It was evening. The cottage fire blazed bright and warm. Two tallow
candles were upon the table; for Chandos loved light, and burnt two
tallow candles. Moreover, the people of the hamlet thought him a great
man because he did so. Such is the appreciation of the world--such
the all-pervading influence of the spirit of the country and the
times--such the admiration of money in the _United_ Kingdom! of Great
Britain and Ireland, that the neighbouring peasantry thought him a
much greater man than the last head-gardener, because he burnt two
tallow candles, and the last burnt only one. Take it home to you, ye
gentlemen in Grosvenor-square. Your services of gilded plate, your
rich dinners, your innumerable lackeys, (none below six feet two),
which gain you such envious reverence from those who use Sheffield
plate, and content themselves with a foot-boy, is nothing more than
the burning of two tallow candles, in the eyes of your inferiors in
wealth. Be vain of it, if you can!
There was a neat row of books upon a shelf, against the little parlour
wall. Many related to gardening; but there was Shakespeare and Milton,
Ben, Beaumont and Fletcher, Herrick and Donne, and Cowley. Ranged
near, too, were seen, in good old bindings, Virgil and Horace, Lucan,
Tibullus, Martial, and Cicero. Ovid was not there; for Chandos had no
taste for gods and goddesses _en bagnio_. Homer and Lucretius were put
behind the rest, but where they could be got at easily.
There were tea-cups and saucers on the table; and the old woman who
had been hired to keep his house orderly, and attend upon little Tim,
after he had become a denizen of the cottage, was boiling the water in
the adjoining kitchen.
"Great A," said Chandos; and, out of a number of pasteboard letters on
the floor, the boy brought one, saying, "Great A. It looks like the
roof of a house."
"Great B," repeated his self-installed master; and the boy brought
great B, remarking that it was like two sausages on a skewer. For
every letter he had some comparison; and it is wonderful how rapidly
by his own system of mnemonics he had taught himself to recollect one
from the other.
"Now for the little bit of catechism, Tim," said the young gentleman;
"then a piece of bread-and-jam, and to bed."
The boy came and stood at his knee, as if it had been a father's, and
repeated a few sentences of the First Catechism, in answer to
Chandos's questions; and the young gentleman patted his head, gave him
the thick-spread bread-and-jam, and was dismissing him to the care of
Dame Humphreys, when the room-door was quietly pushed open--it had
been ajar--and the tall, fine form of Lockwood appeared.
"Ah, Lockwood! good evening," said Chandos. "Why, you are a late
visitor.--But what is the matter? You seem agitated."
"Nothing, nothing. Sir," answered the other. "Only, to see you and the
little boy, put me in mind of my poor mother; and how she used to cry
sometimes when she was teaching me my catechism, long before I could
understand that it made her think that she had been wronged, and had
done wrong, too, herself. But who is the lad? if it be not an
impertinent question. He's not one of your own angles?"
"I do not understand you, Lockwood," replied Chandos, in some
surprise. "If you mean to ask, whether he is a child of mine, I say,
'Certainly not.' Do you not see he is eight or nine years old?"
"I call all children angles," answered Lockwood, smiling, "because
they are the meeting of two lines. You, for instance, are an isosceles
angle, because the two sides are equal. I am not, you know; which is a
misfortune, not a fault. But whose son is the boy? He seems a fine
little fellow."
Chandos explained, and his explanation threw Lockwood into a fit of
musing. During its continuance, his half-brother had an opportunity of
examining what it was which had effected, since they last met, a
considerable difference in his personal appearance; and at length he
interrupted his meditation by observing, "I see you have let your
whiskers grow, Lockwood."
"Yes," replied the other. "Yours pleased me; and so I determined to be
_barbatus_ also. Why men should shave off their beards at all I cannot
divine. Saints and patriarchs wore them. All the greatest men in the
world have worn them, with the exception of Newton, Moses, Mahomet,
Friar Bacon, King Alfred, and Numa Pompilius, were all bearded, as
well as Bluebeard, that strict disciplinarian, with Mr. Muntz, and his
brother, the Shah of Persia, and Prester John, who, if we knew his
whole history, was probably the greatest man amongst them. But
whiskers must do for the present. Perhaps I shall come to a whole
beard in time. I have brought you a leash of teal, and some news; for
which you shall give me a cup of tea."
"I can give you a bed, too," answered Chandos; "for, thanks to your
good care, all the rooms are furnished now."
"Not for me," answered Lockwood: "I am back by moonlight. The goddess
rises at eleven, I think; and I will be her Carian boy to-night--only
I will not sleep, but walk while she kisses my brow."
Another cup was brought, and Chandos added some more tea to the
infusion. His companion seemed in a somewhat wandering mood of mind,
and many were the subjects started before he came to the news which he
had to tell. "What capital tea!" he said. "Mine is but sage and sloe
leaf to this. How we go on adulterating! There is not a thing
now-a-day that we eat or drink which is pure. Good things become
condemned by the foul imitations which men sell for them; and the
cheatery of the multitude robs the honest man of his due repute.
Instead of standing out in bright singularity, he is confounded in the
mass of rogues. Short measure, false weights, diminished numbers,
forged tickets, fictitious representations, adulterated goods, and
worthless fabrications, are the things upon which the once glorious
British trader now thrives. But it is only for a little day. Found
out, he will soon be despised; despised, neglected; and neglected,
ruined--or, at least, if it touches not this generation, it will the
next."
"But, my good friend, it is not the British trader or manufacturer
alone," answered Chandos; "I can tell you, by having travelled a good
deal, that it is the spirit of the age, and pervades the whole world,
except in its most uncivilized districts. You can depend upon nothing
that you buy. A rich traveller orders his bottle of Champagne at an
inn, and is charged an enormous price for a deleterious beverage
prepared within half-a-dozen yards of the spot where he drinks it,
though that may be five hundred miles from Champagne. A spirit drinker
requires a glass of brandy, gets some fermented juice of the potato,
and is charged for _old Cognac_. Another asks for Saxony linen, and
receives a mixture of cotton and lint that is worn out in half the
time which would be required to use the article he paid for. Every man
in Europe, with a very few exceptions, thinks only of present gain,
without regard to honesty or future reputation."
"He will kill the goose with the golden eggs," said Lockwood.
"He cares not for that," answered Chandos. "The grand principle of
action in the present day was developed nearly forty years ago, when
one of a family, the wittiest perhaps that ever lived, and the one
which most quickly seized the feelings of their times, asked, 'What
did posterity ever do for me?' That is the secret of everything
strange that we see around us. Each man lives alone for his own
earthly life: he cares not either for those who come after, or for
remote reputation, or for a world that is to come. In regard to the
first, he thinks, 'They will take care of themselves, as I have done.'
In regard to the second he says, 'It is a bubble that, as far as I am
concerned, breaks when I die.' In regard to the third, his ideas are
indefinite; and while he admits that there may be an hereafter, he
takes his chance, and says, 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush.'"
"Ay, so it was with Mr. Parkington, the rich manufacturer who bought
Greenlees, close by Winslow, and died there," said Lockwood. "When he
was upon his death-bed, the parson of the parish went to console him,
and talked of the joys of Heaven. He spoke too finely for the old
spinner, I've a notion; for after he had told him of eternal happiness
in the knowledge and love of God, the sick man raised his gray head
and said, 'Thank you, thank you, Mr. Wilmington; but, after all, _Old
England fur my money!_'"
Chandos could not refrain a smile. "Too true a picture," he said, "of
the mind of a money-getting man. But the state of our society is in
fault in giving such a bias to human weakness. We are taught from the
earliest period of our lives to think that the great object of
existence is money, and what money can procure. The whole tendency of
the age, in short, is material; and political economists, while
systematizing one class of man's efforts, have (unwittingly, I do
believe) left out of all consideration the higher and more important
duties and efforts which his station in creation imposes upon him.
Were man but the most reasoning of animals, such systems might do very
well; but for those who believe him to be something more, who know, or
feel, or hope that he is a responsible agent, to whom powers are
confided in trust for great purposes, a system that excludes or omits
all the wider relations of spirit with spirit, which takes no count of
man's immortal nature, which overlooks his dependence upon God and his
accountability to Him, is not only imperfect, but corrupt. It may be
said that it teaches man but one branch of the great social science;
and that to mix the consideration of others with it, would but
embarrass the theories which in themselves are right; but when a
system affects the whole relations of man with his fellow-creatures,
such an argument is inadmissible, upon the broad ground of reason, if
it be admitted that man is more than a machine, and most vicious, if
it be allowed that he is an accountable being under a code of laws
divine in their origin. These two questions are inseparable from every
argument affecting the dealings of man with man. Let those who reason
either admit or deny our immortality. If they deny, they may be right,
I say nought against it; and their reasoning regarding the machine,
_man_, would in most instances be very fair;--but if they admit, they
must take a wider grasp of the subject, and show that their doctrines
are compatible with his responsibility to God."
"It would be wide enough and difficult enough," answered Lockwood.
"But it is a science of which I understand nothing. It seems to have
taught us more of the acquisition of wealth, than the acquisition of
happiness; and to lead inevitably to the accumulation of money in few
hands, without tending to its after-distribution amongst many. This is
all I have seen it do yet."
"And that is a great evil," replied Chandos.
"A great evil, indeed," answered Lockwood, laughing. "For instance:
your brother is a great deal too rich; and it would be a capital
thing, if his property were distributed."
Chandos thought for a moment or two, very gravely, and then replied:
"I envy him not, Lockwood. Perhaps you may think it strange; but, I
assure you, what I am going to say is true: I would a great deal
rather be as I am, with the poor pittance I possess, than my brother
with his thoughts and feelings, and all his wealth. There must be
things resting on his mind, which, to me at least, would embitter the
richest food, and strew with thorns the softest bed."
"Ah, I know what you mean," answered Lockwood; "I heard of it at the
time: seven or eight years ago. You mean that story of Susan Grey, the
Maid of the Mill, as they called her, who drowned herself."
Chandos nodded his head, but made no reply; and Lockwood went on,
"Ay, I remember her well; she was as pretty a creature as ever I saw,
and always used to put me in mind of the ballad of the 'Nut-brown
Maid.' You know, the old man died afterwards. He never held up his
head after your brother took her away. He became bankrupt in two
years, and was dead before the third was over. And the ruins of the
mill stand upon the hill, with the wind blowing through the plankless
beams, as through a murderer's bones in chains on a gibbet. But, after
all, though it was a very bad case, Sir William was but following his
father's example. The Greeks used to say, 'Bad the crow, bad the egg!'
and he trod in Sir Harry's footsteps."
"No, no, no!" said Chandos, vehemently; "my father might seduce,
but he did not abandon to neglect and scorn. He might carry
unhappiness--and he did--to many a hearth; but he did not, for the
sake of a few pitiful pounds, cast off to poverty and misery the
creature he had deluded. I know the whole story, Lockwood. This was
the cause of the first bitter quarrel between my brother and myself. I
was a boy of but seventeen then. But often I used to stop at the mill,
when out shooting, and get a draught of good beer from the miller, or
his pretty daughter. I was very fond of the girl, not with an evil
fondness; for, as I have said, I was a boy then, and she was several
years older than myself. But I thought her very beautiful and very
good, blithe as a lark, and, to all appearance, innocent as an early
summer morning. I saw her but two days before she went away; I saw
her, also, on the very day of her death, when she returned, pale,
haggard, in rags that hardly hid the proofs of her shame, to seek some
compassion from him who had ruined and deserted her; ay, and driven
her mad. It was I, who went in and told him she was in the park; and I
did so fiercely enough, perhaps. He called me an impertinent fool; but
went out to speak to her, while I ran hastily to my own room to bring
her what little store of money I had; for I doubted my brother. What
passed between them I do not well know; but, when I came to where they
stood in the park, under the lime trees, not far from the high bank
over the river, my brother's face was flushed and his look menacing;
he was speaking fiercely and vehemently; and in a moment the girl
turned from him and ran away up the bank. I followed to console and
give her assistance, never dreaming of what was about to happen; but
when I came up, I found some labourers, who were at work there,
running down the little path to the river side. One of them had his
coat and hat off, and, to my surprise, plunged into the water. But I
need not tell you more of that part of the story; for you know it all
already. I went back to the house, and straight to my father's room,
and I told him all. There, perhaps, I was wrong; but indignation
overpowered reflection, and I acted on the impulse of the moment. A
terrible scene followed: my brother was sent for; my father reproached
him bitterly for his ungenerous abandonment of the poor girl. He again
turned his fury upon me, and struck me; and, boy as I was, I knocked
him down at a blow before my father's face. Perhaps it is a just
punishment for that violence, that to his generosity my fate in life
was left. But yet it is very strange; for my father never forgave him;
and me he was always fond of."
"Very strange, indeed," answered Lockwood. "But this brings us by a
diagonal line to what I have got to tell you. Mr. Roberts has been
over at the Abbey for these last two days, and is putting all things
in order. A number of the tenants have been sent for, especially those
who have not got leases, but stand upon agreements; and he has given
them to know, that he is likely to quit your brother's service at the
end of three months."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Chandos. "I am sorry for that. But yet it does not
much surprise me. He and William are not made to act together. What
else has he done?"
"Why, he has behaved very well," answered Lockwood; "and I believe he
is an honest man. He left the people to judge for themselves, whether
they would demand leases upon their agreements, or not. But it has got
abroad, that the Abbey is to be immediately pulled down, all the
furniture sold, and perhaps the estates sold too. At all events, the
park is to be divided into two farms; though Mr. Roberts laughed and
said, he did not know who would take them, with my rights of free
warren over both."
Chandos leaned his head upon his hand, and closed his eyes with a look
of bitter mortification. "This is sad," he said, at length: "the fine
old Abbey, which has been in our family for three centuries! Well,
well! Every one has a bitter cup to drink at some time; and this, I
suppose, is the beginning of mine. Everything to be sold, did you say,
Lockwood? The family pictures and all?"
"All of them," answered Lockwood; "everything but what is left to you:
that is, the furniture of those two rooms and the books."
"I must have my mother's picture, let it cost what it will," said
Chandos. "I will write to Roberts about it, if you will give him the
note."
"Oh, there is time enough," rejoined his half-brother; "the sale won't
take place for some weeks yet. In the mean time we must think of
placing the books and bookcases, and all the rest of the things, in
some secure place; and next time I come over, I will go and talk to
Mr. Fleming about it. Here is the inventory I took of the things.
Roberts went over it with me and signed it, as you see. He says, you
may be rich enough after all; for, besides the books, which he
estimates at seven thousand pounds, he declares that the marble things
in the library are very valuable; and calls the little pictures in the
study, gems. I don't know what he means by that; for to me, they seem
as exactly like places, and things, and people I have seen a hundred
times, as possible. There's an old woman looking out of the window,
with a bottle in her hand, that, if the dress were not different, I
could swear, was a picture of my grandmother. However, he vows
it is worth a mint of money, though it is not much bigger than a
school-boy's slate."
"The Gerard Dow," said Chandos, smiling. "It is very valuable, I
believe; but I am so covetous, that I do not think I can make up my
mind to part with any of them. You must see to their being well packed
up, Lockwood; for the least injury to such pictures is fatal. The
books also must be taken great care of, especially those in the glazed
bookcases."
"Ay; but have you got the keys?" asked Lockwood. "Mr. Roberts was
asking for them, and says he does not know where they are."
"I have them not," answered Chandos; "I never had. My brother has
them, most likely."
"No," answered Lockwood; "he gave all the keys belonging to the Abbey
to Mr. Roberts; and these are not amongst them. But the locks can
easily be picked. I have always remarked, when people die, or change
their house, the keys go astray. But there's some one tapping at the
door; and so I shall go."
"Stay, stay," cried Chandos; "I should like to write that note to
Roberts at once: I would not have that picture of my mother go into
other hands, for all I possess. Come in!" and as he spoke, the door of
the room opened, and the head of the gipsey-woman, Sally Stanley, was
thrust in.
"You are not afraid of a gipsey at this time of night, master
gardener?" said the woman with a smile. "I want to see my boy, and
give him a kiss; for we are off at day-break to-morrow."
Lockwood stared at her, with a sort of scared look, as if her race
stood higher in his fears than estimation, and shook his head
suspiciously; while Chandos replied: "No, no, Sally, I am not afraid.
Go into that room; and the old woman will take you to your boy. He is
getting on very well, and knows his alphabet already."
The woman nodded her head, well pleased; and, with a glance from the
face of Chandos to that of his guest, walked on towards the door of
the kitchen.
"Now, Chandos," said Lockwood, "let me have the note."
The young gentleman raised his finger as a caution to his half-brother
not to mention aloud the name which he no longer bore. But the warning
was too late; the name was pronounced, and the gipsey-woman heard it.