Helen had not remarked that postscript to her husband's letter, but Dr
Maurice had done so, to whom it was addressed; and while she was hiding
her head and bearing the first agony of her grief without thought of
anything remaining that she might yet have to bear, many things had been
going on in the world outside of which Helen knew nothing. Dr Maurice
had been Robert's true friend; and after that mournful morning a day and
night had passed in which he did not know how to take comfort. He had no
way of expressing himself as women have. He could not weep; it even
seemed to him that to close out the cheerful light, as he was tempted to
do (for the sight of all that brightness made his heart sick), would
have been an ostentation of sorrow, a show of sentiment which he had no
right to indulge in. He could not weep, but there was something else he
could do; and that was to sift poor Robert's accusation, if there was
any truth in it; and, if there was, pursue--to he could not tell what
end--the murderers of his friend. It is the old savage way; and Dr
Maurice set his teeth, and found a certain relief in the thought. He lay
down on the sofa in his library, and ordered his servant to close his
doors to all the world, and tried to snatch a little sleep after the
watch of the previous night. But sleep would not come to him. The
library was a large, lofty room, well furnished, and full with books. It
was red curtained and carpeted, and the little bit of the wall which was
not covered with book-cases was red too, red which looked dark and heavy
in the May sunshine, but was very cozy in winter days. The one spot of
brightness in the room was a picture of poor Drummond's--a young
picture, one of those which he was painting while he courted Helen, the
work of youth and love, at a time when the talent in him was called
promise, and that which it promised was genius. This little picture
caught the doctor's eye as he lay on his sofa, resting the weary frame
which had known no rest all night. A tear came as he looked at it--a
tear which flowed back again to its fountain, not being permitted to
fall, but which did him good all the same. 'Poor fellow! he never did
better than that,' Dr Maurice said to himself with a sigh; and then he
closed up his eyes tight, and tried to go to sleep. Half an hour after,
when he opened them again, the picture was once more the first thing he
saw. 'Better!' he said, 'he never did so well. And killed by those
infernal curs!' The doctor took himself off his sofa after this failure.
It was of no use trying to sleep. He gathered his boots from the corner
into which he had hurled them, and drew them on again. He thought he
would go and have a walk. And then he remarked for the first time that
though he had taken his coat off, the rest of his dress was the same as
he had put on last night to go out to dinner. When he went to his room
to change this, the sight of himself in the glass was a wonder to him.
Was that red-eyed, dishevelled man, with glittering studs in his shirt,
and a head heavy with watching and grief--was that the trim and
irreproachable Dr Maurice? He gave a grin of horror and fierce mockery
at himself, and then sat down in his easy-chair, and hid his face in his
hands; and thus, all contorted and doubled up, went to sleep unawares.
He was good for nothing that day.
The next morning, before he could go out, Mr Burton called upon him. He
was the man whom Dr Maurice most wanted to see. Yet he felt himself jump
as he was announced, and knew that in spite of himself his countenance
had changed. Mr Burton came in undisturbed in manner or appearance, but
with a broad black hatband on his hat--a band which his hatter had
assured him was much broader than he had any occasion for--'deep enough
for a brother.' This gave him a certain air of solemnity, as it came in
in front of him. It was 'a mark of respect' which Dr Maurice had not
thought of showing; and Maurice, after poor Haldane, was, as it were,
Robert's next friend.
'I have come to speak to you about poor Drummond,' said Mr Burton,
taking a chair. 'What a terrible business this has been! I met with him
accidentally that morning--the very day it happened. I do not know when
I have had such a shock!'
'You met him on the day he took his life?'
'The day he--died, Dr Maurice. I am his relative, his wife's nearest
friend. Why should we speak so? Let us not be the people to judge him.
He died--God knows how. It is in God's hands.'
'God knows I don't judge him,' said Dr Maurice; and there was a pause.
'I cannot hear that any one saw him later,' said Mr Burton. 'I hear from
the servants at St Mary's Road that he was not there. He talked very
wildly, poor fellow. I almost thought--God forgive me!--that he had been
drinking. It must have been temporary insanity. It is a kind of
consolation to reflect upon that _now_.'
The doctor said nothing. He rustled his papers about, and played
impatiently with the pens and paper-cutter on his table. He bore it all
until his visitor heaved a demonstrative sigh. That he could not bear.
'If you thought he spoke wildly, you might have looked after him a
little,' he said. 'It was enough to make any man look wild; and you, who
knew so well all about it----'
'That is the very thing. I did not know about it. I had been out of
town, and had heard nothing. A concern I was so much interested in--by
which I am myself a loser----'
'Do you lose much?' said Dr Maurice, looking him in the face. It was the
same question poor Robert had asked, and it produced the same results.
An uneasy flush came on the rich man's countenance.
'We City men do not publish our losses,' he said. 'We prefer to keep the
amount of them, when we can, to ourselves. You were in yourself, I
believe? Ah! I warned poor Drummond! I told him he knew nothing of
business. He should have taken the advice of men who knew. How strange
that an ignorant, inexperienced man, quite unaware what he was doing,
should be able to ruin such a vast concern!'
'Ruin such a vast concern!' Dr Maurice repeated, stupefied.
'Who?--Drummond? This is a serious moment and a strangely-chosen subject
for a jest. I can't suppose that you take me for a fool----'
'We have all been fools, letting him play with edge tools,' said Mr
Burton, almost sharply. 'Golden tells me he would never take advice.
Golden says----'
'Golden! where is he?' cried Maurice. 'The fellow who absconded? By
Jove, tell me but where to lay my hands on him----'
'Softly,' said Mr Burton, putting his hand on Maurice's arm, with an air
of soothing him which made the doctor's blood boil. 'Softly, doctor. He
is to be found where he always was, at the office, making the best he
can of a terribly bad job, looking fifteen years older, poor fellow.
Where are you going? Let me have my ten minutes first!'
'I am going to get hold of him, the swindler!' cried Maurice, ringing
the bell furiously. 'John, let the brougham be brought round directly.
My God! if I was not the most moderate man in existence I should say
murderer too. Golden says, forsooth! We shall see what he will say
before a jury----'
'My dear Dr Maurice--listen a little--take care what you are doing.
Golden is as honourable a man as you or I----'
'Speak for yourself,' said the doctor roughly. 'He has absconded--that's
the word. It was in the papers yesterday morning; and it was the answer
I myself received at the office. Golden, indeed! If you're a friend of
Drummond's, you will come with me and give that fellow into custody.
This is no time for courtesy now.'
'How glad I am I came!' said Mr Burton. 'You have not seen, then, what
is in the papers to-day? Dr Maurice, you must listen to me; this is
simply madness. Golden, poor fellow, has been very nearly made the
victim of his own unsuspicious character. Don't be impatient, but
listen. When I tell you he was simply absent on Tuesday on his own
affairs--gone down to the country, as I might have been myself, if not,
alas! as I sometimes think, sent out of the way. The news of Shenken's
bankruptcy arrived that morning. Well, I don't mean to say Drummond
could have helped that; but he seized the opportunity. Heaven knows how
sorry I am to suggest such a thing; it has nearly broken Golden's heart.
But these are the facts; what can you make of them? Maurice, listen to
me. What did he go and do _that_ for? He was still a young man; he had
his profession. If he could have faced the world, why did he do _that_?'
Dr Maurice replied with an oath. I can make no excuse for him. He stood
on his own hearth, with his hand clenched, and blasphemed. There are
moments in which a man must either do that, or go down upon his knees
and appeal to God, who now-a-days sends no lightning from heaven to kill
the slayer of men's souls where he stands. The doctor saw it all as if
by a gleam of that same lightning which he invoked in vain. He saw the
spider's web they had woven, the way of escape for themselves which they
had built over the body of the man who was dead, and could not say a
word in reply. But his friend could not find a word to say. Scorn,
rage, stupefaction, came upon him. It was so false, so incredible in its
falsity. He could no more have defended Robert from such an accusation
than he would have defended himself from the charge of having murdered
him. But it would be believed: the world did not know any better. He
could not say another word--such a horror and disgust came over him,
such a sickening sense of the power of falsehood, the feebleness of
manifest, unprovable truth.
'This is not a becoming way in which to treat such a subject,' said Mr
Burton, rising too. 'No subject could be more painful to me. I feel
almost as if, indirectly, I myself was to blame. It was I who introduced
him into the concern. I am a busy man, and I have a great deal on my
hands, but could I have foreseen what was preparing for Rivers's, my own
interest should have gone to the wall. And that he should be my own
relation too--my cousin's husband! Ah, poor Helen, what a mistake she
made!'
'Have you nearly done, sir?' said the doctor fiercely.
'I shall have done at once, if what I say is received with incivility,'
said Mr Burton, with spirit. 'It was to prevent any extension of the
scandal that I came here.'
'There are some occasions upon which civility is impossible,' said
Maurice. 'I happen to know Robert Drummond; which I hope you don't, for
your own sake. And, remember, a great many people know him besides me. I
mean no incivility when I say that I don't believe one word of this, Mr
Burton; and that is all I have to say about it. Not one word----'
'You mean, I lie!'
'I mean nothing of the sort. I hope you are deceived. I mean that this
fellow Golden is an atrocious scoundrel, and _he_ lies, if you will. And
having said that, I have not another word to say.'
Then they both stopped short, looking at each other. A momentary doubt
was, perhaps, in Burton's mind what to say next--whether to pursue the
subject or to let it drop. But no doubt was in Maurice's. He stood
rigid, with his back to the vacant fireplace, retired within himself.
'It is very warm,' he said; 'not favourable weather for walking. Can I
set you down anywhere? I see my brougham has come round.'
'Thanks,' said the other shortly. And then he added, 'Dr Maurice, you
have taken things in a manner very different from what I expected. I
thought you would take an interest in saving our poor friend's memory as
far as we can--'
'I take no interest in it, sir, whatever.'
'And the feelings of his widow,' said Mr Burton. 'Well, well, very well.
Friendship is such a wide word--sometimes meaning so much, sometimes so
little. I suppose I must do the best I can for poor Helen by myself, and
in my own way.'
The obdurate doctor bowed. He held fast by his formula. He had not
another word to say.
'In that case I need not trouble you any longer,' said Mr Burton. But
when he was on his way to the door he paused and turned round. 'She is
not likely to be reading the papers just now,' he said, 'and I hope I
may depend on you not to let these unfortunate particulars, or anything
about it, come to the ears of Mrs Drummond. I should like her to be
saved that if possible. She will have enough to bear.'
'I shall not tell Mrs Drummond,' said the doctor. And then the door
opened and closed, and the visitor was gone.
The brougham stood before Dr Maurice's window for a long time that
morning. The old coachman grumbled, broiling on the box; the horses
grumbled, pawing with restless feet, and switching the flies off with
more and more impatient swingings of their tails. John grumbled indoors,
who could not 'set things straight' until his master was out of the way.
But the doctor neglected them all. Not one of all the four, horses or
men, would have changed places with him could they have seen him poring
over the newspaper, which he had not cared to look at that morning, with
the wrinkles drawn together on his forehead. There was fury in his soul,
that indignation beyond words, beyond self-command, with which a man
perceives the rise and growth of a wrong which is beyond his setting
right--a lie which he can only ineffectively contradict, struggle, or
rage against, but cannot drive out of the minds of men. They had it in
their own hands to say what they would. Dr Maurice knew that during all
the past winter his friend had been drawn into the work of the bank. He
had even cautioned Robert, though in ignorance of the extent of his
danger. He had said, 'Don't forget that you are unaccustomed to the
excitements of business. They will hurt you, though they don't touch the
others. It is not your trade.' These words came back to his mind with
the bitterest sense of that absence of foresight which is common to
man. 'If I had but known!' he said. And then he remembered, with a
bitter smile, his visit to Dr Bradcliffe, his request to him to see poor
Drummond 'accidentally,' his dread for his friend's brain. This it was
which had affected poor Robert, worse than disease, worse than madness;
for in madness or disease there would have been no human agency to
blame.
The papers, as Burton had said, were full of this exciting story.
Outside in the very streets there were great placards up with headings
in immense capitals, '_Great Bankruptcy in the City.--Suicide of a Bank
Director._' The absconding of the manager, which had been the news the
day before, was thrown into the background by this new fact, which was
so much more tragical and important. 'The latest information' was given
by some in a Second Edition, so widespread was the commotion produced by
the catastrophe; and even those of the public who did not care much for
Rivers's, cared for the exciting tale, or for the fate of the unhappy
professional man who had rashly involved himself in business, and ruined
not only himself, but so many more. The story was so dramatically
complete that public opinion decided upon it at once. It did not even
want the grieved, indignant letter which Mr Golden, injured man, wrote
to the _Times_, begging that the report against him should be
contradicted. This letter was printed in large type, and its tone was
admirable. 'I will not prejudge any man, more especially one whose
premature end has thrown a cloud of horror over the unfortunate business
transactions of the bank with which I have had the honour of being
connected for fifteen years,' Mr Golden wrote, 'but I cannot permit my
temporary, innocent, and much-regretted absence to be construed into an
evidence that I had deserted my post. With the help of Providence, I
will never desert it, so long as I can entertain the hope of saving from
the wreck a shilling of the shareholders' money.' It was a very good
letter, very creditable to Mr Golden; and everybody had read it, and
accepted it as gospel, before Dr Maurice got his hand upon it. In the
_Daily Semaphore_, which the doctor did not see, there was already an
article on the subject, very eloquent and slightly discursive, insisting
strongly upon the wickedness and folly of men who without capital, or
even knowledge of business, thus ventured to play with the very
existence of thousands of people. 'Could the unfortunate man who has
hidden his shame in a watery grave look up this morning from that turbid
bed and see the many homes which he has filled with desolation, who can
doubt that the worst and deepest hell fabled by the great Italian poet
would lose something of its intensity in comparison?--the ineffectual
fires would pale; a deeper and a more terrible doom would be that of
looking on at all the misery--all the ruined households and broken
hearts which cry out to-day over all England for justice on their
destroyer.' Fortunately Dr Maurice did not read this article; but he did
read the _Times_ and its editorial comments. 'There can be little
doubt,' that journal said, 'that the accidental absence of Mr Golden,
the manager, whose letter explaining all the circumstances will be found
in another column, determined Drummond to his final movement. It left
him time to secure the falsified books, and remove all evidence of his
guilt. It is not for us to explain by what caprice of despair, after
taking all this trouble, the unhappy man should have been driven to
self-destruction. The workings of a mind in such an unnatural condition
are too mysterious to be discussed here. Perhaps he felt that when all
was done, death was the only complete exemption from those penalties
which follow the evil-doer on this earth. We can only record the fact;
we cannot explain the cause. The manager and the remaining directors,
hastily summoned to meet the emergency, have been labouring ever since,
we understand, with the help of a well-known accountant, to make up the
accounts of the company, as well as that can be done in the absence of
the books which there is every reason to suppose were abstracted by
Drummond before he left the office. It has been suggested that the river
should be dragged for them as well as for the body of the unhappy man,
which up to this time has not been recovered. But we doubt much whether,
even should such a work be successful, the books would be legible after
an immersion even of two or three days. We believe that no one, even the
persons most concerned, are yet able to form an estimate of the number
of persons to whom this lamentable occurrence will be ruin.'
Dr Maurice put down the paper with a gleam in his face of that awful and
heart-rending rage which indignation is apt to rise into when it feels
itself most impotent. What could he do to stop such a slander? He could
contradict it; he could say, 'I know Robert Drummond; he was utterly
incapable of this baseness.' Alas! who was he that the world should take
his word for it? He might bring a counter-charge against Golden; he
might accuse him of abstracting the books, and being the author of all
the mischief; but what proof had he to substantiate his accusation? He
had no evidence--not a hair's-breadth. He could not prove, though he
believed, that this was all a scheme suggested to the plotters, if there
were more than one, or to Golden himself, if he were alone in his
villany, by the unlooked-for chance of Drummond's suicide. This was what
he believed. All the more for the horrible _vraisemblance_ of the story,
could he see the steps by which it had been put together. Golden had
absconded, taking with him everything that was damning in the way of
books. He had lain hidden somewhere near at hand waiting an opportunity
to get away. He had heard of poor Drummond's death, and an opportunity
of a different kind, a devilish yet brilliantly successful way of
escape, had suddenly appeared for him. All this burst upon Dr Maurice as
by a revelation while he sat with those papers before him gnawing his
nails and clutching the leading journal as if it had been Golden's
throat. He saw it all. It came out before him like a design in
phosphorus, twinkling and glowing through the darkness. He was sure of
it; but--what to do?
This man had a touch in him of the antique friendship--the bond for
which men have encountered all odds and dared death, and been happy in
their sacrifice. But even disinterestedness, even devotion, do not give
a man the mental power to meet such foes, or to frame a plan by which to
bring them to confusion. He grew himself confused with the thought. He
could not make out what to do first--how he should begin. He had
forgotten how the hours went--what time of the day it was--while he
pondered these subjects. The fire in his veins, instead of acting as a
simple stimulant, acted upon him like intoxication. His brain reeled
under the pressure. 'Will you have lunch, sir, before you go out?' said
John, with restrained wrath, but a pretence of stateliness. 'Lunch!--how
dare you come into my room, sir, before I ring!' cried his master,
waking up and looking at him with what seemed to John murderous eyes.
And then he sprang up, tore the papers into little pieces, crammed them
into the fireplace, and, seizing his hat, rushed out to the carriage.
The coachman was nodding softly on the box. The heat, and the stillness,
and the monotony had triumphed even over the propriety of a man who knew
all London, he was fond of saying, as well as he knew his own hands. The
coachman almost dropped from his box when Maurice, throwing the door of
the little carriage open, startled him suddenly from his slumber. The
horses, which were half asleep too, woke also with much jarring of
harness and prancing of hoof and head.
'To the _Times_ office,' was what the doctor said. He could not go and
clutch that villain by the throat, though that might be the best way. It
was another kind of lion which he was about to beard in his den.