A Canadian Bankclerk Part 23

"n.o.body saw him," said Nelson consolingly, "but a few drunks, and anything they say won't matter."

"Oh, I hope so," she said; "it would be dreadful if the town turned against us. This is our first branch, you know, and a scandal like this might ruin us."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Penton; people are kind in this town, if they _are_ behind the times. They always forgive the first offence, and sometimes more. During the two weeks Mr. Penton has been here he has made lots of friends."

Mrs. Penton began to be comforted, for what the teller said was true.

Penton had a way with him among people; it was a hypocritical way, of course, but the affectation of it was not clear to the kind, simple people of Banfield. His ign.o.ble flattery pa.s.sed for amiability and good-will.

"It won't occur again," said Mrs. Penton, thoughtfully; "this will be a lesson to him. I wish you would frighten him, Mr. Nelson."

Henty had to smile. The manager's wife also smiled then. It was impossible to look worried or cross in the face of what Filter called "the ape's grin." Evan, however, was the first to sober. He was thinking of the day he had entered the bank, and how he had thrilled at sight of a living manager, an appointee of head office. Now he was asked to frighten one of these potentates into subjection.

"I'll make him believe the people of the town are sore," said the teller, pensively.

As they walked to their boarding-houses up the frosty street, the two boys discussed matters.

"I feel kind of sorry for him," said Henty; "he must be a regular booze-fighter."

"Yes. I wonder did head office know it when they sent him up here?"

Henty had no idea. Being simply a junior he did not venture an opinion concerning head office. He did express himself about the unofficial Penton, however.

"I don't like him, Nelson."

"No," said Evan, "he is a mistake. I see trouble ahead for us. I can't understand why the bank sent him up here. He has evidently been used to a fast life, and there's no excitement here for him except booze."

Henty had reached his lodging. With a "good-night" and a sigh he entered the cold storage where he put in the nights.

Evan, drawing one hundred and fifty dollars a year more than the junior, went further up the hill and landed in a warmer room. He lighted a lamp and prepared to thoroughly peruse a couple of letters.

They were more than a couple, they were a pair. Julia reminded him of the "perfectly lovely" times they had spent together, and Lily spoke of the "grand evenings" they had walked or driven in. The Mt. Alban girl intimated that she was without "such a friend" now, and the Creek Bend girl spoke about the scarcity of "the right kind of fellows." Both letters were a challenge for Evan to act consistently with smile or kiss bestowed in the past, and a reminder that girls do not forget so readily as bankclerks might wish.

Folding the two little love-notes together, he held them above the lamp chimney and watched them burn. He did not wear the expression of a Nero, but of an Abram offering up that which was part of himself. He was not burning sheets of paper, but leaves from his life: sheets that he declared must become ashes to him--and to them.

"Yes," he thought, "it is better to make them angry than to string them along and break their hearts at last."

He continued to reason with himself:

"In the first place, I can't tell which of them I like best; therefore I don't love either of them. In the second place, it will be years before I shall draw enough money to marry on."

There was a third place, but Evan wanted to avoid it, for in that "place" sat Frankie Arling. The Bonehead also sat there, with his arms around Frankie.

Unable to banish this picture from his imagination, Evan finally delivered himself up to thoughts of Frankie: only in that way could he depose the redoubtable Porter.

The more Evan compared Frankie with Julia Watersea and Lily Allen, and with others whom he had met, the surer he felt, of her superiority. He regretted having hurt her at his home on Christmas Day, and knew he had done it because he cared for her. Thoughts of Perry gave him a sick feeling in his vitals, but he could not convince himself that Frankie cared anything about "the porter." What had become of all the other Hometon bankclerks she had temporarily tantalized?

In his quiet room the Banfield teller mused. After two years of banking he felt himself further from Frankie Arling than he had felt the day he went away. He was within a few days of nineteen now; his views on everything had undergone a change. Yet, he knew that he was more desirous than ever of marrying Frankie. There are moments when we see our hearts before us under an X-ray more wonderful than that used in medicine. Evan was given a glimpse of his inmost self, and what he saw was startling to him. He knew he loved Frankie Arling, and that he would be happy if he married her, even at nineteen! Age probably has less to do with the proper kind of marriage than is often supposed.

There are boys of seventeen who would make good husbands, whereas some men are never fit. Evan knew he could have settled down at nineteen and made a success of marriage--if he could only have afforded it.

Knowing, though, the futility of dreaming against such odds as seven dollars a week and the bank system of increases, he forced his mind off matrimony and thought of Frankie only as an unattainable object he loved. In the midst of his dreaming loomed up again visions of other girls, chiefly Julia and Lily. He felt guilty for having shown them attention. He experienced remorse, for it was possible he had (the phrase pa.s.sed facetiously through his brain) "built better than he knew." The letters just burnt were not at all comforting in this connection.

Nelson had met bankboys who delighted in what they called "stringing skirts." Those fellows were despicable to him; they were scarcely worth despising. And their numbers were altogether too large. He had met others--very many--who were not in the despicable cla.s.s, but who also were guilty of unfaithfulness. Why, he asked himself, were conditions in the bank conducive to such a state of affairs?

It was, experience answered, because a fellow's mind was unoccupied after hours, and for many other reasons. He was among the most attractive people, and was obliged to dress well and be amiable. If girls were attracted to him it could do business no harm--and business comes first. When a move came along a fellow was lonely for a while and longed to be back at the town he had just left. Naturally he wrote a more or less pathetic letter to the girl who had liked him best, and she, being also a little lonely, replied with a touch of tenderness. A fellow came back with another letter, stronger than the first, written in a particularly dark hour, and the girl left behind began to feel herself a party to something serious. Letters went back and forth until a fellow was invited out in the new town, or otherwise met another fair one. Then his letters dropped off. Probably he liked the girl left behind and could have fallen in love with her; but he knew he could not hold out hopes of marriage, and why spoil her chances by writing any longer than was absolutely necessary? Sometimes the girl left behind persisted in her writing. Several of them, if he had worked in a number of towns, usually did. A fellow could not be rude to them--he must let them down gradually; so he wrote regularly for a while, praying that the growing frigidity of his tone would finally discourage.

Thus it went, town after town. The bankman drifted along, taking no girl seriously, but using them all so, out of necessity. If he was an unscrupulous person he enjoyed it; if he knew what conscience meant he periodically took himself to task--but never quite solved the problem.

There was no solution to it. One could not be a hermit or a boor because girls had hearts and the bank had none. He must play the game.

He was taking a big chance of having his own heart cracked, and thought of danger for himself fostered recklessness toward the weaker s.e.x.

Something, a solemn voice it seemed, whispered to Evan that a young man of iron could go through the ordeal of eight or ten years' bank service and run the gauntlet of attractive femininity without injury to a single soul; but young men are not made of iron. Evan wondered if those who wrote the Rules and Regulations had daughters, or if they remembered the letters they had received when they were clerking in little towns. Why didn't they take the whole of human nature into consideration when they laid down laws to govern employes? The fact that they had ignored the right of young men to marry at a reasonable age had wrought a thousand published wrongs and ten thousand wrongs that would never reach the press.

In his silent room the young teller rebelled against the bonds that held him and his fellows. He counted the years that must elapse before he could hope to marry. At one hundred dollars increase per year it would take him seven years more to earn $1,050. In the East the "marriage minimum" was $1,000, in the West $1,200. Like Jacob he must work seven years for his wife. And then would it be Rachel or someone else? Would Frankie wait such an age for him? Could any man expect a girl to believe in the seriousness of his intentions for eighty-four months--a year of weeks? He believed she would wait if she understood, but how could a girl understand "business" like that?

The teller's mind grew darker as he mused. He saw only gloom ahead.

The drunken manager staggered into his room, in spirit, and delivered another lecture on the "aristocracy of banking." Bah!

Evan filled with rebellion as his situation stood out before him--a sudden pain in the head warned him that he was worrying. Then came a slight reaction.

"Pshaw!" he muttered, "I'm putting myself in a rotten humor. I'll feel better in the morning."

And so he did. The "light of common day" is often preferable to the illusions of night. In spite of his disturbed state of mind Evan had slept well. Penton, too, had slept, but not well. Judging from his appearance in the morning, his dreams must have been diabolical.

When the teller entered the office Penton greeted him sullenly.

"Well," he said, grouchily, "I suppose I made a nice mess of things last night. I suppose every ---- gossip in town will talk about it for months."

In spite of his grouch the manager looked frightened. Anyone could see he was worried.

"Not many know of it," said Evan, indifferently.

"Do you think they will blab?" Penton was still unrepentant. His brazenness irritated the teller, who answered simply:

"Yes."

Penton looked at him angrily.

"See here," he said, imperiously, "I don't give a ---- what these yokels think of me. I am manager here, and if I want to take a gla.s.s that's my business; understand?"

Evan made no reply. He walked doggedly from the manager's office to his cage and set to work. Penton stood pulling at the inflamed tip of his upper lip. His bluffing had failed. When he approached Nelson it was humbly.

"I hope you'll try to fix things up as much as possible, old man," he said.

Under the circ.u.mstances Evan would rather have been called Old Nick than "old man," but he nodded obedience to the manager's wishes and went about his business.

"I promise it won't happen again," said Penton, grovelling.

"It will soon pa.s.s off," said Evan.

He might have meant that Penton's resolution would disappear. However, his words were consolation to the nerveless manager, who, from that time on, was quite servile. He ingratiated himself with the teller at every opportunity. His mock humility was loathsome to Evan and made him fear indefinitely. He worried over it. But he could not decide what to do or how to treat Penton.