From motives of economy (Iris wrote) her husband had decided on a
change of residence. They were just established in their new abode,
with the advantages of a saving in rent, a pretty little garden to
cultivate, and purer air to breathe than the air of Paris. There the
letter ended, without the slightest allusion to the forthcoming
newspaper, or to the opinion that had been pronounced on the prospects
of success.
In forwarding this letter, Mrs. Vimpany wrote on the blank page as
follows: "I am sorry to add that some disquieting news of my husband
has reached me. For the present, I will say no more. It is at least
possible that the report may not be worthy of belief."
A few days later the report was confirmed, under circumstances which
had certainly not been foreseen. Mr. Vimpany himself arrived at the
hotel, on a visit to Mountjoy.
Always more or less superior to the amiable weakness of modesty, the
doctor seemed to have risen higher than ever in his own estimation,
since Hugh had last seen him. He strutted; he stared confidently at
persons and things; authority was in his voice when he spoke, and lofty
indulgence distinguished his manner when he listened.
"How are you?" he cried with a grand gaiety, as he entered the room.
"Fine weather, isn't it, for the time of year? You don't look well. I
wonder whether you notice any change in me?
"You seem to be in good spirits," Hugh replied, not very cordially.
"Do I carry my head high?" Mr. Vimpany went on. "When calamity strikes
at a man, don't let him cringe and cry for pity--let him hit back
again! Those are my principles. Look at me. Now do look at me. Here I
am, a cultivated person, a member of an honourable profession, a man of
art and accomplishment--stripped of every blessed thing belonging to me
but the clothes I stand up in. Give me your hand, Mountjoy. It's the
hand, sir, of a bankrupt."
"You don't seem to mind it much," Mountjoy remarked.
"Why should I mind it?" asked the doctor. "There isn't a medical man in
England who has less reason to reproach himself than I have. Have I
wasted money in rash speculations? Not a farthing. Have I been fool
enough to bet at horse races? My worst enemy daren't say it of me. What
have I done then? I have toiled after virtue--that's what I have done.
Oh, there's nothing to laugh at! When a doctor tries to be the medical
friend of humanity; when he only asks leave to cure disease, to soothe
pain, to preserve life--isn't that virtue? And what is my reward? I sit
at home, waiting for my suffering fellow-creatures; and the only
fellow-creatures who come to me are too poor to pay. I have gone my
rounds, calling on the rich patients whom I bought when I bought the
practice. Not one of them wanted me. Men, women, and children, were all
inexcusably healthy--devil take them! Is it wonderful if a man becomes
bankrupt, in such a situation as mine? By Jupiter, I go farther than
that! I say, a man owes it to himself (as a protest against undeserved
neglect) to become a bankrupt. If you will allow me, I'll take a
chair."