On the other hand, he poured out his affairs and his plans to her with a freedom of confidence unknown before, a confidence which seemed to presuppose her oneness of interest with him. He had talked exhaustively about everything but those few days’ absence; that was a sore that she must not touch, a wound that could bear no probing. She had striven very hard not to show when she didn’t understand, taking her cues for assent or dissent as he evidently wished her to, letting him think aloud, as it seemed to be a relief to him, and saying little herself. The only time when she broke in on her own account was when he had told her about Cater, and the defective bars, and Leverich’s ultimatum. Here was an issue that she could comprehend; here her woman’s instinct rang true. A man may juggle with that fluctuating line where sharp practice and honest shrewdness meet, so that he fails to see where one begins and another ends; but a woman of Lois’ caliber knows. Her “Justin, you wouldn’t do that; you wouldn’t tell!” met with his quick response: “No, I couldn’t.”
“Oh, I know that, I know that! I’m glad, whatever comes, that you couldn’t do it. I’d rather be a hundred times poorer than we are! Aren’t you glad that you couldn’t do it?”
“No; I think I’m rather sorry,” said Justin, with a half-smile. The peculiar sharpness of the thought that it was between Cater and Leverich—his friends, Heaven save the mark! that he was being pushed toward ruin, had not lost any of its edge.
There had been a tonic in a certain attitude of Cater’s mind toward Justin—an unspoken kindliness and admiration and tenderness such as an older man who has been along a hard road may feel toward another who has come along the same way. Cater’s kind, unobtrusive comradeship, the fair-dealing friendliness of his rivalry, had seemed to be one of the factors of support, of honesty, of commercial righteousness.
Justin was surprised to find out how much the morning greeting with Cater, or the occasional lunch-hour together, had meant to him. Cater and he had mutually understood a great many things. Cater had done nothing wrong now, except to pull the foothold from under his friend’s feet. It was not men who were known to be bad who hurt you when they were dishonest; it was the good men who slid over that dividing-line, with apparent unconsciousness that they were on that other, shaming side. To break an unwritten bond is perhaps worse than to break one printed and scheduled, because it presupposes a greater faith and trust. Justin could smile proudly at Leverich, but he couldn’t smile when he thought of Cater—it weighed upon and humiliated him for the man who had been his friend.
“I am glad that you couldn’t do it anyway!” said Lois. “It wouldn’t have been you if you had! Can’t you take a rest now, dear, when you look so ill? No, no; I didn’t mean that—of course you can’t!”
“A rest!” He rose and walked up and down the room. “Lois, do you know that, in some way, I’ve got to get that money before the thirteenth? Those days in Chicago—at the worst time! It makes me wild to think of the time I’ve lost. I’m looking out for a partner who will buy out Leverich and Martin, and we’ve got a chance yet—I’ll swear we have! But Lewiston’s note has got to be paid first; then I can take time to breathe. Harker saw a man from Boston from whom we might have borrowed the money, if I had only been here. If we get that we can hold over; if we don’t we go to smash, and so does Lewiston. Lewiston trusted me. I’ve been to several places to-day to men that would be willing enough to lend the money if they didn’t know I needed it.”
“George Sutton?” hazarded Lois.
Justin’s lips curved bitterly. “Oh, he’s a cur. He had some money invested last year when he was sweet on Dosia, and drew it all out afterwards! And, after all, I went to him to-day, like a fool!”
“Can’t you go to Eugene Larue?”