Transcriber's Notes: This edition of Jessie Trim was published by
Tinsley Brothers (London) in two installments in the following issues
of Tinsleys' Magazine:
Vol. XIV. From January to June 1874. Chapters I.-XXV.
https://books.google.com/books?id=Dj8xAQAAMAAJ
(Mercantile Library, New York; New York Public Library)
Vol. XV. From July to December 1874. Chapters XXVI.-LI.
https://books.google.com/books?id=1-kRAAAAYAAJ
(Mercantile Library, New York; New York Public Library)
TINSLEYS' MAGAZINE
LONDON:
ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
TINSLEYS' MAGAZINE.
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VOL. XIV.
From January to June 1874.
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LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS,
8 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND, W.C.
[_All rights of translation and reproduction reserved_.]
CONTENTS.
JESSIE TRIM. By B. L. Farjeon, Author of Blade-o'-Grass,'
'Golden Grain,' Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses,' 'Grif,' 'London's
Heart,' and 'Joshua Marvel:'
CONTENTS
Chap.
I. My Grandmother's Wedding.
II. I am frightened of my Shadow.
III. My Grandmother's Long Stocking.
IV. I murder my Baby-brother.
V. I play the Part of Chief Mourner.
VI. In which a great Change in my Circumstances takes place.
VII. In which a Fairy in a Cotton-Print Dress is introduced.
VIII. A Postman's Knock.
IX. Uncle Bryan introduces himself.
X. Our new Home.
XI. In which I take part in some lawless Expeditions.
XII. A singular Episode in our quiet Life.
XIII. A sudden Shock.
XIV. The World becomes bright again.
XV. Jessie's Rosewater Philosophy.
XVI. The Stone Monkey Figure gives up its Treasures.
XVII. The true Story of Anthony Bullpit.
XVIII. Uncle Bryan commences the Story of his Life.
XIX. Strange Revelations in Uncle Bryan's Life.
XX. Uncle Bryan concludes his Story.
XXI. I receive an Invitation.
XXII. I am introduced to a Theatrical Family.
XXIII. The Sunday-night Suppers at the Wests'.
XXIV. Turk, the First Villain.
XXV. Holding the Word of Promise to the Ear.
XXVI. We enjoy a deceitful Calm.
XXVII. The Storm breaks.
XXVIII. Colour-blind.
XXIX. Preparations for an important Event
XXX. Jessie's Triumph.
XXXI. My Mother expresses her Fears concerning Jessie.
XXXII. Jessie makes an Explanation.
XXXIII. Mr. Glover.
XXXIV. Turk West's Appearance at the West-end Theatre, and its
Results.
XXXV. Jessie's Birthday.
XXXVI. I speak plainly to uncle Bryan.
XXXVII. Turk makes a Confession.
XXXVIII. Mr. Glover declines to satisfy me.
XXXIX. A new Fear.
XL. What the Neighbours said.
XLI. Josey West declares that she has got into her proper
Groove.
XLII. From Frances to her Husband, Bryan Carey.
XLIII. A happy Recovery.
XLIV. At Rehearsal.
XLV. Old Mac expresses his Opinion of Mr. Glover.
XLVI. A strange Dream.
XLVII. Exit Mr. Glover.
XLVIII. Josey West laments her crooked Legs.
XLIX. Uncle Bryan again.
L. Josey West disturbs us in the Middle of the Night.
LI. My Mother's Bible.
_TINSLEYS' MAGAZINE_.
January 1874.
JESSIE TRIM.
BY B. L. FARJEON,
AUTHOR OF 'BLADE-O'-GRASS,' 'GOLDEN GRAIN,' 'BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND
KISSES.' 'GRIF,' 'LONDON'S HEART,' AND 'JOSHUA MARVEL.'
CHAPTER I.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S WEDDING.
As my earliest remembrances are associated with my grandmother's
wedding, it takes natural precedence here of all other matter. I was
not there, of course, but I seem to see it through a mist, and I have
a distinct impression of certain actors in the scene. These are: a
smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone, my grandmother, my grandfather
(whom I never saw in the flesh), and a man with a knob on the top of
his head, making a meal off his finger-nails.
Naturally, this man's head is bald. Naturally, this man's nails are
eaten down to the quick. I am unable to state how I come to the
knowledge of these details, but I know them, and am prepared to stand
by them. Sitting, as I see myself, in a very low armchair--in which I
am such an exact fit that when I rise it rises with me, much to my
discomfort--I hear my grandmother say:
'He had a knob on the top of his head, and he was always eating his
nails.'
Then a solemn pause ensues, broken by my grandmother adding, in a
dismal tone:
'And the last time I set eyes on him was on my wedding-day.'
The words are addressed not so much to me as to the smoke-dried monkey
of a man in stone, which had occupied the place of honour on the
mantelpiece in my grandmother's house, and which she had brought with
her as a precious relic--(Jane Painter, I remember, always called it a
relict)--when she came to live with us. The head of this stone figure
is loose, and wags upon the slightest provocation. When something
falls in the room, when the door is slammed, when a person walks
sharply towards it, when it is merely looked at I sometimes fancy. I
am not prepossessed in its favour, and I regard it with uneasy
feelings, as probably possessing a power for evil, like a
malevolently-inclined idol. But my grandmother, for some mysterious
reason, values it as a very precious possession, and sits staring
dumbly at it for hours. I watch her and it until, in my imagination,
its monkey-face begins to twitch and its monkey-lips to move. At a
certain point of my watch, I fancy that its eyes roll and glare at me,
and I cover mine with my hands to shut out the disturbing sight. But I
have not sufficient courage to remain blind for more than a very few
moments, and I am soon fascinated into peeping at the figure through
the lattice of my fingers. My grandmother observes me, and says:
'I see you, child! Take your fingers away.'
I obey her timidly, and with many a doubtful glance at the monkey-man,
I ask:
'Does _it_ see me, grandmother?'
My grandmother regards it with a gloomy air; evidently she has doubts.
She does not commit herself, however, but says:
'It will belong to you, child, when I am gone. It must be kept always
in the family.'
The tone in which she utters these words denotes that evil will fall
upon the family when this heirloom is lost sight of. I am not grateful
for the prospective gift. It has already become a frightful incubus;
it weighs me down, and is a future as well as a present torment. I
think it has lived long enough--too long--and that when my grandmother
goes, she ought to take it with her. Happening to catch the eye of the
figure while this thought is in my mind, I am convinced that it shows
in its ugly face a consciousness of my bad feeling towards it; its
eyes and lips threaten me. It would have terrified, but it would not
have surprised me to find it suddenly gifted with the power of speech,
and to hear it utter dreadful words. But happily for my peace of mind
no such miracle happens. I look at my grandmother, and I begin to
fancy that she, from long staring at it, bears in her face a
resemblance to the face of the monkey-man. For how much longer will my
grandmother sit and stare at it? For how many more days and weeks and
years? She has frequently told me that naughty boys were invariably
'fetched away' to a dismal place by Some One wearing horns and a tail.
She made no mention of naughty girls; and sometimes when she has been
delighting me with these wholesome lessons, a sort of rebellion has
possessed me that I was not born a girl. Now, if Some One were to come
and 'fetch' my grandmother away, it would not grieve me; I should
rejoice. But I dare not for my life give utterance to my thought. Says
my grandmother, with a nod at the stone figure, which, suddenly
animated by a mysterious influence, returns the nod:
'I had it in my pocket on my wedding-day.'
The circumstance of its being a guest at my grandmother's wedding
invests it with an additional claim to my protection when she is gone.
How happy I should be if it would fall into the fireplace, and break
into a thousand pieces!
'Grandmother!'
'Well, child.'
Was the man with the knob on the top of his head----'
My grandmother interrupts me.
'You mean the gentleman, child.'
'Yes, I mean the gentleman--and who was always eating his nails,--was
he like that?' Pointing to the stone monkey-figure.
'Like that, child! How can such an idea have entered your head? No; he
was a very handsome man.'
A pure fiction, I am convinced, if nothing worse. How _could_ a man
with a knob on his head, and who was always eating his nails, be
handsome?
'Your grandfather used to be very jealous of him; he was one of my
sweethearts. I had several, and nine proposals of marriage before I
was twenty years of age. Some girls that I knew were ready to scratch
their eyes out with vexation. He proposed, and wished to run away with
me, but my family stepped in between us, and prevented him. You can
never be sufficiently grateful to me, child; for what would have
become of you if I had run away and married him, goodness only knows!'
The reflection which is thus forced upon me involves such wild
entanglements of possibilities that I am lost in the contemplation of
them. What _would_ have become of me? Supposing it had occurred--should
I ever have been?
'He told me,' continues my grandmother, revelling in these honey-sweet
reminiscences, 'after I had accepted your grandfather, that life was
valueless without me, and that as he had lost me, he would be sure to
go to the Devil. I don't know the end of him, for I only saw him once
after that; but he was a man of his word. He told me so in Lovers'
Walk, where I happened to be strolling one evening--quite by
accident, child, I assure you, for I burnt the letter I received from
him in the morning, for fear your grandfather should see it. Your
grandfather had a frightfully jealous disposition--as if I could help
the men looking at me! When we were first married he used to smash a
deal of crockery, with his quick temper. I hope he is forgiven for it
in the place he has gone to. He was an auctioneer and valuer; he had
an immense reputation as a valuer. It was not undeserved; he fell in
love with me. Oh, he was clever, child, in his way!'
Although I am positive that I never saw my grandfather, I have, in
some strange way, a perfect remembrance of him as a little man, very
dapper, and very precisely dressed in a snuff-coloured coat and black
breeches and stockings. Now, my grandmother was a very large woman;
side by side they are, to my mind, a ridiculous match. I have grown
quite curious concerning my grandmother's lover, and I venture to
recall her from a moody contemplation of the monkey-figure into which
she is falling.
'But about the man with the knob, grandmother?' I commence.
'Child, you are disrespectful! The man with the knob, indeed!'
'The gentleman, I mean, who wanted to marry you. What was his name?'
'Bullpit. He was connected with the law, and might have become Lord
Chancellor if I hadn't blighted him.'
'Did he behave himself at your wedding, grandmother?'
'Save the child!' she exclaims. 'You don't suppose that Mr. Bullpit
was at my wedding, do you? Why, there would have been murder done!
Your grandfather and he would have torn each other to pieces!' These
latter words are spoken in a tone of positive satisfaction, as adding
immensely to my grandmother's reputation.
'But I thought you said that the last time you saw him was on your
wedding-day?'
'So I did, child; but I didn't say he was _at_ the wedding. We were
coming out of church---- Deary, deary me! I can see it as if it was
only yesterday that it took place! The church was scarcely three
minutes' walk from mother's house, and the expense would not have been
great, but your grandfather, who was a very mean man, did not provide
carriages, and we had to go on foot. It was the talk of the whole
neighbourhood for months afterwards. I never forgave him for it, and I
can't forget it, although he is in his grave now, where all things
ought to be forgotten and forgiven. Remember that, child, and if you
have anything to forget and forgive, forget and forgive it. Animosity
is a bad thing.'
My grandmother gives me time to remember if I have anything to forget
and forgive. I feel somewhat remorseful because of the hard thoughts I
have borne towards her, and I mentally resolve that when she is in her
grave I will endeavour to forget and forgive.
'We walked,' she continues, from mother's house to the church, and
from the church back again. It was like a procession. There were five
bridesmaids, and mother and father, and your grandfather's mother and
father,'--(I am a little confused here with so many mothers and
fathers, and, notwithstanding my efforts to prevent it, they all get
jumbled up with one another)--'whom we could very well have done
without, and the Best Man, who did not know how to behave himself,
making the bridesmaids giggle as he did, as if my wedding was a thing
to be laughed at! and a great number of guests with white favours in
their coats--all but one, who ought to have known better, and who was
properly punished afterwards by being jilted by Mary Morgan. Everybody
in the town came to see us walk to church, and when the fatal knot was
tied, the crowd round the church door was so large that we could
scarcely make our way through it. The Best Man misbehaved himself
shamefully. He pretended to be overcome by grief, and he sobbed in
such a violent manner as to make the mob laugh at him, and the
bridesmaids giggle more than ever. I knew what they did it for, the
hussies! They thought he was a catch; a nice husband he turned out to
be afterwards! When we were half way between the church and mother's
house, our procession met another procession, and for a minute or two
there was a stoppage and great confusion, and several vulgar boys
hurrayed. What do you think that other procession was, child?'
I ponder deeply, but am unable to guess.
That other procession, child, was made up of policemen and riff-raff.
And in the middle of it, with handcuffs on, was Anthony Bullpit. He
had been arrested on a warrant for forgery. What with the confusion
and the struggling, the processions got mixed up together, and as I
raised my eyes I saw the eyes of Anthony Bullpit fixed upon me. Such a
shock as that look of his gave me I shall never forget--never! I knew
the meaning of it too well. It meant that all this had occurred
through me; that life without me was a mockery; that he had arranged
everything so that we should meet immediately the fatal knot was tied;
and that he was on his road to ---- where he said he would go.'
'He must have been a very wicked man, grandmother.'
'A wicked man, child! How dare you! He was as innocent as I was, and
he did it all to punish me. I fainted dead away in the middle of the
street, and had to be carried home, and have hartshorn given to me,
and brown paper burnt under my nose. When I came to, I looked more
like a blackamoor than a bride, and my wedding dress was completely
spoilt. And nothing of all this would have occurred, child, if it had
not been for the meanness of your grandfather. If he had provided
carriages _we_ should never have met. When poor Mr. Bullpit was put
upon his trial he would not make any defence. Your grandfather said
the case was so clear that it would only have aggravated it to defend
it. But I knew better. When he pleaded guilty, I knew that he did it
to spite me, and to prove that he was a man of his word. I wanted to
go to the trial, but your grandfather objected; and when I said I
_would_ go, he locked all the doors in the house, and took the keys
away with him. Your grandfather has much to answer for. Mr. Bullpit
was transported for twenty-one years. Some wicked people said it was a
mercy he wasn't hanged. If he had been, I should never have survived
it. Poor Anthony!'
I was too young to exercise a proper judgment upon this incident in my
grandmother's life, but it is imprinted indelibly upon my memory. I
knew very well that I did not like my grandmother, and that I did not
feel happy in her society. Often when I wished to go out into the
sunshine to play, she would say,
'Bring the boy in here, and let him keep me company. It will do him
more good than running about in the dirt.'
And her word being law in the house, I used to be taken into the room
where she sat in her armchair, staring at the monkey-man on the
mantelshelf, and used to be squeezed into my own little armchair, and
placed in the corner to keep her company. For a certain sufficient
reason I deemed it advisable to be companionable; for once I had
sulked, and was sullen and ill-tempered. Then my grandmother had said:
'The child is unwell! He must have some physic.'
She herself prescribed the medicine--jalap, which was my disgust and
abhorrence--and the dose, which was not a small one. Out of that
companionship sprang my knowledge of the man with the knob on the top
of his head, and who was always eating his nails. By some process of
ratiocination I associate him with the smoke-dried monkey of a man in
stone, and I hate them both honestly. As for Anthony Bullpit being
innocent of the crime for which he was transported, I smile scornfully
at the idea. He is my model for all that is disagreeable and bad, and
I never see a man whose nails are bitten down to the quick without
associating him--often unjustly, I am sure--with meanness and
trickery.
There was a reason for my being doomed to the companionship of my
grandmother, and for my being made her victim as it were. Our family
circle comprised five individuals: my grandmother, my father and
mother, myself, and a baby-brother. My parents had, through no fault
of their own, drifted into that struggling-genteel class of persons
whose means never quite come up to their efforts to make an
appearance. We had been a little better off once upon a time, but
unfortunately my father's health had failed him, and at the period of
which I am writing he was confined to his bed, unable to work. My
mother, what with her anxiety and her ignorance of the world, was to a
certain extent helpless. Therefore, when my grandmother proposed to
come and live with us, and bring her servant, and pay so much a week
for board and lodging, her offer was gladly accepted. It was a current
belief that my grandmother had a 'long stocking' somewhere, with
plenty of money in it, and to this long stocking may be attributed
much of my unhappiness at that time. For it had come to be recognised
that I was to be my grandmother's heir, and that her long stocking
would descend to me. It was, perhaps, regarded as a fair arrangement
that, as my grandmother's property was to be mine when she was dead, I
was to be my grandmother's property while she was alive; and I have no
doubt that care was taken that her whims with respect to me should be
carefully attended to, so that my inheritance might not be
jeopardised. My mother did not know that I was unhappy; I was as a
child somewhat secretive by nature, and I kept my thoughts and
feelings much to myself. Besides, I had an intuitive perception of the
state of affairs at home, and I felt that if I offended my grandmother
my parents might suffer.