Max Shingle lived in the unfashionable district of Pentonville; but he
had a goodly house there, and well furnished, at the head of a square of
little residences that some ingenious builder had erected to look like a
plantation of young Wesleyan chapels, growing up ready for transplanting
at such times as they were needed to supply a want.
Mrs Max, relict of the late Mr Fraser, was a tall, bony, washed-out
woman, with a false look about her hair, teeth, and figure; large ears,
in each of which, fitting close to the lobe, was a large pearl, looking
like a button, to hold it back against her head. She was seated in her
drawing-room, but not alone; for opposite to her, in a studied, graceful
attitude, sat Max's ward, Violante, daughter of a late deacon of his
chapel--a rather good-looking girl in profile, but terribly disfigured,
on looking her full in the face, by a weakness in one eye, the effect of
which was that it never worked with its twin sister, but was always left
behind. Thus, whereas her right eye turned sharply upon you, and looked
you through and through, the left did not come up to its work until the
right had about finished and gone off to do duty on something else. The
consequence was that when talking to her you found you had her attention
for a few moments; and then, just as you seemed to have lost it, eye
Number 2 came up to the charge, and generally puzzled and confused a
stranger to a remarkable extent.
"Dear me! Hark at the wind!" said Mrs Max; "and look at it. Give me
my smelling bottle, Violante. I'm always giddy when the wind gets under
the carpet like that."
The smelling bottle was duly sniffed; and then, changing her position so
that her fair hair and white eyebrows and lashes were full in the light,
Mrs Max looked more than ever as if there had been too much soda used
in the water ever since she was born; and she sighed, and took up her
work, which was a large illuminated text on perforated cardboard.
In fact, Max Shingle's house shone in brightly coloured cards and
many-tinted silken pieces of tapestry, formed to improve the sinful
mind. Moral aphorisms about honesty and contentment looked at you from
over the hat-pegs in the hall; pious precepts peeped at you between the
balusters as you went upstairs, and furnished the drawing-room to the
displacement of pictures. Many of them lost their point, from being
illuminated to such an extent that the brilliancy and wondrous windings
of the letters dazzled the eye, and carried the mind into a mental maze,
as you tried to decipher what they meant; but there they were, and Mrs
Max and the ward spent their days in constantly adding to the number.
The hall mat, instead of "Cave canem," bore the legend "Friend, do not
swear; it is a sinful habit," and always exasperated visitors; while, if
you put your feet upon a stool, you withdrew them directly, feeling that
you had been guilty of an irreverent act; for there would be a line
worked in white beads, with a reference to "Romans xii." or "2
Corinthians ii." If you opened a book there was a marker within bidding
you "flee," or "cease," or "turn," or "stand fast." If you dined there,
and sat near the fire, a screen was hung on your chair, which was so
covered with quotations that it made you feel as if you were turning
your back on the Christian religion. But still, look which way you
would, you felt as if you were in the house of a good man.
Pictures there were, of course. There was a large engraving of Ruth and
Boaz, to which Mrs Max always drew your attention with--
"Would not you suppose that Mr Shingle had sat for Boaz?"
And when you agreed that he might, Violante always joined in, directing
one eye at you, and saying--
"People always think, too, that the Ruth is so like Mrs Maximilian."
Then the other eye came slowly up to finish the first one's task, and
seemed to say, "Now, then, what do you think of that?"
The place was well furnished, but, from the pictures to the carpets,
everything was of an ecclesiastical pattern; and when Max came in, with
a white cravat, you felt that you were in the presence of a substantial
rector, if he were not a canon, or a dean.
In a wicked fit, Dick had once dubbed his brother and sister-in-law
"Sage and Onions"--the one from his solid, learned look; the other from
her being always strangely scented, and her weakness for bursting into
tears.
Upon the present occasion, she sat for a few minutes, and then, taking
out her handkerchief, began to weep silently.
"Your guardian is always late for dinner, my dear; and everything will
be spoilt. Where is Tom?"
"Gone hanging about after Miss Jessie, I suppose," said Violante, with a
roll of one eye. "And Fred as well," she added, with the other.
"It is a strange infatuation on the part of my two sons. Your dear
guardian's Esau and Jacob," said Mrs Max, wiping her eyes. "I wonder
how it is that poor creature, Richard Shingle, makes his money."
"I don't know," said Violante. "They've set up a very handsome
carriage."
"Dear me! It is a mystery," said Mrs Max, still weeping. "Two years
ago Richard was our poor tenant; now he must be worth thousands. I hope
he is honest."
"Perhaps we had better work him some texts," said Violante, maliciously.
Then, raising her other eye, "They might do him good."
"I don't know," sighed Mrs Max; "we never see them now they have grown
so rich. It is very shocking."
Violante did not seem to see that it was shocking, for she only tossed
her head.
"Has Tom been any more attentive to you lately, my dear?"
"No, not a bit," said the girl spitefully, and one eye flashed at Mrs
Max; "nor Fred neither," she continued, bestowing a milder ray with the
other.
"The infatuation will wear off," said Mrs Max, wringing her hands, but
seeming as if wringing her pocket-handkerchief, "and then one of them
will come to his senses."
"I shall never marry Tom," cried the girl decidedly. "Don't speak so,
my child," said Mrs Max. "You know your guardian has so arranged it;
and he can withhold your money if you are disobedient."
"Yes," cried Violante, "money, money, money--always money. That's why I
am kept for the pleasure of those two scapegraces, and mocked at by that
saucy hussy of a Jessie. I wish I hadn't a penny."
"Hush, hush!" cried Mrs Max, "here is your guardian." As she spoke she
hastily wiped her eyes--pretty dry this time--and put away her
handkerchief, for voices were heard below.
In fact, half an hour before, Max Shingle had been rolling grandly along
from the City, looking the full-blown perfection of a thick-lipped,
self-inflated, sensual man, when he encountered Hopper, who hooked him
at once with his stick.
"Hullo, Max Shingle!" he cried: "been doing good, as usual? Here: I'll
come home to dinner with you," he continued, taking his arm.
Max swore a very ugly oath to himself; but he was obliged to put up with
the annoyance--a feeling modified, however, by his curiosity being
excited.
"I've just come from your brother Dick's," said Hopper, winking to
himself.
Max was mollified directly, for reasons of his own; for, though over two
years had passed, Dick had kept his own counsel so well that not a soul,
even in his own family, knew the full secret of his success. Hopper was
as ignorant as the rest; but he assumed a knowledge in Max's presence
that he did not possess.
"Is--is he doing well?" said Max, in an indifferent tone. "Hey?"
"I say, is he doing well?" shouted Max.
"Wonderfully! Keeps his brougham, and a carriage besides, for his wife
and daughter."
"Ah!" said Max. "Is he civil to you? No music now, I suppose?"
"Only three nights a week," said Hopper, winking to himself. "Fine
princely fellow, Dick. Ah! here we are. Very glad--I'm hungry. He
wanted me to stay, but I would not."
Max opened the front door with his latchkey, and drew back for Hopper to
enter which that worthy did, and began to wipe his feat upon the mat,
which said in scarlet letters, "Friend, do not swear," etc.
"Damn that mat!" exclaimed Hopper loudly, as he caught one toe in the
long pile, and nearly fell headlong, while Max gazed at him in horror.
"Couldn't help it," said Hopper apologetically. "Didn't swear, did I?"
"Indeed, sir, you did."
"Hey? What say?"
"You did, sir," shouted Max.
"Did what?"
"Swore--at the mat."
"Hey?" said Hopper, who had grown wonderfully deaf since he had been in
the hall.
"I say you--swore--at--the--mat."
"I swore at the mat? Did I? Tut, tut, tut! How hard it is to break
oneself of bad habits! Now, I'll be bound to say you never did such a
thing as that, Max?"
Max shook his head.
"No, of course you would not. Ah, Max, I wish I was as good a man as
you. It's wonderful how some men's minds are constituted."
Hopper took off an unpleasant-looking respirator that he had been
wearing more or less--more when he was speaking, less when he was not;
and when it was in its place it seemed to have the effect of sticking
his grey moustache up into his nostrils, like a fierce _chevaux de
frise_. Then he put his hat on his hooked stick, and his great-coat on
a chair, so as not to confront the moral aphorisms that were waiting to
catch his eye, and followed Max up into the drawing-room, where the
ladies looked horror-stricken at the sight of the guest.
But there was no help for it; and Mrs Max, at a sign from her lord, put
on her most agreeable air, though Violante gave him, uncompromisingly,
an ugly look with one eye, which seemed to pierce him, while she
clinched the shaft with the other, Hopper replying with his lowest bow.
The brothers Tom and Fred came in directly after,--Tom to offer his
hand, while Fred gave a supercilious nod and went up to his mother.
Hopper nodded, and as soon as the dinner was announced, offered his arm
to Mrs Max, and they went down to the dining-room.
A well-ordered house had Max Shingle, and his dinners were nicely
served; and since he was obliged to receive the visits of Hopper, he
made a virtue of necessity, trying all the dinner-time to lay little
traps for him to fall into about his brother Richard. But as Hopper saw
Tom lean eagerly forward, and Fred turn sharply to listen to his
answers, while a frown passed between the two brothers, he misunderstood
every word said to him as the dinner went on.
"So Richard is doing uncommonly well, is he?" said Max.
"Hey? You're not doing uncommonly well? So I heard in the City. Some
one told me your house was quite shaky."
"Who told you that?" cried Fred fiercely.
"Hey?"
"I say who told you that?" cried Fred, more loudly.
"I can't hear a word you say, young man," replied Hopper; "you must come
round. This, is a bad room of yours for sound, Maximilian--I'd have it
altered."
There were several little encounters of this kind during the repast; for
Hopper, as soon as he saw the object of his host, strove religiously to
frustrate his efforts, and with such success that Max gave up in
disgust, and tried another tack, after making up his mind to call on his
brother and become reconciled. This he was the more eager for, since it
was a fact that he had lost very heavily of late, and his house was
tottering to its fall.
"Ah!" said Max at last, as the dinner progressed slowly, "it's a pity,
Hopper, that you have no money to invest."
"Hey? Money to invest? No, thank you. But don't talk shop, man. I
wonder so good a creature thinks so much of money. But you keep a
carriage?"
"Oh yes," said Max, smiling good-humouredly at his wife, as if to say,
"You see, he will have his joke!"
"And horses?"
"Of course," said Max, smiling.
"There, don't put on that imbecile smile," cried Hopper. "There's only
been one decent dish on the table yet, and I've got some of it now. You
don't send your horses out to work in their nosebags? so don't make me
work when I've got on mine. I'm hard of hearing, but I'm fond of my
digestion. Don't treat your guest worse than your horses."
"You always did like a joke, Hopper," said Max.
"Joke!--it's no joke," cried Hopper, pointing at a pie before him.
"Look at that--there's a thing to eat! Look at the crust: just like the
top of a brown skull, with all the sutures marked, ready to thrust a
knife in and open it,--only it's apple inside instead of brains."
Mrs Max gave a horrified glance at Violante.
At last the dessert was placed on the table, and in due time the ladies
rose, Tom following them shortly, and Fred, with a sneering look at his
brother, rising, and saying he should go and have a cigar.
"You don't smoke, I suppose, old Hopper?"
"Hey? Not smoke? Yes, I do; but I shall have a pipe." Left alone, the
visitor condescended to talk about Richard, and gave Max a full account
of his handsomely furnished house; growing so confidential that, when he
took his cup of coffee, he drew nearer and nearer, gesticulating as he
described the rich Turkey carpets.
"He must be very rich," said Max at last, as he tapped the mahogany
table with his fingers.
"Not saved much, I should say," replied Hopper; "but he's making money
fast. So are you."
"Um--no. I'm very heavily insured, though."
"Not in the Oldwives' Friendly?" said Hopper, with a curious look,
though he knew the fact well.
"Well--er--er--yes, I am," said Max.
"They'll go to smash," said Hopper eagerly. "Haven't you heard the
rumours?"
"Ye-es," faltered Max.
"The scoundrels! And you such a good man, too, who has saved up and
toiled for his family. I tell you what I'd do," he said earnestly.
"What?" cried Max, turning to him with the eagerness of one in peril.
"They must last another twelvemonth, and pay up liabilities till then."
"Yes, they must do that, I should say," said Max.
"Then die at once, and let your people draw the money!" cried Hopper,
slapping him in the breast, and gazing at him with the most serious of
aspects. "So good and self-denying! You all over."
Max started back, with horror in his countenance, and glared at Hopper,
whose countenance, however, never for a moment changed; and he hastily
poured himself out a glass of port and tossed it off.
"Very hard upon you, Max. I wish I was rich, and could help you. For
you have been hit hard, of course. Never mind: you've that violent
girl's money in hand--six thousand. Make one of your boys marry her,
and that'll be all right."
Max winced visibly.
"Haven't spent it, have you?" continued Hopper, watching him from the
corners of his eyes. "No, you're too good a man for that? and it would
be ugly."
"Shall we go up to the drawing-room?" said Max, rising.
"Hey? Go upstairs? No, not to-night, thankye. Say good-bye to the
ladies. I'll be off now. Thankye for a bad dinner. More wine? No,
I'm going to my lodging, for a quiet pipe and a glass of toddy before
bed. Wretched weather, ain't it? All right: I can get my coat on.
Thankye, Max, thankye. I sha'n't die yet, you know; your secret's all
right. Stop till I put on my respirator, so as to keep my lungs all
right for your sake. Now my hat and stick. Thankye."
He buttoned his coat tightly, looped the elastic of his respirator over
his ears, and then stumbled to the door, gave the mat an ugly stab with
his stick, nodded, did not shake hands, and went stumping down the
street, talking to himself the while.
"I wonder whether that Tom is a trump at bottom?" he said. "I don't
know yet, but there's a bit of a mystery over it all; and about Fred and
that girl Jessie. She's a puzzle, too. I wouldn't have thought it of
her; but I never did understand women. And so old Max is hit hard.
Well, it's the old saying, `Money got over old What's-his-name's back's
spent under his chest;' and I'm sure of it. I'd swear it. He's spent
every penny of that violent girl's fortune, as sure as my name's Hopper,
which it really is."