home in the evening he suffered from an exhaustion which he never felt
in Cowfold. It was not that weariness of the muscles which was a
pleasure after a game at cricket or football, but a nervous distress
which craved a stimulant. He had confined himself hitherto to a single
glass of beer at supper, but this was not enough, and a glass of whisky
and water afterwards was added to keep company with the pipe. By
degrees also he dropped into a public-house as he left Mr. Dabb's for
just threepennyworth to support him on his way. Frequently when he
went there he met a man of about thirty who also was apparently
enjoying a modest threepennyworth to help him home or help him away
from it or help him to do something which he could not do without it,
and Andrew and he began gradually, under the influence of their
threepennyworths, to talk to one another. He was clean shaven, had
glossy black hair, a white and somewhat sad face, was particularly neat
but rather shabby, and, what at first was a puzzle to Andrew, looked as
if he was going to begin work rather than leave it, for his boots were
evidently just blacked. He was a music-hall comic singer. His father
and mother--fathers and mothers, even the best of them, will do such
things--had given him a fairish schooling, but had never troubled
themselves to train him for any occupation. They stuck their heads in
the sand, believed something would turn up, and trusted in Providence.
Considering the kind and quantity of trust which is placed in
Providence, the most ambitious person would surely not aspire to its
high office, and it may be pardoned for having laid down the inflexible
rule to ignore without exception the confidence reposed in it. Poor
George Montgomery found himself at eighteen without any outlook,
although he was a gentleman, and his father was a clergyman. The only
appointment he could procure was that of temporary clerk in the War
Office during a "scare"--"a merely provisional arrangement," as the
Rev. Mr. Montgomery explained, when inquiries were made after George.
The scare passed away; the temporary clerks were discharged; the father
died; and George, still more unfitted for any ordinary occupation, came
down at last, by a path which it is not worth while to trace, to earn a
living by delighting a Southwark audience nightly with his fine
baritone voice, good enough for a ballad in those latitudes, and good
enough indeed for something much better if it had been properly
exercised under a master. He was not downright dissolute, but his
experience with his father, who was weak and silly, had given him a
distaste for what he called religion; and he was loose, as might be
expected. Still, he was not so loose as to have lost his finer
instincts altogether, for he had some. He read a good deal, mostly
fiction, played the organ, and actually conducted the musical part of a
service every Sunday, heathen as he was. His vagrant life of
excitement begot in him a love of liquor, which he took merely to quiet
him, but unfortunately the dose required strengthening every now and
then. He was mostly in debt; prided himself on not dishonouring
virtuous women--a boast, nevertheless, not entirely justifiable; and
through his profession had acquired a slightly histrionic manner,
especially when he was reciting, an art in which he was accomplished.
He found out that Andrew had a sister, and he gave him a couple of
tickets for an entertainment which had been got up by some well-meaning
people to draw the poor to his church. They were tickets for the
respectable end of the schoolroom, and Andrew having obtained
permission to leave an hour earlier, took Miriam in her very best
dress, and with one or two little additional and specially purchased
articles of finery. It never entered Mr. Montgomery's head to invite
even Andrew to the music hall. He was ashamed of it, and he saw that
Andrew was not exactly the person to be taken there. Mr. Montgomery
had two classes of songs, both of which found favour with his ordinary
nightly audience. One was coarse, and the other sentimental.
Of the coarse, his always applauded "Hampstead-Heath Donkey and what he
thought of his Customers" might be taken as a sample, but there was
just as vigorous clapping when he produced his "Sackmaker's Dream," and
this he now sang. Miriam was much affected by it, and dwelt upon it as
the three--the singer, Andrew, and herself--walked home to their
lodgings whither Mr. Montgomery had been invited to supper.
"Did you write the Sackmaker's Dream yourself?" she asked, as they went
along.
"Yes; just by way of a change. It does not pay to sing nothing but
comic stuff."
"It is very pathetic. Is it true?"
"Oh, I don't quite know. Founded on fact, as they say, dressed up a
bit by the author," and Mr. Montgomery laughed.
"But how did you ever hear of such a thing?"
"Oh, I've heard a good many strange things since I've been knocking
about town."
"Then you had some particular person in your eye when you were
composing it?"
"Yes, partly, but not much of her," and Mr. Montgomery laughed again.
"How much?"
"How inquisitive you are. Well, to tell you the truth, no more than
this, that one night I saw one of these women coming out of a sack
factory. She looked awfully wretched, and I made up all the rest."
Miriam was much astonished. She was actually in company with an
author, and with one who could invent scenes, descriptions, and
characters like those in the novels of which she was now so fond. Mr.
Montgomery was a marvel to her. He, too, was somewhat struck with
Miriam; with her beauty, and with a certain freshness in her
observations; but a man who had lived as he had lived in London is not
likely to admire any woman with much fervour, and indeed the incapacity
for genuine admiration of women is one of the strongest arguments
against such a life.
They had their supper, and after supper some whisky was produced, and
Andrew and Montgomery smoked.
"Talking about sackmakers," said Montgomery, "I can tell you a true
story of one, quite true, every word of it. I knew a fellow who had
been awfully wild when he was young, but he was converted, as they call
it, and turned city missionary. He came to know in this way one of
these sackmaking women. She was above the usual run, well-behaved, and
very good-looking. He fell desperately in love with her, and she with
him, but he always thought she held back a little. At last she told
him she had lived with a man, and that he had left her. The missionary
said he did not care, and would marry her, but she refused. She was
bound, she said, and nothing could get that notion out of her head.
The missionary was in despair; he was trained for foreign service, and
went to India. There he married, well enough, I was told, and was
happy; but the sackmaker was never forgotten. He became the minister
of a big chapel in Calcutta, but he always somehow, through somebody in
London, managed to find out what the girl was doing. When he was
forty-five, his wife died. They had no children, and he came back to
England. One fine morning he knocked at his old friend's door. You
may imagine their meeting! The man with whom she had lived was dead.
The missionary and she were married. He gave up his preaching; he had
saved up a bit of money, and took his wife and himself off to America.
What do you think of her, Andrew?"
Andrew's notions on social and moral questions were what are commonly
called "views." They were not thoughts, and furthermore they were
"average views." Having had some whisky, his views were very
average--that is to say, precisely what is usual and customary. "I
suppose it was the best thing he could do," he somewhat sleepily
replied.
"The best thing he could do!" retorted Miriam, with much scorn. "I
would have worn that woman like a jewel, if I had been her husband. He
ought never to have married his first wife."
Six months afterwards, the position of affairs in the little household
in Nelson Square had changed. Andrew, finding that vegetation in
London was very slow work, had contracted the habit of taking whisky a
little more frequently, and had even--not unnoticed by Mr.
Dabb--provided himself with a small flask, from which he was accustomed
to solace himself by "nips" during business hours when he thought he
was not seen. Once or twice he had been late in the morning, and had
been reminded by Mr. Dabb. "Sharp's the word in my establishment,
nephew, and I show no favour."
Mr. Montgomery, too, had become a constant visitor at the Tacchis' on
Sunday, and Miriam had found herself beginning on the Monday morning to
count the hours till the next Sunday should arrive. She had told Mr.
Montgomery that she should like to hear him sing in his own hall, but
he did not receive the proposal very graciously.
"They are a rough set that go there, and you would not like to mix with
them."
"If you do not mind, why should I? Besides, could you not find some
place apart where Andrew and myself could be quiet?"
"You would object to some of the songs; they are not adapted for your
ears."
"You know nothing about my ears. I do not suppose there will be
anything wrong. Come now, promise."
Mr. Montgomery thought a little, and reflected that he could easily
obtain a secluded seat; and as for the programme, he could perhaps for
once exclude everything offensive. He said he would write and fix an
evening.
"Andrew is out all day; perhaps you had better send the note to me, so
that I may have more time to make arrangements." Miriam usually said
what she meant; but this was not what she meant. She was possessed now
by a passion which was stronger than her tendency to speak the truth.
She longed for the pleasure of a letter to herself in Mr. Montgomery's
own writing. The next morning, when she went downstairs, she looked
anxiously at the breakfast table. It was utterly impossible that he
could have written, but she thought there was a chance. She listened
for the postman's knock all day, but nothing came. How could it be
otherwise, seeing that Mr. Montgomery must go to the music hall first.
She knew he must go, and yet she listened. Reason has so little to do
with the conduct of life, even in situations in which its claim is
incontestable. The next day she had a right to expect, but she
expected in vain.
Mr. Montgomery was not a stone, but he saw no reason why he should be
in a hurry. Miriam was a bewitching creature, but he had been
frequently bewitched, and had recovered. The notion, of course, that
he was wrecking Miriam's peace of mind by delaying a little business
note, or by omitting to fix the earliest possible moment for the visit,
was too absurd to present itself to him. At last he wrote, telling
Miss Tacchi that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her and Andrew
at the hall on the day following. He would call for them both. Miriam
had not stirred from home since she last saw him, and was in the little
back room when the letter arrived. Miss Tippit brought it to her, and
she took it with an affected air of total unconcern.
"Thank you, Miss Tippit. I am sorry to see you looking so poorly."
"Thank you, Miss Tacchi; I am not well by any means," and Miss Tippit
departed.
Miriam had not latterly inquired after Miss Tippit's health, but being
excited and happy, she not only inquired, but actually felt a genuine
interest in Miss Tippit's welfare. She read the note twice--there was
nothing in it; but she took it upstairs and read it again in her
bedroom, and finally locked it up in her desk, putting it in a little
secret drawer which opened with a spring. She had in her possession
something in his hand--she was going out with him; and the outlook from
her back window over the tiles was not to be surpassed by that down a
Devonshire glen in mid-summer, with Devonshire azure on the sea.
The evening came, and Mr. Montgomery called before Andrew had arrived.
Miriam was, nevertheless, ready. She asked him if he would like
anything; could she get him any tea? But he had prepared himself for
his night's work by a drop of whisky, and did not care for tea. He did
not, however, suggest any more whisky; he was always indeed
particularly careful not to overstep the mark before his performances,
whatever he might do afterwards.
"Really, Mr. Montgomery, this is too kind of you to take the trouble to
come here out of your way for Andrew and myself."
"It is not out of my way, Miss Tacchi, and I do not believe that you
can honestly say that I, who have been idling about for three or four
hours, could find it a trouble to be here."
"Do you think I deal in hypocritical compliments?"
"Of course not; but we are all of us liars a little bit--women more
than men; and perhaps they are never so delightful as when they are
telling their little bits of falsehoods. They speak the truth, but
they _do_ lie--truth and lie, lie and truth--the truest truth, the most
lying lie;" and Mr. Montgomery took up a couple of wax ornamental
apples which were on the mantelpiece and tossed them up alternately
with one hand with the greatest dexterity, replacing them on the
mantelpiece with a smile.
At that moment Andrew appeared at the door, and in a few moments they
were all three ready. Just as they were departing, a gentleman came
downstairs.
"Pardon me," he said, speaking to Miriam, "do you live in this house?"
"Yes."
"Miss Tippit is very dangerously ill. I am her doctor. I do not like
to leave her alone with the little girl. I am going to fetch a nurse,
and will probably be able to get one in an hour. Do you mind waiting
till I return?"
Miriam was almost beside herself. She was not simply vexed, but she
cursed Miss Tippit, and would have raged at her if the presence of
others had not restrained her.
"It is extremely awkward. I have a most pressing engagement."
Andrew stared. He did not see anything particularly pressing.
"I will wait for you, Miriam."
She now hated Andrew as much as she did Miss Tippit.
"Absurd to talk of waiting. You know nothing about it. Go on. Don't
stay for me. Of course I must give it up altogether;" and she clutched
at her bonnet-strings, and tore her bonnet off her head. The doctor
was amazed, and doubted for a moment whether it would not be better to
do without her help.
"It doesn't matter, Miss Tacchi," said Mr. Montgomery; "I shall not be
on for an hour and a half, but I must be there. If you will come with
your brother, you will be in plenty of time."
She sullenly went upstairs, and Andrew remained below. When she
entered the room she shut the door with some vehemence, and the little
maid-of-all-work, who was at the head of the bed, came to meet her.
"Oh, if you please, Miss Tacchi, the doctor said she was to be kept so
quiet. Poor Miss Tippit; she is very bad, Miss; I think she's
insensible."
"You need not tell me what to do. I know just as well as yourself."
The sufferer lay perfectly still, and apparently unconscious. Miriam
looked at her for a moment; and felt rebuked, but went and sat by the
fire.
"I don't mind doing anything for her," she said to herself, "although,
she is no particular friend of mine, and not a person whom it is a
pleasure to assist; but I really don't know whether, in justice to
myself and Andrew, I ought to remain, seeing how seldom we get a chance
of enjoying ourselves, and how important a change is for both of us."
There is no person whom we can more easily deceive--no, not even the
silliest gull--than ourselves. We are always perfectly willing to deny
ourselves to any extent, or even to ruin ourselves, but unfortunately
it does not seem right we should do so. It is not selfishness, but a
moral obligation which intervenes.
The man who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves
was left half-dead. The priest and the Levite, who came and looked and
passed by on the other side, assuredly convinced themselves that most
likely the swooning wretch was not alive. They were on most important
professional errands. _Ought_ they to run the risk of entirely
upsetting those solemn, engagements by incurring the Levitical penalty
of contact with a corpse? There was but a mere chance that they could
do any good. This person was entirely unknown to them; his life might
not be worth saving, for he might be a rascal; and, on the other hand,
there were sacred duties--duties to their God. What priest or Levite,
with proper religious instincts, could possibly hesitate?
Was the Miriam who chafed at her disappointment, and invented
casuistical arguments to excuse herself, the same Miriam who walked
over to see Mortimer, Wake, and Collins on behalf of Mr. Cutts?
Precisely the same.
The doctor kept his engagement, and in an hour returned with a nurse.
When Miriam saw she was relieved, she became compassionate.
"I am so grieved," she said to the doctor, "to see Miss Tippit so ill.
Is there really _nothing_ I can do for her?"
"Nothing, madam."
Miriam, so grieved, rushed downstairs wild with excitement and delight,
laid hold of Andrew, half asleep, twitched him merrily out of the
chair, and they were off. In a few minutes they were at the hall, and
found that they were in ample time to hear Mr. Montgomery's first song.
He had taken particular care not to include anything offensive or even
broad, so that one of his audience who eat below Miriam and Andrew
exclaimed in their hearing that it was "a d----d pious night," and
wondered "what Mont's little game was."
One of Mr. Montgomery's most telling serious songs was sung in the
costume of a sailor. There was a description of his wanderings over
the "salt, salt sea," which rhymed with something "free," as it always
does, and there was a slightly veiled account of his exploits amongst
the damsels of different countries, always harmless, so at least ran
the version for the night, and yet he swore when he returned that
"My lovely Poll at Portsmouth,
When in my arms I caught her,
Was worth a hundred foreign gals
On the t'other side the water"--
a sentiment which was tumultuously applauded, although few of the men
present had travelled, and those who were married were probably not so
rapturously in love with their own domestic Polls.
Andrew was not quite comfortable, but Miriam applauded with the rest.
"How cleverly," she said, "he manages, although he is a gentleman, born
and bred, to adapt himself to the people beneath him. It is a pity,
though, that he hasn't a better sphere for his talents."
When they came out, Mr. Montgomery accompanied them home; and as it was
night, and the streets were crowded with rather rough and disorderly
persons, he offered Miriam his arm, Andrew walking on the other side of
her.
"I was half ashamed, Miss Tacchi, that you should see me go through
such a performance."
"There was nothing objectionable in it; and for that matter, we all
have to do what we do not quite like. I am sure it was very good of
you to let us come, and I enjoyed myself very much. By the way, when
you sing any of the songs, which are not comic, do you feel them? I
often wonder if a professional gentleman who can produce such an effect
on others, produces anything like the same effect on himself."
"It depends upon the mood. Do you know now that when I was singing
to-night that stupid thing about the sailor and his Portsmouth Poll, it
all at once came to my mind that no Portsmouth Poll would ever wait for
me. Did you ever hear anything so ridiculously absurd--such a bit of
maudlin nonsense. I laughed at myself afterwards. It gave me a good,
idea, though. I'll compose a burlesque, and the refrain shall be,
weeping--
"No Po-o-ortsmouth Poll is a-waiting for me."
"I don't think it was absurd," said Miriam gravely.
"You don't?" he replied, in a suddenly changed tone.
"No."
"The path is rather narrow here; you had better come a little closer."
He took her hand, and pulled her arm a little further through his own.
Was it fancy or not? He thought he detected that the pressure on his
arm was increased. When they reached Nelson Square they had supper,
and after supper Andrew and Montgomery, according to custom, enjoyed
themselves over the tobacco and whisky. Miriam knew well enough, long
before they separated, that it was time for Andrew at least to go to
bed, but she was unwilling to break up the party. At last, when it was
past one, Mr. Montgomery rose. Andrew had had more whisky than was
good for him, and Miriam went with their guest to the door. He had a
strong head, and could drink a good deal of liquor without confusing
it, but liquor altered him nevertheless. To-night it made him more
serious, and yet, strangely enough, strengthened the evil tendency in
him to cross his seriousness with instantaneous levity. He was much
given to mocking his own emotions, not only to others, but to himself.
When the door opened, he looked out into the night, and if there had
been a lamp there Miriam would have seen that for a moment his face was
very sad, but he at once recovered, or seemed to recover.
"Ah, well, I must be off. It is dark, it is late, and it rains, and
alas
"No Po-o-ortsmouth Poll is a-waiting for me."
Miriam was silent. She pitied him profoundly, and thought it was
nothing but pity.
"Good-bye, Miss Tacchi."
He took her hand in his, held it a little longer than was necessary for
an ordinary farewell, then raised it to his lips and kissed it. She
did not at once release him. "Good-bye," she said. He had moved a
little farther from her, and was descending the step, but the hands
still held. One more "good-bye," and they slowly parted their grasp,
as things part under a strain which are not in simple contact, but
intermingle their fibres.
Mr. Montgomery in a quarter of an hour was at home, and in another
quarter of an hour was asleep. Miriam, on the contrary, lay awake till
daylight, with her brain on fire, and when she woke it was nine
o'clock. Coming downstairs as soon as she was dressed, she was greatly
surprised to find that Andrew was still in bed. She was much alarmed,
went to his room, and roused him. He complained of headache and
sickness, and wished to remain at home for the day, but Miriam would
not listen to it--rather unwisely, for it would have been better if he
had not appeared before Mr. Dabb that morning. Mr. Dabb had in fact
been much provoked of late by small irregularities in Andrew's
attendance, and had at last made up his mind that on the next occasion
he would tell him, notwithstanding their relationship, that his
services were no longer required.
"Nice time to show yourself, Mr. Andrew," observed Mr. Dabb, pulling
out his watch.
"I was not well."
"I've got a word or two to say to you. Perhaps we'd better go into the
parlour."
Thither Mr. Dabb went, and Andrew followed him.
"Look you here, Mr. Andrew, I know perfectly well what is the matter
with you. You don't think that I haven't got a nose, do you? You are
my nephew, but just for that very reason you shan't be with me. I'm
not agoing to have it said that I've got a relative in my business who
drinks. I won't turn you out into the street, as I might have done,
with nothing but what was due to you. There's two months' pay, and now
we're quits. You take my advice, and let this be a lesson to you, or
you'll go from bad to worse."
Mr. Dabb produced the money, and handed it to Andrew. He was
confounded, and almost dumb with terror. At last he found words, and
implored his uncle to forgive him.
"Forgive you? Yes, I forgive you, if that will do you any good; but
business is business, and what I've settled to do that I do. Now,
then, you'd better go; I can't stand here any longer. I don't bear any
ill-will to you, but it's of no use your talking."
He opened the door, and in another minute Andrew was in the street.
Miriam heard his story. She had anticipated it, and for the moment she
said nothing. Her first care was to prevent her uncle or aunt from
communicating with Cowfold. She foresaw that her father, if he knew
her brother's disgrace, might possibly stop the allowance. She at once
put on her bonnet and called at the shop. She made no appeal for
reconsideration of the sentence--all she asked was that there should be
silence. To this Uncle Dabb assented willingly, for Miriam was half a
favourite with him, and he even went so far as somewhat to apologise
for what he had done.
"But you know," said he, "this is a shop. As I have told him over and
over again, business is business. I couldn't help it, and it's just as
well as he should have a sharpish lesson at first--nothing like that
for curing a man."
Mr. Dabb unfortunately did not know how much it takes to cure a man of
anything.
Miriam felt it would be graceless not to see her aunt, although she had
no particular desire for an interview just then.
"My dear Miriam," began that lady, without waiting for a word, "I do
regret so what has happened. I am so sorry I could not prevent it, but
I never interfere in your uncle's commercial transactions, and
reciprocally he never intrudes into my sphere. It is most
unfortunate--what do you think we can do to arrest this propensity in
your brother?"
Miriam was silent.