At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3), Page 6

  CHAPTER VI.

  It was on an October day, mellow and bright, when Robert Drummond, witha smile on his face, and a heavy heart in his breast, reached the housein Victoria Villas, to superintend poor Stephen's return to thesitting-room, as he had superintended his removal to his bed. Thesitting-room was larger, airier, and less isolated, than the mournfulchamber up-stairs, in which he had spent half the summer. It was aheart-rending office, and yet it was one from which his friend could notshrink. Before he went up-stairs the painter paused, and took hold ofMiss Jane's hand, and wept, as people say, 'like a child;' but a child'shot thunder-shower of easily-dried tears are little like those few heavydrops that come to the eyes of older people, concentrating in themselvesso much that words could not express. Miss Jane, for her part, did notweep. Her gray countenance, which was grayer than ever, was for a momentconvulsed, and then she pushed her brother's friend away. 'Don't you seeI daren't cry?' she said, almost angrily, with one hard sob. Her brotherStephen was the one object of her life. All the romance of which she wascapable, and a devotion deeper than that of twenty lovers, was in herworship of him. And this was what it was coming to! She hurried into theroom which she had been preparing for him, which was henceforward to behis dwelling day and night, and shut the door upon the too sympatheticface. As for Robert, he went into his friend's little chamber withcheery salutations: 'Well, old fellow, so you are coming back to theworld!' he said. Poor Haldane was seated in his dressing-gown in aneasy-chair. To look at him, no chance spectator would have known that hewas as incapable of moving out of it as if he had been bound with iron,and everybody about him had been loud in their congratulations on theprogress he was making. They thought they deceived him, as people sooften think who flatter the incurable with hopes of recovery. He smiledas Robert spoke, and shook his head.

  'I am changing my prison,' he said; 'nothing more. I know that as wellas the wisest of you, Drummond. You kind, dear souls, do you think thosecheery looks you have made such work to keep up, deceive me?'

  'What cheery looks? I am as sulky as a bear,' said Robert. 'And as foryour prison, Maurice doesn't think so. You heard what he said?'

  'Maurice doesn't say so,' said poor Haldane. 'But never mind, it can'tlast for ever; and we need not be doleful for that.'

  The painter groaned within himself as they moved the helpless mandown-stairs. 'It will last for ever,' he thought. He was so full of lifeand consolation himself that he could not realise the end which hisfriend was thinking of--the 'for ever' which would release him and everyprisoner. When they carried the invalid into the room below he gave awistful look round him. For life--that was what he was thinking. Helooked at the poor walls and commonplace surroundings, and a sigh burstfrom his lips. But he said immediately, to obliterate the impression ofthe sigh, 'What a cheerful room it is, and the sun shining! I could nothave had a more hopeful day for my first coming down-stairs.'

  And then they all looked at each other, heart-struck by what seemed tothem the success of their deception. Old Mrs Haldane fell into a suddenoutburst of weeping: 'Oh, my poor boy! my poor boy!' she said; and againa quick convulsion passed over Miss Jane's face. Even Dr Maurice, thearch-deceiver, felt his voice choked in his throat. They did not knowthat their patient was smiling at them and their transparent devices, inthe sadness and patience of his heart. The room had been altered in manyparticulars for his reception, and fitted with contrivances, every oneof which contradicted the promises of restoration which were held out tohim. He had known it was so, but yet the sight of all the provisionsmade for his captivity gave him a new pang. He could have cried out,too, to earth and heaven. But what would have been the good? At the endall must submit.

  'Now that you are comfortable, Stephen,' said his sister, with a harshrattle in her voice, which made her appear less amiable than ever, andin reality came out of the deep anguish of her heart, 'there is some onewaiting to see you. The chapel people have been very kind. Besides thedeputation that came with the purse for you, there are always privatemembers asking how you are, and if they can see you, and how they missyou--till you are able to go back.'

  'That will be never, Jane.'

  'How do you know? How can any one tell? It is impious to limit God'smercies,' cried Miss Jane harshly; then, suddenly calming down, 'It isMr Baldwin's son-in-law who has called to-day. They are in the country,and this Mr Burton has come to carry them news of you. May he come in?'

  'That is your cousin--your director?' said the invalid with someeagerness. 'I should like to see him. I want you to invest my money forme, Drummond. There is not much; but you must have it, and makesomething of it in your new bank.'

  Mr Burton came in before Drummond could answer. He came in on tiptoe,with an amount of caution which exasperated all the bystanders who lovedStephen. He looked stronger, richer, more prosperous than ever as he satdown, sympathetically, close to Stephen's chair. There he sat andtalked, as it were, smoothing the sick man down. 'We must havepatience;' he said soothingly. 'After such an illness it will take solong to get up your strength. The sea-side would have been the bestthing, but, unfortunately, it is a little late. I am so glad to hearyour people are showing you how much they prize such a man as you amongthem; and I hope, with one thing and another--the pension, and soforth--you will be very comfortable? I would not venture to ask such aquestion, if it were not for Mr Baldwin. He takes so much interest inall your concerns.'

  'I am very glad you have spoken of it,' said Haldane, 'for I want toinvest what little money I have in this bank I hear so much of--yoursand Drummond's. I feel so much like a dying man--'

  'No, no,' said Mr Burton in a deprecating tone, 'nothing half so bad.Providence, you may be sure, has something different in store for you.We must not think of that.'

  'At all events, I want to make the best of the money, for my mother andsister,' said Stephen. And then he entered into business, telling themwhat he had, and how it was invested. His mind had been very full ofthis subject for some time past. The money was not much, but if he died,it would be all his mother and sister would have to depend upon, and thepurse which his congregation had collected for him would increase hislittle, very little capital. Dr Maurice had gone away, and the twowomen, though they heard everything, were withdrawn together into acorner. Mrs Haldane had attempted several times to interrupt theconversation. 'What do we care for money!' she had said, with tears inher eyes. 'Let him alone, mother, it will make him happier,' Miss Janehad said in the voice that was so harsh with restrained emotion. AndStephen, with his two visitors beside him, and a flush upon his wanface, expounded all his affairs, and put his fortune into their hands.'Between you, you will keep my poor little nest-egg warm,' he said,smiling upon them. His illness had refined his face, and gave him acertain pathetic dignity, and there was something that affected both inthis appeal.

  'I will sit on it myself sooner than let it cool,' Drummond had saidwith a laugh, yet with the tears in his eyes, with an attempt to lightenthe seriousness of the moment. 'Dear old fellow, don't be afraid. Yoursacred money will bring a blessing on the rest.'

  'That is all very pretty and poetical,' said Mr Burton, with a curiousshade passing over his face; 'but if Haldane has the slightest doubt onthe subject, he should not make the venture. Of course, we are allprepared in the way of business to win or to lose. If we lose, we mustbear it as well as we can. Of course, I think the investment as safe asthe Bank of England--but at the same time, Drummond, it would be a verydifferent thing to you or me from what it would be to him.'

  'Very different,' said Drummond; but the mere suggestion of loss hadmade him pale. 'These are uncomfortable words,' he went on with amomentary laugh. 'For my part, I go in to win, without allowing thepossibility of loss. Loss! Why I have been doing a great deal in waysless sure than Rivers's, and I have not lost a penny yet, thanks toyou.'

  'I am not infallible,' said Burton. 'Of course, in everything there is arisk. I cannot make myself responsible. If Haldane has the least doubtor hesitation----'

>   'If I had, your caution would have reassured me,' said the invalid.'People who feel their responsibility so much, don't throw away theirneighbour's money. It is all my mother has, and all I have. When you aretempted to speculate, think what a helpless set of people areinvolved--and no doubt there will be many more just as helpless. I thinkperhaps it would exercise a good influence on mercantile men,' he added,with perhaps a reminiscence of his profession, 'if they knew somethingpersonally of the people whose lives are, so to speak, in their hands.'

  'Haldane,' said Mr Burton hastily, 'I don't think we ought to take yourmoney. It is too great a risk. Trade has no heart and no bowels. Wecan't work in this way, you know, it would paralyse any man. Money ismoney, and has to be dealt with on business principles. God bless me! IfI were to reflect about the people whose lives, &c--I could never doanything! We can't afford to take anything but the market into account.'

  'I don't see that,' said the painter, who knew as much about business asMr Burton's umbrella. 'I agree with Haldane. We should be less ready togamble and run foolish risks, if we remembered always what trusts wehave in our hands,--the honour of honest men, and the happiness offamilies.'

  He was still a little pale, and spoke with a certain emotion, havingsuddenly realised, with a mixture of nervous boldness and terror, theother side of the question. Mr Burton turned away with a shrug of hisshoulders.

  'It suits you two to talk sentiment instead of business,' he said, 'butthat is not in my line. So long as my own credit is concerned, I findthat a much greater stimulant than anybody else's. Self-interest is theroot of everything--in business; and if you succeed for yourself, whichof course is your first motive, you succeed for your neighbours aswell. I don't take credit for any fine sentiments. That is my commercialcreed. Number one includes all the other numbers, and the best a man cando for his friends is to take care of himself.'

  He got up with a slight show of impatience as he spoke. His face wasovercast, and he had the half-contemptuous air which a practical mannaturally assumes when he listens to anything high-flown. He, for hispart, professed to be nothing but a man of business, and had confidenceenough in his friends' knowledge of him to be able to express the mosttruculent sentiments. So, at least, Haldane thought, who smiled at thistransparent cynicism. 'I suppose, then, we are justified in thinkinganything that is bad of you, and ought not to trust you with a penny?'he said.

  'If you trust anything to me personally, of course I shall take care ofit,' answered the merchant. 'But what we were talking of wasRivers's--business, not personal friendship. And business cannot affordsuch risks. You must examine into it, and judge of its claims foryourself. Come, let us dismiss the subject. I will tell Mr Baldwin Ifound you looking a great deal better than I hoped.'

  'But I don't want to dismiss the subject,' said Haldane. 'I amsatisfied. I am anxious----'

  'Think it over once more, at least,' said the other hastily; and he wentaway with but scant leave-taking. Mrs Haldane, who was a wise woman,and, without knowing it, a physiognomist, shook her head.

  'That man means what he says,' she said with some emphasis. 'He istelling you his real principles. If I were you, Stephen, I would takehim at his word.'

  'My dear mother, he is one of the men who take pleasure in putting theworst face on human nature, and attributing everything to selfishmotives,' said the sick man. 'I very seldom believe those who put suchsentiments so boldly forth.'

  'But I do,' said his mother, shaking her head with that obstinateconviction which takes up its position at once and defies all reason.Her son made no answer. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.The momentary excitement was over, the friends were gone, and the newand terrible Life settled down upon him. He did not say a word toindicate what was passing through his mind, but he thought of the shipwhich drifted between the sunset and the mariner, and the nightmareLife-in-Death casting her dies with the less appalling skeleton. It wasshe who had won.

  In the mean time the two directors of Rivers's bank walked out together;one of them recovering all his self-confidence the moment he left thehouse, the other possessed by a certain tremulous excitement. The ideaof risk was new to the painter. He felt a certain half-delightful,half-alarming agitation when he made his first ventures, but that hadsoon yielded to his absolute confidence in the man who now, with his ownlips, had named the fatal word. Robert's imagination, the temperament ofthe artist, which is so often fantastically moved by trifles, whilestrong to resist the presence of fact and certainty, had sustained ashock. He did not say anything while they walked up the road under thefaded autumnal leaves which kept dropping through the still air upontheir heads. In this interval he had gone over within himself all thesolid guarantees, all the prestige, all the infallibility (for had itnot attained that point?) of Rivers's. Sure as the Bank of England! Suchwere the words that rose continually to everybody's lips on hearing ofit. Robert propped himself up as he went along with one support oranother, till he felt ashamed that he could be capable of entertaininga shadow of doubt. But the impression made upon his nerves was not to beovercome by simple self-argument. Time was wanted to calm it down. Hefelt a certain thrill and jar communicated through all the lines oflife. The sensation ran to his very finger-points, and gave a sharpelectric shock about the roots of his hair. And it set his heart and hispulse beating, more likely organs to be affected. Loss! That was to say,Helen and the child deprived of the surroundings that made their life sofair; driven back to the poor little lodgings, perhaps, in which hiscareer began, or to something poorer still. Perhaps to want, perhapsto----'What a fool I am!' he said to himself.

  'Do you really object to Haldane as one of our shareholders?' he said,with a certain hesitation, at last.

  'Object--the idiot!' said Mr Burton. 'I beg your pardon, Drummond, Iknow he's a great friend of yours; but all that nonsense exasperates me.Why, God bless me, his body is sick, but his mind is as clear as yoursor mine. Why can't he judge for himself? I am quite ready to give him,or you, or any one that interests me, the benefit of my experience; butto take you on my shoulders, Drummond, you know, would be simplyabsurd. I can't foresee what may happen. I am ready to run the riskmyself. That's the best guarantee I can give, don't you think? but Iwon't run any sentimental risks. You may, if you like; they are out ofmy line.'

  'I don't know what you mean by sentimental risks.'

  'Oh, as for that, it is easy to explain. The man is very ill: he willnever be of any use in life again, and loss would be destruction to him.Therefore I won't take the responsibility. Why, there may be arevolution in England next year for anything I can tell. There may be aninvasion. Our funds may be down to zero, and our business paralysed. Howcan I tell? All these things are within the bounds of possibility, andif they happened, and we went to smash, as we should infallibly, whatwould Haldane do?'

  'If there is nothing to alarm us closer at hand than a revolution or aninvasion--' said Drummond with a smile.

  'How can we tell? If I were asked to insure England, I should only do iton a very heavy premium, I can tell you. And look here, Drummond, takemy advice, always let a man judge for himself, never take theresponsibility. If you do, you'll be sorry after. I never knew a goodman of business yet who went in, as I said, for sentimental risks.'

  'I fear I shall never be a good man of business,' said the painter, witha certain sickness at his heart. 'But tell me now, suppose you wereguardian to orphans, what should you do with their money? I suppose thatis what you would call a very sentimental risk.'

  'Not so bad as Haldane,' said Burton. 'They would be young and able tomake their way if the worst came to the worst. If they were entirely inmy own hands I should invest the money as I thought best; but if therewere other guardians or relations to make a fuss, I should put it in theThree per Cents.'

  'I really--don't--quite see what--difference that would make--' Robertcommenced, but his companion stopped him almost roughly.

  'The question won't bear discussing, Drummond. If I go in with you, willyour
wife give me some lunch? I have lost my whole morning to please myfather-in-law. Don't you bother yourself about Haldane. He is aclear-headed fellow, and perfectly able to judge for himself.'

  Then no more was said. If a passing cloud had come over the rich man, itfled at sight of the table spread for luncheon, and the sherry, uponwhich poor Robert (knowing almost as little about that as he did aboutbusiness) prided himself vastly. Mr Burton applauded the sherry. He wasmore conversational even than usual, and very anxious that Drummondshould look at a country-house in his neighbourhood. 'If you can'tafford it now you very soon will,' he said, and without referring toRivers's kept up such a continued strain of allusions to the goodfortune which was about to pour upon the house, that Robert's nerveswere comforted, he could scarcely have told how. But he went and workedall the afternoon in the studio when the City man went off to hisbusiness. He laboured hard at Francesca, fixing his whole mind upon her,not even whistling in his profound preoccupation. He had been absentfrom the studio for some time, and the _feel_ of the old beloved toolswas delightful to him. But when the early twilight came and interruptedhis work, he went out and took a long walk by himself, endeavouring toshake off the tremor which still lingered about him. It was in his veinsand in his nerves, tingling all over him. He reasoned with himself,shook himself up roughly, took himself to task, but yet did not get overit. 'Bah! it is simple sensation!' he said at last, and with a violenteffort turned his thoughts in another direction. But the shock had lefta tremor about him which was not quite dissipated for days after; for aman who is made of fanciful artist-stuff, is not like a business manwith nerves of steel.