[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 687. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
TO LIVE TO A HUNDRED.
That is what most people would like, if it could be easily managed. All
know that they must throw off 'this mortal coil' some time, but there
are innumerable and plausible reasons why they wish to avoid throwing
it off as long as possible. They have important affairs on hand which
require attention. They have children to educate and see out into the
world. They are interested in certain public movements with which the
newspapers are rife, and would like to see how these stirring events
terminate. They are engaged in some important scientific investigations
which they are anxious to complete. They have realised a small fortune,
and would like to see it grow something larger, so that they might make
a decent flourish with their bequests. And so on without end. They have
often declared that the weather has become so bad that life is not
worth having. But on second thoughts, when things are looking serious,
they come to the conclusion that the weather may be endured, and that
the world is not such a bad world after all. Dying, who speaks of
dying? The idea of such a thing is ridiculous.
There is a clever book of old date full of pictorial illustrations
called the _Dance of Death_. Each picture represents a pleasant
scene in social life, into which Death, in the form of a skeleton,
impertinently intrudes himself, and beckons a particular individual
to come away; which individual, considerably surprised and disgusted
at the summons, is obliged to go off, very much against his will.
The moral suggested is the total unexpectedness of the visit--the
uncertainty of human life. Such books amuse people. They laugh at
seeing a self-complacent person sitting at a table stuffing and
enjoying himself with good things, and who, on chancing to look
a little aside, perceives to his consternation a skeleton bowing
respectfully, and beckoning with its bony finger to walk off. He is
wanted, and must march--not a moment to stay. The very glass just
poured out must be left untasted. Very droll, very suggestive such
pictures, only nobody is ever benefited by them. 'All men think all
men mortal but themselves,' says the poet. Men perhaps do not exactly
think so. But what comes pretty much to the same thing, they flatter
themselves they will have a 'long day.' No doubt they will live a good
while yet, and it is as well to be jolly in the meantime.
It is a curious fact, disclosed by physiologists who think deeply on
the subject, that society is very much to blame for the comparative
shortness of life. This was not well understood when the _Dance of
Death_ was written. It is understood now. Inquiries into the laws
of health and disease, along with statistics, make it plain that
premature decease is owing to a variety of preventable causes. We are
gravely informed by Dr Farr, in his letter[1] to the Registrar-general
of England, that the natural lifetime of man is a century! To die
earlier than a hundred years of age is all a mistake. It is the fault
of something or somebody or other that people die young. With a good
constitution to start with, and due care in ordinary circumstances,
life may be protracted to eighty, to ninety, or to a hundred. If that
be what most people like, why don't they try? It is very certain, as
is observable by the newspaper obituaries, that latterly many persons,
whether they have tried or not, lived to be upwards of a hundred years
of age. We have just seen a death reported at a hundred and six, and
a month or two ago one at a hundred and ten. Some of these long-lived
individuals were of a humble rank in life. One or two were parish
paupers. Occasionally we hear of negroes in the United States dying
at a hundred and ten or a hundred and twelve years old, whose early
life was spent in slavery. Among the aristocracy, deaths are pretty
frequently reported at about eighty or ninety, but rarely at a hundred
and above it. From these circumstances it may be inferred that fine
living does not particularly contribute to extreme longevity.
The number of children who die young is immense. Bad nursing, neglect,
whooping-cough, croup, measles, scarlet fever, small-pox, dosing with
soporifics, carry off a large proportion. Bad air in close stuffy
dwellings, and insufficient food, likewise destroy great numbers of
children, particularly in old ill-contrived towns. Only by a kind of
good-luck and natural strength of fibre do they get beyond five years
of age. That is the first clearance; after which ensue the casualties
of youth, too often brought about by carelessness. Latterly, Death has
played great havoc among young and old through new developments of
what are called zymotic diseases; or in plain English, diseases which
originate in the fermentation of putrefying substances. These diseases
are by no means new. They were known in ancient times. But in our own
day they have sprung into enormous vigour, through the influence of
modern domestic arrangements; and generally speaking, the finer the
houses the worse have matters grown.
In his operations, Death has wonderfully potent auxiliaries in
house-builders; or at least those who get up houses to sell regardless
of sanitary arrangements. Pipes to carry off refuse are scamped,
everything is scamped. The pipes are ill put together and badly laid;
foul air, the result of festering fermentation, escapes into the
dwelling. Diphtheria and typhoid fever are the probable consequence.
Much that is curious has been written concerning these zymotic
diseases. It is now generally believed that the poisonous gases arising
from imperfect pipeage in houses consist intrinsically of fungoid
germs, which are unconsciously swallowed by the luckless inhabitants of
the houses so affected. Whether this Germ theory be correct or not, the
result is the same. By inhaling the vitiated air, we drink a kind of
poison, which produces the most fatal disorders. In our own small way,
we could speak from experience of this bad pipeage system, which has
obviously become one of the scandals of the age. It is enough for us
to advise every purchaser of a house to look strictly to the condition
of pipes and drains. If he cannot do it himself, let him procure the
assistance of experts. What a thing to say of some modern improvements,
that they have ended in giving us two of the greatest evils in
life--foul air in our houses, and foul water to drink! One would almost
think that these so-called improvements had been ingeniously devised in
the interest of the undertakers.
People as we see are slain right and left by ailments which seize upon
them insidiously when least expected. The weakest of course come off
worst. This brings us to the fact that considerable numbers possess
but a feeble stamina, and are unable to ward off disease, even with
all the appliances of art. They come of a weakly parentage perhaps
through several generations. Being by inheritance little better than an
incarnation of beer and gin, they are absolutely born with a tendency
to succumb to disorders which others would escape. Dr Farr makes the
remark, that our very philanthropic schemes for rendering succour to
the afflicted tend to raise crops of people of inferior organisation.
'The imbecile, the drunkard, the lunatic, the criminal, the idle, and
all tainted natures, were once allowed to perish in fields, asylums,
or jails, if they were not directly put to death; but these classes and
their offspring now figure in large numbers in the population.'
From one cause and another, it is not surprising that so comparatively
few reach extreme old age. The average of human life has been extended
through the resources of modern science, but not to such an extent as
might be expected, for the average still does not range higher than
forty-five to fifty. Some reasons for this comparatively low average
have been alluded to. To these may be added the frightful deterioration
of health from intemperance. Drinking, once a fashionable vice, has
become a prevalent evil in the lower departments of society, and the
evil is conspicuously increased in proportion to an advancement in
the gains of labour. Alcohol! In that single word we have no end of
premature deaths accounted for. The most correctly logical definition,
as far as we have seen, of the physical and mental ills inflicted
through the agency of alcohol, is that given by Dr B. W. Richardson
in his work on the _Diseases of Modern Life_. There can be no doubt
that the reckless abuse of this stimulant, always growing the more
reckless, as has been said, as means are increased for its indulgence,
has a terrible effect on the increase of pauperism and death-rates.
According to Dr Richardson, alcohol has a tendency to throw life off
its balance--'A balance at the best of times finely set is broken in
favour of death. A mental shock, a mechanical injury, an exposure to
cold, a strain, a deprivation of food beyond the usual time of taking
food;--any of these causes, and others similar, are sufficient to cause
an organic wreck, which, left to its own fate, would soon break up from
progressive internal failure of vital power.' Much that follows on this
subject we commend to general attention--without, however, expecting
that what the learned writer says will be of any practical avail.
Another cause for the undue shortening of life which has not been yet
referred to, is the intense mental strain prevalent among literary
men, artists, statesmen, judges, and some other classes. If not a new
feature in society, this mental strain is at least more conspicuous
than it was formerly, because the struggle to attain high rewards is
greater, and more dependent on individual exertion than it seems to
have been in past and less exacting times. In short, in derangement
of the nervous system, leading to no end of functional derangements
in the heart, stomach, and so on, in all which are found reasons why
so many of our most eminent notabilities are removed ere they reach
fourscore. They fall victims to a heedless, certainly unfortunate,
overtasking of the brain. Medical men in high practice, though well
aware of the dangers of professional exhaustion, are not always exempt
from the charge of being careless of their own health. The wiser among
them endeavour to limit their hours of work, and at the proper season
retreat to the country, for the sake of invigorating rural sports.
But for these precautions, the death-rate among London physicians
would be very much greater than it is. The late Sir Henry Holland is
known to have greatly lengthened his days by habitually making long
autumnal tours over the globe; always returning invigorated for fresh
work. The very common practice among people in business of taking a
month's holiday at the sea-side, or some inland healthful resort--a
practice immensely facilitated by railways and steamboats--has the
same beneficial tendency. As regards the salutary results of checking
the mental strain in literary labour, we could speak from a degree of
personal experience. We have for the last forty years--whether in town
or country, whether in winter or summer--never written a line after
nine o'clock at night. When that hour strikes, the ink-glass is shut
up, the pen and paper laid aside, and the mind is allowed to calm down
before retiring to rest. The rule is peremptorily followed with the
best consequences.
In the varied pressure of inexorable circumstances it may not be
possible to be so extremely guarded. Lives are abruptly lost, the
most precious in the community. He, however, who falls in the fair
fight of life, though mistaken has been his eagerness, may be said
to fall nobly. It is a considerably different thing when men shorten
their days through luxurious indulgences, in wanton disregard of the
rules essential to the preservation of bodily health. Up till fifty
years of age, it perhaps signifies little how some of these rules are
neglected, because the constitution originally vigorous resists or
overcomes various deteriorating influences. At all events, there may
be no immediate mischief. After fifty, and more particularly sixty, a
change has taken place. The breathing, the digestive, the circulatory
processes are less able to endure tear and wear. A little indiscretion
may derange the whole machine, and bring it prematurely to a dead stop.
It is wonderful how much may be done to protract existence by the
habitual restorative of sound sleep. Late hours, under mental strain,
are of course incompatible with this solacement. On this topic Dr
Richardson says it has been painful for him to trace the beginnings of
pulmonary consumption to late hours at 'unearthly balls and evening
parties,' by which rest is broken, and encroachments made on the
constitution. But, he adds, 'If in middle age the habit of taking
deficient and irregular sleep be still maintained, every source of
depression, every latent form of disease, is quickened and intensified.
The sleepless exhaustion allies itself with all other processes of
exhaustion, or it kills imperceptibly, by a rapid introduction of
premature old age, which leads directly to premature dissolution.'
There, at once, is an explanation why many people die earlier than they
ought to do. They violate the primary principle of taking a regular
night's rest. If they sleep, it is disturbed. They dream all sorts of
nonsense. That is to say, they do not sleep soundly or for any useful
purpose; for dreaming is nothing more than wild, imaginative notions
passing through the brain while half sleeping or dozing. In dreaming,
there is no proper or restorative rest.
It is a pity that Dr Richardson, as in the case of other medical
writers, has refrained from stating that the practice of late dining,
always growing later and later, to suit fashionable fancies, is quite
incompatible with that tranquil and wholesome night's rest which
contributes materially to a healthy and protracted old age. How can
any one who inconsiderately sits eating and drinking till within an
hour or two of midnight, so as to render refreshing sleep pretty
nearly impossible, expect to reach eighty, ninety, or a hundred years
of age? Narcotics are taken to procure the much-coveted sleep. They
give no natural repose, besides otherwise doing harm. It is customary
to say of sentiments of remorse that they 'murdered sleep.' So at
least said Macbeth, and, as is known, he spoke from very unpleasant
experience. But as things go, sleeplessness arises less from remorse
and other mental affections than from physical causes connected with
digestion. The stomach, to use a familiar phrase, is out of sorts. And
in a vast number of cases it would be wonderful if it were otherwise.
Just think of the habitual overtasking of the digestive functions
and corresponding secretions, from the practice of late eating and
drinking--late ceremonious dinners, which, from their tiresome
sameness, their simpering platitudes, their dull insincerity, their
waste of food, waste of time, and waste of health and comfort, can
scarcely be said to claim a single redeeming feature. If that be called
social intercourse, it is a downright sham--poor outcome indeed of the
accumulated intelligence and inventiveness of the nineteenth century.
One of the dangers of dining out in winter arises from exposure to
cold and damp night-air. The excuse usually made is, that of being
well wrapped up. But although that is right in its way, the fact is
well known to medical practitioners that grievous mischief may be done
in an instant of time. By a single gulp of cold air, or by a chill to
the feet, in stepping from the door to a carriage, a deed may be done
beyond the power of science to undo. Our belief is, that cold caught
at late dinners and other late entertainments is a prolific source of
disorders that prove fatal. With what a thrill of sorrow have we lately
attended the funerals of aged and estimable persons who gave promise
of living other ten or twenty years, but were said to have died after
a three days' illness, in consequence of having one evening when they
were out 'caught a little cold.'
It is tolerably evident that, setting aside the masses who die young
and in middle life, from ailments that are difficult to be warded
off, length of days is considerably dependent on individual effort
as regards a graceful sacrifice to the rules of health. The explicit
statement of Dr Farr, that the natural span of human life is a century,
will to many appear startling. But calmly considered, a century is
but a small fraction in the vast expanse of time. Years pass away
imperceptibly. The man of seventy or eighty can hardly realise that
so many years have slipped over his head. In his own condition he
feels little to impress him with the fact. The past has vanished
like a dream. The evidence of advanced years consists mainly in the
recollection of events, recollection of places visited, recollection
of the friends and acquaintances we have lost. The past is a vista
strewed with memories, some agreeable, others saddening. We have worked
our way as it were into a new world, yet with everything going on very
much as it did long ago, _plus_ a happy diminution in the number of
Torturations.
The estimate formed of age ought not properly to depend on years.
One man at seventy may be in constitution not older than another at
forty-five or fifty. All depends on the original strength of frame, and
the way it has been treated. Hence are seen lively old men, who, from
their manners and activity, you would say were like men of thirty.
The bloom on their cheeks, their tasteful toilet, their dancing, their
singing, are a kind of marvel. The explanation of the phenomenon
is, that besides having been careful as regards temperate habits
and attention to air and exercise, they have all along cultivated
a cheerful view of human affairs. 'A merry heart doeth good like a
medicine, but grief drieth the bones.' They have studied that text to
some practical purpose. At fifty, at sixty, at seventy, they have been
steadily qualifying for a hundred, and it seems not unlikely (if kept
free from worry) that they will reach that desirable epoch--at all
events, under a moderate discount of ten per cent., they may get as
far as ninety, and on the morning after their decease have something
handsomely said of them in the newspapers.
Keeping steadily in view Dr Farr's comforting view of the matter, we
shall be glad if anything we have cheerfully ventured to suggest, has
led people to reflect that with a reasonable degree of care they may
have themselves to blame if they do not 'Live to a Hundred.'
W. C.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This letter is appended to the Supplement to the Thirty-fifth
Annual Report concerning Births, Deaths, and Marriages in England, 1875.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER X.--MARIAN.
As I had expected, the neighbourhood through which we were driven did
not appear to be inhabited by the most prosperous class of people. We
presently found ourselves in Green Street; and when the cabman drew up
before a retail shoemaker's shop, we saw at once that there could be no
doubt about its being the place we wanted. The name of Pratt ran up and
down, and across the house, in every direction, backwards and forwards,
and sideways and lengthways; to say nothing of a large blue boot
swinging over the pavement, conveying the information that this was the
veritable Pratt's, and there was no other in the three kingdoms who
sold boots and shoes so good and cheap, and beautiful to behold, as did
Jonathan Pratt. Telling the cabman to wait, I entered a sort of bower
of boots and shoes (they hung all round the doorway, and were ticketed
'Great Bargains,' 'Alarming Sacrifices,' 'The Princesses' Favourite,'
and so forth), closely followed by Lilian.
'I'll attend to you in half a moment, ladies,' said a stout, brisk,
good-tempered-looking man, as he put some small shoes into a parcel,
and counted out the change to a customer at the counter, adding to her:
'You've got the best of me again, Mrs Gooch, by a good threepence, that
you have! There, take 'em away quick, before I change my mind!'
'Oh, you always say that, Mr Pratt,' laughed the good woman, gathering
up her parcel and change, and pleasantly wishing him good-day.
Evidently Mr Pratt was a favourite with his customers. I afterwards
heard that he was famous for his jokes and good-nature, as well as a
keen eye to business.
'Now, ladies,' he went on, turning smilingly towards us, as the good
woman left the shop, and rubbing his hands briskly together; 'here I am
ready to go through it all again, though you ladies always get the best
of me in a bargain, you know you do. Eh'---- Falling back a little as
Lilian put up her veil; and even in that somewhat obscured light seeing
that she was very different from the generality of 'ladies' he had to
deal with, he added: 'I beg your pardon, Miss, I'm sure. What may I
have the pleasure of shewing you?' For Mr Pratt prided himself upon his
ability to suit his manners to his customers.
'You are Mr Pratt?' she began hesitatingly.
'Yes, Miss; that's me for certain.'
Lilian looked towards me, and I said: 'Will you allow us to speak with
Mrs Pratt? Our business is with her, if she will kindly see us for a
few minutes.'
'Mrs Pratt! _To_ be sure, ladies; _to_ be sure. Please to step this
way.' We followed him into a small back-shop; and after putting two
chairs for us, and--I suppose from force of habit--placing two little
squares of carpet at our feet, he opened a side-door, and called out:
'Mother, you're wanted.'
Lilian, who looked very white and agitated, slipped her hand into mine;
I clasped it firmly, waiting not a little anxiously for her sake.
A slight little woman, with a gentle good face, and soft dark eyes,
looking very neat in a clean lilac print gown and large white apron,
came hesitatingly into the room. One glance at her shewed us that it
was not she whom we were seeking. Though her slight figure made her
perhaps appear younger than she really was, she could not have been
much less than fifty. We were for the moment both too much absorbed in
the one thought to speak; and after glancing timidly first towards her
husband and then at us, she asked: 'Is it change wanted, Jonathan?'
'These ladies want to speak to you, Susan,' he replied, looking a
little surprised at our silence.
Lilian flushed up, glancing pleadingly towards me again. It was
certainly rather embarrassing. I was casting about in my mind to find
some way of approaching the subject without committing ourselves, in
the event of their not being in the secret, when fortunately Mr Pratt's
attention was called towards the shop-door, where commenced a brisk
patter of words with reference to some of the bargains. With this
gentle-looking woman it would be much easier to say what we wanted to
say than with her husband, more accustomed to gauge the worth of words.
So I plucked up my courage, and began: 'We have come to you, Mrs Pratt,
in the hope of obtaining some information'---- I suddenly thought of
new tactics, and said: 'Is the name of Farrar known to you?'
'Farrar!' She put her hand to her side, and sank down on to the nearest
chair, gazing at me without a word.
Seeing that I was at anyrate so far correct as to be speaking to the
right Mrs Pratt, I went on: 'Perhaps you know that Mr Farrar has been
ill for some time?'
'Yes, Miss; I know that.'
'Do you also know that his illness terminated in death ten days ago?' I
said, speaking slowly, and carefully separating my words, in order to
in some measure break the shock; for though she was not the 'Marian'
we were seeking, her agitation shewed me that they were in some way
connected.
'Dead!' she murmured--'dead!' as she sat gazing at us, or rather at
some vision which the words seemed to have called up before her mental
eyes.
I thought it best now to go straight to the point, and said: 'Before
his death, Mr Farrar expressed a wish that this packet should be
delivered to the person to whom it is addressed; and therefore we
thought it best to bring it ourselves to you, Mrs Pratt.'
She mechanically took it from my hand, looking down at it as though she
were in a dream.
'But,' eagerly began Lilian, 'you see it is written above, "For
Marian;" and before he died, dear papa told me'----
'You are Miss Farrar!' ejaculated Mrs Pratt, turning towards Lilian
with a strange expression in her eyes: a mixture of curiosity and
surprise, it appeared to me.
'Yes; I am his daughter; and very anxious to obey his last request. He
told me that I have a sister, and wished me to be good to her. He meant
to provide for her, and his will was prepared; but his illness was very
sudden at--the last, and the lawyer did not arrive in time.'
I had thought it only just to tell Lilian what Mr Markham said, and she
eagerly caught at the idea that her father had intended to provide for
the other.
Mrs Pratt murmured something about its being very kind of Mr Farrar;
her eyes downcast, and hands fluttering about her apron-strings.
'We thought it best to bring this ourselves, Mrs Pratt, because we wish
to be in communication with Marian,' I said. 'And of course you know
where she is. You know her, do you not?'
'Yes, Miss,' replied Mrs Pratt. She sat very pale and still a few
moments, and then went on slowly and hesitatingly: 'If you really wish
to see her'----
Lilian very earnestly assured her that she did.
'Then will you please to come this way, ladies?' she whispered, still,
I fancied, a little nervously and doubtfully.
We rose at once, and followed her into the passage, up a narrow
staircase, and into a front-room on the first floor. One glance shewed
me that this was very different from what might have been expected in
Mrs Pratt's best room--different in the way of being very pretentious.
It was in fact evidently intended to be considered a drawing-room,
and was crowded with tawdry finery, which not even its exquisite
cleanliness could make to look respectable. Gaudy furniture, gaudy
curtains, gaudy vases, with quantities of artificial flowers; a round
table spread with gaudily bound books, &c.--all looking in such strange
contrast with Mrs Pratt herself in her homely simplicity.
'Will you tell us where to find my sister?' eagerly began Lilian, after
a hasty glance around.
'Sister!' said Mrs Pratt. 'You are not ashamed to call her that; or--is
it that you do not know?'
'I have guessed that--that her mother was to be pitied,' said Lilian in
a low voice, a crimson flush suffusing her face.
'And you can still call her sister?'
'Yes.'
'God bless you, dear young lady! It's only the best and purest could
say that. Let me--pray let me.'
And before Lilian could prevent her, Mrs Pratt sank on her knees and
kissed the young girl's hands. It expressed all the more to me, because
I judged that Mrs Pratt was not naturally so emotional as most people.
She recovered herself quickly too. After turning away for a few moments
towards the window, where she stood wiping her eyes, she was the same
self-contained, quiet-looking, little woman we had first seen.
'Please forgive me, ladies; but, as you have guessed, I do know Marian
Reed. Her poor mother was my only sister, and since her death, Marian
has always lived with us. Mr Farrar has always paid very handsome for
her; and she has been brought up like a--lady.' Mrs Pratt hesitated a
little over the word, and added: 'I mean, compared with people like
us--a deal better than my own little ones.'
To gain a little time for Lilian, I asked: 'How many children have you,
Mrs Pratt?'
'We have seven, Miss; but I've a good husband; a better man than
Jonathan doesn't breathe; and business is brisk; so we want for
nothing.'
The latter part of her sentence was meant for a hint, I thought, and
I was all the more favourably inclined towards her in consequence. At
anyrate we were amongst honest people.
'Is--Marian in the house now?' inquired Lilian. 'May I see her?'
Once more I noticed the reluctance in Mrs Pratt's face, as she replied:
'Yes, Miss; I'll go and tell her.'
'No; please do not tell her; let me introduce myself.'
Mrs Pratt consented; and to be quite honest with us, did not leave the
room. Standing at the open door, she called out: 'Miss Reed--Marian,
dear!'
No reply.
'Marian, dear, will you please come down for a few minutes?'
'What for?' called out a voice from some upper chamber.
'Somebody wants to see you, dear.'
I heard a word which seemed very much like 'Bother!' and a sound as of
a book thrown down. Then there was a somewhat heavy and leisurely tread
descending the stairs.
'Well, what is it?'
A girl of about twenty or twenty-one years of age entered the room,
looking as though she had been disturbed and resented it. At sight of
her my heart sank. Lilian's sister! This underbred girl, arrayed in
the latest style of elegance as interpreted by Islington. Everything
about her was in the extreme of penny-fashion-book style; the largest
of chignons, the fluffiest of curls covering her forehead down to her
eyebrows, the longest of ribbons streaming down her back, and the
latest inventions in the way of imitation jewellery. I am bound to
acknowledge that she was in her way good-looking; with plenty of dark
hair, large round dark eyes, red (not pink) and white complexion, and
good though large figure, and yet----Could any one in the world be more
disappointing, as Lilian's sister?
She crossed the room, seated herself with a _dégagé_ air in a
lounging-chair, and playing with a bunch of trinkets, it was then the
fashion to call charms, upon her watch-chain, she languidly inquired if
we had come about the music lessons.
'Because I have almost made up my mind to engage a gentleman. I require
something advanced, you know; and the gentleman who is organist at our
church gives lessons to a select few, and'----
'Are you Marian?' asked Lilian, white and trembling.
'I am Miss Reed,' very stiffly returned that young lady.
'This young lady is Miss Farrar,' I put in, to help Lilian.
'O indeed!' returned Miss Reed.
I saw that the name told her nothing. I know now that she had never
been told her father's name.
With slowly gathering colour, Mrs Pratt now came to my assistance. 'Mr
Farrar was the gentleman who--paid for your schooling and all that,
Marian, dear--the quarterly allowance came from him.'
'And who was he?'
'Your father!' returned her aunt, in a low broken voice: 'and these
ladies have come to tell us that he has been ill, and--and'----
'He is dead!' said Marian; taking note of our black clothes, and
becoming as pale as one of her complexion could become.
'Come!' I thought, not a little relieved, 'she can feel.' But I very
quickly found that I had been somewhat premature in giving her credit
upon that account. It is possible to feel without the feeling being
worth very much. I saw in what way she was touched, as she went on,
with a little catch in her breath, looking from one to the other of us:
'What has he left me?'
We were silent; and putting the right construction upon our silence,
she hurriedly added: 'You don't mean to say he hasn't left me anything,
after'----
Without any further anxiety on the score of her feelings, I put in: 'Mr
Farrar has left no will, Miss Reed; and all his property comes to this
young lady--his daughter.'
'Then I say it is mean, and shameful--downright shameful! and'----
'Hush, Marian, pray; Marian, dear, you forget!' pleaded Mrs Pratt,
laying her hand upon the girl's arm.
'Am I not his daughter too? Am I not to say a word if I am left a
beggar, after being always led on to expect to be a lady? It _is_
shameful; and I do not care who hears me say so!' Flashing a look of
angry defiance at us.
Lilian sat gazing at her; in her sorrow and disappointment, utterly
incapable of uttering a word. It had not occurred to her that she
might find this kind of sister. She had probably never before been in
contact with any one like Marian Reed, and indeed we had both of us
expected to see a very different person from this. If she had been only
poor--anything like the children of poor parents generally, there would
have been some reason for hope. But now! I afterwards found that Mr
Farrar's very liberal allowance had been expended entirely on Marian
Reed herself, Mr Pratt very decidedly objecting to accept more than a
fair remuneration for her board and lodging; and the command of so much
money had fostered a natural vanity and love of dress, until she had
become the fine lady before us.
'If you will only be good enough to allow me to explain, you will, I
think, do Mr Farrar more justice, as well as spare his daughter, Miss
Reed,' I said, in a tone which made her turn sharply towards me with a
look and gesture which seemed to say: 'And who are you?'
Having succeeded so far as to quiet her, I went on: 'Mr Farrar's
illness terminated rather suddenly at last, Miss Reed; and the lawyer
who was summoned did not arrive in time for the will to be signed'----
'But he might have'----
I stopped her again. 'Mr Farrar did what he could in trusting his
daughter to carry out his wishes; and you will find her only too
anxious to do all that is right.'
I saw the round black eyes turn sharply and speculatively upon Lilian
for a moment; then she replied, in a slightly mollified tone: 'So much
depends upon what people consider right, you know.'
I saw that Lilian was battling against herself, and longed to say
to my darling: 'Trust to your instinct, which is altogether against
asking this girl to come to live with you. Whatever else you may do,
do not yield to a false sentiment in this one thing.' Unfortunately
(or fortunately; looking at the question from this distance of time, I
am not really sure which I ought to write), Lilian did _not_ obey her
instinct. In her anxiety lest she should not carry out her father's
wishes, she was afraid to trust to her own feelings in the matter. When
Marian a little impatiently asked:
'I should like to know what _you_ call right?' Lilian replied in a low
faltering voice:
'He wished me to be good to you; and I came to-day to ask you to live
with me, and--be my sister--for--dear papa's sake. He has left a great
deal of money, and quite intended you to share it.'
'That is,' I hastened to interpose, seeing the effect of the word
'share' upon the other--'Mr Farrar no doubt meant that the allowance
which you have hitherto received should be continued to you, Miss Reed.
I have reason to think something of that kind was to be done.'
'That would be very kind and generous. Wouldn't it, Marian, dear?' said
Mrs Pratt.
'And' (I went on) 'perhaps you would prefer remaining with the friends
who have been so good to you, and going on as before, Miss Reed?'
But Miss Reed very quickly gave us to understand that she did not
prefer it; though Mrs Pratt put in a gentle word or two on my side:
'You have always been very comfortable with us, dear!'
Comfortable! That evidently would not be sufficient to satisfy Marian
Reed any longer.
'I have been brought up as a young lady, aunt' (at present she had no
doubts upon the point); 'and learned music, and French, and dancing,
and all that; so papa must have intended me to come to live with him
some time, and it seems only fair that my sister should ask me.--What's
your name, dear? It seems funny my not knowing your name; doesn't it?'
'My name is Lilian.'
'Lilian! What a pretty name--quite _charmong_!'
I saw that it was to be; and that the only thing I could now do was to
gain a little delay, so I said: 'Of course you will want a little time
to prepare, Miss Reed.' She was about to protest; but I quietly went
on: 'It will be necessary to procure mourning, and so forth.'
'O yes; I had forgotten that,' she replied, eyeing Lilian's black
dress, nearly covered with crape. 'Of course I shall;' adding a little
apologetically: 'You mustn't expect me to feel exactly the same as you
do about it, you know. Of course I am very sorry, and all that; but I
do not remember ever having seen papa; so it isn't to be expected that
I can feel quite as much as though I had always known him.'
'No,' replied Lilian, with what I fancied to be a sigh of relief. She
would have even jealously resented this stranger claiming the privilege
to share her grief as well as her money. Had he not loved her--and had
she not loved him?
There was silence again for a few moments, which was broken by Marian
Reed, the most self-possessed of any of us, for even I, the least
interested, felt somewhat nonplussed by the aspect of affairs: 'It
will take me a good week or ten days to get _distangy_ mourning;' with
a glance towards Lilian, as she gave that evidence of having learned
French. 'Suppose we say ten days?'
'Very well,' replied Lilian, rising.
'But you haven't given me the address yet, you know. And you must
excuse my reminding you that there's been nothing said about last
quarter's remittance, which was due last week, and which we have been a
great deal inconvenienced by not receiving.'
I hastened to put the packet into her hand. 'This was placed ready for
you, Miss Reed; but for the address upon it we might not have found
you; and I daresay you will find it correct.'
'O yes; no doubt;' taking it with a negligent air, in amusing contrast
with her next words: 'And then there's the mourning, you know; that
will have to be paid for; and good mourning is so expensive.'
'O yes; of course; I beg your pardon,' said Lilian, hurriedly taking
out her pocket-book. 'This is the address; and---- No; I find I have
not enough money with me; but I will send you a cheque when I get
home, if that will do. And of course you will like to make some little
acknowledgment to the friends who have been always so kind to you.'
'Of course I should, if you send enough,' sharply replied Miss Reed.
The colour rose in Lilian's cheeks. 'I will send what you please.'
'Well, you couldn't say more than that, I'm sure,' graciously responded
Miss Reed. 'But I'd rather leave it to you.'
'Will fifty pounds be enough?'
Mrs Pratt looked awe-struck; but her niece, who evidently prided
herself upon _sang-froid_, calmly said: 'O yes; quite enough; thank
you.'
'If you will let us know the day and train, we will drive to the
station to meet you,' said Lilian, her voice sinking lower.
'Yes; I will write and tell you when I am ready, dear.' And after going
through the ceremony of shaking hands and bidding us good-morning, Miss
Reed sank languidly back into her seat again, leaving her aunt to shew
us out.
As we reached the foot of the stairs, we could see into a side-room,
the door of which was open, and observing some children sitting round a
table, I asked: 'Are these your little ones, Mrs Pratt?'
'Yes, Miss. Would you like to walk in?'
I did wish to walk in, and availed myself of the invitation,
notwithstanding poor Lilian's pleading look. She was, I knew, anxious
to get away as quickly as possible. But I wanted to judge for myself as
to whether the contrast between Mrs Pratt's children and their cousin
was as great as between herself and that young lady. Seven children,
whose ages seemed to range between about five and fifteen, were seated
round a neatly spread table at dinner; and though the fare seemed of
the homeliest, they were partaking it with quiet enjoyment under the
supervision of an elder sister, a girl of about fifteen, pretty, and
fresh, and neat-looking in her print frock. Altogether as refreshing a
contrast to the cousin up-stairs as could well be conceived.
After one little shy blushing acknowledgment of our greeting, she
attended to her business again.
'Don't stare at the ladies, Billy,' she whispered, guiding the spoonful
of rice which, in his astonishment at seeing us, he was sending over
his shoulder towards his mouth.
'She's quite a mother to them already,' said Mrs Pratt, brightening up
wonderfully in the presence of her children. 'I can't find it in my
heart to let her go to service until the others are grown up a bit. We
can't spare Susy, can we, dears?'
This seemed to two or three of the younger ones to indicate that
there had been some proposition to take her, and that we were the
delinquents. But we hastened to reassure them, and tears were soon
dried again, though two or three pairs of sharp little eyes kept watch
over Susy.
How heartily I wished that this had been the sister we were seeking;
this modest, good, unpretending Susy. I think the same thought was in
Lilian's mind as she wistfully eyed her. The tinkling of a bell sounded
in some back place, and Susy bade one of her little brothers: 'Run,
Tommy, and tell Miss Reed dinner will soon be ready.'
Then I noticed a tray ready spread on a side-table; and in reply to my
look of inquiry, Mrs Pratt explained: 'Miss Reed' (she was evidently
more accustomed to call her Miss Reed than Marian) 'lives up-stairs,
ladies, since she went for a year to boarding-school; she prefers it.'
'And so do we,' heartily put in her husband, entering at the moment.
'We bring our little ones up to work, ladies. _They_ won't get two
hundred a year without earning it, and I won't have fine notions put
into their heads. I shall be satisfied, I tell them, if they grow up
respectable, and not ashamed to look any one in the face. Miss Reed
likes to be a fine lady, and we've got no right to object to that.
I don't take any more from her than what pays for her lodging and
keep--not a penny; and of course she's a right to do what she likes
with the rest; but she never pleased me more than when she made up
her mind to keep to her own rooms. Excuse me, ladies; but I've been
accustomed to speak my mind, and somehow I always feel bound to say
what my mind is, when Miss Reed's being talked about.'
Lilian was silent. I murmured something to the effect that I quite
agreed with him as regarded making his children as much as possible
independent of circumstances.
'Miss Reed's going away, father,' said Mrs Pratt. 'These ladies came to
tell her that--the gentleman is dead.'
'Dead!'
'And this young lady is Miss Farrar, Jonathan. She has come to ask
Marian to go and live with her.'
It took Mr Pratt some little time to get over the surprise; but I soon
saw that it was not an altogether disagreeable one.
'It is so good of you, dear young lady,' murmured Mrs Pratt, who
scarcely took her eyes from Lilian's face. 'So much more than Miss
Reed could expect.'
'You may well say that, mother!' ejaculated Mr Pratt. 'It _is_ more
than she could expect--a deal. Though, to tell the truth, I shan't be
so very down-hearted about her going, for my part. We can let our rooms
again, and---- Well, as I said before, I don't want any of our young
ones to grow up after Miss Reed's pattern.' At a murmured word from
his wife, he put his hand for a moment on her shoulder. 'Mrs Pratt is
more soft-hearted, and she naturally feels more for her sister's child
than I do; but she's been a good deal put upon, and she'll see it's all
for the best that Miss Reed should go, by-and-by. I can only say that
she's kept true to her promise to her dying sister, and the girl can't
say anything to the contrary. Her aunt's been a regular slave to her,
always ready to cocker up one, who---- Well, there, mother; I won't say
any more: what's gone's past; and I hope Miss Reed will be satisfied
now, that's all. I never denied but what she's a fine lass enough--to
look at; and when she's got all she wants in the way of being fine
enough, I daresay she'll be all right. Anyhow, she needn't be afraid of
our shaming her. Business is good, and like to be; but if it wasn't, it
would make no difference; we shall not run after her. If she likes to
come and see her aunt sometimes, I think it would do her good, because,
as I've said before, Mrs Pratt's soft-hearted about her; but even she
wouldn't be soft-hearted enough to run after a girl who didn't want to
see her.'
'Of course you will come to see us at Fairview, Mrs Pratt,' said
Lilian, in her earnest unmistakably sincere way; 'and of course she
will come often to see you.'
'One thing we needn't go far to see, Miss,' said Mr Pratt, who was
evidently impressed in Lilian's favour. 'I know the real thing when I
see it; and that's why the Brummagem up-stairs doesn't go down with
me. There--there; I've done, mother. Good-day, ladies; and thank you
kindly, for us.'
And after shaking hands with Mrs Pratt and her children, Lilian
pressing her purse into Susy's hand, we took our departure, escorted to
the cab by Mr Pratt.
'ONE SHILLING.'
One of the eighteenth-century poets exclaims in a burst of enthusiasm
how 'happy is the man who, void of cares and strife, in silken purse
or leathern pouch retains a Splendid Shilling.' Then, poor fellow,
as if overcome with the prospect, he dwells on the various pleasures
which the splendid shilling was able to realise. Had he lived exactly
a hundred years later, his poem might have been ten times the length,
for what a vast variety of things may be enjoyed or purchased for a
shilling is now a matter of daily wonder. The penny still keeps its
ground in small matters. So does the sixpence. But these inferior
coins, as well as those of higher denominations, are nothing in point
of popularity to the shilling. Looking to its growing importance,
we would recommend every one to have always a shilling ready in the
pocket. He will hardly walk a hundred yards in any busy thoroughfare
without seeing how the shilling may be laid out to advantage. 'Price
One Shilling,' 'Admission One Shilling,' stare us in the face in all
directions.
'Price One Shilling' is very observable at the booksellers'. Shilling
books crowd the railway book-stalls in profusion; not merely garish
volumes of sensational fiction in gaudily printed covers, but standard
works in good type on good paper. Gilt-edged leather-bound Bibles and
Prayer-books; the plays of Shakspeare; the poems of Scott, Byron,
Burns, Cowper; the novels and romances of Fielding, Smollett, Scott,
Lytton, Cooper--the completeness of many of these shilling works is
remarkable. Monthly magazines have in most part abandoned the old
half-crown standard, and have come into the shilling circle. Shilling
atlases of maps, useful for schools, are becoming plentiful. Stationery
pays a like homage to the silver coin in the neatly arranged packets
and boxes of paper and envelopes, the boxes of colours and of drawing
instruments, the fitted writing-cases for emigrants and soldiers,
the grosses of steel pens (reminding the older among us of the days
when steel pens were charged a shilling each), the pen-knife with an
ever-pointed pencil at one end, &c. Published music displays a similar
tendency towards the shilling in collections, after the copyright
sheets have had their day. The gems of an opera, with the words in two
languages; the great symphonies of Beethoven; the charming _Lieder ohne
Wörter_ of Mendelssohn; the books of instruction for the chief musical
instruments--all are made up into shilling worths to an extent that has
attracted the attention of most of us.