Mr Brown was well known everywhere as a famous business man--not perhaps
in that sense so familiar to modern observers, which implies the wildest
flights of speculation, and such skilful arts of bookmaking as ruin
themselves by their very cleverness. Mr Brown did not allow the grass to
grow below his feet; his advertisements perpetually led off that list of
advertisements in the Times which convey so many skeleton romances to a
curious public. All over the country people began to entertain guesses
about that Phœbe Thomson who was to hear something so much to her own
advantage; and Phœbe Thomsons answered to the call through all the
breadth of the three kingdoms. Mr Brown had a detective officer in his
pay for the whole year. He made journeys himself, and sent this secret
agent on innumerable journeys. He discovered the regiment, a detachment
of which had been stationed at the Isle of Man during the year 1808; he
went to the island; he left no means untried of finding out this
hypothetical person. Nearer at home, Mr Brown had made short work of
Nancy, who, too deeply mortified by the failure of her hopes to remain
in Carlingford, had returned to her native place with a moderate
pension, her own savings, and her mistress’s old clothes, not so badly
satisfied on the whole, but still a defeated woman. While poor Mrs
Christian, compelled by sore dint of time and trouble to give up her
forlorn hope of getting justice done her, and reclaiming the wealth that
had been so nearly hers from the hands of Mr Brown, was half reconciled
to him by his summary dealings with her special enemy. A whole year had
passed, and other things had happened at Carlingford. Everybody now did
not talk of Mrs Thomson’s extraordinary will, and John Brown’s wonderful
chance of coming into twenty thousand pounds. People had even given over
noting that the young doctor had thought better of that foolish fancy of
his for Bessie Christian. All the persons in this little drama had
relapsed into the shade. It was a very heavy shadow so far as Grove
Street was concerned. The little pupils had fallen off, collected again,
fallen off once more. If the cheerful glimmer of firelight had never
failed in the sick-room--if the helpless old father, sitting in that
calm of infirmity and age, making comments which would have irritated
his careful attendants beyond bearing if they had not been used to them,
never missed anything of his usual comforts--nobody knew at what cost
these comforts were bought. But there did come a crisis in which
patience and courage, and the steadfast soul which had carried the young
bread-winner through the drear monotony of that year, failed her at
last. Her mother, who was of a different temper from Bessie, and had
gone through a thousand despairs and revivals before the young creature
at her side began to droop, saw that the time had come when everything
was at stake; and, more reluctantly and slowly, Bessie herself came to
see it. She could not set her back against the wall of that little
house of theirs and meet every assailant; she could not tide it out in
heroic silence, and abstinence alike from comfort and complaint. That
was her natural impulse; and the victory, if slow, would have been
certain: so Bessie thought at least. But want was at the door, and they
could not afford to wait; something else must be attempted. Bessie must
go out into the market-place and seek new masters--there was no longer
work for her here.
This was how the scene was shifted in the following conclusive act.
John Brown, travelling, and fuming and aggravating himself much over the
loss of his time and the distraction of his thoughts, was in London that
day--a May-day, when everybody was in London. He had seen his detective,
and no further intelligence had been obtained. Phœbe Thomson was as far
off as ever--farther off; for now that all these efforts had been made,
it was clear that either she must be dead or in some quarter of the
world impervious to newspaper advertisements and detective officers. Mr
Brown bore the disappointment with a very good grace. He felt contented
now to slacken his efforts; he even felt as if he himself were already
the possessor of old Mrs Thomson’s twenty thousand pounds. As he went
leisurely through the streets, he paused before one of those “Scholastic
Agency” offices which abound in the civilised end of London. It was in
the ground-floor of a great faded, sombre, house, in a street near St
James’s Park--a place of aching interest to some people in that
palpitating world of human interests. It occurred to Mr Brown to go in
and see if there were any lists to be looked over. Phœbe Thomson might
have a daughter who might be a governess. It was an absurd idea enough,
and he knew it to be so; nevertheless he swung open the green baize
door.
Inside, before the desk, stood a little figure which he knew well, still
in that black dress which she had worn when she ran across Grove Street and
wanted to speak to him; with a curl of the light hair, which looked so
fair and full of colour on her black shawl, escaped from under her
bonnet, talking softly and eagerly to the clerk. Was there no other
place he could send her to? She had come up from the country, and was so
very reluctant to go down without hearing of something. The man shook
his head, and read over to her several entries in his book. Bessie
turned round speechless towards the door. Seeing some one standing
there, she lifted her eyes full upon John Brown. Troubled and yet
steady, full of tears yet clear and seeing clear, shining blue like the
skies, _with a great patience_, these eyes encountered the unexpected
familiar face. If she felt an additional pang in seeing him, or if any
grudge against the supplanter of her family trembled in Bessie’s heart,
it made no sign upon her face. She said “good morning” cheerfully as she
went past him, and only quickened her pace a little to get out of sight.
She did not take any notice of the rapid step after her; the step which
could have made up to her in two paces, but did not, restrained by an
irresolute will. Probably she knew whose step it was, and interpreted
rightly, to some superficial degree, the feelings of John Brown. She
thought he was a good-hearted man--she thought he was sorry to know or
guess the straits which Bessie thanked heaven nobody in this world did
fully know--she thought, by-and-by, shy of intruding upon her, that step
would drop off, and she would hear it no more. But it was not so to be.
“Miss Christian, I want to speak to you,” said John Brown.
She turned towards him directly without any pretence of surprise; and
with a smile, the best she could muster, waited to hear what it was.
“We are both walking the same way,” said Mr Brown.
In spite of herself amazement woke upon Bessie’s face. “That is true:
but was that all you had to say?” said Bessie, with the smiles kindling
all her dimples. The dimples had only been hidden by fatigue, and
hardship, and toil. They were all there.
“No, not quite. Were you looking for employment in that office? and why
are you seeking employment here?” said the attorney, looking anxiously
down upon her.
“Because there’s a great many of us in Carlingford,” said Bessie,
steadily; “there are half as many governesses as there are children. I
thought I might perhaps get on better here.”
“In London! Do you think there are fewer governesses here?” said Mr
Brown, going on with his questions, and meanwhile studying very closely
his little companion’s face; not rudely. To be sure it was a very honest
direct investigation, but there was not a thought of rudeness or
disrespect either in the eyes that made it or the heart.
“I daresay it’s as bad everywhere,” said Bessie, with a little sigh;
“but when one cannot get work in one place, one naturally turns to
another. I had an appointment to-day to come up to see a lady; but I was
not the proper person. Perhaps I shall have to stay at home after all.”
“Have you any grudge at me?” said Mr Brown.
Bessie looked up open-eyed and wondering. “Grudge? at _you_? How could
I? I daresay,” said Bessie, with a sigh and a smile, “mamma had, a year
ago; but not me. The times I have spoken to you, Mr Brown, you have
always been kind to me.”
“Have I?” said the lawyer. He gave her a strange look, and stopped
short, as if his utterance was somehow impeded. Kind to her! He
remembered that time in Grove Street, and could have scourged himself at
the recollection. Bessie had taken him entirely aback by her simple
expression. He could have sobbed under that sudden touch. To see her
walking beside him, cheerful, steadfast, without a complaint--a creature
separated from the world, from youth and pleasure, and mere comfort
even--enduring hardness, for all her soft childlike dimples and
unaffected smiles--his composure was entirely overcome. He was going to
do something very foolish. He gasped, and gave himself up.
“If you don’t bear me a grudge, come over into the Park here, where we
can hear ourselves speak. I want to speak to you,” said Mr Brown.
She turned into the Park with him quite simply, as she did everything
without any pretence of wonder or embarrassment. There he walked a long
time by her side in silence, she waiting for what he had to say, he at
the most overwhelming loss how to say it. The next thing he said was to
ask her to sit down in a shady quiet corner, where there was an
unoccupied seat. She was very much fatigued. It was too bad of him to
bring her out of her way.
“But it is so noisy in the street,” said Mr Brown. Then, with a pause
after this unquestionable truism, “I’ve been thinking about you this
very long time.”
Bessie looked up quickly with, great amazement; thinking of her! She was
wiser when she cast her eyes down again. Mr Brown had not the smallest
conception that he had explained himself without saying a syllable, but
he had, notwithstanding, leaving Bessie thunder-struck, yet with a
moment’s time to deliberate. While he went on with his embarrassed slow
expressions, fancying that he was gradually conveying to her mind what
he meant, Bessie, in a dreadful silent flutter and agitation, was
revolving the whole matter, and asking herself what she was to answer.
She had ten full minutes for this before he came to the point, and
before, according to his idea, the truth burst upon her. But it is
doubtful whether that ten minutes’ preparation was any advantage to
Bessie. It destroyed the unconsciousness, which was her greatest charm;
it made an end of her straightforwardness; worst of all, it left her
silent. She gave a terrified glance up at him when it actually happened.
There he stood full in the light, with all his awkwardnesses more
clearly revealed than usual; six-and-forty, abrupt, almost eccentric;
telling that story very plainly, without compliment or passion; would
she have him? He was content that she should think it over--he was
content to wait for her answer; but if it was to be no, let her say it
out.
Strange to say, that word which she was exhorted to say out did not come
to Bessie’s lips. Perhaps because she trembled a great deal, and really
lost her self-possession, and for the moment did not know what she was
about. But even in her agitation she did not think of saying it. Mr
Brown, when he had his say out, marched up and down the path before her,
and did not interrupt her deliberations. Another dreadful ten minutes
passed over Bessie. The more she thought it over the more bewildered she
became as to what she was to say.
“Please would you walk with me to the railway,” were the words that came
from Bessie’s lips at last. She rose up trembling and faint, and with a
kind of instinct took Mr Brown’s arm. He, on his part, did not say
anything to her. His agitation melted away into a subdued silent
tenderness which did not need any expression. He took her back into the
streets, all along that tiresome way. He suffered the noise to surround
and abstract her without any interruption which would make her conscious
of his presence. It was a strange walk for both. To have called them
lovers would have been absurd--to have supposed that here was a marriage
of convenience about to be arranged would have been more ridiculous
still. What was it? Bessie went along the street in a kind of cloud,
aware of nothing very clearly; feeling somehow that she leant upon
somebody, and that it was somebody upon whom she had a right to lean.
They reached the railway thus, without any further explanation. Mr Brown
put the trembling girl into a carriage, and did not go with her. The
Carlingford attorney had turned into a paladin. Was it possible that his
outer man itself had smoothed out and expanded too?
“I am not going with you,” he said, grasping her hand closely. “I won’t
embarrass or distress you, Bessie; but recollect you have not said no;
and when I come to Grove Street to-morrow, I’ll hope to hear you say
yes. I’ll let you off,” said John Brown, grasping the little soft hand
so tight and hard that it hurt Bessie. “I’ll let you off with liking, if
you’ll give me that; at my age I don’t even venture to say for myself
that I’m very much in love.”
And with that, the eyes, which had betrayed him before, flashed in
Bessie’s face a contradiction of her elderly lover’s words. Yes! it
astounded himself almost as much as it did Bessie. He would still have
flatly contradicted anybody who accused him of that folly; but he went
away with an undeniable blush into the London streets, self-convicted. A
year’s observation and an hour’s talk had resulted in a much less
philosophical sentiment than Mr Brown was prepared for. He went back to
the streets, wondering what she would like in all those wonderful
shop-windows. He traced back, step for step, the road they had come
together. He was not six-and-forty--six-and-twenty was the true reading.
That was a May-day of his youth that had come to him, sweet if untimely;
a missed May-day, perhaps all the better that it had been kept for him
these many tedious years.
And though Bessie cried all the way down to Carlingford, the no she had
not said did not occur to her as any remedy for her tears; and, indeed,
when she remembered how she had taken Mr Brown’s arm, and felt that she
had committed herself by that act, the idea was rather a relief to
Bessie. “It was as bad as saying yes at once,” said she to herself, with
many blushes. But thus, you perceive, it was done, and could not be
altered. She must stand to the consequences of her weakness now.
It made a great noise in Carlingford, as might be supposed; it made a
vast difference in the household of Mrs Christian, which was removed to
the house in which she had formerly hoped to establish herself as
heir-at-law. But the greatest difference of all was made in that dim,
spacious, wainscoted dining-room, which did not know itself in its novel
circumstances. That was where the change was most remarkably apparent;
and all these years Phœbe Thomson’s shadow has thrown no cloud as yet
over the path of John Brown.
THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES.
A NEW SONG.
HAVE you heard of this question the Doctors among,
Whether all living things from a Monad have sprung?
This has lately been said, and it now shall be sung,
Which nobody can deny.
Not one or two ages sufficed for the feat,
It required a few millions the change to complete;
But now the thing’s done, and it looks rather neat,
Which nobody can deny.
The original Monad, our great-great-grandsire,
To little or nothing at first did aspire;
But at last to have offspring it took a desire,
Which nobody can deny.
This Monad becoming a father or mother,
By budding or bursting, produced such another;
And shortly there followed a sister or brother,
Which nobody can deny.
But Monad no longer designates them well
They’re a cluster of molecules now, or a cell;
But which of the two, Doctors only can tell,
Which nobody can deny.
These beings, increasing, grew buoyant with life,
And each to itself was both husband and wife;
And at first, strange to say, the two lived without strife,
Which nobody can deny.
But such crowding together soon troublesome grew,
And they thought a division of labour would do;
So their sexual system was parted in two,
Which nobody can deny.
* * * * *
_The Origin of Species, by means of Natural Selection._ By CHARLES
DARWIN, M.A. 1859.
_The Temple of Nature; or, the Origin of Society. _ A Poem. By ERASMUS
DARWIN, M.D. 1803.