The Petition.
Lyman did not sleep much that night. Annie, cautioned by her discreet mother not to say too much, had simply told him that Eva had called and asked about him. But that was enough to keep him awake nearly all night; and long before the table was set, the next morning, they heard him walking slowly up and down the pathway worn in the carpet. In the office he sat musing. The boy came in to tell him that at five o'clock he had helped Warren on the road to be married, and that he had left strict instructions that Lyman should be told not to forget the supper at the cottage. The boy went out and Lyman stood at the window, looking across at the bank. Presently he saw McElwin bow with dignity to a man whom he met in front of the door and then enter the place. The boy came in again and holding out a piece of "copy" written badly, asked him to read the first line. It was a notice of the meeting of the Chancery court. The boy returned to his work and Lyman continued to gaze at the bank. Suddenly a smile, not altogether soft, but half cynical, lighted up his face; and at the same instant he reached for his hat. Straightway he went to the bank and sent his name into the private office. McElwin came to the door.
"Why, come in, Mr. Lyman," he said cordially, extending his hand. Lyman shook hands with him and entered the room. The great clock began to strike. McElwin looked up at it and then said: "Have a seat, please."
Lyman sat down. McElwin did not permit the silence to become embarrassing. "Mr. Sawyer told me all about it, sir; he kept nothing back, although he must have seen that I could not help honoring you. Mr. Lyman, you have taught us all a lesson, sir, and I am more than pleased to see that you are prospering. It is more than likely," he went on, crossing his legs, "that you may soon seek some sort of investment for your money. Idle money, sir, is like an idle mind—a mischief to the community; and if you should desire to invest—"
"I can't afford to engage in trade," Lyman broke in. "Of course," he added, "trade is a good thing in its way, a sort of necessity, but the English have the right idea of it, after all—drawing a distinction between the tradesman and the gentleman. I remember a remark old Sam Johnson made concerning a fellow who had grown rich enough to stop buying and selling—'he had lost the servility of the tradesman without having acquired the manners of a gentleman.'"
McElwin bit his lip. "I didn't mean any offense," he said.
"Oh, surely not, and I have taken none. By the way, Mr. McElwin, Chancery court will meet next Monday."
"Ah! I had quite forgotten it. Time does fly, sir."
"Yes, and circumstances change, and men bow to circumstances."
"You are quite right, Mr. Lyman. And that reminds me that I have been forced through a change concerning Mr. Sawyer. I honor him on some grounds, you understand, but his confession of drunkenness shocked me greatly. In fact, sir, I am glad he did not marry my daughter."
"When I spoke of the meeting of the court," said Lyman, pretending to have paid no attention to McElwin's remark concerning Sawyer, "I wished to remind you of the petition for divorce."
"Yes, quite right," McElwin replied, uncrossing his legs and putting out his hand as if unconsciously feeling for his dignity, to pull it back to him.
"Is the paper which your daughter signed here or at your home?"
"At home, I think; yes, I am quite sure of it."
"Then would you mind walking up there with me so that I may sign it?"
"Why—er, not at all, sir, but we have plenty of time."
"No," Lyman insisted, "it is better to have it over with; and I ask your pardon for not having signed it sooner."
The banker got up, took down his hat, brushed it with the sleeve of his coat and announced his readiness to go. Together they walked out. Lyman assumed an unwonted gaiety. He commented humorously upon the tradesmen standing in their doors. The banker strove to laugh, but his heart was not in the effort. "Yes, sir," said he, "things change and women change, too. And I may make bold to say that my daughter—and my wife, sir—are not exceptions to the—er, rule."
"I don't quite understand," said Lyman.
"I mean, sir, that what at one time might have been distasteful may have become a—er—matter of endearment, you understand."
"I don't know that I do," the cruel tormenter replied.
"A woman's nature is a peculiar thing—a romantic thing, I might almost say. My daughter is strangely influenced by romance, sir. And her peculiar relationship to—ahem—yourself, I might say—"
"You mean that outrageous affair at old Jasper's house," Lyman broke in.
"Well, the odd—you understand—marriage. Yes, it has made quite a different person of her, I might say. Really, I was in hopes—it came upon me latterly, you observe, or I mean you understand—that we might come to some adjustment—"
"We will," Lyman interrupted. "I am more than willing to sign the petition."
"You are very kind, and I thank you—yes, very considerate—but my daughter has changed greatly since then, and I have lately indulged a hope together with my wife that we might throw open our home to you—ahem—you understand."
"We can settle it today," said Lyman. "I believe you told me once that I ought to go away, or sent some word of that sort, I don't remember which, and I am now ready to take your advice."
The banker sighed, and they walked along in silence until they came to the gate of Eva's home.
"Walk in," said McElwin.
They stepped upon the veranda and Lyman saw Eva sitting in the parlor. She came running to meet him, forgetful of everything—came running with her hands held out.
"He has come to sign the petition," said the banker in a dry voice. "Where is your mother?"
She drew back. "In the garden I think," she answered.
"I will go after her," said McElwin.
He walked away, heavy of foot. Eva turned to Lyman and asked him to sit down. He did so, and she remained standing. It reminded him of the night when they had met at the lantern picnic, only their position now were reversed, for then he had remained standing while she sat looking up at him. He took up a volume of Tennyson and opened it, and between the pages in front of him lay a faded clover bloom.
"A memory?" he asked, looking at her.
"Yes, a beautiful memory. Some one plucked it, threw it up and it fell in my lap—one day at the creek."
He looked at her searchingly. They heard McElwin in the garden calling his wife, "Lucy, oh, Lucy. Where are you?"
"Eva, I have not been honorable with you—I have held you not as a protector—I have held you selfishly—I love you."
"Lucy, where are you?" the banker called.
"I have not dared to hope that you could love me—I'm old and ugly. But I worshipped you and I can not set you free. I told your father that I would come to sign the paper, and I spoke sarcastically to him, but I will beg his pardon, for I honor him."
"Lucy, come here, quick!" the banker shouted in the garden.
"You did not think I could love you," she said, looking at him frankly, her eyes full of surprise and happiness; "you did not know me. I told my mother that with you life would be joyous in a shanty. Oh, my husband."
He got up quietly, the tears streaming down his face—he held out his arms.
"Lucy, he has come to sign the paper."
They were standing in the garden walk. She was almost breathless, having run to meet him. "Oh, he must not," she said. "It will kill her."
"He is going to sign it and we must be brave. Wait here till I fetch it," he said when they reached the rear veranda. She waited, tearful, trembling. He came with the paper and they stepped into the parlor. Lyman stood with his back toward them, his arms about Eva, her face hidden in his bosom. Mrs. McElwin held up her hands and then bowed her head with a whispered, "Thank God." The banker stood there, quickly, but without noise, tearing the paper into bits. His wife held her arms out toward him. He opened his hand and the bits of paper fluttered to the floor.