FREDERICK’S WAY.
Frederick Eastwood had leave for a fortnight from his office. He was not
hardworked, as a rule. Leave was dispensed freely enough, without any
very profound investigation into the urgent affairs which demanded it.
The men at the Sealing Wax Office were something like their
contemporaries of the Household Brigade, and were allowed much leisure
to make up for the severe mental strain which their duties, so long as
they lasted, imposed upon them. Therefore he had not much difficulty in
getting free at this important family crisis. He left home the evening
before his fortnight began, with a very pretty cheque in his purse which
his mother had given him. Mrs. Eastwood’s opinion was that, as Frederick
was sacrificing himself to family duty, Frederick ought to have a
recompense.
“You can buy yourself something with the rest,” she said, smiling upon
him with that confidence of being liberal and trustful which, perhaps
because it is contrary to so many of her superstitions, always makes a
woman pleased with herself.
“There are pretty alabaster things at Pisa,” said Nelly; “you may buy us
all something if you like.”
Frederick shut up his pocket-book, as in other days men used to button
their pockets. He went out of the house hastily, resolving to do neither
one thing nor the other. They closed the door upon him tranquilly,
feeling that it was Frederick’s way, and that they knew precisely how he
would conduct himself on this expedition. But the truth is that no soul
more utterly unknown to that excellent family went out of all London
that day. They knew absolutely nothing about him. The anticipations
which made his eyes glow as soon as he was safe in his Hansom, and could
look as he liked, would have been absolutely incomprehensible to his
family. Could they have seen into his mind, they would have refused to
believe in the reality of what they saw. I hope it may be in my power to
reveal to the reader with less difficulty what Frederick Eastwood really
was. He had a fine exterior--dainty, and delicate, and refined. To see
him you would have imagined his faults to be faults of the mind; high
temper, perhaps, irresolution and weakness in critical circumstances,
intentions which were fundamentally good though often mistaken, and a
wrong-headed obstinacy and self-opinion when he did decide upon any
thing, which is quite compatible with irresolution in great matters.
This is what the cursory observer would have supposed him to be; and
this is what his family thought of him. He was not clever in managing
his own affairs, they knew; he was undecided about matters which
required firmness, and obstinate about trifles. He had no idea of the
magnitudes of differing objects, but would insist upon some trifling
point in an argument while he yielded the great ones. All these faults,
real or supposed, were in harmony with his looks, and with the
impression he made upon most people who met him. A Charles the First
sort of man--wrong-headed, melancholy, virtuous, meaning the very best
but not always able to carry out his meaning, and now and then betrayed
into subterfuge by very indecision. This was the manner in which he was
regarded by his friends.
I am afraid this was not, however, at all the real state of affairs. It
is difficult to describe the true condition of his mind without using
what the newspapers call vulgar expressions, and without venturing upon
ground little known to or studied by the writer of this history. I do
not know after what fashion the artisan enjoys himself when, after a
long spell of respectability, his wife informs me, weeping or indignant,
that he has gone off “on the spree;” and still less do I know what
experiences are gone through by a young gentleman of quality when,
obeying the same impulse, he also breaks loose from decorum and plunges
into occasional dissipation. There are other pens in plenty which can
inform the curious reader; but for my part, though I may guess, I do not
know. Frederick Eastwood, however, though he was rather a fine gentleman
than otherwise, was as much subject to this influence as any
undisciplined working man with good wages and rampant senses. This was
the secret, the mystery, and, by consequence, the centre of his life.
His training, his wishes, his pride, all the traditions of his own and
his family’s history, bound him to the only career which is not ruin for
men in his condition--a life in accordance with the ordinary rules of
virtue and respectability. He had not any of the great qualities which
make society pardon an occasional aberration; nor was he rich enough to
be vicious decorously, even had that been possible. Besides, he did not
want to be permanently vicious, nor, indeed, to sin at all if he could
have helped it. He felt the importance of character as highly as any man
could feel it, and clung to his good repute with a tenacity all the more
desperate that he alone was aware how much he now and then put it in
peril. But that other impulse was as a fire within him--that impulse to
burst away from all routine and self-control--to throw every restraint
to the winds, and follow for a brief delirious interval only the wild
suggestions of the senses, wherever they might lead him. Where they did
lead him I have no intention of following. But this was the key to the
somewhat strange and incomprehensible aspect which he presented to his
fellows. He never got into mischief sociably with his contemporaries.
They thought him on the whole rather a Puritan; though there were
inevitable echoes of something against him wandering vaguely about his
club and among the men who had been with him at the University. But all
that was known and seen of his life was so spotless and respectable that
the whisper of hostility was hushed. The question why a young man so
blameless should be often so moody, and always so uncommunicative, had
been solved in the feminine world in the most romantic manner, by the
theory that he was like Charles the First. But men did not take up this
notion so readily. There were various strange “ways” about him which
were very mysterious to his friends: a certain secrecy, in itself
carefully concealed, and watchfulness, as of a man about whom something
might some day be found out. When his fever fit was coming on, he would
grow restless, shifty, anxious, declining his ordinary engagements,
shutting himself up in his own room, morose with his family, and
impatient of all usual intercourse. A headache, or a cold, or some other
slight ailment, was the reason easily accepted by the innocent people
about him--and at the very nick of time some invitation would arrive for
a week’s shooting, or other agreeable occupation, which would “set him
up,” everybody thought. Whether he was resisting the devil at these
preliminary moments, or merely concocting plans by which he might get
free and secure the opportunity of self-indulgence, I cannot tell. I
believe, strange as it may seem to say it, that he was doing both.
But the devil got the best of the argument, as he generally does when
what are called “the passions” are excited, and the craving for
enjoyment, to which some natures are so susceptible, sets in. This
curious byeway of the human mind is one which a great many of us have
been forced to study much against our will: when all the desires of the
mind seem set upon the better way, and sore repentance, religious
feeling, and rational conviction of the fatal character of the
indulgence, seem certainly to promise victory, but are all upset at the
critical moment by that irresistible sense of the pleasure within reach,
which overcomes at once all spiritual and all prudential considerations.
Frederick Eastwood reasoned with himself, condemned himself, understood
the whole situation; he even prayed, with tears, against the besetting
sin, about the character of which he could have no doubt. But all the
time that hankering after the delight of it lay in the background; with
a corner of his mental eye, so to speak, he saw how best to attain the
gratification, and with a rush snatched it. Recollections of the
sweetness of it last time would flash across his mind, even at the very
height of his resolution to avoid it next time. He knew all that could
be said about those apples of Sodom, which are so beautiful to look at,
but are as ashes in the mouth. This is one of the set things which
preachers and sinners are alike ready to say together; but the fact is
that a great many people like the taste of the ashes, as Frederick did.
The pleasure of anticipating that mouthful had more force upon him than
all the arguments which, with hot zeal, he had so often used to
himself.
He had been wavering on the very edge of downfall when this mission to
bring home Innocent came, as it were, in his way. He accepted
it as--we cannot say a godsend, or a gift from heaven--but as an
almost supernatural provision for his necessities, a kind of
counter-Providence, if we may use the word. So strange are the vagaries
of human nature, that Frederick felt a sort of pious thankfulness steal
over him when he saw before him this opportunity for a break-out which
would be unsuspected by his friends. This time it would require no
scheming, no fictitious invitation; which was one of the reasons why he
went off with such exhilarated feelings. He bore the Channel far better
than Dick could have believed, being supported by his pleasurable
anticipations, and arrived in Paris in a delightful turmoil of
expectation. He was free! He could do what he liked--go where he liked!
He had some money of his own in his pocket, and the letter of credit his
mother had given him. Plenty of money, no restraint, and in Paris! He
settled himself in an hotel not too much frequented by English, and made
up his mind really to enjoy himself, and take the good of his
opportunities, for a week at least.
He went into it with a plunge, just as his less elevated contemporary
would go “on the spree.” But, fortunately or unfortunately, there is no
concealment about the latter process. It is received as a kind of
painful necessity by the poor women who suffer most by it; and the
record does not put the culprit at any great moral disadvantage. It is
otherwise in the higher classes. Frederick went everywhere where he
ought not to go; did everything that was most unbecoming and
inappropriate. He did not get intoxicated, but he drank a great deal of
champagne, and kept himself in a state of reckless excitement from day
to day; and he got into the very cream of bad company--the company of
people who shocked all his prejudices and revolted his good taste, but
yet swept him along on that wild tide of pleasure, which was what he
wanted. He had got a fortnight’s leave, to accomplish the journey to
Pisa and back, to console his little cousin, and win her confidence, and
bring her kindly home. It was, however, ten days after he had left
London when he woke up from his wild dream in Paris, his money all but
exhausted, his frame worn out, his faculty of enjoyment at an end. That
was not a pleasant waking, as may be readily supposed. He came to
himself among the husks of his pleasures, and cursed them, and repented.
He had done it a great many times before.
This time, however, there were unfortunate complications. He had still a
long journey to make, and no time to do it in; and he had heavy expenses
of travelling still to encounter, and no money to pay them. What was he
to do? Cursing those husks of pleasure is one thing, and re-making them
into the gold they represent is quite another. He did not dare to write
to his mother, and show her that he was still in Paris. He would rather
die, he thought, than compromise the position which was every thing to
him, or betray the secret of his life. Yet he must go on somehow, and
accomplish his mission. With a racking headache and a despairing heart
he began to count up his remaining coins, and calculate the time
necessary for his journey. Time and money alike would just suffice to
take him to Pisa. He had but realized this fact, without drawing any
conclusion from it, when some one knocked at his door. He was in a
second-rate hotel, but occupied its best room--a chamber all gorgeous
with mirrors and marble tables and bronze candelabra. He hurriedly drew
the curtains of the alcove which held his bed, and in a querulous tone
bade his visitor enter. To his disgust and confusion he saw, when the
door opened, the only Englishman whom he had encountered--a middle-aged
man, in sporting costume and with boisterous manners, who had joined
Frederick’s party (always against his will) on various occasions, and
now came forward with horrible cordiality, holding out a red, fat hand,
which seemed to the unfortunate prodigal the greasiest and dirtiest that
he had ever shaken. He touched this paw reluctantly, with a repugnance
in which some alarm and a sense of the necessity of giving nobody
offence was mingled. He did not know who the man was. Had he been in
other circumstances he would have repudiated his acquaintance haughtily;
but at present he had the painful consciousness upon him that he was in
everybody’s power.
“Well, sir, how are you after last night?” said his visitor. “Hope you
find yourself tolerably well after _p’tey soupey_? It’s played the very
deuce with me, though I ought to be seasoned. You young ones have all
the odds in your favour. Thought you’d feel yourself pulled up hard this
morning, after the champagne--and the bill. Ha, ha! the bill; that’s the
worst fun of it all; barring that, sir, this sort of life would be too
pleasant to be true. The bill keeps us in mind that we’re mortal, hey?”
“I don’t feel myself in any danger of forgetting that fact,” said
Frederick stiffly.
He intended to answer with dignity and distance, but his mingled dislike
to and fear of his visitor introduced a complaining, querulous tone into
his voice. He seemed, even to himself, to be whimpering over a hard
fate, instead of uttering a mere morality with the loftiness of a
superior. And somehow, as he spoke, he looked at the table, where
“Bradshaw” lay spread out beside the unhappy remains of his money, the
few miserable gold pieces which he had left. The man gave a suppressed
whistle at this sight.
“So bad as that?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Mr. Eastwood, I’ve
been keeping my eye upon you. I mean well, if I’m a little rough; and if
you won’t ask me to sit down, I’ll take it upon myself to do so, if
you’ll excuse me; for I haven’t yet got over the effects of last night.
I know your name?--yes, sir. It’s a good name, and I take an interest in
all that bear it. Related to Sir Geoffrey, I don’t doubt, Mr. Frederick
Eastwood? There’s how I know, sir. Picked it up the other night, after
you’d been dining; and, if you’ll believe me, I’ve taken an interest in
you ever since.”
“You are very good, I am sure--though you have so much the advantage of
me,” said Frederick, more stiff than ever, yet afraid to show his
resentment; for the fellow, as he called him in his heart, held out in
his fat hand a card, bearing his respectable name at full, with the most
immaculate of addresses--that of the Junior Minerva Club. Even his home
address would have been less terrible. There are dozens of “Elms” about
London, but only one Junior Minerva. He looked at the card with a dismay
which he could not conceal. He stood upright by his chair, not following
the example of his visitor. He would have liked to kick him down stairs,
or to thrust him out of the window; but he dared not do it. It seemed to
his feverish eyes that this man held his reputation, his character,
everything that he cared for in the world within his greasy hands.
“I’m naturally interested,” his visitor went on, “for I was born and
bred up on the Eastwood estates, near to Sterborne, if you know it. Very
glad to see you, sir, when you come in my direction. To be sure I have
the advantage of you. My name is Batty--Charles Batty--at your service.
I drive a good trade in the way of horses by times, though I call myself
an auctioneer, and don’t refuse no jobs as will pay. Bless you, I’d buy
libraries as soon as yearlings, and get my profit out of them, though
it’s slower. Mr. Eastwood, sir, knowing the respectable family you come
from and all your excellent connexions, and your address at your club,
&c., &c., I should not say, sir, but what I might also be of use to
you.”
Misery, we are told, makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows. So
does that modern form of misery called impecuniosity, which has its
agonies more sharp than any primitive form of privation or pain. It is
one of the worst penalties of the want of money, that the subject of
that fatal want feels such eagerness to anticipate help that he is ready
to look for it in the most unlikely places, and in his extremity will
stretch his hand out in the dark to meet anybody’s grasp. This rash
eagerness of desperation specially belongs to the exhausted state of
mind and purse in which Frederick now found himself. He was past all
calculation of probabilities, ready to seize upon any shadow of aid,
however attained. Insensibly he slid into his chair, and a faint gleam
of hope and light seemed to diffuse itself in the dull air around him.
He took a rapid survey of the situation. His repugnance for the man who
sat opposite to him, watching his movements, was not in any degree
lessened; but he reflected that anyhow he had betrayed himself to this
man. Stranger and _vaurien_ though he seemed, he held the character of
the accomplished Frederick Eastwood in his hands; and every principle
of self-preservation, and of that respect for the world’s opinion which
was his curse and his punishment, moved him to try what means he could
of bringing some advantage out of this now inevitable evil. He seated
himself with a sigh of impatience and wretchedness, sheathing his sword,
so to speak.
“The truth is, I am in a scrape, and I don’t see my way out of it,” he
said.
“Tell me all about it, Mr. Eastwood; I’ll find a way out of it,” said
Batty, rubbing his greasy hands.
I suppose they were greasy hands. At all events, it was this particular
which dwelt on Frederick’s memory and revolted his fine feelings. Ugh!
the thought made him sick years after. In the meantime, however, he had
no time to be nice.
“The fact is,” he said, with hesitation, “that I was on my way to Italy
on business”---- Here he paused, remembering what Batty had said of an
interest in the Eastwoods. “On family business. I had something to
do--of importance; and I have been--detained here.”
This euphemism delighted his companion. He gave a horse-laugh, which
affected Frederick’s nerves. “Yes; you have been--detained here: I
understand. By Jove, you _are_ fun,” said this appreciative listener.
Frederick took no notice of the vulgar outburst. Now that he had
business in hand he could be clear enough. He laid bare his necessities
to this strange and novel adviser. There is no telling--as men in
Frederick Eastwood’s condition easily find out--in what strange regions
money, and the inclination to lend it, may be found. Nothing could be
less promising than this coarse Englishman, who had thrust himself into
the young man’s path so much against his will; and yet in this unlikely
quarter salvation was to be found. We need not concern ourselves here
about Mr. Batty’s motives.
“I thought you looked too much a swell to be a commercial gent, sir,” he
exclaimed later; “but when I picked up that card you might have knocked
me down with a feather. Eastwoods has always been the height of quality
in my eyes. I have been born and bred on their lands; and as for
good-will to serve ’em--here’s a way to prove it.”
Frederick was no neophyte, to put the unbounded confidence of a boy in
these fine speeches; but he knew that there are a great many kinds of
money-lenders, and that there are people in the world who are to be
influenced, even to the supreme length of opening their purses, by a
good name and a well-known address. Besides, after all there was no
great risk attendant upon Batty’s generosity. A man in a public
office--a man with a character--is not likely to allow himself to be
ruined for a matter of fifty pounds, especially when he has a mother
full of innocent credulity to fall back upon. Thus the bargain was
made, which was to Frederick, as soon as it became certain, an
insignificant transaction. The moment he had signed the note and got the
money, his despair of an hour ago seemed incredible to him, and all his
objections to Batty recurred in double force.
“If you are ever down my way, I’ll hope you’ll eat a bit of mutton with
me,” said the hospitable usurer: “not _salmis_ and _vol-à-vent_, Mr.
Eastwood, for we ain’t up to that; but sound English mutton, with a
glass of good wine to wash it down. And I’ll show you a stable that will
make your mouth water.”
Frederick, who had become stiff again, bowed and thanked him from a
mountain-top of superiority--and it was Batty’s hope to spend another
evening in his society which determined him on the virtuous step of
quitting Paris that night.
What was his brain busy about as he rolled out of the wicked, seductive
city, where all vice betakes itself with the hope of being tempted, in
that chill spring evening, between the lamps and the stars? His head was
confused with all he had passed through. The fumes of his “pleasures”
were still in it, mingled with the disgust which is inevitable, but
which floats away still more quickly than the fumes of the “pleasures.”
The thrill of his hairbreadth escape was also vibrating through him; but
a man of Frederick Eastwood’s habits soon gets used to that thrill of
escape. He was concocting and putting in order a reasonable way of
accounting for his acquaintance with such a man as Batty, should it ever
become known to his friends. All at once, while he was arranging his
bargain with Batty, this had flashed upon his mind. He would not conceal
that, having a day or two to pass in Paris, he had determined on going
to a purely French hotel, to escape the mass of travelling English who
fill up every corner; with the view of seeing Frenchmen as they are, he
had gone to this obscure hostelrie; and there, by an odd chance, he had
found this rough Englishman stranded, not knowing the language--thrown,
as it were, upon his charity. “A scamp, of course, and thoroughly
objectionable; but what could one do?” Frederick said to himself, as he
made up his story. His story seemed to himself so satisfactory that it
really accounted for the acquaintance, even to his own mind. He recalled
to recollection that he had been obliged to interpret for his unpleasant
compatriot, and the fiction gradually consolidated into fact. He
believed it himself long before he had reached the Marseilles steamboat
which was the next step in his hurried way.