CHAPTER X.
It was a relief for ten minutes, as every catastrophe is; the terriblesuspense is cut short--the worst at least is known. But after those tenminutes are over, when the reality suddenly seizes upon thesufferer--when all the vague speechless terrors which he had pushed offfrom him, with the hope that they might never come, arrive in a flood,and place themselves in one frightful circle round him, like furies,only not merciful enough to have a Medusa among them to freeze him intostone; when every shadowy, gloomy prevision of evil which ever flashedacross his mind, to be put away with a shudder, returns with the rightof fact, to remain; when not only that thing has happened which has beenhis dread by day and the horror of his dreams, but a host of otherthings, circumstances which penetrate to every detail of his life, andaffect every creature and every thing he loves, have followed in itstrain--when all this rushes upon a man after the first tranquillisingstupor of despair, who or what is there that can console him? PoorDrummond was helpless in the midst of this great crash of ruin; he wasso helpless that the thunder-stricken shareholders and excited clerkswho had fallen upon him at first as the only authority to be found, lethim slip from among them, hopeless of any help from him. They had drivenhim wild with questions and appeals--him, a poor fellow who couldexplain nothing, who had never been of much use except to denude himselfof everything he possessed, and pledge his humble name, and be sweptinto ruin; but they soon saw the uselessness of the appeal. As soon ashe could disengage himself he stole away, drawing his hat over his eyes,feeling as if he were a criminal, with the sensation as of a hot fireburning in his heart, and buzzing and crackling in his ears. Was he acriminal? was it his doing? He was stunned by this terrible calamity;and yet, now that it had come, he felt that he had known it was coming,and everything about it, all his life. His whole existence had tended tothis point since he was a boy; he knew it, he felt it, he even seemedto remember premonitions of it, which had come to him in his dreamsfrom his earliest days. He went out into the streets in that dumbquiescent state which is so often the first consequence of a greatcalamity. He offered no remonstrance against his fate. He did not evensay to himself that it was hard. He said nothing to himself, indeed,except to croon over, like a chorus, one endless refrain, 'I knew thiswas how it would be!'
He wandered along, not knowing where he went, till he came to the river,and paused there, looking over the bridge. He did not even know whatmade him pause, until all at once the fancy jumped into his brain thatit would be best to stop there, and cut in one moment the knotted,tangled thread which it was certain no effort of his could ever unravel.He stopped, and the suggestion flashed across him (whether out of hisown mind, whether thrown at him by some mocking demon, who could tell?),and then shook his head sadly. No; it was broad day, and there would bea commotion, and he would be rescued--or if not, he, at least his body,would be rescued and carried to Helen, giving her a last associationwith him which it was insupportable to think of. No, no, he said tohimself with a shudder, not now. Just then a hand was laid upon hisshoulder; he turned round with the start of a man who feels thatnothing is impossible, that everything that is terrible has becomelikely. Had it been a policeman to arrest him for having murderedsomebody he would scarcely have been surprised. But it was not apoliceman: it was Mr Burton, fresh and clean and nicely dressed, newlycome up from the country, in his light summer clothes, the image ofprosperity, and comfort, and cleanliness, and self-satisfaction. Acertain golden atmosphere surrounded the man of wealth, like thebackground on which early painters set a saint; but there was nothingsaintly about that apparition. Poor Drummond fell back more than hewould have done had it been an arrest for murder. He gave an involuntaryglance at himself, feeling in contrast with Mr Burton, as if he mustlook to the external eye the beggar he was, as if he must be dirty,tattered, miserable, with holes in his shoes and rags at his elbows.Perhaps his woebegone, excited face startled the smooth Philistine athis side as much as if those outward signs of wretchedness had beenthere.
'Good God, what have you been doing with yourself?' he cried.
'Nothing,' said Drummond vaguely, and then by degrees his sensesreturned to him. 'If you had been in town yesterday you might havehelped us; but it does not matter. Shenken in Liverpool stopped paymentyesterday,' he went on, repeating drearily the dreary legend which hehad heard at the bank. 'And Rivers's--has stopped payment too.'
'Good God!' said Mr Burton again. It was a shock to him, as every eventis when it comes. But he was not surprised. As for Robert, it did notoccur to him to consider whether the other was surprised or not, or tobe curious how it affected him. He turned his head away and looked atthe river again. What attraction there remained for him in this worldseemed to lie there.
'Drummond,' said the merchant, looking at him with a certain alarm, 'areyou sure you know what you are saying? My God! Rivers's stopped payment!if you had said there had been an earthquake in London it would scarcelybe as bad as that.'
Robert did not make any reply. He nodded his head without looking round.What interested him was something black which kept appearing anddisappearing in the middle of the turbid muddy stream. It was like aman's head, he thought, and almost felt that he might have taken theplunge without knowing it, and that it might be himself.
'I have felt this was coming,' said Burton. 'I warned Golden you weregoing on in the wildest way. What could be expected when you fellows whoknow nothing about money would interfere? Good heavens! to think what abusiness that was; and all ruined in three years! Drummond! are you mad?Can't you turn round and speak to me? I am one of the shareholders, andI have a right to be answered how it was.'
'Shall you lose much?' said Drummond dreamily, and he turned roundwithout meaning anything and looked in his companion's face. His actionwas simply fantastical, one of those motiveless movements which the sicksoul so often makes; but it was quite unexpected by the other, who fella step back, and grew red all over, and faltered in his reply.
'Much? I--I--don't know--what you call much. Good heavens, Drummond! areyou mad? have you been drinking? Where is Golden?--he at least must knowwhat he is about!'
'Yes,' said the painter fiercely, 'Golden knows what he is about--he hasgone off, out of reach of questions--and you--oh--hound!' He gave asudden cry and made a step forward. A sudden light seemed to burst uponhim. He gazed with his dilated bloodshot eyes at the flushed countenancewhich could not face him. The attitude of the two men was such that thebystanders took note of it; two or three lingered and looked roundholding themselves in readiness to interfere. The slight figure of thepainter, his ghastly pale face and trembling hand, made him noantagonist for the burly well-to-do merchant; but English sentiment isalways on the side of the portly and respectable, and Mr Burton had anunmistakable air of fright upon his face. 'Now, Drummond!--now,Drummond!' he said, with a certain pleading tone. The painter stoodstill, feeling as if a horrible illumination had suddenly flashed uponthe man before him, and the history of their intercourse. He did in thatmoment of his despair what he could not have done with his ordinaryintelligence. He made a rapid summary of the whole and saw how it was.Had he been happy, he would have been too friendly, too charitable, tookind in his thoughts to have drawn such a conclusion. But at this momenthe had no time for anything but the terrible truth.
'I see it all,' he said. 'I see it all! It was ruined when you gave itover to us. I see it in every line of your face. Oh, hound! hounds allof you! skulking, dastardly demons, that kill a crowd of honest men tosave yourselves--your miserable selves. I see it all!'
'Drummond! I tell you you are mad!'
'Hound!' said Robert again between his clenched teeth. He stood lookingat him for a moment with his hands clenched too, and a sombre fire inhis eyes. Whether he might have been led into violence had he stoodthere a moment longer it would be impossible to say. But all the habitsof his life were against it, and his very despair restrained him. Whenhe had stood there for a second, he turned round suddenly on his heelwithout any warning, and almost knoc
king down a man who was keepingwarily behind him ready for any emergency, went away in the oppositedirection without saying a word. Burton stood still gazing after himwith a mixture of consternation and concern, and something very likehatred. But his face changed when the spectators drew round him towonder and question. 'Something wrong with that poor gentleman, I fear,sir,' said one. Mr Burton put on a look of regret, sighed deeply, puthis hand to his forehead, shook his head, murmured--'Poor fellow!'and--walked away. What could he do? He was not his brother's keeper,much less was he responsible for his cousin's husband--the paltrypainter-fellow she had preferred to _him_. What would Helen think of herbargain now? Mad or drunk, it did not matter which--a pleasant companionfor a woman. He preferred to think of this for the moment, rather thanof the other question, which was in reality so much more important.Rivers's! Thank heaven he was no money loser, no more than wasrespectable. He had seen what was coming. Even to himself, this was allthat Mr Burton said. He hurried on, however, to learn what people weresaying of it, with more anxiety in his mind than seemed necessary. Hewent to the bank itself with the air of a man going to a funeral. 'Theplace I have known so long!' he said to another mournful victim who hadappeared on the field of the lost battle, but who was not mad likeRobert. 'And to think that Golden should have betrayed your confidence!A man I have known since he was _that_ height--a man I could haveanswered for with my life!'
Meanwhile Drummond strayed on he knew not where. He went back into theCity, into the depths of those lanes and narrow streets which he hadleft so lately, losing himself in a bewildering maze of warehouse wallsand echoing traffic. Great waggons jammed him up against the side, loadsdangled over his head that would have crushed him in a moment, opencellars yawned for his unsteady feet; but he walked as safe through allthose perils as if he had borne a charmed life, though he neither lookednor cared where he was going. His meeting with Burton was forced out ofhis mind in a few minutes as if it had not been. For the moment it hadstartled him into mad excitement; but so strong was the stupor of hisdespair, that in five minutes it was as if it had never been. For hourshe kept wandering round and round the scene of his ruin, coming andgoing in a circle, as if his feet were fast and he could not escape. Ithad been morning when he left his house. It was late afternoon when hegot back. Oh why was it summer and the days so long? if only thatscorching sun would have set and darkness fallen over the place. Hestole in under cover of the lilac trees, which had grown so big andleafy, and managed to glide down the side-way to the garden and get tothe studio door, which he could open with his key. He had been doingnothing but think--think--all the time; but 'now, at least, I shallhave time to think,' he said to himself, as he threw himself down on achair close to the door--the nearest seat--it no longer mattered wherehe placed himself or how. He sat huddled up against the wall assometimes a poor model did, waiting wistfully to know if he waswanted,--some poor wretch to whom a shilling was salvation. This fancy,with a thousand others equally inappropriate, flashed across his mind ashe sat there, still with his hat pulled down on his brows in the sunnyluxurious warmth of the afternoon. The mere atmosphere, air, and sky,and sunshine would have been paradise to the artist in the poorest timehe had ever known before, but they did not affect him now. He sat therein his stupor for perhaps an hour, not even able to rouse himself so faras to shut the door of communication into the conservatory, throughwhich he heard now and then the softened stir of the household. He mighthave been restored to the sense of life and its necessities, might havebeen brought back out of the delirium of his ruin at that moment, hadany one in the house known he was there. Helen was in the drawing-room,separated from him only by that flowery passage which he had made forher, to tempt her to visit him at his work. She was writing notes,inviting some half-dozen people to dinner, as had been arranged betweenthem, but with a heavy and anxious heart, full of misgiving. She hadrisen from her writing table three or four times to go to the window andlook out for her husband, wondering why he should be so long ofcoming--while he sat so near her. Mrs Drummond's heart was very heavy.She did not understand what he said to her in the morning--could notimagine how it could be. It must be a temporary cloud, a failure of somespeculation, something unconnected with the ordinary course of life, shesaid to herself. Money!--he was not a business man--it could not bemoney. If it was only money, why that was nothing. Such was the courseof her thoughts. And she paused over her invitations, wondering was itright to give them if Robert had been losing money. But they were oldfriends whom she was inviting--only half a dozen people--and it was forhis birthday. She had just finished the last note, when Norah camedancing into the room, claiming her mother's promise to go out with her;and after another long gaze from her window, Helen made up her mind togo. It was her voice speaking to the maid which roused Robert. 'If MrDrummond comes in before I return,' he heard her say, 'tell him I shallnot be long. I am going with Miss Norah to the gardens for an hour, andthen to ask for Mr Haldane; but I shall be back by half-past six.' Heheard the message--he for whom it was intended--and rose up softly andwent to his studio window, and peeped stealthily out to watch them asthey went away. Norah came first, with a skip and gambol, and thenHelen. His wife gave a wistful look back at the house as she opened thelittle gate under the leafy dusty lilacs. Was it with some premonitionof what she should find when she came back? He hid himself so that hecould not be seen, and gazed at the two, feeling as if that moment wasall that life had yet to give him. It was his farewell look. His wifeand child disappeared, and he could hear their footsteps outside on thepavement going farther and farther away on their harmless, unimportantwalk, while he----He woke up as if it had been out of sleep or out of atrance. She would return by half-past six, and it was now approachingfive. For all he had to do there was so little, so very little time.
So he said to himself, and yet when he said it he had no clear idea whathe was going to do. He had not only to do it, whatever it was, but tomake up his mind, all in an hour and a half; and for the first fiveminutes of that little interval he was like a man dreaming, stretchingout his hands to catch any straw, trying to believe he might yet besaved. Could he leave them--those two who had just left the door--tostruggle through the rest of life by themselves? Helen was just overthirty, and her daughter nearly twelve. It was a mature age for a woman;but yet for a woman who has been protected and taken care of all herlife, how bitter a moment to be left alone!--the moment when life is atits fullest, demands most, feels most warmly, and has as yet given upnothing. Helen had had no training to teach her that happiness was nother right. She had felt it to be her right, and her whole soul rose upin rebellion against any infringement of that great necessity of being.How was she to live when all was taken from her, even the support of herhusband's arm? Robert had never known so much of his wife's characterbefore, but in this awful moment it became clear to him as by aninspiration. How was she to bear it? Credit, honour, money, living--andher husband, too, who could still work for her, shield her. He went tohis easel and uncovered the half-finished picture on it, and gazed at itwith something that was in reality a dumb appeal to the dumb canvas tohelp him. But it did not help him. On the contrary, it brought suddenlyup before him his work of the past, his imperfect successes, and Helen'skind, veiled, hidden, but unconcealable dissatisfaction. The look ofsuppressed pain in her face, the subdued tone, the soft languid praiseof some detail or accessory, the very look of her figure when she turnedaway from it, came all before him. Her habit was, when she turned away,to talk to him of other things. How clearly that oft-repeated scene camebefore him in his despair! She was dutiful, giving him her attentionconscientiously as long as was needful; but when he fell back into thefond babble of the maker, and tried to interest her in some bit ofdrapery, or effect of light, or peculiarity of grouping, she wouldlisten to him sweetly, and--change the subject as soon as possible. Itall returned to him--he remembered even the trivial little words she hadspoken, the languid air of half fatigue which would come over her.That--along with the meagrest poverty,
the hardest homely struggles fordaily bread. Could she bear to go back to it? She would lose everything,the house and all that was in it, everything that could be called hersor supposed hers. The only thing that could not be taken from her wouldbe her ?100 a year, her little fortune which was settled on her. 'Theycould live on that,' poor Drummond went on in his dreary miserablethoughts. 'They could exist, it is possible, better without me than withme. Would they be happier to have me in prison, disgraced, anddishonoured, a drag hanging about their neck--or to hear the worst atonce, to know that everything was over, that at least their pittancewould be theirs, and their peace respected? Everything would be over.Nobody could have any pretext for annoying her about it. They would besorry for her--even they would be sorry for me. My policies would go tomake up something--to clear my name a little. And they would let heralone. She could go to the country. She is so simple in her real tastes.They could live on what she has, if they were only rid of me.' A sighthat was almost a sob interrupted him in his musing. He was so worn out;and was it the grave-chill that was invading him already and making himshiver? He took the canvas on the easel and held it up to the light.'The drawing is good enough,' he said to himself, 'it is not thedrawing. She always owns that. It is--something else. And how can I tellafter this that I could even draw? I could not now, if I were to try.My hand shakes like an old man's. I might fall ill like poor Haldane!Ah, my God!' The canvas fell out of his hands upon the floor--a suddenspasm contracted his heart. Haldane! It was the first time that day thathe had thought of him. His ruin would be the ruin of his friend too--hisfriend who was helpless, sick, and yet the support of others. 'Oh, myGod, my God!' he wailed with a cry of despair.
And there was no one near to hear him, no one to defend him from himselfand from the devil, to lay hands upon him, to bid him live and hope andwork, and help them to exist whom he had helped to ruin. He was left allalone in that moment of his agony. God, to whom he had appealed, wasbeyond the clouds, beyond that which is more unfathomable than anycloud, the serene, immeasurable, impenetrable blue, and held out nohand, sent no voice of comfort. The man fell down where his work hadfallen, prone upon the ground, realising in a moment all the misery ofthe years that were to come. And it was his doing, his doing!--thoughconsciously he would have given himself to be cut to pieces, would havetoiled his life out, to make it up now to his friend,--how much more tohis wife! What passed in his mind in that awful interval is not to betold. It was the supreme struggle between life and despair, and it wasdespair that won. When he rose up his face was like the face of an oldman, haggard and furrowed with deep lines. He stood still for a moment,looking round him vaguely, and then made a little pilgrimage round theroom, looking at everything, with a motive, without a motive, who cantell? his whole faculties absorbed in the exaltation, and bewildering,sombre excitement of such a crisis as can come but once to any man. Thenhe sat down at his writing-table, and sought out some letter-paper(there were so many scraps of drawing-paper that came first to hand),and slowly wrote a few lines. He had to search for a long time before hecould find an envelope to enclose this, and his time was getting short.At last he put it up, and, after another pause, stole through theconservatory, walking stealthily like a thief, and placed the whiteenvelope on a little crimson table, where it shone conspicuous toeverybody who should enter. He did more than that; he went and bent overthe chair which Helen had pushed away when she rose from it--the chairshe always sat on--and kissed it. There was a little bright-colouredhandkerchief lying on the sofa, which was Norah's. He took that up andkissed it too, and thrust it into his breast. Did he mean to carry itwith him into the dark and silent country where he was going? God knowswhat was the thought in his mind. The pretty clock on the mantelpiecesoftly chimed the quarter as he did this, and he started like a thief.Then he took an old great-coat from the wall, an old travelling hat,which hung beside it, and went back to the studio. There was no moretime for thought. He went out, leaving the door unlocked, brushingstealthily through the lilacs. The broad daylight played all around him,revealing him to every one, showing to the world how he stole away outof his own house. He had put up the collar of his coat and drawn his hatdown over his brows to disguise himself in case he met any one he knew.Any one he knew! It was in case he met his wife, to whom he had justsaid farewell for ever, and his child, whose little kerchief he wasgoing to take with him into this dismal ruin, into the undiscoveredworld.
All this might have been changed had he met them; and they were crossingthe next street coming home, Helen growing more and more anxious as theyapproached the door. Had he been going out about some simple everydaybusiness, of course they would have met; but not now, when it mighthave saved one life from destruction and another from despair. He hadwatched for a moment to make sure they were not in sight before he wentout; and the servants had caught a glimpse of a man whom they did notrecognise hiding among the bushes, and were frightened; so, it turnedout afterwards, had various other passers-by. But Drummond saw noone--no one. The multitudes in the noisier streets upon which he emergedafter a while, were nothing to him. They pushed against him, but he didnot see them; the only two figures he could have seen were henceforwardto be invisible to him for ever.
For ever! for ever! Was it for ever? Would this crime he was about tocommit, this last act of supreme rebellion against the will of that Godto whom he seemed to have appealed in vain, would it sever him from themnot only in this world, but in the world to come? Should he have to gazeupward, like poor Dives, and see, in the far serene above him, these twowalking in glory and splendour, who were no longer his? perhapssurrounded by angels, stately figures of the blessed, without a thoughtto spare in the midst of that glory for the poor soul who perished forlove of them. Could that be true? Was it damnation as well as death hewas going to face? Was it farewell for ever, and ever, and ever?
So the awful strain ran on, buzzing in his ears, drowning for him thevoices of the crowd--for ever, for ever, for ever. Dives forlorn and faraway--and up, up high in the heavens, blazing above him, like a star--
Like that star in the soft sky of the evening which came out first andshone down direct upon him in his wretchedness. How it shone! How sheshone!--was it she?--as it grew darker drawing a silver line for himupon the face of the darkening water. Was that to be the spot? But ittook years to get dark that night. He lived and grew old while he waswaiting thus to die. At last there was gloom enough. He got a boat, androwed it out to that white glistening line, the line that looked like asilver arrow, shining where the spot was--
The boat drifted ashore that night as the tide fell. In that last act,at least, Nature helped him to be honest, poor soul!