MR. BROWN IS TAKEN ILL.
Brisket kept his word, and never entered Magenta House again, nor,
as far as George Robinson is aware, has he seen any of the Brown
family from that day on which he gave up his intended marriage to
this present. For awhile Maryanne Brown protested that she was well
satisfied that this should be so. She declared to Mrs. Poppins
that the man was mercenary, senseless, uninteresting, heavy, and
brutal;--and though in the bosom of her own family she did not speak
out with equal freedom, yet from time to time she dropped words
to show that she was not breaking her heart for William Brisket.
But this mood did not last long. Before winter had come round the
bitterness of gall had risen within her heart, and when Christmas was
there her frame of mind was comfortable neither to herself nor to her
unfortunate father.
During this time the house still went on. Set a business going, and
it is astonishing how long it will continue to move by the force of
mere daily routine. People flocked in for shirts and stockings, and
young women came there to seek their gloves and ribbons, although but
little was done to attract them, either in the way of advertisement
or of excellence of supply. Throughout this wretched month or two
Robinson knew that failure was inevitable, and with this knowledge it
was almost impossible that he should actively engage himself in his
own peculiar branch of business. There was no confidence between the
partners. Jones was conscious of what was coming and was more eager
than ever to feather his own nest. But in these days Mr. Brown
displayed a terrible activity. He was constantly in the shop, and
though it was evident to all eyes that care and sorrow were heaping
upon his shoulders a burden which he could hardly bear, he watched
his son-in-law with the eyes of an Argus. It was terrible to see him,
and terrible, alas, to hear him;--for at this time he had no reserve
before the men and women engaged behind the counters. At first there
had been a pretence of great love and confidence, but this was now
all over. It was known to all the staff that Mr. Brown watched his
son-in-law, and known also that the youngest partner had been treated
with injustice by them both.
They in the shop, and even Jones himself, knew little of what in
these days was going on upstairs. But Robinson knew, for his room
was close to that in which Mr. Brown and his daughter lived; and,
moreover, in spite of the ill-feeling which could not but exist
between him and Miss Brown, he passed many hours in that room with
her father. The bitterness of gall had now risen within her breast,
and she had begun to realize that truth which must be so terrible for
a woman, that she had fallen to the ground between two stools. It is
a truth terrible to a woman. There is no position in a man's life of
the same aspect. A man may fail in business, and feel that no further
chance of any real success can ever come in his way; or he may fail
in love, and in the soreness of his heart may know that the pleasant
rippling waters of that fountain are for him dried for ever. But with
a woman the two things are joined together. Her battle must be fought
all in one. Her success in life and her romance must go together,
hand in hand. She is called upon to marry for love, and if she marry
not for love, she disobeys the ordinance of nature and must pay the
penalty. But at the same time all her material fortune depends upon
the nature of that love. An industrious man may marry a silly fretful
woman, and may be triumphant in his counting-house though he be
bankrupt in his drawing-room. But a woman has but the one chance.
She must choose her life's companion because she loves him; but she
knows how great is the ruin of loving one who cannot win for her that
worldly success which all in the world desire to win.
With Maryanne Brown these considerations had become frightfully
momentous. She had in her way felt the desire for some romance in
life, but she had felt more strongly still how needful it was that
she should attain by her feminine charms a position which would put
her above want. "As long as I have a morsel, you shall have half of
it," her father had said to her more than once. And she had answered
him with terrible harshness, "But what am I to do when you have no
longer a morsel to share with me? When you are ruined, or dead, where
must I then look for support and shelter?" The words were harsh, and
she was a very Regan to utter them. But, nevertheless, they were
natural. It was manifest enough that her father would not provide
for her, and for her there was nothing but Eve's lot of finding an
Adam who would dig for her support. She was hard, coarse,--almost
heartless; but it may perhaps be urged in her favour, that she was
not wilfully dishonest. She had been promised to one man, and though
she did not love him she would have married him, intending to do her
duty. But to this he would not consent, except under certain money
circumstances which she could not command. Then she learned to love
another man, and him she would have married; but prudence told her
that she should not do so until he had a home in which to place her.
And thus she fell to the ground between two stools, and, falling,
perceived that there was nothing before her on which her eye could
rest with satisfaction.
There are women, very many women, who could bear this, if with
sadness, still without bitterness. It is a lot which many women have
to bear; but Maryanne Brown was one within whose bosom all feelings
were turned to gall by the prospect of such a destiny. What had she
done to deserve such degradation and misfortune? She would have been
an honest wife to either husband! That it could be her own fault in
any degree she did not for a moment admit. It was the fault of those
around her, and she was not the woman to allow such a fault to pass
unavenged.
"Father," she would say, "you will be in the workhouse before this
new year is ended."
"I hope not, my child."
"Hope! What's the good of hoping? You will. And where am I to go
then? Mother left a handsome fortune behind her, and this is what
you've brought us to."
"I've done everything for the best, Maryanne."
"Why didn't you give that man the money when you had it? You'd have
had a home then when you'd ruined yourself. Now you'll have no home;
neither shall I."
All this was very hard to be borne. "She nags at me that dreadful,
George," he once said, as he sat in his old arm-chair, with his head
hanging wearily on his chest, "that I don't know where I am or what
I'm doing. As for the workhouse, I almost wish I was there."
She would go also to Poppins' lodgings, and there quarrel with her
old friend Polly. It may be that at this time she did not receive
all the respect that had been paid to her some months back, and this
reverse was, to her proud spirit, unendurable. "Polly," she said, "if
you wish to turn your back upon me, you can do so. But I won't put up
with your airs."
"There's nobody turning their back upon you, only yourself,"
Polly replied; "but it's frightful to hear the way you're always
a-grumbling;--as if other people hadn't had their ups and downs
besides you."
Robinson also was taught by the manner of his friend Poppins that he
could not now expect to receive that high deference which was paid
to him about the time that Johnson of Manchester had been in the
ascendant. Those had been the halcyon days of the firm, and Robinson
had then been happy. Men at that time would point him out as he
passed, as one worthy of notice; his companions felt proud when
he would join them; and they would hint to him, with a mysterious
reverence that was very gratifying, their assurance that he was so
deeply occupied as to make it impossible that he should give his time
to the ordinary slow courtesies of life. All this was over now, and
he felt that he was pulled down with rough hands from the high place
which he had occupied.
"It's all very well," Poppins would say to him, "but the fact is,
you're a-doing of nothing."
"If fourteen hours a day--" began Robinson. But Poppins instantly
stopped him.
"Fourteen hours' work a day is nothing, if you don't do anything. A
man may sweat hard digging holes and filling them up again. But what
I say is, he does not do any good. You've been making out all these
long stories about things that never existed, but what's the world
the better for it;--that's what I want to know. When a man makes
a pair of shoes--." And so he went on. Coming from such a man as
Poppins, this was hard to be borne. But nevertheless Robinson did
bear it. Men at the "Goose and Gridiron" also would shoulder him
now-a-days, rather than make way for him. Geese whose names had never
been heard beyond the walls of that room would presume to occupy his
place. And on one occasion, when he rose to address the chamber, the
Grand omitted the courtesy that had ever been paid to him, and forgot
to lay down his pipe. This also he bore without flinching.
It was about the middle of February when a catastrophe happened which
was the immediate forerunner of the fall of the house. Robinson had
been at his desk early in the morning,--for, though his efforts were
now useless, he was always there; and had been struck with dismay by
the loudness of Maryanne's tone as she rebuked her father. Then Mrs.
Jones had joined them, and the battle had raged still more furiously.
The voice of the old man, too, was heard from time to time. When
roused by suffering to anger he would forget to speak in his usual
falsetto treble, and break out in a few natural words of rough
impassioned wrath. At about ten, Mr. Brown came down into Robinson's
room, and, seating himself on a low chair, remained there for awhile
without moving, and almost without speaking. "Is she gone, George?"
he asked at last. "Which of them?" said Robinson.
"Sarah Jane. I'm not so used to her, and it's very bad." Then
Robinson looked out and said that Mrs. Jones was gone. Whereupon Mr.
Brown returned to his own room.
Again and again throughout the day Robinson heard the voices; but
he did not go up to the room. He never did go there now, unless
specially called upon to do so by business. At about noon, however,
there came a sudden silence,--a silence so sudden that he noticed it.
And then he heard a quick step across the floor. It was nothing to
him, and he did not move from his seat; but still he kept his ears
open, and sat thoughtless of other matters, as though he expected
that something was about to happen. The room above was perfectly
still, and for a minute or two nothing was done. But then there came
the fall of a quicker step across the room, and the door was opened,
and Maryanne, descending the four stairs which led to his own closet,
was with him in an instant. "George," she said, forgetting all
propriety of demeanour, "father's in a fit!"
It is not necessary that the scene which followed should be described
with minuteness in these pages. Robinson, of course, went up to Mr.
Brown's room, and a doctor was soon there in attendance upon the sick
man. He had been struck by paralysis, and thus for a time had been
put beyond the reach of his daughters' anger. Sarah Jane was very
soon there, but the wretched state in which the old man was lying
quieted even her tongue. She did not dare to carry on the combat as
she looked on the contorted features and motionless limbs of the poor
wretch as he lay on his bed. On her mind came the conviction that
this was partly her work, and that if she now spoke above her breath,
those around her would accuse her of her cruelty. So she slunk about
into corners, whispering now and again with her husband, and quickly
took herself off, leaving the task of nursing the old man to the
higher courage of her sister.
And Maryanne's courage sufficed for the work. Now that she had a task
before her she did it;--as she would have done her household tasks
had she become the wife of Brisket or of Robinson. To the former
she would have been a good wife, for he would have required no
softness. She would have been true to him, tending him and his
children;--scolding them from morning to night, and laying not
unfrequently a rough hand upon them. But for this Brisket would not
have cared. He would have been satisfied, and all would have been
well. It is a thousand pities that, in that matter, Brisket could not
have seen his way.
And now that her woman's services were really needed, she gave them
to her father readily. It cannot be said that she was a cheerful
nurse. Had he been in a state in which cheerfulness would have
relieved him, her words would have again been sharp and pointed. She
was silent and sullen, thinking always of the bad days that were
coming to her. But, nevertheless, she was attentive to him,--and
during the time of his terrible necessity even good to him. It is so
natural to women to be so, that I think even Regan would have nursed
Lear had Lear's body become impotent instead of his mind. There she
sat close to his bed, and there from time to time Robinson would
visit her. In those days they always called each other George and
Maryanne, and were courteous to each other, speaking solely of the
poor old sick man, who was so near to them both. Of their former
joint hopes, no word was spoken then; nor, at any rate as regards the
lady, was there even a thought of love. As to Jones, he very rarely
came there. He remained in the shop below; where the presence of some
member of the firm was very necessary, for, in these days, the number
of hands employed had become low.
"I suppose it's all up down there," she said one day, and as she
spoke she pointed towards the shop. At this time her father had
regained his consciousness, and had recovered partially the use of
his limbs. But even yet he could not speak so as to be understood,
and was absolutely helpless. The door of his bedroom was open, and
Robinson was sitting in the front room, to which it opened.
"I'm afraid so," said he. "There are creditors who are pressing us;
and now that they have been frightened about Mr. Brown, we shall be
sold up."
"You mean the advertising people?"
"Yes; the stationer and printer, and one or two of the agents. The
fact is, that the money, which should have satisfied them, has been
frittered away uselessly."
"It's gone at any rate," said she. "He hasn't got it," and she
pointed to her father.
"Nor have I," said Robinson. "I came into it empty-handed, and I
shall go out as empty. No one shall say that I cared more for myself
than for the firm. I've done my best, and we have failed. That's
all."
"I am not going to blame you, George. My look-out is bad enough, but
I will not say that you did it. It is worse for a woman than for a
man. And what am I to do with him?" And again she pointed towards
the inner room. In answer to this Robinson said something as to
the wind being tempered for the shorn lamb. "As far as I can see,"
she continued, "the sheep is best off that knows how to keep its
own wool. It's always such cold comfort as that one gets, when the
world means to thrust one to the wall. It's only the sheep that lets
themselves be shorn. The lions and the tigers know how to keep their
own coats on their own backs. I believe the wind blows colder on poor
naked wretches than it does on those as have their carriages to ride
in. Providence is very good to them that know how to provide for
themselves."
"You are young," said he, "and beautiful--"
"Psha!"
"You will always find a home if you require one."
"Yes; and sell myself! I'll tell you what it is, George Robinson; I
wish to enter no man's home unless I can earn my meat there by my
work. No man shall tell me that I am eating his bread for nothing. As
for love, I don't believe in it. It's all very well for them as have
nothing to do and nothing to think of,--for young ladies who get up
at ten in the morning, and ride about with young gentlemen, and spend
half their time before their looking-glasses. It's like those poetry
books you're so fond of. But it's not meant for them as must earn
their bread by their own sweat. You talk about love, but it's only
madness for the like of you."
"I shall talk about it no more."
"You can't afford it, George; nor yet can't I. What a man wants in a
wife is some one to see to his cooking and his clothes; and what a
woman wants is a man who can put a house over her head. Of course, if
she have something of her own, she'll have so much the better house.
As for me, I've got nothing now."
"That would have made no difference with me." Robinson knew that he
was wrong to say this, but he could not help it. He knew that he
would be a madman if he again gave way to any feeling of tenderness
for this girl, who could be so hard in her manner, so harsh in her
speech, and whose temperament was so utterly unsuited to his own. But
as she was hard and harsh, so was he in all respects the reverse. As
she had told him over and over again, he was tender-hearted even to
softness.
"No; it wouldn't," she replied. "And, therefore, with all your
cleverness, you are little better than a fool. You have been working
hard and living poor these two years back, and what better are you?
When that old man was weak enough to give you the last of his money,
you didn't keep a penny."
"Not a penny," said Robinson, with some feeling of pride at his
heart.
"And what the better are you for that? Look at them Joneses; they
have got money. When the crash comes, they won't have to walk out
into the street. They'll start somewhere in a little way, and will do
very well."
"And would you have had me become a thief?"
"A thief! You needn't have been a thief. You needn't have taken it
out of the drawers as some of them did. I couldn't do that myself.
I've been sore tempted, but I could never bring myself to that." Then
she got up, and went to her father, and Robinson returned again to
the figures that were before him.
"What am I to do with him?" she again said, when she returned. "When
he is able to move, and the house is taken away from us, what am I to
do with him? He's been bad to me, but I won't leave him."
"Neither will I leave him, Maryanne."
"That's nonsense. You've got nothing, no more than he has; and he's
not your flesh and blood. Where would you have been now, if we'd been
married on that day."
"I should have been nearer to him in blood, but not truer to him as a
partner."
"It's lucky for you that your sort of partnership needn't last for
ever. You've got your hands and your brain, and at any rate you can
work. But who can say what must become of us? Looking at it all
through, George, I have been treated hard;--haven't I, now?"
He could only say that of such hard treatment none of it rested on
his conscience. At such a moment as this he could not explain to
her that had she herself been more willing to trust in others, more
prone to believe in Providence, less hard and worldly, things would
have been better with her. Even now, could she have relaxed into
tenderness for half-an-hour, there was one at her elbow who would
have taken her at once, with all that burden of a worn-out pauper
parent, and have poured into her lap all the earnings of his life.
But Maryanne Brown could not relax into tenderness, nor would she
ever deign to pretend that she could do so.
The first day on which Mr. Brown was able to come out into the
sitting-room was the very day on which Brown, Jones, and Robinson
were declared bankrupts. Craddock and Giles, the stationers of St.
Mary Axe, held bills of theirs, as to which they would not,--or
probably could not,--wait; and the City and West End Commercial and
Agricultural Joint-Stock Bank refused to make any further advances.
It was a sad day; but one, at least, of the partners felt relieved
when the blow had absolutely fallen, and the management of the
affairs of the shop was taken out of the hands of the firm.
"And will we be took to prison?" asked Mr. Brown. They were almost
the first articulate words which he had been heard to utter since the
fit had fallen on him; and Robinson was quick to assure him that no
such misfortune would befall him.
"They are not at all bitter against us," said Robinson. "They know we
have done our best."
"And what will they do with us?" again asked Mr. Brown.
"We shall have a sale, and clear out everything, and pay a
dividend;--and then the world will be open to us for further
efforts."
"The world will never be open to me again," said Mr. Brown. "And if
I had only have kept the money when I had it--"
"Mr. Brown," said Robinson, taking him by the hand, "you are ill
now, and seen through the sickly hue of weakness and infirmity,
affairs look bad and distressing; but ere long you will regain your
strength."
"No, George, I shall never do that."
On this day the business of the shop still went on, but the proceeds
of such sales as were made were carried to the credit of the
assignees. Mr. Jones was there throughout the day, doing nothing, and
hardly speaking to any one. He would walk slowly from the front of
the shop to the back, and then returning would stand in the doorway,
rubbing his hands one over the other. When any female of specially
smart appearance entered the shop, he would hand to her a chair,
and whisper a few words of oily courtesy; but to those behind the
counter he did not speak a word. In the afternoon Mrs. Jones made her
appearance, and when she had been there a few minutes, was about to
raise the counter door and go behind; but her husband took her almost
roughly by the arm, and muttering something to her, caused her to
leave the shop. "Ah, I knew what such dishonest doings must come to,"
she said, as she went her way. "And, what's more, I know who's to
blame." And yet it was she and her husband who had brought this ruin
on the firm.
"George," said Mr. Brown, that evening, "I have intended for the
best,--I have indeed."
"Nobody blames you, sir."
"You blame me about Maryanne."
"No, by heaven; not now."
"And she blames me about the money; but I've meant it for the
best;--I have indeed."
All this occurred on a Saturday, and on that same evening Robinson
attended at his debating club, for the express purpose of explaining
to the members the state of his own firm. "It shall never be thrown
in my teeth," said he, "that I became a bankrupt and was ashamed to
own it." So he got up and made a speech, in which he stated that
Brown, Jones, and Robinson had failed, but that he could not lay
it to his own charge that he had been guilty of any omission or
commission of which he had reason to be ashamed as a British
merchant. This is mentioned here, in order that a fitting record may
be made of the very high compliment which was paid to him on the
occasion by old Pancabinet.
"Most worthy Grand," said old Pan, and as he spoke he looked first at
the chairman and then down the long table of the room, "I am sure I
may truly say that we have all of us heard the statement made by the
enterprising and worthy Goose with sentiments of regret and pain; but
I am equally sure that we have none of us heard it with any idea that
either dishonour or disgrace can attach itself in the matter to the
name of--" (Order, order, order.) "Worthy Geese are a little too
quick," continued the veteran debater with a smile--"to the name
of--one whom we all so highly value." (Hear, hear, hear.) And then
old Pancabinet moved that the enterprising and worthy Goose was
entitled to the full confidence of the chamber. Crowdy magnanimously
seconded the motion, and the resolution, when carried, was
communicated to Robinson by the worthy Grand. Having thanked them in
a few words, which were almost inaudible from his emotion, he left
the chamber, and immediately afterwards the meeting was adjourned.