MR. SWANLAND'S CRUMPLED ROSE-LEAF.
That unlucky American order proved the worst blow Mr. Swanland had ever
received. It hurt his purse, his pride, and his personal affection,
since, let him scold Hankins as much as he chose--and he did choose to
make a vast number of unpleasant remarks to that person before he
discharged him with contumely and without notice; let him load his last
man in possession with reproaches, and assure him that the next time
such a thing occurred he should leave his employment instantly; let him
express an opinion that Mortomley deserved to be sent to prison because
he refused to divulge the secrets of his trade,--he could not blind
himself to the fact that the annoyance was really attributable to his
own utter incompetence and presumption; that he had made a fatal mistake
when he supposed a manufacturing business was as easy to manage as he
had found it to realise the stock-in-trade of a publican, or to dispose
of the watches and rings and bracelets of a jeweller in course of
liquidation. Nevertheless, it was a comfort to rail against Mortomley,
and he railed accordingly.
"If he had fallen in the hands of any other trustee in London, I believe
he would have found himself in custody ere this," observed Mr. Swanland,
venting his indignation and praising his clemency in the same sentence.
"The idea of a man withholding information likely to prove of benefit to
his creditors!"
"Shocking!" agreed Kleinwort, to whom he made the remark. "Shocking! but
why, dear creature, give you not this so tiresome blackguard to the
police? They would take from you and him all trouble; perhaps you feel
fear though of the little woman, is it so?"
"Thank Heaven I am afraid of nobody," retorted Mr. Swanland; "that is
more I expect than some of your friends could say."
"Very like, my friends are not all as you; there are some great
scoundrels in this England of yours." With which parting shot Kleinwort
waddled off, leaving the trustee with the feeling that he had been
making game of his calamity.
And, in truth, Mr. Swanland could have borne the pecuniary loss (of
profit) Mortomley's Blue entailed upon him with much greater equanimity
than the ridicule he was compelled to bear in consequence.
The story got wind, as such stories do, and was made the basis of a
series of those jokes at which City men laugh, as a child laughs when
its nurse bids it do so at her uplifted finger.
He heard about blue till he hated the sight and name of the colour. He
was asked how he felt after that "rather blue transaction." One man
accosting him in the street remarked he looked a little blue,--another
inquired if he was in the blues; when the Prussians were named in his
presence, some one cried out, "Hush! Prussians are a sore subject just
now with Swanland."
These pleasantries Mr. Swanland tried at first to carry off lightly.
"You mistake," he explained in answer to the last observation, "Prussian
Blue is not a sore subject with me, though I admit bronze may be."
"You are quite sure it is not brass, Swanland?" suggested a young
fellow, adjusting his eyeglass at the same time, in order to survey the
trustee more accurately.
"No," was the reply, "I have plenty of that I am thankful to say."
"You have cause for thankfulness," remarked the other, "for in your
profession you must require a good stock of the article."
Altogether, what with questions about the colour of his children's eyes,
observations to the effect that no doubt he would take his "annual trip
this year inland, to a green country, instead of the sea, the deep blue
sea,"--remarks that he would be certain to bet on Cambridge, as their
colour must be least inoffensive, and various other witticisms of the
same kind, which by the force of mere iteration finally grew amusing to
listeners,--the unfortunate trustee's life became a weariness to him.
In his chamber he cursed Mortomley, and a bird of the air carried the
tidings to Mr. Asherill, who in one and the same breath rebuked his
junior for profanity, and excused his profanity upon account of the
unfortunate impetuosity of youth.
"You had better conciliate Mortomley," said the senior partner, "and
induce him to make this waste stuff valuable. I have no doubt he is
clever enough to help you through, and that he would do so for a
five-pound-note."
Acting upon which hint, Mr. Swanland upon some trumpery pretence
requested Mortomley's presence at his office, and having got him there
he placed a little parcel open upon the table and said,
"By the bye, Mr. Mortomley, I have been asked if you could manufacture a
few tons of a colour such as that into your new blue."
Mortomley never even touched the sample before him, though he answered
at once,
"No, I could not."
"But you have not examined it, sir," expostulated Mr. Swanland.
"I do not want to examine it," was the reply, "the colour is dry. Do you
suppose, for a moment, it is possible to do anything with a colour after
it has dried?"
Now Mr. Swanland had supposed it was quite possible to do so, and
therefore entreated Mr. Mortomley to look closely at the parcel lying
before him.
"What is it?" asked the trustee.
"It is very inferior Prussian blue," was the reply, "and if your friend
have, as you say, got a few tons of it, he had better make it up into
balls, and sell it to the wholesale houses that supply the oil shops,
which in turn supply the laundresses. Ball blue is all it is fit for."
That unhappy Mortomley could not have made a less fortunate reply had
he studied the subject for a week. Mr. Swanland's patience had been so
exercised with allusions to the getting up of his linen; offers to give
him the names and addresses of washerwomen who might buy a pound or two
of blue if he allowed a liberal discount; inquiries as to whether he had
not been obliged to apply for a few policemen to keep the staircase at
Salisbury House clear for ladies of the washtub persuasion, who had
heard of the great bargains Asherill and Swanland were offering in
colours, that the slightest allusion to a laundress now affected him as
a red rag does a turkey cock.
"You are pleased to be facetious," he observed in a tone which caused
Mortomley to turn round and stare at the trustee, while he answered,
"Facetious! there is nothing to be facetious about in the matter. I
should say, if your friend have a lot of this wretched stuff thrown on
his hands, he must consider the affair something beyond a joke."
Mr. Swanland took a short walk up and down his office, then, the better
apparently for this exercise, he paused and said,
"That wretched stuff, as you call it, was made at Homewood."
Mortomley sat silent for a moment before he remarked,
"I am very sorry to hear it."
"You are not, sir," retorted Mr. Swanland.
"I am," was the reply. "Do you suppose I lost all care for my own trade
reputation when, unfortunately, part of it was given over to your
keeping?"
And the two men, both now standing, looked straight and dangerously the
one at the other.
"Come, Mr. Mortomley," said Mr. Swanland at last, breaking the spell by
withdrawing his eyes, in the same fashion as inquisitive folks in
Ireland used to be compelled to turn their gaze from the Leprechaun,
"we need not bandy hard words about this unfortunate business, though, I
must say, you are the first bankrupt in whose affairs I ever had any
concern, who refused to assist me to the extent of his power."
"I have not refused to assist you," was the reply; "on the contrary.
You, however, preferred my men to me, and you have reaped the fruits of
your preference, that is all."
"That is not all," said Mr. Swanland, "you were bound to make over your
formulae to me."
"I think not," was the reply. "I do not profess to know much of this new
law by virtue of which I have been stripped of everything, and my
creditors have not been benefited to the extent of a single shilling,
but, still, I imagine no law can take away not merely a man's goods, but
also his brains. If you can get any Vice-Chancellor to compel me to
explain how to make my colours, without my assistance, of course I must
bow to his decision, though, in that case, I should take leave to tell
his Honour that although some colour-maker might be able to make use of
the information, an accountant certainly never could."
Hearing which sentence Mr. Swanland stared. He had never before seen
Mortomley roused. He did not know each man has his weak point, and that
Mortomley's pregnable spot lay close to the colours himself had
begotten.
Homewood, his business, his house, his furniture, his horses, his
carriages, his plant, his connection, Mortomley had yielded without a
struggle, but his mental children he could not so relinquish, nor would
he. Upon that point Mortomley, generally pliable, was firm, and
consequently, after an amount of bickering only a degree less unpleasant
to the trustee than to the bankrupt, Mortomley shook the dust of
Salisbury House off his feet, declaring his intention of never entering
it again.
As he passed down the staircase he met Mr. Asherill.
"Ah! Mr. Mortomley, and _how_ are _you_?" cried that gentleman with
effusion. "Getting on pretty well, eh? Had your discharge, of course?
No. Why they ought to have given it to you long ago. So glad to see you
looking so well. _Good_-bye, God bless you."
Never in his life had Mortomley felt more tempted to do anything than he
did at that moment to pitch the old hypocrite downstairs.
"My discharge!" he exclaimed, when he was recounting the incidents of
the day to his wife, "and the vagabond knew it was never intended I
should have it. Looking well! why, just as I was going out into the
street, Gibbons ran up against me.
"'What's the matter, Mortomley?' he said, 'you look like a ghost,' and
he made me go back into the passage, and sent for some brandy, and he
hailed a cab, and remarking, 'Perhaps you have not got much money loose
about you, take this, and you can pay me when you are next in town, six
months hence will do,' he forced his purse into my hand. I used to think
hardly of Gibbons, but he is not a bad fellow as times go."
"You will never go to Salisbury House again, Archie?" she asked.
"Never, Dolly. Never, that I declare most positively."
"Cannot we go into the country, then, for a time?" she suggested.
"I should like to go anywhere away from London," he answered.
After a short time she led the conversation back to his interview with
Mr. Swanland.
"I cannot imagine," she said, "how it happens that amongst the papers
that went from Homewood they never happened to find any of your
formulae."
"It would have puzzled them to do that," he answered, opening his tired
eyes and looking at her with an expression she could not exactly
understand.
"You must have had formulae," she persisted.
"Well, yes," he agreed; "perhaps you think they extended to eight
volumes of manuscript bound in morocco. You poor little woman, it would
be a bad thing for colour-makers if trade secrets were not more easily
carried than all that comes to. Look," and taking out his pocket-book he
handed her a couple of sheets of note-paper, "every receipt of mine
worth having is written down there; they are all clear enough to me,
though if I lost them to-morrow they would prove Greek to any other
person."
"Could you explain them to me?" she asked.
"Not now, dear," he answered, "I feel very tired; I think I could go to
sleep." Which utterance proved the commencement of another relapse; but
Dolly was not dismayed, on the contrary she wrote the very next day to
Lang and said,
"Whenever Mr. Mortomley is well enough to leave town we shall go to a
cottage I have taken in Hertfordshire. _All the special colours can now
be made without difficulty._ There is a barn near the cottage which may
be rented."
That was sufficient for Lang. Within a week he had got leave of absence,
and was on his way back to England. He saw the barn, he measured up its
size, he made out a list of the articles necessary, and received
sufficient money from Mrs. Mortomley to pay for them.
He tried to get a fresh order from the firm that had wanted the new
blue, but Mr. Miller shook his head.
"We have had enough of dealing with Mr. Mortomley at second-hand," he
said, "when he is in a position to come to us and enter into an
arrangement personally, possibly we may be able to do business." Which
was just--though he did not know it--as if he had said, "When Mr.
Mortomley has been to the moon and comes back again, we will resume
negotiations with him."
"However, there is a trade to be done, ma'am," said Lang confidently,
"and when I have finished my job, which will be in six weeks, I am
thankful to say, for I am sick of the place and of those outlandish
foreigners who can talk nothing but gibberish, we will do it."
"We shall have to be content with small beginnings though," suggested
Mrs. Mortomley, whose views were indeed of the most modest description.
"And then at the end of a twelvemonth we shall not be ashamed to count
our profits," agreed Lang, and he left assuring Dolly that his stay
among the "mounseers," as he styled all persons who had not been
privileged to first see the light in Great Britain, would be short as he
could make it.
He had set his heart upon being back in time to attend the final sale at
Homewood; but if he was quick Mr. Swanland proved quicker, and before
his return another act in the liquidation play was finished, and all the
vats, coppers, mills, boilers, and other paraphernalia in which
Mortomley's soul had once rejoiced were scattered to the four winds of
Heaven.
When Dolly saw the preliminary advertisements announcing that the
extensive and valuable plant of a colour-maker would shortly be offered
for sale, she lowered her flag so far as to write to Mr. Dean asking him
to buy Black Bess.
She requested this, she said, as a special favour,--she would be more
than grateful if he could give the pretty creature a good home. To which
Mr. Dean indited a long and pompous reply. He stated that his stables
only held so many horses, that each stall had its occupant, that he had
long given up riding, and that Black Bess would not be a match for any
carriage horse of the height he habitually purchased; he remarked that
she was too light even for his single brougham, and that it would be a
pity to keep such an animal merely to run to and from the station in a
dog-cart. Finally, Mr. Dean believed excessive affection for any dumb
animal to be a mistake; Providence had given them for the use of man,
and if when a horse ceased to be of service to a person in a superior
rank of life, it were retained in idleness from any feeling of
sentiment, what, asked Mr. Dean, would those in an inferior station do
for animals? This was not very _apropos_ of Black Bess--at that stage of
her existence, at all events,--but it was _apropos_ of the fact that Mr.
Dean had the day before sold a horse which for fifteen years had served
him faithfully, and got its knees cut through the carelessness of a
spruce young groom,--sold this creature to which he might well have
given the run of the meadows in summer and the straw-yards in winter,
for six pounds.
Antonia, on whom all the traditions of Homewood had not been spent in
vain, remonstrated with her husband on "the cruelty of sending the old
thing away," but her words produced no effect on Mr. Dean.
"Archie Mortomley never would sell a horse that had been long about
Homewood," she said.
"I dare say not, my dear," answered Mr. Dean; "but then you see it is
attention to these small details that has enabled me to keep Elm Park.
It was the want of that attention which drove Mr. Mortomley out of
Homewood."
Upon the top of this came Mrs. Mortomley's letter. Mr. Dean devoted a
whole morning to answering that letter, and then insisted upon reading
his effusion aloud to his wife.
"I think I have put that very clearly," he said when he had quite
finished; "I hope Mrs. Mortomley will lay what I have expressed to
heart."
"If you knew anything of Mrs. Mortomley you would never send her that
epistle," retorted Antonia. "She will read it to her friends, she will
mimic your tone, your accent, your manner; she will borrow a pair of
eyeglasses, and let them drop off her nose in the middle of each
sentence; and, in a word, she will make the written wisdom of Mr. Dean
of Elm Park as thoroughly ridiculous as I have often heard her make your
spoken remarks."
Mr. Dean reddened, but answered with considerable presence of mind that
the possession of such a wife had no doubt hastened Mortomley's ruin as
much as his fatal inattention to small details.
"Perhaps so," agreed Mrs. Dean, "but still she will help him to bear
being ruined with equanimity. Dolly never was dull, and, I declare, when
one comes to realize how fearfully dull almost every person is, I feel
as if she must, by that one virtue, have condoned all the rest of her
sins."
Which was really a very hard phrase for Mr. Dean to hear proceed from
the lips of the woman he had honoured so far as to make mistress of Elm
Park.
But Mrs. Dean was mistaken about Dolly, and Mr. Dean need have felt no
fear that ever again she would make him the butt at which to aim the
shafts of ridicule. For her the champagne of mirth had ceased to
sparkle; for her there was no fun in pompous respectability; for her the
glittering sparkle of wit had come to be but as a flare of light to one
with a maddening headache.
The cakes and ale of life had been for her, but they were for her no
more. Dolly, my Dolly, you were right when you said that last look on
the dead face of Homewood killed you,--for the Dolly of an earlier time,
so bright, so gracious, so happy, so young-looking, as girl, as wife, as
mother, you were from thenceforth never beheld by human being.