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ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN
AN IMPOSSIBLE STORY
BY
WALTER BESANT
AND
JAMES RICE
NEW YORK
LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY
43, 45 AND 47 EAST 10TH STREET
TO
The Memory
OF
JAMES RICE
PREFACE.
The ten years' partnership of myself and my late friend Mr. James Rice
has been terminated by death. I am persuaded that nothing short of death
would have put an end to a partnership which was conducted throughout
with perfect accord, and without the least difference of opinion. The
long illness which terminated fatally on April 25th of this year began
in January of last year. There were intervals during which he seemed to
be recovering and gaining strength; he was, indeed, well enough in the
autumn to try change of air by a visit to Holland; but he broke down
again very shortly after his return: though he did not himself suspect
it, he was under sentence of death, and for the last six months of his
life his downward course was steady and continuous.
Almost the last act of his in our partnership was the arrangement, with
certain country papers and elsewhere, for the serial publication of this
novel, the subject and writing of which were necessarily left entirely
to myself.
The many wanderings, therefore, which I undertook last summer in
Stepney, Whitechapel, Poplar, St. George's in the East, Limehouse, Bow,
Stratford, Shadwell, and all that great and marvellous unknown country
which we call East London, were undertaken, for the first time for ten
years, alone. They would have been undertaken in great sadness had one
foreseen the end. In one of these wanderings I had the happiness to
discover Rotherhithe, which I afterward explored with carefulness; in
another, I lit upon a certain Haven of Rest for aged sea-captains, among
whom I found Captain Sorensen; in others I found many wonderful things,
and conversed with many wonderful people. The "single-handedness," so to
speak, of this book would have been a mere episode in the history of the
firm, a matter of no concern or interest to the general public, had my
friend recovered. But he is dead; and it therefore devolves upon me to
assume the sole responsibility of the work, for good or bad. The same
responsibility is, of course, assumed for the two short stories, "The
Captain's Room," published at Christmas last, and "They Were Married,"
published as the summer number of the _Illustrated London News_. The
last story was, in fact, written after the death of my partner; but as
it had already been announced, it was thought best, under the
circumstances, to make no change in the title.
I have been told by certain friendly advisers that this story is
impossible. I have, therefore, stated the fact on the title-page, so
that no one may complain of being taken in or deceived. But I have never
been able to understand why it is impossible.
WALTER BESANT.
UNITED UNIVERSITIES' CLUB, _August 19, 1882_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE--IN TWO PARTS, 9
I.--NEWS FOR HIS LORDSHIP, 26
II.--A VERY COMPLETE CASE, 40
III.--ONLY A DRESSMAKER, 46
IV.--UNCLE BUNKER, 56
V.--THE CARES OF WEALTH, 67
VI.--A FIRST STEP, 76
VII.--THE TRINITY ALMSHOUSE, 88
VIII.--WHAT HE GOT BY IT, 99
IX.--THE DAY BEFORE THE FIRST, 108
X.--THE GREAT DAVENANT CASE, 116
XI.--THE FIRST DAY, 124
XII.--SUNDAY AT THE EAST END, 133
XIII.--ANGELA'S EXPERIMENT, 142
XIV.--THE TENDER PASSION, 153
XV.--A SPLENDID OFFER, 161
XVI.--HARRY'S DECISION, 169
XVII.--WHAT LORD JOCELYN THOUGHT, 176
XVIII.--THE PALACE OF DELIGHT, 182
XIX.--DICK THE RADICAL, 191
XX.--DOWN ON THEIR LUCK, 197
XXI.--LADY DAVENANT, 205
XXII.--DANIEL FAGG, 214
XXIII.--THE MISSING LINK, 223
XXIV.--LORD JOCELYN'S TROUBLES, 229
XXV.--AN INVITATION, 238
XXVI.--LORD DAVENANT'S GREATNESS, 247
XXVII.--THE SAME SIGNS, 257
XXVIII.--HARRY FINDS LIBERTY, 260
XXIX.--THE FIGURE-HEADS, 276
XXX.--THE PROFESSOR'S PROPOSAL, 285
XXXI.--CAPTAIN COPPIN, 292
XXXII.--BUNKER AT BAY, 303
XXXIII.--MR. BUNKER'S LETTER, 310
XXXIV.--PROOFS IN PRINT, 316
XXXV.--"THEN WE'LL KEEP COMPANY," 323
XXXVI.--WHAT WILL BE THE END? 333
XXXVII.--TRUTH WITH FAITHFULNESS, 338
XXXVIII.--I AM THE DRESSMAKER, 347
XXXIX.--THRICE HAPPY BOY, 356
XL.--SWEET NELLY, 363
XLI.--BOXING-NIGHT, 371
XLII.--NOT JOSEPHUS, BUT ANOTHER, 378
XLIII.--O MY PROPHETIC SOUL! 387
XLIV.--A FOOL AND HIS MONEY, 397
XLV.--LADY DAVENANT'S DINNER-PARTY, 402
XLVI.--THE END OF THE CASE, 413
XLVII.--A PALACE OF DELIGHT, 418
XLVIII.--MY LADY SWEET, 425
XLIX.--"UPROUSE YE THEN, MY MERRY, MERRY MEN," 432
All Sorts and Conditions of Men
PROLOGUE.--PART I.
It was the evening of a day in early June. The time was last year, and
the place was Cambridge. The sun had been visible in the heavens, a
gracious presence, actually a whole week--in itself a thing remarkable;
the hearts of the most soured, even of landlords and farmers, were
coming to believe again in the possibility of fine weather; the clergy
were beginning to think that they might this year hold a real Harvest
Thanksgiving instead of a sham; the trees at the Backs were in full
foliage; the avenues of Trinity and Clare were splendid; beside them the
trim lawns sloped to the margin of the Cam, here most glorious and
proudest of English rivers, seeing that he laves the meadows of those
ancient and venerable foundations, King's, Trinity, and St. John's, to
say nothing of Queen's and Clare and Magdalen; men were lazily floating
in canoes, or leaning over the bridges, or strolling about the walks, or
lying on the grass; and among them--but not--oh! not with them--walked
or rested many of the damsels of learned Newnham, chiefly in pairs,
holding sweet converse
On mind and art,
And labor and the changing mart,
And all the framework of the land:
not neglecting the foundations of the Christian faith and other
fashionable topics, which ladies nowadays handle with so much learning,
originality, dexterity, and power.
We have, however, to do with only one pair, who were sitting together
on the banks opposite Trinity. These two were talking about a subject
far more interesting than any concerning mind, or art, or philosophy, or
the chances of the senate-house, or the future of Newnham: for they were
talking about themselves and their own lives, and what they were to do
each with that one life which happened, by the mere accident of birth,
to belong to herself. It must be a curious subject for reflection in
extreme old age, when everything has happened that is going to happen,
including rheumatism, that, but for this accident, one's life might have
been so very different.
"Because, Angela," said the one who wore spectacles and looked older
than she was, by reason of much pondering over books and perhaps too
little exercise, "because, my dear, we have but this one life before us,
and if we make mistakes with it, or throw it away, or waste it, or lose
our chances, it is such a dreadful pity. Oh, to think of the girls who
drift and let every chance go by, and get nothing out of their lives at
all--except babies" (she spoke of babies with great contempt). "Oh! it
seems as if every moment were precious: oh! it is a sin to waste an hour
of it."
She gasped and clasped her hands together with a sigh. She was not
acting, not at all; this girl was that hitherto rare thing, a girl of
study and of books; she was wholly possessed, like the great scholars of
old, with the passion for learning.
"Oh! greedy person!" replied the other with a laugh, "if you read all
the books in the University library, and lose the enjoyment of sunshine,
what shall it profit you, in the long run?"
This one was a young woman of much finer physique than her friend. She
was not short-sighted, but possessed, in fact, a pair of orbs of very
remarkable clearness, steadiness, and brightness. They were not soft
eyes, nor languishing eyes, nor sleepy eyes, nor downcast, shrinking
eyes; they were wide-awake, brown, honest eyes, which looked fearlessly
upon all things, fair or foul. A girl does not live at Newnham two years
for nothing, mind you; when she leaves that seat of learning, she has
changed her mind about the model, the perfect, the ideal woman. More
than that, she will change the minds of her sisters and her cousins;
and there are going to be a great many Newnhams, and the spread of this
revolution will be rapid; and the shrinking, obedient, docile,
man-reverencing, curate-worshipping maiden of our youth will shortly
vanish and be no more seen. And what will the curate do then, poor
thing? Wherefore let the bishop look to certain necessary changes in the
marriage service; and let the young men see that their own ideas change
with the times, else there will be no sweethearts for them. More could I
prophesy, but refrain.
This young lady owned, besides those mentioned above, many other points
which will always be considered desirable at her age, whatever be the
growth of feminine education (wherefore, courage, brothers!). In all
these points she contrasted favorably with her companion. For her face
was sunny, and fair to look upon; one of the younger clerical dons--now
a scanty band, almost a remnant--was reported to have said, after gazing
upon that face, that he now understood, which he had never understood
before, what Solomon meant when he compared his love's temples to a
piece of pomegranate within her locks. No one asked him what _he_ meant,
but he was a mathematical man, and so he must have meant something, if
it was only trigonometry. As to her figure, it was what a healthy,
naturally dressed, and strong young woman's figure ought to be, and not
more slender in the waist than was the figure of Venus or Mother Eve;
and her limbs were elastic, so that she seemed when she walked as if she
would like to run, jump, and dance, which, indeed, she would have
greatly preferred, only at Newnham they "take it out" at lawn tennis.
And whatever might be the course of life marked out by herself, it was
quite certain to the intelligent observer that before long Love the
invincible--Love that laughs at plots, plans, conspiracies, and
designs--would upset them all, and trace out quite another line of life
for her, and most probably the most commonplace line of all.
"Your life, Constance," she went on, "seems to me the most happy and the
most fortunate. How nobly you have vindicated the intellect of women by
your degree!"
"No, my dear." Constance shook her head sadly. "No: only partly
vindicated our intellect; remember I was but fifth wrangler, and there
were four men--men, Angela--above me. I wanted to be senior."
"Everybody knows that the fifth is always as good as the first."
Constance, however, shook her head at this daring attempt at
consolation. "At all events, Constance, you will go on to prove it by
your original papers when you publish your researches. You will lecture
like Hypatia; you will have the undergraduates leaving the men and
crowding to your theatre. You will become the greatest mathematician in
Cambridge; you will be famous for ever. You will do better than man
himself, even in man's most exalted level of intellectual strength."
The pale cheek of the student flushed.
"I do not expect to do better than men," she replied humbly. "It will be
enough if I do as well. Yes, my dear, all my life, short or long, shall
be given to science. I will have no love in it, or marriage,
or--or--anything of that kind at all."
"Nor will I," said the other stoutly, yet with apparent effort.
"Marriage spoils a woman's career; we must live our life to its utmost,
Constance."
"We must, Angela. It is the only thing in this world of doubt that is a
clear duty. I owe mine to science. You, my dear, to----"
She would have said to "Political Economy," but a thought checked her.
For a singular thing had happened only the day before. This friend of
hers, this Angela Messenger, who had recently illustrated the strength
of women's intellect by passing a really brilliant examination in that
particular science, astonished her friends at a little informal meeting
in the library by an oration. In this speech she went out of her way to
pour contempt upon Political Economy. It was a so-called science, she
said--not a science at all: a collection of theories impossible of
proof. It treated of men and women as skittles, it ignored the principal
motives of action, it had been put together for the most part by
doctrinaires who lived apart, and knew nothing about men and less about
women, and it was a favorite study, she cruelly declared, of her own
sex, because it was the most easily crammed and made the most show. As
for herself, she declared that for all the good it had done her, she
might just as well have gone through a course of æsthetics or studied
the symbols of advanced ritualism.
Therefore, remembering the oration, Constance Woodcote hesitated. To
what Cause (with a capital C) should Angela Messenger devote her life?
"I will tell you presently," said Angela, "how I shall begin my life.
Where the beginning will lead me, I cannot tell."
Then there was silence for a while. The sun sank lower and the setting
rays fell upon the foliage, and every leaf showed like a leaf of gold,
and the river lay in shadow and became ghostly, and the windows of
Trinity Library opposite to them glowed, and the New Court of St. John's
at their left hand became like unto the palace of Kubla Khan.
"Oh!" sighed the young mathematician. "I shall never be satisfied till
Newnham crosses the river. We must have one of these colleges for
ourselves. We must have King's. Yes, King's will be the best. And oh!
how differently we shall live from the so-called students who are now
smoking tobacco in each other's rooms, or playing billiards, or even
cards--the superior sex!"
"As for us, we shall presently go back to our rooms, have a cup of tea
and a talk, my dear. Then we shall go to bed. As regards the men, those
of your mental level, Constance, do not, I suppose, play billiards; nor
do they smoke tobacco. Undergraduates are not all students, remember.
Most of them are nothing but mere pass-men who will become curates."
Two points in this speech seem to call for remark. First, the singular
ignorance of mankind, common to all women, which led the girl to believe
that a great man of science is superior to the pleasures of weaker
brethren; for they cannot understand the delights of fooling. The second
point is--but it may be left to those who read as they run.
Then they rose and walked slowly under the grand old trees of Trinity
Avenue, facing the setting sun, so that when they came to the end and
turned to the left, it seemed as if they plunged into night. And
presently they came to the gates of Newnham, the newer Newnham, with its
trim garden and Queen Anne mansion. It grates upon one that the
beginnings of a noble and lasting reform should be housed in a palace
built in the conceited fashion of the day. What will they say of it in
fifty years, when the fashion has changed and new styles reign?
"Come," said Angela, "come into my room. Let my last evening in the dear
place be spent with you, Constance."
Angela's own room was daintily furnished and adorned with as many
pictures, pretty things, books, and _bric-à-brac_ as the narrow
dimensions of a Newnham cell will allow. In a more advanced Newnham
there will be two rooms for each student, and these will be larger.
The girls sat by the open window: the air was soft and sweet. A bunch of
cowslips from the Coton meadows perfumed the room; there was the jug-jug
of a nightingale in some tree not far off; opposite them were the lights
of the other Newnham.
"The last night!" said Angela. "I can hardly believe that I go down
to-morrow."
Then she was silent again.
"My life," she went on, speaking softly in the twilight, "begins
to-morrow. What am I to do with it? Your own solution seems so easy
because you are clever and you have no money, while I, who am--well,
dear, not devoured by thirst for learning--have got so much. To begin
with, there is the Brewery. You cannot escape from a big brewery if it
belong to you. You cannot hide it away. Messenger, Marsden & Company's
Stout, their XXX, their Old and Mild, their Bitter, their Family Ales
(that particularly at eight-and-six the nine-gallon cask, if paid for on
delivery), their drays, their huge horses, their strong men, whose very
appearance advertises the beer, and makes the weak-kneed and the
narrow-chested rush to Whitechapel--my dear, these things stare one in
the face wherever you go. I am that brewery, as you know. I am
Messenger, Marsden & Company, myself, the sole partner in what my lawyer
sweetly calls the Concern. Nobody else is concerned in it. It
is--alas!--my own Great Concern, a dreadful responsibility."
"Why? Your people manage it for you."
"Yes--oh! yes--they do. And whether they manage it badly or well I do
not know; whether they make wholesome beer or bad, whether they treat
their clerks and workmen generously or meanly, whether the name of the
company is beloved or hated, I do not know. Perhaps the very making of
beer at all is wickedness."
"But--Angela," the other interrupted, "it is no business of yours.
Naturally, wages are regulated by supply and----"
"No, my dear. That is political economy. I prefer the good old English
plan. If I employ a man and he works faithfully, I should like that man
to feel that he grows every day worth to me more than his marketable
value."
Constance was silenced.
"Then, beside the brewery," Angela went on, "there is an unconscionable
sum of money in the funds."
"There, at least," said her friend, "you need feel no scruple of
conscience."
"But indeed I do; for how do I know that it is right to keep all this
money idle! A hundred pounds saved and put into the funds mean three
pounds a year. It is like a perennial stream flowing from a hidden
reservoir in the hillside. But this stream, in my case, does no good at
all. It neither fertilizes the soil nor is it drunk by man or beast, nor
does it turn mills, nor is it a beautiful thing to look upon, nor does
its silver current flow by banks of flowers or fall in cascades. It all
runs away, and makes another reservoir in another hillside. My dear, it
is a stream of compound interest, which is constantly getting deeper and
broader and stronger, and yet is never of the least use, and turns no
wheels. Now, what am I to do with this money?"
"Endow Newnham; there, at least, is something practical."
"I will found some scholarships, if you please, later on, when you have
made your own work felt. Again, there are my houses in the East End."
"Sell them."
"That is only to shift the responsibility. My dear, I have streets of
houses. They all lie about Whitechapel way. My grandfather, John
Messenger, bought houses, I believe, just as other people buy apples, by
the peck, or some larger measure, a reduction being made on taking a
quantity. There they are, and mostly inhabited."
"You have agents, I suppose?" said Constance unsympathizingly. "It is
their duty to see that the houses are well kept."
"Yes, I have agents. But they cannot absolve me from responsibility."
"Then," asked Constance, "what do you mean to do?"
"I am a native almost of Whitechapel. My grandfather, who succeeded to
the brewery, was born there. His father was also a brewer: his
grandfather is, I believe, prehistoric: he lived there long after his
son, my father, was born. When he moved to Bloomsbury Square he thought
he was getting into quite a fashionable quarter, and he only went to
Portman Square because he desired me to go into society. I am so rich
that I shall quite certainly be welcomed in society. But, my dear,
Whitechapel and its neighborhood are my proper sphere. Why, my very
name! I reek of beer; I am all beer; my blood is beer. Angela Marsden
Messenger! What could more plainly declare my connection with Messenger,
Marsden & Company? I only wonder that he did not call me
Marsden-&-Company Messenger."
"But--Angela----"
"He would, Constance, if he had thought of it. For, you see, I was the
heiress from the very beginning, because my father died before my birth.
And my grandfather intended me to become the perfect brewer, if a woman
can attain to so high an ideal. Therefore I was educated in the
necessary and fitting lines. They taught me the industries of England,
the arts and manufactures, mathematics, accounts, the great outlets of
trade, book-keeping, mechanics--all those things that are practical. How
it happened that I was allowed to learn music I do not know. Then, when
I grew up, I was sent here by him, because the very air of Cambridge, he
thought, makes people exact; and women are so prone to be inexact. I
was to read while I was here all the books about political and social
economy. I have also learned for business purposes two or three
languages. I am now finished. I know all the theories about people, and
I don't believe any of them will work. Therefore, my dear, I shall get
to know the people before I apply them."
"Was your grandfather a student of political economy?"
"Not at all. But he had a respect for justice, and he wanted me to be
just. It is so difficult, he used to say, for a woman to be just. For
either she flies into a rage and punishes with excess, or she takes pity
and forgives. As for himself, he was as hard as nails, and the people
knew it."
"And your project?"
"It is very simple. I efface myself. I vanish. I disappear."
"What?"
"If anybody asks where I am, no one will know, except you, my dear; and
you will not tell."
"You will be in----"
"In Whitechapel, or thereabouts. Your Angela will be a dressmaker, and
she will live by herself and become--what her great-grandmother was--one
of the people."
"You will not like it at all."
"Perhaps not; but I am weary of theories, facts, statistics. I want
flesh and blood. I want to feel myself a part of this striving, eager,
anxious humanity, on whose labors I live in comfort, by whom I have been
educated, to whom I owe all, and for whom I have done nothing--no,
nothing at all, selfish wretch that I am!"
She clasped her hands with a fine gesture of remorse.
"O woman of silence!" she cried; "you sit upon the heights, and you can
disregard--because it is your right--the sorrows and the joys of the
world. But I cannot. I belong to the people--with a great big P, my
dear--I cannot bear to go on living by their toil and giving nothing in
return. What a dreadful thing is a she-Dives!"
"I confess," said Constance coldly, "that I have always regarded wealth
as a means for leading the higher life--the life of study and
research--unencumbered by the sordid aims and mean joys of the vulgar
herd."
"It is possible and right for you to live apart, my dear. It is
impossible, because it would be wrong for me."
"But--alone? You will venture into the dreadful region alone?"
"Quite alone, Constance."
"And--and--your reputation, Angela?"
Angela laughed merrily.
"As for my reputation, my dear, it may take care of itself. Those of my
friends who think I am not to be trusted may transfer their affection to
more worthy objects. The first thing in the emancipation of the sex,
Constance, is equal education. The next is----"
"What?" for Angela paused.
She drew forth from her pocket a small bright instrument of steel, which
glittered in the twilight. Not a revolver, dear readers.
"The next," she said, brandishing the weapon before Constance's eyes,
"is--the LATCH-KEY."
PROLOGUE.--PART II.
The time was eleven in the forenoon; the season was the month of roses;
the place was a room on the first floor at the Park-end of Piccadilly--a
noisy room, because the windows were open, and there was a great thunder
and rattle of cabs, omnibuses, and all kinds of vehicles. When this
noise became, as it sometimes did, intolerable, the occupant of the room
shut his double windows, and immediately there was a great calm, with a
melodious roll of distant wheels, like the buzzing of bees about the
marigold on a summer afternoon. With the double window a man may calmly
sit down amid even the roar of Cheapside, or the never-ending cascade of
noise at Charing Cross.
The room was furnished with taste; the books on the shelves were well
bound, as if the owner took a proper pride in them, as indeed was the
case. There were two or three good pictures; there was a girl's head in
marble; there were cards and invitations lying on the mantel-shelf and
in a rack beside the clock. Everybody could tell at the first look of
the room that it was a bachelor's den. Also because nothing was new, and
because there were none of the peacockeries, whims and fancies,
absurdities, fads and fashions, gimcrackeries, the presence of which
does always and infallibly proclaim the chamber of a young man; this
room manifestly belonged to a bachelor who was old in the profession. In
fact, the owner of the chambers, of which this was the breakfast,
morning, and dining-room, whenever he dined at home, was seated in an
armchair beside a breakfast-table, looking straight before him, with a
face filled with anxiety. An honest, ugly, pleasing, rugged, attractive
face, whose features were carved one day when Dame Nature was
benevolently disposed, but had a blunt chisel.
"I always told him," he muttered, "that he should learn the whole of his
family history as soon as he was three-and-twenty years of age. One must
keep such promises. Yet it would have been better that he should never
know. But then it might have been found out, and that would have been
far worse. Yet, how could it have been found out? No: that is
ridiculous."
He mused in silence. In his fingers he held a cigar which he had lit,
but allowed to go out again. The morning paper was lying on the table,
unopened.
"How will the boy take it?" he asked; "will he take it crying? Or will
he take it laughing?"
He smiled, picturing to himself the "boy's" astonishment.
Looking at the man more closely, one became aware that he was really a
very pleasant-looking person. He was about five-and-forty years of age,
and he wore a full beard and mustache, after the manner of his
contemporaries, with whom a beard is still considered a manly ornament
to the face. The beard was brown, but it began to show, as
wine-merchants say of port, the "appearance of age." In some light,
there was more gray than brown. His dark-brown hair, however, retained
its original thickness of thatch, and was as yet untouched by any streak
of gray. Seeing that he belonged to one of the oldest and best of
English families, one might have expected something of that delicacy of
feature which some of us associate with birth. But, as has already been
said, his face was rudely chiselled, his complexion was ruddy, and he
looked as robust as a plough-boy; yet he had the air of an English
gentleman, and that ought to satisfy anybody. And he was the younger son
of a duke, being by courtesy Lord Jocelyn Le Breton.
While he was thus meditating, there was a quick step on the stair, and
the subject of his thoughts entered the room.
This interesting young man was a much more aristocratic person to look
upon than his senior. He paraded, so to speak, at every point, the
thoroughbred air. His thin and delicate nose, his clear eye, his high
though narrow forehead, his well-cut lip, his firm chin, his pale cheek,
his oval face, the slim figure, the thin, long fingers, the spring of
his walk, the poise of his head--what more could one expect even from
the descendant of all the Howards? But this morning the pallor of his
cheek was flushed as if with some disquieting news.
"Good-morning, Harry," said Lord Jocelyn quietly.
Harry returned the greeting. Then he threw upon the table a small packet
of papers.
"There, sir, I have read them; thank you for letting me see them."
"Sit down, boy, and let us talk; will you have a cigar? No? A cigarette,
then? No? You are probably a little upset by this--new--unexpected
revelation?"
"A _little_ upset!" repeated the young man, with a short laugh.
"To be sure--to be sure--one could expect nothing else; now sit down,
and let us talk over the matter calmly."
The young man sat down, but he did not present the appearance of one
inclined to talk over the matter calmly.
"In novels," said Lord Jocelyn, "it is always the good fortune of young
gentlemen brought up in ignorance of their parentage to turn out, when
they do discover their origin, the heirs to an illustrious name; I have
always admired that in novels. In your case, my poor Harry, the reverse
is the case; the distinction ought to console you."
"Why was I not told before?"
"Because the boyish brain is more open to prejudice than that of the
adult; because, among your companions, you certainly would have felt at
a disadvantage had you known yourself to be the son of a----"
"You always told me," said Harry, "that my father was in the army!"
"What do you call a sergeant in a line regiment, then?"
"Oh! of course, but among gentlemen--I mean--among the set with whom I
was brought up, to be in the army means to have a commission."
"Yes: that was my pardonable deception. I thought that you would respect
yourself more if you felt that your father, like the fathers of your
friends, belonged to the upper class. Now, my dear boy, you will respect
yourself just as much, although you know that he was but a sergeant, and
a brave fellow who fell at my side in the Indian Mutiny."
"And my mother?"
"I did not know her; she was dead before I found you out, and took you
from your Uncle Bunker."
"Uncle Bunker!" Harry laughed, with a little bitterness. "Uncle Bunker!
Fancy asking one's Uncle Bunker to dine at the club! What is he by
trade?"
"He is something near a big brewery, a brewery boom, as the Americans
say. What he actually is, I do not quite know. He lives, if I remember
rightly, at a place an immense distance from here, called Stepney."
"Do you know anything more about my father's family?"
"No! The sergeant was a tall, handsome, well set-up man; but I know
nothing about his connections. His name, if that is any help to you,
was, was--in fact"--here Lord Jocelyn assumed an air of ingratiating
sweetness--"was--Goslett--Goslett; not a bad name, I think, pronounced
with perhaps a leaning to an accent on the last syllable. Don't you
agree with me, Harry?"
"Oh! yes, it will do. Better than Bunker, and not so good as Le Breton.
As for my Christian name, now?"
"There I ventured on one small variation."
"Am I not, then, even Harry?"
"Yes, yes, yes, you are--now; formerly you were Harry without the H. It
is the custom of the neighborhood in which you were born."
"I see! If I go back among my own people, I shall be, then, once more
'Arry?"
"Yes; and shout on penny steamers, and brandish pint bottles of stout,
and sing along the streets, in simple abandonment to Arcadian joy; and
trample on flowers; and break pretty things for wantonness; and exercise
a rude but effective wit, known among the ancients as Fescennine, upon
passing ladies; and get drunk o' nights; and walk the streets with a
pipe in your mouth. That is what you would be, if you went back, my dear
child."
Harry laughed.
"After all," he said, "this is a very difficult position. I can no
longer go about pretending anything; I must tell people."
"Is that absolutely necessary?"
"Quite necessary. It will be a deuce of a business, explaining."
"Shall we tell it to one person, and let him be the town-crier?"
"That, I suppose, would be the best plan; meantime, I could retire,
while I made some plans for the future."
"Perhaps, if you really must tell the truth, it would be well to go out
of town for a bit."
"As for myself," Harry continued, "I suppose I shall get over the wrench
after a bit. Just for the moment I feel knocked out of time."
"Keep the secret, then; let it be one between you and me only, Harry;
let no one know."
But he shook his head.
"Everybody must know. Those who refuse to keep up the acquaintance of a
private soldier's son--well, then, a non-commissioned officer's
son--will probably let me know their decision, some way or other. Those
who do not----" He paused.
"Nonsense, boy; who cares nowadays what a man is by birth? Is not this
great city full of people who go anywhere, and are nobody's sons? Look
here, and here"--he tossed half a dozen cards of invitation across the
table--"can you tell me who these people were twenty years ago--or
these--or these?"
"No: I do not care in the least who they were. I care only that they
shall know who I am; I will not, for my part, pretend to be what I am
not."
"I believe you are right, boy. Let the world laugh if they please, and
have done with it."
Harry began to walk up and down the room; he certainly did not look the
kind of a man to give in; to try hiding things away. Quite the contrary.
And he laughed--he took to laughing.
"I suppose it will sound comic at first," he said, "until people get
used to it. Do you know what he turns out to be? That kind of thing:
after all, we think too much about what people say--what does it matter
what they say or how they say it? If they like to laugh, they can. Who
shall be the town-crier?"
"I was thinking," said Lord Jocelyn slowly, "of calling to-day upon Lady
Wimbledon."
The young man laughed, with a little heightening of his color.
"Of course--a very good person, an excellent person, and to-morrow it
will be all over London. There are one or two things," he went on after
a moment, "that I do not understand from the papers which you put into
my hands last night."
"What are those things?" Lord Jocelyn for a moment looked uneasy.
"Well--perhaps it is impertinent to ask. But--when Mr. Bunker, the
respectable Uncle Bunker, traded me away, what did he get for me?"
"Every bargain has two sides," said Lord Jocelyn. "You know what I got,
you want to know what the honorable Bunker got. Harry, on that point I
must refer you to the gentleman himself."
"Very good. Then I come to the next difficulty--a staggerer. What did
you do it for? One moment, sir"--for Lord Jocelyn seemed about to reply.
"One moment. You were rich, you were well born, you were young. What on
earth made you pick a boy out of the gutter and bring him up like a
gentleman?"
"You are twenty-three, Harry, and yet you ask for motives. My dear boy,
have you not learned the golden rule? In all human actions look for the
basest motive, and attribute that. If you see any reason for stopping
short of quite the lowest spurs to action, such as revenge, hatred,
malice, and envy, suppose the next lowest, and you will be quite safe.
That next lowest is--_son altesse, ma vanité_."
"Oh!" replied Harry, "yet I fail to see how a child of the lowest
classes could supply any satisfaction for even the next lowest of human
motives."
"It was partly in this way. Mind, I do not for one moment pretend to
answer the whole of your question. Men's motives, thank Heaven, are so
mixed up, that no one can be quite a saint, while no one is altogether a
sinner. Nature is a leveller, which is a comfort to us who are born in
levelling times. In those days I was by way of being a kind of Radical.
Not a Radical such as those who delight mankind in these happier days.
But I had Liberal leanings, and thought I had ideas. When I was a boy of
twelve or so, there were the '48 theories floating about the air; some
of them got into my brain and stuck there. Men used to believe that a
great time was coming--perhaps I heard a whisper of it; perhaps I was
endowed with a greater faculty for credulity than my neighbors, and
believed in humanity. However, I do not seek to explain. It may have
occurred to me--I do not say it did--but I have a kind of recollection
as if it did--one day after I had seen you, then in the custody of the
respectable Bunker, that it would be an instructive and humorous thing
to take a boy of the multitude and bring him up in all the culture, the
tastes, the ideas of ourselves--you and me, for instance, Harry. This
idea may have seized upon me, so that the more I thought of it, the
better pleased I was with it. I may have pictured such a boy so taught,
so brought up, with such tastes, returning to his own people. Disgust, I
may have said, will make him a prophet; and such a prophet as the world
has never yet seen. He would be like the follower of the Old Man of the
Mountain. He would never cease to dream of the paradise he had seen: he
would never cease to tell of it; he would be always leading his friends
upward to the same levels on which he had once stood."
"Humph!" said Harry.
"Yes, I know," Lord Jocelyn went on. "I ought to have foretold that the
education I prepared for you would have unfitted you for the rôle of
prophet. I am not disappointed in you, Harry--quite the reverse. I now
see that what has happened has been only what I should have expected. By
some remarkable accident, you possess an appearance such as is generally
believed to belong to persons of long-continued gentle descent. By a
still more remarkable accident, all your tastes prove to be those of the
cultured classes; the blood of the Bunkers has, in yourself, assumed the
most azure hue."
"That is very odd," said Harry.
"It is a very remarkable thing, indeed," continued Lord Jocelyn gravely.
"I have never ceased to wonder at this phenomenon. However, I was unable
to send you to a public school on account of the necessity, as I
thought, of concealing your parentage. But I gave you instruction of the
best, and found for you companions--as you know, among the----"
"Yes," said Harry. "My companions were gentlemen, I suppose; I learned
from them."
"Perhaps. Still, the earthenware pot cannot become a brass pot, whatever
he may pretend. You were good metal from the beginning."
"You are now, Harry," he went on, "three-and-twenty. You are master of
three foreign languages; you have travelled on the Continent and in
America; you are a good rider, a good shot, a good fencer, a good
dancer. You can paint a little, fiddle a little, dance a great deal, act
pretty well, speak pretty well; you can, I dare say, make love as
becomes a gentleman; you can write very fair verses; you are
good-looking, you have the _air noble_; you are not a prig; you are not
an æsthete; you possess your share of common sense."
"One thing you have omitted which, at the present juncture, may be more
useful than any of these things."
"What is that?"
"You were good enough to give me a lathe, and to have me instructed in
the mysteries of turning. I am a practical cabinet-maker, if need be."
"But why should this be of use to you?"
"Because, Lord Jocelyn"--Harry ran and leaned over the table with a
sweet smile of determination on his face--"because I am going back to my
own people for a while, and it may be that the trade of cabinet-making
may prove a very backbone of strength to me among them----"
"Harry--you would not--indeed, you could not go back to Bunker?" Lord
Jocelyn asked this question with every outward appearance of genuine
alarm.
"I certainly would. My very kind guardian and patron, would you stand in
my way? I want to see those people from where I am sprung: I want to
learn how they differ from you and your kin. I must compare myself with
them--I must prove the brotherhood of humanity."
"You will go? Yes--I see you will--it is in your eyes. Go, then, Harry.
But return to me soon. The slender fortune of a younger son shall be
shared with you so long as I live, and given to you when I die. Do not
stay among them. There are, indeed--at least, I suppose so--all sorts
and conditions of men. But to me, and to men brought up like you and me,
I do not understand how there can be any but one sort and one condition.
Come back soon, boy. Believe me--no--do not believe me--prove it
yourself: in the social pyramid, the greatest happiness, Harry, lies
near the top."
CHAPTER I.
NEWS FOR HIS LORDSHIP.
"I have news for your lordship," said Mrs. Bormalack, at the
breakfast-table, "something that will cheer you up a bit. We are to have
an addition to our family."
His lordship nodded his head, meaning that he would receive her news
without more delay than was necessary, but that at present his mind was
wholly occupied with a contest between one of his teeth and a crust.
The tooth was an outlying one, all its lovely companions having withered
and gone, and it was undefended; the crust was unyielding. For the
moment no one could tell what might be the result.
Her ladyship replied for him.
Lady Davenant was a small woman, if you go by inches; her exalted rank
gave her, however, a dignity designed for very much larger persons; yet
she carried it with ease. She was by no means young, and her hair was
thin as well as gray; her face, which was oval and delicately curved,
might formerly have been beautiful; the eyes were bright and eager, and
constantly in motion, as is often the case with restless and nervous
persons; her lips were thin and as full of independent action as her
eyes; she had thin hands, so small that they might have belonged to a
child of eight, when inclined for vaunting, the narrowest and most
sloping shoulders that ever were seen, so sloping that people
unaccustomed to her were wont to tremble lest the whole of her dress
should suddenly slide straight down those shoulders, as down a slope of
ice; and strange ladies, impelled by this apprehension, had been known
to ask her in a friendly whisper if she could thoroughly depend upon the
pins at her throat. As Mrs. Bormalack often said, speaking of her noble
boarders among her friends, those shoulders of her ladyship were "quite
a feature." Next to the pride of having at her table such guests--who,
however, did not give in to the good old English custom of paying double
prices for having a title--was the distinction of pointing to those
unique shoulders and of talking about them.
Her ladyship had a shrill, reedy voice, and spoke loudly. It was
remarked by the most superficial observer, moreover, that she possessed
a very strong American accent.
"At our first boarding-house," she said, replying indirectly to the
landlady's remark, "at our first boarding-house, which was in Wellclose
Square, next to the Board Schools, there was a man who once _actually_
slapped his lordship on the back. And then he laughed! To be sure, he
was only a Dane, but the disrespect was just the same."
"My dear," said his lordship, who now spoke, having compromised matters
with the crust, "the ignominy of being slapped on the back by a powerful
sea-captain is hardly to be weighed in comparison with the physical pain
it causes."
"We are quite sure, however, Mrs. Bormalack," the lady went on, "that
you will admit none under your roof but those prepared to respect rank;
we want no levellers or mischievous Radicals for our companions."
"It is to be a young lady," said Mrs. Bormalack.
"Young ladies, at all events, do not slap gentlemen on the back, whether
they are noblemen or not," said his lordship kindly. "We shall be happy
to welcome her, ma'am."
This ornament of the Upper House was a big, fat man, with a face like a
full moon. His features were not distinctly aristocratic; his cheeks
were flabby and his nose broad; also he had a double chin. His long hair
was a soft, creamy white, the kind of white which in old age follows a
manhood of red hair. He sat in an arm-chair at the end of the table,
with his elbows on the arms, as if he desired to get as much rest out of
the chair as possible. His eyes were very soft and dreamy; his
expression was that of a man who has been accustomed to live in the
quieter parts of the world. He, too, spoke with a marked American accent
and with slowness, as if measuring his words, and appreciating himself
their importance. The dignity of his manner was not wholly due to his
position, but in great measure to his former profession. For his
lordship had not always rejoiced in his present dignity, nor, in fact,
had he been brought up to it. Persons intending to become peers of Great
Britain do not, as a rule, first spend more than forty years as
schoolmasters in their native town. And just as clergymen, and
especially young clergymen, love to talk loud, because it makes people
remember that they are in the presence of those whose wisdom demands
attention, so old schoolmasters speak slowly because their words--even
the lightest, which are usually pretty heavy--have got to be listened
to, under penalties.
As soon, however, as he began to "enjoy the title," the ex-schoolmaster
addressed himself with some care to the cultivation of a manner which
he thought due to his position. It was certainly pompous; it was
intended to be affable; it was naturally, because he was a man of a most
kind disposition and an excellent heart, courteous and considerate.
"I am rejoiced, Mrs. Bormalack," he went on grandly, and with a bow,
"that we are to be cheered in our domestic circle by the addition of a
young lady. It is an additional proof, if any were needed, of the care
with which you consider the happiness of your guests." The professor,
who owed for five weeks, murmured that no one felt it more than himself.
"Sometimes, ma'am, I own that even with the delightful society of
yourself" ("O my lord, your lordship is too kind," said Mrs. Bormalack)
"and of the accomplished professor"--here he bowed to the professor, who
nodded and spread out his hands professionally--"and of the learned Mr.
Daniel Fagg"--here he bowed to Mr. Fagg, who took no notice at all,
because he was thinking of his triangles and was gazing straight before
him--"and of Mr. Josephus Coppins"--here he bowed to Josephus Coppins,
who humbly inclined his head without a smile--"and of Mr.
Maliphant"--here he bowed to Mr. Maliphant, who with a breakfast knife
was trying to make a knobly crust assume the shape of a human head, in
fact the head of Mr. Gladstone--"and of Mr. Harry Goslett, who is not
with us so much as we could desire of so sprightly a young man; and
surrounded as we are by all the gayety and dissipation and splendor of
London, I sometimes suspect that we are not always so cheerful as we
might be."
"Give me," said his wife, folding her little hands and looking round her
with a warlike expression, as if inviting contradiction--"give me Canaan
City, New Hampshire, for gayety."
Nobody combated this position, nor did anybody reply at all, unless the
pantomime of the professor was intended for a reply by gesture, like the
learned Thaumast. For, with precision and abstracted air, he rolled up a
little ball of bread, about as big as a marble, placed it in the palm of
his left hand, closed his fingers upon it, and then opened them, showing
that the ball had vanished. Then he executed the slightest possible
shrug of his shoulders, spread out his hands, and nodded to his
lordship, saying, with a sweet smile:
"Pretty thing, isn't it?"
"I hope, sir, that she will be pretty," said his lordship, thinking of
the young lady. "To look at a pretty face is as good as a day of
sunshine."
"She is a beautiful girl," Mrs. Bormalack replied with enthusiasm, "and
I am sure she must be as good as she is pretty; because she paid three
months in advance. With a piano, too, which she will play herself. She
is a dressmaker by trade, and she wants to set herself up in a genteel
way. And she's got a little money, she says;" a sweet smile crossed her
face as she thought that most of this little money would come into her
own pocket.
"A dressmaker!" cried her ladyship. "Do tell! I was in that line myself
before I married. That was long before we began to enjoy the title. You
don't know, ma'am"--here she dropped her voice--"you don't know how
remarkably fond his lordship is of a pretty face; choice with them, too.
Not every face pleases him. Oh! you wouldn't believe how particular.
Which shows his aristocratic descent; because we all know what his
ancestors were."
"To be sure," said the landlady, nodding significantly. "We all know
what they were. Rovers to a man--I mean a lord. And as for the young
lady, she will be here this evening, in time for tea. Shrimps and Sally
Lunn, my lord. And her name is Miss Kennedy. Respectable, if poor; and
illustrious ancestors is more than we can all of us have, nor yet
deserve."
Here the professor rose, having finished his breakfast. One might have
noticed that he had extremely long and delicate fingers, and that they
seemed always in movement; also that he had a way of looking at you as
if he meant you to look straight and steady into his eyes, and not to go
rolling your eyes about in the frivolous, irresponsible way affected by
some people. He walked slowly to the window; then, as if seized with an
irresistible impulse to express his feelings in pantomime, or else, it
may be, to try an experiment, returned to the table, and asked for the
loan of his lordship's pocket-handkerchief, which was a large red silk
one, well fitted for the purpose. How he conveyed a saucer unseen from
the table into that handkerchief, and how that saucer got into the
nobleman's coat-tail pocket, were things known only to himself. Yet
familiarity breeds contempt, and though everybody looked on, nobody
expressed delight or astonishment, for this exhibition of magic and
spells went on every day, and whenever the professor was among them. He
moved about accompanied, so to speak, by a legion of invisible
attendants and servants, who conveyed, hid, brought back, uncovered,
discovered, recovered, lost, found, rapped, groaned, cried, whistled,
sang, moved chairs and tables, and, in fact, behaved as only a troop of
well-drilled elves can behave. He was a young man of twenty-five, and he
had a great gift of silence. By trade he was a professor of legerdemain.
Other professors there are who hold up the light of this science, and
hand it down to posterity undimmed; but none with such an ardent love
for their work as Professor Climo. For he practised all day long, except
when he was reading the feats of the illustrious conjurers, sorcerers,
necromancers, and wizards of old time, or inventing new combinations,
traps for the credulous, and contrivances to make that which was not
seen like unto that which was. The East End of London is not the richest
field for such performers; but he was young, and he lived in hope--very
often, when there were no engagements--upon it. At such times he became
a simple lodger, instead of a boarder, at Mrs. Bormalack's, and went
without any meals.
The situation of this boarding-house, poetically described by his
lordship as in the midst of the gayety of London, was in the far East,
in that region of London which is less known to Englishmen than if it
were situated in the wildest part of Colorado, or among the pine forests
of British Columbia. It stood, in fact, upon Stepney Green, a small
strip of Eden which has been visited by few, indeed, of those who do not
live in its immediate vicinity. Yet it is a romantic spot.
Two millions of people, or thereabouts, live in the East End of London.
That seems a good-sized population for an utterly unknown town. They
have no institutions of their own to speak of, no public buildings of
any importance, no municipality, no gentry, no carriages, no soldiers,
no picture-galleries, no theatres, no opera--they have nothing. It is
the fashion to believe that they are all paupers, which is a foolish and
mischievous belief, as we shall presently see. Probably there is no such
spectacle in the whole world as that of this immense, neglected,
forgotten great city of East London. It is even neglected by its own
citizens, who have never yet perceived their abandoned condition. They
are Londoners, it is true, but they have no part or share of London; its
wealth, its splendors, its honors exist not for them. They see nothing
of any splendors; even the Lord Mayor's show goeth westward: the city
lies between them and the greatness of England. They are beyond the
wards, and cannot become aldermen; the rich London merchants go north
and south and west; but they go not east. Nobody goes east; no one wants
to see the place; no one is curious about the way of life in the east.
Books on London pass it over; it has little or no history; great men are
not buried in its church-yards, which are not even ancient, and crowded
by citizens as obscure as those who now breathe the upper airs about
them. If anything happens in the east, people at the other end have to
stop and think before they can remember where the place may be.
The house was old, built of red bricks with a "shell" decoration over
the door. It contained room for about eight boarders, who had one
sitting-room in common. This was the breakfast-room, a meal at which all
were present; the dining-room--but nobody except his lordship and wife
dined at home; the tea-room--but tea was too early for most of the
boarders; and the supper-room. After supper tobacco was tolerated. The
boarders were generally men, and mostly elderly men of staid and quiet
manners, with whom the evening pipe was the conclusion and solace of the
day. It was not like the perpetual incense of the tap-room, and yet the
smell of tobacco was never absent from the room, lingering about the
folds of the dingy curtain, which served for both summer and winter,
clinging to the horsehair sofa, to the leather of the chairs, and to the
rusty table-cloth.
The furniture was old and mean. The wall-paper had once been crimson,
but now was only dark; the ceiling had for many years wanted
whitewashing badly; the door and windows wanted painting; the windows
always wanted cleaning; the rope of one of the blinds was broken; and
the blind itself, not nearly so white as it might have been, was pinned
half-way up. Everything was shabby; everything wanted polishing,
washing, brightening up.
A couple of arm-chairs stood, when meals were not going on, one on
either side of the fireplace--one being reserved for his lordship, and
the other for his wife; they were, like the sofa, of horsehair, and
slippery. There was a long table covered by a faded red cloth; the
carpet was a Brussels once of a warm crimson, now worn threadbare; the
hearth-rug was worn into holes; one or two of the chairs had broken out
and showed glimpses of stuffing. The sideboard was of old-fashioned
build, and a shiny black by reason of its age; there were two or three
hanging shelves filled with books, the property of his lordship, who
loved reading, the mantel-shelf was decorated by a small collection of
pipes; and above it hung the portrait of the late Samuel Bormalack,
formerly a collector in the great brewing house of Messenger, Marsden &
Company.
His widow, who carried on the house, was a comfortable--a serenely
comfortable woman, who regarded the world from the optimist's point of
view. Perfect health and a tolerably prosperous business, where the
returns are regular though the profits are small, make the possessor
agree with Pope and Candide that everything is for the best in this best
of all possible worlds. Impossible not to be contented, happy, and
religious, when your wishes are narrowed to a tidy dinner, a comfortable
supper with a little something hot, boarders who pay up regular, do not
grumble, and go to bed sober; and a steady hope that you will not get
"something," by which of course is meant that you may not fall ill of
any disagreeable or painful disease. To "get something" is one of the
pretty euphemisms of our daily speech.
She had had one or two unlucky accidents, such as the case of Captain
Saffrey, who stayed two months, and drank enough beer to float a
three-decker, and then sailed away, promising to pay, and would have
done so--for he was an honest man--but had the misfortune to fall
overboard while in liquor. But her present boarders seemed most
respectable, and she was at ease.
Of course, the persons of greatest consideration among them were the
noble pair who enjoyed the title. Rank is respected, if you please, even
at the East End of London, and perhaps more there than in fashionable
quarters, because it is so rare. King John, it is true, had once a
palace at Stepney; but that is a long time to look back upon, and even
the oldest inhabitant can now not remember to have been kicked by the
choleric monarch. Then the Marquis of Worcester had once a great house
here, what time the sainted Charles was ripening things for a row royal.
That house is gone too, and I do not know where it used to stand. From
the time of this East End marquis to the arrival of Lord and Lady
Davenant, last year, there have been no resident members of the English
aristocracy, and no member of the foreign nobility, with the exception
of a certain dusky Marquis of Choufleur, from Hayti, who is reported on
good authority to have once lived in these parts for six months,
thinking he was in the politest and most fashionable suburb of London.
He is further said to have carried on with Satanic wildness in Limehouse
and the West India Dock Road of an evening. A Japanese, too, certainly
once went to a hotel in America Square, which is not quite the East End,
and said he was a prince in his own country. He stayed a week, and drank
champagne all day long. Then he decamped without paying the bill; and
when the landlord went to the embassy to complain, he thought it was the
ambassador himself, until he discovered that all Japanese are exactly
alike. Wherefore he desisted from any further attempt to identify the
missing prince for want of the missing link, namely, some distinctive
feature.
The illustrious pair had now been in the house for six weeks. Previously
they had spent some time in Wellclose Square, which is no doubt well
known to fashionable readers, and lies contiguous to St. George's
Street. Here happened that accident of the back-slapping so frequently
alluded to by her ladyship. They were come from America to take up an
old family title which had been in abeyance for two or three
generations. They appeared to be poor, but able to find the modest
weekly sum asked by Mrs. Bormalack; and in order to secure her
confidence and good-will, they paid every week in advance. They drank
nothing but water, but, to make up, his lordship ate a great deal,
especially at breakfast, and they asked for strange things, unknown to
English households. In other respects they gave no kind of trouble, were
easily satisfied, never grumbled, and were affable. For their rank they
certainly dressed shabbily, but high social station is sometimes found
coupled with eccentricity. Doubtless Lord Davenant had his reasons for
going about in a coat white at the seams and shiny at the back, which,
being made of sympathetic stuff, and from long habit, had assumed the
exact shape of his noble back and shoulders, with a beautiful model of
his illustrious elbows. For similarly good and sufficient reasons Lady
Davenant wore that old black gown and those mended gloves and--but it is
cruel to enumerate the shortcomings of her attire.
Perhaps on account of this public character, the professor would rank in
the house after his lordship. Nothing confers greatness more quickly
than an unabashed appearance upon a platform. Mr. Maliphant, however,
who had travelled and could relate tales of adventure, might dispute
precedence with him. He was now a carver of figure-heads for ships. It
is an old and honorable trade, but in these latter days it has decayed.
He had a small yard at Limehouse, where he worked all by himself,
turning out heads in the rough so that they might be transformed into a
beauteous goddess, or a Saucy Poll, or a bearded Neptune, as the owners
might prefer. He was now an old man with a crumpled and million-lined
face, but active still and talkative. His memory played him tricks, and
he took little interest in new things. He had a habit, too, which
disconcerted people unaccustomed to him, of thinking one part of the
reminiscence to himself and saying the rest aloud, so that one got only
the torso or mangled trunk of the story, or the head, or the feet, with
or without the tail, which is the point.
The learned Daniel Fagg, wrapt always in contemplation, was among them
but not of them. He was lately arrived from Australia, bringing with him
a discovery which took away the breath of those who heard it, and filled
all the scholars and learned men of Europe with envy and hatred, so that
they combined and formed a general conspiracy to keep him down, and to
prevent the publication of his great book, lest the world should point
the finger of scorn at them, and laugh at the blindness of its great
ones. Daniel himself said so, and an oppressed man generally knows his
oppressor. He went away every morning after breakfast, and returned for
tea. He was believed to occupy the day in spreading a knowledge of his
discovery, the nature of which was unknown at the boarding-house, among
clergymen and other scholars. In the evening he sat over a Hebrew Bible
and a dictionary, and spoke to no one. A harmless man, but soured and
disappointed with the cold reception of his great discovery.
Another boarder was the unfortunate Josephus Coppin, who was a clerk in
the great brewing-house of Messenger, Marsden & Company. He had been
there for forty years, being now fifty-five years of age, gray and sad
of face, because, for some reason unknown to the world, he was not
advanced, but remained forever among the juniors at a salary of thirty
shillings a week. Other men of his own standing were chief brewers,
collectors, and chief accountants. He was almost where he had started.
The young men came and mounted the ladder of promotion, passing him one
after the other; he alone remained upon the rung which he had reached
one day, now thirty years bygone, when a certain thing happened, the
consequences of which were to keep him down, to ruin his prospects, to
humiliate and degrade him, to sadden and embitter his whole life.
Lastly, there was a young man, the only young man among them, one Harry
Goslett by name, who had quite recently joined the boarding-house. He
was a nephew of Mr. Coppin, and was supposed to be looking for a place
of business.
But he was an uncertain boarder. He paid for his dinner but never dined
at home; he had brought with him a lathe, which he set up in a little
garden-house, and here he worked by himself, but in a fitful, lazy way,
as if it mattered nothing whether he worked or not. He seemed to prefer
strolling about the place, looking around him as if he had never seen
things before, and he was wont to speak of familiar objects as if they
were strange and rare. These eccentricities were regarded as due to his
having been to America. A handsome young man and cheerful, which made it
a greater pity that he was so idle.
On this morning the first to start for the day's business was Daniel
Fagg. He put his Hebrew Bible on the book-shelf, took out a
memorandum-book and the stump of a pencil, made an entry, and then
counted out his money, which amounted to eight-and-sixpence, with a
sigh. He was a little man, about sixty years of age, and his thin hair
was sandy in color. His face was thin, and he looked hungry and
underfed. I believe, in fact, that he seldom had money enough for
dinner, and so went without. Nothing was remarkable in his face, except
a pair of very large and thick eyebrows, also of sandy hue, which is
unusual, and produces a very curious effect. With these he was wont to
frown tremendously as he went along, frightening the little children
into fits; when he was not frowning he looked dejected. It must have
been an unhappy condition of things which made the poor man thus
alternate between wrath and depression. There were, however,
moments--those when he got hold of a new listener--in which he would
light up with enthusiasm as he detailed the history of his discovery.
Then the thin, drawn cheek would fill out, and his quivering lips would
become firm, and his dejected eyes would brighten with the old pride of
discovery, and he would laugh once more, and rub his hands with pride,
when he described the honest sympathy of the people in the Australian
township where he first announced the great revelation he was to make to
the world, and received their enthusiastic cheers and shouts of
encouragement.
Harry Goslett was his last listener, and, as the enthusiast thought, his
latest convert.
As Daniel passed out of the dining-room, and was looking for his hat
among the collection of hats as bad as was ever seen out of Canadian
backwoods, Harry Goslett himself came downstairs, his hands in his
pockets, as slowly and lazily as if there was no such thing as work to
do or time to keep. He laughed and nodded to the discoverer.
"Oho! Dan'l," he said; "how are the triangles? and are you really going
back to the lion's den?"
"Yes, Mr. Goslett, I am going back there! I am not afraid of them; I am
going to see the head of the Egyptian department. He says he will give
me a hearing; they all said they would, and they have. But they won't
listen; it's no use to hear unless you listen. What a dreadful thing is
jealousy among the learned, Mr. Goslett!"
"It is indeed, my prophet; have they subscribed to the book?"
"No! they won't subscribe. Is it likely that they will help to bring out
a work which proves them all wrong? Come, sir, even at your age you
can't think so well of poor humanity."
"Daniel"--the young man laid his hands impressively upon the little
man's shoulders--"you showed me yesterday a list of forty-five
subscribers to your book, at twelve shillings and sixpence apiece.
_Where is that subscription-money?_"
The poor man blushed and hung his head.
"A man must live," he said at length, trying to frown fiercely.
"Yes, but unpleasant notice is sometimes taken of the way in which
people live, my dear friend. This is not a free country; not by any
means free. If I were you, I would take the triangles back to Australia,
and print the book there, among your friends."
"No!" The little man stamped on the ground, and rammed his head into his
hat with determination. "No, Mr. Goslett, and no again. It shall be
printed here. I will hurl it at the head of the so-called scholars here,
in London--in their stronghold, close to the British Museum.
Besides"--here he relaxed, and turned a pitiful face of sorrow and shame
upon his adviser--"besides, can I forget the day when I left Australia?
They all came aboard to say good-by. The papers had paragraphs about it.
They shouted one after the other, and nobblers went around surprising,
and they slapped me on the back and said, 'Go, Dan'l,' or 'Go, Fagg,'
or 'Go, Mr. Fagg,' according to their intimacy and the depth of their
friendship--'Go where honor and glory and a great fortune, with a
pension on the Queen's civil-list, are waiting for you.' On the voyage I
even dreamed of a title; I thought Sir Daniel Fagg, knight or baronet,
or the Right Reverend Lord Fagg, would sound well to go back to
Australia with. Honor? Glory? Fortune? where are they?
Eight-and-sixpence in my pocket; and the head of the Greek department
calls me a fool, because I won't acknowledge that truth--yes, TRUTH--is
error. Laughs at the triangles, Mr. Goslett!"
He laughed bitterly and went out, slamming the door behind him.
Then Harry entered the breakfast-room, nodding pleasantly to everybody;
and without any apology for lateness, as if breakfast could be kept
about all the morning to suit his convenience, sat down and began to
eat. Jonathan Coppin got up, sighed, and went away to his brewery. The
professor looked at the last comer with a meditative air, as if he would
like to make him disappear, and could do it, too, but was uncertain how
Harry would take it. Mrs. Bormalack hurried away on domestic business.
Mr. Maliphant laughed and rubbed his hands together, and then laughed
again as if he were thinking of something really comic, and said, "Yes,
I knew the sergeant very well; a well set-up man he was, and Caroline
Coppin was a pretty girl." At this point his face clouded and his eyes
expressed doubt. "There was," he added, "something I wanted to ask you,
young man, something"--here he tapped his forehead--"something about
your father or your mother, or both; but I have forgotten--never mind.
Another time--another time."
He ran away with boyish activity and a schoolboy's laugh, being arrived
at that time of life when one becomes light of heart once more, knowing
by experience that nothing matters very much. There were none left in
the room but the couple who enjoyed the title.
His lordship sat in his arm-chair, apparently enjoying it, in meditation
and repose; this, one perceives, is quite the best way of enjoying an
hereditary title, if you come to it late in life.
His wife had, meanwhile, got out a little shabby portfolio in black
leather, and was turning over the papers with impatience; now and then
she looked up to see whether this late young man had finished his
breakfast. She fidgeted, arranged, and worried with her papers, so that
any one whose skull was not six inches thick might have seen that she
wanted to be alone with her husband. It was also quite clear to those
who thought about things, and watched this little lady, that there may
be meaning in certain proverbial expressions touching gray mares.
Presently Harry Goslett finished his coffee, and, paying no attention to
her little ladyship's signals of distress, began to open up conversation
on general subjects with the noble lord.
She could bear it no longer. Here were the precious moments wasted and
thrown away, every one of which should be bringing them nearer to the
recognition of their rights.
"Young man," she cried, jumping up in her chair, "if you've got nothing
to do but to loll and lop around, all forenoon, I guess we hev, and this
is the room in which we do that work."
"I beg your pardon, Lady Davenant----"
"Young man--Git----"
She pointed to the door.