THE REVEREND EMANUEL CREAMWELL AND HIS SON TAKE DIFFERENT
VIEWS OF THINGS.
This that we see before us might be, to a fanciful mind, the
commencement of the ladder to heaven referred to in the last chapter.
It is but a sunbeam, slanting from window to floor. Strangely out of
place it seems in the gloomy study which it illumines, but the myriad
motes within it sparkle and flash merrily, without reference to
surrounding things. It is but a sunbeam, slanting from window to
floor, but there are contained within it that you and I might be the
better for knowing. At the simple suggestion of the thought, a darker
cloud casts a shadow upon the window through which the sunbeam has
stolen, and it vanishes, leaving the study utterly dreary and gloomy.
The furniture in the study is heavy and ponderous, the curtains to the
windows are heavy and dark, and the bookcase is oppressive and
burdened with lore. Can the house, of which this funereal study forms
part, be a home? The cloud passes, and the sunbeam is alive again.
Truant flashes of light dart in, and shifting restlessly in the
corners of the room, strive vainly to hide themselves, as if they are
conscious that they have no business in a place so serious and solemn,
and wonder how they could have been so unwise as to enter. In the
midst of their tribulation the door opens, and the Reverend Emanuel
Creamwell enters. A deeper frown than usual is on his face. He holds a
letter in his hand, which he has evidently been reading more and more.
"A Wesleyan Methodist!" he mutters. "Never been baptized in the Church
of England! And the man's name is Verity, too. How could it have
escaped me before? The very man, perhaps, to whom this paper refers."
He takes a small packet of papers from his desk, and selects one.
"A strange story," he muses, after reading it; "no person has any
legal claim to what is due upon the debt. The statute of limitations
has wiped off the obligation years ago. But the moral claim remains. I
will see the man if he comes. I have some slight remembrance of him,
as a man of strong opinions."
He refers to other papers, the perusal of which is evidently
displeasing to him, if one can judge from the expression of his face.
He pushes them aside, and leans back in his chair to think. Of what?
Of his wife, who has been dead for twenty years. Not with affection
does he think of her. But for a living remembrance she left behind
her, she might have been to him as one who had never existed. This
living remembrance is a child--a son--who, having completed his
studies abroad (a phrase peculiarly adapted to fiction), has come home
after many years of absence, with no prospects, no profession, and no
settled aims or views for the future. Not that this gives the young
gentleman the slightest concern. He is as careless a soul as is to be
met with here and there, and he can spend a sovereign or a sixpence
with equal pleasure. An uncle, who had paid all the expenses of his
training and education (upon the express understanding that his nephew
was to live away from home), had lately died, and this afternoon had
been appointed for the father and son to confer together upon business
matters. And upon mention of the subject, here he is. A young
gentleman with no trace of seriousness in his manner, with almost
laughing face, and with an easy self-possession that it would
evidently take a great deal to disconcert; altogether (asking pardon
first for the irreverence of the comparison) no more like his father
than was Hyperion to a satyr. A bright flower is in his coat.
"Good-day, father." Although it is afternoon, it is the first time
they have met to-day.
"Good-day, Shad----"
But before he can get the name out, his son laughingly interrupts him.
"Felix, father; Felix, if you love me!"
The Rev. Emanuel Creamwell waives the latter proposition, and says in
a displeased tone,
"I cannot understand your reason for changing your name."
"I don't like it, father. It sounds mean. Shadrach!"
"It is a Scriptural name," says the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell
solemnly.
"So is the one I have chosen in its place--Felix. I never could
respect a man with the name of Shadrach. Besides," adds Felix, with
twinkling eyes, "it is unfair to the firm."
"To what firm do you refer?"
"Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. They should never be parted. You
know well enough, father, that you never think of the one but the
other two partners pop up, as much as to say, 'Don't forget us,
please! We belong to the firm.'"
Hard lines come about the thin-lipped mouth of the Reverend Emanuel
Creamwell, and he says, with deepening frowns,
"The light manner in which you speak of these things is especially
displeasing to me, and is entirely out of place in my presence and in
this house."
"I almost seem to be out of place myself here," says Felix, with the
slightest trace of vexation in his manner.
"Perhaps so; we will discuss that presently. Whoever lives here must
conform to my rules. You were smoking in your bedroom last night."
"True, sir."
"I do not allow smoking."
"I will not smoke here again. I'll smoke my cigar in the open air for
the future."
"I should prefer your not smoking at all; _I_ don't smoke."
"Why, sir, you wouldn't keep everybody from smoking because you don't
smoke? If it were not for tobacco, the revenue of nations would go
to----"
"Blazes," he is about to say, but he checks himself in time. There is
so little in unison between these two natures, that when they meet it
seems to be almost a necessity that they should clash. One is harsh
and sour; the other is tolerant and sweet. Felix was more the son of
his mother than the son of his father; the sweetness of her nature had
come to him with the milk he had drawn from her breast. Father and son
had not been brought together for very many years until now, and the
experience they have gained of each other is not agreeable to either
of them.
"You scarcely need me to tell you," says the Reverend Emanuel
Creamwell, as his son stopped at the dangerous word, "that your
remarks do continual violence to my feelings."
"We certainly don't seem to pull nicely together, father. You have
some business matters to speak to me about. Perhaps it will be as well
to proceed to them."
The Reverend Emanuel Creamwell looks among the papers on the table,
and says,
"Your uncle, as you know, died six weeks ago."
"So your letter informed me. Did you see him before he died?"
"I have not seen him for years. I did not approve of him; and but for
its being understood that he intended to leave you as his heir, I
should have declined to be upon friendly terms with him."
"He was my mother's brother, and he has been kind to me."
"So far as defraying the expenses of your education----"
"_All_ my expenses, father," interrupts Felix. "Please to remember
that he made me a regular allowance."
"By which you intend me to remember also," says the Reverend Emanuel
Creamwell with a frown, "that you have been no expense to me."
"If you please to put it that way, you can. But I should prefer your
thinking that I reminded you of the circumstance in order that you
might do justice to the memory of my uncle."
"I do not need you to remind me of my duty; I need _no_ reminding of
that. It is always before me. The tone of your remarks, and your
general bearing towards me, proceed from the stipulation made by your
uncle that you should be educated away from me and from this house."
"I mean no disrespect to you, father, believe me," exclaims Felix
eagerly; "but everything about me here is so--so different from what I
have been accustomed to, that I feel myself almost in a strange land."
He might have said more, but he restrains himself. He might have said,
"Coming home as I have done, ready and wishful to be upon affectionate
terms with a father who never showed any love for me--coming home with
a studied resolution to try and conform to my father's wishes, and to
gain for myself a place in his affections--I find myself baffled at
every turn. When my father met me, after years of absence, he met me
with no smile upon his face. He might have been a man of stone for all
the warmth he showed to me; a stranger could not have exhibited less
tenderness in his greeting. And so it has gone on from the moment I
set foot in this house, which is cold enough and gloomy enough to
chill one's blood." Felix does not say this, but he thinks it, and
much more to the same effect, and at the same time wonders a little
whether he is in any way to blame for things being so different from
what he hoped and expected.
"The stipulation made by your uncle," proceeds the Reverend Emanuel
Creamwell, "has thrown you into scenes and into a way of living that
would certainly not meet with my approval; and if you wish to remain
here, you must positively conform to my views. It is for you to
change, not for me."
"Before we speak of this," says Felix, in as calm a tone as he can
command, for the uncompromising bearing of his father grates strongly
upon him, "will you be kind enough to tell me something more of my
uncle? I have my future to look to now, and although it does not give
me any anxiety, for I am sure to be all right"--with a careless wave
of his hand to show that all the world was at his feet--"I would like
to know what I have to depend on. My uncle must have died very
suddenly."
"Sudden death is what we should all prepare ourselves for. I hope you
have reflected seriously upon this and other matters not appertaining
to this life."
"I don't know that I have, father," says Felix laughingly; "it's bad
enough when it comes."
"I feared it!" exclaims the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell. "Not prepared!
not prepared!"
The tone in which his father utters this lamentation is so exactly
similar to the other lamentations which he has heard in other places,
and which he has been in the habit of looking upon as unworthy of
regard, that Felix with difficulty suppresses his disdain; but he is
of too frank and open a nature not to make upon the instant a
confession of faith--a confession so dreadful that the Reverend
Emanuel Creamwell listened in undisguised wrath.
"I don't suppose I am prepared, father, in the way you mean, and I
must confess that I don't see what necessity there is for it. I am not
sent into the world to mourn; there are things in it that I like to
enjoy, and that I think I was sent to enjoy; otherwise, they would not
be provided. I sha'n't be the worse for enjoying them, if I live till
I am seventy, and I shouldn't be the better for avoiding them, or for
looking upon them as sinful."
Felix is aware of the bad impression he is producing upon his father,
but he deems it a point of honour not to falter, and he goes on to the
end with a certain manliness that would be refreshing in any other
place than the cheerless study in which he is sitting.
"May I inquire what you call yourself in the matter of religion?" asks
the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell gloomily.
"Well, father," replies Felix, with a certain puzzled hesitation, "I
suppose I should call myself a Church-of-England man; but I would much
prefer to call myself a Christian."
"It is useless, I expect," observes the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell,
after a pause, "to enter into a discussion upon these subjects with
you?"
"Quite useless, I should say, father."
"Then we will continue about your uncle's affairs," said the Reverend
Emanuel Creamwell, with the air of one who, encountering a difficulty,
finds it insurmountable; and, curiously enough, with the air of one
who feels relieved in consequence. "As I was your uncle's nearest
relative, and it was understood that you were his heir, I thought it
my duty, immediately I heard of his death, to hasten to his house. I
then, to my astonishment, discovered that he had expended the whole of
his property in the purchase of a life annuity, which, of course, dies
with him. After payment of certain claims, which could not be
resisted, the estate leaves you, as your uncle's heir, the exact sum
of one hundred and ten pounds."
A sour smile plays about the lips of the Rev. Emanuel Creamwell;
thankful as he would have been for a more fortunate issue of his
brother-in-law's death as relieving him of a responsibility which he
is afraid may fall upon him, and which he is wishful to be rid of, he
is not displeased at this triumph over his son. But Felix is more
surprised than hurt; there is no such feeling in his breast as
animosity towards his uncle because a fortune is not left to him. He
says in a gentle voice,
"I am not the less grateful to him for what he has done for me; and I
cannot say exactly whether I am sorry that he did not leave me a
fortune. I can understand now the reason of his urging me to choose a
profession. He knew that he had nothing to leave me, and that I should
have to depend upon myself. But he did not think that he would have
died so soon; he was a healthy strong man, and the probability was
that he had many years of life before him."
"I told you," interposes the Rev. Emanuel Creamwell grimly, "that we
should all be prepared for sudden death; he was not prepared for it."
"We have spoken of that already," replies Felix, in a dry tone, "and
it will not profit us to pursue the subject. I know that many a bad
word was said about him, but after all perhaps he was not much worse
than many of his neighbours. I, at all events, have cause to be
grateful to him. I have no doubt that, had he lived, he would have
helped me to make a career for myself. But that is still before me; I
haven't the slightest fear. The circumstance of his leaving so small
an estate speaks for him. It proves that in the allowance he made me
he went to the full extent of his means, and that between us we
managed to swallow up his annuity pretty well to the last shilling."
In his anxiety to do justice to the memory of his uncle, his generous
mind seizes every point that reflects credit upon the dead man. "Be a
lawyer, he wrote to me over and over again, be an architect, be an
engineer, be something, whatever it is, and come home and let us set
about it. That showed he was in earnest, and meant to stand by me."
"We are not likely to agree upon this or any other subject. I have but
few words to say in conclusion, relating to your uncle's affairs. He
left a request behind him, in a document written some years ago, that
when he died all his papers and letters should be burnt. This was
done; they were all burnt with the exception of one, which contains
the recital of a singular story; I thought it desirable to keep it, as
it may be worth money, and as I think it concerns a man who once dwelt
in this locality. And that, I believe, is all I have to say respecting
your uncle."
A long and embarrassing silence follows, each knowing that the most
momentous part of the interview is to come. Felix is unusually grave,
for he cannot but feel that the relations existing between himself and
his father are to some extent unnatural. Anxious as he is to find the
road to his father's good wishes--affection seems to be out of the
question--the consciousness is forced upon him that the only road open
to him is one the treading of which will compel him to be false to
himself. And that he cannot be. Come what may, he is determined not to
play the hypocrite. He is the first to break the silence.
"You have something else to speak of, father."
The Reverend Emanuel Creamwell clears his throat, in precisely the
same way as he was in the habit of doing when he was about to deliver
a more than usually disagreeable discourse to his congregation. This
clearing of the throat did not have the effect usually produced; it
did not clear his voice. On the contrary, his tones on these occasions
invariably became more harsh and discordant--like rusty iron. It is in
these rusty-iron tones he speaks now, and every word he utters grates
upon Felix, and sets his soul on edge.
"I have something else to speak of, but the subject is the
same--yourself. I am disappointed in you."
"I am sorry for it, father."
"The opinions you entertain of religious matters are sinful in my
eyes. I should so regard them if they were entertained by a stranger,
and it is not because you are my son that I should exercise an unwise
leniency towards you in matters which I deem of the utmost importance.
You have contracted habits which I do not approve of. Your views I do
not approve of. Your dress, your manner, your general conduct, are not
in accordance with my ideas. That gay flower in your coat is
unnecessary. Outward observances show the inward spirit."
"Not always, father," said Felix, with somewhat of recklessness; "I
have known men who wore masks."
"Is that meant as an imputation upon me?" asks the Reverend Emanuel
Creamwell, the gulf between father and son widening at every word that
is spoken.
"I was thinking at the moment," replies Felix, urged on by a feeling
he cannot resist, "of what a French writer said upon the subject of
outward observances and inward spirit. He said that the true man is
that which exists under what is called man, and that, strictly
speaking, the human visage is a mask."
"Such vague generalities are after the common manner of French
romancists, whose writings lead the soul astray."
Here Felix thinks scornfully, "Why drag the soul in?" but he does not
speak his thought.
"They take us," continues the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, joining the
tips of his fingers and thumbs, and making an arch of them, "from the
point we are speaking upon. I must desire that you do not break in
again with such unseemly interruptions."
"I wish you would remember, father, that I am a man, and not a child.
I have opinions of my own, and it is no fault of mine if they do not
agree with yours."
"You are my son, and, as such, owe me implicit obedience. You have not
decided yet as to a profession?"
"No."
"Your uncle dying leaves me in an unpleasant position. I am not rich;
I have but little money to spare. Something the world will expect me
to do for you----"
"O, pray, sir," interrupted Felix, "don't study the world. I shall get
along well enough without assistance, I haven't the slightest doubt."
"Something, I say, the world will expect me to do for you; but if I do
it, out of my small means, I shall require from you deference,
respect, obedience. I have expressed my opinion of your views. You say
in reply that you are a man, and have opinions of your own. Those
opinions you will perhaps find it advisable to change. Until a
profession is determined upon, you can stay here; but only upon the
express understanding that you conform to my rules. You are the best
judge whether this arrangement will suit you."
Felix, with a wry face, is about to reject this ungracefully-offered
hospitality, and to say that perhaps it will be better for him to find
a lodgment elsewhere, when an interruption occurs. Voices are heard in
the passage, and the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell's housekeeper makes
her appearance at the study-door. Strictly speaking, she might be
described as a colourless woman, her dress being black, and her face
being white.
"Some persons to see you, sir," she says.
"I cannot be interrupted," replies the Reverend Mr. Creamwell.
"But they insist, sir."
"Name?"
"Verity."
"Let them come in."
The next moment old Wheels with Lily and Alfred enter the room.