The strong-room was about ten feet by fifteen, and no more than eight
feet high. There were presses in it for the books, and an iron safe in
which the cash and securities were kept. This safe, standing on
tressels in a corner, was the one used by the house before the
business expanded to its present dimensions. Upon it the old man set
his lamp, and putting two deed-boxes one on the other, he placed them
near the safe for a seat. Then he opened the safe, and taking out some
of the securities it contained, placed them beside him. He adjusted
his spectacles, and turned over the deeds and shares somewhat
listlessly.
The documents here represented a vast sum of money. Here were deeds on
which he held mortgages, title-deeds, stocks, and shares.
He did not undo the tapes. He knew them all by sight, when and how he
had acquired them. This was the result of one speculation, that of
another. In his will this and this were left for life to his wife, and
afterwards to his son and his son's children. This and this and this
were to go absolutely to his son.
He went on thus through all the documents in the safe. There was no
hurry. It was still many hours to daylight. If all were over with him
before people were stirring, all would be well. He had cut off his
retreat. He could not now get out of that room even if he wished it.
He felt glad that he had come in here. This was a kind of antechamber
to the other world. There was no going back now, and if he could
derive any consolation from the contemplation of the past by the light
of these records, he might do so without injuring anyone.
Ay, these were for Eugene. What would be his boy's fate? No doubt he
would recover from the hurt, for he was young and hearty. But then how
would he get a living? All his life he had been used to good things,
and looking forward to a career of remarkable prosperity. Now he was a
beggar, an outcast from fortune. These properties and moneys had been
intended for him. Now they would go to the greedy creditors of Vernon
and Son.
It was too bad that just at the very moment his boy had made up his
mind to marry, everything should be swept away from them. For some
years the only anxiety he had felt was that his boy should marry some
good amiable girl, and settle down in Rathclare, so that he (the
father) might feel that the successor to his business was at hand in
case anything should happen to himself.
He had not wished for money with the wife of his son. He had not
wished for any social advancement. He was not a man who believed in
family or society advancement. He wished his son to be an honest and
prosperous trader in his native town, and when that sweet girl had
been to their home a few times, he began to regard her as already his
daughter. He had intended making her a wedding-present independent of
what he was to do for Eugene. Here was what he had intended for her.
These were the title-deeds of Rose Cottage, Glengowra, which would do
the young people for their summer home. It was a famous cottage for
flowers, and there was grass for a cow, and there was a paddock, and a
little lawn, and a large garden. Just the thing altogether for a young
couple in the summer time.
Let him look at what the property consisted of. He read over slowly
the recital of all the things that went with Rose Cottage, the
measurements of the land, and so on, as though he were about to buy,
and it was necessary to be careful. Then he folded up the paper
softly, and tied it with the tape, and set it by him on the ground.
He was not an imaginative man, but the few images which had visited
him seemed all the more brilliant, because of their rareness. And one
of the visions which had come to him lately, and which pleased him
more than any other he had known for years, was that of Eugene and
Nellie living in this Rose Cottage, and he and his wife coming out in
the cool evening and having tea with them in the little arbour
overlooking the sea.
It would be strange and delightful, now that the vigour of his youth
and the strength of his manhood had passed away for ever, to be the
guest of his own son; to hear his son say, "Welcome, father," and to
see this tall, fair girl, who had such bright and pleasant ways,
tending to his good-hearted, kindly old wife, Mary. To see her placing
the chair of honour for her, and making much of her, would be a thing
to live for and enjoy. And then, later, there would be children who
would call him grandfather, and, with their fresh young voices and
gallant spirits, take away the feeling of toil and the weariness of
years.
What would Mary do? Mary, whom he had married long ago; and yet, now
that he had come to the end of his life, it seemed but yesterday. He
could see every event of their marriage-day more clearly than he could
see what had happened yesterday; for his eyes had grown dim since
then, and the magic charm of memory is that it forgets so well what it
does not wish to retain.
Bah! It would never do to think of those times, and of his old Mary
left alone and poor upon the world. It would take the resolution out
of him to think of her. It would rob him of his manhood to picture her
destitute in the face of unsympathetic men. No. It would rob him of
the last remains of vigour to fancy her standing alone and deserted,
without a home or a meal. He had come into that room for the purpose
of closing his life with his business career. Eugene was young and
full of spirits, and had many friends, and would soon get something to
do, and be able to give his mother a little, and to marry.
He must not take a gloomy view of the future for those he was leaving
behind. If he wanted to keep up his resolution he must think of the
future he was losing in this great crash. It was of Eugene and
Eugene's wife he must think. The fact that he could be of no further
use to his son, or his wife, or his son's wife, was the thought to
keep him to his resolution. If things had gone otherwise with him he
could have made those young lives so happy as far as worldly gear was
concerned. What further use was he on earth? Let him leave all at
once. Why should he confront this trouble and disgrace--trouble
unearned, disgrace unmerited?
He took up the documents from the floor and replaced them all
carefully in the safe. It was in this safe the money was kept. He
pulled out the drawer containing it. A week ago he would have thought
this a comparatively small sum. Now it seemed very large indeed. If it
had been only so managed that this two thousand pounds could have been
honestly saved from the wreck, it would have been sufficient to
provide, in an humble way--but there! Let the thought go. Nothing
could be saved--not a shilling.
He closed the drawer, and then drew out the one next to it.
This contained the revolver.
The light of the lamp so fell that when the drawer was fully out only
the barrel of the weapon was in the light.
The old man stood looking at that glittering barrel. It was as though
that barrel was a deadly snake slowly issuing from the darkness, and
he was powerless to move, to avoid it.
Once more all his strength forsook him. His face flushed, his limbs
trembled; he clasped his hands convulsively. He drew back a pace and
almost fell against the opposite side. He put his hand before his eyes
and groaned.
"Has it come to this with me," he said, "in my old age? Can it be
possible, I, who never did a dishonest act, must fly from life because
of the dishonesty of another?"
He put his hand up to his neck and tore his shirt open. He dropped his
hands, threw up his head and looked around him. "Great God! what is
this?"
The lamp was burning blue. His head was giddy. He was suffocating!