THE LOVES AND HOPES OF ALBERT FITZALLEN.
Felix Graham, when he left poor Mary Snow, did not go on immediately
to the doctor's shop. He had made up his mind that Mary Snow should
never be his wife, and therefore considered it wise to lose no time
in making such arrangements as might be necessary both for his
release and for hers. But, nevertheless, he had not the heart to
go about the work the moment that he left her. He passed by the
apothecary's, and looking in saw a young man working sedulously at a
pestle. If Albert Fitzallen were fit to be her husband and willing
to be so, poor as he was himself, he would still make some pecuniary
sacrifice by which he might quiet his own conscience and make Mary's
marriage possible. He still had a sum of £1,200 belonging to him,
that being all his remaining capital; and the half of that he would
give to Mary as her dower. So in two days he returned, and again
looking in at the doctor's shop, again saw the young man at his work.
"Yes, sir, my name is Albert Fitzallen," said the medical aspirant,
coming round the counter. There was no one else in the shop, and
Felix hardly knew how to accost him on so momentous a subject, while
he was still in charge of all that store of medicine, and liable
to be called away at any moment to relieve the ailments of Clapham.
Albert Fitzallen was a pale-faced, light-haired youth, with an
incipient moustache, with his hair parted in equal divisions over
his forehead, with elaborate shirt-cuffs elaborately turned back,
and with a white apron tied round him so that he might pursue his
vocation without injury to his nether garments. His face, however,
was not bad, nor mean, and had there not been about him a little air
of pretension, assumed perhaps to carry off the combined apron and
beard, Felix would have regarded him altogether with favourable eyes.
"Is it in the medical way?" asked Fitzallen, when Graham suggested
that he should step out with him for a few minutes. Graham explained
that it was not in the medical way,--that it was in a way altogether
of a private nature; and then the young man, pulling off his apron
and wiping his hands on a thoroughly medicated towel, invoked the
master of the establishment from an inner room, and in a few minutes
Mary Snow's two lovers were walking together, side by side, along the
causeway.
"I believe you know Miss Snow," said Felix, rushing at once into the
middle of all those delicate circumstances.
Albert Fitzallen drew himself up, and declared that he had that
honour.
"I also know her," said Felix. "My name is Felix Graham--"
"Oh, sir, very well," said Albert. The street in which they were
standing was desolate, and the young man was able to assume a look
of decided hostility without encountering any other eyes than those
of his rival. "If you have anything to say to me, sir, I am quite
prepared to listen to you--to listen to you, and to answer you. I
have heard your name mentioned by Miss Snow." And Albert Fitzallen
stood his ground as though he were at once going to cover himself
with his pistol arm.
"Yes, I know you have. Mary has told me what has passed between you.
You may regard me, Mr. Fitzallen, as Mary's best and surest friend."
"I know you have been a friend to her; I am aware of that. But, Mr.
Graham, if you will allow me to say so, friendship is one thing, and
the warm love of a devoted bosom is another."
"Quite so," said Felix.
"A woman's heart is a treasure not to be bought by any efforts of
friendship," said Fitzallen.
"I fully agree with you there," said Graham.
"Far be it from me to make any boast," continued the other, "or even
to hint that I have gained a place in that lady's affections. I know
my own position too well, and say proudly that I am existing only on
hope." Here, to show his pride, he hit himself with his closed fist
on his shirt-front. "But, Mr. Graham, I am free to declare, even in
your presence, though you may be her best and surest friend,"--and
there was not wanting from the tone of his voice a strong flavour of
scorn as he repeated these words--"that I do exist on hope, let your
claims be what they will. If you desire to make such hope on my part
a cause of quarrel, I have nothing to say against it." And then he
twirled all that he could twirl of that incipient moustache.
"By no means," said Graham.
"Oh, very well," said Fitzallen. "Then we understand that the arena
of love is open to us both. I do not fail to appreciate the immense
advantages which you enjoy in this struggle." And then Fitzallen
looked up into Graham's ugly face, and thought of his own appearance
in the looking-glass.
"What I want to know is this," said Felix. "If you marry Mary Snow,
what means have you of maintaining her? Would your mother receive her
into her house? I presume you are not a partner in that shop; but
would it be possible to get you in as a partner, supposing Mary were
to marry you and had a little money as her fortune?"
"Eh!" said Albert, dropping his look of pride, allowing his hand to
fall from his lips, and standing still before his companion with his
mouth wide open.
"Of course you mean honestly by dear Mary."
"Oh, sir, yes, on the honour of a gentleman. My intentions, sir,
are--. Mr. Graham, I love that young lady with a devotion of heart,
that--that--that--. Then you don't mean to marry her yourself; eh,
Mr. Graham?"
"No, Mr. Fitzallen, I do not. And now, if you will so far confide in
me, we will talk over your prospects."
"Oh, very well. I'm sure you are very kind. But Miss Snow did tell
me--"
"Yes, I know she did, and she was quite right. But as you said just
now, a woman's heart cannot be bought by friendship. I have not been
a bad friend to Mary, but I had no right to expect that I could win
her love in that way. Whether or no you may be able to succeed,
I will not say, but I have abandoned the pursuit." In all which
Graham intended to be exceedingly honest, but was, in truth, rather
hypocritical.
"Then the course is open to me," said Fitzallen.
"Yes, the course is open," answered Graham.
"But the race has still to be run. Don't you think that Miss Snow is
of her nature very--very cold?"
Felix remembered the one kiss beneath the lamp-post,--the one kiss
given, and received. He remembered also that Mary's acquaintance with
the gentleman must necessarily have been short; and he made no answer
to this question. But he made a comparison. What would Madeline have
said and done had he attempted such an iniquity? And he thought of
her flashing eyes and terrible scorn, of the utter indignation of all
the Staveley family, and of the wretched abyss into which the
offender would have fallen.
He brought back the subject at once to the young man's means, to
his mother, and to the doctor's shop; and though he learned nothing
that was very promising, neither did he learn anything that was the
reverse. Albert Fitzallen did not ride a very high horse when he
learned that his supposed rival was so anxious to assist him. He was
quite willing to be guided by Graham, and, in that matter of the
proposed partnership, was sure that old Balsam, the owner of the
business, would be glad to take a sum of money down. "He has a son
of his own," said Albert, "but he don't take to it at all. He's gone
into wine and spirits; but he don't sell half as much as he drinks."
Felix then proposed that he should call on Mrs. Fitzallen, and to
this Albert gave a blushing consent. "Mother has heard of it," said
Albert, "but I don't exactly know how." Perhaps Mrs. Fitzallen was as
attentive as Mrs. Thomas had been to stray documents packed away in
odd places. "And I suppose I may call on--on--Mary?" asked the lover,
as Graham took his leave. But Felix could give no authority for this,
and explained that Mrs. Thomas might be found to be a dragon still
guarding the Hesperides. Would it not be better to wait till Mary's
father had been informed? and then, if all things went well, he might
prosecute the affair in due form and as an acknowledged lover.
All this was very nice, and as it was quite unexpected, Fitzallen
could not but regard himself as a fortunate young man. He had never
contemplated the possibility of Mary Snow being an heiress. And when
his mother had spoken to him of the hopelessness of his passion, she
had suggested that he might perhaps marry his Mary in five or six
years. Now the dearest wish of his heart was brought close within
his reach, and he must have been a happy man. But yet, though this
certainly was so, nevertheless, there was a feeling of coldness about
his love, and almost of disappointment as he again took his place
behind the counter. The sorrows of Lydia in the play when she finds
that her passion meets with general approbation are very absurd
but, nevertheless, are quite true to nature. Lovers would be great
losers if the path of love were always to run smooth. Under such a
dispensation, indeed, there would probably be no lovers. The matter
would be too tame. Albert did not probably bethink himself of a
becoming disguise, as did Lydia,--of an amiable ladder of ropes,
of a conscious moon, or a Scotch parson; but he did feel, in some
undefined manner, that the romance of his life had been taken away
from him. Five minutes under a lamp-post with Mary Snow was sweeter
to him than the promise of a whole bevy of evenings spent in the same
society, with all the comforts of his mother's drawing-room around
him. Ah, yes, dear readers--my male readers of course I mean--were
not those minutes under the lamp-post always very pleasant?
But Graham encountered none of this feeling when he discussed the
same subject with Albert's mother. She was sufficiently alive to the
material view of the matter, and knew how much of a man's married
happiness depends on his supplies of bread and butter. Six hundred
pounds! Mr. Graham was very kind--very kind indeed. She hadn't a word
to say against Mary Snow. She had seen her, and thought her very
pretty and modest looking. Albert was certainly warmly attached to
the young lady. Of that she was quite certain. And she would say this
of Albert,--that a better-disposed young man did not exist anywhere.
He came home quite regular to his meals, and spent ten hours a day
behind the counter in Mr. Balsam's shop--ten hours a day, Sundays
included, which Mrs. Fitzallen regarded as a great drawback to the
medical line--as should I also, most undoubtedly. But six hundred
pounds would make a great difference. Mrs. Fitzallen little doubted
but that sum would tempt Mr. Balsam into a partnership, or perhaps
the five hundred, leaving one hundred for furniture. In such a case
Albert would spend his Sundays at home, of course. After that, so
much having been settled, Felix Graham got into an omnibus and took
himself back to his own chambers.
So far was so good. This idea of a model wife had already become a
very expensive idea, and in winding it up to its natural conclusion
poor Graham was willing to spend almost every shilling that he could
call his own. But there was still another difficulty in his way. What
would Snow père say? Snow père was, he knew, a man with whom dealings
would be more difficult than with Albert Fitzallen. And then, seeing
that he had already promised to give his remaining possessions to
Albert Fitzallen, with what could he bribe Snow père to abandon that
natural ambition to have a barrister for his son-in-law? In these
days, too, Snow père had derogated even from the position in which
Graham had first known him, and had become but little better than a
drunken, begging impostor. What a father-in-law to have had! And then
Felix Graham thought of Judge Staveley.
He sent, however, to the engraver, and the man was not long in
obeying the summons. In latter days Graham had not seen him
frequently, having bestowed his alms through Mary, and was shocked at
the unmistakable evidence of the gin-shop which the man's appearance
and voice betrayed. How dreadful to the sight are those watery
eyes; that red, uneven, pimpled nose; those fallen cheeks; and that
hanging, slobbered mouth! Look at the uncombed hair, the beard half
shorn, the weak, impotent gait of the man, and the tattered raiment,
all eloquent of gin! You would fain hold your nose when he comes nigh
you, he carries with him so foul an evidence of his only and his
hourly indulgence. You would do so, had you not still a respect for
his feelings, which he himself has entirely forgotten to maintain.
How terrible is that absolute loss of all personal dignity which the
drunkard is obliged to undergo! And then his voice! Every tone has
been formed by gin, and tells of the havoc which the compound has
made within his throat. I do not know whether such a man as this is
not the vilest thing which grovels on God's earth. There are women
whom we affect to scorn with the full power of our contempt; but I
doubt whether any woman sinks to a depth so low as that. She also may
be a drunkard, and as such may more nearly move our pity and affect
our hearts, but I do not think she ever becomes so nauseous a thing
as the man that has abandoned all the hopes of life for gin. You can
still touch her;--ay, and if the task be in one's way, can touch her
gently, striving to bring her back to decency. But the other! Well,
one should be willing to touch him too, to make that attempt of
bringing back upon him also. I can only say that the task is both
nauseous and unpromising. Look at him as he stands there before the
foul, reeking, sloppy bar, with the glass in his hand, which he has
just emptied. See the grimace with which he puts it down, as though
the dram had been almost too unpalatable. It is the last touch of
hypocrisy with which he attempts to cover the offence;--as though
he were to say, "I do it for my stomach's sake; but you know how
I abhor it." Then he skulks sullenly away, speaking a word to no
one,--shuffling with his feet, shaking himself in his foul rags,
pressing himself into a heap--as though striving to drive the warmth
of the spirit into his extremities! And there he stands lounging at
the corner of the street, till his short patience is exhausted, and
he returns with his last penny for the other glass. When that has
been swallowed the policeman is his guardian.
Reader, such as you and I have come to that, when abandoned by the
respect which a man owes to himself. May God in his mercy watch over
us and protect us both!
Such a man was Snow père as he stood before Graham in his chambers in
the Temple. He could not ask him to sit down, so he himself stood up
as he talked to him. At first the man was civil, twirling his old hat
about, and shifting from one foot to the other;--very civil, and also
somewhat timid, for he knew that he was half drunk at the moment. But
when he began to ascertain what was Graham's object in sending for
him, and to understand that the gentleman before him did not propose
to himself the honour of being his son-in-law, then his civility left
him, and, drunk as he was, he spoke out his mind with sufficient
freedom.
"You mean to say, Mr. Graham"--and under the effect of gin he turned
the name into Gorm--"that you are going to throw that young girl
over?"
"I mean to say no such thing. I shall do for her all that is in my
power. And if that is not as much as she deserves, it will, at any
rate, be more than you deserve for her."
"And you won't marry her?"
"No; I shall not marry her. Nor does she wish it. I trust that she
will be engaged, with my full approbation--"
"And what the deuce, sir, is your full approbation to me? Whose
child is she, I should like to know? Look here, Mr. Gorm; perhaps
you forget that you wrote me this letter when I allowed you to have
the charge of that young girl?" And he took out from his breast a
very greasy pocket-book, and displayed to Felix his own much-worn
letter,--holding it, however, at a distance, so that it should not
be torn from his hands by any sudden raid. "Do you think, sir, I
would have given up my child if I didn't know she was to be married
respectable? My child is as dear to me as another man's."
"I hope she is. And you are a very lucky fellow to have her so well
provided for. I've told you all I've got to say, and now you may go."
"Mr. Gorm!"
"I've nothing more to say; and if I had, I would not say it to you
now. Your child shall be taken care of."
"That's what I call pretty cool on the part of any gen'leman. And
you're to break your word,--a regular breach of promise, and nothing
ain't to come of it! I'll tell you what, Mr. Gorm, you'll find that
something will come of it. What do you think I took this letter for?"
"You took it, I hope, for Mary's protection."
"And by ---- she shall be protected."
"She shall, undoubtedly; but I fear not by you. For the present I
will protect her; and I hope that soon a husband will do so who will
love her. Now, Mr. Snow, I've told you all I've got to say, and I
must trouble you to leave me."
Nevertheless there were many more words between them before Graham
could find himself alone in his chambers. Though Snow père might be
a thought tipsy--a sheet or so in the wind, as folks say, he was not
more tipsy than was customary with him, and knew pretty well what he
was about. "And what am I to do with myself; Mr. Gorm?" he asked in
a snivelling voice, when the idea began to strike him that it might
perhaps be held by the courts of law that his intended son-in-law was
doing well by his daughter.
"Work," said Graham, turning upon him sharply and almost fiercely.
"That's all very well. It's very well to say 'Work!'"
"You'll find it well to do it, too. Work, and don't drink. You hardly
think, I suppose, that if I had married your daughter I should have
found myself obliged to support you in idleness?"
"It would have been a great comfort in my old age to have had a
daughter's house to go to," said Snow, naïvely, and now reduced to
lachrymose distress.
But when he found that Felix would do nothing for him; that he would
not on the present occasion lend him a sovereign, or even half a
crown, he again became indignant and paternal, and in this state of
mind was turned out of the room.
"Heaven and earth!" said Felix to himself, clenching his hands and
striking the table with both of them at the same moment. That was the
man with whom he had proposed to link himself in the closest ties
of family connection. Albert Fitzallen did not know Mr. Snow; but
it might be a question whether it would not be Graham's duty to
introduce them to each other.