BETWEEN OLD AND NEW
Julian Casti's uncle had been three years dead. It was well for him
that he lived no longer; his business had continued to dwindle, and the
last months of the poor man's life were embittered by the prospect of
inevitable bankruptcy. He died of an overdose of some opiate, which the
anguish of sleeplessness brought him into the habit of taking. Suicide
it might have been, yet that was scarcely probable; he was too anxious
on his daughter's account to abandon her in this way, for certainly his
death could be nothing to her profit. Julian was then already eighteen,
and quickly succeeded in getting a situation. Harriet Smales left
London, and went to live with her sole relative, except Julian, an aunt
who kept a stationer's shop in Colchester. She was taught the business,
and assisted her aunt for more than two years, when, growing tired of
the life of a country town, she returned to London, and succeeded in
getting a place at a stationer's in Gray's Inn Road. This was six
months ago. Having thus established herself, she wrote to Julian, and
told him where she was.
Julian never forgot the promise he had made to his uncle that Christmas
night, eight years ago, when he was a lad of thirteen. Harriet he had
always regarded as his sister, and never yet had he failed in brotherly
duty to her. When the girl left Colchester, she was on rather bad terms
with her aunt, and the latter wrote to Julian, saying that she knew
nothing of Harriet's object in going to London, but that it was
certainly advisable that some friend should be at hand, if possible, to
give her advice; though advice (she went on to say) was seldom
acceptable to Harriet. This letter alarmed Julian, as it was the first
he had heard of his cousin's new step; the letter from herself at the
end of a week's time greatly relieved him, and he went off as soon as
possible to see her. He found her living in the house where she was
engaged, apparently with decent people, and moderately contented; more
than this could never be said of the girl. Since then, he had seen her
at least once every week. Sometimes he visited her at the shop; when
the weather was fine, they spent the Sunday afternoon in walking
together. Harriet's health seemed to have improved since her return to
town. Previously, as in her childhood, she had always been more or less
ailing. From both father and mother she had inherited an unhealthy
body; there was a scrofulous tendency in her constitution, and the
slightest casual ill-health, a cold or any trifling accident, always
threatened her with serious results. She was of mind corresponding to
her body; restless, self-willed, discontented, sour-tempered,
querulous. She certainly used no special pains to hide these faults
from Julian, perhaps was not herself sufficiently conscious of them,
but the young man did not seem to be repelled by her imperfections; he
invariably treated her with gentle forbearance, pitied her sufferings,
did many a graceful little kindness in hope of pleasing her.
The first interview between Julian and Waymark was followed by a second
a few days after, when it was agreed that they should spend each Sunday
evening together in Kennington; Julian had no room in which he could
well receive visitors. The next Sunday proved fine; Julian planned to
take Harriet for a walk in the afternoon, then, after accompanying her
home, to proceed to Walcot Square. As was usual on these occasions, he
was to meet his cousin at the Holborn end of Gray's Inn Road, and, as
also was the rule, Harriet came some twenty minutes late. Julian was
scrupulously punctual, and waiting irritated him not a little, but he
never allowed himself to show his annoyance. There was always the same
kind smile on his handsome face, and the pressure of his hand was warm.
Harriet Smales was about a year younger than her cousin. Her dress
showed moderately good taste, with the usual fault of a desire to
imitate an elegance which she could not in reality afford. She wore a
black jacket, fur-trimmed, over a light grey dress; her black straw hat
had a few flowers in front. Her figure was good and her movements
graceful; she was nearly as tall as Julian. Her face, however, could
not be called attractive; it was hollow and of a sickly hue, even the
lips scarcely red. Grey eyes, beneath which were dark circles, looked
about with a quick, suspicious glance; the eye-brows made almost a
straight line. The nose was of a coarse type, the lips heavy and
indicative of ill-temper. The disagreeable effect of these lineaments
was heightened by a long scar over her right temple; she evidently did
her best to conceal it by letting her hair come forward very much on
each side, an arrangement in itself unsuited to her countenance.
"I think I'm going to leave my place," was her first remark to-day, as
they turned to walk westward. She spoke in a dogged way with which
Julian was familiar enough, holding her eyes down, and, as she walked,
swinging her arms impatiently.
"I hope not," said her cousin, looking at her anxiously. "What has
happened?"
"Oh, I don't know; it's always the same; people treat you as if you was
so much dirt. I haven't been accustomed to it, and I don't see why I
should begin now. I can soon enough get a new shop."
"Has Mrs. Ogle been unkind to you?"
"Oh, I don't know, and I don't much care. You're expected to slave just
the same, day after day, whether you're feeling well or not."
This indirect and querulous mode of making known her grievances was
characteristic of the girl. Julian bore with it very patiently.
"Haven't you been feeling well?" he asked, with the same kindness.
"Well, no, I haven't. My head fairly splits now, and this sun isn't
likely to make it any better."
"Let us cross to the shady side."
"'Twon't make any difference; I can't run to get out of the way of
horses."
Julian was silent for a little.
"Why didn't you write to me in the week?" she asked presently. "I'm
sure it would be a relief to hear from somebody sometimes. It's like a
year from one Sunday to another."
"Did I promise to write? I really didn't remember having done so; I'm
very sorry. I might have told you about a new friend I've got."
Harriet looked sharply into his face. Julian had made no mention of
Waymark on the preceding Sunday; it had been a rainy day, and they had
only spent a few minutes together in the parlour which Mrs. Ogle, the
keeper of the shop, allowed them to use on these occasions.
"What sort of a friend?" the girl inquired rather sourly.
"A very pleasant fellow, rather older than myself; I made his
acquaintance by chance."
Julian avoided reference to the real circumstances. He knew well the
difficulty of making Harriet understand them.
"We are going to see each other every Sunday," he went on.
"Then I suppose you'll give up coming for me?"
"Oh no, not at all. I shall see him at night always, after I have left
you."
"Where does he live?"
"Rather far off; in Kennington."
"What is he?"
"A teacher in a school. I hope to get good from being with him; we're
going to read together, and so on. I wish you could find some pleasant
companion of the same kind, Harriet; you wouldn't feel so lonely."
"I dare say I'm better off without anybody. I shouldn't suit them. It's
very few people I do suit, or else people don't suit me, one or the
other. What's his name, your new friend's?"
"Waymark."
"And he lives in Kennington? Whereabouts?"
"In Walcot Square. I don't think you know that part, do you?"
"What number?"
Julian looked at her with some surprise. He found her eyes fixed with
penetrating observation upon his face. He mentioned the number, and she
evidently made a mental note of it. She was silent for some minutes.
"I suppose you'll go out at nights with him?" was her next remark.
"It is scarcely likely. Where should we go to?"
"Oh, I don't know, and I don't suppose it matters much, to me."
"You seem vexed at this, Harriet. I'm very sorry. Really, it's the
first friend I've ever had. I've often felt the need of some such
companionship."
"I'm nobody?" she said, with a laugh, the first today.
Julian's face registered very perfectly the many subtle phases of
thought and emotion which succeeded each other in his mind. This last
remark distressed him for a moment; he could not bear to hurt another's
feelings.
"Of course I meant male friend," he said quickly. "You are my sister."
"No, I'm not," was the reply; and, as she spoke, Harriet glanced
sideways at him in a particularly unpleasant manner. She herself meant
it to be pleasant.
"Oh yes, you are, Harriet," he insisted good-humouredly. "We've been
brother and sister ever since we can remember, haven't we?"
"But we aren't really, for all that," said the girl, looking away.
"Well, now you've got somebody else to take you up, I know very well I
shall see less of you. You'll be making excuses to get out of the rides
when the summer comes again."
"Pray don't say or think anything of the kind, Harriet," urged Julian
with feeling. "I should not think of letting anything put a stop to our
picnics. It will soon be getting warm enough to think of the river,
won't it? And then, if you would like it, there is no reason why my
friend shouldn't come with us, sometimes."
"Oh, nonsense! Why, you'd be ashamed to let him know me."
"Ashamed! How can you possibly think so? But you don't mean it; you are
joking."
"I'm sure I'm not. I should make mistakes in talking, and all sorts of
things. You don't think much of me, as it is, and that would make you
like me worse still."
She tossed her head nervously, and swung her arms with the awkward
restlessness which always denoted some strong feeling in her.
"Come, Harriet, this is too bad," Julian exclaimed, smiling. "Why, I
shall have to quarrel with you, to prove that we're good friends."
"I wish you _would_ quarrel with me sometimes," said the girl, laughing
in a forced way. "You take all my bad-temper always just in the same
quiet way. I'd far rather you fell out with me. It's treating me too
like a child, as if it didn't matter how I went on, and I wasn't
anything to you."
Of late, Harriet had been getting much into the habit of this ambiguous
kind of remark when in her cousin's company. Julian noticed it, and it
made him a trifle uneasy. He attributed it, however, to the girl's
strangely irritable disposition, and never failed to meet such
outbreaks with increased warmth and kindness of tone. To-day, Harriet's
vagaries seemed to affect him somewhat unusually. He became silent at
times, and then tried to laugh away the unpleasantness, but the
laughter was not exactly spontaneous. At length he brought back the
conversation to the point from which it had started, and asked if she
had any serious intention of leaving Mrs. Ogle.
"I'm tired of being ordered about by people!" Harriet exclaimed. "I
know I sha'n't put up with it much longer. I only wish I'd a few pounds
to start a shop for myself."
"I heartily wish I had the money to give you," was Julian's reply.
"Don't you save anything at all?" asked his cousin, with affected
indifference.
"A little; very little. At all events, I think we shall be able to have
our week at the seaside when the time comes. Have you thought where
you'd like to go to?"
"No; I haven't thought anything about it. What time shall you get back
home to-night?"
"Rather late, I dare say. We sit talking and forget the time. It may be
after twelve o'clock."
Harriet became silent again. They reached Hyde Park, and joined the
crowds of people going in all directions about the walks. Harriet had
always a number of ill-natured comments to make on the dress and
general appearance of people they passed. Julian smiled, but with no
genuine pleasure. As always, he did his best to lead the girl's
thoughts away from their incessant object, herself.
They were back again at the end of Gray's Inn Road by half-past four.
"Well, I won't keep you," said Harriet, with the sour smile. "I know
you're in a hurry to be off. Are you going to walk?"
"Yes; I can do it in about an hour."
The girl turned away without further leave-taking, and Julian walked
southwards with a troubled face.
Waymark expected him to tea. At this, their third meeting, the two were
already on very easy terms. Waymark did the greater share of the
talking, for Julian was naturally of fewer words; from the beginning it
was clear that the elder of the friends would have the initiative in
most things. Waymark unconsciously displayed something of that egoism
which is inseparable from force of character, and to the other this was
far from disagreeable; Julian liked the novel sensation of having a
strong nature to rely upon. Already he was being led by his natural
tendency to hero-worship into a fervid admiration for his friend.
"What have you' been doing with yourself this fine day?" Waymark asked,
as they sat down to table.
"I always spend Sunday afternoon with a cousin of mine," replied
Julian, with the unhesitating frankness which was natural to him.
"Male or female?"
"Female." There was a touch of colour on his face as he met the other's
eye, and he continued rather quickly. "We lived together always as
children, and were only separated at my uncle's death, three years ago.
She is engaged at a stationer's shop."
"What is a fellow to do to get money?" Waymark exclaimed, when his pipe
was well alight. "I'm growing sick of this hand-to-mouth existence. Now
if one had a bare competency, what glorious possibilities would open
out. The vulgar saying has it that 'time is money;' like most vulgar
sayings putting the thing just the wrong way about. 'Money is time,' I
prefer to say; it means leisure, and all that follows. Why don't you
write a poem on Money, Casti? I almost feel capable of it myself. What
can claim precedence, in all this world, over hard cash? It is the
fruitful soil wherein is nourished the root of the tree of life; it is
the vivifying principle of human activity. Upon it luxuriate art,
letters, science; rob them of its sustenance, and they droop like
withering leaves. Money means virtue; the lack of it is vice. The devil
loves no lurking-place like an empty purse. Give me a thousand pounds
to-morrow, and I become the most virtuous man in England. I satisfy all
my instincts freely, openly, with no petty makeshifts and vile
hypocrisies. To scorn and revile wealth is the mere resource of
splenetic poverty. What cannot be purchased with coin of the realm?
First and foremost, freedom. The moneyed man is the sole king; the
herds of the penniless are but as slaves before his footstool. He
breathes with a sense of proprietorship in the whole globe-enveloping
atmosphere; for is it not in his power to inhale it wheresoever he
pleases? He puts his hand in his pocket, and bids with security for
every joy of body and mind; even death he faces with the comforting
consciousness that his defeat will only coincide with that of human
science. He buys culture, he buys peace of mind, he buys love.--You
think not! I don't use the word cynically, but in very virtuous
earnest. Make me a millionaire, and I will purchase the passionate
devotion of any free-hearted woman the world contains!"
Waymark's pipe had gone out; he re-lit it, with the half-mocking smile
which always followed upon any more vehement utterance.
"That I am poor," he went on presently, "is the result of my own
pigheadedness. My father was a stock-broker, in anything but
flourishing circumstances. He went in for some cursed foreign loan or
other,--I know nothing of such things,--and ruined himself completely.
He had to take a subordinate position, and died in it. I was about
seventeen then, and found myself alone in the world. A friend of my
father's, also a city man, Woodstock by name, was left my guardian. He
wanted me to begin a business career, and, like a fool, I wouldn't hear
of it. Mr. Woodstock and I quarrelled; he showed himself worthy of his
name, and told me plainly that, if I didn't choose to take his advice,
I must shift for myself. That I professed myself perfectly ready to do;
I was bent on an intellectual life, forsooth; couldn't see that the
natural order of things was to make money first and be intellectual
afterwards. So, lad as I was, I got a place as a teacher, and that's
been my business ever since."
Waymark threw himself back and laughed carelessly. He strummed a little
with his fingers on the arm of the chair, and resumed:
"I interested myself in religion and philosophy; I became an aggressive
disciple of free-thought, as it is called. Radicalism of every kind
broke out in me, like an ailment. I bought cheap free-thought
literature; to one or two papers of the kind I even contributed. I keep
these effusions carefully locked up, for salutary self-humiliation at
some future day, when I shall have grown conceited. Nay, I went
further. I delivered lectures at working-men's clubs, lectures with
violent titles. One, I remember, was called 'The Gospel of
Rationalism.' And I was enthusiastic in the cause, with an enthusiasm
such as I shall never experience again. Can I imagine myself writing
and speaking such things now-a-days? Scarcely: yet the spirit remains,
it is only the manifestations which have changed. I am by nature
combative; I feel the need of attacking the cherished prejudices of
society; I have a joy in outraging what are called the proprieties. And
I wait for my opportunity, which has yet to come."
"How commonplace my life has been, in comparison," said Julian, after
an interval of thoughtfulness.
"Your nature, I believe, is very pure, and therefore very happy. _I_ am
what Browning somewhere calls a 'beast with a speckled hide,' and
happiness, I take it, I shall never know."
Julian could begin to see that his friend took something of a pleasure
in showing and dwelling upon the worst side of his own character.
"You will be happy," he said, "when you once find your true work, and
feel that you are doing it well."
"But the motives, the motives!--Never mind, I've talked enough of
myself for one sitting. Don't think I've told you everything. Plenty
more confessions to come, when time and place shall serve. Little by
little you will get to know me, and by then will most likely have had
enough of me."
"That is not at all likely; rather the opposite."
When they left the house together, shortly after eleven, Julian's eye
fell upon the dark figure of a girl, standing by a gas-lamp on the
opposite side of the way. The figure held his gaze. Waymark moved on,
and he had to follow, but still looked back. The girl had a veil half
down upon her face; she was gazing after the two. She moved, and the
resemblance to Harriet was so striking that Julian again stopped. As he
did so, the figure turned away, and walked in the opposite direction,
till it was lost in the darkness.
Julian went on, and for a time was very silent.