“Dodson all over! shrewd and unassuming, and full of charity. Have you anything else to tell, Maria?”
“Well, sir, I do not know for certain, and it was not for me to spy on my master, but I'm much mistaken if many a one in the better class was not the better of Mr. Dodson in their troubles.”
“How do you think that?” inquired Mr. Great-heart in huge delight “I've seen him read a letter maybe six times, and he would wipe his eyes through pleasure as I took it You wouldn't believe, maybe, as master could be like that”
“I do, Maria. I declare it's what I expected. And what then?”
“He would walk up and down the room, and speak to himself, and read another bit, and rub his hands...”
“I wish I had been there, Maria.”
“And he would carry a letter like that in his pocket for days, and then he would put it carefully in the fire; but I saw him take it out, half-burned, and read a corner again before he burned that letter.”
“Maria, I cannot tell you how much obliged I am to you for coming to me, and giving me such a touching account of your dear master. Now, is there anything I can do for you in this loss?”
“Lord bless me, sir, that I should have been taking up your time like this, and you a magistrate, and never told you what brought me! It's more than a month past that master said to me, 'Maria, if anything happens to me, go to Mr. Greatheart's office, and give him my keys, and ask him to open my desk. He is a good man, and he's sure to come.'”
“Did he say so? That was most generous of him, and I appreciate it highly. I will come instantly, and shall bring a lawyer with me, a kind-hearted and able man. Good-bye for the present, Maria; you have fulfilled your charge, as I believe you have all your duty, excellently... excellently.”
“You see, Welsby,” as they went up to the house, “Dodson had left his firm, and had few friends, perhaps none—a reserved man about himself, but a true man at the bottom.”
“So you have always said, Mr. Greatheart Well know now; my experience as a lawyer proves that, as a rule, a man's papers reveal him, and there are some curious surprises.”
“If you look through that safe, and note the contents, Welsby, I'll read this letter addressed to me. I gather that I must be executor, and there seems to be no lawyer; very like Dodson, very—do everything for himself.
“Liverpool, April 15th, 188—.
“Barnabas Greatheart, Esq.
“My dear Sir,—You will peruse this letter after my death, and you will be pleased to consider it as intended for your eyes alone, since it is in the nature of a confession.
“My early career was a continuous struggle with narrow and arduous circumstances, and I suffered certain disappointments at the hands of friends which I considered undeserved. In consequence of these experiences I grew penurious, cynical, merciless, hopeless, and, let me say it plainly, a sour, hard man, hating my neighbours, and despised of them. May the Almighty forgive me!
“This year in which I write, a great change has come over me, and my heart has been softened and touched at last with human sympathy. The force which has affected me is not any book nor sermon, but your example of goodness and your charity towards all men. In spite of the general judgment on me, which has been fully merited, I have seen that you do not shun me, but rather have gone out of your way to countenance me, and I have heard that you speak kindly of me. It is not my nature to say much; it is not yours to receive praise; but I wish you to know you have made me a new man.
“It seemed to me, however, dangerous that I should begin to distribute my means openly among charities, as I was inclined to do, since I might pass from hardness to pride and be charged with ostentation, as I had been once with miserliness, with sad justice in both cases.
“So it came to me that, still retaining and maintaining my character for meanness—as a punishment for my past ill-doing and a check on vanity—I would gradually use my capital in the private and anonymous aid of respectable people who are passing through material adversity, and the help of my native city, so that my left hand should not know what my right was doing. This plan I have now, at this date, pursued for six months, and hope to continue to my death, and I did not know so great joy could be tasted by any human being as God has given to me. And now, to all the goodness you have shown me, will you add one favour, to wind up my affairs as follows:—
“(1) Provide for my housekeeper generously.
“(2) Give a liberal donation to the other servant.
“(3) Bury me quietly, without intimation to any one.
“(4) Distribute all that remains, after paying every debt, as you please, in the help of widows, orphans, and young men.
“(5) Place a packet, marked 'gilt-edged securities,' in my coffin.
“And consider that, among all your good works, this will have a humble place, that you saved the soul of—Your grateful friend,
“Samuel Dodson.”
“What Dodson has done with his money, Mr. Greatheart I don't know; all the securities together don't amount to £5,000. He seems to have been living on an annuity.”
“His wealth is here, Welsby, in this packet of cancelled cheques, two hundred and eighty-seven, which go with him to the other side; and I tell you, Welsby, I know no man who has invested his money so securely as Samuel Dodson. See, read that top check.”
“To Goldbeater, London, £10,000. Why, the draft I got for playgrounds was on that bank, and the date corresponds. Curious.
“Eh? What? You don't mean to say that this man we slanged and... looked down on was....”
“Yes, Zaccheus was Sam Dodson.”
So you have agreed to accept seven-and-six-pence in the pound from Hatchard?” Oxley said in his slow, quiet manner, as he smoked with his two friends after luncheon at the Club. “I could not attend the meeting, but I hear that the affairs showed badly.”
“Yes, we took the sum he offered, and of course it would have done no good to put him in the Bankruptcy Court, as far as the dividend is concerned: very likely we should only have netted half-a-crown; but I had a good mind to refuse a composition.” And in his excitement Beazley established himself for oratorical purposes on the hearthrug,—he had recently taken to municipal politics.
“You mean that Hatchard has acted foolishly, and ought not to have got into such a hole. I suppose you are right: Tommy was always a sanguine chap.”
“Sanguine has nothing to do with it, Oxley, and I fancy you know that there's more than want of judgment at Hatchard's door. Of course the longest-headed men in the corn trade may make a mistake and be caught by a falling market, but that is no reason why a fellow should take in every friend he could lay hands on. What do you say, Macfarlane?”
That most phlegmatic and silent of Scots never said anything unless speech was absolutely necessary; and as the proposition that a man ought not to cheat his friends was one no person could deny, Macfarlane gave no sign.
“I'm afraid that it is a rather bad case,” Oxley admitted with reluctance, “but I'm sorry for Tommy: when a man is at his wits' end he's apt to... forget himself, in fact, and do things he would be the first to condemn at other times. A man loses his moral presence of mind.”
Macfarlane indicated, after consideration, his agreement.
“That sounds very fine, Oxley,” burst in Beaz-ley, “but it's very dangerous doctrine and would cover some curious transactions. Hatchard knew quite well that when he was hopelessly bankrupt he ought not to have borrowed a thousand from Macfarlane and you and five hundred from me: our business losses were enough.”
“Had none,” murmured Macfarlane to himself.
“I was so angry,” continued Beazley, “that I got hold of him afterwards in Fenwick Street and gave him as sound a talking to as ever a man got in this city: he'll not forget it in a hurry. You see he is a friend, and that makes me sore.”
“Can you give us an idea what you said?” inquired Oxley drily, while Macfarlane showed that he was listening.
“Well, I said various things; but the gist was that his friends were ashamed of him—not about the cash, you know, but about the conduct, and that he was little better than a swindler: yes, I did.”
Macfarlane smoked furiously.
“No, Oxley, he made no reply. Not one word of defence: he simply turned round and walked away. I suppose you think that I ought not to have been so hard on him?”
“Well, no doubt you did what seemed right, and Hatchard has not been quite straight; but I now understand what I saw two hours ago, and what gave me a shock. You favoured him with your mind about eleven, I should guess? Yes: then at twelve he came out of a restaurant in Dale Street as if he had been drinking. That is the first time Hatchard ever did that kind of thing, I believe, but it will not be the last: his face was quite changed—half woe-begone and half desperate.”
“If Thomas takes to tasting”—Macfarlane was much moved—“it's all over with him: he's such a soft-hearted chap.”
“Nonsense, you're making too much of it; but I was a trifle sharp, perhaps: he's been very provoking, and any other man would have said the same except you two fellows, and the one of you is so charitable that he would find an excuse for a pickpocket, and the other is so cannie that he can't make up his mind to say anything.”
After which there was a pause.
“Yes,” began Oxley again, falling into ancient history, “he has gone off form a bit—the best may do so at a time—but Tommy wasn't half a bad fellow once: he got a study at Soundbergh before me, and he was very decent with it, letting me do 'prep.' in it before exams.; and I never counted him sidey, did you, B.?”
“I should think not; I'll say that for him at any rate, there wasn't one scrap of humbug in Tommy: why, he was a prefect when I was in the fourth, and he didn't mind although a chap 'ragged' and chaffed him; he was the jolliest 'pre.' in the whole school. It was perhaps rather hard lines to slang him to-day,—I half wish I hadn't.”
“If Tommy got a grub-box from home every chap in Buttery's house knew,”—Oxley was bent on reminiscences,—“it was shared round in three days, and his raspberry jam was not to be despised. I hear him yet: 'All right, Ox., dig in, there's lots left' Now there's By les, who makes speeches about hospitals: he was mean if you please.”
“Mean ain't the word for Byles,” and in his enthusiasm Freddie Beazley dropped into school slang, which no public-schoolboy ever forgets, and which lasts from generation to generation, like the speech of the Gypsies: “Byles was a beastly gut, and a sneak too; why, for all his cheek now he isn't fit to black Tommy's shoes. Tommy wasn't what you would call 'pie,' but he was as straight as a die. I'd give ten pounds not to have called him that word to-day.” Freddie was breaking down.
“Poor old Tommy!” went on Oxley: “one never expected him to come such a cropper; he was a good all-round man—cricket, football, sports, Tommy did well for his house; he was a double-colour man.”
“Do ye mind the ten miles, lads?” and Macfarlane chuckled.
“Rather,” and Freddie could not sit still: “he did it in one hour twelve minutes and was it fifteen seconds?”
“Thirteen and three-fifths seconds.” Macfarlane spoke with decision.
“And he could have walked back to Buttery's, as if he had never run a yard; but didn't the fellows carry him?”
“I had a leg myself.” Macfarlane was growing loquacious.
“Yes, and he didn't swagger or brag about it,”—Oxley took up the running,—“not he, but was just as civil as if he had won some footling little race at the low-country schools, where they haven't a hill within twenty miles, instead of running round Baughfell in the Soundbergh ten-mile.”
“What did old Tommy do it for?” and Freddie Beazley almost wept at the thought that the crack of Soundbergh had played foul: “it couldn't be money; he was never selfish—as open-handed a chap as ever I saw.”
“Wife and kids” answered Macfarlane, smoking thoughtfully.
“The Scot has it,” said Oxley. “Tommy doesn't care one straw for himself, but he wanted, I take it, to keep that dear little wife of his comfortable and get a good education for his boys, and so he got deeper and deeper, trying to retrieve himself for their sakes. Mind you, I don't defend him, but that was his excuse; and now Tommy has gone under.”
“Not if I can help it, boys,” and Beazley's face flushed. “And I say, here are three of us: why shouldn't we join and—and—tighten the rope and haul Tommy on his feet again?” Macfarlane took the briar root out of his mouth and regarded Freddie with admiration.
“We were all in the same house, and Tommy likes us, and we could do... that sort of thing when he wouldn't take it from others; and I say, it would be a jolly decent thing to do.”
“You're all right, Freddie,”—Oxley was evidently pleased,—“and we're with you” (“shoulder to shoulder,” said Macfarlane, lighting his pipe with ostentatious care). “Now the first step is to let Tommy know that we have not turned our backs on him: my idea is that if he knows we three are going to stand by him he'll not throw up the sponge.”
“Look here,” cried Beazley, “I'll go round this minute, and I'll beg his pardon for what I said, and I'll tell him that we haven't forgotten the old days among the hills, and that we know he's a white man, and... in fact he'll take the cup yet.”
“That will help mightily; and now let us make up our plans,” said Oxley.
And that was how three men joined in a conspiracy for the business and social and personal salvation of Thomas Hatchard.
“How late you are, Tom—eight o'clock—and how tired you look, poor fellow! I've been thinking about you all day. Was it very trying this morning, or were they nice? They ought to have been, for everybody must know that it wasn't your fault.”
“No, I don't think everybody could know that, Amy dear, for I don't know it myself, and some men have good reason to know the opposite. Well, yes, I was... rather sick at the meeting, and worse afterwards.”
“Did they dare to insult you, Tom? If they had had one spark of gentlemanly feeling they would have pitied you. Do you mean that they... said things? Tell me, for I want to share every sorrow with you, darling.”
“One man was very hard on me, and I didn't expect it from him—no, I won't tell you his name, for he behaved very handsomely in the end. Perhaps I didn't deserve all the sharp words, but I am sure I haven't deserved any of the kind words that were said before the day was done. But never mind about me just now: tell me how you got on. Wasn't it your visiting day? did... any one call?”
“So you were thinking about me in all your troubles!”—his wife put her arm round Hatch-ard's neck—“and you were afraid I should be deserted because you were victimised by those speculators! Now confess.”
“Well, you know, Amy, society is not very merciful, and I think women are the crudest of all. What hits a man, if he is unfortunate, or... worse, is that his poor wife is made to suffer. If her husband has done... I mean has acted foolishly, well, say, has lost money, his wife is neglected and cut and made to feel miserable. It's a beastly shame, and I was afraid that...”
“I would be sitting all alone to-day, because we are poor. Do you know, Tom, I was just a tiny bit nervous too, although I would not have told you this morning for worlds. And now I have splendid news to give you: our friends are as true as steel. Now answer a question, Tom, to see whether you and I agree about the difference between acquaintances and friends. Mention the names of the three families you would expect to stand by us in our trial.”
“The Oxleys, of course, wife, and... I would have said the Beazleys, and, let me see, yes, the Macfarlanes, although their manner doesn't allow them to show what they feel. Am I right?”
“To a man (and woman), they all called today—the women, I mean: I daresay the men called on you. And they all said the nicest things, and what is best, they said the nicest things about you: yes, they did, and if you doubt my word we shall separate... do you really think I would chaff to-day?
“Sit there, just where I can lay my head on your shoulder, and I shall describe everything. It was half-past two when I began to watch the clock and wonder whether any one would come: have other people had the same feeling? About a quarter to three the bell rang, and my heart beat: who would it be? It was nothing—a tax paper; and I began to think what I would have done if the same thing had happened to one of our friends—how I would have simply rushed along and been in the house the first decent minute after lunch, and how I would...”
“I know you would, Pet, and that is why they did it to you. Well, drive on.”
“Exactly at eight minutes to three—oh, I know the time to-day without mistake—the door opened, and in came Mrs. Macfarlane; and do you know what she did?”
“She didn't!” cried Hatchard—“not kissed you?”
“Yes, she did, and a real kiss; and she took me in her arms, and I saw tears in her eyes, and—and... I cried for a minute; I couldn't help it, and it was quite a comfort. She hadn't said a word all this time, and that was just right, wasn't it?”
“I'll never say a word against the Scots' manner again,” said Tom huskily.
“But she spoke quite beautifully afterwards, and told me of some trials no one knows, which they had ten years ago, and how they had never loved one another so much before. When reticent people give you their confidence it touches your heart, and we used to think her voice harsh, and to laugh at her accent.”
“God forgive me!” said Thomas: “I'm a fool.”
“She said: 'You know how quiet Ronald is, and how he hardly ever gets enthusiastic. Well, it would have done you good to have heard him speak about Mr. Hatchard this morning. He said...'”
“Don't tell me, Amy—it... hurts; but I'm grateful all the same, and will never forget it. And who came next?”
“Mrs. Oxley; and what do you think? We are to have their house at Hoylake for August, so the chicks will have their holiday. Mr. Oxley has been quite cast down, she says, about you, for he has such a respect——”
“It's good of them to think about the children, but never mind about me.”
“You are very unfeeling, Tom, to stop me at the best bits, when I had saved them up and committed them to memory: perhaps you would get vain, however, and become quite superior. What do you think of your 'kindness.' and your 'generosity,' and your 'popularity,' and your 'straightness'? You are shivering: are you cold?”
“No, no; but you haven't told me if Mrs. Beazley was kind to you: did she call between four and five?”
“Yes: how did you know the hour?”
“Oh, I.. guessed, because she... was last, wasn't she?”
“She apologised for being so late; indeed, she was afraid that she might not get round at all, but I'm so glad she came, for no one was more glowing about you: I saw, of course, that she was just repeating Mr. Beazley's opinion, for every one can see how he admires...
“Tom, you are very ungrateful, and for a punishment I'll not tell you another word. What is wrong? has any one injured you? Was it Mr. Beazley?”
“Beazley said kinder things in my office to me, in difficult circumstances too, than I ever got from any man: some day, Amy, I'll tell you what he said, but not now—I cannot—and he spent two hours canvassing for business to start me as a corn broker, and he... got it.”
“It could not be Mr. Oxley.”
“Oxley has given me a cargo to dispose of, and I never had any of his broking before; and he told me that some of my old friends were going to... to... in fact, see me through this strait, speaking a good word for me and putting things in my way.
“Yes, of course Macfarlane came to the office, and said nothing for fifteen minutes: just gripped my hand and smoked, and then he rose, and as he was leaving, he merely mentioned that Beazley and Oxley had become securities for £5,000 at the bank; he is in it, too, you may be sure.”
“How grateful we ought to be, Tom dear; and how proud I am of you!—for it's your character has affected every person, because you are so honourable and high-minded. Tom, something is wrong; oh, I can't bear it: don't cry... you are overstrung... lie down on the couch, and I'll bathe your forehead with eau de Cologne.”
“No, I am not ill, and I don't deserve any petting; if you knew how mean I have been you would never speak to me again. If they had scolded me I would not have cared; but I can't bear their kindness.
“Amy, you must not send for the doctor, else you will put me to shame; my mind is quite right, and it isn't overwork: it's... conscience: I am not worthy to be your husband, or the friend of these men.”
“You will break my heart if you talk in this way. You unworthy! when you are the kindest, truest, noblest man in all the world—don't say a word—and everybody thinks so, and you must let us judge. Now rest here, and I'll get a nice little supper for you,” and his wife kissed him again and again.
“It's no use trying to undeceive her,” Hatchard said to himself when she was gone; “she believes in me, and those fellows believe in me—Freddie more than anybody, after all he said; and please God they will not be disappointed in the end.”
“You've got here before me, Mac.,” cried Freddie Beazley, bursting into Oxley's private room, “and I simply scooted round. Oh, I say, you've broken every bone in my hand, you great Scotch ruffian: take the ruler out of his fist, Ox., for heaven's sake, or else he'll brain us.
“Ox., you old scoundrel, read that letter aloud. Mac wasn't a creditor—he wishes he was this day—and he doesn't know it verbatim, and I'm not sure about a word or two. Stand up, old man, and do the thing properly. There now we're ready.”
July 7, 1897.
“Dear Sir,—
“It will be in your recollection that in July, 1887, I was obliged to make a composition with my creditors while trading as a corn merchant under the style of Thomas Hatchard & Co., and that they were good enough to accept the sum of seven shillings and sixpence in the pound.
“Immediately thereafter, as you may be aware, I began business as a corn broker, and owing to the kind assistance of certain of my creditors and other friends, have had considerable success.
“Having made a careful examination of my affairs, I find that I can now afford to pay the balance of twelve shillings and sixpence which is morally due to my creditors of 1887, and it affords me much personal satisfaction to discharge this obligation.
“I therefore beg to enclose a cheque for the amount owing to you, with 5 per cent compound interest, and with sincere gratitude for your consideration ten years ago.
“I have the honour to remain,
“Your obedient servant,
“Thomas Hatchard.”
“Isn't that great, young gentlemen?” and Beazley took a turn round the room: “it's the finest thing done in Liverpool in our time. Tommy has come in again an easy first on the ten miles—just skipped round Baughfell: there's nothing like the old school for rearing hardy fellows with plenty of puff in them for a big hill.”
“Thomas 'ill be a proud man the night,” remarked Macfarlane, “and his wife will be lifted.”
“What about the Hatchard securities and encouragement company? isn't it a booming concern, and aren't the three men lucky dogs who took founders' shares? Oxley, old chap,” and Freddie grew serious, “it was you who put Tommy on his legs, and helped him on to this big thing.”
“Nonsense! we all had a share in the idea; and now that I remember, it was you, Beazley, who sang his praises that day till Macfarlane allowed his pipe to go out, and I had to join the chorus. Isn't that so, Mac.?”
Macfarlane was understood to give judgment of strict impartiality—that the one was as bad as another, and that he had been a victim in their hands, but that the result had not been destructive of morality in Liverpool, nor absolutely ruinous to the character of Thomas Hatchard, beyond which nothing more could be said.
He offered the opinion on his own account that the achievement of Thomas had been mighty.
“You can put your money on that, Mac.,” and Beazley went off again: “to pay up the balance of that composition and every private loan with interest, compound too, is simply A1. T. H. has taken the cake. And didn't he train for it, poor chap!
“No man enjoyed a good cigar more than Tommy—could not take him in with bad tobacco. Well, I happen to know that he hasn't had one smoke since July 7th, *87. Of course he could have had as much 'baccy as he wanted; but no, it was a bit of the training—giving up every luxury, d'ye see?”
“I wish I was Thomas the night,” remarked Macfarlane. “He 'ill have a worthwhile smoke.”
“He rather liked a good lunch, and did justice to his grub, too,” continued Beazley. “Well, for ten years he's taken his midday meal standing, on milk and bread—not half bad all the same—at the Milk-Pail in Fenwick Street, and he wouldn't allow himself a cup of tea. You saw how he lived at Heswall, Oxley?”
“Yes, he found out that he could get a little house, with a bit of garden, for forty pounds, taxes included, and so he settled there and cut the whole concern here. There was one sitting-room for the children and another for themselves, and the garden was the drawing-room; but I don't believe Hatchard was ever happier, and Mrs. Hatchard has turned out a heroine.”
“Tommy played up well,” broke in Beazley, “and he never missed a chance. There has not been any brokerage lying loose in the corn market these ten years, you bet; and what he got he did well. Do you hear that MacConnell of Chicago has given him his work to do? Tommy is steaming down the deep-water channel now, full speed. What's to be done? that's the question. We simply must celebrate.”
“Well,” replied Oxley, “I suppose the creditors will be giving him a dinner at the Adelphi and that sort of thing. But there's something Hatchard would like far better than fifty dinners. He has never entered the corn exchange since his failure, and I know he never would till he could look every man in the face. What do you say to ask Barnabas Greatheart to call at his office and take him?”
“Oxley, you are inspired, and ought to take to politics: it's just the thing Greatheart would like to do, and it will please the men tremendously. I bet you a new hat there will be a cheer, and I see them shaking hands with Tommy: it will touch up two or three scallawags on the raw first-rate, too, who have made half a dozen compositions in their time. But what about ourselves, Ox.?”
“Aye,” said Macfarlane; “we're not common shareholders in this concern: we're founders, that's what we are.”
“I was thinking before you men came in that a nice piece of silver for their dinner-table—they will come up to town now—say a bowl with some little inscription on it...”
“The very thing: we'll have it this afternoon; and Ox., you draw up the screed, but for my sake, as well as Tommy's, put in something about honour, and, old fellow, let it be strong; it'll go down to his boys, and be worth a fortune to them, for it will remind them that their father was an honest man.”
It is not needful to describe, because everybody in the Liverpool Corn Market knows, how Barnabas Greatheart came into the room arm in arm with Thomas Hatchard, and how every single man shook hands with Thomas because he had gone beyond the law and done a noble deed, and was a credit to the corn business; and how Tommy tried to return thanks for his health a week after at the Adelphi, and broke down utterly, but not before he had explained that he wasn't at all the good man they thought him, but that he happened to have had better friends than most men.
What is not known is that on the very evening of the great day a special messenger brought over to the cottage at Heswall a parcel, which, being opened, contained a massive silver bowl, with this inscription:—
From Three Friends,
In Admiration of her Husband's
Business Integrity and Stainless Honour.
July 7, 1897.
and that on the first anniversary of the great day the Hatchards gave a dinner-party in their new house at Mossley Hill, where six guests were present, whose names can be easily supplied, and the bowl, filled with roses, stood in the centre of the table so that all could read the writing thereon; that without any direct allusion to the circumstances, or any violation of good taste, the bowl came into conversation eleven times: once in praise of the roses; once in discussion of the pattern (Queen Anne); once with reference to the pedestal of Irish bog-oak; once in verification of the fact that “honour” was spelt with a “u” (it was Freddie who, with much ingenuity, turned the search-light on honour); and seven times in ways too subtle and fleeting for detection. When the ladies left the room there was a look between the host and his wife as he held the door; and when the other men's cigars were fully lit, Tommy made and finished, with some pauses, a speech which may not sound very eloquent on paper, but which the audience will never forget “There's a text somewhere in the Bible,” he said, pretending that his cigar was not drawing—“which runs something like this, 'saved by faith,' and when I look at that bowl I remember that I... was saved that way; but it wasn't... my faith: it was the faith... of you three men.”
Firelight casts a weird enchantment over an old-fashioned room in the gloaming, and cleanses it from the commonplace. Distant comers are veiled in a shadow full of mystery; heavy curtains conceal unknown persons in their folds; a massive cabinet, full of Eastern curios, is flung into relief, so that one can identify an Indian god, who distinctly grins and mocks with sardonic humour, although in daylight he be a personage of awful solemnity; a large arm-chair, curiously embroidered, grows into the likeness of a stout elderly gentleman of benevolent heart but fierce political prejudices; the flickering flames sketch on the ceiling scenes of past days which can never return; and on a huge mirror the whole interior is reflected as in a phantasmagoria.
“It is, I do honestly believe, the dreariest room in Bloomsbury, and one can hardly go farther,” said a young woman, lying at her ease on the white bearskin before the fire; “and yet it has a beauty of its own—sober, of course, but kindly; yes, that is the word, and true. My room at Kensington, that Reggie and his artist friends have been doing up in their best style, as Maples say, does not look prettier to-night, nor your lovely black oak at the Rectory.”
“If you had got your will, Frances,” answered a sister some six years older from the couch, “every stick of this furniture would have been sold long ago, and the walls draped in pale green. You are full of sentiment to-night.”
“It's the double wedding and the departure from the ancestral mansion which is casting shadows over my too susceptible heart and a glamour over this prosaic old room with its solid Philistine furniture,” and Frances pretended to conceal her rising emotion behind a fan. “Your already matronly staidness, Gerty, is incapable of entering into such moods. It is a mercy one daughter, at least—I think there are two—reproduces mother, and can never be accused of sentiment—and such a blessing for the Rector! It is a rule, one would say from observation, that clergymen choose matter-of-fact and managing wives, as a check, I suppose, on their own unworldliness and enthusiasm. As for me, so frivolous and... affectionate, poor papa must have the entire responsibility,” and Frances sighed audibly.
“Are you really deceived by mother's composure and reserve?” Gertrude's quiet tone emphasized the contrast between her refined face and Frances' Spanish beauty. “Strangers count her cold as marble, and I can excuse them, for they judge her in society. We ought to know better, and she has always seemed to me the very type of loyalty and faithfulness.”
“Of course she is the dearest mater ever was, and far too unselfish, and she has been most patient with her wayward youngest daughter; but she is—well, I could not say that she is a creature of emotion.”
“You believe, I suppose,”—Gertrude was slightly nettled—“in women who kiss frantically on meeting, first one cheek and then the other, and sign themselves 'with a thousand remembrances and much love, yours most affectionately,' who adopt a new friend every month, and marry three times for companionship.”
“Gertrude, I am ashamed of you; you are most provoking and unjust; my particular detestations, as you know very well, are a couple of girls' arms round each other's waists—studying one another's dresses all the time—and a widow who marries again for protection,—it's a widower who says companionship,—but I enjoy your eloquence; it will be a help to Fred when he is sermon-making. You will collaborate—that is the correct word, isn't it?”
“None of us will ever know how deep and strong is the mater's love,” continued Gertrude, giving no heed to her sister's badinage; “she cannot speak, and so she will always be misunderstood, as quiet people are. Did you ever notice that she writes her letters on that old desk, instead of using the escritoire? that is because it was father's; and although she never mentions his name, I believe mother would rather starve than leave this house or part with a chair that was in it when he was living.
“Frances, I'll tell you something I once saw and can never forget. When I slept in mother's room, I woke one night, and found she had risen. She opened a drawer that was always kept locked, and took out a likeness of father. After looking at it again and again—can you believe that?—she laid it on a chair, and, kneeling down, prayed to God for us all, and that they might meet again; and then she looked at him once more, and put the picture in its place.
“Pray God, Frances, that you and I, who are to be married on Tuesday, may love as she has done, once for ever; do you know I've often thought that Grace is the only one of us that has mother's power of affection, and yet we are to be married and she is to be left.”
“Yes, Grace is like mother, and yet I don't think mother understands her one bit What a wife she would make to some man, Gerty; only it would be bad for him. She would serve him like a slave, and he would be insufferable.
“But there is no fear of that calamity,” Frances went on, “for Grace will never marry. She is beginning to have the airs of an old maid already, a way of dressing and a certain primness which is alarming.”
“It passes me,” said Gertrude, “how no man has seen her excellence and tried to win her; do you know I've sometimes thought that Mr. Lennox admired her; they would certainly make a perfect pair.”
“You are the dearest old stupid, Gertrude. Of course George Lennox adores Grace, as he would do a saint in a painted window; and Grace appreciates him because he teaches astronomy or conchology or something to working men in the East End. Neither of them knows how to make love; their conversation is a sort of religious exercise,” and Frances' eyes danced with the delight of a mistress in her art “Why, I once did my best with him just to keep my hand in, and Gertrude, you might as well have flirted with that wretched god. I would rather have the god, for he winked to me just now quite distinctly, the reprobate old scoundrel.”
“Perhaps you're right, and Grace does not wish to marry. But it will be lonely in this big, empty house for mother and her when we are gone.”
“Dull! Gerty, you do not understand the situation. It will be a relief for the two of them to have this love traffic over, and no more men about the house. Grace simply endures it, as a nun might, and the mater resents any of her daughters being married. They have their programme fixed. Grace will visit her sick people in the forenoon, and the mater will do her tradesmen; in the afternoon the two will attend the Committee for the Relief of Decayed Washerwomen, and after dinner Gracie will read to mother out of Hallam'sMiddle Ages.
“I'll box that creature's ears,” and Frances jumped to her feet, a very winsome young woman indeed; “he's grinning from ear to ear on his pedestal at some wicked joke, or as if he knew a family secret He's an old cynic, and regards us as a pair of children prattling about life.”
“My work at Court was finished a little earlier to-day, and I have done myself the pleasure of calling to inquire for Mrs. Leconte and you after the marriage. Will you accept a few roses?” The manner was grave and a trifle formal, but George Lennox was one in whom any woman might safely put her trust—tall and well built, with a strong face and kindly eyes—a modest and courteous gentleman.
“It is good of you to remember us, but, indeed, you have always been most kind,” said Miss Leconte, with the faintest flush on her cheek. “Mother is out, and will be sorry to have missed you. Will you not sit down, and I'll order tea.”
The London sun, which labours hard, with many ingenuities, to do his part by every home and give to each its morsel of brightness, found the right angle at that moment, and played round Grace's face with soft afternoon light She was not beautiful like her sisters, but one man out of a thousand would learn to love her for the loyalty that could be read in the grey eyes, and the smile, a very revelation of tenderness, as if her soul had looked at you.
“Yes, mother and I have settled down to our quiet round after the festivities; mother needs a rest, for you know how little she thinks of herself; her unselfishness puts one to shame every day.”
Mr. Lennox looked as if he knew another unselfish person, and Grace continued hurriedly: “Every one thought the marriage went off so well, and the day was certainly perfect Didn't Gertrude and Frances make lovely brides, each in her own way?”
“So the people said, and I know how they would look; but it happened that I stood where I could only see the bridesmaids.”
“Will you excuse me putting the roses in water? they are the finest I've seen this summer, and I want to keep them fresh,” and she escaped for the moment He watched her place one dish on the end of the grand piano and another on a table near her mother's chair, and a yearning look came over his face.
They talked of many things, but both were thinking of one only, and then it was she, In her kindness, that provoked the catastrophe.
“You will come again and see mother; she misses Gerty and Frances, and it is very pleasant to have a talk with old friends.”
“And you, Grace—Miss Leconte, I mean—may I not come to visit you?”
“You know that I am glad when you come, and always will be; you are my friend also,” and she looked at him with frank, kind eyes.
“Nothing more than friend after all these years—seven now since first we met Do you not guess what I was thinking as your sisters stood beside their bridegrooms in church?” But she did not answer.
“Can you give me no hope, Grace? If you told me to come back in five years, I would count them days for the joy of hearing you call me by my name at the end, as a woman speaks to the man she loves.”
“You ought not to open this matter again” but she was not angry, “for my mind is made up, and cannot be changed. There is no man living whom I respect more; none to whom I would rather go in time of trouble; there is nothing I would not do for you, Mr. Lennox, except one...”
“But it is the one thing I desire;” and then Lennox began to plead. “No man is worthy of you, Grace, and I least of all. The world counts me proud and cold, and I regret my manner every day, but I can love, and I love you with all my heart You know I can give you a house and every comfort of life—perhaps I may be able to bring you honour and rank some day; but these are not the arguments I would urge or you would care to hear. Love is my plea—that I never loved before I saw you, and if you refuse me that I will not love any other.
“Do not speak yet” His face was white, and he stretched out his hands in appeal. “Have we not the same... faith and the same ideals? Could not we work together for a lifetime, and serve the world with our love? Perhaps I ought to have spoken years ago, but the Bar is an uncertain profession, and my position was not made. It seemed to me cowardly to ask a woman's love before one could offer her marriage, so I kept silent till last spring, when I saw your sisters' lovers and their happiness—and then I could not help telling you that one man hoped to win your heart Now I ask for your answer.
“If you love another man,” he went on, “or feel that you can never love me, tell me at once, Grace, for this were better for us both. I would never cease to love you, for we slow, cold men do not change, and if you had need I would serve you, but never again would I... trouble you,” and the ablest of the junior counsel at the Chancery Bar broke down before a girl that had no other attraction than the goodness of her soul.
Grace Leconte was the calmer of the two when she spoke, but her face was set like a martyr's in his agony.
“I had hoped, Mr. Lennox, that you would not have followed up what you said in March, but yet so selfish is a woman, I am not sorry to be told that I... am loved by such a man.
“Believe me, it is I that am unworthy. You have made too much of a very ordinary woman But I am proud of... your love, and in after years, when I find the strain too heavy, will often say, 'God has been good to me. George Lennox loved me.”
He was waiting anxiously, not knowing how this would end.
“You have spoken frankly to me, and have laid bare your heart,” she went on. “I do not see why I should be hindered by custom from telling you the truth also,” and then she hesitated, but only for a little. “For years—I do not know how long—I have... loved you, and have followed your career as only a woman who loves could—gathering every story of your success, and rejoicing in it all as if you had been mine. Wait, for I have not yet done.
“If I could say 'Yes,' I would, George—may I call you this, only to-day?—without any delay but I must say 'No' instead, although it may break my heart I can never be your wife.”
“What do you mean...?”
“Bear with me, and I will tell you all. You know now it is not because I do not want to marry you—I do; I also can love, and I do not wish to be an old maid—no woman does. I will not pretend indifference, but it is not possible for me to leave my mother.”
“Is that all?” cried Lennox, as one who has cast off a great dread. “I would never ask Mrs. Leconte to part from the last of her daughters. She will come with you, and we shall strive to make her life peaceful and glad....”
“Please do not go on, for this can never be. No power could induce mother to change her way or live with us. She will live and die alone, or I must stay with her. My duty is clear, and, George, you must... accept this decision as final.”
“You will let me speak to her and put our case...?”
“No, a thousand times no. She must never know our secret. It would still be the same between you and me, but mother would fret every year because I had made this sacrifice. As it is she knows nothing, and will never guess the truth. Promise me you will say nothing; that is one favour I have to ask, and there is another, that... you do not call again, for I could not bear to see you for a little... for some years. You will do so much for me, will you not?”
He had sat down, his head on his breast, a figure of utter dejection, when she laid her hand on his arm.
“Things cannot end after this fashion,” and Lennox sprang to his feet; “does not the Book say that a man will forsake father and mother for love's sake, and should it not be so with a woman also? What right have you to deny your love and blight two lives?”
“Many would say that I am wrong, but my mind is made up. Do not try me farther, George; God knows how hard it is to obey my conscience. My duty, as I see it, and that is all one can go by, is to mother, and if I made it second even to love, I should be inwardly ashamed, and you... you could not respect me.
“Say you understand,” and her lips trembled; “say that you forgive me for the sorrow I have brought upon you, and let us say farewell.”
He made as though he would have clasped her in his arms and compelled her to surrender, and then he also conquered.
“God keep and bless you, Grace; if I cannot have you in my home, none can keep me from carrying you in my heart,” and he was gone.
She watched him till he disappeared round the corner of the square, and noticed that he walked as one stricken with age. One of their windows commanded a corner of the square garden, where the trees were in their first summer greenery, and she could hear the birds singing. As she turned away, the sunlight lingered on the white roses which George Lennox had brought as the token of his love, and then departed, leaving the faded room in the shadow.
“This frame seems to have been made for our purpose, Grace,” and Mrs. Leconte arranged in order Gertrude with her two girls and Frances with her two boys. “It seems only a few months, instead of four years, since the wedding day.
“They have good husbands and happy homes. I only wish their father...” This was so unusual that Grace looked at her mother, and Mrs. Leconte checked herself. “You are going down to the Rectory, I hope, next week; Gertrude is always anxious to have you, and August in London is very trying.”
“Certainly; but on one condition, mother, that you go too; it would be such a joy to Gerty, and you must have some change.”
“Perhaps I will, a little later, but I never leave London in August. I have always been very strong, and I like a... quiet time then.”
“Mother,” and Mrs. Leconte turned at the passion in her daughter's voice, “why will you not allow any of us to share your remembrance and your grief? We know why you shut yourself up alone in August, and now, when there are just you and I, it hurts me that I may not be with you, if it were only to pray... or weep. Would it not be some help?” and Grace took her mother's hand, a very rare caress.
“You are a good daughter, Grace,” she spoke with much difficulty, “but... God made me to be alone, and silent I was not able to tell either joy or sorrow even to your father. You spoke of weeping; do you know I've never shed a tear since I was a child—not often then.
“When he died, my eyes were dry.... Oh, Grace, you are most like me: may God deliver you from a tearless grief; but it must be so with me to the end.”
“Dearest mother,” said Grace, but she did not kiss her.
“You are often in my thoughts, Grace,” after a long silence, “and I am concerned about you, for you have aged beyond your years. Are you... well?”
“What a question, mater; you know that I have the health of a donkey—save a headache now and then that gives me an interesting pallor. You forget that I am getting to be an old maid, nearly thirty.”
“Is it really that... I mean, do you not feel lonely?—it is a contrast, your sisters' lot and yours, and a woman's heart was made for love, but if it be so do not sorrow over-much... I can't explain myself—there are many in this world to love, and, at any rate... you will never know the sense of loss.”
“That is the postman's ring,” and Grace made an errand to obtain the letters, and lingered a minute on the way.
“Only one letter, and it's for you, mother. I think I know the handwriting.”
“Of course you do; it's from Mrs. Archer, George Lennox's aunt. She is a capital correspondent, and always sends lots of news. Let me see. Oh, they've had Gertrude and her husband staying a night with them for a dinner.
“'Everything went off well'... 'Gerty looked very distinguished, and has just the air of a clergyman's wife. Gerty was always suited for that part, just as Frances does better among the painters.... I wish all the same they were both here, Grace, but I suppose that's a wrong feeling, for marriage is a woman's natural lot... that is in most cases, some have another calling.'
“Do you know who has been staying with the Archers? Why, you might guess that—George Lennox; he's Jane Archer's favourite nephew, and I don't wonder; no woman, I mean sensible woman, could help liking him; he's so reliable and high-toned, as well as able, and do you know, I always thought Mr. Lennox good-looking.
“What's this? 'You will be sorry to hear that George is looking very ill indeed, and just like an old man, and he's not forty yet. Are you there, Grace? Oh, I thought perhaps you had left the room. Isn't that sad about Mr. Lennox?
“Mrs. Archer goes on to say that he overworks shockingly, and that he is bound to break down soon; he will take no advice, and allows himself no pleasure. What a pity to see a man throwing away his life, isn't it?”
“Perhaps he finds his... satisfaction in work, mother.”
“Nonsense; no man ought to kill himself. Mr. Lennox ought to have married years ago, and then he would not have been making a wreck of himself; I don't know any man who would have made a better husband, or of whom a woman would have been prouder.” And Mrs. Leconte compelled a reply.
“He is a good man, and I think you are right, mother.” Something in her tone struck Mrs. Leconte's ear.
“Grace, Mr. Lennox used to come frequently to this house, and now I have noticed he never calls.”
Her daughter said nothing.
“It was after your sisters' wedding that he ceased to call. Do you think... I mean, was he in love with Gerty? Frances it couldn't be. I never thought of that before, for I am not very observant. Nothing would have given me more pleasure, if my daughters were to be married, than to have George Lennox for a son-in-law. Can it be, Grace, that Gerty refused him, and we have never known?”
“I am sure she did not, mother;” and again Mrs. Leconte caught a strange note in her daughter's voice.
“Do you know, I suspect that if you had given him any encouragement, George Lennox would have been a happy man to-day. Is that so, Grace?
“Pardon me, Grace, perhaps I ought not to ask such a question; it came suddenly into my mind. Whatever you did was no doubt right; a woman cannot give her hand without her heart even to the best of men. If it be as I imagine, I do not blame you, Grace, but... I am sorry for George Lennox.”
Grace wept that night over the saddest of all the ironies of life—a sacrifice which was a mistake and which had no reward.