MR. ASHERILL IS PERSUADED.
There could be no doubt but that Mortomley and Mr. Douglas were two men
who ought, according to human wisdom, to have met earlier. Though a
colour manufacturer, the latter had, through want of the inventive or
combinative quality, been compelled to run in old grooves, while the
former lacked precisely that firmness of character and mastery of detail
which had made the northern merchant's fortune.
Mr. Douglas was one of those men who feel they cannot stand still and
let the world get in advance of them, even though their pockets do
chance to be stuffed with gold, and almost at the first glance,
certainly after half an hour's conversation, he knew Mortomley was that
other business half which himself required and for which he had been
vainly seeking through years among all sorts and conditions of men.
As has been said in an early chapter of this story, Mortomley's genius
was essentially imaginative.
"Give him a laboratory and ease of mind, and there is scarcely a
difficulty in our trade he could not overcome," thought Mr. Douglas. "If
he can make a purely vegetable green, as he says he can, and I believe
he says only what is literally true, he ought to make his fortune, and I
should feel very much inclined to help him to do it." But when,
subsequently, he broached this idea, Mortomley shook his head.
"I can never make a fortune unless I am able to procure my discharge,
and if I live to be as old as Methuselah I shall never obtain that."
It was on this occasion that he gave Mr. Douglas a slight sketch of his
experiences of liquidation. All the deeper tints, all the darker
shadows, all the lurid colouring, Dolly added at a later period in the
garden at Homewood, a place, Mr. Douglas said, he particularly wished to
see.
Unknown to Mortomley, his wife and his new friend travelled from a
little country station, then newly set up among the green Hertfordshire
fields, to Stratford, which Mrs. Mortomley described in a brief sentence
as the "dirtiest place on earth," then they changed carriages for
Leytonstone, whence they drove along the road Dolly remembered so well
to Homewood.
The hinges of the front gate were broken, and they entered the grounds
without let or hindrance. Everything had been permitted to go to wreck;
the red-thorn-trees had been cut down for fuel, the rare shrubs were
hacked and hewn to pieces, the great evergreens were torn about or dead,
the clematis and the honeysuckle trailed along the ground over part of
the verandah, which had been dragged down by the boys climbing over it;
the laurel walk was almost completely destroyed, and upon the lawn,
where beds filled with flowers made the summer ever beautiful, a stray
horse grazed peacefully.
Within, the same tale of ruin was to be read as they had found written
outside. The children who squinted and the mother that bore them still
were in residence, and there was not a paper on the walls, not an inch
of paint, upon which defacing fingers had omitted to leave a mark.
The kitchen-garden was a mass of weeds and the drive knee deep in grass.
Where those children ought to have walked, they had refrained from
treading, but through the shrubberies they had made a path, marking
their route, Indian fashion, on the trees.
In the remembered summer-house, where so many a pleasant group had in
the old times collected, Dolly sat down to await the return of their new
friend.
He wanted to look at the "works" now bare of plant, at the great yards
once filled with casks and carboys, alive with the stir of workmen and
the clamour of trade,--all silent now, silent as the grave. At the time
of Mortomley's commercial death came the sleek undertaker from Salisbury
House, and took away all they could bury of the man and his
surroundings.
Empty were the stalls of Homewood, bare of oats the mangers, falling to
decay the pigeon-houses, tenantless the byres and styes, denuded the
barns, but in fancy Mr. Douglas filled them all again with plenty and to
spare. Yes, he would buy the lease of Homewood, and once again it should
blossom as the rose.
He opened his project cautiously to Mrs. Mortomley. The prospect of
returning to the beloved home might, he thought, prove too much for her
if the idea were broached without due preparation, so he tried, sitting
in the summer-house to lead up to it, but found his auditor
unsympathetic.
"She had loved Homewood dearly."
"Did she not love it now?"
"Yes, as one loves the dead."
"Should not she like to live there once more?"
"No; she could never forget, never while life lasted, what she had
suffered there."
And then she told her tale--told it looking with dry eyes over the
desolate wilderness which had once been so fair a home--told it all,
simply and without colouring, as a Frenchman might--supposing a
Frenchman capable of telling an unvarnished narrative--relate how the
Uhlans entered his modest habitation, and, not without insult, stripped
it bare.
"But do not you think your husband would like to come back here?" he
inquired after a long pause.
"Back here?" she repeated, "I think I understand now your intention; but
do not try to carry it out; Archie would never be happy here without
me."
"Is your objection to Homewood, then, so rooted?" he inquired, with a
disappointed smile.
For answer she only turned away her head, and he repeated his question.
Then she said, "I should not like my poor husband to arrange his future
with any reference to me."
She had been so bright, so cheerful, so eager about Mortomley's
prosperity, so reticent concerning her own ailments, that Mr. Douglas
had learned to think he must have erred in imagining that when first he
looked in her face he looked in the face of a woman for whom the fiat
had gone forth, but now, by her forced silence, by the unshed tears in
her voice when she finally answered, he understood.
He knew that she had faced her danger, and that to the last she was
keeping a bold front to the enemy, for the sake of another; aye! ever
and always, Dolly was faithful to that trust.
Without another word of explanation they left Homewood.
Tenderly, as she passed one special spot, Dolly gathered a sprig of
myrtle, and kissing it, would have placed it in her purse, but, thinking
twice about the matter, she held it in her hand till they were near the
front gate, when she cast it from her.
Strong to the last, brave as tender, was it any marvel this man who had
never called any woman wife, never held a child of his own to his
heart, felt that had Mrs. Mortomley been his wife or his daughter, he
could sooner have parted with life than with her.
"There is only one thing you can do for me," she observed as she lay
back in the railway carriage on their way home. "Get my husband's
discharge and that will be worth more than gold and silver to me."
"I will do my best, my dear," he answered; "but I fear the difficulties
are almost insurmountable."
In truth he had been interesting himself greatly about this very matter,
and he did not see, unless a useless expense were incurred, how the
desire of Dolly's heart was to be compassed.
That fatal clause rendering the concurrence of the whole of the
committee necessary had been paraded ostentatiously before his face by
Mr. Swanland.
True, Mr. Kleinwort was not in England or likely to return to it, and
Mr. Forde had nothing now to do with the General Chemical Company,
Limited, which had indeed itself ceased to exist, having been purchased
by Hewitt and Date for a sum which paid the original shareholders about
a sovereign in the twenty-five pound share.
The directors had made a gallant fight in order to continue the
business, but their courage proved useless. The next morning after that
night when Lord Darsham told Williams to show Mr. Forde the door, the
manager had risen with the firm intention of handing in his resignation
that forenoon, but on the way to St. Vedast Wharf he met Mr. Gibbons.
"Bad business that about Werner," said that gentleman.
"It's a bad business for me," answered Mr. Forde lugubriously; "I shall
have to resign to-day, and what is to become of me and those poor
creatures at home God alone knows."
"Nonsense!" retorted Mr. Gibbons; "why should you resign unless you have
some consideration given you for doing so? Put a bold front on the
matter, and say you did the best for the directors and the shareholders,
and you are ready to answer any questions that may be put. They will
give you a cool two hundred to walk out. That is what I should do if I
were in your place."
And that was precisely what Mr. Forde did; the result being that he got
not only two hundred but three hundred pounds given out of the
directors' own pockets, if he would resign at once and follow his friend
Kleinwort to South America.
And so that chapter in City history ended, with only this addendum, Mr.
Forde never went to South America, though the directors said and
believed he did.
With the three hundred pounds he travelled as far as Liverpool, where he
set up in business with his correspondent Tom, and where people hear
very little indeed about his wife and children, who live in an extremely
small house situate at Everton.
_Sic transit gloria mundi_, the ex-manager might well exclaim, did he
understand the meaning of that phrase, while pacing the pavement of
those dreary streets to and from his humble habitation, when he
contrasts the actual present with the once possible future himself had
conceived.
Mr. Forde's departure from London caused another absentee; and as the
opposition colour maker had by this time gone into liquidation, and
would have cheerfully given his vote for Mortomley's immediate discharge
had any one offered him five pounds, Mr. Swanland might certainly have
helped the bankrupt to freedom had he chosen to do so. But Mr. Swanland
did not choose to do so, and Mr. Douglas was afraid to tell Dolly this.
"It will come in time," she said calmly, "or if it never does, some
other way will open for my husband."
"Yes," remarked her new friend, "I can promise that, but you must
promise in return to go down to my little place in Devonshire, and try
to get well again. Smiles says, change of air may do wonders for you."
Smiles was an eminent doctor, the kind old man had feed liberally to
come to Wood Cottage and pass his opinion upon Mrs. Mortomley's state,
and Mr. Smiles had said pleasant things, and deceived every one, save
Dolly, as to her real condition.
Nevertheless, Dolly imagining the evil hour might be deferred, promised
and fulfilled. She went into Devonshire, and with all her might tried to
get well again.
The "little place" to which Mr. Douglas referred so carelessly, was as
sweet a cottage ornee as eye ever rested on; and to say that Dolly
revelled in the place and the peace and the scenery, is scarcely to
convey an idea of the amount of happiness she contrived to extract for
herself out of sea, and land, and sky.
There was but one cloud hovering over her, one worldly affair perplexing
her, but that affair she meant to bequeath to Leonora Werner. Through
Lord Darsham's influence and that of Mr. Douglas combined, she knew they
would, with the facts she had jotted down, satisfy a second meeting of
creditors that if Mortomley's estate in liquidation yielded nothing in
the pound, no blame could be attached to Mortomley or Mortomley's wife;
and that consequently, according even to the wording of that iniquitous
Act of 1869, the bankrupt was entitled to his discharge.
Between herself and her husband there lay no secret. _She had told him._
One quiet Sunday evening she said simply, "It is best you should know,
dear." Her own hand dealt the inevitable blow. It had to be given, and
with the subtle sympathy of old she comprehended that if dealt by her,
he would feel the keen agony of the stroke less at the time, less in the
dreary hereafter.
"I shall stay as long as I can, Archie," she added; that was all the
hope she was able to give him, and she gave it. She loved sitting on the
beach alone; that is, as regarded her own friends and family, for she
liked to talk with children and grown-up people who, unknowing of her
danger and attracted merely by her delicate appearance, made
acquaintance readily with the "sick lady."
Dolly liked to say she was better, and see no sad wistful look follow
her answer.
Amongst the few visitors to that remote place was a lady with whom Mrs.
Mortomley delighted each day to exchange a few words. She was old and
prim, and fond of religious conversation, and a trifle didactic; but
Dolly felt she was true, and Dolly had always liked people who were
genuine.
Perhaps that was the reason she was so deeply affected when Lang came
all the way from London to see her and say "Good-bye." He was to live in
the Hertfordshire cottage and work the colour manufactory for his own
benefit, and his old master had given him a few specialities, and he
would have been happy but for Mrs. Mortomley's illness and the
recollection of the gross perfidy of Harte and Mayfield, who had not
merely sent one of their own clerks to take service with Mortomley to
discover his secrets, but seduced him (Lang) away with offers of higher
wages, and then turned him adrift the moment their purpose was served.
"But, thank God!" said Lang fervently, "they never could make the
yellow--that secret is dark enough still. I shall always believe it was
some blackguard from their place frightened you that morning. I beg
pardon, you were not frightened, though any other lady would have been."
And then they had much more talk, which I have not space to repeat, even
if I thought it could prove interesting, and she sent the man away with
her photograph carefully placed in a new pocket-book, in anticipation of
becoming his own employer.
"Hang it up in some place for the children to see," said Dolly; and it
does hang up now, duly framed and glazed, where not merely the children,
but all visitors can behold the likeness of Mortomley's faithful wife,
which is a digression from the elderly lady with white sausage-like
curls, who happened to be Mrs. Asherill.
One day Dolly was sitting on the beach as usual, when she beheld her
nameless friend walking towards her arm-in-arm with Mr. Asherill.
Then Dolly, instinctively guessing the lady with whom she had passed a
few pleasant half hours was the wife of that detested man, kept her
eyes so fastened on the book lying in her lap that Mr. Asherill had a
chance of passing by in silence, of which chance he availed himself.
Not the next morning, which was Sunday, but the next but one, Mrs.
Asherill called at the cottage and asked to see Mrs. Mortomley, whom she
found sitting in an easy-chair near the window.
"I was not well enough to go to the beach to-day," said Dolly, holding
out her hand. "How good of you to come here!"
"I could not rest without coming," was the reply. "It seems dreadful
that two people like you and my husband should so misunderstand each
other, as I am afraid is the case."
"Do we misunderstand each other?" asked Mrs. Mortomley. "Sit down, Mrs.
Asherill, and imagine I am little Peterkin, and tell me 'what they
killed each other for.'"
"I do not know exactly what you mean, my dear," remarked the elder
woman, "but I have felt miserable ever since Saturday. My husband spoke
about you bitterly as I have never heard him speak about any one
before, and told me to walk in some other direction so that I might not
have to speak to you again."
"And what did you tell him?" asked Dolly cheerfully.
"Oh! I made no reply. I meant to call and ask you when and why you had
quarrelled, as I should so much like you and my dear, good, kind husband
to be friends."
"Come," thought Dolly, "the man has one good point, he is kind to a
woman neither young nor handsome; but perhaps she has money."
Which conjecture was true; but, on the other hand, he had been kind and
tender to a woman without a sixpence--always ailing, always complaining,
to whom he gave the best cup of tea--in those days of bitter griping
poverty mentioned far, far back in this story.
"Till Saturday I did not know who you were," said Mrs. Mortomley, after
a pause, "and I suppose you did not know who I was. In fact, neither of
us was aware we ought to have waged war when we met, instead of sitting
peacefully together talking on all sorts of topics. Now we have found
out that you are you and that I am I. What are we to do? I am afraid we
cannot remain good friends."
"But my husband could not avert your misfortunes. He told me distinctly
he refused to undertake the management of Mr. Mortomley's affairs, and
that it was quite against his wish Mr. Swanland meddled in the matter."
Dolly sighed wearily.
"I am afraid Mr. Asherill was right," she said, "and that you had better
not have come here to-day. I do not wish to speak hardly of any man now,
least of all hardly of any man to his wife, but still, I cannot help
saying I think we have bitter cause to hate the very names of Asherill
and Swanland."
"That I am sure you have not," answered Mrs. Asherill--"at least, not
that of my husband. I must tell you something, just to show how utterly
you have misjudged him. Do you remember a particularly wet Saturday in
September, 18--?"
"Perfectly," said Mrs. Mortomley. "I shall never forget it."
"Nor I, for that day I heard of the death of an old and very dear
friend--about the last friend left--whom I had known since girlhood.
That evening Mr. Asherill returned home much later than usual, and very
much depressed. After dinner he explained to me that he was much
concerned about Mr. Mortomley, whose affairs had fallen into
embarrassment, and he proposed that we should send fifty pounds of poor
Rosa's legacy as an anonymous present to his wife. Now, my dear, no
doubt you never guessed from whom that little offering came?"
"I certainly never did, and for a sufficient reason," was the reply, "It
never reached me."
"Ah! you forget," said Mrs. Asherill; "no doubt you had enough on your
mind at that time to cause you to forget even more important matters
than our poor gift--for it was mine as well as his; but I can recall the
circumstance to your recollection; you will remember all about it, when
I say you acknowledged the amount, with grateful thanks, in the 'Daily
News.'"
"I never did," persisted Dolly; "such an occurrence could not have
slipped my memory. I never received that money--never acknowledged
having received it. I do recollect--" she was proceeding, when she
stopped suddenly.
In a moment she understood the position, but she was not mean enough to
take advantage of the opportunity thus presented. She could not tell
Mrs. Asherill the true version of the affair; she could not ring the
bell and bid Esther bring her dressing-case, and produce from the place
where it had lain so long, John Jones's letter enclosing two pounds ten.
"There has been some great mistake about this matter, Mrs. Asherill,"
she said after a pause. "I never received that fifty pounds; and I
should like to have an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Asherill on the
subject. Ask him to call here next Saturday. Tell him I shall take it
as a great kindness if he will favour me with a few minutes'
conversation. I have no doubt," added Dolly a little hypocritically, for
she wanted to send poor Mrs. Asherill away happy, "we shall be able to
arrive at some understanding." And she stretched out her hand, which
Mrs. Asherill took and pressed; then, moved by some impulse she could
scarcely have defined, she stooped down and touched the lips of
Mortomley's wife, murmuring,
"I wish--I wish, my dear, you were strong and well again."
"Do not fret about me," was the quiet reply. "I shall be well--quite
well, some day."
For the remainder of that week Dolly employed herself at intervals in
writing. She was always jotting down memoranda; always asking Esther
questions about what was done and left undone after their departure. She
wrote to Lang, and received a perfect manuscript from him in reply. She
wrote to Mr. Leigh, asking him to search the 'Daily News' of a
particular week in a particular year for an advertisement which she
specified, and by return of post that was forwarded. Finally, she sent a
note to Mr. Asherill, directed to Salisbury House, and then she waited
patiently for Saturday.
On the evening of that day Mr. Asherill presented himself at the
cottage.
He came intending, spite of the character for sanctity he maintained, to
tell many a falsehood in explanation of aught which might seem strange
to Mrs. Mortomley; indeed, to put the case plainly, _any_ falsehood
which might best serve his turn.
His wife had, of course, communicated to him all Mr. Mortomley's wife
had said to her, and he walked over to the cottage, thinking how, with
his best manner, he might humbug the little woman Mr. Douglas had taken
under his fatherly care.
But Dolly's greeting surprised him.
"Thank you very much for coming, Mr. Asherill," she said, holding out
her hand; "I think we may shake hands now, for do you know, I fancy I
am at the present moment a better Christian than yourself."
"It fills my soul with joy to hear you say so," he was beginning, when
she interrupted him.
"I want to speak to you on business very important to myself," she said.
"I want you to do something for me; I did something for you the other
day--I kept silence when speech would have made your wife miserable. I
did not show her John Jones' letter; I did not tell her of the first
advertisement in the 'Daily News;' I did not even try to unmask you; so
having established a claim on your gratitude, I want you to gratify the
request of a dying woman, for I am dying," she added, speaking with the
utmost calmness.
"God bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Asherill, surprised for once out of his
worldly and religious conventionality.
"I do not think He will," said Dolly gravely, "unless you alter very
much indeed."
"I was not thinking of myself when I made so unmet an exclamation," he
explained.
"Oh! of me?" remarked Dolly. "Yes, indeed, what I said was quite true--I
shall not be here very long, and I am afraid I cannot go quite happily
unless I see some near prospect of my husband obtaining his discharge."
Hearing this, Mr. Asherill shook his head--he was sorry--he feared--he
lamented--but he felt compelled to say, he saw no chance of Mr.
Mortomley ever getting free till he had paid ten shillings in the pound.
Then Dolly showed him her hand--showed him the memoranda she had made,
the evidence of utter incompetence, of gross mismanagement, of senseless
neglect that might be laid before another meeting of creditors.
She showed him that with energy and money the story of Mortomley's
Estate might be made something more real than an empty tale; something
out of which a man's freedom unjustly withheld could be justly
purchased.
"You can get it for him without all that fuss and trouble," she said at
last wearily, folding up the papers and laying them aside. "It is to be
done quietly, I know; and if you like you can do it."
He remained silent for a few minutes, then he spoke--
"I do not like talking about business on a Sunday, but still this is a
work of necessity. I will think the matter over and see you again
to-morrow."
"Very well," answered Mrs. Mortomley, adding slily "this is a work of
very great necessity."
Mr. Asherill thought it was, at all events. He did not like the turn
affairs had taken; and the more he reflected, the more inclined he felt
to throw Mr. Swanland over and take sides with Mortomley.
He had, after a fashion, hunted with the hounds, but now, he believed,
it might prove both more pleasant and more profitable to run with the
hare.
He retraced every step already trodden by his firm. He calculated every
inch it would be necessary for him to travel in the future, and the
result was, he said to Mrs. Mortomley,
"I think I can do what you require. Some money may be necessary, but
perhaps I had better see Mr. Douglas about that?"
"Yes," agreed Dolly, "or Lord Darsham, he has promised help if pecuniary
help is needed."