The Turn of the Balance

"Bess!"

The tone of the voice struck her oddly. He had pushed open the door and hesitated on the threshold, peering in cautiously. Then he entered and carefully closed the door behind him. She scented the odor of Scotch whisky, of cigarettes, in short, the odor of the club man. His face, which she had thought ruddy with the health, the exuberance, the inexhaustible vitality of youth, she saw now to be really unhealthy, its ruddy tints but the flush of his dissipations. Now, his face went white suddenly, as if a mask had been snatched from it; she saw the weakness and sensuousness that marred it.

"Dick!" she said, for some reason speaking in a whisper. "What's the matter? Tell me!"

At first a great fear came to her, a fear that he was intoxicated. She knew by intuition that Dick must frequently have been intoxicated; but she had never seen him so, and she dreaded it; she could have borne anything better than that, she felt. He sank on to the edge of her bed and sat there, rocking miserably to and fro, his overcoat bundled about him, his hat toppling on the side of his head, a figure of utter demoralization.

"Dick!" she said, going to him, "what is it? Tell me!"

She took him by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. He continued to rock back and forth and to moan;

"Oh, my God!" he said presently. "What am I going to do!"

Elizabeth gathered herself for one of those ordeals which, in all families, there is one stronger than the rest to meet and deal with.

"Here, sit up." She shook him. "Sit up and tell me what ails you." The fear that he was intoxicated had left her, and there was relief in this. "And take off your hat." She seized the hat from his head and laid it on the little mahogany stand beside her bed. "If you knew how ridiculous you look!"

He sat up at this and weakly began drawing off his gloves. When he had them off, he drew them through his hand, slapped them in his palm, and then with a weary sigh, said:

"Well, I'm ruined!"

"Oh, don't be dramatic!" She was herself now. "Tell me what scrape you're in, and we'll see how to get you out of it." She was quite composed. She drew up a chair for him and one for herself. Some silly escapade, no doubt, she thought, which in his weakness he was half glad to make the most of. He had removed his overcoat and taken the chair she had placed for him. Then he raised his face, and when she saw the expression, she felt the blood leave her cheeks; she knew that the trouble was real. She struggled an instant against a sickness that assailed her, and then, calming herself, prepared to meet it.

"Well?" she said.

"Bess," he began fearfully, and his head dropped again. "Bess"–his voice was very strange–"it's–the–bank."

She shivered as if a dead cold blast had struck her. In the moment before there had swept through her mind a thousand possibilities, but never this one. She closed her eyes. There was a sharp pain in her heart, exactly as if she had suddenly crushed a finger.

"The bank!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "Oh, Dick!"

He hung his head and began to moan again, and to rock back and forth, and then suddenly he leaned over, seized his head in his two hands and began to weep violently, like a child. Strangely enough, to her own surprise, she found herself calmly and coolly watching him. She could see the convulsive movements of his back as he sobbed; she could see his fingers viciously tearing at the roots of his hair. She sat and watched him; how long she did not know. Then she said:

"Don't cry, Dick; they'll hear you down-stairs."

He made an effort to control himself, and Elizabeth suddenly remembered that he had told her nothing at all.

"What do you mean," she asked, "by the bank?"

"I mean," he said without uncovering his face, and his hands muffled his words, "that I'm–into it."

Ah, yes! This was the dim, unposited thought, the numb, aching dread, the half-formed, unnamed, unadmitted fear that had lurked beneath the thought of all these months–underneath the father's thought and hers; this was what they had meant when they exchanged glances, when now and then with dread they approached the subject in obscure, mystic words, meaningless of themselves, yet pregnant with a dreadful and terrible import. And now–it had come!

"How much?" she forced herself to ask.

He nodded.

"It's big. Several–"

"What?"

"Hundreds."

"Hundreds?"

He hesitated, and then,

"Thousands," he said, tearing the word from him.

"How many thousands?" she asked, when she could find the courage.

Again he cowered before the truth. She grew impatient.

"Tell me!" she commanded. "Don't be a coward." He winced. "Sit up and face this thing and tell me. How many thousands have you stolen?"

She said it in a hard, cold voice. He suddenly looked up, his eyes flashed an instant. He saw his sister sitting there, her hands held calmly in her lap, her head inclined a little, her chin thrust out, her lips tightly compressed, and he could not meet her; he collapsed again, and she heard him say pitifully, "Don't use that word." Then he began to weep, and as he sobbed, he repeated:

"Oh, they'll send me to the penitentiary–the penitentiary–the penitentiary!"

The word struck Elizabeth; her gray eyes began to fill.

"How much, Dick?" she asked gently.

"Five–a–"

"More?"

He nodded

"How much more?"

"Twice as much."

"Ten, then?"

He said nothing; he ceased sobbing. Then suddenly he looked up and met her glance.

"Bess," he said, "it's twenty-three thousand!"

She stared at him until her tears had dried. In the silence she could hear her little watch ticking away on the dressing-table. The lights in the room blazed with a fierce glare.

"Does Mr. Hunter know?"

"Yes."

"When did he find out?"

"This morning. He called me in this afternoon."

"Does any one else know?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

Dick hung his head and began to fumble his watch-chain.

"Who, Dick?"

"One other man."

"Who? Tell me."

"Eades."

She closed her eyes and leaned back; she dropped her arms to her sides and clutched her chair for support. For a long while they did not speak. It was Dick at last who spoke. He seemed to have regained his faculties and his command.

"Bess," he said, "Eades will have no mercy on me. You know that."

She admitted it with a slow nod of her head, her eyes still closed.

"Something must be done. Father–he must be told. Will–will you tell him?"

She sat a moment–it seemed a long moment–without moving, without opening her eyes; and Dick sat there and watched her. Some of the color had come to his face. His eyes were contracting; his face was lined with new scheming.

"Will you tell him, Bess?"

She moved, opened her eyes slowly, wearily, and sighed:

"Yes."

She got up.

"You're not going to tell him now?"

He stretched out a hand as if to detain her.

"Yes, now. Why not?" She rose with difficulty, paused, swayed a little and then went toward the door. Dick watched her without a word. His hand was in the pocket of his coat. He drew out a cigarette.

She went down the stairs holding the baluster tightly; her palm, moist from her nervousness, squeaked on the rail as she slid it along. She paused in the library door. Her father was lounging in his chair under the reading-lamp, his legs stretched toward the fire. She could just see the top of his head over the chair, the light falling on his gray hair.

"That you, Betsy?"

The cheer and warmth of his tone smote her; again her eyes closed in pain.

"Yes, it's I," she said, trying for a natural tone, and succeeding, at least, in putting into her voice a great love–and a great pity. She bent over the back of the chair, and laid her hands on his head, gazing into the fire. The touch of her hands sent a delicious thrill through Ward; he did not move or speak, wishing to prolong the sensation.

"Dear," she said, "I have something to tell you."

The delicious sensation left him instantly.

"Can you bear some bad news–some bad, bad news?"

His heart sank. He had expected something like this–the day would come, he knew, when she would leave him. But was it not unusual? Should not Eades have spoken–should not he have asked him first? Her arms were stealing about his neck.

"Some bad news–some evil news. Something very–"

She had slipped around beside him and leaned over as if to protect him from the blow she was about to deliver. Her voice suddenly grew unnatural, tragic, sending a shudder through him as she finished her sentence with the one word:

"Horrible!"

"What is it?" he whispered.

"Be strong, dear, and brave; it's going to hurt you."

"Tell me, Bess," he said, sitting up now, his man's armor on.

"It's about Dick."

"Dick!"

"Yes, Dick–and the bank!"

"Oh-h!" he groaned, and, in his knowledge of his own world, he knew it all.

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.

XXVI

All the way to the court-house Elizabeth's heart failed her more and more. She had often been in fear of Eades, but never had she so feared him as she did to-day; the fear became almost an acute terror. And, once in the big building, the fear increased. Though the court-house, doubtless, was meant for her as much as for any one, she felt that alien sense that women still must feel in public places. Curiosity and incredulity were shown in the glances the loafers of the corridors bestowed on this young woman, who, in her suit of dark green, with gray furs and muff, attracted such unusual attention. Elizabeth detected the looks that were exchanged, and, because of her sensitiveness, imagined them to be of more significance than they were. She saw the sign "Marriage Licenses" down one gloomy hallway; then in some way she thought of the divorce court; then she thought of the criminal court, with its shadow now creeping toward her own home, and when she reflected how much cause for this staring curiosity there might be if the curious ones but knew all she knew, her heart grew heavier. But she hurried along, found Eades's office, and, sending in her card, sat down in the outer room to wait.

She had chosen the most obscure corner and she sat there, hoping that no one would recognize her, filled with confusion whenever any one looked at her, or she suspected any one of looking at her, and imagining all the dreadful significances that might attach to her visit. While she waited, she had time to think over the last eighteen hours. They had found it necessary to tell her mother, and that lady had spent the whole morning in hysteria, alternately wondering what people would say when the disgrace became known, and caressing and leaning on Dick, who bravely remained at home and assumed the manly task of comforting and reassuring his mother. Elizabeth had awaited in suspense the conclusion of Hunter's visit to Eades, and she had gone down town to hear from her father the result of Hunter's effort. She was not surprised when her father told her that Hunter reported failure; neither of them had had much faith in Hunter and less in Eades. But when they had discussed it at the luncheon they had in a private room at the club, and after the discussion had proved so inconclusive, she broached the plan that had come to her in the wakeful night,–the plan she had been revolving in her mind all the morning.

"My lawyer?" her father had said. "He could do nothing–in a case like this."

"I suppose not," Elizabeth had said. "Besides, it would only place the facts in the possession of one more person."

"Yes."

"We might consult Gordon Marriott. He would sympathize–and help."

"Yes, that might do."

"But not yet," she had said, "Not till I've tried my plan."

"Your plan? What is it?"

"To see John Eades–for me to see John Eades."

She had hung her head–she could not help it, and her father had shown some indignation.

"Not for worlds!" he had said. "Not for worlds!"

"But I'm going."

"No! It wouldn't be fitting!"

"But I'm going."

"Then I'll go along."

"No, I'll go alone."

He had protested, of course, but his very next words showed that he was ready to give in.

"When shall you go?" he asked.

"Now. There isn't much time. The grand jury–what is it the grand jury does?"

"It sits next week, and Eades will lay the case before it then–unless–"

"Unless I can stop him."

There had been a little intense, dramatic moment when the waiter was out of the room and she had risen, buttoning her jacket and drawing on her gloves, and her father had stood before her.

"Bess," he said, "tell me, are you contemplating some–horrible sacrifice?" He had put his finger under her chin and elevated it, in the effort to make her look him in the eyes. She had paled slightly and then smiled–and kissed him.

"Never mind about me, papa."

And then she had hastened away–and here she was.

The tall door lettered "The Prosecuting Attorney" was closed, but she did not have to wait long before it opened and three men came out, evidently hurried away by Eades, who hastened to Elizabeth's side and said:

"Pardon me if I kept you waiting,"

They entered the private office, and, at her sign, he closed the door. She took the chair beside his desk, and he sat down and looked at her expectantly. He was plainly ill at ease, and this encouraged her. She was alive to the strangeness of this visit, to the strangeness of the place and the situation; her heart was in her throat; she feared she could not speak, but she made a great effort and plunged at once into the subject.

"You know what brings me here."

"I presume–"

"Yes," she said before he could finish. He inclined his head in an understanding that would spare painful explanation. His heart was going rapidly. He would have gloried in having her near him in any other place; but here in this place, on this subject! He must not forget his position; he must assume his official personality; the separation of his relations had become a veritable passion with him.