Crying for the Light; Or, Fifty Years Ago. Vol. 3 [of 3]

by J. Ewing Ritchie

Most men have their weak moments, their time of temptation, and too often they succumb, but then the falling off is only for a time. But in the Colonel’s case it had unfortunately grown into a settled habit.

My lady little dreamt of what was passing. She had other things to think of than her husband or his doings. She was active—perhaps, rather too active—in her sphere, in good works. The bluest Evangelical blood was in her veins, and when in London no one was a more frequent visitor to the country houses of pious bankers and brewers than herself. In them she was a diamond of the purest water, shining with every Christian grace and virtue. She had addressed drawing-room meetings, she had aided in many a crusade against Popery and Ritualism and other evil things. If any Liberal and devoted clergyman was to be persecuted for trying to elevate the people by Christian ideas not in accordance with her own, she was the first to raise the cry of heresy, to rouse up sleepy bishops, to raise the cry of ‘Treason in the sanctuary!’ to alarm the warders at the gate, to flood the land with cheap tracts and pious newspapers. At Exeter Hall, during the May meetings, there was no more ardent attendant; and her life in Brussels was much the same, though on a smaller scale.

Once, at Louvain, I saw a statue in the cathedral to the memory of Dr. Stapleton. I could not make out who Dr. Stapleton was, or why he was thus honoured. Baedeker and Murray knew him not. Accidentally one day turning over the pages of Froude—certainly one of the most graceful of historians—I discovered that Dr. Stapleton, living at Louvain, was the means of communication, in the ‘spacious times of Queen Elizabeth,’ between the Pope on the one side and the Roman Catholics in England on the other. At Brussels her ladyship acted in a similar way, though on a smaller scale. It was she who kept alive the communication between the Belgian and the English Evangelicals, and helped to circulate among the former the goody-goody literature in which the latter greatly rejoiced. Her activity in the matter was intense. She was always writing to England for supplies—which were sent her without any cost to herself—and in her continental drawing-room, and at her receptions, sleek divines and elect ladies were not few, ever ready to bewail the degeneracy of the times, the growth of Popery and Republicanism and Atheism.

Perhaps it was they who frightened the Colonel away. At any rate it is manifest that he would have been a better husband had she been a better wife. When the news came of his brother’s death it is needless to say that the Colonel was quite ready for a change of life and scene. Indeed, Belgium was getting too hot for him. The lady who passed as Mrs. Smith had discovered the real name and status of her protector. One of the boys—the result of this domestic arrangement—had gone to a Protestant meeting, and there on the platform, and as one of the speakers, was Captain Smith—announced to the meeting as Colonel Strahan. It was not long before his mother learned the news, nor was it long before she turned that news, as far as her pecuniary resources were concerned, to uncommonly good account.

The little domestic arrangement which had been so pleasant at first was now very much the reverse. To shake off the woman was now impossible, and her silence could only be secured at an extravagant price. She had threatened to follow him to Sloville, and it required all his ingenuity to keep the matter a secret.

Already he had made up his mind to stand for the county division; already his name had been ostentatiously paraded as president or vice-president of certain famous religious societies, whose headquarters were London. Already, under the auspices of my lady, the Hall had become the headquarters of the Low Church party.

It was hinted to the Baronet that if he could win the county at the election he might possibly be made a peer. And now this Belgian woman had found him out and rendered his life insupportable. What was he to do? He could not for the life of him tell. There was no one to advise, no one to whom he could tell his trouble. The spirit of a man can sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can bear? One thing he did do, which he had better not have done—he went over to Brussels again to see what could be done. He had better have kept away.

And there was another matter, too, which gave him trouble. The reputation of the Bank was in danger. At the death of his brother unpleasant rumours respecting its stability had been put in circulation. The late Baronet had, as it was well known, an unpleasant habit of making ducks and drakes of his money. It was the hope of the new one that by his own reputation in pious circles he should be able to live down the evil rumours, and to revive the credit of the Bank. In this way his wife had done him good service, and thus he had secured continued confidence in some quarters and large advances in others. But there were people in the money market who had their suspicions as to the investments of the Bank and the way in which it was managed. More than one capitalist had withdrawn his deposit, and the working partners were growing anxious. Indeed, on the morning of his departure for Brussels they had an interview with Sir Robert on the rather shaky position of affairs. They had lost money on the London Stock Exchange. Some of the mining speculations in which they were engaged had proved disastrous. A great contractor whom they had financed had come to grief. It was true that their London agents had come to their rescue, not that they were over-confident as to the Bank’s affairs, but that they feared the panic its suspension would create. But it was believed that the temporary embarrassment might be tided over. Trade was reviving, and already some of their worst investments were taking a hopeful turn. Hope told a flattering tale, and at any rate there was no occasion for despair. Much was expected from the reputation of the new head of the firm in religious circles; much from a more careful conduct of its officers; much from the improved condition of the money market. Still the Baronet was not happy, and it was with anything but a light heart that he set out for the Belgian capital. His wife offered to accompany him, but he declined the offer. In reality she had no wish to go, or she would have gone, you may be sure of that.

Thus it was in no amiable mood the Baronet once more found himself in his old quarters, in the gay and pleasant city which the clever diplomacy of Lord Palmerston helped to raise to the dignity of a European capital and the seat of a monarchy, which if not ancient is at any rate very respectable. His first object was to keep Mrs. Smith quiet, which, at a considerable cost, he succeeded in doing. Then he dined at the club, drank heavily, played high, lost his money and his temper, and became so insulting to one of the barons with whom he played, that when he got back to the hotel he found there a challenge awaiting him to fight a duel. This was rather more than he had bargained for, but he could not help himself. As an officer—though a retired one—he felt that he could not refuse. A hot-headed Irishman acted as his second, and was so charmed with the idea of the éclat of having to do with a duel, though only in the capacity of a second, that instead of doing all that he could to put it off, he did all that was in his power to promote it. Accordingly it was arranged that the aggrieved parties should meet in an obscure village on the French frontier, where they would be sure to be unobserved. The Belgian baron’s aim was deadly, and Sir Robert Strahan was no more. Short, very short had been his reign, and now it was all over. Speedily was the news telegraphed to the Hall, where everyone was shocked at the unexpected catastrophe. Her ladyship grieved deeply, the girls were in despair. It was hard, just as Providence was opening up a way for their good, and they had conquered the difficulties of a continental exile—it was hard to have all the bitterness of the hated past revived. In due time the body was brought back, and there was another stately funeral and another nine days’ wonder. At first everyone attributed the Baronet’s death to an accident. Such was the version which it seemed wise for many reasons—family, religious, and commercial—to circulate. But in time the real truth leaked out, first in private letters and then in the society journals; and there came a run on the Bank, which the partners were not prepared to meet, and which they could not have met had they been prepared. And there was no alternative but to put up the shutters and to close the doors.

Deep and dire was the consternation spread all over Sloville when it was known that the Bank doors were shut. Sloville was a rising place. Some spirited individual or other was always introducing new industries or putting up new buildings. Speculation was rife; and the leading tradesmen had all large accounts at the Bank, as well as the leading hotel-keepers. All the farmers of the district, as their fathers before them, banked in an establishment so ancient, so well-connected, so renowned.