by M. Betham-Edwards, author of 'Kitty.'
Originally published in Longman's Magazine (Longmans, Green & Co.) vol.1 #10 (Aug 1883).
It was twelve of the clock—midnight—and the Reverend John Humphrey Dollar wound up his watch with the odd reflection that when he next looked at the familiar dial for that purpose he should be a millionaire. Certainly that, and perhaps much more. The fortune his dying kinsman had just made over to him by word of mouth, was known to be vaster than its accumulator would ever acknowledge. By what means, and for what purpose, he had amassed such wealth, none of his neighbours knew. There was the fact, and it concerned nobody now but his next of kin, the Reverend John Humphrey Dollar, who had been summoned from his post as schoolmaster a hundred miles off to receive the miser's millions by verbal testament before proper qualified witnesses. Illness had stricken down the hale sexagenarian in the midst of his money-getting, and, strange to say, he had as yet made no will. But there lived one of his blood and name—a clergyman, a sufficient guarantee that the church and charities would have their due; a man of learning and parts, moreover, of austereness in daily life, sound political principles, and accustomed to work for daily bread. A gleam of comfort was evidently imparted to the dying man by the thought that he had such an heir. He was past expressing these thoughts now. All that he had to do was to meet his end as became a good churchman and a bequeather of millions. Doubtless it had comforted him to think that the world would talk of his wealth when he was gone, and that, whatever became of it, the church and the poor would not be forgotten.
And all that the Reverend John Humphrey Dollar had to do was to prepare his mind for the extraordinary change of fortune in store for him. Sorrow for his kinsman's death he could not possibly feel, nor need affect. The pair had hardly shaken hands half-a-dozen times in life, and were, indeed, all but strangers to each other. The utmost decorum exacted was as much show of dismay as if he should see some stranger drop down dead in the public ways.
So he sat alone awaiting his millions. A bright fire burned on the hearth, for it was winter, and under ordinary circumstances he would have drowsed in his soft easy chair after the long railway journey, made third class. Wine stood on the table, but he left it untouched. Time enough and to spare for Epicureanism! He must think. It was only natural under the circumstances that his thoughts should be of the earth, earthy. He was a good man, according to his lights, upright, rigid in the performance of his duty, an alms-giver, and had been in times past an excellent son and brother. On the small stipend he received as head master of a poorly endowed grammar-school, he had for many years supported an aged mother and a paralysed sister, possessing also an invariable sixpence to bestow upon a pitiful case. But the whole concern was a shabby one. The enforced shabbiness of his life had ever been a thorn in the flesh. It perpetually galled him to feel himself ill-dressed, meanly housed, straitened in circumstances, and for these paltry reasons degraded to a lower social sphere than that to which he was born.
A gentleman, the son of a gentleman, possessed certainly of more culture than most of his neighbours, yet, because he was poor and shabby, the world, that is to say, the world he cared about, ignored him. Slighted he had not been, simply taken no more notice of than if he did not exist. For fifteen years he had been living in a populous town, a large proportion of the inhabitants belonging to his own status, but he was as completely a stranger to the population of that pleasant watering-place as when he first began his honest career there.
He need not, of course, have led an isolated life for all that. He might have found friends and acquaintances in other circles; it never entered his head to descend a rung of the social ladder. He gave his hand courteously alike to his apothecary and his washerwoman. He would no more have dreamed of visiting on equal terms at the house of the one than of the other. After all, perhaps, he hardly blamed others for such forlornness. The world's standards were very much after the pattern of his own. He felt bitterly now that unless it were so he should regard this sudden accession to wealth with other eyes.
Were he magnanimous, lofty-souled, heroic, he should be building up a very different future now. He had all along resented his pitiful fortunes from a worldling's standpoint: what wonder that his first exaltation should have something mundane about it too? He meant to do good, great good, with his money, but a man's impulse in such a crisis must be to think of himself. The first thought to strike him was that he should be on much better terms with that poor self of his now. Hitherto he had not enjoyed self-content. His unprosperous appearance and humiliating circumstances had soured him. He felt in a measure responsible for such a state of things. He ought to have resisted, shown more self-assertion, more confidence, and contrived to obtain a better position for himself somehow. Such retrospection had been daily his fare. What he had to do now was to look forward. It made him smile complacently to figure himself to the end of his days a well-dressed man. To ninety-nine out of every hundred the outer man is of more importance than the inner. The Rev. John Humphrey Dollar's history had been one that who saw could read. A man's fortunes are proclaimed by the clothes he wears.
Yes; trifle as it seemed, this assurance of henceforth being a well-dressed man could but impart unqualified satisfaction. To be well dressed implies so many creditable things—taste, good company, easy circumstances—and is, moreover, of the first importance to a man's appearance, and by natural sequence his relations to the other sex. The tailor has more to do with success in matters of the heart than is generally taken into account, and the Rev. Mr. Dollar knew well enough that if he had hitherto passed for an ill-favoured, ungainly man, Nature was less to blame than a scanty purse. There is no premium put upon shabbiness.
His thoughts, having followed this track, naturally followed another akin to it. He thought of marriage, and decided that he should now marry. Up to the present time he had remained a bachelor simply because he could not afford to marry a woman to his taste. He might doubtless have married many a good girl who would have shared his threadbare fortunes, even aided him in a humble way, taken little boys into the house to teach, and uncomplainingly gone through the drudgery of a pinched existence from year to year. The thought of such a possibility was insupportable to him. Better a lonely, childless life than little beings unprovided with the luxury of a nursery, ill-shod, dirty-pinafored, and set down to bread and treacle in consequence of the high price of butter! There was more than one especial woman he would fain have had for his wife, but hitherto these had been quite out of his reach. In fact, they were only just aware of his existence, He had never been invited to a dinner party or ball in the gay place in which he lived. Still, from time to time, old college friends, in a far better position than himself, had spent a short time there, and at their houses he had been brought into contact with what we are pleased to call society.
He had on these occasions been introduced to at least two or three girls with whom he felt sure he could have been happy. For let sentimentalists talk as they will, here and there men and women fall in love as the phrase goes, but by far the greater number of marriages are dictated by a sense of the fitness of things, general liking, a dozen motives besides love.
The first of these, Edith Clifford, was a baronet's daughter and a beauty. She was the eldest of five sisters, as yet in the schoolroom, but who promised to be as handsome as herself. They would not have a penny. Sir Archibald, their father, was the poorest baronet in the county. But a girl of spirit and fine eyes like Edith was not likely to want for suitors. If report spoke truly, she had refused more than one already. She wanted to see life, she said. She would marry no man who could not first take her to the moon before settling down to be Darby and Joan. This and other spirited sayings of the young lady had reached his ears, and they pleased him. He felt sure here of a generous nature and warm heart. Such a girl would refresh everyday existence and put life and naïveté into the most commonplace surroundings. A man could never grow worldly with such a wife. She would care, if not for the best things in life, at least for those which were genuine and good. And she was not in the least sentimental. She was far too natural, moreover, to be a flirt. He felt sure she would marry him if he promised to take her to the moon—in other words, as far as inhabitants of this globe can get. And generous girls are ready to do anything for their families. A rich son-in-law was exactly what Sir Archibald wanted.
Then there was another sweet woman of a very different type, he thought, even more suited to him than Edith Clifford. This was the Lady Felicia Stronge—gentle, stately daughter of an earl—she also undowered, keeping up traditional appearance by help of a dowager aunt. Lady Felicia was thirty, an orphan, related to the oldest nobility of England. Without being in the least a snob, the Reverend Mr. Dollar liked lineage. Good descent meant to him some of the highest titles to respect a human being can have—good manners, a high standard of truth and honour. To become the husband of such a woman would be to attain an unassailable social position, to free that of a new-made millionaire for once and for all from the gloss of vulgarity. Such a wife, moreover, would be sure not to abuse his circumstances. Her bringing up alone as one of several daughters of a noble but impoverished house was a sufficient guarantee against display and bad taste. The refinement that comes of birth and breeding revolts against such show as pleases those unaccustomed to elegance. And as a woman Lady Felicia very nearly reached his ideal. Her manners were very sympathetic. He was quite sure that, like himself, she had been flouted by the world; but instead of hardening under this process and taking refuge like himself in self-contained cynicism, she had softened. There was no hauteur about her, no coldness; rather the sweet insinuating graciousness of a woman on the look-out for kindness and understanding. Her voice had a great charm in his ears, and then the English she spoke! How refreshing this pure, slightly old-fashioned English speech after the strange, slangy, unfeminine utterances in which even well-bred girls indulge! Her dress was what might be called old-fashioned, too, and matched her speech—quiet, subdued, simple. She was the woman he would be proud to have on his arm. And from the little society talk they had had, he gathered that she possessed culture of a kind rare even in these days of learned women. She read and thought. The books he loved would be her books. The house to his taste would be the house to her taste. Two thoughts made him smile. The incongruity of his name had always been an annoyance to him. To be called Dollar and never have a spare coin in his pocket seemed a cruel irony of fortune, but the name of Lady Felicia would remove all vulgarity. Lady Felicia Dollar sounded extremely well, he thought.
The next smile was pure Epicurean, The Rey. Mr. Dollar had no bloodthirsty tastes—in other words he was not a sportsman, nor was he a mountaineer. But he was a lover of horses. His idea of physical enjoyment was a quiet ride through green country lanes with an agreeable woman, who should be as well mounted as himself. Lady Felicia was an admirable horsewoman. This should be their one luxury and pastime, for the Rev. Mr. Dollar had spiritual as well as sensual ideas. He did not intend to squander his wealth in self-indulgence. His millions should at least benefit others as much as himself. There were public causes he would further, social questions affecting the good of the commonalty ;he would now uphold movements, spiritual, moral, and intellectual, and take active part in them. He should come into the arena of active life without the oft-times hampering sense of routine. Just as the skilled amateur will often show broader views, a juster insight, and deeper, more natural feeling than the professional artist or critic, so may an ingenuous, untrained philanthropist or sociologist be able to take wholly new views of human ills and their palliatives. Yes, to discuss the various schemes for improving the world with Lady Felicia as they rode through country lanes would be enjoying life and opportunities indeed. From thinking of generalities he came to particulars. If it would be uplifting to benefit suffering humanity, how much more delightful to benefit his friends! And who hath friends of the rich and happy only? The new-made millionaire felt a pang as he reflected that the two beings who had shared the poverty of so many years could not share his wealth. He had no near kinsfolk to be gladdened by the crumbs that fall from the rich man's table. But if he had no blood relations, he had those bound to him by closer ties. There was an old college tutor of his, on whom had fallen evil days. On the occasion of his last visit to him—how well John Dollar remembered it!—in his dingy chambers the old man had apologised ruefully for the poor fare.
'The Doctor's orders were chicken and Madeira, forsooth!' he said; 'as well order Cleopatra's pearl steeped in vinegar.'
Dollar went home determined to despatch the regales, but, alas! to this day money had been wanting. Henceforth his friend should have chicken and Madeira in plenty. Dollar's eyes moistened at the joy of informing his old tutor that he should have two hundred a year. This was one pinched life to be eased along the downhill path. Like all poor men, Mr. Dollar had many protégés and hangers on. He felt in duty bound to share his prosperity with his old tutor, but early association and kindly feeling now took the shape of many a claim. There was his college friend, James Downing, who had taken to literary pursuits instead of the out-of-door life that might have given him a physique. This poor fellow was hopelessly struggling against a consumptive temperament and ill health generally, with the cares of domestic life and a smoky London climate, when a couple of winters at Algiers might quite set him up. Then, not to speak of pensioners, how many small yet priceless services might a rich man render his friends—help this one's promising lad to a profession, that one's girl to a marriage outfit or a college curriculum. A millionaire may, indeed, supply eyes, ears, hands, digestion, and even appetite to his friends, seeing most of us at some time or other find out that these tried servants of ours, the senses, are at least for a time worn out. Especially in Dollar's line of life that was the case, most of his friends being of those who wear out their brains and bodies by perpetual strain. At last he began to think of himself, and what a wide field here for satisfaction and benevolence! The Rev. Mr. Dollar was not a vain or self-inflated man, and did not over-estimate himself; perhaps, indeed, erred on the other side. The superciliousness of the world had led him to discommend his own ego. He had summed up things in general with the reflection that, after all, human beings were poor creatures, and the Rev. John Humphrey Dollar had got perhaps his deserts.
But all the time there had been a lurking conviction that the world was judging or rather misjudging him by circumstances rather than character. And is any of us without weakness? It was pleasant to think that henceforth he should be listened to, made way for, no longer meet with the half attention accorded to shabbiness, no longer be jostled against by careless neighbours. Respect hath more than charm. It brings consciousness with it, as Mr. Dollar knew to his cost. How many times but for his calling he should have cursed the time-serving spirit of his fellow townsfolk. It had again and again happened to him that when making hasty purchases in the brief interval between school hours, the shopman would leave him, his business but half done, to attend bareheaded upon some lazy dowager in her carriage, and, in the case of young girls similarly cushioned, insult seemed added to injury. Again, as we all know, our friends treat us, shabby as we are, on the level with the rest of their guests. But when did society, especially that section of it that wears livery, fail to find us out? Dollar had more than once been inclined to throw some rich friend's flunkey downstairs for the suspicious glances cast at him. But heaven forbid that we should appear to confine snobbery to the kitchen. It flourishes equally in the salon, and is found to perfection among well-bred people. The Rev. Mr. Dollar reflected cheerfully that henceforth when he entered a drawing-room, those in it would at once show an alert consciousness of his presence. The difference between a millionaire and a nobody is nicely indicated here. When Dives crosses the threshold, there is a just perceptible flutter; even the mistress's pet poodle, by intuition, wags its tail. When Nobody comes, the silk gown of the mistress does not rustle, and there is no wag of her pet's tail. These may seem bagatelles, and indeed they are; but just as field mice, by gnawing the bowstrings of the Assyrian army, enabled the enemy to obtain an easy victory, so will trifling checks and annoyances often destroy a noble nature. Mr. Dollar saw, as clearly as any man could see, the unlovely, sordid side of money, but nevertheless he realised by slow-bought and bitter experience the value of wealth in enabling us to make the best of ourselves. Be as lofty-minded as we please, we are yet constrained to accept the world's standard as we accept its mintage, till a better one be found.
From generalities to particulars:—
In his fortieth year the Rev. Mr. Dollar could hardly accuse himself of an extravagance. The virtue might have been obligatory, but it was a virtue nevertheless. He naturally possessed fastidious tastes. He liked, for instance, a glass of good wine, the glitter of ancestral plate on the board; the science of cooking was extremely interesting to him—his health, he felt sure, had deteriorated in consequence of poor and often ill-cooked food. The savour of exquisite meats already flattering his senses, he found very pleasant. But this was one of the least gratifications. For it could never gratify those tastes that really uplifted a man. He could travel, and felt the keen interest of a scholar on classic ground, would listen to the nightingales at Athens and follow in the track of Horace and his friend from Rome to Brundusium. Biblical scenes had as strong a fascination for his mind. He would fain tread in the steps of Paul in Pisidia and stand by the ruins of On.
Hitherto he had only been enabled to make one or two of those cheap little Swiss tours by contract, which may be compared to hearing 'Fidelio' from the topmost gallery.
Most of us have seen Mont Blane certainly. But the vulgar company, the crowding, the confusion! Better to behold such marvellous natural scenes by the mind's eye only. How different travel that takes no account of the cost! Ah! the mind is refreshed, the body invigorated then.
To lounge at will through foreign picture galleries, to float idly in gondolas, to be in no hurry to reach enchanted spots, under no obligation to tear oneself away. The gist of travel is surely here, to be able to take it as we should take nature when we are in the humour. Then he thought. of another luxury.
He was a lover of books. He was almost a bibliographer to boot. But he had never yet been able to indulge in this taste except on the most limited scale. There were books he had sighed for as a girl sighs for a lover—not at all costly ones either—yet they had seemed as far off yesterday as they had done twenty years before. Again—and any poor possessor of a library will sympathise with him—the cover of a book was a matter he had great respect for. He hated to see a good book ill-bound. He adored fine editions, but where he could not have them, handsome bindings. It savoured to him of disrespect to see a grand old author out at elbow, threadbare and tumbling to pieces. What joy to have the faithful friends of so many years at last bedight as became them! It ever cost him a pang to see the great authors of the world in ill condition, how much more so when they were his own! It seemed a downright slight on his part. Homer, Cervantes, Milton, Spenser, should now all be superbly yet staidly bound in that dark-blue morocco, with silk lining, that so well became them; his mind glowed with pleasure at this perspective translation of his library. He possessed a really handsome one, but in a terribly dilapidated condition from sheer want of money. On the whole, perhaps, this thought was more animating than any other. A lonely man, a scholar, he had held more communion with the dead than the living.
He had never envied his rich friends their equipages, fine horses, parks, and establishments, but he had coveted their libraries, especially those of non-reading men. And it is all very well to sermonise on Béranger's text, 'Voir, c'est avoir;' more practical wisdom lies in Touchstone's dictum, ''Tis a poor thing, but 'tis my own.' All of us would fain own Horace's portion, especially in the matter of books. In his eagerness Mr. Dollar even took out a note-book and began to put down the names of those time-honoured favourites destined for binding, to cost a guinea apiece. He was thus jotting one name after another when the door was opened with a solemnity that could announce one piece of news only.
The heart of the new-made millionaire stood still.
It was one of the physicians who had been in attendance on the sick man. He looked at Mr. Dollar curiously and paused.
Then he said slowly and with a touch of meaning impossible to be misunderstood: 'An extraordinary, almost a phenomenal change has happened. My patient shows signs of returning consciousness and vitality. For the moment, danger is over!'
He seemed hardly to expect an answer, and his listener had none to give. He added, 'In this kind of disease such changes are not unheard of, though very rare. I have throughout my professional career witnessed not more than one or two such apparently miraculous recoveries, never one more startling than the present.'
He was bent on apologising for the life thus snatched from the grave.
But no apology was needed. The schoolmaster's cynicism stood him in good stead. The irony of this circumstance was but one bitter touch more added to his life.
He smiled somewhat grimly, but with perfect aplomb, without the slightest change of countenance, and made reply:
'Then there can be no reason for the prolongation of my stay. I will take the next train home.'
'Your professional duties doubtless claim you,' said the physician, and as there seemed nothing more to say he went away, urging Dollar to ring for hot coffee before starting.
'All the household are astir,' he said; 'and what a hurry our neighbours are in to bury us! I have had to send away half a dozen undertakers already.'
The cold wintry day had dawned when Mr. Dollar reached the railway station he had quitted barely twenty-four hours ago. What was his dismay on being asked to show his ticket to find it gone! Then he smiled grimly once more. He had thrown the half of his return ticket into the fire, with the thought it was not in accordance with the fitness of things that a millionaire should travel third class.
So the Rev. John Humphrey Dollar went back to his school drudgery and his unbound books, and the hale sexagenarian took to himself a young wife. And at the end of twelve months a son and heir was born to the rich man, and the poor man's dream of millions vanished for ever.
But not without leaving a trace behind. When the patient quite recovered his health, and learned down to the minutest particulars what had taken place, his heart smote him. He ought not to have come back to life again! He was touched in a vulnerable place, as he adored wealth; moreover, John Humphrey Dollar was his kinsman, and, though a needy man, had never come to him for a farthing. The poor fellow should no longer grind at school work for two hundred a year.
It was, moreover, a respectable thing to have a relation in the Church. He presented the Rev. Mr. Dollar, therefore, with a living in an agreeable midland county.
Mr. Dollar would never ride through green lanes by the Lady Felicia's side. But he married her all the same. He did not pension off half a dozen of his needy friends, but he supplied his old college tutor with chicken and Madeira. He did not become the possessor of a superb library, but he sent all his books to the binder.