MOTHER AND SON.
At the drawing-room window of a house in Great Adullam Street,
Macpelah Square, in that district of London whilom known as
"Mesopotamia," a lady had been sitting from an early hour in the
afternoon until now, when twilight falls upon the neighbourhood. This,
I am aware, does not particularly fix the hour, because twilight falls
upon the Mesopotamian neighbourhood earlier than on any other with
which I am acquainted. You leave Oxford Street in a blaze of sunlight,
which bit by bit decreases as you progress through the dingy streets
and the dull, vast, second-rate squares, until when you enter upon the
confines of Great Adullam Street you find the glory of the day
departed, a yellow fog settling gloomily down, and the general aspect
suicidal. At the time of which I am speaking, the twilight had been a
settled thing for at least an hour,--it was approaching six o'clock.
The lamps were lighted, and the inhabitants of the neighbouring houses
had pulled their blinds down and settled in for the night; but still
at No. 57 the lady sat in the drawing-room window, staring out into
the yellow fog. The street lamp flickering on her showed her to be a
woman of about sixty years old, with clean-cut regular features,
intelligent but sweet expression, and with gray hair--almost
white--arranged in broad bands on either side her face. Her dress was
black silk, with a soft white-muslin cape pinned across her breast,
and on her head she wore a plain white-muslin cap with a little
crimped border. On her hands she had black-lace mittens, and she wore
a few old-fashioned but valuable rings. A glance at her would have
proclaimed her a lady to the most casual observer, a woman of taste
and refinement and sensibility to the physiognomist; and a further
study would have shown the latter deeply-indented traces of mental
anxiety and suffering.
Indeed, Eleanor Churchill's life had not been a particularly happy
one. Daughter of a country clergyman near Bath, she lost both her
parents before she was eighteen, and remained in the school where she
was being "finished" after their death, giving her services as teacher
for her board and lodging. Here she was seen and admired by Vance
Churchill, who attended the school as drawing-master; a wild young
fellow, full of talent, who worked (at intervals) like a horse, and
whose splendid method of touching-up the pupils' drawings, so as to
make them look all their own, redeemed many of his shortcomings, and
caused him to be continued in favour at Minerva House. But when he
fell in love with the pretty teacher, and muttered love to her as he
was sharpening pencil-points, and was seen by the writing-master--an
old person of seventy, who was jealous of his young _confrère_--to
hand her a note in a copy of the _Laws of Perspective_, and on being
taxed with his crime acknowledged it and gloried in it, it became
impossible for the Miss Inderwicks, as the girls called them, or the
Misses Inderwick, as they called themselves, to stand it any longer.
So both the delinquents were discharged; and having nothing to live
upon, they at once got married, and came up to London. Once there,
Vance Churchill set to work with a will: he drew on wood, he
lithographed, he drew languishing heads for the music-shops, and
caricatures political and social; he finished several elaborate
sketches in water-colour and in oil; but he sold scarcely any thing.
There was not that demand for art in those days there is now, and
consequently not that chance of livelihood for its possessors; and
Vance Churchill and his young wife were very near to starvation
indeed, and had buried one little girl-baby, who, had luxuries been
provided for her, might have lived, when a small picture of Lady
Macbeth, which had found a place in the Somerset-House Exhibition, was
seen and purchased by Sir Jasper Wentworth, our old friend Sir
Marmaduke's uncle and his predecessor in the baronetcy. From that time
Vance Churchill's fortune was looked upon as made; for Sir Jasper, who
had a nice eye for art, took him up, introduced him right and left,
and got him commissions without end. Young Marmaduke, a free-spoken,
jolly young man, coeval with the artist, took an immense fancy to him,
and was never happy save in his society; money was, if not plentiful,
always to be had,--and Eleanor Churchill was more wretched than she
had ever been in the days of her direst poverty.
For though Vance Churchill could struggle against poverty, neglect,
and hardship, he could not withstand ease, comparative wealth, and the
attractions of society. He was eminently a "social" man; a big, jolly
jovial fellow, with bright blue eyes, large brown whiskers, and a
splendid set of teeth. He had capital lungs, and sang a capital song
in a deep baritone voice, and he had nice feeling in his singing,
which so seldom accompanies correct musical execution; but when Vance
Churchill sang "Farewell, my trim-built Wherry," or "Tom Bowling," all
the female portion of his audience was in tears, while the men felt
husky and uncomfortable. He became the rage in a certain set of fast
young men about town, and in that pleasant Upper Bohemia wherein so
many literary men, artists, and actors of that day used to spend their
time; not a Bohemia of taprooms and sanded floors, of long clay-pipes
and spittoons and twopennyworths of gin, nor of Haymarket night-houses
and drunken trulls, nor of blind-hooky and _vingt-et-un_ parties in
dingy chambers; but a Bohemia of green-rooms and _coulisses_, of
sparkling little suppers afterwards at Vauxhall, where wit would flow
as fast as the champagne, where jokes would be more telling than the
hot punch, and whence the mad party would not unfrequently dash away
in their carriages to breakfast at the Star and Garter at Richmond, or
to drink fresh milk and eat fresh butter in a Hampstead farmhouse. A
Bohemia, the denizens of which always would have good clothes and fine
linen on their backs, gold watches in their pockets, and guineas in
their purses, let who would pay for it; and who roared with laughter
at the astonishment of the world at their vagaries, increasing their
eccentricities, and saying of the world as Balzac's actress said,
"_Qu'importe? donne leur des grimaces pour leur argent, et vivons
heureux!_"
Petted and fêted by the style of society in which he revelled, Vance
Churchill had yet the grace not to attempt to force his wife to join
it; indeed he had good reason for keeping her away. For the ladies
liked Vance Churchill vastly, and Vance returned the compliment, and
behaved just as though there were no moral and legal ties binding him
to any one in particular. He loved his wife sincerely all the time,
and in his quiet moments would tear his hair, and stamp upon the
ground, and curse his own weakness and folly, and his treatment of
that angel who sat patiently at home attending to and teaching their
little boy, and who never reproached him save by her pale face and
broken spirit; and then, as evening came round, Marmaduke Wentworth
would call for him, or the servant would bring him a dainty little
note, written in a very scrawly hand, which she would hold in the
corner of her dingy apron, and which Vance would seize from her, and
after reading it he would sally out, and commence his vagaries _da
capo_.
Preaching before Mary Queen of Scots and her maids of honour, old John
Knox is reported to have said: "Oh, how beautiful, how charming, how
pleasurable would be this life, _if it would only last!_" These were
Mr. Vance Churchill's sentiments, but he soon found that it would not
last. What the writers of those ghastly impositions, bacchanalian
ditties, call "wine and women," or "beauty and the bowl," don't agree
with hard work; and if you go to bed at five a.m. after orgies, you
will not be able to paint your pictures next day, or to write your
book, or mould your clay, or study your part. It is astonishing how
slow people are to believe this, and how, year after year, we see
friends and acquaintances still determined, not merely upon burning
the candle at both ends, but lighting any bit of wick that may
protrude in the middle, and quite astonished when they see the
flame flicker and feel the whole affair about to collapse. Vance
Churchill had plenty of commissions for pictures from first-rate
people,--noblemen, connoisseurs, and patrons of art,--but he did not
give himself the chances of painting them: his brain was never clear
enough for conception, his hand never steady enough for execution; and
the result was, that his financial affairs became desperate. His noble
patrons never dreamed of parting with their money until the work was
done--and in truth not often then; and there were in those days no
middle-men, no bland picture-dealers, to advance large sums on
untouched canvases; and even if there had been, they would have been
far too wise to let Vance Churchill have any money on the strength of
"working it out." So the money dwindled and dwindled, and then Vance
began borrowing of his friends until he found averted faces and
buttoned pockets, and then he faded straight away out of his grand
society, and took lodgings at Chelsea, and tried once again to work
for his livelihood. He painted one picture, which showed but few
traces of his old force and promise. It was plain that the mischief
was done; and then Vance Churchill, after steadily drinking for four
days, was found one morning with an empty laudanum-phial in his
clenched fingers, and a heartbreaking letter to his wife by his side.
Then Eleanor Churchill--who, while perfectly conscious of her
husband's frailties and imperfections, had never ceased worshipping
him--fairly broke down; and had she not been attended by a skilful
physician, and perseveringly nursed night and day by the girl who had
been "scrub" at Miss Inderwick's school, and had left when Eleanor
left to follow her fortunes, little Frank would have been motherless
as well as fatherless. As it was, she recovered, and went away, as
soon as she was able to move, to a little fishing-village in Devon, of
which an old friend of her father's was vicar. Her income was a mere
pittance; contributions from old friends of her husband's family and
her own grudgingly yielded; but her expenses were trifling, and the
old parson took the boy's education under his own charge, and gave him
an excellent classical groundwork. The vicar died when Frank was about
fifteen, and left the whole of his little savings--some seven hundred
pounds--to Eleanor Churchill, "for the furtherance of her son's
education;" and then the widow carried out her long-cherished plan of
sending her son to some foreign university, where, in addition to his
Classics, he could perfect himself in some of the modern languages.
Frank was absent at Leipzig nearly four years, during which period he
paid two flying visits to England, at the second of which he was
introduced to his godfather, Sir Marmaduke Wentworth, who had
succeeded to the family title on his uncle's death. Frank little
thought that one of Sir Marmaduke's first acts on coming into his
property had been to settle two hundred a year on Mrs. Churchill for
her life; he would hear of no refusal. "It is merely an act of
reparation," said he; "and but a scanty one. It was my folly, my bad
example, that led poor Vance astray; and I should never rest if I
thought that those he left behind him were in want, while I had
means." But one condition was attached to this gift, and that was that
Frank should never know of it. "I recollect Vance's spirit in his best
days," Marmaduke said; "and if the boy is like him, he'd fling my
money at my head."
After taking his degree, Frank was fortunate enough to render himself
so agreeable to young Fortinbrass, the son of the great Indian
pale-ale brewer, that that young plutocrat insisted on taking him with
him as half-secretary, half-bear-leader, in his tour through Europe
and the East; and as they stopped at every place where there was any
thing to be done, and a good many at which there was nothing to be
done, and as they had the usual share of quarantine, and as
Fortinbrass took ill at Smyrna and had to lay up for four months, it
was, full three years before Frank returned to England. Then he
determined to settle down and get to work in earnest; and after a few
rebuffs and discouragements, philosophically encountered, he made his
mark in the press world, and obtained constant and fairly remunerative
employment. Then the house in Great Adullam Street was taken, as handy
to the _Statesman_ office, Frank's head-quarters, and furnished partly
with the best of the Devonshire furniture, and partly with odds and
ends bought cheap at sales, for the joint income was but small, and
Eleanor had a wholesome horror of debt. And then the full tide of
Eleanor Churchill's happiness flowed in: she had loved her husband;
she had worshipped his memory in her holy of holies; she had preserved
his image, and had bowed down before it; with his death vanished all
his shortcomings, but his better qualities--the early affection,
kindness, and chivalry--were remembered. But now that her son was with
her, the old image faded and rapidly paled. Here was one uniting the
excellences of his father with virtues which his father never
possessed, tempering high spirits and ardent affection with
earnestness, industry, and honour; no mawkish sentimentalist, no
prudish Pharisee; a man of passions and impulse, yet a Christian and a
gentleman, and above all--her own boy. That was the touchstone; that
was the grand secret. He had his flirtations, of course; his
intrigues, perhaps; but he was her son, her companion, and she was his
honoured mother, but she was also his trusted friend. All his hopes
and fears, all the fun and gossip of the day, were brought by him to
her; he talked to her on books and art and social questions; he read
to her and with her; he advised her on her own reading, and he brought
home with him men of European fame and name, and introduced her to
them, and made much of her before them. _If it would only last!_
Beware of that, Eleanor Churchill! Some one must reign after you, and
with her uprising must be your downsetting. It was ever so. Ask not
why tarry the wheels of his chariot, for the news that he brings with
him will wring and torture your fond, trusting heart.
The old lady's face, which had grown somewhat worn and rigid in
watching, brightened as she heard the sound of wheels in the distance,
and as she saw a hansom cab come plunging and rattling over the uneven
stones, to be finally pulled up with a jerk before the door.
As Frank Churchill sprang out, he looked up to the window and waved
his hand. In a minute he had run upstairs and was in his mother's
arms.
"Why, my boy, how late you are!" said Mrs. Churchill, as she relaxed
her embrace. "You must be famished for your dinner, my poor fellow!"
"Excursion-trains, mother, your favourite doctrine of health and
change for your old _protégé_ the working-man, you know, have
contributed to your anxiety and my delay. We were stopped at Forest
Hill for a train full of people, with drooping hats and feathers and
banners and bands and general tomfoolery, who had been having a day at
the Crystal Palace."
"Well, so long as you're here and all safe, that's all the old
mother cares about, Frank. Dinner, Lucy, now, at once; Mr. Frank's
half-starved. Let me look at you, my boy, and see whether the trip's
done you any good. Eh, you're certainly tanned, and a little stouter,
Frank, I think."
"Perhaps so, mother, though I've been taking more exercise than usual
too. Any news? I saw a pile of letters on the study-table as I rushed
past, but I didn't stop to look at them. Any body been?"
"Mr. Harding was here yesterday, to see if you had returned from among
the 'swells,' as he called them. I think he's a little envious of your
going into such society; eh, Frank?"
"Not a bit of it, mother; nothing would take old George Harding beyond
his own set. But he's afraid of my getting my head turned."
"No fear of that in my boy," said Mrs. Churchill somewhat gravely;
"there is the difference between you and your poor father, Frank. And
now, how is Sir Marmaduke? and what sort of people were staying there?
and was he kind and friendly to you? and how did you enjoy yourself?"
As Mrs. Churchill finished speaking, Lucy the old servant entered the
room and announced dinner. She was a tall gaunt woman, with a hard
unpleasant face, which did not soften much when Churchill, looking up,
said, "Well, Lucy, back at home, once again, you see."
"Yes, I see, Master Frank," the woman replied coldly. "We've been
waiting dinner until we must be faint, I should think."
"Bat it wasn't Mr. Frank's fault, Lucy," said Mrs. Churchill; "the
train was late. Now, my boy, come; you must be starved in earnest;"
and they went downstairs.
"We've not got such a dinner for you as you've been having lately,
maybe," said Lucy, as she uncovered the dishes. "But you can't be
always among lords and ladies, Master Frank."
"Lucy, you silly thing!" said Mrs. Churchill, half-laughing, but
looking half-ashamed.
"I've not been among them at all, Lucy, for the matter of that," said
Churchill good-humouredly, though his brow began to cloud.
"Well," said the woman, leisurely handing the dishes, "it's not for
the want of wishing. Here we are, left at home, in the hot autumn
weather; while you--"
"Lucy!" exclaimed Mrs. Churchill.
"Be good enough to leave the room," said Churchill; "this minute!" he
said, bringing his hand heavily down on the table, as the woman
lingered, looking towards her mistress. "Why, mother darling, what is
this?" he asked, when they were alone; "that woman's tongue was always
free, and her manner always familiar; but this is quite a new
experience."
"It is, my child," said poor Mrs. Churchill; "I don't know how to
excuse her, except that it is all done out of excess of affection for
me, and--"
"That's quite enough excuse for me, mother," said Churchill, rising,
and kissing her. "There, now we'll change the conversation;" and they
talked merrily enough on indifferent topics throughout dinner.
When the cloth was removed, and after Frank had produced his old
meerschaum, and had drawn up his chair to the newly-lighted bit of
fire, he said to his mother, "I've some news to tell you, mum."
"Tell it, my boy!" said the old lady, settling her gold-rimmed glasses
on her nose, and beginning to make play with a portentous piece of
knitting; "what is it, Frank?"
"Well, it's news that concerns both of us," said Churchill, slowly
puffing at his pipe, "but me more especially. The fact is, mum--I'm
going to be married."
It had come at last! that news which she had dreaded so many years
past, that news which spoke to her of separation from all she loved,
which heralded to her the commencement of a new existence--had come at
last! Her heart seemed to give one great bound within her breast as
the words fell upon her ears, and her eyes were for an instant dimmed;
then recovering herself, she smiled and said, "To be married? that is
news indeed, my boy!"
"Ay, mother, my turn has come at last. I thought I had settled down
into a regular old bachelor, but I believe that is just the state of
mind in which one is most liable to infection. However that may be, I
have caught it, and am in for it, as badly as any young lad of
twenty."
Mrs. Churchill had risen from her seat, and crossed the room to Frank.
Putting her hand lightly on his head, she then flung her arms round
him and kissed him warmly, saying, "God bless you, my darling boy, and
grant you happiness! God bless you, my son, my own son!" and she
fairly broke down, and the tears coursed down her cheeks.
"Why, mum!" said Churchill, gently caressing her; "why, mum!"
continued he, stroking her soft gray hair with one hand, while the
other was wound round her. "You must not do this, mum. And here's a
mother for you! I declare she has never yet asked who or what the lady
is!"
"That will come presently, darling; just now I am only thinking
of you--thinking how different it--how, after so long--how
strange--there, come now, and tell me all about it;" and with one
great effort Mrs. Churchill composed herself, and sat down by her
son's side to hear his story.
That story lasted far into the night. Frank told of all his
hesitation; of his determination not to propose; of the accident that
brought about the great result of his happiness; and of the manner in
which the affair was viewed by old Miss Lexden. He then said that he
and Barbara were determined upon getting married at once, and that he
had come up to town principally with the view of looking out some
lodgings which he could take in the neighbourhood for them to return
to after their honeymoon. His mother listened patiently throughout,
with her calm, earnest eyes fixed upon his face, and only now and then
commenting in a low tone; but when he finished, she laid her hand on
his and said quietly:
"You will bring your bride _here_, Frank, and I will go into the
lodgings. Henceforth this house is yours, my boy! You are the head of
our family now, and I--so long as I'm near you and can see you from
time to time, what more do I want? So long as you are happy, I am
happy, and--"
"But you don't imagine, mother, I'm going to turn you out, and--"
"There's no turning out in the case, my darling. Lucy and I could not
occupy the house by ourselves, and we shall be much better in
lodgings. Besides, we won't have any one say that you had not a house
of your own to bring your wife to. I shall see her soon, Frank? Do you
think she'll like me, my darling? When she knows how I love you, I am
sure she will; and yet I am not certain of that. You'll come and see
me often, won't you, Frank? and--oh, my boy, my own darling boy!" and
she fell on his neck and wept bitterly.