Like so many other gentlemen whose function in the world remains
indefinite, chiefly because of the patrimony they have inherited,
Denzil Quarrier had eaten his dinners, and been called to the Bar; he
went so far in specification as to style himself Equity barrister. But
the Courts had never heard his voice. Having begun the studies, he
carried them through just for consistency, but long before bowing to
the Benchers of his Inn he foresaw that nothing practical would come of
it. This was his second futile attempt to class himself with a
recognized order of society. Nay, strictly speaking, the third. The
close of his thirteenth year had seen him a pupil at Polterham Grammar
School; not an unpromising pupil by any means, but with a turn for
insubordination, much disposed to pursue with zeal anything save the
tasks that were set him. Inspired by Cooper and Captain Marryat, he
came to the conclusion that his destiny was the Navy, and stuck so
firmly to it that his father, who happened to have a friend on the
Board of Admiralty, procured him a nomination, and speedily saw the boy
a cadet on the "Britannia." Denzil wore Her Majesty's uniform for some
five years; then he tired of the service and went back to Polterham to
reconsider his bent and aptitudes.
His father no longer dwelt in the old home, but had recently gone over
to Norway, where he pursued his calling of timber-merchant. Denzil's
uncle--Samuel Quarrier--busied in establishing a sugar-refinery in his
native town, received the young man with amiable welcome, and
entertained him for half a year. The ex-seaman then resolved to join
his parents abroad, as a good way of looking about him. He found his
mother on her death-bed. In consequence of her decease, Denzil became
possessed of means amply sufficient for a bachelor. As far as ever from
really knowing what he desired to be at, he began to make a show of
interesting himself in timber. Perhaps, after all, commerce was his
_forte_. This, then, might be called a second endeavour to establish
himself.
Mr. Quarrier laughed at the idea, and would not take it seriously. And
of course was in the right, for Denzil, on pretence of studying
forestry, began to ramble about Scandinavia like a gentleman at large.
Here, however, he did ultimately hit on a pursuit into which he could
throw himself with decided energy. The old Norsemen laid their spell
upon him; he was bitten with a zeal for saga-hunting, studied
vigorously the Northern tongues, went off to Iceland, returned to
rummage in the libraries of Copenhagen, began to translate the
Heimskringla, planned a History of the Vikings. Emphatically, this kind
of thing suited him. No one was less likely to turn out a bookworm, yet
in the study of Norse literature he found that combination of mental
and muscular interests which was perchance what he had been seeking.
But his father was dissatisfied; a very practical man, he saw in this
odd enthusiasm a mere waste of time. Denzil's secession from the Navy
had sorely disappointed him; constantly he uttered his wish that the
young man should attach himself to some vocation that became a
gentleman. Denzil, a little weary for the time of his Sea-Kings, at
length consented to go to London and enter himself as a student of law.
Perhaps his father was right. "Yes, I need discipline--intellectual and
moral. I am beginning to perceive my defects. There's something in me
not quite civilized. I'll go in for the law."
Yet Scandinavia had not seen the last of him. He was backwards and
forwards pretty frequently across the North Sea. He kept up a
correspondence with learned Swedes, Norwegians, Danes, and men of
Iceland; when they came to England he entertained them with hearty
hospitality, and searched with them at the British Museum. These
gentlemen liked him, though they felt occasionally that he was wont to
lay down the law when the attitude of a disciple would rather have
become him.
He had rooms in Clement's Inn, retaining them even when his abode,
strictly speaking, was at the little house by Clapham Common. To that
house no one was invited. Old Mr. Quarrier knew not of its existence;
neither did Mr. Sam Quarrier of Polterham, nor any other of Denzil's
kinsfolk. The first person to whom Denzil revealed that feature of his
life was Eustace Glazzard--a discreet, upright friend, the very man to
entrust with such a secret.
It was now early in the autumn of 1879. Six months ago Denzil had lost
his father, who died suddenly on a journey from Christiania up the
country, leaving the barrister in London a substantial fortune.
This change of circumstances had in no way outwardly affected Denzil's
life. As before, he spent a good deal of his time in the rooms at
Clement's Inn, and cultivated domesticity at Clapham. He was again
working in earnest at his History of the Vikings. Something would at
last come of it; a heap of manuscript attested his solid progress.
To-day he had come to town only for an hour or two. Glazzard was to
call at half-past six, and they would go together to dine with Lilian.
In his report to her, Quarrier had spoken nothing less than truth. "The
lady with whom you chanced to see me the other day was my wife. I have
been married for a year and a half--a strictly private matter. Be so
good as to respect my confidence." That was all Glazzard had learnt;
sufficient to excite no little curiosity in the connoisseur.
Denzil's chambers had a marked characteristic; they were full of
objects and pictures which declared his love of Northern lands and
seas. At work he sat in the midst of a little museum. To the bear, the
elk, the seal, he was indebted for comforts and ornaments; on his
shelves were quaint collections of crockery; coins of historical value
displayed themselves in cases on the walls; shoes and garments of
outlandish fashion lay here and there. Probably few private libraries
in England could boast such an array of Scandinavian literature as was
here exhibited. As a matter of course the rooms had accumulated even
more dirt than one expects in a bachelor's retreat; they were redolent
of the fume of many pipes.
When Glazzard tapped at the inner door and entered, his friend, who sat
at the writing-table in evening costume, threw up his arms, stretched
himself, and yawned noisily.
"Working at your book?" asked the other.
"No; letters. I don't care for the Sea-Kings just now. They're rather
remote old dogs, after all, you know."
"Distinctly, I should say."
"A queer thing, on the whole, that I can stick so to them. But I like
their spirit. You're not a pugnacious fellow, I think, Glazzard?"
"No, I think not."
"But I am, you know. I mean it literally. Every now and then I feel I
should like to thrash some one. I read in the paper this morning of
some son of a"----(Denzil's language occasionally reminded one that he
had been a sailor) "who had cheated a lot of poor servant-girls out of
their savings. My fists itched to be at that lubber! There's a good
deal to be said for the fighting instinct in man, you know."
"So thinks 'Arry of the music-halls."
"Well, we have heard before of an ass opening its mouth to prophesy. I
tell you what: on my way here this afternoon I passed the office of
some journal or other in the Strand, where they're exhibiting a copy of
their paper returned to them by a subscriber in Russia. Two columns are
completely obliterated with the censor's lamp-black,--that's how it
reaches the subscriber's hands. As I stood looking at that, my blood
rose to boiling-point! I could have hurrah'd for war with Russia on
that one account alone. That contemptible idiot of a Czar, sitting
there on his ant-hill throne, and bidding Time stand still!"
He laughed long and loud in scornful wrath.
"The Czar can't help it," remarked Glazzard, smiling calmly, "and
perhaps knows nothing about it. The man is a slave of slaves."
"The more contemptible and criminal, then!" roared Denzil. "If a man in
his position can't rule, he should be kicked out of the back-door of
his palace. I have no objection to an autocrat; I think most countries
need one. I should make a good autocrat myself--a benevolent despot."
"We live in stirring times," said the other, with a fine curl of the
lips. "Who knows what destiny has in store for you?"
Quarrier burst into good-natured merriment, and thereupon made ready to
set forth.
When they reached the house by Clapham Common, Denzil opened the door
with his latch-key, talked loud whilst he was removing his overcoat,
and then led the way into the sitting-room. Lilian was there; she rose
and laid down a book; her smile of welcome did not conceal the extreme
nervousness from which she was suffering. Quarrier's genial contempt of
ceremony, as he performed the introduction, allowed it to be seen that
he too experienced some constraint. But the guest bore himself with
perfect grace and decorum. Though not a fluent talker, he fell at once
into a strain of agreeable chat on subjects which seemed likely to be
of interest; his success was soon manifest in the change of Lilian's
countenance. Denzil, attentive to both, grew more genuinely at ease.
When Lilian caught his eye, he smiled at her with warmth of approving
kindness. It must have been a fastidious man who felt dissatisfied with
the way in which the young hostess discharged her duties; timidity led
her into no _gaucherie_, but was rather an added charm among the many
with which nature had endowed her. Speech and manner, though they had
nothing of the conventional adornment that is gathered in London
drawing-rooms, were those of gentle breeding and bright intelligence;
her education seemed better than is looked for among ladies in general.
Glazzard perceived that she had read diligently, and with scope beyond
that of the circulating library; the book with which she had been
engaged when they entered was a Danish novel.
"Do you also look for salvation to the Scandinavians?" he asked.
"I read the languages--the modern. They have a very interesting
literature of to-day; the old battle-stories don't appeal to me quite
so much as they do to Denzil."
"You ought to know this fellow Jacobsen," said Quarrier, taking up the
novel. "'Marie Grubbe' doesn't sound a very aesthetic title, but the
book is quite in your line--a wonderfully delicate bit of work."
"Don't imagine, Mrs. Quarrier," pleaded Glazzard, "that I am what is
called an aesthete. The thing is an abomination to me."
"Oh, you go tolerably far in that direction!" cried Denzil, laughing.
"True, you don't let your hair grow, and in general make an ass of
yourself; but there's a good deal of preciosity about you, you know."
Seeing that Mr. Glazzard's crown showed an incipient baldness, the
allusion to his hair was perhaps unfortunate. Lilian fancied that her
guest betrayed a slight annoyance; she at once interposed with a remark
that led away from such dangerous ground. It seemed to her (she had
already received the impression from Quarrier's talk of the evening
before) that Denzil behaved to his friend with an air of bantering
superiority which it was not easy to account for. Mr. Glazzard, so far
as she could yet judge, was by no means the kind of man to be dealt
with in this tone; she thought him rather disposed to pride than to an
excess of humility, and saw in his face an occasional melancholy which
inspired her with interest and respect.
A female servant (the vacancy made by Lilian's self-denying kindness
had been hastily supplied) appeared with summons to dinner. Mr.
Glazzard offered an arm to his hostess, and Quarrier followed with a
look of smiling pleasure.
Hospitality had been duly cared for. Not at all inclined to the simple
fare which Denzil chose to believe would suffice for him, Glazzard
found more satisfaction in the meal than he had anticipated. If Mrs.
Quarrier were responsible for the _menu_ (he doubted it), she revealed
yet another virtue. The mysterious circumstances of this household
puzzled him more and more; occasionally he forgot to speak, or to
listen, in the intensity of his preoccupation; and at such moments his
countenance darkened.
On the whole, however, he seemed in better spirits than of wont.
Quarrier was in the habit of seeing him perhaps once a month, and it
was long since he had heard the connoisseur discourse so freely, so
unconcernedly. As soon as they were seated at table, Denzil began to
talk of politics.
"If my brother-in-law really stands for Polterham," he exclaimed, "we
must set you canvassing among the mill-hands, Glazzard!"
"H'm!--not impossible."
"As much as to say," remarked the other to Lilian, "that he would see
them all consumed in furnaces before he stretched forth a hand to save
them."
"I know very well how to understand Denzil's exaggerations," said
Lilian, with a smile to her guest.
"He thinks," was Glazzard's reply, "that I am something worse than a
high Tory. It's quite a mistake, and I don't know how his belief
originated."
"My dear fellow, you are so naturally a Tory that you never troubled to
think to what party you belong. And I can understand you well enough; I
have leanings that way myself. Still, when I get down to Polterham I
shall call myself a Radical. What sensible man swears by a party?
There's more foolery and dishonesty than enough on both sides, when you
come to party quarrelling; but as for the broad principles concerned,
why, Radicalism of course means justice. I put it in this way: If _I_
were a poor devil, half starved and overworked, I should be a savage
Radical; so I'll go in for helping the poor devils."
"You don't always act on that principle, Denzil," said Lilian, with a
rallying smile. "Not, for instance, when beggars are concerned."
"Beggars! Would you have me support trading impostors? As for the
genuine cases--why, if I found myself penniless in the streets, I would
make such a row that all the country should hear of it! Do you think I
would go whining to individuals? If I hadn't food, it would be the duty
of society to provide me with it--and I would take good care that I
_was_ provided; whether in workhouse or gaol wouldn't matter much. At
all events, the business should be managed with the maximum of noise."
He emptied his wine-glass, and went on in the same vigorous tone.
"We know very well that there are no such things as natural rights.
Nature gives no rights; she will produce an infinite number of
creatures only to torture and eventually destroy them. But civilization
is at war with nature, and as civilized beings we _have_ rights. Every
man is justified in claiming food and shelter and repose. As things
are, many thousands of people in every English county either lack these
necessaries altogether, or get them only in return for the accursed
badge of pauperdom. I, for one, am against this state of things, and I
sympathize with the men who think that nothing can go right until the
fundamental injustice is done away with."
Glazzard listened with an inscrutable smile, content to throw in a word
of acquiescence from time to time. But when the necessity of appeasing
his robust appetite held Quarrier silent for a few minutes, the guest
turned to Lilian and asked her if she made a study of political
questions.
"I have been trying to follow them lately," she replied, with simple
directness.
"Do you feel it a grievance that you have no vote and no chance of
representing a borough?"
"No, I really don't."
"I defy any one to find a dozen women who sincerely do," broke in
Denzil. "That's all humbug! Such twaddle only serves to obscure the
great questions at issue. What we have to do is to clear away the
obvious lies and superstitions that hold a great part of the people in
a degrading bondage. Our need is of statesmen who are bold enough and
strong enough to cast off the restraints of party, of imbecile fears,
of words that answer to no reality, and legislate with honest zeal for
the general good. How many men are there in Parliament who represent
anything more respectable than the interest of a trade, or a faction,
or their own bloated person?"
"This would rouse the echoes in an East-end club," interposed Glazzard,
with an air of good-humoured jesting.
"The difference is, my dear fellow, that it is given as an honest
opinion in a private dining-room. There's Welwyn-Baker
now--thick-headed old jackass!--what right has _he_ to be sitting in a
national assembly? Call himself what he may, it's clearly our business
to get rid of _him_. There's something infuriating in the thought that
such a man can give his hee-haw for or against a proposal that concerns
the nation. His mere existence is a lie!"
"He has hardly progressed with the times," assented Glazzard.
Lilian was listening so attentively that she forgot her dinner.
"I didn't think you cared so much about politics," she remarked,
gravely.
"Oh, it comes out now and then. I suppose Glazzard's aesthetic
neutrality stirs me up."
"I am neither aesthetic nor neutral," remarked the guest, as if
casually.
Denzil laughed.
Lilian, after waiting for a further declaration from Glazzard, which
did not come, said, in her soft tones:
"You express yourself so vehemently, Denzil."
"Why not? These are obvious truths. Of course I could speak just as
strongly on the Conservative side with regard to many things. I can't
say that I have much faith in the capacity or honesty of the mass of
Radical voters. If I found myself at one of the clubs of which Glazzard
speaks, I should very likely get hooted down as an insolent aristocrat.
I don't go in for crazy extremes. There'll never be a Utopia, and it's
only a form of lying to set such ideals before the multitude. I believe
in the distinction of classes; the only class I would altogether
abolish is that of the hungry and the ragged. So long as nature doles
out the gift of brains in different proportions, there must exist
social subordination. The true Radical is the man who wishes so to
order things that no one will be urged by misery to try and get out of
the class he is born in."
Glazzard agreed that this was a good way of putting it, and thereupon
broached a subject so totally different that politics were finally laid
aside.
When Lilian rose and withdrew, the friends remained for several minutes
in silence. They lighted cigarettes, and contemplatively watched the
smoke. Of a sudden, Quarrier bent forward upon the table.
"You shall have the explanation of this some day," he said, in a low
friendly voice, his eyes lighting with a gleam of heartfelt confidence.
"Thanks!" murmured the other.
"Tell me--does she impress you favourably?"
"Very. I am disposed to think highly of her."
Denzil held out his hand, and pressed the one which Glazzard offered in
return.
"You cannot think too highly--cannot possibly! She has a remarkable
character. For one thing, I never knew a girl with such strong
sympathies--so large-hearted and compassionate. You heard her remark
about the beggars; if she had her own way, she would support a colony
of pensioners. Let the sentimentalists say what they like, that isn't a
common weakness in women, you know. Her imagination is painfully
active; I'm afraid it causes her a great deal of misery. The other day
I found her in tears, and what do you think was the reason?--she had
been reading in some history about a poor fellow who was persecuted for
his religion in Charles the First's time--some dissenter who got into
the grip of Laud, was imprisoned, and then brought to destitution by
being forbidden to exercise each calling that he took to in hope of
earning bread. The end was, he went mad and died. Lilian was crying
over the story; it made her wretched for a whole day."
"Rather morbid, that, I'm afraid."
"I don't know; most of us would be better for a little of such
morbidness. You mustn't suppose that fiction would have the same effect
on her--not at all. That poor devil (his name, I remember, was Workman)
was really and truly hounded to insanity and the grave, and she saw the
thing in all its dreadful details. I would rather she had got into a
rage about it, as I should--but that isn't her nature."
"Let us hope she could rejoice when Laud was laid by the heels."
"I fear not. I'm afraid she would forget, and make excuses for the
blackguard."
Glazzard smiled at the ceiling, and smoked silently. Turning his eyes
at length, and seeing Quarrier in a brown study, he contemplated the
honest face, then asked:
"How old is she?"
"Just one-and-twenty."
"I should have thought younger."
Nothing more was said of Lilian, and very soon they went to the room
where she awaited them.
"I know you are a musician, Mr. Glazzard," said Lilian before long.
"Will you let me have the pleasure of hearing you play something?"
"Some enemy hath done this," the guest made reply, looking towards
Denzil.
But without further protest he went to the piano and played two or
three short pieces. Any one with more technical knowledge than the
hearers would have perceived that he was doing his best. As it was,
Lilian frequently turned to Denzil with a look of intense delight.
"Glazzard," exclaimed his friend at length, "it puzzles me how such a
lazy fellow as you are has managed to do so much in so many directions."
The musician laughed carelessly, and, not deigning any other reply,
went to talk with his hostess.