The listener inferred that Cramer bowed. “My services have been satisfactory, irrespective of salary?” he asked.
“Oh, certainly. We shall be glad to recommend you. That is all at present, Mr. Cramer.”
He had gone. Mrs. Stannard sitting out there felt a strange discomposure—pity, and a helpless revolt against this iron system of injustice: an injustice that hurt her idea of the promoters of it more than those under them—they had been her husband’s friends.
“There’s a lady waiting outside,” said the boy, who was going out with the papers. She rose perforce.
“Mrs. Stannard! Nelson, here is Mrs. Stannard.” White handed out a chair from a dark corner, and Nelson came forward cordially. Both men looked worn and tired, Nelson tall and thin and dark, with deeply-lined face; White, short and slight and fair. Both gave an effect of trying to brush off an habitual and haunting care, to welcome this unexpected visitor. She had known them since her girlhood; Nelson used to write poetry, and White had even been in love with her sister once. He was such a tender-hearted fellow then, he couldn’t bear to have the least of God’s creatures suffer pain. She answered mechanically the usual inquiries as to her health, while she was thinking of these things.
“We are glad you happened to come in, Mrs. Stannard,” said Nelson. “We have just found that there was a little money due your husband still on that last patent. Write out a check for fifty-six dollars, if you please, White, for Mrs. Stannard. There, that’s right, I think. There is so much that’s disagreeable in the business that we’re glad to have something pleasant to communicate occasionally.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Stannard. She added after a moment, “Thank you.” She was looking at the appurtenances of the little office, and at the two men in it. This was where George used to stand when he came here to talk to them, in this dusty cramped space, the high office desks half shutting out the light. What had been his feelings? How he had loved them, Nelson and White—Nelson and White who had killed him!
Something hard in her eyes seemed to strike White.
“We are sorry that we had to dismiss Francis,” he said apologetically. “It is always hard to have to make changes of that kind, but we depend entirely on Mr. Ulmer’s arrangements in that department. As I understand, it was a choice between him and Griggs, and Griggs had the better handwriting. Francis should improve. It is simply a matter of business.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Stannard again. She sat there, a small, unpretending figure in her black gown, very fair and young looking in the dingy office surroundings. She was twisting the white envelope in her fingers, the weapon that George had unwittingly left her that she was to wield in behalf of his son—if she wanted to.