It was on an October day, mellow and bright, when Robert Drummond, with
a smile on his face, and a heavy heart in his breast, reached the house
in Victoria Villas, to superintend poor Stephen's return to the
sitting-room, as he had superintended his removal to his bed. The
sitting-room was larger, airier, and less isolated, than the mournful
chamber up-stairs, in which he had spent half the summer. It was a
heart-rending office, and yet it was one from which his friend could not
shrink. Before he went up-stairs the painter paused, and took hold of
Miss Jane's hand, and wept, as people say, 'like a child;' but a child's
hot thunder-shower of easily-dried tears are little like those few heavy
drops that come to the eyes of older people, concentrating in themselves
so much that words could not express. Miss Jane, for her part, did not
weep. Her gray countenance, which was grayer than ever, was for a moment
convulsed, and then she pushed her brother's friend away. 'Don't you see
I daren't cry?' she said, almost angrily, with one hard sob. Her brother
Stephen was the one object of her life. All the romance of which she was
capable, and a devotion deeper than that of twenty lovers, was in her
worship of him. And this was what it was coming to! She hurried into the
room which she had been preparing for him, which was henceforward to be
his dwelling day and night, and shut the door upon the too sympathetic
face. As for Robert, he went into his friend's little chamber with
cheery salutations: 'Well, old fellow, so you are coming back to the
world!' he said. Poor Haldane was seated in his dressing-gown in an
easy-chair. To look at him, no chance spectator would have known that he
was as incapable of moving out of it as if he had been bound with iron,
and everybody about him had been loud in their congratulations on the
progress he was making. They thought they deceived him, as people so
often think who flatter the incurable with hopes of recovery. He smiled
as Robert spoke, and shook his head.
'I am changing my prison,' he said; 'nothing more. I know that as well
as the wisest of you, Drummond. You kind, dear souls, do you think those
cheery looks you have made such work to keep up, deceive me?'
'What cheery looks? I am as sulky as a bear,' said Robert. 'And as for
your prison, Maurice doesn't think so. You heard what he said?'
'Maurice doesn't say so,' said poor Haldane. 'But never mind, it can't
last for ever; and we need not be doleful for that.'
The painter groaned within himself as they moved the helpless man
down-stairs. 'It will last for ever,' he thought. He was so full of life
and consolation himself that he could not realise the end which his
friend was thinking of--the 'for ever' which would release him and every
prisoner. When they carried the invalid into the room below he gave a
wistful look round him. For life--that was what he was thinking. He
looked at the poor walls and commonplace surroundings, and a sigh burst
from his lips. But he said immediately, to obliterate the impression of
the sigh, 'What a cheerful room it is, and the sun shining! I could not
have had a more hopeful day for my first coming down-stairs.'
And then they all looked at each other, heart-struck by what seemed to
them the success of their deception. Old Mrs Haldane fell into a sudden
outburst of weeping: 'Oh, my poor boy! my poor boy!' she said; and again
a quick convulsion passed over Miss Jane's face. Even Dr Maurice, the
arch-deceiver, felt his voice choked in his throat. They did not know
that their patient was smiling at them and their transparent devices, in
the sadness and patience of his heart. The room had been altered in many
particulars for his reception, and fitted with contrivances, every one
of which contradicted the promises of restoration which were held out to
him. He had known it was so, but yet the sight of all the provisions
made for his captivity gave him a new pang. He could have cried out,
too, to earth and heaven. But what would have been the good? At the end
all must submit.
'Now that you are comfortable, Stephen,' said his sister, with a harsh
rattle in her voice, which made her appear less amiable than ever, and
in reality came out of the deep anguish of her heart, 'there is some one
waiting to see you. The chapel people have been very kind. Besides the
deputation that came with the purse for you, there are always private
members asking how you are, and if they can see you, and how they miss
you--till you are able to go back.'
'That will be never, Jane.'
'How do you know? How can any one tell? It is impious to limit God's
mercies,' cried Miss Jane harshly; then, suddenly calming down, 'It is
Mr Baldwin's son-in-law who has called to-day. They are in the country,
and this Mr Burton has come to carry them news of you. May he come in?'
'That is your cousin--your director?' said the invalid with some
eagerness. 'I should like to see him. I want you to invest my money for
me, Drummond. There is not much; but you must have it, and make
something of it in your new bank.'
Mr Burton came in before Drummond could answer. He came in on tiptoe,
with an amount of caution which exasperated all the bystanders who loved
Stephen. He looked stronger, richer, more prosperous than ever as he sat
down, sympathetically, close to Stephen's chair. There he sat and
talked, as it were, smoothing the sick man down. 'We must have
patience;' he said soothingly. 'After such an illness it will take so
long to get up your strength. The sea-side would have been the best
thing, but, unfortunately, it is a little late. I am so glad to hear
your people are showing you how much they prize such a man as you among
them; and I hope, with one thing and another--the pension, and so
forth--you will be very comfortable? I would not venture to ask such a
question, if it were not for Mr Baldwin. He takes so much interest in
all your concerns.'
'I am very glad you have spoken of it,' said Haldane, 'for I want to
invest what little money I have in this bank I hear so much of--yours
and Drummond's. I feel so much like a dying man--'
'No, no,' said Mr Burton in a deprecating tone, 'nothing half so bad.
Providence, you may be sure, has something different in store for you.
We must not think of that.'
'At all events, I want to make the best of the money, for my mother and
sister,' said Stephen. And then he entered into business, telling them
what he had, and how it was invested. His mind had been very full of
this subject for some time past. The money was not much, but if he died,
it would be all his mother and sister would have to depend upon, and the
purse which his congregation had collected for him would increase his
little, very little capital. Dr Maurice had gone away, and the two
women, though they heard everything, were withdrawn together into a
corner. Mrs Haldane had attempted several times to interrupt the
conversation. 'What do we care for money!' she had said, with tears in
her eyes. 'Let him alone, mother, it will make him happier,' Miss Jane
had said in the voice that was so harsh with restrained emotion. And
Stephen, with his two visitors beside him, and a flush upon his wan
face, expounded all his affairs, and put his fortune into their hands.
'Between you, you will keep my poor little nest-egg warm,' he said,
smiling upon them. His illness had refined his face, and gave him a
certain pathetic dignity, and there was something that affected both in
this appeal.
'I will sit on it myself sooner than let it cool,' Drummond had said
with a laugh, yet with the tears in his eyes, with an attempt to lighten
the seriousness of the moment. 'Dear old fellow, don't be afraid. Your
sacred money will bring a blessing on the rest.'
'That is all very pretty and poetical,' said Mr Burton, with a curious
shade passing over his face; 'but if Haldane has the slightest doubt on
the subject, he should not make the venture. Of course, we are all
prepared in the way of business to win or to lose. If we lose, we must
bear it as well as we can. Of course, I think the investment as safe as
the Bank of England--but at the same time, Drummond, it would be a very
different thing to you or me from what it would be to him.'
'Very different,' said Drummond; but the mere suggestion of loss had
made him pale. 'These are uncomfortable words,' he went on with a
momentary laugh. 'For my part, I go in to win, without allowing the
possibility of loss. Loss! Why I have been doing a great deal in ways
less sure than Rivers's, and I have not lost a penny yet, thanks to
you.'
'I am not infallible,' said Burton. 'Of course, in everything there is a
risk. I cannot make myself responsible. If Haldane has the least doubt
or hesitation----'
'If I had, your caution would have reassured me,' said the invalid.
'People who feel their responsibility so much, don't throw away their
neighbour's money. It is all my mother has, and all I have. When you are
tempted to speculate, think what a helpless set of people are
involved--and no doubt there will be many more just as helpless. I think
perhaps it would exercise a good influence on mercantile men,' he added,
with perhaps a reminiscence of his profession, 'if they knew something
personally of the people whose lives are, so to speak, in their hands.'
'Haldane,' said Mr Burton hastily, 'I don't think we ought to take your
money. It is too great a risk. Trade has no heart and no bowels. We
can't work in this way, you know, it would paralyse any man. Money is
money, and has to be dealt with on business principles. God bless me! If
I were to reflect about the people whose lives, &c--I could never do
anything! We can't afford to take anything but the market into account.'
'I don't see that,' said the painter, who knew as much about business as
Mr Burton's umbrella. 'I agree with Haldane. We should be less ready to
gamble and run foolish risks, if we remembered always what trusts we
have in our hands,--the honour of honest men, and the happiness of
families.'
He was still a little pale, and spoke with a certain emotion, having
suddenly realised, with a mixture of nervous boldness and terror, the
other side of the question. Mr Burton turned away with a shrug of his
shoulders.
'It suits you two to talk sentiment instead of business,' he said, 'but
that is not in my line. So long as my own credit is concerned, I find
that a much greater stimulant than anybody else's. Self-interest is the
root of everything--in business; and if you succeed for yourself, which
of course is your first motive, you succeed for your neighbours as
well. I don't take credit for any fine sentiments. That is my commercial
creed. Number one includes all the other numbers, and the best a man can
do for his friends is to take care of himself.'
He got up with a slight show of impatience as he spoke. His face was
overcast, and he had the half-contemptuous air which a practical man
naturally assumes when he listens to anything high-flown. He, for his
part, professed to be nothing but a man of business, and had confidence
enough in his friends' knowledge of him to be able to express the most
truculent sentiments. So, at least, Haldane thought, who smiled at this
transparent cynicism. 'I suppose, then, we are justified in thinking
anything that is bad of you, and ought not to trust you with a penny?'
he said.
'If you trust anything to me personally, of course I shall take care of
it,' answered the merchant. 'But what we were talking of was
Rivers's--business, not personal friendship. And business cannot afford
such risks. You must examine into it, and judge of its claims for
yourself. Come, let us dismiss the subject. I will tell Mr Baldwin I
found you looking a great deal better than I hoped.'
'But I don't want to dismiss the subject,' said Haldane. 'I am
satisfied. I am anxious----'
'Think it over once more, at least,' said the other hastily; and he went
away with but scant leave-taking. Mrs Haldane, who was a wise woman,
and, without knowing it, a physiognomist, shook her head.
'That man means what he says,' she said with some emphasis. 'He is
telling you his real principles. If I were you, Stephen, I would take
him at his word.'
'My dear mother, he is one of the men who take pleasure in putting the
worst face on human nature, and attributing everything to selfish
motives,' said the sick man. 'I very seldom believe those who put such
sentiments so boldly forth.'
'But I do,' said his mother, shaking her head with that obstinate
conviction which takes up its position at once and defies all reason.
Her son made no answer. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
The momentary excitement was over, the friends were gone, and the new
and terrible Life settled down upon him. He did not say a word to
indicate what was passing through his mind, but he thought of the ship
which drifted between the sunset and the mariner, and the nightmare
Life-in-Death casting her dies with the less appalling skeleton. It was
she who had won.
In the mean time the two directors of Rivers's bank walked out together;
one of them recovering all his self-confidence the moment he left the
house, the other possessed by a certain tremulous excitement. The idea
of risk was new to the painter. He felt a certain half-delightful,
half-alarming agitation when he made his first ventures, but that had
soon yielded to his absolute confidence in the man who now, with his own
lips, had named the fatal word. Robert's imagination, the temperament of
the artist, which is so often fantastically moved by trifles, while
strong to resist the presence of fact and certainty, had sustained a
shock. He did not say anything while they walked up the road under the
faded autumnal leaves which kept dropping through the still air upon
their heads. In this interval he had gone over within himself all the
solid guarantees, all the prestige, all the infallibility (for had it
not attained that point?) of Rivers's. Sure as the Bank of England! Such
were the words that rose continually to everybody's lips on hearing of
it. Robert propped himself up as he went along with one support or
another, till he felt ashamed that he could be capable of entertaining
a shadow of doubt. But the impression made upon his nerves was not to be
overcome by simple self-argument. Time was wanted to calm it down. He
felt a certain thrill and jar communicated through all the lines of
life. The sensation ran to his very finger-points, and gave a sharp
electric shock about the roots of his hair. And it set his heart and his
pulse beating, more likely organs to be affected. Loss! That was to say,
Helen and the child deprived of the surroundings that made their life so
fair; driven back to the poor little lodgings, perhaps, in which his
career began, or to something poorer still. Perhaps to want, perhaps
to----'What a fool I am!' he said to himself.
'Do you really object to Haldane as one of our shareholders?' he said,
with a certain hesitation, at last.
'Object--the idiot!' said Mr Burton. 'I beg your pardon, Drummond, I
know he's a great friend of yours; but all that nonsense exasperates me.
Why, God bless me, his body is sick, but his mind is as clear as yours
or mine. Why can't he judge for himself? I am quite ready to give him,
or you, or any one that interests me, the benefit of my experience; but
to take you on my shoulders, Drummond, you know, would be simply
absurd. I can't foresee what may happen. I am ready to run the risk
myself. That's the best guarantee I can give, don't you think? but I
won't run any sentimental risks. You may, if you like; they are out of
my line.'
'I don't know what you mean by sentimental risks.'
'Oh, as for that, it is easy to explain. The man is very ill: he will
never be of any use in life again, and loss would be destruction to him.
Therefore I won't take the responsibility. Why, there may be a
revolution in England next year for anything I can tell. There may be an
invasion. Our funds may be down to zero, and our business paralysed. How
can I tell? All these things are within the bounds of possibility, and
if they happened, and we went to smash, as we should infallibly, what
would Haldane do?'
'If there is nothing to alarm us closer at hand than a revolution or an
invasion--' said Drummond with a smile.
'How can we tell? If I were asked to insure England, I should only do it
on a very heavy premium, I can tell you. And look here, Drummond, take
my advice, always let a man judge for himself, never take the
responsibility. If you do, you'll be sorry after. I never knew a good
man of business yet who went in, as I said, for sentimental risks.'
'I fear I shall never be a good man of business,' said the painter, with
a certain sickness at his heart. 'But tell me now, suppose you were
guardian to orphans, what should you do with their money? I suppose that
is what you would call a very sentimental risk.'
'Not so bad as Haldane,' said Burton. 'They would be young and able to
make their way if the worst came to the worst. If they were entirely in
my own hands I should invest the money as I thought best; but if there
were other guardians or relations to make a fuss, I should put it in the
Three per Cents.'
'I really--don't--quite see what--difference that would make--' Robert
commenced, but his companion stopped him almost roughly.
'The question won't bear discussing, Drummond. If I go in with you, will
your wife give me some lunch? I have lost my whole morning to please my
father-in-law. Don't you bother yourself about Haldane. He is a
clear-headed fellow, and perfectly able to judge for himself.'
Then no more was said. If a passing cloud had come over the rich man, it
fled at sight of the table spread for luncheon, and the sherry, upon
which poor Robert (knowing almost as little about that as he did about
business) prided himself vastly. Mr Burton applauded the sherry. He was
more conversational even than usual, and very anxious that Drummond
should look at a country-house in his neighbourhood. 'If you can't
afford it now you very soon will,' he said, and without referring to
Rivers's kept up such a continued strain of allusions to the good
fortune which was about to pour upon the house, that Robert's nerves
were comforted, he could scarcely have told how. But he went and worked
all the afternoon in the studio when the City man went off to his
business. He laboured hard at Francesca, fixing his whole mind upon her,
not even whistling in his profound preoccupation. He had been absent
from the studio for some time, and the _feel_ of the old beloved tools
was delightful to him. But when the early twilight came and interrupted
his work, he went out and took a long walk by himself, endeavouring to
shake off the tremor which still lingered about him. It was in his veins
and in his nerves, tingling all over him. He reasoned with himself,
shook himself up roughly, took himself to task, but yet did not get over
it. 'Bah! it is simple sensation!' he said at last, and with a violent
effort turned his thoughts in another direction. But the shock had left
a tremor about him which was not quite dissipated for days after; for a
man who is made of fanciful artist-stuff, is not like a business man
with nerves of steel.