EVASIONS.
It was in Manchester, whither he had gone to meet the famous John
Molyneux, that George Brand awoke on this dull and drizzly morning. The
hotel was almost full. He had been sent to the top floor; and now the
outlook from the window was dismal enough--some slated roofs, a red
chimney or two, and farther off the higher floors of a lofty warehouse,
in which the first signs of life were becoming visible. Early as it was,
there was a dull roar of traffic in the distance; occasionally there was
the scream of a railway whistle.
Neither the morning nor the prospect was conducive to a cheerful view of
life; and perhaps that was why, when he took in his boots and found in
one of them a letter, deposited there by the chamber-maid, which he at
once saw was in Ferdinand Lind's handwriting, that he instantly assumed,
mentally, an attitude of defiance. He did not open the letter just then.
He took time to let his opposition harden. He knew there would be
something or somebody to fight. It was too much to expect that
everything should go smoothly. If there was such a thing as a law of
compensation, that beautiful dream-like evening at the opera--the light,
the color, the softened music; the scent of white-rose; the dark, soft
eyes, and the last pressure of the hand; the forget-me-nots he carried
away with him--would have to be paid for somehow. And he had always
distrusted Ferdinand Lind. His instinct assured him that this letter,
which he had been looking for and yet dreading, contained a distinct
refusal.
His instinct was completely at fault. The letter was exceedingly kind
and suave. Mr. Lind might try to arouse his daughter from this idle
day-dream by sharp words and an ominous threat; he knew that it was
otherwise he must deal with Mr. George Brand.
* * * * *
"My dear Mr. Brand," he wrote, "as you may imagine, your letter has
surprised me not a little, and pleased me too for a father naturally is
proud to see his daughter thought well of; and your proposal is very
flattering; especially, I may add, as you have seen so little of
Natalie. You are very kind--and bold, and unlike English nature--to take
her and family on trust as it were; for are not your countrymen very
particular as to the relatives of those they would marry with? and of
Natalie's relatives and friends how many have you seen? Excuse me if I
do not quite explain myself; for writing in English is not as familiar
to me as to Natalie, who is quite an Englishwoman now. Very well; I
think it is kind of you to think so highly of my daughter as to offer
her to make her your wife, you knowing so little of her. But there you
do not mistake; she is worthy to be the wife of any one. If she ever
marries, I hope she will be as good a wife as she has been a daughter."
"If she ever marries!" This phrase sounded somewhat ominous; and yet, if
he meant to say "No," why not say it at once? Brand hastily glanced over
the letter, to find something definite; but he found that would not do.
He began again, and read with deliberation. The letter had obviously
been written with care.
"I have also to thank you, besides, for the very flattering proposal,
for your care to put this matter before me at an early time. Regarding
how little Natalie and you have seen each other, it is impossible that
either her or your affection can be so serious that it is not fair to
look on your proposal with some views as to expediency; and at an early
time one can easily control one's wishes. I can answer for my daughter
that she has always acted as I thought best for her happiness; and I am
sure that now, or at any time, in whatever emergency, she would far
prefer to have the decision rest with me, rather than take the
responsibility on herself."
When George Brand came to this passage he read it over again; and his
comment was, "My good friend, don't be too sure of that. It is possible
that you have lived nineteen years with your daughter to very little
purpose, so far as your knowledge of her character is concerned."
"Well, then, my dear sir," the letter proceeded, "all this being in such
a way, might I ask you to reflect again over your proposal, and examine
it from the view of expediency? You and I are not free agents, just to
please ourselves when we like. Perhaps I was wrong in my first objection
to your very flattering proposal; I believed you might, in marrying her,
withdraw from the work we are all engaged in; I feared this as a great
calamity--an injury done to many to gratify the fancy of one. But
Natalie, I will confess, scorned me for that doubt; and, indeed, was so
foolish as to propose a little hoax, to prove to me that, even if she
promised to marry you as a reward, she could not get you to abandon our
cause. 'No, no,' she said; 'that is not to be feared. He is not one to
go back.'"
When George Brand read these words his breath came and went a little
quickly. She should not find her faith in him misplaced.
"That is very well, very satisfactory, I said to her. We cannot afford
to lose you, whatever happens. To return; there are more questions of
expediency. For example, how can one tell what may be demanded of one?
Would it be wise for you to be hampered with a wife when you know not
where you may have to go? Again, would not the cares of a household
seriously interfere with your true devotion to your labors? You are so
happily placed! You are free from responsibilities: why increase them?
At present Natalie is in a natural and comfortable position; she has
grown accustomed to it; she is proud to know that she can be of
assistance to us; her life is not an unhappy one. But consider--a young
wife, separated from her husband perhaps by the Atlantic: in a new home,
with new duties; anxious, terrified with apprehensions: surely that is
not the change you would wish to see?"
For a second Brand was almost frightened by this picture, and a pang of
remorse flashed through his heart. But then his common-sense reasserted
itself. Why the Atlantic? Why should they be separated? Why should she
be terrified with apprehensions?
"As regards her future," her father continued, "I am not an old man; and
if anything were to happen to me, she has friends. Nor will I say to you
a word about myself, or my claim on her society and help; for parents
have not the right to sacrifice the happiness of their children to their
own convenience; it is so fortunate when they find, however, that there
is no dispositions on the part of the young to break those ties that
have been formed by the companionship of many years. It is this, my dear
friend and colleague, that makes me thank you for having spoken so
early; that I ask you to reconsider, and that I can advise my daughter,
without the fear that I am acting in a tyrannical manner or thwarting
any serious affection on her part. You will perceive I do not dictate. I
ask you to think over whether it is wise for your own happiness--whether
it would improve Natalie's probabilities of happiness--whether it would
interfere in some measure with the work you have undertaken--if you
continue to cherish this fancy, and let it grow on you. Surely it is
better, for a man to have but one purpose in life. Nevertheless, I am
open to conviction.
"That reminds me that there is another matter on which I should like to
say a few words to you when there is the chance. If there is a break in
the current of your present negotiations, shall you have time to run up
to London? Only this: you will, I trust, not seek to see Natalie, or to
write to her, until we have come to an understanding. Again I thank you
for having spoken to me so early, before any mischief can have been
done. Think over what I have said, my dear friend; and remember, above
all things, where your chief duty lies.
"Yours sincerely, Ferdinand Lind."
* * * * *
He read this letter over two or three times, and the more he read it the
more he was impressed with the vexatious conviction that it would be an
uncommonly difficult thing to answer it. It was so reasonable, so
sensible, so plausible. Then his old suspicions returned. Why was this
man Lind so plausible? If he objected, why did he not say so outright?
All these specious arguments: how was one to turn and twist, evading
some, meeting others; and all the time taking it for granted that the
happiness of two people's lives was to be dependent on such
logic-chopping as could be put down on a sheet of paper?
Then he grew impatient. He would not answer the letter at all. Lind did
not understand. The matter had got far ahead of this clever
argumentation; he would appeal to Natalie herself; it was her "Yes" or
"No" that would be final; not any contest and balancing of words. There
were others he could recall, of more importance to him. He could almost
hear them now in the trembling, low voice: "_I will be your wife, or the
wife of no one. Dear friend, I can say no more._" And again, when she
gave him the forget-me-nots, "_Whatever happens, you will remember that
there was one who at least wished to be worthy of your love._" He could
remember the proud, brave look; again he felt the trembling of the hand
that timidly sought his for an instant; he could almost scent the
white-rose again, and hear the murmur of the people in the corridor. And
this was the woman, into whose eyes he had looked as if they were the
eyes of his wife, who was to be taken away from him by means of a couple
of sheets of note-paper all covered over with little specious
suggestions.
He thrust the letter into a pocket, and hurriedly proceeded with his
dressing, for he had a breakfast appointment. Indeed, before he was
ready, the porter came up and said that a gentleman had called for him,
and was waiting for him in the coffee-room.
"Ask him what he will have for breakfast, and let him go on. I shall be
down presently."
When Brand did at length go down, he found that his visitor had frankly
accepted this permission, and had before him a large plate of
corned-beef, with a goodly tankard of beer. Mr. John Molyneux, although
he was a great authority among English workmen generally, and especially
among the trades-unionists of the North, had little about him of the
appearance of the sleek-haired demagogue as that person is usually
represented to us. He was a stout, yeoman-looking man, with a frosty-red
face and short silver-white whiskers; he had keen, shrewd blue eyes, and
a hand that gave a firm grip. The fact is, that Molyneux had in early
life been a farmer, and a well-to-do-farmer. But he had got smitten with
the writings of Cobbett, and he began to write too. Then he took to
lecturing--on the land laws, on Robert Owenism, on the Church of
England, but more especially on co-operation. Finding, however, that all
this pamphleteering and lecturing was playing ducks and drakes with his
farming, and being in many respects a shrewd and sensible person, he
resolved on selling out of his farm and investing the proceeds in the
government stock of America, the country of his deepest admiration. In
the end he found that he had about one hundred and fifty pounds a year,
on which he could live very comfortably, while giving up all his time
and attention to his energetic propagandism. This was the person who now
gave Brand a hearty greeting, and then took a long draught at the
tankard of ale.
"You see, Mr. Brand," said he, looking cautiously around, and then
giving a sly wink. "I thought we might have a chat by ourselves in this
corner."
Brand nodded; there was no one near them.
"Now I have been considering about what you told me; and last night I
called on Professor ----, of Owens College, ye know, and I had some
further talk with him. Well, sir, it's a grand scheme--splendid; and I
don't wonder you've made such progress as I hear of. And when all the
lads are going in for it, what would they say if old John Molyneux kept
out, eh?"
"Why, they would say he had lost some of his old pluck; that's about
what they would say, isn't it?" said Brand; though the fact was that he
was thinking a good deal more about the letter in his pocket.
"There was one point, though, Mr. Brand, that I did not put before
either Professor ---- or yourself, and it is important. The point is,
dibs."
"I beg your pardon," said Brand, absently; he was, in truth, recalling
the various phrases and sentences in that letter of Ferdinand Lind.
"Dibs, sir--dibs," said the farmer-agitator, energetically. "You know
what makes the mare go. And you know these are not the best of times;
and some of the lads will be thinking they pay enough into their own
Union. That's what I want to know, Mr. Brand, before I can advise any
one. You need money; how do you get it? What's the damage on joining,
and after?"
Brand pulled himself together.
"Oh, money?" said he. "That need not trouble you. We exact nothing. How
could we ask people to buy a pig in a poke? There's not a working-man in
the country but would put us down as having invented an ingenious scheme
for living on other people's earnings. It is not money we want; it is
men."
"Yes, yes," said Molyneux, looking rather puzzled. "But when you've got
the machine, you want oil, eh? The basis of everything, sir, is dibs:
what can ye do without it?"
"We want money, certainly," Brand said. "But we do not touch a farthing
that is not volunteered. There are no compulsory subscriptions. We take
it that the more a man sees of what we are doing, and of what has to be
done, the more he will be willing to give according to his means; and so
far there has been no disappointment."
"H'm!" said Molyneux, doubtfully. "I reckon you won't get much from our
chaps."
"You don't know. It is wonderful what a touch of enthusiasm will do--and
emulation between the local centers. Besides, we are always having
accessions of richer folk, and these are expected to make up all
deficiencies."
"Ah!" said the other. "I see more daylight that way. Now you, Mr. Brand,
must have been a good fat prize for them, eh?"
The shrewd inquiring glance that accompanied this remark set George
Brand laughing.
"I see, Mr. Molyneux, you want to get at the 'dibs' of everything.
Well, I can't enlighten you any further until you join us: you have not
said whether you will or not."
"I will!" said the other, bringing his fist down on the table, though he
still spoke in a loud whisper. "I'm your man! In for a penny, in for a
pound!"
"I beg your pardon," said Brand, politely, "but you are in for neither,
unless you like. You may be in for a good deal of work, though. You must
bring us men, and you will be let off both the penny and the pound. Now,
could you run up with me to London to-night, and be admitted to-morrow,
and get to know something of what we are doing?"
"Is it necessary?"
"In your case, yes. We want to make you a person of importance."
So at last Molyneux agreed, and they started for London in the evening;
the big, shrew, farmer-looking man being as pleased as a child to have
certain signs and passwords confided to him. Brand made light of these
things--and, in fact, they were only such as were used among the
outsiders; but Molyneux was keenly interested, and already pictured
himself going through Europe and holding this subtle conversation with
all the unknown companions whom chance might throw in his way.
But long ere he reached London the motion of the train had sent him to
sleep; and George Brand had plenty of time to think over that letter,
and to guess at what possible intention might lie under its plausible
phrases. He had leisure to think of other things, too. The question of
money, for example--about which Molyneux had been so curious with regard
to this association--was one on which he himself was but slightly
informed, the treasury department being altogether outside his sphere.
He did not even know whether Lind had private means, or was enabled to
live as he did by the association, for its own ends. He knew that the
Society had numerous paid agents; no doubt, he himself could have
claimed a salary, had it been worth his while. But the truth is that
"dibs" concerned him very little. He had never been extravagant; he had
always lived well within his income; and his chief satisfaction in being
possessed of a liberal fortune lay in the fact that he had not to bother
his head about money. There was one worry the less in life.
But then George Brand had been a good deal about the world, and had seen
something of human life, and knew very well the power the possession of
money gives. Why, this very indifference, this happy carelessness about
pecuniary details, was but the consequence of his having a large fund
in the background that he could draw on at will. If he did not overvalue
his fortune, on the other hand he did not undervalue it; and he was
about the last man in the world who could reasonably have been expected
to part with it.