Chapter Twenty.
Darker Still.
“Things are never so bad but that they might be worse,” is a clap-trap disguised beneath the gold leaf of philosophy. When a man’s leg has to come off—without chloroform—it doesn’t make the impending “bad quarter of an hour” a bit less redoubtable to impress upon him the indisputable fact that he might have had to lose an arm as well.
When Roland awoke the next morning—he had engaged a room in the principal inn at Wandsborough—it seemed as if the outlook before him was about as black as it could be. He had made an enormous sacrifice for love, and all in vain; the fruition of that love was denied him. Wrapped in gloomy reflections, he hardly noticed a letter lying beside his bed. It had come the previous evening, but he had chucked it aside as not worth bothering about. Now he took it up and carelessly tore it open. Suddenly an alarming change came over his features, an awful, rigid, grey look, as if he had been suddenly turned to stone. This is what he read:
“My Dear Dorrien—
“I am rather afraid that I shall be the first to make known some confoundedly bad news. In a word the Tynnestop Bank has ‘gone,’ and the smash is complete. Now the question is, have you got rid of those shares of yours or not—you know we were talking about it when you were up here? If not, I’m deuced sorry for you, for I fear there’s no chance—the smash is too thorough, and it’s supposed they won’t pay sixpence in the pound. Bang they went! without a symptom of warning, and everyone’s asking how on earth it was managed so quietly. If you think it’ll be any good, run up here and talk things over.
“Believe me, old fellow,—
“Yours, etc, etc,
“John Venn.”
“P.S.—I’m bitten myself to a small amount—trusteeship—damned fool’s trade. But it’s you shareholders who’ll be most heavily shot, I’m afraid. I send a couple of papers with an account of the crash—in case you haven’t seen it.”
Again and again he read through the letter, which had been addressed to the rector’s care, till Venn’s large, business-like calligraphy seemed burnt into his brain; then he tore open the newspapers. The affair was plain enough. The Bank was an unlimited concern, and every farthing he had in the world except his last half-yearly dividend was invested in its shares, and now it had fallen with a crash. Roland Dorrien was a ruined man.
A groan escaped his dry, set lips.
“Good God! Nothing like piling it up,” he muttered. “If this isn’t a day full of happiness! Well, this must have happened before yesterday morning, otherwise I might be induced to believe in the efficacy of curses, and that my very affectionate parent’s influence with the Devil stands higher than mine; but it came about too early for that to have anything to do with it.”
He laughed—a horrible, blood-curdling mockery of a laugh—as the thought crossed his mind that he might have occasion to decide whether, under all the circumstances, life was really worth living any longer.
Two hours later, and he is on his way to London. Every familiar landmark is out of eight, but imagination carries him back. Had he known what fate held in store for him, was it possible that that stormy interview might never have taken place? The temptation would have been great. Yesterday, at that hour, life had looked very fair, very promising to him, and now, in less than twenty-four hours, he had lost his inheritance—his love—and his means of existence.
And now how light seem the first obstructions which lay in his road yesterday, compared with this last terrible disaster! His renunciation of his birthright—the rector’s opposition—now appear to him as very trifles. The first he had made up his mind to—the second could in time have been got over—but now? Love was a luxury he could not afford to indulge in—even life itself must henceforth be dragged out in labour and sorrow and desolation, that is, should he ultimately decide that it is worth dragging on at all on such terms. For now, of course, he must give up Olive, release her from all in the shape of a promise or understanding. It might be years and years before he could even keep himself decently, how then could he in honour hold her bound to him, condemn her to spend the best and brightest years of her life in weary waiting; and for what? For a broken, disappointed man, utterly without prospects and without hopes. Would she grieve for him? At first she would suffer—suffer acutely, he knew; but her bright, sunny spirits would carry her through, and she would—well, in time, forget him. And the unfortunate man almost groaned aloud as he leaned in the corner of the railway carriage, his eyes strained and distended upon the ceaseless downpour without, and the sodden landscape lying beneath its lowering veil of ashen cloud.
There is as a rule something exasperating about the way in which our friends take our misfortunes. If we are of a morbidly sensitive disposition they affect a facial elongation and a tone of dismal sympathy; if, on the other hand, we are accustomed to present a careless front to the world, they overwhelm us with a cheerful light-heartedness which strikes us as brutally callous—as though, indeed, we could look for anything else in a thoroughly self-seeking world. “Every man for himself, and devil take the hindermost.” Are you in the latter category? “Awfully sorry, my dear fellow—only wish I could help you—but—well, perhaps you will find ranking among His Satanic Majesty’s acquisitions not quite such an uncomfortable berth as you think—and then, you know, you’re sure to get out of it soon—something’s sure to turn up. Well—ta-ta—old chap, sorry I can’t wait—” And the world rolls on.
Roland was conscious of a latent feeling of resentment as he noted the comfortable and even light-hearted expression on his friend’s face. “Looks as if the fellow hadn’t a care in the world, damn it,” was his mental comment.
“Hallo, Dorrien! I’m deuced glad to see you, but awfully sorry I can’t give you any cheering news,” began the other. “I know you’re the sort of fellow who wouldn’t thank me for trying to make things out promising when they’re bad as bad can be—and that’s just what I’m afraid they are. You see, the mischief of it is that it’s an unlimited concern.”
“Yes,” assented Roland drearily.
“By the way, I got your line this morning and would have met you at the train, but I’ve had an awfully busy day of it. I’ve been going into your affair too; you know, I do a lot in the way of share-broking.”
“And it’s all up?”
“It is. You would hardly credit the widespread ruin a smash of this kind involves. Why, there are people who were rolling in wealth yesterday, who to-morrow will be destitute beggars. And there’s no foretelling the extent of the calls which will be made on the shareholders. But I say though, Dorrien, don’t be so confoundedly down in the mouth, man. It’s rough on you to lose a snug little income, but then you’ve got Cranston to fall back upon. By Jove! I wouldn’t mind changing shoes with you this very day. Why, when you’re doing Squire of Cranston you’ll laugh at all this.”
He laughed now—a hollow mockery of a laugh, like a smile forced to the face of a galvanised corpse.
“Don’t you remember my telling you that Cranston wasn’t entailed?” he said abruptly.
“Yes, but hang it! it’ll come to the same thing in the end. And now your governor will—”
”—See me to the devil with all the pleasure in life,” was the sneering reply. “Why, man, we had the most infernal shindy yesterday ever kicked up between two full-blown lunatics. So now you may perhaps realise the exceeding roseate hue of my prospects in life.”
Venn gave vent to a whistle and looked grave.
“Oh, but—he’ll come round in time,” he began lamely.
“Deuce a bit. I tell you the brake of my coach has given way and that successful vehicle is starting down hill now—off to the devil as hard as it can lick. Even that mythical old humbug, Job, had his afflictions come upon him by relays; mine came all in one day, as you’d readily see, if you knew the facts.”