We have again to introduce the reader to Gilbert Carraways. The
circumstances under which the reader and he last met were so very
different, so opposite to the present condition of the worthy
gentleman,—that we may be justified in treating the old man with
something of the deference due to a stranger. In one of the Primrose
Places to be found selvaging London—for we care not to be a whit
more definite in the whereabout—Carraways, his wife and daughter,
had taken refuge from the storm that had broken over their heads; a
storm that had made clear work of every stick of their property. No
hurricane could more completely sweep away a field of sugar-cane. In
a small, neat, comfortable room sat the ruined family. The old man
was reading, or thought he read. In a few weeks, the snow had come
down upon his head with a heavy fall. In a few weeks, his cheeks were
lined and lengthened. He had been held—so ruthlessly held—face to
face with misery, that his smile, that was constant as the red in his
cheek, had well nigh vanished. Now and then, as he exchanged looks
with his daughter, it glimmered a little; played about his mouth, to
leave it only in utter blankness. Still he went on reading; still he
turned page after page; and believed that he was laying in a stock
of knowledge for his future life. For he had again—he would tell his
daughter with a bright look—he had again to begin the world. Hard
beginning! Dreary voyage, with neither youth to fight the storm;
nor the hope of youth to wile away the long, dark, dreary, watch—to
sing the daylight in. But this he would not think of. At least he
thought he would not. He felt himself as strong as ever; yes, even
stronger. He could not have hoped to have borne the blow so well.
He was never better; never. His glorious health was left him; and
therefore, why despair? In this way will the brain of the stout man
cheat itself. It will feel whole, and strong; and for the viler
cracks and flaws, they are not to be heeded. Mere trifles. And then
some day, some calm and sunny time, that peace has seemed to choose
for itself, for a soft, sweet pause—with the tyrant brain secure and
all vain-glorious,—the trifle kills. In this way do strong men die
upwards.
Gilbert Carraways was, at our first meeting, set about by all the
creature delights of life. He was the lord of abundance. The man who
had nothing to do with want and misery, but to exercise the noblest
prerogative of happy humanity—namely, to destroy them wheresoever
he found them preying upon his fellows. Wealth was gone. He was a
beggar; but in his poverty were thoughts that might glorify his
fireside. He had used his means for good; and, at least, might feel
enriched by the harvest of his recollections. With his face anxious,
lengthened, and dim, there was a dignity in the old man that we do
not think we ever recognised at the Hall. For he had to bear a load
of misery; and he sat erect, and with his spirit conquering, looked
serenely about him.
Bessy and her mother sat at work, and to see them for the first time,
they seemed as though they had never had a finer room to sit in.
Already were they so self-accommodated to the place. In their days
of fortune, Mrs. Carraways—good, kind creature ever!—nevertheless
loved to show to folks the finest outside. She confessed to a pride
in exhibiting to the world the best holiday proofs of worldly
prosperity. Her husband would call her his old butterfly. And, in a
few weeks, she had cast all such thoughts, even as the butterfly its
wings, never again to be enjoyed, or dreamt of. She looked the good
wife of one of Carraways’ late clerks, at some hundred and fifty
pounds a year; with those sixty shillings a week—to provide home and
food, and raiment; the worldly all-in-all. And if at times she was
a little, just a little wayward, in the full blaze of fortune—as
the best-tempered folks are sometimes apt to be tetchy in over-warm
weather—now, she sat in the shade all gentleness, and smiles, and
patience; as though she, perhaps, remembered those little breaks of
temper, to be afforded when at ease with the world, but all too
serious, too wilful an extravagance for a poor man’s home.
Bessy was at first astonished, broken-hearted that she had never
seen, scarcely heard, and that coldly, ceremoniously, of many of
her friends. She could not for a long time comprehend the cause.
And then, she speedily agreed with her mother that, possibly, an
extreme sense of delicacy kept them absent—silent. “They may not like
to intrude upon our misfortune,” said Mrs. Carraways very sadly.
Bessy at once acknowledged it must be so with Miss Candituft. She
recollected that with that young lady it was a favourite phrase—“the
sacredness of adversity.” And then Bessy could not but think—“She
might have written more than once.” But Bessy was young and hopeful.
The tempest had blown over her; and once passed, she was again
smiling and erect. A lily after a thunder-storm.
Such the group at the fireside. There is, however, a person at the
street-door well-known to the reader. We have tried, with all his
faults, to make him a sort of favourite. This outside person is
Basil Pennibacker. He has galloped to London, and straightway taken
the road to Primrose Row. He has hardly shaped his thoughts into
the roughest form of speech; but he feels that he has something to
say: nay, his heart is full of it—and it shall out before he sleeps.
And with this brave determination, he marches to the door; feeling,
nevertheless, as though with all his courage, he was walking up to
a cannon. He stops short at the step. The next moment he mounts it,
and the next he raises the knocker. And the next, as softly, tenderly
as ever human fingers touched a human wound, he lays the knocker
down. He is much relieved, and gently descends the step. It is too
late—much too late to call. Hush! The clock of St. Asphodel’s strikes
nine—it is unreasonable, unmannerly to think of it. Basil crosses the
road, and much comforts himself looking at an upper window. There is
a light; and now a female figure moves to and fro. It is Bessy! Her
light, active form; the turn of her head, so like a wood-nymph’s!
Now, she comes to the window; and now the light is gone and the
room is dark. For a moment, the hope of Basil is quenched—dead.
And the next instant, raising his hat, and gazing at the window, he
cries—“God bless you!” and takes to his heels, as though he had done
something wrong, unmannerly.
Now, as it must be evident to the well-meaning few who read these
pages, that we propose to set down nothing but truth, let us clear up
as we go. It was not Bessy, as believed by Basil. It was a solitary,
pale young thing—one of the cloud of genteel phantoms that flit
across our daily path—who compliment life, by endeavouring to live by
needle and thread. It was not Bessy, upon whom Basil called down a
benison. But let it rest upon the stranger’s head. Who so spiritually
rich as not to need it?
“And do you think, Bessy”—said her father, for having disposed of
Basil for the night, we return to the fireside—“and do you think, my
wench, that you’ll make a good sailor?”
“I don’t know,” said Bessy, “but I’ll try.”
“Well said. It’s the most we can promise against sea-sickness. A long
voyage, wench,” said Carraways.
“My dear Gilbert,” said the wife with anxious looks. “Are you
resolved—are you really resolved?”
“I have looked at it every way, lass: I have turned the matter
on every side. Weighed the risks with the good chances. And I am
resolute.” A deep sigh escaped the wife. “Why, what’s the matter?”
asked her husband.
“Nothing. I meant nothing—at least, nothing, if you are resolved. And
yet, Gilbert, we are old”—
“Aye, that’s it; old to move. But, my good dame, what will our years
bring us if we stop? I tell you, I can’t bear to think of it. I
should die a thousand deaths here in London. I couldn’t go into the
City—and somehow, I know myself, I should be sure to be going there
if I was near it—I couldn’t go there, that every other face wouldn’t
seem to stab me. Oh! I have seen the sight myself,—and I won’t
provide the show.”
“What sight, father?” asked Bessy, almost heedless of the question.
“The sight of a ruined man. An old man broken to bits, with, no
hope, no chance of patching. A piece of utter ruin with grey hairs
upon it. The ghost of one who was ‘a good man.’ I’ve seen it. And
I know what follows. I should pass people, and hear ’em talk—yes,
feel ’em point at me. ‘There, sir’—says one to a country friend—‘do
you see that old man? Once one of the proudest fellows in the City,
sir. One who held his head above everybody. One who was as high as
Lucifer’”—
“Oh, father! they never, never, could say that of you,” cried Bessy,
and her face coloured, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Ha! ten to one but they would say it though. ’Tis hard for a man to
tumble, and not get dirt about him, deserve it or not. ‘As proud as
Lucifer’ they’d say; ‘and now look at him—poor fellow!’ Yes they’d
call me—‘poor fellow; not a penny, sir; not a farthing.’ Now, I won’t
endure this. I’ve talked to myself. I’ve had a little conversation
with this Gilbert Carraways—old fellow!—he and I were not such
intimate acquaintance as we ought to have been in fair weather
times—but I’ve talked to him since we’ve been in trouble, and the end
of it is, wife, he won’t suffer it. He won’t,” and Carraways struck
the table.
“My dear Gilbert, do as you will—go where you will. Anywhere”—said
the wife, and at length her heart loosened, and she fell upon her
husband’s neck—“so that we go all together.”
Bessy laid down her work, and silently crept round her father’s
chair, and without a word, mingled her arms with her mother’s. The
old man felt the pressure of his daughter, and hugging wife and child
close at his heart, he cried—“Yes; all together—all together.” And in
a minute, in a gay voice, and his eyes sparkling through their mist,
Carraways said—“Come, it’s time to go to bed. Good night,” and he
kissed his daughter. “I shall not be up long; but I want to finish
these few pages.” And Carraways was left alone; trying with all his
might to see a Land of Promise for his old age in a golden book,
written for the hopes of emigrants.
The next morning, Basil Pennibacker—for we must for a page or two
return to him—rose, determined to see Primrose Row by daylight. As
he took his breakfast, his looks fell with peculiar satisfaction upon
a large bunch of heartsease that, ere he slept, with his own hands he
had placed in water; that, ere he had sat down to begin his meal, he
had examined with an eye more curious than was his wont in the small
matter of flowers. Indeed, he was himself a little surprised at the
interest hanging about his heart for those few bits of purple and
yellow “freaked with jet.” However, he was satisfied of their beauty
and freshness; and therefore breakfasted as heartily as man with
cheerful conscience may.
It was about mid-day when Bessy was broken in upon by the servant
girl, who came almost in a bunch into the room—so hurried, so
anxious, and withal so pleased seemed she to deliver her tidings—to
proclaim with scarlet face, and panting breath that—“there was
a gentleman below that wanted Miss.” Now, neither Mr. nor Mrs.
Carraways were in. This circumstance the girl observed, she knew, and
had already acquainted the gentleman with the fact; a fact that, in
truth, had in no way disconcerted him. Bessy was finally stopt in her
inquiries by the girl, who remembered she had a card.
“Mr. Basil Pennibacker.”—
Bessy reddened as she took it. “Yes, Miss, I’ll show him up
directly,” said the girl.
“Stay, Susan—I—yes; you are quite right. Pray show the gentleman in,”
said Bessy; and, as she heard the foot of Basil on the stairs, her
heart kept count with every step, and she felt cold as a stone.
Basil entered the room. We verily believe his own mother—doting
parent that she was—would not have known him. He was almost awkward
in his bashfulness; his eyes wandered; he feebly smiled; and deeply
blushed. Bessy, somehow, showed most courage of the two.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Pennibacker, that there is no one but myself at
home. Very sorry that”—
“Pray don’t mention it, Miss Carraways; I assure you I—that is—I hope
Mr. and Mrs. Carraways are well; as well, my dear madam”—and Basil
began to feel his ground—“as well as I could wish them.”
“Quite well,” said Bessy, “I do not think my mother can be long. And
I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. We do not see many friends now,”
said Bessy; and then she could have bitten her tongue that she had
said it; he might believe that she hinted at his mother and sisters.
“After all, Miss Carraways,” said Basil, “how very few people there
are worth thinking friends.”
“It may be so, sir; I fear it is so; but,” said Bessy, “it is a hard
truth to learn, learn it when we may.”
Basil was again at fault; again his tongue hung fire; and he
wondered, and was a little piqued at the self-possession of Bessy,
when he—a man—was in such a tremor. His brain was wandering for
new words, when happily, his eyes fell upon the superb bunch of
heartsease idly grasped by his hand. “Happily, Miss Carraways,” said
Basil, suddenly supported, “happily there are friends that will smile
upon us till death.”
“Oh dear, yes! Life, indeed, would be a sad lot could we not think
so,” and Bessy’s eyes glistened; and glistening, made Basil wince.
She never looked so beautiful. Heaped about with luxury; a little
rose-bud queen in a golden palace, with fairy birds singing to
her, and happiness like an atmosphere around her—she never looked
so beautiful as in that bit of tenpenny muslin—standing upon
Kidderminster, at the rate of eighteen shillings a-week, boots
included. (Now all this went jumbling, jostling through the brain of
Basil, as he caught the dewy flash of Bessy’s innocent blue eyes.)
“There are friends, Miss Carraways, whom you have been kind to, who
still have grateful looks. There are friends, I saw thousands of
them yesterday, looking all the happier for your care. I was told of
some, for whom you had a particular regard. I”—here Basil began again
to feel abashed and tongue-tied. “I mean friends by the outer wall,
opposite the summer-house with—with Diana in it”—
“I recollect the summer-house,” said Bessy, and her little hand
clutched the back of a chair.
“Of course. I was sure you would. Well, the truth is, my dear
lady—pardon me, Miss Carraways—I was there, and I thought you would
like to see some of these friends, and—the fact is,—my dear Bessy—ten
million pardons, madam, I—the fact is, as I said, thinking you would
like to see them, I gave them a—a general invitation,—have brought
’em here, and here they are.”
Basil held the heartsease towards Bessy. She curtseyed, held her
trembling hand to take them. “Thank you! A thousand thanks!” she
smiled. And then she fell in a chair, and burying her face among the
flowers, gave up her heart to weeping.
Poor Basil! he felt awe-struck by the passion he had roused. He
wished the floor to open, and himself—to use his own afterphrase—to
be repealed for ever. “If I had thought”—he stammered.
“Oh thank you, sir—a thousand thanks,” cried Bessy, and she wept anew.
“My dear madam,” said Basil, “I am a foolish person; a very foolish
person. Another time I hope to be permitted to assure you that I
meant no folly; upon my soul, I mean truth—earnest, honest, eternal
truth, if truth be in this world. I”—And here Basil distressed,
discomfited, rushed from the room.
In another hour, Bessy was calm and sad—yet not altogether sad. The
heartsease were placed in a glass, and again and again Bessy would
go to them, and, as though putting her finger under the chin of baby
loveliness, as though the flower were a sentient thing, she would
lift the curl of the blossom as it hung over the vessel. She was
gazing at the heartsease when Jenny Topps was shown into the room.
“Well, Mrs. Topps,” said Bessy with a melancholy smile.
“Now, not that I’m ashamed of Topps’s name, why should I be?”—said
the young wife, looking very proud of it,—“but do call me Jenny,
Miss, as afore. Do, please.”
“Well, then, Jenny”—
“Well, then, what do you think Miss? We went to the Hall yesterday.
Ha, you should only see it now! No; I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t
have you see it for any money. We’ve brought away what you wanted.
But that’s not it. What do you think? Now, don’t cry—promise me, you
won’t cry.”
“Well, then, Jenny, I promise you,” and somehow Bessy made the
promise with better self-assurance than she could have boasted a
little more than an hour ago.
“Well, then, them nasty Jerichos—for I hate ’em”—
“You should hate nobody, Jenny,” said Bessy.
“Perhaps not, ma’am. But nature that makes us love, makes us hate,
and we can’t help it. Them Jerichos is going to take the Hall.”
“Is it possible?” asked Bessy, with strange calmness.
“I saw ’em all there. Going to take the Hall,” repeated Jenny, much
incensed.
“Very well. Somebody must live there,” said Bessy. And then,
strangely perplexed, she looked at the heartsease, and knew not what
to think.
Basil, on his hurried way home, was no less perplexed. He accused
himself of folly, cruelty. He had torn open the girl’s heart with his
clumsy blunder; and of what avail was it, that he would die to dry
her tears?
“Why, my dear fellow,” said an acquaintance, stopping Basil, fuming
with remorse, “My dear fellow, what is the matter with you? Anything
wrong? Anything I can do to help you?”
“Yes,” exclaimed Basil. “Bind me to you for life, and get me a
coalheaver.”
“A coalheaver!” cried his friend.
“A coalheaver,” repeated Basil. “In my present state of feeling,
nothing—I know it—nothing can restore me to tranquillity till I’ve
licked a coalheaver.”