INTRODUCES AN ECCENTRIC
At the Aurora—one of those rare antiquated taverns, smelling of
comfortable time and solid English fare, that had sprung up in the
great coffee days, when taverns were clubs, and had since subsisted on
the attachment of steady bachelor Templars there had been dismay, and
even sorrow, for a month. The most constant patron of the
establishment—an old gentleman who had dined there for seven-and-twenty
years, four days in the week, off dishes dedicated to the particular
days, and had grown grey with the landlady, the cook, and the
head-waiter—this old gentleman had abruptly withheld his presence.
Though his name, his residence, his occupation, were things only to be
speculated on at the Aurora, he was very well known there, and as men
are best to be known: that is to say, by their habits. Some affection
for him also was felt. The landlady looked on him as a part of the
house. The cook and the waiter were accustomed to receive acceptable
compliments from him monthly. His precise words, his regular ancient
jokes, his pint of Madeira and after-pint of Port, his antique bow to
the landlady, passing out and in, his method of spreading his
table-napkin on his lap and looking up at the ceiling ere he fell to,
and how he talked to himself during the repast, and indulged in short
chuckles, and the one look of perfect felicity that played over his
features when he had taken his first sip of Port—these were matters it
pained them at the Aurora to have to remember.
For three weeks the resolution not to regard him as of the past was
general. The Aurora was the old gentleman’s home. Men do not play
truant from home at sixty years of age. He must, therefore, be
seriously indisposed. The kind heart of the landlady fretted to think
he might have no soul to nurse and care for him; but she kept his
corner near the fire-place vacant, and took care that his pint of
Madeira was there. The belief was gaining ground that he had gone, and
that nothing but his ghost would ever sit there again. Still the
melancholy ceremony continued: for the landlady was not without a
secret hope, that in spite of his reserve and the mystery surrounding
him, he would have sent her a last word. The cook and head-waiter,
interrogated as to their dealings with the old gentleman, testified
solemnly to the fact of their having performed their duty by him. They
would not go against their interests so much as to forget one of his
ways, they said—taking oath, as it were, by their lower nature, in
order to be credited: an instinct men have of one another. The landlady
could not contradict them, for the old gentleman had made no complaint;
but then she called to memory that fifteen years back, in such and such
a year, Wednesday’s dish had been, by shameful oversight, furnished him
for Tuesday’s, and he had eaten it quietly, but refused his Port; which
pathetic event had caused alarm and inquiry, when the error was
discovered, and apologized for, the old gentleman merely saying, “Don’t
let it happen again.” Next day he drank his Port, as usual, and the
wheels of the Aurora went smoothly. The landlady was thus justified in
averring that something had been done by somebody, albeit unable to
point to anything specific. Women, who are almost as deeply bound to
habit as old gentlemen, possess more of its spiritual element, and are
warned by dreams, omens, creepings of the flesh, unwonted chills,
suicide of china, and other shadowing signs, when a break is to be
anticipated, or, has occurred. The landlady of the Aurora tavern was
visited by none of these, and with that beautiful trust which habit
gives, and which boastful love or vainer earthly qualities would fail
in effecting, she ordered that the pint of Madeira should stand from
six o’clock in the evening till seven—a small monument of confidence in
him who was at one instant the “poor old dear”; at another, the
“naughty old gad-about”; further, the “faithless old-good-for-nothing”;
and again, the “blessed pet” of the landlady’s parlour, alternately and
indiscriminately apostrophized by herself, her sister, and daughter.
On the last day of the month a step was heard coming up the long alley
which led from the riotous scrambling street to the plentiful cheerful
heart of the Aurora. The landlady knew the step. She checked the
natural flutterings of her ribbons, toned down the strong simper that
was on her lips, rose, pushed aside her daughter, and, as the step
approached, curtsied composedly. Old Habit lifted his hat, and passed.
With the same touching confidence in the Aurora that the Aurora had in
him, he went straight to his corner, expressed no surprise at his
welcome by the Madeira, and thereby apparently indicated that his
appearance should enjoy a similar immunity.
As of old, he called “Jonathan!” and was not to be disturbed till he
did so. Seeing that Jonathan smirked and twiddled his napkin, the old
gentleman added, “Thursday!”
But Jonathan, a man, had not his mistress’s keen intuition of the
deportment necessitated by the case, or was incapable of putting the
screw upon weak excited nature, for he continued to smirk, and was
remarking how glad he was, he was sure, and something he had dared to
think and almost to fear, when the old gentleman called to him, as if
he were at the other end of the room, “Will you order Thursday, or not,
sir?” Whereat Jonathan flew, and two or three cosy diners glanced up
from their plates, or the paper, smiled, and pursued their capital
occupation.
“Glad to see me!” the old gentleman muttered, querulously. “Of course,
glad to see a customer! Why do you tell me that? Talk! tattle! might as
well have a woman to wait—just!”
He wiped his forehead largely with his handkerchief; as one whom
Calamity hunted a little too hard in summer weather.
“No tumbling-room for the wine, too!”
That was his next grievance. He changed the pint of Madeira from his
left side to his right, and went under his handkerchief again,
feverishly. The world was severe with this old gentleman.
“Ah! clock wrong now!”
He leaned back like a man who can no longer carry his burdens,
informing Jonathan, on his coming up to place the roll of bread and
firm butter, that he was forty seconds too fast, as if it were a
capital offence, and he deserved to step into Eternity for outstripping
Time.
“But, I daresay, you don’t understand the importance of a minute,” said
the old gentleman, bitterly. “Not you, or any of you. Better if we had
run a little ahead of your minute, perhaps—and the rest of you! Do you
think you can cancel the mischief that’s done in the world in that
minute, sir, by hurrying ahead like that? Tell me!”
Rather at a loss, Jonathan scanned the clock seriously, and observed
that it was not quite a minute too fast.
The old gentleman pulled out his watch. He grunted that a lying clock
was hateful to him; subsequently sinking into contemplation of his
thumbs,—a sign known to Jonathan as indicative of the old gentleman’s
system having resolved, in spite of external outrages, to be fortified
with calm to meet the repast.
It is not fair to go behind an eccentric; but the fact was, this old
gentleman was slightly ashamed of his month’s vagrancy and cruel
conduct, and cloaked his behaviour toward the Aurora, in all the
charges he could muster against it. He was very human, albeit an odd
form of the race.
Happily for his digestion of Thursday, the cook, warned by Jonathan,
kept the old gentleman’s time, not the Aurora’s: and the dinner was
correct; the dinner was eaten in peace; he began to address his plate
vigorously, poured out his Madeira, and chuckled, as the familiar ideas
engendered by good wine were revived in him. Jonathan reported at the
bar that the old gentleman was all right again.
One would like here to pause, while our worthy ancient feeds, and
indulge in a short essay on Habit, to show what a sacred and admirable
thing it is that makes flimsy Time substantial, and consolidates his
triple life. It is proof that we have come to the end of dreams and
Time’s delusions, and are determined to sit down at Life’s feast and
carve for ourselves. Its day is the child of yesterday, and has a claim
on to-morrow. Whereas those who have no such plan of existence and sum
of their wisdom to show, the winds blow them as they list. Consider,
then, mercifully the wrath of him on whom carelessness or forgetfulness
has brought a snap in the links of Habit. You incline to scorn him
because, his slippers misplaced, or asparagus not on his table the
first day of a particular Spring month, he gazes blankly and sighs as
one who saw the End. To you it may appear small. You call to him to be
a man. He is: but he is also an immortal, and his confidence in
unceasing orderly progression is rudely dashed.
But the old gentleman has finished his dinner and his Madeira, and
says: “Now, Jonathan, ‘thock’ the Port!”—his joke when matters have
gone well: meant to express the sound of the uncorking, probably. The
habit of making good jokes is rare, as you know: old gentlemen have not
yet attained to it: nevertheless Jonathan enjoys this one, which has
seen a generation in and out, for he knows its purport to be, “My heart
is open.”
And now is a great time with this old gentleman. He sips, and in his
eyes the world grows rosy, and he exchanges mute or monosyllable
salutes here and there. His habit is to avoid converse; but he will let
a light remark season meditation.
He says to Jonathan: “The bill for the month.”
“Yes, sir,” Jonathan replies. “Would you not prefer, sir, to have the
items added on to the month ensuing?”
“I asked you for the bill of the month,” said the old gentleman, with
an irritated voice and a twinkle in his eye.
Jonathan bowed; but his aspect betrayed perplexity, and that perplexity
was soon shared by the landlady for Jonathan said, he was convinced the
old gentleman intended to pay for sixteen days, and the landlady could
not bring her hand to charge him for more than two. Here was the
dilemma foreseen by the old gentleman, and it added vastly to the
flavour of the Port.
Pleasantly tickled, he sat gazing at his glass, and let the minutes
fly. He knew the part he would act in his little farce. If charged for
the whole month, he would peruse the bill deliberately, and perhaps cry
out “Hulloa?” and then snap at Jonathan for the interposition of a
remark. But if charged for two days, he would wish to be told whether
they were demented, those people outside, and scornfully return the
bill to Jonathan.
A slap on the shoulder, and a voice: “Found you at last, Tom!”
violently shattered the excellent plot, and made the old gentleman
start. He beheld Mr. Andrew Cogglesby.
“Drinking Port, Tom?” said Mr. Andrew. “I’ll join you”: and he sat down
opposite to him, rubbing his hands and pushing back his hair.
Jonathan entering briskly with the bill, fell back a step, in alarm.
The old gentleman, whose inviolacy was thus rudely assailed, sat
staring at the intruder, his mouth compressed, and three fingers round
his glass, which it was doubtful whether he was not going to hurl at
him.
“Waiter!” Mr. Andrew carelessly hailed, “a pint of this Port, if you
please.”
Jonathan sought the countenance of the old gentleman.
“Do you hear, sir?” cried the latter, turning his wrath on him.
“Another pint!” He added: “Take back the bill”; and away went Jonathan
to relate fresh marvels to his mistress.
Mr. Andrew then addressed the old gentleman in the most audacious
manner.
“Astonished to see me here, Tom? Dare say you are. I knew you came
somewhere in this neighbourhood, and, as I wanted to speak to you very
particularly, and you wouldn’t be visible till Monday, why, I spied
into two or three places, and here I am.”
You might see they were brothers. They had the same bushy eyebrows, the
same healthy colour in their cheeks, the same thick shoulders, and
brisk way of speaking, and clear, sharp, though kindly, eyes; only Tom
was cast in larger proportions than Andrew, and had gotten the grey
furniture of Time for his natural wear. Perhaps, too, a cross in early
life had a little twisted him, and set his mouth in a rueful bunch, out
of which occasionally came biting things. Mr. Andrew carried his head
up, and eyed every man living with the benevolence of a patriarch,
dashed with the impudence of a London sparrow. Tom had a nagging air,
and a trifle of acridity on his broad features. Still, any one at a
glance could have sworn they were brothers, and Jonathan unhesitatingly
proclaimed it at the Aurora bar.
Mr. Andrew’s hands were working together, and at them, and at his face,
the old gentleman continued to look with a firmly interrogating air.
“Want to know what brings me, Tom? I’ll tell you presently. Hot,—isn’t
it?”
“What the deuce are you taking exercise for?” the old gentleman burst
out, and having unlocked his mouth, he began to puff and alter his
posture.
“There you are, thawed in a minute!” said Mr. Andrew. “What’s an
eccentric? a child grown grey. It isn’t mine; I read it somewhere. Ah,
here’s the Port! good, I’ll warrant.”
Jonathan deferentially uncorked, excessive composure on his visage. He
arranged the table-cloth to a nicety, fixed the bottle with exactness,
and was only sent scudding by the old gentleman’s muttering of:
“Eavesdropping pie!” followed by a short, “Go!” and even then he must
delay to sweep off a particular crumb.
“Good it is!” said Mr. Andrew, rolling the flavour on his lips, as he
put down his glass. “I follow you in Port, Tom. Elder brother!”
The old gentleman also drank, and was mollified enough to reply:
“Shan’t follow you in Parliament.”
“Haven’t forgiven that yet, Tom?”
“No great harm done when you’re silent.”
“Capital Port!” said Mr. Andrew, replenishing the glasses. “I ought to
have inquired where they kept the best Port. I might have known you’d
stick by it. By the way, talking of Parliament, there’s talk of a new
election for Fallowfield. You have a vote there. Will you give it to
Jocelyn? There’s talk of his standing.
“If he’ll wear petticoats, I’ll give him my vote.”
“There you go, Tom!”
“I hate masquerades. You’re penny trumpets of the women. That tattle
comes from the bed-curtains. When a petticoat steps forward I give it
my vote, or else I button it up in my pocket.”
This was probably one of the longest speeches he had ever delivered at
the Aurora. There was extra Port in it. Jonathan, who from his place of
observation noted the length of time it occupied, though he was unable
to gather the context, glanced at Mr. Andrew with a sly satisfaction.
Mr. Andrew, laughing, signalled for another pint.
“So you’ve come here for my vote, have you?” said Mr. Tom.
“Why, no; not exactly that,” Mr. Andrew answered, blinking and passing
it by.
Jonathan brought the fresh pint, and Tom filled for himself, drank, and
said emphatically, and with a confounding voice:
“Your women have been setting you on me, sir!”
Andrew protested that he was entirely mistaken.
“You’re the puppet of your women!”
“Well, Tom, not in this instance. Here’s to the bachelors, and brother
Tom at their head!”
It seemed to be Andrew’s object to help his companion to carry a
certain quantity of Port, as if he knew a virtue it had to subdue him,
and to have fixed on a particular measure that he should hold before he
addressed him specially. Arrived at this, he said:
“Look here, Tom. I know your ways. I shouldn’t have bothered you here;
I never have before; but we couldn’t very well talk it over in business
hours; and besides you’re never at the Brewery till Monday, and the
matter’s rather urgent.”
“Why don’t you speak like that in Parliament?” the old man interposed.
“Because Parliament isn’t my brother,” replied Mr. Andrew. “You know,
Tom, you never quite took to my wife’s family.”
“I’m not a match for fine ladies, Nan.”
“Well, Harriet would have taken to you, Tom, and will now, if you’ll
let her. Of course, it’s a pity if she’s ashamed of—hem! You found it
out about the Lymport people, Tom, and, you’ve kept the secret and
respected her feelings, and I thank you for it. Women are odd in those
things, you know. She mustn’t imagine I’ve heard a whisper. I believe
it would kill her.”
The old gentleman shook silently.
“Do you want me to travel over the kingdom, hawking her for the
daughter of a marquis?”
“Now, don’t joke, Tom. I’m serious. Are you not a Radical at heart? Why
do you make such a set against the poor women? What do we spring from?”
“I take off my hat, Nan, when I see a cobbler’s stall.”
“And I, Tom, don’t care a rush who knows it. Homo—something; but we
never had much schooling. We’ve thriven, and should help those we can.
We’ve got on in the world...”
“Wife come back from Lymport?” sneered Tom.
Andrew hurriedly, and with some confusion, explained that she had not
been able to go, on account of the child.
“Account of the child!” his brother repeated, working his chin
contemptuously. “Sisters gone?”
“They’re stopping with us,” said Andrew, reddening.
“So the tailor was left to the kites and the crows. Ah! hum!” and Tom
chuckled.
“You’re angry with me, Tom, for coming here,” said Andrew. “I see what
it is. Thought how it would be! You’re offended, old Tom.”
“Come where you like,” returned Tom, “the place is open. It’s a fool
that hopes for peace anywhere. They sent a woman here to wait on me,
this day month.”
“That’s a shame!” said Mr. Andrew, propitiatingly. “Well, never mind,
Tom: the women are sometimes in the way.—Evan went down to bury his
father. He’s there now. You wouldn’t see him when he was at the
Brewery, Tom. He’s—upon my honour! he’s a good young fellow.”
“A fine young gentleman, I’ve no doubt, Nan.”
“A really good lad, Tom. No nonsense. I’ve come here to speak to you
about him.”
Mr. Andrew drew a letter from his pocket, pursuing: “Just throw aside
your prejudices, and read this. It’s a letter I had from him this
morning. But first I must tell you how the case stands.”
“Know more than you can tell me, Nan,” said Tom, turning over the
flavour of a gulp of his wine.
“Well, then, just let me repeat it. He has been capitally educated; he
has always been used to good society: well, we mustn’t sneer at it:
good society’s better than bad, you’ll allow. He has refined tastes:
well, you wouldn’t like to live among crossing-sweepers, Tom. He’s
clever and accomplished, can speak and write in three languages: I wish
I had his abilities. He has good manners: well, Tom, you know you like
them as well as anybody. And now—but read for yourself.”
“Yah!” went old Tom. “The women have been playing the fool with him
since he was a baby. I read his rigmarole? No.”
Mr. Andrew shrugged his shoulders, and opened the letter, saying:
“Well, listen”; and then he coughed, and rapidly skimmed the
introductory part. “Excuses himself for addressing me formally—poor
boy! Circumstances have altered his position towards the world: found
his father’s affairs in a bad state: only chance of paying off father’s
debts to undertake management of business, and bind himself to so much
a year. But there, Tom, if you won’t read it, you miss the poor young
fellow’s character. He says that he has forgotten his station: fancied
he was superior to trade, but hates debt; and will not allow anybody to
throw dirt at his father’s name, while he can work to clear it; and
will sacrifice his pride. Come, Tom, that’s manly, isn’t it? I call it
touching, poor lad!”
Manly it may have been, but the touching part of it was a feature
missed in Mr. Andrew’s hands. At any rate, it did not appear favourably
to impress Tom, whose chin had gathered its ominous puckers, as he
inquired:
“What’s the trade? he don’t say.”
Andrew added, with a wave of the hand: “Out of a sort of feeling for
his sisters—I like him for it. Now what I want to ask you, Tom, is,
whether we can’t assist him in some way! Why couldn’t we take him into
our office, and fix him there, eh? If he works well—we’re both getting
old, and my brats are chicks—we might, by-and-by, give him a share.”
“Make a brewer of him? Ha! there’d be another mighty sacrifice for his
pride!”
“Come, come, Tom,” said Andrew, “he’s my wife’s brother, and I’m yours;
and—there, you know what women are. They like to preserve appearances:
we ought to consider them.”
“Preserve appearances!” echoed Tom: “ha! who’ll do that for them better
than a tailor?”
Andrew was an impatient little man, fitter for a kind action than to
plead a cause. Jeering jarred on him; and from the moment his brother
began it, he was of small service to Evan. He flung back against the
partition of the compound, rattling it to the disturbance of many a
quiet digestion.
“Tom,” he cried, “I believe you’re a screw!”
“Never said I wasn’t,” rejoined Tom, as he finished his glass. “I’m a
bachelor, and a person—you’re married, and an object. I won’t have the
tailor’s family at my coat-tails.”
Do you mean to say, Tom, you don’t like the young fellow? The Countess
says he’s half engaged to an heiress; and he has a chance of
appointments—of course, nothing may come of them. But do you mean to
say, you don’t like him for what he has done?”
Tom made his jaw disagreeably prominent. “’Fraid I’m guilty of that
crime.”
“And you that swear at people pretending to be above their station!”
exclaimed Andrew. “I shall get in a passion. I can’t stand this. Here,
waiter! what have I to pay?”
“Go,” cried the time-honoured guest of the Aurora to Jonathan
advancing.
Andrew pressed the very roots of his hair back from his red forehead,
and sat upright and resolute, glancing at Tom. And now ensued a curious
scene of family blood. For no sooner did elderly Tom observe this
bantam-like demeanour of his brother, than he ruffled his feathers
likewise, and looked down on him, agitating his wig over a prodigious
frown. Whereof came the following sharp colloquy; Andrew beginning:
“I’ll pay off the debts out of my own pocket.”
“You can make a greater fool of yourself, then?”
“He shan’t be a tailor!”
“He shan’t be a brewer!”
“I say he shall live like a gentleman!”
“I say he shall squat like a Turk!”
Bang went Andrew’s hand on the table: “I’ve pledged my word, mind!”
Tom made a counter demonstration: “And I’ll have my way!”
“Hang it! I can be as eccentric as you,” said Andrew.
“And I as much a donkey as you, if I try hard,” said Tom.
Something of the cobbler’s stall followed this; till waxing furious,
Tom sung out to Jonathan, hovering around them in watchful timidity,
“More Port!” and the words immediately fell oily on the wrath of the
brothers; both commenced wiping their heads with their handkerchiefs
the faces of both emerged and met, with a half-laugh: and, severally
determined to keep to what they had spoken, there was a tacit accord
between them to drop the subject.
Like sunshine after smart rain, the Port shone on these brothers. Like
a voice from the pastures after the bellowing of the thunder, Andrew’s
voice asked: “Got rid of that twinge of the gout, Tom? Did you rub in
that ointment?” while Tom replied: “Ay. How about that rheumatism of
yours? Have you tried that Indy oil?” receiving a like assurance.
The remainder of the Port ebbed in meditation and chance remarks. The
bit of storm had done them both good; and Tom especially—the cynical,
carping, grim old gentleman—was much improved by the nearer resemblance
of his manner to Andrew’s.
Behind this unaffected fraternal concord, however, the fact that they
were pledged to a race in eccentricity, was present. They had been
rivals before; and anterior to the date of his marriage, Andrew had
done odd eclipsing things. But Andrew required prompting to it; he
required to be put upon his mettle. Whereas, it was more nature with
Tom: nature and the absence of a wife, gave him advantages over Andrew.
Besides, he had his character to maintain. He had said the word: and
the first vanity of your born eccentric is, that he shall be taken for
infallible.
Presently Andrew ducked his head to mark the evening clouds flushing
over the court-yard of the Aurora.
“Time to be off, Tom,” he said: “wife at home.”
“Ah!” Tom answered. “Well, I haven’t got to go to bed so early.”
“What an old rogue you are, Tom!” Andrew pushed his elbows forward on
the table amiably. “’Gad, we haven’t drunk wine together since—by
George! we’ll have another pint.”
“Many as you like,” said Tom.
Over the succeeding pint, Andrew, in whose veins the Port was merry,
favoured his brother with an imitation of Major Strike, and indicated
his dislike to that officer. Tom informed him that Major Strike was
speculating.
“The ass eats at my table, and treats me with contempt.”
“Just tell him that you’re putting by the bones for him. He’ll want
’em.”
Then Andrew with another glance at the clouds, now violet on a grey
sky, said he must really be off. Upon which Tom observed: “Don’t come
here again.”
“You old rascal, Tom!” cried Andrew, swinging over the table: “it’s
quite jolly for us to be hob-a-nobbing together once more. ’Gad!—no, we
won’t though! I promised—Harriet. Eh? What say, Tom?”
“Nother pint, Nan?”
Tom shook his head in a roguishly-cosy, irresistible way. Andrew, from
a shake of denial and resolve, fell into the same; and there sat the
two brothers—a jolly picture.
The hour was ten, when Andrew Cogglesby, comforted by Tom’s remark,
that he, Tom, had a wig, and that he, Andrew, would have a wigging,
left the Aurora; and he left it singing a song. Tom Cogglesby still sat
at his table, holding before him Evan’s letter, of which he had got
possession; and knocking it round and round with a stroke of the
forefinger, to the tune of, “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,
’pothecary, ploughboy, thief”; each profession being sounded as a
corner presented itself to the point of his nail. After indulging in
this species of incantation for some length of time, Tom Cogglesby read
the letter from beginning to end, and called peremptorily for pen, ink,
and paper.