Graeme's first judgment of Allan Ruthven, had been, "how these ten years
have changed him;" but she quite forgot the first judgment when she came
to see him more, and meeting his kind eyes and listening to his kind
voice, in the days that followed she said to herself, "he is the same,
the very same."
But her first judgment was the true one. He was changed. It would have
been strange if the wear and tear of commercial life for ten years had
not changed him, and that not for the better.
In the renewal of intercourse with his old friends, and in the new
acquaintance he made with his brother Charlie, he came to know himself
that he had changed greatly. He remembered sadly enough, the
aspirations that had died out of his heart since his youth, the
temptations that he had struggled against always, but which, alas! he
had not always withstood. He knew now that his faith had grown weak,
that thoughts of the unseen and heavenly had been put far-away from him.
Yes; he was greatly changed since the night he had stood with the rest
an the deck of the "Steadfast," watching the gleaming lights of a
strange city. Standing now face to face with the awakened remembrance
of his own ideal, he knew that he had fallen far short of its
attainment; and reading in Graeme's truthful eye "the same, the very
same," his own often fell with a sense of shame as though he were
deceiving her.
He was changed, and yet the wonder was, that the influences of these ten
years had not changed him more. The lonely life he had pictured to his
friends, that last night on the "Steadfast," fell far short of the
reality that awaited him. Removed from the kindly associations of home,
and the tranquil pursuits and pleasures of a country village, to the
turmoil of a Western city, and the annoyance of a subordinate in a
merchant's office, he shrunk, at first, in disgust from the life that
seemed opening before him. His native place, humble as it was, had
lived in song and story for many centuries; and in this city which had
sprung up in a day, nothing seemed stable or secure. A few months ago
the turf of the prairie had been undisturbed, where to-day its broad
streets are trodden by the feet of thousands. Between gigantic blocks
of buildings rising everywhere, strips of the prairie turf lay
undisturbed still. The air of newness, of incompleteness, of insecurity
that seemed to surround all things impressed him painfully; the sadden
prosperity seemed unreal and unnatural, as well it might, to one brought
up in a country where the first thought awakened by change or innovation
is one of mistrust and doubt.
All his preconceived ideas of business and a business-life, availed him
nothing in the new circumstances in which he found himself. If business
men were guided in their mutual relations by any principle of faith or
honour, he failed in the first bitterness of his disgust to see it.
Business-life seemed but a scramble, in which the most alert seized the
greatest portion. The feverish activity and energy which were fast
changing the prairie into a populous place seemed directed to one end--
the getting of wealth. Wealth must be gotten by fair means or foul, and
it must be gotten suddenly. There was no respite, no repose. One must
go onward or be pushed aside, or be trodden under foot. Fortune was
daily tempted, and the daily result was success, or utter failure, till
a new chance could be grasped at.
"Honest labour! Patient toil!" Allan wondered within himself if the
words had ever reached the inward sense of these eager, anxious men,
jostling each other in their never-ceasing struggle.
Allan watched, and wondered, and mused, trying to understand, and to
make himself charitable over the evil, by calling it a national one, and
telling himself that these men of the new world were not to be judged by
old laws, or measured by old standards. But there were among the
swiftest runners of the race for gold men from all lands, men whose
boyish feet had wandered over English meadows, or trod the heather on
Scottish hills. Men whose fathers had spent their lives content in
mountain sheilings, with no wish beyond their flocks and their native
glens; humble artisans, smiths, and masons, who had passed in their own
country for honest, patient, God-fearing men, grew as eager, as
unscrupulous, as swift as the fleetest in the race. The very diggers of
ditches, and breakers of stone on the highway, the hewers of wood and
drawers of water; took with discontent that it was no more their daily
wages, doubled or tripled to them, since they set foot on the soil of
the new world.
That there might be another sort of life in the midst of this turmoil,
he did not consider. He never could associate the idea of home or
comfort with those dingy brick structures, springing up in a day at
every corner. He could not fancy those hard voices growing soft in the
utterance of loving words, or those thin, compressed lips gladly meeting
the smiling mouth of a little child. Home! Why, all the world seemed
at home in those vast hotels; the men and women greeting each other
coldly, in these great parlours, seemed to have no wants that a black
man, coming at the sound of a bell, might not easily supply. Even the
children seemed at ease and self-possessed in the midst of the crowd.
They troubled no one with noisy play or merry prattle, but sat on chairs
with their elders, listening to, or joining in the conversation, with a
coolness and appropriateness painfully suggestive of what their future
might be. Looking at these embryo merchants and fine ladies, from whose
pale little lips "dollar" and "change" fall more naturally than sweeter
words, Ruthven ceased to wonder at the struggle around him. He fancied
he could understand how these little people, strangers, as it seemed to
him, to a home or even to a childhood, should become in time the eager,
absorbed, unscrupulous runners and wrestlers, jostling each other in the
daily strife.
Ruthven was very bitter and unjust in many of his judgments during the
first part of his residence in C. He changed his opinions of many
things afterwards, partly because he became wiser, partly because he
became a little blind, and, especially, because he himself became
changed at last. By and by his life was too busy to permit him to watch
those about him, or to pronounce judgment on their aims or character.
Uncongenial as he had at first found the employment which his uncle had
provided for him, he pursued it with a patient steadiness, which made it
first endurable, then pleasant to him. At first his duties were merely
mechanical; so much writing, so much computing each day, and then his
time was his own. But this did not continue long. Trusted always by
the firm, he was soon placed in a position where he was able to do good
service to his employers. His skill and will guided their affairs
through more than one painful crisis. His integrity kept their good
name unsullied at a time when too many yielding to what seemed
necessity, were betaking themselves to doubtful means to preserve their
credit. He thoroughly identified himself with the interests of the
firm, even when his uncle was a comparative stranger to him. He did his
duty in his service as he would have done it in the service of another,
constantly and conscientiously, because it was right to do so. So
passed the first years of his commercial life.
In default of other interests, he gave himself wholly up to business
pursuits, till no onlooker on the busy scene in which he was taking part
would have thought of singling him out as in any respect different from
those who were about him. Those who came into close contact with him
called him honourable and upright, indeed, over scrupulous in many
points; and he, standing apart from them, and in a certain sense above
them, was willing so to be called. But as one cannot touch pitch
without being defiled, so a man must yield in time to the influences in
the midst of which he has voluntarily placed himself. So it came to
pass that, as the years went on, Allan Ruthven was greatly changed.
It need not have been so. It doubtless was far otherwise with some who,
in his pride and ignorance, he had called earth-worms and worshippers of
gold; for though, in the first bitterness of his isolation, he was slow
to discover it, there were in the midst of the turmoil and strife of
that new city warm hearts and happy homes, and the blessed influence of
the Christian faith and the Christian life. There were those over whom
the gains-getting demon of the place had no power, because of a talisman
they held, the "constraining love of Christ," in them. Those walked
through the fire unscathed, and, in the midst of much that is defiling,
kept their garments clean. But Ruthven was not one of them. He had the
name of the talisman on his lips, but he had not its living power in his
heart. He was a Christian only in name; and so, when the influence of
early associations began to grow weak, and he began to forget, as men
will for a time, his mother's teachings "in the house, and by the way,"
at the "lying down and the rising up," no wonder that the questionable
maxims heard daily from the lips of the worldly-wise should come to have
weight with him at last.
Not that in those days he was, in any sense, a lover of gold for its own
sake. He never sank so low as that. But in the eagerness with which he
devoted himself to business, he left himself no time for the performance
of other and higher duties, or for the cultivation of those principles
and affections which can alone prevent the earnest business-man from
degenerating into a character so despicable. If he was not swept away
by the strong current of temptation, it was because of no wisdom or
strength or foresight of his. Another ten years of such a life would
have made him, as it has made many another, a man outwardly worthy of
esteem, but inwardly selfish, sordid, worldly--all that in his youth he
had most despised.
This may seem a hard judgment, but it is the judgement he passed on
himself, when there came a pause in his busy life, and he looked back
over those years and felt that he did not hold the world loosely--that
he could not open his hand and let it go. He had been pleasing himself
all along with the thought that he was not like the men about him--
content with the winning of wealth and position in the world; but there
came a time when it was brought sharply home to him that without these
he could not be content. It was a great shock and surprise to him to be
forced to realise how far he had drifted on with the current, and how
impossible it had become to get back to the old starting-place again,
and in the knowledge he did not spare himself, but used harder and
sterner words of self-contempt than any that are written here.
Ruthven's intercourse with his uncle's family, though occurring at long
intervals, had been of a very pleasant kind, for he was a great
favourite with his aunt and his cousin Lilias, who was then a child.
Indeed, she was only a child when her mother died; and when there fell
into his hands a letter written by his aunt to his mother, during one of
his first visits to M, in which half seriously, half playfully, was
expressed a wish that the cousins might one day stand in a nearer and
dearer relation to one another, he was greatly surprised and amused. I
am afraid it was only the thought that the hand that had penned the wish
was cold in death, that kept him from shocking his mother by laughing
outright at the idea. For what a child Lilias must have been when that
was written, thought he! what a child she was still!
But the years went on, and the child grew into a beautiful woman, and
the remembrance of his aunt's wish was pleasant to Allan Ruthven,
because of his love and admiration for his cousin, and because of other
things. He could not be blind to the advantages that such a connection
would ensure to him. The new partnership was anticipated and entered
upon, on very different terms from those which might have been, but for
the silent understanding with regard to Lilias that existed between the
uncle and nephew. It was no small matter that the young merchant should
find himself in a position to which the greater number attain only after
half a lifetime of labour. He was at the head of a lucrative business,
conscious of possessing skill and energy to conduct it well--conscious
of youth and health and strength to enjoy the future opening before him.
Nor was there anything wrong in this appreciation of the advantages of
his position. He knew that this wealth had not bought him. He loved
his cousin Lilias, or he thought he loved her; and though up to this
time, and after this time their intercourse was only after a cousinly
sort, he believed she loved him. The thought _did_ come into his mind
sometimes whether his cousin was all to him that a woman might be, but
never painfully. He did not doubt that, as years went on, they would be
very happy together after a quiet, rational fashion, and he smiled, now
and then, at the fading remembrance of many a boyish dream as to how his
wife was to be wooed and won.
He was happy--they were all happy; and the tide of events flowed quietly
on the the night when Allan clasped the trembling hand of Graeme
Elliott. Indeed, it flowed quietly on long after that, for in the charm
that, night after night, drew him into the happy circle of the Elliotts,
he recognised only the pleasure that the renewal of old friendships and
the awakening of old associations gave him. The pleasure which his
cousin took in the society of these young people was scarcely less than
his own. Around the heiress and only child of Mr Elphinstone there
soon gathered a brilliant circle of admirers, the greater part of whom
would hardly have recognised the Elliotts as worthy of sharing the
honour with them. But there was to the young girl, who had neither
brother nor sister, something better than brilliancy or fashion in
Graeme's quiet parlour. The mutual love and confidence that made their
home so happy, filled her with wonder and delight, and there were few
days, for several pleasant months, in which they did not meet.
The pleasant intercourse was good for Lilias. She brightened under it
wonderfully, and grew into a very different creature from the pale,
quiet, little girl, who used to sit so gravely at her father's side.
Her father saw the change and rejoiced over it, and though at first he
was not inclined to be pleased with the intimacy that had sprung up so
suddenly, he could not but confess that the companionship of one like
Rose Elliott must be good for her. Graeme he seldom saw. The long
morning calls, and spending of days with her friend, which were Rosie's
delight, Graeme seldom shared. But she was quite as much the friend of
Lilias as was her livelier sister, and never did his cousin seem so
beautiful to Allan, never was she so dear, as when, with pretty
willfulness; she hung about Graeme, claiming a right to share with Rose
the caresses or gentle reproofs of the elder sister. He did not think
of danger to himself in the intercourse which Lilias shared so happily.
He was content with the present, and did not seek to look into the
future.
But he was not quite free from troubled thoughts at this time. In the
atmosphere in which he lived things wore a new aspect to him. Almost
unconsciously to himself at first, he began to judge of men, and
motives, and actions, by a new rule--or rather, he came back to the old
rule, by which he had measured all things in his youthful days. These
days did not seem so far removed from him now as they used to do, and
sometimes he found himself looking back over the last ten years, with
the clear truthful eyes of eighteen. It was not always a pleasant
retrospect. There were some things covered up by that time, of which
the review could not give unmingled pleasure. These were moments when
he could not meet Graeme's truthful eyes, as with "Don't you remember?"
she recalled his own words, spoken long ago. He knew, though she did
not, how his thoughts of all things had changed since then; and though
the intervening years had made him a man of wealth and note, there came
to him, at such moments, a sense of failure and regret, as though his
manhood had belied the promise of his youth--a strong desire to begin
anew--a longing after a better life than these ten years had witnessed.
But these pleasant days came to an end. Business called Allan, for a
time, to his old home in C, and to his uncongenial life there. It was
not pleasant business. There was a cry, louder than usual, of "hard
times" through the country, and the failure of several houses, in which
he had placed implicit confidence, threatened, not, indeed, to endanger
the safety, but greatly to embarrass the operations of the new firm.
Great losses were sustained, and complicated as their affairs at the
West had become, Allan began to fear that his own presence there would
for some time be necessary. He was surprised and startled at the pain
which the prospect gave him, and before he had time to question himself
as to why it should be so, the reason was made plain to him.
A letter written by his uncle immediately after a partial recovery from
an illness, a return of which, his physicians assured him, must prove
fatal, set the matter before him in its true light. The letter was
brief. Knowing little of the disorder into which recent events had
thrown their affairs, he entreated Allan's immediate return, for his
sake, and for the sake of Lilias, whom it distressed him to think of
leaving till he should see her safe with one who should have a husband's
right to protect and console her. It was simply and frankly said, as
one might speak of a matter fully understood and approved of by all
concerned. But the words smote on Allan's heart with sharp and sudden
pain, and he knew that something had come into his life, since the time
when he had listened in complacent silence to Mr Elphinstone's
half-expressed ideas, concerning Lilias and her future. There was
pleasure in the pain, sharp and sweet while it lasted, for with the
knowledge that came to him, that he loved Graeme Elliott, there came
also the hope, that there was something more than gentle friendliness in
the feelings with which she regarded him. But the pleasure passed, and
the pain remained, growing sharper and deeper as he looked the future in
the face.
It was not a hopeful future. As for his cousin, there had passed
between them no words or tokens of affection, that cousins might not
very well exchange; at least, he was willing to believe so now; and
judging her feelings, partly by his own, and partly by the remembrance
of many a chance word and action of the last few months, he said to
himself, the happiness of her life would not be marred though they might
never be more than cousins to each other. But this did not end his
doubts as to the course that lay before him, and every day that he
lingered in miserable indecision, made more evident to him the
difficulties of his position. He knew it was a son's place that he had
got in the firm. He could only claim it as a son. If his relations to
Lilias and her father were changed, it seemed to him that he could not
honourably claim a position which had been urged upon him, and which he
had gladly accepted with a view to these relations. The past ten years
must be as nothing to him, except for the experience they had given him,
the good name they had won for him. He must begin life again a poor
man.
But let me not be unjust to him. It was not this that made all the
misery of his indecision. Had all this come in a time of prosperity, or
when Mr Elphinstone had strength and courage to meet disaster unmoved,
it would have been different. But now, when all things looked
threatening, when certain loss--possible ruin--lay before them, when the
misfortunes of some, and the treachery of others were making the very
ground beneath their feet insecure, could he leave the feeble old man to
struggle through these difficult and dangerous times alone? He knew his
uncle too well to believe that he would willingly accept help from him,
their relations being changed, and he knew that no skill and knowledge
but his own, could conduct to a successful issue, enterprises undertaken
under more favourable circumstances.
He was very wretched. He could not put away the discomfort of his
indecision by permitting time and circumstances to decide in the course
which he must take. Whatever was done must be done by him, and at once.
There was no respite of time or chance to fall back upon, in the strait
in which he found himself. He did not hasten home. He had cause enough
to excuse the delay to himself, and he threw himself into the
increasingly painful details of business, with an energy that, for the
time, left no room for painful thoughts. But it was only for the time.
He knew that his lingering was useless, in view of what the end must be,
and he despised himself for his indecision.
If his choice had been altogether between poverty and wealth, it would
have been easy to him, he thought, though it forced itself upon him with
intense bitterness during these days, how the last ten years had changed
the meaning of the word to him. But his honour was involved--his honour
as a man, and as a merchant. He could not leave his uncle to struggle
with misfortune in his old age. He could not let the name, so long
honoured and trusted in the commercial world, be joined with the many
which during the last few months had been coupled with ruin, and even
with shame. He was responsible for the stability or the failure of the
house, which for thirty years had never given cause for doubt or fear.
More than this. His own reputation as a wise and successful man of
business, if not even his personal honour was at stake, to make it
impossible for him to separate himself from the affairs of the firm at a
juncture so perilous.
And then, Lilias. Nothing but her own spoken word could free him from
the tacit engagement that existed between them. In honour he could
never ask her to speak that word.
Through his long journey of days and nights he pondered it all, making
no decision as to what was to be done or said, but growing gradually
conscious as he drew near home, that the life of the last few months,
was coming to seem more and more like a pleasant dream that must be
forgotten in the future. He met his uncle's eager greeting with no word
of change. His face was pale and very grave when he met his cousin, but
not more so than hers. But that might very well be said each of the
other. Lilias knew more of the losses which the firm had sustained than
her father knew; and Allan might well look grave, she thought, and the
watching and anxiety for her father's sake might well account to him for
her sad looks. After the first clasp of their hands he knew that the
vows hitherto unspoken, must now be fulfilled.