V
Samuel Edward's name duly appeared in blazing gilt on the powder-blue of the old sign, and he and Keziah settled down in a suburban street in company with a handmaiden and a black-and-tan terrier. Their lives were discreet and orderly, and they went to the particular Dissenting community which they affected at least once every Sabbath Day. At eight o'clock every morning Samuel Edward repaired to business; at seven in the evening he returned home to pour out his woes to Keziah. One of his apprentices had done this; an assistant had done that; a customer had fled, leaving a bill unpaid. Keziah, who was as keen on money-making as her husband, was invariably sympathetic in these matters, which were about the only things she understood, apart from her knowledge that her thousand pounds was in the business. She and Samuel Edward were both resolved on making money.
And suddenly came a thunderstorm over their sky. The little dressmaking lady, having been formally engaged to Samuel Edward for long years, finding herself jilted, suddenly awoke to the knowledge that she had a spirit, and caused the faithless one to be served with a writ for breach of promise. And Samuel Edward's men of law, going into the matter, told him that he had no defence, and would have to pay.
Samuel Edward took to his bed, and refused to be comforted. Keziah wept, entreated, cajoled, threatened—nothing was of use. All was over, in Samuel Edward's opinion. The other side wanted the exact amount represented by Keziah's dowry—one thousand pounds. Samuel Edward lay staring at the stencilled wall-paper, and decided that life was a distinct disappointment. He would die.
Then Keziah took matters in hand. She, with the help of an astute man, paid the thousand pounds—whereupon the little dressmaker, who was still well under forty, promptly married another. And then Keziah literally tore Samuel Edward out of bed, shook him into life, and gave him to understand that from that day forward he would have to work harder, earlier, and later than he had ever done before. And Samuel Edward fell to—under a ceaseless and never-varying supervision.
VI
"I'm a warm man, you know, Poskitt," he said to me many a long year after that. "A warm man, sir! There's nobody knows except myself, Poskitt, how much I have. No, sir! Made it all, you know. Look at my business, Poskitt!—one of the biggest and best businesses in the country. Twenty different establishments. Four hundred employees. Bring my own tea from Ceylon and China in my own ships. All the result of energy, Poskitt—no sitting still with me, as you rustics do—no, sir!"
Now let us analyze what this man really was. Because Keziah literally drilled him into the pulling of himself together after his first great slap in the face, he began to amass money, and very soon so deepened his boyish instincts that money became his fetish. Money—money—money—nothing but money! He estimated the value of a man by the depth of that man's purse; he thoroughly believed, with the Northern Farmer, that the poor in a lump are bad. And at last he was a very rich man indeed—and then found, as all such men do, that he had no power to enjoy his wealth. He could travel—and see nothing, for he did not understand what he saw. He could buy anything he liked—and have no taste for it. The little dressmaker had children—he had none. And as his wealth increased, his temper grew sour. He had never read anything beyond his trade journal and his newspaper, and therefore he had nothing to think about but his money.
And so I come back to what my old friend said in his bluff Yorkshire fashion—
"Doän't think ower much about makkin' Brass! It's a good thing to mak' Brass, and a good thing to be in possession on it, but Brass is neyther here nor theer unless ye ware it on yer friends."