THE CLAN AGAIN.
Once more the relations met together, this time by invitation. They
would have preferred separate and individual treatment. Each one
received a letter, inviting him or her to the hotel on the afternoon
of such a day. Each came expectant, hopeful, confident; and their
faces dropped when they found, each in turn, that all had been invited
together. They mounted the stairs; they entered the room; they stood
about or they sat down in silence. If they spoke, it was to remark in
murmurs on the interesting motives of certain persons in connection
with rich cousins. The broken one, shabbier than ever, sat hanging his
head. "I wouldn't ha' come," he said aloud, "if I'd expected a crowd
like this." But the draper of Mare Street, Hackney, stood erect, his
hand thrust into his bosom, as one who is gently rocked and lulled
upon his own motives, as upon the cradle of the deep.
Presently John Haveril came in, accompanied by Dick, who attended as a
kind of private secretary, and took no part in the proceedings until
the end.
John carried in his hand a bundle of papers. "Well," he said, "you're
all come, I think--all come." He turned over the papers, and nodded
to the writer of each letter in turn. "All come. I invited you all to
come." He spoke gravely and with dignity--in his most dignified manner.
"First, sir"--the self-constituted spokesman offered his hand--"we
trust that you continue in good health, in the midst of your truly
colossal responsibilities."
"Yes, sir, yes--I continue pretty well." Again he looked round.
"Perhaps you will all sit down."
"I, for one, should be ashamed to sit." The draper spoke with reproach
in his voice, for the rest had taken chairs. "Ashamed, sir, while you
are standing."
It was something like the old-fashioned reading of the will, but
before the funeral instead of after. They sat expectant, hungrily
expectant. Out of so many millions, surely, surely something would
come to every one! Would it take the form of hundreds?
"Alma," said the pew-opener, coming along in the omnibus, "he's got a
good heart; you can see it in his deep blue eye. He's bound to give us
what we ask--and Alice my own first cousin and all, and you but one
removed."
"Perhaps Cousin Charles has been at him behind our backs."
It is disheartening to observe the readiness with which young ladies
on a certain social level ascribe and suspect the baser springs of
action.
"Trust him!" The lady of the pews should have learned more Christian
charity. "But I hope he won't be able to poison Cousin John's mind
against honest people. I call him 'Cousin-John-by-marriage,' not 'Mr.
Haveril,' and I say he took us over with Alice when he married her. A
man marries, my dear, into his wife's family. Alma!"
"What is it, mother?"
"They've got no children. Somebody must have it when they go. Why not
you and me?"
"Why not, mother? We could make a good use of it."
"We could. Ah!" She closed her eyes for the space of a furlong.
"Mother, how much did you ask for?"
"A hundred and twenty pounds. I could do it for less, perhaps, because
there's my own furniture. He must give it; he can't refuse--and me
Alice's first cousin, and you but one removed. My dear, I've always
longed to have a Margate lodging-house since I stood upon Margate
jetty as a girl, and paid a Margate bill as a grown woman, before you
were born."
"I've asked for seventy pounds. I believe I could start respectably
for less; but seventy would be plenty. And oh! to sit behind your own
counter, covered with dolls and fancy-work and pretty things, and have
no work to do! Oh!" She clasped her hands in ecstasy.
"Yes, Alma; it's all very well if the people come in to buy your
things. But what do you know about shops and what to charge?"
"Come to that, mother, what do you know about keeping lodgings?"
It was with speculations such as these, with castles in the air or
in Spain, that the cousins beguiled their way towards the Hôtel
Métropole. The fancy of the broken one dwelt upon the tobacco-shop.
It seems that this kind of shop attracts many of the best and
brightest. There is so little to do; the money drops in all day long;
you can smoke your own tobacco morning, noon, and night, while the
laughing hours dance along and strew the way with roses. The bankrupt
looked, indeed, as if roses would be a change for him after his long
staying among the flagons and the apples.
"I asked you, when you were here last"--John Haveril remained
standing--"to send me letters if you wanted me to do anything. I
wanted to know quite clearly what you wanted. You have done so. I
find, as I expected, that you all want me to give you money."
"Excuse me, sir," said the spokesman, "we distinguish between begging
and borrowing. To give--to bestow alms--upon unworthy persons"--he
looked severely at the bankrupt, who paid no heed--"or upon persons
who are best left in their own humble station in life"--he waved an
insulting hand towards the pew-opener--"is one thing; to advance
capital which will be regarded as a loan, to be repaid with interest,
is quite another thing. To solicit alms, as has been done, I fear, by
some in this room, is one thing; to offer an investment, on the solid
security of a sterling and established place of business, is quite
another thing."
"Very true," said John Haveril. "Very true."
"Where the security is a concern--a concern, sir, improving every day,
with four and twenty young ladies as shop-assistants----"
"Fed on scrag of mutton and margarine!" observed the pew-opener, aloud.
"--in a promising suburb and in a crowded highway, with the
electric light, a carriage often at the door, and the proprietor a
churchwarden--a very different thing," he concluded, running down and
forgetting the construction of his sentence.
The others said nothing; but the Board school teacher examined the
pictures on the wall, and was absorbed for the moment in art criticism.
"You all want money," John Haveril repeated; "that is the reason why I
invited you here to-day."
"Why shouldn't we?" asked the broken one. "You are the only one of the
family who has got any money. As for this fellow"--he indicated the
draper--"hollow, hollow! There's no stability in him, I know. Where I
am there he ought to be--down among the dead men."
"Where a few pounds would be the making of us, and them not so much as
missed," said the pew-opener, "why not?"
"I don't know," continued the capitalist, "that you've got any claim
on me. You cut your cousin Alice off--out of the family--for her first
marriage."
"What else," asked the spokesman, "could we do? She married an actor,
sir--a common actor. No doubt she has long since repented her early
choice. How different from her second venture--her second prize! Ah! a
prize indeed."
"Some of us were not born then," said the Board school teacher.
"I'd as soon marry an actor as a draper--sooner, too." She was a
sharp-faced girl, quick and ready--perhaps too quick--with woman's
most formidable weapon. "Actors don't sweat shop-girls."
"Alice tells me," John Haveril went on slowly, "that none of you ever
made any kind of inquiry after her, or answered her letters--except
one--Will--also an actor, who is now deceased."
"How could we, when some of us hadn't even got into the cradle?" asked
the teacher.
"I didn't quarrel with Alice," said the bankrupt. "I never saw her nor
heard of her. And I didn't quarrel with Cousin Will. Why," he added
conclusively, "I borrowed money of him."
"If she had been in want," John Haveril added, "would you have helped
her because she was your cousin?"
"Since I, for one, never heard that she was in want"--again the
teacher--"how can I tell what I should have done? It's like this,
Mr. Haveril--you must know it yourself. It isn't respectable to have
cousins ragged and in want. If I could afford it, I would give them
money to go away. Look at that Object"--she pointed to the bankrupt.
"Object, I call him."
"Object yourself!" retorted the broken one.
"Is he a credit to the family? No; I've got no money to spare, or I'd
pay him to go right away. Same with Cousin Alice. Don't talk to us
about cousinly love. We like respectability."
"Very good," said John Haveril.
"Cousin Alice has brought you a lot of relations," Alma continued,
emboldened. "Here we are, fawning, like Cousin Charles; begging, like
Cousin Alfred; and telling you the truth, like me."
"One, sir, one at least"--this was, of course, the draper--"has ever
been ready to acknowledge the tie of blood."
"I'm sure," said the pew-opener, "if Alice had come to my humble
place, which she never did----"
"Never," her daughter added.
"--there'd have been a cup of tea made in no time, and a chair by the
fire."
"You have among you"--John Haveril pointed to the bankrupt--"a cousin
who is poor and distressed. What have you done for him? Which of you
has helped this unfortunate man?"
"Not one," the unfortunate replied for all; while Charles regarded his
fallen relation vindictively. "Not one," the bankrupt continued. "And
now your guilty hearts are exposed and your greedy natures brought to
light. Grabbers and grubbers--every one. And this to me--to me--Mr.
Haveril, the only gentleman of the lot! What do they care about
gentlemen?"
"You ask me, all of you, to help you with gifts or loans of money. On
what pretence? Because I am your cousin's husband----"
"Cousin-John-by-marriage," said the pew-opener. "You took us over as
your own when you married Alice. You married into the family. That you
can't deny."
"If that is the reason why I am to help you, why don't you help this
cousin?"
"Hear! hear!" from the cousin indicated.
"He is in the last stage of poverty and misery."
"Because it serves him right." The draper once more stepped forward,
while the rest of the family murmured assent.
"Outside," said John, "it is raining, with a cold wind; he has no
great-coat,--nothing but a thin jacket; the soles of his boots are
parting----"
"Help him? He's always been a disgrace to the family," said the
pew-opener.
"You ask me, however, to help you, and you offer no reference as to
character."
"Reference? What reference do you want?" asked the Board school
teacher. "Haven't I got a responsible situation? Isn't mother in a
responsible situation? Mr. Haveril, I wouldn't talk about this poor
ragamuffin, if I were you. It's beneath you. Give him a great-coat
yourself, and in ten minutes it will be five shillings, and in an hour
it will be drunk. Help him? I wouldn't help Cousin Alfred if I had
hundreds--nor Cousin Charles if I had millions."
"You wouldn't," said the bankrupt, "if it was an angel from heaven;
you'd see him starve first."
"Some of us, my dear sir," the draper explained sadly, "have to
draw the line at disgrace. Character, in business, goes a long way.
Bankruptcy brings disgrace even upon those members of the family who
are otherwise regarded with respect."
"You think it is a mistake to give money?"
Cousin Charles retracted. "We must distinguish between giving and
advancing. I would recommend the advance--the advance only--of capital
to those who can help themselves."
"My friend, if you can help yourself, you want no help."
"In a sense, most true; in fact, profoundly true," Cousin Charles
replied. "I will make a note of those words. They shall become my
motto: 'Those who can help themselves want no help.' So truly wise."
"And if so," John continued, "to help those who cannot help themselves
is throwing money away."
"It is--it is." He pointed to the bankrupt. "Why help him? He cannot
help himself. I have always felt that to help my cousin Alfred is a
sin--if waste of money is sinful. He failed, sir; he became a bankrupt
in Mare Street, only five doors from my place of business; with my
surname over his door. I wonder I survived it."
"You'll survive your own failure next," said the bankrupt.
"Come back to your own case, mister. You agree that one should not
help those who can help themselves. Let us lay hold on that. If you
can help yourself, why do you want help? You've helped yourself, I
understand, to a flourishing business. You are evidently, therefore,
beyond the necessity of further help. You want me to advance you a
large sum of money. Why? You have shown that you can help yourself.
Very well; the best thing you can do is to go on helping yourself."
Cousin Charles changed colour. His face dropped, to use the familiar
expression.
"Sweating four and twenty girls in black with white cuffs," murmured
the teacher.
"This," John continued, slowly and with weight, "is my answer to your
letter. Go on, as you have already begun, trusting to yourself alone.
It is best for you. If you are on the downward grade, you would only
be saved for a time. If you are going up, the advance you ask would
not help you. That is my answer, mister, to your letter."
The draper grew very red in the face. "Then," he asked, "you--you--you
refuse--you actually refuse this trifling assistance?"
"Actually."
"You hear, Charles," said the bankrupt.
"Am I in my senses?" He looked round him. "The husband of my cousin
Alice, much loved--'sweet Alice, Ben Bolt'--a man of millions, refuses
me an advance, upon undeniable security, of a simple thousand pounds.
Why, the bank will do it for me with alacrity."
"Then go to the bank."
The poor man changed from red to white. His cheeks became flabby. His
arms, which had been folded, dropped. He suddenly grew limp. It is
rather terrible to see a confident, aggressive man become suddenly
limp. Perhaps he had built confidently on this advance; perhaps he was
not quite so substantial as he boasted and as he seemed; perhaps that
great shop, with four and twenty girls in black with white cuffs, all
in a row, was haunted by the spectre of which nobody talks, though
it is seen daily by so many--the grisly, threatening, lean, gaunt,
fierce-eyed ghost called Bankruptcy.
He clapped his hat on his head. He recovered a little. He tried to
smile. He assumed some show of dignity. He even laughed. Then he
replied, with genuine heartfelt emotion, "The Lord forgive you!" and
walked out of the room.
John Haveril turned to the pew-opener. "Here is your letter," he said;
"I return it to you. Why should I give you anything? You are fifty
years of age, you say. You have a son in good employ. You have a
daughter--this girl, I suppose--in the School Board service. You have
a reasonably good situation."
The lady's face dropped and lengthened. "Oh!" she cried; "don't
refuse! don't refuse! It's such a trifle to you; you would never miss
it, and never feel it. And it would be the making of me--it would
indeed."
John Haveril shook his head with the deliberation and the expression
of a bear. His mind was made up. The woman went on, but feebly--
"You can't like to own--you so rich, and all--that you've got a cousin
in such a humble place as mine."
"You might help her to be respectable," her daughter put in.
"You can be respectable in any situation. I am quite as proud of
you in your present situation as if you were what you want to be--a
lodging-house keeper at Margate." He turned to her daughter. "My
dear," he said kindly, "you are a little fool."
"Why? Oh, why?"--and her heart sank.
"Because you want to give up the best work that a woman can do, where
there's pay enough, and holidays, and respect----"
The girl shook her head. "You don't know," she moaned, "the work and
the drudgery."
"And to change it for the worst work in the world. My dear, you should
be proud of being what you are. If you were in the States, you would
feel proud of your work. What? Give up that work for a miserable
little shop, where you must cheat to make both ends meet? Don't be
silly. Go back and thank God, my dear, that He has put you where you
can do some good."
She sat down and pulled out her pocket-handkerchief. Her mother stood
beside her, her lips moving, her cheek flaming.
"Shall I give you back your letter?" John Haveril asked.
She took it, tore it up, threw the fragments on the floor, seized her
mother by the arm, and dragged her out; whether in repentance or in
anger the bystanders could not know.
* * * * *
They were all gone now, except the bankrupt.
"You've got my letter, too," he said. "What are you going to do for
me?"
"The kindest thing would be to drop you in the river. Alice has left
it to me. Well, you are a hopeless creature. Whatever is done for you
will be money thrown away. I did think of asking your cousin, the
draper, to give you a place in his shop. You might sweep it out and
water the floor, and carry out the parcels--or you might walk up and
down outside in uniform, and a gold band to your cap."
"Mr. Haveril--sir--I am a gentleman. Don't insult a fallen gentleman,
sir; I've employed my own shop-assistants."
"But I fear he would do nothing for you."
"I came here--one day three weeks ago--you were away--I knew that. I
gave Alice some secret information just for her own ear, not the kind
of thing she would tell you."
"Get on, man!"
"I told her--you don't know, of course; I told her you ought to
know--you suppose he's dead."
"Man! man!" said John.
"Alice's first husband--Anthony Woodroffe. You think he's dead. I told
her where he was."
"Where?" Dick sat up, suddenly. "Anthony Woodroffe?"
"Why should I ask whether he's dead or alive?"
"That's what Alice said. As for me, I told her I was astonished.
'Alice,' I said, 'I did think you were respectable.'"
"What does this man mean?" asked Dick. "Anthony Woodroffe?"
"Well, boy," said John, "this chap brought us the news where he was.
We thought, on the whole, there was no need to tell you--so we didn't
tell you. I've been to see him. He's pretty comfortable."
"He is pretty comfortable," said Anthony's late companion between
the boards. "If Abraham's bosom is better than the cold kerb, and
softer than the doss-house, he is quite comfortable--for he died this
morning."
"Where did he die?" asked Dick.
"In the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary." The man got up and shuffled
away. As he went out of the room, he held out his hand, and there was
the chink of coin.
"My father dead!"
"Ay, lad, he's dead. What better for you and everybody? I've seen him,
on and off, most days. He was a hardened sinner, if ever there was
one."
"Dead! I have been taught to regard him with a kind of loathing;
but--we can only have one father. Dead! In a workhouse infirmary!"
"He has left two sons. You are not the only one."
"Two sons. Yes"--concerning his half-brother Dick could not choose
but speak vindictively--"the other will hear to-morrow who his father
was. He shall hear also that his father is dead. He and I will be the
mourners at the pauper's funeral."