HOW APOLLO SAVED THE NAVVY
About the middle of November, the Woodwards went to Torquay, and
remained there till the following May. Norman went with them to see them
properly settled in their new lodgings, and visited them at Christmas,
and once again during their stay there. He then went down to fetch them
home, and when they all returned, informed Charley, with whom he was
still living, that he was engaged to Linda. It was arranged, he said,
that they were to be married in August.
On the whole, the journey to Torquay was considered to have been
successful. Katie's health had been the only object in going there, and
the main consideration while they remained. She returned, if not well,
at any rate not worse. She had got through the winter, and her lungs
were still pronounced to be free from those dreadful signs of decay, the
name of which has broken so many mothers' hearts, and sent dismay into
the breasts of so many fathers. During her sojourn at Torquay she had
grown much, and, as is often the case with those who grow quickly, she
had become weak and thin. People at Torquay are always weak and thin,
and Mrs. Woodward had not, therefore, been greatly frightened at this.
Her spirits, though by no means such as they had been in former days,
had improved, she had occupied herself more than she had done during the
last two months at Hampton, and had, at least so Mrs. Woodward fondly
flattered herself, ceased to be always thinking of Charley Tudor. It was
quite clear that she had firmly made up her mind to some certain line of
conduct with reference to him; she never mentioned his name, nor was
it mentioned in her hearing by either her mother or sister during
their stay at Torquay. When Norman came down, she always found some
opportunity of inquiring from him as to Charley's health and welfare;
but she did this in a manner which showed that she had succeeded in
placing her feelings wonderfully under control.
On that Monday morning, on which Charley had returned to town after his
early visit to her workbox, she had not failed to find the purse. Linda
was with her when she did so, but she had contrived so to conceal her
emotion, that nothing was seen and nothing suspected. She felt at once
that it was intended that all intercourse should be broken off between
them. She knew instinctively that this was the effect of some precaution
on her mother's part, and with a sad bosom and a broken heart, she
acquiesced in it. She said nothing, even to herself, of the truth and
constancy of her love; she made no mental resolution against any other
passion; she did not even think whether or not she might ever be tempted
to love another; but she felt a dumb aching numbness about her heart;
and, looking round about her, she seemed to feel that all was dark and
dismal.
And so they sojourned through the winter at Torquay. The effort which
Katie made was undoubtedly salutary to her. She took again to her work
and her lessons--studies we should probably now call them--and before
she left Torquay, she had again learned how to smile; but not to laugh
with that gay ringing silver laughter, ringing, but yet not loud, which
to Charley's ear had been as sweet as heavenly music. During this time
Uncle Bat remained at Hampton, keeping bachelor's house by himself.
And then while they were at Torquay, Linda and Norman became engaged
to each other. Their loves were honest, true, and happy; but not of a
nature to give much scope to a novelist of a romantic turn. Linda knew
she was not Norman's first love, and requited Norman, of course, by
telling him something, not much, of Alaric's falseness to her. Norman
made but one ungenerous stipulation. It was this: that in marrying him
Linda must give up all acquaintance with her brother-in-law. He would
never, he said, be the means of separating two sisters; she and Gertrude
might have such intercourse together as their circumstances might render
possible; but it was quite out of the question that either he, Harry
Norman, or his wife, should ever again associate with Alaric Tudor.
In such matters Linda had always been guided by others; so she sighed
and promised, and the engagement was duly ratified by all the parties
concerned.
We must now return to Charley. When he got back to town, he felt that he
had lost his amulet; his charm had gone from him, and he had nothing now
left whereby to save himself from ruin and destruction. He was utterly
flung over by the Woodwards; that now was to him an undoubted fact. When
Mrs. Woodward told him that he was never again to see Katie, that was,
of course, tantamount to turning him out of the Cottage. It might be
all very well to talk to him of affection and friendship; but it was
manifest that no further signs of either were to be shown to him. He had
proved himself to be unworthy, and was no more to be considered as
one of the circle which made the drawing-room at Surbiton Cottage its
centre. He could not quite explain all this to Norman, as he could not
tell him what had passed between him and Mrs. Woodward; but he said
enough to make his friend know that he intended to go to Hampton no
more.
It would be wrong, perhaps, to describe Charley as being angry with Mrs.
Woodward. He knew that she was only doing her duty by her child; he knew
that she was actuated by the purest and best of motives; he was not able
to say a word against her even to himself; but, nevertheless, he desired
to be revenged on her--not by injuring her, not by injuring Katie--but
by injuring himself. He would make Mrs. Woodward feel what she had done,
by rushing, himself, on his own ruin. He would return to the 'Cat and
Whistle'--he would keep his promise and marry Norah Geraghty--he would
go utterly to destruction, and then Mrs. Woodward would know and feel
what she had done in banishing him from her daughter's presence!
Having arrived at this magnanimous resolution after a fortnight's doubt
and misery, he proceeded to put his purpose into execution. It was now
some considerable time since he had been at the 'Cat and Whistle;' he
had had no further visit from Mrs. Davis, but he had received one or
two notes both from her and Norah, to which, as long as he had Katie's
purse, he was resolute in not replying; messages also had reached him
from the landlady through Dick Scatterall, in the last of which he was
reminded that there was a trifle due at the bar, and another trifle for
money lent.
One night, having lashed himself up to a fit state of wretched
desperation, he found himself at the well-known corner of the street
leading out of the Strand. On his journey thither he had been trying to
realize to himself what it would be to be the husband of Norah Geraghty;
what would be the joy of returning to a small house in some dingy suburb
and finding her to receive him. Could he really love her when she would
be bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, the wife of his bosom and
the mother of his children? In such a case would he ever be able to
forget that he had known Katie Woodward? Would those words of hers ever
ring in his ears, then as now--'You will be steady, dear Charley; won't
you?'
There are those who boast that a gentleman must always be a gentleman;
that a man, let him marry whom he will, raises or degrades his wife to
the level of his own condition, and that King Cophetua could share his
throne with a beggar-woman without sullying its splendour or diminishing
its glory. How a king may fare in such a condition, the author, knowing
little of kings, will not pretend to say; nor yet will he offer an
opinion whether a lowly match be fatally injurious to a marquess,
duke, or earl; but this he will be bold to affirm, that a man from
the ordinary ranks of the upper classes, who has had the nurture of a
gentleman, prepares for himself a hell on earth in taking a wife from
any rank much below his own--a hell on earth, and, alas! too often
another hell elsewhere also. He must either leave her or loathe her.
She may be endowed with all those moral virtues which should adorn all
women, and which, thank God, are common to women in this country; but
he will have to endure habits, manners, and ideas, which the close
contiguity of married life will force upon his disgusted palate,
and which must banish all love. Man by instinct desires in his wife
something softer, sweeter, more refined than himself; and though in
failing to obtain this, the fault may be all his own, he will not on
that account the more easily reconcile himself to the want.
Charley knew that he was preparing such misery for himself. As he went
along, determined to commit a moral suicide by allying himself to the
barmaid, he constrained himself to look with his mind's eye 'upon this
picture and on that.'
He had felt of what nature was the sort of love with which Katie
Woodward had inspired his heart; and he felt also what was that other
sort of love to which the charms of Norah Geraghty had given birth.
Norah was a fine girl, smart enough in her outward apparel, but apt
occasionally to disclose uncomfortable secrets, if from any accident
more than her outward apparel might momentarily become visible. When
dressed up for a Sunday excursion she had her attractions, and even on
ordinary evenings, a young man such as Charley, after imbibing two or
three glasses of spirits and water, and smoking two or three cigars,
might find her to be what some of her friends would have called 'very
good company.' As to her mind, had Charley been asked about it, he would
probably have said that he was ignorant whether she had any; but this
he did know, that she was sharp and quick, alert in counting change, and
gifted with a peculiar power of detecting bad coin by the touch. Such
was Norah Geraghty, whom Charley was to marry.
And then that other portrait was limned with equal accuracy before his
eyes. Katie, with all her juvenile spirit, was delightfully feminine;
every motion of hers was easy, and every form into which she could twist
her young limbs was graceful. She had all the nice ideas and ways which
a girl acquires when she grows from childhood to woman's stature, under
the eye of a mother who is a lady. Katie could be untidy on occasions;
but her very untidiness was inviting. All her belongings were nice; she
had no hidden secrets, the chance revealing of which would disgrace her.
She might come in from her island palaces in a guise which would call
down some would-be-censorious exclamation from her mother; but all
others but her mother would declare that Katie in such moments was more
lovely than ever. And Katie's beauty pleased more than the eye--it came
home to the mind and heart of those who saw her. It spoke at once to the
intelligence, and required, for its full appreciation, an exercise of
the mental faculties, as well as animal senses. If the owner of that
outward form were bad or vile, one would be inclined to say that Nature
must have lied when she endowed her with so fair an index. Such was
Katie Woodward, whom Charley was not to marry.
As he turned down Norfolk Street, he thought of all this, as the
gambler, sitting with his razor before him with which he intends to cut
his throat, may be supposed to think of the stakes which he has failed
to win, and the fortune he has failed to make. Norah Geraghty was
Charley's razor, and he plunged boldly into the 'Cat and Whistle,'
determined to draw it at once across his weasand, and sever himself for
ever from all that is valuable in the world.
It was now about eleven o'clock, at which hour the 'Cat and Whistle'
generally does its most stirring trade. This Charley knew; but he also
knew that the little back parlour, even if there should be an inmate
in it at the time of his going in, would soon be made private for his
purposes.
When he went in, Mrs. Davis was standing behind the counter, dressed in
a cap of wonderful grandeur, and a red tabinet gown, which rustled among
the pots and jars, sticking out from her to a tremendous width, inflated
by its own magnificence and a substratum of crinoline. Charley had never
before seen her arrayed in such royal robes. Her accustomed maid was
waiting as usual on the guests, and another girl also was assisting; but
Norah did not appear to Charley's first impatient glance.
He at once saw that something wonderful was going on. The front parlour
was quite full, and the ministering angel was going in and out quickly,
with more generous supplies of the gifts of Bacchus than were usual
at the 'Cat and Whistle.' Gin and water was the ordinary tipple in the
front parlour; and any one of its denizens inclined to cut a dash above
his neighbours generally did so with a bottom of brandy. But now Mrs.
Davis was mixing port-wine negus as fast as her hands could make it.
And then there were standing round the counter four or five customers,
faces well known to Charley, all of whom seemed to be dressed with a
splendour second only to that of the landlady. One man had on an almost
new brown frock coat with a black velvet collar, and white trousers.
Two had blue swallow-tailed coats with brass buttons; and a fourth, a
dashing young lawyer's clerk from Clement's Inn, was absolutely stirring
a mixture, which he called a mint julep, with a yellow kid glove
dangling out of his hand.
They all stood back when Charley entered; they had been accustomed to
make way for him in former days, and though he had latterly ceased to
rule at the 'Cat and Whistle' as he once did, they were too generous to
trample on fallen greatness. He gave his hand to Mrs. Davis across the
counter, and asked her in the most unconcerned voice which he could
assume what was in the wind. She tittered and laughed, told him he
had come too late for the fun, and then retreated into the little back
parlour, whither he followed her. She was at any rate in a good humour,
and seemed quite inclined to forgive his rather uncivil treatment of her
notes and messages.
In the back parlour Charley found more people drinking, and among them
three ladies of Mrs. Davis's acquaintance. They were all very fine in
their apparel, and very comfortable as to their immediate employment,
for each had before her a glass of hot tipple. One of them, a
florid-faced dame about fifty, Charley had seen before, and knew to
be the wife of a pork butcher and sausage maker in the neighbourhood.
Directly he entered the room, Mrs. Davis formally introduced him to them
all. 'A very particular friend of mine, Mrs. Allchops; and of Norah's
too, I can assure you,' said Mrs. Davis.
'Ah, Mr. Tudor, and how be you? A sight of you is good for sore eyes,'
said she of the sausages, rising with some difficulty from her chair,
and grasping Charley's hand with all the pleasant cordiality of old
friendship.
'The gen'leman seems to be a little too late for the fair,' said a
severe lodging-house keeper from Cecil Street.
'Them as wills not, when they may,
When they wills they shall have nay,'
said a sarcastic rival barmaid from a neighbouring public, to whom all
Norah's wrongs and all Mr. Tudor's false promises were fully known.
Charley was not the fellow to allow himself to be put down, even by
feminine raillery; so he plucked up his spirit, sad as he was at heart,
and replied to them all _en masse_.
'Well, ladies, what's in the wind now? You seem to be very cosy here,
all of you; suppose you allow me to join you.'
'With a 'eart and a 'alf,' said Mrs. Allchops, squeezing her corpulence
up to the end of the horsehair sofa, so as to make room for him between
herself and the poetic barmaid. 'I'd sooner have a gentleman next to me
nor a lady hany day of the week; so come and sit down, my birdie.'
But Charley, as he was about to accept the invitation of his friend Mrs.
Allchops, caught Mrs. Davis's eye, and followed her out of the room into
the passage. 'Step up to the landing, Mr. Tudor,' said she; and Charley
stepped up. 'Come in here, Mr. Tudor--you won't mind my bedroom for
once.' And Charley followed her in, not minding her bedroom.
'Of course you know what has happened, Mr. Tudor?' said she.
'Devil a bit,' said Charley.
'Laws, now--don't you indeed? Well, that is odd.'
'How the deuce should I know? Where's Norah?'
'Why--she's at Gravesend.'
'At Gravesend--you don't mean to say she's----'
'I just do then; she's just gone and got herself spliced to Peppermint
this morning. They had the banns said these last three Sundays; and this
morning they was at St. Martin's at eight o'clock, and has been here
junketing ever since, and now they're away to Gravesend.'
'Gravesend!' said Charley, struck by the suddenness of his rescue, as
the gambler would have been had some stranger seized the razor at the
moment when it was lifted to his throat.
'Yes, Gravesend,' said Mrs. Davis; 'and they'll come up home to his own
house by the first boat to-morrow.'
'So Norah's married!' said Charley, with a slight access of sentimental
softness in his voice.
'She's been and done it now, Mr. Tudor, and no mistake; and it's better
so, ain't it? Why, Lord love you, she'd never have done for you, you
know; and she's the very article for such a man as Peppermint.'
There was something good-natured in this, and so Charley felt it. As
long as Mrs. Davis could do anything to assist her cousin's views, by
endeavouring to seduce or persuade her favourite lover into a marriage,
she left no stone unturned, working on her cousin's behalf. But now,
now that all those hopes were over, now that Norah had consented to
sacrifice love to prudence, why should Mrs. Davis quarrel with an old
friend any longer?--why should not things be made pleasant to him as to
the others?
'And now, Mr. Tudor, come down, and drink a glass to their healths, and
wish 'em both well, and don't mind what them women says to you. You're
well out of a mess; and now it's all over, I'm glad it is as it is.'
Charley went down and took his glass and drank 'prosperity to the bride
and bridegroom.' The sarcastic rival barmaid said little snappish things
to him, offered him a bit of green ribbon, and told him that if he
'minded hisself,' somebody might, perhaps, take him yet. But Charley was
proof against this.
He sat there about half an hour, and then went his way, shaking hands
with all the ladies and bowing to the gentlemen. On the following day,
as soon as he left his office, he called at the 'Cat and Whistle,' and
paid his little bill there, and said his last farewell to Mrs. Davis. He
never visited the house again. Now that Norah was gone the attractions
were not powerful. Reader, you and I will at the same time say our
farewells to Mrs. Davis, to Mr. Peppermint also, and to his bride. If
thou art an elegant reader, unaccustomed to the contamination of pipes
and glasses, I owe thee an apology in that thou hast been caused to
linger a while among things so unsavoury. But if thou art one who of
thine own will hast taken thine ease in thine inn, hast enjoyed the
freedom of a sanded parlour, hast known 'that ginger is hot in the
mouth,' and made thyself light-hearted with a yard of clay, then thou
wilt confess there are worse establishments than the 'Cat and Whistle,'
less generous landladies than Mrs. Davis.
When all this happened the Woodwards had not been long at Torquay. Mr.
Peppermint was made a happy man before Christmas; and therefore Charley
was left to drift before the wind without the ballast of any lady's love
to keep him in sailing trim. Poor fellow! he had had wealth on one side,
beauty and love on another, and on the third all those useful qualities
which Miss Geraghty has been described as possessing. He had been thus
surrounded by feminine attractions, and had lost them all. Two of those,
from whom he had to choose, had married others, and he was banished from
the presence of the third. Under such circumstances what could he do but
drift about the gulfs and straits of the London ocean without compass or
rudder, and bruise his timbers against all the sunken rocks that might
come in his way?
And then Norman told him of his coming marriage, and Charley was more
sad than ever. And thus matters went on with him till the period at
which our story will be resumed at the return of the Woodwards to
Hampton.
In the meantime another winter and another spring had passed over
Alaric's head, and now the full tide of the London season found him
still rising, and receiving every day more of the world's homage. Sir
Gregory Hardlines had had every reason to praise his own judgement in
selecting Mr. Tudor for the vacant seat among the Magi.
From that moment all had gone smooth with Sir Gregory; there was no one
to interfere with his hobby, or run counter to his opinion. Alaric
was all that was conciliatory and amiable in a colleague. He was not
submissive and cringing; and had he been so, Sir Gregory, to do him
justice, would have been disgusted; but neither was he self-opinionated
nor obstinate like Mr. Jobbles. He insisted on introducing no crotchets
of his own, and allowed Sir Gregory all the credit of the Commission.
This all went on delightfully for a while; but on one morning, early
in May, Alaric somewhat disturbed the equanimity of his chief by
communicating to him his intention of becoming a candidate for the
representation of the borough of Strathbogy, at the next general
election, which was to take place very shortly after the close of the
session. Sir Gregory was dumbfounded, and expressed himself as incapable
of believing that Tudor really meant to throw up £1,200 a year on
the mere speculation of its being possible that he should get into
Parliament. Men in general, as Sir Gregory endeavoured to explain with
much eloquence, go into Parliament for the sake of getting places of
£1,200 a year. For what earthly reason should Alaric again be going to
the bottom of the ladder, seeing that he had already attained a rung of
such very respectable altitude? Alaric said to himself, 'Excelsior!' To
Sir Gregory he suggested that it might be possible that he should get
into Parliament without giving up his seat at the Board. Earth and
heaven, it might be hoped, would not come together, even though so great
a violence as this should be done to the time-honoured practices of
the Government. Sir Gregory suggested that it was contrary to the
constitution. Alaric replied that the constitution had been put upon to
as great an extent before this, and had survived. Sir Gregory regarded
it as all but impossible, and declared it to be quite unusual. Alaric
rejoined that something of the same kind had been done at the Poor Law
Board. To this Sir Gregory replied, gently pluming his feathers with
conscious greatness, that at the Poor Law Board the chief of the
Commission was the Parliamentary officer. Alaric declared that he was
perfectly willing to give way if Sir Gregory would go into the House
himself. To this Sir Gregory demurred; not feeling himself called on to
change the sphere of his utility. And so the matter was debated between
them, till at last Sir Gregory promised to consult his friend the
Chancellor of the Exchequer. The ice was thus broken, and Alaric was
quite contented with the part which he had taken in the conversation.
With his own official prospects, in spite of the hazardous step which he
now meditated, he was quite contented. He had an idea that in the public
service of the Government, as well as in all other services, men who
were known to be worth their wages would find employment. He was worth
his wages. Men who could serve their country well, who could adapt
themselves to work, who were practical, easy in harness, able to drive
and patient to be driven, were not, unfortunately, as plentiful as
blackberries. He began to perceive that a really useful man could not
be found miscellaneously under every hat in Pall Mall. He knew his own
value, and did not fear but that he should find a price for it in some
of the world's markets. He would not, therefore, allow himself to be
deterred from further progress by any fear that in doing so he risked
the security of his daily bread; no, not though the risk extended to
his wife; she had taken him for better or worse; if the better came she
should share it; if the worse, why let her share that also, with such
consolation as his affection might be able to offer.
There was something noble in this courage, in this lack of prudence. It
may be a question whether men, in marrying, do not become too prudent.
A single man may risk anything, says the world; but a man with a wife
should be sure of his means. Why so? A man and a woman are but two
units. A man and a woman with ten children are but twelve units. It is
sad to see a man starving--sad to see a woman starving--very sad to see
children starving. But how often does it come to pass that the man who
will work is seen begging his bread? we may almost say never--unless,
indeed, he be a clergyman. Let the idle man be sure of his wife's bread
before he marries her; but the working man, one would say, may generally
trust to God's goodness without fear.
With his official career Alaric was, as we have said, well contented;
in his stock-jobbing line of business he also had had moments of great
exaltation, and some moments of considerable depression. The West Corks
had vacillated. Both he and Undy had sold and bought and sold again;
and on the whole their stake in that stupendous national line of
accommodation was not so all-absorbing as it had once been. But if money
had been withdrawn from this, it had been invested elsewhere, and the
great sum borrowed from Madame Jaquêtanàpe's fortune had been in no
part replaced--one full moiety of it had been taken--may one not say
stolen?--to enable Alaric and Undy to continue their speculations.
The undertaking to which they were now both wedded was the Limehouse
and Rotherhithe Bridge. Of this Undy was chairman, and Alaric was a
director, and at the present moment they looked for ample fortune, or
what would nearly be ample ruin, to the decision of a committee of the
House of Commons which was about to sit with the view of making inquiry
as to the necessity of the bridge in question.
Mr. Nogo, the member for Mile End, was the parent of this committee. He
asserted that the matter was one of such vital importance not only to
the whole metropolis, but to the country at large, that the Government
were bound in the first place to give a large subsidy towards building
the bridge, and afterwards to pay a heavy annual sum towards the amount
which it would be necessary to raise by tolls. Mr. Whip Vigil, on the
other hand, declared on the part of Government that the bridge was
wholly unnecessary; that if it were built it ought to be pulled down
again; and that not a stiver could be given out of the public purse with
such an object.
On this they joined issue. Mr. Nogo prayed for a committee, and Mr.
Vigil, having duly consulted his higher brethren in the Government,
conceded this point. It may easily be conceived how high were now the
hopes both of Undy Scott and Alaric Tudor. It was not at all necessary
for them that the bridge should ever be built; that, probably, was
out of the question; that, very likely, neither of them regarded as a
possibility. But if a committee of the House of Commons could be got to
say that it ought to be built, they might safely calculate on selling
out at a large profit.
But who were to sit on the committee? That was now the all-momentous
question.