Mr. Comstock’s arrival at Panama created almost as much stir as did the
arrival of the much beloved and respected T. R., for it was rumored
among Americans on Ancon Hill that John Drew was in town. “Well, say,
the theatrical business must be on the bum,” said the veterans, one to
another. “Surely he is not going to play at Edmarrillos.” The subject of
their comments--the man who looked like John Drew--had recently come to
the Isthmus to work in the timekeeping office at Ancon. “Good morning,
Mr. Drew,” said a young clerk, as Mr. Comstock appeared, ready for
induction into the mysteries of his new position. “My dear young man,”
he replied, “my name is not Drew. I am Arthur Algernon Comstock, of
London, of the Surrey Comstocks, grandson of Lord Algernon Percival
Fillbois, and nephew of Percival Gibbon Comstock, Lord Bishop of
Hounslow.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Comstock,” said the clerk humbly. “We thought
you were John Drew, because you look exactly like him.” “Dear me! How
very singular,” replied Mr. Comstock. “Why, it is nothing short of libel
to compare a brute like myself to such a well-behaved chap as John Drew,
and it is iniquitous and unnatural that a Comstock, of Comstock Lodge,
Surrey, should even resemble an actor. I am quite amazed, really I am.
Dear! dear! how my aunt, the Lady Maria Derald Fillbois, would laugh if
she were to know that these Yankee chaps were calling me Mr. Drew.
Fastidious chap, John Drew. Here, my dear fellow, have a smoke,” handing
the young man his ivory cigar case, lined with gold. It was well filled
with cigars of a better quality than were to be found at that time at
Panama, and it bore the Comstock coat of arms.
It soon became generally known that there was a lord, or duke, or
something of the sort, working in the office of the chief timekeeper,
who was a good old sport, likeable, and democratic in his ways, just
like an American, only his expressions of speech were a bit queer. From
time to time fragments of anecdote were related to me as having come
from the well-stored mind of Mr. Comstock. This plainly told me that he
was a man of some erudition. There was a very clever toast which he was
in the habit of giving when in his cups. It appears to have been
written by one Sir Fitzhugh Clavering Comstock, and was said to be both
brilliant and mirth-provoking. The most humble of the Americans on Ancon
Hill had a copy of it, but, strange to say, I was never permitted to
hear the words, and am, therefore, unable to give them to my readers.
It became a popular diversion to listen to the story of Mr. Comstock’s
life, as told by himself, and it ran about as follows: “My mother was
the Lady Elizabeth Howard Derald Fillbois, a beautiful but delicate
woman, and my father was James Percival Comstock, brother of the present
Lord Bishop of Hounslow. My father was a perfect devil for sport, poor
chap. He, it seems, neglected to cherish my mother, and soon after my
birth she died, her family said, of a broken heart. Then my father went
to travel on the Continent, and never returned to England again. He died
a few years ago, poor old chap. He had many affaires d’amour, poor chap.
It quite saddens me to think of them. Really, I wonder how he ever came
out of some of them without losing his honor. I became acquainted with
him when I myself traveled on the Continent, and I became quite fond of
his society. His family and friends got on his nerves, and he abominated
his own country people, the English. My brother and myself were taken at
the time of my mother’s death by my aunt, the Lady Maria Howard Derald
Fillbois, my mother’s only sister, who was a very strong-minded but
fascinating woman, and who took a notion to forsake her lover at the
altar in the presence of half of the aristocracy of England.
“She was a kindly woman, with a strong sense of humor, but was horribly
stingy with us boys. The village folk loved her.
“Well, she had kennels filled with the finest dogs in the United
Kingdom, and, oh, horrors! she obliged my brother and myself to pick the
fleas from the brutes in order to earn spending money. An old Irishman
named Tim Burden stood over us and counted the fleas, for each one of
which we received a ha’penny.
“At one time we became so outraged at the indignity that we wrote to our
father and complained to him. He, bounder that he was, treacherously
sent our letter, with a very complimentary one inclosed, to the Lady
Maria. ‘If it were not for the Deceased Wife’s Sister Prohibitive
Marriage Law,’ wrote he, ‘I should ask you for your hand and heart in
marriage, for your way of managing my sons, the Comstock boys, not only
proves you to be a woman of deep penetration, but one with a most
logical mind and most practical sense of humor. It is no wonder that you
have always been considered to be a female far above the other silly
members of your sex.”
“The dogs were named after my aunt’s favorite characters in history,
viz., Abraham Lincoln, Lord Byron, Napoleon, Beau Brummel, Nell Gynn,
Martha Washington and George Washington, respectively. There were, too,
many others whose names I forget.
“We were so keen about earning half-pennies that we spent the greater
part of each day hunting fleas, and the dogs, thinking us unselfish in
ridding them of such torment, grew to be inordinately fond of us, and it
looked at times, indeed, as if the pests were becoming extinct, for we
often hunted for them for hours in vain. This last was a discouraging
development for us, and we induced old Tim Burden to report for us and
complain to our aunt, in the hope that she would give us a few pennies
as a token of gratitude, but she would merely look solemn and say:$1‘Is
it not good to know that a Comstock has really earned some money by the
sweat of his brow, and, in addition, relieved a fellow-being of
torment?’ ‘Then you compare us to brutes,’ said my brother on one
occasion, he having observed the comparison. ‘No! no!’ replied she, ‘a
Comstock could never be compared with nobility to my magnificent,
well-bred dogs. Abraham Lincoln is the most noble animal in England. I
named him after Lincoln because he saved a little negro child from
drowning at Brighton Beach.’
“I subsequently learned that the Comstocks were devils for all kinds of
sport. The fire was in my blood at an early age, too, and the Lady Maria
knew the symptoms. As we became expert at flea-catching it became less
repugnant to us, and in the end we developed an interest in the little
pests that quite pleased my aunt. We began to discern the difference in
their social and physical habits to a degree which threatened to affect
our future. Our aunt now hinted at our becoming naturalists, and,
strange to say, my brother actually became one, and to-day is considered
an authority not only on the flea, but every variety of insect as well.
What a disgusting occupation!
“At the age of 16 I was placed in the counting-house of an American
banking firm in London. The banker was a decent fellow, fastidious and
all that, not a bit crude, and he had the greatest admiration for the
Lady Maria. At 18 I had an affair with a village girl named Anna
Shakespeare. She was a very good-looking girl, of a magnetic
temperament, and my aunt was rather fond of her. Though of tender years,
my young ideas had been shooting rather promiscuously for some time. The
girl had taken to the affair ad libitum, and I was making plans to have
her come to lodgings in London, as there had been quite some talk in the
village at home, which had upset my aunt terribly. Anna was to leave the
village secretly, after which we were to repair to our future home. I
was delighted with the prospect of having the girl with me, and I went
to the meeting place with my heart filled with delightful emotions,
when, what do you think? I was met by the bounder of a banker, the Lady
Maria, and my uncle, the then Rev. Percival Gibbon Comstock. I was
astounded, and stood rooted to the spot, as the novelists say. The
perspiration rolled from my forehead in the most disgusting profusion,
and I was unable to speak. Lady Maria advanced and held out her hand,
upon which I bestowed a clammy kiss. There was a light in her eyes as
they met mine. At this moment Anna entered, flushed and excited, but, on
finding that my relatives were with me, started to withdraw, when my
aunt caught her and held her firmly. ‘You will kiss your sweetheart,
Arthur,’ said she, in a bantering tone. I hung my head and looked
furtively at Anna. ‘We have come to witness your marriage to Anna,’ said
my uncle. ‘Upon my word, you have not,’ said I, waking up. ‘Oh, yes, we
have,’ put in my aunt. ‘You have hurt Anna’s character, and, in
consequence, she has been made to feel very unhappy. She has lost her
young man, and the village folk have slandered her.’ ‘Your under
gardener, William,’ I put in, ‘is very anxious to marry Anna.’ ‘That
will be better,’ said my Uncle Percival. ‘The time has gone by,’ said my
aunt, ‘when under gardeners feel it incumbent upon them to shoulder the
responsibilities of their masters.’ The situation was becoming
intolerable, when the American laughingly said: ‘Perhaps the young lady
has something to say about the matter.’ As he spoke he eyed Anna’s trim
form approvingly, and, by Jove! I felt jealous. ‘Arthur sent for me to
come up to London, and I came just to see things, and to have a good
time. He didn’t say anything about getting married,’ added Anna. ‘What
did he say?’ asked the Lady Maria, with calmness. ‘He said he’d always
be a friend to me, and that he’d love me almost to death,’ replied Anna.
‘The boy is not unlike any other English boy of his class,’ declared my
Uncle Percival. ‘It is hopeful and wholesome in him to develop a
fondness for the opposite sex at his age. I was not a saint myself,’ he
confessed, with a slight cough. ‘The Comstocks,’ he continued, ‘were
always a hot-blooded set of men, and terrific wine-drinkers for
centuries, but we have been ever careful to marry with females of our
own degree.’ ‘The Shakespeares came from Adam, or whatever other sort of
animal was responsible for our being, and so did the brutal and
licentious Comstocks,’ said the Lady Maria, with flashing eyes, ‘and
what is most needed in the family is blood that has been toned down by
buttermilk and water.’ ‘Why, Maria--er--my dear girl, I am astonished at
such an outburst from you,’ quoth my uncle. ‘Anna will not have many
years to live if she marries Arthur,’ continued my aunt, and as she said
this she laid her hand affectionately upon Anna’s arm. ‘Are you willing
to marry Arthur, and die while you are still young, Anna?’ ‘Yes, ma’am,’
answered the girl in a low tone. ‘Do you not see that Arthur is horribly
ugly; that his nose is out of all proportion to the rest of his face;
that his chin denotes innate selfishness, and that his one eye is
deformed as a result of the unsightly monocle?’ asked my aunt, with a
bubbling sort of a laugh. ‘Arthur is all right,’ said Anna. ‘I think he
is very handsome, and I love him very much, and so does your Ladyship.’
‘Now, Arthur, it is up to you,’ laughed the banker. ‘Marry Anna, and
I’ll give you a better job, with more pay.’
“I was silent. The girl’s words had a strange effect upon me. I looked
at my aunt, and observed that her eyes were filled with tears. ‘I want
to marry Anna,’ I finally said. ‘I love Anna.’ Well, we were married
and went to lodgings. My Uncle Percival tied the knot with much
reluctance, but he was too much afraid of my aunt’s tongue to seriously
object. Lady Maria bought and furnished for us a beautiful little house
in a most exclusive quarter, and we lived happily for three years, but
at that time Anna died, leaving a boy baby three weeks old. I had just
then inherited my mother’s fortune of forty thousand pounds, and I went
the way of all the Comstocks. I was intoxicated with the joy and freedom
that forty thousand pounds can give a man. I lived on the Continent,
spent some time with King Edward, when he traveled as the Earl of
Chester, and spent money like water on actresses, and all that sort of
thing. For twenty years I was drunk with the freedom that money gives a
dissolute man. I courted the beauties of foreign courts, and of course,
I was flattered and fooled accordingly.
“About a year ago, while traveling through India, I received a
communication from my lawyers to the effect that I was a bankrupt. I
hastened back to London, to find myself indeed a beggar. The Lady Maria
met me, with Hugh, my son. I had not seen him since he was eight weeks
old. My heart went out to him, he looked so much like his mother, my
poor, unselfish Anna. He showed his dislike for me, but what could I
expect from the child whom I had abandoned when a tiny infant? Ah! my
fellows, a licentious youth brings a sad old age, as the saying is. I
began to think how to come in touch with my surroundings, as it were,
for the first time in twenty years. I wondered what I should do with
myself, with old age creeping on, for, on account of having lived a
devil of a life for twenty-two years, I felt prematurely old. ‘You have
nothing left,’ said my aunt to me one day. ‘Nothing but a few paltry
hundred pounds and my clothing and trinkets,’ I replied. ‘You will have
to roll up your sleeves and go to work at something,’ she said.
‘Remember, you will have to support yourself for the remainder of your
life.’ ‘How, in the name of God, shall I do it?’ I asked. ‘I’m sure I
cannot tell,’ answered she. ‘I shall have to take some time to think
about it,’ I said, whereupon my aunt only laughed.
“A month later she came to me with a letter which she had just received
from her old admirer, the American banker, for whom I had worked when a
boy. He advised my aunt that he had procured a billet for me at Panama
with the Isthmian Canal Commission. ‘Where is that?’ I asked. ‘Somewhere
in South America,’ she replied. ‘How shall I go about getting there?’ I
queried, with some exasperation. Then who should happen in but my Uncle
Percival, whom I had not seen since the day of my marriage. He had, in
the meantime, become Lord Bishop of Hounslow, and had become fat and
horribly ugly. Nevertheless, I was glad to see him. ‘What does this
Isthmian Canal Company do over at Panama?’ asked my aunt, handing him
the letter. ‘Why,’ replied his Lordship, ‘it is an iniquitous company
organized by the iniquitous Yankee government to continue to dig that
infamous canal, which was commenced by the thieving French, and left
unfinished by them.’ ‘Panama is in South America,’ said my aunt.
‘Central America,’ corrected my uncle. ‘What is the object of the
canal?’ I asked. ‘Why,’ said my uncle fiercely, ‘its object is to
permanently hurt the shipping interests of Great Britain. It is the
greatest piece of iniquity that the Yankees have ever been guilty of,
and no Comstock should lend himself to the work in any capacity.’ ‘It is
Arthur’s last chance to earn an honest living,’ said the Lady Maria
calmly, ‘and if it is, as you say, such a piece of iniquity, it may have
the effect of holding him, since iniquity is as necessary to a Comstock
as is food and drink. You will sail in two days, Arthur,’ she said.
“Well, here I am in this beastly Panama, unloved, unhonored, and seedy,
endeavoring to exist on the paltry sum of thirty-five pounds a month.
The only gratifying recollection of my whole career is the look of
understanding and gratitude which I saw in the eyes of the poor dogs, as
I labored to rid them of the horrible and tormenting flea for the paltry
pennies of my stingy aunt, the Lady Maria.”