This sad business--
ALFRED.
I? no, not a word.
JOHN.
You received my last letter?
ALFRED.
I think so. If not, What then?
JOHN.
You have acted upon it?
ALFRED.
On what?
JOHN.
The advice that I gave you--
ALFRED.
Advice?--let me see?
You ALWAYS are giving advice, Jack, to me.
About Parliament, was it?
JOHN.
Hang Parliament! no, The Bank, the Bank, Alfred!
ALFRED.
What Bank?
JOHN.
Heavens! I know You are careless;--but surely you have not forgotten,--
Or neglected . . . I warn'd you the whole thing was rotten.
You have drawn those deposits at least?
ALFRED.
No, I meant To have written to-day; but the note shall be sent To-morrow, however.
JOHN.
To-morrow? too late!
Too late! oh, what devil bewitch'd you to wait?
ALFRED.
Mercy save us! you don't mean to say . . .
JOHN.
Yes, I do.
ALFRED.
What! Sir Ridley?
JOHN.
Smash'd, broken, blown up, bolted too!
ALFRED.
But his own niece? . . . In Heaven's name, Jack . . .
JOHN.
Oh, I told you The old hypocritical scoundrel would . . .
ALFRED.
Hold! you Surely can't mean we are ruin'd?
JOHN.
Sit down!
A fortnight ago a report about town Made me most apprehensive. Alas, and alas!
I at once wrote and warn'd you. Well, now let that pass.
A run on the Bank about five days ago Confirm'd my forebodings too terribly, though.
I drove down to the city at once; found the door Of the Bank close: the Bank had stopp'd payment at four.
Next morning the failure was known to be fraud:
Warrant out for McNab: but McNab was abroad:
Gone--we cannot tell where. I endeavor'd to get Information: have learn'd nothing certain as yet--
Not even the way that old Ridley was gone:
Or with those securities what he had done:
Or whether they had been already call'd out:
If they are not, their fate is, I fear, past a doubt.
Twenty families ruin'd, they say: what was left,--
Unable to find any clew to the cleft The old fox ran to earth in,--but join you as fast As I could, my dear Alfred?*
*These events, it is needless to say, Mr. Morse, Took place when Bad News as yet travell'd by horse;
Ere the world, like a cockchafer, buzz'd on a wire, Or Time was calcined by electrical fire;
Ere a cable went under the hoary Atlantic, Or the word Telegram drove grammarians frantic.
VI.
He stopp'd here, aghast At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose face Had grown livid; and glassy his eyes fix'd on space.
"Courage, courage!" . . . said John, . . . "bear the blow like a man!"
And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred. There ran Through that hand a quick tremor. "I bear it," he said, "But Matilda? the blow is to her!" And his head Seem'd forced down, as he said it.
JOHN.
Matilda? Pooh, pooh!
I half think I know the girl better than you.
She has courage enough--and to spare. She cares less Than most women for luxury, nonsense, and dress.
ALFRED.
The fault has been mine.
JOHN.
Be it yours to repair it:
If you did not avert, you may help her to bear t.
ALFRED.
I might have averted.
JOHN.
Perhaps so. But now There is clearly no use in considering how, Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is here.
Broken shins are not mended by crying--that's clear!
One has but to rub them, and get up again, And push on--and not think too much of the pain.
And at least it is much that you see that to her You owe too much to think of yourself. You must stir And arouse yourself Alfred, for her sake. Who knows?
Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I suppose We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least.
"O Jack, I have been a brute idiot! a beast!
A fool! I have sinn'd, and to HER I have sinn'd!
I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind!
And now, in a flash, I see all things!"
As though To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low On his hands; and the great tears in silence roll'd on And fell momently, heavily, one after one.
John felt no desire to find instant relief For the trouble he witness'd.
He guess'd, in the grief Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition:
Some oblivion perchance which could plead less excuse To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use Of the conscience God gave him, than simply and merely The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly.
So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own Cordial heart for Matilda.
Thus, silently lost In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and re-cross'd The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung O'er the table; his fingers entwisted among The rich curls they were knotting and dragging: and there, That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear, The sobs of a man! Yet so far in his own Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had grown Unconscious of Alfred.
And so for a space There was silence between them.
VII.
At last, with sad face He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile, Approach'd him,--stood o'er him,--and suddenly laid One hand on his shoulder--
"Where is she?" he said.
Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears In some foreign language to hear himself greeted, Unable to answer.
"Where is she?" repeated His cousin.
He motioned his hand to the door;
"There, I think," he replied. Cousin John said no more, And appear'd to relapse to his own cogitations, Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indications.
So again there was silence.
A timepiece at last Struck the twelve strokes of midnight.
Roused by them, he cast A half-look to the dial; then quietly threw His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew The hands down from his face.
"It is time she should know What has happen'd," he said, . . . "let us go to her now."
Alfred started at once to his feet.
Drawn and wan Though his face, he look'd more than his wont was--a man.
Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, fill'd through With a manly resolve.
If that axiom be true Of the "Sum quia cogito," I must opine That "id sum quod cogito;"--that which, in fine A man thinks and feels, with his whole force of thought And feeling, the man is himself.
