FRANK PALMER, the gentleman whom we saw descend from the coach, was the
eldest son of a wholesale and manufacturing chemist in London. He was
now about five-and-twenty, and having just been admitted as a partner, he
had begun, as the custom was in those days, to travel for his firm. The
elder Mr Palmer was a man of refinement, something more than a Whig in
politics, and an enthusiastic member of the Broad Church party, which was
then becoming a power in the country. He was well-to-do, living in a
fine old red-brick house at Stoke Newington, with half-a-dozen acres of
ground round it, and, if Frank had been born thirty years later, he would
probably have gone to Cambridge or Oxford. In those days, however, it
was not the custom to send boys to the Universities unless they were
intended for the law, divinity or idleness, and Frank’s training, which
was begun at St Paul’s school, was completed there. He lived at home,
going to school in the morning and returning in the evening. He was
surrounded by every influence which was pure and noble. Mr Maurice and
Mr Sterling were his father’s guests, and hence it may be inferred that
there was an altar in the house, and that the sacred flame burnt thereon.
Mr Palmer almost worshipped Mr Maurice, and his admiration was not blind,
for Maurice connected the Bible with what was rational in his friend.
‘What! still believable: no need then to pitch it overboard: here after
all is the Eternal Word!’ It can be imagined how those who dared not
close their eyes to the light, and yet clung to that book which had been
so much to their forefathers and themselves, rejoiced when they were able
to declare that it belonged to them more than to those who misjudged them
and could deny that they were heretics. The boy’s education was entirely
classical and athletic, and as he was quick at learning and loved his
games, he took a high position amongst his school-fellows. He was not
particularly reflective, but he was generous and courageous, perfectly
straightforward, a fair specimen of thousands of English public-school
boys. As he grew up, he somewhat disappointed his father by a lack of
any real interest in the subjects in which his father was interested. He
accepted willingly, and even enthusiastically, the household conclusions
on religion and politics, but they were not properly his, for he accepted
them merely as conclusions and without the premisses, and it was often
even a little annoying to hear him express some free opinion on religious
questions in a way which showed that it was not a growth but something
picked up. Mr Palmer, senior, sometimes recoiled into intolerance and
orthodoxy, and bewildered his son who, to use one of his own phrases,
‘hardly knew where his father was.’ Partly the reaction was due to the
oscillation which accompanies serious and independent thought, but mainly
it was caused by Mr Palmer’s discontent with Frank’s appropriation of a
sentiment or doctrine of which he was not the lawful owner. Frank,
however, was so hearty, so affectionate, and so cheerful, that it was
impossible not to love him dearly.
In his visits to Fenmarket, Frank had often noticed Madge, for the ‘Crown
and Sceptre’ was his headquarters, and Madge was well enough aware that
she had been noticed. He had inquired casually who it was who lived next
door, and when the waiter told him the name, and that Mr Hopgood was
formerly the bank manager, Frank remembered that he had often heard his
father speak of a Mr Hopgood, a clerk in a bank in London, as one of his
best friends. He did not fail to ask his father about this friend, and
to obtain an introduction to the widow. He had now brought it to
Fenmarket, and within half an hour after he had alighted, he had
presented it.
Mrs Hopgood, of course, recollected Mr Palmer perfectly, and the welcome
to Frank was naturally very warm. It was delightful to connect earlier
and happier days with the present, and she was proud in the possession of
a relationship which had lasted so long. Clara and Madge, too, were both
excited and pleased. To say nothing of Frank’s appearance, of his
unsnobbish, deferential behaviour which showed that he understood who
they were and that the little house made no difference to him, the girls
and the mother could not resist a side glance at Fenmarket and the
indulgence of a secret satisfaction that it would soon hear that the son
of Mr Palmer, so well known in every town round about, was on intimate
terms with them.
Madge was particularly gay that evening. The presence of sympathetic
people was always a powerful stimulus to her, and she was often
astonished at the witty things and even the wise things she said in such
company, although, when she was alone, so few things wise or witty
occurred to her. Like all persons who, in conversation, do not so much
express the results of previous conviction obtained in silence as the
inspiration of the moment, Madge dazzled everybody by a brilliancy which
would have been impossible if she had communicated that which had been
slowly acquired, but what she left with those who listened to her, did
not always seem, on reflection, to be so much as it appeared to be while
she was talking. Still she was very charming, and it must be confessed
that sometimes her spontaneity was truer than the limitations of speech
more carefully weighed.
‘What makes you stay in Fenmarket, Mrs Hopgood? How I wish you would
come to London!’
‘I do not wish to leave it now; I have become attached to it; I have very
few friends in London, and lastly, perhaps the most convincing reason, I
could not afford it. Rent and living are cheaper here than in town.’
‘Would you not like to live in London, Miss Hopgood?’
Clara hesitated for a few seconds.
‘I am not sure—certainly not by myself. I was in London once for six
months as a governess in a very pleasant family, where I saw much
society; but I was glad to return to Fenmarket.’
‘To the scenery round Fenmarket,’ interrupted Madge; ‘it is so romantic,
so mountainous, so interesting in every way.’
‘I was thinking of people, strange as it may appear. In London nobody
really cares for anybody, at least, not in the sense in which I should
use the words. Men and women in London stand for certain talents, and
are valued often very highly for them, but they are valued merely as
representing these talents. Now, if I had a talent, I should not be
satisfied with admiration or respect because of it. No matter what
admiration, or respect, or even enthusiasm I might evoke, even if I were
told that my services had been immense and that life had been changed
through my instrumentality, I should feel the lack of quiet, personal
affection, and that, I believe, is not common in London. If I were
famous, I would sacrifice all the adoration of the world for the love of
a brother—if I had one—or a sister, who perhaps had never heard what it
was which had made me renowned.’
‘Certainly,’ said Madge, laughing, ‘for the love of _such_ a sister.
But, Mr Palmer, I like London. I like the people, just the people,
although I do not know a soul, and not a soul cares a brass farthing
about me. I am not half so stupid in London as in the country. I never
have a thought of my own down here. How should I? But in London there
is plenty of talk about all kinds of things, and I find I too have
something in me. It is true, as Clara says, that nobody is anything
particular to anybody, but that to me is rather pleasant. I do not want
too much of profound and eternal attachments. They are rather a burden.
They involve profound and eternal attachment on my part; and I have
always to be at my best; such watchfulness and such jealousy! I prefer a
dressing-gown and slippers and bonds which are not so tight.’
‘Madge, Madge, I wish you would sometimes save me the trouble of
laboriously striving to discover what you really mean.’
Mrs Hopgood bethought herself that her daughters were talking too much to
one another, as they often did, even when guests were present, and she
therefore interrupted them.
‘Mr Palmer, you see both town and country—which do you prefer?’
‘Oh! I hardly know; the country in summer-time, perhaps, and town in the
winter.’
This was a safe answer, and one which was not very original; that is to
say, it expressed no very distinct belief; but there was one valid reason
why he liked being in London in the winter.
‘Your father, I remember, loves music. I suppose you inherit his taste,
and it is impossible to hear good music in the country.’
‘I am very fond of music. Have you heard “St Paul?” I was at Birmingham
when it was first performed in this country. Oh! it _is_ lovely,’ and he
began humming ‘_Be thou faithful unto death_.’
Frank did really care for music. He went wherever good music was to be
had; he belonged to a choral society and was in great request amongst his
father’s friends at evening entertainments. He could also play the
piano, so far as to be able to accompany himself thereon. He sang to
himself when he was travelling, and often murmured favourite airs when
people around him were talking. He had lessons from an old Italian, a
little, withered, shabby creature, who was not very proud of his pupil.
‘He is a talent,’ said the Signor, ‘and he will amuse himself; good for a
ballad at a party, but a musician? no!’ and like all mere ‘talents’ Frank
failed in his songs to give them just what is of most value—just that
which separates an artistic performance from the vast region of
well-meaning, respectable, but uninteresting commonplace. There was a
curious lack in him also of correspondence between his music and the rest
of himself. As music is expression, it might be supposed that something
which it serves to express would always lie behind it; but this was not
the case with him, although he was so attractive and delightful in many
ways. There could be no doubt that his love for Beethoven was genuine,
but that which was in Frank Palmer was not that of which the sonatas and
symphonies of the master are the voice. He went into raptures over the
slow movement in the _C minor_ Symphony, but no _C minor_ slow movement
was discernible in his character.
‘What on earth can be found in “St Paul” which can be put to music?’ said
Madge. ‘Fancy a chapter in the Epistle to the Romans turned into a
duet!’
‘Madge! Madge! I am ashamed of you,’ said her mother.
‘Well, mother,’ said Clara, ‘I am sure that some of the settings by your
divinity, Handel, are absurd. “_For as in Adam all die_” may be true
enough, and the harmonies are magnificent, but I am always tempted to
laugh when I hear it.’
Frank hummed the familiar apostrophe ‘_Be not afraid_.’
‘Is that a bit of “St Paul”?’ said Mrs Hopgood.
‘Yes, it goes like this,’ and Frank went up to the little piano and sang
the song through.
‘There is no fault to be found with that,’ said Madge, ‘so far as the
coincidence of sense and melody is concerned, but I do not care much for
oratorios. Better subjects can be obtained outside the Bible, and the
main reason for selecting the Bible is that what is called religious
music may be provided for good people. An oratorio, to me, is never
quite natural. Jewish history is not a musical subject, and, besides,
you cannot have proper love songs in an oratorio, and in them music is at
its best.’
Mrs Hopgood was accustomed to her daughter’s extravagance, but she was,
nevertheless, a little uncomfortable.
‘Ah!’ said Frank, who had not moved from the piano, and he struck the
first two bars of ‘_Adelaide_.’
‘Oh, please,’ said Madge, ‘go on, go on,’ but Frank could not quite
finish it.
She was sitting on the little sofa, and she put her feet up, lay and
listened with her eyes shut. There was a vibration in Mr Palmer’s voice
not perceptible during his vision of the crown of life and of fidelity to
death.
‘Are you going to stay over Sunday?’ inquired Mrs Hopgood.
‘I am not quite sure; I ought to be back on Sunday evening. My father
likes me to be at home on that day.’
‘Is there not a Mr Maurice who is a friend of your father?’
‘Oh, yes, a great friend.’
‘He is not High Church nor Low Church?’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘What is he, then? What does he believe?’
‘Well, I can hardly say; he does not believe that anybody will be burnt
in a brimstone lake for ever.’
‘That is what he does not believe,’ interposed Clara.
‘He believes that Socrates and the great Greeks and Romans who acted up
to the light that was within them were not sent to hell. I think that is
glorious, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but that also is something he does not believe. What is there in
him which is positive? What has he distinctly won from the unknown?’
‘Ah, Miss Hopgood, you ought to hear him yourself; he is wonderful. I do
admire him so much; I am sure you would like him.’
‘If you do not go home on Saturday,’ said Mrs Hopgood, ‘we shall be
pleased if you will have dinner with us on Sunday; we generally go for a
walk in the afternoon.’
Frank hesitated, but at that moment Madge rose from the sofa. Her hair
was disarranged, and she pushed its thick folds backward. It grew rather
low down on her forehead and stood up a little on her temples, a mystery
of shadow and dark recess. If it had been electrical with the force of a
strong battery and had touched him, he could not have been more
completely paralysed, and his half-erect resolution to go back on
Saturday was instantly laid flat.
‘Thank you, Mrs Hopgood,’ looking at Madge and meeting her eyes, ‘I think
it very likely I shall stay, and if I do I will most certainly accept
your kind invitation.’