A year had rolled round, and Mrs Vincent was established in all her
rights. Sir John Steventon had been disappointed in the fraudulent
scheme he had devised; not disappointed, however, as he deemed, in the
revenge he had taken on the man who had frustrated it. Payment of Mr
Simpson's annuity was resisted, and the poor mathematician was in
great straits for those necessaries of life, which, necessary as they
may be, are often with a great portion of the human family very
fortuitous. Ask not on what legal pretexts Sir John had been
successful in inflicting this revenge. Such pretexts are "thick as
blackberries." _Facilis est descensus_--No rich suitor ever sought
long for admission into the Court of Chancery, however difficult even
he may have found the escape from it. Neither, do we apprehend, is
there any remedy for this abuse of law, in the legal reforms usually
contemplated by our legislators. The only effective remedy, if we may
be here permitted to give a remark, would be this--that the state
administer civil justice at its own expense to rich and poor
alike--that, as it protects each man's life and limb, so it should
protect each man's property, which is the means of life, which is
often as essential to him as the limbs by which he moves. This is the
only mode of realizing that "equal justice" which at present is the
vain boast of every system of jurisprudence, when the suitor has to
pay for protection to his property.
Poor Simpson, who had lived for some years on his scanty annuity, and
had lived content, for his wants were few, and his mind utterly
absorbed in his science, now found himself without the simplest means
of subsistence. He had escaped, as he thought, for ever, from the
necessity of applying his science to satisfy mere animal wants; he
began to think he should be very fortunate if all his science would
procure for him the commonest "board and lodging!" When a man has
ceased to cultivate his relationship with society, and wishes, after a
time, to return to them, he will find that a blank wall has been built
up between him and the world. There is not even a door to knock at,
let alone the chance of its opening when he knocks. Our mathematician
knew not where to look for a pupil, nor for a friend who would
recommend him. Some unavailing attempts he made to obtain his rights
through litigation; but he soon found, that to the loss of his money
he was adding only the loss of all tranquillity of mind. The lawyer he
employed neglected (and very naturally) a suit which would have
required on his part large advances, the repayment of which was very
precarious.
In this predicament he bethought himself of making an appeal to Mrs
Vincent, the lady whom he had benefited by his simple and
straightforward honesty; not that he held her under any peculiar
obligation to him; what he had done was by no means to oblige her; it
was strictly a self-obligation; he could not have acted otherwise, let
the consequences have been what they might. But he reasoned with
himself, that the annuity of which he was deprived would fall into the
general residue of the estate, and be in fact paid to her; and as he
could not believe that she would wish to profit by the villany of Sir
John, he thought there could be nothing derogatory to him, nor
exacting upon her, if he proposed to relinquish entirely his legal
claim upon the estate, and receive the annuity from her hands. She
must surely be desirous, he thought, to fulfil the solemn engagements
of her deceased parent. Full of these cogitations, he betook himself
to London, where Mrs Vincent had established herself.
The reader must imagine himself introduced into an elegantly furnished
drawing-room, in one of the most fashionable quarters of the
metropolis. Had we any talent for the description of the miracles of
upholstery, it would be a sin to pass over so superb and tasteful a
scene without a word. But the little descriptive power we possess must
be reserved for the lady who was sitting in the midst of one of those
domestic miniature palaces, of which the "interiors" of London could
present so great a number. Mrs Vincent had lately become a widow, at
the opening of our narrative, and was therefore still dressed in
black. But though in black, or rather perhaps on that very account,
her attire was peculiarly costly. In black only can magnificence of
apparel be perfectly allied with purity of taste. And certainly
nothing could harmonize better than the rich satin dress, and the
superb scarf of lace which fell over it with such a gorgeous levity. A
pope in his highest day of festival might have coveted that lace.
Between the black satin and the light folds of the scarf, relieved by
the one, and tempered, and sometimes half hidden by the other, played
a diamond cross, which might have been the ransom of a Great Mogul.
The features of Mrs Vincent were remarkably delicate, and her pale
beauty was of that order which especially interests the imagination.
She wore her hair plainly parted upon either side, revealing the
charming contour of her well-shaped head. A patriarch would have
gloried in his age if it gave him the privilege to take that dear head
between his hands, and imprint his holy kiss upon the forehead. Her
little girl, her sole companion and chief treasure in the world, stood
prattling before her; and the beauty of the young mother was tenfold
increased by the utter forgetfulness of herself, which she manifested
as she bent over her child, absorbed in the beauty of that dear little
image which she was never weary of caressing.
Mrs Vincent was even more fascinating in manner than in appearance.
She was one of those charming little personages whom every one
idolizes, whom men and women alike consent to _pet_. It was impossible
to be in the same room with her half an hour without being perfectly
ready to do every thing, reasonable or unreasonable, that she could
request of you. The charm of her conversation, or rather of her
society, was irresistible; there was a sweet subdued gaiety in her
speech, accent, and gestures which made you happy, you knew not why;
and though by no means a wit, nor laying the least claim to be a
clever person, there was a sprightly music in her tones, and a
spontaneous vivacity in her language, which left a far more delightful
impression than the most decided wit.
Where shall we find a more beautiful picture than that of a young
mother, and that mother a widow, bending over the glossy tresses of
her child? Never is woman so attractive, so subduing; never does she
so tenderly claim our protection; never is she so completely
protected, so unassailable, so predominant. Poor Simpson felt his
heart penetrated with the holiest love and veneration when he entered
the room.
Nothing could exceed the graceful and benevolent manner in which Mrs
Vincent received him. He had been the tried friend of her father, the
beloved tutor of her brother; he had lately been of signal service to
herself. Mr Simpson was overpowered with his reception. The object of
his visit seemed already accomplished. Hardly did it appear necessary
to proceed with any verbal statement; surely she knew his position,
and this was enough. She had been restored to her rights; she would
not, she could not, allow him to suffer by an act which led to that
restoration; still less would she consent to reap herself the benefit
of an injustice perpetrated upon him.
Some explanation, however, of the object of his visit he found it
necessary to make. When he had concluded the brief statement which he
thought sufficient, the lady answered in the softest voice in the
world--that she was sorry she could not enter upon that subject, as
she had promised Sir John Steventon not to interfere between him and
Mr Simpson--that Sir John had exacted this promise, and she had given
it, as necessary to facilitate the arrangement of her affairs. What
could she do, an unprotected woman, with the interests of her child
depending upon her? She was bound, therefore, she regretted to say,
not to intermeddle in the business. But then Mr Simpson could proceed
with his legal remedies. She did not presume to pass an opinion upon
the justice of his claim, or to advise him not to prosecute it.
In brief, she had given up the brave and honourable man, who had
befriended her at the peril of his fortune, to the revenge of the
wealthy, unscrupulous baronet, who had intended to defraud her. It was
so agreeable to be on amicable terms with her father's executor.
Our mathematician doubted his ears. Yet so it was. And it was all
repeated to him in the blandest manner in the world. She seemed to
think that a duty to any one else but her child was out of the
question. We believe that many interesting and beautiful mothers have
the same idea.
Mr Simpson gasped for breath. Some quite general remark was the only
one that rose to his lip. "You are angels--to look upon," he
half-murmured to himself.
It was not in his disposition to play the petitioner, and still less
to give vent to feelings of indignation, which would be thought to
have their origin only in his own personal injuries. It was still
surprise that was predominant in him, as at length he exclaimed--"But
surely, madam, you do not understand this matter. This annuity was
honestly won by long services rendered to your father, and to his son.
Instead of receiving other payments, I had preferred to be finally
remunerated in this form--it was my desire to obtain what in my humble
ideas was an independence, that I might devote my life to science.
Well, this annuity, it is my all--it stands between me and absolute
penury--it is the plank on which I sail over the waters of life. I
have, too, an object for my existence, which this alone renders
possible. I have studies to pursue, discoveries to make. This sum of
money is more than my life, it is my license to study and to think."
"Oh, but, Mr Simpson," interrupted the lady with a smile, "I
understand nothing of mathematics."
Mr Simpson checked himself. No, she did _not_ understand him. What was
his love of science or his hope of fame to her? What to her was any
one of the pains and pleasures that constituted _his_ existence?
"Besides," added the lady, "you are a bachelor, Mr Simpson. You have
no children. It can matter little"----
A grim smile played upon the features of the mathematician. He was
probably about to prove to her, that as children are destined to
become men, the interests of a man may not be an unworthy subject of
anxiety. However important a person a child may be, a man is something
more. But at this moment a servant entered, and announced Sir John
Steventon!
On perceiving Mr Simpson, that gentleman was about to retreat, and
with a look of something like distrust at Mrs Vincent, he said that
he would call again. "Nay, come in!" exclaimed the mathematician with
a clear voice. "Come in! The lady has not broken her word, nor by me
shall she be petitioned to do so. It is I who will quit this place.
You have succeeded, Sir John, in your revenge--you have succeeded, and
yet perhaps it is an imperfect success. You shall not rack the heart,
though you should starve the body. You think, perhaps, I shall pursue
you with objurgation or entreaty. You are mistaken. I leave you to the
enjoyment of your triumph, and to the peace which a blunted conscience
will, I know, bestow upon you."
Sir John muttered, in reply, that he could not debate matters of
business, but must refer him to his solicitor.
"Neither personally," continued Mr Simpson, "nor by your solicitor,
will you hear more of me. I shall forget you, Sir John. Whatever
sufferings you may inflict, you shall not fill my heart with
bitterness. Your memory shall not call forth a single curse from me.
Approach. Be friendly to this lady. Be mutually courteous, bland, and
affable--what other virtues do you know?"
He strode out of the room. His parting word was no idle boast. Sir
John heard of him and of his just claims no more; and the
brave-hearted man swept the memory of the villain from his soul. He
would not have it there.
The baronet soothed his conscience, if it ever gave him any
uneasiness, by the supposition that the aged mathematician had found
some pupils--that probably he eked out as comfortable a subsistence as
before, and had only exchanged the dreamy pursuit of scientific fame,
for the more practical labours of tuition. But no such fortune
attended Mr Simpson. He had lived too long out of the world to find
either friends or pupils, and the more manifest his poverty, the more
hopeless became his applications. Meanwhile, utter destitution stood
face to face before him. Did he spend his last coin in the purchase of
the mortal dose? Did he leap at night from any of the bridges of the
metropolis? He was built of stouter stuff. He collected together his
manuscripts, a book or two, which had happily for him been unsaleable,
his ink-bottle and an iron pen, and marched straight--to the parish
workhouse. There was no refusing his claim here. Poverty and famine
were legible in every garment, and on every feature. In that asylum he
ended his days, unknown, unsought for.
One of his companions, dressed like himself, in the workhouse costume,
who had gathered that he was the sufferer by some act of injustice of
a rich oppressor, thought, on one occasion, to console him by the
reflection, that his wrongdoer would certainly suffer for it in the
next world--in his own energetic language, that he would certainly be
d----d.
"Not on my account--not, I hope, on my account," said the
mathematician, with the greatest simplicity in the world. "No revenge
either here or hereafter. But if civil government deserved the name,
it would have given me justice now. Had I been robbed of sixpence on
the highway, there would have been hue and cry--the officers of
government would not have rested till they had found and punished the
culprit. I am robbed of all; and, because I am poor and
unfriended--circumstances which make the loss irremediable--the law
puts forth no hand to help me. Men will prate about the expense--the
burden on the national revenue--as if justice to all were not the very
first object of government--as if--but truce to this. My good friend,
you see these fragments of snuff that I have collected--could you get
them exchanged for me for a little ink?"
MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.