THE COMMISSIONER'S SHELL EXPLODES.
When the party assembled for dinner on the day of Mr. Churchill's
hurried departure from the Grange, they found they had an addition in
the person of Mr. Commissioner Beresford, who arrived late in the
afternoon, and did not make his appearance until dinner-time. A man of
middle height and dapper figure, always faultlessly dressed; slightly
bald, but with his light-coloured hair well arranged over his large
forehead; with deep-sunk, small, stony-gray eyes, a nose with the
nostrils scarcely sufficiently covered, and a large mouth, with long
white teeth. He had small white--dead-white--hands, with filbert
nails, and very small feet. There was in the normal and ordinary
expression of his face something sour and mordant, which, so far as
his eyes were concerned, occasionally faded out in conversation,
giving place to a quaint, comic look; but the mouth never changed; it
was always fox-like, cruel, and bad. There was no better-known man in
London; high and low, rich and poor, gentle and simple, all had heard
of Charley Beresford. Citizen of the world, where was he out of place?
When there was a tight wedge on the staircase of Protocol House on the
Saturday nights when Lady Helmsman received; when at a foot-pace the
fashionable world endured hours of martyrdom in procession to the
shrine which, once reached, was passed in an instant, according as
sole trophy the reminiscence of a bow,--Mr. Beresford was to be seen
leaning over the stoutest of dowagers, and looking fresh and
undrooping even when pressed upon by the pursiest of diplomatists.
When the noble souls of the Body Guards were dismayed within the huge
carcasses which contained them because it was whispered that the 180th
Hussars intended to wear white hats on their drag to the Derby, and to
deck their persons and their horses with blue rosettes--both which
insignia had hitherto been distinctive of the Body Guards--it was
Charley Beresford who was applied to on the emergency; and who, on the
Derby morning, turned the tables completely by bringing the Body
Guards from Limmer's straw-thatched and amber-rosetted to a man. The
180th and their blue were nowhere; and "Go it, yaller!" and "Brayvo,
Dunstable!" were the cries all down the road. When Mr. Peter
Plethoric, the humorous comedian of the Nonpareil Theatre, wanted some
special patronage for his benefit, "Charley, dear boy!" was his
connecting link with that aristocracy whose suffrages he sought. He
went into every phase of society: he had an aunt the widow of a
cabinet minister, who lived in Eaton Square; and an uncle a bishop,
who lived in Seamore Place; and he dined with them regularly two or
three times in the season, lighting his cigar within a few yards of
the house, and quietly strolling down to the Argyll Rooms, or to the
green-room of the theatre, or to the parlour of a sporting-public
to get the latest odds on a forthcoming fight. He turned up his
coat-collar of late when he visited these last-named places, and the
pugilistic landlords had orders never to pronounce his name, but to
call him "Guv'nor;" it would not do for an official high in her
Majesty's service to be recognised in such quarters. Before his
aristocratic friends obtained for him his commissionership, his name
was one of the most common current amongst the Fancy; but since then
he had eschewed actual presence at the ring, as he had blue bird's-eye
handkerchiefs, cigars in the daylight, and nodding acquaintance with
broughams in the park. "_Il faut se ranger_," he used to say; "it
would never do for those young fellows down at the Office to think
that I was or ever had been a fast lot; and those confounded Radical
papers, they made row enough about the appointment, and they'll always
be on the look-out to catch me tripping." He little knew that his fame
had preceded him to the Tin-Tax Office; that all the old clerks were
prepared to receive him with something between fear and disgust, all
the young ones with unmingled admiration; that daily bulletins of his
dress and manners were circulated amongst the juniors, and that those
who could afford it dressed at him to a man.
He was four-and-thirty when he got his appointment, and he had held it
about two years. There was even betting that the promotion would "go
in the office;" that Mr. Simnel, the secretary, a very clever man,
would get it; that the vacancy would not be filled up; and various
other rumours. But the Chancellor of the Exchequer felt that Mr.
Simnel had been going a little too much ahead lately, acting on his
own responsibility; and as the widow of the cabinet minister (who
owned a borough in Devonshire) and the bishop concurrently attacked
the Premier, that nobleman gave way, and Charles Beresford exchanged
the dreariness of Bruges, in which dull Belgian city of refuge he had
been for some months located, for a seat in the board-room at Rutland
House. His uncle and aunt, through their respective solicitors, bought
up his outstanding debts, and settled them at a comparatively low rate
(his Oxford ticks had been settled years ago out of his mother's
income); and he came into a thousand a year, paid quarterly, free and
unencumbered. A thousand a year, in four cheques on the Bank of
England in January, April, July, and October, ought to be a
sufficiency for an unmarried man; but with Charles Beresford, as with
a good many of us, the mere fact of the possession of money gave rise
to a wild desire for rushing into unlimited expense. To belong to
three clubs--the Beauclerk in Pall Mall, aristocratic and exclusive;
the Minerva (proposed thereat by the bishop), literary and solemn; the
Haresfoot, late and theatrical;--to have capital rooms in South Audley
Street; to keep a mail-phaeton and pair, with a saddle-horse and a
hunter during the season; to give and join in Greenwich and Richmond
dinners; to be generous in the matter of kid-gloves and jewelry; to
have a taste (and to gratify it) in choice wines; to make a yearly
excursion to Baden, and when there to worship extensively at the
shrine of M. Benazet; to be a connoisseur in art, and a buyer of
proofs before letters, and statuary, and tapestry, and antiques; to be
miserable without the possession of an Opera-stall; all these
vagaries, though pleasant, are undeniably expensive; and at the end of
his second year of office Charles Beresford found that he had spent
every farthing of his income, and owed, in addition, between three and
four thousand pounds.
He could not compound with his creditors; he dared not go through the
Court, for "those rascally papers" would then have been down on him at
once, and his official appointment might have been sacrificed. The
Government just then had two or three black sheep, about whom people
had talked, among their subordinates; and Beresford might have been
the Jonah, sacrificed to allay the storm of virtuous public
indignation. Besides, though his great soul might have been won over
to include in his schedule Messrs. Sams and Mitchell, Mr. Stecknadel,
the tailor of Conduit Street, and Hocks, with whom his horses stood at
livery, he could not inscribe the names of the Irrevocable Insurance
Company, to whom for the money borrowed he had given the names of two
substantial friends as sureties; or of Mr. Parkinson, solicitor, of
Thavies Inn, who "did his paper," but required another signature on
the back. So Mr. Charles Beresford was forced to confess himself "done
up," "cornered," and "tree'd;" and only saw one way out of his
difficulties--a good marriage. There was no reason why his final
chance should not succeed, for he was a very pleasant, agreeable
fellow when he chose; had a capital tenor voice, and sang French and
German songs with sparkling effect and irreproachable accent; acted
well in charade; talked all sorts of styles,--could be earnest,
profound, sentimental, flippant, literary, or ribald, as occasion
presented; waltzed with a gliding, long, swinging step, which was the
envy of all the men who saw him; was sufficiently good-looking, and
had something like a position to offer.
Behold him, then, seated at Sir Marmaduke's table next to Miss
Townshend, and with Barbara Lexden immediately opposite to him. He has
been rattling on pleasantly enough during dinner, but has never
forgotten the object of his life; he is aware that Barbara for him is
not an available _parti_, with position certainly, but without money,
and with extravagant notions; but he has some recollection of having
heard that Mr. Townshend was something approaching to a
_millionnaire_, and he determined to satisfy himself upon the point
without delay.
"Not at all," he says, referring to something that has gone before;
"not at all. It's all very well for you, Sir Marmaduke, whose lines
have been cast in pleasant places, to talk so; but for us poor fellows
who have to work for our living, this rest is something delightful."
"Work for your living!" growls out the old gentleman. "A pack of lazy
placemen. Egad! the fellow talks as though stone-breaking were his
occupation, and he'd just straightened his back for five minutes. Work
for your living! Do you call sticking your initial to the corner of a
lot of figures that you've never read, work? Do you call scrawling
your signature at the bottom of some nonsensical document, to prove
that you're the 'obedient, humble servant,' of some idiot whom you've
never seen, work? Do you call reading the--"
"Now stop, Sir Marmaduke," said Beresford, laughing; "I bar you there.
You mustn't repeat that _rococo_ old rubbish about reading the
newspaper and poking the fire as the sole work in a Government office.
That _is_ slander."
"I am bound to say," said Mr. Townshend pompously, "that when, in my
capacity either as one of the directors of the East-India Company, or
Prime Warden of the Bottle Blowers' Company, I have ever had occasion
to transact business with any of the Government establishments, I have
always found myself well treated."
"I am delighted to hear such testimony from you, sir," said Beresford,
with some apparent deference, and inwardly thinking that the two
positions named looked healthy as regards money.
"God bless my soul!" bawled Sir Marmaduke. "Here's a man drives up in
a big carriage, with a powdered-headed jackass to let down the steps,
and then he 'testifies' that he gets a messenger to take in his name
and that he isn't insulted by the clerks. I wish with all my heart,
Townshend, that you were a poor man with a patent to bring out, or a
grievance to complain of, or an inquiry to make, and you'd devilish
soon see the reception you'd get."
"I hear," said Mr. Vincent, with a mind to turn the conversation
"that a new system of refreshment-supply has recently been
introduced into some of our public departments. I have a nephew in the
Draft-and-Docket Office, whom I called upon about one o'clock the
other day, and I found him engaged upon some very excellent
_cotelettes à la Soubise_, which he told me were prepared in the
establishment. That appears to me a most admirable arrangement."
"Very admirable," growled Sir Marmaduke "for the public, who are
paying the young ruffians for eating their Frenchified rubbish. By
heavens! a clerk at ninety pounds a year, and a made-dish for lunch!"
"Quite right, Mr. Townshend," said Stone; "they feed stunningly now,
and don't drink badly either. By the way, Beresford, I'm agent for
Goupil's house at Bordeaux, and I could put in a capital cheap claret
into your place, just the thing for your fellows in the hot weather.
The tenders are out now, and a word from you would serve me."
"But, surely," said Barbara, laughing, "if, as Sir Marmaduke says, you
don't work now, Mr. Beresford, you'll be less inclined than ever after
M. Goupil's claret."
"Sir Marmaduke is an infidel, Miss Lexden," said Charley. "Send in
your tender, Stone, and Goupil's Medoc shall be a fresh incentive to
the virtuous Civil Servants!"
"Let him rave, my dear!" said Sir Marmaduke; "let him rave,
as your idol Mr. Tennyson says. What he calls work, I call
make-believe humbug. What I call work, is what my godson--what's his
name---Churchill (what the deuce has he gone away for?) does, night
after night, grinding his headpiece--that sort of thing."
"What Churchill is that, sir?" asked Charley.
"Mr. Churchill is a literary man, I believe," said Miss Townshend;
"wonderfully clever--writes, you know, and all that."
"Oh, Frank Churchill! I know him," replied Beresford. "Has he been
down here?"
"Yes; he only left this morning."
"He seems a very good sort of fellow," said Lyster generously, for he
didn't quite like the tone of Beresford's voice, and did not at all
like the manner in which the Commissioner was paying quiet attention
to Miss Townshend. "He's made himself a general favourite in a very
short time."
"Yes, that he has," said Miss Townshend; "he's very clever, and not at
all conceited, and--oh! he's so nice."
Barbara said nothing.
"I had a few words with him about the money-article yesterday," said
Mr. Townshend; "but I must say his views were scarcely so defined as I
could have wished."
Beresford had listened attentively to these remarks. He thought he
perceived a certain _tendresse_ in Miss Townshend's manner of speaking
of Churchill, which did not at all accord with his present views. So
he said,
"No, Mr. Townshend; that's not Churchill's peculiar line. He's a poor
man, though, as you say, Miss Townshend, a clever one. And he has some
object in working hard, for he's going to be married."
"To be married?" exclaimed Miss Townshend, looking across at Barbara.
"To be married?" exclaimed Barbara, flushing scarlet. The next instant
she turned deadly cold, and could have bitten her tongue out for
having spoken.
"Well, well!" said old Miss Lexden, who up to this time had been
engaged in a confidential culinary chat with Mrs. Vincent; "that's
always the way. Poor thing: I pity the young woman. These sort of
persons always stay out all night, and ill-treat their wives, and all
that kind of thing."
"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. Vincent; "leg-of-mutton _ménage_ and
batter-pudding, perhaps; no soup or fish. Dear, dear! what unwholesome
things these love-marriages are!"
"But nobody said that it is a love match," said Miss Townshend.
"Perhaps the lady is an heiress, whom Mr. Churchill has captivated by
his talent."
"Yes," growled Sir Marmaduke, with a sardonic grin; "an heiress who
has been struck with his articles on the Reformatory question, or has
become completely dazzled by the lucidity of his views on the Maynooth
Grant. A leader-writer in a daily newspaper is just the romantic youth
that heiresses fall in love with."
"Now do be quiet, Sir Marmaduke, with your horrid sarcasm, and let us
hear what the lady is like. Do tell us, Mr. Beresford," said Miss
Townshend.
"Oh, I have no idea of her personal appearance," replied Beresford.
"Every body says she's very nice, and that the marriage is coming off
at once--that's all I know."
"Your curiosity will soon be gratified, with a very little trouble,"
interrupted Lyster. "You can ask Mr. Churchill himself--he's coming
back to-morrow."
"Coming back!" exclaimed Beresford.
"Yes, to-morrow," replied Lyster, and added, between his teeth, "your
little plot will soon be spoilt, my boy."
Shortly afterwards, when the ladies left the table, Barbara did not
accompany the rest, but went straight to her own room. There she
seated herself at the open window, which looked out upon the lawn and
upon the high downs beyond, over which the yellow-faced moon was
rising in solemn beauty. And Barbara nestled into the great
easy-chair, which she had pulled forward, and rested her chin on her
hand, and looked upon the grand picture of varied light and shade with
eyes that saw nothing of the beauty, and with a heart that
comprehended it not. Down in the hollow lay a little farm, gray and
cold and stony, as are such buildings in Sussex, and containing at
that time a sleeping, snoring family; for the farmer, a thrifty man,
had to be up betimes, and candlelight might as well be spared, and
hard-working folk must rest. He did not think much about the moon,
this Sussex farmer, nor did his hinds, two of whom were then snoring
in the red-tiled barn just on the shoulder of you hill; but the
glorious lamp of night was as much in their thoughts as she was in
those of Barbara Lexden, who had copied out "The moon is up, by
Heaven! a lovely eve," from _Childe Harold_, and knew Alfred de
Musset's wild lines on the same subject by heart, and had gone in for
the romantic business about it, and done some very effective bits of
flirtation, in which the goddess Luna was made good use of. But the
moon was nothing now to Barbara, whose mind was full of a far more
worldly object, and whose foot was tapping impatiently on the floor.
Going to be married? Then it was all accounted for--that letter with
the feminine _griffe_, which he had pocketed immediately and read
apart, and his hurried departure for town. Going to be married! What
business had he, then, to come down there, and talk and act as though
no engagement fettered him--to talk, indeed, as though no notion of
matrimony had ever crossed his mind? Could he--? No; that was
impossible. He could not have been playing with her--making a fool of
her? What was that he had said about difference of class in marriage?
Ay, that settled the question; the _fiancée_ was probably some dowdy
woman, who could make a pie, and mend his clothes, and keep their
maid-of-all-work in order. Well, the man was nothing to her--but she
hoped he might be happy. It was getting very dull at Bissett, and she
should suggest their departure to her aunt. They had invitations for
several nice houses; and General Mainwaring's was not far off, and
Boyce Combe was there, and Harvey Grenville; so that she should be
sure of plenty of fun. She had not seen Boyce Combe since the last
Woolwich ball, and then he had been so horribly absurd, and had talked
such ridiculous nonsense. He was so amusing, Major Combe; and--and
then Major Combe's handsome, vacuous, simpering countenance, which for
a moment had risen in Barbara's mind, faded again, and in its place
there came a genial, clever, sensible face, with merry eyes and
laughing mouth, and Major Combe's "ridiculous nonsense" seemed
wretched balderdash as contrasted with Frank Churchill's pleasant
talk.
A knock at the door, following which promptly little Miss Townshend
glides into the room. A nice little girl, as I have remarked; a
charming little being, bright and winning, but not the sort of person
for a companion when one is in that state so well described as "out of
sorts." Who, I wonder, is pleasant company for us in a real or fancied
trouble? Certainly not the enthusiastic gusher who flings his or
herself upon our necks, and insists upon sharing our sorrow,--which is
a thorough impossibility. Certainly not the pseudo-moralist who tells
us that all is for the best, and quotes Scripture, and suggests that,
though we have had to retire from Palace Gardens and live in Bedford
Row, there are many outcasts then sleeping on the steps of Whitechapel
Church; and that, though our darling's life may be trembling in the
balance, there are fever-courts and pestilence-alleys, in no house of
which "there is not one dead." Certainly not the lively friend who
thinks that "rallying" is the best course for binding the broken heart
and setting at rest the perturbed spirit, and who accordingly indulges
in one perpetual effervescence of mild sarcasm and feeble teasing.
Miss Townshend belonged to this latter class; and entered the room
with a little skip and a long slide, which brought her to Barbara's
side.
"Oh, ho! and so we're annoyed, are we, and won't come among our
friends? We sit and sulk by ourselves, do we?"
"I cannot possibly imagine what you mean, Alice," said Barbara coldly.
"Take care, please; you're standing on my dress."
"Oh, of course not, poor darling, she can't imagine! But, without any
joking, Barbara, it _is_ too bad."
"What is too bad, Alice?" asked Barbara, without moving a muscle. She
had a tremendous power over her face, and, when she chose, looked as
impassible as the Sphynx, "staring straight on with calm eternal
eyes."
"Now, don't be silly, Barbara dear," exclaimed Miss Townshend, who was
getting rather annoyed because her friend had not gone off into
hysterics. "You know well enough what I mean; and it is a shame, a
horrible shame! Who would have thought that that learned clever man
could have been such an incorrigible flirt? There now," putting up her
hands, "you know perfectly well who I mean. And he did carry on with
you in the most shameful manner--and going to be married all the time!
Not that I'm sure you're not rightly served, Barbara. It's just the
sort of thing you've been doing all your life, you know; but, still,
one doesn't expect it in a man, does one, dear? I wonder--"
"_I_ wonder when you'll have common sense, Alice. It's time, if what
you told me this morning be true."
"O Barbara darling! O Barbara! don't remind me of it. Oh, how
miserable you've made me! And you--you don't care one pin, when you
know I'm so wretched." And putting her handkerchief to her eyes,
little Miss Townshend hurried out of the room.
And what of the girl who "didn't care one pin"? who had just been
rallied upon having been made a fool of by a man--a man, moreover, for
whom every hour of her life proved to her that she cared? Pride, love,
vexation, doubt,--all these had influence on that throbbing heart; and
she flung herself on her bed in a flood of tears.