PLEASANT BROTHER JOHN.
"Ho, ho! I suspected as much; so this fellow Clements has been hanging
about us at parties, and dropping in here so often, for the sake of Miss
Maria, ey?"--For the door had noisily burst open to let in Mr. John
Dillaway, who under grumbled as above.
"Dear John, I am so rejoiced to see you; I am sure it will make you as
happy as myself, brother, to hear the good news: papa and mamma are so
kind, and---- I need not introduce to you my---- you have often met him
here, John--Mr. Henry Clements."
"Sir, your most obedient." The vulgar little purse-proud citizen made an
impudent sort of distant bow, and looked for all the world like a coated
Caliban sarcastically cringing to a well-bred Ferdinand.
Poor Henry felt quite taken aback at such frigid formality; and dear
Maria's very heart was in her mouth: but the brother tartly added, "If
Mr. Clements wishes to see Sir Thomas--that's his knock: he was
following me close behind: I saw him; but, as I make it a point never
to walk with the governor, perhaps it's as well for you two I dropped
in first by way of notice, ey?"
It was a dilemma, certainly--after all that Lady Dillaway had said and
recommended: fortunately, however, her lord the knight, when the street
door was opened to him, hastened straightway to his own "study," where
he had to consult some treatise upon tare and tret, and a recent
pamphlet upon the undoubted social duty, '_Run for Gold_;' so that
awkward rencounter was avoided; and Mr. Clements, taking up his hat, was
enabled to accomplish a dignified retreat.
"Dear John, your manner grieves me; I wish you had been kinder to my--to
Henry Clements."
"Oh, you do, do you? does the governor know of all this? the fellow's a
beggar."
"For shame, John! you shall not call my noble Henry such names: of
course papa has heard all."
"And approves of all this spooneying, ey, miss?"
"Brother, brother, do be gentler with me: mamma's great kindness has
smoothed away all objections, and surely you will be glad, John, to have
at last a brother of your own to love you as I do."
"Ey? what? another thief to go shares with me when the governor cuts up?
Thank you, miss, I'd rather be excused. You are quite enough, I can tell
you, for you make my whole a half; nobody wants a third: much obliged to
you, though." [Interjections may as well be understood.]
"O, dear brother, you hurt me, indeed you do: I am sure (if it were
right to say so) I would not wish to live a minute, if poor Maria's
death could--could make you any happier;--O John, my heart will----"
[Her tears can as readily be understood as his interjections.]
If a domestic railroad could have been cleverly constructed to Maria's
chamber from every room in that great house, it would have stood her in
good stead; for every day, from some room or other, this poor girl of
feeling had to rush up stairs in a torrent of grief. Yearning after
sympathy and love, neither felt nor understood by the minds with whom
she herded, a trio of worldliness, apathy, and coarse brutality, her
bosom ached as an empty void: treated with habitual neglect and cold
indifference, made various (as occasion might present) by stern rebuke
or bitter sarcasm, her heart was sore within its cell, and the poor dear
child lived a life of daily martyrdom, her feelings smitten upon the
desecrated altar of home by the "foes of her own household."
And not least hostile in the band of those home-foes was this only
brother, John. Look at him as he stands alone there, muttering after her
as she ran up stairs, "Plague take the girl!" and let me tell you what I
know of him.
That thick-set form, with its pock-marked face, imprisons as base a
spirit as Baal's. He was a chip of the old block, and something more. If
the father had a heart with "gold" written on it, the son had no heart
at all, but gold was in its place. Thoroughly unscrupulous as to ways
and means, and simply acting on the phrase "_quocunque modo rem_," he
seemed to have neither conscience of evil, nor dread of danger. In two
words, he was a "bold bad" man, divested equally of fear and feeling.
The memoirs of his past life hitherto, without controversy very little
edifying, may be guessed with quite sufficient accuracy for all
characteristic purposes from the coarse, sensual, worldly, and
iniquitous result now standing for his portraiture before us. We will
waste on such a type of heartlessness as few words as possible: let his
conduct show the man.
Just now, this worthy had risen into high favour with his father: we
already know why; he had suddenly got rich on his own account, and for
that very sufficient reason drew any additional sums he pleased on "the
governor's." The trick or two, whereat Sir Thomas hinted, and which so
wise a man would not have blabbed to fools, are worthy of record; not
merely as illustrative of character, but (in one case at least, as we
may find hereafter) for the sake of ulterior consequences.
John Dillaway's first exploit in the money-making line was a clever one.
He managed to possess himself of a carrier-pigeon of the Antwerp breed,
one among a flock kept for stock-jobbing purposes, by a certain great
capitalist; and he contrived that this trained bird should wheel down
among the merchants just at noon one fine day in the Royal Exchange. The
billet under its wing contained certain cabalistic characters, and the
plain-spoken intelligence, "_Louis Philippe est mort!_" In a minute
after these most revolutionizing news, French funds, then at one hundred
and twelve, were toppling down below ninety, and our prudent John was
buying stock in all directions: nay, he even made some considerable
bargains at eighty-seven. There was a complete panic in the market, and
wretched was the man who possessed French fives. The afternoon's work so
beautifully finished, John spent that night as true-born Britons are
reported to have done before the battle of Hastings, rioting in drunken
bliss, and panting for the morrow; and when the morrow came, and the
Paris post with it, I must leave it to be understood with what
complacency of triumph our enterprising stock-jobber hastened to sell
again at one hundred and fourteen, pocketing, in the aggregate, a
difference of several thousand pounds. It was a feat altogether to
ravish a delighted father's heart, and no wonder that he counted John so
great a comfort.
Trick number two had been at once even more lucrative and more
dangerous. As a stock-broker, this enterprising Mr. Dillaway had
peculiar opportunities of investigating closely certain records in the
office for unclaimed dividends: he had an object in such close
inspection, and discovered soon that one Mrs. Jane Mackenzie, of
Ballyriggan, near Belfast, was a considerable proprietor, and had made
no claim for years. Why should so much money lie idle? Was the woman
dead? Probably not; for in that case executors or administrators would
have touched it. Legatees and next of kin are little apt to forget such
matters. Well, then, if this Mrs. Jane Mackenzie is alive, she must be a
careless old fool, and we'll try if we can't kill her on paper, and so
come in for spoils instead of kith and kin. "Shrewd Jack," as they
called him in the Alley, chuckled within himself at so feasible a plot.
Accordingly, in an artful and well-concocted way, which we may readily
conceive, but it were weary to detail, John Dillaway managed to forge a
will of Jane Mackenzie aforesaid; and inducing some dressed-up "ladies"
of his acquaintance to personate the weeping nieces of deceased
(doubtless with no lack of Irish witnesses beside, competent to swear to
any thing), he contrived to pass probate at Doctors' Commons, and get
twelve thousand two hundred and forty-three pounds, bank annuities
transferred, as per will, to the two ladies legatees. As the munificent
_douceur_ of a thousand pounds a-piece had (for the present) stopped the
mouths of those supposititious nieces, who stipulated for not a farthing
more nor less, clever John Dillaway a second time had the filial
opportunity of rejoicing his father's heart by this wholesale
money-making. Ten thousand pounds bank stock was manifestly another good
day's work; and seeing our John had not appeared at all in the
transaction, even as the ladies' stock-broker, things were made so safe,
that the chuckling knight, when he heard all this (albeit he did
tenderly fy, fy a little at first), was soon induced to think "my son
Jack" the very best boy and the very cleverest dog in Christendom: at
once a parent's pride and joy. Yes, Lady Dillaway--such a comfort! And
the worshipful stationer apostrophized "rich Jack" with lips that seemed
to smack of Creasy's Brighton sauce, whilst his calm spouse appeared to
acquiesce in her amiable John's good fortune. The mystified mother
little guessed that it was felony.
This good son's new-born wealth, besides the now liberal paternal
largess (for his allowance grew larger in proportion as he might seem to
need it less), of course availed to introduce him to some fashionable
and estimable circles of society, whither it might not at all times be
discreet in us to follow him; amongst other places, whether or not the
Pandemonium in Jermyn street proved to him another gold mine, we have
not yet heard; but John Dillaway was often there, the intimate friend of
many splendid cavaliers who lived upon their industry, familiar with a
whole rookery of blacklegs, patron of two or three pigeonable city
sparks, and, on the whole, flusher of money than ever. His quiet mother,
if she cared about her son at all, and probably she did care when her
health permitted, might well be apprehensive on the score of that
increasing wealth which made the father's joy.
However, with all his prosperity Mr. John as yet professed himself by no
means satisfied; he was far too greedy of gain, and ever since he had
come to man's estate, had amiably longed to be an only child. Not that
he heeded a monopoly of the parental feelings and affections, nor even
that he meditated murdering Maria--oh dear, no: rather too troublesome
that, and quite unnecessary; it would be entirely sufficient if he could
manage so to influence his father as to cut that superfluous sister
Maria very short indeed in the matter of cash. With this generous and
amiable view, he now for a course of sundry years had whispered,
back-bitten, and lied; he had, as occasion offered, taken mean
advantages of Maria's outspeaking honesty, had set her warm-hearted
sayings and charitable doings in the falsest lights, and had entirely
"mildewed the ear" of her listening papa. The knight in truth listened
unreluctantly; it was consolation, if not happiness to him, if he could
make or find excuses for harshness to a being who would not worship
wealth; it would be joy and pride, and an honour to his idol, if he
should keep Maria pretty short of cash, and so make her own its
preciousness; triumphant would he feel, as a merely-moneyed man, to see
troublesome, obtrusive Heart, with all its win-ways, and whimperings,
and incomprehensible spirituality, with its sermons and its prayers,
bending before him "for a bit of bread." Yes, poor loving disinterested
Maria ran every chance of being disinherited, from the false witness of
her brother, simply because she gave him antecedent opportunities, by
her honest likings and dislikings, by her bold rebuke of wrong and open
zeal for right, by her scorn of hypocrisies as to what she did feel, or
did not feel, and by the unpopular fact that she wore a heart, and
refused to be the galley-slave of gold.
"Oh, ho, then!" said our crafty John, "we shall soon set this all right
with our governor; thank you for the chance, Miss Maria. If father
doesn't kick out this Clements, and cut you off with a shilling, he is
not Sir Thomas, and I am not his son."