MR. WERNER ASKS A FAVOUR.
About the very happiest hour of Dolly Mortomley's life was one in which
her husband, still weak and languid, after watching her gliding about
his sick-room, said--feebly it is true, but still as his wife had not
heard him speak since the time of his first attack at Homewood--"My poor
Dolly."
It was the voice of the olden time--of the never-to-be-forgotten past,
when if she made burdens he was strong enough to carry them. In that
pleasant country place the cloud which had for so long a time obscured
his mental vision, was rent asunder, and the man's faculties that had
so long lain dormant, were given back to him once more.
Dolly was right. No one save herself knew how ill Mortomley had been
during all that weary time at Homewood, during the long sickness at
Clapton, during all the months which followed when superficial observers
deemed him well.
Though on that bright summer's morning, with his haggard face turned
towards the sunlight, he looked more like a man ready for his coffin
than fit to engage once more in the battle of life, there was a future
possible for Mortomley again--possible even in those remote wilds where
newspapers never came, except by post, and then irregularly; where the
rector called upon them once a week at least; where the rector's wife
visited Dolly every day during the worst part of her husband's illness;
where fruit and flowers came every day from the Great House of the
neighbourhood by direction of the owner, who was rarely resident; and
where the gentry who were resident thought it not beneath their dignity
to leave cards for the poor little woman who was in such sore
affliction, and who would have been so lonely without the kindly
sympathy of those who had--seeing her at church--considered her style of
dress most unsuitable, perfectly unaware that Dolly was wearing out the
silks and satins and laces and feathers of a happier time with
intentions of the truest economy.
But Dolly was no longer unhappy.
"I am so thankful," she said to the rector's wife that day; "my husband
is dreadfully weak still, I know, but he will get better--I feel
it--I--"
But there she stopped; she could not tell any one of the old sweet
memories those three words, "My poor Dolly," brought back to her mind;
she could not explain how when she heard them spoken she understood
Archie, her Archie, had been for a long time away, and was now come back
and lying feeble it is true, but still on the highway to health in that
upstairs chamber which her love had made so pretty for him.
Thus the scales of happiness vibrate, up to-day for one, down to-morrow
for another.
It had been the turn of Messrs. Forde and Kleinwort once to stand
between Dolly and the sunshine; it was the turn of both now to stand
aside while the Mortomleys basked in it; from that very morning when
Archie came back to life and reason, Mr. Forde knew for certain
Kleinwort's little game was played out and that he had left England,
himself not much the better for all his playing at pitch-and-toss with
fortune, and every man he had ever been connected with the poorer and
the sadder, and the more desperate, for his acquaintance.
Just a week after that day Dolly sat in "the house," as she still
continued to call the front room, all alone.
She held work in her hand, but she was not sewing, she had a song in her
heart, but she was not singing it audibly. She was very happy, and
though she had cause for anxiety best known to herself, hers was not a
nature to dwell upon the dark side of a picture so long as there was a
bright one to it.
Upstairs Mortomley lay asleep, the soft pure air fanning his temples,
and the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers influencing and
colouring the matter of his dreams.
Lenore was at the Rectory spending the day. Esther had gone to the
nearest town to make some purchases, and Mrs. Mortomley sat all alone.
Along the road, through the gate, up the narrow walk, came a visitor. He
never looked to right or left, he never paused or hesitated for a
moment, but strode straight to the door and knocked.
The door opened into "the house," which was indeed the only sitting-room
the Mortomleys boasted, and Dolly rising, advanced to give him
admittance. Through the glass she saw him and he saw her. For a second
she hesitated, and then opening the door said, with no tone of welcome
in her voice,
"Mr. Werner."
"Yes, Mrs. Mortomley, it is I," he answered. "May I come in?"
"You can come in if you like. As a matter of taste, I should not have
thought you would like--"
"As a matter of taste, perhaps not," was the reply. "As a matter of
necessity, I must."
After he entered they remained standing. Mrs. Mortomley would not ask
him to sit down, and for a moment his glance wandered over the room with
its floor paved with white bricks, shining and bright like marble, over
the centre of which was spread some India matting.
He took in the whole interior with that rapidity of perception which was
natural to him. He noticed the great ferns and bright flowers piled up
in the fireplace. He saw wonderful palms and distorted cacti, all
presents given to Dolly, the pots hidden away in moss, which gave so
oriental a character to the quaint and modest home.
He beheld the poor furniture made graceful and pretty by Dolly's taste
and skill, and in the foreground of the picture he saw Mrs. Mortomley, a
mere shadow of the Mrs. Mortomley he remembered, it is true, clad in a
gorgeous muslin which had seen service at Homewood, her hair done up
over frizzetts which seemed trying to reach to the seventh heaven, her
frills as ample and her skirts as much puffed as though she was living
in a Belgravian mansion.
There was no pathos of poverty about Dolly. To look at her no human
being could have conceived she had passed through such an ordeal as that
I have endeavoured to describe.
Somehow one does associate sadly-made dresses and hair gathered up in a
small knob at the back of the head with adversity, and well as Mr.
Werner knew Dolly her appearance astonished him.
"How is your husband?" he inquired at last.
"I cannot at all see why you should inquire," she replied, "but as you
have inquired I am happy to say he is better, that I believe he will get
well now, well and strong and capable."
"What is he doing now?"
"He is asleep, or was ten minutes ago."
"I did not mean that, I meant in the way of business."
"I decline to answer any questions relating to our private affairs,"
said Dolly defiantly.
Mr. Werner merely smiled in comment, a sad smile, full of some meaning
which Dolly could not fathom.
"May I sit down?" he asked after a moment's pause.
"Certainly, though I should not have imagined you would care to sit down
in my husband's house."
"If I had not known Mrs. Mortomley to be an exceptional woman, I should
not have entered her husband's house at all."
"Mrs. Mortomley is so exceptional a woman that she desires no
compliments from Mr. Werner," was the reply.
He smiled again and said,
"And I in good faith am in no mood to pay compliments to any one--not
even to you, whom I want to do me a favour."
"Recalling the past, I cannot help remarking that diffidence does not
appear to be one of your strongest characteristics."
"Recalling the past, you will do me this kindness for the sake of my
wife."
Dolly did not answer. She wanted to understand what this favour might be
before she committed herself.
"I cannot sit," he said, "unless you are seated also, and I am tired
mentally and bodily. I assure you when I have told you all I have come
to tell, you will not regret having extended to me courtesy as well as
attention."
He placed a chair for her, and then took one himself.
"I have come to speak to you about a very serious matter--" he began.
"If it is anything concerning Archie do not go on," she interrupted
entreatingly. "I have been so happy this morning, and I cannot bear to
hear ill news now--I cannot!" she repeated passionately.
"Strange as it may appear to you," he said calmly, "there are other
persons in England than Mr. and Mrs. Mortomley. It is a singular fact,
but true nevertheless, that they are only two souls out of a population
of thirty millions. I am bringing no bad news to you about your husband
or his affairs; my news is bad for Leonora."
"But she is not ill," said Dolly quickly, "for I had a letter from her
this morning."
"No; she is quite well, and the children are well, and I am well. There
is an exhaustive budget of the state of the family health. But still
what I have to say does effect Leonora. You remember your friend,
Kleinwort, Mrs. Mortomley?"
"I once saw a detestable little German called Kleinwort," she said.
"And you remember his--so dear--Forde?"
"I remember him also."
"Well, a week ago that so dear Forde found that his devoted friend,
under a pretence of ill-health and paying a visit to Hastings, had taken
French leave of this country and got ten days' start of any one who
might feel inclined to follow. He was not able to secure much booty in
his retreat; but I fancy, all told, he has taken seven or eight thousand
pounds with him, and he has let the General Chemical Company in for an
amount which seems simply fabulous.
"So far Kleinwort, now for myself. A few years ago no man in London need
have desired to be in a better position than that I occupied. I was
healthy, wealthy, and, as I thought, wise; I was doing a safe trade, I
had a good connection; I was as honest as City people have any right to
be, and--But why do I talk of this? I am not reciting my own biography.
"Well, the crash of 1866 came. In that crash most people lost a pot of
money. Richard Halling did (and your husband's estate has since suffered
for it), and I did also. If I had stopped then I could not have paid a
shilling in the pound; but no one knew this, my credit was good and my
business capacity highly esteemed. So I went on, and tried my best to
regain the standing I alone knew I had lost."
A carafe of water stood on a table close to where he sat. He poured out
a glass and drank eagerly ere he proceeded.
"Not to weary you with details, in an evil hour my path crossed that of
Forde. He wanted to build up the standing of the General Chemical
Company; I wanted to ensure the stability of my own.
"Mutually we lied to each other; mutually we deceived each other. I
thought him a capable scoundrel; he thought me a grasping millionaire.
The day came when I understood thoroughly he had no genius whatever,
even for blackguardism, but was simply a man to whom his situation was
so important that he would have sacrificed his first-born to retain his
post; a man who would have been honest enough had no temptation been
presented to him; a man who was not possessed of sufficient moral
courage to be either a saint or a sinner, who was always halting between
two opinions, and whilst treading the flowery paths leading to
perdition, cast regretful glances back to the dusty roads and stony
highways traversed by successful virtue, whilst I--"
He paused and then went on.
"Ever since 1866 I have been a mere adventurer, building up my credit
upon one rotten foundation after another, believing foolishly it may be
and yet sincerely the turn would come some day, and that I should
eventually be able to retrieve all--pay all."
"And I still believe," he proceeded after a moment's pause, "that I
could have got out safe, had Swanland, for the sake of advertising
himself, not advertised your husband's failure. Had I been able to carry
out my plans, the General Chemical Company and I had parted company
months ago. I reckoned on being able to bribe Forde to help me to do
this. He rose to the bait, but he had not power to fulfil his part of
the bargain. There was an antagonistic influence at work, and we never
traced it to its source until a few days since. Then we found that a new
director had been quietly looking into your affair, and as a natural
consequence into the affairs of other customers. He discovered how bills
had been manipulated and accounts cooked, how one security had been
made to do duty for six, and much more to the same effect. It was all
clumsy botched work, but either it had really deceived the other
directors or they pretended it had, which comes to about the same thing.
However, to cut the story short, Kleinwort, who foresaw the turn affairs
would take, has gone, and I, who did not foresee, must go also."
"Go where?" Dolly inquired.
"I am uncertain," he answered; "but it is useless my remaining to face
the consequences of my own acts."
"But do you mean to say," asked Mrs. Mortomley, "that you intend to go
away and never return to England?"
"That is precisely my meaning."
"And what will Leonora say?"
"She will be very much shocked at first, I do not doubt," was the reply;
"but eventually, I hope, she will understand I took the best course
possible under the circumstances, and that brings me to the favour I
want you to do me. I want you to take charge of this parcel, and give it
to my wife at the end of six months. Give it to her when she is alone,
and do not mention in the meantime to any one that you have seen me, or
that a packet from me is in your possession. You understand what I
mean?"
"I think so," said Dolly. "There is money in the packet, and--"
"You are shrewder than I thought," he remarked. "There is money in that
parcel. You understand now why I ask you to take charge of it? Have you
any objection to do so?"
"None whatever," was the quick reply.
"And if questions are asked?"
"I know nothing," she answered.
"You will be silent to Leonora?"
"Yes. I understand what you want, and I will do it. Tell me one thing,
however. Some day Leonora will join you?"
"I have faith that it is not impossible," he said, rising as he spoke.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Mortomley. God bless you." And without thought he put
out his hand.
Then Dolly drew back, flushing crimson. "I do this for your wife, Mr.
Werner," she said, "not for you. I cannot forget."
"You can forgive though, I hope," he pleaded. "Mrs. Mortomley, I wish
before we part you would say, 'I forgive you, and I hope God will.' It
is not a long sentence."
"It is a hard one," she answered; "so hard that I cannot say it."
"For my wife's sake?"
"One cannot forgive for the sake of a third person, however dear."
"Do you remember how you wished, or said you should wish, but for her,
that I might be beggared and ruined--beggared more completely, ruined
more utterly than you had been? The words have never died out of my
memory."
"Did I say so?" Dolly asked, a little shocked, as people are sometimes
apt to be, at the sound of their own hot words repeated in cold blood.
"I have no doubt," she went on, "that I meant every syllable at the
time, but I ought not to have meant it--I am sure I should not wish my
worst enemy to pass through all we have been compelled to endure."
"In that case it will be the easier for you to shake hands and say we
part friends."
"I cannot do what you ask," she said. "I might forgive had the injury
been to me alone; but I cannot forget all you said about my husband, who
would not have turned a dog from his door, let alone a man he had known
for years. And you never wrote through all the weary months that
followed to say you were sorry--you never came or sent to know whether
he was living or dead--whether we were starving or had plenty. I can say
with all my heart, I hope you will never through your own experience
know what we suffered; but I cannot say we part friends. I cannot say I
shall ever feel as a friend towards you."
"I think you will, nevertheless, Mrs. Mortomley," he said quietly. "I
think if you knew all I have suffered recently, all I was suffering when
Leonora told me that night you were in the house, you would not be so
hard on me now; but I cannot argue the matter with a woman who has
fought her husband's battle so bravely and so persistently. There was a
time when I did not like you, when I thought your husband had made a
mistake in marrying you, when I regarded my wife's affection for you as
an infatuation, and would have stopped the intimacy had it been
possible; but I tell you now I find myself utterly in error. Regarding
life from my present standpoint, I think Archie Mortomley richer in
being your husband than I should consider him had he a fine business or
thousands lying idle at his bankers. One can but be happy. Looking back,
I believe I may honestly say since I came to man's estate, I have never
known a day's true happiness."
"It is to come," she said eagerly; "there are, there must be years of
happiness in store for you and Lenny."
"I do not think there ever can for either of us," he answered, and
having said this he rose wearily, and would have passed out through the
door but that Dolly stopped him.
"Do not go away without eating something," she said. "We have not much
to offer, but still--"
"I cannot eat salt with a woman who feels herself unable to forgive me,"
he interrupted. "Good-bye, Mrs. Mortomley. I need not tell you to love
my wife all the same, for I know she has been staunch to you through
every reverse."
And he was gone. Down the walk Dolly watched his retreating figure;
along the dusty high-road she watched the man who was ruined pass slowly
away, and then she relented. It seemed to come to her in a moment that,
in this as in other things, she was but the steward of the man she had
married so long as he was unable to see to his affairs for himself, and
she knew he would in an instant have held out the right hand of
fellowship to Mr. Werner.
I remember once being much impressed by this expression used concerning
a girl recently married.
"She is exactly suited to him; but many men would not care to give
their honour into her keeping."
Now this remark had no reference to any divorce scandal possible with
the woman. So far as such matters are concerned, any one who had ever
known her, might safely have made affidavit she was and would be as
utterly without reproach as without fear; but there is another, and if
one may say so, without fear of censure, higher sense in which a woman
holds her husband's honour in her hand, and that was the sense in which
the remark was made.
Just and courteous towards her tradespeople, a gentlewoman in her
dealings with servants, not keen and sharp with porters and cab-drivers,
considerate to the governess, a stranger within her gates--beyond all
things fair in her dealings with her husband's friends--all these points
ought not, I think, to be forgotten when one speaks of a man's honour
held by a woman.
For truly, she can fail in no single incident I have mentioned without
casting a shadow on the judgment of the man who chose her, and it is
more than probable Dolly thought this too, for ere Mr. Werner had got a
hundred yards from the gate she had sped down the walk, and was flying
along the road after him.
"Mr. Werner!" she cried panting.
And then he stopped and retraced his steps towards her.
"I cannot bear it," she said.
And he noticed she had to sit down on the bank by the wayside to recover
her breath.
"I cannot endure, when you are so unhappy, to be hard, as you call it. I
know Archie would be vexed if he knew I refused to be friends with you.
So please, Mr. Werner, do come back and have some fruit and milk--and I
do forgive you from my heart."
"There is something else, Dolly," he observed.
Sooner or later it came natural to all men and all women when nature
asserted itself, to call Mortomley's poor Dolly by her Christian name.
"What else?" she asked. "Oh! I remember, and I am afraid that is a great
deal easier. I do hope God will forgive you too, and us all, and I pray
he will make you and my dear Lenny very happy in the future."
He stood, with her hand clasped in his, looking at her intently.
"You will not be sorry for this hereafter," he said at last. "When the
evil day comes to you which must come to all, you may be glad to
remember the words you have spoken this minute. Thank you very, very
much. No," he added, in answer to a request that he would return to Wood
Cottage; "I have had pleasant tidings spoken to me, and I will leave
with their sound in my ears. Good-bye. When you say your prayers
to-night do not forget to remember me."