle, or like a cough. His tongue moved restlessly along his thin lips. In his left hand he held a cigar, stuck on a toothpick.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Ward, won’t you sit down, sir?”
The old banker, after striving for this effect of hospitality, lowered himself carefully into his own deep chair. Ward seated himself across the hearth, and looked at the shabby figure, huddled in its shabby chair, in the midst of all the richness and luxury of that imposing library. About the walls were magnificent bookcases in mahogany, and behind their little leaded panes of glass were rows of morocco bindings. On the walls were paintings, and all about, in the furniture, the rugs, the bric-à-brac, was the display of wealth that had learned to refine itself. And yet, in the whole room nothing expressed the character of that aged and withered man, save the shabby green chair he sat in, the shabby gown and slippers he wore, and the economical toothpick to make his cigar last longer. Ward remembered to have heard Elizabeth and her mother—in some far removed and happy day before this thing had come upon him—speak of the difficulty Mrs. Hunter and Agnes Hunter had with the old man; he must have been intractable, he had resisted to the end and evidently come off victorious, for here he sat with the trophies of his victory, determined to have his own way. And yet Ward, who was not given to speculations of the mental kind, did not think of these things. At another time Hunter might have impressed him sadly as an old man; but not now; this night he was feeling very old himself.
“I presume, Mr. Hunter,” Ward began, “that you imagined the object of my visit when I telephoned you an hour ago.”
“Oh, yes, sir, yes, Mr. Ward. You came to see me about that boy of yours!”
“Exactly,” said Ward, and he felt his cheek flush.
“Bad boy, that, Mr. Ward,” said Hunter in his squeaking voice, grinning toothlessly.
“We needn’t discuss that,” said Ward, lifting his hand. “The situation is already sufficiently embarrassing. I came to talk the matter over as a simple business proposition.”
“Yes?” squeaked Hunter with a rising inflection.
“What does the shortage amount to?” Ward leaned toward him.
“In round numbers?”
“No,” Ward was abrupt. “In dollars and cents.”
Hunter pursed his lips. Ward’s last words seemed to stimulate his thought.
“Let us see,” he said, “let us see. If I remember rightly”—and Ward knew that he remembered it to the last decimal point—“it amounts to twenty-four thousand, six hundred and seventy-eight dollars and twenty-nine cents.”
Ward made no reply; he was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, gazing into the fire. He did not move, and yet he knew that the old banker was shrewdly eying him.
“That, of course,” said Hunter with the effect of an afterthought, “is the principal sum. The interest—”
“Yes, that’s all right,” said Ward. Hunter’s last words, which at any other time would have infuriated him, in this instance made him happy; they reassured him, gave him hope. He knew now that the old banker was ready to compromise. Then suddenly he remembered that he had not smoked that evening, and he drew his cigar-case from his pocket.
“Do you mind, sir, if I smoke?”
“Not in the least, Mr. Ward, not in the least, sir; delighted to have you. Make yourself perfectly at home, sir.”
He waved his long, thin, transparent hand grandly and hospitably at Ward, and smiled his toothless smile.
“Perhaps you’d smoke, Mr. Hunter.”
Ward proffered him the case and reflected instantly with delight that the cigar was a large, strong Havana, rich and heavy, much heavier than the old man was accustomed to, for from its odor Ward knew that the cigar Hunter was consuming to the last whiff was of cheap domestic tobacco, if it was of tobacco at all.
“Thank you, sir,” said Hunter, delighted, leaning out of his chair and selecting a cigar with care. “I usually limit myself to one cigar of an evening—but with you—”
“Yes,” thought Ward, “I know why you limit yourself to one, and I hope this one will make you sick.”
When Ward had smoked a moment, he said:
“Mr. Hunter, if I reimburse you, what assurance can I have that there will be no prosecution?”
“Heh, heh.” The old man made that queer noise in his throat again. “Heh, heh. Well, Mr. Ward, you know you are already on your son’s bond.”
“For ten thousand, yes—not for twenty-four.”
“Quite right!” said Hunter, taken somewhat aback. Then they were silent.
“What assurance can you give me, Mr. Hunter?” He took the cigar from his lips and looked directly at Hunter.
“Well, I’m afraid, Mr. Ward, that that has passed out of my hands. You see—”
“You told Eades; yes, I know!” Ward was angry, but he realized the necessity for holding his temper.
“Why did you do that, Mr. Hunter, if I may ask? What did you expect to gain?”
Hunter made the queer noise in his throat and then he stammered:
“Well, Mr. Ward, you must understand that—heh—our Trust Company is a state institution—and I felt it to be my duty, as a citizen, you know, to report any irregularities to the proper official. Merely my duty, as a citizen, Mr. Ward, you understand, as a citizen. Painful, to be sure, but my duty.”
Ward might not have been able to conceal the disgust he felt for this old man if he had not, for the first time that evening, been reminded by Hunter’s own words that the affair was not one to come within the federal statutes. What Hunter’s motive had been in reporting the matter to Eades so promptly, he could not imagine. It would seem that he could have dealt better by keeping the situation in his own hands; that he could have held the threat of prosecution over his head as a weapon quite as menacing as this, and certainly one he could more easily control. But Hunter was mysterious; he waded in the water, and Ward could not follow his tracks. He was sure of but one thing, and that was that the reason Hunter had given was not the real reason.
“You might have waited, it seems to me, Mr. Hunter,” he said. “You might have had some mercy on the boy.”
Ward did not see the peculiar smile that played on Hunter’s face.
“If I remember, Mr. Ward, you had a young man in your employ once, who—”
Ward could scarcely repress a groan.
“I know, I know,” he hastened to confess.
“Yes, exactly,” said Hunter, his chuckle now indicating a dry satisfaction. “You did it as a duty—as I did—our duties as citizens, Mr. Ward, our duties as citizens, and our duties to the others in our employ—we must make examples for them.”
“Yes. Well, it’s different when your own boy is selected to afford the example,” Ward said this with a touch of his humor, but became serious and sober again as he added:
“And I hope, Mr. Hunter, that this affair will never cause you the sorrow and regret—yes, the remorse—that that has caused me.”
Hunter looked at Ward furtively, as if he could not understand how such things could cause any one regret. Out of this want of understanding, however, he could but repeat his former observation:
“But our duty, Mr. Ward. We must do our duty—heh—heh—as citizens, remember.”
He was examining the little gilt-and-red band on the cigar Ward had given him. He had left it on the cigar, and now picked at it with a long, corrugated finger-nail, as if he found a pleasure and a novelty in it. Ward was willing to let the subject drop. He knew that Hunter had been moved by no civic impulse in reporting the fact to Eades; he did not know what his motive had been; perhaps he never would know. It was enough now that the harm had been done, and in his practical way he was wondering what could be done next. He suddenly made a movement as if he would go, a movement that caused Hunter to glance at him in some concern.
“Well,” said Ward, “of course, if it has gone that far, if it is really out of your hands, I presume the only thing is to let matters take their course. To be sure, I had hoped—”
“Keep your seat, Mr. Ward, keep your seat. It is a long time since I have had the pleasure of entertaining you in my home.”
Entertaining! Ward could have seized the wizened pipe of the old man and throttled him there in his shabby green-baize chair.
“Have you anything to suggest?” asked Ward.
“Would not the suggestion better emanate from you?” The old banker waved a withered hand toward Ward with a gesture of invitation. Ward remembered that gesture and understood it. He knew that now they were getting down to business.
“I have no proposition,” said Ward. “I am anxious to save my son—and my family.” A shade of pain darkened his countenance. “I am willing to make good the—er—shortage.” How all such words hurt and stung just now! “Provided, of course, the matter could be dropped there.”
The old banker pondered.
“I should like to help you in your difficulty, Mr. Ward,” he said. “I—”
Ward waited.
“I should be willing to recommend to Mr. Eades a discontinuance of any action. What his attitude would be, I am not, of course, able to say. You understand my position.”
“Very well,” said Ward in the brisk business way habitual with him. “You see Eades, have him agree to drop the whole thing, and I’ll give you my check to cover the—deficiency.”
The banker thought a moment and said finally:
“I shall have an interview with Mr. Eades in the morning, communicating the result to you at eleven o’clock.”
Ward rose.
“Must you go?” asked Hunter in surprise, as if the visit had been but a social one. He rose tremblingly, and stood looking about him with his mirthless grin, and Ward departed without ceremony.