A Noble Patron.
When two men who have met in careless intercourse, without any
possibility of obliging or being obliged, except so far as interchange
of courtesy goes, come suddenly together in relations so changed, the
easy question, “what are you doing?” spoken by the one whose position
has not altered, to the one who has suffered downfall, has a new world
of significance in it, of tacit encouragement or repulsion of kindly or
adverse meaning. It means either “Can I help you?” or, “Don’t think of
asking me for help.” If the downfallen one has need of aid and
patronage, the faintest inflection of voice thrills him with expectation
or disappointment--and even if he is independent, it is hard if he does
not get a sting of mortification out of the suspected benevolence or
absence of it. Edgar listened to Lord Newmarch’s questions, with a
sudden rising in his mind of many sentiments quite unfamiliar to him. He
was ashamed--though he had nothing to be ashamed of--angry, though no
offence had been given him--and tingled with excitement for which there
was no reason. How important it had become to him all at once that this
other man, for whom he felt no particular respect, should be favourable
to him, and how difficult to reconcile himself to the process of asking,
he who had never done anything but give!
“I am doing nothing,” he said, after a momentary pause, which seemed
long to him, but which Lord Newmarch did not so much as notice, “and to
tell the truth, I had a great mind to come cap in hand to you, to ask
for something. I want occupation--and to speak frankly, a living at the
same time. Not pay without work, but yet pay.”
“To be sure,” said Lord Newmarch; but his countenance fell a little. A
new applicant cannot but appear a natural enemy to every official
personage noted for high-mindedness, and a sublime superiority to jobs.
“I should think something might be found for you--in one department or
other. The question is what would you like--or perhaps--what could you
do?”
“I can do anything a man can usually do, who has never done anything in
his life,” said Edgar, trying to laugh. “You know how little that is--a
great deal that is absolutely useless--nothing that is much good.”
“Yes,” said Lord Newmarch, looking much more grave than his applicant
did, whose levity he had always disapproved of. “It is very unfortunate
that what we call the education of a gentleman should be so utterly
unpractical. And, as you are aware, all our clerkships now-a-days are
disposed of by competitive examination. I do not commit myself as to its
satisfactory character as a test of capacity--there are very different
opinions I know on that subject; but the fact is one we must bow to.
Probably you would not care at your age to submit to such an ordeal?”
“I don’t care what I submit to,” said Edgar, which was totally untrue,
for his blood was boiling in the most irrational way, at the thought
that this man whom he had laughed at so often, should be a Minister of
State, while he himself was weighing the probabilities of securing a
clerkship in the great man’s office. Nothing could be more wrong or
foolish, for to be sure Lord Newmarch had worked for his position, and
had his father’s wealth and influence behind him; but he had not
generally impressed upon his acquaintances a very profound respect for
his judgment. “But I don’t think I could pass any examination,” he added
with an uneasy laugh.
“Few men can, without special preparation,” said the Under Secretary,
whose face grew gradually longer and longer. “Do you know I think the
best thing I can do will be to give you a note to the Home Secretary,
who is a very good friend of mine, Lord Millboard. You must have met him
I should think--somewhere--in--”
“Better days,” said Edgar, struck by a sudden perception of the
ludicrous. Yes, that was the phrase--he had seen better days; and his
companion felt the appropriateness of it, though he hesitated to employ
the word.
“Yes, indeed; I am sure no one was ever more regretted,” said Lord
Newmarch, spreading before him a sheet of note-paper with a huge
official stamp. “I don’t think Arden half fills your place. All his
interest goes to the other side. You hear I suppose sometimes from your
sis--I mean from Mrs. Arden? What kind of post shall I say you wish to
have?”
“Say out the word you were going to say,” said Edgar, “my sister! I have
not seen anyone who knew her for ages. No, I thought it best not to keep
up any correspondence. It might have grown a burden to her; but it does
me good to hear you say my sister. How is she looking? Is she happy? It
is so long since I have heard even the name of Clare.”
“Mrs. Arden is quite well, I believe,” said Lord Newmarch doubtfully,
not knowing whether “the family” might quite like inquiries to be made
for her by her quondam brother. He felt almost as a man does who is
caught interfering in domestic strife, and felt that Clare’s husband
might possibly take it badly. “She has a couple of babies of course you
know. She looked very well when I saw her last. Happy! yes, I suppose
so--as everybody is happy. In the meantime, please, what must I say to
Lord Millboard? Shall I recall to him your--former position? And what
shall I say you would like to have? He has really a great deal of
patronage; and can do much more for you if he likes than I.”
“Tell him I have seen better days,” said Edgar with forlorn gaiety, “I
have met him, but I never ventured to approach so great a potentate.
Tell him I am not very particular what kind of work I do, so long as it
is something to live by. Tell him--but to be sure, if you introduce me
to him I can do all that myself.”
“That is true,” said Lord Newmarch with a little sigh of relief, and he
began to write his note. When, however, he had got two or three lines
written in his large hand, he resumed talking, though his pen still ran
over the paper. “You have been abroad I heard. Perhaps you can tell me
what is the feeling in Germany about the proposed unification? I am
rather new to my post, and to tell the truth it is not the post I should
have chosen; but in the service of the country one cannot always follow
one’s favourite path. ‘A gentleman of high breeding and unblemished
character, whose judgment could be relied upon,’ that will do, I think.
Millboard should find something to suit you if any one can. But to
return to what we were talking about. I should very much like to have
your opinion as an impartial observer, of the attitude of Bavaria and
the rest, and how they take Bismarck’s scheme?”
“Does not the principle of competitive examination exist in Lord
Millboard’s department?” said Edgar.
“Not to the same extent,” said Newmarch. “He has always a great deal in
his power. A word from Millboard goes a long way; he has a hand
officially or non-officially in a great many things. For instance, I
like to consult him myself before making an important appointment; he
knows everything. He might get you some commissionership or other. Some
of them are very good things; a literary man got one just the other day,
by Millboard’s influence. Did you read for the bar? No? Ah, that’s a
pity. But you might, perhaps, be made an inspector of schools; very high
qualifications are not required for such an appointment. By-the-by, now
that I think of it,” he continued, pausing after he had folded his
letter, and looking up, “you were brought up abroad? You can speak all
the modern languages; you don’t object to travel. I believe, after all,
you are the very man I want.”
Here he paused, and Edgar waited too, attentive and trying to be amused.
As what did the great man want him? As courier for a travelling party?
While Lord Newmarch pondered, Edgar, puzzled and not very much delighted
with his position, had hard ado to keep just as quiet and respectful as
became a man seeking his living. At last the Minister spoke.
“What I was thinking of,” he said, “was the post of Queen’s Messenger.
You know what that is? It is not badly paid, and the life is amusing. I
cannot tell you how important it would be to me to have a man I could
thoroughly trust in such a position. You would be simply invaluable to
me; I could rely upon you for telling me how people were really thinking
in foreign capitals. I cannot, of course, in my position, travel about
as a private person can, and there are a great many things I am most
anxious to get up.”
Here he paused for some reply; but what could Edgar reply? Lord Newmarch
was not thinking of him, but of his own need of information. Should the
applicant distract the Minister’s thoughts back from this greater
channel to that of his own private case? or should he throw his own
case, as it were, overboard, and give all his sympathy to the
Under-Secretary’s elevated needs? The position was comical, but perhaps
Edgar was not sufficiently at ease in his mind to see its comic side.
“You see how important it is,” Lord Newmarch said, very gravely, looking
at Edgar for sympathy; “everything depends upon genuine
information--what the people are thinking, not the _on dits_ that fly
about in diplomatic circles. My dear--eh?--Earnshaw,” he cried, with
enthusiasm, and a glance at Edgar’s card, “I can’t tell you how much use
you might be to me.”
Edgar could not restrain a hasty laugh, which, however, had not much
enjoyment in it. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said.
“Your name shall be put upon the list directly,” said Lord Newmarch.
“One of our men, I know, talks of resigning; and the very first vacancy,
I think I may almost say, without further reflection, shall be yours.
What are you going to do with yourself for the autumn? I leave town next
week, I hope, but I shall be back before Christmas; and if you don’t
hear from me by that time----”
“Before Christmas!” cried Edgar; he could not prevent his voice from
expressing a little dismay. What was he to do till Christmas? Live upon
his two ten-pound notes? or break into his precious little capital?
or---- The situation appalled him. I suppose he thought, having once
found something which he could be so very useful in, that it was in
Newmarch’s power to give him an appointment at once.
“Of course,” said Newmarch, benignantly, “if you are in the country,
don’t come to town on purpose. Any time in spring would probably do; but
if you don’t hear from me in a few months, come and see me. When so much
important business is passing through one’s hands, a little thing--and
especially a personal matter--is apt to slip out of one’s head.”
“To be sure,” said Edgar, rising hastily, “and I am taking up, about a
mere personal matter, your valuable time, which belongs to the nation.”
“Oh, don’t apologise. I am delighted to see you. And you can’t think of
how much use you might be to me,” said the great man, earnestly, shaking
hands with the small one, impressing upon him, almost with tears in his
eyes, the importance he might come to, “if this man will only be so good
as to resign.”
Edgar went away with a singing in his ears, which he could scarcely
understand at first. In all his kindly careless life there had been so
little occasion for that thrilling of the blood to the brain, in defence
of the Self assailed, which now at once stimulated, and made him dizzy.
He scarcely knew what it meant, neither could he realize the bitterness
that came into his heart against his will, a most unusual guest. He went
out from Lord Newmarch’s office, and walked long and far before he
quite came to himself. Walking has often a similar effect to that which
the poet tells us rhyme has, “the sad mechanic exercise, like dull
narcotics numbing pain.” When he gradually emerged from the haze and
heat of this first disagreeable encounter, Edgar took characteristic
refuge in the serio-comic transformation which the whole matter
underwent in Lord Newmarch’s hands. Instead of a simple question of
employment for Edgar Earnshaw, it became the great man’s own business, a
way of informing him as to the points in which his education was
defective. Finding employment for Edgar interested him moderately; but
finding information for himself, fired his soul;--the comical part of
the whole being that he expected the other, whose personal interests
were so closely concerned, to feel this superior view of the question as
deeply as he himself did, and to put it quite above the vulgar
preliminary of something to live by. To serve Lord Newmarch, and through
him the Government, and through the Government the country, was not
that, Edgar asked himself at last, feeling finally able to laugh again,
a much more important matter than securing bread and butter for our
thriftless man? As soon as he had laughed he was himself again, and the
after processes of thought were more easy.
By-and-by he persuaded himself that on the whole Newmarch had behaved
quite naturally, and not unkindly. “As a matter of course,” he said to
himself, “every man’s own affairs are more interesting to him than any
other man’s.” It was quite natural that Newmarch should think of his
own business as most important. It _was_ the most important, Edgar
continued, in his ingenious and peculiar style of reasoning, since it
was the business of the country--whereas Edgar’s business was only his
own, and of importance to nobody but himself. Equally, of course, it was
more important to secure a good public servant, even in the humble
capacity of a Queen’s Messenger, than to secure bread and butter for
Edgar Earnshaw; and, on the whole, there was a great deal to be said for
Newmarch, who was a good fellow, and had been generally friendly, and
not too patronizing. The only wormwood that remained in his thoughts by
the time evening approached, and he turned his steps towards his club in
search of dinner, concerned the long delay which apparently must occur
before this promised advancement could reach him. Before Christmas;
Edgar had very little idea how much a man could live upon in London; but
he did not think it very likely that he could get through two months
upon twenty pounds. And even if that should be possible, with his little
knowledge and careless habits, what should he do in the meantime? Should
he linger about town, doing nothing, waiting for this possible
appointment, which might, perhaps, never come to anything? This was a
course of procedure which prudence and inclination, and so much
experience as he possessed, alike condemned. Hanging on, waiting till
something should turn up! Was this all he was good for? he asked
himself, with a flush on his face. If only the other man would be so
obliging as to resign, or to be killed in a railway accident, or
swamped in a steamboat, or to take some foreign fever or other, of the
well-known kinds, which haunt those places to which Queen’s Messengers
are habitually sent! This was a lugubrious prayer, and I don’t think the
actual Queen’s Messenger against whom the anathema was addressed would
have been much the worse for Edgar’s ill-wishes.
These virulent and malignant sentiments helped him to another laugh, and
this was one of the cases in which for a man of his temperament to laugh
was salvation. What a good thing it is in all circumstances! and from
how many troubles, angers and ridiculousnesses this blessed power of
laughter saves us! Man, I suppose, among the fast narrowing list of his
specialities, still preserves that of being the only animal who laughs.
Dogs sometimes sneer; but the genial power of this humorous expression
of one’s sense of all life’s oddities and puzzles belongs only to man.
There were few people about at the club where he dined alone, and the
few acquaintances who recognised him were very shy about his name, not
knowing how to address him, and asking each other in corners, as he
divined, what the deuce was his real name, now it had been found out
that he was not Arden? for it must be remembered that he had gone abroad
immediately after his downfall, and had never been known in society
under his new name, which by this time had become sufficiently familiar
to himself. His dinner, poor fellow, was rather a doleful one, and
accompanied by many thoughts. He went to one of the theatres
afterwards, where the interregnum between one season and another still
lasted, and foolishness more foolish even than that which is permitted
at other periods, reigned riotous. Edgar came away wearied and disgusted
before the performance was over, and had walked about aimlessly for some
time before he recollected that he had travelled all night, and had a
right to be tired--upon which recollection his aimless steps changed
their character, and he went off briskly and thankfully through the
bustling streets under the stars, which were sharp with night frost as
they had been at Loch Arroch. Looking up at them as they glowed and
sparkled over the dark house-tops in London, it was natural to think
what was going on at Loch Arroch now. The kye would be “suppered,” and
Bell would have fastened the ever open door, and little Jeanie upstairs
would be reading her “chapter” to her grandmother before the old lady
went to bed. He had seen that little, tender, pious scene more than
once, when Granny was feeble, and he had gone to her room to say
good-night. How sweet the low Scotch voice, with its soft broad vowels,
had sounded, reading reverently those sacred verses, better than
invocation of angels to keep the house from harm! What a peaceful,
homely little house! all in it resting tranquil and untroubled beneath
the twinkling stars. He went home to his rooms, through streets where
very different scenes were going on, hushed by the thought of the rural
calm and stillness, and half thinking the dark shadows he felt around
him must be the dew-breathing shadows of the hills. And when Edgar got
up to his bachelor refuge in Piccadilly, which he called home for the
nonce for lack of a better, he did the very wisest thing a tired man
could do, he went to bed; where he slept the moment his head touched the
pillow, that sleep which does not always attend the innocent. The morn,
as says our homely proverb in Scotland, would bring a new day.