CHAPTER XIX.

STRANGE REVELATIONS IN UNCLE BRYAN'S LIFE.

So, without a friend in the world, I wandered still further away from the town in which I was born. I tarried here and tarried there, and found no rest for the sole of my foot until I reached a city where, before my means were exhausted, I obtained employment in the office of an accountant. It was by the merest chance that I obtained the situation, for there were many applicants; but I was quick at figures, and that quality served me. The position was not a distinguished one; I was not destined to occupy it long, however, for being coldly interested in my work--simply because it enabled me to live--I performed the tasks set for me to do, not only expeditiously, but with the exactitude of a machine. This was precisely what was required of me, and I rose into favour with my employer. Some of the clients who came to us for advice in their difficulties were afflicted with a kind of moral disease, which for their credits' sake it was necessary should not be exposed to the world. It was not the business of our office to be nice as to our clients' honesty and integrity, and it did not trouble me to see rogues walking about in broadcloth. It was of a piece with the rest. Many delicate matters of figures were intrusted to me; my lonely habits, my reserved manner, and the circumstance of my having no connections or friends, were high recommendations, and I heard my employer say, more than once, to his clients, 'Mr. Carey is as secret as the grave; you may confide anything to him.' No wonder, therefore, that in the course of years I became manager of the business. I began to save money, simply because I was earning more than I required for my necessities. I had no extravagances, I never went into society, and I did not see that any pleasure was to be derived from following the ordinary pursuits of men of my own age. I set down a rigid course of life for myself, and I spent my leisure in solitude; walked and read and lived entirely in myself. One fancy alone I indulged in; I loved flowers, and I made them my companions. An occupation of some kind for my leisure was forced upon me, I suppose, by natural necessity; the mind, if its balance is to be maintained, must have something to feed upon, and I tended my flowers and watched them through their various stages with much interest; I had, and have a real affection for them. Every year that passed fixed my habits more firmly, and I had no desire to change them. Apart from my mute and beautiful friends, life was tasteless for me; there was no sweetness in it that I could see. It consisted of dull plodding day after day, of growing older day after day. I reflected upon it with scornful curiosity, and made myself, as it were, a text for speculative commentary. I knew what would be the end of it: in the natural order of things I should live until I grew old, when, in the natural order of things, I should die and pass away, fading into absolute nothingness--that was all. It seemed to me a poor affair, so far as it was presented to me in the different aspects with which I had been made familiar. I often thought of the poor girl who had been the only friend I had ever had in the world, and in that remembrance was comprised all the tenderness I had ever felt towards my species.

I hope I do not distress you by my words; but it has come upon me in some odd way to give you as exact a portrait of myself, as I was at that time, as I can produce; perhaps for the reason that I wish you to understand the wonderful change that took place in me not long afterwards. Years ago I buried as in a grave all the records of my life, with the intention of never speaking of them, of never thinking of them if I could help it. But man proposes, chance disposes. Even to-night I intended to pluck out only one remembrance, but I have been overpowered.

When I was thirty years of age I was taken into partnership, and five years afterwards my partner died, and I was sole master. Before I was taken into partnership I had been a machine, paid to perform certain duties; but when I was a partner I considered myself responsible for the nature of the business we undertook, and I purified the office, sending all clients away who came with a dishonest intent. This change resulted, strangely enough, to my advantage, and the business increased. I conducted it steadily, without in any respect changing my mode of life. The money I was making was in every way valueless to me. I had no one to whom I cared to leave it, and no pet scheme which I wished to be carried out after my death. I remember thinking that it would be a fine thing to fling the money into the sea before I died.

I come now to the most eventful page in the history of my life. If I could blot out the record, and could stamp it into oblivion, I would gladly do so; but it is out of my power, and I can only look upon it with wonder, and upon myself with contempt for the part I played in it.

It was a cold day in November, and a miserable sleet was falling. I was sitting alone in my private office, looking over some papers, when my clerk announced a Mr. Richard Glaive, who had written that he wished to consult me upon his affairs. He entered--a tall sleek man, well fed, well dressed, about fifty years of age--a man, I judged, who had seen but little of the troubles of the world. But there was trouble in his face on the occasion of my first introduction to him. With the air of one who was suffering from a deep injustice, he explained to me the nature of his inheritance. I learnt that he was, as I had supposed, a man who had never worked, who had never done anything useful, and who had lived all his life upon a moderate income which he had inherited. Wishing to increase his income, for the purpose, as I understood, of being able the better to enjoy life--'surely an innocent and laudable desire,' he said--he had been tempted to take a large number of shares in a company which had been established with a great flourish of promises--had been tempted to become a director for the sake of the fees; 'nothing to do, my dear sir,' he explained to me, and so much a year for it; the very thing to suit a gentleman.' His money hitherto had yielded five per cent, invested in safe securities; the new company promised from twenty to thirty. The temptation was too great to be resisted, and, blinded by his cupidity, he had walked into the pit. As was to be expected, the company was a bubble, the crash came, and the gulls were swooped upon by the creditors. Lawyers' letters were pouring in upon him, and actions were about to be taken against him. There were other complications, also, in the shape of long-standing debts upon which he had been paying interest, but a full settlement of which was now demanded. There was a manifest sense of injury in his tone as he spoke of these debts--'youthful follies,' he called them; adding immediately, with an easy smile, 'youth must have its fling;' conveying the idea that he did not consider himself responsible for them, for the reason that they had been so long standing. Altogether the case was a common one enough, and when he had concluded the catalogue of his embarrassments, I said that the first thing to be done was to prepare a statement of his affairs from his papers, so that he might really see how he stood with the world. He thanked me effusively, as though I had suggested something which would not have occurred to an ordinary mind, and said that he had been advised to consult me, as I should most certainly be able to steer him safely through his difficulties. I replied that I would do the best I could, and on the following day he brought to the office a mass of papers, letters, and accounts. He had received other threatening letters since our first interview, and he was in a fever of perplexity. 'I depend entirely upon you, my dear sir,' he said. I suggested that I should write to his creditors to the effect that he had placed his affairs in my hands, and that in a short time he would be able to make a proposal to them, asking them to be patient in the mean while. He assented, saying, in words which sounded queerly in my ears, that all he wanted was to be relieved of his liabilities, and to be allowed to go on enjoying life in his old way; and before he left he asked me not to intrust the business to the hands of my clerks, but to undertake it personally myself. I promised that I would do so, and in a week I had the statement prepared--a statement which showed his affairs to be in the worst possible condition. He was insolvent to the extent of not being able to pay one quarter of what he owed. I was surprised at this result, for I had expected something very different from his manner and statements. On the morning of the day on which it had been arranged that Mr. Glaive should call, I received a note from him, saying that he was very unwell, and that he would regard it as a favour if I would come to his house and explain matters to him. In the ordinary course of business I should have sent a clerk with the statement; but I could not do so in this instance, as it was necessary I should tell him what course he had best pursue. At seven o'clock in the evening I was at his house, a pretty little villa in the suburbs embedded in a garden. I was shown at once into what Mr. Glaive called his study, where he sat expecting me. He glanced carelessly down the columns of figures in the statement.

'I don't understand figures,' he said; 'will you please explain them to me?'

I commenced an explanation of the statement, line by line, when he interrupted me, saying,

'Pray forgive me, but I can't keep these details in my head. Tell me the result.'

I told him in one word--ruin. Hitherto his manner had been so indifferent that one might have supposed we were speaking of business which did not concern him, but on mention of the word 'ruin,' a deathly paleness came into his face. Before he had time to speak the door opened, and a young man entered the room with the air of one who was privileged in the house.

'Uncle,' he said, 'Fanny told me--'

'Don't you see that I'm engaged, Ralph?' cried Mr. Glaive. 'I can't be disturbed. Go and wish Fanny good-night.'

The young man muttered a word or two of laughing apology, and retired. I saw him no more on that night, but, in the brief glance I cast at him, I saw that he was singularly handsome.

'Now tell me,' said Mr. Glaive, breathing quickly, 'what is your meaning?'

'My meaning is clear enough,' I answered. 'If these claims against you are pressed--and they will be--your entire property will not be sufficient to pay one-fourth of them.'

'But why should the claims be pressed?' he asked, with a helpless look.

I almost laughed in his face.

'You owe the money,' I said; 'that should be a sufficient explanation.'

'Do you mean to tell me,' he asked, 'that they would turn me out of house and home?' And he looked around his comfortably-furnished room.

'It is more than probable,' I replied. 'I know the lawyers with whom you have to deal. This house is your own freehold, and its value is included in the statement.'

He clasped his hands despairingly; I was silent, despising his weakness.

'Can't you advise me?' he cried. 'If ruin came to you, what would you do?'

'Bear it,' I replied. I was growing weary of him.

'Have you any children?' he asked.

'No,' I replied.

'Nor wife perhaps?' he continued.

'Nor wife, nor child, nor friend,' I said, rising.

'What are you going to do?' he cried. 'For God's sake, don't leave me! You have undertaken the conduct of my affairs, and you will surely not desert me when your services are most needed?'

The observation was a just one, and I resumed my seat. I should not have attempted to leave so abruptly had it not been that his manner of addressing me had irritated me. He had spoken to me as though our positions were not equal, almost as though I were a dependent, and it was because of this that I had answered him roughly. His manner was now changed; it became almost servile. He implored me to suggest a plan by which he could be released from his liabilities, and he revealed sufficient of his true nature to convince me that he would have shrunk from no meanness to accomplish his desire. Perhaps, however, I do him injustice; perhaps I should rather say that he convinced me he had no sense of moral responsibility in the matter. I resolved to come to the point at once, and I told him that I saw absolutely no way but one in which he could free himself from his liabilities, and that even that way, supposing his creditors were hard, would be difficult and harassing. It was by offering to give up the whole of his property on the condition of obtaining a clear release.

'But then I shall be beggared,' he exclaimed, pressing his hand to his heart. 'It is cruel--merciless!'

'It is just,' I said sternly. 'Your creditors have more right to complain than you. 'There is another plan, certainly, by which you might be enabled to keep possession of your house.'

He asked me eagerly what it was, and I said that if he had a friend who would come forward and advance the necessary sum, his creditors would almost certainly accept it; but he informed me that he had no such friend, and that he and his daughter were alone in the world. Upon mention of his daughter, as if he had conjured her up, she entered the room. I do not know how to describe the effect of her appearance upon me. It was like the breaking of the sun upon one who had lived in the dark all his life. Mr. Glaive, clutching my arm, drew me close to him, and whispered to me that _that_ was the reason he could not contemplate the ruin before him with a calm mind.

(Uncle Bryan paused. Hitherto he had spoken in a cold and measured tone; when he resumed his story his voice was no longer passionless, and he did not seek to hold it in restraint.)

As Mr. Glaive introduced me to his daughter I rose to go, and bowing to her and saying that I would see him again, was about to take my departure, when Miss Glaive said she hoped she had not frightened me away. Not her words, nor the effect of her appearance upon me, but her voice, arrested my steps; it was so exactly like the voice of the poor girl of whose last agony I had been the only witness, that I turned and looked steadily at her. There was no resemblance between them--my lost friend was dark, Miss Glaive was fair.

'You look at me,' said Miss Glaive, 'as if you knew me.'

I managed to say that her voice reminded me of a dear friend.

'Dear!' Miss Glaive exclaimed archly; 'very dear?'

'Very dear,' I said gravely.

'A lady friend?' she asked, with smiles.

'She of whom I speak,' I said, 'was a woman.'

'Was!' echoed Miss Glaive.

'She is dead,' I explained.

'I am sorry,' said Miss Glaive very gently; 'I beg your pardon.'

I was strangely stirred by her sympathising words. There was a little pause, and I moved again, towards the door, not wishing to leave, but finding no cause to stay. Again her voice arrested me.

'If you go now,' she said, 'I shall be quite sure that I _have_ frightened you away. Papa declares that no one makes tea like me; I tell him he knows nothing about it. Do you drink tea, Mr. Carey? You shall be the judge.'

'And after tea,' added Mr. Glaive with an observant look at me--he had grown calmer while his daughter and I were speaking--'Fanny will give us some music.'

Miss Glaive did not ask for my verdict upon her tea-making, and soon sat down to the piano and played. In this quiet way an hour must have passed without a word being spoken. It was a new experience to me, and it took me out of myself as it were. The peaceful room, the presence of this graceful girl, and the sweet melodies she played, softly and dreamily, seemed to me to belong to another and a better world than that in which I was accustomed to move. It was strangely unreal and strangely beautiful. The music ceased, and Miss Glaive came to my side.

'Papa is asleep,' she whispered; 'we must be very quiet now.'

There were books on the table, and I turned the leaves of one without any consciousness of what I was gazing upon. It did not occur to me that this was the proper time for me to leave; I was as a man enthralled. A movement made by the sleeping man (did he sleep? I have sometimes wondered in my jealous analysis of these small details) aroused me from my dream, and I wished Miss Glaive good-night. She accompanied me to the street-door.

'Papa is in trouble,' she said; are you going to assist him?'

'He has asked for my advice,' I replied.

'We must not talk now,' she said, 'for fear he should wake up and miss me; he is irritable, and has heart-disease. May I call and see you to-morrow? I know where your office is. I wrote the notes you received from papa.'

'I shall be glad to see you,' I said.

'At three o'clock, then,' were her last words, and we shook hands and parted.

A heavy rain had set in during my visit, but I was scarcely conscious of it as I walked into the town. Late as it was, I went to my office. For what purpose do you think? To get the notes which I had received from Mr. Glaive--the notes which now were precious to me because she had written them. I took them home with me and read them, and studied the delicate writing with senseless infatuation, and then placed them under my pillow for a charm, as a schoolgirl might have done. At the office the next morning I made another and a closer examination of Mr. Glaive's affairs, with the same result as I had previously obtained. Ruin was before him--before her. Punctually at three o'clock Miss Glaive arrived. I met her at the door, and conducted her to my private room. My impressions of the previous night were deepened by her appearance; she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and her charm of manner was perfect. It would be useless for me to attempt to describe the feelings with which she inspired me; I have often endeavoured to account for them and understand them, and have never succeeded.

'Papa is very ill to-day,' she said; 'the doctor has been to see him, and says that he is suffering from mental disorder, which may prove dangerous. I have come to you to ask you the nature of his trouble.'

'Do you not think,' I asked, 'that he would be angry if he knew I had made any disclosure of his private affairs?'

'But he need not know,' she replied; 'I shall not tell him. Let it be a confidence between us. I saw some papers which you brought last night, but I do not understand them any more than papa does.'

I could not resist her pleading, and I told her, awkwardly and hesitatingly, what I had told her father.

'And all this trouble is about money,' she said with smiles; 'I was afraid it was something worse.'

I told her that it could not well be worse, unless she knew where money was to be obtained. She answered that she did not know, but that she supposed it would be got somewhere.

'You don't understand these matters of business,' I said; 'it is perhaps better for you.'

'That can't be,' she exclaimed; 'if I knew anything of business I should know where to get the money from, and I would get it That is what business men are for, is it not?'

Charmed as I was by her simplicity--a simplicity which was utterly new to me, and which it was delightful to hear from her lips--I deemed it my duty to explain matters clearly to her. Steeling my heart, I did so in plain terms, and showed her the position in which her father would be placed within a very few days.

'You frighten me!' she cried, as my words forced conviction upon her; and overcome by the news or by my manner of telling it, she fainted. If she had been fair before, how much fairer was she now as she lay before me? Her childlike ways, her beauty, her helplessness, made a slave of me. I feared at first that I had killed her, and I reproached myself bitterly. Timidly I bathed her forehead with water, and when she opened her eyes, and looked at me in innocent wonder, a feeling that might have been heaven-born--to use a phrase--so fraught was it with thankful happiness, took possession of me. I explained to her what had occurred, and she lowered her veil to hide her tears. As I witnessed her grief, it seemed to me as if I were the cause of her father's misfortunes.

'And there is absolutely no hope for us?' she sobbed.

'There is only the hope,' I replied, 'as I explained to your father, that some friend will come forward and serve him in this strait.'

'Papa has no such friend that I know of,' she said.

I thought of the young man whom I had seen at Mr. Glaive's house on the previous night, and I mentioned him.

'Ralph,' she said, 'my cousin. No, he is very poor.' She turned to me. 'I had a fancy last night that you were our friend.'

I answered in a constrained voice: 'I never saw Mr. Glaive until a fortnight ago; he called upon me only in the way of business.'

'Forgive me,' she murmured; 'I was wrong to come, perhaps--but I did not know.'

'If I could serve you--' I said, and paused. The words came to my lips and were uttered almost without the exercise of my will; not that I repented of them. She threw up her veil, and moved towards me.

'_If!_' she echoed. 'You could if you pleased, could you not? _You_ are rich?'

'I am not a poor man,' I said.

'Help us,' she pleaded, holding out her hands to me. 'Be my friend.'

I murmured something--I did not know what--and she clasped my hand; the warm pressure of her fingers upon mine thrilled my pulses. The next minute I was alone. I strove to concentrate my thoughts upon certain matters of business which claimed my attention, but I found it impossible to do so. I could not dispossess myself of the image of Frances Glaive. In an idle humour I wrote her name, Frances Glaive, over and over again; if I had been a boy, with all a boy's enthusiasm, instead of a man hardened and embittered by cruel experience, I could not have behaved more in accordance with established precedent. I saw Frances Glaive sitting in the vacant chair at my table; I heard her sweet voice; I gazed upon her face as it lay, insensible and beautiful, before me. 'Be my friend,' she had said. I could serve her; it was in my power to make her happy. I took out my bank-book and the private ledger in which I kept the record of my worldly progress; I was rich enough to pay all Mr. Glaive's liabilities, and still have a considerable sum left; but I need not pay them in full. I knew that I could easily settle with his creditors for a trifle over the value of his estate. I did not value money, and yet I decided upon nothing; I could not think calmly upon the matter; I thought only of Frances Glaive, knowing full well that she, by a word, by a look, by a smile, could make me do any wild or extravagant thing against all reason and conviction. I craved to see her again, and so strong was this craving that in the evening I found myself walking in the direction of Mr. Glaive's house. I can recall the manner of that walk; I can recall how, governed by an impulse stronger than reason, I still was conscious of a curious mental conflict which was being waged within me, independent of my own will as it seemed, and the most powerful forces of which strove to pull me back, while I was really walking along without hesitation. I _did_ hesitate when I stood before Mr. Glaive's house, but only for a very few moments. Frances Glaive came into the passage to receive me.

'I thought you would come,' she said, her face lighting up.

'And you are glad?' I could not help asking.

'Very, very glad. Papa is in the study; he is dreadfully weak and ill, and I have been counting the minutes. May I tell him that I have brought him a friend?'

'Yes,' I answered; 'a friend of yours.'

All this while she had not relinquished my hand; and I too willingly retained hers in mine. Well, well--at that time I would have thought no price too heavy to pay for such precious moments.

I will not prolong my story more than I can help; already it has far exceeded the limits I proposed to myself; but when the floodgates are opened, the tide rushes in. You can guess what followed; you can guess that I served Mr. Glaive for the sake of his daughter. In a short time he was a free man, and I was his only creditor. I grew to love Frances Glaive most passionately, and her father saw and encouraged my passion. My character underwent a wonderful change. Love transformed all things. Through Frances Glaive's innocence and artlessness the world became purified; through her beauty the world became beautiful to me. By simple contact with her nature all the bitterness in my nature was dissolved. The scales fell from my eyes, and I saw good even in things I had most despised. The days were brighter; the nights were sweeter. Life was worth having. Say that a man who had been born blind, and who had no knowledge of the beauties of nature, is suddenly blessed with vision; a new world is open to him, and he appreciates, with the most exquisite enjoyment and sensibility, the light and colour and graceful shapes by which for the first time he sees himself surrounded. The spring buds, the bright sunshine of summer, the russet tints of autumn, the pure snow with its myriad wonders, as it lies on the hills, as it floats in the air, as it fringes the bare branches--not alone these, but the tiniest insect, the smallest flower, are revelations to him. It was thus with me, and all the fresh feelings of youth came to me when I was a middle-aged man.