All through the year, John Turner had kept his client supplied with ready money. He had, moreover, made no change in his own mode of living. Which things are a mystery to all who have no money of their own nor the good fortune to handle other people's. There is no doubt some explanation of the fact that bankers and other financiers seem to fail, and even become bankrupt, without tangible1 effect upon their daily comfort, but the unfinancial cannot expect to understand it.
There had, as a matter of fact, been no question of discomfort2 for Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence either.
“Can I spend as much as I like?” she had asked Turner, and his reply had been in the affirmative.
“No use in saving?”
“None whatever,” he replied. To which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence made answer that she did not understand things at all.
“It is no use collecting straws against a flood,” the banker answered, sleepily.
There was, of course, no question now of supplying the necessary funds to the Marquis de Gemosac and Albert de Chantonnay, who, it was understood, were raising the money, not without difficulty, elsewhere. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had indeed heard little or nothing of her Royalist friends in the west. Human nature is the same, it would appear, all the world over, but the upper crust is always the hardest.
When Colville was informed of the rumour3, he remembered that he had never quarrelled with John Turner. He had, of course, said some hard things in the heat of the moment, but Turner had not retorted. There was no quarrel. Colville, therefore, took an early opportunity of lunching at the club then reputed to have the best chef in Paris. He went late and found that the majority of members had finished dejeuner and were taking coffee in one or other of the smoking-rooms.
After a quick and simple meal, Colville lighted a cigarette and went upstairs. There were two or three small rooms where members smoked or played cards or read the newspapers, and in the quietest of these John Turner was alone, asleep. Colville walked backward into the room, talking loudly as he did so with a friend in the passage. When well over the threshold he turned: John Turner, whose slumbers5 had been rudely disturbed, was sitting up rubbing his eyes. The surprise was of course mutual6, and for a moment there was an awkward pause; then, with a smile of frank good-fellowship, Colville advanced, holding out his hand.
“I hope we have known each other too many years, old fellow,” he said, “to bear any lasting7 ill-will for words spoken in the heat of anger or disappointment, eh?”
He stood in front of the banker frankly9 holding out the hand of forgiveness, his head a little on one side, that melancholy10 smile of toleration for poor human weakness in his eyes.
“Well,” admitted Turner, “we've certainly known each other a good many years.”
He somewhat laboriously11 hoisted12 himself up, his head emerging from his tumbled collar like the head of a tortoise aroused from sleep, and gave into Colville's affectionate grasp a limp and nerveless hand.
“No one could feel for you more sincerely than I do,” Colville assured him, drawing forward a chair,—“more than I have done all through these trying months.”
“Very kind, I'm sure,” murmured Turner, looking drowsily13 at his friend's necktie. One must look somewhere, and Turner always gazed at the necktie of any one who sat straight in front of him, which usually induced an uneasy fingering of that ornament14 and an early consultation15 of the nearest mirror. “Have a cigar.”
There was the faint suggestion of a twinkle beneath the banker's heavy lids as Colville accepted this peace-offering. It was barely twenty-four hours since he had himself launched in Colville's direction the rumour which had brought about this reconciliation16.
“And I'm sure,” continued the other, turning to cut the end of the cigar, “that no one would be better pleased to hear that better times are coming—eh? What did you say?”
“Nothing. Didn't speak,” was the reply to this vague interrogation. Then they talked of other things. There was no lack of topics for conversation at this time in France; indeed, the whole country was in a buzz of talk. But Turner was not, it seemed, in a talkative mood. Only once did he rouse himself to take more than a passing interest in the subject touched upon by his easy-going companion.
“Yes,” he admitted, “he may be the best cook in Paris, but he is not what he was. It is this Revision of the Constitution which is upsetting the whole country, especially the lower classes. The man's hand is shaky. I can see it from his way of pouring the mayonnaise over a salad.”
After touching17 upon each fresh topic, Colville seemed to return unconsciously to that which must of necessity be foremost in his companion's thoughts—the possibility of saving Turner's bank from failure. And each time he learnt a little more. At last, with that sympathetic spontaneity which was his chief charm, Dormer Colville laid his hand confidentially18 on Turner's sleeve.
“Frankly, old fellow,” he said, “are you going to pull it through?”
“Frankly, old fellow, I am,” was the reply, which made Colville glance hastily at the clock.
“Gad!” he exclaimed, “look at the time. You have kept me gossiping the whole afternoon. Must be off. Nobody will be better pleased than I am to hear the good news. But of course I am mum. Not a word will they hear from me. I AM glad. Good-bye.”
“I dare say you are,” murmured Turner to the closed door.
Dormer Colville was that which is known as an opportunist. It was a dull grey afternoon. He would be sure to find Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence at home. She had taken an apartment in the Rue19 de Lille in the St. Germain quarter. His way was past the flower-shop, where he sometimes bestowed20 a fickle21 custom. He went in and bought a carnation22 for his buttonhole.
It is to be presumed that John Turner devoted23 the afternoon to his affairs. It was at all events evening before he also bent24 his steps toward the Rue de Lille.
Yes, the servant told him, Madame was at home and would assuredly see him. Madame was not alone. No. It was, however, only Monsieur Colville, who was so frequent a visitor.
Turner followed the servant along the corridor. The stairs had rather tried one who had to elevate such a weight at each step; he breathed hard, but placidly26.
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence received him with an unusual empressement. Dormer Colville, who was discovered sitting as far from her as the size of the room allowed, was less eager, but he brought forward a chair for the banker and glanced sharply at his face as he sat down.
“So glad to see you,” the hostess explained. “It is really kind of you to come and cheer one up on such a dull afternoon. Dormer and I—won't you take off your coat? No, let ME put it aside for you. Dormer and I were just—just saying how dull it was. Weren't we?”
She looked from one to the other with a rather unnatural27 laugh. One would have thought that she was engaged in carrying off a difficult situation and, for so practised a woman of the world, not doing it very well. Her cheeks were flushed, which made her look younger, and a subtle uncertainty28 in her voice and manner added to this illusion charmingly. For a young girl's most precious possession is her inexperience. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, for the first time in her life, was not sure of herself.
“Now I hope you have not come on business,” she added, drawing forward her own chair and passing a quick hand over her hair. “Bother business! Do not let us think about it.”
“Not exactly,” replied Turner, recovering his breath. “Quite agree with you. Let us say, 'Bother business,' and not think of it. Though, for an old man who is getting stout30, there is nothing much left but business and his dinner, eh?”
“No. Do not say that,” cried the lady. “Never say that. It is time enough to think that years hence when we are all white-haired. But I used to think that myself once, you know. When I first had my money. Do you remember? I was so pleased to have all that wealth that I determined31 to learn all about cheque-books and things and manage it myself. So you taught me, and at last you admitted that I was an excellent man of business. I know I thought I was myself. And I suppose I lapsed32 into a regular business woman and only thought of money and how to increase it. How horrid33 you must have thought me!”
“But I know I learnt to think much too much about it,” Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence went on eagerly. “And now that it is all gone, I do not care THAT for it.”
“Not that,” she repeated. She turned and glanced at Dormer Colville, raising her eyebrows36 in some mute interrogation only comprehensible to him. “Shall I tell him?” she asked, with a laugh of happiness not very far removed from tears. Then she turned to the banker again.
“Listen,” she said. “I am going to tell you something which no one else in the world can tell you. Dormer and I are going to be married. I dare say lots of people will say that they have expected it for a long time. They can say what they like. We don't care. And I am glad that you are the first person to hear it. We have only just settled it, so you are the very first to be told. And I am glad to tell you before anybody else because you have been so kind to me always. You have been my best friend, I think. And the kindest thing you ever did for me was to lose my money, for if you had not lost it, Dormer never would have asked me to marry him. He has just said so himself. And I suppose all men feel that. All the nice ones, I mean. It is one of the drawbacks of being rich, is it not?”
“I suppose it is,” answered Turner, stolidly37, without turning an eyelash in the direction of Colville. “Perhaps that is why no one has ever asked me to marry them.”
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence laughed jerkily at this witticism38. She laughed again when John Turner rose from his chair to congratulate her, but the laugh suddenly ceased when he raised her hand to his lips with a courtesy which was even in those days dying out of the world, and turned away from him hastily. She stood with her back toward them for a minute or two looking at some flowers on a side table. Then she came back into the middle of the room, all smiles, replacing her handkerchief in her pocket.
“So that is the news I have to tell you,” she said.
John Turner had placidly resumed his chair after shaking hands with Dormer Colville for the second time since luncheon39.
“Yes,” he answered, “it is news indeed. And I have a little news to give you. I do not say that it is quite free from the taint29 of business, but at all events it is news. Like yours, it has the merit of being at first hand, and you are the first to hear it. No one else could tell it to you.”
He broke off and rubbed his chin while he looked apathetically40 at Colville's necktie.
“It has another merit, rare enough,” he went on. “It is good news. I think, in fact I may say I am sure, that we shall pull through now and your money will be safely returned to you.”
“I am so glad,” said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with a glance at Dormer Colville. “I cannot tell you how glad I am.”
She looked at the banker with bright eyes and the flush still in her cheeks that made her look younger and less sure of herself.
“Not only for my own sake, you know. For yours, because I am sure you must be relieved, and for—well, for everybody's sake. Tell me all about it, please.” And she pushed her chair sideways nearer to Colville's.
John Turner bit the first joint41 of his thumb reflectively. It is so rare that one can tell any one all about anything.
“Tell me first,” Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence suggested, “whether Miriam Liston's money is all safe as well.”
“Miriam's money never was in danger,” he replied. “Miriam is my ward4; you are only my client. There is no chance of Miriam being able to make ducks and drakes of her money.”
“That sounds as if I had been trying to do that with mine.”
“Don't call it hard names,” put in Dormer Colville, generously. “It was not a failure.”
“Call it a temporary suspension of payment, then,” agreed the banker, imperturbably42. “If it had not been for that, half your fortune would have been goodness knows where by now. You wanted to put it into some big speculation43 in this country, if I remember aright. And big speculations44 in France are the very devil just now. Whereas, now, you see, it is all safe and you can invest it in the beginning of next year in some good English securities. It seems providential, does it not?”
He rose as he spoke8 and held out his hand to say goodbye. He asked the question of Colville's necktie, apparently45, for he smiled stupidly at it.
“Well, I do not understand business after all, I admit that,” Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence called out gaily to him as he went toward the door. “I do not understand things at all.”
“No, and I don't suppose you ever will,” Turner replied as he followed the servant into the corridor.
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1
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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2
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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3
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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4
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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5
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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6
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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7
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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8
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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9
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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10
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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11
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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12
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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14
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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15
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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16
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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17
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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18
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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19
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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20
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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22
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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23
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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24
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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25
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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26
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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27
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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28
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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29
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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31
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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32
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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33
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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34
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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35
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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36
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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37
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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38
witticism
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| n.谐语，妙语 | |
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39
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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40
apathetically
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| adv.不露感情地；无动于衷地；不感兴趣地；冷淡地 | |
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41
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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42
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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43
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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44
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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45
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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