Miss Pynsent, when she found herself alone, felt she was really
quite upside down; for this lurid crisis had never entered into her
calculations: the very nature of the case had seemed to preclude
it. All she had known or had wished to know was that in one of the
dreadful establishments constructed for such purposes her quondam
comrade was serving out the sentence that had been substituted for
the other (the unspeakable horror) almost when the halter was already
round her neck. As there had been no question of _that_ concession’s
being stretched any further, poor Florentine had seemed only a little
more dead than other people, having no decent tombstone to mark the
place where she lay. Miss Pynsent had therefore never thought of her
dying again; she had had no idea to what prison she was committed on
removal from Newgate (she had wished to keep her mind a blank about
the matter in the interest of the child), and it couldn’t occur to
her that out of such silence and darkness a second voice would reach
her, especially a voice she should really have to listen to. Miss
Pynsent would have said, before Mrs. Bowerbank’s visit, that she had
no account to render to any one; that she had taken up the child (who
might have starved in the gutter) out of charity, and had brought him
on, poor and precarious though her own subsistence, without a penny’s
help from another source; that the mother had forfeited every right and
title; and that this had been understood between them—if anything in
so dreadful an hour could have been said to be understood—when she had
gone to see her at Newgate (that terrible episode, nine years before,
still overshadowed all Miss Pynsent’s other memories): had gone to
see her because Florentine had sent for her (a name, face and address
coming up out of the still recent but sharply separated past of their
working-girl years) as the one friend to whom she could appeal with
some chance of a pitying answer. The effect of violent emotion with
Miss Pynsent was not to make her sit with idle hands or fidget about
to no purpose; under its influence, on the contrary, she threw herself
into little jobs as a fugitive takes to by-paths, and clipped and cut
and stitched and basted as if to run a race with hysterics. And while
her hands, her scissors, her needle flew an infinite succession of
fantastic possibilities trotted through her confused little head: she
had a furious imagination, and the act of reflexion, in her mind, was
always a panorama of figures and scenes. She had had her picture of
the future, painted in rather rosy hues, hung up before her now for
a good many years; but it struck her that Mrs. Bowerbank’s heavy hand
had suddenly punched a hole in the canvas. It must be added, however,
that if Amanda’s thoughts were apt to be bewildering visions they
sometimes led her to make up her mind, and on this particular September
evening she arrived at a momentous decision. What she made up her
mind to was to take advice, and in pursuance of this view she rushed
downstairs and, jerking Hyacinth away from his simple but unfinished
repast, packed him across the street to tell Mr. Vetch (if he had not
yet started for the theatre) that she begged he would come in to see
her when he came home that night, as she had something very particular
indeed to say to him. It didn’t matter if he should be very late, he
could come in at any hour—he would see her light in the window—and
he would do her no end of good. Miss Pynsent knew it was no use for
her to go to bed; she felt as if she should never close her eyes
again. Mr. Vetch was her most distinguished friend; she had an immense
appreciation of his cleverness and knowledge of the world, as well as
of the purity of his taste in matters of conduct and opinion; and she
had already consulted him about Hyacinth’s education. The boy needed
no urging to go on such an errand, for he too had his ideas about the
little fiddler, the second violin in the orchestra of the Bloomsbury
Theatre. Mr. Vetch had on a great occasion, within the year, obtained
for the pair an order for two seats at a pantomime, and to Hyacinth
the impression of that ecstatic evening had consecrated him, placed
him for ever in the golden glow of the footlights. There were things in
life of which, even at the age of ten, it was a conviction of the boy’s
that it would be his fate never to see enough, and one of these was the
wonder-world illuminated by those playhouse lamps. But there would be
chances perhaps if one didn’t lose sight of Mr. Vetch: he might open
the door again—he was a privileged, magical mortal who went to the play
every night.
He came in to see Miss Pynsent about midnight; as soon as she heard the
lame tinkle of the bell she went to the door and let him in. He was an
original, in the fullest sense of the word: a lonely, disappointed,
embittered, cynical little man, whose musical organisation had been
sterile, who had the nerves and sensibilities of a gentleman, yet whose
fate had condemned him for the last ten years to play a fiddle at a
second-rate establishment for a few shillings a week. He had ideas of
his own about everything, and they were not always very improving. For
Amanda Pynsent he represented art, literature (the literature of the
play-bill) and philosophy, so that she always felt about him as if he
belonged to a higher social sphere, though his earnings were hardly
greater than her own and he occupied a single back room in a house
where she had never seen a window washed. He had for her the glamour
of reduced gentility and fallen fortunes; she was conscious that he
spoke a different language (though she couldn’t have said in what,
unless in more wicked words as well as more grand ones, the difference
consisted) from the other members of her humble, almost suburban
circle; and the shape of his hands was distinctly aristocratic. (Miss
Pynsent, as I have intimated, was immensely preoccupied with that
element in life.) Mr. Vetch displeased her only by one of the aspects
of his character—his blasphemous republican, radical views and the
licentious manner in which he expressed himself about the nobility.
On that ground he worried her extremely, though he never seemed to
her so probably well-connected, like Hyacinth himself, as when he
horrified her most. These dreadful theories (expressed so brilliantly
that really they might have been dangerous if Miss Pynsent had not been
so grounded in the Christian faith and known thereby her own place so
well) constituted no presumption against his refined origin; they were
explained rather to a certain extent by a just resentment at finding
himself excluded from his proper position. Mr. Vetch was short, fat
and bald, though he was not much older than Miss Pynsent, who was not
much older than some people who called themselves forty-five; he always
went to the theatre in evening dress, with a flower in his buttonhole,
and wore a glass in one eye. He looked placid and genial and as if he
would fidget at the most about the “get up” of his linen; you would
have thought him finical but superficial, and never have suspected
that he was a revolutionist, or even an at all bold critic of life.
Sometimes when he could get away from the theatre early enough he
went with a pianist, a friend of his, to play dance-music at small
parties; and after such expeditions he was particularly cynical and
startling; he indulged in diatribes against the British middle-class,
its Philistinism, its absurdity, its snobbery. He seldom had much
conversation with Miss Pynsent without telling her that she had the
intellectual outlook of a caterpillar; but this was his privilege after
a friendship now of seven years’ standing, which had begun (the year
after he came to live in Lomax Place) with her going over to nurse him
on learning from the milk-woman that he was alone at number 17—laid up
there with an attack of gastritis. He always compared her to an insect
or a bird, and she didn’t mind, because she knew he liked her, and she
herself liked all winged creatures. How indeed could she complain after
hearing him call the Queen a superannuated form and the Archbishop of
Canterbury a grotesque superstition?
He laid his violin-case on the table, which was covered with a
confusion of fashion-plates and pin-cushions, and glanced toward the
fire where a kettle was gently hissing. Miss Pynsent, who had put it
on half an hour before, read his glance and reflected with complacency
that Mrs. Bowerbank had not absolutely drained the little bottle in
the cheffoneer. She placed it on the table again, this time with a
single glass, and told her visitor that, as a great exception, he
might light his pipe. In fact she always made the exception, and
he always replied to the gracious speech by inquiring whether she
supposed the greengrocers’ wives, the butchers’ daughters, for whom
she worked had fine enough noses to smell in the garments she sent
home the fumes of his tobacco. He knew her “connexion” was confined
to small shopkeepers, but she didn’t wish others to know it and would
have liked them to believe it important the poor little stuffs she
made up (into very queer fashions I am afraid) should not surprise the
feminine nostril. But it had always been impossible to impose on Mr.
Vetch; he guessed the truth, the treacherous untrimmed truth, about
everything in a moment. She was sure he would do so now in regard to
this solemn question that had come up for Hyacinth; he would see that,
though agreeably flurried at finding herself whirled in the last eddies
of a case that had been so celebrated in its day, her secret wish
was to shirk her duty—if it was a duty; to keep the child from ever
knowing his mother’s unmentionable history, the shame that attached
to his origin, the opportunity she had had of letting him see the
wretched woman before it was too late. She knew Mr. Vetch would read
her troubled thoughts, but she hoped he would say they were natural
and just: she reflected that as he took an interest in Hyacinth he
wouldn’t desire him to be subjected to a mortification that might
rankle for ever and perhaps even crush him to the earth. She related
Mrs. Bowerbank’s visit while he sat on the sofa in the very place
where that majestic woman had reposed and puffed his smoke-wreaths
into the dusky little room. He knew the story of the child’s birth,
had known it years before, so that she had no startling revelation
to make. He was not in the least agitated to hear of Florentine’s
approaching end in prison and of her having managed to get a message
conveyed to Amanda; he thought this so much in the usual course that he
said to Miss Pynsent: “Did you expect her to live on there for ever,
working out her terrible sentence, just to spare you the annoyance of
a dilemma, to save you a reminder of her miserable existence, which
you have preferred to forget?” That was just the sort of question Mr.
Vetch was sure to ask, and he inquired further of his dismayed hostess
if she were sure her friend’s message (he called the unhappy creature
her friend) had come to her in the regular way. The warders surely
had no authority to introduce visitors to their captives, and was it a
question of her going off to the prison on the sole authority of Mrs.
Bowerbank? The little dressmaker explained that this lady had merely
come to sound her: Florentine had begged so hard. She had been in Mrs.
Bowerbank’s ward before her removal to the infirmary, where she now
lay ebbing away, and she had communicated her desire to the Catholic
chaplain, who had undertaken that some satisfaction—of inquiry, at
least—should be given her. He had thought it best to ascertain first
whether the person in charge of the child would be willing to bring
him, such a course being perfectly optional, and he had had some talk
with Mrs. Bowerbank on the subject, in which it was agreed between
them that if she would approach Miss Pynsent and explain to her the
situation, leaving her to do what she thought best, he would answer
for it that the consent of the governor of the prison should be given
to the interview. Miss Pynsent had lived for fourteen years in Lomax
Place, and Florentine had never forgotten that this was her address at
the time she came to her at Newgate (before her dreadful sentence had
been commuted) and promised, in an outgush of pity for one whom she had
known in the days of her honesty and brightness, that she would save
the child, rescue it from the workhouse and the streets, keep it from
the fate that had swallowed up the mother. Mrs. Bowerbank had had a
half-holiday, and she also rejoiced in a sister living in the north of
London, to whom she had been for some time intending a visit; so that
after her domestic duty had been performed it had been possible for her
to drop in on Miss Pynsent in an informal, natural way and put the case
before her. It would be just as she might be disposed to view it. She
was to think it over a day or two, but not long, because the woman was
so ill, and then write to Mrs. Bowerbank at the prison. If she should
consent Mrs. Bowerbank would tell the chaplain, and the chaplain would
obtain the order from the governor and send it to Lomax Place; after
which Amanda would immediately set out with her unconscious victim. But
should she—_must_ she—consent? That was the terrible, the heart-shaking
question, with which Miss Pynsent’s unaided wisdom had been unable to
grapple.
“After all, he isn’t hers any more—he’s mine, mine only and mine
always. I should like to know if all I’ve done for him doesn’t make
him so!” It was in this manner that Amanda Pynsent delivered herself
while she plied her needle faster than ever in a piece of stuff that
was pinned to her knee.
Mr. Vetch watched her a while, blowing silently at his pipe, his head
thrown back on the high, stiff, old-fashioned sofa and his little legs
crossed under him like a Turk’s. “It’s true you’ve done a good deal
for him. You’re a good little woman, my dear Pinnie, after all.” He
said “after all” because that was a part of his tone. In reality he had
never had a moment’s doubt that she was the best little woman in the
north of London.
“I’ve done what I could, and I don’t put myself forward above others.
Only it does make a difference when you come to look at it—about taking
him off to see another woman. And _such_ another woman—and in such a
place! I think it’s hardly right to take an innocent child.”
“I don’t know about that; there are people who would tell you it would
do him good. If he didn’t like the place as a child he’d take more care
to keep out of it later.”
“Lord, Mr. Vetch, how can you think? And him such a perfect little
gentleman!” Miss Pynsent cried.
“Is it you that have made him one?” the fiddler asked. “It doesn’t run
in the family, you’d say.”
“Family? what do you know about that?” she returned quickly, catching
at her dearest, her only hobby.
“Yes indeed, what does any one know? what did she know herself?” And
then Miss Pynsent’s visitor added irrelevantly: “Why should you have
taken him on your back? Why did you want to be so extra good? No one
else thinks it necessary.”
“I didn’t want to be extra good. That is I do want to, of course, in a
general way: but that wasn’t the reason then. You see I had nothing of
my own—I had nothing in the world but my thimble.”
“That would have seemed to most people a reason for not adopting a
prostitute’s bastard.”
“Well, I went to see him at the place where he was (just where she
had left him, with the woman of the house) and I saw what kind of a
shop _that_ was, and felt it a shame an unspotted child should grow
up in such a place.” Miss Pynsent defended herself as earnestly as if
her inconsistency had been of a criminal cast. “And he wouldn’t have
grown up neither. _They_ wouldn’t have troubled themselves long with
a helpless baby. _They’d_ have played some bad trick on him, if it was
only to send him to the workhouse. Besides, I always was fond of tiny
creatures and I’ve been fond of this one,” she went on, speaking as if
with a consciousness, on her own part, of almost heroic proportions.
“He was in my way the first two or three years, and it was a good deal
of a pull to look after the business and him together. But now he’s
like the business—he seems to go of himself.”
“Oh, if he flourishes as the business flourishes you can just enjoy
your peace of mind,” said the fiddler, still with his manner of making
a small dry joke of everything.
“That’s all very well, but it doesn’t close my eyes to that poor woman
lying there and moaning just for the touch of his little ’and before
she passes away. Mrs. Bowerbank says she believes I’ll bring him.”
“Who believes? Mrs. Bowerbank?”
“I wonder if there’s anything in life holy enough for you to take it
seriously,” Miss Pynsent rejoined, snapping off a thread with temper.
“The day you stop laughing I should like to be there.”
“So long as you’re there I shall never stop. What is it you want me to
advise you? to take the child, or to leave the mother to wail herself
away?”
“I want you to tell me if he’ll curse me when he grows older.”
“That depends on what you do. However, he’ll probably curse you in
either case.”
“You don’t believe that, because you like him, you love him,” said
Amanda with acuteness.
“Precisely; and he’ll curse me too. He’ll curse every one. Much good
will our love do us! He won’t be happy.”
“I don’t know how you think I bring him up,” the little dressmaker
remarked with dignity.
“You don’t bring him up at all. He brings you up.”
“That’s what you’ve always said; but you don’t know. If you mean that
he does as he likes, then he ought to be happy. It ain’t kind of you to
say he won’t be,” Miss Pynsent added reproachfully.
“I’d say anything you like if what I say would help the matter. He’s a
thin-skinned, morbid, mooning, introspective little beggar, with a good
deal of imagination and not much perseverance, who’ll expect a good
deal more of life than he’ll find in it. That’s why he won’t be happy.”
Miss Pynsent listened to this description of her _protégé_ with an
appearance of criticising it mentally; but in reality she didn’t know
what “introspective” meant and didn’t like to ask. “He’s the cleverest
person I know except yourself,” she said in a moment; for Mr. Vetch’s
words had been in the key of what she thought most remarkable in him.
What that was she would have been unable to say.
“Thank you very much for putting me first,” the fiddler returned after
a series of puffs. “The youngster’s interesting; one sees he has a
mind and even a soul, and in that respect he’s—I won’t say unique, but
peculiar. I shall watch with curiosity to see what he grows into. But I
shall always be glad that I’m a selfish brute of a decent bachelor—that
I never invested in that class of goods.”
“Well, you _are_ comforting. You’d spoil him more than I do,” said
Amanda.
“Possibly, but it would be in a different way. I wouldn’t tell him
every three minutes that his father was a duke.”
“A duke I never mentioned!” the little dressmaker cried with
eagerness. “I never specified any rank nor said a word about any one
in particular. I never so much as insinuated the name of his lordship.
But I may have said that if the truth was to be found out he might be
proved to be connected—in the way of cousinship, or something of the
kind—with the highest in the land. I should have thought myself wanting
if I hadn’t given him a glimpse of that. But there’s one thing I’ve
always added—that the truth never _is_ found out.”
“You’re still more comforting than I!” Mr. Vetch exclaimed. He
continued to watch her with his charitable, round-faced smile, and
then he said: “You won’t do what I say; so what’s the use of my telling
you?”
“I assure you I will, if you say you believe it’s the only right.”
“Do I often say anything so asinine? Right—right? what have you to do
with that? If you want the only right you’re very particular.”
“Please then what am I to go by?” the dressmaker asked bewildered.
“You’re to go by this, by what will take the youngster down.”
“Take him down, my poor little pet?”
“Your poor little pet thinks himself the flower of creation. I don’t
say there’s any harm in that: a fine blooming, odoriferous conceit is
a natural appendage of youth and intelligence. I don’t say there’s any
great harm in it, but if you want a guide as to how you’re to treat the
boy, that’s as good a guide as any other.”
“You want me to arrange the interview then?”
“I don’t want you to do anything but give me another _leetle_
swig—thanks. I just say this: that I think it’s a great gain, early
in life, to know the worst; then we don’t live in a rank fools’
paradise. I did that till I was nearly forty; then I woke up and found
I was in Lomax Place.” Whenever Mr. Vetch said anything that could be
construed as a reference to a former position that had had elements
of distinction Miss Pynsent observed a respectful, a tasteful silence
and that is why she didn’t challenge him now, though she wanted very
much to say that Hyacinth was no more “presumptious” (that was the
term she would have used) than he had reason to be, with his genteel
appearance, and his acknowledged powers; and that as for thinking
himself a “flower” of any kind he knew but too well that he lived in
a small black-faced house miles away from any good family, rented by
a poor little woman who took lodgers and who, as they were of such
a class that they were not always to be depended upon to settle her
weekly account, had a strain to make two ends meet, for all the sign
between her windows—
MISS AMANDA PYNSENT
_Modes et Robes_
DRESSMAKING IN ALL ITS BRANCHES: COURT-DRESSES:
MANTLES AND FASHIONABLE BONNETS
Singularly enough, her companion, before she had permitted herself to
interpose, took up her own thought (in one of its parts) and remarked
that perhaps she would say of the child that he was, so far as his
actual circumstances were concerned, low enough down in the world
without one’s wanting him to be any lower. “But by the time he’s twenty
he’ll persuade himself that Lomax Place was a bad dream, that your
lodgers and your dressmaking were as imaginary as they are vulgar, and
that when an old friend came to see you late at night it was not your
amiable practice to make him a glass of brandy and water. He’ll teach
himself to forget all this: he’ll have a way.”
“Do you mean he’ll forget _me_, he’ll deny me?” cried Miss Pynsent,
stopping the movement of her needle short off for the first time.
“As the person designated in that attractive blazonry on the outside
of your house decidedly he will; and me, equally, as a bald-headed,
pot-bellied fiddler who regarded you as the most perfect lady of his
acquaintance. I don’t mean he’ll disown you and pretend he never knew
you: I don’t think he’ll ever be such an odious little cad as that; he
probably won’t be a sneak, and he strikes me as having some affection
and possibly even some gratitude in him. But his imagination (which
will always give him his cue about everything) shall subject you to
some extraordinary metamorphosis. He’ll dress you up.”
“He’ll dress me up?” Amanda ejaculated, quite ceasing to follow
the train of Mr. Vetch’s demonstration. “Do you mean he’ll have the
property—that his relations will take him up?”
“My dear, delightful, idiotic Pinnie, I’m speaking in a figurative
manner. I don’t pretend to say what his precise position will be when
we’re relegated; but I’m sure relegation will be our fate. Therefore
don’t stuff him with any more false notions and fine illusions than are
necessary to keep him alive; he’ll be sure to pick up enough on the
way. On the contrary, give him a good stiff dose of the truth at the
start.”
“Deary me, of course you see much further into it than I could ever
do,” Pinnie murmured as she threaded a needle.
Mr. Vetch paused a minute, but apparently not out of deference to this
amiable interruption. He went on suddenly with a ring of feeling in his
voice. “Let him know, because it will be useful to him later, the state
of the account between society and himself; he can then conduct himself
accordingly. If he’s the illegitimate child of a French impropriety
who murdered one of her numerous lovers, don’t shuffle out of sight so
important a fact. I regard that as a most valuable origin.”
“Lord, Mr. Vetch, how you _can_ talk!” cried Miss Pynsent with her
ever-fresh faculty of vain protest. “I don’t know what one would think,
to hear you.”
“Surely, my dear lady, and for this reason: that those are the people
with whom society has to count. It hasn’t with you and me.” Miss
Pynsent gave a sigh which might have meant either that she was well
aware of that or that Mr. Vetch had a terrible way of enlarging a
subject, especially when it was already too big for her; and her
philosophic visitor went on: “Poor little devil, let him see her, take
him straight.”
“And if later, when he’s twenty, he says to me that if I hadn’t meddled
in it he need never have known, need never have had that shame, pray
what am I to say to him then? That’s what I can’t get out of my head.”
“You can say to him that a young man who’s sorry for having gone to his
mother when, in her last hours, she lay crying for him on a pallet in
a penitentiary, deserves more than the sharpest pang he can possibly
feel.” And the little fiddler, getting up, went over to the fireplace
and shook out the ashes of his pipe.
“Well, I’m sure it’s natural he should feel badly,” said Miss Pynsent,
folding up her work with the same desperate quickness that had animated
her through the evening.
“I haven’t the least objection to his feeling badly; that’s not the
worst thing in the world! If a few more people felt badly, in this
sodden, stolid, stupid race of ours, the world would wake up to an
idea or two and we should see the beginning of the dance. It’s the
dull acceptance, the absence of reflexion, the impenetrable density.”
Here Mr. Vetch stopped short; his hostess stood before him with eyes of
entreaty, with clasped hands.
“Now, Anastasius Vetch, don’t go off into them dreadful wild theories!”
she cried, always ungrammatical when she was strongly moved. “You
always fly away over the house-tops. I thought you liked him better—the
dear little unfortunate.”
Anastasius Vetch had pocketed his pipe; he put on his hat with the
freedom of old acquaintance and of Lomax Place, and took up his small
coffin-like fiddle-case. “My good Pinnie, I don’t think you understand
a word I say. It’s no use talking—do as you like!”
“Well, I must say I don’t think it was worth your coming in at midnight
only to tell me that. I don’t like anything—I hate the whole dreadful
business!”
He bent over, for all his figure, to kiss her hand with the flourish
of a troubadour and as he had seen people do on the stage. “My dear
friend, we’ve different ideas, and I never shall succeed in driving
mine into your head. It’s because I _am_ fond of him, poor little
devil; but you’ll never understand that. I want him to know everything,
and especially the worst—the very worst, as I’ve said. If I were in his
position I shouldn’t thank you for trying to make a fool of me.”
“A fool of you?—as if I thought of anything but his ’appiness!” Amanda
Pynsent exclaimed. She stood looking at him but following her own
reflexions; she had given up the attempt to enter into his whims. She
remembered what she had noticed in other occurrences, that his reasons
were always more extraordinary than his behaviour itself. If you only
considered his life you wouldn’t have thought him so immoral. “Very
likely I think too much of that,” she added. “She wants him and cries
for him; that’s what keeps coming back to me.” She took up her lamp to
light Mr. Vetch to the door (for the dim luminary in the passage had
long since been extinguished), and before he left the house he turned
suddenly, stopping short and with his composed face taking a strange
expression from the quizzical glimmer of his little round eyes.
“What does it matter after all, and why do you worry? What difference
can it make what happens—on either side—to such low people?”