A SPECULATOR.
Roland's Christmas visit to his friends was not the holiday it appeared.
His engagements with them had been many during this interval, and
attended both by loss and gain; but the gain had outbalanced the loss,
and though there had been many vicissitudes and a great many small
crises, the Christmas balance had shown tolerably well, and every one
was pleased. Edward's private ventures, which he had not consulted any
one about, but in which the money of the bank had been more or less
involved, had followed the same course. He had a larger sum standing to
his individual credit than ever before, and, so far as any one knew, had
risked nothing but what he had a right to risk, though, in reality, his
transactions had gone much further than any one was aware of, even
Ashton; for he had felt the restraints of Roland's caution, and had
already established, though to a limited extent, dealings with other
agents of bolder disposition. And, indeed, his mind had gone further
than his practice, and had reached a point of excitement at which the
boundaries of right and wrong become so indistinct as to exert little,
if any, control over either the conscience or the imagination. Through
his other channels of information he had heard of a speculation greater
than he had yet ventured upon, in which the possible gain would be
immense, but the risk proportionate--almost proportionate--though the
probabilities were so entirely in favour of success that a sanguine eye
could fix itself upon them with more justification than is usual. It was
so vast that even to Edward, who had been playing with fire for months
back, the suggestion took away his breath, and he took what was in
reality the wise step of consulting Ashton. It was wise had he intended
seriously to be guided by Ashton, but it was foolish as it happened,
seeing that a day or two's contemplation of the matter wrought in him a
determination to risk it, whether Ashton approved or not. And Roland did
not approve. He came down at the utmost speed of the express to stop any
further mischief if he could. He had himself always kept carefully
within the bounds of legitimate business; sometimes, indeed, just
skirting the edge, but never committing himself or risking his credit
deeply, and he had never forgot the solemn adjuration addressed to him
by both the old people at the Vernonry. If Catherine Vernon or her
representatives came to harm it should not be, he had determined, by his
means. So he had answered Edward's appeal in person; and, instead of
communicating with him only, had spoken of the matter to Harry,
supposing him to be in all Edward's secrets, a thing which disturbed
Edward's composure greatly. It was his own fault he felt for so
distrusting his own judgment; but he durst not betray his displeasure:
and so the proposal which he had meant to keep to himself had to be
discussed openly between the partners. Harry, as may be supposed, being
passive and unambitious, opposed it with all his might. Roland had been
shut up with them in Edward's room at the bank for hours in the morning,
and the discussion had run high. He had been a kind of moderator between
them, finding Harry's resistance to some extent unnecessary, but, on the
whole, feeling more sympathy with him than with the other. "It isn't
ourselves only we have to consider," Harry said; and he repeated this,
perhaps too often, often enough to give his opponent a sort of right to
say that this was a truism, and that they had heard it before.
"A thing does not become more true for being repeated," Edward said.
"But it does not become less true," said Roland; "and I think so far
that Harry is right. With all your responsibilities you ought to go more
softly than men who risk nothing that is not their own. You are in
something of the same position as trustees, and you know how they are
tied up."
"This is a statement which hardly comes well from you," said Edward,
"who have been our adviser all along, and sailed very near the wind on
some occasions."
"I have never advised you to anything I did not think safe," said
Roland.
Edward was so eager and so confident of his superiority over his cousin,
that it was difficult to keep the suspicion of a sneer out of his voice
in this discussion, though for Roland Ashton, whatever his other
sentiments might be, he at least had no feeling of contempt.
"And there's Aunt Catherine," said Harry. "Of course a great part of the
money's hers. Her hair would stand on end if she knew we were even
discussing such a question."
"Aunt Catherine is--all very well; but she's an old woman. She may have
understood business in her day. I suppose she did, or things would not
have come to us in the state they are. But we cannot permit ourselves to
be kept in the old jogtrot because of Aunt Catherine. She departed from
her father's rule, no doubt. One generation can't mould itself upon
another. At least that is not what I understand by business."
"And there was John Vernon, don't you know," said Harry. "He was a
caution! I shouldn't like to follow in his ways."
"John Vernon was a fool; he threw his chance away. I've gone into it,
and I know that nothing could be more idiotic. And his extravagance was
unbounded. He burned the candle at both ends. I hope you don't think I
want to take John Vernon for my model."
"It seems to me," said Harry, "that it's awfully easy to be ruined by
speculation. Something always happens to put you out. There were those
mines. For my part I thought they were as safe as the bank, and we lost
a lot by them. There was nobody to blame so far as I know. I don't mean
to stand in the way, or be obstructive, as you call it, but we have got
to consider other people besides ourselves."
Roland did not look upon the matter exactly in this way. He was not of
Harry's stolid temperament. He heard of a proposition so important with
something of the feelings of a war-horse when he sniffs the battle. But
his opposition was all the more weighty that it was more or less against
his own will.
"In your place I do not think I should venture," he said. "If I were an
independent capitalist, entirely free----"
"You would go in for it without a moment's hesitation! Of course you
would. And why should we be hampered by imaginary restrictions? Aunt
Catherine--if it is her you are thinking of--need know nothing about it,
and we risk nobody so much as we risk ourselves. Loss would be far more
fatal to us than to any one else. Am I likely to insist upon anything
which would make an end of myself first of all if it went wrong?"
But the others were not convinced by this argument. Harry shook his
head, and repeated his formula.
"It wouldn't console anybody who was injured, that you ruined yourself
first of all," he said.
"Nor would it comfort me for the loss of a fortune that other people had
rejected it," cried Edward with an angry smile.
His mind worked a great deal faster than the conversation could go, and
the discussion altogether was highly distasteful to him. Harry had a
right to his say when the subject was broached, but it was beyond
measure embarrassing and disagreeable that Harry should have heard
anything about it. It was all Ashton's fault, whom he had consulted by
way of satisfying his conscience merely, and whom he could not silence
or find fault with for betraying him, since, of course, he wanted no one
to suppose that he acted upon his own impulse and meant to leave Harry
out. He could not express all this, but he could drop the discussion,
and Ashton (he thought to himself) along with it. Let him prose as he
would, and chime in with Harry's little matter-of-fact ways, he (Edward)
had no intention to allow himself to be stopped.
"I would let it alone, if I were you," Roland said. "It is a great
temptation, and of course if you were entirely independent---- But I
would not risk a penny of other people's money."
"That's just what I say. We have others to consider besides ourselves,"
said the steadfast Harry.
Edward made no reply. He was outvoted for the moment by voices which, he
said to himself, had no right to be heard on the question. The best
thing was to end the discussion and judge for himself. And the
contemplation of the step before him took away his breath; it took the
words out of his mouth. There would be nothing to be said for it. In
argument it would be an indefensible proceeding. It was a thing to do,
not to think, much less talk about. No one would have a word to say if
(as was all but absolutely certain) his operations were attended by
success. In that event his coolness, his promptitude, his daring, would
be the admiration of everybody; and Harry himself, the obstructive,
would share the advantage, and nothing more would be heard of his stock
phrase. Edward felt that in reality it was he who was considering
others, who was working for everybody's benefit; but to form such a
determination was enough to make the strongest head swim, and it was
necessary that he should shake off all intrusion, and have time and
solitude to think it over in private.
The way in which he thus dropped the discussion astonished both the
other parties to it a little. Edward was seldom convinceable if he took
an idea into his head, and he never acknowledged himself beaten. But
Harry at first was simple enough to be able to believe that what he had
himself said was unanswerable, and that as nothing could be done without
his acquiescence, Ned showed his sense by dropping the question. Roland
was not so easily reassured; but it was not his business, which makes a
wonderful difference in the way we consider a subject, and it was not
for him to continue a subject which the persons chiefly concerned had
dropped. He strolled with Harry into his room presently on a hint from
Edward that he had something particular to do. Harry was not very busy.
He did what came under his special department with sufficient diligence,
but that was not oppressive work: the clerks took it off his hands in
great part. In all important matters it was Mr. Edward who was first
consulted. Harry had rather a veto upon what was proposed, than an
active hand it; but he was very steady, always present, setting the best
example to the clerks. Roland talked to him for a quarter of an hour
pleasantly enough about football, which eased the minds which had been
pondering speculation. The result of the morning's conference was shown
in one way by his ready and unexpected adherence to Mrs. John's
statement that she liked Harry best. Roland thought so too, but he did
not give any reason for it; and indeed, so far as intellectual
appreciation went, there was perhaps little reason to give.
After Emma's gloves were bought, the group sauntering through Redborough
just at the hour when all the fine people of the place were about, were
met in succession by the two cousins. Harry had time only to pause for a
minute or two, and talk to the girls on his way to a meeting of the
football club, at which the matches of the season were to be settled;
but Edward, who was going their way, walked with them as far as the
Grange. He was pale and preoccupied, with that fiery sparkle in his eyes
which told of some pressing subject for his thoughts, and though those
eyes shot forth a passing gleam when he saw that Roland kept by Hester's
side, and that he was left to Emma, the arrangement perhaps on the whole
was the most suitable one that could have been made, for Emma wanted
little help in keeping up something which sounded sufficiently like
conversation. Her voice flowed on, with just a pause now and then for
the little assenting ejaculations which were indispensable. Edward said
"Yes," sometimes with a mark of interrogation, sometimes without; and
"Indeed," and "To be sure," and "Exactly," as we all do in similar
circumstances; and the pair got on very well. Emma thought him much
nicer than usual, and Hester going on in front, somewhat distracted from
Roland's remarks by the consciousness of the other behind her, was
perhaps more satisfied to hear his stray monosyllables than if he had
maintained a more active part in the conversation. When they stopped in
front of the Grange, where Catherine Vernon, always at the window, saw
the group approaching, they were called up stairs to her by a
servant--an invitation, however, which Hester did not accept. "My mother
will be waiting for me," she said; and while the others obeyed the
summons, she sped along the wintry road by herself, not without that
proud sense of loneliness and shut-out-ness which the circumstances made
natural. Edward lingered a moment to speak to her while the others went
in, having first ascertained that they were shaded by the big holly at
the gate and invisible from the window.
"I must not go with you, though I want to talk to you," he said. "When
will this bondage be over? But at the Merridews to-night----"
"I am not going," she said, waving her hand as she went on.
She was half pleased, yet altogether angry, despising him (almost) for
his precautions, yet glad that he wanted to talk to her, and glad also
to disappoint him, if it is possible to describe so complicated a state
of mind. She went along with a proud, swift step, her head held high,
her girlish figure instinct in every line with opposition and self-will:
or so at least Catherine Vernon thought, who looked after her with such
attention that she was unaware of the entrance of the others, whom she
liked so much better than Hester. She laughed as she suffered herself to
be kissed by Emma, who was always effusive in that way, and fed upon the
cheeks of her friends.
"So Princess Hester has not come with you," Catherine said. "I suppose I
should have gone down to the door to meet her, as one crowned head
receives another."
"Oh, she had to go home to her mother," said Emma, who never spoke ill
of anybody, and always took the most matter-of-fact view of her
neighbours' proceedings.
Catherine laughed, and was amused (she thought) by the girl's persistent
holding aloof.
"All the same a cup of tea would not have poisoned her," she said.
When the Ashtons left the Grange it was nearly the hour of dinner, and
Catherine did not remark the silence of her companion. Edward had been
moody of late; he had not been of temper so equable, or of attentions so
unfailing, as in the earlier years. But she was a tolerant woman,
anxious not to exact too much, and ready to represent to herself that
this was but "a phase," and that the happier intercourse would return
after a time. She wondered sometimes was he in love? that question which
occurs so unnaturally to the mind at moments when things are not going
perfectly well with young persons, either male or female. Catherine
thought that if his choice were but a good one, she would be very glad
that he should marry. It would give to him that sense of settledness
which nothing else gives, and it would give to her a share in all the
new events and emotions of family life. If only he made a good choice!
the whole secret of the situation of course was in that. At dinner he
was more cheerful, indeed full of animation, doing everything that could
be done to amuse and please her, but excused himself from following her
to the drawing-room afterwards.
"You are going to Ellen's folly, I suppose," she said, which was the
name that the Merridew entertainments held in the house.
"Very likely--but later," said he; "I have a great deal to do."
Catherine smiled upon his diligence, but held up a finger in admonition.
"I never approved of bringing work home," she said. "I would rather for
my own part you stayed an hour longer at the bank. Home should be for
rest, and you should keep the two places distinct; but I suppose you
must learn that by experience," she said, putting her hand caressingly
upon his shoulder as he held the door open for her: and she looked back
upon him when she had passed out with a little wave of her hand. "Don't
sit too long over your papers," she said.
He had _trop de zèle_. No fear of Edward shrinking from his work. But
experience would teach him that it was better to give himself a little
leisure sometimes. Would experience teach him? she asked herself, as she
went up stairs. He was of a fervid nature, apt perhaps to go too far in
anything that interested him. She reflected that she had herself been
older before she began to have anything to do with business, and a woman
looks forward to home, to the seat by the fire, the novel, the newspaper
(if there is nothing better), the domestic chat when that is to be had,
with more zest than a man does. What she herself liked would have been
to have him there opposite to her as he used to be at first, talking, or
reading as pleased him, telling her his ideas. Why was it that this
pleasant state of affairs never continued? He preferred to sit in the
library now, to work, or perhaps only, she began to fear, to be alone.
The idea struck Catherine sadly now she came to think of it. There was a
great difference. Why should men prefer to sit alone, to abandon that
domestic hearth which sounds so well in print, and which from Cowper
downward all the writers have celebrated. Even Dickens (then the master
of every heart) made it appear delightful and attractive to everybody.
And yet the young man preferred to go and sit alone. A wife would alter
all that, provided only that the choice he made was a good one,
Catherine Vernon said. The drawing-room was a model of comfort; its
furniture was not in the taste of the present day, but the carpets were
like moss into which the foot sank, and the curtains were close drawn in
warm, ruddy, silken folds. The fire burnt brightly, reflected from the
brass and steel, which it cost so much work to keep in perfect order.
Catherine sat in the warmest place just out of reach of the glare, with
a little table by her favourite easy-chair. Impossible to find a room
more entirely "the picture of comfort" as people say. And few companions
could have been found more intelligent, more ready to understand every
allusion, and follow every suggestion, than this old lady, who was not
at all conscious of being old. Yet her boy, her son, her nephew, her
chosen, whom she had taken to her heart in place of all the other
inmates who once dwelt there, sat down stairs! How strange it was; yet
notwithstanding Catherine deposited herself in her seat by the fire,
with a sort of subdued happiness, consequent on the fact that he was
down stairs. This gave a secondary satisfaction if nothing better was to
be had. It is all that many people have to live upon. But if he had a
wife that would make all the difference. A wife he could not leave to
sit alone; provided only that his choice was a right one! If Catherine
had known that his choice, so far as he had made a choice, had fallen
upon Hester, what would her sentiments have been? but fortunately she
did not know.
But if she could have looked into the library down stairs, which had
been given up to Edward as his room, what would she have seen there? The
sight would have driven out of her mind all question about a
problematical wife: though indeed Edward always prepared for domiciliary
visitations, and believing them to be the fruit of suspicion, not of
love, was ready in that case to have concealed his occupation at the
first sound of the door opening. He had an open drawer close to him into
which his materials could have been thrown in a minute. He took these
precautions because, as has been said, Catherine would sometimes carry
him with her own hands a cup of tea in affectionate kindness, and he
thought it was inquisitiveness to see what he was doing! She had not
done this now for a long time, but still he was prepared against
intrusion. The papers he was examining he had brought himself in a black
bag from the safe in the bank. He had locked the black bag into an old
oak escritoire till after dinner. He was looking over them now with the
greatest care, and a face full of suppressed, but almost solemn
excitement. They were securities of all kinds, and meant an amount of
money which went to Edward's head even more than the chances of fortune.
All that in his power; no chance of being called upon to produce them,
or to render an account of the stewardship which had been so freely
committed to him! It was enough to make any man's head go round. To
hesitate upon a speculation which might bring in cent. per cent. when he
had all these to fall back upon, papers upon which he could easily find,
to meet a temporary need, any amount of money! and of course no such
need could be anything but temporary! Edward was as little disposed to
risk the future of the bank as any one. He had wisdom enough to know
that it was his own sheet anchor, as well as that of the family, and he
had a pride in its stability and high reputation, as they all had. That
Vernon's should be as safe as the Bank of England was a family proverb
which admitted of no doubt. But why should Vernon's be affected except
to its advantage by really bold speculation? It was the timid,
half-hearted sort of operations that frittered away both money and
credit, which ruined people, not anything which was really on a grand
scale. Edward represented to himself that ventures of this great kind
were rarely unsuccessful. There was a security in their magnitude--small
people could not venture upon them; and what even if it did not succeed?
It blanched his countenance and caught his breath to think of this, but
(he said to himself) every possibility, even the most unlikely, must be
taken into account. If it did not, here was what would keep the credit
of the bank scatheless until another luckier stroke should make up for
failure. For in such pursuits the last word was never said. Could you
but go on you were sure one time or another to satisfy your fullest
desires. This was the worst in case of failure: but there was in reality
no chance of failure, every human probability was in favour of a great,
an almost overwhelming success.
There was almost a sense of triumph, though the thrill of excitement had
alarm in it also--in the final calculations by which he made up his mind
to throw Ashton and prudence to the winds. He wrote with a heart leaping
high in his breast to the other broker, whom he had already employed,
before he rose from his writing table. Ashton was a fool--he would lose
a large commission, and make nothing by his preachment; and to think of
that preachment made Edward smile, though the smile was constrained and
dry--not a cheerful performance. Harry and Ashton--they were a sensible
couple to lecture him as to what was best! It seemed to Edward that he
had himself far more insight and faculty than a dozen such. Ashton
indeed might know a thing or two. He had proved himself a fool in this
case, but naturally he was not a fool. Advice might be received from
him, but dictation, never. And as for Harry with his football, a ninny
who had never been trusted with any but the mechanical working of the
bank, it was too ridiculous that Harry should take upon himself to
advise. Edward got his letter ready for the post with something of the
feeling with which a conspirator may be supposed to light the match by
which some deadly mine is to be fired. It may blow himself into atoms if
he lingers, and the strong sensation of the possibility is upon him even
though he knows it cannot happen except by some extraordinary accident.
Edward put the letter where he knew the butler would find it, and send
it away for the late post. It would thus be out of his power to recall,
even though a panic should seize him. When he had done this, he felt an
overwhelming need of the fresh air and movement to calm his nerves and
distract his thoughts. Should he go to Ellen's folly as was his custom?
He put on his coat and went out, forgetting that it was his usual custom
to go up stairs and say good-night to Catherine before doing so. There
was no intentional neglect in this, but only the intensity of his
abstraction and self-absorbedness. When he got out the cold breeze in
his face was pleasant to him, brain and all. Then he remembered that
Hester had said she would not go to the Merridews, and obeying his
impulse without questioning what he expected from it, he turned away
from the lights of the town, and took his way along the moonlit road
towards the Vernonry. He did not expect to see her--he expected nothing
in particular; but his thoughts, his heart, drew him in that
direction--or his fancy, if nothing more.
Catherine, in the warmth and lonely luxury of her drawing-room, heard
the door shut, and wondered, with a new little arrow of pain going into
her heart--Was it possible that he could have gone out without saying
good-night? She was like a mother who is beginning to discover that she
is of no particular consequence in the economy of her child's life. When
you seize upon the office of parent without being called to it by God,
you must accept the pains as well as the pleasures. This new step in the
severance between them hurt her more than she could have thought
possible; the merest trifle! He might have forgotten; it might be fully
accounted for--and, if not, what did it matter? It was nothing; but she
stole behind the heavy curtains, and looked out at the corner of the
blind with a wistful anxiety to see him, as if the sight of him would
afford any comfort. Had Edward seen it he would have gnashed his teeth
at her inquisition, at her watch and surveillance, without a thought of
the trembling of profound tenderness, surprise, and pain which was in
her. But Catherine was too late to see him. He had got into the shadow
of the great holly, and there paused a moment before he turned his back
upon Redborough and the dance. She saw a solitary figure on the road in
the opposite direction, and wondered vaguely who it could be at that
hour, but that was all. That it should be Edward did not enter into her
thoughts.
But to Edward the silence and stillness were very grateful, emerging out
of the very heat and din of conflict as he had just done. The cold too
did him good; it refreshed his weary mind and excited brain, and
composed and stilled the ferment in his whole being. The vast darkness
of the world about him, the broad white light of the moon streaming
along the road, but retiring baffled from the inequalities of the
common; the spectral outline of every object, enlarged by the blackness
behind of its own shadow--all had a vague effect upon him, though he
made but little account of the features of the scene. He was in a state
of mental exaltation, and therefore more open than usual to all
influences, though it was not any lofty or noble cause which raised him
into that spiritual susceptibility. He could see a long way before he
reached it, the end window of Mrs. John's house shining along the road,
its little light looking like a faint little ruddy earth-star, so near
the ground. The mother and daughter were still sitting over their fire,
talking--or rather it was the mother who talked, while Hester sat with
her hands in her lap, half-listening, half-thinking, her mind escaping
from her into many a dream and speculation, even while she gave a
certain attention to her mother's broken monologue, which was chiefly
about the dances and parties of the past.
"I never refused a ball when I was your age," Mrs. John said. "It would
have been thought quite unnatural; and though I am old now, I feel the
same as ever. What can be nicer for a girl than to have a nice dance to
go to, when she is sure of plenty of partners? If it was in a strange
place, or you did not know the people, I could understand. It did hurt
me a little, I confess, to hear that little Emma, with her white eyes,
rolling away like a princess, to get all the attention, while my girl,
that had so much better a right, stayed at home."
"Never mind, mamma," said Hester, with a smile. "It was my own fault;
there was no wicked stepmother in question. And even if there had been,
you know, after all, it was Cinderella that got the prince."
"Stepmother!" cried Mrs. John. "My dear! my dear! how could you have had
a stepmother, and me surviving your poor dear papa all these years? I
dare say if it had been me that died you would have had a stepmother,
for gentlemen don't think of second marriages as women do. However, as
it could not have happened, we need not think of that. Don't you hear
steps on the road? I could be almost certain that I heard some one pass
the window about five minutes ago; and there it is again. Can there be
anything wrong with the Captain or old Mrs. Morgan? Dear me! what a
dreadful thing if they should be taken ill, and nobody to send for the
doctor! Listen! it is coming back again. If it was some one going for
the doctor, they would not walk back and forward like that under our
window. I declare I begin to get quite frightened. What do you think it
can be?"
"If you think they may be ill I will run round directly," said Hester,
rising to her feet.
"But, my darling! it might be robbers, and not Captain Morgan at all."
"I am not afraid of robbers," said Hester, which perhaps was not exactly
true. "Besides, robbers don't make a noise to scare you. I must go and
see if there is anything wrong."
Mrs. John did all she could at once to arouse her daughter to anxiety
about the old people, and to persuade her that it was dangerous to run
round the corner at nearly eleven o'clock. But eventually she consented
to let Hester venture, she herself accompanying her with a candle to the
door.
"It will be far better, mamma," Hester said, "if you will stand at the
parlour window, and let me feel there is some one there."
This Mrs. John, though with much trembling, at length agreed to do. She
even opened the window a little, though very cautiously, that nobody
might hear, reflecting that if it was a robber he might jump in before
she could get it closed again. And her anxiety rose almost to the fever
point in the moments that followed. For Hester did not pass the window
on her way to the Morgans' door. On the contrary, Mrs. John heard voices
in the direction of the gate of the Heronry, and venturing to peep out,
saw two dark figures in the moonlight--a sight which alarmed her beyond
expression. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and all the inmates of the
Heronry were in bed or going to it. Was it really robbers?--and why was
Hester parleying with them?--or were these two of the robbers, and had
they made away with her child? She was so alarmed at last that she
hurried to the door, carrying her candle, and went out into the cold
without a shawl, shading the light with her hand, and looking wildly
about her. The candle and the moonlight confused each other, and though
her heart beat less loudly when she perceived it was Hester who was
talking across the gate, yet the sense of the unusual filled her with
horror. "Who is it?" she cried, though in a whisper. "Hester! oh, what
is the matter? Is it a doctor? Who is it? Is there anything wrong?"
"It is Edward Vernon; may he come in?" Hester said.
"Then it is Catherine that is ill," cried Mrs. John. "Oh, I knew
something must be going to happen to her, for I dreamt of her all last
night, and I have not been able to think of anything else all day.
Surely he may come in. What is it, Edward? Oh, I hope not paralysis, or
anything of that kind."