LEMUEL BLOUNT.
Next morning, at about half-past ten, as Laura and I sat in our
breakfast-room, a hired carriage with two horses, which had evidently
been driven at a hard pace, passed our window at a walk. The driver, who
was leading his beasts, asked a question of Thomas Jones, who was
rolling the gravel on the court-yard before the window; and then he led
them round the corner toward the steward's house. The carriage was
empty; but in another minute it was followed up by the person whom we
might presume to have been its occupant. He turned towards our window as
he passed, so that we had a full view of this new visitor.
He was a man who looked past sixty, slow-paced, and very solemn; he was
dressed in a clumsy black suit; his face was large, square, and sallow;
his cheek and chin were smoothly shorn and blue. His hat was
low-crowned, and broad in the brim. He had a cotton umbrella in his big
gloved hand, and a coloured pocket-handkerchief sticking out of his
pocket. A great bunch of seals hung from his watch-chain under his black
waistcoat. He was walking so slowly that we had no difficulty in
observing these details; and he stopped before the hall-door, as if
doubtful whether he should enter there. A word, however, from Thomas
Jones set him right, and he in turn disappeared round the corner.
We did not know what to make of this figure, whom we now conjectured to
have come in quest of the shipwrecked stranger.
Thomas Jones ran round before him to the door of the steward's house,
which he opened; and the new-comer thanked him with a particularly kind
smile. He knocked on chance at the door to the right, and the voice of
our unknown guest told him to come in.
"Oh, Mr. Blount!" said the young gentleman, rising, hesitating, and then
tendering his hand very respectfully, and looking in the sensible,
vulgar face of the old man as if he were by no means sure how that
tender might be received. "I hope, sir, I have not quite lost your
friendship. I hope I retain some, were it ever so little, of the
goodwill you once bore me. I hope, at least, that you will allow me to
say that I am glad to see you: I feel it."
The old man bowed his head, holding it a little on one side while the
stranger spoke; it was the attitude of listening rather than of respect.
When the young gentleman had done speaking, his visitor raised his head
again. The young man smiled faintly, and still extended his hand,
looking very pale. Mr. Blount did not smile in answer; his countenance
was very sombre, one might say sad.
"I never yet, sir, refused the hand of any man living when offered to me
in sincerity, especially that of one in whom I felt, I may say, at one
time a warm interest, although he may have given me reason to alter the
opinion I then entertained of him."
Thus speaking, he gravely took the young man's hand, and shook it in a
thoughtful, melancholy way, lowering his head again as he had done
before.
"I don't ask how my uncle feels towards me," said the young man, half
inquiringly.
"You need not," answered the visitor.
"I am at all events very much obliged to you," said the young man,
humbly, "for your friendship, Mr. Blount. There is, I know, but one way
of interesting your sympathy, and that is by telling you frankly how
deep and true my repentance is; how I execrate my ingratitude; how I
deplore my weakness and criminality." He paused, looking earnestly at
the old man, who, however, simply bowed his head again, and made no
comment.
"I can't justify anything I have done; but in my letter I ventured to
say a few words in extenuation," he continued. "I don't expect to soften
my uncle's just resentment, but I am most anxious, Mr. Blount, my best
friend on earth, to recover something, were it ever so little, of the
ground I have lost in your opinion."
"Time, sir, tries all things," answered the new-comer, gently; "if you
mean to lead a new life, you will have opportunity to prove it."
"Was my uncle softened, ever so little, when he heard that the Conway
Castle had gone down?" asked the young man, after a short silence.
"I was with him at breakfast when the morning paper brought the
intelligence," said Mr. Blount. "I don't recollect that he expressed any
regret."
"I dare say; I can quite suppose it; I ought to have known that he was
pleased rather."
"No; I don't think he was pleased. I rather think he exhibited
indifference," answered Mr. Blount.
With some grim remarks I believe the young man's uncle had received the
sudden news of his death.
"Did my uncle see the letter I wrote to you, Mr. Blount?"
"No."
"And why not?"
"You will not think, I hope, that I would for any consideration use a
phrase that could wound you unnecessarily when I tell you?"
"Certainly not."
"Your letter mentioned that you had lost your papers and money in the
ship. Now, if it should turn out that you had, in short, misstated
anything----"
"Told a lie, you mean," interrupted the young man, his face growing
white, and his eyes gleaming.
"It would have been discourteous in me to say so, but such was my
meaning," he answered, with a very kind look. "It has been one object
with me during my life to reconcile courtesy with truth. I am happy in
the belief that I have done so, and I believe during a long life I have
never once offended against the laws of politeness. Had you deceived him
so soon again it would have sunk you finally and for ever. I thought it
advisable, therefore, to give you an opportunity of reconsidering the
statements of your letter before committing you by placing them before
him as fact."
The young man flushed suddenly. It was his misfortune that he could not
resent suspicion, however gross, although he might wince under the
insult, all the more that it was just. Rather sulkily he said:
"I can only repeat, sir, that I have not a shilling, nor a cheque; I
left every paper and every farthing I possessed in my despatch-box, in
my berth. Of course, I can't prove it; I can only repeat that every
guinea I had in the world has gone to the bottom."
Mr. Blount raised his head. His square face and massive features
confronted the younger man, and his honest brown eyes were fixed upon
him with a grave and undisguised inquiry.
"I don't say that you have any certainty of recovering a place in your
uncle's esteem, but the slightest prevarication in matters of this kind
would be simply suicidal. Now, I ask you, sir, on your honour, did no
part of your money, or of your papers, go by rail either to Bristol or
to London?"
"Upon my honour, Mr. Blount, not a farthing. I had only about ten pounds
in gold, all the rest was in letters of credit and cheques; and, bad as
I am, I should scarcely be fool enough to practise a trick, which, from
its nature, must be almost instantaneously self-exposed. My uncle could
have stopped payment of them; probably he has done so."
"I see you understand something of business, sir."
"I should have understood a great deal more, Mr. Blount, and been a much
better man, if I had listened to you long ago. I hope, in future, to be
less my own adviser, and more your pupil."
To this flattering speech the old man listened attentively, but made no
answer.
"Your letter followed me to Chester," said Mr. Blount, after an
interval. "I received it last night. He was in London when I saw him
last; and my letter, telling him that you are still living, may not
reach him, possibly, for some days. Thus, you see, you would have the
start of him, if I may so describe it, without rudeness; and you are
aware he has no confidence in you; and, certainly, if you will permit me
to say so, he ought not to have any. I have a note of the number of the
cheque; you can write a line saying that you have lost it, and
requesting that payment may be stopped; and I will enclose it to Messrs.
Dignum and Budget."
"There's pen and ink here; I'll do it this moment. I thought you had
renounced me also; and I was going to write again to try you once more,
before taking to the high road," he said, with dismal jocularity.
It wrung the pride of the young man sorely to write the note. But the
bitter pill was swallowed; and he handed it, but with signs of
suppressed anger, to Mr. Blount.
"That will answer perfectly," said the man in black.
"It enables you to stop that cheque by this post, without first seeing
my uncle; and it relieves you," said the young man, with bitter and
pitiless irony, "of the folly of acting in the most trifling matter upon
my word of honour. It is certainly making the most of the situation. I
have made one great slip--a crime, if you like----"
"Quite so, sir," acquiesced Mr. Blount, with melancholy politeness.
"Under great momentary temptation," continued the young man, "and
without an idea of ultimately injuring any human being to the amount of
a single farthing. I'm disowned; any one that pleases may safely spit in
my face. I'm quite aware how I stand in this infernal pharisaical
world."
Mr. Blount looked at him gravely, but made him no answer. The young
gentleman did not want to quarrel with Mr. Blount just then. He could
not afford it.
"I don't mean you, of course," he said; "you have been always only too
much my friend. I am speaking of the world; you know, quite well, if
this unlucky thing takes wind, and my uncle's conduct towards me is the
very thing to set people talking and inquiring, I may as well take off
my hat to you all, drink your healths in a glass of prussic acid, and
try how a trip to some other world agrees with me."
"You are speaking, of course, sir, in jest," said Mr. Blount, with some
disgust in his grave countenance; "but I may mention that the
unfortunate occurrence is known but to your uncle and to me, and to no
other person on earth. You bear the name of Marston--you'll excuse me
for reminding you, sir--and upon that point he is sensitive and
imperious. He considered, sir, that your bearing that name, if I may so
say, without being supposed guilty of a rudeness, would slur it; and,
therefore, you'll change it, as arranged, on embarking at Southampton.
It would be highly inexpedient to annoy your uncle by any inadvertence
upon this point. Your contemplating suicide would be--you will pardon
the phrase--cowardly and impious. Not, indeed, if I may so say
consistently with the rules of politeness," he added, thoughtfully,
"that your sudden removal would involve any loss to anybody, except,
possibly, some few Jews, and people of that kind."
"Certainly--of course. You need not insist upon that. I feel my
degradation, I hope, sufficiently. It is not his fault, at least, if I
don't."
"And, from myself, I suggest that he will be incensed, if he learns that
you are accepting the hospitality of Mr. Ware's house. I think, sir,
that men of the world, especially gentlemen, will regard it, if the
phrase be not discourteous, in the light of a shabby act."
"Shabby, sir! what do you mean by shabby?" said Mr. Marston, flaming up.
"I mean, sir--you'll excuse me--paltry; don't you see?--or mean. His
feelings would be strongly excited by your partaking of Mr. Ware's
hospitality."
"Hospitality! Shelter, you mean; slates, walls--little more than they
give a beast in a pound! Why, I don't owe them a crust, or a cup of tea.
I get everything from the hotel there, at Cardyllion; and Mr. Ware is a
thousand miles away!"
"I speak of it simply as a question of expediency, sir. He will be
inflamed against you, if he hears you have, in ever so small a matter,
placed yourself under any obligation to Mr. Ware."
"But he need not hear of it; why should you mention it?"
"I cannot practise reserve with a man who treats me with unlimited
confidence," he answered, gently. "Why should you not go to the hotel?"
"I have no money."
"But you get everything you want there on credit?"
"Well, yes, that's true; but it would scarcely do to make that move; I
have been as ill as ever I was in my life since that awful night on the
rocks down there. You can have no idea what it was; and the doctor says
I must keep quiet. It isn't worth while moving now; so soon as I have
funds, I'll leave this."
"I will lend you what you require, with much pleasure, sir," proffered
Mr. Blount.
"Well, thanks, it is not very much, and it's hard to refuse; one feels
such a fool without a shilling to give to a messenger, or to the
servants; I haven't even a fee for the doctor who has been attending
me."
Determined by this pathetic appeal, Mr. Blount took a bank-note of ten
pounds from his purse and lent it to Mr. Marston.
"And, I suppose, you'll remove forthwith to the hotel," he said.
"The moment I feel equal to it," he replied. "Why, d---- it, don't you
think I'm ready to go, when I'm able? I--I---- Don't mind me, pray. Your
looks reprove me. I'm shocked at myself when I use those phrases. I know
very well that I have just escaped by a miracle from death. I feel how
utterly unfit I was to die; and, I assure you, I'm not ungrateful. You
shall see that my whole future life will be the better for it. I'm not
the graceless wretch I have been. One such hour as preceded my scaling
that rock out there is a lesson for a life. You have often spoken to me
on the subjects that ought to interest us all. I mean when I was a boy.
Your words have returned upon me. You derive happiness from the good you
do to others. I thought you had cast your bread upon the waters to see
it no more; but you have found it at last. I am very grateful to you."
Did Mr. Marston believe that good people are open, in the manner of
their apostleship, to flattery, as baser mortals are in matters of
another sort? It was to be hoped that Mr. Marston felt half what he
uttered. His words, however, did produce a favourable and a pleasant
impression upon Mr. Blount. His large face beamed for a moment with
honest gratification. His eyes looked evil upon him, as if the
benevolence of his inmost heart spoke out through them.
"If anything can possibly please him, sir, in connection with you," said
Mr. Blount, with all his customary suavity and unconscious bluntness,
"it will be to learn that recent events have produced a salutary
impression and a total change in you. Not that I suppose he cares very
much; but I'm glad to have to represent to him anything favourable in
this particular case. I mean to return to London direct, and if your
uncle is still there you shall hear in a day or two--at all events very
soon; but I wish you were in the hotel."
"Well, I'll go to the hotel, if they can put me up. I'll go at once;
address to me to the post-office--Richard Marston, I suppose?"
"Just so, sir, Richard Marston."
Mr. Blount had risen, and stood gravely, prepared to take his leave.
"I have kept you a long time, Mr. Blount; will you take anything?"
Mr. Blount declined refreshments.
"I must leave you now, sir; there is a crisis in every life. What has
happened to you is stupendous; the danger and the deliverance. That hour
is past. May its remembrance be with you ever--day and night! Do not
suppose that it can rest in your mind without positive consequences. It
must leave you a great deal better or a great deal worse. Farewell,
sir."
So they parted. Mr. Marston seemed to have lost all his spirits and half
his energy in that interview. He sat motionless in the chair into which
he had thrown himself, and gazed listlessly on the floor in a sulky
reverie. At length he said--
"That is a most unpleasant old fellow; I wish he was not so
unscrupulously addicted to telling truth."