BURDENED
Christian Vellacott soon descended the dingy stairs and joined the
westward-wending throng in the Strand. In the midst of the crowd he was
alone, as townsmen soon learn to be. The passing faces, the roar of
traffic, and the thousand human possibilities of interest around him in
no way disturbed his thoughts. In his busy brain the traffic of thought,
passing and repassing, crossing and recrossing, went on unaffected by
outward things. A modern poet has confessed that his muse loves the
pavement--a bold confession, but most certainly true. Why does talent
gravitate to cities? Because there it works its best--because friction
necessarily produces brilliancy. Nature is a great deceiver; she draws
us on to admire her insinuating charms, and in the contemplation of them
we lose our energy.
Christian had been born and bred in cities. The din and roar of life was
to him what the voice of the sea is to the sailor. In the midst of
crowded humanity he was in his element, and as he walked rapidly along
he made his way dexterously through the narrow places without thinking
of it. While meditating deeply he was by no means absorbed. In his
active life there had been no time for thoughts beyond the present, no
leisure for dreaming. He could not afford to be absent-minded. Numbers
of men are so situated. Their minds are required at all moments, in full
working order, clear and rapid--ready, shoes on feet and staff in hand,
to go whithersoever they may be called.
Although he was going to the saddest home that ever hung like a
mill-stone round a young neck, Christian wasted no time. The glory of
the western sky lay ruddily over the river as he emerged from the small
streets behind Chelsea and faced the broad placid stream. Presently he
stopped opposite the door of a small red-brick house, which formed the
corner of a little terrace facing the river and a quiet street running
inland from it.
With a latch-key he admitted himself noiselessly--almost
surreptitiously. Once inside he closed the door without unnecessary
sound and stood for some moments in the dark little entrance-hall,
apparently listening.
Presently a voice broke the silence of the house. A querulous,
high-pitched voice, quavering with the palsy of extreme age. The sound
of it was no new thing for Christian Vellacott. To-night his lips gave a
little twist of pain as he heard it. The door of the room on the ground
floor was open, and he could hear the words distinctly enough.
“You know, Mrs. Strawd, we have a nephew, but he is always gadding
about, I am sure; he has been a terrible affliction to us. A frothy,
good-for-nothing boy--that is what he is. We have not set eyes on him
for a month or more. Why, I almost forget his name!”
“Christian, that is his name--a most inappropriate one, I am sure,”
chimed in another voice, almost identical in tone. “Why Walter should
have given him such a name I cannot tell. Ah! sister Judith, things are
different from what they used to be when we were younger!”
The frothy one outside the door seemed in no great degree impressed by
these impartial views upon himself, though the pained look was still
upon his lips as he turned to hang up his hat.
“He's coming home to-night, though, Miss Judith,” said another voice, in
a coaxing, wheedling tone, such as one uses towards petulant children.
“He's coming home to-night, sure enough!” It was a pleasant voice, with
a strong, capable ring about it. One instinctively felt that the
possessor of it was a woman to be relied upon at a crisis.
“Is he now--is he now?” said the first speaker reflectively. “Well, I am
sure it is time he did. We will just give him a lesson, eh, sister
Hester?--we will give him a lesson, shall we not?”
At this moment the door opened, and a little woman, quiet though
somewhat anxious looking, came out. She evinced no surprise at the sight
of the good-for-nothing nephew in the dimly-lighted passage, greeting
him in a low voice.
“How have they been to-day, nurse?” he asked.
“Oh, they have been well enough, Master Christian,” was the reply, in a
cheerful undertone.
“Aunt Judith has 'most got rid of her cold. But they've been very
trying, sir--just like children, as wilful as could be--the same
question over and over again till I was fit to cry. They are quieter
now, but--but it's you they're abusing now, Master Chris!”
The young fellow looked down into the little woman's face. His eyes were
sympathetic enough, but he said nothing. With a little nod and a
suppressed sigh he turned away from her. He laid his hand upon the door
and then stopped.
“As soon as you have brought up tea,” he said, looking back, “I will
take them for the evening, and you can have your rest as usual.”
From the room came, at intervals, the ring of silver, as if some one
were moving the spoons and forks from the table. Christian waited until
these sounds had ceased before he entered.
“Good evening, Aunt Judith. Good evening, Aunt Hester,” he said
cheerily.
They were exactly alike, these two old ladies; the same marvellously
wrinkled features and silver hair; voluminous caps and white woollen
shawls identical. With exaggerated marks of respect he kissed each by
turn on her withered cheek.
“May I sit down, Aunt Judith?” he asked, and without waiting for an
answer drew a chair towards the fireplace, where a small fire burnt
though it was the month of August.
“Yes, Nephew Vellacott, you may take a seat,” replied Aunt Judith with
chill severity, “and you may also tell us where you have been during the
last four weeks.”
Poor old human wreck! Only ten hours earlier her nephew had bid her
farewell for the day. Christian began an explanation in a weary,
mechanical way, like an actor tired of the part assigned to him, but the
old ladies would not listen. Aunt Hester interrupted him promptly.
“Your shallow excuses are wasted on us, Nephew Vellacott. You have
doubtless been away, enjoying yourself and leaving us--us who support
you and deprive ourselves in order to keep a decent coat upon your
back--leaving us to the mercy of all the thieves in London. And tell us,
pray--what are we to do for spoons and forks to-night?”
“What?” exclaimed Christian with perfunctory interest, “have the spoons
gone--?” he almost said “again,” but checked himself in time. He turned
to look at the table, which had been carefully denuded of every piece of
silver.
“There, you see!” quavered Aunt Judith triumphantly; and the two old
ladies rubbed their hands, nodded their palsied old heads at each other,
and chuckled in utter delight at their nephew's discomfiture, until Aunt
Judith was attacked by a violent fit of coughing, which seemed to be
tearing her to pieces. Christian watched her with the ready keenness of
a sick-nurse.
“How did it occur?” he asked, when the old lady had recovered.
“There, you see,” remarked Aunt Hester, with the precise intonation of
her accomplice.
“I _am_ sure!” panted Aunt Judith triumphantly.
“I _am_ sure!” echoed Aunt Hester.
They allowed their nephew's remorse full scope, and then proceeded
laboriously to extract the missing articles from the side of Aunt
Judith's arm-chair. This farce was rehearsed every night, nearly word
for word. A pleasant recreation for an intellectual man, assuredly. The
only relief to the monotony was the occasional loss of a spoon in the
crevice between the arm and the seat of Aunt Judith's chair. Then
followed such a fumbling and a “dear me-ing” until the worthless nephew
was perforce called to the rescue, to fish and probe with a paper-knife
till the lost treasure was recovered.
“We only wished, Nephew Vellacott, to show you what might have happened
during your unconscionable absence. Servants are only too ready to talk
to the first comer of their mistresses' wealth and position. They have
no discrimination.” said Aunt Judith in a reproving tone. The old ladies
were very fond of boasting of their wealth and position, whereas, in
reality, their nephew was the only barrier between them and the
workhouse.
“Well, Aunt Judith,” replied Christian patiently, “I will try and stay
at home more in future. But you know it is time I was doing something to
earn my own livelihood now. I cannot exist on your kindness all my
life!”
He had learnt to humour these two silly old women. During the two years
which had just passed he had gradually recognised the utter futility of
endeavouring to make them realise the true state of their affairs. They
spoke grandiloquently of the family solicitor: a man who had been in his
grave for nearly a quarter of a century. It was simply impossible to
instil into their minds any fact whatever, and such facts as had
established themselves there were permanent. They belonged to another
generation, and their mode of thought was a remnant of a forgotten and
unsatisfactory period. To them Napoleon the First was a living man,
Queen Victoria unheard of. The decay of their minds had been slow, and
it had been Christian Vellacott's painful task to watch its steady
progress. Day by day he had followed the gradual failing of each sense
and power.
There is something pathetic about the decay of a mind which has been
driven to death by constant work, but there is a compensating thought to
alleviate the sadness. It may rattle and grow loose, like some worn-out
engine, where the friction presses; but it will work till it collapses
totally, and some of the work achieved is good and permanent. It is
bound to be so. Infinitely sadder is the sight of a mind which is
falling to pieces by reason of the rust that has eaten into its very
core. For rust must needs mean idleness--and no human intellect
_need_ be idle. So it had been with these two old ladies. Born in a
wofully unintellectual age, they had never left a certain groove in
life. When their brother married Christian Vellacott's grandmother, they
had left his house in Honiton to go and live in Bodmin upon a limited
but sufficient income. These “sufficient incomes” are a curse; they do
not allow of charity and make no call for labour.
When Christian Vellacott arrived in England, an orphan with no great
wealth, he made it his first duty to visit the only living relations he
possessed. He was just in time to save them, literally, from starvation.
It was obvious that he could not make a literary livelihood in Bodmin,
so he made a home for the two old wrecks of humanity in London. Their
means, like their minds, were simply exhausted. Aunt Judith was
ninety-three; Aunt Hester ninety-one. During that vast blank (for blank
it was, so far as their lives were concerned) stretching away back into
a perspective of time which few around them could gauge--they had never
been separated for one day. Like two apples they had grown side by side,
until their very contact had engendered disease--a slow, deadly,
creeping rot, finding its source at the point of contact, reaching its
goal at the heart of each. They had _existed_ thus with terrible
longevity--lived a mere animal life of sleeping and eating, such as
hundreds of women are living around us now.
“Of course, you must learn to make your daily bread, Nephew Vellacott!”
answered Aunt Hester. “The desire does you credit; but you should be
careful into what society you go without us. Girls are very designing,
and many a one would like to marry a nephew of mine--eh, Judith?”
“Yes, that they would,” replied the old lady. “The minxes know that they
might do worse than catch the nephew of Judith and Hester Vellacott!”
“Look at us,” continued Aunt Hester, drawing up her shrunken old form
with a touch of pride. “Look at us? We have always avoided marriage, and
we are very nice and happy, I am sure!”
She waited for a confirmation of this bold statement, but Christian was
not listening. He was leaning forward with his hands clasped between his
knees, gazing into the fire. He was recalling the conversation which had
passed in the little room in the Strand. Could he leave these two
helpless old creatures. Could he get away from it all for a little
time--away from the maddening prattle of unguided tongues, from the
dread monotony of hopeless watching? He knew that he was wasting his
manhood, neglecting his intellectual opportunities, and endangering his
career; but his course of duty was marked out with terrible
distinctness. He never saw the pathos of it, as a woman would have seen
it, gathering perhaps some slight alleviation from the sight. It never
entered his thoughts to complain, and he never conceived the idea of
drawing comparisons between his position and that of other young men
who, instead of being slaves to their relatives, made very good use of
them. He merely went on doing his obvious duty and striving not to look
forward too eagerly to a release at some future period.
Fortunately, Mrs. Strawd was not long in bringing in the simple evening
meal; and the attention of the old ladies was at once turned to the
mystery hidden beneath the dish-cover. What was it, and would there be
enough for Nephew Vellacott?
Deftly, Christian poured out the tea. Two cups very weak and one
stronger. Then two thin slices of crustless bread had to be buttered.
This operation required great judgment and impartiality.
“Excuse me, Nephew Vellacott!” said Aunt Judith, with dangerous
severity. “Is that first slice intended for Aunt Hester? It appears to
me that the butter is very thick--much thicker than on the second, which
is doubtless intended for me!”
“Do you think so, Aunt Judith?” asked Christian in a voice purposely
loud in order to drown Aunt Hester's remonstrance. “Then I will take a
little off!” He passed the knife harmlessly over the faulty slice, and
laid the two side by side upon a plate. Then the old ladies promptly
held a survey on them--that declared to be more heavily buttered being
awarded to Aunt Judith in recognition of her seniority.
With similar fruitful topics of conversation the meal was pleasantly
despatched. The turn of Dick and Mick followed thereon. Dick, the
property of Aunt Judith, was a canary of thoughtful temperament. The
part he played in the domestic economy of the small household was a
contemplative rather than an active one. Mick, Aunt Hester's bird, was
of a more lively nature. He had, as a rule, something to say upon all
subjects--and said it.
Now Aunt Hester, in her inmost heart, loved a silent bird, and secretly
coveted Dick, but as Mick was her property, and Dick the silent was
owned by Aunt Judith, she never lost an opportunity of enlarging upon
the stupidity and uselessness of silent birds. Aunt Judith, on the other
hand, admired a lively and talkative canary; consequently she was
weighed down with the conviction that her sister's bird was the superior
article. Altogether, birds as a topic of conversation were best avoided.
Dick and Mick were housed in cages of similar build--indeed, most things
were strictly in duplicate in the whole household. Every evening
Christian brought the cages, and Aunt Judith and Aunt Hester carefully
placed within the wires a small piece of bread-and-butter, which Nurse
Strawd as carefully removed, untouched, the next morning.
When the birds' wants had been attended to, it was Christian's duty to
settle the old ladies comfortably in their respective arm-chairs. This
he did tenderly and cleverly as a woman, but it was not a pleasant sight
to look upon. The man, with his lean, strong face, long jaw, and
prominent chin, was so obviously out of place. These peaceful duties
were never meant for such as he. His somewhat closely-set eyes were not
such as wax tender over drowning flies, for even in repose they were
somewhat direct and stern in their gaze. In fact, Christian Vellacott
was so visibly created for strife and the forefront of life's battle,
that it was almost painful to see him fulfilling a more peaceful
avocation.
As a rule he devoted himself to the amusement of his aged relatives for
an hour or so; but this evening he sat down to the piano at once, with
the deliberate intention of playing them off to sleep. Ten o'clock was
their hour for retiring, and before that they would not move, although
they dozed in their chairs.
He was no mean musician, this big West-countryman, with a true ear and a
touch peculiarly light and tender for a man. He played gently and
drowsily for some time, half forgetting that he was not alone in the
room. Presently he turned round, letting his fingers rest on the keys.
Aunt Judith was asleep, and Aunt Hester made a sign for him to go on
playing. Five minutes more, gradually toned down till the very sounds
seemed to fall asleep, and Aunt Hester was peacefully slumbering.
Silently the player rose, and crossing the room, he resumed his seat at
the table from which the white cloth had not yet been removed. Pen, ink,
and paper were within reach, and in a few minutes he had written the
following note:--
“DEAR SIDNEY,--May I retract the letter I wrote yesterday and accept
your invitation? I have been requested to take a holiday, and, rather
than offend the powers that be, have given in. I can think of no happier
way of spending it than in seeing you all again and recalling the jolly
old Prague days. With kind regards, yours ever,
“CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT.”
He folded the note and slipped it into an envelope, which he addressed
to “Sidney Carew, Esq., St. Mary Western, Dorset.” Then he slipped
noiselessly out of the room and upstairs to where Mrs. Strawd had a
small sitting-room of her own. The little woman heard his footstep on
the old creaking stairs, and opened the door of her room before he
reached it.
“If I went away for three weeks,” he said, “could you do without me?”
“Of course I could,” replied the little woman readily. “Just you go away
and take a holiday, Master Christian. You need it sorely, that I know.
You do indeed. We shall get on splendidly without you. I'll just have my
sister to come and stay, same as I did when you had to go to the Paris
House of Parliament.”
“I have not had much of a holiday, you see, for two years now!”
“Of course you haven't, and you want it. It's only human nature--and you
a young man that ought to be in the open air all day. For an old woman
like me it's different. We're made differently by the good God on
purpose, I think.”
“Well, then, if your sister comes it must be understood, nurse, that I
make the same arrangement with her as exists with you. She must simply
be a duplicate of you--you understand?”
The little woman laughed, lightly enough.
“Oh, yes, Master Christian, that is all right. But you need not have
troubled about that. She never would have thought of such a thing as
wages, I'm sure!”
“No,” replied he gravely, “I know she would not, but it will be better,
I think, to have it understood beforehand. Gratitude is a very nice
thing to work for, but some work is worth more than gratitude. If you
are going out for your walk, perhaps you will post this letter.”
Before Christian went to bed that night he held a candle close to the
mirror and looked long and hard at his own reflection. There were dark
streaks under his eyes, his small mouth was drawn and dry, his lips
colourless. At each temple the bone stood out rather prominently, and
the skin was brilliant in its whiteness and reflected the light of the
candle. He felt his own pulse. It was beating, at one moment fast and
irregular, at the next it was hardly perceptible.
“Yes!” he muttered, with a professional nod--in his training as a
journalist he had learnt a little of many sciences--“yes, old Bodery was
right.”