CHAPTER V. WHAT CAME OF IT.
Meantime, things were going, as they should, in rather a dull fashionwith Duncan Dempster. His chariot wheels were gone, and he droveheavily. The weather was good; he seldom failed of the box-seat on theomnibus; a ray of light, the first he had ever seen there, visited histable, reflected from a new window on the opposite side of a courtinto the heart of his dismal back office; and best of all, businesswas better than usual. Yet was Dempster not cheerful. He was not,indeed, a man an acquaintance would ever have thought of callingcheerful; but in grays there are gradations; and however differently aman's barometer may be set from those of other people, it has its upsand downs, its fair weather and foul. But not yet had he an idea howmuch his mental equilibrium had been dependent upon the dimconsciousness of having that quiet uninterested wife in thecomfortable house at Hackney. It had been stronger than it seemed, thespidery, invisible line connecting that office and that house, alongwhich had run twice a day the hard dumpling that dwelt in Mr.Dempster's bosom. Vaguely connected with that home after all must havebeen that endless careful gathering of treasure in the city; for now,though he could no more stop making money than he could stopbreathing, it had not the same interest as formerly. Indeed, he hadless interest than before in keeping his lungs themselves going. Buthe kept on doing everything as usual.
Not one of the men he met ever said a word to him about his wife. Thegeneral impression was that she had left him for preferable society,and no one wondered at her throwing aside such "a dry old stick," whomeven the devoted slaves of business contemned as having nothing in himbut business.
A further change was, however, in progress within him. The first signof it was that he began to doubt whether his wife had indeed beenfalse to him--had forsaken him in any other company than that ofDeath. But there was one great difficulty in the way of theconclusion. It was impossible for him to imagine suicide as proceedingfrom any cause but insanity, and what could have produced the disorderin one who had no cares or anxieties, everything she wanted, andnothing to trouble her, a devoted husband, and a happy home? Yet themere idea made him think more pitifully, and so more tenderly of herthan before. It had not yet occurred to him to consider whether hemight not have had something to do with her conduct or condition.Blame was a thing he had never made acquaintance with--least of all inthe form of self-blame. To himself he was simply all right--the poisedcentre of things capable of righteous judgment on every one else. Butit must not be forgotten how little he knew about his own affairs atall; his was a very different condition from that of one who hadclosed his eyes and hardened his heart to suspicions concerninghimself. His eyes had never yet been opened to anything but the orderof things in the money world--its laws, its penalties, itsrewards--those he did understand. But apparently he was worthtroubling. A slow dissatisfaction was now preying upon him--a sense ofwant--of not having something he once had, a vague discomfort, growingrestless. This feeling was no doubt the worse that the birth of thechild had brought such a sudden rush of fresh interest into hisoccupation, which doubt concerning that birth had again so suddenlychecked; but even if the child should prove after all his own, asupposition he was now willing to admit as possibly a true one, hecould never without his mother feel any enthusiasm about him, evensuch enthusiasm as might be allowed to a man who knew money frommoonshine, and common sense from hysterics. Yet once and again, aboutthis time, the nurse coming into the room after a few minutes'absence, found him bending over the sleeping infant, and, as shedescribed him, "looking as if he would have cried if he had only knownhow."
One frosty evening in late autumn the forsaken husband came fromLondon--I doubt if he would now have said "home"--as usual, on the topof the omnibus. His was a tough nature physically, as well as morally,and if he had found himself inside an omnibus he would have thought hewas going to die. The sun was down. A green hue rose from the horizonhalf-way to the zenith, but a pale yellow lingered over the vanishedsun, like the gold at the bottom of a chrysolite. The stars weretwinkling small and sharp in the azure overhead. A cold wind blew inlittle gusts, now from this side, now from that, as they went steadilyalong. The horses' hoofs rang loud on the hard road. The night gothold of him: it was at this season, and on nights like these, that hehad haunted the house of Lucy's father, doing his best to persuade herto make him, as he said, a happy man. It now seemed as if then, andthen only, he had been a happy man. Certainly, of all his life, it wasthe time when he came nearest to having a peep out of the upperwindows of the house of life. He had been a dweller in the lowerregions, a hewer of wood to the god of the cellar; and after hismarriage, he had gone straight down again to the temple of the earthygod--to a worship whose god and temple and treasure caves will one daydrop suddenly from under the votary's feet, and leave him dangling inthe air without even a pocket about him--without even his banker'sbook to show for his respectability.
The night, I say, recalled the lovely season of his courtship, andagain, in the mirror of loss, he caught a glimpse of things beyondhim. Ah, if only that time and its hopes had remained with him! Howdifferent things would have been now! If Lucy had proved what hethought her!--remained what she seemed--the gentle, complaisant,yielding lady he imagined her, promising him a life of bliss! Alas,she would not even keep account of five pounds a week to please him!He never thought whether he, on his part, might not have, in somemeasure, come short of her expectations in a husband; whether she, themore lovely in inward design and outward fashion, might not haveindulged yet more exquisite dreams of bliss which, by devotion to hisideal of life, he had done his part in disappointing. He only thoughtwhat a foolishness it all was; that thus it would go on to the end ofthe book; that youth after youth would have his turn of such a wooing,and such a disappointment. Sunsets, indeed! The suns of man'shappiness never did anything but set! Out of money even--and who couldsay there was any poetry in that?--there was not half the satisfactionto be got that one expected. It was all a mess of expectations anddisappointments mashed up together--nothing more. That was theworld--on a fair judgment.
Such were his reflections till the driver pulled up for him to getdown at his own gate. As he got down the said driver glanced upcuriously at the row of windows on the first floor, and as soon as Mr.Dempster's back was turned, pointed to them with the butt-end of hiswhip, and nodded queerly to the gentleman who sat on his other side.
"That's more'n I've seen this six weeks," he said. "There's somethingmore'n common up this evenin', sir."
There was light in the drawing-room--that was all the wonder; but atthose windows Mr. Dempster himself looked so fixedly that he hadnearly stumbled up his own door-steps.
He carried a latch-key now, for he did not care to stand at the doortill the boy answered the bell; people's eyes, as they passed, seemedto burn holes in the back of his coat.
He opened the street door quietly, and went straight up the stair tothe drawing-room. Perhaps he thought to detect some liberty taken byhis servants. He was a little earlier than usual. He opened that door,took two steps into the room, and stood arrested, motionless. With hisshabby hat on his head, his shabby greatcoat on his back--for hegrudged every penny spent on his clothes--his arms hanging down by hissides, and his knees bent, ready to tremble, he looked not a littleout of keeping in the soft-lighted, dainty, delicate-hueddrawing-room. Could he believe his eyes? The light of a large lamp wascentred upon a gracious figure in white--his wife, just as he used tosee her before he married her! That was the way her hair would breakloose as she ran down the stair to meet him!--only then there was nobaby in her lap for it to full over like a torrent of unlighted waterover a white stone! It was a lovely sight.
He had stood but a moment when she looked up and saw him. She started,but gave no cry louder than a little moan. Instantly she rose.Turning, she laid the baby on the sofa, and flitted to him like awraith. Arrived where he stood yet motionless, she fell upon her kneesand clasped his. He was far too bewildered now to ask himself whathusbands did in such circumstances, and
stood like a block.
"Husband! husband!" she cried, "forgive me." With one hand she hid herface, although it was bent to the ground, and with the other held upto him a bit of paper. He took it from the thin white fingers; itmight explain something--help him out of this bewilderment, halfnightmare, half heavenly vision. He opened it. Nothing but ahundred-pound note! The familiar sight of bank paper, however, seemedto restore his speech.
"What does this mean, Lucy? Upon my word! Permit me to say--"
He was growing angry.
"It is to pay the butcher," she said, with a faltering voice.
"Damn the butcher!" he cried. "I hope you've got something else to sayto me! Where have you been all this time?"
"At my mother's. I've had a brain fever, and been out of my mind. Itwas all about the butcher's bill."
Dempster stared. Perhaps he could not understand how a woman who wouldnot keep accounts should be to such a degree troubled at the result ofher neglect.
"Look at me, if you don't believe me," she cried, and as she spoke sherose and lifted her face to his.
He gazed at it for a moment--pale, thin, and worn; and out of it shonethe beautiful eyes, larger than before, but shimmering uncertain likethe stars of a humid night, although they looked straight into his.
Something queer was suddenly the matter with his throat--somethinghe had never felt before--a constriction such as, had he beensuperstitious, he might have taken for the prologue to a rope. Thenthe thought came--what a brute he must be that his wife should havebeen afraid to tell him her trouble! Thereupon he tried to speak, buthis throat was irresponsive to his will. Eve's apple kept sliding upand down in it, and would not let the words out. He had never been soserved by members of his own body in his life before! It was positiverebellion, and would get him into trouble with his wife. There it was!Didn't he say so?
"Can't you forgive me, Mr. Dempster?" she said, and the voice was sosweet and so sad! "It is my own money. Aunt Lucy is dead, and left itme. I think it will be enough to pay all my debts; and I promiseyou--I do promise you that I will set down every halfpenny after this.Do try me once again--for baby's sake."
This last was a sudden thought. She turned and ran to the sofa.Dempster stood where he was, fighting the strange uncomfortablefeeling in his throat. It would not yield a jot. Was he going to diesuddenly of choking? Was it a judgment upon him? Diphtheria, perhaps!It was much about in the City!
She was back, and holding up to him their sleeping child.
The poor fellow was not half the brute he looked--only he could _not_tell what to do with that confounded lump in his throat! He dared nottry to speak, for it only choked him the more. He put his arms roundthem both, and pressed them to his bosom. Then, the lump in his throatmelted and ran out at his eyes, and all doubt vanished like a mistbefore the sun. But he never knew that he had wept. His wife did, andthat was enough.
The next morning, for the first time in his life, he lost the eighto'clock omnibus.
The following Monday morning she brought her week's account to him. Heturned from it testily, but she insisted on his going over it. Therewas not the mistake of a halfpenny. He went to town with a smile inhis heart, and that night brought her home a cheque for ten poundsinstead of five.
One day, in the middle of the same week, he came upon her sitting overthe little blue-and-red-ruled book with a troubled countenance. Shetook no notice of his entrance.
"Do leave those accounts," he said, "and attend to me."
She shook her head impatiently, and made him no other answer. Onemoment more, however, and she started up, threw her arms about hisneck, and cried triumphantly,
"It's buttons!--fourpence-halfpenny I paid for buttons!"