He lay quiet a long time after that. It was a new and terrible thought, and he found it hard to adjust his mind to it. "His life"--he had always a.s.sumed that that at least was his own unforfeitable possession. He had never known the moment when eager nerve and artery and brain-cell had not leapt to obey his will. And now it seemed his whole house of life was in revolt. His will, that iron captain-general of all these servile forces, was deposed. Well, he simply would not die. If he must obey the doctor, he must. And, after all, to a man tired in brain and body this restfulness of soft pillows, this utter quietness and shaded light, was sweet. Anything was better than that horrible thrill of weakness, that loosening of each intimate joint and muscle--anything!
He turned his face from the light, and fell asleep.
Toward evening he was told that Scales insisted on seeing him. He would have seen him; but the doctor was present, and interposed his fiat. The most that the doctor would allow was that Scales should send him a written message.
The message came: "What are we to do?"
It was accompanied by no explanation, but the words were ominous. He made an effort to grasp their meaning, but it escaped him.
"Do what you will," he wrote.
Then the blind wave of stupor overwhelmed him again. Why should he trouble? It was all right--everything was all right. It was a hard thing that a man who had worked all his life couldn"t get one day"s rest. He wasn"t going to worry. Let Scales do the worrying; that was what he was paid for. Everything was all right--it must be all right ... and Scales was no fool. So he fell asleep again, and the black night settled on the city, and he heard no more the voices wailing in the darkness, "Another British defeat!"
If his eyes could have followed the clerk, he would have seen a face paler than his own, with puckered, blinking eyes, and jaw set in grim determination. As Scales drew nearer to his own house, it was as though he smoothed out his face by some magic of dissimulation.
Perhaps it was the mere spectacle of the house that turned the scale of destiny for him that night. How could he give up that house? It was the outward symbol of his social apotheosis. He had bought it but a year ago. And since then how much had he spent on it! What delighted chafferings he had had with decorators and upholsterers! There was the dining-room, all panelled in oak, with beautiful red walls, and a Turkey carpet; and the little library, with its bookcases--all mahogany; and the drawing-room, with its white stucco decorations, and its white wooden part.i.tions, which every one admired; and the billiard-room, with its French windows opening on the little lawn; why, even the servants" bedrooms were done in white and gold! There was never a completer house--every one had said so. He had never grown tired of explaining its unique conveniences to his less fortunate friends; and on Thursday afternoons, when Mrs. Scales "received," she had usually closed the function by taking her more intimate acquaintances all over her house, never even omitting the kitchens.
And he was to give this up? He was to sink back again into a "semi-detached," with iron railings and a strip of garden, and rooms with cheap wall-papers? And he was to sell his horse, which he had bought from an alderman, and get rid of that adorable victoria, in which he aired his greatness on Sat.u.r.day afternoons before envious suburban eyes--and perhaps come back again to the indignity of cheap trams and "buses? Well, not if he knew it! He knew a trick worth two of that. Masterman had told him to do as he liked; and an evil spirit whispered at his ear as he went up the steps of the house, and told him quite distinctly what it was that he must do.
Mrs. Scales met him in the hall, plump, smiling, robed in yellow satin; and somehow that yellow satin angered him like an insult. He regarded it with distinct aversion. He felt a rising wave of disgust against his wife, merely because she looked so cheerful and proud, while he endured secret tortures--she could wear yellow satin, while his mind wore c.r.a.pe. That was like women--they had nothing to do but eat and drink and dress, while their men-folk were on the rack. Talk about the fine discernment of women! Why, they hadn"t any! You might live with a woman for years, and she would never guess what you, endured and suffered. So he let his ill temper against his wife smoulder; for it is a habit common with persons of the Scales variety to treat a wife as a kind of lightning-rod, which conveniently receives the discharge of their superfluous wrath.
This wrath acc.u.mulated violence in the course of an uncomfortable dinner. The poor woman had but one theme of perennial interest--her house and her servants.
"I"ve thought of a new improvement," she began joyously. "What do you think of it? I"m going to have a little conservatory opening from the library window. The builders" men were here this afternoon, and they say it can be done quite easily, and won"t cost more than about two hundred pounds."
"Ah! that"s like you!" he retorted, with a vicious snarl. "Always planning and plotting to spend my money, aren"t you? Do you think I"m made of money? Do you think I"ve nothing to do but pay for your whims?
I"d have you know I"m master in this house! And I"ll have no builders"
men coming here when I"m out!"
"But Elisha, I thought you"d be pleased----"
"Then you"d no business to think? I won"t have you doing things without consulting me! No, I don"t want any more dinner! I"ve other things to think of besides conservatories!"
And he flung off from the table in a rage, leaving behind him tears and consternation.
"What"s the matter with father?" asked young Benjamin.
"I"m sure I don"t know," she replied.
"He"s getting mighty ill tempered."
But at that the instinctive woman"s loyalty flew to his defence.
"I expect he"s worried. Your father has so much to think of.
Sometimes I think we were happier before we had all this money."
"I don"t," grinned the son. "That"s all nonsense, mother. Money is about the only thing I know that"s worth having in this world."
With which admirable sentiment he took himself off to the billiard-room, where he remained till bed-time, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and playing a sullen game of pool. He also helped himself somewhat plentifully to whiskey, for what was the use of money if you couldn"t get all the drink you wanted with it? The creed that money was the one thing in the world best worth having had not found a conspicuous justification in Benjamin Scales. He was not an amiable youth, as we have already seen; under no circ.u.mstances could he have achieved manly virtues; but, whereas poverty might have kept him in a straight course by the mere pressure of deprivation, money had set wide for him the gateway of easy vices and destructive pleasures.
The dark night sped on; and, in the little library with the mahogany bookshelves, Scales devised his scheme. It was by no means novel; it had often been achieved before, and sometimes with success; it was simply the last throw of the commercial gambler. Dividends must be paid; and, when the entire credit of a great concern depends upon their instant payment, why not pay them out of capital? It was a risk, of course--the kind of risk which a hundred petty thieves run every day when they back horses with money stolen from their master"s till, in the firm belief that they can pay it back before suspicion is aroused.
Scales was not const.i.tutionally a brave man; he would have fled from physical peril promptly and without the least sense of shame; but one form of courage he had, the courage of the rat that fights desperately when it is at bay. He saw with terrifying vividness what stood at the end of the road he proposed to travel--a judge in a red gown, with a face of inimitable sternness, warders in blue coats with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, and the doors of a prison. Nevertheless, he resolved to take the risk.
Masterman had taken the same risk years before in that matter of the bogus cheque. And he was proud of the transaction; he had boasted of it many times; it had been the beginning of all his greatness.
Providence had removed Masterman from the area of the present crisis; and perhaps it was as well, for since his rise into notoriety he had shown himself more and more eager to obey the safe traditions of society. But, in the mind of the clerk, that early and successful piece of trickery was not forgotten, and he used it now for his own justification. Masterman, at all events, would have no right to grumble at the repet.i.tion of his own trick, but upon a far wider scale and for a greater prize.
And, besides, the risk was more apparent than real. This long run of ill luck to the British army in South Africa was something that went beyond the natural chances of the game. It must end; and, when it ended, it would be suddenly. A single sweeping victory, and the tide of prosperity would roll back. Hadn"t some pious person said that it was always darkest before the dawn? If that were true, the dawn was close at hand--it was more than probable, it was inevitable. And what a fool he would be if, after holding on to the Amalgamated through all these weeks of darkness, he let it sink just when the first gleam of gold was in the sky!
So Scales argued with himself through that long night in the solitary library. In such arguments it is inclination that supplies the final bias. When a man argues with himself upon a question of right and wrong, it is never right that wins.
And during that same long night Masterman slept peacefully, ignorant of the Tragic Angel that stooped above his pillow. If the Angel could have spoken, he would have told the story thus. "Years ago a man did wrong, and was not punished for it. He was elated by his immunity, and boasted of it. He succeeded in life, as men count success. He climbed to a place of honour, from which he saw a new world opening at his feet. Then he would have been glad to forget that early deed of wrong.
He did forget it, as far as he could. But there is a general memory in the world which forgets nothing. It goes about with a searchlight, raking over the gutters of the past, and making discoveries. This sleepless memory found the thing which he was now anxious to forget; gave it to another, who turned it round and round like a precious talisman; and, last of all, this other used the talisman both for the ruin of himself and of the man who had shown him how to use it. And this other man did not know that the talisman had lost its magic.
Still less did he suspect that it was a fatal and malignant gift. Who are we to suppose that we can divorce the present from the past? Words live, deeds live--they live eternally. We cannot lose them at will.
They are seeds which are carried far away upon the wind, but they always find some soil in which they spring up. They are dead, we say.
Thou fool, nothing is dead which man has ever said, thought, or done.
It only waits its hour, and it always springs up at last."
A month later the financial journals remarked with ardent approbation that in spite of the wide depression of trade, produced by this calamitous war, the Brick Trust had paid its full dividends. Such a circ.u.mstance reflected great credit upon the management of the Trust, especially on its president, Mr. Masterman, whose financial genius had thus received an extraordinary vindication. If the investor had ever had the least doubt of the stability of this great commercial venture, his doubts should be set at rest for ever by this remarkable achievement. They regretted to add that Mr. Masterman had been seriously ill, as the result of his indefatigable labours on behalf of the Trust. He was now, however, quite himself again, and those who had recently seen him reported him in the best of health.
This announcement created a new boom in the stock of the Trust. At the same time news came of what appeared to be the first wave of final triumph in South Africa. Bells were rung, rockets soared, and shouting mult.i.tudes filled every street. Masterman, from his rooms at Brighton, saw the pa.s.sing of the shouting crowd, and the tumult went to his head like wine.
"We are past the worst!" he cried. "I feel years younger. To-morrow I will wire for Scales, and get into harness again."
And, as he spoke, the face kindled with its old fire of vigour, his eyes flashed, and his form had its old erectness.
He also believed himself to have won another battle, and the pageant of his ambitions once more moved steadfastly before him.
XIX
THE FEAR
Another month had pa.s.sed, and Masterman was back in his office.
Outwardly he appeared little changed by his illness. The superb frame had suffered a shock, but there was no sign of vital injury. The eye was as keen as ever, the face as firm in outline, the expression of the lips as masterful.
Nevertheless, there were changes of a more subtle character which were obvious to a critical observer. He had hours of languor when he would sit with folded hands, dreamily gazing out of the window, entirely careless of business. His temper had grown fitful and capricious.
There was no longer the old steady dominance; there was swift a.s.sertion, gusty, violent energy, soon spent, and followed by periods of sullen inaction. His clerks approached him with trepidation, and often fled from him in dismay. They never knew what to expect.
Sometimes they were received with brutal and unjust reproaches for faults they had not committed, or for faults so slight that a generous mind would have disregarded them. At other times they were welcomed with familiarity, treated as equals, and perhaps invited to listen to long boastful talks which had neither purpose nor coherence. And then, for a few days, as though some obstruction in the brain were suddenly dissolved, another man would appear, firm, sagacious, capable of swift decision, a human driving force of incomparable energy--the Masterman whose marvellous efficiency was the legend of the city.
One feature of his conduct in these days was very marked--he avoided Scales. He had to meet him every day, but such intercourse as existed was approached uneasily, hurried through, and dismissed with visible relief. The truth was, that at the back of his mind lay a great fear which he dared not even formulate to himself. There was a question always on his lips which he ached to ask, yet he dared not ask it: "What was it Scales had done to save the credit of the Trust?" It appears incredible that he should not have satisfied his curiosity. A single hour of scrutiny would have put him in possession of the truth.
But it was precisely because he already guessed too accurately what that truth was, that he refused to hear it uttered. It is easy enough to walk with boldness in the dark, ghost-haunted room, if you undoubtedly believe there is no ghost. But if you do--if you have heard the rattling chain and stealthy sigh, and have felt your blood stiffen at the moving shadow--then what? The easiest plan is the child"s old game of make-believe. You will invent some fantastic reason why you should look no closer. And that is what Masterman was doing. He played at make-believe, haunted by the single terror that the ghost was real.
He would sometimes skirt the edge of the thought that was consuming him, begin a sentence boldly, and then let it trail off into a kind of hurried whisper, or turn it to another end.
"All going well?" he would begin interrogatively, as Scales entered his private room. "Ah! there are some things I wanted to talk over with you, Scales--important things, you know."
For a moment his eyes would search the crafty face of the clerk, and then he would add, "But it doesn"t matter, just now. I"m busy to-day--very busy. Another time will do."
"I"m at your service whenever you like," Scales would say, with a kind of half-defiant obsequiousness.