Masterman and Son

by W. J. Dawson

XIX

THE FEAR

Another month had passed, 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 assertion, 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.

"No, no; not now. I'm too busy to-day. Another time." And then he would rustle the papers on his desk, with a great pretence of business, and drop his gaze, and go on muttering aimlessly, "Another time, Scales, when I'm a little stronger, you know."

When Scales left the room he would sit quiet for a long time, and gaze out of the window, his eyes always falling at last on the gray roof of the Mansion House.

He never looked in that direction without receiving a new impulse to his ambition. From the silent doors of that great house he saw himself issuing forth triumphant, the conqueror of circumstance, seated in a golden carriage drawn by noble horses, with the applauding crowd thronging at his wheels. He adorned his triumph with new features day by day, wearied his invention to create them, and dwelt upon them with a childish ardour of delight. There were even moments when they ceased to be imaginary; they had the glow and substance of reality, and he could hear the beating of the horses' hoofs upon the asphalt, the crash of music, and the raucous shouting of the crowd.

Then a cold, gray cloud obscured the vision, a gust of cold air set him shivering, and he was alone once more with his silent fear.

In his own home his conduct was marked by the same contradictions. He would arrive from the city at nightfall, enter the house in a fierce bustle of energy, talking eagerly, laughing loudly; and then, as like as not, in the midst of dinner, would relapse into a heavy silence. The chief subject of his talk on these occasions, was the things he meant to do with his increasing wealth. He had engaged a firm of architects to plan a country house for him, although the site was not yet found nor the estate bought. He would spend hours over the details of this house. It would be such a house as was never built before. It should have a marble swimming-pool, electric ovens, and a vast palm-garden. For its decoration he would import marble fireplaces from Italian palaces, tapestries from France, oak carving from Holland. Of course it would have a picture-gallery—every gentleman had that. He would employ an expert to collect the pictures. And of course there would be a great library, and vast stables, and a private golf-course, and sheets of ornamental water, and extensive gardens.

"Have you done anything more about the new house?" Helen would ask, as she fluttered up to him with a perfunctory kiss.

"Not to-day. It's been a busy day in the city. But we'll have a look at the plans presently."

And then the plans would be unrolled, and the details once more discussed, and new features added.

"I'm tired of this old house," Helen would cry, with pretty petulance. "I don't see the good of being rich if you've got to live here."

"And you won't live here much longer. Wait till the war is over, and then you shall take your place with the greatest ladies of the land."

And then Helen would blush with pleasure, her light mind inflated with pride, her imagination picturing a bright butterfly flight through all kinds of glittering scenes. Mrs. Masterman, silent as ever, took no part in these conversations. They were to her a source of pain; but to Helen they were the breath of life. In the future she pictured to herself her mother had no part. But she saw herself with singular distinctness moving on a high plane of circumstance and pleasure, and she made it her aim to foster her father's vanity as a means of gratifying her own.

"Father's easy enough to manage," she often told herself. And yet there were many occasions when her boast was rudely falsified. Did she never notice the sudden shadow that fell across her father's face? Did she never ask why it was he would angrily sweep the plans of his new house aside, crying that, maybe, he would never want them after all, and would stalk off in gloomy silence to his own room, where he sat alone until long after the midnight hour had struck? No; she never guessed the cause of these explosions. But her mother did, and trembled.

And amid all these aberrations, perhaps the most curious was that his mind appeared to have received a new bias toward religion.

There was a certain Sunday evening when Mrs. Masterman surprised him, reading in his office. The house was very still, and he was reading aloud in a grave and solemn voice.

He looked up as she entered, and, instead of frowning on her intrusion, motioned her to silence, and went on reading.

"Listen to this," he said. "I thought I knew the Bible, but here's something I've never met before. The man that wrote this was a wise fellow.

"'What hath pride profited us? Or what good hath riches with our vaunting brought us? All those things are passed away like a shadow, and as a host that hasted by; and as a ship that passeth over the waves of the water, which, when it is gone by, the trace thereof cannot be found, neither the pathway of the keel in the waves; or, as when a bird hath flown through the air, there is no token of her way to be found, but the light air being beaten with the stroke of her wings, and parted with the violent noise and motion of them, or passed through, and therein afterwards no sign where she went is to be found; or like as, when an arrow is shot at a mark, it parteth the air, which immediately cometh together again, so that a man cannot know where it went through: even so we in like manner, as soon as we were born, began to draw to our end.'

"There's a lot of truth in that," he remarked. "As soon as we are born we begin to draw near to our end. That's mighty true. It kind of makes a man feel small, though, as if nothing mattered. It makes a man feel as though God laughed at him. And it makes me feel, too, as if it would be rather a good thing to be done with it all. If I could be a boy again I wouldn't say. I believe I should think it worth while being kicked and beaten again, just to feel as I did then. But, by the time a man is going on for sixty, he's about tired of it all. Doesn't seem worth while doing anything then, except to get into bed and go to sleep."

He paused a moment, as if to swallow some choking bitterness, and then went on again in the same low tone:

"There's few men that ever had a harder time than I did when I was a boy. You never knew my father? No, and a good job too. There's no question he was a brute. But somehow, when I heard that he was dead, it came to me what it all meant. He'd never had a fair chance, never had his real share in life, never had enough of anything, except, maybe, drink, and of that he'd had too much. Well, that day when I pictured him lying there all white and quiet, I kind of understood what the drinking meant too. He was in a rage against life, wanted to forget the way he'd been treated, and that's why he drank. I reckon that's why most men drink, just to forget. And I said to myself, 'Well, I don't want to forget. I'll remember everything the world did to him, and I'll pay it back, blow for blow, and bruise for bruise. I'll get my fingers into the world's throat before I've done, and I'll get what I want.' And I've done it too. And now the queer thing is, it doesn't somehow seem worth while. Things you've wanted all your life don't seem what you thought 'em when once you've got them. Seems as if you'd paid too dear for them, and been cheated after all. Your good time is when you want 'em, and can't get them, and, when you've got them, you wonder what made you want 'em. That's what I meant when I said it seemed as though God laughed at us. I believe I'd laugh myself if I could see it far enough off. All the fuss and bother, and rampaging up and down, and then a quiet old fellow puts his hand on your shoulder, and says, 'What hath pride profited us?' and goes on to tell you all you've done don't amount to a row of pins, and you know it's true, too. That's the thing that hurts—it's true, and you know it, and feel like the worst kind of fool."

He spoke musingly, in a voice of extraordinary softness and sad deliberation. His wife listened wonderingly. The passage he had read, whose sombre wisdom contradicted every purpose of his own conduct, the impression it produced of the vanity of life, and his own entire gravity, tenderness, and sincerity, as he read the solemn words, wrought in her complete amazement. In all her long knowledge of her husband she had never known him in this mood. A woman whose habitual thoughts moved on a more earthly level would have found the mood ominous; she would have shuddered in every fibre of her affection, and have imagined the slow beating of the wings of death upon the quiet air. But, for her, all that was ominous in the scene was eclipsed by an overmastering sense of spiritual gratitude. Through long years she had prayed for such an hour, and prayed against hope. Had it come at last, this hour of wisdom, this impartation of a higher light, this sudden softening and sweetening of a nature whose harsh earthiness had been to her a cause of unspeakable distress?

"O Archie," she cried, "how glad I am to have you speak like that! Let the world go, Archie dear, before it lets you go. Let us go from this hateful life, you and I. If we could only be poor again, and live in some quiet place, we could be happy yet. You've never got any happiness yet out of all your money that I can see, and you never will. Can't we start again, dear, and won't you forgive Arthur, and have him back?"

She was on her knees beside him, her head bowed, or she would have seen the swift hardening of his face.

"Don't be a fool!" he said harshly.

"Is it folly?" she cried.

"Yes, the silliest of folly. A man can't turn back if he would, and I don't really want to. He must go on to the end of things."

"Ah! the end—what will that be, Archie?"

"God knows. But there's one thing I know, and that is, that a man doesn't fight all his life to get something, just to throw it away upon a whim. I'd think shame of myself if I didn't fight my battle out to the last stroke. You and me have never agreed, and we don't agree now."

"If you'd only forgive Arthur," she persisted.

"I never forgive fools. I reckon God doesn't do that either. He forgives sinners, but not fools. Arthur's a fool!"

He closed the Book with a bang, and rose. His face was dark and troubled. His wife left the room without another word. From the church across the road there came the soft music of the evening hymn. He listened, with dilated eyes, keeping time to the familiar rhythm with extended finger. He breathed a long sigh as it ceased. "It's a queer thing to think about, that in fifty years' time not one of those folk will be alive," he reflected. "All gone like—how did the words run?—like a ship on the water that leaves no trace. I wonder where Scales will be? Nowhere near where I am, I hope. Scales is a beast!"

And then once more The Fear returned. He saw it like a dark-winged phantom, pale-faced, threatening, gliding up the road, standing at his gate.

It stood there a long time, and he wondered if the people coming out of church could see it too. The wings trailed the ground, and it wore a black hood. The face beneath the hood he could not see, but he could hear the words softly uttered, "What hath pride profited us? Or what good hath riches with our vaunting brought us?" And the evening hymn, which had ceased, seemed to begin again, attenuated like a whisper from some organ in the air, a frail, slow, unearthly melody:

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see...

Just then a door clanged, Helen's light, laughing voice was heard in the hall, and the whole phantom sunk out of sight. He took hold of gross reality again, and saw his path, hard and lucid like a line of burnished gold, leading on to a bright shining ridge, on which arose the long colonnades of a great house, round which a multitude of people buzzed, and held out golden wreaths to him.

In the reaction of emotion which ensued there came to him a new virility of purpose. To come so near those golden heights and miss them was a thing impossible. Once let him scale them, stand visibly triumphant—and then? Well, it would be time enough then to meditate upon the deep sad words of this old philosophic thinker which had so strangely moved him.

Nevertheless, this softened mood did not wholly leave him all this Sabbath evening. The memory of his father had evoked also the memory of his son. For the first time a faint suspicion crossed his mind that, after all, Arthur might have chosen a form of life which promised greater happiness than his own. Through all the many months of absence he had rarely mentioned Arthur's name; if he had done so, it had been with a frowning brow. Now, to the surprise of both mother and daughter, he asked for Arthur's letters, took them with him into the office, and there read them quietly.

"If he only had not gone away!" he said.

And with that thought his sense of injury returned. It was a hard thing for a father to condone the implied condemnation of that flight. And the only rehabilitation of his pride lay in some visible success which even Arthur must respect. There was a lot of good that might be done with money. It was expected nowadays of rich men that they should be public benefactors. Here was an untried field which he might conquer; and what a fine irony it would be if Arthur should return to England some day to find the name of the father he had despised mentioned with general respect as a public benefactor! It was strange that he had not thought of that before. It would afford him a new interest in life, and be an exquisite revenge.

He rose next morning full of this new plan. He had already done more than his fair share in subscribing to various charities, but from this hour he began to develop what appeared a reckless generosity. In reality it was the entire reverse of reckless; it was governed by the most deliberate strategy. He had no idea of not letting his left hand know what his right hand gave. He gave only in such a way as to attract immediate attention. His greatest act was a subscription of £10,000 to a patriotic fund for the equipment of army hospitals at the seat of war. His generosity was much applauded; the example of his public-spiritedness was quoted far and wide; it was even mentioned in a sermon preached in St. Paul's Cathedral, and in the "religious press" there were many pleasing homilies on the wise use of money. From these new forms of homage his pride drew fresh strength. He moved with a firmer step, was conscious of increased physical vigour, and became again the Masterman of the old days, eagle-eyed, daring, despotic.

"You're giving away a lot of money," said one of his friends at the club to him one day. "I suppose it's part of your policy," he added ironically.

"A man ought to give in times like this," he answered.

"I suppose so," said his friend. "There never was a time when money could buy so much. Probably because most of us have so little of it."

He did not appreciate the gibe. But in the bottom of his heart he knew what men called his generosity was, after all, just what his candid friend had called it—policy. And it was good policy too. It gave fresh prestige to the Trust. It was a good investment. To be remarked for public spirit and generosity led to all sorts of things in England. England might make pretence to many virtuous and fine ideals, but there, as in every other country, money could buy anything. It must not be done openly, of course. But it was done all the same, only a little less flagrantly than in those franker days when men sold their votes, and it was said that members of Parliament looked beneath their dinner-plates for Bank of England notes before they decided what their views were on questions of disputed legislation.

And at length he had his reward. There came one day to his office a large official envelope, containing cautious inquiries, whether, under certain circumstances, which were deftly indicated, he would be prepared to accept a knighthood. There was, of course, a grave reference to his public services, especially in his large gifts to patriotic causes, which had no doubt stimulated the generosity of the public, and had attracted the attention and gratitude of the Government.

He sat still for a long time with his eyes fixed upon the letter. So it had come at last, the long-expected, the unavoidable, the supreme prize of his existence! No: not the supreme; this was but the beginning. He meant to have more, much more than this.

He resolved that he would say not a word about it, except by way of proud hint to his family. He would surprise them with it; and he pictured himself announcing the news. The final letter which conferred the dignity would come by the morning mail most probably; he would distinguish it at once by the large official envelope; but he would be in no haste to open it. He would do what children do with sweetmeats, keep the best to the last. And then, just when Helen kissed him as he left the house, and said "Good-bye, father!" he would turn round with a grave smile, and say, "Sir Archibold Masterman, if you please." And she would say, "What new joke is this, father?" And he would answer with a calm voice, as though he spoke of a matter of the least possible importance, "It's not a joke ... read that!" And his wife would stand behind Helen, trembling a little; and, far away in Canada, Arthur would get the news, and would be sorry he had not valued such a father.... It was a delightful vision, and he thrilled to it with the ardour of a boy.

He replied at once, expressing his appreciation and his gratitude. Then he fell to wondering how long it took to get the matter settled. There were no doubt forms and preliminaries, and all that sort of thing, but surely a week would be long enough. A week passed, a month—still no answer came. He tortured himself with fears of what might have happened. Had he expressed himself foolishly in his reply, shown himself too eager perhaps, or had his letter miscarried?

He would go to Brighton. This strain of waiting was intolerable. No, he would go to Paris. The man who was to collect the oak and marbles for his projected country house lived there, and it would divert his thoughts to meet him.

He went by the afternoon express from Charing Cross. As he entered his compartment, he noticed a neatly dressed inconspicuous man who appeared to be observing him closely. The man looked at him strangely, passed by him and entered the same train. He saw him again upon the boat. When he reached the Gare du Nord the same man passed by him again, just as he was ordering a carriage, and disappeared into the crowd.

"Some pressman, I suppose. Well, he'll know me again," he said to himself, and thought no more about it.

The next day he met the dealer he had come to see. He proved to be a most interesting fellow, shrewd, adroit, and a master in the art of persuasion. One thing led to another, and a couple of days passed in the inspection of the stock. Each night he came back quite tired out to the hotel. Each morning he began his quest for art treasures with renewed ardour. He had no other occupation. He had left no address at the office, and no mail reached him. It was a new and delightful method of taking a holiday, and he wondered he had not thought of it before.

As he left the dealer's one day for lunch, he saw the same neatly dressed inconspicuous man crossing the street just ahead of him. The man turned back, stopped at a shop-window, and, as he passed, looked him squarely in the face. When he reached his hotel that night the same man was sitting quietly reading in the foyer. This time the man did not look at him.

On the fourth day he had completed his business with the dealer. The longed-for letter must have come by this time. He resolved to return to London by the nine o'clock train next morning.

In the evening, as he was packing his valise, there was a knock at the bedroom door. He opened it, and found the man standing outside.

"You are Mr. Masterman, I believe?"

"Yes, my name is Masterman."

"I want a word with you, if you please."

"You must be quick then. I'm busy—I leave to-morrow morning for London."

"I also leave to-morrow morning. We might travel together."

"What do you mean, sir? I don't know you, and I don't in the least desire your company."

"Very few people do," said the man, with a quiet smile. There was something in that smile indefinitely stealthy, hostile, menacing; it sent an icy thrill through the heart and curdled the marrow in the bones. "Mr. Masterman," the man went on, in a low, firm voice, "I'm sorry to cause you personal inconvenience. You will understand that I have a duty to perform. You must go with me, sir."

"Why, what ... what ... do you mean you arrest me?"

"That is my duty, sir. There are grave charges against you, which I for one shall be glad if you can disprove, for I've heard of lots of good you've done. Mr. Scales was arrested two days ago. I take it you'll come quietly."

"Scales arrested? For what, pray?"

"The charge is fraud. I am not at liberty to say more."

"Ah! And so——" But speech failed him. He appeared to be losing his grip upon reality as he had done on that Sunday evening when he saw The Fear.... There was a sound of organ music, rolling in soft surges, faint, solemn, sad—"Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day."

And a figure with dark wings that trailed the dust, and hooded head, very silent. The hood slowly lifted, and he saw the face at last—a face with a quiet smile, authoritative, inscrutable, indefinitely hostile. He had seen it at Charing Cross; it had followed him through the streets of Paris; he saw it now, a kind of white patch on the darkness, the hard whiteness of flame which nothing could quench.

Then the phantasm faded out, as it had done before. The horrible truth went crashing through his brain. He knew now why his letter had not been answered.... So they had heard things ... and never, never now would he be Sir Archibold Masterman. They had heard things ... and, while he waited for honour, they were plotting his dishonour. God! how they must have laughed! It was the supreme irony.

A wave of bitter laughter began to rise in his own heart; but something warned him, if he laughed just then, he would go mad.

He clutched at his leaping nerves as a man might clutch the reins of a runaway horse. All at once he attained complete sad composure. He was walking on a bleak high tableland among the stars, from which he looked down, and saw the world and all that was therein as a very little thing. Honour, dishonour, wealth, poverty—all were alike trifles, the blowing up and down of a little dust.... "As a ship that passeth over the waves of the water, which, when it is gone by, the trace thereof cannot be found."

He was quite calm now. He turned toward the man, who still stood with his inscrutable quiet smile, unavoidable as destiny, watching him narrowly.

"I will go with you," he said. "I give you my word, I will go quietly."