On an extensive plot of ground, lying somewhere between the Thames and
the Kensington squares, stood the premises of Messrs. Nockett and Perch,
builders and contractors. The yard with its workshops formed part of one
of those frontier lines between mangy business and garnished domesticity
that occur in what are called improving neighbourhoods. We are
accustomed to regard increase as the chief feature in a great city's
progress, its well-known signs greeting our eyes on every outskirt. Slush-
ponds may be seen turning into basement-kitchens; a broad causeway of
shattered earthenware smothers plots of budding gooseberry-bushes and
vegetable trenches, foundations following so closely upon gardens that
the householder may be expected to find cadaverous sprouts from
overlooked potatoes rising through the chinks of his cellar floor. But
the other great process, that of internal transmutation, is not less
curious than this encroachment of grey upon green. Its first erections
are often only the milk-teeth of a suburb, and as the district rises in
dignity they are dislodged by those which are to endure. Slightness
becomes supplanted by comparative solidity, commonness by novelty,
lowness and irregularity by symmetry and height.
An observer of the precinct which has been named as an instance in point
might have stood under a lamp-post and heard simultaneously the peal of
the visitor's bell from the new terrace on the right hand, and the stroke
of tools from the musty workshops on the left. Waggons laden with deals
came up on this side, and landaus came down on the other--the former to
lumber heavily through the old-established contractors' gates, the latter
to sweep fashionably into the square.
About twelve o'clock on the day following Lord Mountclere's exhibition of
himself to Christopher in the jeweller's shop at Melchester, and almost
at the identical time when the viscount was seen to come from the office
for marriage-licences in the same place, a carriage drove nearly up to
the gates of Messrs. Nockett and Co.'s yard. A gentleman stepped out and
looked around. He was a man whose years would have been pronounced as
five-and-forty by the friendly, fifty by the candid, fifty-two or three
by the grim. He was as handsome a study in grey as could be seen in
town, there being far more of the raven's plumage than of the gull's in
the mixture as yet; and he had a glance of that practised sort which can
measure people, weigh them, repress them, encourage them to sprout and
blossom as a March sun encourages crocuses, ask them questions, give them
answers--in short, a glance that could do as many things as an American
cooking-stove or a multum-in-parvo pocket-knife. But, as with most men
of the world, this was mere mechanism: his actual emotions were kept so
far within his person that they were rarely heard or seen near his
features.
On reading the builders' names over the gateway he entered the yard, and
asked at the office if Solomon Chickerel was engaged on the premises. The
clerk was going to be very attentive, but finding the visitor had come
only to speak to a workman, his tense attitude slackened a little, and he
merely signified the foot of a Flemish ladder on the other side of the
yard, saying, 'You will find him, sir, up there in the joiner's shop.'
When the man in the black coat reached the top he found himself at the
end of a long apartment as large as a chapel and as low as a malt-room,
across which ran parallel carpenters' benches to the number of twenty or
more, a gangway being left at the side for access throughout. Behind
every bench there stood a man or two, planing, fitting, or chiselling, as
the case might be. The visitor paused for a moment, as if waiting for
some cessation of their violent motions and uproar till he could make his
errand known. He waited ten seconds, he waited twenty; but, beyond that
a quick look had been thrown upon him by every pair of eyes, the muscular
performances were in no way interrupted: every one seemed oblivious of
his presence, and absolutely regardless of his wish. In truth, the
texture of that salmon-coloured skin could be seen to be aristocratic
without a microscope, and the exceptious artizan has an offhand way when
contrasts are made painfully strong by an idler of this kind coming,
gloved and brushed, into the very den where he is sweating and muddling
in his shirt-sleeves.
The gentleman from the carriage then proceeded down the workshop, wading
up to his knees in a sea of shavings, and bruising his ankles against
corners of board and sawn-off blocks, that lay hidden like reefs beneath.
At the ninth bench he made another venture.
'Sol Chickerel?' said the man addressed, as he touched his plane-iron
upon the oilstone. 'He's one of them just behind.'
'Damn it all, can't one of you show me?' the visitor angrily observed,
for he had been used to more attention than this. 'Here, point him out.'
He handed the man a shilling.
'No trouble to do that,' said the workman; and he turned and signified
Sol by a nod without moving from his place.
The stranger entered Sol's division, and, nailing him with his eye, said
at once: 'I want to speak a few words with you in private. Is not a Mrs.
Petherwin your sister?'
Sol started suspiciously. 'Has anything happened to her?' he at length
said hurriedly.
'O no. It is on a business matter that I have called. You need not mind
owning the relationship to me--the secret will be kept. I am the brother
of one whom you may have heard of from her--Lord Mountclere.'
'I have not. But if you will wait a minute, sir--' He went to a little
glazed box at the end of the shop, where the foreman was sitting, and,
after speaking a few words to this person, Sol led Mountclere to the
door, and down the ladder.
'I suppose we cannot very well talk here, after all?' said the gentleman,
when they reached the yard, and found several men moving about therein.
'Perhaps we had better go to some room--the nearest inn will answer the
purpose, won't it?'
'Excellently.'
'There's the "Green Bushes" over the way. They have a very nice private
room upstairs.'
'Yes, that will do.' And passing out of the yard, the man with the
glance entered the inn with Sol, where they were shown to the parlour as
requested.
While the waiter was gone for some wine, which Mountclere ordered, the
more ingenuous of the two resumed the conversation by saying, awkwardly:
'Yes, Mrs. Petherwin is my sister, as you supposed, sir; but on her
account I do not let it be known.'
'Indeed,' said Mountclere. 'Well, I came to see you in order to speak of
a matter which I thought you might know more about than I do, for it has
taken me quite by surprise. My brother, Lord Mountclere, is, it seems,
to be privately married to Mrs. Petherwin to-morrow.'
'Is that really the fact?' said Sol, becoming quite shaken. 'I had no
thought that such a thing could be possible!'
'It is imminent.'
'Father has told me that she has lately got to know some nobleman; but I
never supposed there could be any meaning in that.'
'You were altogether wrong,' said Mountclere, leaning back in his chair
and looking at Sol steadily. 'Do you feel it to be a matter upon which
you will congratulate her?'
'A very different thing!' said Sol vehemently. 'Though he is your
brother, sir, I must say this, that I would rather she married the
poorest man I know.'
'Why?'
'From what my father has told me of him, he is not--a more desirable
brother-in-law to me than I shall be in all likelihood to him. What
business has a man of that character to marry Berta, I should like to
ask?'
'That's what I say,' returned Mountclere, revealing his satisfaction at
Sol's estimate of his noble brother: it showed that he had calculated
well in coming here. 'My brother is getting old, and he has lived
strangely: your sister is a highly respectable young lady.'
'And he is not respectable, you mean? I know he is not. I worked near
Enckworth once.'
'I cannot say that,' returned Mountclere. Possibly a certain fraternal
feeling repressed a direct assent: and yet this was the only
representation which could be expected to prejudice the young man against
the wedding, if he were such an one as the visitor supposed Sol to be--a
man vulgar in sentiment and ambition, but pure in his anxiety for his
sister's happiness. 'At any rate, we are agreed in thinking that this
would be an unfortunate marriage for both,' added Mountclere.
'About both I don't know. It may be a good thing for him. When do you
say it is to be, sir--to-morrow?'
'Yes.'
'I don't know what to do!' said Sol, walking up and down. 'If half what
I have heard is true, I would lose a winter's work to prevent her
marrying him. What does she want to go mixing in with people who despise
her for? Now look here, Mr. Mountclere, since you have been and called
me out to talk this over, it is only fair that you should tell me the
exact truth about your brother. Is it a lie, or is it true, that he is
not fit to be the husband of a decent woman?'
'That is a curious inquiry,' said Mountclere, whose manner and aspect,
neutral as a winter landscape, had little in common with Sol's warm and
unrestrained bearing. 'There are reasons why I think your sister will
not be happy with him.'
'Then it is true what they say,' said Sol, bringing down his fist upon
the table. 'I know your meaning well enough. What's to be done? If I
could only see her this minute, she might be kept out of it.'
'You think your presence would influence your sister--if you could see
her before the wedding?'
'I think it would. But who's to get at her?'
'I am going, so you had better come on with me--unless it would be best
for your father to come.'
'Perhaps it might,' said the bewildered Sol. 'But he will not be able to
get away; and it's no use for Dan to go. If anybody goes I must! If she
has made up her mind nothing can be done by writing to her.'
'I leave at once to see Lord Mountclere,' the other continued. 'I feel
that as my brother is evidently ignorant of the position of Mrs.
Petherwin's family and connections, it is only fair in me, as his nearest
relative, to make them clear to him before it is too late.'
'You mean that if he knew her friends were working-people he would not
think of her as a wife? 'Tis a reasonable thought. But make your mind
easy: she has told him. I make a great mistake if she has for a moment
thought of concealing that from him.'
'She may not have deliberately done so. But--and I say this with no ill-
feeling--it is a matter known to few, and she may have taken no steps to
undeceive him. I hope to bring him to see the matter clearly.
Unfortunately the thing has been so secret and hurried that there is
barely time. I knew nothing until this morning--never dreamt of such a
preposterous occurrence.'
'Preposterous! If it should come to pass, she would play her part as his
lady as well as any other woman, and better. I wish there was no more
reason for fear on my side than there is on yours! Things have come to a
sore head when she is not considered lady enough for such as he. But
perhaps your meaning is, that if your brother were to have a son, you
would lose your heir-presumptive title to the cor'net of Mountclere?
Well, 'twould be rather hard for ye, now I come to think o't--upon my
life, 'twould.'
'The suggestion is as delicate as the --- atmosphere of this vile room.
But let your ignorance be your excuse, my man. It is hardly worth while
for us to quarrel when we both have the same object in view: do you think
so?'
'That's true--that's true. When do you start, sir?'
'We must leave almost at once,' said Mountclere, looking at his watch.
'If we cannot catch the two o'clock train, there is no getting there to-
night--and to-morrow we could not possibly arrive before one.'
'I wish there was time for me to go and tidy myself a bit,' said Sol,
anxiously looking down at his working clothes. 'I suppose you would not
like me to go with you like this?'
'Confound the clothes! If you cannot start in five minutes, we shall not
be able to go at all.'
'Very well, then--wait while I run across to the shop, then I am ready.
How do we get to the station?'
'My carriage is at the corner waiting. When you come out I will meet you
at the gates.'
Sol then hurried downstairs, and a minute or two later Mr. Mountclere
followed, looking like a man bent on policy at any price. The carriage
was brought round by the time that Sol reappeared from the yard. He
entered and sat down beside Mountclere, not without a sense that he was
spoiling good upholstery; the coachman then allowed the lash of his whip
to alight with the force of a small fly upon the horses, which set them
up in an angry trot. Sol rolled on beside his new acquaintance with the
shamefaced look of a man going to prison in a van, for pedestrians
occasionally gazed at him, full of what seemed to himself to be ironical
surprise.
'I am afraid I ought to have changed my clothes after all,' he said,
writhing under a perception of the contrast between them. 'Not knowing
anything about this, I ain't a bit prepared. If I had got even my second-
best hat, it wouldn't be so bad.'
'It makes no difference,' said Mountclere inanimately.
'Or I might have brought my portmantle, with some things.'
'It really is not important.'
On reaching the station they found there were yet a few minutes to spare,
which Sol made use of in writing a note to his father, to explain what
had occurred.