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

by Mrs. Oliphant

  CHAPTER IX.

  The life which Helen Drummond lived during this winter would be veryhard to describe. Something wrong had happened, she saw, on that rapidvisit to town which Robert had made on Academical business in October,leaving her at Southlees. No anxiety about business matters connectedwith the bank had ever been suggested to her mind. She had long agoaccepted, as a matter of course, the fact that wealth was to come fromthat source, with an ease and regularity very different from thetoilsome and slow bread-winning which was done by means of art. She wasnot surprised by it as Robert was; and enough of the _bourgeois_breeding was left in her to make her pleased that her husband should seethe difference between the possibilities of his profession and of thecommerce which she had been wont to hear lauded in her youth. She wasalmost proud that Trade had done so much for him. Trade came from herside, it was she who had the hereditary connection with it; and theinnate idealism of her mind was able to cling to the old-fashionedfanciful conception of beneficent commerce, such as we have all heard ofin our educational days. But her pride was not sensitive on this point.What really touched her was the praise or the blame which fell upon himas a painter, and the dread that instantly sprang into her mind was thathe had met with something painful to him in this respect--that hisopinion had not been received as of weight in the deliberations of theAcademy, or his works been spoken of with less respect than they oughtto have secured. This was the foolish fancy that took hold of her mind.She questioned him about the Academy meeting till poor Robert--histhoughts occupied about things so very different--grew sick of thesubject. Yet he was almost glad of some subject on which to vent alittle of his excitement. Yes, they were a set of old fogies, he said,with audacious freedom. They pottered about things they did notunderstand. They puzzled and hesitated over that Rembrandt, which anyone with half an eye could see had been worked at by some inferiorhand. They threw cold water upon that loveliest Francia which nobodycould see without recognising. They did what they ought not to do, andneglected what was their duty. 'We all do that every day of our lives,'said Helen; 'but what was there that specially vexed you, Robert?''Nothing,' he said, looking up at her with eyes full of astonishment;but there was more than astonishment in them. There was pain, dread,anxiety--a wistful, restless look of suffering. He will not tell me: hewill keep it to himself and suffer by himself, not to vex me, Helen saidin her own thoughts. And though the autumn was lovely, Robert could notbe happy at Southlees that year. He had been very happy the two previoussummers. The house was situated on the Thames beyond Teddington. It wasrustic and old, with various additions built to it; a red-brick house,grown over with all manner of lichens, irregular in form and harmoniouswith its position, a house which had grown--which had not beenartificially made. The family had lived on the lawn, or on the river, inthose halcyon days that were past. There was a fringe of trees at everyside except that, shutting in the painter's retirement; but on the riverside nothing but a few bright flower-beds, and the green velvet lawn,sloping towards the softly flowing water. One long-leaved willow droopedover the stone steps at which the boat was lying. It was a place where apair of lovers might have spent their honeymoon, or where the weary andsick might have come to get healing. It was not out of character eitherwith the joy or the grief. Nature was so sweet, so silent, so meditativeand calm. The river ran softly, brooding over its own low liquid gurgle.The stately swans sailed up and down. The little fishes darted about inthe clear water, and myriads of flying atoms, nameless insectexistences, fluttered above. Boating parties going down the stream wouldpause, with a sigh of gentle envy, to look at the group upon the lawn;the table with books and work on it, with sometimes a small easel besideit or big drawing pad supported on a stand; a low chair with Helen's redshawl thrown over it, and Norah, with her red ribbons, nestled on thesunny turf. They sat there, and worked, and talked, or were silent, withan expansion of their hearts towards everything that breathed and moved;or they spent long days on the river, catching the morning lights uponthose nooks which are only known to dwellers on the stream; or pursuingwater-lilies through all the golden afternoon in the back-waters whichthese retired flowers love. The river was their life, and carried themalong, day after day. Such a scene could not but be sweet to every loverof nature; but it is doubly sweet when the dumb poetic imagination hasby its side that eye of art which sees everything. The painter is abetter companion even than the poet--just as seeing is better thansaying that you see. Robert was not a genius in art; but he had theartist's animated, all-perceiving eye. Nothing escaped him--he saw ahundred beautiful things which would have been imperceptible to ordinarymen--a dew-drop on a blade of grass at his feet charmed him as much as arainbow--his 'Look, Helen!' was more than volumes of descriptive poetry.They were out and about at all times, 'watching the lights,' as he saidin his pleasant professional jargon: in the early mornings, when all wassilvery softness and clearness, and the birds were trying over theirchoicest trills before men woke to hear; in the evening when twilightcame gently on, insinuating her filmy impenetrable veil between them andthe sunset; and even at full noon, when day is languid at the height ofperfection, knowing that perfectness is brother to decadence. Thepainter and his wife lived in the middle of all these changes, and tookthem in, every one, to the firmament in their hearts.

  Why do we stop in this record of trouble to babble about sunset skiesand running waters? Is it not natural? The 'sound as of a hidden brookin the leafy month of June' comes in, by right, among all weird,mysterious harmonies of every tragical fate. 'The oaten pipe andpastoral reed' have their share even in the hurly-burly of cities andnoisy discord of modern existence. Robert Drummond had his good thingsas well as his evil things. For these two summers never man had beenmore happy--and it is but few who can say so much. His wife was happywith him, her old ghosts exorcised, and a new light suffusing her life.It seemed a new life altogether, a life without discontents, full ofhappiness, and tranquillity, and hope.

  But this autumn Robert was not happy at Southlees. He could not staythere peaceably as he had done before. He had to go to town 'onbusiness,' he said, sometimes twice a week. He took no pleasure in hisold delights. Though he could not help seeing still, his 'Look, Helen!'was no longer said in a tone of enthusiasm; and when he had uttered thefamiliar exclamation he would turn away and sigh. Sometimes she foundhim with his face hidden in his hands, and pressed against the warmgreensward. It was as if he were knocking for admission at the gates ofthe grave, Helen thought, in that fancifulness which comes of fear asmuch as of hope. When she questioned him he would deny everything, andwork with pretended gaiety. Every time he went to town it seemed to herthat five years additional of line and cloud had been added to the lineson his forehead. His hair began to get grey; perhaps that was no wonder,for he was forty, a pilgrim already in the sober paths of middle age,but Helen was nearly ten years younger, and this sign of advancing yearsseemed unnatural to her. Besides, he was a young man in his heart, a manwho would be always young; yet he was growing old before his time. Butnotwithstanding his want of enjoyment in it he was reluctant that hiswife should leave Southlees sooner than usual. He would go into townhimself, he declared. He would do well enough--what did it matter for afew weeks? 'For the sake of business it is better that I should go--butthe winter is long enough if you come in the end of the month. No,Helen, take the good of it as long as you can--this year.'

  'What good shall I get of it alone, and how can I let you live forweeks by yourself?' said Helen. 'You may think it is fine to beindependent; but you could not get on without Norah and me.'

  'No,' he said, with a shudder. 'God knows life would be a poor thingwithout Norah and you! but when it is a question of three weeks--I'll goand see my friends; I'll live a jovial bachelor life----'

  'Did you see the Haldanes,' she asked, 'when you were in town last?'

  It was the most innocent, unmeaning question; but it made him grow paleto the very lips. Did he tremble? Helen was so startled that she did noteven realise how it was he looke
d.

  'How cold the wind blows,' he said, with a shiver. 'I must have caughtcold, I suppose, last night. The Haldanes? No; I had no time.'

  'Robert, something worries you,' she said earnestly. 'Tell me what itis. Whatever it is, it will not be so heavy when you have told me. Youhave always said so--since ever we have been together.'

  'And truly, my darling,' he said. He took her hand and held it tenderly,but he did not look at her. 'I cannot tell you of worries that don'texist, can I?' he added, with an exaggerated cheerfulness. 'I have topay a little attention to business now the other men are out of town.And business bores me. I don't understand it. I am not clever at it. Butit is not worth while to call it a worry. By-and-by they will come back,and I shall be free.'

  When he said this he really believed it, not being then fully aware ofthe tormenting power of the destruction which was about to overwhelmhim. He thought the other directors would come back from their holidays,and that he himself would be able to plunge back into that abyss ofignorance which was bliss. But Helen did not believe it: not from anytrue perception of the state of affairs, but because she could notbelieve it was business at all that troubled him. Was Robert the kind ofman to be disturbed about business? He who cared nothing for it but as ameans, who liked money's worth, not money, whose mind was diametricallyopposite to all the habits and traditions of trade? She would as soonhave believed that her cousin Reginald Burton would be disturbed by acriticism or troubled to get a true balance of light and shade. No, itwas not that. It was some _real_ trouble which she did not know of,something that struck deeper than business, and was more important thananything that belonged to bank or market. Such were Helen'sthoughts,--they are the thoughts that come most natural to awoman,--that he had been betrayed into some wrong-doing or inadvertentvice--that he had been tempted, and somehow gone astray. This, becauseit was so much more terrible than anything about business, was thebugbear that haunted her. It was to save her pain, as he thought, thatpoor Robert kept his secret from her. He did as so many men do, thinkingit kindness; and thus left her with a host of horrible surmises to fightagainst, any one of which was (to her) harder than the truth. There isno way in which men, in their ignorance, inflict more harm upon womenthan this way. Helen watched in her fear and ignorance with a zealouseagerness that never lost a word, and gave exaggerated importance tomany an idle incident. She was doubly roused by her fear of thesomething coming, against which her defences would not stand, and by herabsolute uncertainty what this something was. The three weeks herhusband was in town by himself were like three years to her. Not that ashade of jealousy or doubt of his love to herself ever crossed her mind.She was too pure-minded, too proud, to be jealous. But something hadcome on him, some old trouble out of the past--some sudden horribletemptation; something, in short, which he feared to tell her. That moneycould be the cause of it, never crossed her thoughts.

  And when she went home, things were no better; the house looked bare toher--she could not tell why. It was more than a month before she foundout that the Botticelli was gone, which was the light of her husband'seyes; and that little Madonna of the Umbrian school, which he delightedto think Raphael must have had some hand in, in his youth. Thisdiscovery startled her much; but worse had come before she made sure ofthat. The absence of the pictures was bewildering, but still more so wasthe change in her husband's habits. He would get up early, breakfasthurriedly before she had come down, and go out, leaving a message withthe servants. Sometimes he went without breakfast. He avoided her,avoided the long evening talks they had loved, and even avoided her eye,lest she should read more in his face than he meant her to see. All thiswas terrible to Helen. The fears that overwhelmed her were ridiculous,no doubt; but amid the darkness and tragic gloom which surrounded her,what was she to think? Things she had read in books haunted her;fictitious visions which at this touch of personal alarm began to lookreal. She thought he might have to bribe some one who knew some earlysecret in his life, or some secret that was not his--something thatbelonged to his friends. Oh, if he would but tell her! She could bearanything--she could forgive the past, whatever it might be. She had nobitterness in her feelings towards her husband. She used to sit forhours together in his deserted studio, imagining scenes in which shefound out, or he was driven to confide to her, this mystery; scenes ofanguish, yet consolation. The studio became her favourite haunt. Was itpossible that she had once entered it with languid interest, and beensensible of nothing but disappointment when she saw him working with hisheart in his work? She would go all round it now, making her littlecomment upon every picture. She would have given everything she had inthe world to see him back there, painting those pictures with which shehad been so dissatisfied--the Francesca, which still stood on its easelunfinished; the sketches of herself which she had once been so impatientof. The Francesca still stood there behind backs; but most of the othershad been cleared away, and stood in little stacks against the walls. Theplace was so orderly that it went to her heart to see it; nothing hadbeen done, nothing disturbed, for weeks, perhaps months; the housemaidwas free to go and come as if it had been a common parlour. All this wasterribly sad to the painter's wife. The spring was coming on before shefound the two sketches which afterwards she held so dearly. Theybewildered her still more, and filled her with a thousand fears. Onerepresented a pilgrim on a hilly road, in the twilight of a springevening. Everything was soft in this picture, clear sky and twinklingstars above; a quiet rural path over the grass; but just in front of thepilgrim, and revealing his uplifted hands and horror-strickencountenance, the opening of a glowing horrible cavern--the mouth ofHell. The other was more mysterious still. It was a face full of anguishand love, with two clasped hands, looking up from the depths of a caveor well, to one blue spot of sky, one star that shone far above. Helendid not know what these sketches meant; but they made her shiver withwonder and apprehension. They were all that he had done this year.

  And then something else, of a different kind, came in to bewilder her.Robert, who avoided her, who of evenings no longer talked over hisaffairs with her, and who probably had forgotten all her wants, let thequarter-day pass without supplying her, as he was in the habit of doing.So great a host of fears and doubts were between the two, that Helen didnot remind him of his negligence. It pained her, but in a degree sodifferent. What did that matter? But time went on, and it began tomatter. She took her own little dividends, and kept silence; making whatuse of them she could to fill up the larger wants. She was as timid ofspeaking to him on this subject as if she had been a young girl. He hadnever obliged her to do so. She had been the general treasurer of thehousehold in the old days; and even in recent times, he, who was soproud of his wife, had taken care to keep her always supplied with whatshe wanted. She never had needed to go to him to ask money, and she didnot know how to begin. Thus they both went their different way;suffering, perhaps, about equally. His time seemed to himself to bespent in a feverish round of interviews with people who could supplymoney, or wildly signing his name to papers which he scarcelyunderstood--to bills which he could never dream of paying; they would bepaid somehow when the time came, or they could be renewed, or somethingwould be done, he was told. He had carried everything he could makemoney by away before this time; the title-deeds of his house, hispictures, even, and--this was done with a very heavy heart--his policiesof life insurance. Everything was gone. Events went faster as the crisisapproached, and Drummond became conscious of little more than his wife'spale face wondering at him, with questioning eyes more pathetic thanwords, and Golden's face encouraging, or trying to encourage. Betweenthe two was a wild abyss of work, of despair, of tiding over. Everyescape more hairbreadth than the last! The wild whirl growing wilder!the awful end, ruin and fell destruction, coming nearer and more near!

  It happened at length that Helen one day, in desperation, broke thesilence. She came before him when he was on his way out, and asked himto wait, in a hollow voice.

  'I don't want to trouble you,' she said, 'since you w
ill not trust me,Robert. I have been trying not to harass you more; but--I have no moneyleft--I am getting into debt--the servants want their wages. Robert--Ithought you had forgotten--perhaps----'

  He stood and looked at her for a moment, with his hat in his hand,ready to go out. How pale he was! How the lines had contracted in hisface! He looked at her, trying to be calm. And then, as he stood,suddenly burst, without warning, into momentary terrible tears, of apassion she could not understand.

  'Robert! oh, what is the matter?' she cried, throwing her arms roundhim. He put his head down on her shoulder, and held her fast, andregained control over himself, holding her to him as if she had beensomething healing. In her great wonder and pity she raised his head withher hands, and gazed wistfully into his face through her tears. 'Is itmoney?' she cried, with a great load taken off her heart. 'Oh, Robert,tell me! Is that all?'

  'All!' he said: 'my God!' and then kissed her passionately, and put heraway from him. 'To-morrow,' he said hoarsely, 'perhaps--I hope--I willtell you everything to-morrow.' He did not venture to look at her again.He went out straight, without turning to the right or left. 'The endmust be near now,' he said to himself audibly, as he went out like ablind man. To-morrow! Would to-morrow ever come? 'The end must be nearnow.'

  The end was nearer than he thought. When he reached the bank he foundeverything in disorder. Mr Golden was not there, nor any one who couldgive information to the panic-stricken inquirers who were pouring in. Itwas said the manager had absconded. Rivers's was at an end. For thefirst ten minutes after Drummond heard the news that awaited him, it wasalmost a relief to know that the worst had come.