AN EXTRAVAGANCE.
Mr. May did not take any particular notice of what was going on around
him among the young people. Nobody could have been more startled than
he, had he been told of the purpose with which Horace Northcote, the
Dissenting minister, had paid his early morning visit; and though he had
a half-scornful, half-amused glimmer of insight into the feelings of his
son, and saw that Clarence Copperhead was heavily veering the same way,
it did not occur to him that any crisis was approaching. He was enjoying
himself in his way, and he had not done that for a long time. He dearly
liked the better way of living, the more liberal strain of housekeeping
and expenditure; he liked the social meetings in the evening, the talk
after dinner with the three young men, the half-fatherly flirtation with
Phoebe, which she too enjoyed much, avowedly preferring him, with pretty
coquetry, to the others. All this was very pleasant to him; and the
additional money in his pocket was very pleasant, and when the post came
in, one of these April mornings, and brought a letter from James,
enclosing a draft for fifty pounds, his satisfaction was intense. The
sight of the money brought an itching to his fingers, a restlessness
about him generally. And yet it was not all that might have been
desired, only fifty pounds! he had been buoying himself up by vain
thoughts of how James this time, having been so long writing, would send
a larger sum, which would at once tide him over the Tozer business, and
on this account had been giving himself no trouble about it. Never
before had he been so _insouciant_, although never before had the risk
been so great. He had suffered so much about it last time, probably,
that was why he took it so easily now; or was it because his trust in
the chapter of accidents had grown greater since he was more dependent
on it? or because of the generally expanded sense of living in him which
made anxiety uncongenial anyhow? Whatever the cause was, this was the
effect. A momentary disappointment when he saw how little James's draft
was--then a sense of that semi-intoxication which comes upon a poor man
when a sum of money falls into his hands--gradually invaded his soul. He
tried to settle down to his writing, but did not feel equal to the
effort. It was too little for the purpose, he said to himself, for which
he wanted it; but it was enough to do a great many pleasant things with
otherwise. For the first time he had no urgent bills to swallow it up;
the very grocer, a long-suffering tradesman who made less fuss than the
others, and about whom Ursula made less fuss, had been pacified by a
payment on account of the Copperhead money, and thus had his mouth
stopped. Barring that bill, indeed, things were in a more comfortable
state than they had been for a long time in the May household; and
putting that out of account, James's money would have been the nearest
approach to luxury--reckoning luxury in its most simple form as money to
spend without any absolutely forestalling claim upon it--which Mr. May
had known for years. It is so seldom that poor people have this
delicious sense of a little, ever so little surplus! and it would be
hard to say how he could entertain the feeling that it was an overplus.
There was something of the fumes of desperation perhaps, and impending
fate in the lightness of heart which seized upon him. He could not keep
still over his writing. He got up at last, and put James's draft into
his pocket-book, and got his hat to go out. It was a fine morning, full
of that exhilaration which belongs only to the spring. He went to the
bank, and paid in the money, getting a small sum at the same time for
his own immediate use; but somehow his restlessness was scarcely
satisfied by that very legitimate piece of business, and he extended his
walk into the town, and strayed, half by chance, half by intention, to
the old furniture shop at the other end of the High Street, which was a
favourite resort of the higher classes in Carlingford, and where
periodically there was an auction, at which sometimes great bargains
were to be had. Mr. May went into this dangerous place boldly. The sale
was going on; he walked into the midst of temptation, forgetting the
prayer against it, which no doubt he had said that morning. And as evil
fate would have it, a carved book-case, the very thing he had been
sighing for, for years, was at that moment the object of the
auctioneer's praises. It was standing against the wall, a noble piece of
furniture, in which books would show to an advantage impossible
otherwise, preserved from dust and damp by the fine old oak and glass
door. Mr. May's heart gave a little jump. Almost everybody has wished
for something unattainable, and this had been the object of his desires
for years. He gave a little start when he saw it, and hurried forward.
The bidding had actually begun; there was no time to think and consider,
if he wished to have a chance, and it was going cheap, dead cheap.
After a minute or two of competition the blood rose to his cheeks, he
got thoroughly excited. The effect of this excitement was two-fold--not
only did it drive all thought of prudence out of his head, but it raised
by several pounds the price of the book-case, which, had he gone about
it coolly, he might have had at a much cheaper rate. When he suddenly
woke up to find himself the owner of it, a thrill of consternation ran
over him--it was all so sudden; and it was perfectly innocent, if only
he had any money; and to be sure he had James's money, which was not
enough to do anything else--certainly not to do the thing he wanted it
for. He tried to laugh at himself for the little thrill of alarm that
ran through him; but it was too late to recede; and he gave his cheque
for the money and his directions as to having it sent to the Parsonage,
with a quake at his heart, yet a little flourish of satisfaction.
"Just what I have been wanting for years," he said, as he examined his
new acquisition, and the people about looked at him with additional
respect he felt, not being used to see Mr. May so prompt in payment, and
so ready with his money. This pleased him also. He walked home with his
head a little turned still, although there was a quake and flutter
underneath. Well! he said to himself, who could call it an extravagance?
a thing he had wanted for years--a thing which was a necessity, not for
luxury, but everyday use--a thing which was not dear, and which was very
handsome and substantial, and _really good_; how could any one say it
was extravagant? Ursula might stare with her big eyes, but she was only
a silly little girl, and women always were silly about expenses, alarmed
by a big bold handsome purchase, though there was nobody better at the
art of frittering away money in pretty nothings. When he got home, he
began at once nervously to clear the space where it should stand. What
an improvement it would be! and his books were getting spoiled daily in
those unsightly, open shelves, entirely spoiled. It was exciting to
anticipate its arrival, and the admiration and commotion in the house.
He called in Betsy and gave her orders about it; how, if it came when he
was absent, it was to be put in that particular place, no other.
"And mind that great care is taken, for it is valuable, and a beautiful
piece of furniture," he said.
"La, sir!" said Betsy, who was thunderstruck, though she knew it was not
"her place" to show any feeling. He did not think it was necessary to
appeal to Ursula on the same subject, but was rather glad to get out
again, feeling the restlessness which had not been dissipated, but
rather the reverse. He went and saw one or two poor people, to whom he
was much more tolerant and kind than his wont, for in general Mr. May
was not attracted towards the poor; and he gave them a shilling or two
of the money he had drawn at the bank that morning--though somehow it
had acquired a certain value in his eyes, and it was with a grudge that
he took it out of his pocket. I must not spend this, he said to himself;
but gave the shillings as a kind of tithe or propitiatory offering to
Providence, that things might go well with him. Why should not things go
well with him? He was not a bad man, he wronged nobody. He had done
nothing to-day that a saint might not have done; he wanted the
book-case, and he had the money, a sum not big enough for any more
important purpose; but which was far better disposed of so than
frittered away in nothings, as no doubt it would have otherwise been. By
the afternoon, when the book-case arrived, he had convinced himself that
it was not only quite reasonable, but a most lucky chance, a thing he
could scarcely have hoped for, the opportunity and the money both coming
in such exact accord with each other. When he returned from his walk the
girls were looking at it, Ursula somewhat scared, Janey in open
raptures.
"It is very nice indeed, papa," said the elder girl; "but it must have
cost a deal of money."
"Be thankful that you haven't got to pay for it," he said, brusquely. He
was not disposed to stand criticism. How it filled up his bare room, and
made it, Mr. May thought, all at once into a library, though the old
writing-table and shabby chairs looked rather worse perhaps than before,
and suggested renewal in the most urgent way. To make it all of a piece,
to put a soft Turkey carpet instead of the drugget, how pleasant it
would be!--not extravagant, only a natural inclination towards the
seemly, and a desire to have things around him becoming his position. No
doubt such things were things which he ought to have in his position; a
gentleman and a scholar, how humiliating it was that nothing but the
barest elements of comfort should be within his reach. This was not how
life ought to be; a poor creature like Clarence Copperhead, without
birth, or breeding, or brains, or anything but money, was able to
gratify every wish, while he--his senior, his superior! Instead of
blaming himself, therefore, for his self-indulgence, Mr. May sympathized
with himself, which is a much less safe thing to do; and accordingly, it
soon began to appear to him that his self-denial all this time in not
giving himself what he wanted had been extreme, and that what he had now
done, in conceding himself so harmless a gratification, was what he
ought to have done years ago. It was his own money sent to him by his
dutiful son without conditions; and who had any right to interfere?
When he was at dinner, Betsy came behind his chair under pretence of
serving him; Betsy, whose place was in the kitchen, who had no right to
show in the dining-room at all, and whose confused toilette had caught
Ursula's eye and filled her with horror.
"Please, sir," she said, breathing hot on Mr. May's ear, till he shrank
with sensitive horror. "Cotsdean's in the kitchen. He says as how he
must see you; and I can't get him away."
"Ah, Cotsdean? tell him if he has anything to say to me, to write it
down."
"Which he's done, sir," said Betsy, producing a little bit of paper
rolled tightly together, "but I wasn't to give it till I'd asked you to
see him. Oh, please see him, sir, like a dear good gentleman. He looks
like a man as is going off his head."
"He is a fool," said Mr. May, taking the paper, but setting his teeth as
he did so. Evidently he must get rid of this fellow--already beginning
to trouble him, as if he was not the best person to know when and how
far he could go.
"Tell him I'll attend to it, he need not trouble himself," he said, and
put the paper into his pocket, and went on with his dinner. Cotsdean,
indeed! surely there had been enough of him. What were his trumpery
losses in comparison with what his principal would lose, and how dare
that fellow turn up thus and press him continually for his own poor
selfish safety? This was not how Mr. May had felt three months before;
but everything changes, and he felt that he had a right to be angry at
this selfish solicitude. Surely it was of as much consequence to him at
least as to Cotsdean. The man was a fussy disagreeable fool, and nothing
more.
And as it happened they sat late that night at dinner, without any
particular reason, because of some discussion into which Clarence and
Reginald fell, so that it was late before Mr. May got back to his room,
where his books were lying in a heap waiting their transportation. They
seemed to appeal to him also, and ask him reproachfully how they had got
there, and he went to work arranging them all with all the enthusiasm
natural to a lover of books. He was a book-lover, a man full of fine
tastes and cultured elegant ways of thinking. If he had been extravagant
(which he was not) it would have been in the most innocent, nay
delightful and laudable way. To attach any notion of criminality, any
suspicion of wrong-doing to such a virtuous indulgence, how unjust it
would be! There was no company upstairs that evening. Copperhead had
strolled out with Reginald to smoke his cigar, much against the will of
the latter, and was boring him all the way to the College with accounts
of his own lavish expenditure, and how much he had given for this and
that; his cameos, his diamond studs, the magnificent dressing-case which
was the wonder of the Parsonage. "Hang it all, what is the good of
having money if you don't spend it?" said Clarence, and Reginald, who
had not much money to spend, felt as near hating him as it was in his
nature to do. Thus Mr. May was released from duty in the drawing-room,
where Ursula, palpitating with many thoughts which were altogether new
to her, sat doing her darning, and eluding as well as she could Janey's
questions. Janey was determinedly conversational that night. She drove
Ursula nearly out of her senses, and kept Johnnie--who had crept into
the drawing-room in high delight at finding it for once free to
him--from learning his lessons.
"Oh, how nice it is to be by ourselves," said Janey, "instead of all
those new people. I don't mind Phoebe; but strange men in the house, what
a nuisance they are, always getting in one's way--don't you think so,
Ursula?"
Ursula made no reply, and after awhile even Janey sank into silence, and
the drawing-room, usually so gay, got a cold and deserted look. The new
life which had come in had left its mark, and to go back to what had
once been so pleasant in the past was no longer possible. Johnnie and
Janey might like it, having regained their former places, but to Ursula
the solitude was horrible. She asked herself, with a great blush and
quiver, what she would do if that temporary filling up of new interests
and relationships was to fall away, as was likely, and leave her to the
old life unbroken, to Janey's childish society and questions, and papa's
imperious and unmodified sway. She grew pale and chill at the very
thought.
But Mr. May, as we have said, was off duty. He forgot all about Cotsdean
and the note in his pocket, and set to work with the most boyish
simplicity of delight to arrange his books in his new shelves. How well
they looked! never before had their setting done them justice. There
were books in gorgeous bindings, college prizes which had never shown at
all, and which now gleamed out in crimson and gold from behind the
glass, and made their owner's heart beat with pleasure. Alas! to think
how much innocent pleasure is denied us by the want of that small sum of
money! and worse still, how an innocent pleasure becomes the reverse of
innocent when it is purchased by the appropriation of something which
should have been employed elsewhere. Perhaps, however, the sense of
guilt which he kept under, added zest in Mr. May's mind to the pleasure
of his acquisition; he was snatching a fearful joy, Heaven knows how
soon the penalty might overwhelm him. In the mean time he was determined
to take the good of it, and enjoy what he had gained.
When the books were all in he sat down at his table and surveyed it,
rubbing his dusty hands. How much that is childish, how much that is
fresh, and youthful, and innocent must be in the mind of a man (you
would say) who could be thus excited about a book-case! and yet this was
not the kind of man whom you would call unsophisticated and youthful. It
was probably the state of suppressed excitement in which he was, the
unreality of his position, that helped him to that sense of elation as
much as anything else; for emotion is a Proteus ready to take any form,
and pain itself sometimes finds vent in the quick blazing up of
fictitious delight, as much as in the moanings that seem more accordant
with its own nature. He put his hand into his pocket for his pencil to
make a note of the contents of the new shelves, and then he found
Cotsdean's note, which he had not forgotten, but which he had felt no
desire to remember. When he felt it between his fingers his countenance
fell a little; but he took it out and read it with the smile still upon
his face. It was a dirty little roll of paper, scribbled in pencil.
"Rev. Sir,
"I hope as you are not forgetting the 15th. Pleas excuse
anxiety and bad writing, i am a poor nervous man I no, a
word of answer just to say as it is all right will much
oblidge.
"Rev. Sir,
"Your humble servant,
"T. COTSDEAN."
Betsy knocked at the door as he read this, with a request for an answer
to Mr. Cotsdean's note. "Little Bobby, sir, is waiting for it in the
kitchen."
"Give Bobby some supper," said Mr. May, "tell him to tell his father
it's all right, and I shan't forget. You understand? He is a troublesome
little fool; but it's all right, and I shan't forget, and give the child
some supper, Betsy. He ought not to be out so late."
"He is a delicate little thing, sir, thankye, sir," said Betsy,
half-frightened by her master's amiability; and he smiled and repeated,
"Tell him it's all right."
Was it all right, the 15th? Cotsdean must have made a mistake. Mr. May's
countenance paled, and the laugh went off; he opened a drawer in his
writing-table and took out a book, and anxiously consulted an entry in
it. It was the 18th certainly, as clear as possible. Something had been
written on the opposite page, and had blotted slightly the one on which
these entries were written; but there it stood, the 18th April. Mr. May
prided himself on making no mistakes in business. He closed the book
again with a look of relief, the smile coming back once more to his
face. The 18th, it was three days additional, and in the time there was
no doubt that he would find out what was the right thing to do.