Mr. Stamford was at once strongly prepossessed in favour of the man
before whom he had come prepared to make a full statement of his
affairs, and to request—to all but implore—temporary accommodation. Bah!
how bald a sound it had! How unpleasant the formula! And yet Harold
Stamford knew that the security was sound, the interest and principal
nearly as certain to be paid in full as anything can be in this
uncertain world of ours. Still, such was the condition of the money
market that he could not help feeling like a beggar. His pride rebelled
against the attitude which he felt forced to take. Nevertheless, for the
sake of the sweet, careworn face at home, the tender flowerets he loved
so well, he braced himself for the ordeal.
Mr. Barrington Hope’s appearance, not less than his manner, was
reassuring. A tall, commanding figure of the true Anglo-Saxon type, his
was a countenance in which opposing qualities seemed struggling for the
mastery.
In the glint of the grey eyes, in the sympathetic smile, in the deep,
soft voice there was a wealth of generosity, while the firm mouth and
strongly set jaw betokened a sternness of purpose which boded ill for
the adversary in any of the modern forms of the duello—personal or
otherwise.
“Mr. Stamford,” he said, “I have heard your name mentioned by friends.
What can I do for you? But if it be not a waste of time in your
case—though you squatters are not so hard-worked in town as we slaves of
the desk—we might as well lunch first, if you will give me the pleasure
of your company at the Excelsior. What do you say?”
Mr. Stamford, in his misery, had taken scant heed of the hours. He was
astonished to find that the morning had fled. He felt minded to decline,
but in the kindly face of his possible entertainer he saw the marks of
continuous mental exertion, mingled with the easily-recognised imprints
of anxious responsibility. A feeling of sadness came over him, as he
looked again—of pity for the ceaseless toil to which it seemed hard that
a man in the flower of his prime should be doomed—that unending mental
grind, of which he, in common with most men who have lived away from
cities, had so cordial an abhorrence. “Poor fellow!” he said to himself,
“he is not more than ten years older than Hubert, and yet what an
eternity of thought seems engraven in his face. I should be sorry to see
them change places, poor as we are, and may be.” He thought this in the
moment which he passed in fixing his eyes on the countenance of
Barrington Hope. What he said, was: “I shall have much pleasure; I
really did not know it was so late. My time in town, however, is
scarcely so valuable as yours. So we may as well devote half an hour to
the repairing of the tissue.”
Mr. Stamford’s wanderings in Lower George Street and the unfamiliar
surroundings of the metropolis had so far overcome the poignancy of his
woe as to provide him with a reasonable appetite. The _cuisine_ of the
Excelsior, and the flavour of a bottle of extremely sound Dalwood
claret, did not appeal to his senses in vain. The well-cooked,
well-served repast concluded, he felt like another man; and though
distrusting his present sensations as being artificially rose-coloured,
he yet regarded the possibility of life more hopefully.
“It has done me good,” he said in his heart; “and it can’t have done him
any harm. I feel better able to stand up to hard Fate and her shrewd
blows than before.”
They chatted pleasantly till the return to the office, when Mr. Hope
hung up his hat, and apparently removed a portion of his amiability of
expression at the same time. He motioned his visitor to a chair,
produced a box of cigars, which, with a grotesque mediæval matchbox, he
pushed towards him. Lighting one for himself, he leaned back in his
chair and said “Now then for business!”
The squatter offered a tabulated statement, originally prepared for the
bank, setting forth the exact number of the livestock on Windāhgil,
their sexes and ages, the position and area of the run, the number of
acres bought, controlled or secured; the amount of debt for which the
bank held mortgage, the probable value of the whole property at current
rates. Of all of which particulars Mr. Hope took heed closely and
carefully. Mr. Stamford became suddenly silent, and indeed broke down at
one stage of the affair, in which he was describing the value of the
improvements, and mentioning a comfortable cottage, standing amid a
well-grown orchard on the bank of a river, with out-buildings of a
superior nature grouped around.
Then Mr. Hope interposed. “You propose to me to take up your account,
which you will remove from the Bank of New Guinea. You are aware that
there is considerable risk.”
(“Hang it!” Mr. Stamford told himself; “I have heard that surely before.
I know what you are going to say now. But why do you all, you
financiers, like to keep an unlucky devil so on the tenter-hooks?”)
Mr. Hope went on quietly and rather sonorously. “Yes! there has been a
large amount of forced realisation going on of late. Banks are
tightening fast. The rainfall of the interior has been exceptionally
bad. I think it probable that the Bank of New Guinea has none too good
an opinion of your account. But I always back my own theory in finance.
I have great reason to believe, Mr. Stamford, that heavy rain will fall
within the next month or two. I have watched the weather signs carefully
of late years. I am taking—during this season, at any rate—a strong lead
in wool and stock, which I expect to rise. Everything is extremely low
at present—ruinously so, the season disastrously dry. But from these
very dry seasons I foretell a change which must be for the better. I
have much pleasure in stating that the Austral Agency Company will take
up your account, Mr. Stamford, and carry you on for two years at the
same rate of interest you have been paying.”
Mr. Stamford made a commencement of thanking him, or at least of
expressing his entire satisfaction with the new arrangement; but,
curious to relate, he could not speak. The mental strain had been too
great. The uncertain footing to which he had so long been clinging
between ruin and comparative safety had rendered his brain dizzy.
He had been afraid to picture the next scene of the tragedy, when the
fatal fiat of the Bank Autocrat should have gone forth,—the wrench of
parting from the dear old place they had all loved so well. The
unpretending, but still commodious dwelling to which he had brought his
fond, true wife, while yet a young mother. The garden in which they had
planted so many a tree, so many a flower together. The unchecked freedom
of station life, with its general tone of abundance and liberality. All
these surroundings and comforts were to be exchanged—if things were not
arranged—for what? For a small house in town, for a lower—how much
lower!—standard of life and society, perhaps even for poverty and
privation, which it would cut him to the heart to see shared by those
patient exiles from their pastoral Eden.
When Mr. Stamford had sufficiently recovered himself he thanked Mr. Hope
with somewhat unaccustomed fervour, for he was an undemonstrative man,
reserved as to his deeper feelings. But the manager of the Austral
Agency Company would not accept thanks. “It may wear the appearance of a
kindness, but it is not so in reality,” he said. “Do not mistake me. It
is a hard thing to say, but if it seemed such to me, it would be my duty
not to do it. It is the merest matter of calculation. I am glad, of
course, if it falls in with your convenience.”
Here he looked kindly at his client—for such he had become—as if he fain
would have convinced him of his stern utilitarian temperament. But, as
he had remarked before, Mr. Hope’s eyes and his sentiments contradicted
one another.
“You have saved my home, the valued outcome of many a year’s hard
work—it may be my life also. That is all. And I’m not to thank you? Do
not talk in so cold-blooded a manner; I cannot bear it.”
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Hope, with calm, half-pitying expression, “I am
afraid you are not a particularly good man of business. It is as unfair
to praise me now for ‘carrying you on’ for another year or two, as it
will be to blame me for selling you up some fine day, if I am compelled
to do so.”
“Anyhow, it is a reprieve from execution. When shall I call again?”
“To-morrow morning, before twelve, let us say. I shall want you to sign
a mortgage—a necessary evil; and if you bring me an exact amount of your
indebtedness to the Bank of New Guinea, I will give you a cheque for
it.”
“A cheque for it!” How magnificent was the sound. Mr. Stamford had drawn
some tolerably large cheques in his time, which had been duly honoured,
but of late years the cheque-drawing method had fallen much into
abeyance.
Nevertheless, he felt like Aladdin, suddenly gifted with the wonderful
lamp. The sense of security and the guarantee of funds, for even their
moderate and necessary expenses, appeared to open to him vistas of
wealth and power verging on Oriental luxury.
He lost no time; indeed he just managed to gain his bank before its
enormous embossed outer door was closed, when he marched into the
manager’s room with so radiant a countenance that the experienced
centurion of finance saw plainly what had happened.
“Don’t trouble yourself to speak,” he said. “It’s all written on your
forehead. We bankers can decipher hieroglyphs invisible to other men.
‘Want my account made up—securities ready to be delivered—release—cheque
for amount in full.’ Who is the reckless _entrepreneur_?”
“The Austral Agency Company,” he replied, feeling rather cooled down by
this very accurate mind-reading; “but you seem to know so much, you
ought to know that too.”
“My dear fellow, I congratulate you!” Mr. Merton said, getting up and
shaking him warmly by the hand. “I beg your pardon; but really, any
child could see that you had been successful; and I began to think that
it must have been one of Barrington Hope’s long shots. A very fine
fellow, young but talented; in finance operates boldly. I don’t say he’s
wrong, mind you, but rather bold. Everything will be ready for you
to-morrow morning. Look in just before ten—by the private door.”
Mr. Stamford did look in. How many times had he walked to those same
bank doors with an aching heart, in which the dull throb of conscious
care was rarely stilled! Many times had he quitted that building with a
sense of temporary relief; many times with a more acutely heightened
sense of misery, and a conviction that Fate had done her worst. But
never, perhaps, before had he passed those fateful portals with so
marked a sense of independence and freedom as on the present occasion.
He had cast away the burden of care, at any rate for two years—two whole
years! It was an eternity in his present state of overwrought feeling.
He felt like a man who in old days had been bound on the rack—had
counted the dread contrivances for tearing muscles and straining
sinews—who had endured the first preliminary wrench, and then, at a
word, was suddenly loosed.
Such was now his joyous relief from inward agony, from the internal
throbs which rend the heart and strain to bursting the wondrous tissue
which connects soul and sense. The man who had decreed all this was to
him a king—nay, as a god. And in his prayer that night, after he had
entreated humbly for the welfare of wife and children in his absence,
and for his own safe return to their love and tenderness, Barrington
Hope came after those beloved names, included in a petition for mercy at
the hands of the All-wise.
It was not a long business that clearing of scores with the Bank of New
Guinea under these exceptional circumstances. Such and such was the
debit balance, a sufficiently grave one in a season when it had not
rained, “to signify,” for about three years, when stock was unsalable,
when money was unprecedentedly tight, but not, perhaps amounting to more
than one-third of the real value of the property. Here were the
mortgages. One secured upon the freehold, the other upon stock and
station, furniture and effects.
“Yes!” admitted Mr. Stamford, looking over it. “It is a comprehensive
document; it includes everything on the place—the house and all that
therein is, every hoof of stock, hacks and harness horses, saddles and
bridles—only excepting the clothes on our backs. Good God! if we had
lost all! And who knows whether we may not have to give them up yet.”
“My dear Stamford,” said the banker, “you’re almost too sentimental to
be a squatter, though I grant you it requires a man of no ordinary power
of imagination to look forward from your dusty pastures and dying sheep
(as I am informed) to a season of waving grass and fat stock. Why only
this morning, I see that on Modlah, North Queensland, they have lost
eighty thousand sheep already!”
“That means they’ll have a flood in three months,” answered Stamford,
forcing a laugh. “We _must_ have rain. This awfully sultry weather is
sure to bring it on sooner or later.”
“Ah! but when?” said Mr. Merton, corrugating his brow, as he mentally
ran over the list of heavily-weighted station accounts to which this
simple natural phenomenon would make so stupendous a difference. “If you
or I could tell whether it would fall in torrents this year or next, it
would be like—--”
“Like spotting the winner of the Melbourne Cup before the odds began to
shorten—eh, Merton? Good Heavens! to think I feel in a mood to jest with
my banker. That dread functionary! What is it Lever says—that
quarrelling with your wife is like boxing with your doctor, who knows
where to plant the blow that would, maybe, be the death of you? Such is
your banker’s fatal strength.”
“I envy you your recovered spirits, my dear fellow,” said the
over-worked man of figures, with a weary smile, glancing towards a pile
of papers on his table. “Perhaps things will turn out well for you and
all of us after all. You are not the only one, believe me, whose fate
has been trembling in the balance. You don’t think it’s too pleasant for
us either, do you? Well, I’ll send young Backwater down to Barrington
Hope with these documents. You can go with him, and he will give a
receipt for the cheque. For the rest, my congratulations and best
wishes.” He pressed an electric knob, the door opened, a clerk looked
in. “Tell Mr. Overdue I am at liberty now. Good bye, Stamford, and God
bless you!”
On the previous day Mr. Stamford had betaken himself to his hotel
immediately after quitting Mr. Barrington Hope’s office, and poured out
his soul with fullest unreserve in a long letter to his wife, in which
he had informed her of the great and glorious news, and with his usual
sanguine disposition to improve on each temporary ray of sunshine, had
predicted wonders in the future.
“What my present feelings are, even you, my darling Linda—sharer that
you have ever been in every thought of my heart—can hardly realise. I
know that you will say that only the present pressure is removed. The
misfortune we have all so long, so sadly dreaded, which involves the
loss of our dear old home, the poverty of our children, and woe
unutterable for ourselves, may yet be slowly advancing on us. You hope I
will be prudent, and take nothing for granted until it shall have been
proved. I am not to relax even the smallest endeavour to right
ourselves, or suffer myself to be led into any fresh expense, no matter
how bright, or rather (pastoral joke of the period) how cloudy, the
present outlook, till rain comes—until rains comes; even then to
remember that there is lost ground to recover, much headway to make up.
“My dearest, I am as sure that you have got all these warning voices
ready to put into your letter as if you phonographed them, and I
recognised the low, sweet tones which have ever been for me so instinct
with love and wisdom. But I feel that, on this present occasion—(I hear
you interpose, ‘My dearest Harold, how often have you said so
before!’)—there is no need for any extraordinary prudence. I am
confident that the season will change, or that something advantageous
will happen long before this new advance is likely to be called in. Mr.
Hope assures me that no sudden demand will at any time be made, that all
reasonable time will be given; that if the interest be but regularly
paid, the Company is in a position, from their control of English
capital, to give better terms than any colonial institution of the same
nature. I see you shake your wise, distrustful head. My dearest, you
women, who are said to be gifted with so much imagination in many ways,
possess but little in matters of business. I have often told you so.
This time I hope to convince you of the superior forecast of our sex.
“And now give my love to our darlings. Tell them I shall give practical
expression to my fondness for them for this once, only this once;
really, I must be a little extravagant. I shall probably stay down here
for another week or ten days.
“Now that I am in town I may just as well enjoy myself a little, and get
up a reserve fund of health and strength for future emergencies. I don’t
complain, as you know, but I think I shall be all the better for another
week’s sea air. I met my cousin, Bob Grandison, in the street to-day.
Kind as usual, though he studiously avoided all allusion to business;
wanted me to stay at Chatsworth House for a few days. I wouldn’t do
that. I don’t care for Mrs. Grandison sufficiently; but I am going to a
swell dinner there on Friday. And now, dearest, yours ever and always,
fondly, lovingly, HAROLD STAMFORD.”
Having sent off this characteristic epistle, Mr. Stamford felt as easy
in his mind as if he had provided his family with everything they could
possibly want for a year. He was partially endowed with that
Sheridanesque temperament which dismissed renewed acceptances as
liabilities discharged, and viewed all debentures as debts of the future
which a kindly Providence might be safely trusted to find means to pay.
Capable of extraordinary effort under pressure or the excitement of
emergency; personally economical; temperate, and, above all, benevolent
of intention towards every living creature, it must be admitted that
Harold Stamford was instinctively prone frankly to enjoy the present and
to take the future on trust.
Much of this joyous confidence had been “knocked out of him”—as he
familiarly phrased it—by the austere course of events. He had for five
years worked harder than any of his own servants. He had contented
himself with but the bare necessaries of food and clothing. Nothing had
been purchased that could in any way be done without by that
much-enduring, conscientious household, the members of which had made
high resolve to do battle with remorseless Nature and unmerited
misfortune.
And well indeed had all fought, all endured, during the long, dreary,
dusty summers—the cloudless, mocking, rainless winters of past years.
The family garrison had stood to their guns; had not given back an inch.
The men had toiled and ridden, watched and worked, from earliest dawn to
the still, starlit depths of many a midnight. The tenderly-nurtured
mother and her fair, proud girls had cooked the dinners, washed the
clothes, faithfully performed all, even the humblest, household work,
with weary hands and tired eyes, for weeks and months together. Still,
through all the uncongenial drudgery, their hearts had been firm with
hope and the pride of fulfilled duty. And now Harold Stamford told
himself that the enemy was in retreat, that the siege was about to be
raised.