Masterman and Son

by W. J. Dawson

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.