Probation

It was not until late in the afternoon of the following day that Sebastian, not forgetting his appointment with Myles Heywood, found it possible to return to his own home.

That was a dreadful day, bringing in its course fresh disclosures of dishonesty on the part of both father and son of the Spenceleys, fresh shame and humiliation to the sorely proved Helena; fresh bursts of wild, hopeless weeping and meaningless questions from her poor mother. Mrs. Spenceley was, of course, perfectly bewildered by everything, and could only reiterate that she had told Spenceley, over and over again, that if business was so precarious, they had no right to be giving balls; and she knew it would turn out badly, she had said so all along. Then a fresh burst of weeping, and the inquiries:

‘Helena, my dear, I s’pose we shall have to leave here. What do you think we shall be allowed to keep? Will everything have to be sold?’

To all of which Helena, pale, composed, and gentle, made answers as soothing as she could.

It was upon her head that the cruellest shame and humiliation naturally fell. Sebastian asked her, almost as soon as he met her in the morning, what friends or relations there were with whom he could communicate on the subject of her father’s death, and to whom he could resign his present authority.

‘But there is Fred,’ said poor, unconscious Helena. ‘He is sure to be back soon. He will come by one of the early trains from Manchester, I am sure.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Sebastian, feeling his task a hard one. ‘And even if he did, it is not right that your friends and relations should not be summoned. Don’t think I wish to withdraw the little assistance I can offer you, but I have no right to the position. It is absolutely necessary that I give the responsibility into some proper hands.’

‘I don’t know of any one except Uncle Robert, and papa and he were not good friends. He is mamma’s brother. I think he would come if we sent for him.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘In Manchester; I will give you his address,’ said Helena.

When she had done so, Sebastian telegraphed to Mr. Robert Bamford, requesting him to come over as soon as possible on urgent business. An answer came to the effect that Mr. Bamford would arrive some time in the afternoon. It was for his appearance that Sebastian waited. He and Helena were in the library. He was trying to explain to her the circumstances which had made it possible for her father to fail, and Helena was giving her best attention, but, with all the goodwill in the world, utterly helpless before the technical business terms and details. Her sad face with its serious, puzzled look, was in sharp contrast with that of the Helena Spenceley whom Sebastian had always hitherto known.

‘You see,’ said she, suddenly looking up at him with a wan attempt at a smile, ‘you had every right to laugh at me when I boasted my business capacities. No one could be more ignorant. I see it now.’

‘It was not unnatural,’ said he, gently. ‘People with a cheque-book and a balance at the banker’s, are apt to think they understand business when they don’t. But it is of no consequence, really. The thing has happened, and if you had known all the secrets of the Stock Exchange you could not have prevented it.’

‘No, I know,’ said Helena, looking wearily round. ‘I wonder if Fred will come back with Uncle Robert. I daresay he has been to consult him. Don’t you think so?’

‘It may be so; at least, your uncle will be able to tell us something about him.’

‘How I wish it was all over,’ she went on, ‘and that we were safely housed in, wherever we go to—some back street in Manchester, I dare say.’

‘Oh, it may not be quite so bad as that.’

‘I never said I thought that would be bad,’ said Helena, leaning her elbows, as if utterly tired out, upon the table, and resting her head upon her hands. Sebastian felt a deep pity stir his heart. She had already suffered so much—she had still so much more, and so much worse to suffer. Perhaps all this pain would make her what people, what he himself, would call ‘more reasonable.’ But she was very sweet in her unreasonableness. It seemed rather sad that she must go through such an ordeal in order that she might become like other people.

At this point a servant announced ‘Mr. Robert Bamford,’ and Helena’s uncle arrived. Now Sebastian felt sure some painful truths would have to be told, and he again looked with a strange strength of compunction at the beautiful, weary, white face of Helena.

Mr. Bamford was a very plain, rough-spoken man indeed, who walked with a heavy step into the room, glanced at Sebastian from a pair of shrewd, dark eyes, and without waiting for an introduction, gave a stiff little nod, and said, ‘Your servant, sir;’ and then turned to his niece with the greeting, ‘Well, Helena, this is a pretty business.’

‘It is very sad, uncle,’ said she, facing him, pale, and with dilated eyes. ‘I think we had better not talk about it, but see what is to be done.’

‘There’s not much left to be done now that yon precious brother o’ yours has given us the slip.’

‘What?’ said Helena, growing paler than before, and putting her trembling hands upon the table to support herself. ‘Fred given you the slip—what do you mean? He has gone to see about papa’s affairs. He—I expected him to come back with you. What has he done?’

There was no defiance in the tone, only apprehension.

‘Done!’ ejaculated Mr. Bamford, plunging his hands into his pockets and almost running about the room in his excitement. ‘Done! Why, he’s taken everything he could lay his hands on in the shape of money or money’s worth, and he’s off—perhaps to America, but certainly to the devil.’

‘Do you mean that Fred has acted dishonourably?’ asked Helena, almost inaudibly, and trembling still more.

‘Dishonourably! Why, you know nothing. Every one in Manchester knows it by this time. There’s been precious little honour wasted on the whole business, my lass. We know what to think when the men make away with themselves one way or another, and leave the women and the debts behind them.’

‘But my father—it was his misfortune—he did not——’

‘The less said about your father’s transactions, for the last six weeks, the better,’ said Mr. Bamford, curtly.

‘Consider Miss Spenceley’s feelings, sir!’ interposed Sebastian, unable to endure seeing Helena’s despair, and feeling a glow almost of hatred towards Mr. Bamford, and what struck him as his brutality. Helena had turned away and covered her face with her hand, as a man might do who is sorely hit on some vital point—it was more a man’s gesture than a woman’s. Neither groan nor cry escaped her, but Sebastian saw that the iron had entered into her soul. That which she endured was the keenest moral anguish—the supremest of all pains. He could understand it. Her beauty was enhanced: the reckless, impetuous girl, with her ‘disorganised’ ideas, which he had laughed at before now, was transformed into the noble woman, who must bear things which only women can or do bear—the punishment for the sins of their masculine shields and protectors. ‘She has had a very severe shock already,’ he went on, ‘and it cannot be necessary to pain her with——’

‘She must know the truth, and the sooner the better,’ said Mr. Bamford, irascibly. ‘If she is a girl of spirit, she will not wish to be deceived, and anyhow her whole life will have to be changed, and come down a peg or two, for the sins of her father shall be visited upon her.’

‘You are very kind, Mr. Mallory,’ said Helena, turning to them again and speaking calmly, though her face had, even in those few minutes, taken an older, worn expression, which shocked Sebastian. ‘I wish to know the worst at once. I can bear it. I did not know there had been anything dishonourable. Go on, uncle. I am not afraid, and I must know what I have to tell my mother.’

‘By ——, the lass has a spirit of her own!’ observed Mr. Bamford. ‘Now that I see what she’s made of, I may try to explain things to her a bit.’

‘Then I will leave you,’ said Sebastian. ‘Miss Spenceley will tell you that I made what arrangements were immediately necessary. I shall take the liberty of calling soon,’ he added to Helena, ‘in the hope that I may be of some assistance to you. May I?’

‘You are very kind,’ she said, still with the same unmoved calm, as she gave him her hand. ‘I shall be glad to see you whenever you call. Perhaps, another time I can thank you better for your goodness; but at present——’

‘Pray do not thank me; there is not the very least necessity,’ said he, as he left the room.

‘Now, Uncle Robert!’ said Helena.

‘Who is that young fellow?’

‘Mr. Sebastian Mallory.’

‘Young Mallory of the Oakenrod, who has been acting the philanthropist since he came from abroad?’

‘Has he? Yes, it is that Mallory.’

‘Any particular friend of yours?’

‘No,’ was the cold response. ‘He happened to hear first of my father’s death last night, and as there was no one else here, and no one to do anything, he has been kind enough to arrange things for me since. I know very little of him.’

‘H’m! ha! Well, we must get to business.’

In a very short time Helena was made acquainted with what had happened, and with the bare and naked outline of her approaching future life. The less said of her brother the better, said Mr. Bamford. He believed that the sum with which he had absconded was about two thousand pounds. As for her father—he softened his tone a little, out of consideration for Helena—he was to blame, too, for not drawing in when first he began to find himself in difficulties; ‘only that would have brought him down in the world, and he couldn’t bear it; so, instead of going one step lower, and then climbing up again when he had a chance, he has waited, till he had to tumble down to the ground, and can never get up again,’ remarked the merchant drily, while Helena listened.

She showed him the scrap of paper which Sebastian had given her.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Bamford; ‘that money of yours is a myth——’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said his niece, in a deep, almost resentful tone. ‘And if it had been there—every penny—I should not have kept it now, of course.’

‘And what your mother was to have had—it’s all in the business; was, I mean. It has gone with the rest.’

‘I am glad of that too,’ observed Helena, concisely. ‘Then no one will have the power to say that we were well off while other people suffered.’

‘Your wardrobe and jewellery will be your own, of course. Your jewels and your mother’s must be worth a pretty good sum, Helena.’

‘My jewellery will be sold, and mamma’s too.’

‘Please yourself about your own; but if your mother is not your father’s most pressing creditor, I don’t know who is. Of course she will sell her jewels; but she will keep the proceeds, and you will abstain from meddling in matters you don’t understand.’

‘I understand right and wrong, uncle, and I shall do what I feel to be right.’

‘Eh!’ he repeated, with a kind of chuckle: ‘the lass has a spirit in her after all.’

They would have to leave Thanshope. Helena must try to find some employment. He would give them a home until that was accomplished; to his sister as long as she chose to stay with him. If she liked she might keep house for him, but if she chose to also try some means of gaining a livelihood, he would do what he could to help her. More, he thought, they could not expect.

‘Certainly not,’ said Helena, composedly. ‘We have no right to expect so much, and may consider ourselves fortunate in having you for a friend.’

She had always asked for work, she reminded herself when she was alone—real work, necessary work—not the fads with which rich women try to deceive themselves by calling them work. Behold! here was every prospect of as much work as she liked, and yet she found nothing cheering in it. Only—anything to get away from this sham life of sham luxury, sham state, sham riches, sham everything—away from the world’s eyes and those of Sebastian, into obscurity and poverty, which, she felt, would be no shams, but stern realities, with front of brass and eyes of stone.