Hester · Chapter 34 (2/2)

“Oh that! but you put a stop to all my ideas, Harry and you in your wisdom. I thought you must have meant that little matter about Aunt Catherine’s books. Yes, it seemed to me, so far as my lights went, that the proposals were very promising: and I might have stood out against Harry, who will never set the Thames on fire; till you came down upon me with your heavy guns⁠—you whom I expected to be on my side.”

“Then you have really given it up?” cried Roland, with a sigh of relief.

“Didn’t you mean me to do so? That is what I thought, at all events. You were so determined about it, that I really don’t see what else I could have done, unless,” he said, with a smile, “I had been a capitalist, and completely independent, as you said.”

“I am most thankful to hear it, Vernon. I had not been able to divest myself of the idea that you were still hankering after it,” said Roland; “and I came, intending to say to you, that if your heart was really set upon it⁠—rather than that you should put yourself into hands, perhaps not so scrupulous⁠—”

“Ah! I see: rather than that a rival should get the business⁠—let us speak plainly,” said Edward, with a pale smile.

“That is not speaking plainly. It is altogether different from my meaning; but take it so, if you please. I am glad to know that there is no necessity for my intrusion anyhow,” Roland said; and then there was a little pause.

At last Edward got up, and came forward, holding out his hand.

“Pardon the little spite that made me put so false an interpretation on your motive, Ashton. I know that was not what you meant. I was annoyed, I confess, that you did thwart me yesterday in a matter I had so much at heart.”

“I felt that you were annoyed; but what could I do? I can only advise according to my judgment. Anyhow, Vernon, I came here intending to say, ‘Let me do the best I can for you if you persist; don’t throw yourself among those who promote that kind of speculation, for they are not to be trusted to.’ But I am above measure glad to find that you have no hankering after it. That is far the best solution. You take a weight off my mind,” Roland said.

Edward did not answer for the moment. He went back and reseated himself at his table. When he showed his face again, Roland saw he was laughing.

“After all you said to me yesterday, and Harry! think of Harry’s grand argument coming down upon me like a sledgehammer, as potent, and alas, quite as heavy⁠—how could you think it possible that I should persist? I am not such a determined character. Besides, don’t you know I have never been trained to act for myself?”

His laugh, his look, were not very convincing, but at all events they were conclusive. After another pause, Roland rose.

“I am interfering with your work,” he said. “I thought it my duty to come at once; but now that it’s all over, I must not waste your time. Pardon my officiousness.”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Edward, smiling cheerfully; “the kindest feeling. I know it is. Are you going to see Harry? He is in his room, I know.”

“Yes, I think I’ll just speak to him. There is some football match that Emma wants to see.”

“More pleasuring,” said Edward, and laughed again. There was in him such an air of having found his visitor out, that Roland could not divest himself of a certain embarrassment. Edward, he felt, knew as well as he did, that he was going to report his failure to Harry. It fretted him beyond description to be thus seen through, he, who had thought himself so much more than a match for any provincial fellow of them all. “But you are quite right to consult Harry about football; he is the greatest possible authority upon that subject,” Edward said.

“Oh, it is not of the slightest importance; it is merely that Emma, who does not really care a straw for football, and only wants something to do, or see⁠—”

“That is surely reason enough,” said Edward, and his complaisance went so far that he left his papers again, and led the way to Harry’s room, where he looked in, saying, “Here’s Ashton come to inquire about that match.”

“Eh? Match?” cried Harry, in much surprise. Then his faculties kindled at the sight of Roland’s face. “Will you play for us, Ashton? I didn’t know you went in for football. I just wanted a man to be⁠—”

“It was for Emma; your sister told her she must go and see it.”

“I’ll leave you to your explanations,” said Edward, with a laugh of triumph. And indeed the two conspirators looked at each other somewhat crestfallen, when he had gone away.

“He takes it quite lightly,” said Roland, with the sense of talking under his breath, “as if he had never thought of the matter again⁠—does not conceal that he was vexed, but says of course there was an end when I came down upon him with my heavy guns.”

Then they looked at each other guiltily⁠—ashamed, though there was nothing to be ashamed of, like plotters found out.

“Well, that’s something tided over,” Harry said.

“I hope so: but I must not stay, to confirm his suspicions. Tell me when the match is for Emma, for she does want to go and see it, that’s quite true.”

“I don’t care for girls about,” said Harry; “they never understand the game, and it makes fellows nervous. It’s on Saturday, if she wants to come.”

“I’ll tell her it makes fellows nervous,” said Roland, as he went away. He said it in a louder tone than usual, that he might be heard in Edward’s room, and then despised himself for doing so. Altogether he had seldom felt more small or more completely baffled and seen through than when he retired from those doors which he had entered with so kind a purpose. It is embarrassing to have the tables turned upon you, even in the smallest matters. He felt that he had been made to appear officious, intrusive, deceitful, even to himself, making up plots with one man against another, prying into that other’s purposes, attributing falsehood to him. This was how his generous intention was cast back upon his hands. He tried to smile cynically, and to point out to himself the foolishness of straining to do a good action; but he was not a cynic by nature, and the effort was not successful. In any way, however, in which it could be contemplated, it was evident that all had been done that it was possible to do. If Edward had made up his mind to the risk, he could not stand between him and ruin. The matter was taken entirely out of his hands.

Edward, for his part, returned to his room, and shut himself in with feelings much less victorious than those he made apparent. The excitement of the great decision had a little failed and gone off. He was in the chill reactionary stage, wondering what might befall, feeling the tugs of old prejudice, of all the traditions of honour in which he had been brought up, dragging at his heart. No man brought up as Edward had been could be without prejudices on the side of right. It alarmed and wounded him today to think that he had last night considered the property of the bank and its customers as a foundation upon which to start his own venture. The sophisms with which he had blinded himself in his excitement failed him now⁠—the daylight was too clear for them. He perceived that it was other people’s goods, other people’s money, which he was risking; that even to take them out, to look at them, to think of them as in his power, was a transgression of the laws of honour. Those chill drawings back of customary virtue, of the prejudices of honour, from the quick march of passion which had hurried him past every landmark in that haste to be rich, which would see no obstacle in its way, plunged Edward into painful discouragement. He seemed to himself to have fallen down from a height, at which he had been master of his fate, to some deep-lying underground where he was its slave, and could only wait till the iron car of necessity rolled on and crushed him. He had set, he felt, machinery in motion which he could not stop, which might destroy him. He sat and looked out affrighted upon all the uncomprehended forces which seemed to have got into movement against him. He, a poor adventurer, with nothing that was his own, to thrust himself into the midst of the commercial movements in London, which nobody out of them could understand fully; he to risk thousands who had nothing; he to “go in to win” who had nothing to stand upon! He saw all round him, not only destruction, not only ruin, but contempt and outrage. He had once seen a miserable “welsher” hunted from a racecourse, and the spectacle, so cruel, so barbarous, yet not unjust, came back to his mind with a horrible fascination. He remembered the poor wretch’s hat battered down upon his head, blinding him⁠—the clothes torn from his back, the cruelty with which he was pursued, and still more, the mud and dirt, that meant not only punishment but unutterable contempt. Under that recollection Edward sat shivering. What was he better than the welsher? Though he sat there, to all appearance, spruce and cool, reading his morning’s letters, he was already in this state of miserable depression and terror when Roland came in. The post that morning had brought him no fresh alarm, no new excitement. He was safe for that day; nothing could yet have been done in his affairs that was not remediable. It was possible even that by telegraphing now he could stop all those horrible wheels of destiny, and undo the decision of last night. As a matter of fact, no intention of doing so was in his mind; but the idea came uppermost now and then in the boiling up and ferment within him: to stop everything still, to relapse into the Edward of three months ago⁠—submissive, respectable, keeping every punctilio of the domestic laws, as well as those of recognised honesty and prudence. But he never meant it; he was alarmed at himself, shaken out of all that ease which excitement gives, that possibility of believing what we wish; but though everything that last night pointed to success seemed now to point to despair, he felt himself clinging on to the chance with desperation commensurate with the gloomy prospect. Whatever it was to lead to, he must yet go on. After all, prudence itself sometimes fared as badly as hardihood. An investment that had been calculated upon as the surest and safest would sometimes turn out disastrous. Who could tell? The chances of money were beyond all calculation. And, after all, no one could say that the ruin of the bank would be for his good. It would be ruin to himself. It was not a thing that anybody could suppose he would risk without deliberation.

He was in this condition, surging and seething, when Roland visited him, and brought him suddenly to himself with the force which an encounter with the world outside so often gives to a struggling spirit. He felt, with a wonderful sense of self-satisfaction, that he was equal to the emergency, and confronted it with a sudden gain of calm and strength which seemed to him almost miraculous, like what men engaged in holy work are justified in considering help from above. It could not be help from above which supplied Edward with self-possession and strength for his first steps in the career of evil, but still the relief was great. He got the better of Roland, he extinguished the little virtuous plot which he divined between him and Harry, and he returned to his room with a smile on his face. But once back again there he did not feel triumphant. He felt that he was not trusted⁠—that already they suspected him of having broken loose from their society and acting for himself. He said to himself angrily that but for this he would probably have telegraphed to contradict that momentous letter of last night. But how could he do it now? it would be pandering to their prejudices, owning that he had taken an unjustifiable step. And how was it unjustifiable? Was it not he who was the virtual head, upon whose judgment and insight everything depended? Supposing Catherine to be consulted, as had ceased to be the case for some time, partly with, partly against, her own will⁠—but supposing her to be consulted now, would not she certainly give her adherence to Edward’s judgment rather than Harry’s? It was not a question there could be a moment’s doubt about. She would shake her head, and say, “You are far more venturesome than ever I was, but if Edward really thinks⁠—” Was not that always what she had said? And ten years of experience had given him a right to be trusted. He was acting for the best; he looked for nothing but success. It was nerves, mere nerves that had affected him⁠—a reaction from the excitement of last night.

And thus everything settled down. When he had got over it, Edward was the most serene of all the doubtful group which surrounded him, not knowing what to make of him. Harry, who took a matter-of-fact view, came next. He now thought it highly probable, on the whole, that his cousin had thought better of it. How could he do anything else?⁠—he had not means of his own to risk to such an extent, which was a thought very satisfactory to Harry. Roland Ashton was as much dissatisfied as men usually are who endeavour in vain to see into the minds of their neighbours, and offer good offices which are not wanted. But the most uneasy of all was Hester, who that day, for the first time, took upon her the most painful burden of women⁠—the half knowledge which is torture, which the imagination endeavours to supplement in a thousand unreal ways, knowing them to be unreal, and dismissing them as quickly as they are formed⁠—and the bitter suspense, the sensation that at any moment things may be happening, news coming which will bring triumph or misery, but which you cannot foresee or accelerate, or do anything but wait for. She did her best to pray, poor girl! breathing broken petitions for she knew not what, as she went about her little occupations all that lingering day. Surely he would try to see her again, to satisfy her, and tell what it was he had done, and how it could be possible, winning or losing, to fly, as he had suggested, from everything here. To fly⁠—how could it be? Why should it be? All the other mysteries came in that to wonder unspeakable and dismay.