SYDNEY PAYS HIS DEBTS.
The fight which Sydney Campion had had to wage with his creditors was
bitter enough up to the time of his marriage. Then there had been a lull
for a few months, during which it was confidently said and believed that
he was about to touch a large sum of money, and that all who had put
their trust in him would be rewarded.
Month after month went by, and there was no realization of the prospect.
Sydney touched no money but what he earned. He might, no doubt, have
touched some of his wife's money, even for the payment of his old debts,
if he had told her the distress that he was in. But it had never
occurred to him to be thus sincere with Nan. He had thought to figure
before her as one who was not dependent on her fortune, who could very
comfortably play with his hundreds, though not able, like herself, to be
generous with thousands. He would, in fact, have been ashamed to own his
rotten financial condition, either to Nan or to any of his social or
political friends; and he fancied that he was concealing this condition
in a very ingenious manner when he made a liberal outlay in connection
with their quiet marriage, the honeymoon abroad, and the subsequent
arrangements of their household in London.
This was all the more unfortunate because Nan, just of age, with her
fortune in her own hands, would have given him anything without demur or
question, if she had for a moment suspected that he needed it. His
concealment was so effectual that it never entered her unsophisticated
mind that this barrister in good practice, this rising politician, who
seemed to have his feet on the ladder of success, could be crushed and
burdened with debt. Sydney, however, was by no means blind. He knew well
enough that he could have had the few thousands necessary to clear him
if he had asked his wife for a cheque; but he did not trust her love
sufficiently to believe that she would think as well of him from that
day forward as she had done before, and he was not large-minded enough
to conceive himself as ever shaking off the sense of obligation which
her gift in such a form would impose upon him.
He had therefore drifted, in the matter of his debts, from expedient to
expedient, in the hope that by good fortune and good management he might
avoid the rocks that beset his course, and reach smooth water by his own
exertion. But, as ill luck would have it, he had given a bill for six
hundred pounds, due on the 23rd of November, to a certain Mr. Copley, a
man who had been especially disgusted by Sydney's failure to obtain
ready money at the time of his marriage, and who for this and other
reasons had worked himself up into a malicious frame of mind. But on the
23rd of November, Sydney and his wife had run over to Paris for a few
days with Sir John and Lady Pynsent, and then Nan had been so seriously
indisposed that Sydney could not leave her without seeming unkindness;
so that they did not reach London again until the 26th. This delay
opened a chapter of incidents which ended as Sydney had not foreseen.
He had not forgotten the date of the bill, and knew that it was
important to provide for it; but he did not anticipate that the last day
of grace would have expired before he could communicate with the man who
held his signature.
Early on the morning of the 27th, he set out for Mr. Copley's office;
and it so happened that at the same moment Mr. Copley set out also for
Sydney's private house.
"Master in?" said Mr. Copley, who was a man of few words.
"No, sir."
"Lady in?"
"My mistress does not receive any one so early."
"Take that up--answer important--bearer waiting."
The footman condescended so far as this, and gave Mr. Copley's letter
into the charge of Mrs. Campion's maid.
In less than ten minutes Nan sent for the unwelcome visitor. She was
very pale when she received him, and she looked so young and fair that
Mr. Copley was a little taken aback. He knew that Sydney had married an
heiress, and it was from her, therefore, that he had determined, if
possible, to get the money; but he half repented his resolve when he saw
Mrs. Campion's face. "Too young to know anything about business," he
said to himself.
But Nan was more business-like than he expected. She had for some time
insisted on knowing a good deal about her own money matters, and she was
well aware of her powers.
"Where is this paper--this acceptance you mention in your letter?" she
began.
Mr. Copley silently took it from his notebook, and laid it on the table.
"Why did you bring this here? or, rather, why did you send it in to me?
Mr. Campion is not difficult to find when he is wanted. This is, of
course, _his_ business." There was a little indignation in her tone.
"Beg your pardon, madam. You will observe the date of the acceptance. I
presented it yesterday."
"At the bank?"
"Yes."
Nan bit her lip. She knew what this signified, and she would have given
a thousand pounds to undo what had happened.
She went to a drawer in her writing-table and quietly took out a
cheque-book. "We were delayed in returning to England by my illness,"
she said, as indifferently as she could. "Mr. Campion has gone out for
the purpose of seeing to this." Her heart smote her for making a
statement which she could not vouch for, but as Mr. Copley only bowed
and looked uninterested, she went on rapidly, "As you have the paper
with you it will save time--it will be satisfactory, I suppose--if I
give you a cheque for it?"
"Amply satisfactory."
She sat down before the table and took the pen in her hand, hesitating a
moment as to whether she ought to ask for further details. Her tears and
her curiosity were alike aroused, and Mr. Copley divined the question,
which she hardly knew how to put into words. He produced a sheet of
notepaper, containing a few memoranda, and passed it across the table.
"That was to refresh my memory if necessary; but happily it isn't. Mr.
Campion may like to see it however. He will find it is all correct. I
knew I was right in asking to see you, ma'am."
Nan did not look at the memoranda. She was satisfied that she had the
details before her for her own or Sydney's consideration if necessary.
She signed her cheque and took possession of the dishonored bill; and
then Mr. Copley departed.
When he was gone, she caught up the sheet of paper and hastily glanced
at it.
"1880--studs, pin, money advanced £50. 1881--ring, money advanced £100;
bracelet, necklace, pendant, money advanced £150----" and so on. Further
down the page, Nan's eye was caught by the words: "Diamond and sapphire
ring."
"Ah!" she said, catching her breath as if she were in pain, and laying
the paper down on the table, "_that_ was mine!"
The ring was on her finger as she spoke. It had been her engagement
ring. She looked at it for a minute or two, then slowly, took it off and
put it into the drawer.
Next, with an absent look upon her face, she took up a small taper, and
lighted it; and, holding Mr. Copley's paper by one corner, she raised it
to the flame and converted it into ashes. One line escaped. A fragment
of the paper was scorched but not consumed, and as she took it up to
make her work more thorough, the words and a date caught her attention
once again.
"Bracelet, necklace, pendant, bought after we knew each other," she
murmured with a curious smile. "Those were _not_ for me. I wonder----"
But she did not go on. It was the first time that a shadow from Sydney's
past had crossed her life; and she dared not investigate it too closely.
She put the bill and her cheque-book out of sight, and sat down to think
over the present position of affairs.
Sydney came home just before lunch-time, and, hearing that she was in
her own little sitting-room (she would not have it called a boudoir),
went up to her. He looked vexed and anxious, as Nan was quick to notice,
but he came up to her side and kissed her affectionately.
"Better, Nan?" She had not been very well when he left her: indeed, the
delicacy of her health had lately been more marked, and had several
times given him cause for uneasiness.
"Yes, thank you. But you don't look well, Sydney."
She hoped that he would tell her what was wrong. To her disappointment,
he smiled, and answered lightly.
"I'm all right, Nan. I have a good deal to do just now, and am rather
tired--that is all."
"Tired--and anxious?" she said, looking at him with more keenness than
he had thought her soft eyes capable of expressing.
"Anxious! no, I have not much to be anxious about, have I?"
He spoke with a laugh; but, to her fancy, there was something
half-alarmed and half-defiant in the pose of his lifted head, the glance
of his handsome bright eyes. Her heart sank a little: it seemed to her
that it would have been nobler in her husband to tell her the whole
truth, and it had never occurred to her before to think of him as
ignoble in any way.
"I suppose you do not want to tell me for fear of troubling me," she
said, with a tremor in her voice; "but I think I know what you are
anxious about, Sydney."
He gave a little start as he turned towards her.
"Some man has been here whilst you were out, and he sent up this letter
with a request that it should be opened. Look!" she said, giving him the
bill, "you can tear it up now. I was sure you had gone out to see about
it, but I thought it better that I should settle it at once. I
hope"--with a little girlish nervousness--"you don't mind?"
He had sat down on a chair when she showed him Mr. Copley's letter, with
the look of a man determined to bear a blow, but he sprang up again at
the sight of his dishonored acceptance.
"And you have paid it, Nan?" he cried.
"Yes, I paid it. Oh, Sydney, it was a little thing to do! If only you
had told me months ago!"
Her eyes brimmed over with tears at last. She had been smarting under a
sense of terrible humiliation ever since Mr. Copley's visit, but
hitherto she had not wept. Now, when her husband took her in his arms
and looked into her eyes, the pain at her heart was somewhat assuaged,
although the tears fell swiftly down her pale cheeks.
"Nan, I never dreamed that I should find your kindness so bitter to me,"
Sydney said.
He was profoundly moved by her gentleness and by her generosity alike.
But inasmuch as it requires more generosity of nature to accept a gift
nobly than to make it, he felt himself shamed in her eyes, and his wife
was in her turn pained by the consciousness of his shame.
"Why should you be afraid to trust me?" she said. "All that concerns you
concerns me as well; and I am only setting myself free from trouble and
anxiety if I do anything for you. Don't you understand? And as far as my
money is concerned, you know very well that if it had not been for John
and those tiresome lawyers, you should have had it all and spent it, if
you chose, without the slightest reference to me. What grieves me,
dearest, is that you should have been suffering without taking me into
your confidence."
"I ought to have done so," said Sydney, rather reluctantly, "but I felt
as if I could not tell you all these paltry, sordid details. You might
have thought----"
Then he paused, and the color rose darkly in his face.
"I should have thought nothing but what was honorable to you," said Nan,
throwing back her graceful head with a gesture of natural pride and
indignation.
"And now you think the worse of me?"
"No, no!" she cried, stealing one arm round his neck, "I think nothing
bad of you--nothing! Only you _will_ trust me, now, Sydney? You will not
hide things from me again?"
"No, my darling, nothing that you ought to know," he said. There was a
touch of new but restrained emotion in his voice. It struck him for
almost the first time how much of his life he had hidden from her frank
and innocent eyes.
Presently, when he had kissed her tears away, she begged him to tell her
what he still actually owed, and, after some little demur, he consented.
The amount of the debt, which lay heavily on his conscience, was
comparatively a trivial thing to her. But when he had told her all, she
looked at him with eyes which, although very loving, were full of wonder
and dismay.
"Poor Sydney!" she said caressingly. "My poor boy! As if you could give
your mind properly to anything with this heavy burden on it! To-morrow
we can get the money, and pay off all these people. Then you will be
able to work without any disturbance."
"Thanks to you, Nan," said her husband, with bowed head. She could not
understand why he did not look more relieved. She never suspected that
his mind was burdened with another debt, that money could not pay.
She had not asked him for any explanation of the items in the paper that
she had read. The momentary wonder that had flitted across her mind
passed as quickly as it came. The gifts that were not for her had been
intended perhaps for his sister Lettice, perhaps for the wedding present
of a friend. She did not like to ask. But a slightly uncomfortable
sensation remained in her mind, and she never again wore the ring for
which, as it now turned out, she herself had had to pay.
Sydney's position was certainly a painful one just then. But he was at
any rate relieved of the burden of his debts, and he hoped, with some
compunction of heart, that no other secret of his life would ever come
to his wife's ears. It was about this time that he received the letter
from Cora Walcott and had the interview with Lettice, of which mention
has been made; and Nan fancied that it was anxiety about his sister that
caused him to show signs of moodiness and depression. He had told her
nothing more of Lettice's doings than he was obliged to tell, but other
friends were not so reticent, and Lady Pynsent had enlightened Nan's
mind very speedily with respect to the upshot of "the Walcott affair."
Nan made some reference to it shortly afterwards in conversation with
her husband, and was struck by the look of pain which crossed his face
as he replied,
"Don't talk about it, Nan, my dear."
"He must be much fonder of his sister than I thought," Nan said to
herself. She made one more effort to speak.
"Could I do nothing, Sydney? Suppose I went to her, and told her how
grieved you were----"
"You, Nan! For heaven's sake, don't let me hear of your crossing the
threshold of that house!" cried Sydney, with vehemence, which Nan very
naturally misunderstood.
It was, on the whole, a relief to her to find that he did not want her
to take any active steps in any direction. She was not very strong, and
was glad to be left a good deal at peace. Sydney was out for a great
part of the day, and Nan took life easily. Lady Pynsent came to sit with
her sometimes, or drove in the Park with her, and other friends sought
her out: she had tender hopes for the future which filled her mind with
sweet content, and she would have been happy but for that slight jar
between Sydney and herself. That consciousness of a want of trust which
never ceased to give her pain. Sydney himself was the most attentive of
husbands when he was at home: he brought her flowers and fruit, he read
aloud to her, he hung over her as she lay on the sofa, and surrounded
her with a hundred little marks of his affection--such as she would have
thought delicious while her confidence in him was still unshaken. She
still found pleasure in them; but her eyes were keener than they had
been, and she knew that beneath all the manifestations of his real and
strong attachment to her there ran a vein of apology and misgiving--a
state of things inexpressibly unsatisfactory to a woman who knows how to
love and how to trust.
Sydney, only half-conscious that something was wrong, had no idea how to
mend matters, and was, therefore, in a fair way to make them worse.
Frankness would have appeared brutal to him, and he did not see how
subtly poisonous was the effect of his habits of concealment upon his
wife's mind. Gifted with the instinct of discernment, which in sensitive
women is almost like a sort of second-sight, she knew, without knowing
how she knew, that he had trouble which he did not confide to her,
secrets which his tongue would never tell. He could deceive her as to
their existence so long as the period of illusion lasted; but as soon as
her eyes were opened her sight became very keen indeed. And he,
believing himself always successful in throwing dust in her eyes,
fancied that her wistful look, her occasional unresponsiveness to his
caresses, proceeded from physical causes only, and would with them also
pass away.
Thus December left them, and the dark foggy days of January flew apace.
It was close upon February before Nan recovered from a severe cold which
had assailed her about Christmas time, and left her very weak. For a
week or two she was confined entirely to her room, and when she came
downstairs she was forced for a time to keep to the warm atmosphere of
one sitting-room. But one day, when February was close at hand, and the
fogs had begun to clear away, she felt so much stronger that she
resolved to make a new departure and show Sydney that she was really
better. Instead of going into the drawing-room, therefore, she came down
another flight of stairs, and resolved to establish herself in Sydney's
study, ready to greet him on his return.
But Sydney was late, and she was rather weaker than she knew. She had
her tea, and ordered lights to be brought in, and the curtains drawn,
but still he did not come. Then she found that the lights hurt her eyes,
and she had them extinguished--all but one small silver lamp which stood
on a centre-table, and gave a very subdued light. Her maid came and put
a soft fur rug over her, and at her orders moved a screen of carved
woodwork, brought from an Arab building in Algeria, between her and the
fire before she left the room. Thus comfortably installed, the warmth
and the dimness of the light speedily made Nan sleepy. She forgot to
listen for the sound of her husband's latchkey; she fell fast asleep,
and must have remained so for the greater part of an hour.
The fire went down, and its flickering flame no longer illuminated the
room. The soft light of the lamp did not extend very far, and the
screen, which was tall and dark, threw the sofa on which Nan lay into
deep shadow. The rug completely covered the lower part of her dress, and
as the sofa stood between the wall and the fire-place on that side of
the room furthest removed from the door, any one entering might easily
believe that the room was empty. Indeed, unless Nan stirred in her
sleep, there was nothing at all to show that she was lying on the couch.
Thus, when Sydney entered his study about a quarter to seven, with a
companion whom he had found waiting for him on the door-step, it would
have been impossible for him to conjecture the presence of his wife. He
did not light another lamp. The first words of his visitor had startled
him into forgetting that the room was dark--perhaps, as the interview
went on, he was glad of the obscurity into which his face was thrown.
And the sounds of the low-toned conversation did not startle Nan from
her slumber all at once. She had heard several sentences before she
realized where she was and what she was listening to, and then very
natural feelings kept her silent and motionless.
"No, I've not come for money," were the first words she heard. "Quite a
different errand, Mr. Campion. It is some weeks since I left you now,
and I left you because I had a competency bequeathed to me by an uncle."
"Pleased to hear it, I am sure, Johnson," was Sydney's response. "As you
mentioned the name of another person, I thought that you had perhaps had
a letter from her----"
"I have seen her, certainly, several times of late. And I am the bearer
of a message from her. She has always regretted that she took a certain
sum of money from you when she first found out how you had deceived her;
and she wishes you to understand that she wants nothing more from you.
The fact is, sir, I have long been very sorry for her misfortunes, and
now that I am independent, I have asked her to marry me and go with me
to America."
There was a little silence. "I am quite willing to provide for the
child," said Sydney, "and----"
"No," said the man, almost sternly; "hear me out first, Mr. Campion. She
owes her misery to you, and, no doubt, you have always thought that
money could make atonement. But that's not my view, nor hers. We would
rather not give you the satisfaction of making what _you_ call
restitution. Milly's child--your child, too--will be mine now; I shall
adopt it for my own when I marry her. You will have nothing to do with
either of them. And I have brought you back the twenty pounds which you
gave her when you cruelly deserted her because you wanted to marry a
rich woman. In that parcel you will find a locket and one or two other
things that you gave her. I have told her, and Miss Campion, who has
been the best of friends to us both, has told her that she must
henceforth put the memory of you behind her, and live for those whom she
loves best."
"Certainly; it is better that she should," said Sydney.
"That is all I have to say," Johnson remarked, "except that I shall do
my best to help her to forget the past. But if ever _you_ can forget
your own cruelty and black treachery and villainy towards her----"
"That will do. I will not listen to insult from you or any man."
"You should rather be grateful to me for not exposing you to the world,"
said Johnson, drily, as he moved towards the door. "If it knew all that
I know, what would your career be worth, Mr. Campion? As it is, no one
knows the truth but ourselves and your sister, and all I want to remind
you of is, that if we forget it, and if you forget it, I believe there
is a God somewhere or other who never forgets."
"I am much obliged to you for the reminder," said Sydney, scornfully.
But he could not get back the usual clearness of his voice.
Johnson went out without another word, and a minute later the front door
was heard to close after him. Sydney stood perfectly still until that
sound was heard. Then he moved slowly towards the table, where an
envelope and a sealed packet were lying side by side. He looked at them
for a minute or two, and flung himself into an arm-chair beside the
table with an involuntary groan of pain. He was drawing the packet
towards him, when a movement behind the screen caused him to spring
desperately to his feet.
It was Nan, who had risen from the sofa and stood before him, her face
white as the gown she wore, her eyes wide with a new despair, her
fingers clutching at the collar of her dress as if the swelling throat
craved the relief of freedom from all bands. Sydney's heart contracted
with a sharp throb of pain, anger, fear--he scarcely knew which was
uppermost. It flashed across his mind that he had lost everything in
life which he cared for most--that Nan would despise him, that she would
denounce him as a sorry traitor to his friends, that the story--a
sufficiently black one, as he knew--would be published to the world.
Disgrace and failure had always been the things that he had chiefly
feared, and they lay straight before him now.
"I heard," Nan said, with white lips and choking utterance. "I was
asleep when you came, but I think I heard it all. Is it true? There was
some one--some one--that you left--for me?--some one who ought to have
been your wife?"
"I swear I never loved anyone but you," he broke out, roughly and
abruptly, able neither to repel nor to plead guilty to the charge she
made, but miserably conscious that his one false step might cost him all
that he held most dear. To Nan, the very vagueness and--as she deemed
it--the irrelevance of his answer constituted an acknowledgment of
guilt.
"Sydney," she murmured, catching at the table for support, and speaking
so brokenly that he had difficulty in distinguishing the words,
"Sydney--I cannot pay _this_ debt!"
And then she fell at his feet in a swoon, which at first he mistook for
death.