Midwinter in the metropolis!
If you are blessed with a sufficient income, a snug club, a cheerful
abode and a good digestion, there is nothing very terrible in the above.
But, if your shillings are scanty in number, and each one disbursed
with infinite reluctance, if you have been so long in a far country as
to be unknown to, or forgotten by, every living soul, if you are
condemned to pig it in a miserable slum, because needs must when the
devil drives--then, O friend and reader--Heaven help you!
Midwinter in the metropolis!
Streets knee-deep in black, slushy, half-melted snow; a pelting,
ceaseless rain falling from the opaque, lowering vapour above, which
makes one doubt the existence of Heaven's blue firmament otherwise than
in dreams; foot passengers with streaming umbrellas and muffled in vast
wraps, jostling each other angrily, as, red-nosed and watery-eyed, they
hurry through the rain and mire; then, as the short afternoon fades into
night, the yellow light of gas lamps and the glare of shop windows
reflects itself slimily on the sloppy pavements, and the breath of the
cab and omnibus horses mingles in a steamy cloud with the prevailing
dank and fog-laden atmosphere.
On just such a day as this Roland Dorrien sits moodily in his dreary,
comfortless room, looking out into the darkling vista of rain and fog.
A tiny handful of fire flickers in the grate, hardly enough to make
itself felt twelve inches off, and though he is wrapped in a warm, thick
overcoat he shivers from time to time. He is looking very altered from
when we saw him last, three or four months ago, very pale, and haggard,
and hollow-eyed, and a frown is seldom altogether away from his brow;
but his clothes are not shabby, nor does his countenance wear the
neglected and unkempt aspect of a man who had come down so irretrievably
in the world as to be careless of appearances. His dark curling hair is
as neat, but his face is no longer clean-shaven, for he has allowed a
thickly-growing beard to hide it, in addition to the heavy, drooping
moustache. From a vestiary point of view he would seem as prosperous as
in the days when he was known to, and envied by, Wandsborough and its
neighbourhood as the future Squire of Cranston. But as a set-off
against this, he seldom indulges in more than one full meal a day,
sometimes not that. Prevention is better than cure, he thinks, and if
the pangs of hunger assail him, why, a crust of bread will stave it off
for the time being. As a consequence, his system is rapidly falling to
zero, and now he lives in a kind of lethargy which is half a waking
slumber. He goes out and comes in, taking not the slightest notice of
what transpires around him, and of society or acquaintances he has none.
In the intervals between his brooding fits, his pen affords him a
solace, and at times he will sit down and by the hour confide his
reflections to sympathising paper, strange, weird fancies and
reasonings, so startling and _bizarre_ in their wildness, that, but for
the strong, logical sequence running through them, they might be taken
for the ravings of delirium.
As with food, so with other bodily comforts. Firing costs money, of
which he has but the scantiest store, wherefore he sits and shivers.
Tobacco he has hardly touched since his ruin, for the same reason, and
as for anything alcoholic he has almost forgotten what it was like.
There is method in his madness, and against this temptation he has set a
resolute face. It may be that he will soon find an unknown and nameless
grave, probably he will--indeed, this is a contingency he has quite
brought himself to contemplate with equanimity, but never will he sink
to the level of a raving, drink-sodden beast. Yet another danger, more
imminent still, he somehow overlooks. A little more of this morbid,
brooding life in its frightful loneliness, and the man will go mad.
But if he himself overlooks the possibility, others do not. He has
changed his lodgings no less than three times in as many months, in
reality, obliged to do so by the fears of his respective landladies, who
didn't like to "'ave a gentleman in the 'ouse as was that queer--no, not
if you was to give them the whole Bank of England. Why, they might be
murdered any night in their beds." So one after another politely hinted
that they would rather have his room than his occupation, and to each
and all poor Roy afforded a ready pretext.
And it is chiefly, in fact wholly, with Roy that his thoughts are
concerned, as we once more look in upon him this dark, desolate
afternoon. For it has come to this, that any moment, now, he may be
called upon to part with this faithful friend, who has been with him in
his prosperity, as through no inconsiderable portion of his adversity.
Roy is sold.
Yes, sold, and his purchaser is the man who it will be remembered had
shown great anxiety to possess him on the occasion of meeting with his
master in Kensington Gardens.
And how comes it that his master has brought himself to part with him?
The answer is simple. Necessity has no law. Hardly able to keep
himself, how shall he be able to keep Roy. The ruined exile foresees
the time when he must yield up the struggle which is not worth
maintaining: what then is to become of this attached and more than human
companion in adversity? And as, in imagination, he sees him the
property of some brute or cad, beaten and starved, and spending his days
chained to a miserable kennel, he makes up his mind to accept Mr
Marsland's offer. At any rate, Roy will be well-treated by his new
master, possibly so well that he may in time come to forget his old one.
Never mind, he must go; but it is with a very heavy heart that Roland
scribbles off a few lines to the address the other man had given him.
He purposely put the price low, he said, as that was only a secondary
consideration, the dog's future comfort and well-being was the chief
thing. If the other was disposed to agree, the sooner he sent for Roy
the better.
A reply soon came. Mr Marsland was out of town, or would have called
himself; as it was he would send for Roy at a stipulated time. He was
sorry so little had been asked, as he himself would have been glad to
obtain the dog at a far larger figure. In reality, of course, he
understood the state of affairs, but being a good-hearted fellow and a
gentleman he divined that the other would rather be left alone, and
forebore to press the point.
And so we find the exile sitting here to-day, momentarily expecting the
ring at the bell which shall summon him to deliver up his faithful
companion. The afternoon wears on. It will soon be dark, and now he
hopes that something may occur to delay the sad hour, at any rate until
the next morning. Poor Roy sits unsuspectingly, with his head on his
master's knee, his soft brown eyes watching his master's moody
countenance with a wistful gaze.
Rat-tat, tat-tat-tat! goes the door knocker. Roy, who has become used
to persons passing in and out, takes no notice beyond a slight cocking
of his ears. A moment more, and the slipshod maid of all work appears,
ushering in--
"A gentleman, sir."
With a sigh Roland looks up at the "gentleman," who might be a stableman
or an under-keeper, but is a decent-looking, civil fellow enough.
"From Mr Marsland?"
"Yes, sir. Can I take the dog now, sir?"
"Yes."
He goes into the other room, and returns with a chain and collar. Roy,
becoming alive to the import of the situation, backs under the table and
whines piteously.
"Come here, Roy--come here, sir," says his master, in a voice that he
vainly strives to render firm. "You dear old fellow, you must go,
there's no help for it. Come."
The dog obeys, and stands crestfallen, with a world of sad reproach in
his soft, pleading eyes, as his master fastens the collar round his
white, silky ruff, and kisses him in the middle of his smooth, glossy
forehead.
"Now, good-bye, old dog, and don't forget your master too soon," and he
gives the chain to the man, who stands waiting.
"Thankee, sir--good-evenin', sir. He'll go quiet enough directly, bless
him."
They had reached the front door, Roy hanging back and tugging vigorously
at his chain. Roland stands looking after them down the street, in
order to see the last of his faithful friend. Suddenly Roy ceases his
struggles and trots along quietly for a few steps. Then he stops short.
A couple of sudden jerks and he is free. He has slipped his head
through the collar and comes running back to his master, and presses
against him, looking up into his face with such a piteous whine.
"Good God! There's nothing like piling on the agony," mutters Roland
between his set teeth, as he readjusts the collar, drawing the strap
tighter, the dog licking his face all the while. "Here--take him away--
and--stop, there's half a crown for yourself. And mind you take
devilish good care of the dog if you have anything to do with him."
Now, the man was an honest countryman, and, unspoiled by any taint of
socialism, he still entertained a hearty respect for his betters, and "a
gentleman down on his luck" was in his eyes an object for reverential
sympathy. He had taken in the bare, mean vulgarity of the room in which
its occupant looked so sadly out of place--and his natural shrewdness
told him that the other would not have parted with the dog save under
the direst stress of circumstances. So he stammered, and looked
nervous, as he tried to refuse the proffered gratuity in a suitable
manner.
"Thankee kindly, sir. But master, he don't let none of us take anything
from gentlemen, except when they's down for the shootin'," answers the
man, hitting upon the only excuse he could invent. "But it's thank ye
kindly, sir, all the same, and I'll take downright good care of the dog.
Good-evenin', sir."
The now sole occupant of the room feels desolate and lonely indeed.
There is Roy's pan of water, and the few crumbs remaining from the
dog-biscuits Roy had for his dinner. How silent and intolerable the
room feels without him. His last friend!
And now a resolve takes root in his mind, a wild and desperate resolve,
and it was partly with this idea that he brought himself to accept a
price for Roy. Even now he had better dismiss it, and accept the
situation, and hasten on towards oblivion. It is not too late.
Nebuchadnezzar, we read, was transformed into a beast of the field.
There comes a time, or times, in most men's lives when they undergo a
similar metamorphosis. Such a time had come to Roland Dorrien. He was
transformed into--an ass.
Nature, however, was willing to do her best for him, by upsetting, if
possible, his wise resolve above referred to. When he tried to rise the
following morning, his head was throbbing with an agonising pain, and
his consciousness only permitted him to realise one fact--that to move
from his bed that day would be a stark impossibility.