It was early in November that the report took wing in Paris that
John Turner's bank was, after all, going to weather the storm. Dormer
Colville was among the first to hear this news, and strangely enough he
did not at once impart it to Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
All through the year, John Turner had kept his client supplied with
ready money. He had, moreover, made no change in his own mode of living.
Which things are a mystery to all who have no money of their own nor
the good fortune to handle other people's. There is no doubt some
explanation of the fact that bankers and other financiers seem to fail,
and even become bankrupt, without tangible effect upon their daily
comfort, but the unfinancial cannot expect to understand it.
There had, as a matter of fact, been no question of discomfort for Mrs.
St. Pierre Lawrence either.
“Can I spend as much as I like?” she had asked Turner, and his reply had
been in the affirmative.
“No use in saving?”
“None whatever,” he replied. To which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence made
answer that she did not understand things at all.
“It is no use collecting straws against a flood,” the banker answered,
sleepily.
There was, of course, no question now of supplying the necessary
funds to the Marquis de Gemosac and Albert de Chantonnay, who, it was
understood, were raising the money, not without difficulty, elsewhere.
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had indeed heard little or nothing of her
Royalist friends in the west. Human nature is the same, it would appear,
all the world over, but the upper crust is always the hardest.
When Colville was informed of the rumour, he remembered that he had
never quarrelled with John Turner. He had, of course, said some hard
things in the heat of the moment, but Turner had not retorted. There was
no quarrel. Colville, therefore, took an early opportunity of lunching
at the club then reputed to have the best chef in Paris. He went late
and found that the majority of members had finished dejeuner and were
taking coffee in one or other of the smoking-rooms.
After a quick and simple meal, Colville lighted a cigarette and went
upstairs. There were two or three small rooms where members smoked or
played cards or read the newspapers, and in the quietest of these
John Turner was alone, asleep. Colville walked backward into the room,
talking loudly as he did so with a friend in the passage. When well over
the threshold he turned: John Turner, whose slumbers had been rudely
disturbed, was sitting up rubbing his eyes. The surprise was of course
mutual, and for a moment there was an awkward pause; then, with a smile
of frank good-fellowship, Colville advanced, holding out his hand.
“I hope we have known each other too many years, old fellow,” he said,
“to bear any lasting ill-will for words spoken in the heat of anger or
disappointment, eh?”
He stood in front of the banker frankly holding out the hand of
forgiveness, his head a little on one side, that melancholy smile of
toleration for poor human weakness in his eyes.
“Well,” admitted Turner, “we've certainly known each other a good many
years.”
He somewhat laboriously hoisted himself up, his head emerging from his
tumbled collar like the head of a tortoise aroused from sleep, and gave
into Colville's affectionate grasp a limp and nerveless hand.
“No one could feel for you more sincerely than I do,” Colville assured
him, drawing forward a chair,--“more than I have done all through these
trying months.”
“Very kind, I'm sure,” murmured Turner, looking drowsily at his friend's
necktie. One must look somewhere, and Turner always gazed at the necktie
of any one who sat straight in front of him, which usually induced
an uneasy fingering of that ornament and an early consultation of the
nearest mirror. “Have a cigar.”
There was the faint suggestion of a twinkle beneath the banker's heavy
lids as Colville accepted this peace-offering. It was barely twenty-four
hours since he had himself launched in Colville's direction the rumour
which had brought about this reconciliation.
“And I'm sure,” continued the other, turning to cut the end of the
cigar, “that no one would be better pleased to hear that better times
are coming--eh? What did you say?”
“Nothing. Didn't speak,” was the reply to this vague interrogation.
Then they talked of other things. There was no lack of topics for
conversation at this time in France; indeed, the whole country was in a
buzz of talk. But Turner was not, it seemed, in a talkative mood. Only
once did he rouse himself to take more than a passing interest in the
subject touched upon by his easy-going companion.
“Yes,” he admitted, “he may be the best cook in Paris, but he is not
what he was. It is this Revision of the Constitution which is upsetting
the whole country, especially the lower classes. The man's hand is
shaky. I can see it from his way of pouring the mayonnaise over a
salad.”
After touching upon each fresh topic, Colville seemed to return
unconsciously to that which must of necessity be foremost in his
companion's thoughts--the possibility of saving Turner's bank from
failure. And each time he learnt a little more. At last, with that
sympathetic spontaneity which was his chief charm, Dormer Colville laid
his hand confidentially on Turner's sleeve.
“Frankly, old fellow,” he said, “are you going to pull it through?”
“Frankly, old fellow, I am,” was the reply, which made Colville glance
hastily at the clock.
“Gad!” he exclaimed, “look at the time. You have kept me gossiping the
whole afternoon. Must be off. Nobody will be better pleased than I am
to hear the good news. But of course I am mum. Not a word will they hear
from me. I AM glad. Good-bye.”
“I dare say you are,” murmured Turner to the closed door.
Dormer Colville was that which is known as an opportunist. It was a dull
grey afternoon. He would be sure to find Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence at
home. She had taken an apartment in the Rue de Lille in the St. Germain
quarter. His way was past the flower-shop, where he sometimes bestowed a
fickle custom. He went in and bought a carnation for his buttonhole.
It is to be presumed that John Turner devoted the afternoon to his
affairs. It was at all events evening before he also bent his steps
toward the Rue de Lille.
Yes, the servant told him, Madame was at home and would assuredly see
him. Madame was not alone. No. It was, however, only Monsieur Colville,
who was so frequent a visitor.
Turner followed the servant along the corridor. The stairs had rather
tried one who had to elevate such a weight at each step; he breathed
hard, but placidly.
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence received him with an unusual empressement.
Dormer Colville, who was discovered sitting as far from her as the size
of the room allowed, was less eager, but he brought forward a chair for
the banker and glanced sharply at his face as he sat down.
“So glad to see you,” the hostess explained. “It is really kind of you
to come and cheer one up on such a dull afternoon. Dormer and I--won't
you take off your coat? No, let ME put it aside for you. Dormer and I
were just--just saying how dull it was. Weren't we?”
She looked from one to the other with a rather unnatural laugh. One
would have thought that she was engaged in carrying off a difficult
situation and, for so practised a woman of the world, not doing it very
well. Her cheeks were flushed, which made her look younger, and a subtle
uncertainty in her voice and manner added to this illusion charmingly.
For a young girl's most precious possession is her inexperience. Mrs.
St. Pierre Lawrence, for the first time in her life, was not sure of
herself.
“Now I hope you have not come on business,” she added, drawing forward
her own chair and passing a quick hand over her hair. “Bother business!
Do not let us think about it.”
“Not exactly,” replied Turner, recovering his breath. “Quite agree with
you. Let us say, 'Bother business,' and not think of it. Though, for an
old man who is getting stout, there is nothing much left but business
and his dinner, eh?”
“No. Do not say that,” cried the lady. “Never say that. It is time
enough to think that years hence when we are all white-haired. But I
used to think that myself once, you know. When I first had my money. Do
you remember? I was so pleased to have all that wealth that I determined
to learn all about cheque-books and things and manage it myself. So
you taught me, and at last you admitted that I was an excellent man of
business. I know I thought I was myself. And I suppose I lapsed into a
regular business woman and only thought of money and how to increase it.
How horrid you must have thought me!”
“Never did that,” protested Turner, stoutly.
“But I know I learnt to think much too much about it,” Mrs. St. Pierre
Lawrence went on eagerly. “And now that it is all gone, I do not care
THAT for it.”
She snapped her finger and thumb and laughed gaily.
“Not that,” she repeated. She turned and glanced at Dormer Colville,
raising her eyebrows in some mute interrogation only comprehensible to
him. “Shall I tell him?” she asked, with a laugh of happiness not very
far removed from tears. Then she turned to the banker again.
“Listen,” she said. “I am going to tell you something which no one else
in the world can tell you. Dormer and I are going to be married. I dare
say lots of people will say that they have expected it for a long time.
They can say what they like. We don't care. And I am glad that you are
the first person to hear it. We have only just settled it, so you are
the very first to be told. And I am glad to tell you before anybody
else because you have been so kind to me always. You have been my best
friend, I think. And the kindest thing you ever did for me was to lose
my money, for if you had not lost it, Dormer never would have asked me
to marry him. He has just said so himself. And I suppose all men feel
that. All the nice ones, I mean. It is one of the drawbacks of being
rich, is it not?”
“I suppose it is,” answered Turner, stolidly, without turning an eyelash
in the direction of Colville. “Perhaps that is why no one has ever asked
me to marry them.”
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence laughed jerkily at this witticism. She laughed
again when John Turner rose from his chair to congratulate her, but
the laugh suddenly ceased when he raised her hand to his lips with a
courtesy which was even in those days dying out of the world, and turned
away from him hastily. She stood with her back toward them for a minute
or two looking at some flowers on a side table. Then she came back into
the middle of the room, all smiles, replacing her handkerchief in her
pocket.
“So that is the news I have to tell you,” she said.
John Turner had placidly resumed his chair after shaking hands with
Dormer Colville for the second time since luncheon.
“Yes,” he answered, “it is news indeed. And I have a little news to give
you. I do not say that it is quite free from the taint of business, but
at all events it is news. Like yours, it has the merit of being at first
hand, and you are the first to hear it. No one else could tell it to
you.”
He broke off and rubbed his chin while he looked apathetically at
Colville's necktie.
“It has another merit, rare enough,” he went on. “It is good news. I
think, in fact I may say I am sure, that we shall pull through now and
your money will be safely returned to you.”
“I am so glad,” said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with a glance at Dormer
Colville. “I cannot tell you how glad I am.”
She looked at the banker with bright eyes and the flush still in her
cheeks that made her look younger and less sure of herself.
“Not only for my own sake, you know. For yours, because I am sure you
must be relieved, and for--well, for everybody's sake. Tell me all about
it, please.” And she pushed her chair sideways nearer to Colville's.
John Turner bit the first joint of his thumb reflectively. It is so rare
that one can tell any one all about anything.
“Tell me first,” Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence suggested, “whether Miriam
Liston's money is all safe as well.”
“Miriam's money never was in danger,” he replied. “Miriam is my ward;
you are only my client. There is no chance of Miriam being able to make
ducks and drakes of her money.”
“That sounds as if I had been trying to do that with mine.”
“Well,” admitted the banker, with a placid laugh, “if it had not been
for my failure--”
“Don't call it hard names,” put in Dormer Colville, generously. “It was
not a failure.”
“Call it a temporary suspension of payment, then,” agreed the banker,
imperturbably. “If it had not been for that, half your fortune would
have been goodness knows where by now. You wanted to put it into
some big speculation in this country, if I remember aright. And big
speculations in France are the very devil just now. Whereas, now, you
see, it is all safe and you can invest it in the beginning of next year
in some good English securities. It seems providential, does it not?”
He rose as he spoke and held out his hand to say goodbye. He asked the
question of Colville's necktie, apparently, for he smiled stupidly at
it.
“Well, I do not understand business after all, I admit that,” Mrs. St.
Pierre Lawrence called out gaily to him as he went toward the door. “I
do not understand things at all.”
“No, and I don't suppose you ever will,” Turner replied as he followed
the servant into the corridor.