At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)

  CHAPTER XII.

  Helen had not remarked that postscript to her husband's letter, but DrMaurice had done so, to whom it was addressed; and while she was hidingher head and bearing the first agony of her grief without thought ofanything remaining that she might yet have to bear, many things had beengoing on in the world outside of which Helen knew nothing. Dr Mauricehad been Robert's true friend; and after that mournful morning a day andnight had passed in which he did not know how to take comfort. He had noway of expressing himself as women have. He could not weep; it evenseemed to him that to close out the cheerful light, as he was tempted todo (for the sight of all that brightness made his heart sick), wouldhave been an ostentation of sorrow, a show of sentiment which he had noright to indulge in. He could not weep, but there was something else hecould do; and that was to sift poor Robert's accusation, if there wasany truth in it; and, if there was, pursue--to he could not tell whatend--the murderers of his friend. It is the old savage way; and DrMaurice set his teeth, and found a certain relief in the thought. He laydown on the sofa in his library, and ordered his servant to close hisdoors to all the world, and tried to snatch a little sleep after thewatch of the previous night. But sleep would not come to him. Thelibrary was a large, lofty room, well furnished, and full with books. Itwas red curtained and carpeted, and the little bit of the wall which wasnot covered with book-cases was red too, red which looked dark and heavyin the May sunshine, but was very cozy in winter days. The one spot ofbrightness in the room was a picture of poor Drummond's--a youngpicture, one of those which he was painting while he courted Helen, thework of youth and love, at a time when the talent in him was calledpromise, and that which it promised was genius. This little picturecaught the doctor's eye as he lay on his sofa, resting the weary framewhich had known no rest all night. A tear came as he looked at it--atear which flowed back again to its fountain, not being permitted tofall, but which did him good all the same. 'Poor fellow! he never didbetter than that,' Dr Maurice said to himself with a sigh; and then heclosed up his eyes tight, and tried to go to sleep. Half an hour after,when he opened them again, the picture was once more the first thing hesaw. 'Better!' he said, 'he never did so well. And killed by thoseinfernal curs!' The doctor took himself off his sofa after this failure.It was of no use trying to sleep. He gathered his boots from the cornerinto which he had hurled them, and drew them on again. He thought hewould go and have a walk. And then he remarked for the first time thatthough he had taken his coat off, the rest of his dress was the same ashe had put on last night to go out to dinner. When he went to his roomto change this, the sight of himself in the glass was a wonder to him.Was that red-eyed, dishevelled man, with glittering studs in his shirt,and a head heavy with watching and grief--was that the trim andirreproachable Dr Maurice? He gave a grin of horror and fierce mockeryat himself, and then sat down in his easy-chair, and hid his face in hishands; and thus, all contorted and doubled up, went to sleep unawares.He was good for nothing that day.

  The next morning, before he could go out, Mr Burton called upon him. Hewas the man whom Dr Maurice most wanted to see. Yet he felt himself jumpas he was announced, and knew that in spite of himself his countenancehad changed. Mr Burton came in undisturbed in manner or appearance, butwith a broad black hatband on his hat--a band which his hatter hadassured him was much broader than he had any occasion for--'deep enoughfor a brother.' This gave him a certain air of solemnity, as it came inin front of him. It was 'a mark of respect' which Dr Maurice had notthought of showing; and Maurice, after poor Haldane, was, as it were,Robert's next friend.

  'I have come to speak to you about poor Drummond,' said Mr Burton,taking a chair. 'What a terrible business this has been! I met with himaccidentally that morning--the very day it happened. I do not know whenI have had such a shock!'

  'You met him on the day he took his life?'

  'The day he--died, Dr Maurice. I am his relative, his wife's nearestfriend. Why should we speak so? Let us not be the people to judge him.He died--God knows how. It is in God's hands.'

  'God knows I don't judge him,' said Dr Maurice; and there was a pause.

  'I cannot hear that any one saw him later,' said Mr Burton. 'I hear fromthe servants at St Mary's Road that he was not there. He talked verywildly, poor fellow. I almost thought--God forgive me!--that he had beendrinking. It must have been temporary insanity. It is a kind ofconsolation to reflect upon that _now_.'

  The doctor said nothing. He rustled his papers about, and playedimpatiently with the pens and paper-cutter on his table. He bore it alluntil his visitor heaved a demonstrative sigh. That he could not bear.

  'If you thought he spoke wildly, you might have looked after him alittle,' he said. 'It was enough to make any man look wild; and you, whoknew so well all about it----'

  'That is the very thing. I did not know about it. I had been out oftown, and had heard nothing. A concern I was so much interested in--bywhich I am myself a loser----'

  'Do you lose much?' said Dr Maurice, looking him in the face. It was thesame question poor Robert had asked, and it produced the same results.An uneasy flush came on the rich man's countenance.

  'We City men do not publish our losses,' he said. 'We prefer to keep theamount of them, when we can, to ourselves. You were in yourself, Ibelieve? Ah! I warned poor Drummond! I told him he knew nothing ofbusiness. He should have taken the advice of men who knew. How strangethat an ignorant, inexperienced man, quite unaware what he was doing,should be able to ruin such a vast concern!'

  'Ruin such a vast concern!' Dr Maurice repeated, stupefied.'Who?--Drummond? This is a serious moment and a strangely-chosen subjectfor a jest. I can't suppose that you take me for a fool----'

  'We have all been fools, letting him play with edge tools,' said MrBurton, almost sharply. 'Golden tells me he would never take advice.Golden says----'

  'Golden! where is he?' cried Maurice. 'The fellow who absconded? ByJove, tell me but where to lay my hands on him----'

  'Softly,' said Mr Burton, putting his hand on Maurice's arm, with an airof soothing him which made the doctor's blood boil. 'Softly, doctor. Heis to be found where he always was, at the office, making the best hecan of a terribly bad job, looking fifteen years older, poor fellow.Where are you going? Let me have my ten minutes first!'

  'I am going to get hold of him, the swindler!' cried Maurice, ringingthe bell furiously. 'John, let the brougham be brought round directly.My God! if I was not the most moderate man in existence I should saymurderer too. Golden says, forsooth! We shall see what he will saybefore a jury----'

  'My dear Dr Maurice--listen a little--take care what you are doing.Golden is as honourable a man as you or I----'

  'Speak for yourself,' said the doctor roughly. 'He has absconded--that'sthe word. It was in the papers yesterday morning; and it was the answerI myself received at the office. Golden, indeed! If you're a friend ofDrummond's, you will come with me and give that fellow into custody.This is no time for courtesy now.'

  'How glad I am I came!' said Mr Burton. 'You have not seen, then, whatis in the papers to-day? Dr Maurice, you must listen to me; this issimply madness. Golden, poor fellow, has been very nearly made thevictim of his own unsuspicious character. Don't be impatient, butlisten. When I tell you he was simply absent on Tuesday on his ownaffairs--gone down to the country, as I might have been myself, if not,alas! as I sometimes think, sent out of the way. The news of Shenken'sbankruptcy arrived that morning. Well, I don't mean to say Drummondcould have helped that; but he seized the opportunity. Heaven knows howsorry I am to suggest such a thing; it has nearly broken Golden's heart.But these are the facts; what can you make of them? Maurice, listen tome. What did he go and do _that_ for? He was still a young man; he hadhis profession. If he could have faced the world, why did he do _that_?'

  Dr Maurice replied with an oath. I can make no excuse for him. He stoodon his own hearth, with his hand clenched, and blasphemed. There aremoments in which a man must either do that, or go down upon his kneesand appeal to G
od, who now-a-days sends no lightning from heaven to killthe slayer of men's souls where he stands. The doctor saw it all as ifby a gleam of that same lightning which he invoked in vain. He saw thespider's web they had woven, the way of escape for themselves which theyhad built over the body of the man who was dead, and could not say aword in reply. But his friend could not find a word to say. Scorn,rage, stupefaction, came upon him. It was so false, so incredible in itsfalsity. He could no more have defended Robert from such an accusationthan he would have defended himself from the charge of having murderedhim. But it would be believed: the world did not know any better. Hecould not say another word--such a horror and disgust came over him,such a sickening sense of the power of falsehood, the feebleness ofmanifest, unprovable truth.

  'This is not a becoming way in which to treat such a subject,' said MrBurton, rising too. 'No subject could be more painful to me. I feelalmost as if, indirectly, I myself was to blame. It was I who introducedhim into the concern. I am a busy man, and I have a great deal on myhands, but could I have foreseen what was preparing for Rivers's, my owninterest should have gone to the wall. And that he should be my ownrelation too--my cousin's husband! Ah, poor Helen, what a mistake shemade!'

  'Have you nearly done, sir?' said the doctor fiercely.

  'I shall have done at once, if what I say is received with incivility,'said Mr Burton, with spirit. 'It was to prevent any extension of thescandal that I came here.'

  'There are some occasions upon which civility is impossible,' saidMaurice. 'I happen to know Robert Drummond; which I hope you don't, foryour own sake. And, remember, a great many people know him besides me. Imean no incivility when I say that I don't believe one word of this, MrBurton; and that is all I have to say about it. Not one word----'

  'You mean, I lie!'

  'I mean nothing of the sort. I hope you are deceived. I mean that thisfellow Golden is an atrocious scoundrel, and _he_ lies, if you will. Andhaving said that, I have not another word to say.'

  Then they both stopped short, looking at each other. A momentary doubtwas, perhaps, in Burton's mind what to say next--whether to pursue thesubject or to let it drop. But no doubt was in Maurice's. He stoodrigid, with his back to the vacant fireplace, retired within himself.'It is very warm,' he said; 'not favourable weather for walking. Can Iset you down anywhere? I see my brougham has come round.'

  'Thanks,' said the other shortly. And then he added, 'Dr Maurice, youhave taken things in a manner very different from what I expected. Ithought you would take an interest in saving our poor friend's memory asfar as we can--'

  'I take no interest in it, sir, whatever.'

  'And the feelings of his widow,' said Mr Burton. 'Well, well, very well.Friendship is such a wide word--sometimes meaning so much, sometimes solittle. I suppose I must do the best I can for poor Helen by myself, andin my own way.'

  The obdurate doctor bowed. He held fast by his formula. He had notanother word to say.

  'In that case I need not trouble you any longer,' said Mr Burton. Butwhen he was on his way to the door he paused and turned round. 'She isnot likely to be reading the papers just now,' he said, 'and I hope Imay depend on you not to let these unfortunate particulars, or anythingabout it, come to the ears of Mrs Drummond. I should like her to besaved that if possible. She will have enough to bear.'

  'I shall not tell Mrs Drummond,' said the doctor. And then the dooropened and closed, and the visitor was gone.

  The brougham stood before Dr Maurice's window for a long time thatmorning. The old coachman grumbled, broiling on the box; the horsesgrumbled, pawing with restless feet, and switching the flies off withmore and more impatient swingings of their tails. John grumbled indoors,who could not 'set things straight' until his master was out of the way.But the doctor neglected them all. Not one of all the four, horses ormen, would have changed places with him could they have seen him poringover the newspaper, which he had not cared to look at that morning, withthe wrinkles drawn together on his forehead. There was fury in his soul,that indignation beyond words, beyond self-command, with which a manperceives the rise and growth of a wrong which is beyond his settingright--a lie which he can only ineffectively contradict, struggle, orrage against, but cannot drive out of the minds of men. They had it intheir own hands to say what they would. Dr Maurice knew that during allthe past winter his friend had been drawn into the work of the bank. Hehad even cautioned Robert, though in ignorance of the extent of hisdanger. He had said, 'Don't forget that you are unaccustomed to theexcitements of business. They will hurt you, though they don't touch theothers. It is not your trade.' These words came back to his mind withthe bitterest sense of that absence of foresight which is common toman. 'If I had but known!' he said. And then he remembered, with abitter smile, his visit to Dr Bradcliffe, his request to him to see poorDrummond 'accidentally,' his dread for his friend's brain. This it waswhich had affected poor Robert, worse than disease, worse than madness;for in madness or disease there would have been no human agency toblame.

  The papers, as Burton had said, were full of this exciting story.Outside in the very streets there were great placards up with headingsin immense capitals, '_Great Bankruptcy in the City.--Suicide of a BankDirector._' The absconding of the manager, which had been the news theday before, was thrown into the background by this new fact, which wasso much more tragical and important. 'The latest information' was givenby some in a Second Edition, so widespread was the commotion produced bythe catastrophe; and even those of the public who did not care much forRivers's, cared for the exciting tale, or for the fate of the unhappyprofessional man who had rashly involved himself in business, and ruinednot only himself, but so many more. The story was so dramaticallycomplete that public opinion decided upon it at once. It did not evenwant the grieved, indignant letter which Mr Golden, injured man, wroteto the _Times_, begging that the report against him should becontradicted. This letter was printed in large type, and its tone wasadmirable. 'I will not prejudge any man, more especially one whosepremature end has thrown a cloud of horror over the unfortunate businesstransactions of the bank with which I have had the honour of beingconnected for fifteen years,' Mr Golden wrote, 'but I cannot permit mytemporary, innocent, and much-regretted absence to be construed into anevidence that I had deserted my post. With the help of Providence, Iwill never desert it, so long as I can entertain the hope of saving fromthe wreck a shilling of the shareholders' money.' It was a very goodletter, very creditable to Mr Golden; and everybody had read it, andaccepted it as gospel, before Dr Maurice got his hand upon it. In the_Daily Semaphore_, which the doctor did not see, there was already anarticle on the subject, very eloquent and slightly discursive, insistingstrongly upon the wickedness and folly of men who without capital, oreven knowledge of business, thus ventured to play with the veryexistence of thousands of people. 'Could the unfortunate man who hashidden his shame in a watery grave look up this morning from that turbidbed and see the many homes which he has filled with desolation, who candoubt that the worst and deepest hell fabled by the great Italian poetwould lose something of its intensity in comparison?--the ineffectualfires would pale; a deeper and a more terrible doom would be that oflooking on at all the misery--all the ruined households and brokenhearts which cry out to-day over all England for justice on theirdestroyer.' Fortunately Dr Maurice did not read this article; but he didread the _Times_ and its editorial comments. 'There can be littledoubt,' that journal said, 'that the accidental absence of Mr Golden,the manager, whose letter explaining all the circumstances will be foundin another column, determined Drummond to his final movement. It lefthim time to secure the falsified books, and remove all evidence of hisguilt. It is not for us to explain by what caprice of despair, aftertaking all this trouble, the unhappy man should have been driven toself-destruction. The workings of a mind in such an unnatural conditionare too mysterious to be discussed here. Perhaps he felt that when allwas done, death was the only complete exemption from those penaltieswhich follow the evil-doer on this earth. We c
an only record the fact;we cannot explain the cause. The manager and the remaining directors,hastily summoned to meet the emergency, have been labouring ever since,we understand, with the help of a well-known accountant, to make up theaccounts of the company, as well as that can be done in the absence ofthe books which there is every reason to suppose were abstracted byDrummond before he left the office. It has been suggested that the rivershould be dragged for them as well as for the body of the unhappy man,which up to this time has not been recovered. But we doubt much whether,even should such a work be successful, the books would be legible afteran immersion even of two or three days. We believe that no one, even thepersons most concerned, are yet able to form an estimate of the numberof persons to whom this lamentable occurrence will be ruin.'

  Dr Maurice put down the paper with a gleam in his face of that awful andheart-rending rage which indignation is apt to rise into when it feelsitself most impotent. What could he do to stop such a slander? He couldcontradict it; he could say, 'I know Robert Drummond; he was utterlyincapable of this baseness.' Alas! who was he that the world should takehis word for it? He might bring a counter-charge against Golden; hemight accuse him of abstracting the books, and being the author of allthe mischief; but what proof had he to substantiate his accusation? Hehad no evidence--not a hair's-breadth. He could not prove, though hebelieved, that this was all a scheme suggested to the plotters, if therewere more than one, or to Golden himself, if he were alone in hisvillany, by the unlooked-for chance of Drummond's suicide. This was whathe believed. All the more for the horrible _vraisemblance_ of the story,could he see the steps by which it had been put together. Golden hadabsconded, taking with him everything that was damning in the way ofbooks. He had lain hidden somewhere near at hand waiting an opportunityto get away. He had heard of poor Drummond's death, and an opportunityof a different kind, a devilish yet brilliantly successful way ofescape, had suddenly appeared for him. All this burst upon Dr Maurice asby a revelation while he sat with those papers before him gnawing hisnails and clutching the leading journal as if it had been Golden'sthroat. He saw it all. It came out before him like a design inphosphorus, twinkling and glowing through the darkness. He was sure ofit; but--what to do?

  This man had a touch in him of the antique friendship--the bond forwhich men have encountered all odds and dared death, and been happy intheir sacrifice. But even disinterestedness, even devotion, do not givea man the mental power to meet such foes, or to frame a plan by which tobring them to confusion. He grew himself confused with the thought. Hecould not make out what to do first--how he should begin. He hadforgotten how the hours went--what time of the day it was--while hepondered these subjects. The fire in his veins, instead of acting as asimple stimulant, acted upon him like intoxication. His brain reeledunder the pressure. 'Will you have lunch, sir, before you go out?' saidJohn, with restrained wrath, but a pretence of stateliness. 'Lunch!--howdare you come into my room, sir, before I ring!' cried his master,waking up and looking at him with what seemed to John murderous eyes.And then he sprang up, tore the papers into little pieces, crammed theminto the fireplace, and, seizing his hat, rushed out to the carriage.The coachman was nodding softly on the box. The heat, and the stillness,and the monotony had triumphed even over the propriety of a man who knewall London, he was fond of saying, as well as he knew his own hands. Thecoachman almost dropped from his box when Maurice, throwing the door ofthe little carriage open, startled him suddenly from his slumber. Thehorses, which were half asleep too, woke also with much jarring ofharness and prancing of hoof and head.

  'To the _Times_ office,' was what the doctor said. He could not go andclutch that villain by the throat, though that might be the best way. Itwas another kind of lion which he was about to beard in his den.