by an effort.
'No other than your nephew Philip. I will tell you what I know.'
Then John Dale gave his friend a succinct account of what he had heard.
He told him what he had learned of Philip.
'Do you grudge her to your nephew?' asked Dale.
'I do not know Philip,' answered Jeremiah curtly.
'I heard nothing but golden opinions of him,' said Dale. 'The only
person to qualify these was that puss, Janet, and she of course thinks
no one good enough for her dear sister Salome.'
Jeremiah's heart swelled. How easy it would be for him to spoil all the
schemes that had been hatched since his disappearance. Philip was
reckoning on becoming a well-to-do manufacturer; on founding a
household; was looking forward to a blissful domestic life enriched with
the love of Salome. Jeremiah had but to show himself; and all these
plans would disappear as the desert mirage; Philip would have to return
to his lawyer's clerkship and abandon every prospect of domestic
happiness and commercial success.
'One thing more,' said Dale, 'I do not quite like the looks of my little
pet, Janet. Her troubles have worn her more than I suspected. Besides
she never had the robustness of her sister. It is hard that wits and
constitution should go to one of the twins, and leave the other scantily
provided with both.'
Jeremiah said no more. He was looking gloomily before him into vacancy.
John Dale declared he must visit his patients, and left his friend.
Jeremiah continued for some minutes in a brown study; and then he, also,
rose, put on his overcoat and muffler, and went forth to the cliffs, to
muse on what he had heard, and to decide his future course.
The tidings of Salome's engagement were hard to bear. He thought he had
taught himself to think of her no longer in the light of a possible
wife. His good sense had convinced him that it would be unwise for him
to think of marriage with her; it told him also that he was as yet too
infirm of purpose to trust himself in her presence.
Could he now return? If he did, in what capacity?--as the maker or
marrer of Philip's fortunes? If he took him into partnership, so as to
enable him to marry, could he--Jeremiah--endure the daily spectacle of
his nephew's happiness?--endure to witness the transfer to another of
that love and devotion which had been given to him? And if he banished
Philip, what would be the effect on Salome? Would she not resent his
return, and regret that he had not died in the flood? If he were to
allow those in Mergatroyd to know that he was alive it would be almost
the same thing as returning into their midst, as it would disconcert
their arrangements effectually. The wisest course for himself, and the
kindest to them, would be for him to depart from England for a
twelvemonth or more, without giving token that he still existed, and
then on his return he would be able to form an unprejudiced opinion of
his nephew, and act accordingly. If he found him what, according to
Dale's account, he promised to become--a practical, hardworking,
honourable manager--he would leave the conduct of the business in his
hands, only reclaiming that share which had been grasped by Mrs.
Sidebottom, which, moreover, he would feel a----perhaps malicious
pleasure in taking from her.
He seated himself on one of the benches placed at intervals on the down
for the convenience of visitors, and looked out to sea. The sun shone,
and the day, for a winter's day, was warm. Very little air stirred, and
Jeremiah thought that to rest himself on the bench could do him no harm,
so long as he did not remain there till he felt chilled.
As he sat on the bench, immersed in his troubled thoughts, a gentleman
came up, bowed, and took a place at his side.
'Beautiful weather! beautiful weather!' said the stranger, 'and such
weather, I am glad to say, is general at Bridlington. Of the three
hundred and sixty-five days in the year the average of days on which the
sun shines is two hundred and seventy-three decimal four. When we get
an interruption of what we regard as bad weather, oh! what murmurers,
sad murmurers we are against a beneficent Providence. The so-called bad
weather dissipates the insalubrious gases and brings in a fresh supply
of invigorating ozone, life-sustaining oxygen, and the other
force-stimulating elements--elements.'
Jeremiah nodded. He was not well pleased to be drawn into conversation
at this moment, when occupied with his own thoughts.
'"La sante avant tout," say the French,' continued the gentleman, 'with
that terseness which characterizes the Gallic tongue--the tongue, sir.'
When he repeated a word he ruffled and swelled and turned himself about
like a pluming turkey, and as though believing that he had said a good
thing. 'I agree with them; I would subordinate every consideration to
health, every consideration, sir, except religion, which towers, sir,
steeples and weather-cocks high above every other mundane
con--sid--er--ation.' As he pronounced each syllable apart, as though
each was a pearl he dropped from his lips, he turned himself about,
scattering his precious particles, till he faced Jeremiah. 'You,
yourself, sir, I perceive, are in search of that inestimable prize,
health--Hygiene, I mean.'
Mr. Pennycomequick was startled at this random shot, and looked more
closely at his interlocutor. He saw a man of about his own height, with
long hair, whiskers that were elaborately curled, and perhaps darkened
with antimony; a handsome man, but with a mottled face and a nose
inclined to redness. There was a something--Jeremiah could not tell
what, it was in his face--that made him suspect he had seen the man
before; or, if he had not seen him before, had seen someone like him.
He looked again at his face, not steadily, lest he should seem
discourteous, but hastily, and withal searchingly. No, he had not seen
him previously, and yet there was certainly something in his face that
was familiar.
'You are not, I presume, aware,' continued the gentleman, 'that there is
a very remarkable and unique feature of this bay which points it out
specially as the sanatorium of the future. The iodine in the seaweed
here--the i-o-dine, sir--reaches a percentage unattained elsewhere. It
has been analysed, and, whereas along the seaside resorts on the English
Channel it is two decimal four to five decimal one of potass, there is a
steady accession of iodine in the seaweed, as you mount the east
coast--the east coast, sir--till it reaches its maximum at the spot
where we now are; where the proportions are almost reversed, the iodine
standing at five, or, to be exact, four decimal eight, and the potass at
three decimal two. This is a very interesting fact, sir, and as
important as it is interesting--as it is in-ter-est-ing.'
The gentleman worked his elbows, as though uncomfortable in his
overcoat, that did not fit him.
'The iodine is suspended in the atmosphere, as also is the ozone; but it
is concentrated in the algae. Conceive of the advantage to humanity, and
contemplate the beneficence of Providence, not only in gathering into
one focus the distributed iodine of the universe, but also in
discovering this fact to me, and enabling me and a few others to whom I
confide the secret, to realize out of the iodine, I will not say a
competence, but a colossal fortune.'
'And pray,' said Jeremiah, with a tone of sarcasm in his voice, 'what is
the good of iodine when you have it?'
'What is the good--the good of iodine?'
The gentleman turned round solidly and looked at Mr. Pennycomequick from
head to foot. 'Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you do not know for
what purpose an all-wise Providence has put iodine in the world? Why,
it is one of the most potent, I may say it is the _only_ agent for the
reduction of muscular, vascular, osseous, abnormal secretions.' From
the way in which he employed such words as vascular, osseous, abnormal,
and secretions, it was apparent that they gave the speaker thorough
enjoyment to use them. 'For any and every form of disorder of the
cartilaginous system it is sovereign--sov-er-eign.'
'For the heart also?' asked Jeremiah, becoming interested in iodine.
'For all cardiac affections--supreme. It is known as yet to very
few--only to such as know it through me--that Bridlington is a spot so
abounding in iodine, so marked out by nature as a resort for all those
who suffer from glandular affections, stiff joints, rickets, cardial
infirmities--and, according to a system I am about to make
public--tubercular phthisis.'
He turned himself about and shook his mouth, as shaking comfits out of a
bag, 'tu-ber-cular phthi-sis!'
After a pause, in which he smiled, well pleased with himself, he said,
'Perhaps you will condescend to take my card, and if I can induce you to
take a share in Iodinopolis----'
'Iodinopolis?'
'The great sanatorium of the future. A company is being formed to buy
up land, to erect ranges of beautiful marine villas, to rear palatial
hotels. There is a low church here already, and if we can persuade his
grace the Archbishop to help us to a high church also, the place will be
ready, the nest prepared for the birds. Then we propose to give a bonus
to every physician who recommends a patient to Bridlington, for the
first three or four years, till the tide of fashion has set in so strong
that we can dispense with bonuses, the patients themselves insisting on
being sent here. What said Ledru Rollin? "I am the leader of the
people, therefore I must follow them." He handed his card to Mr.
Pennycomequick, who looked at it and saw:
'MR. BEAPLE YEO,
Financier.'
Every now and then there came in the stranger's voice an intonation that
seemed familiar to Jeremiah; in itself nothing decided, but sufficient,
like a scent, to recall something, yet not pronounced enough to enable
him to determine what it was in the past that was recalled. Again
Jeremiah looked at the gentleman, and his attention was all at once
directed to his great-coat.
'How odd--how strange!' he muttered.
'What, sir? what is strange?' asked the gentleman. 'That such a splendid
opportunity of making a fortune should lie at our feet--lie literally at
our feet, without figure of speech--for there it is, in the seaweed,
here it is, in the air we inhale, now humming in the grass of the down?
Perhaps you may like----' he fumbled in his great-coat pocket.
'Excuse me,' said Jeremiah, 'that overcoat bears the most extraordinary
resemblance to----' but he checked himself.
'Made by my tailor in New Bond Street,' said Mr. Yeo. 'Here, sir, is the
prospectus. This is a speculation on which not only large capitalists
may embark, but also the widow can contribute her mite, and reap as they
have sown, the capitalist receiving in proportion as the widow--_as_ the
widow. I myself, guarantee eighteen and a half per cent. That I
guarantee on my personal security--but I reckon that the return will be
at the rate of twenty-four decimal three--the decimal is important,
because the calculation has been strict.'
Mr. Pennycomequick ran his eye over the list of managers.
'You will see,' said Mr. Yeo, 'that our chairman is the Earl of
Schofield. His lordship has taken up a hundred and twenty shares of L10
each--the first call is for five shillings per share.'
'Earl Schofield!' murmured Mr. Pennycomequick. 'Earl Schofield! Earl
Schofield! I do not know much of the peerage--not in my line--but the
name is familiar to me. Earl Schofield!--Excuse me, but there was a
great scoundrel----'
'Hah!' interrupted Mr. Yeo, and waved his cane, 'there is my secretary
signalling to me from away yonder on the dunes. Excuse me--I must go to
him.'
He rose and walked hastily away.
'How very odd!' said Jeremiah. 'I could swear he was in my great-coat.'
He watched the man as he strode away. 'And that hat!--surely I know
that also.'
*CHAPTER XXV.*
*WITHOUT BELLS.*
Virgilius, Bishop of Salzburg in the eighth century, condemned the
erroneous doctrine held by some that we have antipodes. It was, no
doubt, true that men in the Middle Ages had not their antipodes, but it
is certainly otherwise now. Where our fathers' heads were, there now
are our feet. Everything is the reverse in this Generation of what it
was in the last. Medicine condemns those things which medicine did
enjoin, and enjoins those things which were forbidden. What our parents
revered that we turn into burlesque, and what they cast aside as
worthless that we collect and treasure. Maxims that moulded the conduct
in the last generation are trampled underfoot in this, and principles
thought immutable are broken by the succeeding age, as royal seals are
broken on the death of the sovereign. If we were bred up by our fathers
in high Toryism, when of age we turn a somersault and pose as Social
Democrats; if we learned the Gospel at our mother's knee we profess
Buddhism with the sprouting of our whiskers. The social and moral
barriers set up by our fathers we throw down, and just as pigs when
driven in one direction turn their snouts the other way, so do we--so do
our children; which is an evidence in favour of Darwinianism, showing
that the porcine character still inheres.
It was regarded of old as a canon by romance writers, that the final
chapter of the last volume, be it the seventh as in the days of
Richardson, or the third as in these of Mudie and Smith, should end with
the marriage of the hero and heroine. A cruel and wayward Fate held the
couple apart through the entire story, but they came together in the
end. And there was a reason for this. Marriage is the climax of the
romance of life. It concludes one epoch and opens another, and that
which it opens is prosaic. It was concluded, and concluded with some
show of reason that a romance should deal with the romantic period of
life and finish when that reaches its apogee.
The Parliament of Love at Toulouse in the twelfth century laid down that
love and marriage were mutually exclusive terms; that romance died to
the sound of wedding-bells, or at longest lingered to the expiration of
the honeymoon. This law has governed novelists ever since. The
ingenuity of the author has consisted in devising impediments to the
union of the lovers, and in knocking them out of their way as the story
neared its conclusion.
But in this revolutionary age we have discarded the rule; and carried
away by the innovating stream the author of this tale has ventured to
displace the marriage. Had he been completely lost to reverence for the
ancient canons, in his desire to be original, he would have opened his
novel with a wedding procession, strutting to the carriages over strewn
flowers, holding bouquets, with the pealing of wedding-bells, whilst the
bridegroom's man circulates, tipping the parson, the curate, the
pewopener, the sexton, the clerk, the bellringers, and all the other
sharks that congregate about a bridegroom, as the fish congregate about
a ship on board of which is a corpse. But, as the author is still held
in check by old rule, or prejudice, and yet yields somewhat to the
modern spirit of relaxation, he compromises between the extremes, and
introduces the marriage in the middle of his tale.
In a novel, a marriage is always built up of much romantic and
picturesque and floral adjunct. It is supposed necessarily to involve
choral hymns, white favours, bridal veils, orange blossoms, tears in the
bride, flaming cheeks in the bridegroom, speeches at the breakfast, an
old slipper, and a shower of rice. Without these condiments a wedding is
a very insipid dish.
But here we are forced to innovate.
The marriage of Philip Pennycomequick and Salome Cusworth was hurried
on; there was no necessity for delay, and it was performed in a manner
so prosaic as to void it of every feature of romance and refinement.
In the parish church there was morning prayer every day at nine, and
this service Salome frequently attended.
On one morning--as it happened, a gray one, with a spitting sky--Philip
also attended matins, from 'the wicked man' to the final 'Amen.' When,
however, the service was concluded--a service attended by five Sisters
of Mercy and three devout ladies--the vicar, instead of leaving the
desk, coughed, blew his nose, and glowered down the church.
Then the clerk began to fumble among some books, the five Sisters of
Mercy perked up, the devout ladies who had moved from their seats
towards the church door were seized with a suspicion that something
unusual was about to take place, and hastily returned to their places.
The Sisters of Mercy had with them one penitent, whom with sugar-plums
they were alluring into the paths of virtue. It at once occurred to
these religious women that to witness a wedding would have an elevating,
healthy effect on their penitent, and they resolved to stay--for her
sake, for her sake only; they, for their parts, being raised above all
mundane interests. Also, the servants of the vicarage, which adjoined
the churchyard, by some means got wind of what was about to occur, and
slipped ulsters over their light cotton gowns, and tucked their caps
under pork-pie hats, and tumbled into church breathing heavily.
Then Philip, trying to look as if nothing was about to happen, came out
of his pew, and in doing so stumbled over a hassock, knocked down his
umbrella which leaned against the pew, and sent some hymnals and church
services about the floor. Then he walked up the church, and was joined
by Salome and her sister and mother. No psalm was sung, no 'voice
breathed o'er Eden,' but the Sisters of Mercy intoned the responses with
vociferous ardour, and the penitent took the liveliest interest in the
ceremonial, expressing her interest in giggles and suppressed 'Oh my's!'
Finally, after 'amazement,' the parson, clerk, bride and bridegroom, and
witnesses adjourned to the vestry, where the vicar made his customary
joke about the lady signing her surname for the last time.
The bellringers knew nothing about the wedding, and having been
unforewarned were not present to ring a peal. No carriage with white
favours to horses and driver was at the door of the church--no cab was
kept at Mergatroyd--no rice was thrown, no slipper cast.
The little party walked quietly and unobserved back to their house under
umbrellas, and on reaching home partook of a breakfast that consisted of
fried fish, bacon, eggs, toast, butter, and home-made marmalade. No
guests were present, no speeches were made, no healths drunk. There was
to be no wedding tour. Philip could not leave the mill, and the
honeymoon must be passed in the smoky atmosphere of Mergatroyd, and
without the intermission of the daily routine of work.
As Philip walked home with Salome under the same umbrella, from the
points of which the discoloured water dropped, he said in a low tone to
her, 'I have, as you desired, offered your mother to manage her affairs
for her. She has accepted my offer, and I have looked through her
accounts. She has very little money.'
'I do not suppose she can have much; my poor father died before he was
in a position to save any considerable sum.'
'She has about five hundred pounds in Indian railway bonds, and a couple
of hundred in a South American loan, and some three hundred in home
railways--about fifteen to sixteen hundred pounds in all--that is to
say, she had this a little while ago.'
'And has it still, no doubt.'
'No; you yourself told me she had met with losses.'
'She informed me that she had, but I cannot understand how this can have
been. I doubt entirely that she met with losses.'
'But she allowed me to see her book, and she has sold out some stock--in
fact, between two and three hundred pounds' worth. She did that almost
immediately after my uncle's death.'
'But she has the money realized, I suppose.'
'Not at all. It is gone.'
'Gone!'
'She cannot and will not account for it to me, except by the vague
explanation that she had a sudden and unexpected call upon her which she
was forced to meet.'
'But--she said nothing about this to me. It is very odd.'
'It is, as you say, odd. It is, of course, possible that Janet may have
had something to do with it, but I cannot say; your mother will not
enlighten me.'
'I cannot understand this,' said Salome musingly.
'I regret my offer,' said Philip. 'I would not have made it if I had
not thought I should be met with candour, and given the information I
desired.'
When Mrs. Sidebottom heard that the marriage had actually taken place,
then her moral sense reared like a cob unaccustomed to the curb.
'It is a scandal!' she exclaimed, 'and so shortly after my sweet
brother's death. A bagman's daughter, too!'
'Uncle Jeremiah died in November,' said the captain.
'Well, and this is March. To marry a bagman's daughter in March! It is
a scandal, an outrage on the family.'
'My uncle would have had no objections, I suppose. Philip is as good as
Mr. Baynes.'
'As good! How you talk, Lamb! as if all the brains in your skull had
gone to water. Philip is a Pennycomequick, and Baynes is--of course, a
Baynes.'
'What of that?'
'Mr. Baynes was a manufacturer.'
'So is Philip.'
'Well, yes; for his sins. But then he is allied to us who have dropped
an _n_, and capitalized a Q, and adopted and inserted a hyphen. Mr.
Baynes was not in the faintest degree related to us. Philip has behaved
with gross indecency. A bagman's daughter within five months of his
uncle's death! Monstrous. If she had been his social equal we could
have waived the month--but, a bagman's daughter! I feel as if allied to
blackbeetles.'
'Her father was about to be taken into partnership when he died,' argued
the captain.
'If he had been a partner, that would have been another matter, and I
should not have been so pained and mortified; but he was not, and a man
takes his position by the place he occupied when he died, not by that
which he might have occupied had he lived. Why, if Sidebottom had lived
and been elected Mayor of Northingham in the year of the Prince's visit
he might have been knighted, but that does not make me Lady Sidebottom.'
'You call him a bagman,' said Captain Lambert. 'But I should say he was
a commercial traveller.'
'And how does that mend matters? Do seven syllables make a difference?
A dress-improver is no other than a bustle, and an influenza than a cold
in the head.'
'All I know is,' said the captain, 'that his daughters are deuced pretty
girls, and as good a pair of ladies as you will meet anywhere. I've
known some of your grand ladies say awfully stupid things, and I can't
imagine Janet doing that; and some do rather mean things, and Salome
could not by any chance do what was unkind or ungenerous. I've a deuce
of a mind to propose to Janet, as I have been chiselled out of my one
hundred and fifty.'
'Chiselled out!'
'Yes, out of my annuity. If the will had been valid I should have had
that of my own; but now I have nothing, and am forced to go to you for
every penny to buy tobacco. It is disgusting. I'll marry Janet. I am
glad she is a widow and available. She has a hundred and fifty per
annum of her own, and is certainly left something handsome by Baynes.'
'Fiddlesticks!' exclaimed Mrs. Sidebottom.
'I will, indeed, unless I am more liberally treated. I hate to be
dependent on you for everything. I wish I had served a _caveat_ against
your getting administration of the property, and done something to get
the old will put to rights.'
Mrs. Sidebottom turned green with anger and alarm.
'I will go to Philip's wedding breakfast, or dinner, or dance, or
whatever he is going to have, and snatch a kiss from little Janet, pull
her behind the window-curtains and propose for her hundred and fifty, I
will.'
Lambert's mother was very angry, but she said no more. She knew the
character of her son; he would not bestir himself to do what he
threatened. His bark was worse than his bite. He fumed and then turned
cold.
But Philip gave no entertainment on his wedding-day, invited no one to
his house; consequently Lambert had not the opportunity he desired for
pulling Janet behind the window-curtains, snatching a kiss and proposing
for her hundred and fifty pounds.
'I shall refuse to know them,' said Mrs. Sidebottom.
'And return to York?' asked her son.