HER MOTHER DIES
At the age of seventeen I considered myself qualified to form a
judgment of men, and I was amazed and indeed disgusted that my mother
should see anything in Mr. Stanford to please her. He and my father
were at the opposite ends of the sex, as far removed as the bows from
the stern of a ship. He was a spare and narrow man, pale as veal, in
complexion sandy, the expression of his countenance hard and acid, his
eyes large and moist and the larger and moister for the magnifying
spectacles he wore. But my mother would have her way, and a week after
she had given me the news of the doctor’s offer they were privately
married.
My life from this date was one of constant and secret unhappiness. I
could never answer Mr. Stanford with any approach to civility without
a violent effort. He strove at first to make friends with me, then gave
up and took no more heed of me than had I been a shadow at the table
or about the house. Yet, sometimes, I would make him pretty rudely and
severely feel that he was an intruder, an abomination in my sight, a
scandalous illustration of my mother’s weakness of nature; and that
was if ever he opened his lips about my father. I never suffered him
to mention my father’s name in my presence. He might be about to speak
intending to praise, designing every manner of civility toward the
memory of the dead; I minded him not; if he named my father I insulted
him, and on two or three occasions forced him to quit the table, so
strong and fiery was the injurious language I plied him with. My mother
wept, threatened to swoon, did swoon once, and our home promised to
become as wretched and clamorous as a lunatic asylum.
As an example of my hatred, not so much of the man as of his assumption
of my father’s place: he brought his door-plate and his lamp from his
house, and when I saw his plate upon the door that my father used to
go in and out of I ran to a carpenter who lived a few streets off,
brought him back with his tools, and ordered him to remove the plate,
which I threw into the kitchen sink for the cook to find and report to
her master.
Well, at the end of ten months, my mother died in childbed. The infant
lived. It was a girl. My mother died; and when I went to her bedside
and viewed her dead face, sweet in its everlasting sleep, for the look
and wear of ten or fifteen years seemed to have been brushed off her
countenance by the hand of death, I thought to myself: if she has gone
to meet father, how will she excuse herself for her disloyalty? And
then the little new-born babe that was in the next room began to cry,
and I came away from that death-bed with tearless eyes and sat in my
bedroom, thinking without weeping.
I have spoken of my uncle, William Johnstone, a lawyer, who lived
in the neighbourhood of the Tower, and whose office was in his own
dwelling-house. He, like my father, had but one child, Will Johnstone,
that little fellow who was playing with me when my father died. Mr.
Johnstone’s was a very comfortable house; it afterward passed into the
hands of a chart-seller. His clients were nearly wholly composed of
sea-going people. He was said to be very learned in maritime law; he
was much consulted by masters and mates with grievances, and at his
house, as at my father’s formerly, you’d meet few people who did not
follow the ocean or did not do business with seafarers.
Mrs. Johnstone was three or four years older than her husband. She
was a plain, homely, thoroughly good-hearted woman, incapable of an
ill-natured thought; one of those few people who are content to be as
God made them. During my mother’s brief married life with her second
husband I was constantly with my aunt, and I believe I should have
lived with her wholly but for my determination that my stepfather, the
doctor, should not flatter himself he had sickened me out of my own
home. Will was at this time at the Bluecoat School, laying in a stock
of Latin and Greek for the fishes; for the lad was resolved to go to
sea. His father, indeed, wished him to adopt that calling, and would
say: ‘What is the good of a cargo of learning the whole of which will
be thrown up overboard the first dirty night down Channel?’
When mother died, my aunt entreated me to live with her and leave the
doctor alone in his glory. My answer was: No, I should not think of
leaving my own home if my stepfather were out of it, and I was not
to be driven out because he chose to stay. I had the power to turn
him out, and should have done so but for the baby. The little one was
my mother’s; I could not have turned a child of my mother’s out of a
home that had been my mother’s. So I continued to live in the home
that had come to me from my father. I occupied a set of rooms over
the parlour-floor and took my meals in my own apartments, where I was
attended by a maid who waited upon me and upon nobody else.
The child was called after my mother, and her name was mine--Marian. If
in passing up or down stairs I met the little creature in its nurse’s
arms, I would take it and kiss it, perhaps, and toss it a moment or
two and then go my way. God forgive me, I could never bring myself to
love that child. I never could think of it as my mother’s, but as Mr.
Stanford’s. The sight, the sound of it would bring all my father into
my heart, and I’d fall into a sort of passion merely in thinking that
the memory of such a man should have been betrayed.
I dare say you will consider all this as an excess of loyalty in me.
But loyal even to exaggeration my nature was to those I loved. It is no
boast--merely a saying which this tale should justify.
After the death of my mother, the money paid to me through my trustees
rose to an income of hard upon five hundred a year. I rejoice to say
that Mr. Stanford got not one penny. My mother had been without the
power to will away a farthing of what my father had left her. Otherwise
I don’t doubt the doctor would have come off with something more
substantial than a ten-month memory and my sullen toleration of his
plate upon the door.
The equivalent in these times of five hundred a year would in those be
about seven hundred; I was, therefore, a fortune and a fine, handsome
young woman besides; and you will naturally ask: Had I any sweethearts,
lovers, followers? To tell you the truth, I never gave men nor marriage
a thought. I had friends in the neighbourhood, and I went among them,
and I was also much at my aunt’s, and not very easily, therefore, to
be caught at home by any gentleman with an eye to a fine girl and an
independency. Add likewise to my visiting, a great love of solitary
rambling. I’d take a boat at Wapping and pass nearly a whole day upon
the river, stepping ashore, perhaps, at some convenient landing-stairs
or stage for a meal, and then returning to the wherry. Ah, those
were delicious jaunts! They stand next in my memory in sweetness and
happiness to those father had carried me on. I made nothing of being
alone, and nobody took any notice of me. I was affronted but once,
and that was by a Wapping waterman who claimed that I had promised to
use his boat, which was false. He was a poor creature, and nothing
but the modesty of my sex hindered me from beating him with the short
stout stick, silver-headed, with lead under the silver, that I always
carried with me when I went alone. Another waterman whom I employed
came up while the low fellow was slanging me, whipped off his coat like
lightning and in five minutes blacked up both his opponent’s eyes. This
was punishment enough, and I was satisfied; and, as a reward, paid the
chivalrous man double fare and made a point to hire his boat afterwards.
Or I would take my passage in a Calais steamer, land at Gravesend, or
perhaps higher up, and wander about, perfectly happy in being alone,
and with eyes and thoughts for nothing but the beauties of the country
and the bright scene of the river. Often I was away for two and three
days together; but on these occasions I always chose an inn where I
was known, where I could depend upon the comfort of the entertainment
and the security of the house; where the landlady would welcome me as
a friend, and provide me for the night with such little conveniences
as I had left my home without. Everything was caprice with me in those
days. I did what I liked, went where I liked, knew no master. My aunt
once or twice, in her mild way, questioned the propriety of a young
woman acting as I did, but my uncle stood up for me, pointed out that
my blood was full of the old roaming instincts of my father; that I was
quite old enough and strong enough to take care of myself; that what I
did was my notion of enjoyment, and that I was in the right to be happy.
‘Keep on the wing while you can,’ said he. ‘Some of these days a big
chap called a husband will come along, with a pair of shears in his
hand, and the rest will be short farmyard hops.’
On the other hand, my stepfather professed to be scandalised by my
conduct. He marched into my room one day, after I had spent the night
alone at Gravesend, and asked leave to have a serious talk with me.
But, on his beginning to tell me that I was not acting with that sort
of decorum, with that regard to social observances, which is always
expected and looked for in a young lady, I walked out of the room. He
then addressed a long letter to me. His drift was still decorum and
social observances, and what would his patients think. _I_ thought of
my father and how _he_ would deal with this fellow, who was daring
enough to teach me how to conduct myself, and in a passion I tore the
letter in halves, slipped the pieces into an envelope, on which I
wrote, ‘Your advice is as objectionable as your company,’ and bade my
maid put the letter on the table of the room in which he received his
patients.
But this is not telling you whether I had lovers, sweethearts,
followers, or not. I have no room to go into that matter here; yet,
let me name two young gentlemen. The first was the son of one of my
trustees, Captain Galloway, who lived at Shadwell. The youth was
good-looking, and had a pleasant, easy manner; he had been well
educated, and at this time held some post of small consequence in the
London Docks. He hung about me much, contrived to meet me at friends’
houses, often called, and managed sometimes to discover whither I
had gone on a ramble, and to meet me as though by accident. I never
doubted that I owed a good deal of this lad’s attention to old Captain
Galloway’s fatherly advice. I laughed in my sleeve at the poor boy,
though I was always gentle and kind to him; and if I never gave him
any marked encouragement, for his father’s sake I took care never to
pain or in any way disconcert him; until one evening, happening to be
at a quadrille party, to which he had been invited, though he did not
attend, a pretty, sad-faced young creature was pointed out to me as
a girl whom Jim Galloway had jilted so provokingly as to earn him a
caning at the hands of the young lady’s brother. This was enough for
me. I first made sure that the story was true, and when next I met my
youthful admirer I took him on one side, and, having told him what I
had heard, informed him that he was a wicked, dangerous boy, unfit
for the society of ladies, and, affecting a great air of indignation,
I asked if by his hanging about me he did not intend to make a fool
of me too. What passed put an end to the young gentleman’s addresses;
but I always regret that this affair should have occasioned a coolness
between Captain Galloway and myself.
My second suitor, or follower, so to term the fellow, was no less a
person than my stepfather’s nephew. I had been spending my twenty-first
birthday at my aunt’s, and on my return home Mr. Stanford sent up word
to know if I would see him. I was in a good humour, and told the maid
to ask my stepfather up. His motive in visiting me was to get me to
allow him to invite his nephew to stay in the house. He wished to make
his nephew’s better acquaintance. The youth was studying medicine, and
Mr. Stanford believed a time might come when it would be convenient to
take him into partnership. I told him to ask his nephew and welcome.
‘What’s the gentleman’s name?’ said I.
‘Edward Potter,’ said he.
In two or three days’ time Mr. Edward Potter drove up in a hackney
coach. He brought a quantity of luggage, insomuch that I reckoned the
partnership might not be so far off as my stepfather had hinted. Mr.
Potter was a very corpulent young man; his neck was formed of rings of
fat, and his small-clothes and arm sleeves sheathed his limbs as tight
as a bladder holds lard. Nothing remarkable happened for some time,
and then I discovered that this pursy young man was beginning to pay
me some attention. To be sure, his opportunities in this way were few;
he dared not enter my rooms without being invited, and then again, as
you know, I was much away from home. Yet he would contrive to waylay
me on the stairs and hold me in conversation, and he once went to the
length of snatching up his hat and passing with me into the street,
and walking with me down the Commercial Road to as far as Whitechapel,
where I managed to shake him off.
One afternoon, on going downstairs, I heard the sound of voices in the
parlour. The door stood ajar; my name was uttered; and the sound of it
arrested my steps. The voices within were those of Mr. Stanford and his
nephew, who were still at table, lingering over their wine.
‘Yes, she has the temper of a devil,’ said my stepfather. ‘I love her
so exceedingly that I’d like nothing better than to have her for a
patient. But the wench’s constitution is as sound as her fortune. Why
don’t you go ahead with her?’
‘She’s plaguy hard to get at,’ said Mr. Potter, in his strange voice,
as though his mouth was full of grease.
‘You don’t shove enough,’ said his uncle. ‘A woman of her sort isn’t to
be won by staring and breathing hard. Go for her boldly. Blunder into
the sitting-room sometimes, follow her when she goes out and meet her
round the next corner. It was the chance I spoke to your mother about
and that you’re here for. She means five hundred a year and this house.
You’ll need to kill or cure scores this way to earn five hundred a
year.’
‘It’s like taking a naked light into a powder magazine to talk to her,’
said Mr. Potter. ‘Every look she gives one is a sort of explosion. I
always feel like wishing that the road may be clear when I address her.’
‘You’re too fat for business,’ said his uncle. ‘I feared so. Give me a
lean and hungry man for spirit. Cæsar knew Cassius, and I know you.’
I guessed it was Mr. Potter who thumped the table.
‘Give me some time and you’ll see,’ he said. ‘But in proportion as
she troubles me on this side so I’ll give it her on t’other. Only let
me get her, and for all your sneers at my figure I’ll have her on her
knees to you and me within a month. Will you bet?’ and I heard him
pound the table again.
He had used a word in this speech which I will not repeat--an odious,
infamous word. I stepped in, flinging the door wide open and leaving it
so. Mr. Potter started up from his chair, my stepfather lay back, his
face drooped and very pale, and he looked at me under his half-closed
lids. I stared Mr. Potter in the face for a few moments without
speaking; I then pointed to the door with the silver-headed cane I
invariably carried.
‘Walk out, sir,’ said I.
He began to stammer.
‘Walk out!’ I repeated, and I menaced him.
‘Where am I to walk to?’ he said.
‘Out of this house,’ said I.
‘You had no right to listen, miss,’ said my stepfather.
I looked at him, then stepped round the table to the bell, which I
pulled violently. My own maid, guessing the summons was mine, answered.
‘Jane,’ said I, ‘go instantly for a constable.’
‘There is no need to fetch a constable,’ exclaimed Mr. Stanford,
getting up, ‘my nephew will leave the house.’
On this, Mr. Potter went out into the hall, and whilst he fumbled at
the hatstand, called out:
‘I suppose I may take my luggage?’
I was determined to humble the dog to an extremity, and told Jane
to call in any two idle fellows she could see to remove Mr. Potter’s
luggage. She fetched two men from a public-house, and I took them
upstairs into Mr. Potter’s room and bade them carry his trunks below
and put them on the pavement. When they had carried the trunks
downstairs they returned for Mr. Potter’s loose, unpacked apparel,
which, acting on my instructions, they heaped along with his unpacked
linen on top of the boxes on the pavement. I paid the two men for their
trouble, and violently slammed the hall-door upon Mr. Potter, who
stood in the road, gazed at by a fast-gathering crowd, waiting for the
arrival of a hackney coach, which was very slow in coming.
As I passed upstairs, panting and heart-sick, Mr. Stanford came into
the hall, and called out: ‘You will ruin my practice.’ I paused to see
if he had more to say, and I was very thankful afterward that he had
thought proper to immediately retire on observing me stop.