hands. Besides, I must have an eye on the factory. Lamb, if you had
any spirit in you, you would learn book-keeping, so as to be able to
control the accounts. I do not trust Philip; how can I, when he marries
a bagman's daughter? It is a proof of deficiency in common sense, and a
lack of sense of rectitude. Who was Salome's mother? We do not know her
maiden name. These sort of people are like diatoms that fill the air,
and no one can tell whence they came and what they are. They are
everywhere about us and all equally insignificant.'
Mrs. Sidebottom had but the ears of her son into which to pour her
discontent, for she had no acquaintances in Mergatroyd.
On coming there she had been met by the manufacturers' wives in a
cordial spirit. Her brother was highly respected, and they hastened to
call on her and express their readiness to do her any kindness she might
need as a stranger in the town. She would have been received into the
society there--a genial one--had she been inclined. But she was
supercilious. She allowed the ladies of Mergatroyd to understand that
she belonged to another and a higher order of beings, and that the days
in which the gods and goddesses came down from Olympus to hold converse
with men were over.
The consequence was that she was left to herself, and now she grumbled
at the dulness of a place which was only dull to her, because of her own
want of tact. No more kindly, friendly people are to be found in England
than the north country manufacturers; but the qualities of frankness,
directness, which are conspicuous in them, were precisely those
qualities which Mrs. Sidebottom was incapable of appreciating, were
qualities which to her mind savoured of barbarism.
And yet Mrs. Sidebottom belonged, neither by birth nor by marriage nor
by acceptance, to a superior class. She was the daughter of a
manufacturer, and the widow of a small country attorney. As the
paralytic in the sheep-market waited for an angel to put him into the
pool, so did Mrs. Sidebottom spend her time and exhaust her powers in
vain endeavours to get dipped in the cleansing basin of county society,
in which she might be purged of the taint of trade. And, like the
paralytic of the story, she had to wait, and was disappointed annually,
and had the mortification of seeing some neighbour or acquaintance step
past her and enter the desired circle, whilst she was making ready and
beating about for an introducer.
She attended concerts, public balls, went to missionary meetings; she
joined working parties for charitable objects, took stalls at bazaars,
hoping by these means to get within the vortex of the fashionable world
and be drawn in, but was always disappointed. Round every eddy may be
seen sticks and straws that spin on their own axes; they make dashes
inwards, and are repelled, never succeeding in being caught by the coil
of the whirlpool. So was she ever hovering on the outskirts of the
aristocratic ring, ever aiming to pierce it, and always missing her
object.
A poem by Kenrick, written at the coronation of George III., represents
that celebrated beauty and toast, the Countess of Coventry, recently
deceased, applying to Pluto for permission to return to earth and mingle
in the entertainments of the Coronation. Pluto gives his consent; she
may go--but as a ghost remain unseen.
Then says the Countess:
'A fig for fine sights, if unseen one's fine face,
What signifies seeing, if one's self is not seen?'
So Mrs. Sidebottom found that it was very little pleasure to her to
hover about genteel society, and see into it, without herself being seen
in it. Her descent to Mergatroyd was in part due to a rebuff she had
met with at York, quite as much as to her desire to conciliate her
half-brother. She trusted that when she returned to York she would be
so much richer than before that this would afford her the requisite
momentum which might impel her within the magic circle, within which,
when once rotating, she would be safe, confident of being able to
maintain her place.
'My dear Lamb,' said she, 'I may inform you, in the strictest
confidence, that I see my way to becoming wealthy, really wealthy.
There is a speculation on foot, of which I have received information
through my York agent, to buy up land and build a great health resort
near Bridlington, to be called Iodinopolis or Yeoville, the name is not
quite fixed. No one is to know anything about it but the few who take
preference shares. I am most anxious to realize some of the securities
that came to me through my darling brother's death, so as to invest.
The manager is called Beaple Yeo.'
'Never heard of him.'
'And the chairman is the Earl of Schofield. Mr. Beaple Yeo and the Earl
together guarantee seventeen per cent--think of that, Lamb!--on their
own guarantee!--an Earl, too--and the funds are only three or three and
a half!'
*CHAPTER XXVI.*
*HYMEN.*
A twelvemonth slipped away, easily, happily; to none more so than to
Philip Pennycomequick.
To the Fates, how strange must seem the readiness with which women
plunge into matrimony, and the shyness with which some men look at it!
for matrimony is emphatically an institution designed for the comfort of
man irrespective of the interests of the woman. The married man ceases
to have care about his meals, they come to him; he gives no thought to
his servants, they are managed for him; he is not troubled about his
clothing, it now hangs together, whereas formerly it fell to pieces.
When the married man prepares to shave, the soap-dish is full, his tidy
is clean, his razors in order; the bachelor finds all in confusion.
Before marriage, he who had a cook was served with India-rubber; after
it, he gets his meat succulent and well cooked. Before marriage, the
linen went to the wash, and only half returned, silk handkerchiefs
returned as cotton, stockings came odd, jerseys in holes, sheets in
rags, and shirt-fronts enamelled with iron-mould; after marriage,
everything returns in good condition and in proper number.
But to the woman, matrimony is by no means a relief from cares. On the
contrary, the woman passes through the ring into an arena of battle. We
are told by anthropologists that in the primitive condition of society a
subdivision of tasks took place; one set of men undertook to till the
earth and manage the domestic animals, whilst another girded on their
arms and defended the infant community. These latter, for their
services, were fed by the tillers, housed, and clothed with food they
had not grown, houses they had not builded, clothing they had not woven.
The same subdivision of labour continues still in the family, where the
man is the tiller and toiler, and the woman is the military element.
She marches round the confines of his house, fights daily battles with
those foes of domestic felicity--the servants. When they oversleep
themselves, she routs them out of their beds; when they neglect the
dusting, she flies in pursuit to bring them to their duties; when they
are impudent, she drives them out of the house.
With what unflagging zeal does she maintain her daily conflicts! How
she countermines, discovers ambushes, circumvents, throws open the
gates, and charges the foe!
Now consider what was the life of the girl before she married. She had
no worries, no warfare; she was petted, admired; she enjoyed herself,
indulged her caprices unrestrained, gave way to her humours unrebuked.
Her bonnets, her dresses were given to her, she had no care what she
might eat, any more than the lilies of the field, only, unlike them,
devoting herself to the thoughts of her clothing, for which, however,
she had not to pay. Unmarried girls were anciently termed spinsters,
and are so derisively still in the banns, for they formerly spun the
linen for their future homes; now they toil not, neither do they spin.
Then comes marriage, and all is changed. They enter into a world of
discords and _desagrements_. They have to grow long nails and to sharpen
their teeth; they have to haggle with shopkeepers, fight their servants;
whereas the husbands, those sluggard kings of creation, smack their lips
over their dinners, and lounge in their easy-chairs, and talk politics
with their friends, and smile, and smile, unconscious of the struggles
and passions that rage downstairs.
The eyes that, in the girl, looked at the beauties of creation, in the
married woman search out delinquencies in their domestics, and defects
in the household furniture. The eyes that looked for violets now peer
for cobwebs; that lingered lovingly on the sunset glow, now examine the
coal-bill; and the ear that listed to the song of Philomel, is now on
the alert for a male voice in the kitchen. The nose that of old inhaled
the perfume of the rose, now pokes into pots and pans in quest of
dripping.
From what has been said above, the reader may conclude that the position
of the wife, though a belligerent one, is at all events regal. She is
queen of the house, and if she has trouble with her servants, it is as a
sovereign who has to resist revolutionary movements among her subjects.
No more mistaken idea can well be entertained. As the Pope writes
himself, 'Servant of the servants of Heaven,' so does the lady of the
house subscribe herself servant of the servants of the establishment.
If she searches into their shortcomings, remonstrates, and resents them,
it is as the subject criticising, murmuring at, and revolting personally
against the tyranny of her oppressors. So far from being the head of
the house, she is the door-mat, trampled on, kicked, set at nought,
obliged to swallow all the dirt that is brought into the house.
Marriage had produced a change in Philip. It had made him less stony,
angular, formal. Matrimony often has a remarkable effect on those who
enter into it, reducing their peculiarities, softening their
harshnesses, and accentuating those points of similarity which are to be
found in the two brought into close association, so that in course of
time a singular resemblance in character and features is observable in
married folk. In an old couple there is to be seen occasionally a
likeness as that of brother and sister. This is caused by their being
exposed to the same caresses and the same strokes of fortune; they are
weathered by the same breezes, moistened by the same rains. In addition
to the exterior forces moulding a couple, comes the reciprocal action of
the inner powers--their passions, prejudices--so that they recoil on
each other. They come to think alike, to feel alike, as well as to look
alike. The man unconsciously loses some of his ruggedness, and the
woman acquires some of his breadth and strength. They become in some
measure reflectors to each other, the light one catches is cast on and
brightens the other, and they mirror whatever passes along the face of
the other.
The subtle, mysterious modelling process had begun on Philip, although
but recently married. Janet was no longer in the house; she had
returned to France, and as her constitution was delicate had followed
advice, and gone to the South for the winter.
Mrs. Sidebottom and the captain had shaken off the dust from their feet
against Mergatroyd, and had returned to their favourite city, York,
where they resumed the interrupted gyrations about the whirlpool of
fashionable life, and Mrs. Sidebottom made her usual rushes, still
ineffectual, at its centre.
Consequently, Philip was left to the undisturbed influence of Salome,
and this influence affected him more than he was conscious of, and would
have allowed was possible. He was very happy, but he was not the man to
confess it, least of all to his wife. As a Canadian Indian deems it
derogatory to his dignity to express surprise at any wonder of
civilization shown him, so did Philip consider that it comported with
his dignity to accept all the comforts, the ease, the love that
surrounded him as though familiar with them from the beginning.
Englishmen who have been exposed to tropic suns in Africa, have their
faces shrivelled and lined. When they returned to England, in the soft,
humid atmosphere the flesh expands, and drinks in moisture at every
pore. The lines fade out, and the flesh becomes plump. So did the
sweet, soothing influence of Salome, equable as it was gentle, fill,
relax, refresh the spirit of Philip, and restore to him some of the lost
buoyancy of youth. Salome was admirably calculated to render him happy,
and Philip was not aware of the rare good fortune which had given him a
wife who had the self-restraint to keep her crosses to herself. That is
not the way with all wives. Many a wife makes a beast of burden of her
husband, lading him with crosses, heaping on his shoulders not only her
own, great or small, but also all those of her relatives, friends and
acquaintances. Such a wife cracks a whip behind her good man; drives him
through the town, stopping at every house and calling, 'Any old crosses!
Old crosses! Old crosses! Chuck them on; his back is broad to bear
them!' precisely as the scavenger goes through the streets with his cart
and burdens it with the refuse of every house. Many a wife takes a
pride in thus breaking the back, and galling the sides, and knocking
together the knees of her husband with the crosses she piles on his
shoulders.
As we walk through the wilderness of life, burrs adhere to the coat of
Darby and to the skirts of Joan. Why should not each carry his or her
own burrs, if they refuse to be picked off and thrown away? Why should
Joan collect all hers and poke them down the neck of Darby, and expect
him to work them down his back from the nape to the heel? Little
thought had Philip how, unperceived and by stealth, Salome sought the
burrs that adhered to him, removed them and thrust them into her own
bosom, bearing them there with a smiling face, and leaving him
unconscious that he had been delivered from any, and that they were
fretting her.
We men are sadly regardless of the thousand little acts of forethought
that lighten and ease our course. We give no thanks, we are not even
aware of what has been done for us. Nevertheless, our wives do not go
unrewarded, though unthanked, for what they have done or borne; their
gentle attentions have served to give us a polish and a beauty we had
not before we came into their tender hands.
A bright face met Philip when he returned from the factory every day.
If Salome saw that he was downcast, she exerted herself to cheer him; if
that he was cheerful, she was careful not to discourage him. Always neat
in person, fresh in face, and pleasant in humour, keeping out of
Philip's way whatever might annoy him, she made him as happy as he could
well be.
Perfectly happy Philip could not be, because unable to shake off the
sense of insecurity that attended his change of fortune.
Constitutionally suspicious, habituated to the shade, he was dazzled and
frightened when exposed to the light. The access of good luck had been
too sudden and too great, for him to trust its permanency. The fish
that has its jaws transfixed with broken hooks mistrusts the worm that
floats down the stream unattached to a line. The expectation of
disappointment had been bred in him by painful and repeated experience,
and had engendered a sullen predetermination to mistrust Good Fortune.
He regarded her as a treacherous goddess, and when she smiled, he was
sure that she meditated a stab with a hidden dagger.
Such as are born in the lap of fortune, from which they have never been
given a fall, or where they have never been dosed with quassia through a
drenching spoon, such persons look on life with equanimity. Nothing
would surprise them more than a reverse. But with the step-sons of
fortune, the Cinderellas in the great household of humanity, who have
encountered heart-break after heart-break, it is otherwise. When
Fortune comes their way offering gifts, they mistrust them as the gifts
of the Danai. It is with them as with him who is haunted. He knows
that the spectre lurks at hand, and when he is about to close his eyes,
will start up and scare him; when he is merry will rise above the table
and echo his laugh with a jeer. So do those who have been unlucky fear
ever lest misfortune should spring on them from some unforeseen quarter,
at some unprepared moment.
The dread lest there should be a revulsion in his affairs never wholly
left Philip, and took the edge off his happiness. He had found little
difficulty in acquiring the requisite understanding of the business, and
obtaining a firm hold over the conduct of the factory. There was no
prospect of decline in the trade. Since the conclusion of the European
war, it had become brisk. Peace had created a demand for figured
damasks. He had no reason to dread a cessation of orders, a slackness
in the trade.
*CHAPTER XXVII.*
*AN ALARM.*
Within a twelvemonth of his marriage Philip had been given one of the
purest and best of the joys that spring out of matrimony--a child, a boy
called after his own name, Philip; and the father loved his first-born,
was proud of him, and was fearful lest the child should be snatched from
him. As Polycrates was rendered uneasy because he was so powerful,
rich, and happy, and cast his most costly jewel into the sea as a gift
to the Fates, so was Philip inwardly disturbed with a suspicion that the
gloomy, envious Fates which had harassed him so long were now only
playing with him, and would exact of him some hostage. What would
satisfy them? His commercial prosperity?--his child?--his health? In
vain did Polycrates seek to propitiate the Fates by casting from him his
most precious ring. The ring was returned to him in the belly of a
fish, and kingdom and life were exacted of him.
'I never did understand what became of part of your mother's little
property,' said Philip one evening when alone with Salome; 'and I think
it odd that your mother should be reserved about it to me.'
'Oh, Philip! It does not matter. After all, it is only two hundred and
fifty pounds, and the loss is mamma's, not yours.'
'It does matter, Salome. Two hundred and fifty pounds cannot have made
themselves wings and flown away without leaving their address. Bo
Peep's sheep left their tails behind them. This money ought to be
accounted for. One thing I do know--the name of the person to whom it
passed.'
'Who was that?'
'One Beaple Yeo. Have you any knowledge of the man? Who is he? What
had your mother to do with him?'
'I never heard his name before.'
'The money was drawn and paid to Beaple Yeo directly after the death of
Uncle Jeremiah. I made inquiries at the bank, and ascertained this.
Who Beaple Yeo is your mother will not say, nor why she paid this large
sum of money to him. I would not complain of this reticence unless she
had called me in to examine her affairs.'
'No, Philip, it was I who asked you to be so kind as to do for her the
same as Uncle Jeremiah.'
'She is perfectly welcome to do what she likes with her money: but if
she complains of a loss, and then seeks an investigation into her loss,
and all the time throws impediments in the way of inquiry--I say that
her conduct is not right. It is like a client calling in a solicitor
and then refusing to state his case.'
'I was to blame,' said Salome meekly. 'Mamma has her little store--the
savings she has put by--and a small sum left by my father, and I ought
not to have interfered. She did not ask me to do so, and it was
meddlesome of me to intervene unsolicited; but I did so with the best
intentions. She had told me that she suffered from a loss which
crippled her, and I assumed that her money matters had become confused,
because no longer supervised. I ought to have asked her permission
before speaking to you.'
'When I made the offer, she might have refused. I would not have been
offended. What I do object to is the blowing of hot and cold with one
breath.'
'I dare say she thought it very kind of you to propose to take the
management; and there may have been a misunderstanding. She wished you
to manage for the future and not inquire into the past.'
'Then she should have said so. She complained of a loss, and became
reticent and evasive when pressed as to the particulars of this alleged
loss.'
'I think the matter may be dropped,' said Salome.
'By all means--only, understand--I am dissatisfied.'
'Hush!' exclaimed Salome. 'I hear baby crying.'
Then she rose to leave the room.
'Now look here,' said Philip, 'would it be fair to the doctor whom you
call in about baby to withhold from him the particulars of the ailments
you expect him to cure.'
'Never mind that now,' said Salome, and she kissed her husband to
silence him. 'Baby is awake and is crying for me.'
This brief conversation will serve to let the reader see an unlovable
feature in Philip's character. He possessed a peculiarity not common in
men, that of harbouring a grievance and recurring to it. Men usually
dismiss a matter that has annoyed them, and are unwilling to revert to
it. It is otherwise with women, due to the sedentary life they lead at
their needlework. Whilst their fingers are engaged with thread or
knitting-pins, their minds turn over and over again little vexations,
and roll them like snowballs into great grievances. Probably the
solitary life Philip had led had tended to develop the same feminine
faculty of harbouring and enlarging his grievances.
The front-door bell tingled. Salome did not leave the room to go after
baby till she heard who had come. The door was thrown open upon them,
and Mrs. Sidebottom burst in.
This good lady had thought proper to swallow her indignation at the
marriage of Philip, because it was against her interest to be on bad
terms with her nephew; and after the first ebullition of bad temper she
changed her behaviour towards Philip and Salome, and became gracious.
They accepted her overtures with civility but without cordiality, and a
decent appearance of friendship was maintained. She pressed Salome to
visit her at York, with full knowledge that the invitation would be
declined. Occasionally she came from York to see how the mill was
working and what business was being transacted.
As she burst in on Philip and his wife, both noticed that she was
greatly disturbed; her usual assurance was gone. She was distressed and
downcast. Almost without a word of recognition cast to Salome, she
pushed past her at the door, entered the room, ran to her nephew and
exclaimed, 'Oh, Philip! You alone can help me. Have you heard? You do
not know what has happened? I am sure you do not, or you would have
come to York to my rescue.'
'What is the matter? Take a chair, Aunt Louisa.'
'What is the matter! Oh, my dear! I cannot sit, I am in such a nervous
condition. It is positively awful. And poor Lamb a director. I am
afraid it will damage his prospects.'
'But what has happened?'
'Oh--everything. Nothing so awful since the Fire of London and the
Earthquake of Lisbon. And Smithies recommended it.'
'What--Smithies, whom you sent here to investigate the books?' asked
Philip dryly.
'Oh, my dear! It is always best to do business in a business way. Of
course, I don't distrust you, but I am sure it gratifies you that I
should send my agent to run through the books.'
'Well, and what has your agent, Smithies, done now?'
'Oh, Smithies has done nothing himself. Smithies is as much concerned
as myself. But he is to blame for advising me to sell my bonds in
Indian railways and put the money into iodine or decimals, or something
of that sort, and persuading Lamb to become a director of the company.'
'What company?'
'Oh! don't you know? The Iodinopolis Limited Liability Company. It
promised to be a most successful speculation. It had an earl at the
head. The company proposed to open quarries for stone, others for lime,
erect houses, hotels, and churches, high and low, make a great harbour,
and Beaple Yeo----'
'Who?'
'Beaple Yeo, the chief promoter and secretary, and treasurer _pro tem_.
The speculation was certain to bring in twenty-five per cent., and he
gave his personal security for seventeen.'
'And have you much capital in this concern?'