Mr. Sowerby then got into another cab, and had himself driven to his sister’s house. It is a remarkable thing with reference to men who are distressed for money—distressed as was now the case with Mr. Sowerby—that they never seem at a loss for small sums, or deny themselves those luxuries which small sums purchase. Cabs, dinners, wine, theatres, and new gloves are always at the command of men who are drowned in pecuniary embarrassments, whereas those who don’t owe a shilling are so frequently obliged to go without them! It would seem that there is no gratification so costly as that of keeping out of debt. But then it is only fair that, if a man has a hobby, he should pay for it.
Any one else would have saved his shilling, as Mrs. Harold Smith’s house was only just across Oxford Street, in the neighbourhood of Hanover Square; but Mr. Sowerby never thought of this. He had never saved a shilling in his life, and it did not occur to him to begin now. He had sent word to her to remain at home for him, and he now found her waiting.
“Harriet,” said he, throwing himself back into an easy-chair, “the game is pretty well up at last.”
“Nonsense,” said she. “The game is not up at all if you have the spirit to carry it on.”
“I can only say that I got a formal notice this morning from the duke’s lawyer, saying that he meant to foreclose at once—not from Fothergill, but from those people in South Audley Street.”
“You expected that,” said his sister.
“I don’t see how that makes it any better; besides, I am not quite sure that I did expect it; at any rate I did not feel certain. There is no doubt now.”
“It is better that there should be no doubt. It is much better that you should know on what ground you have to stand.”
“I shall soon have no ground to stand on, none at least of my own—not an acre,” said the unhappy man, with great bitterness in his tone.
“You can’t in reality be poorer now than you were last year. You have not spent anything to speak of. There can be no doubt that Chaldicotes will be ample to pay all you owe the duke.”
“It’s as much as it will; and what am I to do then? I almost think more of the seat than I do of Chaldicotes.”
“You know what I advise,” said Mrs. Smith. “Ask Miss Dunstable to advance the money on the same security which the duke holds. She will be as safe then as he is now. And if you can arrange that, stand for the county against him; perhaps you may be beaten.”
“I shouldn’t have a chance.”
“But it would show that you are not a creature in the duke’s hands. That’s my advice,” said Mrs. Smith, with much spirit; “and if you wish, I’ll broach it to Miss Dunstable, and ask her to get her lawyer to look into it.”
“If I had done this before I had run my head into that other absurdity!”
“Don’t fret yourself about that; she will lose nothing by such an investment, and therefore you are not asking any favour of her. Besides, did she not make the offer? and she is just the woman to do this for you now, because she refused to do that other thing for you yesterday. You understand most things, Nathaniel; but I am not sure that you understand women; not, at any rate, such a woman as her.”
It went against the grain with Mr. Sowerby, this seeking of pecuniary assistance from the very woman whose hand he had attempted to gain about a fortnight since; but he allowed his sister to prevail. What could any man do in such straits that would not go against the grain? At the present moment he felt in his mind an infinite hatred against the duke, Mr. Fothergill, Gumption & Gazebee, and all the tribes of Gatherum Castle and South Audley Street; they wanted to rob him of that which had belonged to the Sowerbys before the name of Omnium had been heard of in the county, or in England! The great leviathan of the deep was anxious to swallow him up as a prey! He was to be swallowed up, and made away with, and put out of sight, without a pang of remorse. Any measure which could now present itself as the means of staving off so evil a day would be acceptable; and therefore he gave his sister the commission of making this second proposal to Miss Dunstable. In cursing the duke—for he did curse the duke lustily—it hardly occurred to him to think that, after all, the duke only asked for his own.
As for Mrs. Harold Smith, whatever may be the view taken of her general character as a wife and a member of society, it must be admitted that as a sister she had virtues.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Consolation
On the next day, at two o’clock punctually, Mark Robarts was at the “Dragon of Wantly,” walking up and down the very room in which the party had breakfasted after Harold Smith’s lecture, and waiting for the arrival of Mr. Sowerby. He had been very well able to divine what was the business on which his friend wished to see him, and he had been rather glad than otherwise to receive the summons. Judging of his friend’s character by what he had hitherto seen, he thought that Mr. Sowerby would have kept out of the way, unless he had it in his power to make some provision for these terrible bills. So he walked up and down the dingy room, impatient for the expected arrival, and thought himself wickedly ill-used in that Mr. Sowerby was not there when the clock struck a quarter to three. But when the clock struck three, Mr. Sowerby was there, and Mark Robarts’s hopes were nearly at an end.
“Do you mean that they will demand nine hundred pounds?” said Robarts, standing up and glaring angrily at the member of Parliament.
“I fear that they will,” said Sowerby. “I think it is best to tell you the worst, in order that we may see what can be done.”
“I can do nothing, and will do nothing,” said Robarts. “They may do what they choose—what the law allows them.”
And then he thought of Fanny and his nursery, and Lucy refusing in her pride Lord Lufton’s offer, and he turned away his face that the hard man of the world before him might not see the tear gathering in his eye.
“But, Mark, my dear fellow—” said Sowerby, trying to have recourse to the power of his cajoling voice.
Robarts, however, would not listen.
“Mr. Sowerby,” said he, with an attempt at calmness which betrayed itself at every syllable, “it seems to me that you have robbed me. That I have been a fool, and worse than a fool, I know well; but—but—but I thought that your position in the world would guarantee me from such treatment as this.”
Mr. Sowerby was by no means without feeling, and the words which he now heard cut him very deeply—the more so because it was impossible that he should answer them with an attempt at indignation. He had robbed his friend, and, with all his wit, knew no words at the present moment sufficiently witty to make it seem that he had not done so. “Robarts,” said he, “you may say what you like to me now; I shall not resent it.”
“Who would care for your resentment?” said the clergyman, turning on him with ferocity. “The resentment of a gentleman is terrible to a gentleman; and the resentment of one just man is terrible to another. Your resentment!”—and then he walked twice the length of the room, leaving Sowerby dumb in his seat. “I wonder whether you ever thought of my wife and children when you were plotting this ruin for me!” And then again he walked the room.
“I suppose you will be calm enough presently to speak of this with some attempt to make a settlement?”
“No; I will make no such attempt. These friends of yours, you tell me, have a claim on me for nine hundred pounds, of which they demand immediate payment. You shall be asked in a court of law how much of that money I have handled. You know that I have never touched—have never wanted to touch—one shilling. I will make no attempt at any settlement. My person is here, and there is my house. Let them do their worst.”
“But, Mark—”
“Call me by my name, sir, and drop that affectation of regard. What an ass I have been to be so cozened by a sharper!”
Sowerby had by no means expected this. He had always known that Robarts possessed what he, Sowerby, would have called the spirit of a gentleman. He had regarded him as a bold, open, generous fellow, able to take his own part when called on to
do so, and by no means disinclined to speak his own mind; but he had not expected from him such a torrent of indignation, or thought that he was capable of such a depth of anger.
“If you use such language as that, Robarts, I can only leave you.”
“You are welcome. Go. You tell me that you are the messenger of these men who intend to work nine hundred pounds out of me. You have done your part in the plot, and have now brought their message. It seems to me that you had better go back to them. As for me, I want my time to prepare my wife for the destiny before her.”
“Robarts, you will be sorry some day for the cruelty of your words.”
“I wonder whether you will ever be sorry for the cruelty of your doings, or whether these things are really a joke to you.”
“I am at this moment a ruined man,” said Sowerby. “Everything is going from me—my place in the world, the estate of my family, my father’s house, my seat in Parliament, the power of living among my countrymen, or, indeed, of living anywhere—but all this does not oppress me now so much as the misery which I have brought upon you.” And then Sowerby also turned away his face, and wiped from his eyes tears which were not artificial.
Robarts was still walking up and down the room, but it was not possible for him to continue his reproaches after this. This is always the case. Let a man endure to heap contumely on his own head, and he will silence the contumely of others—for the moment. Sowerby, without meditating on the matter, had had some inkling of this, and immediately saw that there was at last an opening for conversation.
“You are unjust to me,” said he, “in supposing that I have now no wish to save you. It is solely in the hope of doing so that I have come here.”
“And what is your hope? That I should accept another brace of bills, I suppose.”
“Not a brace; but one renewed bill for—”
“Look here, Mr. Sowerby. On no earthly consideration that can be put before me will I again sign my name to any bill in the guise of an acceptance. I have been very weak, and am ashamed of my weakness; but so much strength as that, I hope, is left to me. I have been very wicked, and am ashamed of my wickedness; but so much right principle as that, I hope, remains. I will put my name to no other bill; not for you, not even for myself.”
“But, Robarts, under your present circumstances that will be madness.”
“Then I will be mad.”
“Have you seen Forrest? If you will speak to him I think you will find that everything can be accommodated.”
“I already owe Mr. Forrest a hundred and thirty pounds, which I obtained from him when you pressed me for the price of that horse, and I will not increase the debt. What a fool I was again there! Perhaps you do not remember that, when I agreed to buy the horse, the price was to be my contribution to the liquidation of these bills.”
“I do remember it; but I will tell you how that was.”
“It does not signify. It has been all of a piece.”
“But listen to me. I think you would feel for me if you knew all that I have gone through. I pledge you my solemn word that I had no intention of asking you for the money when you took the horse—indeed I had not. But you remember that affair of Lufton’s, when he came to you at your hotel in London and was so angry about an outstanding bill.”
“I know that he was very unreasonable as far as I was concerned.”
“He was so; but that makes no difference. He was resolved, in his rage, to expose the whole affair; and I saw that, if he did so, it would be most injurious to you, seeing that you had just accepted your stall at Barchester.” Here the poor prebendary winced terribly. “I moved heaven and earth to get up that bill. Those vultures stuck to their prey when they found the value which I attached to it, and I was forced to raise above a hundred pounds at the moment to obtain possession of it, although every shilling absolutely due on it had long since been paid. Never in my life did I wish to get money as I did to raise that hundred and twenty pounds: and as I hope for mercy in my last moments, I did that for your sake. Lufton could not have injured me in that matter.”
“But you told him that you got it for twenty-five pounds.”
“Yes, I told him so. I was obliged to tell him that, or I should have apparently condemned myself by showing how anxious I was to get it. And you know I could not have explained all this before him and you. You would have thrown up the stall in disgust.”
Would that he had! That was Mark’s wish now—his futile wish. In what a slough of despond had he come to wallow in consequence of his folly on that night at Gatherum Castle! He had then done a silly thing, and was he now to rue it by almost total ruin? He was sickened also with all these lies. His very soul was dismayed by the dirt through which he was forced to wade. He had become unconsciously connected with the lowest dregs of mankind, and would have to see his name mingled with theirs in the daily newspapers. And for what had he done this? Why had he thus filed his mind and made himself a disgrace to his cloth? In order that he might befriend such a one as Mr. Sowerby!
“Well,” continued Sowerby, “I did get the money, but you would hardly believe the rigour of the pledge which was exacted from me for repayment. I got it from Harold Smith, and never, in my worst straits, will I again look to him for assistance. I borrowed it only for a fortnight; and in order that I might repay it, I was obliged to ask you for the price of the horse. Mark, it was on your behalf that I did all this—indeed it was.”
“And now I am to repay you for your kindness by the loss of all that I have in the world.”
“If you will put the affair into the hands of Mr. Forrest, nothing need be touched—not a hair of a horse’s back; no, not though you should be obliged to pay the whole amount yourself gradually out of your income. You must execute a series of bills, falling due quarterly, and then—”
“I will execute no bill, I will put my name to no paper in the matter; as to that my mind is fully made up. They may come and do their worst.”
Mr. Sowerby persevered for a long time, but he was quite unable to move the parson from this position. He would do nothing towards making what Mr. Sowerby called an arrangement, but persisted that he would remain at home at Framley, and that any one who had a claim upon him might take legal steps.
“I shall do nothing myself,” he said; “but if proceedings against me be taken, I shall prove that I have never had a shilling of the money.” And in this resolution he quitted the Dragon of Wantly.
Mr. Sowerby at one time said a word as to the expediency of borrowing that sum of money from John Robarts; but as to this Mark would say nothing. Mr. Sowerby was not the friend with whom he now intended to hold consultation in such matters. “I am not at present prepared,” he said, “to declare what I may do; I must first see what steps others take.” And then he took his hat and went off; and mounting his horse in the yard of the Dragon of Wantly—that horse which he had now so many reasons to dislike—he slowly rode back home.
Many thoughts passed through his mind during that ride, but only one resolution obtained for itself a fixture there. He must now tell his wife everything. He would not be so cruel as to let it remain untold until a bailiff were at the door, ready to walk him off to the county jail, or until the bed on which they slept was to be sold from under them. Yes, he would tell her everything—immediately, before his resolution could again have faded away. He got off his horse in the yard, and seeing his wife’s maid at the kitchen door, desired her to beg her mistress to come to him in the book-room. He would not allow one half-hour to pass towards the waning of his purpose. If it be ordained that a man shall drown, had he not better drown and have done with it?
Mrs. Robarts came to him in his room, reaching him in time to touch his arm as he entered it.
“Mary says you want me. I have been gardening, and she caught me just as I came in.”
“Yes, Fanny, I do want you. Sit down for a moment.” And walking across the room, he placed his whip in its proper place.
“Oh, Mark, is there an
ything the matter?”
“Yes, dearest; yes. Sit down, Fanny: I can talk to you better if you will sit.”
But she, poor lady, did not wish to sit. He had hinted at some misfortune, and therefore she felt a longing to stand by him and cling to him.
“Well, there; I will if I must; but, Mark, do not frighten me. Why is your face so very wretched?”
“Fanny, I have done very wrong,” he said. “I have been very foolish. I fear that I have brought upon you great sorrow and trouble.” And then he leaned his head upon his hand and turned his face away from her.
“Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, my own Mark! what is it?” and then she was quickly up from her chair, and went down on her knees before him. “Do not turn from me. Tell me, Mark! tell me, that we may share it.”
“Yes, Fanny, I must tell you now; but I hardly know what you will think of me when you have heard it.”
“I will think that you are my own husband, Mark; I will think that—that chiefly, whatever it may be.” And then she caressed his knees, and looked up in his face, and, getting hold of one of his hands, pressed it between her own. “Even if you have been foolish, who should forgive you if I cannot?”
And then he told it her all, beginning from that evening when Mr. Sowerby had got him into his bedroom, and going on gradually, now about the bills, and now about the horses, till his poor wife was utterly lost in the complexity of the accounts. She could by no means follow him in the details of his story; nor could she quite sympathize with him in his indignation against Mr. Sowerby, seeing that she did not comprehend at all the nature of the renewing of a bill. The only part to her of importance in the matter was the amount of money which her husband would be called upon to pay; that, and her strong hope, which was already a conviction, that he would never again incur such debts.
“And how much is it, dearest, altogether?”
“These men claim nine hundred pounds of me.”
“Oh, dear! that is a terrible sum.”
“And then there is the hundred and thirty which I have borrowed from the bank—the price of the horse, you know; and there are some other debts—not a great deal, I think; but people will now look for every shilling that is due to them. If I have to pay it all, it will be twelve or thirteen hundred pounds.”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 184
