And this was no common war. From insignificant beginnings, at which
the nation smiled in proud contempt, it grew into a devastating
struggle. Troops were poured to the front, until the martial resources
of the nation were exhausted. There was a cry for volunteers; and city
offices and warehouses were depleted by whole battalions of heroic
youth. All business was arrested, and sank into narrow channels. The
daily crash of bankruptcy filled the air. And, since the last thing
men do at such a time is to extend their premises and build houses, it
came to pass that there was no demand for bricks. The Brick Trust
ruled the market; but, when there is no market, this appears a hollow
boast. And yet there were dividends that must be paid, for they were
guaranteed; there was an appearance of prosperity which must be
maintained at all costs. There came at last a day when a chill
apprehension began to spread through the offices of the Trust. It was
at first but a tiny cold wave, but it crept higher, for a whole sea lay
behind it. Masterman, sitting in his office, heard the lapping of the
rising tide, and saw it carrying away the broken gauds of the pageant
of which he had dreamed.
"The war will end in a month!" he cried. But it did not end. "It will
end in three months," he prophesied; "and then will come a marvellous
prosperity." But the prophecy proved false. On lonely veldt and
behind unassailable kopjes a daring and sullen foe held on. "It looks
as if it will go on for ever!" he exclaimed at last, in the bitterness
of his heart. And the day when he said that brought with it something
the strong man had never known before--a sudden loosening of the bonds
of all his vigour. For weeks he had slept little; he had grown gaunt
and nervous; and now there came this thrill of weakness, this collapse
of force. In the gray winter dawn he rose and dressed as usual, but
his strong hands trembled, and his head swam. A newsboy, racing past
his house, shouted, "Another British defeat!" That was the last
stroke. He sank helpless to the ground. When he woke he was in bed.
"I must go to the city!" he cried.
"You cannot!" said the voice of Dr. Leet. "If you don't obey my orders
now, you will never go to the city again."
"A million of money is at stake!" he groaned.
"So is your life," said the doctor.
He lay quiet a long time after that. It was a new and terrible
thought, and he found it hard to adjust his mind to it. "His life"--he
had always assumed that that at least was his own unforfeitable
possession. He had never known the moment when eager nerve and artery
and brain-cell had not leapt to obey his will. And now it seemed his
whole house of life was in revolt. His will, that iron captain-general
of all these servile forces, was deposed. Well, he simply would not
die. If he must obey the doctor, he must. And, after all, to a man
tired in brain and body this restfulness of soft pillows, this utter
quietness and shaded light, was sweet. Anything was better than that
horrible thrill of weakness, that loosening of each intimate joint and
muscle--anything!
He turned his face from the light, and fell asleep.
Toward evening he was told that Scales insisted on seeing him. He
would have seen him; but the doctor was present, and interposed his
fiat. The most that the doctor would allow was that Scales should send
him a written message.
The message came: "What are we to do?"
It was accompanied by no explanation, but the words were ominous. He
made an effort to grasp their meaning, but it escaped him.
"Do what you will," he wrote.
Then the blind wave of stupor overwhelmed him again. Why should he
trouble? It was all right--everything was all right. It was a hard
thing that a man who had worked all his life couldn't get one day's
rest. He wasn't going to worry. Let Scales do the worrying; that was
what he was paid for. Everything was all right--it must be all right
... and Scales was no fool. So he fell asleep again, and the black
night settled on the city, and he heard no more the voices wailing in
the darkness, "Another British defeat!"
If his eyes could have followed the clerk, he would have seen a face
paler than his own, with puckered, blinking eyes, and jaw set in grim
determination. As Scales drew nearer to his own house, it was as
though he smoothed out his face by some magic of dissimulation.
Perhaps it was the mere spectacle of the house that turned the scale of
destiny for him that night. How could he give up that house? It was
the outward symbol of his social apotheosis. He had bought it but a
year ago. And since then how much had he spent on it! What delighted
chafferings he had had with decorators and upholsterers! There was the
dining-room, all panelled in oak, with beautiful red walls, and a
Turkey carpet; and the little library, with its bookcases--all
mahogany; and the drawing-room, with its white stucco decorations, and
its white wooden partitions, which every one admired; and the
billiard-room, with its French windows opening on the little lawn; why,
even the servants' bedrooms were done in white and gold! There was
never a completer house--every one had said so. He had never grown
tired of explaining its unique conveniences to his less fortunate
friends; and on Thursday afternoons, when Mrs. Scales "received," she
had usually closed the function by taking her more intimate
acquaintances all over her house, never even omitting the kitchens.
And he was to give this up? He was to sink back again into a
"semi-detached," with iron railings and a strip of garden, and rooms
with cheap wall-papers? And he was to sell his horse, which he had
bought from an alderman, and get rid of that adorable victoria, in
which he aired his greatness on Saturday afternoons before envious
suburban eyes--and perhaps come back again to the indignity of cheap
trams and 'buses? Well, not if he knew it! He knew a trick worth two
of that. Masterman had told him to do as he liked; and an evil spirit
whispered at his ear as he went up the steps of the house, and told him
quite distinctly what it was that he must do.
Mrs. Scales met him in the hall, plump, smiling, robed in yellow satin;
and somehow that yellow satin angered him like an insult. He regarded
it with distinct aversion. He felt a rising wave of disgust against
his wife, merely because she looked so cheerful and proud, while he
endured secret tortures--she could wear yellow satin, while his mind
wore crape. That was like women--they had nothing to do but eat and
drink and dress, while their men-folk were on the rack. Talk about the
fine discernment of women! Why, they hadn't any! You might live with
a woman for years, and she would never guess what you, endured and
suffered. So he let his ill temper against his wife smoulder; for it
is a habit common with persons of the Scales variety to treat a wife as
a kind of lightning-rod, which conveniently receives the discharge of
their superfluous wrath.
This wrath accumulated violence in the course of an uncomfortable
dinner. The poor woman had but one theme of perennial interest--her
house and her servants.
"I've thought of a new improvement," she began joyously. "What do you
think of it? I'm going to have a little conservatory opening from the
library window. The builders' men were here this afternoon, and they
say it can be done quite easily, and won't cost more than about two
hundred pounds."
"Ah! that's like you!" he retorted, with a vicious snarl. "Always
planning and plotting to spend my money, aren't you? Do you think I'm
made of money? Do you think I've nothing to do but pay for your whims?
I'd have you know I'm master in this house! And I'll have no builders'
men coming here when I'm out!"
"But Elisha, I thought you'd be pleased----"
"Then you'd no business to think? I won't have you doing things
without consulting me! No, I don't want any more dinner! I've other
things to think of besides conservatories!"
And he flung off from the table in a rage, leaving behind him tears and
consternation.
"What's the matter with father?" asked young Benjamin.
"I'm sure I don't know," she replied.
"He's getting mighty ill tempered."
But at that the instinctive woman's loyalty flew to his defence.
"I expect he's worried. Your father has so much to think of.
Sometimes I think we were happier before we had all this money."
"I don't," grinned the son. "That's all nonsense, mother. Money is
about the only thing I know that's worth having in this world."
With which admirable sentiment he took himself off to the
billiard-room, where he remained till bed-time, smoking innumerable
cigarettes, and playing a sullen game of pool. He also helped himself
somewhat plentifully to whiskey, for what was the use of money if you
couldn't get all the drink you wanted with it? The creed that money
was the one thing in the world best worth having had not found a
conspicuous justification in Benjamin Scales. He was not an amiable
youth, as we have already seen; under no circumstances could he have
achieved manly virtues; but, whereas poverty might have kept him in a
straight course by the mere pressure of deprivation, money had set wide
for him the gateway of easy vices and destructive pleasures.
The dark night sped on; and, in the little library with the mahogany
bookshelves, Scales devised his scheme. It was by no means novel; it
had often been achieved before, and sometimes with success; it was
simply the last throw of the commercial gambler. Dividends must be
paid; and, when the entire credit of a great concern depends upon their
instant payment, why not pay them out of capital? It was a risk, of
course--the kind of risk which a hundred petty thieves run every day
when they back horses with money stolen from their master's till, in
the firm belief that they can pay it back before suspicion is aroused.
Scales was not constitutionally a brave man; he would have fled from
physical peril promptly and without the least sense of shame; but one
form of courage he had, the courage of the rat that fights desperately
when it is at bay. He saw with terrifying vividness what stood at the
end of the road he proposed to travel--a judge in a red gown, with a
face of inimitable sternness, warders in blue coats with brass buttons,
and the doors of a prison. Nevertheless, he resolved to take the risk.
Masterman had taken the same risk years before in that matter of the
bogus cheque. And he was proud of the transaction; he had boasted of
it many times; it had been the beginning of all his greatness.
Providence had removed Masterman from the area of the present crisis;
and perhaps it was as well, for since his rise into notoriety he had
shown himself more and more eager to obey the safe traditions of
society. But, in the mind of the clerk, that early and successful
piece of trickery was not forgotten, and he used it now for his own
justification. Masterman, at all events, would have no right to
grumble at the repetition of his own trick, but upon a far wider scale
and for a greater prize.
And, besides, the risk was more apparent than real. This long run of
ill luck to the British army in South Africa was something that went
beyond the natural chances of the game. It must end; and, when it
ended, it would be suddenly. A single sweeping victory, and the tide
of prosperity would roll back. Hadn't some pious person said that it
was always darkest before the dawn? If that were true, the dawn was
close at hand--it was more than probable, it was inevitable. And what
a fool he would be if, after holding on to the Amalgamated through all
these weeks of darkness, he let it sink just when the first gleam of
gold was in the sky!
So Scales argued with himself through that long night in the solitary
library. In such arguments it is inclination that supplies the final
bias. When a man argues with himself upon a question of right and
wrong, it is never right that wins.
And during that same long night Masterman slept peacefully, ignorant of
the Tragic Angel that stooped above his pillow. If the Angel could
have spoken, he would have told the story thus. "Years ago a man did
wrong, and was not punished for it. He was elated by his immunity, and
boasted of it. He succeeded in life, as men count success. He climbed
to a place of honour, from which he saw a new world opening at his
feet. Then he would have been glad to forget that early deed of wrong.
He did forget it, as far as he could. But there is a general memory in
the world which forgets nothing. It goes about with a searchlight,
raking over the gutters of the past, and making discoveries. This
sleepless memory found the thing which he was now anxious to forget;
gave it to another, who turned it round and round like a precious
talisman; and, last of all, this other used the talisman both for the
ruin of himself and of the man who had shown him how to use it. And
this other man did not know that the talisman had lost its magic.
Still less did he suspect that it was a fatal and malignant gift. Who
are we to suppose that we can divorce the present from the past? Words
live, deeds live--they live eternally. We cannot lose them at will.
They are seeds which are carried far away upon the wind, but they
always find some soil in which they spring up. They are dead, we say.
Thou fool, nothing is dead which man has ever said, thought, or done.
It only waits its hour, and it always springs up at last."
A month later the financial journals remarked with ardent approbation
that in spite of the wide depression of trade, produced by this
calamitous war, the Brick Trust had paid its full dividends. Such a
circumstance reflected great credit upon the management of the Trust,
especially on its president, Mr. Masterman, whose financial genius had
thus received an extraordinary vindication. If the investor had ever
had the least doubt of the stability of this great commercial venture,
his doubts should be set at rest for ever by this remarkable
achievement. They regretted to add that Mr. Masterman had been
seriously ill, as the result of his indefatigable labours on behalf of
the Trust. He was now, however, quite himself again, and those who had
recently seen him reported him in the best of health.
This announcement created a new boom in the stock of the Trust. At the
same time news came of what appeared to be the first wave of final
triumph in South Africa. Bells were rung, rockets soared, and shouting
multitudes filled every street. Masterman, from his rooms at Brighton,
saw the passing of the shouting crowd, and the tumult went to his head
like wine.
"We are past the worst!" he cried. "I feel years younger. To-morrow I
will wire for Scales, and get into harness again."
And, as he spoke, the face kindled with its old fire of vigour, his
eyes flashed, and his form had its old erectness.
He also believed himself to have won another battle, and the pageant of
his ambitions once more moved steadfastly before him.
XIX
THE FEAR
Another month had passed, and Masterman was back in his office.
Outwardly he appeared little changed by his illness. The superb frame
had suffered a shock, but there was no sign of vital injury. The eye
was as keen as ever, the face as firm in outline, the expression of the
lips as masterful.
Nevertheless, there were changes of a more subtle character which were
obvious to a critical observer. He had hours of languor when he would
sit with folded hands, dreamily gazing out of the window, entirely
careless of business. His temper had grown fitful and capricious.
There was no longer the old steady dominance; there was swift
assertion, gusty, violent energy, soon spent, and followed by periods
of sullen inaction. His clerks approached him with trepidation, and
often fled from him in dismay. They never knew what to expect.
Sometimes they were received with brutal and unjust reproaches for
faults they had not committed, or for faults so slight that a generous
mind would have disregarded them. At other times they were welcomed
with familiarity, treated as equals, and perhaps invited to listen to
long boastful talks which had neither purpose nor coherence. And then,
for a few days, as though some obstruction in the brain were suddenly
dissolved, another man would appear, firm, sagacious, capable of swift
decision, a human driving force of incomparable energy--the Masterman
whose marvellous efficiency was the legend of the city.
One feature of his conduct in these days was very marked--he avoided
Scales. He had to meet him every day, but such intercourse as existed
was approached uneasily, hurried through, and dismissed with visible
relief. The truth was, that at the back of his mind lay a great fear
which he dared not even formulate to himself. There was a question
always on his lips which he ached to ask, yet he dared not ask it:
"What was it Scales had done to save the credit of the Trust?" It
appears incredible that he should not have satisfied his curiosity. A
single hour of scrutiny would have put him in possession of the truth.
But it was precisely because he already guessed too accurately what
that truth was, that he refused to hear it uttered. It is easy enough
to walk with boldness in the dark, ghost-haunted room, if you
undoubtedly believe there is no ghost. But if you do--if you have
heard the rattling chain and stealthy sigh, and have felt your blood
stiffen at the moving shadow--then what? The easiest plan is the
child's old game of make-believe. You will invent some fantastic
reason why you should look no closer. And that is what Masterman was
doing. He played at make-believe, haunted by the single terror that
the ghost was real.
He would sometimes skirt the edge of the thought that was consuming
him, begin a sentence boldly, and then let it trail off into a kind of
hurried whisper, or turn it to another end.
"All going well?" he would begin interrogatively, as Scales entered his
private room. "Ah! there are some things I wanted to talk over with
you, Scales--important things, you know."
For a moment his eyes would search the crafty face of the clerk, and
then he would add, "But it doesn't matter, just now. I'm busy
to-day--very busy. Another time will do."
"I'm at your service whenever you like," Scales would say, with a kind
of half-defiant obsequiousness.
"No, no; not now. I'm too busy to-day. Another time." And then he
would rustle the papers on his desk, with a great pretence of business,
and drop his gaze, and go on muttering aimlessly, "Another time,
Scales, when I'm a little stronger, you know."
When Scales left the room he would sit quiet for a long time, and gaze
out of the window, his eyes always falling at last on the gray roof of
the Mansion House.
He never looked in that direction without receiving a new impulse to
his ambition. From the silent doors of that great house he saw himself
issuing forth triumphant, the conqueror of circumstance, seated in a
golden carriage drawn by noble horses, with the applauding crowd
thronging at his wheels. He adorned his triumph with new features day
by day, wearied his invention to create them, and dwelt upon them with
a childish ardour of delight. There were even moments when they ceased
to be imaginary; they had the glow and substance of reality, and he
could hear the beating of the horses' hoofs upon the asphalt, the crash
of music, and the raucous shouting of the crowd.
Then a cold, gray cloud obscured the vision, a gust of cold air set him
shivering, and he was alone once more with his silent fear.
In his own home his conduct was marked by the same contradictions. He
would arrive from the city at nightfall, enter the house in a fierce
bustle of energy, talking eagerly, laughing loudly; and then, as like
as not, in the midst of dinner, would relapse into a heavy silence.
The chief subject of his talk on these occasions, was the things he
meant to do with his increasing wealth. He had engaged a firm of
architects to plan a country house for him, although the site was not
yet found nor the estate bought. He would spend hours over the details
of this house. It would be such a house as was never built before. It
should have a marble swimming-pool, electric ovens, and a vast
palm-garden. For its decoration he would import marble fireplaces from
Italian palaces, tapestries from France, oak carving from Holland. Of
course it would have a picture-gallery--every gentleman had that. He
would employ an expert to collect the pictures. And of course there
would be a great library, and vast stables, and a private golf-course,
and sheets of ornamental water, and extensive gardens.
"Have you done anything more about the new house?" Helen would ask, as
she fluttered up to him with a perfunctory kiss.
"Not to-day. It's been a busy day in the city. But we'll have a look
at the plans presently."
And then the plans would be unrolled, and the details once more
discussed, and new features added.
"I'm tired of this old house," Helen would cry, with pretty petulance.
"I don't see the good of being rich if you've got to live here."
"And you won't live here much longer. Wait till the war is over, and
then you shall take your place with the greatest ladies of the land."
And then Helen would blush with pleasure, her light mind inflated with
pride, her imagination picturing a bright butterfly flight through all
kinds of glittering scenes. Mrs. Masterman, silent as ever, took no
part in these conversations. They were to her a source of pain; but to
Helen they were the breath of life. In the future she pictured to
herself her mother had no part. But she saw herself with singular
distinctness moving on a high plane of circumstance and pleasure, and
she made it her aim to foster her father's vanity as a means of
gratifying her own.
"Father's easy enough to manage," she often told herself. And yet
there were many occasions when her boast was rudely falsified. Did she
never notice the sudden shadow that fell across her father's face? Did
she never ask why it was he would angrily sweep the plans of his new
house aside, crying that, maybe, he would never want them after all,
and would stalk off in gloomy silence to his own room, where he sat
alone until long after the midnight hour had struck? No; she never
guessed the cause of these explosions. But her mother did, and
trembled.
And amid all these aberrations, perhaps the most curious was that his
mind appeared to have received a new bias toward religion.
There was a certain Sunday evening when Mrs. Masterman surprised him,
reading in his office. The house was very still, and he was reading
aloud in a grave and solemn voice.
He looked up as she entered, and, instead of frowning on her intrusion,
motioned her to silence, and went on reading.
"Listen to this," he said. "I thought I knew the Bible, but here's
something I've never met before. The man that wrote this was a wise
fellow.
"_'What hath pride profited us? Or what good hath riches with our
vaunting brought us? All those things are passed away like a shadow,
and as a host that hasted by; and as a ship that passeth over the waves
of the water, which, when it is gone by, the trace thereof cannot be
found, neither the pathway of the keel in the waves; or, as when a bird
hath flown through the air, there is no token of her way to be found,
but the light air being beaten with the stroke of her wings, and parted
with the violent noise and motion of them, or passed through, and
therein afterwards no sign where she went is to be found; or like as,
when an arrow is shot at a mark, it parteth the air, which immediately
cometh together again, so that a man cannot know where it went through:
even so we in like manner, as soon as we were born, began to draw to
our end.'_
"There's a lot of truth in that," he remarked. "As soon as we are born
we begin to draw near to our end. That's mighty true. It kind of
makes a man feel small, though, as if nothing mattered. It makes a man
feel as though God laughed at him. And it makes me feel, too, as if it
would be rather a good thing to be done with it all. If I could be a
boy again I wouldn't say. I believe I should think it worth while
being kicked and beaten again, just to feel as I did then. But, by the
time a man is going on for sixty, he's about tired of it all. Doesn't
seem worth while doing anything then, except to get into bed and go to
sleep."
He paused a moment, as if to swallow some choking bitterness, and then
went on again in the same low tone: