CHAPTER VII.
Meanwhile the great case of Rivers's bank came before the law courts andthe public. It was important enough--for there was no war in thosedays--to be announced in big capitals on the placards of all thenewspapers. _The Great Bank Case_--_Arrest of the Directors_--_StrangeDisclosures in the City_--were the headings in the bills, repeated fromday to day, and from week to week, as the case went on. It was of coursedoubly attractive from the fact that it was founded upon a tragedy, andthat every writer in the papers who referred to it at all was at libertyto bring in a discussion of the motives and intentions of 'the unhappyman' who had introduced 'a watery grave' into the question. A waterygrave may not be pleasant for the occupant of it, but it is a very finething for the press. The number of times it appeared in the publicprints at this period defies reckoning. In some offices the words werekept permanently in type. The _Daily Semaphore_ was never tired ofdiscussing what the feelings of the wretched man must have been when hestole down to the river just as all the world was going to rest, andplunged himself and his shame, and the books of the company, under theturbid waters. The _Daily Semaphore_ held this view of the matter verystrongly, and people said that Mr Golden belonged to the same club asits editor, and that the two were intimate, which of course was aperfectly natural reason for its partisanship. Other journals, however,held different opinions. The weekly reviews, less addicted to finewriting, leaned to the side of the unfortunate painter. Theiranimadversions were chiefly upon the folly of a man interfering withbusiness who knew nothing about it. When would it come to be understood,they said, that every profession required a training for itself, andthat to dabble in the stocks without knowing how, was as bad, or atleast as foolish, and more ruinous than to dabble in paint withoutknowing how. There was a great deal about the sutor, who should stick tohis last, in these discussions of the subject; but, except in thisparticular, neither the _Sword_ nor the _Looker-on_ had a stone to throwat poor Drummond. Peace to his ashes, they said, he was a good painter.'During his lifetime we thought it our duty to point out theimperfections which lessened the effect of his generally mostconscientious and meritorious work. It is the vocation of a critic, andhappy is he who can say he has never exceeded the legitimate bounds ofcriticism, never given utterance to a hasty word, or inflictedunnecessary pain. Certain we are, for our own part, that our aim hasalways been to temper judgment with charity; and now that a gap has beenmade in so melancholy a manner in the ranks of the Academy, we mayventure to say that no man better deserved his elevation to the firstrank of his profession than Robert Drummond; no man we have ever knownworked harder, or threw himself more entirely into his work. His feelingfor art was always perfect. Now and then he might fail to express withsufficient force the idea he intended to illustrate; but for harmony ofconception, true sense of beauty, and tender appreciation of Englishsentiment and atmosphere, he has been surpassed by no painter of ourmodern school. We understand that an exhibition of his collected worksis in contemplation, a plan which has been lately adopted with greatsuccess in so many cases. We do not doubt that a great many of ourreaders will avail themselves at once of the opportunity of forming acomprehensive judgment of the productions of a most meritorious artist,as well as of paying their tribute of sympathy to the, we firmly believeundeserved, misfortunes of an honest and honourable man.'
It was thus the _Looker-on_ expressed its sentiments. The _Sword_ didnot attempt to take up the same tone of melancholy superiority andnoble-mindedness--qualities not in its way; but it made its stand afterits own fashion against the ruthless judgments of the public. 'No onecan respect the British public more than we do,' said that organ of thehigher intellect; 'its instincts are so unerring, and its good taste sounimpeachable, that, as a matter of course, we all bow to a decisionmore infallible than that of the Holiest Father that ever sat in PapalSee. But after we have rendered this enlightened homage, and torn ourvictim to pieces, an occasional compunction will make itself audiblewithin the most experienced bosom. After all, there is such a thing asprobability to be taken into account. Truth, as we all know, is strangerthan fiction; but yet the cases are so few in which fact outrages everylikelihood that we are justified in looking very closely into thematter before we give an authoritative assent. So far as our personalknowledge goes, we should say that a painter is as much afraid of themoney market as a woman is (or rather used to be) of a revolver, andthat the dramatic completeness of the finale which the lively commercialimagination has accepted as that of poor Drummond, quite surpasses thehomelier and milder invention of the daughters of art. A dramaticauthor, imbued with the true modern spirit of his art, might indeed findan irresistible attraction in the "situation" of the drowning director,tossing the books of a joint-stock company before him into the abyss,and sardonically going down into Hades with the proofs of his guilt. Butthough the situation is fine, we doubt if even the dramatist wouldpersonally avail himself of it, for dramatists have a way of being tameand respectable like their neighbours. In our days your only emulator ofthe piratical and highway heroes of the past is the commercial man _pursang_, who has not an idea in his head unconnected with business. It ishe who convulses society with those witticisms and clevernesses ofswindling which charm everybody; and it is he who gives us now and thenthe example of such a tragical conclusion as used to belong only topoetry. It is no longer the Bohemian, it is the Philistine, smug, clean,decorous, sometimes pious, who is the criminal of the nineteenthcentury.'
This article made a great sensation in many circles. There were peoplewho thought it was almost a personal libel, and that Golden would bejustified in 'taking steps' against the paper, for who could that smug,clean, decorous Philistine be but he? But the manager was betteradvised. He was the hero of the day to all readers and writers. He waskept under examination for a whole week, badgered by counsel, snubbed bythe judge, stared at by an audience which was not generally favourable;but yet he held his own. He was courageous, if nothing else. All thatcould be done to him in the way of cross-examination never made himfalter in his story. Other pieces of information damaging to hischaracter were produced by the researches of the attorneys. It was foundthat the fate of all the speculations in which he had been involved wassuspiciously similar, and that notwithstanding those business talentswhich everybody allowed to be of the highest order, ruin and bankruptcyhad followed at his heels wherever he went. The counsel for theprosecution paid him unbounded compliments on his ability, mingled withsarcastic condolence on this strange and unfailing current ofmisfortune. He led the witness into a survey of his past life withdeadly accuracy and distinctness, damning him before all the world, ashistory only can damn. 'It is unfortunate that this should have happenedto you again after your previous disappointments,' he said. 'Yes, it wasunfortunate,' said the unhappy man. But he held such head against thetorrent of facts thus brought up, that the sympathy of many people ranstrongly in his favour for the moment. 'Hang it all! which of us couldstand this turn-up of everything that ever happened to him?' some said.Golden confronted it all with the audacity of a man who knew everythingthat could be said against him; and he held steadily by his story. Headmitted that Drummond had done nothing in the business, and indeed knewnext to nothing about it until that day in autumn, when, in the absenceof all other officials, he had himself had recourse to him. 'But themore inexperienced a man may be, the more impetuous he is--in business;when once he begins,' said the manager. And that there was truth inthis, nobody could deny. But gradually as the trial went on, certainmists cleared off and other mists descended. The story about poorDrummond and the books waned from the popular mind; it was dropped outof the leading articles in the _Semaphore_. If they had not gone intothe river with the painter, where were they? Who had removed them? Werethey destroyed, or only hidden somewhere, to be found by the miraculousenergy of the police? This question began to be the question whicheverybody discussed after a while; for by this time, though proof was asfar off as ever, and nobody knew who was the guilty party, there hadalready fallen
a certain silence, a something like respect, over that'watery grave.'
And something more followed, which Helen Drummond scarcely understood,and which was never conveyed in words to the readers of thenewspapers--a subtle, unexpressed sentiment, which had no evidence toback it but only that strange thrill of certainty which moves men'sminds in spite of themselves. 'I would just like to know what stateRivers's was in before it became a joint-stock company,' was the mostdistinct expression of opinion any one was guilty of in public; and thepersons to whom this speech was addressed would shake their heads inreply. The consequence was one which nobody could have distinctlyaccounted for, and which no one ventured to speak of plainly. Asomething, a breath, a mist, an intangible shadow, gathered over thenames of the former partners who had managed the whole business, andtransferred it to the new company. These were Mr Burton and another, whohas nothing to do with this history. In what condition had they handedit over? What induced them to dispose of such a flourishing business?And why was it that both had got so easily out of it with less loss thanmany a private shareholder? These were very curious questions, and tookan immense hold on the public mind, though they were not discussed inthe newspapers; for there are many things which move the public minddeeply, which it would not answer to put in the newspapers. As for LordRivers, he was a heavy loser, and nobody suspected for a moment that heknew anything about it. The City men were sorry for him as a victim; butround the names of Mr Burton and his colleague there grew thatindefinable shadow. Not a word could be said openly against them; buteverybody thought the more. They were flourishing, men in greatbusiness--keeping up great houses, wearing all the appearance ofprosperity. No righteous critic turned his back upon them. At kirk andat market they were as much applauded, as warmly received, to alloutward appearance, as ever. But a cold breath of distrust had comeround them, like an atmosphere. The first prick of the canker had cometo this flower.
This was the unrecorded, undisclosed result of the inquiry, with whichHelen Drummond, and the Haldanes, and all uninstructed, were so deeplydissatisfied. It had ended in nothing, they said. The managers anddirectors were acquitted, there being no proof against them. Noauthoritative contradiction had been or could be given to the theory ofRobert Drummond's guilt. The _Semaphore_ was still free to produce that'watery grave' any time it was in want of a phrase to round a paragraph.Their hearts had been wrung with the details of the terrible story allover again, and--nothing had come of it. 'I told you it would be so,' MrBurton said, who knew so much better. 'It would have been much moresensible had you persuaded Maurice to leave it alone.' But Maurice had adifferent tale to tell when he came to make his report to his anxiousclients. He bewildered them with the air of triumph he put on. 'Butnothing is proved,' said Helen sadly. 'No, nothing is proved,' he said;'but everything is imputed.' She shook her head, and went to her room,and knelt down before the Dives, and offered up to it, meaning no harm,what a devout Catholic would call an _acte de reparation_--an offeringof mournful love and indignation--and, giving that, would not becomforted. 'They cannot understand you, but I understand you, Robert,'she said, in that agony of compunction and tenderness with which a truewoman tries to make up to the dead for the neglect and coldness of theliving. This was how Helen, in her ignorance, looked upon it. ButStephen Haldane understood better when he heard the tale. Golden, atleast, would never hold up his head again--or, at least, if ever, notfor long years, till the story had died out of men's minds. And thereputation of the others had gone down as by a breath. No one could tellwhat it was; but it existed--the first shadow, the beginning ofsuspicion. 'I am satisfied,' Dr Maurice said, with a stern smile oftriumph. The man had thrown himself entirely into the conflict, and tookpleasure in that sweet savour of revenge.
'But Mrs Drummond?' said Stephen, whose mind was moved by softerthoughts.
'That woman cannot understand,' said Dr Maurice. 'Oh, I don't mean anyslight to your goddess, your heroine. I may say she is not my heroine,I suppose? She can't understand. Why, Drummond is clear with everybodywhose opinion is worth having. We have proved nothing, of course. I knewwe could prove nothing. But he is as clear as you or I--with all peoplewho are worth caring for. She expected me to bring her a diploma, Isuppose, under the Queen's hand and seal.'
'I did not expect that,' said Haldane; 'but I did look for somethingmore definite, I allow.'
'More definite! It is a little hard to deal with people so exigent,'said Dr Maurice, discomfited in the midst of his enthusiasm. 'Did yousee that article in the _Looker-on_? The Drummond exhibition is justabout to open; and that, I am confident, will be an answer in full. Ibelieve the public will take that opportunity of proving what theythink.'
And so far Maurice turned out to be right. The public did show itsenthusiasm--for two days. The first was a private view, and everybodywent. The rooms were crowded, and there were notices in all the papers.The next day there was also a very fair attendance; and then thedemonstration on the part of the public stopped. Poor Drummond was dead.He had been a good but not a great painter. His story had occupiedquite as much attention as the world had to give him--perhaps more. Heand his concerns--his bankruptcy, his suicide, and his pictures--hadbecome a bore. Society wanted to hear no more of him. The exhibitioncontinued open for several weeks, not producing nearly enough to pay itsexpenses, and then it was closed; and Drummond's story came to an end,and was heard of no more.
This is the one thing which excited people, wound up to a high pitch bypersonal misfortune or suffering, so seldom understand. They areprepared to encounter scurrility, opposition, even the hatred or theenmity of others; but they are not prepared for the certain fact thatone time or other, most likely very soon, the world will get tired ofthem; it is their worst danger. This was what happened now to theDrummonds; but fortunately at Dura, in the depths of the silent country,it was but imperfectly that Helen knew. She was not aware how generallypublic opinion acquitted her husband, which was hard; and she did notknow that the world was tired of him, which was well for her. He wasdone with, and put aside like a tale that is told; but she still went onplanning in her own mind a wider vindication for him, an acquittalwhich this time it should be impossible to gainsay.
And quietness fell upon them, and the months began to flow on, and thenthe years, with no incident to disturb the calm. When all the excitementof the trial was over, and everything done that could be done, then thecalm reign of routine began. There were times, no doubt, in which Helenchafed and fretted at it; but yet routine is a great support and comfortto the worn and weary. It supplies a kind of dull motive to keep lifegoing when no greater motives exist. The day commenced always withNorah's lessons. Helen was not an intellectual woman, nor did she feelherself consciously the better for such education as she had herselfreceived; but such as she had received she transmitted conscientiouslyto Norah. She heard her read every morning a little English and a littleFrench. She made her write a succession of copies, and do exercises inthe latter language, and she gave her an hour's music. I fear none ofthis was done with very much spirit; but yet it was done conscientiouslyevery morning of their lives except Sunday, when they went to church.She did it because it was right, because it was necessary, and her duty;but not with any strong sense of the elevated character of heremployment, or expectation of any vast results from it. It had notproduced very great results in herself. Her mind had worked busilyenough all her life, but she did not believe that her music, or herFrench, or anything else she had learnt, had done her much good.Therefore she proceeded very calmly, almost coldly, with the sameprocess, with Norah. It was necessary--it had to be done just asvaccination had to be done when the child was a baby; that was aboutall.
Then after the lessons they had their homely dinner, which Susan did notalways cook to perfection; and then they took their walk; and in theevening there were lessons to be learned and needlework to do. When thechild went to bed, her mother read--not anything to improve her mind.She was not bent upon improvement, unfortunately; indeed, it did notoccur to
her. She read, for the most part, novels from the circulatinglibrary. The reader, perhaps, is doing the same thing at this moment,and yet, most likely, he will condemn, or even despise, poor Helen. Shehad one or two books besides, books of poetry, though she was notpoetically disposed in any way. She had 'In Memoriam' by her, which shedid not read (does any one who has ever lived in the valley of theshadow of death _read_ 'In Memoriam?'), but pored over night and day,thinking in it, scarcely knowing that her own mind had not spoken firstin these words. And then there was Mr Browning's poem of 'Andrea,' thepainter who had a wife. Helen would sit over her fire and watch it dyingout at her feet, and ponder on Andrea's fate--wondering whether,perhaps, a woman might do badly for her husband, and yet be a spotlesswoman, no Lucrezia; whether she might sap the strength out of him withgentle words, and even while she loved him do him harm? Out of such aquestion as this she was glad to escape to her novel, the first thatmight come to hand.
And so many people in Helen's state of mind read novels--people who flyinto the world of fiction as a frightened child flies into a lightedroom, to escape the ghosts that are in the dark passages and echoingchambers--that it is strange so little provision is made for them, andthat the love-story keeps uppermost in spite of all. Yet perhaps thelove-story is the safest. The world-worn sufferer is often glad toforget all that reminds him of his own trouble, and even when he is nottouched by the fond afflictions of the young people, finds a littlepleasure in smiling at them in the exuberance of their misery. Theythink it is so terrible, poor babies, to be 'crossed in love.' The factthat they cannot have their own way is so astounding to them, somethingto rouse earth and heaven. Helen ran over a hundred tales of thisdescription with a grave face, thankful to be interested in the smallmiseries which were to her own as the water spilt from a pitcher is tothe sea. To be sure, there were a great many elevating and improvingbooks which Helen might have had if she pleased, but nobody had eversuggested to her that it was necessary she should improve her mind.
And thus the time went on, and Mrs Drummond dropped, as it were, intothe background, into the shade and quietness of life. She was stillyoung, and this decadence was premature. She felt it creeping upon her,but she took no pains to stop the process. So long as Norah was safethere was nothing beside for which she was called upon to exert herself;and thus with all her powers subdued, and the stream of life kept low,she lived on, voluntarily suppressing herself, as so many women do. Andin the mean time new combinations were preparing, new personages comingupon the scene. While the older people stood aside, the younger ones puton their singing garments, and came forward with their flowery wreaths,with the sunshine upon their heads, to perform their romance, like theothers before them. And so it happened that life had stolenimperceptibly away, so noiseless and soft that no one knew of its going,until all at once there came a day when its progress could be no longerignored. This was the day when Norah Drummond, eighteen years old, alldecked and dressed by her mother's hands, spotless and radiant as therose in her hair, with her heart full of hopes, and her eyes full oflight, and no cloud upon her from all the tragic mists through which heryouth had passed, went up the long avenue at Dura to the House which wasbrilliant with lamps and gay with music, to make her first appearance,as she thought, in the world. Norah's heart was beating, her gay spiritdancing already before she reached the door.
'Oh, I wonder, mamma, I wonder,' she said, 'what will happen? willanything happen to-night?' What could happen to her by her mother'sside, among her old friends? She did not know; she went to meet itgaily. But Norah found it impossible to believe that this firsttriumphant evening, this moment of glory and delight, could pass awaylike the other evenings; that there should not be something in it,something unknown, sweet, and yet terrible, which should affect all herlife.
At His Gates: A Novel. Vol. 2 (of 3) Page 7
