MR. BARRY.
"Good-bye, sir. You ought not to be angry with me. I am sure it will be
better for us both to remain as we are." This was said by Miss Dorothy
Grey, as a gentleman departed from her and made his way out of the
front-door at the Fulham Manor-house. Miss Grey had received an offer of
marriage, and had declined it. The offer had been made by a worthy man,
he being no other than her father's partner, Mr. Barry.
It may be remembered that, on discussing the affairs of the firm with
her father, Dolly Grey had been accustomed to call this partner "the
Devil." It was not that she had thought this partner to be specially
devilish, nor was he so. It had ever been Miss Grey's object to have the
affairs of the firm managed with an integrity which among lawyers might
be called Quixotic. Her father she had dubbed "Reason," and herself
"Conscience;" but in calling Mr. Barry "the Devil" she had not intended
to signify any defalcation from honesty more than ordinary in lawyers'
offices. She did, in fact, like Mr. Barry. He would occasionally come
out and dine with her father. He was courteous and respectful, and
performed his duties with diligence. He spent nobody's money but his
own, and not all of that; nor did he look upon the world as a place to
which men were sent that they might play. He was nearly forty years old,
was clean, a little bald, and healthy in all his ways. There was nothing
of a devil about him, except that his conscience was not peculiarly
attentive to abstract honesty and abstract virtue. There must, according
to him, be always a little "give and take" in the world; but in the
pursuit of his profession he gave a great deal more than he took. He
thought himself to be an honest practitioner, and yet in all domestic
professional conferences with her father Mr. Barry had always been Miss
Grey's "Devil."
The possibility of such a request as had been now made had been already
discussed between Dolly and her father. Dolly had said that the idea was
absurd. Mr. Grey had not seen the absurdity. There had been nothing more
common, he had said, than that a young partner should marry an old
partner's daughter. "It's not put into the partnership deed?" Dolly had
rejoined. But Dolly had never believed that the time would come. Now it
had come.
Mr. Barry had as yet possessed no more than a fourth of the business. He
had come in without any capital, and had been contented with a fourth.
He now suggested to Dolly that on their marriage the business should be
equally divided. And he had named the house in which they would live.
There was a pleasant, genteel residence on the other side of the water,
at Putney. Miss Grey had suggested that the business might be divided in
a manner that would be less burdensome to Mr. Barry. As for the house,
she could not leave her father. Upon the whole, she had thought that it
would be better for both of them that they should remain as they were.
By that Miss Grey had not intended to signify that Mr. Barry was to
remain single, but that he would have to do so in reference to Miss
Grey.
When he was gone Dolly Grey spent the remainder of the afternoon in
contemplating what would have been her condition had she agreed to join
her lot to that of Mr. Barry, and she came to the conclusion that it
would have been simply unendurable. There was nothing of romance in her
nature; but as she looked at matrimony, with all its blisses,--and Mr.
Barry among them,--she told herself that death would be preferable. "I
know myself," she said. "I should come to hate him with a miserable
hatred. And then I should hate myself for having done him so great an
evil." And as she continued thinking she assured herself that there was
but one man with whom she could live, and that that was her father. And
then other questions presented themselves to her, which were not so
easily answered. What would become of her when he should go? He was now
sixty-six, and she was only thirty-two. He was healthy for his age, but
would complain of his work. She knew that he must in course of nature go
much the first. Ten years he might live, while she might probably be
called upon to endure for thirty more. "I shall have to do it all
alone," she said; "all alone; without a companion, without one soul to
whom I can open my own. But if I were to marry Mr. Barry," she
continued, "I should at once be encumbered with a soul to whom I could
not open my own. I suppose I shall be enabled to live through it, as do
others." Then she began to prepare for her father's coming. As long as
he did remain with her she would make the most of him.
"Papa," she said, as she took him by the hand as he entered the house
and led him into the dining-room,--"who do you think has been here?"
"Mr. Barry."
"Then he has told you?"
"Not a word,--not even that he was coming. But I saw him as he left the
chambers, and he had on a bright hat and a new coat."
"And he thought that those could move me."
"I have not known that he has wanted to move you. You asked me to guess,
and I have guessed right, it seems."
"Yes; you have guessed right."
"And why did he come?"
"Only to ask me to be his wife."
"And what did you say to him, Dolly?"
"What did I say to the Devil?" She still held him by the hand, and now
she laughed lightly as she looked into his face. "Cannot you guess what
I said to him?"
"I am sorry for it;--that's all."
"Sorry for it? Oh, papa, do not say that you are sorry. Do you want to
lose me?"
"I do not want to think that for my own selfish purposes I have retained
you. So he has asked you?"
"Yes; he has asked me."
"And you have answered him positively?"
"Most positively."
"And for my sake?"
"No, papa; I have not said that. I was joking when I asked whether you
wished to lose me. Of course you do not want to lose me." Then she wound
her arm round him, and put up her face to be kissed. "But now come and
dress yourself, as you call it. The dinner is late. We will talk about
it again after dinner."
But immediately after dinner the conversation went away to Mr.
Scarborough and the Scarborough matters. "I am to see Augustus, and he
is to tell me something about Mountjoy and his affairs. They say that
Mountjoy is now in Paris. The money can be given to them now, if he will
consent and will sign the deed releasing the property. But the men have
not all as yet agreed to accept the simple sums which they advanced.
That fellow Hart stands out, and says that he would sooner lose it all."
"Then he will lose it all," said Dolly.
"But the squire will consent to pay nothing unless they all agree.
Augustus is talking about his excessive generosity."
"It is generous on his part," said Dolly.
"He sees his own advantage, though I cannot quite understand where. He
tells Tyrrwhit that as there is so great an increase to the property he
is willing, for the sake of the good name of the family, to pay all that
has been in truth advanced; but he is most anxious to do it now, while
his father is alive. I think he fears that there will be lawsuits, and
that they may succeed. I doubt whether he thanks his father."
"But why should his father lie for his sake, since they are on such bad
terms?"
"Because his father was on worse terms with Mountjoy when he told the
lie. That is what I think Augustus thinks. But his father told no lie at
that time, and cannot now go back to falsehood. My belief is that if he
were confident that such is the fact he would not surrender a shilling
to pay these men their moneys. He may stop a lawsuit, which is like
enough, though they could only lose it. And if Mountjoy should turn out
to be the heir, which is impossible, he will be able to turn round and
say that by his efforts he had saved so much of the property."
"My head becomes so bewildered," said Dolly, "that I can hardly
understand it yet."
"I think I understand it; but I can only guess at his mind. But he has
got Tyrrwhit to accept forty thousand pounds, which is the sum he, in
truth, advanced. The stake is too great for the man to lose it without
ruin. He can get it back now, and save himself. But Hart was the more
determined blackguard. He, with two others, has a claim for thirty-five
thousand pounds, for which he has given but ten thousand pounds in hard
cash, and he thinks that he may get some profit out of Tyrrwhit's money,
and holds out."
"For how much?"
"For the entire debt, he tells me; but I know that he is trying to deal
with Tyrrwhit. Tyrrwhit would pay him five thousand, I think, so as to
secure the immediate payment of his own money. Then there are a host of
others who are contented to take what they have advanced, but not
contented if Hart was to have more. There are other men in the background
who advanced the money. All the rascaldom of London is let loose upon
me. But Hart was the one man who holds his head the highest."
"But if they will accept no terms they will get nothing," said Dolly.
"If once they attempt to go to law all will be lost."
"There are wheels within wheels. When the old man dies Mountjoy himself
will probably put in a claim to the entire estate, and will get some
lawyer to take up the case for him."
"You would not?"
"Certainly not, because I know that Augustus is the eldest legitimate
son. As far as I can make it out, Augustus is at present allowing
Mountjoy the money on which he lives. His father does not. But the old
man must know that Augustus does, though he pretends to be ignorant."
"But why is Hart to get money out of Tyrrwhit?"
"To secure the payment of the remainder. Mr. Tyrrwhit would be very glad
to get his forty thousand pounds back; would pay five thousand pounds to
get the forty back. But nothing will be paid unless they all agree to
join in freeing the property. Therefore Hart, who is the sharpest rascal
of the lot, stands out for some share of his contemplated plunder."
"And you must be joined in such an arrangement?"
"Not at all. I cannot help surmising what is to be done. In dealing with
the funds of the property I go to the men, and say to them so much, and
so much, and so much you have actually lost. Agree among yourselves to
accept that, and it shall be paid to you. That is honest?"
"I do not know."
"But I do. Every shilling that the son of my client has had from them my
client is ready to pay. There is some hitch among them, and I make my
surmises. But I have no dealings with them. It is for them to come to me
now." Dolly only shook her head. "You cannot touch pitch and not be
defiled." That was what Dolly said, but said it to herself. And then she
went on and declared to herself still farther, that Mr. Barry was pitch.
She knew that Mr. Barry had seen Hart, and had seen Tyrrwhit, and had
been bargaining with them. She excused her father because he was her
father; but according to her thinking there should have been no
dealings with such men as these, except at the end of a pair of tongs.
"And now, Dolly," said her father, after a long pause, "tell me about
Mr. Barry."
"There is nothing more to be told."
"Not of what you said to him, but of the reasons which have made you so
determined. Would it not be better for you to be married?"
"If I could choose my husband."
"Whom would you choose?"
"You."
"That is nonsense. I am your father."
"You know what I mean. There is no one else among my circle of
acquaintances with whom I should care to live. There is no one else with
whom I should care to do more than die. When I look at it all round it
seems to be absolutely impossible. That I should on a sudden entertain
habits of the closest intimacy with such a one as Mr. Barry! What should
I say to him when he went forth in the morning? How should I welcome him
when he came back at night? What would be our breakfast, and what would
be our dinner? Think what are yours and mine,--all the little
solicitudes, all the free abuse, all the certainty of an affection which
has grown through so many years; all the absolute assurance on the part
of each that the one does really know the inner soul of the other."
"It would come."
"With Mr. Barry? That is your idea of my soul with which you have been
in communion for so many years? In the first place, you think that I am
a person likely to be able to transfer myself suddenly to the first man
that comes my way?"
"Gradually you might do so,--at any rate so as to make life possible. You
will be all alone. Think what it will be to have to live all alone."
"I have thought. I do know that it would be well that you should be able
to take me with you."
"But I cannot."
"No. There is the hardship. You must leave me, and I must be alone. That
is what we have to expect. But for her sake, and for mine, we may be
left while we can be left. What would you be without me? Think of that."
"I should bear it."
"You couldn't. You'd break your heart and die. And if you can imagine my
living there, and pouring out Mr. Barry's tea for him, you must imagine
also what I should have to say to myself about you. 'He will die, of
course. But then he has come to that sort of age at which it doesn't
much signify.' Then I should go on with Mr. Barry's tea. He'd come to
kiss me when he went away, and I--should plunge a knife into him."
"Dolly!"
"Or into myself, which would be more likely. Fancy that man calling me
Dolly." Then she got up and stood behind his chair and put her arm round
his neck. "Would you like to kiss him?--or any man, for the matter of
that? There is no one else to whom my fancy strays, but I think that I
should murder them all,--or commit suicide. In the first place, I should
want my husband to be a gentleman. There are not a great many gentlemen
about."
"You are fastidious."
"Come now;--be honest; is our Mr. Barry a gentleman?" Then there was a
pause, during which she waited for a reply. "I will have an answer. I
have a right to demand an answer to that question, since you have
proposed the man to me as a husband."
"Nay, I have not proposed him."
"You have expressed a regret that I have not accepted him. Is he a
gentleman?"
"Well;--yes; I think he is."
"Mind; we are sworn, and you are bound to speak the truth. What right
has he to be a gentleman? Who was his father and who was his mother? Of
what kind were his nursery belongings? He has become an attorney, and so
have you. But has there been any one to whisper to him among his
teachings that in that profession, as in all others, there should be a
sense of high honor to guide him? He must not cheat, or do anything to
cause him to be struck off the rolls; but is it not with him what his
client wants, and not what honor demands? And in the daily intercourse
of life would he satisfy what you call my fastidiousness?"
"Nothing on earth will ever do that."
"You do. I agree with you that nothing else on earth ever will. The man
who might, won't come. Not that I can imagine such a man, because I know
that I am spoiled. Of course there are gentlemen, though not a great
many. But he mustn't be ugly and he mustn't be good-looking. He mustn't
seem to be old, and certainly he mustn't seem to be young. I should not
like a man to wear old clothes, but he mustn't wear new. He must be well
read, but never show it. He must work hard, but he must come home to
dinner at the proper time." Here she laughed, and gently shook her head.
"He must never talk about his business at night. Though, dear, darling
old father, he shall do that if he will talk like you. And then, which
is the hardest thing of all, I must have known him intimately for at any
rate, ten years. As for Mr. Barry, I never should know him intimately,
though I were married to him for ten years."
"And it has all been my doing?"
"Just so. You have made the bed and you must lie on it. It hasn't been a
bad bed."
"Not for me. Heaven knows it has not been bad for me."
"Nor for me, as things go; only that there will come an arousing before
we shall be ready to get up together. Your time will probably be the
first. I can better afford to lose you than you to lose me."
"God send that it shall be so!"
"It is nature," she said. "It is to be expected, and will on that
account be the less grievous because it has been expected. I shall have
to devote myself to those Carroll children. I sometimes think that the
work of the world should not be made pleasant to us. What profit will it
be to me to have done my duty by you? I think there will be some profit
if I am good to my cousins."
"At any rate, you won't have Mr. Barry?" said the father.
"Not if I know it," said the daughter; "and you, I think, are a wicked
old man to suggest it." Then she bade him good-night and went to bed,
for they had been talking now till near twelve.
But Mr. Barry, when he had gone home, told himself that he had
progressed in his love-suit quite as far as he had expected on the first
opportunity. He went over the bridge and looked at the genteel house,
and resolved as to certain little changes which should be made. Thus one
room should look here, and the nursery should look there. The walk to
the railway would only take five minutes, and there would be five
minutes again from the Temple Station in London. He thought it would do
very well for domestic felicity. And as for a fortune, half the business
would not be bad. And then the whole business would follow, and he in
his turn would be enabled to let some young fellow in who should do the
greater part of the work and take the smaller part of the pay, as had
been the case with himself.
But it had not occurred to him that the young lady had meant what she
said when she refused him. It was the ordinary way with young ladies. Of
course he had expected no enthusiasm of love;--nor had he wanted it. He
would wait for three weeks and then he would go to Fulham again.