THE MISER.
Whilst Mr Gwynne is reading his sermon, and Mrs Prothero is nursing the
mendicant Gladys, an event is passing in the neighbouring country-town,
involving matters of interest to her, and those belonging to her. In a
small bedroom over a little huckster's shop, an old man lies dangerously
ill. By his side is seated a middle-aged woman watching. In a dark
corner, behind the bed, stands a man, who is so deep in shadow that you
scarcely know whether he is young or old.
The room is small and shabby, and contains apparently few comforts for
one nearly approaching his last hour.
There is a tap at the door, upon which the man behind the bed goes out,
and returns, almost immediately, followed by Rowland Prothero. He goes
towards the bed, and stooping down, whispers to the sick man.
'Father, you wished to see Rowland--he is here.'
Rowland advances, and takes the seat vacated for him by the woman.
The three inmates of the room are Mr and Mrs Griffith Jenkins, and their
only son, Howel. They are cousins of the Protheros, Mrs Jenkins being Mr
Prothero's first cousin, and the members of the younger generation being
consequently second cousins.
Griffith Jenkins motions to his wife and son to leave the room, which
they do immediately. Rowland kneels beside his bed, the better to hear
what he has to say. He appears, however to revive, and is distinct
enough in his enunciation of the following words, though very slow.
'My son Howel is come back, Mr Rowland, and do promise to be study.'
'I am very glad to hear it; it must be a great comfort to you,'
'But I am not seure of him. He will be spending my money that I have
been takking such pains to make.'
'I hope he may do good with it, Uncle Griff.'
'Good! no such thing. Squander, squander! Spend the beauty gold! Will
you promise me to see to it? tak' care of it?'
'I, Uncle Griff! I have no power with Howel. Would it not be better to
pray to God to guide Howel, and trust in a higher power than mine?'
Mr Jenkins put a long, thin, bony hand out of bed, and grasped
Rowland's hand tightly. He fixed two keen black eyes upon him, and, as
he half raised himself in bed, displayed a withered face, the most
remarkable feature of which was a very prominent, hooked nose, like the
beak of a large bird.
'You wasn't thinking I was going to die, was you, Rowland? I 'ont just
awhile, see you. But tell you your father there's more gold than he is
thinking of; and Howel'll be a husband for any one, much less for Miss
Netta. Promise me to be lending him a hand, if he do keep constant to
your sister.'
'I am sorry, Uncle Griff, that I cannot promise anything for Howel. If
he grows steady as you say, there can be no objection; but he must prove
it first. Would you like me to read to you, and pray to Almighty God,
for Christ's sake, to change his and all our hearts?'
'I didn't be wanting a parson, but a relation, sir; and I don't be going
to die yet. Look you here. There's money in the bank--there's more in
mortgages on Davies, Llansadwn, and Rees, Llanarthney--there's more on
loan to Griffiths, Pontardewe,--Jones, Glantewey,--Pugh the draper,
Llansant--and others. And there's a box beside. Mind you, I 'ont die
yet, but I tell you, because I can trust you; and Howel don't know
nothing.'
'May I write it down for you, Uncle Griff; or would you have a lawyer?'
'No, no. I've had enough of law in paying for Howel, and nothing come of
it. But you may be writing down a little. Here, in that chest, there's
pen, ink and paper; tak' you my keys, and open you it.'
Griffith Jenkins took from under his pillow a bunch of keys, and
fumbling amongst them, gave one to Rowland, with which he opened the
chest, and procured the necessary writing apparatus.
'Give you me my keys--quick, quick!' cried the old man, again hiding
them somewhere in his bed.'
At his dictation, Rowland wrote a list of the different moneys he
possessed in various places, and was utterly astonished to find that he
had soon written down between sixty and seventy thousand pounds.
Everybody knew that Griffith Jenkins was rich, but nobody had guessed
how rich he was.
'Now say, "I give and bequeath to my wife, 'Lizbeth Jenkins, ten
thousand pound out of the aforesaid mortgage on Jacob Davies Llansadwn's
property."'
'Is that all, Uncle Griff?'
'Yes, I sha'n't say no more.'
'And the box of gold?'
Again the miser grasped Rowland's hand, and fixed his keen eyes on his
face.
'I 'ont be dying yet, and I 'ont be putting that down to-night. Tell you
your father what there is, without the box, and without more mortgages
and loans; but don't you be talking to anybody about it. Mind you, not
to Howel nor to 'Lizbeth: promise me.'
Rowland promised.
The miser fell back exhausted.
'And now Uncle Griff, may I pray for you? Only think how soon you may be
called to your account, to say exactly how you have employed your time,
and the talents given--'
'I have done plenty--plenty--all out at interest, at five, six, even ten
per cent.; none wrapped up in a napkin. I don't be calling a box a
napkin, Rowland Prothero.'
'May I call in Mrs Jenkins and Howel, and pray for you? Think; oh think,
of the great Judge, and great Mediator. O God, have mercy upon us,
miserable sinners!'
As Rowland said this, he clasped his hands, and looked upwards, in
unutterable supplication. The old man was alarmed.
'I don't be going to die, but you may call 'em in.'
Rowland rose and obeyed. Mrs Jenkins appeared with a candle in her hand.
The old man rose with an effort as she drew near the bed.
'Put--out--the--candle,' he muttered.
As the night was fast drawing in, Mrs Jenkins hesitated.
'Put--out--the--candle,' repeated the dying man, with a still stronger
effort to rise and extinguish it himself. 'The ruling passion strong in
death' must be attended to, and the light was extinguished.
Rowland Prothero clasped his hands with a groan, and repeated aloud a
prayer from the service for the dying. The terrified wife knelt down by
the bed in the deep gloom, and in the still deeper gloom behind, the son
buried his face in his arms, and leaned upon the little table.
Whilst Rowland Prothero was praying from the very depth of his heart for
the soul that was thus awfully passing to its account, they were all
aroused by the last fearful struggle between death and life of him who
had made gold his god. For some time they feared to rekindle the light,
but at last they ventured. It was but to witness the last dread pangs of
one who had made wife and son secondary to the great absorbing passion
of avarice; and now he was constrained to depart from the scene of his
toil, and to leave all that he had grovelled for behind him, for ever!
We will not dwell upon the awful hours that succeeded his final words.
He neither spoke nor was conscious again. Light and dark were alike to
him. Save that he grasped something in his right hand with an iron hold,
reason and power had left him; death was still fighting with life, and
gradually gaining the last great victory.
A few hours afterwards, and when that victory had been gained, the scene
was changed in that small house. The chamber of death was deserted, and
the wretched clay of the miser, decently covered with a white sheet, lay
heavy and still, where the spirit that formerly animated it had been
accustomed to brood over the miserable gains of its clays and years on
earth.
In the small sitting-room below, behind the little shop where these
gains had been begun and continued for half-a-century or more, sat the
widow, surrounded by a score of gossips, who had left their beds and
homes at daybreak to condole with her.
It would have been much more unnatural than natural if Mrs Jenkins had
grieved at heart for the husband she had lost. Married, or rather sold
to him, when he was fifty and she thirty, she had lived five or six and
twenty years of pure misery with him. She had starved with him, when she
could not pilfer from him, and had endured patiently all these years
what seemed past endurance in expectation of the closing scene. She had
married and lived upon the prospect of his death, and it was come at
last; and now that it was come, the awfulness of that last struggle
overpowered her, and she wept and lamented as copiously as if her
husband had been the kindest and most liberal in the world. Still, she
was free, with competence, she hoped, in perspective? and this thought,
together with the ever all-pervading one of her idol, her treasure, her
only son, and his expectations, more than counterbalanced that of the
death she had witnessed.
'Come you, don't you be takking on so,' said one old woman soothingly,
as the widow rocked herself to and fro, and held her handkerchief to her
eyes.
'Tak' you this drop o' tea,' said another, 'it'll be doing you good,'
'The Lord will be having mercy on his soul,' said a third, whose
conscience was large when she was offering comfort.
'There now, keep up your spirits, Mrs Jinkins, fach,' said a fourth,
entering with a comfortable glass of gin and water that did seem of an
exhilarating nature.
'There's a comfort Howel will be to you now!' said a fifth triumphantly.
'Deed to goodness, Griffey Jinkins was a saving man, and you have lost
him, Mrs Jinkins, fach,' began the friend with the gin and water; 'but
I am seeing no use in takking on so. When John Jones died, he was
leaving me with ten children, and they have all come on somehow. And you
have only wan son, and he is so ginteel! Drink you this, my dear, and
don't be down-hearted.'
Mrs Jenkins turned from the tea to the gin and water with no apparent
reluctance, and swallowed a portion of it. Revived by the beverage, she
responded to the condolences of her friends by more rockings, sobs, and
applications of the handkerchief and finally unburdened herself of her
grief in the following manner.
'My son Howel, oh yes, he'll be a blessing to me, I know. Says I to my
poor Griffey--oh, dear, only to be thinking of him now!--says I, "Let us
be giving Howel a good eddication, and he so clever as never was, and
able to be learning everything he do put his mind to, and never daunted
at nothing--grammar, nor music, nor Latin, nor no heathen languages, and
able to read so soon as he could speak, and knowing all the beasts in
the ark one from another, when he was no bigger than that," says I, to
my poor Griffey; "oh, annwyl! we have only wan child, let him be a
clargy, or a 'torney, or a doctor, or something smart," and says he, "I
can't afford it." He was rather near or so, you know, was my poor
Griffey; but I never was letting him rest day or night, and the only
thing he wasn't liking was being much talked over. So says I, "Come you,
Jinkins, bach,"--he liked to be called by his sirname--"if you do larn
Howel well, he'll be making his fortune some day," for he do say so, he
do be always saying, "I'll be a great man, and get as much money as
father." I eused to put in the last words of myself, for Howel never was
taking to making money, but 'ould as soon give it away as not. Only poor
Griffey--oh dear! oh dear!--was never knowing that, because I did be
hiding it from him as much as I could.'
Whilst the widow talks on in this strain to her sympathising friends,
her son and Rowland Prothero are in another small room of the house,
engaged in a very different style of conversation. The room in which
they are is worth a few words of description, not for any beauty or
desert of its own, but for its heterogeneous, contents. You would think
a small music warehouse, a miniature tobacco shop, or branch depot of
foreign grammars and dictionaries were before you. Every kind of musical
instrument seems to have met with a companion in this tiny apartment.
Here are a violin, violoncello, horn, and cornopean; there an old Welsh
harp and unstrung guitar. On this shelf are pipes of all sorts and
sizes, forms, and nations--the straight English, the short German, and
the long Turkish; on that are cigar-boxes, snuff-boxes, and
tobacco-boxes of various kinds and appearances. Scattered about the room
are play-books without number, from Shakspeare to the dramatists of the
present day; and, interspersed with these, collections of songs of all
countries and of all grades of merit. Some few novels, mostly French,
live with the plays and songs; and Latin, French, German, Italian,
Welsh, Spanish, and English grammars and dictionaries take up their
abode in every available corner. A quantity of fishing tackle and a gun
are thrown upon the window seat, and an embroidered waistcoat, blue
satin cravat, and a pair of yellow kid gloves lie on an unoccupied
chair.
From the general appearance of this room, the imagination would conceive
great things of its inmate. All we shall here say is that he is one who
has the reputation of being a natural genius, and firmly believes that
he is one.
As all natural geniuses are supposed to have something very remarkable
in their appearance, we will just take a sketch of the miser's son, as
he alternately leans on the table or stalks about the room during his
earnest conversation with his cousin. He has decidedly sentimental hair;
long, black, shining, and with a tendency to curl; he has what might be
termed poetical eyes, bright, piercing, and very restless; the sharp,
aquiline nose of his father, slightly modified; and a mouth and brow
which curl and knit in a manner that may be poetic, but might be
disagreeable, under less soothing influences. That he is very handsome
no one could dispute, and it is equally certain that he has an air much
above the position in which he was born; but the expression of his face
inspires distrust rather than confidence, and conveys the impression
that there is more of passion than feeling beneath the fiery eyes and
compressed mouth.
A great contrast to this family genius is presented in the person of his
cousin Rowland, now addressing him earnestly and seriously upon the
grave subjects naturally uppermost at such a time. He, too, is
sufficiently good-looking, with an open, though grave, cast of
countenance, fine, soft, hazel eyes, and a tall, manly figure. By
'sufficiently good-looking,' I mean that he is neither very handsome nor
ugly, and when his lady friends debate upon his outer man they generally
wind up by saying, 'Well, if he isn't handsome, he is very genteel.'
We are not going to repeat here the well-known fable of the 'Hare and
the Tortoise,' but something of the character of those animals may be
found in the cousins. At their first dame's school, as well as at the
more advanced grammar school of their little town. Howel was always able
to beat Rowland in swiftness, whilst Rowland effectually distanced
Howel in the long run. It was Rowland who carried off the prizes, when
study and prolonged endeavour were necessary to obtain them, whilst
Howel eclipsed all his contemporaries, if a theme were to be written, or
a poem learnt.
Such differences are so frequent, and have been so often discussed that
it is scarcely necessary to pursue the contrast further; but the result
at the present stands thus. Howel, the elder of the two, has dipped a
little into everything; has gained a reputation for genius; has been
articled to an attorney--but is in no apparent danger of becoming
one--has written various articles for the county papers, and has had the
pleasure of seeing them printed; has acquired a smattering of several
languages, and various styles of music; and has proved himself an
admired beau amongst the ladies, and a favourite boon companion amongst
the gentlemen. He has been idolised and spoilt by his mother, and
stinted and pinched by his father, and having no very great respect or
admiration for the talents or conduct of either parent, has not tried
much to please them, save when it suited him.
The result of all this, if not already apparent, will doubtless be seen
hereafter, for, at four or five and twenty, conduct and principles begin
to establish themselves.
Rowland Prothero is very much the reverse of all this. From a child he
had a desire to enter the Church, which desire was fostered by his uncle
and aunt into a resolution, when he grew old enough to resolve. As they
very nearly adopted and educated him, his parents made no objection, and
as they were ambitious to raise their family in worldly position, they
spared no expense.
Rowland was reckoned dull, but plodding, at Rugby, whither his uncle
sent him. However, his dulness and plodding were more successful than
the brightness of many, since they managed to gain a scholarship at
school, which helped him at Oxford. He was called proud and obstinate,
and he was both. Pride and obstinacy were the characteristics of his
family, but in him they fortunately tended to good: inasmuch as his
pride generally led him to do well, and his obstinacy kept up his pride.
At present, it would be difficult to say whether he is a young man
likely to shine in the path he has chosen, or to walk quietly along it
unnoticed. His friends do not anticipate anything remarkable, but they
expect him to be slow and sure. He did very well at college, but gained
no greater honours than the respect and goodwill of those he was known
to. Query--Is not that worth as much, morally, as a first class?
At home, he is understood by few. He has not many associates, because,
either from his own fault, or some mental peculiarity, he cannot fall in
with those who are immediately about him; and consequently is rather
feared by his acquaintances and reckoned proud, stiff, and
conceited--above his birth, in short.
With him, as with Howel and every one else, the course of years will
show the man. 'Handsome is that handsome does.'
'The fact is, Rowland,' said Howel, as he suddenly stood still in one of
his rapid walks across the room, 'you and I never could agree in
anything, and never shall.'
'I hope we may yet agree in many things,' said Rowland gently. 'At
present, all I wish you to do is to pay your debts, go to London, take
out your stamps, and become an attorney.'
'I am the best judge of that, and shall be my own master now. At all
events, I can make some people ashamed of themselves.'
'I only wish to advise you for your good, now that you are your own
master. Your poor father begged me--'
'Oh, Rowland, I can't stand any more about my father. Everybody knows
what he was, and, I suppose, nobody expects me to live in the same line.
I am emancipated, thank heaven! and the world shall soon know it.'
'Still, he was your father.'
'No one knows that better than I do, I should imagine; but if you expect
me to mourn as others do for a parent, you will be disappointed. He
never showed me one token of love, or acted by me as a father from the
day of my birth till his death.'
'At least he has left you and your mother handsomely provided for, and
with his last words, hoped that you were now very steady.'
'He did! I wonder who dares to say that I am not steady? But how do you
know how we are provided for?'
'He begged me to write down what he was worth. I will give it you at
some future period, but not now.'
'Why not now?'
'Because I think it is scarcely yet a time to consider money matters.
After the last duties are performed you shall have the paper. Part of
his property is written down, but a box of gold and some other sums he
did not name. After that last sad scene one can scarcely think of
anything earthly. Oh, Howel! I wish you would consider the shortness and
uncertainty of life, and what is its end.'
'So awful do I consider its end that I mean to enjoy it while it lasts.
But don't go off with the impression that I was not shocked and
frightened with what we have just seen. It is one thing to read and
write about a death-bed and another to witness it. But I cannot weep or
pray as some people can.'
'You might do both if you would only seek aright.'
'There, enough! I am past being preached to as a naughty boy, and can
now look forward to some enjoyment without robbing my own father, or
getting my mother to rob him, to procure it. But I shall never forget
that last struggle? no, never.'
Here, with a face of horror, Howel began his restless walk again.
Rowland sat in melancholy silence.
'Rowland,' suddenly broke in Howel, 'how is Netta?'
'Quite well, I thank you,' answered Rowland gravely.
'I have not seen her for a long time? will you remember me to her?'
'I cannot promise to do so.'
'Do you think me a fiend, sir, that my name cannot be mentioned to my
cousin? I will manage to convey my own remembrances.'
'Howel, you know how it is? I do not mean to be unkind. If only you
would give up your old life, enter your profession, and begin another--'
'That is as I choose. I shall be glad of the paper you wrote for my
father, and then you and I, Rowland, are best apart.'
'Good-bye then, Howel? perhaps some day you may know that I wish you
well. I will bring the paper at the funeral.'
'For heaven's sake stay, or send some one else! I cannot bear to be
alone here? his ghost will haunt me.'
'Then let me read to you.'
Howel assented gloomily and threw himself on the bed in the corner of
the room. Rowland took a small Testament from his pocket and resolutely
read several chapters.
During the reading Howel fell asleep.