EXAMPLE WITHOUT PRECEPT
Waymark was grateful for the help Mr. Woodstock had given him. Indeed,
the two soon began to get on very well together. In a great measure, of
course, this was due to the change in Waymark's philosophy; whereas his
early idealism had been revolted by what he then deemed Mr. Woodstock's
crass materialism and vulgarity, the tolerance which had come with
widened experience now made him regard these characteristics with far
less certainty of condemnation. He was often merely amused at what had
formerly enraged and disgusted him. At the same time, there were
changes in Abraham himself, no doubt--at all events in his manner to
the young man. He, on his side, was also far more tolerant than in the
days when he had growled at Osmond for a conceited young puppy.
One Sunday morning in early July, Waymark was sitting alone in his
room, when he noticed that a cab stopped before the house. A minute
after, there was a knock at his door, and, to his great surprise, Mr.
Woodstock entered, bearing a huge volume in his arms. Abraham deposited
it on a chair, wiped his forehead, and looked round the room.
"You smoke poor tobacco," was his first remark, as he sniffed the air.
"Good tobacco happens to be expensive," was the reply. "Will you sit
down?"
"Yes, I will." The chair creaked under him. "And so here you hang out,
eh? Only one room?"
"As you see."
"Devilish unhealthy, I should think."
"But economical."
"Ugh!"
The grunt meant nothing in particular. Waymark was eyeing the mighty
volume on the chair, and had recognised it. Some fortnight previously,
he had come upon Abraham, in the latter's study, turning over a
collection of Hogarth's plates, and greatly amusing himself with the
realism which so distinctly appealed to his taste in art. The book had
been pledged in the shop, and by lapse of time was become Abraham's
property. It was the first time that Waymark had had an opportunity of
examining Hogarth; the pictures harmonised with his mood; they gave him
a fresh impulse in the direction his literary projects were taking. He
spent a couple of hours in turning the leaves, and Mr. Woodstock had
observed his enjoyment. What meant the arrival of the volume here in
Beaufort Street?
Abraham lit a cigar, still looking about the room.
"You live alone?" he asked, in a matter-of-fact way.
"At present."
"Ha! Didn't know but you might have found it lonely; I used to, at your
age."
Then, after a short silence--
"By-the-by, it's your birthday."
"How do you know?"
"Well, I shouldn't have done, but for an old letter I turned up by
chance the other day. How old are you?"
"Five-and-twenty."
"H'm. I am sixty-nine. You'll be a wiser man when you get to my
age.--Well, if you can find room anywhere for that book there, perhaps
you'd like to keep it!"
Waymark looked up in astonishment.
"A birthday present!" he exclaimed. "It's ten years since I had one.
Upon my word, I don't well know how to thank you!"
"Do you know what the thing was published at?" asked Abraham in an
off-hand way.
"No."
"Fifty pounds."
"I don't care about the value. It's the kindness. You couldn't have
given me anything, either, that would have delighted me so much."
"All right; keep it, and there's an end of the matter. And what do you
do with yourself all day, eh? I didn't think it very likely I should
find you in."
"I'm writing a novel."
"H'm. Shall you get anything for it?"
"Can't say. I hope so."
"Look here. Why don't you go in for politics?"
"Neither know nor care anything about them."
"Would you like to go into Parliament?"
"Wouldn't go if every borough in England called upon me to-morrow!"
"Why not?"
"Plainly, I think myself too good for such occupation. If you once
succeed in getting _outside_ the world, you have little desire to go
back and join in its most foolish pranks."
"That's all damned nonsense! How can any one be too good to be in
Parliament? The better men you have there, the better the country will
be governed, won't it?"
"Certainly. But the best man, in this case, is the man who sees the
shortest distance before his nose. If you think the world worth all the
trouble it takes to govern it, go in for politics neck and crop, by all
means, and the world will no doubt thank you in its own way."
Abraham looked puzzled, and half disposed to be angry.
"Then you think novel-writing better than governing the country?" he
asked.
"On its own merits, vastly so."
"And suppose there was no government What about your novels then?"
"I'd make a magnificent one out of the spectacle of chaos."
"But you know very well you're talking bosh," exclaimed Abraham,
somewhat discomfited. "There must be government, and there must be
order, say what you like. It's nature that the strong should rule over
the weak, and show them what's for their own good. What else are we
here for? If you're going to be a parson, well and good; then cry down
the world as much as you please, and think only about heaven and hell.
But as far as I can make out, there's government there too. The devil
rebelled and was kicked out. Serve him right. If he wasn't strong enough
to hold his own, he'd ought to have kept quiet."
"You're a Conservative, of course," said Waymark, smiling. "You believe
only in keeping the balance. You don't care about reform."
"Don't be so sure of that. Let me have the chance and the power, and I'd
reform hard enough, many a thing."
"Well, one might begin on a small scale. Suppose one took in hand
Litany Lane and Elm Court? Suppose we exert our right as the stronger,
and, to begin with, do a little whitewashing? Then sundry stairs and
ceilings might be looked to. No doubt there'd be resistance, but on the
whole it would be for the people's own good. A little fresh draining
mightn't be amiss, or--"
"What the devil's all this to do with politics?" cried Abraham, whose
face had grown dark.
"I should imagine, a good deal," returned Waymark, knocking out his
pipe. "If you're for government, you mustn't be above considering
details."
"And so you think you have a hit at me, eh? Nothing of the kind. These
are affairs of private contract, and no concern of government at all.
In private contract a man has only a right to what he's strong enough
to exact. If a tenant tells me my houses ain't fit to live in, I tell
him to go where he'll be better off and I don't hinder him; I know
well enough in a day or two there'll come somebody else. Ten to one he
can't go, and he don't. Then why should I be at unnecessary expense in
making the places better? As soon as I can get no tenants I'll do so;
not till then."
"You don't believe in works of mere humanity?"
"What the devil's humanity got to do with business?" cried Abraham.
"True," was Waymark's rejoinder.
"See, we won't talk of these kind of things," said Mr. Woodstock.
"That's just what we always used to quarrel about, and I'm getting too
old for quarrelling. Got any engagement this afternoon?"
"I thought of looking in to see a friend here in the street"
"Male or female?"
"Both; man and wife."
"Oh, then you have got some friends? So had I when I was your age. They
go somehow when you get old. Your father was the last of them, I think.
But you're not much like him, except a little in face. True, he was a
Radical, but you,--well, I don't know what you are. If you'd been a son
of mine, I'd have had you in Parliament by now, somehow or other."
"I think you never had a son?" said Waymark, observing the note of
melancholy which every now and then came up in the old man's talk.
"No."
"But you had some children, I think?"
"Yes, yes,--they're dead."
He had walked to the window, and suddenly turned round with a kind of
impatience.
"Never mind the friend to-day; come and have some dinner with me. I
seem to want a bit of company."
This was the first invitation of the kind Waymark had received. He
accepted it, and they went out together.
"It's a pleasant part this," Mr. Woodstock said, as they walked by the
river. "One might build himself a decent house somewhere about here,
eh?"
"Do you think of doing so?"
"I think of doing so! What's the good of a house, and nobody to live in
it?"
Waymark studied these various traits of the old man's humour, and
constantly felt more of kindness towards him.
On the following day, just as he had collected his rents, and was on
his way out of Litany Lane, Waymark was surprised at coming face to
face with Mrs. Casti; yet more surprised when he perceived that she had
come out from a public-house. She looked embarrassed, and for a moment
seemed about to pass without recognising him; but he had raised his
hat, and she could not but move her head in reply. She so obviously
wished to avoid speaking, that he walked quickly on in another
direction. He wondered what she could be doing in such a place as this.
It could hardly be that she had acquaintances or connections here.
Julian had not given him any particulars of Harriet's former life, and
his friend's marriage was still a great puzzle to him. He knew well
that the girl had no liking for himself; it was not improbable that
this casual meeting would make their intercourse yet more strained. He
thought for a moment of questioning Julian, but decided that the matter
was no business of his.
It was so rare for him to meet an acquaintance in the streets, that a
second chance of the same kind, only a few minutes later, surprised him
greatly. This time the meeting was a pleasant one; somebody ran across
to him from over the way, and he saw that it was Sally Fisher. She
looked pleased. The girl had preserved a good deal of her sea-side
complexion through the year and a half of town life, and, when happy,
glowed all over her cheeks with the healthiest hue. She held out her
hand in the usual frank, impulsive way.
"Oh, I thought it was you! You won't see I no more at the old place."
"No? How's that?"
"I'm leavin' un to-morrow. I've got a place in a shop, just by here,--a
chandler's shop, and I'm going to live in."
"Indeed? Well, I'm glad to hear it. I dare say you'll be better off."
"Oh, I say,--you know your friend?"
"The Irishman?"
"Yes."
"What about him?" asked the other, smiling as he looked into the girl's
pretty face.
"Well," said Sally, "I don't mind you telling un where I live now,--if
you like.--Look, there's the address on that paper; you can take it."
"Oh, I see. In point of fact, you _wish_ me to tell him?"
"Oh, I don't care. I dessay he don't want to know anything about I. But
you can if you like."
"I will be sure to, and no doubt he will be delighted. He's been
growing thin since I told him you declined to renew his acquaintance."
"Oh, don't talk! And now I must be off. Good-bye. I dessay I shall see
you sometimes?"
"Without doubt. We'll have another Sunday at Richmond soon. Good-bye."
It was about four in the afternoon when Sally reached home, and she ran
up at once to Ida's room, and burst in, crying out, "I've got it! I've
got it!" with much dancing about and joyous singing. Ida rose with a
faint smile of welcome. She had been sitting at the window, reading a
book lent her by Waymark.
"They said they liked my appearance," Sally went on, "and 'ud give me a
try. I go in to-morrow. It won't be a over easy place, neither. I've to
do all the cleaning in the house, and there's a baby to look after when
I'm not in the shop."
"And what will they give you?"
"Ten shillings a month for the first half-year; then a rise."
"And you're satisfied?"
"Oh, it'll do till something better turns up. Oh, I say, I met your
friend just after I'd come away."
"Did you?" said Ida quietly.
"Yes; and I told him he could tell his friend where I was, if he liked."
"His friend?"
"The Irishman, you know," explained Sally, moving about the room. "I
told you he'd been asking after me."
Ida seemed all at once to awake from a dream. She uttered a long "Ah!"
under her breath, and for a moment looked at the girl like one who is
struck with an unexpected explanation. Then she turned away to the
window, and again gazed up at the blue sky, standing so for nearly a
minute.
"Are you engaged to-night?" Sally asked presently.
"No; will you sit with me?"
"You're not feeling very well to-day, are you?"
"I think not," replied Ida, passing her hand over her forehead. "I've
been thinking of going out of London for a few days, perhaps to the
seaside."
"Go to Weymouth!" cried Sally, delighted at the thought. "Go and see my
people, and tell un how I'm getting on. They'll make you bide with un
all the time you're there, s'nough. It isn't a big house, but it's
comfortable, and see if our mother wouldn't look after you! It's three
weeks since I wrote; if I don't mind there'll be our father up here
looking after I. Now, do go!"
"No, it's too far. Besides, if I go, I shall want to be quite alone."
On the following evening Waymark was expected. At his last visit he had
noticed that Ida was not in her usual spirits. To-night he saw that
something was clearly wrong, and when Ida spoke of going to the
seaside, he strongly urged her to do so.
"Where should you go to?" he asked.
"I think to Hastings. I went there once, when I was a child, with my
mother--I believe I told you. I had rather go there than anywhere else."
"I feel the need of a change myself," he said, a moment after, and
without looking at her. "Suppose I were to go to Hastings, too--at the
same time that you're there--would you dislike it?"
She merely shook her head, almost indifferently. She did not care to
talk much to-night, and frequently nodded instead of replying with
words.
"But--you would rather I didn't?" he urged.
"No, indeed," still in the same indifferent way. "I should have
company, if I found it dull."
"Then let us go down by the same train--will you, Ida?"
As far as she remembered, it was the first time that he had ever
addressed her thus by her name. She looked up and smiled slightly.
"If you like," was her answer.