THE FOUNDATION OF A FRIENDSHIP.
Notwithstanding Dr. Bell’s hopeful prognostications, it seemed very
doubtful whether Mr. Tom Bristow would ever leave Gatehouse Farm alive.
“I did not think his hull was quite so badly damaged as it is,” said
the worthy doctor, who had formerly been in the navy, to Lionel. “And
his figure-head has certainly been terribly knocked about, but he’s an
A 1 craft, and I can’t help thinking that he’ll weather the storm.”
And weather the storm he did—thanks to good nursing and a good
constitution. When he once took a turn for the better, his progress
towards recovery was rapid. But September had come and gone, and the
frosts of early winter lay white on meadow and fold, before the
doctor’s gray pony ceased calling at Gatehouse Farm on its daily
rounds. Long before this time, however, a feeling of more than ordinary
friendship had grown up between Lionel Dering and Tom Bristow. The
points of dissimilarity in the characters of the two men were very
marked, but it may be that they liked each other none the less on that
account. In any case, this dissimilarity of disposition lent a piquancy
to their friendship which it would not otherwise have possessed.
But who and what was this Mr. Tom Bristow?
The account which he gave of himself to Lionel, one afternoon, when far
advanced towards recovery, was somewhat vague and meagre; but it more
than satisfied the master of Gatehouse Farm, who was one of the least
inquisitive of mortals; and, for the present, it will have to satisfy
the reader also.
They were sitting on a rustic bench just outside the farm porch,
basking in the genial September sunshine. Lionel had his meerschaum
between his lips, and was fondling the head of his favourite dog,
Osric. Tom Bristow, who never smoked, was busy with a piece of boxwood
and a pocket-knife. Little by little he was fashioning the wood into a
capital but slightly caricatured likeness of worthy doctor Bell—a
likeness which the jovial medico would be the first to recognize and
laugh at when finished. Tom was a slim-built, aquiline-nosed,
fair-complexioned, young fellow; rather under than over the ordinary
height; and looking younger than he really was—he was six-and-twenty
years old—by reason of his perfectly smooth and close-shaven face,
which cherished not the slightest growth of whiskers, beard, or
moustache. Tom’s first action on coming to his senses after his
accident was to put his hand to his chin, just then bristling with a
stubble of several days’ growth; and his first words to the startled
nurse were, “My dear madam, I shall feel greatly obliged by your
sending for a barber.” His eyes were blue, full of vivacity, and keenly
observant of all that went on around him. He had a very good-natured
smile, which showed off to advantage a very white and even set of
teeth. His hands and feet were small, and he was rather inclined to be
proud of them. His dress, while studiously plain in appearance, was
made of the best materials, and owed its origin to one of the most
famous of London tailors.
“Dering,” said Tom suddenly—they had been sitting for full five minutes
without a word—“it is five weeks to-day since you saved my life.”
“What a memory you have!”
“Seeing that one’s life is not saved every day, I may be excused for
remembering the fact, unimportant though it may seem to others. It is
five weeks to-day since I was brought to Gatehouse Farm, and during all
that time you have never asked me a question about myself or my
antecedents. You don’t even know whether you have been entertaining a
soldier, a sailor, a tinker, a tailor, a what’s-his-name, or a thief.”
“I didn’t wait to ask myself any question of that kind when I went down
the cliff in search of you, and I don’t see why I need trouble myself
now.”
“As a matter of simple justice both to you and himself, the mysterious
stranger will now throw off his mystery, and appear in the commonplace
garb of real life.”
“I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” said Lionel. “Your object just now
is to get thoroughly well. Never mind anything else.”
“There’s no time like the time present. I’m ashamed of myself for not
having spoken to you before.”
“If that’s the matter with you, I know you must have your say. Proceed,
worthy young man, with your narrative, and get it over as quickly as
possible.”
“I was born at a little town in the midland counties,” began Tom. “My
father was chief medical practitioner in the place, and attended all
the swells of the neighbourhood. His intention from the first was to
bring me up to the law; so, as soon as I was old enough, he had me
articled to old Hoskyns, his bosom friend, and the chief solicitor in
the little town. I didn’t like the law—in fact, I hated it; but there
seemed no better prospect for me at that time, so I submitted to my
fate without a murmur. My father died when I was seventeen, leaving me
a fortune of six thousand pounds. I stayed quietly on with Hoskyns till
I was twenty-one. The day I was of age, the old gentleman called me
into his private room, congratulated me on having attained my majority,
and asked me in what way I intended to invest my six thousand pounds.
‘I am not going to invest it: I am going to speculate with it,’ was my
answer. The old lawyer looked at me as if I were a madman. ‘Going to
speculate in what?’ he asked faintly. ‘Going to speculate on the Stock
Exchange,’ was my reply. Well, the old gentleman raved and stormed, and
talked to me as though I were a son of his own, even hinting at a
possible partnership in time to come. But my mind had long been made
up, and nothing he had to say could move me. It seemed to me that in my
six thousand pounds I had the foundation of a fortune which might in
time grow into something colossal. It is true that the course I had
laid down for myself was not without its risks. It was quite possible
that instead of building up a large fortune, I should lose the little
one I had already. Well, should that black day ever come, it would be
time enough then to think of going back to Hoskyns, and of settling
down for life as the clerk of a provincial lawyer.
“My father’s death left me without any relations, except some far-away
cousins whom I had never seen. There was nothing to keep me in my
native town, so I set out for London, with many prophecies of coming
ruin ringing in my ears. I hired a couple of cheap rooms in a quiet
city court, and set up in business as a speculator, and to that
business I have stuck ever since.”
“Which is as much as to say that you have been successful in it,” said
Lionel.
“I _have_ been successful in it. Not perhaps quite so successful as my
sanguine youthful hopes led me to believe I should be; but still
sufficiently so to satisfy myself that in choosing such a career I did
not choose altogether unwisely.”
“But how is it possible,” said Lionel, “that you, a raw country lad of
one and twenty, could go and settle down in the great world of London;
and, without experience of your own, or any friendly hand to guide you,
could venture to play at a game which exercises some of the keenest
intellects of the age—and not only venture to play at it, but rise from
it a winner?”
“The simplest answer to that question would be, that I did do it. But
really, after all, the matter is not a very difficult one. I have
always been guided by three or four very simple rules, and so long as I
stick to them, I don’t think I can go very far amiss. I never invest
all my money in one or even two speculations, however promising they
may seem. I never run great risks for the sake or problematical great
profits. Let my profits be small but sure, and I am quite content.
Lastly, I put my money, as far as possible, into concerns that I can
examine personally for myself, even though I should have to make a
journey of three hundred miles to do it. See the affair with your own
eyes, judge it for yourself, and then leave it for your common sense to
decide whether you shall put your money into it or no. In all such
professions, natural aptitude—the gift that we possess almost
unconsciously to ourselves—is the grand secret of success.”
“Success in your case means that you are, on the high road to being a
millionaire?”
“Now you are laughing at me.”
“Not at all. I am only judging you by your own standard.”
“And is the standard such a very poor one?”
“Not a poor one at all, as the world goes. I should like very much to
be a millionaire.”
“To say that I am not richer to-day than I was the day I was twenty-one
would not be true,” said Tom, with a demure smile. “I am years and
years, half a lifetime at the very least, from being a millionaire—if;
indeed, I ever live to be one. But I no longer live in two cheap rooms
in the city, and dine at an eating-house for fifteen pence. I have very
nice chambers just out of Piccadilly, where you must look me up when
you are next in town. I belong to a club where I have an opportunity of
meeting good people—by ‘good people’ I mean people who may some day be
useful to me in my struggle through life. Finally, I ride my hack in
the Park two or three afternoons a week during the season, and am on
bowing terms with a duchess.”
“I can no longer doubt that you are a rising man,” said Lionel, with a
laugh.
“My head is full of schemes of one kind or another,” said Tom, a little
wearily. “Or rather it was full of them before I met with that
confounded accident. In one or the other of those schemes the duchess
will play her part like any other pawn that may be on my chess-board at
the time. There is no keener speculator in the whole City of London
than her Grace of Leamington.”
“What a martyrdom it must seem to you to be shut up here, in this dull
old house, so far away from the exciting life you have learned to love
so well!”
“A martyrdom, Dering? It is anything but that. Had I been well in
health, I can’t tell what my feelings might have been. I should
probably have considered it a waste of time to have spent a month,
either here or anywhere else, in absolute idleness. But being ill, and
having just been dragged back, by main force as it were, from Death’s
very door, I cannot tell you how grateful, how soothing to me is the
quietude of this old spot. If, now and then, when I feel better and
stronger, there come moments when I long to glance over the money
article of ‘The Times,’ or to write a long, impatient letter to my
broker in London, there are days and nights when such things have no
longer the faintest interest for me—times when bare life itself seems a
burden almost too heavy for endurance, and all my ambitious schemes and
speculations nothing more than a tissue of huge mistakes.”
“Your old interest in everyday matters will gradually come back to you
as you grow better,” said Lionel, “and with it will come the desire to
be up and doing.”
“I suppose you are right,” said Tom. “It would never do for a little
illness to change the plans and settled aims of a lifetime.”
“No chance of your settling down here at Gatehouse Farm as Hermit
Number Two?”
Tom shook his head and laughed. “Do you know, Dering,” he said, “that
you are one of the greatest riddles, one of the most incomprehensible
fellows, it was ever my fortune to meet with! But, pardon me,” he added
hastily. “Of all men in the world, you are the one to whom I ought
least to say such words.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Lionel, with a smile. “I like your
frankness. I am aware that many people look upon me as a sort of
harmless lunatic, though what there is so incomprehensible about me I
am at a loss to imagine.”
“You will forgive me for saying so,” said Tom, “but to me it seems such
an utter pity to see a man of your education and abilities wasting the
best years of his life in a place like this, with no society but that
of fishermen and boors: to see a man, young and strong in health, so
utterly indifferent to all the ordinary claims of civilized life—to all
the aims and ambitions by which the generality of his fellow men are
actuated, to the bright career which he might carve out for himself, if
he would but take the trouble to do so.”
“Ah, that is just it, mon ami: if I would but take the trouble to do
so! But is the game really worth the candle? To me, I confess that it
is not.”
Tom shrugged his shoulders.
“I know that you can afford to pity me—that you look upon me as a sort
of good-natured imbecile.”
“No—no!” in energetic protest from Tom.
“But what have you to pity me for?” asked Lionel, without heeding the
interruption. “I have enough to eat and drink, I have a roof to cover
me, and a bed to sleep on. In these important matters I should be no
better off if I had ten thousand a-year. As for the society of boors
and fishermen, believe me, there is more strength of character, more
humour, more pathos, more patient endurance of the ills of this life,
and a firmer trust in Providence, among these simple folk than I ever
found among those whom you would term my equals in the social scale.
Then your ambitions and aims, dignify them with what fine names you
will, what are they, nine times out of ten, but the mere vulgar desire
to grow rich as quickly as possible! So long as I can earn my bread by
the sweat of my brow, and owe no man a penny, I am perfectly
satisfied.”
“Argue as you will, Dering, this is neither the place nor the position
for a man like you.”
“So long as the place and position suit me, and I them, we shall remain
in perfect accord, and no longer,” said Lionel. “I never said that it
was my intention to live a hermit all my life; but at present I am
perfectly satisfied.”
Again and again, before Tom Bristow’s enforced stay at Gatehouse Farm
came to an end, was the same subject broached between him and Lionel,
but always with the same result. As Lionel often said to himself, he
was utterly without ambition. He was like a man whose active career in
the world was at an end; who knowing that life could have no more
prizes in store for him, had settled down quietly in his old age,
content to let the race go by, and wait uncomplainingly for the end. It
is probable, nay, almost certain, that had his uneventful life at
Gatehouse Farm been destined to last much longer, old desires and
feelings would gradually have awakened within him; that in time he
would have found his way again into that busy world on which he had
turned his back in a transient fit of disgust, and there have fought
the fight before him like the good and true man he really was at heart.
As days went on, Tom Bristow’s strength gradually came back to him, and
with it came a restlessness, and a desire to be up and doing that was
inherent in his disposition. Long before he was allowed down stairs, he
had discovered that the old case clock in the kitchen had a trick of
indicating the hours peculiar to itself, sometimes omitting to strike
them at all, and sometimes going as high as a hundred and fifty;
besides which, its qualities as a timekeeper were not to be depended
on. To Tom’s orderly and accurate mind the old clock was a great
annoyance, so the very first day he came down stairs he took the works
entirely to pieces. Then, little by little, as his strength would allow
him, he cleaned them, put them together again, regulated them, and
finally turned the old clock into so accurate a timekeeper that Mrs.
Bevis, Lionel’s housekeeper, was quite disturbed in her mind for
several days, because she had no longer any mental calculations to go
through before she could be really sure as to the hour. Then, after he
had got still stronger, Tom went systematically through all the locks
in the house, repairing and putting into thorough working order all
that required it. Then he mended the kitchen window, and put up a
couple of shelves for Mrs. Bevis in the dairy—all done as neatly as any
workman could have done them. In little jobs of this sort Tom took
great delight now that he had so many leisure hours on his hands.
But presently there began to arrive at Gatehouse Farm an intermittent
stream of letters, newspapers, pamphlets, and blue books, the like of
which had never been known within the memory of the oldest man in the
village. Lionel himself stared sometimes when he saw them, but they all
had a business interest for Tom, who now began to spend a great portion
of his time in receiving and answering letters. Such books as there
happened to be in Lionel’s small library that had any interest for
him—and they were very few indeed—he exhausted during the early days of
his illness. How a sensible man could possibly prefer Browning to the
money article of “The Times,” or an essay by Elia to the account of a
great railway meeting, was matter of intense wonderment to Tom. Poets,
novelists, essayists, should be left to women, and to men whose
fortunes were already made: but for men with a career still before
them; for pushing, striving men of the world, such reading was a sheer
waste of valuable time.
But let Tom Bristow be as worldly-minded as he might be, Lionel Dering
could not help liking him, and it was with sincere regret he saw the
day drawing near when he and his new-found friend must part. With all
Tom’s shrewdness and keen love of money-getting, there was a rare
unselfishness about him; and it was probably this fine trait of
character, so seldom found in a man of his calibre, that drew Lionel so
closely to him. As for Tom, he had never met with anyone before whose
character interested him so profoundly as did that of Dering. Out of
that interest grew a liking almost brotherly in its warmth for the
strange young hermit of Gatehouse Farm. When the day came for these two
men to part, they felt as if they had known each other for years. At
the last moment they shook hands without a word. Tears stood in Tom’s
eyes. Lionel would not trust himself to speak for fear of breaking
down. One long last grip, then the horses sprang forward, and Torn was
gone. Lionel turned slowly indoors, feeling more lonely and sad at
heart than he had done since the day his darling Edith was lost to him
for ever.