Human life is a strange thing, consider it in what way we will. Strip
it of all factitious adjuncts, and leave it bare and bald, as a mere
lease for sixty or seventy years of sensations, feelings, thoughts,
hopes, expectations, still it is strange--very strange; but man has
made it stranger. Society has put so many clauses into the lease that
the covenants are not always easily fulfilled, and the tenancy
occasionally becomes troublesome.
I do not mean to say that this was altogether the case with worthy Mr.
Winkworth. That he was rich was evident; that, notwithstanding his
meagre body, stooping shoulders, and yellow face, he was strong and in
good health, his capability of enduring long fatigue, and the rapidity
with which he had recovered from his former wounds in Syria, proved
sufficiently. But still he seemed very indifferent to life; and when
the surgeon, as surgeons often will upon very slight occasions,
thought fit to look grave and solemn while examining his wound, the
old gentleman turned laughing to Charles Marston, and said, with a nod
of his head--
"I'll remember you in my will.--My dear sir," he continued, addressing
the surgeon, "do not look so serious. You cannot frighten me, I assure
you. Life in its very best and palmiest state, with all its joys and
pleasures unimpaired, is not so valuable a commodity in my eyes as to
cost me two thoughts about losing it. There is no great chance of
that, however, this time; and, even if there were, this old, crazy,
worn-out body--of which, as of a house long in chancery, there is
little more than the framework left--may just as well go down to
mother earth to-day or to-morrow as after a few score more morrows,
which will very soon be passed."
The ball, however, was soon extracted; and the old gentleman retired
to bed, treating the whole matter somewhat lightly.
The next morning, when Charles Marston went to visit him, some degree
of inflammation had naturally come on, rendering him rather irritable,
of which he was conscious.
"Go away, Charles! go away!" he said: "go and see your uncle, as you
ought to have done before now. I am cross, and if you stay, you will
find me as bitter as a black dose."
"Well, I shall tell my servant, at all events, to be in readiness to
attend upon you in case you ring," replied Charles Marston.
"Tell him to go to the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Winkworth: "the whiskered
coxcomb, with his airs and graces, would drive me mad in a minute. No,
no; go away and see your uncle, and leave me to myself. You may come
in about one or two o'clock; but mind how you open that door, for it
makes such a villanous squeaking that one would suppose it had not
moved on its hinges for half-a-century."
There was a house which Charles Marston would undoubtedly have much
preferred to visit, if he had followed his own inclination; but,
nevertheless, with a strong resolution, he turned his steps towards
his uncle's dwelling, feeling conscious that he had certainly made no
great exertions to see him since his return. He was immediately
admitted, for Mr. Scriven seldom betook himself to his counting-house
before eleven or twelve o'clock; and being a man of very regular
habits, the ordinary process was to read three or four articles in the
morning papers before he set out, partly during breakfast, and partly
during the first steps of digestion afterwards. I have said three or
four articles, because in reading newspapers, as in everything else,
Mr. Scriven went upon a system. He was one of those men who always
have a motive, and his motive was usually one and indivisible.
There was no such thing as an impulse in his nature; he did not
recollect ever having had an impulse. He was Babbage's calculating
machine, in flesh and blood.
His sister, Lady Fleetwood, had told her nephew, as we have seen, that
Mr. Scriven had been "very angry" upon one occasion; but Lady
Fleetwood made a mistake. Mr. Scriven was never very angry; it did not
come within his calculations to be so. He could be exceedingly severe,
bitter, caustic, and coolly regardless of other people's feelings; but
he was not the least angry, all the while. He either wanted to prevent
them from doing a thing he did not desire to be done, or to stop them
from ever doing it again. It was still upon a motive.
Thus, in reading the newspaper, he read those articles alone which
were likely to affect himself personally, either immediately or
remotely. He cared nothing about politics, except as the price of the
funds, the value of merchandise, the risks of speculation, or the
amounts of taxation, were concerned. Highway robberies, murders, suits
in chancery, police reports, trials at bar or in the Arches' Court,
interested him not in the least, except as excepted. They were all
about other people; and he would have considered it a want of due
economy to give them the least attention. Births, deaths, and
marriages, in the abstract, he cared nothing about; and the whole
world might have been born, wedded, or buried, without producing one
sensation in his bosom, provided he could have carried on his
transactions without them.
The "Gazette," the shipping list, the money article, the commercial
statement, a few trials for swindling, forgery, and breach of
contract, together with reports of the budget, the estimates, and any
debates in parliament referring to commercial matters, were all that
he ever thought of reading; and the lucubrations of editors, in what
are called leading articles, he passed over with utter contempt,
saying that he trusted he could form as good an opinion himself on
matters of fact as any they could give him.
The reader must pardon me for dwelling so long on Mr. Scriven's
character; and I do so, not because it is at all a singular one, for
it is as common as the air, under different modifications, but because
there are very few men who, possessing the jewel of perfect
selfishness, are bold enough to display it openly and without disguise
to the eyes of all men. But Mr. Scriven was at the acme of his class.
He was, as a naturalist would say, the most perfect specimen ever
found; and it requires to be so before selfishness can be considered a
virtue and a matter of pride.
When Charles Marston was ushered up to his uncle, he found him busily
reading an account of the barque "Louisa" having been spoken with by
the "Arcadia" mail-packet, in latitude so-and-so, longitude so-and-so.
Neither the latitude nor longitude signifies a pin to you or me,
reader, though it did to him.
Mr. Scriven looked up over the top of the paper as his nephew was
announced, dropped it a little lower when he saw him, and said--
"How do you do, Charles?--how do you do, Charles? I will speak to you
in a moment."
And he read out the ship-news without moving a muscle.
Charles Marston had a great inclination to put on his hat and walk
away; for it must be recollected that eighteen months had passed since
Mr. Scriven had last seen his nephew; and Charles, without being angry
at the coolness of his reception, argued in this manner:--
"He does not care to see me; I certainly do not care to see him: why
should I be bored by stopping while he reads the paper?"
There were two or three other little _pros_ and _cons_ in Charles
Marston's mind; but they were brought to an end by Mr. Scriven
finishing the subject which he was reading, and turning to his nephew
with his usual dry air.
"Well, Charles," he said, "here is the third day since you arrived in
London, and I have the honour of seeing you at last."
Charles Marston did not think fit to make the slightest excuse or
apology, contenting himself with the simple facts of having sent to
his uncle's house to inquire if he were at home, and having afterwards
called upon him in the city.
"If you had come yourself, Charles," said his uncle, "the servant
would have told you that I was near at hand, and would be home
directly; and if you had thought fit to remain in London till you saw
me yesterday, you might have met me at your aunt's house last night, I
having gone there in the hope of seeing you."
"This seems to me something like an accusation," answered Charles, a
little nettled; "and in regard to the first count of the indictment, I
must plead that I could not divine that your servants would tell lies.
They assured mine that they did not know where you were or when you
would return. In regard to the second count, I had business, which I
judged of importance, to take me out of town; and, as you knew I was
gone from dear aunt Fleetwood, and was aware also of the business that
took me, I could not suppose that the expectation of meeting me among
the number of her ladyship's guests would take you to her house. Had I
known it, I might have hurried my return to London."
"Then Lady Fleetwood told you that she had informed me of your
expedition?" said Mr. Scriven in an inquiring tone, but with such
perfect composure that it provoked his nephew.
"Not so," replied Charles: "I divined it from her usual conduct, and
felt sure of it when I found that you had forestalled me in my
object."
Mr. Scriven remained silent for a moment, but then he replied, quite
unmoved--
"Your combinations are good, Charles, but sometimes may be mistaken,
and are always rather too hasty."
"The simple question is this, my dear uncle," said Charles: "did Lady
Fleetwood inform you or not that I had discovered poor Miss Hayley in
very great misery not far from Frimley, and that I intended to go down
yesterday, have her brought to town, and see that she was properly
taken care of? and did you not set off immediately and carry her away
to a madhouse?"
"Who puts the question?" asked Mr. Scriven, with his usual equable
manner.
"I do," answered Charles.
"Rather respectful from a nephew to an uncle," replied Mr. Scriven,
drily; "and now, my dear Charles, to more serious matters. I wrote to
you to come over immediately, as I wanted to see you----"
Charles was angry at the somewhat contemptuous brevity with which his
uncle dismissed the subject.
"You will excuse me, sir," he said; "but I wish for an answer to my
question before we enter upon any other matter."
"You shall have an answer before you leave the room," replied Mr.
Scriven; "but I think it necessary to proceed in order; for you know,
my good nephew, that I am very methodical, and as my letter to you is
the first incident, chronologically speaking, I wish to deal with that
first."
"Very well, sir," replied Charles: "what might be the occasion of your
wishing my immediate return?"
"One of some importance," answered Mr. Scriven. "You and your cousin
Maria have been brought up in habits of great affection for each
other. She is exceedingly beautiful, and her fortune, very large at
her father and mother's death, has not, as you may well suppose,
diminished under my management. Although she does not go so much into
the world as most young women at her time of life, yet there is every
day a probability of some proposal being made to her which she may
think fit to accept. Now, my dear Charles, I would not have you go on
wasting your time in wandering about upon the Continent, and throw
away an opportunity which may never occur again."
Charles Marston smiled.
"Dear aunt Fleetwood has bit you, sir, I think," he replied. "Maria
and I have a great deal of affection for each other, but it is quite
brotherly and sisterly, I can assure you, and will remain so till the
end of our days, whether I am at Babylon or her next-door neighbour in
London."
"I advise you for what I think the best, Charles," replied his uncle.
"You are too wise, and have too much knowledge of the world, I am
sure, to sacrifice all the important objects of life for romance."
"Decidedly," answered Charles Marston: "you must be very well aware
that I have not a particle of romance in my disposition--plenty of
fun, my dear uncle, and a great deal of nonsense of different kinds,
but none of the kind called romance. Nevertheless, setting aside all
objections to marrying at all, which I suppose you are the last man on
earth to undervalue, I have an immense number of sufficient objections
to the important act and deed of proposing to my cousin Maria."
"Pray, what may they be?" asked Mr. Scriven, drily.
"In the first place," answered his nephew, "it would take her quite by
surprise, and I do not wish to surprise her; in the second place, she
would to a certainty refuse me, and I do not want to be refused; in
the third place, if she did by some miracle accept me, which nothing
but a miracle could produce, we should find out in three weeks that we
were not suited to each other: and in the----"
"But why not suited to each other?" demanded Mr. Scriven, interrupting
him, after listening to his objections with marvellous patience. "You
have no vices that I know of, though a great many follies, and Maria
is the sweetest tempered girl in the world."
"You have touched the exact points of difficulty, most excellent
uncle," replied Charles Marston. "Maria is not fond of follies, and I
am not fond of sweets; I never was: even from childhood, I always
preferred a little sour in my sweetmeats--and, in short, Maria and I
would never do together. She would always let me have my own way, and
say, 'Do just as you like, my dear Charles.' Now, what I want is a wife
who would say, 'You shan't do anything of the kind, you mad-headed
fellow!'"
"You were going to state a fourth objection, I think, when I
interrupted you," said Mr. Scriven, with the utmost composure: "the
first three I do not judge very sound."
"I do," answered Charles, "and the fourth is still sounder. Fourthly,
and lastly, then--I intend to marry somebody else."
"Whom?" asked Mr. Scriven.
"There, my dear uncle, you will excuse me," replied Charles. "I will
beg to keep my own secret till I am formally accepted; and I only
mention the fact to you to show you that the idea of a marriage
between Maria and myself is a horse without legs--it won't go, my dear
uncle."
"Very well," said Mr. Scriven, gravely; "and now there is another
subject upon which I want to speak to you. You have been a very long
time doing nothing but amusing yourself: you have arrived at an age
when many men are making fortunes, or laying the foundations of
honourable distinction and a great name. Worldly prosperity is too
insecure a thing for any man to rest contented with that which fate or
fortune has chosen to bestow, without further exertions of his own. A
man must labour to gain, if he would wish to maintain; and I think it
high time that you should adopt some steady pursuit, and give up this
reckless roaming about the world. You have passed the time at which
those professions usually selected by young men of gay dispositions,
idle habits, and small brains, are open to aspiring youths like
yourself: I mean the army and navy. For law, physic, or divinity, you
are not fitted either by intellect, study, or character. Mercantile
pursuits, however, may be embraced at a later period of life, and with
less preparation. To them I should advise you strongly and urge you
warmly to apply yourself, and that at once."
Charles Marston was a good deal annoyed by his uncle's lecture--not so
much at the matter (for he could not help acknowledging that there was
a great deal of good sense in what Mr. Scriven said) as at the manner,
which was dictatorial, cold, and a little contemptuous. He replied,
therefore--
"I am quite well aware, my dear uncle, that for the mercantile
profession neither a large portion of intellect, a refined education,
nor an amiable character is required. An instinct of gain supplies all
deficiencies; and although higher qualities may, and often do,
embellish the character of a merchant, many men do get on quite as
well without. However, there is a good deal of justice in your
observations; and although, as you know, I am not famous for thinking
(Mr. Scriven nodded his head), I have thought of two or three of the
topics which you have discussed; and, moreover, some time ago I wrote
to my dear father, informing him of all my views, hopes, and wishes,
without the slightest reserve. According to his directions and advice
I shall act, as soon as I receive his answer; for I can perfectly
trust to his kindness, to his liberality, and to his judgment."
"Very good," said Mr. Scriven. "I trust, and am even sure, that his
views will be the same as my own; for, although your father is an
exceedingly eccentric man, and never acts as any other man would act,
yet he is in the main a man of good sense; and there are
circumstances----"
Charles Marston did not at all like the tone in which Mr. Scriven was
speaking of his father. He felt himself growing angry, and he knew
that if he suffered the sensation to go on, receiving little additions
every moment from his uncle's observations, his anger would explode.
He therefore thought it better to cut the matter short, and interrupt
Mr. Scriven's picture of his father's character.
"You pride yourself upon being a plain speaker, my dear sir," he said;
"but observations upon my father's eccentricity, as you term it, are
not pleasant to me. Having, therefore, listened attentively to your
exhortations on marriage and commerce, I will revert, if you please,
to the question I put regarding Miss Hayley."
"Will you propound it?" said Mr. Scriven: "I did not take a note of
it."
"It was simply," answered Charles, "whether my aunt did not tell you
that I intended to go down yesterday at three to bring Miss Hayley to
town, for the purpose of having her properly taken care of, poor
thing; and whether you did not immediately set out to forestal me, and
carry her off to a madhouse?"
"One answer to the three clauses of your question will suffice,"
replied Mr. Scriven, perfectly unmoved: "yes."
"Then I must beg to know," said Charles, "where you have carried her;
for I am determined, after the state in which I lately found her, to
see with my own eyes that she is properly protected for the rest of
her life, and to provide for it out of my own income."
"I promised to answer your question as first put," answered Mr.
Scriven, coolly, "and I have done so, but I promised no more; and now
I beg leave to say that I shall not tell you where I have placed Miss
Hayley."
"And, pray, why not?" demanded Charles, in a sharp tone.
"Because I have more consideration for your income than you have
yourself, young man," replied his uncle. "You will soon have need of
it--every penny of it, sir--and more important duties to perform with
it."
"I do not understand your meaning, sir," rejoined Charles, a little
surprised by a very meaning look upon Mr. Scriven's face, which was
rarely suffered to convey anything more than his exact words implied.
"It is very simple," said Mr. Scriven, rising and pushing over to his
nephew two papers, which he had held in his hand for the last five
minutes. "By these two letters you will see what I mean. The one I
received more than a month ago, when I wrote to you; the other
yesterday morning. Your father is a bankrupt, Charles Marston--that is
all. And now I must go to the counting-house, for it is past the
hour."