A CHANGE OF FRONT.
'Well, Jane,' said Mr. Lightowler one evening, when he had invited
himself to dine and sleep at the house in Malakoff Terrace, 'I suppose
you haven't heard anything of that grand young gentleman of yours
yet?'
The Ashburns, with the single exception of Trixie, had remained
obstinately indifferent to the celebrity which Mark had so suddenly
obtained; it did not occur to most of them indeed that distinction was
possible in the course he had taken. Perhaps many of Mahomet's
relations thought it a pity that he should abandon his excellent
prospects in the caravan business (where he was making himself so much
respected), for the precarious and unremunerative career of a prophet.
Trixie, however, had followed the book's career with wondering
delight; she had bought a copy for herself, Mark not having found
himself equal to sending her one, and she had eagerly collected
reviews and allusions of all kinds, and tried hard to induce Martha
at least to read the book.
Martha had coldly declined. She had something of her mother's hard,
unimaginative nature, and read but little fiction; and besides, having
from the first sided strongly against Mark, she would not compromise
her dignity now by betraying so much interest in his performances.
Cuthbert read the book, but in secret, and as he said nothing to its
discredit, it may be presumed that he could find no particular fault
with it. Mrs. Ashburn would have felt almost inclined, had she known
the book was in the house, to order it to be put away from among them
like an evil thing, so strong was her prejudice; and her husband,
whatever he felt, expressed no interest or curiosity on the subject.
So at Mr. Lightowler's question, which was put more as a vent for his
own outraged feelings than any real desire for information, Mrs.
Ashburn's face assumed its grimmest and coldest expression as she
replied--'No, Solomon. Mark has chosen his own road--we neither have
nor expect to have any news of him. At this very moment he may be
bitterly repenting his folly and disobedience somewhere.'
Upon which Cuthbert observed that he considered that extremely
probable, and Mr. Ashburn found courage to ask a question. 'I--I
suppose he hasn't come or written to _you_ yet, Solomon?' he said.
'No, Matthew,' said his brother-in-law, 'he has not. I'd just like to
see him coming to me; he wouldn't come twice, I can tell him! No, I
tell you, as I told him, I've done with him. When a young man repays
all I've spent on him with base ingratitude like that, I wash my hands
of him--I say deliberately--I wash my 'ands. Why, he might have worked
on at his law, and I'd a' set him up and put him in the way of making
his living in a few years; made him a credit to all connected with
him, I would! But he's chosen to turn a low scribbler, and starve in a
garret, which he'll come to soon enough, and that's what I get for
trying to help a nephew. Well, it will be a lesson to me, I know
that. Young men have gone off since my young days; a lazy, selfish,
conceited lot they are, all of 'em.'
'Not _all_, Solomon,' said his sister. 'I'm sure there are young men
still who--Cuthbert, _how_ long was it you stayed at the office after
hours to make up your books? Of his own free will, too, Solomon! And
_he's_ never had anyone to encourage him, or help him on, poor boy!'
Mrs. Ashburn was not without hopes that her brother might be brought
to understand in time that the family did not end with Mark, but she
might have spared her pains just then.
'Oh,' he said, with a rather contemptuous toss of the head, 'I wasn't
hinting. I've nothing partickler against him--_he's_ steady enough, I
dessay. One of the other kind's enough in a small family, in all
conscience! Ah, Jane, if ever a man was regularly taken in by a boy, I
was by his brother Mark--a bright, smart, clever young chap he was as
I'd wish to see. Give that feller an education and put him to a
profession, thinks I, and he'll be a credit to you some of these days.
And see what's come of it!'
'It's very sad--very sad for all of us, I'm sure,' sighed Mrs.
Ashburn.
At this, Trixie, who had been listening to it all with hot cheeks and
trembling lips, could hold out no longer.
'You talk of Mark--Uncle and all of you,' she said, looking prettier
for her indignation, 'as if he was a disgrace to us all! You seem to
think he's starving somewhere in a garret, and unknown to everybody.
But he's nothing of the sort--he's famous already, whether you believe
it or not. You ought to be proud of him.'
'Beatrix, you forget yourself,' said her mother; 'before your uncle,
too.'
'I can't help it,' said Trixie; 'there's no one to speak up for poor
Mark but me, ma, and I must. And it's all quite true. I hear all about
books and things from--at the Art School where I go, and Mark's book
is being talked about _everywhere_! And you needn't be afraid of his
coming to you for money, Uncle, for I was told that Mark will be able
to get as much money as ever he likes for his next books; he will be
quite rich, and all just by writing! And nobody but you here seems to
think the worse of him for what he has done! I'll show you what the
papers say about him presently. Why, even _your_ paper, ma, the
"Weekly Horeb," has a long article praising Mark's book this week, so
I should think it can't be so very wicked. Wait a minute, and you
shall see!'
And Trixie burst impetuously out of the room to fetch the book in
which she had pasted the reviews, leaving the others in a rather
crestfallen condition, Uncle Solomon especially looking straight in
front of him with a fish-like stare, being engaged in trying to
assimilate the very novel ideas of a literary career which had just
been put before him.
Mrs. Ashburn muttered something about Trixie being always headstrong
and never given to serious things, but even she was a little shaken by
the unexpected testimony of her favourite oracle, the 'Horeb.'
'Look here, Uncle,' said Trixie, returning with the book and laying it
down open before him. 'See what the ---- says, and the ----; oh, and
all of them!'
'_I_ don't want to see 'em,' he said, sulkily pushing the book from
him. 'Take the things away, child; who cares what they say? They're
all at the same scribbling business themselves; o' course they'd crack
up one another.'
But he listened with a dull, glazed look in his eyes, and a grunt now
and then, while she read extracts aloud, until by-and-by, in spite of
his efforts to repress it, a kind of hard grin of satisfaction began
to widen his mouth.
'Where's this precious book to be got?' he said at last.
'Are you so sure he's disgraced you, _now_, Uncle?' demanded Trixie
triumphantly.
'Men's praise is of little value,' said Mrs. Ashburn, harshly. 'Your
uncle and we look at what Mark has done from the Christian's
standpoint.'
'Well, look here, y' know. Suppose we go into the matter now; let's
talk it out a bit,' said Uncle Solomon, coming out of a second brown
study. 'What 'ave you got against Mark?'
'What have I got against him, Solomon?' echoed his sister in supreme
amazement.
'Yes; what's he done to set you all shaking your heads at?'
'Why, surely there's no need to tell you? Well, first there's his
ingratitude to _you_, after all you've done for him!'
'Put me out of the question!' said Mr. Lightowler, with a magnanimous
sweep of his hand, 'I can take care of myself, I should 'ope. What _I_
want to get at is what he's done to _you_. What do _you_ accuse the
boy of doing, Matthew, eh?'
Poor little Mr. Ashburn seemed completely overwhelmed by this sudden
demand on him. 'I? oh, I--well, Jane has strong views, you know,
Solomon, decided opinions on these subjects, and--and so have I!' he
concluded feebly.
'Um,' said Mr. Lightowler, half to himself, 'shouldn't a' thought that
was what's the matter with _you_! Well, Jane, then I come back to you.
What's he done? Come, he hasn't robbed a church, or forged a cheque,
has he?'
'If you wish me to tell you what you know perfectly well already, he
has, in defiance of what he knows I feel on this subject, connected
himself with a thing I strongly disapprove of--a light-minded
fiction.'
'Now you know, Jane, that's all your confounded--I'm speaking to you
as a brother, you know--your confounded narrer-minded nonsense!
Supposing he has written a "light-minded fiction," as you call it,
where's the harm of it?'
'With the early training you received together with me, Solomon, I
wonder you can ask! You know very well what would have been thought of
reading, to say nothing of writing, a novel in our young days. And it
cuts me to the heart to think that a son of mine should place another
stumbling-block in the hands of youth.'
'Stumbling grandmother!' cried Mr. Lightowler. 'In our young days, as
you say, we didn't go to playhouses, and only read good and improving
books, and a dull time we 'ad of it! I don't read novels myself now,
having other things to think about. But the world's gone round since
then, Jane. Even chapel-folk read these light-minded fictions
nowadays, and don't seem to be stumblin' about more than usual.'
'If they take no harm, their own consciences must be their guide; but
I've a right to judge for myself as well as they, I think, Solomon.'
'Exactly, but not for them too--that's what _you're_ doin', Jane. Who
the dickens are you, to go about groaning that Mark's a prodigal son,
or a lost sheep, or a goat, or one of those uncomplimentary animals,
all because he's written a book that everyone else is praising? Why
are you to be right and all the rest of the world wrong, I'd like to
know? Here you've gone and hunted the lad out of the house, without
ever consulting _me_ (who, I think, Jane, I _do_ think, have acted so
as to deserve to be considered and consulted in the matter), and all
for what?'
'I'm sure, Solomon,' said Mrs. Ashburn, with one or two hard sniffs
which were her nearest approach to public emotion; 'I'm sure I never
expected this from you, and you were quite as angry with Mark as any
of us.'
'Because I didn't know all--I was kep' in the dark. From what you said
I didn't know but what he'd written some rubbish which wouldn't keep
him in bread and cheese for a fortnight, and leave him as unknown as
it found him. Naterally I didn't care about _that_, when I'd hoped
he'd be a credit to me. But it appears he _is_ being a credit to
me--he's making his fortune, getting famous, setting the upper circles
talking of him. I thought Sir Andrew, up at the Manor House, was
a-chaffing me the other day when he began complimenting me on my
nephew, and I answered him precious short; but I begin to think now as
he meant it, and I went and made a fool of myself! All I ever asked of
Mark was to be a credit to me, and so long as he goes and is a credit
to me, what do I care how he does it? Not _that_!'
At sentiments of such unhoped-for breadth, Trixie was so far carried
away with delight and gratitude as to throw her arms round her uncle's
puffy red neck, and bestow two or three warm kisses upon him. 'Then
you won't give him up after all, will you, Uncle?' she cried; '_you_
don't think him a disgrace to you!'
Uncle Solomon looked round him with the sense that he was coming out
uncommonly well. 'There's no narrermindedness about _me_, Trixie, my
girl,' he said; 'I never have said, nor I don't say now, that I have
given your brother Mark up; he chose not to take the advantages I
offered him, and I don't deny feeling put out by it. But what's done
can't be helped. I shall give a look into this book of his, and if I
see nothing to disapprove of in it, why I shall let him know he can
still look to his old uncle if he wants anything. I don't say more
than that at present. But I do think, Jane, that you've been too 'ard
on the boy. We can't be all such partickler Baptists as _you_ are, yer
know!'
'I'm glad to hear you say that, Solomon,' quavered Mr. Ashburn;
'because I said as much to Jane (if you recollect my mentioning it, my
dear?) at the time; but she has decided views, and she thought
otherwise.'
The unfortunate Jane, seeing herself deserted on all sides, began to
qualify, not sorry in her inmost heart to be able to think more
leniently, since the 'Weekly Horeb' sanctioned it, of her son's act of
independence.
'I may have acted on imperfect knowledge,' she said; 'I may have been
too hasty in concluding that Mark had only written some worldly and
frivolous love-tale to keep minds from dwelling on higher subjects. If
so, I'm willing to own it, and if Mark was to come to me----'
But Mr. Lightowler did not care to lose his monopoly of magnanimity in
this way. 'That comes too late now, Jane,' he said; 'he won't come
back to you now, after the way you've treated him. You've taken your
line, and you'll have to keep to it. But he shan't lose by that while
_I_ live--or afterwards, for that matter--he was always more of a son
to me than ever you made of him!'
And when he went to bed, after some elaboration of his views on the
question, he left the family, with one exception, to the highly
unsatisfactory reflection that they had cut themselves off from all
right to feel proud and gratified at Mark's renown, and that the
breach between them was too wide now to be bridged.