THE LEADING MEMBER.
Mr. Copperhead, to whom so much allusion has been made, was a well-known
man in other regions besides that of the Crescent Chapel. His name,
indeed, may be said to have gone to the ends of the earth, from whence
he had conducted lines of railway, and where he had left docks, bridges,
and light-houses to make him illustrious. He was one of the greatest
contractors for railways and other public works in England, and, by
consequence, in the world. He had no more than a very ordinary
education, and no manners to speak of; but at the same time he had that
kind of faculty which is in practical work what genius is in literature,
and, indeed, in its kind is genius too, though it neither refines nor
even (oddly enough) enlarges the mind to which it belongs. He saw the
right track for a road through a country with a glance of his eye; he
mastered all the points of nature which were opposed to him in the
rapidest survey, though scientifically he was great in no branch of
knowledge. He could rule his men as easily as if they were so many
children; and, indeed, they were children in his hands. All these gifts
made it apparent that he must have been a remarkable and able man; but
no stranger would have guessed as much from his appearance or his talk.
There were people, indeed, who knew him well, and who remained
incredulous and bewildered, trying to persuade themselves that his
success must be owing to pure luck, for that he had nothing else to
secure it. The cause of this, perhaps, was that he knew nothing about
books, and was one of those jeering cynics who are so common under one
guise or another. Fine cynics are endurable, and give a certain zest
often to society, which might become too civil without them; but your
coarse cynic is not pleasant. Mr. Copperhead's eye was as effectual in
quenching emotion of any but the coarsest kind as water is against
fire. People might be angry in his presence--it was the only passion he
comprehended; but tenderness, sympathy, sorrow, all the more generous
sentiments, fled and concealed themselves when this large, rich, costly
man came by. People who were brought much in contact with him became
ashamed of having any feelings at all; his eye upon them seemed to
convict them of humbug. Those eyes were very light grey, prominent, with
a jeer in them which was a very powerful moral instrument. His own
belief was that he could "spot" humbug wherever he saw it, and that
nothing could escape him; and, I suppose, so much humbug is there in
this world that his belief was justified. But there are few more awful
people than those ignoble spectators whose jeer arrests the moisture in
the eye, and strangles the outcry on their neighbour's lip.
Mr. Copperhead had risen from the ranks; yet not altogether from the
ranks. His father before him had been a contractor, dealing chiefly with
canals and roads, and the old kind of public works; a very rough
personage indeed, but one to whose fingers gold had stuck, perhaps
because of the clay with which they were always more or less smeared.
This ancestor had made a beginning to the family, and given his son a
name to start with. _Our_ Mr. Copperhead had married young, and had
several sons, who were all in business, and all doing well; less
vigorous, but still moderately successful copies of their father. When,
however, he had thus done his duty to the State, the first Mrs.
Copperhead having died, he did the only incomprehensible action of his
life--he married a second time, a feeble, pretty, pink-and-white little
woman, who had been his daughter's governess; married her without rhyme
or reason, as all his friends and connections said. The only feasible
motive for this second union seemed to be a desire on Mr. Copperhead's
part to have something belonging to him which he could always jeer at,
and in this way the match was highly successful. Mrs. Copperhead the
second was gushing and susceptible, and as good a butt as could be
imagined. She kept him in practice when nobody else was at hand. She was
one of those naturally refined but less than half-educated, timid
creatures who are to be found now and then painfully earning the bread
which is very bitter to them in richer people's houses, and preserving
in their little silent souls some fetish in the shape of a scrap of
gentility, which is their sole comfort, or almost their sole comfort.
Mrs. Copperhead's fetish was the dear recollection that she was "an
officer's daughter;" or rather this had been her fetish in the days when
she had nothing, and was free to plume herself on the reflected glory.
Whether in the depths of her luxurious abode, at the height of her good
fortune, she still found comfort in the thought, it would be hard to
tell. Everybody who had known her in her youth thought her the most
fortunate of women. Her old school companions told her story for the
encouragement of their daughters, as they might have told a fairy tale.
To see her rolling in her gorgeous carriage, or bowed out of a shop
where all the daintiest devices of fashion had been placed at her feet,
filled passers-by with awe and envy. She could buy whatever she liked,
festoon herself with finery, surround herself with the costliest
knick-knacks; the more there were of them, and the costlier they were,
the better was Mr. Copperhead pleased. She had everything that heart
could desire. Poor little woman! What a change from the
governess-chrysalis who was snubbed by her pupil and neglected by
everybody! and yet I am not sure that she did not--so inconsistent is
human nature--look back to those melancholy days with a sigh.
This lady was the mother of Clarence Copperhead, the young man who was
at Oxford, her only child, upon whom (of course) she doted with the
fondest folly; and whom his father jeered at more than at any one else
in the world, more even than at his mother, yet was prouder of than of
all his other sons and all his possessions put together. Clarence, whom
I will not describe, as he will, I trust, show himself more effectually
by his actions, was like his mother in disposition, or so, at least, she
made herself happy by thinking; but by some freak of nature he was like
his father in person, and carried his mouse's heart in a huge frame,
somewhat hulking and heavy-shouldered, with the same roll which
distinguished Mr. Copperhead, and which betrayed something of the
original navvy who was the root of the race. He had his father's large
face too, and a tendency towards those demonstrative and offensive
whiskers which are the special inheritance of the British Philistine.
But instead of the large goggle eyes, always jeering and impudent, which
lighted up the paternal countenance, Clarence had a pair of mild brown
orbs, repeated from his mother's faded face, which introduced the oddest
discord into his physiognomy generally. In the family, that is to say
among the step-brothers and step-sisters who formed Mr. Copperhead's
first family, the young fellow bore no other name than that of the
curled darling, though, indeed, he was as far from being curled as any
one could be. He was not clever; he had none of the energy of his race,
and promised to be as useless in an office as he would have been in a
cutting or a yard full of men. I am not sure that this fact did not
increase secretly his father's exultation and pride in him. Mr.
Copperhead was fond of costly and useless things; he liked them for
their cost, with an additional zest in his sense of the huge vulgar use
and profit of most things in his own life. This tendency, more than any
appreciation of the beautiful, made him what is called a patron of art.
It swelled his personal importance to think that he was able to hang up
thousands of pounds, so to speak, on his walls, knowing all the time
that he could make thousands more by the money had he invested it in
more useful ways. The very fact that he could afford to refrain from
investing it, that he could let it lie there useless, hanging by so many
cords and ribbons, was sweet to him. And so also it was sweet to him to
possess a perfectly useless specimen of humanity, which had cost him a
great deal, and promised to cost him still more. He had plenty of useful
sons as he had of useful money. The one who was of no use was the apex
and glory of the whole.
But these three made up a strange enough family party, as may be
supposed. The original Copperheads, the first family, who were all of
the same class and nature, would have made a much noisier, less
peaceable household; but they would have been a much jollier and really
more harmonious one. Mr. Copperhead himself somewhat despised his elder
sons, who were like himself, only less rich, less vigorous, and less
self-assertive. He saw, oddly enough, the coarseness of their manners,
and even of their ways of thinking; but yet he was a great deal more
comfortable, more at his ease among them, than he was when seated
opposite his trembling, deprecating, frightened little wife, or that
huge youth who cost him so much and returned him so little. Now and
then, at regular periodical intervals, the head of the family would go
down to Blackheath to dine and spend the night with his son Joe, the
second and the favourite, where there were romping children and a
portly, rosy young matron, and loud talk about City dinners, contracts,
and estimates. This refreshed him, and he came home with many chuckles
over the imperfections of the family.
"My sons buy their wives by the hundred-weight," he would say jocularly
at breakfast the day after; "thirteen stone if she is a pound, is Mrs.
Joe. Expensive to keep up in velvet and satin, not to speak of mutton
and beef. Your mother comes cheap," he would add aside to Clarence, with
a rolling laugh. Thus he did not in the least exempt his descendants
from the universal ridicule which he poured on all the world; but when
he sat down opposite his timid little delicate wife, and by his
University man, who had very little on the whole to say for himself,
Mr. Copperhead felt the increase in gentility as well as the failure in
jollity. "You are a couple of ghosts after Joe and his belongings, you
two. Speak louder, I say, young fellow. You don't expect me to hear that
penny-whistle of yours," he would say, chuckling at them, with a mixture
of pride and disdain. They amused him by their dulness and silence, and
personal awe of him. He was quite out of his element between these two,
and yet the very fact pleasantly excited his pride.
"I speak as gentlemen generally speak," said Clarence, who was sometimes
sullen when attacked, and who knew by experience that his father was
rarely offended by such an argument.
"And I am sure, dear, your papa would never wish you to do otherwise,"
said anxious Mrs. Copperhead, casting a furtive frightened glance at her
husband. He rolled out a mighty laugh from the head of the table where
he was sitting. He contemplated them with a leer that would have been
insulting, had he not been the husband of one and the father of the
other. The laugh and the look called forth some colour on Mrs.
Copperhead's cheek, well as she was used to them; but her son was less
susceptible, and ate his breakfast steadily, and did not care.
"A pretty pair you are," said Mr. Copperhead. "I like your gentility.
How much _foie gras_ would you eat for breakfast, I wonder, my lad, if
you had to work for it? Luckily for you, I wasn't brought up to talk, as
you say, like a gentleman. I'd like to see you managing a field of
navvies with that nice little voice of yours--ay, or a mob before the
hustings, my boy. You're good for nothing, you are; a nice delicate
piece of china for a cupboard, like your mother before you. However,
thank Heaven, we've got the cupboard," he said with a laugh, looking
round him; "a nice big 'un, too, well painted and gilded; and the time
has come, through not talking like a gentleman, that I can afford you.
You should hear Joe. When that fellow talks, his house shakes.
Confounded bad style of house, walls like gingerbread. How the boards
don't break like pie-crust under Mrs. Joe's fairy foot, I can't make
out. By Jove, ma'am, one would think I starved you, to see you beside
your daughter-in-law. Always had a fine healthy appetite had Mrs. Joe."
There was nothing to answer to this speech, and therefore a dead silence
ensued. When the master of the house is so distinctly the master,
silence is apt to ensue after his remarks. Mrs. Copperhead sipped her
tea, and Clarence worked steadily through his breakfast, and the head of
the family crumpled the Times, which he read at intervals. All sorts of
jokes had gone on at Joe's table the morning before, and there had been
peals of laughter, and Mrs. Joe had even administered a slap upon her
husband's ruddy cheek for some pleasantry or other. Mr. Copperhead, as
he looked at his son and his wife, chuckled behind the Times. When they
thought he was occupied they made a few gentle remarks to each other.
They had soft voices, with that indescribable resemblance in tone which
so often exists between mother and son. Dresden china; yes, that was the
word; and to see his own resemblance made in that delicate _pâte_, and
elevated into that region of superlative costliness, tickled Mr.
Copperhead, and in the most delightful way.
"How about your ball?" was his next question, "or Clarence's ball, as
you don't seem to take much interest in it, ma'am? You are afraid of
being brought in contact with the iron pots, eh? You might crack or go
to pieces, who knows, and what would become of me, a wretched widower."
Mr. Copperhead himself laughed loudly at this joke, which did not excite
any mirth from the others, and then he repeated his question, "How about
the ball?"
"The invitations are all sent out, Mr. Copperhead; ninety-five--I--I
mean a hundred and thirty-five. I--I beg your pardon, they were in two
lots," answered the poor woman nervously. "A hundred and
thirty-eight--and there is--a few more--"
"Take your time, ma'am, take your time, we'll get at the truth at last,"
said her husband; and he laid down his paper and looked at her. He was
not angry nor impatient. The twinkle in his eye was purely humorous. Her
stumblings amused him, and her nervousness. But oddly enough, the most
furious impatience could not have more deeply disconcerted her.
"There are a few more--some old friends of mine," she went on, confused.
"They were once rather--kind--took an interest; that is--"
"Oh, the baronet and his daughters," said Mr. Copperhead, "by all means
let's have the baronet and his daughters. Though as for their taking an
interest--if you had not been a rich man's wife, ma'am, living in a
grand house in Portland Place--"
"It was not now," she said, hurriedly. "I do not suppose that any one
takes an interest--in me now--"
Mr. Copperhead laughed, and nodded his head. "Not many, ma'am, I should
think--not many. You women must make up your minds to that. It's all
very well to take an interest in a pretty girl; but when you come to a
certain age--Well, let's proceed, the baronet--"
"And his two girls--"
"Ah, there's two girls! that's for you, Clarence, my boy. I thought
there must be a motive. Think that fellow a good _parti_, eh? And I
would not say they were far wrong if he behaves himself. Make a note of
the baronet's daughter, young man. Lord, what a world it is!" said Mr.
Copperhead, reflectively. "I should not wonder if you had been scheming,
too."
"I would not for the world!" cried the poor little woman, roused for
once. "I would not for anything interfere with a marriage. That is the
last thing you need fear from me. Whether it was a girl I was fond of,
or a girl I disliked--so long as she was Clarence's choice. Oh, I know
the harm that is done by other people's meddling--nothing, nothing,
would induce me to interfere."
Mr. Copperhead laid down his paper, and looked at her. I suppose,
however little a man may care for his wife, he does not relish the idea
that she married him for anything but love. He contemplated her still
with amused ridicule, but with something fiercer in his eyes. "Oh--h!"
he said, "you don't like other people to interfere? not so much as to
say, it's a capital match, eh? You'll get so and so, and so and so, that
you couldn't have otherwise--carriages perhaps, and plenty of money in
your pocket (which it may be you never had in your life before), and
consideration, and one of the finest houses in London, let us say in
Portland Place. You don't like that amount of good advice, eh? Well, I
do--I mean to interfere with my son, to that extent at least--you can do
what you like. But as you're a person of prodigious influence, and
strong will, and a great deal of character, and all that," Mr.
Copperhead broke out with a rude laugh, "I'm afraid of you, I am--quite
afraid."
Fortunately, just at this moment his brougham came round, and the great
man finished his coffee at a gulp, and got up. "You look out for the
baronet's daughters, then--" he said, "and see all's ready for this ball
of yours; while I go and work to pay the bills, that's my share. You do
the ornamental, and I do the useful, ha, ha! I'll keep up my share."
It was astonishing what a difference came upon the room the moment he
disappeared. Somehow it had been out of harmony. His voice, his look,
his heavy person, even his whiskers had been out of character. Now the
air seemed to flutter after the closing of the door like water into
which something offensive has sunk, and when the ripples of movement
were over the large handsome room had toned down into perfect accord
with its remaining inhabitants. Mrs. Copperhead's eyes were rather
red--not with tears, but with the inclination to shed tears, which she
carefully restrained in her son's presence. He still continued to eat
steadily--he had an admirable appetite. But when he had finished
everything on his plate, he looked up and said, "I hope you don't mind,
mamma; I don't suppose you do; but I don't like the way my father speaks
to you."
"Oh, my dear!" cried the mother, with an affected little smile, "why
should I mind? I ought to know by this time that it's only your papa's
way."
"I suppose so--but I don't like it," said the young man, decisively. He
did not notice, however, as after second thoughts he returned to the
game-pie, that his mother's eyes were redder than ever.