FAREWELL.
For the four appointed days the sale was continued, and it was
wondrous to see with what animation the things went off. It seemed as
though ladies were desirous of having a souvenir from Magenta House,
and that goods could be sold at a higher price under the name of a
sacrifice than they would fetch in the ordinary way of trade. "If
only we could have done as well," Robinson said to his partner Jones,
wishing that, if possible, there might be good humour between them in
these last days.
"We did do quite as well, and better," said Jones, "only the money
was thrown away in them horrid advertisements." After that, George
Robinson made no further effort to maintain friendly relations with
Mr. Jones.
"George," said Mr. Brown, "I hope they'll allow me something. They
ought; oughtn't they? There wouldn't have been nothing, only for my
four thousand pounds." Robinson did not take the trouble to explain
to him that had he kept his four thousand pounds out of the way,
the creditors would not now have any lost money to lament. Robinson
was careful to raise no hopes by his answer; but, nevertheless, he
resolved that when the sale was over, he would do his best.
On the fifth day, when the shop had been well nigh cleared of all the
goods, the premises themselves were sold. Brown, Jones, and Robinson
had taken them on a term of years, and the lease with all the
improvements was put up to auction. When we say that the price which
the property fetched exceeded the whole sum spent for external
and internal decorations, including the Magenta paint and the
plate-glass, we feel that the highest possible testimony is given to
the taste and talent displayed by the firm.
It was immediately after this that application was made to the
creditors on behalf of Mr. Brown.
"He brought four thousand pounds into the business," said Robinson,
"and now he hasn't a penny of his own."
"And we have none of us got a penny," whined out Mr. Jones, who was
standing by.
"Mr. Jones and I are young, and can earn our bread," said Robinson;
"but that old man must go into the workhouse, if you do not feel it
possible to do something for him."
"And so must my poor babbies," said Jones. "As to work, I ain't fit
for it."
But he was soon interrupted, and made to understand that he might
think himself lucky if he were not made to disgorge that which
he already possessed. As to Mr. Brown, the creditors with much
generosity agreed that an annuity of 20_s._ a week should be
purchased for him out of the proceeds of the sale. "I ain't long for
this world, George," he said, when he was told; "and they ought to
get it cheap. Put 'em up to that, George; do now." Twenty shillings a
week was not much for all his wants; but, nevertheless, he might be
more comfortable with that than he had been for many a year, if only
his daughter would be kind to him. Alas, alas! was it within the
nature of things that his daughters should be kind?
It was on this occasion, when the charitable intention of the
creditors was communicated to Mr. Brown by Robinson, that that
conversation took place to which allusion has been made in the
opening chapter of these memoirs. Of course, it was necessary that
each member of the firm should provide in some way for his future
necessities. Mr. Jones had signified his intention of opening a small
hairdresser's shop in Gray's Inn Lane. "I was brought up to it once,"
he said, "and it don't require much ready money." Both Mr. Brown and
Robinson knew that he was in possession of money, but it was not now
worth their while to say more about this. The fox had made good his
prey, and who could say where it was hidden?
"And what will you do, George?" asked Mr. Brown.
Then it was that Robinson communicated to them the fact that
application had been made to him by the Editor of a first class
Magazine for a written account of the doings of the firm. "I think it
may be of advantage to commerce in general," the Editor had said with
his customary dignity of expression and propriety of demeanour. "I
quite agree with you," Robinson had replied, "if only the commercial
world of Great Britain can be induced to read the lesson." The Editor
seemed to think that the commercial world of Great Britain did read
the CORNHILL MAGAZINE, and an arrangement was quickly made between
them. Those who have perused the chapter in question will remember
how Robinson yielded when the senior partner pleaded that as they had
been partners so long, they should still be partners to the end; and
how he had yielded again when it was suggested to him that he should
receive some assistance in the literary portion of the work. That
assistance has been given, and George Robinson hopes that it may have
been of advantage.
"I suppose we shall see each other sometimes, George," Maryanne said
to him, when she came down to his little room to bid him farewell.
"I hope we shall, Maryanne."
"I don't suppose we shall ever dance together again at the Hall of
Harmony."
"No, Maryanne, never. That phase of life is for me over. Neither with
you nor with any other fair girl shall I again wanton away the flying
hours. Life is too precious for that; and the work which falls upon a
man's shoulders is too exacting. The Hall of Harmony is for children,
Maryanne;--for grown children, perhaps, but still for children."
"You used to like it, George."
"I did; and could again. So could I again stop with longing mouth at
the window of that pastrycook, whose tarts in early life attracted
all my desires. I could again be a boy in everything, did I not
recognize the stern necessity which calls me to be a man. I could
dance with you still, whirling swiftly round the room to the sweet
sound of the music, stretching the hours of delight out to the very
dawn, were it not for Adam's doom. In the sweat of my brow must I eat
my bread. There is a time for all things, Maryanne; but with me the
time for such pastimes as those is gone."
"You'll keep company with some other young woman before long, George,
and then you'll be less gloomy."
"Never! That phase of life is also over. Why should I? To what
purpose?"
"To be married, of course."
"Yes; and become a woman's slave, like poor Poppins; or else have
my heart torn again with racking jealousy, as it was with you. No,
Maryanne! Let those plodding creatures link themselves with women
whose bodies require comforting but whose minds never soar. The world
must be populated, and therefore let the Briskets marry."
"I suppose you've heard of him, George?"
"Not a word."
"La, now! I declare you've no curiosity to inquire about any one. If
I was dead and buried to-morrow, I believe you'd never ask a word
about me."
"I would go to your grave, Maryanne, and sit there in silence."
"Would you, now? I hope you won't, all the same. But about Brisket.
You remember when that row was, and you were so nigh choking him?"
"Do I remember? Ay, Maryanne; when shall I forget it? It was the last
hour of my madness."
"I never admired you so much as I did then, George. But never mind.
That's all done and over now;--isn't it?"
"All done and over," said Robinson, mournfully repeating her words.
"Of course it is. But about Brisket. Immediately after that, the very
next day, he went out to Gogham,--where he was always going, you
know, with that cart of his, to buy sheep. Sheep, indeed!"
"And wasn't it for sheep?"
"No, George. Brisket was the sheep, and there was there a little
she-wolf that has got him at last into her claws. Brisket is married,
George."
"What! another Poppins! Ha! ha! ha! We shall not want for children."
"He has seen his way at last. She was a drover's daughter; and now
he's married her and brought her home."
"A drover's daughter?"
"Well, he says a grazier's; but it's all the same. He never would
have done for me, George; never. And I'll tell you more; I don't
think I ever saw the man as would. I should have taken either of
you,--I was so knocked about among 'em. But I should have made you
miserable, whichever it was. It's a consolation to me when I think of
that."
And it was a consolation also to him. He had loved her,--had loved
her very dearly. He had been almost mad for love of her. But yet
he had always known, that had he won her she would have made him
miserable. There was consolation in that when he thought of his loss.
Then, at last, he wished her good-by. "And now farewell, Maryanne. Be
gentle with that old man."
"George," she said, "as long as he wants me, I'll stick to him. He's
never been a good father to me; but if he wants me, I'll stick to
him. As to being gentle, it's not in me. I wasn't brought up gentle,
and you can't teach an old dog new tricks." Those were the last words
she spoke to him, and they had, at any rate, the merit of truth.
And then, before he walked out for the last time from the portals of
Magenta House, he bade adieu to his old partner Mr. Brown. "God bless
you, George!" said the old man; "God bless you!"
"Mr. Brown," said he, "I cannot part from you without acknowledging
that the loss of all your money sits very heavy on my heart."
"Never think of it, George."
"But I shall think of it. You were an old man, Mr. Brown, and the
money was enough for you; or, if you did go into trade again, the old
way would have suited you best."
"Well, George, now you mention it, I think it would."
"It was the same mistake, Mr. Brown, that we have so often heard
of,--putting old wine into a new bottle. The bottle is broken and the
wine is spilt. For myself, I've learned a lesson, and I am a wiser
man; but I'm sorry for you, Mr. Brown.
"I shall never say a word to blame you, George."
"As to my principles,--that system of commerce which I have
advocated,--as to that, I am still without a doubt. I am certain
of the correctness of my views. Look at Barlywig and his colossal
fortune, and 40,000_l._ a year spent in advertising."
"But then you should have your 40,000_l._ a year."
"By no means! But the subject is a long one, Mr. Brown, and cannot
now be discussed with advantage. This, however, I do feel,--that I
should not have embarked your little all in such an enterprise. It
was enough for you; but to me, with my views, it was nothing,--less
than nothing. I will begin again with unimpeded wings, and you shall
hear of my success. But for your sake, Mr. Brown, I regret what is
past." Then he pressed the old man's hand and went forth from Magenta
House. From that day to this present one he has never again entered
the door.
"And so Brisket is married. Brisket is right. Brisket is a happy
man," he said to himself, as he walked slowly down the passage by
St. Botolph's Church. "Brisket is certainly right; I will go and see
Brisket." So he did; and continuing his way along the back of the
Bank and the narrow street which used to be called Lad Lane,--I wish
they would not alter the names of the streets; was it not enough
that the "Swan with Two Necks" should be pulled down, foreshadowing,
perhaps, in its ruin the fate of another bird with two necks, from
which this one took its emblematic character?--and so making his way
out into Aldersgate Street. He had never before visited the Lares of
Brisket, for Brisket had been his enemy. But Brisket was his enemy no
longer, and he walked into the shop with a light foot and a pleasant
smile. There, standing at some little distance behind the block,
looking with large, wondering eyes at the carcases of the sheep which
hung around her, stood a wee little woman, very pretty, with red
cheeks, and red lips, and short, thick, clustering curls. This was
the daughter of the grazier from Gogham. "The shopman will be back
in a minute," said she. "I ought to be able to do it myself, but I'm
rather astray about the things yet awhile." Then George Robinson told
her who he was.
She knew his name well, and gave him her little plump hand in token
of greeting. "Laws a mercy! are you George Robinson? I've heard such
a deal about you. He's inside, just tidying hisself a bit for dinner.
Who do you think there is here, Bill?" and she opened the door
leading to the back premises. "Here's George Robinson, that you're
always so full of." Then he followed her out into a little yard,
where he found Brisket in the neighbourhood of a pump, smelling
strongly of yellow soap, with his sleeves tucked up, and hard at work
with a rough towel.
"Robinson, my boy," cried he, "I'm glad to see you; and so is Mrs.
B. Ain't you, Em'ly?" Whereupon Em'ly said that she was delighted
to see Mr. Robinson. "And you're just in time for as tidy a bit of
roast veal as you won't see again in a hurry,--fed down at Gogham
by Em'ly's mother. I killed it myself, with my own hands. Didn't I,
Em'ly?"
Robinson stopped and partook of the viands which were so strongly
recommended to him; and then, after dinner, he and Brisket and the
bride became very intimate and confidential over a glass of hot
brandy-and-water.
"I don't do this kind of thing, only when I've got a friend," said
Brisket, tapping the tumbler with his spoon. "But I really am glad to
see you. I've took a fancy to you now, ever since you went so nigh
throttling me. By Jove! though, I began to think it was all up with
me,--only for Sarah Jane."
"But he didn't!" said Emily, looking first at her great husband and
then at Robinson's slender proportions.
"Didn't he though? But he just did. And what do you think, Em'ly? He
wanted me once to sit with him on a barrel of gunpowder."
"A barrel of gunpowder!"
"And smoke our pipes there,--quite comfortable. And then he wanted me
to go and fling ourselves into the river. That was uncommon civil,
wasn't it? And then he well nigh choked me."
"It was all about that young woman," said Emily, with a toss of her
head. "And from all I can hear tell, she wasn't worth fighting for.
As for you, Bill, I wonder at you; so I do."
"I thought I saw my way," said Brisket.
"It's well for you that you've got somebody near you that will see
better now. And as for you, Mr. Robinson; I hope you won't be long in
the dumps, neither." Whereupon he explained to her that he was by no
means in the dumps. He had failed in trade, no doubt, but he was now
engaged upon a literary work, as to which considerable expectation
had been raised, and he fully hoped to provide for his humble wants
in this way till he should be able to settle himself again to some
new commercial enterprise.
"It isn't that as she means," said Brisket. "She means about taking a
wife. That's all the women ever thinks of."
"What I was saying is, that as you and Bill were both after her,
and as you are both broke with her, and seeing that Bill's provided
himself like--"
"And a charming provision he has made," said Robinson.
"I did see my way," said Brisket, with much self-content.
"So you ought to look elsewhere as well as he," continued Emily.
"According to all accounts, you've neither of you lost so very much
in not getting Maryanne Brown."
"Maryanne Brown is a handsome young woman," said Robinson.
"Why, she's as red as red," said Mrs. Brisket; "quite carroty, they
tell me. And as for handsome, Mr. Robinson;--handsome is as handsome
does; that's what I say. If I had two sweethearts going about talking
of gunpowder, and throwing themselves into rivers along of me,
I'd--I'd--I'd never forgive myself. So, Mr. Robinson, I hope you'll
suit yourself soon. Bill, don't you take any more of that brandy.
Don't now, when I tell you not."
Then Robinson rose and took his leave, promising to make future
visits to Aldersgate Street. And as Brisket squeezed his hand at
parting, all the circumstances of that marriage were explained in a
very few words. "She had three hundred, down, you know;--really down.
So I said done and done, when I found the money wasn't there with
Maryanne. And I think that I've seen my way."
Robinson congratulated him, and assured him that he thought he had
seen it very clearly.