The caller would cry in his heart, “What a superb old institution this is!” and cover his own weaknesses and shortcomings in a further sheath of mannerism and appreciation—the entire atmosphere strangely prevailing to help one to stifle rather than to ventilate his real points of view.
So the establishment moved. The groups of girls going up and down the back stairs—to count or tie or paste through all their interesting days—counted the heads of their respective departments as their greatest men; spoke of them in awed whispers, in certain cases with maternal affection, and on occasion even with playful intimacy on the part of a few—but always as a master-workman, the best man in the business, who expressed the poorest part of himself in words, and had to be lived with for years adequately to be appreciated and understood.
Mr. Nathan Lot, the present head of the firm, was a dreamer. It was Mr. Sproxley who had first told Bellair this, but he heard it frequently afterward, came to recognise it as the accepted initial saying as regarded the Head, just as his impeccable honour was Mr. Sproxley’s and unerring critical instinct Mr. Hardburg’s titular association. Mr. Nathan was the least quarrelsome man anywhere, the quietest and the gentlest—a small bloodless man of fifty, aloof from business; a man who had worn and tested himself so little that you would imagine him destined to live as long again, except for the lugubrious atmospheres around his desk, in the morning especially, the sense of imperfect ventilation, though the partitions were but half-high to the lower floor and there was a thousand feet to draw from. The same was beginning in Jabez, the son, something pent, non-assimilation somewhere. However Jabez wasn’t a dreamer; at least, dreaming had not become his identifying proclivity. He was a head taller than his father with a wide limp mouth and small expressionless brown eyes—twenty-seven, and almost as many times a millionaire.
Jabez was richer than his father, who was the direct heir of the House of Lot, but his father’s dreaming had complicated the flow of another huge fortune in the familiar domestic fashion—Jabez being the symbol and centre of the combination; also the future head of the House of Lot and Company—up and down town.
Bellair wondered a long time what the pervading dream of the father was. He had been in the office many months, had never heard the senior-mind give vent to authoritative saying in finance, literature, science or prints; and while this did not lower his estimate at all—he was sincerely eager to get at the sleeping force of this giant. Mr. Sproxley spoke long on the subject, but did not know. Mr. Hardburg said:
“I have been associated with Mr. Nathan for eleven years now. The appeal of his worth is not eager and insinuating, but I have this to say—that in eleven years I have found myself slipping, slipping into a mysterious, a different regard, a profounder friendliness—if one might put it that way—for Mr. Nathan, than any I have known in my whole career. The fact is I love Mr. Nathan. He is one of the sweetest spirits I ever knew.”
Bellair was interested in dreamers; had a theory that dreaming was important. When he heard that a certain child was inclined to dreaming, he was apt to promise a significant future off-hand. He reflected that even Mr. Hardburg had forgotten to tell him of the tendency in Mr. Nathan’s case, but determined not to give up.... Once in the lower part of the city, he passed the firm-head—a studious little man making his way along at the edge of the walk. Bellair spoke before he thought. Mr. Nathan started up in a dazed way, appeared to recognise him with difficulty, as if there was something in the face that the hat made different. He cleared his voice and inquired with embarrassment:
“Are you going to the store?”
After Bellair had ceased to regret speaking, he reflected upon the word “store.” The president of a great manufacturing plant, content to be known as a tradesman—an excellent, a Quaker simplicity about that.
Bellair’s particular friend in the establishment was Broadwell of the advertising-desk, a young man of his own age who was improving himself evenings and who aspired to be a publisher. But even closer to his heart was Davy Acton, one of the office-boys, who had been tested out and was not a liar. A sincere sad-faced lad of fifteen, who lived with his mother somewhere away down town. He looked up to Bellair as to a man among men, one who had achieved. This was hard to bear on the man’s part, but he was fond of the youngster and often had him over Sundays, furnishing books of his own and recommending others. Davy believed in him. This was the sensation.