"Things are never so bad but that they might be worse," is a clap-trap
disguised beneath the gold leaf of philosophy. When a man's leg has to
come off--without chloroform--it doesn't make the impending "bad quarter
of an hour" a bit less redoubtable to impress upon him the indisputable
fact that he _might_ have had to lose an arm as well.
When Roland awoke the next morning--he had engaged a room in the
principal inn at Wandsborough--it seemed as if the outlook before him
was about as black as it could be. He had made an enormous sacrifice
for love, and all in vain; the fruition of that love was denied him.
Wrapped in gloomy reflections, he hardly noticed a letter lying beside
his bed. It had come the previous evening, but he had chucked it aside
as not worth bothering about. Now he took it up and carelessly tore it
open. Suddenly an alarming change came over his features, an awful,
rigid, grey look, as if he had been suddenly turned to stone. This is
what he read:
"My Dear Dorrien--
"I am rather afraid that I shall be the first to make known some
confoundedly bad news. In a word the Tynnestop Bank has `gone,' and
the smash is complete. Now the question is, have you got rid of those
shares of yours or not--you know we were talking about it when you
were up here? If not, I'm deuced sorry for you, for I fear there's no
chance--the smash is too thorough, and it's supposed they won't pay
sixpence in the pound. Bang they went! without a symptom of warning,
and everyone's asking how on earth it was managed so quietly. If you
think it'll be any good, run up here and talk things over.
"Believe me, old fellow,--
"Yours, etc, etc,
"John Venn."
"P.S.--I'm bitten myself to a small amount--trusteeship--damned fool's
trade. But it's you shareholders who'll be most heavily shot, I'm
afraid. I send a couple of papers with an account of the crash--in
case you haven't seen it."
Again and again he read through the letter, which had been addressed to
the rector's care, till Venn's large, business-like calligraphy seemed
burnt into his brain; then he tore open the newspapers. The affair was
plain enough. The Bank was an unlimited concern, and every farthing he
had in the world except his last half-yearly dividend was invested in
its shares, and now it had fallen with a crash. Roland Dorrien was a
ruined man.
A groan escaped his dry, set lips.
"Good God! Nothing like piling it up," he muttered. "If this isn't a
day full of happiness! Well, this must have happened before yesterday
morning, otherwise I might be induced to believe in the efficacy of
curses, and that my very affectionate parent's influence with the Devil
stands higher than mine; but it came about too early for that to have
anything to do with it."
He laughed--a horrible, blood-curdling mockery of a laugh--as the
thought crossed his mind that he might have occasion to decide whether,
under all the circumstances, life was really worth living any longer.
Two hours later, and he is on his way to London. Every familiar
landmark is out of eight, but imagination carries him back. Had he
known what fate held in store for him, was it possible that that stormy
interview might never have taken place? The temptation would have been
great. Yesterday, at that hour, life had looked very fair, very
promising to him, and now, in less than twenty-four hours, he had lost
his inheritance--his love--and his means of existence.
And now how light seem the first obstructions which lay in his road
yesterday, compared with this last terrible disaster! His renunciation
of his birthright--the rector's opposition--now appear to him as very
trifles. The first he had made up his mind to--the second could in time
have been got over--but now? Love was a luxury he could not afford to
indulge in--even life itself must henceforth be dragged out in labour
and sorrow and desolation, that is, should he ultimately decide that it
is worth dragging on at all on such terms. For now, of course, he must
give up Olive, release her from all in the shape of a promise or
understanding. It might be years and years before he could even keep
himself decently, how then could he in honour hold her bound to him,
condemn her to spend the best and brightest years of her life in weary
waiting; and for what? For a broken, disappointed man, utterly without
prospects and without hopes. Would she grieve for him? At first she
would suffer--suffer acutely, he knew; but her bright, sunny spirits
would carry her through, and she would--well, in time, forget him. And
the unfortunate man almost groaned aloud as he leaned in the corner of
the railway carriage, his eyes strained and distended upon the ceaseless
downpour without, and the sodden landscape lying beneath its lowering
veil of ashen cloud.
There is as a rule something exasperating about the way in which our
friends take our misfortunes. If we are of a morbidly sensitive
disposition they affect a facial elongation and a tone of dismal
sympathy; if, on the other hand, we are accustomed to present a careless
front to the world, they overwhelm us with a cheerful light-heartedness
which strikes us as brutally callous--as though, indeed, we could look
for anything else in a thoroughly self-seeking world. "Every man for
himself, and devil take the hindermost." Are you in the latter
category? "Awfully sorry, my dear fellow--only wish I could help you--
but--well, perhaps you will find ranking among His Satanic Majesty's
acquisitions not quite such an uncomfortable berth as you think--and
then, you know, you're sure to get out of it soon--something's sure to
turn up. Well--ta-ta--old chap, sorry I can't wait--" And the world
rolls on.
Roland was conscious of a latent feeling of resentment as he noted the
comfortable and even light-hearted expression on his friend's face.
"Looks as if the fellow hadn't a care in the world, damn it," was his
mental comment.
"Hallo, Dorrien! I'm deuced glad to see you, but awfully sorry I can't
give you any cheering news," began the other. "I know you're the sort
of fellow who wouldn't thank me for trying to make things out promising
when they're bad as bad can be--and that's just what I'm afraid they
are. You see, the mischief of it is that it's an unlimited concern."
"Yes," assented Roland drearily.
"By the way, I got your line this morning and would have met you at the
train, but I've had an awfully busy day of it. I've been going into
your affair too; you know, I do a lot in the way of share-broking."
"And it's all up?"
"It is. You would hardly credit the widespread ruin a smash of this
kind involves. Why, there are people who were rolling in wealth
yesterday, who to-morrow will be destitute beggars. And there's no
foretelling the extent of the calls which will be made on the
shareholders. But I say though, Dorrien, don't be so confoundedly down
in the mouth, man. It's rough on you to lose a snug little income, but
then you've got Cranston to fall back upon. By Jove! I wouldn't mind
changing shoes with you this very day. Why, when you're doing Squire of
Cranston you'll laugh at all this."
He laughed now--a hollow mockery of a laugh, like a smile forced to the
face of a galvanised corpse.
"Don't you remember my telling you that Cranston wasn't entailed?" he
said abruptly.
"Yes, but hang it! it'll come to the same thing in the end. And now
your governor will--"
"--See me to the devil with all the pleasure in life," was the sneering
reply. "Why, man, we had the most infernal shindy yesterday ever kicked
up between two full-blown lunatics. So now you may perhaps realise the
exceeding roseate hue of my prospects in life."
Venn gave vent to a whistle and looked grave.
"Oh, but--he'll come round in time," he began lamely.
"Deuce a bit. I tell you the brake of my coach has given way and that
successful vehicle is starting down hill now--off to the devil as hard
as it can lick. Even that mythical old humbug, Job, had his afflictions
come upon him by relays; mine came all in one day, as you'd readily see,
if you knew the facts."