A REBELLIOUS CHILD
Elsie left her lover at the door. Most accepted suitors accompany their
sweethearts into the very bosom of the family--the gynaeceum--the
parlour, as it used to be called. Not so George Austin. Since the
engagement--the deplorable engagement--it was understood that he was not
to presume upon entering the house. Romeo might as well have sent in his
card to Juliet's mamma. In fact, that lady could not possibly regard the
pretensions of Romeo more unfavourably than Mrs. Arundel did those of
George Austin. This not on account of any family inequality, for his
people were no more decidedly of the middle class than her own. That is
to say, they numbered as many members who were presentable and quite as
many who were not. Our great middle class is pretty well alike in this
respect. In every household there are things which may be paraded and
things _tacenda_: members unsuccessful, members disgraceful. All the
world knows all the things which must be concealed: we all know that all
the world knows them; but still we pretend that there are no such
things, and so we maintain the family dignity. Nor could the widow
object to George on account of his religious opinions, in which he
dutifully followed his forefathers; or of his abilities, manners,
morals, culture, accomplishments, or outward appearance, in all of which
he was everything that could be expected of a young man who had his own
fortune to make. A rich young man has no need of manners, morals,
abilities, or accomplishments: a thing too often forgotten by satirists
when they depict the children of Sir Midas Georgias and his tribe. The
lady's objection was simply and most naturally that the young man had
nothing and would probably never have anything: that he was a managing
clerk without money to buy a partnership in a highly congested
profession. To aggravate this objection, he stood in the way of two most
desirable suitors who were supposed to be ready should Elsie give them
any encouragement. They were a rich old man whose morals could no longer
be questioned; and a rich young man whose morals would doubtless improve
with marriage--if, that is, they wanted improvement, for on this
delicate subject ladies find it difficult to get reliable information.
And, again, the exalted position of the elder sister should have been an
example and a beacon. Which of you, Mesdames, would look on with
patience at such a sacrifice--a young and lovely daughter thrown away,
with all her charms and all her chances, upon a man with two hundred
pounds a year and no chance of anything much better? Think of it--two
hundred pounds a year--for a gentlewoman!
There are some families--many families--with whom the worship of wealth
is hereditary. The Arundels have been City people, married with other
City people--in trade--for two hundred years and more: they are all
members of City Companies: there have been Lord Mayors and Sheriffs
among them: some of them--for they are now a clan--are rich: some are
very rich; one or two are very, very rich: those who fail and go
bankrupt quickly drop out of sight. All their traditions are of
money-getting: they estimate success and worth and respect by the amount
a man leaves behind--it is the good old tradition: they talk of money:
they are not vulgar or loud or noisy or disagreeable in any way: but
they openly and without disguise worship the great god Plutus and
believe that he, and none other, is the God of the Christians. They have
as much culture as other people, at least to outward show: they furnish
their houses as artistically as other people: they buy pictures and
books: but ideas do not touch them: if they read new ideas, they are not
affected by them, however skilfully they may be put: they go to Church
and hear the parable about Dives and they wonder how Dives could have
been so hard-hearted. Then they go home and talk about money.
Elsie's father, a younger son of the richest branch of this family,
started with a comfortable little fortune and a junior partnership. He
was getting on very well indeed: he had begun to show the stuff of which
he was made, a good, stout, tenacious kind of stuff, likely to last and
to hold out; he was beginning to increase his fortune: he looked forward
to a successful career: and he hoped to leave behind him, after many,
many years, perhaps three-quarters of a million. He was only thirty-five
years of age, yet he was struck down and had to go. His widow received
little more than her husband's original fortune: it was small compared
with what she might fairly have expected when she married, but it was
large enough for her to live with her three children in Pembridge
Gardens. What happened to the son, you know. He went away in a royal
rage and had never been heard of since. The elder daughter, Hilda, when
about two-and-twenty, as you also know, had the good fortune to attract
the admiration of a widower of very considerable wealth, the brother of
her guardian. He was forty years older than herself, but he was
rich--nay, very rich indeed. Jute, I believe, on an extensive scale, was
the cause of his great fortune. He was knighted on a certain great
occasion when Warden of his Company, so that he offered his bride a
title and precedence, as well as a great income, a mansion in Palace
Gardens, a handsome settlement, carriages and horses, and everything
else that the feminine heart can desire.
The widow, soon after her husband died, found the time extremely dull
without the daily excitement of the City talk to which she had been
accustomed. There was no one with whom she could discuss the money
market. Now, all her life, she had been accustomed to talk of shares and
stocks and investments and fluctuations and operations and buying in and
selling out. She began, therefore, to watch the market on her own
account. Then she began to operate: then she gave her whole time and all
her thoughts to the business of studying, watching, reading, and
forecasting. Of course, then, she lost her money and fell into
difficulties. Nothing of the kind: she made money. There is always
plenty of virtuous indignation ready for those foolish persons who
dabble in stocks. They are gamblers; they always lose in the long run:
we all know that; the copy-books tell us so. If two persons play heads
and tails for sovereigns, do they both lose in the long run? If so, who
wins? Where does the money go? Even a gambler need not always lose in
the long run, as all gamblers know. _La veuve_ Arundel was not in any
sense a gambler. Nor was she a dabbler. She was a serious and
calculating operator. She took up one branch of the great money market
and confined her attentions to that branch, which she studied with so
much care and assiduity that she became a professional; that is to say,
she threw into the study all her energies, all her thoughts, and all her
intellect. When a young man does this on the Stock Exchange he may
expect to win. Mrs. Arundel was not an ordinary young man; she was a
sharp and clever woman: by hard work she had learned all that can be
learned, and had acquired some of that prescience which comes of
knowledge--the prophet of the future is, after all, he who knows and can
discuss the forces and the facts of the present: the Sibyl at the
present day would be a journalist. She was clear-headed, quick to see
and ready to act: she was of a quick temper as well as a quick
perception: and she was resolute. Such qualities in most women make them
absolute sovereigns in the household. Mrs. Arundel was not an absolute
sovereign--partly because she thought little of her household, and
partly because her children were distinguished by much the same
qualities, and their subjection would have proved difficult if not
impossible.
This was the last house in London where one might have expected to find
a girl who was ready to despise wealth and to find her happiness in a
condition of poverty. Elsie was completely out of harmony with all her
own people. There is a good deal of opinion going about in favour of the
simple life: many girls have become socialists in so far as they think
the amassing of wealth neither desirable nor worthy of respect: many
would rather marry a man of limited means who has a profession than a
rich man who has a business: many girls hold that Art is a much finer
thing than wealth. Elsie learned these pernicious sentiments at school:
they attracted her at first because they were so fresh: she found all
the best literature full of these sentiments: she developed in due
course a certain natural ability for art: she attended an art school:
she set up an easel: she painted in pastel: she called her room a
studio. She gave her friends the greatest uneasiness by her opinions:
she ended, as you have seen, by becoming engaged to a young man with
nothing. How could such a girl be born of such parents?
When she got home on Saturday evening she found her mother playing a
game of double _vingt un_ with a certain cousin, one Sydney Arundel. The
game is very good for the rapid interchange of coins: you should make it
a time game, to end in half an hour--one hour--two hours, and at the end
you will find that you have had a very pretty little gamble. Mrs.
Arundel liked nothing better than a game of cards--provided the stakes
were high enough to give it excitement. To play cards for love is indeed
insipid: it is like a dinner of cold boiled mutton or like sandwiches of
veal. The lady would play anything, piquet, ecarte, double dummy--and
her daughter Elsie hated the sight of cards. As for the cousin, he was
on the Stock Exchange: he came often to dinner and to talk business
after dinner. He was a kind of musical box or barrel organ in
conversation, because he could only play one tune. His business as well
as his pleasure was in the money market.
'So you have come home, Elsie?' said Mrs. Arundel coldly.
'Yes, I have come home.' Elsie seated herself at the window and waited.
'Now, Sydney'--her mother took up the cards. 'My deal--will you take any
more?'
She was a good-looking woman still, though past fifty: her abundant hair
had gone pleasantly gray, her features were fine, her brown eyes were
quick and bright: her lips were firm, and her chin straight. She was
tall and of good figure: she was clad in black silk, with a large gold
chain about her neck and good lace upon her shoulders. She wore many
rings and a bracelet. She liked, in fact, the appearance of wealth as
well as the possession of it: she therefore always appeared in costly
raiment: her house was furnished with a costly solidity: everything,
even the bindings of her books, was good to look at: her one man-servant
looked like the responsible butler of a millionaire, and her one-horse
carriage looked as if it belonged to a dozen.
The game went on. Presently, the clock struck ten. 'Time,' said the
lady. 'We must stop. Now then. Let us see--I make it seventy-three
shillings.--Thank you. Three pounds thirteen--an evening not altogether
wasted.--And now, Sydney, light your cigar. You know I like it. You
shall have your whisky and soda--and we will talk business. There are
half-a-dozen things that I want to consult you about. Heavens! why
cannot I be admitted to the Exchange? A few women among you--clever
women, like myself, Sydney--would wake you up.'
They talked business for an hour, the lady making notes in a little
book, asking questions and making suggestions. At last the cousin got
up--it was eleven o'clock--and went away. Then her mother turned to
Elsie.
'It is a great pity,' she said, 'that you take no interest in these
things.'
'I dislike them very much, as you know,' said Elsie.
'Yes--you dislike them because they are of real importance. Well--never
mind.--You have been out with the young man, I suppose?'
'Yes--we have been on the river together.'
'I supposed it was something of the kind. So the housemaid keeps company
with the potboy without consulting her own people.'
'It is nothing unusual for me to spend an evening with George. Why not?
You will not suffer me to bring him here.'
'No,' said her mother with firmness. 'That young man shall never, under
any circumstances, enter this house with my knowledge! For the rest,'
she added, 'do as you please.'
This was the kind of amiable conversation that had been going on day
after day since Elsie's engagement--protestations of ceasing to
interfere, and continual interference.
There are many ways of considering the subject of injudicious and
unequal marriages. You may ridicule: you may cajole: you may argue: you
may scold: you may coax: you may represent the naked truth as it is, or
you may clothe its limbs with lies--the lies are of woven stuff, strong,
and home-made. When you have an obdurate, obstinate, contumacious,
headstrong, wilful, self-contained maiden to deal with, you will waste
your breath whatever you do. The mother treated Elsie with scorn, and
scorn alone. It was her only weapon. Her elder sister tried other
weapons: she laughed at the makeshifts of poverty: she cajoled with
soft flattery and golden promises: she argued with logic pitiless: she
scolded like a fishwife: she coaxed with tears and kisses: she painted
the loveliness of men who are rich, and the power of women who are
beautiful. And all in vain. Nothing moved this obdurate, obstinate,
contumacious, headstrong, wilful Elsie. She would stick to her promise:
she would wed her lover even if she had to entertain Poverty as well all
her life.
'Are you so infatuated,' the mother went on, 'that you cannot see that
he cares nothing for your happiness? He thinks about nobody but himself.
If he thought of you, he would see that he was too poor to make you
happy, and he would break it off. As it is, all he wants is to marry
you.'
'That is indeed all. He has never disguised the fact.'
'He offers you the half of a bare crust.'
'By halving the crust we shall double it.'
'Oh! I have no patience. But there is an end. You know my opinion, and
you disregard it. I cannot lock you up, or beat you, for your
foolishness. I almost wish I could. I will neither reason with you any
more nor try to dissuade you. Go your own way.'
'If you would only understand. We are going to live very simply. We
shall put all unhappiness outside the luxuries of life. And we shall get
on if we never get rich. I wish I could make you understand our point of
view. It makes me very unhappy that you will take such a distorted
view.'
'I am glad that you can still feel unhappiness at such a cause as my
displeasure.'
'Well, mother, to-night we have come to a final decision.'
'Am I to learn it?'
'Yes; I wish to tell you at once. We have been engaged for two years.
The engagement has brought me nothing but wretchedness at home. But I
should be still more wretched--I should be wretched all my life--if I
were to break it off. I shall be of age in a day or two and free to act
on my own judgment.'
'You are acting on your own judgment already.'
'I have promised George that I will marry him when he pleases--that is,
about the middle of August, when he gets his holiday.'
'Oh! The misery of poverty will begin so soon? I am sorry to hear it. As
I said above, I have nothing to say against it--no persuasion or
dissuasion--you will do as you please.'
'George has his profession, and he has a good name already. He will get
on. Meantime, a little plain living will hurt neither of us. Can't you
think that we may begin in a humble way and yet get on?
Money--money--money. Oh! Must we think of nothing else?'
'What is there to think of but money? Look round you, silly child. What
gives me this house--this furniture--everything? Money. What feeds you
and clothes you? Money. What gives position, consideration, power,
dignity? Money. Rank without money is contemptible. Life without money
is miserable, wretched, intolerable. Who would care to live when the
smallest luxury--the least comfort--has to be denied for want of money.
Even the Art of which you talk so much only becomes respectable when it
commands money. You cannot keep off disease without money; you cannot
educate your children without money: it will be your worst punishment in
the future that your children will sink and become servants. Child!' she
cried passionately, 'we must be masters or servants--nay--lords or
slaves. You leave the rank of lord and marry the rank of slave. It is
money that makes the difference--money--money--money--that you pretend
to despise. It is money that has done everything for you. Your
grandfather made it--your father made it--I am making it. Go on in your
madness and your folly. In the end, when it is too late, you will long
for money, pray for money, be ready to do anything for money--for your
husband and your children.'
'We shall have, I hope, enough. We shall work for enough--no more.'
'Well, child,' her mother returned quietly, 'I said that I would say
nothing. I have been carried away. Let there be no more said. Do as you
please. You know my mind--your sister's mind--your cousins'----'
'I do not wish to be guided by my cousins.'
'Very well. You will stay here until your wedding day. When you marry
you will leave this house--and me and your sister and all your people.
Do not expect any help from me. Do not look forward to any inheritance
from me. My money is all my own to deal with as I please. If you wish
to be poor you shall be poor. Hilda tells me that you are to see your
guardian on Monday. Perhaps he may bring you to your senses. As for
me--I shall say no more.'
With these final words the lady left the room and went to bed. How many
times had she declared that she would say no more?
The next day being Sunday, the bells began to ring in the morning, and
the two ladies sallied forth to attend Divine service as usual. They
walked side by side, in silence. That sweet and gracious nymph, the Lady
Charity, was not with them in their pew. The elder lady, externally
cold, was full of resentment and bitterness: the younger was more than
usually troubled by the outbreak of the evening. Yet, she was no nearer
surrender. The sermon, by a curious coincidence, turned upon the
perishable nature of earthly treasures, and the vanity of the objects
desired by that unreasoning person whom they used to call the Worldling.
The name has perished, but the creature still exists, and is found in
countless herds in every great town. The parsons are always trying to
shoot him down; but they never succeed. There was just a fiery passage
or two directed against the species. Elsie hoped that the words would go
home. Not at all. They fell upon her mother's heart like seed upon the
rock. She heard them, but heard them not. The Worldling, you see, never
understands that he is a Worldling. Nor does Dives believe himself to be
anything more than Lazarus, such is his modesty.
The service over, they went home in silence. They took their early
dinner in silence, waited on by the solemn man-servant. After dinner,
Elsie sought the solitude of her studio. And here--nobody looking
on--she obeyed the first law of her sex, and had a good cry. Even the
most resolute of maidens cannot carry through a great scheme against
great opposition without the consolation of a cry.
On the table lay a note from Mr. Dering:
'MY DEAR WARD--I am reminded that you come of age on Monday.
I am also reminded by Hilda that you propose to take a very
important step against the wish of your mother. Will you
come and see me at ten o'clock to talk this over?--Your
affectionate Guardian.'
Not much hope to be got out of that letter. A dry note from a dry man.
Very little doubt as to the line which he would take. Yet, not an unkind
letter. She put it back in her desk and sighed. Another long discussion.
No: she would not discuss--she would listen, and then state her
intention. She would listen again, and once more state her intention.
On the easel stood an almost finished portrait in pastel, executed from
a photograph. It was the portrait of her guardian. She had caught--it
was not difficult with a face so marked--the set expression, the closed
lips, the keen eyes, and the habitual look of caution and watchfulness
which become the characteristics of a solicitor in good practice. So far
it was a good likeness. But it was an austere face. Elsie, with a few
touches of her thumb and the chalk which formed her material, softened
the lines of the mouth, communicated to the eyes a more genial light,
and to the face an expression of benevolence which certainly had never
before been seen upon it.
'There!' she said. 'If you would only look like that to-morrow, instead
of like your photograph, I should have no fear at all of what you would
say. I would flatter you, and coax you, and cajole you, till you had
doubled George's salary and promised to get round my mother. You dear
old man! You kind old man! You sweet old man! I could kiss you for your
kindness.'