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Title: The Master Craftsman
Author: Walter Besant
Release date: June 24, 2025 [eBook #76367]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Chatto & Windus, 1897
Credits: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN ***
THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS
ON
THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN
‘There is always a touch of the fairy-tale in Sir Walter Besant’s
romances.... He steeps the workaday world in a transfigurating
medium, and eerie incidents, impossible coincidences, fine and subtle
sentiments, beautiful love stories of pure passion, all appear in
keeping.... In “The Master Craftsman” Sir Walter Besant’s admirers
will find no cause for disappointment.... It is charming, it is
informed with the healthiest spirit, and it is optimistic, chivalrous,
picturesque.’--_Daily News._
‘“The Master Craftsman” opens with a brilliant prologue, not the
less enjoyable because it recalls the opening chapter of “Treasure
Island.”... The story contains romance, a sort of ethical adaptability
to the social conditions of the present time, a ripe humour in the
delineation of character, and a pervading poetry or eloquence that
makes the prose of the book seem modulated by the inflections of a
living voice. The book reveals no new development of its author’s
powers, but shows them undiminished and fresh; and it will be read with
enjoyment and admiration by everyone who takes it up.’--_Scotsman._
‘What we ask of Sir Walter Besant are pleasant and inspiriting hours
of wholesome entertainment. These he never fails to provide. He has
provided them once again in “The Master Craftsman,” and we are grateful
accordingly, and know that his book will have all the success of its
predecessors.’--_Daily Chronicle._
‘In “The Master Craftsman” Sir Walter Besant has a subject to his
heart’s desire.... He has a bit of old London to describe, and he does
it in a very lifelike and workmanlike fashion. Here the permanent value
of the book comes in.... To write a novel like “The Master Craftsman”
must be to enjoy oneself. It fairly beams on its readers.’--_Sketch._
‘Sir Walter Besant is, in one respect at least, a worthy successor
to Charles Dickens, for he knows London in all its picturesque nooks
and corners, and how to invest tales of mean streets with romantic
interest. He knows human nature also--the wholesome, sweet, sturdy
human nature which is not troubled with neurotic moods, or intent on
the solution of doubtful problems in morals.... This well-written,
quite improbable, but not on that account less fascinating,
romance.’--_Leeds Mercury._
‘... This sense of a living and kindly voice addressing you doubles
the charm of the story. This charm you feel particularly in Sir Walter
Besant’s last delightful romance, where only the living voice could
hold you hypnotically spell-bound till you accept unquestioningly the
wonderful Wapping idyll.’--_Illustrated London News._
‘Life in the East End among the working bees and life in the West
among the drones and butterflies of Society are pictured with equal
skill, the characters are vigorously drawn, the incidents are always
interesting and occasionally exciting. In a word, “The Master
Craftsman” is a fresh, picturesque, wholesome bit of fiction, full of
interest.’--_Court Journal._
‘In “The Master Craftsman” Sir Walter Besant is revealed in his very
sunniest mood.... The story is throughout a delightful one, rich in
character-drawing.’--_Lady._
‘In Sir Walter Besant’s pleasant romance of Wapping-on-the-Wall, the
hundred-year old mystery of the bag of jewels makes a delightful
background of fairy-tale to a plot and motive thoroughly modern and
realistic.’--_Spectator._
‘Sir Walter Besant has not been able to resist the attraction of the
jewel-treasure story, and we are glad he has succumbed to it, for he
has written one of the very best of the many romances whose hearts are
the sparkling futile things.’--_World._
‘There is about the story a touch of quixotism and romance which gives
it a charm of its own, and in the hands of an experienced writer the
tale is plausibly and agreeably told.’--_Westminster Gazette._
‘“The Master Craftsman” is certainly as pleasant a story as any Sir
Walter Besant has yet given to the world, and pleasantness is a quality
none too common in the fiction of the day.... Sir Walter Besant’s
optimism is always enjoyable, and often, as we know, truly beneficent
to a world over-given to pessimism.’--_Queen._
‘With a great deal of skill in the telling, and with much delightful
description of London as it now is and as it was last century, Sir
Walter Besant records ... the triumph of will and nothing over
incapacity and everything.... The story is charmingly told, with a kind
of artless optimism that is well-nigh captivating.’--_Academy._
THE
MASTER CRAFTSMAN
BY
WALTER BESANT
AUTHOR OF
‘BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE,’ ‘ARMOREL OF LYONESSE,’
‘ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN,’ ETC.
[Illustration]
A NEW EDITION
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1897
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE 1
I. ‘MARRY MONEY’ 22
II. ‘TRY POLITICS’ 34
III. THE COUSIN 44
IV. WAPPING 54
V. THE FAMILY HOUSE 65
VI. ‘TEA IS READY’ 76
VII. A BARGAIN 85
VIII. IN THE YARD 96
IX. IN THE EVENING 103
X. THE CHURCHYARD 111
XI. AN ADDRESS 122
XII. THE PHYSICIAN 140
XIII. IN THE FIELDS 149
XIV. MORE LESSONS 160
XV. MUTINY 169
XVI. DISSOLUTION 178
XVII. GENERAL ELECTION 195
XVIII. IN THE HOUSE 205
XIX. LADY FRANCES AT HOME 215
XX. AT THE YARD 223
XXI. THE SECOND SPEECH 231
XXII. A SURPRISE 248
XXIII. A MAN OF SOCIETY 265
XXIV. AN EXPLANATION 275
XXV. THE PROUD LOVER 284
XXVI. RELEASE 301
XXVII. CONCLUSION 307
THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN
PROLOGUE.
On a certain evening of July, in the year of grace 1804, old John
Burnikel sat in his own chair--that with arms and a high back--his own
chair in his own place during the summer--not his winter place--on
the terrace outside the Long Room of the Red Lion Tavern. This old
tavern, which, they say, was once visited by King Charles the First,
when he hunted a deer across the Whitechapel meadows, and afterwards
took a drink on the steps of this hostelry, was built of wood, like
most of the houses on the River Wall. It had a tumble-down and rickety
appearance; the upper windows projected, and were either aslant or
askew; the gables stood out high above the red-tiled roof, which had
sunk down in the middle, and for a hundred years had threatened to fall
down; there were odds and ends of buildings projecting over the river,
which also had looked for a hundred years as if they were falling into
it; the place had never got as much painting as it should have; the
half-obliterated sign hung creaking on rusty iron hinges. As it was in
1704, so it was in 1804, tottering, but never falling; ready to drop
to pieces, but never actually dropping to pieces.
The red blinds in the window looked warm and comforting on a cold
winter’s night; and from many a ship homeward bound making its slow way
up the river there were wafted signs of satisfaction that Wapping and
the Red Lion Tavern and old John Burnikel could be seen once more.
The Long Room was on the first-floor, a room running right through
the whole depth of the house, with one great window on the north, and
another opening from floor to ceiling on the south. From the window on
the north side could be seen in spring a lovely view of the trees and
hedges of Love Lane and the broad orchards, all white and pink with
blossoms of apple, pear and plum, which stretched away to the ponds and
fields of Whitechapel, and to the tall buildings of the London Hospital.
The tavern, from that window, seemed to be some rural retreat far from
the noisy town. In the winter, when the company was gathered round the
roaring fire, with shutters close, drawn blinds, and candles lit, there
was no pleasanter place for the relaxation of the better sort, nor any
place where one could look for older rum or neater brandy, not to speak
of choice Hollands, which some prefer to rum. For summer enjoyment
there was a broad balcony or terrace overhanging the river where the
company might sit and enjoy the spectacle of the homeward-bound ships
sailing up, and the outward-bound sailing down, and the loading and
unloading, with lighters and barges innumerable, in midstream.
The tavern stood beside Execution Dock, and the company of drinkers
might sometimes, if they pleased, witness a moving spectacle of justice
done on the body of some poor sailor wretch--murderer, mutineer, or
pirate--who was tied to a stake at low tide and was then left to expect
slow Death; for the grim Finisher dragged cruel feet and lingered,
while the tide slowly rose, and little by little washed over the chin
of the patient and gently lapped over his lips, and so crept higher and
higher till, with relentless advance, it flowed over his nostrils, and
then, with starting eyes of agony and horror, the dying man was dead.
Then the tide rose higher still, and presently flowed quite over his
head, and left no sign of the dreadful Thing below.
There had been, however, no execution on this day. John Burnikel sat
on the terrace, the time being eight in the evening, before a table on
which was a bowl of punch, his nightly drink. With him, one on each
side, sat his two grand-nephews, first cousins, partners in the firm of
Burnikel and Burnikel, boat-builders, of Wapping High Street--Robert
and George Burnikel. The rest of the company consisted of certain
reputable tradesmen of Wapping, and one or two sea-captains.
At this time John Burnikel was an extremely ancient person. His birth,
in fact, as recorded in the register of St. John’s Church, Wapping,
took place in the year 1710. It was not everybody who knew that date,
but everybody knew that he had far surpassed the limits accorded to
man. Nobody in the parish, for instance, could remember any time when
John Burnikel was not visible, and walking about, an old man as it
seemed, in a time when, to this riverside people, greatly addicted as
they were to rum, a man of fifty was accounted old. Nor could anybody
remember the time when John Burnikel was not to be found every evening
in the Long Room of the Red Lion, or on the terrace overlooking the
river.
Old or not, he walked erect and briskly; he looked no more than sixty;
his features were not withered or shrunken or sharpened; he had no look
of decrepitude; he had preserved his teeth and his hair; the only sign
of age was the network of wrinkles which time had thrown over his face.
And when he walked home at night he brandished his trusty club with so
much resolution, and in his old arm there was still so much strength,
that although the place was lawless, and robberies and assaults were
common, and although he walked through the street every night alone,
at ten o’clock, nobody ever molested him. Such is the virtue of a
thick stick, which is far better than sword or pistol, if a man hath a
reputation for readiness in its handling.
The old man lived in one of the small houses of Broad Street, in an
old cottage with four rooms, with diamond panes in the window, and
a descent of a foot or so from the street into the front-room. The
house at the back looked out upon the open expanse of orchards and
market-gardens, with a distant prospect of Whitechapel Mount. He lived
quite alone, and he ‘did’ for himself, scrubbing his floors, personally
conducting the weekly wash, and cooking his own food. This was simple,
consisting almost entirely of beefsteaks, onions, and bread, with beer
by the gallon. When he had cooked and served and eaten his breakfast
or dinner, and when he had cleaned up his frying-pan and his plates,
the old man would sit down in his armchair and go to sleep, in winter
by the fire, in summer outside, in his back-yard. He had no books,
and he wanted none; he had no friends except at the tavern, and was
cheerful without them. At the tavern, however, whither John Burnikel
repaired at nightfall, or about six o’clock, every evening, he was
friendly, hospitable, and full of talk, drinking, taking his tobacco,
and conversing with the other frequenters of the house; and since he
was generous, and often called for bowls of punch, grog around, and
drams, so that many an honest fellow was enabled to go home drunk
who would otherwise have gone home sober, he was allowed, and even
encouraged, to talk and to tell his adventures over and over again as
much as he pleased. To do him justice, he was always ready to take
advantage of this license, and never tired of relating the perils he
had encountered, the heroism he had displayed, and the romantic manner
in which he had acquired his riches.
For the old man boasted continually of his great riches, and in moments
of alcoholic uplifting he would declare that he could buy up the whole
of the company present, and all Wapping to boot, if he chose, and be
none the worse for it. These were vapourings; but a man who could
afford to spend every day from five to ten shillings at the tavern,
drinking the best and as much as he could hold of it, treating his
friends, freely ordering bowls of punch, must needs possess means
far beyond those of his companions. For the village of Wapping,
though there were in it many substantial boat-builders, rope-makers,
block-makers, sail-makers, instrument-makers, and others connected with
the trade and shipping of the Port of London, was not in those days a
rich quarter.
The wealthy London merchants, who had houses at Mile End, Hoxton, Bow,
Ham, and even Ratcliffe, never chose Wapping for a country residence;
and, indeed, the riverside folk from St. Katherine’s by the Tower
as far as Shadwell were, as a whole, a rough, rude, and dishonest
people, without knowledge, without morals, without principle, without
religion. The mob, however, found not their way to the Long Room of the
Red Lion Tavern.
The old man was always called John Burnikel; not Captain Burnikel, as
was the common style and title of ancient mariners, nor Mr. Burnikel,
as belonged to business men, but plain John Burnikel without any title
at all. And so he had been called, I say, during the whole length of
time remembered by the oldest inhabitants, except himself, of Wapping,
and this was nearly seventy years.
It was a romantic history that the old man had to tell. He was the
son of a boat-builder--a Wappineer--that was well known and certain;
the business was still conducted by those two grand-nephews. At an
early age he had run away to sea; this was also perfectly credible,
because all the lads of Wapping who possessed any generous instincts
always did run away to sea, or became apprentices on board ship. No
one doubted that John Burnikel was an old sailor. He said that he had
risen to command an East Indiaman; this may have been true, but the
statement wanted confirmation. His manner and habits spoke perhaps
of the f’o’ksle rather than the quarter-deck, but, then, there are
quarter-decks where the manners are those of the f’o’ksle. However, in
the year 1804 nobody cared whether this part of his history was true or
not, and at the present moment, ninety years after, it is of still less
importance.
On the visit of a stranger, or on any holiday or on any festive
occasion, John Burnikel was wont to relate at great length, and with
many flourishes and with continually new embroideries, the series of
adventures which enabled him to return to England at an early age--not
more than five-and-twenty--the possessor of a handsome fortune. It
would take too long to relate this history entirely in the old man’s
words. Besides, which history--told on which evening--should be
selected? Suffice it to say that while it was in progress the company
finished one bowl, ordered another, and sometimes finished that while
the narrative proceeded. For listening without talking is thirsty work,
and a thirsty man must drink or die. And since the punch was paid for
by the old man, ’twould be the neglecting of chances and opportunities
not to take as much of it as the rest of the company allowed.
The substance of the earlier part of the story was this: John Burnikel
was on board the East Indiaman, the _Hooghly_, bound from the Port
of London to Calcutta. She had a goodly company of passengers, and
was laden with a miscellaneous cargo. They fell into a hurricane in
the Indian Ocean. The ship was dismasted, and lost her rudder and her
boats; she drifted helpless for many days, and at last struck on a
rock. When, after dangers and difficulties of the most extraordinary
kind, John Burnikel found himself on shore at last, he was alone,
naked, destitute and helpless on a hostile coast, the people of which
he declared were notorious cannibals.
They did not, however, proceed to eat him; on the contrary, they
clothed him, fed him, and presently took him up country as a present,
presumably, to the kitchen of their King, ‘or, as in their jargon they
call him, gentlemen, their Rajah.’
Here he would break off to reflect upon the situation. Every
storyteller loves to take advantage of the reflections suggested by
a situation. ‘Gentlemen,’ he would say, ‘’tis a melancholy thing to
find yourself growing every day fatter and more ready for the spit;
even the distinction of being reserved for the private larder of His
Majesty could not make me cheerful. What, I ask you, is the idle honour
of being served at the table of royalty when one thinks of what you
must go through in order to get there? I would compare, gentlemen, in
my own mind, that portion of me which might be on the Royal dish--a
sirloin or a brisket or saddle--with a leg or a loin of roast pork
on our own table; and I would remember that in order for us to get
that toothsome loin the animal must first be stuck. ’Twas, I confess,
mortifying to reflect that sticking must be undergone.
‘Gentlemen, with the utmost joy I discovered that this Prince was too
great and too high-minded to be a cannibal. Children of tender years,
indeed, as we take sucking pig, he might welcome at his table, but not
a sailor grown up and tough. He received me, on the other hand, with a
gracious kindness which I cannot forget; he gave me an important office
about his person--that of Hereditary Grand Mixer of the Royal Punch--a
most responsible office, with a uniform of red silk, and a turban stuck
all over with diamonds. This, gentlemen, is the Court uniform of that
country. Here we know not what uniform means for splendour.’
The story at this point varied from day to day. Let us select the
version most in use. He rendered some signal service to His Majesty,
the nature of which was differently told; in fact, it was impossible
to reconcile the various narratives, for he discovered a conspiracy,
revealed the conspirators at their work, and saved the King and the
Dynasty; or he rescued the King’s daughter from a fierce man-eating
tiger; or he captured the kidnappers who were running off with that
daughter; or he snatched the whole of the Harem from a consuming
fire; or he healed them all of a dangerous sickness by administering
tar-water. In fact, John Burnikel had a most lively imagination, and
used it freely. Choose, therefore, the kind of service which you think
most worthy of a great reward.
‘For this service, Gentlemen, the Great Mogul showed the gratitude of a
Christian. He sent for me, and when I fell upon my knees, which is the
only way in which His Majesty can be approached, he stepped down from
his golden throne and bade me graciously to rise. Then he created me
on the spot, a Duke, or a Lord Mayor--I forget which. This done, they
gave me a splendid cloak to wear. And then--for the best was yet to
come--the Emperor bade me prepare for something unexpected. Ah!’--here
he drew a long breath--‘unexpected indeed! With that he led me through
the golden halls of his Palace, crowded with dancing girls, till we
came to a place where there was a heavy door. “Unlock it,” says the
King. So the door was opened, and we went down a few steps till we came
to an underground hall. If you’ll believe me, gentlemen, that hall
hadn’t need of candles to light it up. It was full of light; it dazzled
one’s eyes only to stand there and look around; full of its own light,
for it was full of precious stones--heaps of ’em, boxes of ’em, shelves
of ’em, strings of ’em; there they were--diamonds, rubies, pearls,
emeralds, opals--every kind of precious stone that grows anywhere in
the world. Gentlemen, there was a sight! The diamonds came from the
Emperor’s own diamond ground--Golconda they call it--where I’ve been.
I will tell you some day about Golconda. The rubies were brought by
the King’s armies from Burmah. I’ve been to Burmah, and I’ll tell
you about the people there some day; cruel torturers they are. The
pearls came from Ceylon, where they are got by diving. I’ve been a
famous diver myself, and I’ll tell you, if you ask me to-morrow, how
I fought the shark under water; you don’t know what a fight is like
till you tackle a shark under water, with the conger and the cuttle
and the codfish looking on! As for the emeralds, I don’t rightly know
how they got there. I have heard of a mountain in South America which
is just one great emerald, and at certain times the natives go with
hammers and chop off little bits. I’ll go out there next year to see
it. However, gentlemen, there we were, the Great Mogul and me, standing
in the middle of these treasures. “Jack,” says he, “you shan’t say
that the King of India is ungrateful. For the service you have done
me, I say--help yourself. Fill your pockets. Carry out all you can!”
And I did. Gentlemen, it is seventy years ago and more, and still I
could cry only to think that my pockets were not sacks. However, I did
pretty well--pretty well; weigh me against any Lord Mayor of London you
like, and you would say that I did very well. Better still, I brought
these stones home with me. Best of all, I’ve got ’em still. When I want
money I take one of my diamonds or a handful of pearls. Aha! You would
like to know where I keep these jewels? Trust me; they are in safe
keeping--all that’s left of ’em--and that’s plenty--in right, good,
safe keeping.’
Was not this a splendid, a romantic story to be told in Whitechapel
by a simple old sailor? Nobody believed it, which mattered nothing so
long as the punch held out. Yet the old man most certainly did have
money, as he showed by his nightly expenditure alone, let alone the
fact that for seventy years he had lived among them all at Wapping,
and had done no single stroke of work. Among his hearers there sat
every night those two grand-nephews of his; they were cousins, I have
said, and partners in the boat-building business. They came, moved by
natural affection--who would not love an uncle who might be telling
the truth, or something like the truth, about these jewels? They also
came to learn what the old man might reveal, which would be a clue to
finding more; and they came out of jealousy, because each suspected
the other of trying to supplant him in the favour of the uncle. They
sat, therefore, and endured the story night after night, and endured
the company, which was not always of their own rank and station as
respectable tradesmen; but still they got nothing for their trouble,
because the old man told them no more than he told the rest of the
world. Nor did he show the least sign of affection for either. Every
evening, when the cousins left the tavern, which was not until the old
man had first departed, one would say to the other: ‘Cousin George,
our uncle ages; he ages visibly. I greatly fear that he is breaking.’
And the other would reply: ‘Cousin Robert, I greatly fear it, too. Yet
it is the way of all flesh.’ It was a time when every event had to be
received in a spirit and with words proper to the occasion. ‘We must
resign ourselves to the impending blow.’
‘Heaven grant’--the tribute to religion having been duly paid, they
became natural again--‘heaven grant that we find the truth about these
jewels. The story cannot be true.’
‘Yet how has he lived for seventy years in idleness?’
‘I know not, nor can I so much as surmise.’
‘Consider, cousin. He lays out from eight shillings to ten or even
twelve shillings every evening at the Tavern. And there are his meals
and his rent besides. Say that he spends twelve shillings a day, or
eighty-four shillings a week, which is two hundred and eighteen pounds
eight shillings a year. In seventy years this makes the prodigious sum
of fifteen thousand two hundred and eighty-eight pounds. Where did he
get all that money? Cousin, he has either a secret hoard somewhere, or
he has property--houses, perhaps, of which we know nothing.’
‘When he dies I suppose we shall learn. A man cannot have his property
buried with him.’
* * * * *
Now, on this night, as the company at the Tavern parted at ten o’clock,
instead of shouldering his club and marching off, the old sailor turned
to his nephews. ‘Boys,’ he said--he had never called them ‘boys’
before--‘I have something to say. I had better say it at once, because,
look you, I think I am getting old, and in a few score years, more or
less, it may be too late to say it. Come with me, then, to my poor
house in Broad Street.’
The nephews, greatly astonished and marvelling much, followed him. They
were going to be told something. What? The truth about the jewels? The
nature of the property?
The old man led the way, brandishing his stick, stout and erect. He
took them to his house, opened the door, closed it and barred it; got
his tinder-box, and obtained a light for a thick ship’s tallow candle.
Then he barred the window-shutter. His nephews looked round the room.
It was the first time they had stood within those walls. There was a
table; there was an armchair, a high armchair in which one could sit
protected from the draughts by the fireside; there was a tobacco-box,
with two or three churchwarden pipes; there was a cupboard with
plates. A kettle was on one side of the hob, and a gridiron on the
other. There was no other furniture in the room. But the door and the
window-shutters were both of oak, thick and massive. And on the wall
were hung a cutlass and a brace of pistols.
‘Wait here a bit,’ said the old man. He took the candle and carried it
into the other room, leaving them in the dark. After a few minutes he
returned, bearing a small canvas sack.
‘Nephews,’ he said, laying the bag on the table, and keeping both hands
upon it, ‘you come every night to the Red Lion in hopes of finding out
something about my property. It is your inheritance; why shouldn’t you
come? Sometimes you think it is much, then your spirits rise. Sometimes
you think it is little, then your spirits sink. When I begin to talk
you prick up your ears; but you never hear anything. Then you go home
and you wonder how long the old man will last, eh? and how much money
he has got, eh? and what he will do with it, eh? Well, now, you shall
have your curiosity satisfied.’
‘Sir,’ said one of the nephews, ‘our spirits may well sink at the
thought of your falling into poverty.’
‘And,’ said the other, ‘they may well be expected to rise at the
thought of your prosperity.’
‘I have told you many stories of travel and of profit. Sometimes you
believe, in which case you show signs of satisfaction. Sometimes you
look glum when you think that you are wasting your evenings.’
‘Oh, sir,’ said one of the nephews, ‘sure one cannot waste one’s time
in such good and improving company as yourself.’
‘We come,’ said the other, ‘for instruction. Your talk is more
instructive than any book of travel.’
‘The time has now arrived’--the old man paid no attention to these
fond assurances--‘to tell you what I have, and to show you what you
will have. I am now grown old, so old that I must expect before many
years are over’--he was already, as you have seen, ninety-four--‘to
die’--he sighed heavily--‘and to give my substance to those who come
after. Look you! I bear no manner of affection to you. When a man gets
to ninety, he cares no longer about anything but himself. That is the
beauty and excellence of being old. Then a man gets everything for
himself, no sharing, no giving. I shall give you nothing--not even if
you are bankrupt--in my lifetime. But I mean not to defraud my heirs.
You shall see, therefore, all I have got. Many a rich merchant living
in his great house would be glad to change places with you when I am
gone--many a merchant? All the merchants of London Town!’
He took up the bag. It was a long narrow bag of brown canvas, quite two
feet long, and shaped like a purse of the period.
I know not what they expected, but at the sight of the treasure which
he poured out upon the table these two respectable boat-builders
gasped; they looked on with amazement unspeakable, with open mouths,
with starting eyes, with flaming cheeks, with quivering hands and
trembling knees. They could not look at each other; they dared not
speak. It was like the opening of the gates of Paradise, with a full
view of the interior arrangements.
They had never dreamed of such a sight. Five hundred pounds all in gold
would have seemed to these worthy tradesmen a treasure, five thousand
pounds great wealth, ten thousand pounds an inexhaustible sum, for
this old man poured out upon the table a pile, not of guineas, but of
precious stones. Why, then, his stories about the countless treasures
of the Great Mogul must be true. There they were--diamonds, emeralds,
rubies, pearls, all the stones which he described, hundreds of them,
thousands of them; there were precious stones, large, splendid, worth
immense sums, with smaller ones, with strings of pearls, enough to fill
quart pots. And now they understood what was meant by all those stories
concerning precious stones over which they had grown as incredulous as
Didymus.
The old man bent over his heap and ran his fingers into it, and caught
a handful and dropped it back again. ‘See my beauties!’ he cried. ‘Look
at the colours; the sunshine in them and the green and the red. Saw you
ever the like? Oh, if a man could but live long enough to work through
this heap! Why, ’tis seventy years since I first came home, with this
bag in my hand for all my fortune, and there’s no difference in it yet.
It grows no less; I sometimes think it grows bigger. No man, live as
long as he could wish, would work through this heap.’
‘May we humbly ask, sir,’ said one of them, taking heart, ‘how much
money is represented by this bag of jewels?’
‘I know not. Take this stone; ’tis a ruby. Look at it, weigh it; I
sold one like it three months ago for fifty pounds. There are hundreds
bigger. Well’--he began to put the stones back into the bag--‘I have
shown these treasures to you because the time will come--not yet, I
hope--it must come, I suppose’--he spoke as if there was still a chance
of an exception being made in his favour--‘when I must give the bag
to you two and go away. I shall have to go aboard a strange ship and
join a strange company, as bo’s’n, maybe, or able seaman, or cook--who
knows?--and sail away in strange waters on a new cruise where there are
no charts.’
‘Not for many years,’ murmured one of the nephews fervently.
‘Not if our prayers, our daily prayers, can keep you here!’ added the
other, clasping his hands.
‘Thank ye,’ said John Burnikel, tying up his bag.
‘I trust, sir,’ said one of the nephews, ‘that you keep this precious
treasure in a safe place. A whisper, a suspicion, would fly through
Wapping like wild-fire, and you would be robbed and murdered.’
‘Devil a whisper will there be,’ said John. ‘You won’t start a whisper,
that’s certain. And I won’t. And as for the place where I keep it, no
one will see me put it there, and no one would think of looking there.
And now, nephews, good-night. Say nothing--but of course you will
not--and be as patient as you can. I believe you will have to wait a
dozen years or so before you get the bag.’
They stepped out into the street, and heard him, to their satisfaction,
bolting and barring the door behind them.
‘Cousin,’ said one, ‘this has been a wonderful evening. Who could have
believed it? We are now rich men--oh, rich beyond our dreams! We can
leave Wapping, and court the society of the Great.’
‘Unless his bag is stolen, which may happen. I tremble only to think of
keeping such a treasure in such a mean little cottage among all these
rogues and villains! It ought to be in a strong-room such as merchants
use.’
‘I think--I fear--we shall not have to wait long. Methinks the old
man’s voice is breaking. He seemed feebler to-night than I remember to
have seen him. Ninety-four is a great, a very great, age.’
‘Ah! he may not have many weeks--many days--to live. His voice, I also
observed, was weak. It is a happiness, cousin, to reflect that an
uncle who now entertains a disposition of so much justice towards his
nephews, can hardly fail of Abraham’s bosom.’
This anxiety proved prophetic. Exactly a week afterwards John Burnikel
did not appear at the tavern at six o’clock, nor at half-past six. The
nephews hurried round to Broad Street. The door was open; there was no
one in the front-room. In the room behind they found their uncle lying
on his bed, his face drawn as with pain, and with the gray look which
often falls upon those who are about to die.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I thought you wouldn’t be long. Come in, boys. Shut the
door and come in. I’ve had a kind of fit; my legs don’t seem right.
Get me a drink; the barrel of beer is in the other room. I shall be
better to-morrow--much better.’ He drank a copious draught of beer,
which refreshed him. He tried to sit up, but could not. It was a day
in August, when it gets dusk about eight. At nightfall they found the
tinder-box and got a light, and sat down one on each side of the bed.
So they sat all night till three in the morning without saying a word
to each other. The old man seemed sleeping. At daybreak he began to
murmur, rambling in his speech.
‘The man’s mad. He won’t know; he won’t find out. He will die mad. No
one will know--no one will know. Boys’--he opened his eyes--‘you both
know where the bag is hidden away. I think this is the end. Well, Eve
left you rich--half as rich, each of you, as myself.’ He closed his
eyes. Presently one of the watchers bent over him.
‘Cousin,’ he said, ‘the breath has gone out of the body. Our excellent,
wealthy uncle is no more. Nothing remains but to weep for him.’
‘Let us find the bag and divide the property,’ said the other, ‘before
we call in the neighbours.’
‘It is our sorrowful duty to do so, as his heirs, and quickly, before
the thing gets wind.’
It was the custom to construct at the head of the great wooden bed of
the period a secret box, drawer, or repository. Everybody knew the
secret place at the head of the bed. It was an open secret, yet it was
commonly used in every house for the concealment, as in a place of
perfect safety, of the silver and the valuables.
They searched in this receptacle. The bag was not there.
‘It is in this room, because he brought it out of this room. Let us
look again.’
Again they searched every corner and cranny for the secret
hiding-place. It was not there. There might be some other hiding-place
in the bed. It could only be at the head. They tapped and hammered. In
vain. Was it on the head of the bed? They climbed up and looked. No; it
was not there. Was it under the bed? They looked, but it was not there.
Could it be in the mattress? in the feather-bed? in the bolster? under
the bolster? under the mattress? They lifted the dead man on to the
floor, and they examined those places and other constituent portions of
the bed. In vain. They lifted their great-uncle back again to the bed,
and gazed at each other with anxious eyes.
‘It must be in this room,’ they repeated. ‘He brought it from this
room; he took it back.’
They looked round. There was a three-legged stool leaning against the
wall, because one of its legs was broken off. There was a sea-chest
in the corner--a big, heavy box with a lock, and bound strongly with
iron. Ah! the sea-chest. They dragged it out and threw open the lid.
Within was a curious collection of miscellaneous property: a big silver
watch, a knife, a dirk, an ugly Malay creese, an old pistol, a bo’s’n’s
whistle, a mariner’s compass, a bundle of charts, a few trifles in
carved wood from India, two or three broken figures from India, a dead
flying-fish, together with a bundle of decayed or decaying clothes,
which filled up the bottom of the chest. They pulled everything out
with eager haste, each man looking jealously at the other for fear he
should secretly convey the bag into his own pockets. Everything lay on
the floor, and the bag was not in the chest. It was divided into two
compartments, a larger and a smaller. They held it up to the light. No,
there was nothing in the chest. They looked again about the room. There
was a cupboard in the wall. Both discovered it at the same moment and
rushed at it. They threw open the door. It was a spacious cupboard; but
there was nothing in it at all. Old John Burnikel had never used that
cupboard.
‘Let us lift the hearthstone,’ said one of them. Everybody knows that
the hearthstone was often the family bank where money was stowed away
for safety when there was no secret hiding-place at the head of the
bed. And the family continued to put faith in the hearthstone long
after the secret was perfectly well known to those persons who break in
and steal.
They did lift the hearthstone. Nothing was under it. The earth had
never been disturbed since the stone was laid.
Their faces were now haggard. Could the bag be stolen?
They then prized up the boards of the floor; they tore down the
wainscoting; they searched the little back-yard for signs of recent
disturbance; they remembered that there were two rooms upstairs; they
were empty and unfurnished, but they tore up the boards; they searched
in the roof; they searched in the chimneys. Heavens! there was no sign
of the bag anywhere. Where was it?--where was it? All that day they
searched. The next day--which was indecent in haste--they buried the
old man, neither of them attending the funeral for fear of the bag
being found in their absence. And then they began again. They wrecked
the house; they reduced it to its bare walls of brick; they pulled the
bed to pieces; they left, as they thought, nothing unturned. But the
bag was not in the house.
Then they began to think that, while the old man lay unconscious, the
door open, the bag might have been stolen. But it must have been hidden
away, and nobody knew that it was there, or had thought of it----
Then another suspicion entered the heads of both at the same moment.
One of them, when it had taken shape with the firm outline of moral
certainty, put it into words:
‘His last words, George--his dying words--were: “You know where I’ve
put the bag”; and he looked at you--at you. What did he look at you
for? Because you know where he put the bag.’
‘He looked at you, Robert, not at me. Why? Because he had told you
where it was. You wormed his secret out of him.’
‘And now you try to turn it off on me. You’ve taken the bag; you’ve got
it somewhere; you think to take it all for yourself.’
‘This impudence passes everything. Do you think I am simple enough not
to see through this villainy? ’Tis you--you--you who have taken the
bag.’
It is sad to relate that these recriminations became more and more
bitter; that the two boat-builders of Wapping--churchwardens, jurymen,
most respectable and responsible persons, partners and cousins--did,
in the agony of their disappointment, call each other rogue, thief,
villain; that they proceeded, being beyond and beside themselves with
bitterness, to shake their fists at each other; that they next--it
was a fighting age--fell upon and mauled each other; that they only
desisted when exhaustion, not satisfaction, compelled them to separate;
and that they parted with threats, curses, and promises of Newgate Gaol
and the Condemned Cell.
To conclude, the bag could not be found. The agonies endured by those
two disappointed men were terrible. To have these treasures just
shown to them, dangled before them, and then withdrawn! Heard one
ever the like? To conclude, they dissolved partnership. One of them
left Wapping altogether, to enjoy at a distance, the other said, his
ill-gotten wealth; the other remained to conceal, the first said, the
fact of his stolen property. And as for the few remaining goods of
John Burnikel--the table, the bed, and the household gear--they were
conveyed to the boat-builder’s house, and after one more final search
the old man’s cottage in Broad Street was abandoned.
But the cousins were wrong. Neither of them had the bag, and it
remained undiscovered. You shall see how, in the course of this
history, it came to be discovered.
CHAPTER I.
‘MARRY MONEY.’
‘Yes, Sir George,’ said the lawyer, looking mighty serious.
‘We have at length ascertained how you stand. Your father
conducted--misconducted--his affairs without consulting us--and we knew
nothing of what was going on--nothing at all.’
I inclined my head. I had already heard certain things which had led me
to expect something unpleasant. Now I was to learn the whole truth.
My father, the second Baronet, and son of the well-known judge and
lawyer, had died five weeks or so before this interview. He died at the
age of fifty-two, having led a perfectly quiet and apparently harmless
life. Harmless! You shall see. I was twenty-five, and after the usual
run of Eton and Cambridge, I had my chambers in Piccadilly, and my
club, and led the life customary among young men of fortune. I knew
nothing, and learned nothing, and could do nothing, except play with a
lathe. I was not bookish, or artistic, or scientific, or musical, or
literary, or anything. Therefore the intelligence that I was about to
receive was even more delightful than it would have been to a man who
could do things, write things, and sell things.
‘You know already,’ the lawyer continued, ‘that your father met with
serious losses on the Stock Exchange?’
‘I know so much, certainly.’
‘I have here everything ready for you. Before you look at it, Sir
George, be prepared for a very--a most painful surprise.’
‘Tell me all--at once.’
‘Then, Sir George--it is a most distressing communication to make--but
you are young, which is the only consolation--young and strong--and, I
doubt not, a philosopher----’
‘I am especially and above all things a philosopher. But pray get on.’
‘Your grandfather, with his magnificent, his unequalled practice,
and the habits of prudence which guided all his investments, rolled
up what we call, in the profession, a colossal fortune--not colossal
in the City sense, but in our sense. It was over a quarter of a
million, which your father, then forty years of age, inherited. When
he died, five weeks ago, at the age of fifty-two, he had managed by
those speculations of his to get through the whole of it--the whole
of it--with his country house and his town house. Ah! Sir George,
why--why--why did not the Judge entail the whole? It maddens me only to
think of it! He has lost all--everything.’ The lawyer rubbed it in with
resolution. ‘You have no longer any fortune left; you have no house; my
poor young friend, you have nothing but a few scraps and crumbs left of
that splendid fortune that seemed to be yours two months ago.’
‘Lost the whole of the fortune? In ten years? He could not.’
‘Everything is possible on the Stock Exchange. He has lost it all.’
‘You mean that I have nothing. Say it again.’
‘Your father, in ten years, lost the whole of his fortune. You have got
left, practically, nothing.’
‘Thank you. I have got nothing. I shall realize it presently. It makes
one feel chilly. I have got nothing.’ I put my fingers in my waistcoat
pocket. ‘Here are some coins. They are mine, I suppose. There are two
or three hundred pounds standing to my account at the Bank; are they
mine, too?’
‘Yes. And to speak of crumbs and scraps, I think I may save a little
something for you out of the wreck. But it will be a mere trifle. I
estimate it at the most as three thousand pounds.’
‘Oh! I have three thousand pounds. You are quite sure you have done
your very worst?’
‘I can do nothing worse than this for you.’
I got up and stood over the empty fireplace. ‘I suppose,’ I said
slowly, ‘that it is very bad. I am not a person of imagination, you
know, and I cannot feel, all at once, how bad it is. A thing like this
cannot be appreciated all at once. It takes time--it has to get into
the system.’
‘There is, at all events, something--a solid something, though small,’
said the lawyer, watching me with some curiosity to see how I took it.
‘Yes, a kind of nugget. It promises to become exciting. I shall become
the penniless adventurer of fiction. Should I, do you think, begin to
practise billiards? Or does écarté offer a better opening?’
‘You must consider, Sir George, when you come to take this business
seriously, that many a man with less than that has got on in the
world, and made a name for himself, and even amassed a fortune. Your
grandfather certainly began with less.’
‘The men who get on in the world are the men who start with twopence.
Reduce me to twopence, with an introduction to the Lord Mayor, and no
doubt I shall get on.’
‘Nonsense. Take the thing seriously: think over what can be done
with three thousand pounds. It is quite enough, with prudence, to
keep you while you are qualifying for a profession, and to start you
afterwards--law, medicine, the church, which will you have? Or there
are the new fangled professions which used to be trades--science, art,
engineering, architecture: you may take up any one of these and qualify
for practice with three thousand pounds. Or you might start a horse or
cattle farm--there is an opening they tell me, and the rent of land in
some places is very low. Or you might buy a partnership in a house of
business--three thousand pounds would go a long way in many houses.
There are a hundred ways in which a prudent man might invest that sum
of money. I assure you, Sir George, that there are thousands of young
fellows, as well educated as yourself, who, if they had three thousand
pounds to begin with, would feel that all the wealth of Lombard Street
was well within their reach. And they’d manage to get a good slice of
it, too.’
‘Very likely. I don’t feel that way at all myself. I am quite certain
that, whatever I did, I should get none of the wealth of Lombard
Street.’
‘I am only pointing out the possibilities of things.’
‘You see, I am not that kind of young man at all. And that is not the
kind of life that I desire. Money-making--I suppose it is natural to
one whose money has been made for him--seems an ignoble pursuit, at the
best.’
‘Well--well, but permit me, you haven’t yet got the true feeling
of your poverty. You don’t quite understand yet what it means--the
difference it makes. When it really gets into your blood and your
bones, and you see rising up walls between you and the old world of
enjoyment, with prohibitions, and exclusions, and limitations, then,
my dear young friend, you will feel stimulated to make an effort in a
way that as yet you cannot understand. How should you understand all
these evils in a moment? Let me tell you, Sir George, poverty is a
terrible thing--a terrible thing. It deprives a young man like you of
the chief pleasures of his age; it denies a middle-aged man what most
he desires at that time of life, consideration and authority; and it
robs an old man of those comforts and attentions and cares which alone
can solace his infirmities. I have been poor myself, Sir George, and
I speak with full and bitter knowledge. Never say that money-making
is ignoble; the methods may be ignoble, but the pursuit is natural,
laudable, honourable. Money, my friend, is the only thing--the only
thing--that makes life tolerable. Without it there can be no happiness,
no independence, no authority, no self-respect. Get money somehow.’
The old man spoke with sincerity and conviction. Of course, he was
quite right. Yet, as I afterwards reflected, in the possession of money
there are degrees. Many an old man with two hundred a year is as happy
as another old man with ten thousand a year. Yet some money must be
made. Wherefore let every man calculate what he wants for comfort, and
money-make up to that standard, and no more.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I will think it over. At this moment you cannot expect
me to have any coherent ideas on the subject. I really do think,
however, that there is no one in the world less able to make money than
myself.’
‘Wait--be patient--and consider what things mean. Heavens! If we could
only make young men understand.’
‘Well,’ I took up my hat. ‘If you have really done your worst----’
‘Don’t go just yet, Sir George. I have one or two things still to
say.’ The solicitor, whose face generally had more of keenness than of
benevolence in it, leaned back and assumed an unwonted expression with
more benevolence in it than keenness. ‘I confess I was somewhat nervous
about this job. To tell a young man that he has no fortune left--a
young man who seemed to inherit so enormous a fortune--was rather a
formidable task. I congratulate you, Sir George, on your pluck. You
take it very well. You might have fallen into a rage, and filled the
room with reproaches of your dead father.’
‘Since he was my father and is dead, that would be impossible.’
‘Quite so. Yet nobody can deny that he has done you a most grievous
injury. You bear this calamity, I say, with a fortitude which is
astonishing. Let us return to what you might do; you are young, you are
well-bred, you are good-looking, you have pleasant manners, you are----’
He lifted his eyebrows into a note of interrogation.
‘Clever? No. Nor bookish. Nor scientific. Nor inclined to any of the
professions. And ignorant to the last degree.’
‘Dear! dear! What a thousand pities this misfortune did not happen
twenty years ago! Then you would have been trained to something.
Whereas now----’ He considered a little. ‘Let us think of a few other
things. Journalism?’
‘I told you, I am not clever.’
‘Pity. Journalism requires no capital and no training. I would not
recommend the stage.’
‘I cannot act.’
‘There is one thing we have forgotten, Sir George. You are a young
man of good family; you have, therefore, family influence. You must
set that to work for you. People think that everything nowadays goes
by competitive examination. Ho! ho! The world is kept in the dark
entirely for the sake of young men like you. There are quantities of
lucky people--commissioners, secretaries, people about the Court,
people everywhere--who get in by family influence, and get on by family
influence. There are colonial appointments, some of them very good
indeed, if you don’t mind going abroad. Or you might begin as a private
secretary to a rising man. Why, there was a private secretary once who
became a peer. The best thing you can do is to go to your own people.’
‘Unfortunately it is no use. I haven’t got any people. My mother was
the daughter of a simple country clergyman, and her relations are
all middle-class professional folk. My grandfather married as soon
as he began to get on at the Bar--his wife belonged strictly to the
middle class. The Judge’s father was a West End builder--originally
an East End boat-builder. I remember that because there is a
romance in the family about an old sailor and a bag of diamonds. My
great-grandfather’s cousin and partner secretly stole that bag of
diamonds. That caused a dissolution of partnership and destruction of
cousinly affection. The real reason why my grandfather was sent to the
Bar was because the old man thought that if there was a lawyer in the
family his cousin might be prosecuted, and so his share of those jewels
might be recovered. But the prosecution never came off.’
‘Odd story. I wonder how much truth there is in it.’
‘Not much, I dare say. But the point is that we are quite a bourgeois
lot, and that I do not possess in reality, though I have got this
trifling handle to my name, either family, friends or influence.’
‘But you do possess your title. And believe me, Sir George, if you are
careful you may find that it is a very valuable possession indeed.
By means of your title you may once more join the wealthy classes.
Thousands of women, rich women, daughters of wealthy men, would give
anything for a title. Find out where these women are--in York, in
Bath, in Birmingham, in Liverpool, in Manchester, here in London. Get
introductions, and you will find your path smoother for you.’
‘Marry money?’ I shuddered.
‘Do not misunderstand me. You are not expected to marry an old woman,
or an ugly woman. There are as many nice girls and pretty girls who
have money as there are old women. Marry money, young man. Marry money.
It is the easiest thing in the world for you to do. And, I am quite
sure, quite the most pleasant. As for love, it is all imagination. And,
besides, why shouldn’t you love a rich girl as well as a poor girl?’
‘No. Not to be thought of.’
‘Well, if you won’t marry money, there is the City. A baronet’s name
still, even after the many rude shocks of these latter years, looks
well on a board of directors. You would find it quite easy to get put
on the Direction somewhere or other. The qualification is not a great
deal. What do you think of that?’
‘Why--as I know nothing whatever of business, it would be a kind of
fraud on the shareholders. I should undertake duties of which I know
nothing.’
‘Generally the interests of the shareholders in the appointment of
directors is the very last thing the promoters consider. They want the
shares taken up.’
‘Then it would be still more a fraud upon the shareholders. That way
won’t do.’
‘Sir George, I fear I cannot help you. These are the existing ways of
making money. Choose. If you will have none of them, then we come back
to the easiest way--marry money--and if you refuse that----’ He spread
his hands, meaning, ‘then you must starve.’
I walked away thoughtfully. About the fortitude and the pluck I
say nothing. One must not, in these days, sit down and cry. At the
same time, it was with a very heavy heart that I mounted to my
chambers--Plantagenet Mansions, eighth floor, about half-way up.
‘Marry money, marry money,’ said the solicitor.
The words kept ringing in my ears like the tolling of a bell.
For, you see, in order to marry money I had no occasion to go to New
York or to Bath or Manchester or Birmingham. The money was actually
waiting for me with the marriage. I had only to reach out my hand and
take it, and with the money, the owner of it. And not an old woman,
at all; nor an ugly woman; nor a woman maimed or halt in mind or in
body; a woman, eminently desirable, beautiful, wealthy, well-born, and
of sweet disposition. Attached to the marriage there would be certain
conditions, but such as most men would consider quite light, easy, and
tolerable conditions.
‘Marry money--marry money--marry money.’ The words rang in my ears like
the ringing of a bell.
So the first effect of the wreck and ruin of my fortune was a great and
strong temptation, a voice urging me to reach out my hand and take
this fortune which lay ready waiting for me.
‘Marry money! Marry money!’ said the man of large experience and of
many years.
I turned mechanically into the room called my study. It was really my
workroom. It was fitted with a lathe and with a bench. On the wall were
hundreds of tools, bright and glittering. There was a shelf of books,
technical books about carpentering, wood-carving, cabinet-making,
fretwork, iron-work, and the like; there were ‘blocks’ ready for use;
there were boxes and other things, finished and unfinished, chased,
rounded, polished. The lathe represented my one talent.
I looked at the machine thoughtfully. ‘If I could only make money out
of you. And now, I am very much afraid, I shall have to sell you for
what you will fetch--tools and block and all. Pity! Pity!’ I laid a
loving hand upon the bright and delicate machinery. I wish it had
sighed, or groaned, or done anything by way of sympathetic response.
But it did not. Even in romance machinery is not responsive.
‘Marry money,’ whispered the voice.
Was there no way by which I could earn a livelihood? You, who have
been carefully taught from childhood that you have your own way to
make in the world; who have served an apprenticeship; who have learned
the mystery of a craft; who have learned the way of work, the ordinary
groove; who have become keen; who have lived in City houses, where they
think of nothing but business--suppose you were thrown into the world
at five-and-twenty, with no special knowledge whatever. Do you think
you would sink or swim?
‘Marry money,’ said the solicitor. ‘Marry money.’
On the walls hung the portraits of ancestors. I had three, which
is one more than most of us can boast. Yet it is not exactly a long
line of ancestry. The portrait of my father hung in the middle--to
the living, reigning Prince belongs the place of honour. It showed
a man of neat and even sleek appearance, clean-shaven, gray-headed,
with mild eyes; a man of no marked character, one would think. The
shallow observer would set him down as a man who could do no harm.
Quite wrong. There is no one so mild and meek that he cannot do harm.
‘To think,’ said his son, addressing the portrait, ‘that you have done
this mischief--you! Why did not the painter give you eager, starting
eyes, and trembling lips, and a flushed cheek? Lying painter!’ But
to reproach a portrait is next door to reproaching the person it
represents. I turned to the next picture, that of my grandfather, the
Judge, in wig and robes, looking very much like Rhadamanthus.
‘All your money is gone, my lord. Do you understand? All the money that
you scraped together. It is gone--lost--wasted--thrown away. You have
doubtless met your son by this time. Perhaps he has explained things.
Don’t be hard on him.’
On the other side hung the portrait of the builder. ‘What do you say?’
I asked. ‘How do you like the fall of the family fortunes? Perhaps you
can advise something practical.’
‘Marry money! Marry money.’ Was it the voice of the builder?
Portraits seldom respond. Spiritualists should look to it. There would
be no need of incarnating a spirit if you could make him speak out
of his own portrait. I turned away from these silent, unsympathetic
effigies and began mechanically to turn the lathe. But my mind was
not with the work; I laid down the block, and sat down. Again the
solicitor seemed to be addressing me.
‘Marry money--marry money.’
I saw letters lying on the table, and tore open the first, the one
whose handwriting I knew. It was a woman’s.
‘DEAR GEORGE’ (I read),
‘I am anxious to learn the result of your talk with the lawyers, and
what you have really lost. Come and see me as soon as you get back.
‘Yours,
‘FRANCES.’
I left the other two letters unread.
‘Marry money--marry money,’ said the solicitor.
I opened a drawer, and took out a dainty case of red velvet bound with
gold. It contained a single photograph. It was the portrait of a girl,
and showed a very striking face--the face of a queen or a princess. Her
name was surely Imperia, certainly a _grande dame de par le monde_. A
most regal face; the brow and cheek ample; the eyes large and steady;
the features clear and regular; the lips firm; the chin rounded;
everything about this woman large, including her mind; a woman whom
the common herd would fear, though they might reverence her. It would
require either a brave man or a presumptuous man to make love to her.
Her eyes looked out of the picture with a kindly light.
‘There is no woman like Frances,’ I thought. ‘And yet----’
When one has been brought up from childhood side by side with a girl,
seeing her every day, a girl a little older than one’s self, and a
great deal cleverer, the affection which one feels for that girl
partakes of the brotherly emotion. Therefore I said, ‘And yet----’
‘Marry money--marry money,’ this importunate solicitor continued.
Yesterday, perhaps--I don’t know--it was possible; to-day, no. My
father, when he threw away my money, threw away that possibility.
Frances vanished from my grasp gradually--in wild cat mines, in gold
reefs, in Central African railways, in Central American bonds.
Again, like a song of rest and happiness, came the temptation:
‘Marry money--marry money.’
‘She is a beautiful woman,’ continued the Tempter; ‘she loves you,
after a fashion. You love her, after a fashion. You know each other.
She is so rich that she will not care about the loss of your fortune.
It is all nonsense about brother and sister. Marry her--marry the Lady
Frances, who is waiting for you.’
I let these voices go on for half an hour or so. It was rather amusing,
I remember, to feel one’s self tempted; but, of course, one had to stop
it some time. So I put down my foot, and said resolutely: ‘No.’ Upon
which the two voices became silent, and spoke no more.
CHAPTER II.
‘TRY POLITICS.’
‘Now, George, what have you got to tell me?’
Lady Frances, daughter of the famous Earl of Clovelly, once, twice,
three times Premier, and of the even more illustrious Countess, the
last of our great political ladies, was also the young widow of that
distinguished statesman, old Sir Chantrey Bohun, who died in harness
as Secretary of State for India. She was a year older than myself, a
difference which, when we were children together, and next-door country
neighbours, gave her a certain superiority over me. She married,
for political reasons, at the age of eighteen; her friends were all
political friends. It was generally understood that, after a decent
interval of two or three years’ widowhood, she would marry a second
time, and play over again the _rôle_ so admirably enacted by her
mother. For the moment she closed her town house, and when she was not
in the country lived quietly in a flat, seeing few people.
She was sitting beside the window, into which poured a flood of
vaporous sunshine from the west, for it was a day in early April,
when the sun sets about seven. The warm, soft light wrapped her as in
a cloud, under which her lace was soft and luminous. Truly, a most
lovely woman, but to me not a woman who inspired love. These brotherly
affections sometimes interfere with things that might have been.
‘Sit down, George, and tell me exactly all about it.’
‘I would rather stand. Well, to begin: I told you, Frances, about that
astounding father of mine--how he secretly gambled and speculated and
lost money on the Stock Exchange.’
‘Yes; you told me, and it was the most amazing thing that I ever heard.
Your father, of all men! The quietest man in the world--meek, even, if
one may suggest such a quality in a man. Yes, decidedly meek. Whenever
I hear of meekness my thoughts will now turn to your father rather than
to Moses. And yet a speculator!’
‘It is, as you say, the most amazing thing. However, one would not
have minded this curious discrepancy between appearance and reality if
he had only lost a few thousands. He had a quarter of a million to go
upon--a few thousands might have been allowed him. But, Frances, he has
lost everything--actually every penny.’
‘Every penny, George?’
‘Every penny. He began, I say, with a fortune of nearly a quarter of a
million when he was forty, and when he died the other day at fifty he
had nothing--nothing at all. Had he lived six months longer he would
have been a bankrupt. He has lost everything. The way of it is all
shown in a bundle of papers. Perhaps some day I shall be curious enough
to read them.’
‘Oh, George! nothing left? Why, it is impossible!’
‘Unfortunately, it is quite possible. I am a pauper, Frances, except
for a few scraps and crumbs.’
‘My poor George!’ Frances held out both her hands. ‘I am so sorry--so
very sorry. But people like us don’t become absolute paupers. There is
always a something left after the most terrible catastrophe. You spoke
of scraps and crumbs.’
‘The fragments that remain amount to about three thousand pounds, I
understand--an income of ninety pounds a year. That is what I meant by
the scraps and crumbs.’
‘It does not seem much, does it? But, then, money is the most elastic
thing in the world. My sovereigns are all sixpences. I know some people
whose sixpences are all sovereigns. Of course, you have not begun to
make any plans for the future?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Now, George, it is the strangest thing--you will never believe it; I
have no fancy for ghostliness--but yesterday evening I certainly had
a presentiment. I was sitting alone, and the thought suddenly flashed
across my brain: Suppose that George, by any accident, was to find
himself without any money at all! And, behold, you come this morning
and tell me that your fortune is gone!’
‘A strange presentiment, Frances!’
‘Then I thought it over. I could not arrive at any conclusion, because,
you see, there is always the uncertainty of what a man will do. With
a woman it would be easy. The problem divided itself into three
questions: What effect would poverty produce on George? How would
George bear it? and, What would George do with poverty? I could find
no satisfactory answer to any of these questions. And now you will
actually answer them yourself.’
‘As for the first question, I don’t know what the effect will be--I
may become a sandwich-man. We shall see. As for the second, I mean to
bear it as philosophically as I can. For the moment that is tolerably
easy. The important question, however, is, “How will he bear it in a
twelvemonth or so, when the pressure is really felt?”’
‘No, that is part of the third question: “What will he do with
his poverty?” You see, George, poverty is a possession, just like
wealth. It has its responsibilities and its duties. In a better
world than this we should have the nobler spirits all working their
hardest, and striving with each other to assume poverty, even with
its responsibilities. Benedict and Bernard and Francis of Assisi all
understood what poverty might mean, and the question is, What will you
do with it, George?’
‘It is only an hour or two since the truth was sprung upon me. I am
trying to think it over. I shall sell my horses and furniture, to
begin with. I shall then move into a garret somewhere. Once in my
garret, I shall begin to think away, like another Darwin.’
‘Sit down, George, in my chair.’ It was the lowest, longest, and
most luxurious chair in the room. Sitting or lying in it, one looked
completely under the control of anyone standing over the chair. Frances
got up to make room for me. ‘So, obedient boy! Now let me talk.’
‘I listen, Frances. I still have ears.’
‘The first duty of poverty--call it rather responsibility--the lower
kind call it the privilege of poverty--is to accept the--the--sympathy
and friendly advice--and----’
‘The sympathy and the advice, Frances, by all means.’
She became very grave. ‘George, we have known each other so long that I
can talk to you freely and openly. How long have we been friends?’
‘About twenty-two years. Ever since we were able to run about.’
‘That is a long time, is it not? And always friends.’
‘Always friends--always the best of friends.’
‘And we have always talked to each other freely, have we not?’
‘Quite freely and openly. You have been the greatest happiness of my
life, Frances.’
‘And you of mine. So that we owe each other a quantity of things:
gratitude, friendship, even--even, if necessary, a little sacrifice
of--not principle or self-respect--say of pride.’
I knew very well what was coming. Anybody might have guessed.
‘The greatest happiness of poverty--that which ought to make it the
most coveted of all possessions--is that it constantly commands proof
of the affection and interest felt towards one. That is a great thing,
is it not?’
‘I feel it already, Frances, and I am much touched by it.’
‘Very well. So that poverty is already working for good in your heart.’
‘Nay. Even when I was disgustingly rich I never doubted your interest
in me.’
‘The next thing about poverty is that it must make men work, and may
develop all that is best in them. Some men never find themselves--their
own power--their lives are ruined--because they are never forced to
work. That has been, so far, your case.’
‘No, Frances. I should have done no good if I had worked like the busy
bee.’
‘All my life, George, much as I regard you, I have been thinking how
much better you might have been. Oh! I don’t mind telling you. You have
never done any work at all. You went to school, and you idled away your
time there; you went to Cambridge, and, of course, you idled away your
time there. There has been no necessity. You have never worked because
you must. Oh! I wonder that rich men ever achieve anything, seeing that
no one teaches them the duty of work. I wish I had a school of rich
boys. I would make them work harder than the poor boys. They should
learn to work because they ought.’
‘I am not clever, Frances. Work of the kind you mean is impossible for
me. I was designed by nature for nothing better than a cabinet-maker. I
believe I shall turn cabinet-maker, and so develop my higher nature and
make you proud of me at last.’
‘Not clever! Nonsense! You have never found out your own abilities;
you are so ignorant in consequence of your abominable laziness that you
do not know even what you can do.’
‘I can turn boxes. They come out, sometimes, quite pretty boxes.’
‘All the time, George, I have been growing up side by side with
you--the incomplete or undeveloped George--and with the complete
George, a nobler creature; working when you remain idle; filled with
ambition while you are content with obscurity. He is such a splendid
man, George--and so like you, only better-looking.’
‘That may very well be. If I were to find myself as you call it, I
should find a very dull and plodding fellow not half so pleasant as the
incomplete other--the undeveloped fellow who had not found himself.’
‘Not dull at all. You have never done even common justice to yourself.
Few men have such good natural abilities as yourself. Why, you show it
in everything you do. If you have to make a speech it is full of wit;
if you write a letter, it is running over with observation and humour;
whether you ride, or shoot, or play games, or work at your lathe, you
do it better than anybody else. Believe me, George, I know you better
than you know yourself, better than anyone else knows you, because we
have been friends so long.’
‘Well, Frances, if it please you--and if it goes no farther; for this
is not a thing to be bruited abroad--I will accept all the attributes
of genius.’
‘Then we come back to the question, what will you do with your poverty?’
‘And again I reply that I cannot yet, for the life of me, imagine. My
lawyer has been advising me to go into the City as a Guinea-pig--that
is, to lend my name to bogus companies at a guinea a sitting. It seems
that if a man with a title will sell his name, people can be swindled
with much greater ease. That does not look a promising line, does it?’
Frances shuddered. ‘George, you are a gentleman!’
‘Or I might use my small capital to qualify for a profession--there is
my grandfather’s line; but even allowing for those great abilities with
which you credit me, I really could not read law.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Oh yes. Some men, it appears, buy a partnership in the City; some
become stockbrokers.’
‘I don’t think that would suit you.’
‘And some go out to California, fruit-farming. And that, Frances, seems
the most hopeful line, so far.’
‘Is that all that you can think of? Very well. Now let me suggest
something for you--a much better line than any of these. You know what
has always been my hope for you.’
‘I know that you have sometimes dreamed of the impossible.’
‘Yes--and--now--now that you will have no other distractions, now
that you can begin and keep before you the goal--now, George, is the
time for you to realize this dream of mine. Make yourself a career in
politics.’
‘My dear Frances, I could more easily make myself a career in
mathematics.’
‘Nonsense! You have the capacity; you want nothing but the will--the
ambition. George, cannot I make you ambitious? Think--ask yourself--can
there be anything nobler, more worthy of ambition, than to guide the
destinies of a nation?--to make the history that will have to be
written?’
‘Put in that way, it certainly sounds very well.’
‘Oh! They talk about poets and writers. What are the men who write
about things compared with the men who do things? For my own part, I
would rather be Bismarck than Shakespeare: no poet can render service
to his country that can compare with the statesman who makes it great
and powerful. There is no honour to compare with the honour, the
gratitude, the immortality, which we confer upon such a man. No poet is
to be named in the same breath with such a man.’
‘I have long since made up my mind, Frances, that I will not become a
poet. Whether, in consequence, I shall become a Bismarck--I doubt.’
She paid no attention to this remark.
‘I have thought it all out. The thing is perfectly easy--for a man like
yourself. You must belong to a party: you let them know that you want
to enter the House on their side; you are a likely man and a promising
man; they will find you a borough; you will contest that borough; you
will win. Once in the House, you will work your way quickly or slowly,
and command the attention and respect of the House and the recognition
of your party, and so, by gradual steps, achieve a place even in the
Cabinet. Why, my dear George, it is the experience of every day.’
I got out of the low and luxurious chair with some difficulty.
One cannot be serious lying on one’s back. And now I felt very
serious. ‘You see your statesman at the end of his career,’ I said,
‘distinguished if not respected. You do not understand how he has
worked his way upwards, by what a tortuous path he has climbed.
Moreover, you only see the greatest man, the leader. Now, my child, the
kind of statesman I think of is the ordinary person who becomes towards
the end of his career a Cabinet Minister. That person does not strike
me as a noble character at all. Indeed, there cannot be much nobility
left in a man, so far as I can see, after twenty years’ service of
party. Think of the slavery of it; think of the dirt he has had to eat;
think of the lies he has had to tell; think of the coat he has had to
turn; think of the tricks he has had to practise; all to get votes--all
to get votes!’
‘You exaggerate, George.’
‘No, I do not. However, it matters nothing what I think. The House is
quite out of the question. I cannot afford it. You forget, Frances,
that I have no money.’
She blushed crimson, she dropped her eyes, she trembled. ‘George,’ she
said, with hesitation and embarrassment, ‘again--do not be proud. It
is the privilege of friendship--it is your privilege to let me find
that--the means--you must accept of me.’
This was the great temptation. All that I had to do at that moment--I
knew it would come--I was waiting for it--I was prepared for it--all
that was wanted--of course I could not take the money she was
offering--all that was wanted was to speak vaguely about ambition,
to fall in with her hopes and dreams--one can always accept a dream
or offer a dream--and the woman and her fortune and everything
would be mine. Because I knew very well--a thousand indications had
told me--that she loved that nobler and more complete George of her
imagination--not myself at all. I had only to pretend to be that nobler
person, as full of ambition, as resolute for distinction. As for being
in love, why, if you are always from childhood in the company of a
girl, the passion called love, if it is awakened at all, is weak and
puny compared with that which deals with the mystery of the unknown
and strange. Still, there was the beautiful woman, my old friend, who
only wanted to believe that I was strong and ambitious, and I only had
to pretend. It was like the temptation of the Christian martyr--only a
little pinch of incense--just one--and life and freedom, the enjoyment
of the sunshine, were granted to me.
I took her hand and raised it to my lips. ’Twas the refusal of the
Christian martyr. ‘Not that way, Frances,’ I said. ‘Any way but that.
I am going out of the world--up or down, I know not which. But, up or
down, it cannot be by any such help as that.’
CHAPTER III.
THE COUSIN.
In these days of self-restraint we neither weep nor rage; we pour out
neither lamentations nor curses. People used formerly to accept evil
fortune with all the outward indications that the bolt of fortune had
gone home.
When a young man of the old days lost his fortune, or his mistress, or
both, I believe that he thought no scorn to let his wailings or his
curses be heard by all the world. In these days the young man walks to
his club--perhaps it will be his last appearance there--dines as usual
with his everyday face and his smile for a friend, and presently goes
home.
I am but a child of my generation; therefore I did this, and at ten
o’clock or so I returned to my chambers.
Outside the door I found, to my astonishment, waiting for me, a man
whose appearance was not familiar to me. Perhaps a man with a little
bill; but, then, I owed no man anything to speak of. Besides, ten
o’clock is late for the man with the little bill. Perhaps someone from
the stables; but, then, it was late for a messenger from the stables.
The man was young, tall, and well set up; dressed well enough, but
hardly with the stamp of to-day’s Piccadilly.
‘Are you Sir George Burnikel?’ the man asked bluntly, without taking
off his hat or touching the brim in the way common with servitors and
messengers.
‘I believe I am. But I do not seem to know you.’
‘May I have ten minutes’ conversation with you?’
‘Certainly not, unless I know who you are and what you want. So, my
friend, as ten o’clock at night is not the most usual time for a call,
perhaps you will go away and write your business.’
‘I have come a good step,’ he persisted, ‘and I have waited for two
hours. If you could see me to-night, Sir George, I should be very much
obliged.’
‘Who are you, then?’
‘My name is Robert Burnikel. I am a cousin of yours.’
‘Never heard that I had any cousin of that name, I assure you.’
‘I am a distant cousin. I do not want to beg or to borrow money of
you, I assure you. I came in the hope that you would listen to me, and
perhaps give me some advice in a matter of the greatest importance to
myself. By trade I am a boat-builder; I carry on the same business, in
the same place, that your great-grandfather did before he quarrelled
with his partner and left Wapping.’
After such an introduction I had no more hesitation, but I turned the
key and threw open the door. ‘Come in,’ I said; ‘I am sure it’s all
right. The hereditary calling of our family is boat-building. The head
of the family should always be a boat-builder. Come in.’ I led the way
into the study, and touched the switch of the light. ‘Now,’ I said,
‘if you like to sit down and talk I will listen. There are soda-water
bottles and the usual accessories on the table, with cigarettes.’
My visitor declined the proffered hospitality. Now that he had taken
off his hat and was sitting under the bright electric light, the cousin
appeared at first to be merely a good-looking young man with a certain
roughness of manner as of dress. But as I looked at him, I became
gradually aware that this young man was most curiously like myself. I
have broad shoulders, but his were broader; I am tolerably tall, but he
was taller; my head is pretty large, but his was larger; my forehead
is square, but his was squarer; my nose is straight, but his was
straighter. Even his hair was the same, and that grew in short, strong
brown curls all over his head--the kind of hair that is never found
decorating the skull of an ordinary weak-kneed Christian. The hair of
Mr. Feeblemind and Mr. Ready-to-halt is invariably straight; therefore
I have always been pleased to have stubbly, curly hair. His voice, too,
was like my own, only stronger and fuller. To complete the resemblance,
I had the short, broad fingers of a workman. These fingers force a man
to buy a lathe; they never gave me any peace until I had got the lathe.
My visitor had exactly the same hand, but it was larger. Strange, that
upon so many generations a resemblance between two cousins should be so
strong.
Mr. Robert Burnikel took a chair and cleared his throat. ‘It is a
personal matter,’ he said, ‘and it is somewhat difficult to begin.’
‘Looks like borrowing money, after all,’ I thought. ‘If I may suggest,’
I said, ‘tell me something of the family history. It is ninety years
since the connection of my branch with yours was broken off. I am, I
regret to say, shamefully ignorant of my own people.’
‘Well, Sir George, there was a boat-builder at Wapping died about the
year 1780. He wasn’t the first of the boat-builders by a hundred years
and more; you will find his tomb--one of the fine square tombs--on the
south side of Wapping Church. This shows that he was a man of substance
and responsibility. The churchyard is full of Burnikels. If you think
it worth while to be proud of such a thing, you belong to the oldest
and most respectable family of Wapping.’
‘Of course one likes to feel that one has respectable ancestors.’
‘That old man, who died at the age of eighty-five, was
great-great-grandfather to both of us.’
‘I see. Our cousinship starts a hundred years ago. It hath a venerable
aspect.’
‘He left two sons at least. Those two sons carried on the business
in partnership until they died or retired. Then two of their sons--I
don’t know anything about the rest--took it over as partners. They
quarrelled; I dare say you have heard why’--he looked up quickly and
paused--‘and they dissolved partnership. One came to this end of the
town, and became a builder; the other stayed at Wapping, and his son,
and his grandson, and his great-grandson--that’s myself--have conducted
that business ever since. I am now the sole owner of the concern.’
‘It is rather bewildering at first. One would like it in black and
white, though I never understood genealogical tables. However, the
point is, that your branch of our family has remained at Wapping,
carrying on the old business, all these years. I fear there has been no
intercourse between the two main currents of the stock.’
‘None, I believe. But we were able to follow the fortunes of your
branch.’
‘There were other offshoots, I suppose--tributary streams, cadet
branches--with you as with us?’
‘Yes; some of us are in Australia; some are in Canada; some are in New
Zealand; some are boat-builders; some of us are farmers; some of us are
sailors; we are scattered all over the world.’
‘And none of you rich?’
‘None of us are rich. Your great-grandfather, though he called himself
a builder, of course had no necessity to work.’
‘No necessity to work? Why not?’
‘Why, on account of his immense wealth.’
‘Wealth? He had very little. Although, as to work, he was a most
industrious person. He stamped his stucco image all over Kensington; he
has become a name; he points architectural epigrams; he is the hero of
the Burnikel age in this suburb. But he made very little money. Where
did you get your notion of his enormous wealth?’
‘Well----’ The cousin looked doubtful, but for the moment he evaded the
point. ‘Then one of his sons became a lawyer; and so, of course, his
father being so rich----’
‘Again you are misinformed. My great-grandfather left a moderate
fortune, and my grandfather had his share of it, and no more.’
‘We always understood, to be sure, that your grandfather, being so
rich, was able to buy his place as Judge and his title.’
At this amazing theory, I jumped in my chair and sat upright. ‘Good
Lord, man!’ I cried, ‘where were you--where could you be--brought up?
Where do they still preserve prejudices pre--pre--pre-mediæval?’
‘I was born and brought up in Wapping.’
‘Can remote Wapping be such a God-forsaken country as to believe that
Judges buy their seats? Are you so incredibly ignorant as to believe
that?’
‘I don’t know.’ He coloured. ‘Perhaps we were wrong. They said so. I
never questioned it; I never really thought about it. My grandmother
used to tell us so.’
‘Your grandmother! Permit me to say, newly-found cousin, that my
respect for the Wapping grandmother begins to totter. My grandfather
was made Judge for the usual reason--that he was a very great lawyer.’
‘He died worth a quarter of a million.’
‘Well, and why the deuce should he not? If you make from five to ten
thousand a year by your practice, and only spend one, and go on doing
that for thirty years, and get five per cent. all the time for your
money, you will find yourself worth all that at the end of the time.
But why are you telling me all this stuff about my own people? Have you
got something up your sleeve? Have it out, man.’
‘Well, Sir George, the story of that bag of diamonds and things has
never been forgotten. It rankled down to my own time. My father used to
grow gloomy when business was bad and he thought of the diamonds.’
‘What had that to do with my grandfather?’
‘And the fortune that the Judge was reported to have left behind him--a
quarter of a million--was exactly the value that old John Burnikel set
upon the diamonds that your great-grandfather took.’
‘My great-grandfather took? Man, you’ve got a bee in your
bonnet. It was not that much-injured old man, but your
great-grandfather--yours--who, I always understood, took the jewels.’
The cousin laughed gently, but shook his head.
‘That was the story they told you, of course. Why, it is nearly a
hundred years ago, and we have always been quite narrow in our means,
working hard, living carefully, and spending little--never a rich man
among us. Those of us who were not in the business went to sea; not a
single man died rich.’
‘Then,’ I said, ‘you must have buried the precious diamonds. My
great-grandfather left no more than a few thousands to his children,
and my grandfather had great difficulty in keeping himself until his
practice began and increased.’
‘Well, they always told me----’
‘If you come to that, they always told me----’
‘If the bag was not taken by your great-grandfather, who could have
taken it?’
‘Yours, my dear sir--yours.’
‘For no one knew of its existence except those two and the old man John
Burnikel. And they found him dying and the bag gone. Not dead, or the
bag might have been stolen by someone else; but sick and dying, and it
was gone.’
‘Well, Mr. Burnikel, you are a stranger to me, and I think I will not
discuss any farther the delicate question as to who stole a bag ninety
years ago. My ancestor certainly did not, and I do not wish to accuse
your ancestor. Perhaps the bag was stowed away somewhere: in a bank; in
a merchant’s strong-room----’
‘He was only a simple sailor. He knew nothing about banks or
strong-rooms.’
‘The person who took it--not necessarily your ancestor, and certainly
not mine--put it somewhere, and died without revealing the secret.
If you come to think of it, a bag of diamonds into which you dipped
whenever you wanted to sell one was rather a dangerous kind of thing
to keep. Boat-builders, as a rule, do not keep bags of diamonds lying
loose. It is somewhere hidden away in your back-garden, perhaps.’
‘Not ours.’
‘Or perhaps there never was any bag of diamonds at all.’
‘Oh yes, there was. We’ve got the old sailor’s bed at home with the
secret hiding-place at the head, and his chest brass-bound----’
‘The empty chest proves the existence of the treasure, I suppose.
However, that’s enough about the bag of diamonds. You have not told me
why you came here to-night. Not, I take it, to talk over the Legend of
the Lost Treasure.’
‘Well, Sir George, I thought to myself, we’ve always talked so much
about that bag of diamonds, that if I mentioned the thing, there would
be, perhaps, a feeling--a kind of sympathy--you to have all and me to
have nothing. As it is, I can’t understand what you say. I suppose we
have been all wrong.’
‘Let us acknowledge this bond--the common bond of a long ago common
loss. And next?’
‘The reason why I came here this evening is this. You know the world,
and I do not. I want your advice. It is this way. I mean to rise in
the world. Wapping is all very well--what there is of it. But, after
all, it is not everything.’
‘Not everything, I suppose.’
‘It is, in fact, only a corner of the world. I mean to get out of it.’
‘Very good. Why not?’
‘I see everywhere men no better than myself--not so good--working men,
getting distinction on the School Board and on the County Council, and
even’--he gasped--‘even Elsewhere,’ he said, with a kind of awe. ‘And I
don’t see why I should not get on too.’
‘Why not?--why not? If you like the kind of work.’
‘In short, Sir George--you will not laugh at me--I mean to go into the
House.’
‘Why should I laugh at you? And why should you not go into the House if
you want to, and if a constituency will send you there?’
‘I will show you afterwards, if you like, on another occasion, my
chances and my fitness.’
‘To-night you will explain to me where I come in--why you come to me. I
am the worst person in the world to advise.’
‘I do not ask advice about my own intentions,’ said the political
candidate stiffly. ‘I advise myself. I am going into the House. What I
want you to tell me is this--I have no means at Wapping of finding out
how one sets to work in the first instance, how you let people know
that you are going to stand, how you find a borough, what it costs, and
all the rest of it. If you can give or get for me this information,
Sir George, it is all that I shall ask you, and I shall be extremely
obliged to you.’
‘I can’t give it, but I can get it for you, I dare say. At all events,
I will try.’
‘That is very kind of you. Let me once get it’--the man’s eyes
flashed--‘and I will succeed. I am an able man, Sir George--I am not
boasting; I am stating a plain fact--I am a very able man, and I shall
get on. You shall see. You shall not be ashamed to own your cousin. I
shall rise.’
He did rise, perhaps to illustrate his prophecy. He got up and took his
hat.
‘I know exactly what I want,’ said this confident young man--yet
the arrogance of his words was tempered by a certain modesty of
utterance--‘and I know how to get it. But I must get into the House
first. I’ve planned it all out. It takes time to make one’s way. In
five years’ time--I only ask five years--I shall be Home Secretary.’
‘What?’
‘Home Secretary,’ he repeated calmly. ‘Nothing less than that to begin
with.’
‘Oh, nothing less than that!’
‘After that I don’t say, nor do I even think. Why, there are a
dozen men now in the House who have gone in like me in order to get
distinction. I read the debates, and I see how these men get on. And I
understand their secret, which is open to all. I’m not going to join
any party. I shall be an Independent member, and I shall rise by my own
exertions and my own abilities.’
I remembered that afternoon’s dream about myself. Good heavens! And
here was this man--of my own name, of my own age, so much like myself,
this cousin--coming to me with exactly the ambition desired for me by
Lady Frances! Was this man who called himself a boat-builder--perhaps
in some allegorical sense--really myself? The builder of a boat might
be the builder of a man. Was this cousin my own nobler self, the
complete and fully-developed George?
‘I should like,’ my visitor continued, ‘to show you that I am not an
empty boaster. Let me call again. Or perhaps you would wish to see the
place that you came from. Come to Wapping to see me. The yard is not
a bit changed. It is just what it was two hundred years ago when the
first Burnikel came to the place. Come at any time; I am always there.’
‘Thank you. I will call upon you to-morrow afternoon. Good-night; and,
I say, when you have nothing better to do, dig up the back-garden, and
find that precious bag. It may help to pay your election expenses.’
He departed. I remained strangely disturbed. After all the events of
the day--the loss of fortune, the fatal absence of ambition--to meet
this man--arrogant, presumptuous, ignorant. Home Secretary to begin
with! A tradesman of the East End! And yet--yet there was something in
the calm confidence of the man, and in the look of strength. But--Home
Secretary to begin with!
CHAPTER IV.
WAPPING.
How does one get to Wapping? It is not, I believe, generally known that
there are trains which take the explorer to this secluded hamlet. They
are the same trains which go under the Thames Tunnel. Before entering
upon that half-mile of danger, the engine stops at a station, dark and
uncertain, deep down in the bowels of the earth, and unprovided with a
lift. It is a fearful climb to the top of those stairs, but when you do
arrive, you find yourself in the very heart of the quarter--in fact,
in Wapping High Street itself. This is one way of getting to Wapping.
Another, and a much better way, is to walk there from Tower Hill,
past St. Katherine’s Docks, where you may drop a tear over the wanton
destruction of what should have been Eastminster, the Cathedral of East
London, the House and Church of St. Katherine by the Tower, with its
Deanery, its Close, its gardens all ready for promotion, and even, like
Westminster, its adjacent slums. The traveller then enters Nightingale
Lane, wondering when the nightingale was last heard here, and presently
finds himself in a long riverside street. Tall warehouses and wharves
are on the south side; on the north side, offices. North of the offices
are the Docks. Between the warehouses are stairs. Here are Hermitage
Stairs, and since there is a Hermitage Street, there was probably at
one time or other a hermit established on this spot. A most desirable
spot it must have been for a hermit of a gloomy turn, being then a
moist, swampy, oozy, marshy, tidal kind of place, most eligible for any
hermit who desired all the discomforts of his profession.
In those days the place was Wapping-in-the-Ouse: afterwards it became
Wapping-on-the-Wall, and a dry place, without even a frog or an evet,
or a single shake of ague. And then the hermit fled in disgust to
Canvey Island, and only the memory of him now remains. Then one comes
to Wapping Old Stairs; a name for ever for the sake of the Faithful
One; and Execution Stairs, where they drowned people, tying them to a
stake up which the rising tide gradually crept--oh! how gradually,
how slowly!--till it came to the chin and the lips. Then the bargee,
going up with the flood, saw above the surface of the lapping wave,
half a face, white, with staring eyes that took their last look of the
sunshine and the ships and the broad river, while the water rose a
half-inch more, and life indignant fled!
Then one saw a black, brown or red lump above the water, with floating
hair--for sailors wore it long; then this too disappeared, and there
was nothing left but the top of the stake and the quiet whisper of the
water as it flowed past. For three times, ebb and flow, that criminal
remained upon his stake; the first for the doing unto death; the next
two for an example unto the young and a terror unto evil-doers. After
that they took him up and buried him, or hung him in chains, tarred but
not feathered. Gruesome are the memories of Execution Dock; many are
the ghosts who haunt, all unseen--because there is nobody in wharf or
warehouse after business hours to see them--the spot where they were
done to death. It was, however, lower down the river, round the Isle
of Dogs, that they hung up the black body in creaking chains until it
dropped to pieces.
If you want to see the river--the view of the river was the pride of
Wapping until the warehouses replaced the old gabled timber-houses--go
down one of the lanes which lead to the Stairs. Then you will obtain a
panoramic view set in a frame--a tall, narrow picture, a section of the
busy river, across which pass all day long up or down the great ocean
steamer, the little river steamer, the noisy tug, the sailing-ship,
the barge laden with hay, or iron, or casks, down to the water’s edge,
the wherries, with which this part of the Thames is always crowded.
What they do; what makes them so full of business and zeal--no one can
discover.
Beyond the river are the mills and granaries and warehouses of
Rotherhithe, with the white steeple of the church. The lane in which
you stand is, in fact, a much finer kinetoscope than Mr. Edison has
invented; it presents you with a picture of ceaseless, changeful
motion; of restless activity; of ordered purpose.
Then go back and resume your walk along the street. It is, like the
river itself, a busy highway of trade; the tall warehouses were built
for trade; the cranes are out on the topmost floor, conducting the
trade; men are swinging out heavy bales of goods and lowering them
into waggons, which will distribute the trade among other hands. The
street, indeed, is full of waggons loaded and waggons unloaded; waggons
standing under the cranes, waggons going away loaded and coming back
empty. You would not believe there were so many waggons in London.
Except for the drivers of the waggons and the men in the upper stories
tossing about the bales, there are no people to be seen in the street.
Passengers there are none. Nobody walks in Wapping High Street except
to and from his warehouse or his wharf. He goes there on business. Of
shops there are but two or three, and those not of the best. And this
is Wapping. It seems at first to be nothing but a narrow slip between
the river and the docks. This is not quite true, however, as we shall
presently see.
I entered the cradle of my race, fortunately, by the best way, the
Tower Hill way. It seems a cradle to be proud of; all ancient crafts
are honourable, but some are more honourable than others; surely
boat-building is a very honourable craft. Consider: Noah was an
eminent boat-builder; the finest example of his work has never been
surpassed; we are all descended from Noah, therefore we ought all to
have boat-building instincts. As to the antiquity of boats, it goes
back beyond the time of Noah. The first boat, if you think of it--the
only way to get at prehistoric history is to think of it--was a cradle,
a wicker basket cradle, lined with soft fur; there was a baby in
it--an antediluvian Patriarch baby. The cradle--I am giving away quite
a new Archæological discovery--was placed by the child’s mother by
the riverside, and left, but only for a few minutes; then the waters
suddenly rose and swept the cradle away; the agonized mother saw it
in the midst of the flood, pursued by a hungry crocodile. She looked
to see the cradle sink; it did not, it quietly drifted into a bank or
haven of refuge, the baby unhurt, and the baffled crocodile sullenly
sank to the bottom. Hence arose the building of the first boat, the
shape of which, and of all boats to follow, was copied from the
cradle. The first boat-builder, I believe, was named Burnikel, whose
grand-daughter married Noah’s father. However, it was not so much out
of pride in the boat-yard that I came to Wapping as from the desire to
see more of this strange, strong, resolute, ambitious cousin of mine.
Of course, I had never been here before. Men of my upbringing know
nothing, hear nothing, and understand nothing, of the busy life, the
productions, the exports, the imports, the enterprise, the risks, the
fluctuations, the skill, the courage, which belong to the trade of our
great ports. The merchant adventurer is unknown to us. We ignore, or
we despise, the men by whose enterprise we actually live. Not that we
understand this; yet it is a hard fact that the gilded youth depends
upon the trade of the country as much as the merchant who directs, the
shopkeeper who distributes, the very waggoner and the bargee, and the
man who slings the bales upon the crane. Money, you see, can no longer
be carried about in sacks of gold. It must be invested: and every
investment, whether gas, or water, or railways, or mines, or trading
companies, or municipal bonds, or even consols, depends upon the
success of a venture. And since agriculture is dead or dying, there is
nothing left except these ventures. Should they fail, should disaster
suddenly overtake the British industries, then the whole wealth of the
country would vanish at once, and the youth of Piccadilly would be as
penniless as the poor fellows of the warehouses, thrown out of work.
But this the youth of Piccadilly knows not. I know these things because
I have been made to learn them.
For the first time, therefore, I found myself in the midst of trade,
actual, visible, tangible--fragrant, even. It was a kind of discovery
to me. I walked along slowly revolving the thing. Exports and imports
one reads about: they are words which to me had then little or no
meaning. Here were people actually exporting and importing with
tremendous zeal. The street was a hive of industry. Not one face but
was full of business; not one but was set, absorbed, serious, observing
nothing because it was so full of thought. No one lit cigarettes; no
one lounged; no one talked or laughed with his neighbour. All were
occupied, all wrapt in thought. All walked with a purpose: no less a
purpose, indeed, than the winning of the daily bread, or the creation
of a pile on which the children--which would be the very greatest
misfortune for them--could live in idleness.
Presently I came to the mouth of the London Dock, where a swing-bridge
crosses the narrow entrance, and is rolled back on hinges to let the
ships pass in and out. It was open when I reached the place, and a
ship was slowly passing through: a three-masted sailing-ship, of which
there are still some left. I watched the beautiful thing with the
tall masts and shrouds--man never made anything more beautiful than a
sailing-ship. Looking to the left, I saw the crowded masts in the dock;
looking to the right, I saw the ships going down the river, and heard
the dulcet note of the Siren. All this meant, I perceived dimly, buying
and selling. The ships bring immense cargoes to be sold in London and
distributed everywhere. All the selling must be at a profit, otherwise
these waggons would not be employed, and these warehouses would be
closed, and Wapping-on-the-Wall would be as silent and as solitary as
Tadmor-in-the-Desert. All this buying and selling meant the employment
and the maintenance of millions. Trade, I began to understand, is a
very big thing indeed--a thing which demands enterprise and courage;
which requires also knowledge and skill; which abounds with chances and
changes and perils and hopes.
The ship passed through: the bridge swung round: I passed over it
and continued my way. At this point Wapping widens and becomes a
right-angled triangle, whose hypothenuse is the river and whose
altitude is the East London Dock. This triangle, with the riverside
street, is all that the docks have left of old Wapping village. On this
occasion, however, I did not discover the triangle; I walked on, the
street continuing with its warehouses and its wharves and its river
stairs.
A little beyond the bridge I came to a house which would have arrested
my attention by its appearance alone, apart from the name upon its
door-plate. For it was a solid red brick, eighteenth-century house.
The bricks were of the kind which grow more beautiful with years. The
door, with a shell decoration above it, was in the middle, and there
was one window on each side of it. In the two stories above there were
three windows in each: the roof was of warm red tiles. There were
green shutters to the lower windows: a solid, comfortable old house.
It was well kept up: the paint was fresh; the windows were clean; the
steps were white; the brass door-plate, which was small, was burnished
bright, and on it, in letters half effaced, I read the name of Burnikel.
‘The cradle!’ I thought. ‘Here was born the ancestral builder of boats.
But where is the yard?’
On the other side of the street stood a huge rambling shed--two
sheds side by side, built of wood and painted black. Through the
wide-open door I saw the stout ribs of a half-built barge sticking up
in readiness to receive the planking of her sides. And there was the
sound of hammers. And, to make quite sure, there was painted across the
shed in white letters the name ‘Burnikel and Burnikel, Boat and Barge
Builders.’
I stepped in and looked round. There were one or two unfinished boats
beside the big barge; wood was lying about everywhere, stacked on the
low rafters of the roof, in heaps, thick wood and thin wood; there were
tools and appliances--some I understood, some were new to me. Men were
working. At the sight of all this carpentry work, my spirits rose.
This was the kind of work I loved. A beautiful place, such a place, I
thought, as I would like to work in myself. Even in those early days,
you see, I had a soul above a lathe in a study. A lathe is a toy; this
yard was for serious work. And picturesque, too, with its high roof and
its black rafters, and its front open to the river, commanding a noble
panorama, wider than is afforded by any of the stairs in those narrow
lanes.
Nobody took any notice of me. The men just looked up and went on
hammering. A well-ordered yard, apparently.
At that moment the master came out of a little enclosed box in the
corner, called ‘Office,’ which was big enough, at least, for a high
desk and some books.
At the outset, in the evening, I had remarked the curious resemblance
of my cousin to myself. By daylight the resemblance was not so marked,
partly because the man was so much bigger. He was one of those men
with whom a simple six-foot in height makes them tower over all other
men. He looked tall and broad, and strong above any of his fellows. So
looked Saul. He looked around him quickly as he came out, as if to see
that his men were all working with zeal and knowledge. Then he stepped
across the yard and greeted his visitor gravely.
‘I saw you come in,’ he said. ‘I only half expected you, because, I
thought, why should you want to see the old place?’
‘Well, I did want to see the old place. And I wanted to see you again.’
‘Here it is, then, and here I am. Not much of a place, after all, but
there’s a tidy business done here, and always has been, and no change
in the place since it was first put up, and that’s two hundred years
ago. Just the same; the yard is the same, the beams of the roof are
the same, if the tiles have been removed, and the work is the same.
If your ancestor was to look in here, he’d see nothing changed but
the workmen’s clothes. They’ve left off aprons, and they’ve left off
stockings. That’s all.’
‘Good. We are thus in the last century.’
‘Yes. The river’s changed, though. The Port of London was a much
finer place formerly, when there were no docks, and the ships were
ranged in double line all down the Pool, and all the landing was
done by barges--Burnikel’s barges--and the river was covered with
boats--Burnikel’s boats--cruising about among the ships. We’ll go for a
cruise if you like, any day, in my boat. It is the old boat; here she
is.’ The boat was lying in the river, made fast to the quay pile. ‘We
used to board the ships as they came in for the repair of their boats.
Now there’s no need. They all go into dock. There are some pictures
over the way of the river in the last century. You shall see them
presently.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We can’t make better boats now than they made a hundred and fifty
years ago; we can’t put in better work nor better material. They knew
good work. Everything except steam things they knew how to make, then,
far better than we do now. Burnikel’s barges are built after the old
pattern. This barge, for instance’--he laid his hand on a rib of the
unfinished craft--‘she is built on eighteenth-century lines.’
‘She looks substantial enough.’
‘She is. Well. Look around you, Sir George. This is where your
great-grandfather worked, and your great-great-grandfather, and so on,
ever so far back. This is where you came from.’
He took his visitor over the little yard, pointing out something of the
craft and mystery of boat-building.
‘All this,’ I said, ‘interests me enormously. You know I’ve got a
lathe, and I know a little how to make things--useless things. It is
all I can do--my one accomplishment.’
‘There’s not many of your sort who can do so much. Well, there’s
not much here to make a show, but there’s a good deal to learn in
boat-building, let me tell you.’
‘I ought to have boat-building in the blood,’ I observed. ‘The mystery
seems familiar to me. Don’t you think that so many generations of
boat-building--with this little break of just two lives, one a Judge,
and one a--nothing--ought to make me take to the trade naturally, as a
duck to water?’
Robert Burnikel answered seriously. He was a very serious young man.
Besides, light conversation is unknown at Wapping.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Natural aptitude must come with generations of
work. There is a kind of caste in every trade. I know a succession of
carpenters, from father to son; and a succession of watchmakers; and
a succession of blacksmiths. These men of mine are all the sons of
boat-builders; they grew up in the trade. I don’t think they could have
done anything else so well. As for you--well, your grandfather was a
Judge.’
‘For the first time in my life, I am ashamed to say that he was.’
‘Not that you need be ashamed, I suppose, but, still, he broke the
succession. All the rest of us have always been boat-builders or
sailors.’
‘For the moment I feel an enthusiasm of boat-building. The only
practical work worth considering is this. I am convinced it is the
hereditary instinct.’
‘Well, you can’t know anything about it, instinct or not.’
‘I suppose, now, that you could make a boat yourself, with your own
hands, from keel to gunwale, from stem to stern?’
‘He would be a poor kind of master who couldn’t do anything better
than his men. I used to work, hammer, and saw, and plane, with the men
when I was a prentice.’
We talked about boats and boat-building till the subject was exhausted.
The Master Craftsman looked at his watch.
‘Four o’clock,’ he said. ‘Now come over the way. I live in the old
house built by the first of them who came here. We can talk for an hour
or so before tea. I told them you might be coming to tea.’
CHAPTER V.
THE FAMILY HOUSE.
The old house proved to be even older than it looked. ‘It was built,’
said the present owner, ‘by the first of the Wapping Burnikels. I
don’t know where he came from; but he was already a man of substance
when he built this house. That was in the time of James the Second. It
was close by here--at a low riverside tavern--that Judge Jeffreys hid
himself, and it was our ancestor who discovered him and gave him up to
justice. At least, so they say.’
Within, it was the house of a solid and substantial merchant, who
understood the arts of comfort. The Hall was wainscoted with a dark
polished oak relieved by a line of gold along the top, and lit by a
broad window on the stairs; it contained no other furniture than a
tall old clock ticking gravely, and the large model of a boat under a
glass case. The staircase was broad and stately: such a staircase as
is impossible in a narrow London house, where the unhappy tenants have
to climb up and down a ladder. Robert Burnikel opened the door of
the room on the left. ‘Come in here,’ he said, ‘till tea is ready. We
can talk at our ease in here. This is my own room.’ He looked around
with some pride, not so much in the old-world beauty of the room, in
which anyone might have taken pride, as in the things which belonged
to, and proclaimed, his own studies. It would be difficult indeed to
find anywhere a more beautiful room. The walls were of panelled cedar,
dark and polished; over the mantel was a mass of carved wood, grapes
in bunches, vine-leaves, scrolls, branches, heads of Cupids, all
apparently thrown together upon the wall, but there was method in the
mass; the fruit and the leaves formed a frame round a shield on which
were blazoned--or and gules and azure, in proper heraldic colours, a
coat-of-arms.
‘Why,’ I cried, ‘those are my arms! I thought they were granted to the
Judge as the first “Armiger” of the family. He had them already, then.
This is very curious. We were a family of gentlefolk.’
‘As if that matters!’ said the representative of the race. ‘There’s
always been that Thing belonging to us.’
‘The man who built this house may have been a pretender, but I doubt
it. People did not assume arms so readily in those days. It was a kind
of robbery.’
‘Oh! the arms are ours fast enough, if we want them. I’ve got an old
seal upstairs with the first boat-builder’s arms on it.’
‘Where did he come from? Do you know?’
‘I don’t know. That’s his portrait, perhaps. And perhaps it isn’t. Why
inquire about the dead? We are only concerned with the living.’
On one side of the mantel hung a portrait in oils of a dead and gone
Burnikel. He wore white lace ruffles, a white lace neckcloth, a
colossal wig, and he had the smooth, fat cheek and double chin of his
generation, which was a bibulous, armchair-loving generation.
‘I believe,’ Robert repeated, ‘that this is the man who came here
first, but it is not certain. It may be his son or his grandson. Did
you think really that your family began with the Judge, Sir George?’
‘Well, I never heard much about his predecessors, except that story of
the lost diamonds.’
‘Now you see. The first man of whom we know anything builds this fine
house, lines it with cedar and rosewood, and oak wainscoting; adorns it
with wood-carving----’
‘That overmantel work might belong to a later time,’ I interrupted. ‘It
looks like Grinling Gibbons, though. He may have done it--or perhaps
one of his scholars.’
‘And had a coat-of-arms. He was a gentleman, I suppose, if you care
about that fact. I don’t. Gentleman or not, he did not despise the
craft of boat-builder.’
‘Yes, I do care about that fact. Gentility is a real thing, whatever
you may think. I am very glad indeed to recover this long-lost
ancestor.’
On the other side of the mantel was a large oval mirror. Its duty,
which it discharged faithfully, was to catch the light, and so to
relieve the room of some of the shadows which lay about in the corners,
shifting from place to place as the day went on, until the evening
fell, when the candles were reflected in the polished walls, and the
room was ghostly to those who ever thought upon the dead and gone.
One side of the room, however, was completely spoiled as regards the
original intention of him who clothed it with cedar by the introduction
of a bookcase covering the whole wall, and fitted with books. There was
a central table littered with papers, and a smaller table with a row
of books. And there were only two chairs, both of them wooden chairs
with arms--the students’ chair. The books, one might observe, had the
external appearance of having been read and well used; the bindings
being cracked or creased and robbed of their pristine shininess. I
looked at them. Heavens! What a serious library of solid reading!
Herbert Spencer, Mill, Hallam, Freeman, Stubbs, Hamilton, Spinoza,
Bagehot, Seeley, Lecky, and a crowd of others for history; Darwin,
Huxley, Tyndall, Wallace, and more for science; rows of books on the
institutions of the country and on the questions of the day.
‘These are my books.’ Robert pointed to them with undisguised pride.
‘I don’t believe there’s a better collection this side of the Tower.
I collected them all myself. You see, my people were never given much
to books. My father in the evening smoked his pipe. His father smoked
his pipe in the evening. The girls of the family did their sewing all
the time. They didn’t want to read. All the books we had stood in two
shelves in a cupboard. They were chiefly devotional books. “Meditations
among the Tombs,” “Sermons,” “Reflections for the Serious,” “Pilgrim’s
Progress,” and such-like--mighty useful to me. So I had to collect my
own books. And, mind you, no rubbish among them all--no silly novels
and poetry and stuff--all good and useful books. And, what’s more, I’ve
read them every one, and I know them all.’
I now began to understand how he had been training for the post of Home
Secretary.
‘I wish I had read half as many,’ I said. ‘I assure you that I seldom
feel any curiosity as to what may be inside a book.’
‘Well, if you only read what most of ’em do you are quite as well
out of it. Novels! Sickening love stories--I’ve tried that kind. And
poetry! Pah! Now, here on these shelves is something worth reading.
These books have made me the man I am.’
‘I suppose,’ I ventured, ‘that you are not married?’
‘No, I am not. No, sir. Marriage holds a man down just where it finds
him. If I were married I should be wheeling the perambulator, fidgeting
about the children, insuring my life for the children, saving money for
the children, running for the doctor. No. I shall marry some day--when
I have succeeded. Not before.’
‘Then, you have a mother or a sister living with you?’
‘No. Father died five years ago, and there were left my mother with
myself, two brothers and a sister. The business isn’t good enough for
more than one. So my two brothers went off to Tasmania, and they’ve
started a yard of their own, and they tell me it’s going to pay. My
mother went out to see them, and I think she’ll stay. You see, mother
is a determined kind of a woman; she’d always been master here, father
being an easy kind of man, and she wanted to go on being master.
Now, there can’t be two masters in this house. So, when she came to
understand that, she concluded to go. My sister Kate went with her.
Kate wanted to be master too. So it’s just as well, for family peace
and quietness, that they did go away. I’m all for peace, and always
shall be, but I mean to be master in my own house.’
The speech revealed things volcanic; the son of the mother, the mother
of the son; the sister of the brother, the brother of the sister--all
masterful, and all striving for the mastery. And the son getting the
best of it. So he made a solitude, and he called it peace.
‘And you are left all alone in this great house?’
‘No. Some cousins of mine--not your cousins--mother’s cousins, live
here and keep the house for me. They are a retired skipper and his
daughter. The daughter does the housekeeping. She is also my secretary,
and keeps the accounts of the place over the way. She’s a clever girl
in her way, always right to a farthing with the accounts; and she
copies things for me when I want passages copied. Can’t follow an
argument, of course. No woman can.’ This is to have lived all your life
at Wapping. ‘You’ll see her presently. I’ve told her, by the way, if
that matters--only I want you to understand how I stand, and what sort
of a man I am--that I shall marry her one of these days, when I have
got on. Not before. You see, I want a wife who won’t be thinking all
the time about her clothes and company and stuff. I train my own wife
in my own way. It may be ten years, or twelve years, or forty, that
she’ll have to wait. Of course,’ he snorted, ‘she doesn’t expect any
fondling and kissing and foolishness.’
‘Poor girl!’ I did not say this. I only murmured, ‘Yes, I see, of
course,’ in the usual way when one is surprised, and a coherent reply
is difficult.
‘I only tell you this because I am consulting you about myself, and
you ought to know everything. Otherwise, it’s a perfectly unimportant
affair.’
‘Only a woman.’
‘That’s all. One must marry, some time, and it’s as well to know what
you are about. Not that I’m afraid of any woman. Still, it saves
trouble to get your wife into proper order before you begin.’
‘My own opinion, quite. Whether it will be my wife’s opinion or not I
cannot say.’
Here was a gallant lover for you! Here was an ardent lover! Here, in
the language of the last century, were flames and darts, and pains and
madness of love! He was going to wait for ten or twelve or forty years,
until he had achieved the object of his ambition; and there was to be
no fondling, and the future wife was to be reduced to proper order!
‘And now,’ said the man of ambition abruptly, ‘about that information
that you promised to get for me. That’s what we came here to talk
about, not coats-of-arms and girls. Have you got it?’
‘I have been to see a man whom I know. He is a politician; he lives in
politics; he thinks about nothing else. And I spent this morning with
him discussing your case--much as you told me last night. I can only
tell you’--I felt a little embarrassed, for obvious reasons--‘what he
told me.’
‘Go on. What did he say? That a boat-builder from Wapping mustn’t dare
to think of the House?’
‘Not at all. They don’t mind much what a man is by calling. What I
understood last night is this: You wish to go into the House and to
make your way upwards by your own abilities, alone. You will force the
House to recognise you.’
‘Yes. My model is John Bright. I’ve got his speeches, and I know his
history.’
‘But John Bright became in the long-run a Party man.’
‘John Bright was a power in the country as an independent member long
before he went into the Cabinet. I want to be a power in the country.’
‘Well, my friend says that the time of the Independent Member is
gone. The only way to get on, nowadays, is to belong to a Party from
the outset. Do you know what that means? You have to fall in and obey
orders; you must not advance opinions of your own unless they happen
to be those of the Party; you must vote as you are told; you must
advocate whatever the leaders do. When you have proved yourself a good
servant--trustworthy, unscrupulous, and loyal--then, and not till then,
if you fit in other respects, and if there is nobody in the way, and if
you are personally liked by the Cabinet, and if there is any vacancy
into which you could be pushed, then, and not till then, you might get
promoted, and so rise.’
‘Oh,’ he snarled again defiantly, ‘we shall see. What next?’
‘You will, of course, belong to the Liberal side. All the men who want
to get on enter on that side, because the others have got young men of
their own. If you do not know a constituency where you think you would
have a chance, the Party, supposing they approve of you as a candidate,
will perhaps find you one. They’ve always got a list of boroughs where
they want a good candidate. Then you must set yourself to become
agreeable to the electors; you must stay there, lecture them, humour
them, coax and cajole and flatter and fawn to them--my man didn’t say
all this, but he meant it--above all, you must promise them everything
they want. It is perfectly easy, though it does seem rather dirty work.
But it has to be done, and by yourself, because it can’t be done by
deputy.’
‘I shall not do it.’
‘As you please. You know that there is a Party Committee in every
borough. You will have to study that Committee, and all the members.
Lastly, you will have to undergo the process of heckling, which a man
of your temper will, I imagine, find extremely disagreeable.’
‘I shall get in, Sir George, without any of these tricks; and I shall
get in as an Independent Member. I will neither fawn to my people nor
flatter them. I shall say: “Here am I, your candidate; elect me.” And I
shall go in pledged to neither side.’
‘Then, my cousin, between the two you will fall to the ground.’
‘No; I shall succeed. You do not understand yet, Sir George, that you
have to do with a very able man indeed.’
This kind of talk may be arrogant and offensive; but Robert Burnikel
was neither. He made an arrogant assertion with a calmness which was
modesty. He advanced it as one who states a scientific fact. Belief in
himself was a part of the man’s nature. More than this, as you will
see: he succeeded in convincing those who heard him.
‘Now for my fitness,’ he went on. ‘Listen to this. First of all,
there’s nobody like me in the House at all. I am a Master Craftsman.
Formerly there were hundreds of crafts all carried on in London. They
made everything. There were in every craft the masters and the men. The
master knew the craft as well as the men. I make what I sell. I am not
a shopkeeper; I make. That is a great difference, because it helps me
to understand the Labour Question--work, wages, hours, and all the rest
of it. There are working men in the House: shopkeepers, manufacturers,
lawyers, country gentlemen; but the Master Craftsman the House hasn’t
got, and it wants him badly.’
‘Well?’
‘That is not all. This place, so secluded and cut off by the docks and
its river, is a little world in itself. You can study everything in
Wapping. I know the working of the whole system--parish, vestry, County
Council, School Board, everything. I understand the education business,
because I know my own men and their families, and what they want, and
the foolishness of what they get. I understand the Poor Law business. I
know all about the Church, the parish, the school, the workhouse, the
parish rates. That’s practical knowledge. But that is not enough. One
must understand principles. All institutions are based on principles.
So I have read Herbert Spencer and Mill, and all the books that treat
of practical things and what they mean. There is an ideal standard in
every institution--the thing aimed at--and there is a practical level
which is as near as we can get. They are sometimes very wide apart;
they are kept apart by the selfishness of the men for whom the system
has been devised. We must never lose sight of the ideal, and we must
work steadily to bring the attainable nearer to the ideal.’
‘Go on.’ I grew more and more interested in this man--this strong man.
‘Well, I read the debates every day. Nothing interests me in the paper
so much as the debates. Day after day I say to myself, when I read the
rubbish that is talked there: “This is wrong; this is ignorant; this
is foolish; this is mischievous; this man doesn’t understand the first
facts of the case.” And so on. Because, you see, when a man has got the
workings of one single parish like this firmly fixed in his mind, with
the history and the meaning of every institution in it--and they are
all in it--from a coroner’s jury up to a General Election, he’s got an
amount of practical knowledge that covers nearly the whole field of
home politics.’
‘Well, but you are as yet untried in oratory and in debate.’
‘Not at all. I went into the Blackwall Parliament at sixteen; at
twenty I led the House. I can speak; not to pour out floods of slushy
talk. I tell you I can speak. I have studied the art of oratory; I
have read all I could find on the subject. I have also read many great
speeches--Bright’s, above all. I told you just now, Sir George, that I
am an able man. I now tell you that I am an eloquent man. I know that
the House doesn’t want claptrap. I spoke at Poplar last winter, and I
made ’em laugh and made ’em cry just as I chose, and because I wanted
to try what I could do with them. That was only claptrap. I can speak
better than that. And as for my voice, listen: Do, Re, Mi----’ He ran
up and down the scales not only with correctness and ease, but with a
flexible, rich, and musical baritone. ‘That’s good enough for anything,
isn’t it? Why, as soon as I found I had a voice, I rejoiced, because I
knew that for such work as I resolved, even then, to go in for, a voice
is most useful. I went into the church choir in order to learn the use
of it. I sing there every Sunday for practice. I didn’t want to sing in
the choir; it wastes good time; but there is the practice. Nothing like
singing for keeping the voice flexible.’
‘Very good--very good indeed.’
‘Well, I have told you everything. What do you think about my fitness
to go into the House to-morrow, and to rise in it?’
The question was meek. The manner was aggressive. It said plainly,
‘Deny, if you dare, my fitness.’
At that moment the door was opened, and a girl’s head appeared. ‘Tea is
ready,’ she said, and disappeared.
‘Let us go in to tea,’ I said; ‘and then I will answer your question.’
CHAPTER VI.
‘TEA IS READY.’
Tea was served in the room on the other side of the Hall. Like the
study, this room was a lovely old room also, completely wainscoted
with cedar. There were the same carvings over the mantel--fruit,
flowers, grapes, leaves and branches, and the shield with the family
coat-of-arms. The room was, however, lighter than the study, partly
because it contained in each of the upper panels family portraits, and
on the panels below oil-paintings representing the river as seen from
the boat-yard, with its ships, barges, hoys, lighters, boats, and all
the life and motion and business of the river in the last century. So
little regard for art was there in the family that no one knew who
had painted these panels. Yet it was no mean hand which had designed
and executed them. Many indications pointed to the daily occupancy of
the room by the household. In the window, for instance, stood a small
table, with a work-basket placed there out of the way. There was a
sideboard--period, the second George--of mahogany, black with age. It
was one of the kind consisting of two square towers, each with a locked
door and two compartments within, and a broad, flat connecting-piece
with a drawer. In the middle portion stood a noble old punch-bowl,
surrounded by glasses--lovely old glasses: the convivial rummer, the
useful tumbler, the tall champagne glass, the old-fashioned little
port glass, the tiny liqueur glass--a beautiful assortment such as a
mere modern cannot understand. On one side of the towers stood a glass
filled with spring flowers; and on the other, as if belonging to the
masculine sex, a case for spirits. On the panels above the pictures
was a row of plates; they had stood there for a hundred years, only
taken down from time to time to be dusted. On the other side of the
room, opposite to the door, was a cottage piano, open, with music
piled on the top. In one corner, near the fireplace, was a little
stack of churchwarden pipes; and in the other corner was a door, half
open, which revealed a surprising cupboard. The eighteenth-century
housewife demanded so many store-rooms for all her jams, jellies,
pickles, wines, cordials, and strong waters; so many still-rooms,
linen-rooms, and pantries for the immense collections which her family
wanted for the successful conduct of a household, that it became
necessary to have a cupboard in the parlour, or general living-room,
as well. This cupboard belonged to the Burnikels of the last century;
but its use was continued by the present occupants. Here were kept the
cups and saucers, old and new; here was the plate-basket, containing
the forks and spoons in daily use--silver, not plated, and thin with
age; here were certain books of devotion which once formed the family
library--they were those referred to by Robert; here were tea-caddy,
coffee-caddy, and sugar-basin; here were the decanters which belonged
to the Sunday dinner; here were household account-books; here was the
corkscrew; here were mysterious phials; here were kept the marking
ink, the writing ink, the pens and paper; here was the current pot
of jam; here were the lemons; here, in short, the thousand and one
things likely to be wanted every day by the household. For this room
was the family keeping or living-room; it was not the dining-room or
the breakfast-room: it was the parlour. Robert’s room had been the best
parlour until he changed it into the study.
One did not take in all these details at once; but I had abundant
opportunities afterwards of noting everything. Meantime, what I
observed first of all was that ‘tea’ meant sitting down to a table
covered with a white cloth, spread with a magnificent display of good
things. I remembered my cousin’s ominous words: ‘I told them that
you might come in to tea.’ ‘They’ had provided this square meal in
hospitality for me.
The girl who sat behind the tea-tray, ready to serve, was doubtless the
housekeeper, accountant, secretary, clerk, whom my cousin was some day
going to marry. A slight, delicate-looking girl she appeared to be; and
she seemed shy, her head drooping. Beside her stood, supported by a
stick, an elderly man.
‘This is Captain Dering,’ said my cousin, introducing his friend, ‘and
this is Isabel Dering.’
The girl bowed stiffly. The Captain extended a friendly hand.
‘Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,’ he said heartily. ‘There was a
time when I made new friends every voyage, but those times are over.
The sight of a stranger at Wapping is a rare event, I assure you.’
‘Especially,’ I said, ‘a stranger who comes in search of a long-lost
cousin.’
The face and dress and general appearance of this old gentleman
indicated his profession. It was nautical.
‘My tough old figure-head,’ they all cried aloud together, ‘tells you
that I am a sailor, though retired. My clear, honest eyes tell you
that I am a sailor. My red and weather-beaten cheek; my blue cloth; the
shape of my jacket--all proclaim that I am a sailor--and proud of it,
sir, proud of it.’
Then Robert Burnikel, to my confusion, because I thought the custom,
over a cup of tea, long exploded, pronounced a grace. It was an old
family grace, dating from the time when all respectable families of the
middle class were extremely religious, and the Church of England was
evangelical, and when ladies conversed and wrote letters to each other,
almost entirely on the condition of their souls. Quite a long collect,
this grace was. Yet the utterance was as purely formal as that of grace
in a College Hall, or grace in a workhouse, which is the most formal
thing I know. Robert pronounced that grace mechanically.
This form of prayer concluded, we all sat down. A tremendous tea was
on the table: ham in slices, boiled eggs, potted tongue, prawns,
bread-and-butter, cakes of many kinds, including plum-cake, seed-cake,
Madeira-cake, tea-cake (which is a buttered or bilious variety),
short-cake, biscuits, jam, marmalade, and honey. A hospitable tea.
A square tea, in fact. A tea, like Robert Burnikel himself, at once
serious and earnest and heavy.
As a rule, I repeat, I take nothing with my afternoon tea. But one
must not be churlish. My cousin glanced at me before the prayer, as
if to say, ‘You shall see for yourself how Wapping can do it.’ And I
was expected to do justice to all these good things provided in my
honour. Why, if this splendid spread was put on the table every day,
the Captain’s clear eye would become yellow, and the Master would find
it no longer possible to follow out an argument, for the black spots,
lines, and circles which would be bobbing about between his nose and
the printed page. It must have been an exceptional spread. No one could
live through a month of such teas. I avoided the ham, and escaped the
eggs, and declined the shrimps. But I went in for the cakes, and on
the whole acquitted myself, I believe, creditably. The Captain and
the giver of the feast, on their parts, ploughed their way resolutely
through the whole array of dishes. When the first pangs were appeased,
the Captain spoke.
‘Sir George Burnikel,’ he said, with solemnity, ‘I commanded the _Maid
of Athens_, which ran between Calicut and Ceylon, for many years. As
the captain of that noble vessel I’ve taken passengers abroad of the
highest rank--the very highest--not to speak of coffee-planters. Not
that their rank made them better sailors. I acknowledge so much. But it
made me a respecter of the British aristocracy, Sir George Burnikel,
of which you are a worthy member. Robert here is all for pulling down.
Why? I ask you humbly, Sir George--why?’
Robert grunted.
‘Why? I ask. When you break up an old ship she’s gone. Don’t break her
up. Let her be. Let her go on till she’s wrecked or cast away. No, sir,
when you’ve carried noblemen upon the Indian Ocean, and found out that
they are exactly like other people--must be stroked the right way; want
the most comfortable berths; drink the same grog, and talk the same
language--then you get to respect the aristocracy. Because, you see,
with their chances, they might have been so very different. And then
you ask, Why pull down? Why sweep away?’ He addressed the question to
Robert, who only grunted. It was obviously an old subject of dispute.
Then the Captain turned to the table again, and proceeded to work
through the festive spread in silence.
The lagging of conversation enabled me to look about and observe. To
observe in a strange house is to make discoveries. First, I regarded
the girl at the tea-tray. She was rather pretty, I thought; too
pale, as if she took too little exercise, or worked too hard, or
was underfed; she had curiously soft and limpid eyes--of the kind
which seem to hold within them unknown depths of something--wisdom,
perhaps; love, perhaps; prophecy, perhaps--according to the lover’s
interpretation. Her features were regular, but not of classical
outline; her cheek looked soft as velvet; her lips were mobile. But
she was too grave; she looked sad, even. I remembered what my cousin
said: ‘No fondling and nonsense.’ At twenty-four one has not a large
experience, but I certainly could not help thinking that she was a girl
designed and intended by Nature to live upon love, and the fondlings
and caresses and outward signs of love, which her _fiancé_ thought so
ridiculous. To have none! To wait for ten, twelve, fifteen years, and
to lack that consolation and comfort! Poor child! Poor Isabel!
And then I made another discovery. The girl was afraid of her
cousin--the Master--the man who would not permit his own mother to
entertain any illusions about the mastery. She was afraid of her own
_fiancé_; she watched him anxiously; she anticipated his wants in
silence; he received her attentions without acknowledgment. Why was she
afraid of him? Did he scold and abuse his secretary?
My host, I perceived, conducted his eating with the resolution and the
rapidity that becomes habitual when one sits down to eat and not to
talk. As I learned afterwards, there was little conversation at the
table in this house, because the master was always full of his own
thoughts, and despised the common topics of the day and the season.
Perceiving, when he had himself finished a very substantial stop-gap
between dinner and supper, that his guest had also ceased taking in
provisions, he rose abruptly, pushing back his chair and his plate. One
may remark this thing done daily in the cottage and in the village.
It is an action which seems to belong to a level lower than that of a
master boat-builder. One might have expected more attention to style;
but, as I learned afterwards, in a house where one man rules absolute,
like Nero of Rome, and nobody dares to expostulate, some deterioration
of manners is apt to creep in.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘if you won’t take any more tea-cake? a few shrimps? an
egg? No? Then, we’ll go and have another talk. Isabel, you needn’t come
in.’
The Captain took no notice of our departure. I bowed to the girl, who
looked a little surprised at this act of courtesy, and rather stiffly
inclined her head.
Outside the door Robert Burnikel stopped. ‘Upstairs,’ he said, ‘I think
there is something to interest you. Come along.’ On the second-floor
he threw open the door of a room. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is called the
spare-room. But I never remember that it was occupied. We could do
without it, I suppose; and we never had any visitors to stay the
night. So, you see, it is only half furnished.’ The room contained
a wooden bed with mattresses, but no feather-bed, or spring-bed, or
curtains--only the frame; there were three or four odd chairs standing
about, and there was a great sailor’s chest. ‘This,’ he explained, ‘is
the bed of old John Burnikel, the man who had the bag of diamonds.’
‘Oh, it is a pity we haven’t got the bag as well, isn’t it? Did your
great-grandfather buy it?’
‘I suspect there was no buying. He was on the spot and he took it--bed
and sea-chest and all. I suppose he thought that perhaps, in spite of
their failures to find it, the bag might be somewhere about the bed.’
‘And he searched, of course?’
‘I believe this bed must have been taken to pieces a hundred times.
My brother and I once took it to pieces and tapped every piece all
over with a hammer to see if it was hollow. Look! Here is the secret
cupboard in which people used to hide their things.’ It was at the
head of the bed. He pressed a certain spot in the woodwork and a door
flew open, disclosing a small recess. ‘Everybody knew the secret, but
everybody pretended not to know. Of course, when the old man was gone,
the first thing they did was to look into this secret cupboard. But
there was nothing there. Then they turned the house inside out. Then
they quarrelled and fought. Then they dissolved partnership.’
‘And then,’ I added, ‘they accused each other, for three generations
after, of stealing that bag. It’s a wonderful family story. Let me try.’
I put in my hand and felt round the little cupboard. There was nothing.
‘And this,’ my cousin went on, ‘is the old man’s sea-chest. That, too,
was brought here at the same time as the bed. The two things, except
for a table and a chair and a frying-pan, were all the furniture the
old man possessed. It’s a most marvellous thing to think of. What
became of that bag? A hundred times and more that old bed has been
pulled to pieces and that old chest has been turned out, to see if
there was any hiding-place still undiscovered.’
A large, iron-bound sea-chest. I threw open the lid. It seemed to
contain a queer lot of useless rubbish.
‘The sight of this box,’ said Robert, ‘makes one believe that there
really must have been a bag of diamonds, after all.’
‘Of course there was. The only thing is--what became of it? Nobody knew
anything about it. Nobody was in the house from the time that the old
man was taken ill until his nephews came; no outsider stole that bag.
What became of it, then? Of course, it is no good asking now. Still, it
is mysterious!’
‘Yes. And about ninety years ago the two cousins were standing over
the dead man’s bed, just as we are doing now. I feel as if it was
yesterday.’
‘Don’t accuse me,’ I said, ‘of stealing the thing, or there will be
another fight.’
Robert smiled grimly. Were there to be another fight, he was perfectly
assured about the event. A very superior young man in every direction.
I noted the smile and understood it. But it was all part of the very
singular and masterful personality to which I was thus singularly
introduced.
By this time I was fully impressed with the fact that I had to deal
with a very remarkable, resolute, and ambitious young man, who cared
about nothing in the world but his own advancement; strong and able,
masterful, self-confident even to the very rare degree of communicating
his secret ambitions. Most men, again, limit their ambitions by the
circumstances and the conditions of their lives; they do not look much
beyond. The ambition of the average working man is to get continuous
work; sometimes to become a master; the ambition of the average
young shopkeeper is to extend his business; the young solicitor hopes
for a steady practice; the young author hopes for acceptance by the
editor--only acceptance, only a chance; he has no thought at first of
great world-wide success; his ambition increases as he gets on. In
Robert’s case the ambition was from the outset full-grown. ‘I will
go into the House,’ he said, being only a boat-builder with a small
yard and a moderate business, ‘and I will become a Cabinet Minister.’
Such ambition was immense, presumptuous, audacious, considering his
position. And yet, considering the man, apart from his position, I
recognised almost from the outset that it was not ridiculous.
CHAPTER VII.
A BARGAIN.
Robert shut the study door carefully, as if to exclude any chance of
being overheard. The room was growing dark now, save for the gas-lamp
on the opposite side of the street. He pulled down the blind, lit a
reading-lamp, which threw a little circle of bright light on the papers
of the writing-table, and awakened reflections on the polished walls
of cedar, luminous breadths which intensified the shadows between and
below. The room felt ghostly. I took a chair outside the circle of
light; my cousin took his own chair in his own place within the circle.
Then an odd thing happened. Someone in the other room--of course it was
Isabel--began to play. She played some soft music, a reverie, a song
without words, a romance, a gentle, suggestive kind of music; it acted
on me as a mesmeric influence; it is a weakness which always falls upon
me when I hear soft music. It falls upon my brain, and I seem to see
visions and dream dreams. So while Isabel’s fingers rambled over the
notes, and her music fell soft and sweet upon the soul, it seemed as
if I was only sitting again where I used to sit a long time ago, and
that I had just been talking of the recent loss of those jewels with
my cousin, whom I suspected of the theft. And I remembered the bedside
watching and the death of old John Burnikel, and the search after those
diamonds, and the deplorable quarrel with my cousin and the fight that
followed. I say that I remembered all this as if I myself was present
at these events. Then things got mixed. I had stolen these diamonds
myself. By these, and as Judge, second Baronet and third Baronet, I
succeeded in gaining more wealth and distinction. But--a very important
thing--time was up. My cousin’s turn was now to come.
A curious fancy--a whimsical dream. Yet it seized me and it held me.
And it kept recurring. Time was up. We had had our turn. Now was the
cousin’s turn. My money was all gone; my position was gone. His was
just about to begin.
‘Well,’ said the boat-builder, ‘I have told you everything--all my
ambitions--quite openly and freely. I have trusted you.’
‘You have.’
‘I trust a man, or I do not, by his face. That is how I engage my men.
A fellow comes to me. “Oh,” I say, “you’re one of a discontented lot;
you are a Socialist Anarchist--divide-and-do-nothing sort.” I know
their faces. Or else I say: “You are a steady workman. You’ll do for
me.” I’m never wrong. I’d take you on to-morrow over the way, with
pleasure. That’s why I trusted you.’
‘All that you have said is in confidence, of course.’
‘Isabel doesn’t know, except that I mean to go ahead. Well, what you
told me before tea is disturbing. All the same, I mean to go into the
House as an Independent member. And I know the borough I shall choose.
I shall stand for Shadwell, where they know me. As for the money that
the election will cost--well, I can’t very well afford it, that’s
certain, but I must plank it down. It will be an investment.’
‘Very good.’
‘Then tell me, is there anything I have forgotten? I want to stand at
the next General Election. I want to begin nursing the borough at once.’
‘Perhaps--there may be--one thing,’ I replied, with hesitation.
‘What thing? I have thought it all out. I can speak. I am not afraid.
I can give and take. I know the institutions of the country and their
history. I know the questions of the day and the actual facts about
them. I’ve got a memory like a well-ordered cupboard. What have I
forgotten?’
‘You are not the man I take you for if you are offended.’
‘Nonsense, man! You can’t offend me.’ There are two or three ways of
pronouncing the last four words. They may be so emphasized as to convey
the highest compliment or the greatest contempt. Robert’s way inclined
to the latter. He expressed moderate contempt and self-satisfied
superiority. A touchy man would have been offended. I am not a touchy
man; and I took the reply--compliment or contempt--with a cheerful
smile, wasted because unseen in the gloom of the room. I might as well
have scowled.
‘Well, then, you have forgotten one thing. That is--manners.’
‘Manners!’ In the bright light of his circle I saw his eyes flash and
his cheek flame. It was as if the limit of patience had been reached.
‘Manners?’ he repeated. ‘You mean that I don’t know how to behave. I’d
have you learn, then, that we behave as well at Wapping as Piccadilly.’
I have since learned that there is no social level where the charge of
bad manners would not be resented. It is a beautiful thing to reflect
that, however low down one may penetrate, always there is a code of
manners, an ideal, a standard, and resentment of the deepest if one is
charged with shortcomings in respect to that code. Robert snorted with
indignation. For a moment I feared that I had mortally offended him. So
I hastened to bring along what the Persian poet calls the Watering-pot
of Conciliation.
‘One moment. I mean this: You have set before yourself a definite end.
Your design is to become a power in the House. You cannot afford,
therefore, as you very well understand, to neglect any means of
attaining this end. Now, a power in the House must mean in some sense
or other a man of Society. Not to know the ways and usages of Society
would be the greatest possible hindrance to you. I know of one man now
in the House who will never rise, simply because he is a rank social
outsider; he can neither dress, nor talk, nor carry himself, like a
gentleman. Tell me, for instance, do you possess that simple article,
indispensable for society--the common dress-coat?’
‘No; I’ve got an office coat and a house coat and a Sunday coat. What
the DEVIL more does a man want?’
‘Nothing more, really. But we are artificial. Have you, next, ever been
to an evening dinner-party?’
‘We dine at one o’clock every day--the good old time. There are no
evening dinner-parties here.’
‘It is the good old time, no doubt. Still we are, as I said,
artificial, and Society dines in the evening. Now, as to a reception or
a ball, or anything of that sort----’
‘Oh!’ Robert groaned. ‘What has this kind of thing got to do with me?’
‘And as to the common language of Society, and as to such simple
matters as the Art and Literature and Drama of the social world----’
‘What has all this got to do with the business?’
‘A great deal. My ambitious cousin, knowledge of all your subjects
will not advance you by yourself. Even oratory will not advance you by
itself. You must make yourself a _persona grata_; you must become one
of the world; you must dress, talk, act, behave in their way, not in
yours. Mind, you must.’
My cousin groaned again.
‘For instance, part of manners is the art of suppressing yourself. You
must learn how to conceal your aims, or, at least, not to put them
forward at the wrong time. You must learn to show a less serious front.’
‘Learn to pretend--that’s what your fine manners mean.’
‘Learn to assume a side of smiles and light talk--and, perhaps, of
lighter epigram. You must be able to laugh at things. Do you know that
a man who can laugh has ten times greater chance than a man who is
always in earnest? You will cultivate, my cousin, if you are wise, the
manners, talk, ways, customs, and usages of society, before, not after,
you go into the House. Believe me, if you are to rise, as seems likely,
you will have to learn these things somehow, and you had better learn
them quietly and at leisure before you go in.’
My cousin banged the table with his fist. ‘Good Lord!’ he cried. ‘First
you tell me that I must join a party and make myself a slave, and lie,
and wriggle, and cringe, and fetch, and carry, and say, and do what
I am told. Do you think I would enter the House on such conditions?
Never!’
‘As you please.’
‘And now you tell me, in addition, that I must learn the niminy-piminy,
trumpery pretences that you call manners. Well, I won’t. You may have
your manners, and I will keep mine.’
‘Then you will fail. Understand me, cousin. This is not a question of
Piccadilly ways. It is one of taking your place with the members as
their equal, from the outset. This is of the greatest importance to
you. There are many men of your station originally, that is, who have
sprung from the trading class, in the House. Some of them entered it
with the same ambitions which guide you. Those of them who have got
on have all managed to acquire, at the University or elsewhere, the
manners of gentlemen. So must you. At present,--I speak freely--your
manners are only those of a superior working man. You have lived alone
in this corner, and you have forgotten the need of manners. I say that
you _must_ learn our manners. You must! You must!’
You will observe that I was at this time greatly struck with the man’s
ability as well as his courage. A smaller man one would have suffered
to make his way as he could, sink or swim, probably the former, from
sheer ignorance of manners. But this man conquered me. I had never
before met with any man who knew so much and spoke so well, and at
the same time had such an excellent opinion of himself. Conceit and
vanity we have with us always; they are given by kindly Providence to
make up for incompetence. But that an able man should be so avowedly
self-reliant is rare. I thought that the man himself justified my plain
speaking.
He was staggered. ‘You can’t make me a lardy-dardy fine gentleman,’ he
objected weakly.
‘There is no such thing nowadays. The young fellows are all athletes.
I don’t want to make you a man of fashion or a man about town. Nothing
of the sort. I want to make you a well-bred, quiet man, able to hold
your own. You are built for the part; you look the part; I want to put
you on a glove of velvet to hide your wrist of iron. Do you understand
that?’
The prospect of hiding his wrist of iron pleased the man who desired
strength above all things. The use of the velvet, and how this choice
fabric lends itself to ambitious purposes, he did not, as yet,
understand.
‘Well,’ he said unwillingly. ‘You may be right. Perhaps there is
something in it. But if there is, I am too old to learn. Manners can’t
be taught. There was no school for manners.’
I got up. ‘Before I go, Cousin Robert, I have something to tell you.
All the confidences shall not be yours.’
‘Something to tell me?’ Robert looked up, but there was a discouraging
want of interest in his eye, and an intimation, conveyed by his manner,
that he was thinking about himself, and was not at all interested in my
confidences.
‘It is not a very long confidence. Not a tenth part so long as yours.’
‘That’s good,’ said my cousin. ‘Cut along.’
‘Well, it is only this. You called upon me, you have talked to me, in
the belief that I am rich.’
‘A quarter of a million of money the Judge left behind him.’
‘He did. But it is all gone. My father was unfortunate in certain
transactions. He lost it all. I only found it out--found out, that is,
the whole truth--yesterday, the day you called upon me.’
‘What! Lost your fortune? What are you going to do now?’
‘That I don’t know yet. Perhaps you may be able to help me. On the
other hand, I may be able to help you.’
‘Have you got nothing?’
‘Two or three thousand only.’
‘Oh, he calls three thousand nothing! If I had as much! Well, what
would you like to do best?’
‘Frankly, I don’t know. I have learned nothing except the use of a
lathe and carpentering tools.’
‘You ought to be a boat-builder by rights.’
‘I believe I ought. Well, Robert--I may call you by your Christian
name--you shall put me on to something or other. And as for me, I can
introduce you at least to some pleasant people.’
‘I want useful people.’
‘They may be useful as well. You shall help me, and I will help you. Is
that a bargain?’
Robert hesitated. Every business man looks upon a bargain from all
points of view, and especially to see how it will benefit himself. He
made up his mind, apparently, that the bargain was in his favour, for
he stretched out his arm. ‘Hands upon it, cousin.’
At that moment--it was a happy omen--Isabel’s music burst into a glad
triumphal march.
Then I wished him good-night. ‘We will talk further upon the point of
manners,’ I said; ‘perhaps something may be done; meantime, don’t take
any steps yourself.’
‘If I was to buy “The Etiquette of the Ballroom” now?’ he suggested
anxiously; ‘there’s one in a shop window at Poplar.’
‘My dear fellow, you want no guide but your own experience, and that
you must get somehow. Let me think a bit.’
So we parted, and I went home, thinking of nothing but this most
remarkable person. Surely it would not be difficult to give him just
that little knowledge of society which would prevent him from being
_gauche_ and ill at ease. Could I not myself take him in hand? I had
all the time there is, and one cannot be thinking about one’s own
future arrangements all day long. Suppose--suppose--suppose. And at
this moment--I remember well the exact moment; it was striking nine
o’clock in the club smoking-room--an inspiration fell upon me. Other
people, including Frances, have called it a moment of madness, demoniac
possession, the extremity of folly; but for my own part I call it an
inspiration. Every such suggestion, just as every dream, may be traced
to some external event. This suggestion, I am sure, was due to my
having seen the old wooden bed and the sailor’s chest. That made me
realize the boat-building ancestors; that gave me the strange feeling
of having enjoyed the diamonds for long enough, so that it was now my
cousin’s turn, and this suggested what I call an inspiration. It fell
in with the new necessity for making a livelihood, with the disgust
which I entertained for all the methods already proposed. I gave the
thing consideration; went to bed with it; wrestled with it; got up
with it; got into the bath with it; dressed with it; breakfasted with
it. After breakfast I sat down for what they call calm reflection. This
was the inspiration. Why should I not become a boat-builder? An honest
craft is better than the tricks and wrigglings necessary in any other
line of life that appeared open to me. You have seen what they were.
If you think of it, the only possible way for a penniless man without
a profession to get on and make money or keep himself must be a way
of wriggling. I should in this way learn a trade and make myself a
craftsman--a Master Craftsman, like my cousin. As for any indignity in
learning a trade, I never felt any, and I am not going to allow at this
time of day that there is any. Quite the contrary. If every lad learned
a trade, a good many would be saved from going into the wrong line. I
revolved the thing in my mind all that morning. Then I took paper and
pen, and, like Robinson Crusoe, set things out plainly, pro and con.
As, for instance, only to put down a few of the pros and cons.
_Pro_: I had lost my fortune and must change my mode of living
altogether.
_Con_: But there was no need for me to give up my social position.
_Pro_: I had still enough left to start life in some trade or craft.
_Con_: But I knew no trade.
_Pro_: I had a special aptitude for cutting, and carving, and shaping,
and making.
_Con_: But I should lose caste by going into trade.
_Pro_: But what if I did? You cannot keep caste without money.
And so on, with a special leaning to the pros, because my mind was
already made up. I would be a boat-builder.
So at last I sat down and wrote two letters--the first to my cousin
Robert, and the second to Frances.
This was the first--the important epoch-making letter:
‘MY DEAR COUSIN,
‘I have been turning over in my mind the difficulty in which we
were stuck when I left you yesterday, and I have a curious proposal
to make to you. It is this: You shall take me into your yard and
teach me the trade or craft of boat-building--all about it: making,
selling, wages, prices, materials, everything. Perhaps in twelve
months or so I may be master of the subject. You will do this for
nothing.
‘I, for my part, after the day’s work, will take you home with me--to
my chambers. And for five nights out of the week I will arrange
something or other that will give you that kind of experience of
which we spoke.
‘If this arrangement pleases you, send me a telegram.’
I despatched this missive by postal messenger, and before noon received
the reply: ‘Yes; come to-morrow.’
My other note was to Frances--a diplomatic note. I thought it
better for the time to avoid her. Perhaps one knew beforehand the
views--somewhat narrow and even prejudiced--which she would take about
the craft of building boats.
‘MY DEAR FRANCES,’ I said,
‘You will be interested in hearing that I have decided on my future
career. It will lack public splendour, and it will be wholly without
distinction. So far you will not approve of it. Since, however,
you know how deplorably free from ambition I am, you will not be
disappointed. As soon as I have settled down in my new work I will
call upon you and report progress; that is, if you will receive a man
who will not any longer call himself a gentleman, but a craftsman.
‘Always, my dear Frances,
‘Yours affectionately,
‘G. B.’
CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE YARD.
That was how it began. We entered upon this exchange without
understanding what was to follow--who ever understands what is to
follow? If we were to understand what is to follow, nobody would do
anything, because whatever follows is sure to contain the drop of
bitterness, or incompleteness, or the unlooked-for evil that goes
with everything. We were, in fact, without knowing it, preparing for
an exchange. As you shall see, the bargain meant that Robert was to
take my place, and I was to take his. But as yet, I say, we suspected
nothing of this.
In the morning I presented myself in the guise of a working man; that
is to say, I put on a fishing costume of tweeds. Perhaps, as a working
man, I ought not to have taken a hansom; but, of course, one is not
correct all at once in every detail.
Robert came out of the box he called an office.
‘Humph!’ he said doubtfully, ‘didn’t expect you; thought you’d think
better of it.’
‘I have thought better of it--much better of it.’
He considered a little. ‘If you really mean business,’ he said. ‘Of
course you can’t learn the thing in twelve months. I was apprenticed
for seven years. Still, if you are sharp and handy, and have got
the courage to stick at it, you can learn a good bit in that time.
Well, and about that--that other proposal.’ He looked round, as if
afraid that his men would hear. Why, if anybody knew that he--he, the
Master--was going to the West End to learn manners, the laughter and
the scorn of it would be inextinguishable.
‘That stands, too,’ I replied.
He laughed and called his foreman, and we had a little serious
conversation.
The amateur who stands at a lathe can knock off when he likes; if his
fingers get tired he rests; he takes a cigarette; he sits down for a
bit; he goes on again when he feels like going on again. The working
man, on the other hand, cannot knock off; he must go on; he learns very
early the lesson that he must not get tired--or if he does get tired
that he must work on all the same; if he gets hot he must go on getting
hotter. All this he learns as a boy, and I should think it must take
half his apprenticeship to learn it.
‘How do you like it?’ Robert asked grimly an hour afterwards.
I confess that I was enduring acute pains in the right arm, heavy
pains in the left arm, dull pains in both legs, and grievous pains in
the back; that my brow was like that of the village blacksmith at his
best, and that I went on doggedly only because the other fellows, my
companions, my brother chips, were going on steadily, as if there was
no such thing as bodily suffering.
‘It isn’t quite like a fancy lathe, is it?’
I straightened myself painfully, and laid down the tool.
‘You’ll get tired of it in a day.’
‘I shall not allow myself to get tired of it. Let me learn how to build
a boat.’
‘Have your own way. If you do stick to the work, I shall think all
the better of you. No one knows how to take you, with your light
touch-and-go talk, as if all the world was made to be laughed at.’
‘I now understand that only a very small proportion of the world is
permitted to laugh. Henceforth I am as serious as’--I looked round the
yard--‘as serious as your workmen.’ They did look serious, perhaps on
account of the artistic responsibility of their craft. ‘In plain words,
my cousin, don’t let us talk of any lack of seriousness. I am next
door to a pauper, and I am going to be a builder of boats--Burnikel
boats--like my great-grandfather.’
‘You shall try, then. I will teach you all I can. But sit down a bit;
there’s no need to break your back over the job. There’s other things
in the trade besides the actual work. This isn’t a bad trade as things
go; but no trade is altogether what the parsons call Christian, and
that’s what you will have to learn.’
‘Must there be tricks in everything?’
‘Well, money-making means besting your neighbour. Of course you know
nothing about the way in which money is made. You think it just grows.’
‘So it does, if you let it alone. It grows luxuriantly. If you spend
it, of course it can’t grow.’
‘But you’ve got to make it first. There’s a great fight--a deadly
fight--always going on between us all. The masters want to starve the
men; the men want to choke the masters; the buyers and the sellers
cheat and lie, and coax and wheedle, all the time. You’ll have to join
in that struggle, and, mind, it goes on for ever. There never will be
any end to this fight; it’s the everlasting struggle for existence.
There are five millions in this big place--one million of grown men.
All but a mere handful are in the fight. Not that many are of much
account.’
‘I believe I can fight as well as most. At all events, I shall try.’
‘Its a kind of fight that you’ve never learned; that’s what I mean, and
you won’t like it. First of all, you’ve got to put your pride in your
pocket. Do you understand what that means? You’ve got to be civil to
men that you’d like to kick. What do you think of that?’
‘That’s nothing at all--common politeness. I am every day civil to men
whom I ardently desire to kick.’
‘You think that all you have to do is to make good boats. Man, you’ve
got to use your shoulders and to push and shove in order even to keep
your connection together. How will you like that?’
‘It’s much the same higher up. No one can escape the common lot. I
shall try to push forward. My shoulders, you may observe, are nearly as
broad as your own.’
‘Then you’ve got to fight for your prices, to seem yielding, and to
fight hard, and to be hail-fellow-well-met with every man that may want
to buy a boat; vermin, some of them--vermin and creeping and crawling
things. Friendly with them. How will you like that?’
‘One is bound everywhere to politeness with the man of the moment. We
all do it.’
‘You’ve got to best your man, or he’ll best you. How will you like
that?’
‘Besting your neighbour may be conducted so as to become an
intellectual game.’
‘And you must call it good business, not over-reaching, when you
succeed.’
‘My cousin, you fill me with enthusiasm. Let us go on.’
‘Go on, then, and good luck to you!’
Thus was the apprentice placed in the hands of the foreman, and
practical instruction was commenced. Like Czar Peter at Deptford, which
was just across the river, I began to work with my own hands. Well, I
had in me, to begin with, the makings of a good workman: hand and eye,
and the command of tools, which go with the good workman.
At half-past twelve we knocked off for dinner. Quite ready I was to
knock off. I walked across the street with my cousin and joined in the
early dinner, which was served at one. We had, I remember, stalled ox
and humming ale, and a ginger pudding.
‘Going to learn how to build a boat, are you?’ said the Captain.
‘Ha! you couldn’t learn a more useful thing nor a prettier thing. A
boat’s about the loveliest thing a man can make. Every kind of boat--a
man-o’-war’s launch or a little up-river cedar and putty skiff--the
loveliest thing it is. And what in the world is there more useful? As
for you, sir, a Burnikel, even if he is a nobleman, ought to take to
boat-building by nature.’
‘I am taking to it by nature, Captain. I feel as if I have already
learned half the business. I shall be Burnikel the Great, or Burnikel
the Incomparable, Prince of Boat-builders.’
Robert took his dinner, as he had taken his tea--in silence. It was
the custom, I perceived. Isabel carved, at which one marvelled. I
observed that she carved well. When she was not carving, she sat at
the table, pale and silent, watching Robert, her task-master and her
ice-cold lover. She took very little dinner--much less than a girl
of her age ought to take. She looked as if she had no other interest
in life than just to satisfy her master. As for youth and life and
cheerfulness, these things did not appear to exist in the house. Yet
Robert was only twenty-six--two years older than myself--and Isabel was
not yet twenty-two.
Dinner over, the Captain returned to his own den at the back, whence
presently proceeded the smell of tobacco. I believe that he also
solaced himself after dinner with a glass of something warm with a
slice of lemon in it. Robert, observing that he always went over the
way at two, retired into his study. He was one of those unfortunate
men who never waste their time. We all know the kind; they use up
every odd ten minutes. Robert worked from dinner, which was over about
twenty minutes past one, till two every day. Most men waste the hour
after dinner. To Robert it meant simply two hundred hours, or about
twenty-five days, at eight hours a day, every year. Such industry is
too much for the average man. For my own part, I like to think of
stealing twenty-five days for pleasure and laziness, rather than of
adding twenty-five to the tale of working days--already too many.
Isabel, as soon as the cloth was cleared, spread out her account-books
and began to work.
‘Is it good,’ I said, ‘to work directly after dinner?’
‘I do not know. Robert always works after dinner.’ I observed that she
had a very sweet voice, soft and musical.
‘Robert is a strong man. You are not a strong man. May I use the
privilege of a cousin--you are to be my cousin some time--to point out
to you that many things which Robert may do with impunity you must not
even attempt to do?’
‘The work has got to be done, and I cannot ask whether this time or
that time is best.’
‘Why not play a little after dinner? You play very well.’
‘I never play during working hours. Robert would not like it.’
‘Then----’
‘Please, Sir George, allow me to go on with my work.’
I said no more, but stood at the window and watched her. She had a head
of comely shape, and her features were good; but why so sad? why so
pale? why so silent?
Presently I went back to more aching shoulders and tired wrists,
envying the workmen, who never wanted to straighten their backs, and
whose wrists seemed made of iron. That is the way with all manual work.
The artist works away with his colours; all day long his hand is in
his work--his wonderful work. But his fingers and his wrist never get
tired. The navvy goes on digging away, with rounded back and unwearied
arms, as if there was no exertion required for his work, and no
weight in a shovel full of clay. Our men worked on as if there was no
weariness possible with a plane or a hammer. But the amateur leaves off
and sits down, and has a whiff of tobacco, and a drink, and a talk for
half an hour or so before he goes on again. And this is the real reason
why amateur work is never so good as professional work is, that the
amateur can leave off when he feels fatigued, while the professional
must keep on.
The foreman stood over me. ‘You’re handy with the tools,’ he said.
In fact, he had nothing to teach me in that way. What I had to learn
was not the execution of the work, but the design of the work; that
first, and the other part--the trading part--afterwards.
I worked like the rest--without a coat and with sleeves turned up; but
I deny the apron. In the last century every working man wore an apron,
and every serving-man in a shop wore an apron. Now we have left off
that badge of trade or servitude. On the whole, I think that I am glad
that I never wore an apron. I kept my working clothes in the house,
and changed them in the morning and for dinner; and I declare that,
as I grew to understand how a boat was built, how her lines were laid
down, how her skeleton was put together, how her ribs were clothed,
and how she was finished and fitted, a noble enthusiasm--the family
enthusiasm--seized upon me, and I felt that true happiness lay not in
ambition, which in Robert’s case I regarded with pity; not in wealth,
taking my own case as an example; but in the building of boats.
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE EVENING.
In the evening the other part of the bargain began.
‘My turn now,’ I said. ‘If I can only get this aching out of my
shoulders. I am now going to be your coach--a judicious coach. The
first point I am told that a judicious coach observes is never to
teach more than is wanted. And the next thing is to rub in what he does
teach--to rub it in by incessant repetition.’
‘It will be labour thrown away,’ he grumbled. ‘You will never make a
fine gentleman of me.’
‘My dear cousin, I am not going to try. I am, however, going to make of
you a man acquainted with, and accustomed to, the usages of society.
You are to belong to the world of society, not of fashion. The House
of Commons has still a large majority of men who belong to that world.
A knowledge of these habits, I have already told you, is absolutely
indispensable.’
‘Oh! Very good, then, I am ready.’ But he was not eager; he was rather
glum about the work in hand.
‘Yes, but you must be more than ready. You must be as eager to learn
this branch of knowledge as any other. Don’t grumble over it--like an
unwilling schoolboy.’
‘Look here, Sir George----’
‘Don’t call me Sir George, to begin with. You are my cousin. Call me
George, and I shall call you Robert.’
‘Very well. I confess I don’t like it. How would you like to be told
that you don’t know manners? Hang it! the thing sticks----’
‘Let us say, then, the manners of the West End. Don’t let it stick, old
man. Now listen. First of all you must have dress clothes, and you must
put them on every evening.’
‘What the devil does a man want with dress clothes?’
‘I will tell you when I have time. Meanwhile, you must have them. The
next thing is that, from the moment you leave Wapping till you get
home again, you are not to speak one word concerning your projects, or
your ambitions, or your opinions.’
‘I don’t mind that condition. No one but yourself does know my
ambitions.’
‘Very well, then, that’s settled so far. Now let us sit down and
consider my scheme.’ We had reached my chambers, and we were in the
study where the lathe was. ‘I have been making out a little skeleton
scheme--in my head.’
‘Let us hear it.’ We sat down solemnly opposite each other to discuss
this question seriously.
‘What do we want? To make you a man of the world. Some things you won’t
want to learn--whist, billiards, lawn tennis, dancing----’
‘No,’ he grinned, ‘not billiards or dancing--or betting or gambling.’
‘The first thing, the most important thing, is to get the dinner
arrangements right. With this view we will begin with a course of
restaurants. I don’t say that one meets with the very finest manners
possible at a restaurant, but, still, the people who go there have at
least got a veneer; they understand the elements. I need not tell you
much. You will look about you and observe things, and compare and teach
yourself.’
‘Well? We are to waste time and money over a needless and expensive
late dinner, are we? And all because there’s a way of holding a fork.’
‘It is part of the programme. After a while I shall take you to the
theatre, which is sometimes a very good school of manners, and there
you will see on and off the stage ladies in their evening splendour.’
‘Jezebels--painted Jezebels.’
‘Not all of them. A few, perhaps, here and there. Later on you will
be able to distinguish Jezebel. But it is best not to think about this
lady. Remember that a well-dressed woman has never come within your
experience, and it is time for you to make her acquaintance. After a
week or two of restaurants I will take you to a club, and introduce you
to some of our fellows. You can sit quiet at first and listen. Their
talk is not exactly intellectual, but it shows a way of looking at
things.’
‘I know. Like you talk. Just as if nothing mattered, and everything was
all right and as it should be.’
‘Not dogmatic nor downright. Not as if we were going to fight to the
death for our opinions.’
‘If the opinion is worth having, it is worth defending. You ought to
fight for it.’
‘My dear cousin, formerly opinions were distinct and clearly outlined.
Nowadays there is so much to be said on the other side that all
opinions have grown hazy and blurred. For instance, you want, perhaps,
to pull down the House of Lords.’
‘No, I don’t. I want to reform the House.’
‘Well, if you did you would be astonished to learn what a lot can be
said for the Peers, and how extremely dangerous it would be to pull
down their House, because the House of Commons leans against it, and
all the houses in the country lean upon the House of Commons. When you
have grasped that fact, where is the clearness of your opinion? Gone,
sir--gone.’
‘You think that you will change me completely, then.’
‘Not quite completely. Only in certain points. I shall try to graft
upon you the manner of a finished gentleman. No one could possibly look
the part better. You might be an Earl to look at. Of course, the garb
will have to be reconsidered--those boots, for instance.’ Robert looked
quickly at mine as compared with his own, and blushed. He blushed at
his own boots. This was a note of progress. ‘But all in good time. You
shall not present yourself in a drawing-room until you can enter it,
and stand in it, and talk in it, as if you belonged to the world of
drawing-rooms.’
Robert entered upon his part of his education with much the same
enthusiasm as is shown by a dog of intelligence going off to be washed.
It has to be done; he knows that; and he goes, but unwillingly. Nobody
has any conception of the numberless little points in which Wapping may
differ from Piccadilly. Wapping, you see, has so long been cut off from
external influences. The influence of the clergy, beneficent in other
respects, is not felt at the Wapping dinner-table. And the Burnikels,
by the retirement of the other old families, the aristocracy of the
quarter, have remained almost the only substantial people of the place.
Therefore, for a great many years they lived alone; and their manners,
as a natural consequence, continued to be much the same as the manners
of their forefathers.
Take, for instance, the ordinary dinner-napkin. It is astonishing
to note how many mistakes may be made with a simple dinner-napkin,
when a man takes one in hand for the first time. There were no
dinner-napkins at Wapping. There had been, many years ago, but they
went out when forks came in. That is to say, so far as the children
were concerned, just about two hundred years ago. The right handling
of the dinner-napkin can only be acquired by custom. So also with wine
and wineglasses. If you are perfectly ignorant of wine, except that the
black kind is port, and the straw colour means sherry, and that either
kind, but especially the former, may be exhibited on Sunday, you become
bewildered with the amount of wine lore that one is supposed to know.
‘You are getting on,’ I remarked, after six weeks of almost
heart-breaking work, because--I repeat that one would never believe
that isolation could make such a difference--everything had to be
learned. This young man was steeped in the things he had learned
from books--political economy, history, sociology, philosophy, trade
questions, practical questions--he was a most learned person, but
of the things of which men talk, or men and women talk, he knew
nothing--absolutely nothing. Art, poetry, fiction, the theatre, sport,
games, things personal--which take up so large a share in the daily
talk--on all these things he was mute. He came to the club with me, and
sat perfectly silent; disdainful at first, but presently angry with
himself for not being able to take a part, and with the fellows for
talking on subjects so trifling.
‘I’m a rank outsider,’ he said. ‘I heard one of them call me a rank
outsider. Thought I couldn’t hear him. If he’d said it in the street,
I’d have laid him in the gutter. A rank outsider. Do you think, George,
that you will ever make me anything else?’
‘What does it matter if you are a rank outsider in some things?
Patience, and let us go on.’
At first he grumbled; he could see no use in trifles, such as
ceremonials of society. We have simplified these of late years; still,
some forms remain.
‘You will want to be received,’ I told him, ‘as a man of culture. These
are the outward and visible forms of culture.’
He listened and reflected. Presently I observed that he took greater
interest in things--he was realizing what things meant. Finally,
the recognition of things arrived quite suddenly. Then he grumbled
no longer. He looked about him, interested and amused. He sat out
plays, and talked about the life pictured--a very queer sort of
life it is, for the most part. As for the acting, he accepted the
finest acting as part of the play, without comment. He was like an
intelligent traveller--he wanted to know what it all meant, the complex
civilization of this realm; where the Court comes in; what part is
played in the daily life by the noble Lords, whose House he was so
anxious to improve for them, feeling quite capable of adjusting reforms
and bringing the Peers up-to-date by himself alone and unaided; how
the Church affects society; what are the powers and the limitations of
money; what is the real influence of the Press; what is the position of
the professions. He wanted to know everything. As for me, I had never
before asked myself any of these questions, being quite satisfied with
the little narrow world that surrounded me.
I tried to interest him in Art. It was impossible. He said that he
would rather look at a tree than the picture of a tree. I tried him
with fiction. He said that the world of reality was a great deal more
interesting than the world of imagination. I tried him with poetry.
He said that, if a thing had to be said, it was best said plainly, in
prose.
He wanted to survey the whole world, and to understand the whole world.
When one assumes the attitude of an impartial inquirer, and learns what
can be said on the other side, the Radical disappears and the Reformer
succeeds. There is, of course, the danger, if one inquires too long,
and with more than a certain amount of sympathy, that the Reformer
himself may vanish, leaving the Philosopher behind. Or, perhaps,
Radical, Reformer and Philosopher may all live together in the same
brain.
Robert was passing into the second stage. He snorted at things no
longer; he rather walked round them, examined them, and inquired how
they came.
‘I confess,’ he said, ‘that I was ignorant when I came here. My
knowledge was of books. Men and women I did not take into account. It
is worth all the trouble of learning your confounded manners only to
have found out the men and women.’
This was the Reformer.
‘The people at this end of the town,’ he continued, ‘are interesting,
partly because they have got the best of everything, and partly because
they think themselves so important. They are not really important. The
people who do nothing can never be important. The only important person
is the man who makes and produces.’
Here was the Radical.
‘You live in a little corner of the world; you are all living on the
labour of others; you are beautifully behaved; you are, generally, I
think, amiable; you look so fine and talk so well that we forget that
you’ve no business to exist. It is a pleasure only to watch you. And
you take all the luxuries, just as if they naturally belonged to you. I
like it, George. I am a rank outsider, but I like it.’
This was the Philosopher.
‘And what about the House?’
‘Oh! I’ve begun to nurse my borough. I address the men every Sunday
evening in a music-hall. You may come and hear me, if you like.’
‘What is your borough?’
‘Shadwell, close by, where they know me and the boat-yard. The men come
in crowds. Man! There is no doubt! They come, I say, in crowds. They
fill the place; and mind you, I can move the people.’
‘Good. If you can only move the House as well!’
‘These fellows will carry me through. I’m sure of it. They are the pick
of the working man--Socialists, half of them--chaps, mind you, with a
sense of justice.’
Here we had the Radical still.
‘That means getting a larger share for themselves, doesn’t it?’
‘Sometimes. Motives are mixed. Well, I’m going to be Member for
Shadwell--Independent Member. A General Election may at any moment be
sprung upon us. And Lord! Lord! if I had gone into the House as I was
six weeks ago!’
‘Patience, my cousin; we have not quite finished yet. There’s one
influence wanting yet before you are turned out, rounded off, and
finished up. Only one thing wanting, but a big thing. No, I will tell
you, later on, what that is.’
CHAPTER X.
THE CHURCHYARD.
I pass over as irrelevant, or at least superfluous, the very
disagreeable interview in which I revealed my plans to Frances. She
had found a new opening for me--I was to be appointed Commissioner
for Tobago, or President of Turk’s Island, or Lieutenant-Governor of
the Gold Coast; she could obtain the post for me; it was an excellent
opening; I was to spend two or three years in the endeavour to escape
fever, and five or six years of sick-leave at intervals. I should then
have a clear claim to the gratitude of the Colonial Office, and should
be appointed Governor of some colony with a salary of many thousands.
What more could any man desire?
Nothing, truly. And, as Frances observed, no creeping; no wriggling; no
back-stairs; also there is no examination for these appointments. And
they are obtained in the good old way, by interest alone.
Why not, then, accept? Because, unfortunately, I was now a craftsman,
and I really desired no other kind of life.
It was then that Frances spoke with conviction of demoniac
possession--I never before thought she believed in it--and of the
extreme madness which sometimes seizes on men; of the follies
unspeakable which they commit. She was very angry--very angry indeed.
She also declared her disgustful surprise at the bad, low, grovelling
taste which made it possible for me to leave the ranks of gentlehood,
and to go down--down--down--to live among beery, tobacco-smoking,
ill-bred, uncultivated boors and bourgeois. She displayed on this
subject quite an unexpected flow of language and command of adjectives.
To be sure, I had never seen her in a real rage before. And she looked
very handsome indeed, marching about the room with flushed cheeks and
angry eyes, while she declaimed and denounced and lamented. I never
admired her so much. She became so entirely unexpected that I very
nearly fell in love with her.
When she had quite finished by throwing such words as ‘insensate,’
‘clod,’ and ‘stock and stone,’ at my head, and by saying that she had
now done with me for ever; and when she had thrown herself into a
chair, and had held her handkerchief to her eyes--I had never seen her
cry before, and, indeed, it was so unexpected that I very nearly, as I
said before--and when I had said a few brotherly words, and uttered a
few assurances--and when we had shaken hands again--I kissed her hand
if I remember aright--we sat down opposite to each other, and close
together, and had a pleasant talk quite in the old style, though it was
understood that I was henceforth only a plain boat-builder.
It was then that I told her first about my cousin. She listened without
much interest. The man was a mere tradesman.
‘You want a recruit, Frances, for the Party? Of course you do. Well,
then, I tell you that you could not do better than look after this man.’
‘A man’s a man, of course; otherwise, George, the working men
members do not always turn out worth much. Still, there are one or
two--and--well, tell me more about this man.’
‘He is not exactly a working man. He is, like myself, a Master
Craftsman.’
‘Oh!’ She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. Such distinctions she
knew not. And then I told her about his attainments, and his boundless
ambitions, and everything, till at last I succeeded in making her
believe that here really was a man who might be worth considering--the
only fault which Frances possessed was that she underrated the powers
of everybody outside a certain circle. I told her about Robert at
first, I believe, in order to divert her mind from the distressing
spectacle of my decline and fall, and next in order to show her that
we were not all beery boors and bourgeois at Wapping-on-the-Wall, and,
lastly, it came into my head, that if she should peradventure take an
interest in his Parliamentary career it might be very useful to him.
After a bit she began to understand a little. Her imagination was
at last fired by the picture of this young man resolving, while yet
a boy, on entering the House of Commons, and learning to speak at a
sham Parliament; working at home on history, politics, social economy,
all the questions of the day; reading Mill, Herbert Spencer, Darwin,
Huxley, Lecky, Froude, Freeman, Green, and Seeley, and all the rest of
them; becoming a learned man; denying himself the joys of youth--all
for the sake of his ambition; and all the time remaining strong and
masterful as one born to command. Because I am a dull person in
narrative, or because she was prejudiced generally against trade, it
was a long time before I succeeded in awakening her interest in the
man. ‘Do you know,’ she said at last, ‘that you seem to have got a
very remarkable creature down there! Of course I cannot really believe
that he will ever come to anything. A man living all by himself, and
ignorant of all the world outside his trade, cannot come to any good.
In the House one must know men, not books only.’
‘I wonder if you would like to hear him speak. He speaks every Sunday
evening. If you like we will go.’
So it was arranged. Frances would like to see the kind of people who
formed that constituency; she would like to hear the kind of speech
that pleased them; she would go, subject to one condition, that she
was not to see the Boat-Yard. ‘I could not, George,’ she said. ‘It is
bad enough that you should descend into that horrid place--when you
might become a Colonial Governor. I could not actually see the chips
and shavings. Oh, George! you are very wilful--but I must always
forgive you. Yes, I will go with you to see this wonderful person of
Wapping. You only try to excuse your abominable alacrity in sinking by
pretending that you have got a prophet down there.’
So I came away forgiven and reconciled, but for ever fallen in her
esteem, and I returned to my riverside work with greater heart now that
the worst was over.
It was natural that one should take an interest in the people of the
place--especially in those of the house. I spent every day an hour--the
dinner-hour--with Robert’s household. Sometimes, too, another half-hour
over a cup of tea. Therefore, of course, one thought a good deal about
the people. The Captain I found an honest, hearty old fellow, who liked
his meals, took a cheerful glass after his dinner and supper, and slept
away most of the remaining time. He had a room at the back called the
Captain’s cabin, where there was a narrow bed and an easy-chair; a hob
with a kettle; a table with a tobacco-jar and other conveniences. There
I sometimes visited him and heard experiences.
But the person of real interest was Isabel. I thought her, at first,
inanimate, and perhaps stupid. I discovered, first, that she had a
very beautiful head--the poets do not seem to understand the charm of
a well-shaped head--but it was nearly always drooping. Then I observed
that her hair was quite wonderful--there was such a lot of it, and it
was of such a lovely light colour, looking as if it held the sunshine
even in that dark ‘parlour.’ It was, however, only rolled up without
any coquettish display--was the girl quite ignorant of her charms? Her
eyes were generally down-drooped as in shyness or humility--once she
lifted them with some strange wonder because I made some frivolous
remark--there was never any frivolity about this house before I went
into it. They were large and limpid eyes, of a deep blue, like the dark
blue of a pansy. And then I discovered that her features were straight
and regular, and that, though her cheek was pale, and her manner was
listless and drooping, the girl was full of beauty in face, and head,
and figure. And Robert, like a thing of wood, had no eyes for the
loveliness that was his by engagement! Wonderful!
I could never get the girl to talk to me. She sat at table, carving
in silence, or pouring out the tea in silence. When it was over, she
spread out her books and began to work again. And week after week
passed by. I was an old shipmate with the Captain; I was on the most
confidential terms, as you have seen, with Robert; but Isabel remained
a stranger.
Then the opportunity came.
It was a Saturday afternoon. I had been spending an hour after dinner
talking with the Captain in his den. Then, as he showed signs of going
to sleep, I left him and bent my steps westward. It was a bright, sunny
afternoon in May. The street was deserted; the warehouses were shut up;
the sunshine increased, but set off, the dreariness of the tall places
on either side.
I came to the mouth of the Dock. As once before, the gates were open
for the passing of a ship, and I had to wait. I leaned against the
rail and watched. On the right was the Dock, with the masts of the
ships; on the left was the river. I looked at the river and looked at
the Dock. Then I became aware of a most unexpected fact: on the right
hand, besides the Dock, there were trees--green trees. ‘Anything green
in Wapping?’ I asked. ‘Trees and green leaves! Do they grow out of the
water?’
I then perceived that there was a street leading north; I thought that
there was nothing north of the High Street except the Dock. I was
mistaken. At the corner was a substantial modern house--the vestry
house of the parish--with its brass plate and clean windows. Next I
observed a lovely eighteenth-century house--sober, square, built of red
brick, having an ample portal, and in the wall effigies of boy and girl.
This was the parish school. The figures looked more demure than one
could believe possible in human boy and human girl. And then I came
to the church, a plain and unaffected preaching-house of brick, with
pillars and portico of stone. Beside it, on the south side, was a
narrow churchyard, adorned with old tombstones, head-stones, and
altar-stones--the sepulchres of bygone captains, past owners, sailors,
and boat-builders. I observed with some pride the name of Burnikel on
one of them, the nearest to the street--my ancestor. Perhaps all the
important tombs belonged to Burnikels, if I could only climb over the
rails to see. The church was shut, yet it might have been more useful
in the week, when Wapping is full, than on Sunday, when Wapping is
empty. Had it been open, I could have gratified my family pride still
more by observing the tablets and reading of the incomparable virtues
of other Burnikels belonging to this fine old stock. There was part of
the churchyard on the north side. Its houses had been recently cleared
away, and the space turned into a recreation-ground. So liberal is the
County Council that they have swept away half the remnant of Wapping
that had been spared by the Docks, and now there are not enough people
left in the town to populate the recreation-ground. Children were
recreating in it, however, and there was a gymnasium for them in one
corner, and a stand for the summer band in another corner. A highly
picturesque row of ‘backs’ revealed the character of the streets that
had been cleared away.
I noted these things. I observed also that there were still remaining
beyond the recreation-ground other streets of small houses--not
beautiful, not clean, perhaps squalid, if one were inclined to
harshness--and beyond these streets tall masts, which told of another
Dock. Wapping, then, did not, as I had fondly imagined, consist of
one street only, with a river on one side and docks on the other,
and no living person in it at night except the Burnikels. Wapping
is a collection of human beings; it is a hamlet, a township, a town
complete. Here was the Parish Church; here were the endowed schools;
here was the Vestry Hall; here was the playground. I turned back, and
then, which I had passed over before, I perceived before me, fenced
round, a peaceful, beautiful burying-ground, lying opposite the Parish
Church on the other side of the road. A more peaceful spot one would
not expect in the most secluded village. It was filled with tombs and
head-stones; it was planted with a thick coppice of limes, lilacs,
laburnums, and all kinds of flowering trees and shrubs growing among
the tombs. I looked through the bars. Wapping, then, had this one
garden left; and since the greater part of Wapping was dead and gone,
buried deep below the docks, a churchyard seemed the fittest place
in which to possess a garden. Wherever industries spread, and trade
increases, we ought to find the past always beside the present. In the
midst of the noise and hurry of Manchester there stands the ancient
college; in the midst of Hull rises the ancient church; in the midst
of the smoke and grime of Newcastle there is its ancient fortress;
and beside the modern docks of Wapping stands the old church, with
its burying-ground and its schools. Let us never live where there is
nothing ancient, nothing to connect us with our forefathers, nothing
to remind us of death, nothing to preach to us on the continuous life
in which the living are but links, and the past is neither lost nor
forgotten.
The gate was unlocked. I gently pushed it open and stepped within,
reverently, yet with the sense of ownership. Why not? Before me stood a
head-stone--the name had been recently cleaned and restored--‘Sacred to
the Memory of John Burnikel, Master Mariner, died March 16, 1808, aged
ninety-two years.’ That must be the man with the diamonds. I stooped
down and pushed aside the grass to read the text with which his pious
cousins had decorated the tomb. ‘Of whom the world was not worthy,’ I
read. Astonishing! ‘Of whom the world was not worthy.’ This must have
been written while they still expected to find the diamonds. Then I
plunged, so to speak, into the recesses of this coppice. And there I
found, to my amazement, sitting on a tomb with folded hands and hanging
head, in an attitude of the most profound dejection, the girl Isabel.
She lifted her head when she heard my step. She had been crying; the
tears, like dewdrops, lay still upon her cheeks.
‘You here, Isabel?’ I cried. ‘What are you doing in the place of tombs?’
‘I am sitting here.’ But she rose as if she was tired of sitting there,
and should now go home.
‘Yes, I see. But----’
‘It is a pretty place. There are not too many pretty places in
Wapping.’
‘No. Do you often come here?’
‘In spring and summer sometimes, when I can get away--on Saturday
afternoons. It is quiet. Nobody else ever comes. I have it all to
myself.’
‘Why are you crying, Isabel? Don’t cry. It makes me miserable to see a
girl crying. Are you unhappy?’
She turned away her head, and made no reply.
‘Sit down again where you were, Isabel. It is a pretty place. The
lilacs are bursting into blossom, and the laburnums are beginning. It
is a very pretty place. The dead sleep well, and the living you do not
see. Can you tell me, Isabel, why you are unhappy?’
She shook her head, but she obeyed in sitting down again.
‘Of course I have seen all along that you are not happy. You work too
hard, for one thing. Is it the work?’
‘Oh, no, no, no. I must do what Robert tells me to do.’
‘You are too much confined to the house. Is it the want of change?’
‘No, no; I want no change. I do what I have to do.’
‘You will not tell me?’
‘I cannot.’
‘Of course, I have no right to ask. Still, I am Robert’s cousin, and I
see you every day, and you can’t wonder if I take an interest in you.
Will you be offended if I speak just a little of my mind?’
‘I offended? Does that matter?’ A strange thing for a girl to say, as
if she was of no importance at all--as if surprised that anyone should
regard her at all.
‘Well, Isabel, in that part of the world where I have chiefly lived
the girls are treated with consideration. They are princesses; they
are filled with the consciousness of their own power; their words are
received with respect, and their wishes are studied. It matters very
much indeed whether one offends them or not. So I hope not to offend
your ladyship.’
‘You will not offend me.’
‘Well, then, you work too hard; you get no society; you have no change;
you take too little exercise; you are growing nervous and shy; you
shrink from seeing people.’
‘I live the life that is assigned to me.’
‘You are so young, Isabel, that you ought to sing in the house; you
ought to walk as if you had wings; you ought to laugh all day; you
ought to rebel, and revolt, and mutiny----’
She did laugh, but not with merriment.
‘All these things belong to your age, and your sex, and--your beauty.’
‘My beauty!’ she repeated, with a kind of wonder--‘my beauty! Oh no;
you must not talk nonsense.’
‘Your beauty. You should be a very beautiful girl if the cloud would
lift. Come, now; may I lift that cloud for you? May I try, at least?’
I held out my hand. She hesitated a moment. Then she gave me her own
timidly.
I did not suspect the real cause of her unhappiness. I did, however,
feel a most profound pity for a young girl who could find no better
amusement than to sit among the tombs on a fine afternoon in spring.
Even those who are nearing the time when they will be put to lie there
do not generally like to sit among them.
‘You will tell me some other time,’ I said, ‘why you are so sad.
Meantime, let me be your friend; and look here, Isabel: I am a great
physician. You must believe that I have cured countless cases of
Languishing Lady and Doleful Damsel. I am thousands of years old,
although I am apparently only five-and-twenty; that is because I am
such a great physician.’ Well, at this nonsense she actually smiled.
‘And now I will prescribe for you: Not so much work; not so much house;
not so much monotony.’
‘The work has to be done.’
‘Robert is so busy himself that he does not observe. I shall speak to
him.’
‘Oh, but what he says----’
‘Yes, yes, I know. I will speak to him. Now come with me. I will take
you out upon the river. That will do you more good than sitting among
the tombs--even the tombs of the Burnikels.’
There are still boats and ‘first oars’ at Wapping Old Stairs.
In five minutes I was sitting beside her in the stern of a
wherry--Burnikel-built--with a couple of stout fellows pulling us
down-stream. And I brought her back with colour in her cheeks and
brightness in her eyes. ‘My medicine works already,’ I said. ‘Robert
will say that I have done wonders.’
Alas! Robert observed no change at all; and during the half-hour of tea
the poor girl sat as usual with hanging head and down-dropped eyes. But
it was a beginning.
CHAPTER XI.
AN ADDRESS.
On Saturday evening I called for Frances. We were going to hear the man
she would call the Wonderful Person of Wapping.
‘We shall have to drive right through London,’ I told her. ‘You will
see first the trade end of the West; then the lane of the country
visitors, called the Strand; then the lane of the printers; then the
merchants’ quarters, silent and deserted; and then the place where the
people live who do all the work; the city of the thousand industries.
And then you will see these people you are going forth to see.’
‘So long as you don’t take me to see the places with associations, I
don’t mind. I was looking over a book about London the other day; it
was full of associations. Dear me! What does it matter to me where
Milton lived? And why should I want to see the place where Shakespeare
had a theatre?’
‘You are curiously impatient about the past, Frances.’
‘I like the world just exactly as it is, George; the order of it and
the ways of it; and the flow of the stream--I like to feel that I am in
the swim. And if ever I marry again, I shall be a great deal more in
the swim.’
‘The man you will hear to-night likes the world as it ought to be.’
‘Well, why not? So long as we don’t change anything. Now, Master
Craftsman, my gloves are on.’
‘You look very fine to-night, Frances. It will please our friends at
Shadwell, seeing a lady among them, that she is a real lady. They
resemble your friends in one respect--these men of the gutter, as you
kindly called them on a recent occasion--they like to see a woman well
dressed.’
It is a long drive from Piccadilly to High Street, Shadwell, which,
as everybody knows, is a continuation of Ratcliffe Highway. The whole
journey was as unknown to Lady Frances as China or Peru. For the City
she cared nothing; memories of Gresham and Whittington moved her not;
this evening, of course, the offices and warehouses were closed, and
the streets deserted; she only began to take interest when we came out
on Tower Hill, and drove past the gray old fortress into the highway
sacred to the memory of sailors and to riverside thieves and to crimps,
and to Moll and Poll and Doll. Indeed, ghosts of the departed sinners
are still allowed regretfully to hover around the swinging doors of
these old taverns, and to linger about the pavement where they were
wont to roll and sing and dance and fight. Oh, the brave old days!
And they acknowledge that the game is still kept up, and with spirit,
though, perhaps, with less heart in it than of old. The fighting has
gone off sadly; the singing is still good, but that, too, shows signs
of deterioration; the dancing, however, shows the old spirit--legs are
loose, heel and toe are true to time; and the drinking is still free
and generous. As for Moll and her friends, they continue to lend the
charm of woman’s society to Mercantile Jack.
‘Men and women!’ said Lady Frances. ‘And by their appearance not among
the strictest moralists. Show me men and women, George, and not tall
black warehouses, where something once stood, or grimy churches, where
something once happened. Give me men and women. Give me the present.
Ouf! what a reek from that door!’
The carriage stopped for a moment; a little crowd assembled, seeing
that most unaccustomed appearance, a carriage and pair with a coachman
and a footman in liveries. The open door belonged to a tavern full
of sailors drinking and smoking, so that the air which came forth in
waves was charged with the fragrance of rum, gin, beer and tobacco. The
carriage moved on slowly. There came another kind of fragrance. The
first knocked one down like a club, the second cut one like a knife.
‘It is fried fish,’ I explained. ‘This is the staple food of the women
and work-girls. There are differences in the matter of food. For my own
part I should never get over a prejudice against this form of---- Do
get on a little faster, if you can,’ I called to the coachman.
We passed into another street, really the same, but called by a
different name, where there were no sailors and no sailors’ friends. It
was, however, filled with people walking about; among them were lads
smoking cigarettes, girls with immense yellow feathers in their hats
and bright blue blouses, walking arm-in-arm, laughing loudly; working
men leaning about with pipes, women with children in arms, children
everywhere tumbling about the road and the gutter.
‘Behold the people!’ I said. ‘Concentrated people. Pure extract of
people.’
‘I recognise them,’ said Frances, ‘though I do not seem to have seen
them before. On the whole they look harmless.’
‘As for their power of harm, I have my own opinion. But it is quite
certain that at present they don’t want to do any harm.’
‘It is curious to think that all of us have come out of this mass. Here
and there, I suppose, one disengages himself and leaves his friends,
and gets up a bit over their heads, and prepares the way for founding
a family. That is the way we all began, perhaps. The Earls and Barons
of the future have got their fathers and mothers in this crowd. But
no one, except you, George, ever wanted to go back again. Oh! most
remarkable of men! Unique Man! You wanted to go back again.’
The carriage stopped at the entrance of a hall; gas-lights flamed over
the open doors; people, nearly all men, were streaming in, and in the
lobby men were standing about disputing and arguing in earnest tones;
everyone looked as if he came on private business--which was the first
thing remarkable.
I spoke to an attendant doorkeeper, who conducted us upstairs and along
the back of the gallery to a private box overlooking the stage. Lady
Frances looked round. By the decorations, the footlights, the stage,
the place for the orchestra, the gallery which ran all round the room,
the large room itself, and the close atmosphere, it was evident that
the place was habitually used for entertainments.
‘This is the Siren Music-hall,’ I explained. ‘It is named, not after
the Sisters Three, of whom the proprietor and baptizer never heard, but
after the new-fashioned steam-whistle which you may hear all day long
upon the river. And it is hired for these meetings.’
‘They are not going to have, I hope, a music-hall entertainment?’
‘Not quite. You are going to hear a political speech. Meantime, look
round and watch the people. You say you want men and women. Very well.
There are your men and women all gathered together, especially the men.’
They were nearly all men--working men. Frances looked down upon the
crowded hall; the faces she gazed upon shone white and shiny in the
glare of the gas; they were serious faces, they were hard faces; the
impression produced by the collective face was one of honesty and
slow powers of perception, but with determination. Most of them sat
in silence, leaning back contentedly, and in no hurry. The men who
work actively with the bodily limbs all day for their wage are never
in a hurry so long as they can wait sitting. When they talked it was
seriously and with earnestness, conducting their argument on the
approved lines, in which one man advances an array of alleged facts
which he cannot prove, and the other contradicts the allegations,
though he cannot disprove them. This is the argument of the taproom,
the bar-parlour, and the smoking-room. The more carefully we adhere to
the old-fashioned, well-tried method, the more animated, spirited, and
convincing is the conversation. Imperfect knowledge is most clearly
indicated by frequent interruptions and noisy denials. Now, these men
were arguing on the constitution of the country, being ignorant of
what it is, how it has grown, whence it came, or what it means. And
they wanted to change it, being ignorant of what these changes would
mean, or how they were to be effected, and how other members of the
community would receive them. There were Socialists among them, men who
look forward to the time when every man, for the sake of every other
man, and not for himself at all, will gladly do a hard day’s work and
get no payment or profit but only the equal ration, the same garb, the
same warmth, and the same roof; and they think that the levelling up
or down to the same unbroken plane will create, for the first time in
history, happiness complete. ‘When Adam delved and Eve span, who was
then the gentleman?’ Alas! it is the same old, old story. There was
then no gentleman, but in the third or fourth generation after Adam
there was founded the first family of gentlefolk--they were, I believe,
Welsh. There were also in the crowd Anarchists--a kindly race who want
to sweep away all laws, with the police and the lawyers, and the judges
and the prisons, and to leave everybody to work out his own redemption
for himself. And there was among them the common Radical who desires
nothing more than the abolition of the Crown, the Church, and the
Lords, after which no one certainly can expect or desire anything more.
And there were many of that numerous class, the Wobblers, who incline
this way and that, being unable to balance the advantages of any one
plan against any other. Mostly, however, being poor and dependent,
they desire change. Some of the women came with their husbands and
brought their work with them, the business of the evening being quite
below their own attention. The British matron, who is a practical and
keen-eyed person, is seldom able to understand that the abolition of
the House of Lords will give her husband better pay, or herself more
housekeeping money. Here and there one saw a white woman’s face, with
set lips and furrowed brow. She was that rare woman who can see the
wickedness of things, and the imperfection of things, and the injustice
and cruelty and uncertainty of things; and she ceases to believe in
the powers that be, or in the doctrines of Church, of teacher, and of
preacher, and longs to shuffle the cards and try a new deal, if haply
that may bring a remedy to the evils of the time.
Lady Frances looked down upon this crowd watching and wondering,
interested merely by the sight of the lines of faces below her, line
behind line, row behind row; while I told her the things that are
written down above.
‘I am glad I came,’ she murmured. ‘Oh! I am very glad I came. George, I
like to see them. Give me, I said, men and women. I say it again--men
and women.’
‘And the thoughts of men and women--what they think about the world and
themselves and your class, Frances. It is useful knowledge, even if it
does not help you to play the game.’
‘So long as I am not compelled to associate with them I have no
objection to looking at them, or to reading about them. It would be as
a branch of natural history, except for the fact that these people may
interfere with us. Their thoughts, I suppose, are mostly discontented;
and their intentions, if they had any, would be revolutionary. But they
are interesting, and I am glad I came.’
By this time the Hall was full to overflowing: the people were crammed
in the galleries; they stood on the back-benches; they filled up the
gangways; they climbed over the orchestra partition and stood, a mass
of young men, in that capacious pew; they crowded the doors; they were
packed tight on the stairs: there was no more room left to put in an
umbrella.
‘It is seven o’clock,’ I said. ‘Time’s up. The man you are going to
hear to-night, Frances--the strong man--the man who has ambitions such
as you would like me to have----’
‘I never thought you ought to be a local demagogue, George.’
‘He is coming out immediately. He knows the people pretty well, and
they know him. This evening he will pronounce one of a series of
orations he has delivered on the questions of the day. The Captain
tells me that he has set the people thinking and talking in a very
surprising way. You see how they are discussing things. All these
discussions are on the text of his last address.’
‘The Wonderful Person of Wapping. I await him with interest.’
Then the orator appeared, stepping out from the wings, and walked
quietly to his place beside a small table, which, with a decanter
and tumbler, formed the only furniture of the stage. The background,
representing a rural scene, with woods, and a lake and a bridge, did
not, somehow, seem incongruous with an address bristling with hard
facts and practical conclusions. A bright country landscape, sunny and
beautiful, is really far more appropriate to an address which uplifts
the heart than a picture of a mean street, or of men and women toiling
over mean and ill-paid labour.
There was no chairman. At the outset one had been proposed, but the
lecturer scoffed at the suggestion, said that he could very well
introduce himself, and propose for himself a vote of thanks. He
therefore stood alone. In his hand he bore a bundle of papers, which he
carefully placed in order on the table for reference.
Then he stood upright, facing his audience, and bowed slightly to the
round of applause which greeted him.
Lady Frances saw a tall, broad-shouldered, and singularly handsome
young man, with a broad square forehead--the light fell full upon
it--clear eyes, hair in very short brown curls--such curls as denote
strength--a serious face--too serious for his time of life; but,
then, it is only your light comedian, your touch-and-go comic man,
who can face an audience with a grin, and it is only a ballet-girl
who can appear with a smile. There was not, however, the slightest
touch of embarrassment or stage fright about him. He stood easily, in
an assured attitude, standing well apart from the table, so that his
figure was practically the only thing to be seen upon the stage. He
was dressed in faultless evening clothes, with a white flower in his
buttonhole. This was the man who, a few weeks before, scoffed at the
observance of evening dress, and sneered at the niminy-piminy ways of
the fine gentleman.
‘Why,’ whispered Lady Frances, ‘the man is dressed like a gentleman.
What does he do that for? He is only talking to workpeople. Look at
his face, George; it says as plain as if he were speaking, “I am not
afraid--I am a better man than anybody here.”’
The orator held up his hand. Everybody settled in his place; everybody
adjusted his feet--mostly under the benches; every other person cleared
his throat; the women who had come with their husbands looked up at the
orator and round the room; then they took up their knitting again, and
abstracted their thoughts into some useful line, such as boots and the
acquisition of boots. The people on the stairs loudly besought those
within to make room for them; one might as well implore the sardines
to lie a little closer in their box. So they wailed aloud, like the
foolish virgins, because they could not enter. And then the orator
began.
I am profoundly sorry that I cannot, in this place, give you even
the heads of this discourse; because his words and his facts were
forcible and convincing, and I am sure, dear reader, you would like to
be hammered with facts and convinced with reasons. I cannot, however,
do so, for the simple reason that the laws of copyright forbid. The
orations are now published, and everybody can get them and read them.
He began, however, with a personal point.
‘I told you,’ he said, ‘at the outset, that I am here because I
propose to represent this borough at the next General Election. The
reason why I have taken the trouble to address you is that you will be
my constituents, and it is always best when a man has got opinions of
his own that he should instruct his constituents upon them. Mine are
not opinions: they are convictions; and my convictions, as I have shown
you so far, are simple truths. You are all the better, I am quite sure,
for having learned those truths; you will talk much less nonsense, and
you will advocate much more sensible measures. So much, of course, you
will acknowledge. Now, the next General Election is said to be close
upon us. No one can possibly know for certain how close it is, but we
may expect it any day. Therefore it is well that I have educated you to
support my candidature.
‘I also told you at the outset that I mean to enter the House as an
Independent Member. I am informed that no Independent Member is of any
importance in the House; that he cannot influence votes that belong to
this party or that party; that the House is divided into this flock
of sheep and that flock of sheep, which follow their leaders when the
bell rings. Very good. My friend, I don’t want to influence votes in
the House. I want to influence you--you--you--not the House at all. I
care nothing about the House. It is through the House that one speaks
to the country, nay, to the world, if one is strong enough. I desire to
speak the truth about things that I know, the exact plain truth, which
they do not hear in the House--the forces which drive us; the way we
are driven; the thing that has to be done. I want to speak out to the
whole world by speaking in the House. Oh, I am not afraid! Men will
laugh at such a confession. It is a worthy and noble ambition, and, my
constituents, I mean to prove myself, yes, myself, worthy of that noble
ambition. Very well. Now, remember that when I am elected I am not
going to call myself your servant, nor shall I have the hypocrisy to
pretend that I am sent to the House with a mandate from you. Why, you
don’t think I am going to accept any instructions from anybody here,
do you? You to give me--ME--instructions? My dear people, understand
that your collective wisdom is no more than the wisdom of the best man
among you, and your best man isn’t a tenth part of the man that I am in
knowledge, or in ability either. Do not make any mistake. You may be
my servants if you please; it is the best thing in the world for you
to learn of me, to question me, to elect me, but I shall never be your
servant. You can teach me nothing, but I can teach you a great deal.
Understand, then, I shall be an Independent Member in every sense--free
of interference of party, free of interference of constituents. So you
had better make up your mind at once to turn out one of your present
members--I do not in the least care which--and to put me in his place.
But, by the Lord, I tell you, I promise you, I will make you proud of
your member!’
He stopped. This was only the prologue--the forewords. He drank a
little water and took up his papers.
The people, so far from resenting this plainness of speech, clapped and
applauded mightily.
‘His assurance becomes him,’ said Lady Frances. ‘A more arrogant speech
I never heard. After that, they are bound to elect him.’
And then he turned to his subject. He had at least the gift of oratory,
and the first and the most important part of this gift is the power of
clear and orderly arrangement; he knew how to select his points, and
to present them so that a child might understand; he knew how to repeat
them; to present them again in another form, yet still so as to be
intelligible to all; he knew how to present them a third time, so that
there should be no chance of forgetting them. He had a flexible, rich,
and musical voice, which rolled in thunder in the roof, or dropped to
the soft strains of a silver flute. He knew when to stir the people’s
hearts, and when to make them follow to a cold chain of reason; when
to make them laugh, and when to make them cry. The man played with
his audience; and if you watched him, as Lady Frances did, you would
observe that he rejoiced in his power; there were moments when he used
this power wantonly--for his own pleasure when it was not wanted. Now
and then, when he trampled upon some pet prejudice and exposed some
cherished illusion, there were sounds of disagreement, but faintly
expressed and quickly hushed. Thus he spoke of Socialism:
‘Do not,’ he said, ‘be led away by theories of what may be or might
be. We are concerned with what is, not with what may be. Man is born
alone--absolutely alone in the world; he grows up alone; he learns
alone; he works alone; he has his diseases alone; he thinks alone; he
lives alone; he dies alone. The only thing that seems to take away his
loneliness is his marriage. Then, because he has another person always
in the house with him, he feels perhaps that he is not quite so lonely
as he thought. It is illusion, but it cheers him up. Every man is quite
alone. Remember that. Everything that he has is his alone; he cannot
give it away if he wishes. His face belongs to himself alone--there is
no other face like his in the whole world, and there never has been. In
the Resurrection of the millions and millions of the long-forgotten
dead there will be no face like any other face--no man like any other
man. Quite alone. He cannot part with his gifts, his hereditary powers
and weaknesses, his learning, his skill of hand and eye; his thoughts,
his memory, his history, his doings, his follies--nothing that he has
can he impart to any other living creature. It all belongs to him. He
is alone in the world.
‘Quite alone--he and his property. Remember this, and when you hear
men talk of things equal and things equally divided, ask how the most
important property of all is to be divided--a man’s strength and skill
and ability. For you are not equal; there is no equality. Nature--the
Order of Creation--screams it loudly to you; she proclaims it from the
mountain-tops, she whispers it in the rustling of the leaves, in the
flow of the water, and in the breath of the spring. You are not equal.
Nothing that was ever made is the equal of any other thing. You are all
unequal; you have diversities of gifts; one is a giant and one is a
dwarf; one can make and one can only destroy; you are all unequal. That
is the voice of Nature. What follows? We who are individual and unequal
have to provide for ourselves. Man is still a creature who hunts and
lives by the chase. The rest shapes itself; the strong man tramples
down the weak; we associate ourselves together so that the strong
man may not too much oppress the weak; wages, hours, work, holidays,
prices--all rest upon the will of the strong man, and he is ruled by
the will of one stronger than himself. You who are strong, preserve
your strength, learn to use it. You will form combinations for your
protection against the stronger man. Good: if your strength is greater
than his, you will get what you want; if his is greater than yours,
you will lose. Above all things, be strong. All the systems, all the
experiments, that the world has ever seen, terminate in the victory of
the strong man, to whom belongs, and ever will belong, the round world
and all that therein is.’
This was only a bit out of the middle of the oration. You will find
plenty of pages in the printed book as strong as this passage.
He concluded at last, amid a storm of cheers and shouting.
At the door, as we went out, we met Captain Dering. I introduced him
briefly.
‘I saw you in the private box,’ said the Captain, taking off his hat to
Lady Frances. ‘What did I tell you? He winds ’em about like a bit o’
string; he does what he likes with ’em. They’re afraid of him, and yet
they can’t help coming to hear him. They’ll go away--a whole lot of the
chaps are rank Socialist scum’--the old sailor called them ‘scum’: did
one ever know a Socialist sailor?--‘they’ll go away and curse him. But
they’ll come again, all the same.’
‘And will they vote for him?’ asked Lady Frances.
‘They will. To a man. Because he isn’t afraid to have a mind of his
own, and to speak it out, and to let ’em know what he thinks about
their collective wisdom. Lord! their wisdom! Look here, now. With
permission, Madam.’ The Captain was courtesy itself with a lady
passenger. ‘It’s the same all the world over. And if you want to see
what all the world wants, go and look for it aboard ship, because a
ship is a world by itself. Very good. What do the sailors want? A man
who palavers and pretends to take their advice? Not a bit of it. A man
who talks about their wisdom? Not a bit of it. They know they’ve got no
wisdom. They can’t even pretend to navigate a ship. They want a man
to take the command; a skipper who will say, “Go there; do this, ----
you!” begging your pardon, Madam. Ask their advice! I’d like to see a
sailor’s face if his captain asked his advice.’
‘You like a strong man everywhere, Captain Dering,’ said Lady Frances.
‘So do I.’
‘It’s the same everywhere. They talk about this and that. They ask
questions and pretend to know. And the candidate, he just pretends to
ask their advice humble-like, and promises to take their advice when
he’s got it, and goes to the House with his tongue in his cheek. What
all the world wants, Madam, is a captain to give the word of command
and to navigate the vessel.’
‘Then, you do think he will get in? I hope he will. He should have a
thousand votes if I had them.’
‘If he doesn’t, he’ll just take and knock their silly heads together.’
‘George,’ said Lady Frances, as we drove away, ‘I have had a most
delightful evening. Thank you, ever so much, for bringing me here. Your
orator is a very strong man indeed. He speaks like a gentleman, yet he
called himself a Master Craftsman--I suppose from some proud humility.
“We are all working men,” I heard the Archbishop say once. I thought it
was rather humbug.’
‘This man is indeed a Master Craftsman. He understands honest work with
his hands as well as any working man present. In fact, better.’
‘He appeared in evening dress. Do Master Craftsmen habitually wear
evening dress?’
‘The garb proclaimed the difference between his audience and himself.
He does not appear before them as a workman, but as their master in
every sense. The evening clothes are an allegory, you see. He told them
pretty plainly that he is their master.’
‘He did indeed.’
‘Seeking election, not in order to carry out any views of theirs, you
see, but to advance his own views. I think he was quite right to put on
the dress-coat.’
‘He certainly speaks like a man who knows things.’
‘The things that man knows, Frances, would sink a three-decker. And the
things he does not know couldn’t float a canoe.’
‘Your metaphors are mixed, George; but you mean well.’
‘You perceived, of course, that he is not a scholar. These self-taught
men never are. He lacks the literary phrase, except, perhaps, when he
comes to personal appeal. But the literary phrase may come. He acquires
everything with amazing ease the moment he learns that it is necessary.’
‘Necessary? For what?’
‘For his personal ambition. Frances, you have seen to-night the
chrysalis. Very soon, I believe, you will see the--the other
creature--which comes out of the chrysalis. This man--you have heard
what he says--means to become a power in the House--that is the
ambition which most pleases you. He will, he calmly prophesies, be
invited in a few years to become a Cabinet Minister; after that, Prime
Minister; then--perhaps--Protector of the Realm. He is as determined
as Cromwell; as clear-headed and as able--as ruthless, perhaps; and
perhaps, also, as selfish.’
‘If he can debate as well as he can speak he ought to get on. A man
like that always begins as a Radical. He wants to pull down the Church
and the Lords, of course.’
‘On the contrary, he would pull down neither Church nor Lords. He
would, I believe, enlarge the borders of both. You heard him say that
he was going to be an Independent Member?’
‘Then, George, speaking as the daughter of a Prime Minister, I say that
he will dig his own grave. Tell him that he must belong to a Party, if
he would get on. He must--tell him he must! If he does not, he would do
far better to remain outside.’
‘I have told him so over and over again. But he is as obstinate as a
Western mule.’
‘And he is--your cousin! I had forgotten that. Why, it accounts for
the strange resemblance. I was haunted all the time by his likeness. I
could not think what likeness. It is you, George; he is strangely like
you. Only bigger, I think.’
‘Yes; bigger all over, and more ambitious, Frances.’
‘Oh! and he is teaching you his trade. And what have you taught him,
George?’
‘Nothing worth speaking of. You see, a man brought up at Wapping, which
is only a little isolated slip of ground between dock and river--a kind
of island--has very few chances of acquiring the air of society.’
‘George, you have taught your cousin manners--I know you have. And you
are going to introduce him about. Do you think that he will not betray
himself?’
‘I hope he will, because there will be no pretence. But in all
essentials he will be fit for presentation in your own drawing-room,
Frances, where I hope to bring him with your permission.’
‘Bring him, by all means. It is always a happiness to meet a strong and
clever man. I think your cousin, to look at him and to listen to him,
must be as clever as he is strong. George, give him, if you can, a
lighter style. It is all very well to be intensely earnest at certain
points--especially the weakest in an address--but he must not be
intensely earnest all through. Make him cultivate repartee and epigram.
Teach him to laugh a little, and to smile a little. A man nowadays,
even a man who is going to pull down the House of Commons by the two
pillars, should laugh and smile a little beforehand. But he is a strong
man, George, and a very interesting man.’
CHAPTER XII.
THE PHYSICIAN.
When we assembled for early dinner on Monday I looked to see some
effect of our little afternoon voyage and talk on Isabel. Alas! the
cloud hung again over her head--a visible, dark cloud. She sat timidly
glancing at her lover, who was also her liege and lord; more timidly,
perhaps, because Robert had now begun to put off his silent habit
and to talk at dinner--one result of his West End experience. This
astonished and rather terrified her, because words from Robert were
generally words of admonition; and more uneasily, perhaps, because
he was talking about persons of whom she understood nothing. I say
persons: so great was the change already that Robert talked of persons
as well as principles; and he, who was formerly as chary of his
laughter as Saturn or as a Scottish divine, had now begun to laugh
readily and cheerfully.
For my own part, the talk of Saturday afternoon and the revelation of
the girl’s unhappiness so mightily impressed me--one can never bear to
see a girl in sorrow--that I had been thinking ever since how Isabel’s
life might be bettered for her. I could only think of two ways: first,
to lighten her work; secondly, to introduce a little change. As for
the former, she was housekeeper, and kept the household accounts,
which was enough for one girl to attempt; also, she was accountant
to ‘Burnikel and Burnikel,’ and kept the books of the house and paid
the men. Keeping the books meant a laborious and old-fashioned system
of double book-keeping, which took a great deal of her time. This
alone was enough for one girl to attempt. She was, further, private
secretary; she hunted up passages, copied passages, made notes, and
wrote all Robert’s letters. This alone was quite enough for one girl
to attempt; and, lastly, she had to look after her own dress, and I am
sure that this is, by itself, quite enough to occupy all the time of a
conscientious girl. As regards getting some change of scene, the only
way was to bring the change to her, and that, I saw clearly, must be my
task.
It is a delicate thing to interfere between a man and his mistress,
even when the mistress is not the object of any fondling and
nonsense--even when she is also accountant, secretary, and housekeeper.
I therefore approached the subject diplomatically.
‘Boat-building,’ I said, working round to it by an unexpected path, ‘is
a business of selling as well as of making, isn’t it?’
‘Go on,’ he replied cheerfully; ‘what are you driving at?’
‘This, first: I am getting on very well with the craft, but I don’t
know much about the trade.’
‘You know very little about the trade, and I fear you never will;
because, George, though you may make me a gentleman--to look at--no one
will ever make you a tradesman.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ve been brought up different. You haven’t our feeling
for money. Every coin with us means money saved, or money won. A
sovereign means victory in a pitched battle. With you it comes out of
an inexhaustible bag. See now. If you want to go anywhere, you take
a cab. It comes natural to you. Lord! I laugh when I see you calling
a cab. We take a penny ’bus. If we must take a cab, we give him a
shilling, reckoning up the fare and measuring the distance; we grudge
that shilling. You toss him half a crown, and think nothing of it. You
tip waiters and porters with sixpences and shillings; we never tip
anybody at all if we can help it. When you want to have anything, you
order it without asking the price; we cast about to get it cheap, or we
do without it. When you do ask the price you pay at once whatever they
tell you, or you have it put down. We know better; we know that a price
means what they can get, not what they please to ask: we beat them
down. Then you go to the dearest people to buy things. We know that the
dear people are no better than the cheap, because the same workmen make
for both. We study the pence; you throw away the pounds.’
‘My dear cousin, the period approaches when I shall have nothing but
pence to study. However, what I wanted to say was this: The time seems
to have come when I ought to learn something of the trade side.’
‘Well, I will tell you what you please.’
‘There are the prices of materials, the cost of labour, rent, taxes,
selling prices--all these things. The best way for me to learn is not
to worry you, but to read and examine your books. Everything is there,
of course.’
Robert did not reply for a few moments. It is the instinct of a man
of business to wish his affairs to loom large in the imagination of
humanity. His books alone conceal the real truth.
‘If it was any other man,’ he said, ‘or for any other purpose--but as
it’s you, take the books and examine them. They are in the safe over
the way. Isabel has the key.’
‘Thank you. With her help I will not only look at them, but, for a
term, keep them for you.’
‘You can’t keep them. You don’t know book-keeping by double entry.’
‘Isabel shall teach me, and your books cannot be very complicated.’
‘Very well. Have it your own way.’
So that was done. I could thus take a great load off the girl’s frail
shoulders. Then I went on to the other points.
‘Isabel,’ I said, ‘is not looking well.’
‘She looks exactly the same to-day as she did six months ago.’
‘No; she is not looking at all well. She is not naturally, I should
say, a strong girl. If I were you, Robert, I would speak to someone
about her.’
‘Why?’ he answered impatiently. ‘She hasn’t told me she was ill. What
is the matter with her?’
‘Too much confinement; too little change.’
‘I’ve noticed nothing wrong.’
‘No, you see her every day; you would hardly notice a gradual change.
Can’t you see, however, that she is pale and nervous?’
‘She is always pale and nervous. Is she more pale and nervous than
usual?’
‘There is a furrow in her forehead; there are black lines under her
eyes; and her cheek is thin.’
‘This,’ said the fond but injured lover, ‘comes of having women about
one. Why can’t she tell me if she is not well?’
‘You must have noticed how silent she is--and how she droops her head.’
‘She is always silent. She knows that I don’t like chatter. As for
drooping her head, I suppose she carries her head as she likes.’
‘No doubt. At the same time, Robert, she is in a bad way. I am certain
of it.’
‘Well’--he hesitated--‘what am I to do? Look here, George, you know
more than I do about women. It’s no use talking to the Captain, and
there’s only the cook besides: what am I to do?’
‘I should say, give her, first, more fresh air, less work, more
amusement, change of scene.’
‘Good Lord, man! how am I to give her change of scene? You don’t mean
that I am to give up my work just now, when the Election may be sprung
upon us at any moment, in order to go dawdling and dangling about with
a woman?’
‘Well, I’ll help a bit, if you agree.’
‘Agree? I should think I would agree! Go on.’
‘I have taken over the books of the Firm. That will be a great relief
to her. As for you, don’t give her, just now, things to copy; write
your own letters. Then she will have nothing left but the housekeeping,
which is a simple matter.’
‘Well, and what about the change of scene?’
‘I was thinking--if you don’t mind--that I could take her out
occasionally--on Saturdays or Sundays--and perhaps in the long
evenings.’
‘If you would, and if it would do her any good. I don’t want to be hard
on the girl, George. You know how busy I am, and what a lot I have to
think about. She’s a good and obedient girl on the whole. I can’t, you
see, be worrying myself continually about the day by day looks of my
clerks and people.’
‘Isabel is hardly a “clerk and people,” is she?’
‘Of course not. But you know what I mean.’
‘I believe I know what you mean. Your thoughts are always concerned
with things that seem to you of far more importance than a woman’s
health.’
‘That is so,’ he replied, impervious to the shaft of satire.
‘Well, Robert, I will do what I can. While we are talking about Isabel,
there is another thing on my mind. We may assume, I suppose, that you
are going to succeed.’
‘You may certainly assume so much. Why, else, do I take all this
trouble?’
‘Well, when you are a great man--a man of society--it will be a matter
of some importance that your wife should hold her own in society.’
Robert coloured. ‘Why shouldn’t Isabel hold her own? A woman has got
nothing to do but to sit down and take what comes.’
‘There are many ways of sitting down.’
‘You mean, I suppose, that her case is--like my own. Do you want to
send Isabel into Piccadilly to learn manners?’
‘Her case is not so bad as yours,’ I told him plainly. ‘But it is a
case of the same kind.’
‘I always thought she was a quiet, modest kind of girl, else I could
never have promised to marry her; but I dare say you are right. After
my own experiences--I am a good bit wiser than I was--I suppose that
there are ways and customs that a woman should know--that can’t be
learned in this corner of the world.’
‘She wants manner--that is the only thing she wants, except happiness,
perhaps. I cannot impart manner to her, but I can show her women who
have it. Remember, Robert, it may be of the utmost importance to you,
at some future time, that your wife should show by her manner that she
is accustomed to society.’
I knew, of course, while I spoke, that such a thing is absolutely
impossible. A girl brought up as Isabel had been could never acquire
the real air and manner which belongs to the gentlewoman born and bred.
All kinds of virtues, graces, charms, attractions, allurements, arts,
and accomplishments, may be acquired by a woman, but this one quality
she inherits or develops from infancy. Not that it is a charm above all
others, as some women fondly believe. By no means. For my own part, I
have learned that a woman may lack this charm as she may lack other
things, and yet be above and beyond all other women in the world in the
eyes of her lover.
‘I suppose,’ said Robert, ‘that you are right.’
‘Very good. Then I will sometimes take her where she will see
well-dressed women. You shall see, after a bit, how her pale cheeks
will put on roses, and her listless manner will become cheerful. Oh!
and there is something else. She must practise her music more--she is
starved for want of music. She must practise in the day-time. Perhaps
she might sing a little. It won’t disturb you.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Oh! it’s all right. Have it your own way.
Perhaps you’d like the workmen over the way to sing a chorus while she
strums the piano? Perhaps you’d like to do a breakdown in the road?
Only make her get well, George, without troubling me. And don’t look as
if it’s my fault that she’s a bit pale.’
That day, after dinner, Robert went his way as usual. The Captain went
another way. Isabel, the cloth being removed, spread out her books upon
the table and sat down with a little sigh.
I sat down on the other side, leaning my elbows on the table.
‘Isabel,’ I said, ‘you’ve got to be obedient to your Physician.’
‘I must go on with my master’s work, please, Physician. When that is
done I will be obedient.’
I took the books from her, shut them up, and put my hand upon them.
‘There!’ I said; ‘now you are not going to trouble yourself about these
books any more. Thus saith the Healer.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I have spoken to the Commander-in-Chief. He graciously consents that
I shall take over these books for the future. All you have to do is to
show me how you book-keep by double entry. He further consents to write
his own letters with his own hand--letters about his borough and all.
He will give no more extracts, arguments, and illustrations to copy
out for his speeches. You are released. He thinks further that, if you
housekeep with diligence, and look after your dress with zeal, and make
yourself look pretty and desirable, you will have quite enough to do.’
She blushed a rosy red. ‘Robert didn’t say that! Oh, impossible!’
‘He didn’t exactly say so, in so many words’--in fact, it was
impossible--‘but I have no doubt that he really meant it.’
‘It was you who said it, and meant it, too,’ she murmured.
‘The Commander-in-Chief further expresses his desire that you should
practise your playing all day long, if you like, and your singing too,
if you can sing. Nothing is better for the chest than singing.’
‘I have never learned. I only sing in church.’
‘I will get you some songs and some new music. Plenty of music, that
is my first prescription; plenty of singing, that is the second
prescription; laughing, if you can find anything to laugh at. You can
laugh at me if you like; I wish you would. You don’t know the good it
would do you. Dancing, if there is anyone to dance with; you can dance
with me if you like; I wish you would. Flowers for the windows, and to
brighten up this old house. Change of air and of scene. You shall go
with me somewhere next Saturday.’
She stared in amazement. ‘What does all this mean?’ she asked.
‘It means, Isabel, that Robert is seriously concerned about your looks,
and it means that we have considered together what to do with you, and
that these are the measures we have adopted.’
‘Robert seriously concerned about me? Robert anxious about my looks?’
She covered her face with her hands to hide the tears that arose.
‘It would matter nothing to Robert if I were dying. He would notice
nothing, and he would care nothing. I belong to him, that is all; so
does his chair. Oh, it is you--you who have done this. It is all your
kindness--yours--and I am almost a stranger to you. And Robert, who is
to be my husband, has never all the time said one word of kindness--not
one word of kindness. And as to----’ She stopped, with sobbing.
‘Nay, Isabel; take all this as an act of kindness. It is not his way to
say words of affection.’
She shook her head. ‘Not one word of kindness. Robert cares nothing for
me--nothing.’
‘And you?’
‘Oh, I tremble day and night to think that I must marry him. George,
you asked me for my secret; that is my secret. If I could go away
anywhere--to be housemaid even--I would go. But I cannot--I cannot;
and he will never give me up unless---- Oh, I pray night and morning
that he may find another woman and fall in love with her. But he will
not--oh, he cannot; he does not know what love means; his heart is as
hard as a stone, and he thinks of nothing but himself.’
‘I will keep your secret, Isabel,’ I replied gravely. ‘Let us never
speak of it again; and perhaps, when he gets on in the world, he will
soften.’
She shook her head again.
‘Play me something, my child, and soothe your own soul while you play.’
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE FIELDS.
I gave her new music, some books of songs, some books of poetry, and
some novels of a kind that I thought she would like. I filled the
windows with flowers, insomuch that Robert groaned; I gave her flowers
for the table. In the evening I took her on the river for an hour of
the fresh strong air which sweeps up with the flow and down with the
ebb; and on Saturday I took her for a little journey into the country.
I wanted real country, not cockney country, though that is not to be
despised. Isabel was clad, I well remember, in a summer dress of some
soft and light material. Perhaps it was not trimmed exactly as a Bond
Street dressmaker would approve. She wore a hat which had been bought
in the neighbourhood of Aldgate, yet it was a pretty hat; and with a
touch of colour round her neck, and a flower at her throat, she looked
a very dainty damsel indeed. And, oh, the blindness, and the coldness,
and the stony-heartedness of her _fiancé_, who would have no kissing,
and fondling, and foolishness. In this respect, though we were sprung
from the same stock, I am not ashamed to confess that in my principles,
not to speak of practice, we were hopelessly at variance.
‘Permit me to observe, Isabel,’ I remarked judicially, ‘that you look
very nice, and that your dress becomes you.’
‘Oh!’ She coloured with pleasure; she was so unused to compliments, you
see. ‘I am so glad you like it. If you had not made Robert give up all
that work I should not have found time to make it.’
‘Well, I thought of taking you by rather a long journey, if you don’t
mind that--to Rickmansworth. Then you shall walk through a lovely park
that I know of, and then we shall be picked up by a trap and drive to
Chenies, there to dine, and go home in the cool of the evening. Will
that suit you, Isabel?’
‘Anything suits me that suits you, George; only I am afraid----’
‘What are you afraid of?’
‘I am afraid of you. Oh, not that way’--she did not explain what
way--‘only you belong to another world almost. I am afraid that I shall
be such a stupid companion. I don’t even talk your language; and you
always look so happy. I am ashamed to be seen with anyone who looks so
happy.’
I laughed. Afraid of me! As if any woman in the world could ever be
afraid of me! ‘Why,’ I told her, ‘I go in perpetual awe and adoration
of all women. I look happy because you condescend to walk with me.
Women are all goddesses. I worship in fear----’ So she smiled, and
resigned herself to fate, and we set off.
From Wapping to Rickmansworth is a long journey: it takes an hour and a
half. In the underground Isabel began to talk again about Robert.
‘I am ashamed,’ she said, ‘of having told you what I did last Monday; I
am ashamed of feeling so--afraid of Robert. You will think me the most
unworthy person in the world when I tell you that it is gratitude--the
deepest gratitude--that ought to bind us to Robert. Did he ever tell
you how we came to his house? No? Well, I will tell you, and then you
will understand what I mean. It is five years since we came to him.
I was sixteen then. We are his cousins. He could not get on with his
mother. She was a very grand lady--I remember her--who dressed in black
silk, and wore a large gold chain, and wanted to rule everybody. And
Robert was the master, and he intended to be master, in which he was
quite right. So they couldn’t agree, and his mother went out to her
other sons in Tasmania. Then Robert remembered us. Just then it was,
oh, a terrible time with us. I used to lie awake crying and praying for
help. And Robert brought the help.’
‘What was the trouble?’
‘Father had a stroke--you see how lame he is--and he couldn’t go to sea
any more, and there was no money at all.’
‘Oh, but that was terrible.’
‘Yes. They were trying to get father into the Trinity Almshouse, and
I was to go and do something--become a barmaid, perhaps. Then Robert
found us out. “Come and live with me,” he said. And so we came. I was
to be his secretary, and to keep the books and the house.’
‘And that you have continued ever since. Yes. And you have never been
outside Wapping once all that time?’
‘Oh yes; now and then I go as far as Aldgate.’
‘Have you been into any kind of society? Have you had any kind of
change?’
‘No; we have no visitors here, and I have been too busy to think of
change.’
‘That is just it; you have been too busy. Don’t talk to me of
gratitude, Isabel. Robert has taken from you more than he has given.
Not that he is to be blamed. Robert, you see, is such a strong sort
that he never wants any change, and he thinks that nobody else does.
Why, you’ve lost what ought to have been your happiest days. Why, you
ought to have been a princess.’
‘Please, George----’ She stopped me, turning red. ‘Remember that,
whatever I have lost, I have never heard foolish compliments.’
‘If you call that foolish---- But I refrain. So, little one, you
entered upon the boat-building business; and you saw Robert, naturally,
every day.’
‘Yes; all day long.’
‘And he--he--I mean you--presently accepted him.’
She blushed again. ‘Yes; he said he must have a wife some time or
other, and he would marry me. But he had a great deal to do first, and
I must not expect him to--to----’
‘I know. The most singular limitation of an engagement on record.’
‘If I could make him happy, how could I refuse? Besides, I was afraid
to refuse. And we owed everything to him. But it won’t have to be for a
great while yet--not for years.’
The train arrived at the station. I ordered a conveyance to meet us at
Chorley Common, and I took Isabel by a way that I knew through the Park.
There is nothing in the world, I believe, lovelier than an English
park in early summer. Wild places--lofty mountains, tall peaks, dark
ravines, broad glaciers, black forests, cliffs white, cliffs red,
cliffs black--touch another note. The tranquillity, the quiet beauty of
the Park, fills the soul with rest and calm. The Alps do not call forth
the same kind of emotion as a stately park.
I do not know how long it was since Isabel had been in the country.
She looked about her with a kind of stupor. There were tall trees, not
in lines, but single; all with their lower branches at the same height
above the sward--the height, that is, to which the deer can reach; the
foliage was at its best; the turf was green and soft and elastic; a
skylark was singing up above; a blackbird was repeating his pretty,
tuneful lay close beside us; there was a confused chatter from the
bridge; the buttercups covered the low-lying part; beyond us ran the
river, the little river Chess, winding among the meadows. The air that
fanned the soft cheeks of the girl breathed refreshment. We were quite
alone save for the birds and the trees, and afar off a herd of deer.
‘What do you think of it, Isabel?’
She made answer with the simple interjection which is used for
everything beyond the power of speech. There is no other word in any
language half so useful or half so expressive, because, you see, it
expresses every possible form of emotion--love, pain, pleasure, hope,
fear, admiration, joy, despair.
‘Come,’ I said; ‘we must not stay too long.’
‘Oh! But not to hurry. It is wonderful; to think that these lovely
places are all around us and we never see them! George, to live all the
time in that corner and never to see these things! Oh, is it life?’
‘No, Isabel, it is not life: it is prison. But courage, we have broken
prison. The doors are open. We shall see lots of things rare and
beautiful now. This is only a beginning.’
So we walked on more slowly, because this part of the Park is not
very big. In order to show off my country lore, I carried on a little
running commentary. ‘That whistle is the blackbird’s; that is the
thrush; did you hear the cuckoo? You must run for luck. That is the
blackcap; that is the complaint of the willow warbler.’
‘You know them all,’ she said jealously, ‘and I know not a single one.
Oh, how ignorant I am of everything--everything!’
‘I will teach you. I am sure you will be an apt scholar. You shall
learn the flowers, too--the names of all the flowers; I have got some
good by being born in the country. I can teach you the birds, and their
song and their flight; and the flowers, and their seasons and their
history; and the trees and the leaves. We had a country house once;
there was another one near us, with a huge park, where I used to wander
with Frances.’
‘Who was Frances?’
‘Lady Frances was the daughter of the Earl of Clovelly, formerly Prime
Minister. Her mother was a great political lady who had a _salon_.’
‘What is a _salon_?’
‘She received in her house the men of the party; encouraged the
deserving, rebuked the lazy, and strengthened those who wobbled. You
still do not understand? I will explain further, not now. Briefly this,
Frances and I were great friends always, and we learned those things
when we were children together.’
‘Are you engaged to Lady Frances?’ she asked sharply.
‘Oh dear no! There is no question of engagement between us. We are like
brother and sister. Frances is a young widow; if she were to marry
again, it would be to a strong man, full of ambition, who would advance
himself and enable her to become what her mother was.’
‘She should marry Robert, if she wants a strong man.’
‘Indeed, she might do worse. Now, Isabel, this is the wildest place
anywhere round London; you are quite in the country; there are no
houses to be seen, no roads, no railways, nothing but trees, and grass,
and sky, and flowing river. Sit down on this trunk and rest, and don’t
try to tell me how much you like it.’
We sat down on a fallen tree: the sunshine lay on the rippling waters
where the light breeze here and there lifted the surface into a little
crest of wave, or where it was broken by the leaping of a fish; there
were wild ducks overhead flying in two straight lines that joined at a
single duck, to make an angle of thirty degrees--not that Isabel asked
what angle they made--and higher up was flying a pair of herons, their
long legs stretched out behind them.
No one, I say, was in the Park; nor was there any sign or sound of any
human creature: the leaves of spring were at their earliest and their
loveliest; the chestnuts were in bloom; and the girl sat with hands
folded in her lap, carried away by the spectacle of the abounding joy
of spring. Perhaps for the first time in all her cribbed and cabined
youth, she felt the full joy of life. It fell upon her in waves; it
made her faint; it filled her with a new emotion. Shall we ever become
too old to remember the joy of life in adolescence--the yearning after
we know not what--the happiness of the sunshine, the air, the water,
the green trees, the birds--the fulness and the sweetness and the
innocence of it--the consciousness of understanding for the first time
what life means--how happy it may be--if the gods permit--how glorious
and how abundant are Nature’s gifts to bless the living? We cannot thus
clothe the thoughts of the young with words; youth is hardly conscious
of them. I am sure that Isabel could not describe the emotions that
filled her soul. Words are only possible long after the thing itself is
over and done with, and possible no longer. We who are old can never
again feel that overwhelming, supreme, passionate joy of life; but we
can remember--sometimes. When did it first fall upon you, dear reader?
Like the Wesleyans, let us exchange experiences. Were you alone? Was
there a companion to share your passions? Was it on some bright day in
early summer among woods and streams and the song of birds that this
sense of an all-abundant nature and a life capable of feeling all,
embracing all, receiving all, fell upon you, and carried you for a
brief space--a space all too brief--beyond yourself?
‘I have never seen this place before,’ she murmured, as if the place
alone was the cause of this strange and unknown feeling, and as if she
could not choose but say something.
‘We will come here again,’ I said.
For her face was flushed, and her eyes were brighter than was their
wont, her hands were tightly clutched, and her lips were parted. She
was in a highly-nervous condition when we started. Now she looked like
one trying to repress some over-mastering emotion.
‘I have never dreamed; I have never thought,’ she continued.
‘You have lived too long in a dull house, Isabel.’
The words came from afar off; she heard nothing.
She sprang to her feet. ‘Oh!’ she cried, ‘I must run; I cannot sit
still.’ She threw out her arms, she was carried away; she was drunk
with the new-born joy of life. ‘I must sing.’ She lifted up her voice,
her clear, full voice, and sang; and--wonderful to relate!--she sang
the words of a hymn:
‘Oh, God of Hosts, the mighty Lord,
How lovely is the place
Where Thou, enthroned in glory, show’st
The brightness of Thy face!’
‘Isabel!’ I cried, ‘you are transformed!’
She was: not the finest actress in the whole world could so change
herself in a moment of time; not the greatest Queen of Tragedy could so
stand with outstretched arms, with flaming cheek and parted lips--as
if to welcome and to drink in all--all--all that Nature had wherewith
to bless the living. In that moment I discovered the ideal Isabel, the
possible Isabel, the dream of the sculptor--a lovely dream, a divine
ideal! For a moment I thought of the old worships--the worship of
Nature; the worship of the Sun; the procession of the seasons--the
pageant of the year; the votaress who was seized with the celestial
rapture and sang words unintelligible and danced unearthly steps, and
fell at the feet of the god; what was that old ecstasy but this strange
extravagance, suddenly awakened in a girl rendered hysterical by long
dulness and stupid work, and confinement and the repression of all that
is natural in youth?
It lasted a moment only. Then her arms dropped and the colour went out
of her cheek, and I caught her as she fell, and laid her gently on the
grass. I ran down to the river and brought back a hat full of water,
and touched her forehead with a few drops. She quickly recovered and
sat up.
‘Where am I? What has happened?’ she cried. ‘Oh! what has happened?’
‘Nothing serious, Isabel. Keep quite quiet. The heat, or the sun, or
the strangeness, was too much for you. Perhaps you had better lie back
for a little.’
‘No--no----’ She got up. ‘I must have fainted. Why did I faint? Oh, I
am so ashamed of myself! I cannot understand why I fainted.’
‘Well, Isabel, when an ancient Greek met the great god Pan in the
forest, he instantly fell dead. So that you ought not to be surprised
that you merely fainted when you first saw great Pan’s dominion. Will
you rest a little longer?’
‘No; I am quite recovered. Let us go on, for fear I should faint again.’
So we walked on, through the rest of the Park and came out close to the
common called Chorley. Here the carriage was waiting for us, and we
drove the rest of the way.
Isabel was very silent. She lay back in the carriage, looking into
the woods as we drove along the road. She was in a mood when the soul
needs silence. Had I known that she would be so deeply moved, I think
I should have hesitated to bring her to such a place. The mind of a
maiden is too delicate an instrument for the rough hand of man. He
cannot touch the strings, without fear of something snapping. But her
cheek was touched with colour and her eyes with light.
We arrived at Chenies. There is a church here with tombs of the
Russells. Isabel took no interest in them. There is an old manor-house,
the most beautiful manor-house in England--a gem of a house, built of
red brick, with creepers all over it, and a stately garden; a house to
dream of. But Isabel cared nothing at all about the house, and showed
no interest or curiosity in the noble House of Russell. There were the
ruins of a small Religious House at the back. Isabel took no interest
in the monks or nuns who once lived in this House, nor in the ruins,
nor in the little reconstructions of the House which I attempted. But
beside the ruins at the back there is a wood, and here we walked in
the shade, looking out between the trees at the breadths of sunshine
beyond, and up into the branches above at the gleaming sunlight, and
between the leaves. She wanted nothing more than just the peace of the
wood and the glory of the sunshine.
I tore her away at last. For the hour was seven, and there were lamb
cutlets at the little Inn. And it was time for Masterful Man to assert
himself.
It is a long way back, as it is a long way to come, and all the way
back Isabel sat as one in a dream. I could not wake her out of the
dream.
I left her at last at her own door.
‘We are home again,’ she said. ‘Thank you, oh! so much. It has come
with me all the way home. I hope it will stay with me. Good-night,
George.’
What had come with her? I believe she meant the new-born feeling of the
beauty and the joy of the world.
CHAPTER XIV.
MORE LESSONS.
In that way began the companionship that has changed the whole of my
life and Isabel’s life as well--you shall hear how.
I set myself to work, as I had done with Robert, systematically. I
had to drag a girl out of a miserably narrow groove in which she had
lived and moved for five years without any change, almost without fresh
air; without society; without books; without friends or companions; a
burying alive. It is wonderful to me, when I come to think of it, that
her finer nature was not wholly destroyed; most girls after such an
experience would have become a mere household drudge, or a mere clerk,
with, as another natural result of such a life, a snappish temper and
a bitter tongue. Perhaps the presence of her father kept Isabel from
these evils; the old sailor was always cheerful, though fate had given
him small cause for cheerfulness. However, Isabel passed through the
time of prison with no lowering of her moral nature. The social side,
of course, suffered. I had to show her how other girls dressed, and how
they comported themselves. I had to lift her out of the submission and
meekness so ill assorted with her beauty. I had also to give her the
world of books and of art--an easy task, made easy by the adaptability
of the girl and her quick perceptions; a pleasant task, as the charge
of a pretty woman always must be; and a dangerous task, because the
girl was surely the most lovable creature under the canopy of heaven.
Of this danger I had no thought or suspicion. I declare that I was
entirely loyal to Robert, until I discovered a fact which changed the
whole situation. The fact once discovered, the rest was natural.
My lessons in the study of Nature and Humanity were continued during
the months of June and July. On Saturdays we went afield--to Hampton,
to Richmond, to Dulwich, to Sydenham, to Loughton, to Chigwell, to
Theydon Bois, to Chingford, to St. Alban’s--wherever there are trees
and gardens to be seen. Or we went up the river to Maidenhead, Bray,
Windsor, Weybridge; or down the river to Greenwich. On Sunday morning I
took her generally to Westminster, where she heard the silver voices of
the choir ringing in the roof while we sat in a corner of the transept
beside the tombs. At such a time I would watch her and mark how her
spirit was rapt and carried away. When the music ceased we would get up
and go out and seek the peaceful cloister, cool and shady, on the south
side of the church, and there sit together, mostly in silence.
‘Yours are new thoughts, Isabel,’ I said one Sunday morning, while we
sat in this quiet place.
‘They are all new thoughts now,’ she replied. ‘Thanks to you. What did
I think about formerly? I don’t remember. Terrors, mostly.’
‘And now they are pleasant thoughts?’
‘Oh! what can they be but pleasant? You have taken me into another
world. How could I live so long, and be so contented?’
‘It is a finer and a better world?’
‘It is far, far broader, to begin with; and far, far finer. Whether it
is better, George, I do not know. I only see it from the outside. It is
happier; of that I am quite sure.’
‘It may well be happier. As for its being better--I meant better in the
sense of more comfortable; you mean more virtuous. Well, nobody knows,
not even a Father Confessor, whether one part of the world is more
virtuous than another part. You see, we never get to the real inside
of any part--not even our own corner. And most of us can never get
outside our own corner at all. Nobody else ever lived in such a corner
as you; but you haven’t got outside that corner yet, and you never
will. We only see little bits of the world. My own belief--but I may
be wrong--is that we are all pretty much alike; all, as the children
say, up and down, and round about--good, and bad, and middling. We are
anxious, first of all, and above all, to get as much solid comfort for
ourselves as we can.’
She sighed. ‘I confess,’ she said, ‘that I desire happiness more and
more. But it is not altogether solid comfort that I look for.’
‘Your views of happiness have broadened, Isabel. What made your
happiness two months ago?’
‘There was no happiness, nor much unhappiness. It seemed now as if I
lived always in a sort of twilight. No trees even, except those in the
burial-ground; no flowers, no fresh country, no books, no poetry, no
Cathedral music.’
‘There is a pretty story, an old story, about a prisoner, and about
a flower which sprang up, and grew, and blossomed between the chinks
of the stones. You are that prisoner, Isabel, and the flower is your
soul, which has grown up and blossomed in the dark and narrow prison.
But we must not call Robert the gaoler.’
‘Oh no, I must not blame Robert; pray do not think that I do. He has
been so full of work and thought that, of course, he could not tell;
and why should he be dragged out of his way to think of me? And my
father is growing old. No, no; there is no one to blame. Not Robert--oh
no, never Robert.’
Let me make a clean breast of it; not that I am penitent, but quite
the contrary. I ought, I suppose, to have discontinued these little
expeditions as soon as I learned what was coming out of them. That
would be the line adopted by the sage of seventy springs. I had only
five-and-twenty. Moreover, it is very difficult to say when friendship
is transformed into love; the young man goes on; the companionship,
always delightful, becomes too delightful to give up; the companion
creeps into his heart and remains there until one day he awakes to
the consciousness that life without that companion will henceforth be
intolerable.
But we entered upon the thing loyally; we had no thought of any danger;
then, no one interfered with us; we went where we pleased. I began
with thinking about Isabel when I ought to have been considering the
lines of a boat; I began to think how she looked, what she said; her
face haunted me--her sweet, soft face, full of purity, grace, and every
womanly virtue; her eyes--her deep and limpid eyes, wells of holy
thoughts, charged with goodness; her voice--the tones of her voice,
which had become to me the sweetest music in the world. I dreamed
of these things at night, I thought of them all day, long before I
understood what had happened to me, long before Isabel suspected
anything. The last thing, indeed, which the maiden feared or suspected
was the thing that happened. She was engaged to Robert; and I was
Robert’s cousin, and by Robert’s permission I was showing her the
world. Even a girl who knows the ways of the world, and especially
the treacherous, villainous, deceptive ways of young men, and would
be therefore suspicious in such a case, might have thought that
there was some security in common loyalty and friendship. But Isabel
had no knowledge of the world, and no experience of young men, and
consequently no suspicion.
This very ignorance of danger made things more dangerous. Her
ignorance encouraged her to be perfectly frank and confiding. She
showed openly all the pleasure she felt in these little expeditions,
and she manifested her innocent affection--I call it affection, not
friendship--towards me so unreservedly that it was impossible even to
tell her when the thing began, or even when the thing had grown until
it became a very furnace of passion.
There you see--it happened so. It was quite natural--it was severely
logical--I now understand that nothing else was possible--it was
inevitable. No man going about day after day, with so sweet a
companion, could fail to fall in love with her. I did fall head over
heels, up to my neck, in love. That mattered nothing so long as neither
Robert nor Isabel suspected it. As for myself, why, at that time, I did
not ask myself what was going to happen, or what would in the end come
of it. Enough for me just to enjoy the presence and the sight of her,
the touch of her hand, the rustle of her dress. Why, since by marriage
we are taught that the man must worship the woman, then was I married
to Isabel long before she knew or suspected that I so much as held that
form of faith or believed that teaching.
The end--I mean the end of unsuspecting confidence--arrived
unexpectedly. It came one evening, about the middle of July, and
at sunset. We were sitting in the place where I had taken Isabel
first--the park near Rickmansworth. She sang hymns no more, nor did she
faint at beholding the splendour and the glory of the world; but she
sat in silence, gazing upon the western glow in the sky, and on the
flowing river at her feet, where the glow was reflected.
Could this glorious creature be the pale and drooping maiden whom I
brought here six weeks before? Now she sat upright, cheeks glowing,
eyes uplifted, limpid and lovely eyes, with rounded figure and head
erect--a girl full of life and of the joy of youth.
‘Of all the places that we have seen together, George,’ she said, ‘this
is the one that I love best.’
‘It is where you first felt the beauty of the world, Isabel, and it was
too much for you.’
‘How came you to think about taking me out? It has been so wonderfully
good of you, George. I can never think enough about it.’
‘In my capacity of great Physician, I discovered that you were
suffering from monotony, so I spoke to Robert, and we arranged it.’
A cloud passed over her face, but only for a moment.
‘If our little expeditions have put colour into your cheeks and light
into your eyes--your very lovely eyes, Isabel----’
‘Please, George, no compliments.’
‘Well, then, if they have done you good--there is a nice homely
way to put it--I ought to be quite contented and happy. You see,
Isabel’--this was rather a risky thing to say; one could not meet her
eyes--‘it has been so great a happiness to have you for a companion,
that you must just think how good it has been of you to come with me.’
Still she did not suspect what was in my mind. When she began to talk
about wonderful goodness it was impossible, of course, not to point out
that on the other hand I was the one who should be really grateful and
deeply obliged for days and evenings of pure and unmixed happiness,
reading the soul--so high above my own--the sweet and lovely soul of
this most sweet and lovely maiden. I believe I have said these words
about her already. Never mind. I say, then, that I was constrained to
put the case before her in its true light.
‘You say this,’ she replied, ‘out of your kindness. Of course, I
can never believe that you really wanted the company of a girl so
shamefully ignorant as myself. Why, I could talk about nothing.
Besides, you have that other friend of whom you have told me--Lady
Frances. Have you not neglected her?’
‘Lady Frances does not mind,’ I said. ‘And I have not neglected her,
and I do assure you, Isabel, that I am perfectly in earnest when I
speak about the happiness of your companionship. I wanted, at first,
I confess, only to clear away the clouds from your face and from your
mind by a change of place and some kind of amusement. I cannot bear to
see any girl unhappy. That was all I thought about at first, when we
began to go about together. Afterwards----’ And here I stopped.
‘The clouds are gone,’ she replied, ‘so there is no more need for any
more evenings abroad. Now, I suppose, I must make up my mind to go
back to Wapping, and to stay there. Well, I have a very happy time to
remember.’
‘Indeed, you shall not, Isabel, if I can help it. Go back to the old
life? Not if I have any voice in the matter. Besides, the clouds are
not all gone. There is one that falls on you quite suddenly, and
sometimes lies upon you for an hour or more. Why, it has fallen now.
You cloud over suddenly, Isabel. It is some thought that comes to you
uninvited. Your face must be all sunshine or all cloud. Never was such
a tell-tale face.’
She blushed; but the cloud lay there still.
‘What is it, Isabel? What is this cloud? Is it anything that I can
remove?’
‘No one can remove it,’ she said.
‘Is it anything--but I have no right to ask. Only, Isabel, if you like
to tell me, I might advise.’
She remained silent, but the tears gathered in her eyes.
‘Tell me, Isabel,’ I pressed her. ‘I asked you once before, in the old
burial-ground.’
‘I do not dare. I am ashamed. You will think me the most ungrateful of
women if I tell you.’
‘Then tell me, and let me scold you.’
‘It is--it is’--she hung her head--‘it is Robert.’
‘What has Robert done?’
‘It is because he has promised to marry me.’
Then the scales fell from my eyes, and I understood the cloud. I ought
to have known. She told me as much before.’
‘Oh, he has been so good! I have told you--we owe everything to
him--I am bound to him by chains--and yet--yet---- Oh, George, I am
telling you everything. I am ashamed--yet I must tell someone, because
sometimes I think I shall go mad; it weighs me down night and day.
He has promised to marry me; his promises are sacred, and it is the
thought of marrying him, never to be away from him; to be with him
always; always to be his servant and to do what he orders; and never
a single kind word, or one look of interest even, not to speak of--of
affection. I am as disregarded as his office-boy; I am nothing more
than a machine. How can I do anything but tremble at the thought of
marrying such a man?’
‘Then you must yourself break off your engagement.’
‘No, no. I cannot. You forget, George, that we are his dependents, my
father and I, both of us. I must do what Robert wishes--all that Robert
wishes.’
I groaned.
‘And now you know the meaning of the cloud. I am only happy when I can
forget my own future. And all your kindness is thrown away, because the
thought of my own future never leaves me altogether--even with you.’
And then it was that I quite lost my self-control.
‘Oh, Isabel!’ I cried. ‘You shall not marry him. Oh, my love! my love!
you shall not marry him.’
I took her hands. She cried out and sprang to her feet. I threw my arms
round her and kissed her, being carried quite beyond my own control.
And I told her, in words that I cannot, dare not, set down here for all
the world to see, all that was lying in my heart.
She pushed me from her, and sank back upon the fallen tree on which she
had been sitting, and buried her face in her hands.
‘Isabel!’ I whispered. ‘Isabel! if you can love me!’
She gave me her hand. ‘Let me hear it once--and say it once, for the
first time and the last. Oh, George--and I did not know it!’
I kissed her again and again. It makes my heart leap up still only to
think of that moment.
Then she stood up. ‘It is the first time and the last, George,’ she
said. ‘I am engaged to your cousin Robert.’
‘Yes, Isabel.’
‘Now we will go home. We will not forget this evening, George. I thank
God--yes, I thank God we have told each other. Now I shall feel,
whatever happens, that I have been loved--even I, whose promised
husband scorns me.’ Her voice broke into a sob. ‘But we must never,
never again speak of it. Never, never. You have loved me for a little,
and that is enough for me--to gladden all my life. Even I have been
loved--even I----’
I made no reply, because I was fully resolved, you see, somehow to
speak of it again. In fact, I felt that it was impossible to consider
any other future than one in which the subject would always form the
chief topic of conversation.
‘Give me your promise, George,’ she went on. ‘Promise that you will
never speak to me of love again.’
‘I promise, Isabel, that I will never again speak to you of love until
Robert himself has set you free. Will that do?’
How I proposed at that moment to persuade Robert I do not know. How I
did actually and afterwards persuade him you shall presently learn.
CHAPTER XV.
MUTINY.
Then and there was the emancipation of Isabel begun. It was effected,
you have seen, by making her physically strong and well, by giving
her courage, by providing her with something to think about, and by
relieving the monotony of her life.
‘You’ve done wonders for the girl,’ said the Captain one day. ‘Wonders,
you have. I don’t hardly know her, she’s so changed. Why, she sings
now, and she plays her music half the day and every day. She that used
to be such a shy and timid thing, afraid of her own voice. Perhaps,
Sir George’--he would never abandon the title; it gave him a sense of
self-importance to be talking with a Baronet--‘perhaps you don’t notice
these trifles, but you must have seen the change that’s come over the
puddings.’
‘No--really? Over the puddings?’
‘There’s a lightness about them, more jam, since the girl got brighter.
Ah! It’s quite natural. When the soul is heavy, the pudding comes out
heavy too. There can’t be the real feeling about the jam. And the teas
are quite remarkable compared with what they were. There’s a spiciness
about the cake now.’
‘Well, Captain, do you think that Robert has noticed any change?’
‘No. He never notices anything. There’s a change in him--and that’s
all he thinks about. What in thunder is the matter with the man to be
engaged to a beautiful girl, and a nice girl too--isn’t she, now?’
‘A nice girl indeed!’
‘And never to take the least notice, no more than if she wasn’t there.
I say, Sir George, it isn’t natural. If he doesn’t want her, why
doesn’t he tell her so? If he does, why not put it to her in the usual
way?’
‘Don’t you think, Captain, that a word from you----’
‘No, sir. He won’t listen to one word, nor a thousand words, from
anybody.’
‘Consider, your daughter’s happiness is at stake. Can any girl like
to go on year after year engaged to a man who treats her with absolute
neglect and icy coldness? Is it fair to keep a girl going on in this
way year after year? Could he not, at least, take back his promise and
set her free? You are her father; it is for you to interfere.’
The Captain froze instantly. ‘Perhaps, Sir George, under ordinary
circumstances that might be so. But you forget that we have eaten
Robert’s bread and slept under his roof for five years, and you forget,
besides, that he is the most masterful man in the world, and he means
to have his own way.’
‘Still, to marry a girl against her will----’
‘How do I know that it is against her will? To be sure, she’s a little
afraid of him--many women are afraid of the man before they marry.
Afterwards it’s different, and let me tell you, sir, that most women
like a man to be masterful. They get their own way fast enough; but
they like him to be masterful.’
‘Perhaps; but this neglect of Robert’s----’
‘Never mind that. He’ll make it up when they do marry. It’s all there,
only bottled up. These bottles do pour it out when the time comes--in
the most surprising manner. You’ll see what an appreciative husband
he’ll make some day. Let things be, Sir George. You’ve brought her
health and roses; Robert, who will be grateful when he notices it, will
do all the rest. I dare say she frets and peaks a bit for want of the
kissing and the fondling that all girls naturally expect. Let her have
a little patience, I say. And don’t let’s disturb things when they are
comfortable, especially the puddings.’
We spoke no more of love. We continued to go about together with free
and unrestrained discourse. As the evenings began to close in, we
ceased the long journeys to villages and village churches, and took
picture-galleries and concerts instead on Saturday afternoon. Or I
remained in the evening at the house, while Isabel played and sang
to me; she played much better already, and she sang with untrained
sweetness. One evening, when the pianoforte was loaded with new music
and new songs, and the books she was reading, she laid her hands upon
them all.
‘You have given me everything,’ she said. ‘But these things are only
alleviations. The future is always before me--dark and horrible. Oh! I
pray that it may be postponed so long as to become impossible. I shall
grow old and ugly, and then I hope he will take back his promise.’
‘Unless,’ I said, ‘he can be induced to take it back before.’
Then an incident took place which disquieted me very much indeed--a
very dangerous incident. It was this:
Robert was in his study after dinner forging an oration. Isabel was in
the parlour practising. On the table was a bundle of papers and certain
blue-books. He took up the books and began to turn over the leaves,
marking passages. He wanted these passages copied, to be used in his
speech. He took paper and pen and began to copy. Then Isabel’s playing
reminded him of her. He got up, opened the door and called her.
She came obediently. That afternoon she was dressed in some light blue
summer stuff with a ribbon and a flower, because she now loved a little
touch of finery. The soft cheek, the depths of her eyes, her light,
feathery hair, her ethereal look, might have moved the heart of St.
Anthony. So far they had produced no impression at all upon her lover.
He nodded when she appeared--nodded pleasantly; he had a very fine
speech nearly ready; he had learned it by heart; it was certain to
carry the people away; he only wanted these extracts copied.
‘Take these blue-books,’ he said, with the old tone of command. ‘You
will find the pages marked with a red pencil. Copy out all the passages
marked, and let me have them by to-morrow morning.’
‘I am no longer your clerk, Robert.’
‘What?’
‘I say that I am no longer your clerk. You released me three months
ago. Had I continued, I believe I should have been dead by this time. I
will not copy passages for you.’
‘Isabel!’ He was amazed.
‘Let us understand each other. I am your housekeeper. I will do for
the house anything and everything. I am not your clerk or your private
secretary or your accountant. You must get someone else to do that work
for you.’
‘Isabel!’
‘I am grateful to you for taking us in and keeping us all these years.
If you think I ought to do more for my father’s maintenance and my own,
I will give up and try for another place.’
‘You are a fool, Isabel!’ he said roughly.
‘Very likely. Is it polite to tell me so? You have learned a great deal
about the world of late; Robert--do you think it is polite to call the
girl you are engaged to--a fool?’
‘No, no, no! of course I didn’t mean that. But--Isabel--what in the
world has come over you?’
He actually saw the change at last, or something of the change; not all
of it, otherwise the subsequent history would be different. It was
the very first time that the girl had ever refused work, or objected,
or complained. For four or five months there had been slowly going on
under his eyes the transformation of which you have heard; but because
it was so slow and gradual, and because he was always completely
absorbed in himself, and because he had never thought it necessary to
consider the appearance of the girl at all, having still in him so much
of the working man as not to desire beauty in his wife, and not to
think about it--he had observed nothing. Now, however, when the word of
resistance and refusal opened his eyes, he was amazed to see standing
before him, in the place of the mild, meek maiden, who humbly took
whatever he gave, and humbly executed whatever he commanded, always
with downcast eyes and hanging head, a lovely, airy, fairy creature,
too dainty altogether for such a man as himself, a beautiful, bright,
sunny girl, a head held upright, and steady eyes that met his own
without the least fear or show of humility.
‘Isabel!’ he repeated, ‘what in the name of wonder has come over you?’
‘I don’t know. You have been thinking about your own affairs, I
suppose. But oh--it is nothing.’ She turned to leave him, being, in
fact, frightened at the admiration expressed in his eyes for the first
time--it was quite a new expression, and it terrified her horribly.
‘No, no; don’t go, Isabel.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘You are
looking so wonderfully well, and--and pretty this afternoon.’
She began to tremble. Robert to say things complimentary!
‘There is nothing more to say, is there?’
He leaned his chin in his left hand, and replied slowly: ‘I remember
now. George talked to me about you, Isabel, when he first came. He said
you were overworked. I don’t always remember, perhaps, that you are
only a girl. I may have given you too much to do.’
‘I am only housekeeper now.’
‘Very well, then. I don’t mean to be unkind, you see. But, of course, I
can’t be always thinking about your health and your whims, can I?’
‘Of course not.’
‘George said you wanted fresh air, and a change and exercise, and all
kinds of fiddle-faddle stuff, and to see how other girls carry on--so
as to take your proper place when I have advanced myself. Well, I told
him I wished he would take care of you, and take you about a bit,
seeing that I couldn’t afford the time myself. Has he taken you about?’
‘Yes; all the summer. He has been most kind and generous.’
‘George is that sort of man, I believe, ready to waste any amount of
time in dangling after a girl. Well, Isabel, as I could not dangle
after you, I am very much obliged to him. And I must say that the
change is wonderful. You look ever so much better. Your face, which
used to be too pale, is full of colour, and your eyes are brighter,
and--why, Isabel, give me your hands.’
He held out both hands, but Isabel made no response. And there was
an unexpected look in his eyes which frightened her. He got up, not
hastily, not like a passionate pilgrim, but slowly, and with the
dignity of possession and authority. Isabel trembled as she realized
this phenomenon. Between herself and the door stood Robert. She could
not run away. She thought of crying for help--her father was in his
own room--but a girl can hardly call out for protection against the
threatened kiss of her engaged lover. And perhaps he didn’t mean it,
after all. Yet his eyes looked hungry.
In the corner beside the fireplace stood one of those revolving
bookcases filled with books; a heavy thing which turns round when it
is pushed with zeal and vigour. Isabel retreated behind this bookcase.
‘Let me go!’ she cried. ‘Do not touch me!’
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘Come out of that corner, Isabel.
Why, you are not a baby; and you are my girl. Come out quietly, and
don’t be silly.’
‘No--you promised--you said that there should be no--no----’
‘Oh yes: stuff and nonsense! I said so, I dare say. I couldn’t
interrupt work and distract my thoughts with fondling and kissing. Not
to be expected. Besides, that was a year ago and more, and you were not
the girl then that you are now. Come, Isabel, don’t be shy.’
‘No, no, I won’t have it! I couldn’t bear it. Oh, horrible! Let me go!’
She gave the bookcase a vigorous shove, and it revolved ponderously
with its weight of a hundred books. Robert fell back.
It is not pleasant for one’s sweetheart to speak of a threatened kiss
as horrible. His face grew dark.
‘You are going to marry me, Isabel, I believe?’
‘Not yet--not for a long time yet; not till you are an Archbishop of
Canterbury, or something. And until we do marry, Robert, I will take
you at your word. There shall be no fondling, as you call it.’
‘When you marry me you will have to obey me. There can only be one
master in one house.’
‘I am not your wife yet, remember. I am not at your orders except
as your housekeeper. Pray do not imagine that you have any right to
command a woman because she has promised to be your wife. After I am
your wife--if ever I am----’
He wavered. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I cannot command your obedience so
long as you are not my wife. But come out from that retreat, and sit
down and let us talk. I will not attempt to command you in anything.
Perhaps we need not wait so long as first we thought. Perhaps--as soon
as I am in the House----’
‘No,’ she replied; ‘you must promise to let me go, or I will stay
behind this bookcase all night.’
‘You can go then, Isabel,’ he replied, flinging himself into his chair;
‘I will not stop you.’
She passed out without a word. But she was shaken; she went to her own
room and sat down to think. Was Robert, too, changing? Was his ancient
indifference turning into admiration? and though her experience of
the manly heart was small, she felt by instinct that admiration might
at any moment leap into passion, and passion into a demand for the
fulfilment of her promise. ‘Oh,’ she groaned and cried, ‘I cannot marry
him--I cannot--I cannot--I would rather die!’
But she told no one, not even her physician. And that evening the
furrow reappeared on her brow, and the cloud on her face, and Robert,
coming in to tea, saw again the maiden meek and mild, and wondered what
had become of the princess, and why he had experienced, if only for a
brief moment, that novel and singular feeling of admiration.
‘George,’ said Robert after tea, when we were alone, ‘women are queer
skittish creatures. There’s Isabel, now.’
‘Yes; there is Isabel.’
‘Formerly I had only to lift my little finger and she ran. She’d do
just as much work as I pleased to order. To-day she flatly refused to
do anything.’
‘Quite right.’
‘And when I told her--a man may surely say as much to his own
girl--that she was changed and improved--which she certainly is, thanks
to you--she wanted to run away.’
‘Did she?’
‘And when I offered to kiss her--a man may surely kiss his own
girl--she shrieked out and ran behind the revolving bookcase.’
‘Oh, did she? But, I say, Robert, hadn’t you promised that there was to
be no kissing, and fondling, and stuff?’
‘Well--well--I had, I dare say. But who wanted to kiss the girl a year
ago? It’s different now. She’s become an amazingly pretty girl. If it
wasn’t for this election business I would--I certainly would----’
‘Better not,’ I said solemnly. ‘Much better not--yet.’
And now you understand how disquieting this incident was.
CHAPTER XVI.
DISSOLUTION.
What might have happened after this act of open rebellion I do not
know. Perhaps these terrifying overtures were the first signs of a
real but as yet unconscious passion, just called into existence by
some unexpected charm of a girl whose charms he had never understood.
Certain I am that a man so complete in all his faculties could not lack
the universal faculty of love; it is only dullards who are cold to
Venus. The greatest men have always been the most open to the charms
of women; subsequent events proved so much at least in Robert’s case.
Equally certain it is that had this sleeping lover been awakened
completely, he would have paid small attention to any obstacle or
resistance offered by his mistress. She would have been ordered to put
on a white frock, and she would have been dragged to the altar. The
bells would have rung once more at the parish church of Wapping for
the wedding of another Burnikel, a boat-builder, like his ancestors.
Providence interposed to avert this calamity, and, in order to make it
impossible, provided earthquakes and convulsions. Proud indeed should
that maiden be, for whom, in order to prevent her own unhappy marriage,
the whole nation should be thrown into agitation.
It came the very next morning--the day after this lovers’ quarrel.
The thing happened which Robert had been expecting so long. You all
remember how everybody said it was coming--coming--coming. And it
came not. The Government, with its narrow majority, still hung on; it
still discussed and passed Bills. All the papers on one side declared
that the Dissolution must come; they said it must come in a month--a
week--the day after to-morrow at latest. How could a Cabinet go on with
their absurd little majority? The papers on the other side declared
that the Government could go on for ever if they pleased, even with
a majority of one; but their confidence was weakened by the rumours
published in the same columns, and by the reports of movements, the
appearance of candidates, and the active work already beginning among
the constituencies. And the by-elections, one after the other, were
going against the Government. And outsiders like Robert daily saw more
reason for believing that there must be, before long, an appeal to
the country. But still the Government continued. Then, lo! the thing
came--and it seemed to burst upon the world as quite an unexpected
thing. We received it as if we had no idea of its possibility.
Robert took his paper, like most of us, as a part of his breakfast.
This morning he opened it with less eagerness than usual, because
his mind was disturbed by that little rebellion in the study. He was
uncertain, I believe, how to comport himself with the culprit, who
now sat opposite him with looks still mutinous. But the thing that he
read in the forefront of the paper drove all other thoughts out of his
head. And so far as concerned Isabel, they never came back again, as
you shall hear, if you have patience. There it was, in big letters,
DISSOLUTION.
He read the announcement, and the lines that followed, first swiftly,
as one always reads things that are surprising. The plain, bald
intelligence of an event can be mastered in a moment. The bearings and
meanings and possibilities and certainties and doubtfulnesses of the
event take a second and a third reading for fuller comprehension. It is
a strange power, that of reading a whole column of news in one glance
down a column. We all have it in moments of excitement. The first time,
then, that Robert read the news he grasped it all at that one glance;
the second time and the third time he read it more slowly, turning over
in his mind at the same moment the possible relation of the Dissolution
of Parliament to himself.
Nothing national has ever much affected me, nor is it likely to affect
me now, unless it makes the price of materials prohibitory.
Then he laid down the paper, and gazed across the table at Isabel, who
was still under the terror of yesterday, and feared new developments.
There was no cause for any such anxiety.
‘It has come,’ he said solemnly. And then she knew that she was safe
for the moment, because she divined what had happened.
‘What has come?’ asked the Captain, astonished, looking up from his
plate of bacon.
‘What I have been looking for, what is going to make my fortune--the
General Election--has come. That’s all. Only the General Election! At
last!’ he sighed. Then he threw the paper across the table. ‘You can
have it,’ he said. ‘Anyone can have it. There’s no more news in it so
far as I care. The dissolution of Parliament! There’s news enough for
me--quite enough.’
He swallowed his tea, and retreated to his own den without more words.
‘Oh,’ said the Captain thoughtfully, ‘it’s a General Election, is it?
Then, they’ll have an election at Shadwell, I suppose. Ah! and Robert
will get in. They all tell me he’ll get in. And they say he’ll work
wonders when he does get in. Very likely. I don’t know much about these
things, Isabel, but I’ve lived for sixty-five years, and they’ve been
looking for wonders all the time, it seems to me. When I used to come
home--which was once in five years or so--I used to say. “Well, what
are you doing--looking for wonders?” That’s what they always confessed
that they were looking after. And the wonders never came, and, what was
more wonderful, we got on quite as well without them. One after the
other I remember them all. There was Palmerston and Johnny Russell, and
John Bright and Gladstone, and Bradlaugh and Balfour--but the wonders
never came. Next it’s going to be Burnikel, if he’s lucky and can make
’em believe in him. Well, well, Burnikel and Wonders! Robert’s as good
as any of ’em, you’ll see. Give me some more tea, my dear.’
‘Since Robert wants to get into the House, I hope he will. I don’t
understand why he should want it.’
‘I hope so, too. Because you see, Isabel, since we are alone--it’s a
delicate subject to talk about; but, as I say, since we are alone’--the
Captain approached the subject with some difficulty--‘we may talk a bit
about what we can’t talk about very well either with George or Robert.’
‘What is it, father?’
‘Well, my dear, it’s about this engagement of yours. I confess I don’t
like the way it’s going on--there!’
‘Oh, don’t vex yourself, father, about my engagement. You can do no
good by interfering.’
‘I don’t want to interfere, but I don’t like it, I say. Robert a lover?
Why, he takes no more notice of you than if you were a log.’
‘Never mind, father; it is his way.’
‘And you the prettiest girl, though I say it, within a mile all
round--that is, the prettiest girl since George came and put a little
colour into your cheeks, and made you sit upright. Why, you are not the
same girl. I shouldn’t know you again. You are twice the girl you were.
George has done it all--and all for Robert. And Robert sees nothing.’
‘It is his way, father,’ she repeated.
‘George don’t like it, either. He told me as much. He wants me to break
it off, and let Robert go free. Says Robert ought to cruise about in
search of an animated iceberg in petticoats, who would suit him.
Nothing short of an iceberg would suit him, that’s certain.’
‘Pray do not say or do anything, father, I implore you. Remember what
we owe to Robert. The least we can do in such a matter as this is to
respect his wishes. If he wants to put off his marriage, he must.’
‘I do remember, child. I wish I could forget,’ said the Captain
gloomily. ‘I live upon his bounty.’
‘Never by word, or by action, or by look, has he made us feel it,
father.’
‘I’ll be as grateful as you please, my dear; though somehow gratitude
isn’t one of the feelings which make a man cheerful. It’s a gloomy kind
of dish to eat, is gratitude. Come back to the engagement. You’ve been
engaged for four or five years--since you were seventeen, and now you
are twenty-one. Have you any reason to believe the time is coming?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Isabel. ‘He has said nothing.’
‘Four years is a terrible long time for a young man to wait. It isn’t
natural for a young man to wait so long. Do you suppose I would have
waited four years?’ The Captain laughed. ‘Four days was nearer the
mark. Isabel, do you suppose there’s--there’s someone else--up the
back-stairs--some other girl--another wife in another port?’
‘If Robert was in love with some other girl he would very soon make an
end of my engagement,’ said Isabel.
The Captain shook his head dubiously, as one loaded with sad
experiences, but refrained from pursuing that branch of the subject.
‘To be sure,’ he went on. ‘Robert’s a bookish man; he reads a good
deal, reads something every day. It’s the only use many of them get
of their eyes. But even the readingest of young fellows can’t be
always thinking about his books. Then he speechifies a good deal--makes
’em up, learns ’em, and fires ’em off; but a young fellow can’t be
always thinking about his speechifying. Mostly the young fellows of
the present day are like those of my day. They are fond of a song and
glass, and they like to shake a leg now and again, and to kiss a pretty
woman.’
‘Robert is not one of that kind. He never wants either a song or a
glass. And as for shaking a leg--oh!’
‘But to wait for four years--four long years. To go on waiting as if he
liked it. It sticks in the gizzard, my dear.’
‘I am in no hurry, please.’
‘I’m not thinking about you, my dear. No one expects you to be in a
hurry. I’m thinking about him. A woman always likes courtship better
than matrimony.’
‘I know as little of one as of the other,’ said Isabel.
‘Yes, my dear, and it’s a shame and a wonder. What is the man made of?
That’s what puzzles me. Well--but now--when Robert gets into the House
of Commons, which I’ve always understood that he desired, I suppose his
ambition will be satisfied, and the thing will come off.’
‘I am in no hurry,’ said Isabel. ‘And I do not know--and I shall not
ask him.’
‘Hang it! ’tis the man’s part--the man’s part, my dear--to be in a
hurry. So, I say, we may expect----’
‘Do not expect anything, father. Let us go on in silence. I am to marry
Robert when he is willing. Till then I wait.’
‘It was to come off, he told me, when he had done something or other.
Well, a man can’t be engaged for ever. The election, I expect, was what
he meant.’
The Captain took up the paper again and read the leading article in the
paper twice over, slowly.
‘There is no doubt, I suppose,’ he said, ‘though the papers do reel
off lies every day, that they have got the right end of the stick this
time. There will be a General Election, and Robert will get in, and----’
‘Father, do you suppose he really meant the Election?’
‘What more could he mean? And, as I said before, no man likes
to go on being engaged for ever. Wedding-bells will be ringing,
Isabel--wedding-bells, my dear.’
She rose and fled.
When I arrived at ten o’clock, Robert was still in his study, pacing
the room in uncontrollable agitation. ‘The time has come!’ he cried.
‘It has come! My chance has come. I feel as if it was my only chance.’
‘I congratulate you, Robert. As for your only chance, that is
rubbish. You are only twenty-six at the present moment. Applying the
arithmetical method, you may stand for nine Parliaments yet; probably
there will be many more chances between this and your seventieth
birthday.’
‘No, no. It could not be the same thing. I’ve thrown all my hopes, all
my powers of persuasion and argument, into this election. I could never
again be so fresh and so strong, or work so hard. I must succeed this
time. I am carrying the men away against their convictions--if they’ve
any--I am making them follow me. That means work.’
‘All right. You shall get in. I know nothing whatever about the
matter, because I never assisted at an election before; but here I
am; take me; take all my time; I will live here, if you like; I will
look after the yard for you. I have heard of Nottingham lambs being
wanted. I will become a lamb. Platforms are sometimes rushed and
candidates hustled off. I will get up a stalwart party of hustlers,
if you like. Candidates are heckled out of their five senses. I will
become a heckler of the most venomous kind for your opponents. I can’t
write epigrams and verses, because that part of my education has been
neglected. But here I am, Robert--one man, at least, at your service.’
‘Thanks, a thousand times. You shall join my committee, to begin with.
I must make haste to get my committee together; they shall all be
working men except you. I must sit down to prepare an address. I shall
have to arrange for an address somewhere or other every night till
polling-day. It’s going to be a splendid time--a magnificent time.
By----’ He swore a great oath, for the first time in his life. ‘My
chance has come--my chance has come!’
His voice softened; he sank into his chair and leaned his head upon
his hand. Robert was, for the moment, overcome. The spectacle of
this emotion pleased me. I suppose no one likes to think of a man as
altogether composed of cast-iron. When any ordinary human being sees
the thing for which all his life long he has worked and longed actually
within his reach, that ordinary or average human being is generally
a little overcome. Remember that in this case ambition had devoured
nearly all other passions. The man had had no youth; none of the
delightful freaks, fredaines and frolics of youth could be recorded of
this young man; the unfortunate Robert had never kissed a girl to his
subsequent confusion; nor scoured the streets; nor painted Wapping red;
nor passed his midnights over cups; he had worked and trained himself
for this end and none other. He would have been more than human had he
shown no sense of the crisis or juncture of events.
While he sat there, head in hand, Isabel stole in softly like a ghost,
and stood beside his chair. I made as if I would go, but she motioned
me to stay. By the two red spots in her cheeks I was made aware that
something decisive would be said.
He seemed not to observe her presence. She touched his shoulder.
‘Robert!’
‘Isabel!’ He started, and sat up, with a quick frown of irritation.
‘I have come to congratulate you, Robert,’ she said timidly.
‘Yes, thank you, Isabel. Thank you. Don’t say any more.’
‘When the General Election is over, you will have done what you
proposed to do, I suppose. I thought it would be years first. Your
ambition, I mean, will be achieved.’
‘Achieved? Why, Isabel, you understand nothing. That is only a
beginning.’
‘Oh! Only a beginning?’ She looked rather bewildered.
‘Why, what else should it be? No one would want to be a member of
Parliament only for the pride of it, I suppose.’
‘Oh! I thought----’
‘Look here, Isabel, I’m glad you came in. After the little
misunderstanding of yesterday, it’s as well to have a talk. You won’t
mind George; he knows all about it. Sit down there.’ Such was the
improvement in his manners that he actually got up and placed a chair
for her. As for me, I retired to the seat in the window, not proposing
to interrupt the conversation.
‘I will just tell you exactly what is the meaning of the situation. I
have told no one--no one except George, so far. I didn’t tell you,
because you wouldn’t understand. It isn’t in your way to see. You’ve
changed a bit since you took to going about with George’--there was not
a touch of jealousy in his mind--‘straightened yourself, and filled out
and improved so, that I hardly know you any more. You’re bigger than
you were, Isabel--I like a woman to look strong--but, still, I don’t
think you can quite understand.’
‘I should be glad to hear all your proposals, Robert.’
‘I am astonished now to think of it, how I dared, in my inexperience
and ignorance, to form such an ambition. If I had known, six months
ago, what the thing meant, I should have been afraid.’
‘No,’ said Isabel; ‘nothing would ever make you afraid.’
‘You think so, Isabel? Perhaps. In a general way I am not a coward.’
‘I suppose you want to do something great in the House of Commons?’
‘Put it that way if you please. I will give you details and
particulars.’
Isabel sat facing him. There was no look of passion or admiration on
his face. The hungry look had left his eyes, which were now filled with
the eagerness of the coming struggle. There was nothing to fear from
him. Indeed, at such a moment as this it is not of love that a man
can be expected to think: he may most lawfully and laudably think of
nothing but himself, even before Helen of Troy herself. But I thought,
looking at the two of them, What a strange pair of lovers! The man who
had never said a kind word--the girl who looked forward to her marriage
with terror!
‘Now, Isabel,’ he said, ‘I will tell you. I am going to enter the
House as a plain Master Craftsman, not a gentleman, except that
I know their tricks and phrases--I shall be a man experienced in
industrial questions and in everything concerned with work practical
and theoretical. They want such a man badly. I am going in as an
Independent Member, like John Bright. When I have made my mark in the
House, and am a power in it, as John Bright was, I shall perhaps join
a party in order to enter the Cabinet. And not till then. And perhaps
not at all. As for being one of the rank and file, saying what one is
told to say, put up to defend the incompetence and the blundering of
the commanders, calling the Irish members, for instance, all the names
under the sun one day, and all the opposite names the next day, just
to catch votes--to be everything and all things for votes--votes--more
votes--I won’t do it. That kind of work will not do for me.’
‘Well?’ Either Isabel did not understand the point, or else it had no
interest for her. She looked unconcerned, and spoke coldly.
‘I told George at the outset. I called upon him on purpose to tell him
all this when he was a stranger, and he managed to fall in with it as
soon as he saw that I meant business. At the first go-off he thought I
was a conceited windbag--one of the ignorant lot turned out by every
local Parliament. I could see very well what he thought. When he saw
that I was a determined kind of chap he fell in with it, I say, and
helped me all he could.’
‘Yes?’ Isabel showed no manner of interest in this revelation of
political ambition.
‘And thought about this and about that thing wanted. Oh, the essentials
of the thing were all right--the knowledge, and the appearance, and the
power of speech; but there was one thing wanting. I had never thought
of such an omission, and without him I could never have repaired that
omission. I’m not ashamed to say, not as things have gone, that what I
wanted was manners.’
‘Manners!’ cried Isabel, showing interest at this point. ‘You to want
manners!’
‘Just what I said myself. But George was right. There’s a thousand
little ways in which the fellows at the West End are different from us.
They are mostly tricks invented to show that they are a superior race.
I’ve learned these tricks, and now, I believe, I can pretend to be a
gentleman.’
‘You never were anything else.’
‘There are gentlemen and gentlemen, Isabel. Have you noticed any change
in me?’
‘Well, Robert,’ she replied timidly, ‘I have thought that you were
gentler.’
‘Of course. One of the things is to repress yourself, and pretend not
to care. That’s what you call being gentle.’
‘Oh, but to learn manners!’ said Isabel.
‘I would do a great deal more than that for the sake of getting on.
Well, now you know what we did when I went away with George every
evening.’
‘And when you get on in the House?’ She returned to the main point.
‘I say that, when I have made my mark, I may take office; but I don’t
know quite what I shall do. It may be best to stay outside.’
‘Best, you mean, for your power or for your reputation?’
‘For both.’
‘Power is what you desire more than anything else in the world, Robert.
You have always desired it.’
‘Always. There is nothing in the world worth having compared with
power, Isabel. I want to be a leader--nothing less than that--mind--is
my ambition. I understand now how it must seem to other people a wild
and presumptuous dream for a man in my position. I don’t care a straw
what it seems. I realize how great a thing it is, and I am just all the
more confirmed in my resolution.’
‘And when you are a leader!’ It was quite impossible to make Isabel
understand the audacity of this ambition. She thought that Robert would
simply stand upon the floor of the House of Commons in order to receive
the distinctions that would be showered upon him; that everybody would
immediately begin to offer him posts of honour, because he was so
strong and masterful a man.
‘Well, one thing, Isabel: as soon as I am in the Cabinet--say Home
Secretary--my first ambition will be achieved. Then, as regards a
certain promise----’
‘How long,’ she interrupted quickly, ‘do you think it will take before
you arrive so far?’
‘No one can say. A party gets turned out or keeps in. At the quickest
time possible for a new man to work his way and be recognised, and put
over the heads of other men, one can’t very well expect such success in
less than five years.’
‘It can only be done in five years,’ I interposed for the first time,
‘under the most favourable circumstances possible--if the present
Government gets returned again, if it stays in five years, if you meet
with immediate success, if vacancies occur among the chiefs, if you are
able to serve in some subordinate capacity. If I were you, Robert, I
should say ten years.’
‘Well; in ten years,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘A year or two is neither
here nor there if a man is advancing all the time.’
‘And a woman is waiting,’ I added.
‘Ten years!’ said Isabel. ‘But your side may get turned out.’
‘They may; then it might be longer. Of course, if a man once becomes
a power in the House, he becomes also a power in the country. His
influence may go on increasing.’
‘Ten years! That is a very long time. There will be many changes in ten
years.’
‘Changes? I dare say--I dare say. I hope so. I shall make some changes
myself.’
‘Changes in your own mind, Robert.’
He saw what she meant. ‘I think not, Isabel. A promise is a promise.
When my word is passed the thing is as good as done.’
She got up. ‘I won’t waste your time any longer, Robert. I am glad to
hear what your ambitions really mean. It was about that--promise--that
I came to see you. I thought the time was come when you might want to
fulfil that promise.’
‘Not yet, Isabel.’
‘Not yet. I came to set you free, if you wished to be set free.’
‘To set me free?’
‘Because a man like you should not be hampered by an engagement,
especially with a woman whom--I mean--you ought to be free. So, Robert,
I do set you free--if you desire it.’
‘What makes you think that I desire it, Isabel? I don’t desire it.’
‘That is because you don’t know other women. So, Robert, it shall be
always and at any time as you desire. We owe so much to you that
this is due to you in return. I will wait for the fulfilment of that
promise for ten years, twenty years, all my life, if you please. I will
cheerfully set you free whenever you desire to be released. That is
all, Robert.’
‘Why,’ said Robert, ‘there spoke a good and reasonable girl. But you’ve
given me quite as much in work as I’ve given you in board and lodging.
You owe me nothing. As for being released, ask me if I want to be
released when I am the Right Honourable Robert Burnikel, Secretary
of State for India. And now let’s make an end of thanksgivings and
explainings, and get to business; there’s lots of work before us.’
‘Let me help you, Robert. My shorthand and typewriting ought to be of
some use to you.’
‘I wouldn’t ask you, Isabel; but you can be of the greatest use. I take
it very kindly of you after yesterday.’ He held out his hand in token
of forgiveness. Isabel accepted it, smiling graciously. ‘I do indeed,
Isabel, after yesterday’s little misunderstanding.’ He held her hand
and looked her straight in the face; and not one touch of softening in
his eyes, not the slightest look of love.
It was just what I expected of Isabel. She offered Robert his release
if he would take it; if he would not, she remained bound to him for
life, if need be, by promise. A barren and a hopeless engagement,
miserable in either event--fulfilment or waiting. And for myself----
But just then was not a moment propitious for thinking of one’s own
broken eggs and shattered crockery. Besides, I was always quite sure
that there would be a way out of it.
Then Isabel took her old place as shorthand clerk, and Robert walked
about his room dictating to her and talking to me. I understood
for the first time how a man may come to regard a woman as a mere
mechanical contrivance for working purposes. He spoke to Isabel, once
more his clerk, as if she were a senseless log. He ordered her to write
this, to write that. I think that I could never bring myself to forget
the sex or the humanity of a girl clerk.
That day, the first of many busy days, we arranged a great many things.
During the dinner-hour we adjourned to the Yard, and turned that into a
reception-room for the working men, who came in crowds. We arranged for
addresses; we got together our committee; we opened our headquarters;
we prepared our address to the constituents; we wrote our placards and
our handbills; we started our election cries; in a word, we lost no
time. And in order to be on the spot, I took up my residence in the
house, being assigned the old four-poster of the ancient John Burnikel,
Master Mariner.
‘My career is beginning,’ said Robert at eleven o’clock, after the
first great speech had been delivered--‘it is beginning. Well, I am not
afraid--I am not in the least afraid. The House of Commons is no more
difficult to move than the music-hall of Shadwell. There’s only one way
to move any class of hearers: you must first talk to interest them;
that’s grip. I’ve got the grip of a bull-dog. Then you must talk to
make ’em cry. I can make ’em cry.’
‘If you make the House of Commons cry,’ I said, ‘they’ll shove you up
into the House of Lords.’
‘And you must be able to make ’em laugh. I can make ’em laugh.’
‘If you can make the House of Commons laugh, Robert, they’ll never let
you go up to the other House at all.’
CHAPTER XVII.
GENERAL ELECTION.
Despite the changes, suppressions, repressions, and new conditions
which have been imposed upon the good old election, there is still
some excitement left. We may sigh and pine for the brave days when an
election lasted six weeks; when everybody marched up valiantly though
clubs were shaken in his face and might be broken over his head, and
gave his vote openly before all the world; when the people who had
no vote contributed their share in the representation of the country
by free fights, hustling and belabouring the voters; when drink
flowed as freely as when Wat Tyler held the city; when everybody had
to take a side, and behaved accordingly; when the chairmen brought
their poles, and the sailors brought their clubs, and the butchers
brought their marrow-bones and cleavers--and all for use, and not for
fashionable display; when none thought shame to take a bribe; when
the air was thick with showers of epigrams, libels, and scurrilous
accusations; when the Father of Lies held his headquarters, for the
time, in the borough; when the whole of a mans record was exposed
to view, with trimmings and additions, and the most ingenious and
diabolic perversions of the truth; when the public-houses were open
to all electors free, and beer and gin and rum were attainable by the
humblest; when every elector knew his value, and proudly appraised
himself to its full extent; when the candidates stood upon the hustings
courageously facing showers of dead cats, putrid rabbits, addled eggs,
and cabbage-stalks--about a fortnight before an election all the cats
in the country died, and all the dead rabbits became putrid, and all
the eggs were addled, and all the cabbage-stalks went rotten. Thus doth
Nature accommodate herself to the ways of man. Those of us who read of
the good old days may pine for them; those who have not read of them
will find little at the present day to remind them of former customs.
At Shadwell there were none of these things. A fight there was, but
only one. None of the ancient customs were observed; only those humours
of an election which still survive were with us; and these are mild.
It was an active time for those who, like me, went electioneering. The
papers spoke of nothing else; certainly at our house no one talked of
anything else. I suppose that something went on as usual in the yard;
but no one heeded the building of boats. Everybody told everybody else
that business was completely stopped. That may be. In the High Street,
however, the cranes on the third-floors of the warehouses continued
their activity, and the waggons full and empty rumbled along the
street. They didn’t mind the General Election, and the ships went in
and out of the docks without minding the General Election in the least.
Also the working men went backwards and forwards. And they didn’t seem
to mind the General Election in the least. Everybody said, however,
that the world thought of nothing else. We made our own racket, I
suppose, and thought that all the world was joining in.
And we worked--heavens! how we worked! Of course we were Robert’s
servants--his slaves, even. He issued commands. At his committee
he did not consult his friends; he commanded them. And, of course,
everybody obeyed. He ordered me to speak for him in the less eligible
districts, and when he was speaking elsewhere. Well, I, who had never
before spoken, obediently went to speak. I prepared speeches: I found
freedom of speech. I even arrived at some popularity. ‘We’d send
you to Parliament,’ they told me, ‘if it wasn’t for your cousin.’ I
harangued on Robert’s lines, as zealously as a Party man who hopes for
office; I pulled the enemy’s addresses and manifestoes to pieces; I
showed their abominable inconsistency; their delusive promises; their
wicked self-seeking; their shameful ambitions. Oh, the wickedness and
the foolishness of the other side! The world will never be righteous,
mind you, or generous, or just, till the other side gives up its
self-seeking and its pretences. And then I canvassed--yes! I walked
through all the streets of Shadwell Borough: they are mostly streets
with a full-flavoured fragrance hanging about them--the frying of fish
in oil is an industry much practised; I solicited the votes of all
the voters; I was received with contumely and with sarcasms, and even
with open abuse, in some parts, and with a free hospitality in other
parts which was almost worse than the abuse. I also manufactured some
lampoons which I thought were rather effective. I sent them to Frances,
who told me that I ought to be standing in my cousin’s place and doing
all this work for myself. She was good enough, however, to express a
hope that so strong a speaker and so vigorous a speaker as myself might
get into the House, where, she added, he would very quickly find his
own level.
Robert’s committee was composed almost entirely of working men.
The employers and shopkeepers, and a good many of the working men,
understood two things only, Liberal or Conservative. Politics must mean
one thing or the other. That a candidate should be neither Liberal nor
Conservative, but only himself, they could not understand.
There is no local press at Shadwell, but the London papers, when they
spoke of our election prospects, ignored Robert as a mere outsider.
The seat, of course, was for the Liberal candidate, or for the
Conservative, one or the other. No one knew, or guessed, what Robert
had done in the borough by his three months’ course of speeches and
lectures. The newspapers spoke of him as merely a local man without
local influence. He was called a Socialist, being an Individualist of
the deepest dye, and a demagogue, being a man who sought to teach the
people, but not to flatter them. It was said that he had no importance
except that he would take away a few votes from this side or that. The
newspapers understood nothing about it, as you shall see.
Before many days were over, I was as much absorbed in the election as
Robert himself. I lived altogether at Wapping. We began work early
in the morning, at seven, and we ended it at midnight. The committee
sat all day long; that is to say, the only man among them who was not
a working man--myself--sat all day long. We issued our candidate’s
address, which was a bold appeal for election on the ground of
knowledge and personal fitness. As for burning questions, we dismissed
them. Abolition of the Lords? Not possible. What was the use of
discussing for election purposes a question not yet within the reach
of the Commons? The Disestablishment of the Church? Whether that would
do any good to the people of the country or not was an open question.
Meantime, was the measure even possible at the present moment? No.
Then why consider it? Was there to be an Eight Hours Bill? Then there
would have to be an eight hours’ pay, with reductions, otherwise the
employer would be ruined. And so on. Our independent candidate would
promise nothing, except the support of such measures as he himself,
exercising his own judgment, might think calculated to advance the
whole community. He said that he would vote for no interest; that he
would not needlessly disturb existing institutions; that old things,
grown up in the course of centuries, meant things befitting the mind
of the people, and so far should be respected. He offered himself as a
man who knew things. He reminded the electors that they had heard his
addresses, and had learned his views. If they approved of him and his
opinions, they would send him to Parliament, where they would find him
able, at least, to set the House right on a good many matters of fact.
‘I am not,’ he said, ‘and never shall be, a Socialist. Any attempt to
destroy the Individual must inevitably fail, because all work--every
enterprise--every invention--every advance--is caused by the individual
acting for himself at the right moment, and not by the Society, which
can never act at all. But I want every way open to the man who has the
ability and the courage to rise. And I would have the relations of
employer and workman to rest upon some method recognised and adopted
by both sides. I shall always speak, and vote, on the side of the
working man, though I am an employer, until such an understanding has
been arrived at. My dream of society is of such an organization as will
provide order and liberty for every man to work as he can, and protect
him against tyranny; which will give every man such a wage as the
conditions of his trade allow; which will leave the door wide open for
all who are strong enough to pass through and to climb up.’
When one contrasted this address, strong and manly--we called it--with
the conventional phrases--we called them conventional--of the other
candidates, it seemed marvellous--to ourselves--that anyone should vote
for them at all.
Every evening the canvassers went round and brought back their sheaves
of promises with them; every day it became more and more certain that
we had the people with us. At the end there was no doubt possible. But
the other candidates still believed in the ‘merely local’ theory, and
they spoke of him with scorn as the working man’s candidate.
Every evening for four weeks Robert spoke. On Sundays he spoke at the
working men’s clubs, in their own club-houses; on Mondays he spoke in
such halls and big rooms as can be got in this neighbourhood. It was
one evening just before the polling that the fight happened which has
been mentioned above.
We were in the same music-hall to which I had brought Frances on
a certain memorable occasion. Robert would still have no chairman
or committee-men on the platform. He stood alone; with some of the
committee I was in the stage-box. Now I observed, when we took our
places, a lot of fellows whose faces were unfamiliar to me--yet by
this time I knew all Shadwell; they were standing gathered together in
the orchestra. They talked to each other, and nodded their heads, and
stuck elbows in each other, with a good deal of earnestness, as if they
designed something; they all carried sticks; and they looked inclined
for mischief. Well, at election time there is still something left of
the old leaven. It looked to me as if they meant to rush the platform.
Robert would be alone there; if these fellows should try to rush it,
how would he defend it by himself? I mentioned my suspicions--we
resolved to jump down to the stage if there should be any need.
Well, our candidate came on: he was received with a storm of applause;
but the men in the orchestra did not applaud: they only whispered
and nudged each other. Robert began his address. The company in the
orchestra continued to whisper; they did not pretend to listen. After
the speaker had gone on for a few minutes the house became perfectly
silent, carried away by the current of the speech flowing full and
strong and clear. The voice of the man was magnetic; it would be heard;
it recommended silence. Then suddenly one man blew a whistle. Instantly
the men in the orchestra at either end climbed up on the platform,
shouting and brandishing their sticks.
The whole house rose, crying ‘Down! down! Off! off!’ And then followed
the finest display of physical strength and bravery that I have ever
seen. There were at least a dozen of them, equally divided. Robert
seized the chair beside him, and with this for weapon he fell upon
the party on the right, and literally broke the chair to pieces over
their heads. We might have leaped down and joined him, but there was
no need; the battle was over as soon as it was begun; the assailants
fell back one over the other; their heads were broken, their teeth were
knocked out, their collar-bones were broken. Robert wielded his chair
with the lightning-like dexterity of a skilful player in the olden
time who wielded his quarter-staff. It seemed but a moment before the
fellows of the right-hand party were down again, broken to pieces, with
no more courage for the fray. Robert kicked the last of them over the
footlights into the orchestra. He then turned to the second party. But
they had seen enough; they were now tumbling over each other to the
place whence they came in much greater haste than they had shown to
mount the stage. Then Robert stood alone. A streak of blood lay on his
white shirt-front: it came from his lip, which was cut, but not badly;
his table was upset, his water-decanter broken, his chair lay about in
fragments. And then, oh! I have never heard such a splendid tumult of
applause. From every throat it came; from every man and woman present
there arose such a storm and rolling, roaring, continuous thunder of
applause as I have never heard before or since. Who is there among us
that does not rejoice to see an act of bravery and strength? One man
against a dozen, and where were all the rest? Again--again--again--will
it never stop?
A hand was laid upon my shoulder. I turned quickly. It was Frances.
‘I came to hear your orator again,’ she whispered; ‘but I have seen
him as well. George, it was splendid! Oh, the great, strong, brave
creature! He must get in--he must!’
Then Robert, advancing to the front, held up his hand for silence, for
the people, having tasted blood, wanted more fighting, and were now
roaring for the disturbers of the peace to be thrown to the lions; and
the ill-advised rushers, caught in a trap of their own making, were
looking at each other with rueful countenance, expectant of a troublous
five minutes. Imagine the Christian martyrs going to be let out into an
arena full of lions, all hungry. And these poor fellows had not, it was
clear, the support of faith. They had been paid to make a row and break
up the meeting, and now it looked as if they had achieved martyrdom.
Silence obtained, Robert pointed to the orchestra below him. ‘I
think,’ he said, ‘that before we go on, these gentlemen had better be
removed. If they do not go quietly, I will go down among them myself
with all that is left of the chair. In taking them out, remember that
there are, perhaps, a few ribs and collar-bones broken. Please not to
kick the men with the broken bones down the stairs!’
The house roared with joy; the men jumped up and poured to the front.
They summoned the rushers to come out of that, or--they promised truly
dreadful things as an alternative. But these misguided young men
surrendered; they climbed ruefully over the pew. As each descended he
was escorted between two of our fellows to the stairs, and then, one
had reason to believe, he was assisted down those stairs by strange
boots. The unfortunates on whose skulls and ribs the chair had been
broken came last, all the conceit out of them, with hanging heads, and
the exhibition of pocket-handkerchiefs. They were received with cheers
derisive.
‘And now,’ said Robert, when they were gone, ‘let us go back to
business.’
And I really believe, so great is the admiration of the crowd for
personal bravery and a man who can fight, that this little adventure
brought him as many votes as all his speeches. For once the people were
presented with evidence conclusive that they really had a very strong
man before them.
‘I am glad I came,’ said Frances, when the meeting was over. ‘I never
saw a brave man before. Oh, what a thing it must be to be a man! And
you go and throw it all away. Take me down now. My carriage is waiting
by the door, I believe.’
I led her down the stairs, in the splendid dress which was always part
of her, through the people, who made way for her right and left--the
poor women with their pinched and shabby shawls, and the working men in
their working dress.
‘You people all,’ she said, standing at the top of the staircase, ‘I
have heard a splendid address to-night, and I have seen a splendid
thing. If you don’t send that splendid speaker and that splendid man to
the House of Commons, you deserve to be disfranchised.’
‘Don’t be frightened, lady,’ said one of the men, whom I knew to be a
rank Socialist; ‘we’ll send him there fast enough, especially if you’ll
come here and speak for him.’
So she got into the carriage and drove off, while the crowd shouted
after her.
And this was the nearest approach to the old-fashioned humours of an
election that we had to show.
When the day of polling arrived we had no carriages. Robert would not
pay for any, and no one offered to lend him any. The carriages of
Liberal and Conservative ran about all day long, but our voters had to
walk. In the evening they came by companies, among them all the costers
of the quarter with their barrows. What made the costers vote for
Robert, if it was not that very noble battle on the stage?
And when the votes were counted, Robert was head of the poll by 754
votes.
So he had got the desire of his heart, and was a Member of Parliament.
He had worked for it for seven years; he had even descended so far as
to learn manners, which was at first a very bitter pill. He had trained
his voice, and taught himself the art of oratory; he had studied
economics of all kinds; he was patient, courageous, tenacious, and he
was ambitious. What would he do after all this preparation?
CHAPTER XVIII.
IN THE HOUSE.
Then followed the meeting of the newly-elected Commons. Our own member
went off with a quiet air of self-reliance, not arrogance. ‘I am not
in the least afraid of my own powers,’ he repeated. ‘I have tried and
proved them. I shall speak to the House first, and to the country next.’
‘Don’t be in a hurry to begin, Robert.’
‘Certainly not. I shall wait until a question arises on which I can
speak with authority. And I shall not speak often. My first ambition is
that, when I do rise, the House may look for a solid contribution, not
for talk. Let me be considered as a man who knows. Don’t think that I
shall throw away my chances by chatter.’
‘We shall look out eagerly.’
‘You will, I believe.’ There was just a little touch of disappointment
in his voice. ‘You will; Isabel will not. She cares nothing about it. I
suppose that women never understand ambitions or politics.’
‘Some women do.’ I thought of Frances, who understood nothing else.
‘I wish I knew them, then. Not that it matters. Men don’t want the
sympathy of women in their work; we want power and authority. All
a woman wants is comfort, and to sit by the fire. If you had had a
woman for a shorthand clerk, as I have, your opinion of the feminine
intellect would not be quite so high, perhaps.’
So he went off, the strong man armed, to begin the fight; and we
looked after him as he strode down the street, for my own part always
with the feeling that we had somehow changed places.
‘Robert will get, I suppose, some day, the desire of his heart,’ said
Isabel. ‘I wonder why men desire these things?’
‘They are very grand things,’ I told her. ‘Robert wants to be a leader
of men. Is not that a great thing to desire? What greater thing can
there be?’
‘Yes, if he is fit for it, and if he be a wise leader. But Robert puts
the leadership first and the wisdom next. He only desires the wisdom in
order to get the leadership.’
‘Nay, Isabel; we must think exactly the contrary. Otherwise, how is the
world ever to respect the leader?’
‘I cannot think anything except what I know.’
‘Well, then, power is a very great thing to have. Every man in the
world, except myself, ought to desire power. I don’t want it, I
confess, because I am not ambitious. Perhaps that is philosophy.
Give me a tranquil, an obscure life, if you like, with private
interests--boat-building, for instance--and--what it seems I shall have
to forego.’
Isabel paid no heed to the latter sentence, but went on talking about
Robert. ‘Always to lead, always to command--that is Robert’s single
thought. If he was King, he would not be contented unless he ruled the
whole world.’
‘A noble ambition, truly.’
‘Sometimes I wonder whether all the great men of history have been
self-seekers as well as masterful.’
‘I should say all. The personal motives, desire of place and authority,
must underlie everything else.’
‘Then, how can any woman love a man who thinks of nothing but himself?
I could not, George; but you know it--you--I cannot.’
‘Well, Isabel, a woman may love the greatness and strength of the
man, first of all. Besides, she may call that a noble ambition which
you call self-seeking; she may call that tenacity which you call
selfishness; she may lend her whole strength’--I thought of Frances
and what she would do--‘to advance the career in which her husband is
absorbed without asking for thanks or recognition from him at all.’
‘I could not do it, George. The thought of devotion without thanks
or recognition makes me wretched. I could never love a man who would
accept such work. Besides, I could never love a man unless I filled his
heart, and made him think of me.’
So she spoke, telling me all her thoughts in sweet confidence, knowing
that it would not be abused. Well, some women differ. Frances would
be contented, if only her husband became a great man, with neither
thanks nor recognition. Isabel cared nothing about the greatness. And
I suppose that some women are contented with the ideal they have set
up. They love not the strong man for his strength, nor the weak man
for his weakness; they love an imaginary man. In this way the noblest
woman may love the lowest man, seeing her ideal even through the matted
overgrowth of animalism. Isabel had no power, unfortunately, of setting
up an ideal. In this case she knew the real man in his workshop,
without his coat--so to speak, in his shirt-sleeves. I said so. ‘You
worked with him, and for him, Isabel; that destroyed the ideal. No man
is a hero to his typewriter.’
‘Perhaps; but love and mastery cannot go together. Well, Robert is now
beginning the career of which he has thought so much. It will be ten
years, you say--ten years--ten good long years--before he succeeds.
Ah! a great deal may happen in ten years. He will grow tired; I shall
grow old. I hope I shall grow old and hideous.’
‘A great deal may happen in ten years. Yes. Men may ask to be released
from hasty promises. Anything may happen. Perhaps, again, he will never
succeed.’
‘We must not dare to hope that he will fail. It would be like hoping
that he was dead.’
‘If he were any ordinary person I should say that his ambition was
wildly presumptuous. Seeing that he is Robert, and seeing what Robert
stands for, I do not call it wild. Yet there are many things in the way
far more than he understands as yet. Let us be patient, Isabel. If you
are waiting, I am waiting too. When you promised to wait his will, you
passed that sentence upon me as well.’
* * * * *
For three weeks nothing happened. At the house we went on as usual, but
without Robert, who remained at Westminster, living in my chambers,
while I took over the work of his boat-yard all day, and the care of
his mistress every evening. We were loyal to him; there was passed
between us no word or look of which one need be ashamed. Isabel had
repeated her promise; she had renewed the oath; one could only wait.
One morning, however, I found a letter lying on my plate. It was from
Frances. I opened it. A long letter. I laid it aside. With my second
cup of tea I began to read it leisurely; but over the second page I
jumped with interjections.
‘MY DEAR GEORGE’ (she began),
‘I was in the House last night looking down upon the new lot. They
seem to be rather a mixed lot. We have had losses. However, a good
many of our old friends are back again, and the majority is assured,
and is large enough if the Whips do their duty. Alas! if my mother
were still living, with her salon and her dinners, that majority
would become a solid block growing every day. I might myself have
such a salon, if there was a man anywhere for whose sake I could take
the trouble, and make myself a leader. But, George, as you know very
well, there is not.’
I laid down the note. I could see in imagination Frances writing
these words. She would throw down the pen and spring to her feet in
impatience--in queenly impatience--because among all her subjects she
could not find one man strong enough. Yet to one strong and ambitious
she would give, not only herself, but also such help in his career
as few, very few, men could hope for; the help of a very long purse,
very great family influence, political experience, and social power.
She wanted to find such a man; she desired above all things to be a
political lady, the wife of a great political leader. She would exact
from him in return for all she gave nothing but devotion to his career;
she would acquiesce in his working and thinking for no other object.
On the other side of the table sat the other type of woman--one who
wanted nothing of life but love, with sufficiency and tranquillity; one
who would be perfectly contented with a life in the shade, and with a
perfectly obscure husband.
As for myself, it seemed then, and it seems now, as if no
distinctions--which do not distinguish--were worth the struggle and
conflict, the misrepresentation and lies and slanders of the party
contest. Whereas, to live in obscurity beside a babbling brook, or
Wapping Old Stairs, for instance; among thick woods--the burial-ground
of St. John’s, Wapping, for instance; in country lanes with high hedges
on either side--say the High Street, Wapping; with love and Isabel ...
I resumed the letter:
‘The questions do really grow more tedious every day. At last the
adjourned debate began again--at half-past nine. You never take
interest in anything really interesting, my dear George, so that it
is useless to tell you that the Bill was a Labour Bill, and that
everybody thought it a very useful Bill--even the working men Members
until to-night. The Bill, everybody says, will have to be abandoned.
In other words, your cousin, in a single maiden speech, has done
the Government the injury of making them withdraw a Bill. It is
equivalent to a defeat. But I am anticipating. My dear George, your
cousin’s speech is talked of by everybody.’
‘Where’s the paper?’ I cried. ‘Give it to me, Captain.’ I tore it open
and looked at the debates. Yes, there it was! Robert had made his first
speech. ‘Look, Isabel!’ I cried. ‘Look! he has succeeded with a single
speech.’ I threw the paper across the table and went on reading:
‘I dare say you will have seen all about it in the papers. Now,
it is very curious; I had almost forgotten that your cousin was a
candidate. They told me that he had no chance whatever, and I left
off thinking about him as a candidate. Of course, I could not forget
the fiery orator of Shadwell, or the hero of the splendid fight that
I witnessed. So that when he got up to speak I was quite unprepared
for him. Of course, I remembered him instantly; he is not the kind
of man one forgets readily. I think he is quite the handsomest man in
the House; not the tallest, but what they used to call the properest
man and the comeliest; he has not the least air of fashion, but he
has the look of distinction.’
‘Good,’ said the Captain. ‘I always said that he looked like a Duke.’
‘Read the speech, George,’ said Isabel, ‘and then go on with the
letter.’
I read the speech aloud. The oblique narrative makes everything cold.
Even in direct narrative one loses the voice--in this case so rich and
musical a voice--and the aspect of the man, the personality of the
speaker--in this case so marked and so distinguished. Now, the House of
Commons may be cold--how can that unhappy body, doomed to listen day
after day to floods and cataracts of words, be anything but cold?--but
I was sure even from this dry précis that the members must have
listened with surprise and delight. The close of the speech I turned
back from the oblique to direct narrative, and read it in the first
person.
‘Oh!’ said Isabel. ‘I think I hear him speaking. Those facts I copied
for him myself from a Blue-book.’
‘Robert will be a great man,’ said the Captain. ‘My dear, they will
make him something. He will be a nobleman, and you will be my Lady.’
‘You read it just as Robert would speak it,’ said Isabel. ‘Your voice
is like his, only not so strong. But you are like him in so many ways.’
‘It is a noble speech, Isabel.’
‘It is his first bid for power,’ she distinguished. ‘I dare say it is
an able speech. But I feel as if I had been behind the scenes while he
was preparing the show. To me, George, it will always be a show.’
‘You are like the child who wants to go beyond the story, Isabel. Why
not be contented with the things presented?’
Why, indeed, not be contented with the show? If one were to analyze
things and to discover the real motives and the springs of action,
what would become of the patriot, the statesman, the philanthropist?
What worth are the tender words of the poet? What consolation is
left in the sermon of the preacher? No man, I said, is a hero to his
typewriter: Isabel was the typewriter. There must be rehearsals and
stage management, even for the effective conduct of a martyrdom. One
may be filled with pity for the poor, with enthusiasm for a cause;
but consider how emotion is stirred into action when the personal
ambitions and the private interests lie in the same direction. ‘It is
the first bid for power,’ said Isabel. So it was; and yet that speech,
while it revealed the speaker, killed a Bill which might have involved
mischief incalculable. The perfect private secretary--a very, very rare
creature--is able to forget the rehearsals and the stage management.
I laid down the paper and took up the letter again, and read it aloud:
‘I told you, George, in that East End den, that the man was a born
orator. He spoke better to-night, in the House, than before those
working men--perhaps because he was more careful. He is one of those
speakers, I mean, with whom repression increases strength. He spoke
consciously, I am sure, to the country as well as to the House. His
voice is magnetic in its richness and fulness; his periods are
balanced; he spoke without the least hesitation, yet without the
fatal fluency. He was not embarrassed; he spoke with authority. The
effect of his speech upon the House was wonderful; the members were
dominated. They listened--compelled to listen. When he sat down there
was a universal gasp, not of relief, but of astonishment.
‘Of course I do not know what your cousin means or wishes by going
into the House. Probably nothing but a vague ambition. What should
such a man understand of the political career? Yet, when I say “such
a man,” I think of his trade, not of his appearance or his manner.
He looks like a king, and has the manners--in the House, at least,
whatever he might have in society--of one accustomed to the best
people. Come and talk to me about him.
‘Of course, also, one must never judge by a first speech. It is
always interesting to hear the maiden effort. Very likely your cousin
prepared every phrase and every word of it, and he would break down
in debate. I wait for his second speech, and for a speech in reply.
‘The member for Shadwell, as I told you before, is absurdly like you
in face and in general appearance, but he is a bigger man. Perhaps
he resembles the Judge, who was a very big man, more than you. Well,
George, for your sake I shall watch his movements and read his
speeches. He may do something considerable; he may not. Many a man
makes a good beginning in the House who cannot keep it up. The floor
is knee-deep with the dust and bones of dead and gone ambitions.
They take the place of the rushes which they formerly strewed on
the floor. I was looking at the faces of the members last night.
There were the old stagers who have long since parted with their
ambitions, and now sit quiet and resigned, and vote like sheep. Why
do they do it? What is the joy of remaining all their lives among the
rank and file? Then I saw the faces of the new young men. I made them
all out, one after the other, those who are ambitious and those who
are not. Oh, George! what an interesting place the House of Commons
is, and why--why--why have you left it to a tradesman cousin to have
all the ambition in the family?’
I read all this aloud.
‘Who is your correspondent, George?’ Isabel asked. ‘I suppose it is
your friend, Lady Frances. Why is she so contemptuous about tradesmen?’
‘She only thinks that I ought to have gone into the House, Isabel. It
is her way of expressing herself.’
However, the rest I did not read aloud:
‘You may bring your cousin to see me, George. I am at home this day
week. You so seldom come to see me that I am almost tempted to come
over to Wapping. But it would be too dreadful to see you among the
chips, with your coat off and your sleeves turned up, and an apron,
and, I dare say, disfiguring callosities already appearing on your
hands. When you are sick and tired of it, come back to the world.
Lord Caerleon will soon want a private secretary. The post would suit
you entirely. He is a man of the world--not a politician only. And
there are still things to be had worth the having, and in the gift
of Ministers, which are not awarded by competitive examination to
candidates who certainly have no more merit than you yourself. Come
back. Great Donkey, it is dull without you.
‘Your affectionate sister--by adoption,
‘FRANCES.’
CHAPTER XIX.
LADY FRANCES AT HOME.
I found Robert satisfied--he used the word himself--with his first
success.
‘I could have desired nothing better,’ he said, ‘than such a chance. So
far as I can learn, there will be a good many more such chances before
long. What does Isabel say? But, of course, she takes no interest in
the subject.’
‘Would you like a woman’s opinion, Robert?’
‘I don’t know. Women don’t count for much in politics, or in anything
else, as far as judgment goes.’
‘The woman I know counts for a great deal. She is an old friend of
mine--a friend from childhood. She is the daughter of a Prime Minister,
and the widow of a Secretary of State, and she is an ardent politician.
Well, Robert, she is a very charming woman, too. I took her to Shadwell
to hear you speak. She came again that night when you fought the
rushers, and she was in the House last night. And she commands me to
bring you to her next “At Home.”’
‘Oh,’ said Robert.
‘You are quite wrong--absurdly wrong--in your views of women. They may
be extremely useful in politics; they have often played a great part. A
certain Delilah was a politician, I believe. She coaxed a giant out of
his sense and his secret.’
‘Are you going to get me coaxed out of my strength?’
‘Not a bit. I am taking you to a woman who will add to your strength if
you are so happy as to win her interest.’
‘A party politician?’
‘Certainly--a party politician, as you will be before long.’ He shook
his head. ‘For the rest, the less important affairs, she is a most
delightful person, handsome and rich. The way to her friendship is to
be strong, capable, and ambitious. You are all three. She is prepared
to welcome you. Of course you will come?’
We were dining at my club. I do not think that there was anything
in the quiet, assured manner of my cousin Robert to make anyone
suspect that three months before this man had never even possessed a
dress-coat, had never seen a dinner properly served, had never tasted
claret, and had never dined after one.
‘Of course, I know,’ he said slowly, ‘what you mean by this invitation;
it means that you think I may now enter a drawing-room.’
‘Partly. You can never be taken for a man born and brought up in the
Eton and Trinity way. You don’t desire such a thing. But you are now
one who has the bearing and the speech of a gentleman.’
‘I will go with you; I am not afraid of being dazzled either by a
woman’s face or by her finery, or by a man’s titles, nor any airs and
affectations, nor by the languid superiority of some of your fellows. I
know my own value, and that, I take it, is the best foundation possible
for courtly manners. And so you think I am polished enough for a
drawing-room, do you?’
‘Not polished, but finished. If you went farther you would lose your
natural manner. You could never lose the form and figure which proclaim
your strength. Your big head, your broad shoulders, your short, curly
hair, your square beard, your deep-set eyes--I swear that you are just
the strongest-looking man in the world.’
Robert laughed. No one, not even the strongest-looking man in the
world, dislikes being described as looking what he most desires to be.
* * * * *
Lady Frances’s rooms were already well filled when we arrived; later
they were crowded. She welcomed me with her customary kindness. ‘I
shall never cease to reproach you,’ she said; ‘but I have forgiven you.’
She was dressed in all her splendour--a blaze of diamonds, a vision of
silk (if it was silk), of velvet (if it was velvet). She might have
stood to Robert for some great Court lady. Her queenly stature, her
noble figure, her large head and ample cheek, set off her splendid
dress. She looked as if this was the only dress she ought to wear; she
looked indeed a _grande dame de par le monde_.
I presented my cousin. For the moment Robert was staggered. I saw
upon his face an expression of weakness quite new to him. It was the
weakness of the strong man in the presence, for the first time, of the
queenly woman.
She received him with gracious courtesy.
After a few words, I left Robert to talk a little with his hostess.
While they stood together, there entered a little old man with shaggy
white eyebrows, keen eyes, and a white mane and a big head--a leonine
person. Frances shook hands with him, and then turned to Robert.
‘Mr. Burnikel,’ she said, ‘let me introduce you to Lord Caerleon. Mr.
Burnikel is Member for Shadwell, and a cousin of your friend, Sir
George.’
Lord Caerleon shook hands with him. ‘On our side, Mr. Burnikel, I hope.’
‘I have entered the House as an Independent Member,’ said Robert
sturdily.
‘Oh!’ Lord Caerleon replied dryly. ‘Yes, I have known several young
men announce that intention; but they change it--they change it. There
is a good deal to be got out of the House by an ambitious man who goes
the right way to work--a great deal: distinction and recognition, that
is something; place and power, that is something. You are a lawyer,
perhaps.’
‘No; I am not a member of any learned profession. I am a Master
Craftsman--by trade a boat-builder.’
‘Oh!’ Lord Caerleon refrained from the least expression of surprise.
‘But one may imagine that every young man who goes into the House is
actuated by some ambition.’
‘My ambition is to make a mark in the House--and out of it,’ said
Robert.
‘Then, sir, I wish you every success; and you will speedily discover
that, in order to make that mark, you must join a Party--that is, our
Party--my Party.’
Lord Caerleon left him and walked over to me. He was a former friend
of my grandfather, the Judge. ‘Is that your cousin, George?’ he
asked--‘that tall, good-looking fellow over there, Member for Shadwell?’
‘He is my cousin, certainly, though rather distant.’
‘Oh! He said he was a--a--a boat-builder. Did he speak some kind of
allegory?’
‘A hundred years ago my great-grandfather and his great-grandfather
were partners in a boat-building-yard. At the same time, if I remember
rightly, your great-grandfather, Lord Caerleon----’
‘Was unknown. Certainly. Yet one does not expect to see an actual
boat-builder in a place like this, and looking and talking like a
gentleman. You and I, Sir George, belong to the third generation of
those who were born in the purple of gentlehood. This man says he is a
Master Craftsman. Do we receive the man with a plane and a chisel in
our drawing-rooms?’
‘He is a master of labour; he employs many men. I believe he will prove
himself to be a Master Craftsman in the craft of oratory and debate.
He is the strongest man, Lord Caerleon, the most courageous man, and
the most finished man, that I know. You can’t dazzle him. You can’t
frighten him. And I am quite certain, from his first speech, that he
will carry away the House as he carries away his constituents. Look
after him, Lord Caerleon. Don’t forget to reckon with him as soon as
you can.’
Lord Caerleon looked at me thoughtfully, but made no reply. Half an
hour later I saw that he was again talking with Robert.
Thinking of what the man was when first I knew him; how contemptuous
of social conventions; how determined to go into the House as a rough
craftsman; to set everybody right on all questions of labour and
employers, knowing nothing whatever of the ways and manners by which
alone anything real can be accomplished; and seeing the man in this
salon, quiet and assured, yet strangely unlike the ordinary young man
of the West End, I was elated to think of my success. To be sure, I had
a pupil who was determined to learn. But, then, a well-bred manner is
to some people impossible to learn, or to assume, if they work at it
all their lives. To Robert the manner came easily.
‘He has the air,’ said Frances, reading my thoughts, because I was
looking across the room, ‘of a man who has lived in the best society,
but not our own. Has he lived in New York?’
‘No; he has only lived in Wapping--a distinguished suburb near the
place where you heard him speak.’
‘Wapping has, then, I suppose, a curiously distinguished society of
its own. Has Wapping a nobility, an opera-house, ladies of the world?
Seriously, George, how did this man arrive at a distinguished manner as
well as a distinguished look? You know--I told you--when I heard him
speak. I made up my mind that he was a born orator.’
‘Well, Frances, he has practised a very honest trade; that prevents
meanness; and he has read enormously, so that his level of thought
is elevated; and he takes himself very seriously, so that he is
self-confident; and he is quick to observe; so that, altogether, I
think you may understand how he has arrived at his present manner.’
‘He is not a young man for a young lady. I introduced him to one just
now, and they separated five minutes afterwards with a lively look of
mutual repulsion. Perhaps he began by telling her, as he told Lord
Caerleon, that he was a boat-builder.’
‘Very likely.’
Then I retired into a corner and looked on. I saw that Frances looked
after this guest with a care which she seemed to bestow upon no others.
She talked to him, she introduced him to people, especially to members
of the House; and I saw that he was not dazzled--not in the least
dazzled--by title, or by fine dress, or fine manners. It was impossible
to condescend with such a man; most likely he condescended to the
condescender.
‘I like it, George,’ he said, when we found ourselves together. ‘I
like the crowd and the fine dresses and all. It is amusing. I don’t
belong to it in the least. That makes it all the more amusing.’
‘And the women--how do you like them?’
‘Lady Frances is splendid! I do not see any other woman in the place.’
It was filled with women: some young and beautiful, some old and no
longer beautiful; all well dressed, and most of them animated. But he
had no eyes except for Lady Frances.
Presently all were gone; I alone remained behind.
‘Let us sit down, George, for a few minutes’ quiet talk. Come into the
little room. You may have a cigarette, if you like. Now about that
tall cousin of yours. Do you really think that he has the qualities
necessary for success? It is not enough to fire off a speech now and
then, you know.’
‘Well, he says he has these qualities. Whatever he says is always true.
Quite a man of his word, you know. I think he has these qualities. The
House loves a strong man beyond anything. Remember how they all turned
round about Bradlaugh. Well, Bradlaugh was a strong man, if you like;
and Bradlaugh knew a lot; but Bradlaugh in all his glory wasn’t, I
really believe, a patch on my cousin Robert.’
Frances became thoughtful. ‘You know, George,’ after a pause, ‘I was
bitterly disappointed that you did not go into politics. You would
have had every kind of help. I cannot tell you half the dreams I had
nourished about your success. Everything is possible for such a man
as you. And you basely deserted us and went off boat-building. Oh,
heavens!--boat-building!’
‘I did, Frances. I am a wretch.’
‘Well, the Party wants a few young men--good young men. If I can get
that big, strong man, your cousin, to throw himself heartily into the
Party, he may prove himself worthy of being looked after. Help me with
him, George.’
‘What am I to do?’
‘Bring him to dinner with me. I will have a little dinner of you two
first; then a little dinner alone with him; then a little dinner with
one or two of the chiefs thrown in. Then--but you understand how a
woman works in such a case. I want him for the Party.’
‘What will you offer him?’
‘I don’t know yet; we must see first what he is worth, and next what he
wants. An ordinary young man would be contented with dining with me. He
would then go home and dream of making love to me--they all do. Then he
would come here and try to make that dream a reality. But a young man
with a great future before him would want more than that. What would he
want?’
‘One thing, Frances. Don’t speak to him just yet of place or salary.
The man thinks nothing about money. Later on, when he discovers that
his few hundreds a year won’t buy all things he wants, he will,
perhaps, modify his views.’
‘What will tempt him, then?’
‘Power. He wants Power. He would be another Gladstone, another
Bismarck. He desires Power about everything. The greatest
presumption--the greatest audacity.’
Frances sighed. ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘if they had only made me a man!
George, there is but one thing in the world that I desire, and that
is Power. I could get it easily, even though I am a woman, if I had a
husband strong and able and ambitious, and worth working for. Where is
that man? You ought to have been such a man, George, but you’re not.
You are only a common carpenter. Oh, the grovelling of it!’
‘I will become a cabinet-maker, if you like, Frances, and make the
Cabinet in which my cousin is to sit.’
CHAPTER XX.
AT THE YARD.
A few days afterwards Robert came over to the yard. He came during the
men’s dinner-hour, when a delightful calm settles down upon Wapping,
and even the cranes and the donkey-engines are silent; when the waggons
rumble no longer, and there is no ringing of bells, and no hammering
of hammers, and no grinding of machines. And we sat upon two workmen’s
benches opposite each another and talked.
‘I saw Lady Frances yesterday,’ he began; ‘she was good enough to
invite me to call, and so I did call, and had a long talk with her.’
‘Good!’
‘She’s a splendid woman! That’s the kind of woman to back up a man. I
used to think that a man wants no help from any woman. I now see that a
clever, sympathetic woman who understands things may be of the greatest
use.’
‘Undoubtedly. Lady Frances could help a man very much in politics if
she chose. She might help you--but it must be in her own way. She is
interested in you already.’
‘Of course she’s all for Party. She says I must join her Party, or else
there is no chance.’
‘You’ve heard that before, haven’t you? Well, there is no chance
outside the grooves; I am certain of it.’
‘Anyhow, I won’t join a party. I went in an Independent Member, and
I’ll continue an Independent Member. Nothing whatever shall induce me
to join the rank and file of Party, to run about and say what I am
told to say--nothing, mind you. Not even to get the assistance of that
woman.’
He spoke with the determination of approaching submission. His words
had a forced ring in them; their exaggeration showed weakness. He was
under temptation.
‘Then, Robert, farewell, a long farewell, to dreams of greatness!’
‘We talked about my speech, and she spoke highly of it. Well, why not?
A very good speech it was. When we came to read it next day, how it
stood out from the windbags and froth of the rest!--you noticed that,
George?’
‘I did. A very fine speech--full of solid stuff.’
Robert never pretended to any modesty as regards his own work. He
honestly thought it a great deal better than the work of anybody else,
and he said so, without any affectation of inferiority. This candour
impressed people. Other men it might injure, but not Robert. Very few
men, indeed, do really possess a sincere, unaffected admiration for
their own powers. Most of us are spoiled by diffidence. It is not
everyone who realizes his own value.
‘Of course,’ he added, ‘she admired the speech.’
‘She admired your speech. What else did she say? What did she advise?’
‘Well, of course, criticisms are not always pleasant, but she has
a large experience. She says, to begin with, that I must not be too
earnest. You always said that, and I believe she’s right. The Members
don’t like a preacher nor a funeral sermon. Everybody used to get up
and go out in the old days when John Stuart Mill lectured the House.
I’ve got to cultivate a lighter vein for ordinary occasions. Well, I
believe I can do that; only I was anxious for them to learn the facts.
I had to teach them the facts. Don’t they want the facts, then?’
‘They don’t want the trouble of learning them.’
‘She advises me very strongly to follow up the success of the first
speech. This time I must answer someone, and prove that I have the
power of debate. Well, George, though I now see very plainly that our
little mock Parliament was conceited and cocky and shallow----’
‘Isn’t that almost enough in the way of adjectives for one little mock
Parliament?’
‘Yet it did give me certain power of reply and repartee--as I mean to
show the House at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Very good. Next.’
‘Oh, then we began talking about other things. It seems odd that I
should be taking advice about my own affairs from a woman, doesn’t it?’
‘It would have seemed odd three months ago.’
‘But, of course, Lady Frances isn’t an ordinary woman. She’s got the
brains of fifty women and the experience of a hundred put together.
What a woman she is!’
‘How did she advise you about your own affairs?’
‘She asked me about myself. Of course I told her everything there is to
tell. Why should I conceal things? I even told her how you have given
your evenings for three months or more to show me what the West End
world was like. She strongly advises me to go into society. “Become one
of the world,” she says.’
‘Did she tell you how to get in? The gates of what she calls the world
do not exactly stand open to everybody.’
‘Exactly. What they call Society is divided into circles, and there
are circles within circles. There are art circles, literary circles,
musical circles, rich circles, exclusive circles, dramatic circles--all
kinds, overlapping each other. And there are political circles; and in
them she could launch me--of course on the usual conditions.’
‘Party, of course.’
‘Party. No room anywhere, it seems, for the Independent Member.’
‘And you are an Independent Member. It is unfortunate, isn’t it?’
‘Says I must join a political club. But there are none for us
Independent Members.’
‘No; it is unfortunate.’
‘Then we talked about the way in which men get on nowadays. No one, not
even you, ever before understood my position so perfectly. Whatever I
tell her, she catches it in a minute. One would think she had lived
next door. And about the ways of men--they don’t climb, George, they
wriggle--they wriggle, most of them.’
‘So I have heard. That is partly why I came here. I don’t like
wriggling.’
‘Wriggling and advertising. One must be like the man who advertises his
soap, always before the world.’
‘That is, in fact, the first thing, and the second thing, and
everything.’
‘She told me about one man who has certainly got on remarkably well,
yet not so well as I mean to do, because he hasn’t the same ability.
This man, who, like me, had no family influence, got into a political
club, wrote a paper now and again for one of the magazines, spoke
frequently at public meetings, was seen everywhere at private views,
and first nights, and at private houses, went into the House, spoke on
occasion and with weight, published a volume of essays, was accepted as
a man who went everywhere long before Society received him at all, and
is now married to a woman whose wealth and connections will advance him
rapidly.’
‘That may be your fate.’
‘But the trickery of it!’
‘If you want to achieve a definite object, you cannot always choose
the way. Nobody but yourself, remember, knows your own motives. What
you call trickery may appear to the world as the natural rewards of
ability.’
‘Well--but--I don’t know.’ He walked to the edge of the Quay, looking
up and down the river. ‘It is a world so different from anything I ever
imagined,’ he said. ‘You have opened out the world to me. I confess
that I hesitate to venture in upon this kind of path.’
‘You don’t think that you are the only ambitious man in the world, do
you? My dear boy, everybody there is ambitious, except the men who have
got up as high as they can. And even then they all want something--a
little more social consideration. Everybody for himself, anywhere.
Nowhere so much as there, in the City of the Setting Sun--in the West.
In other words, you have discovered that your old dreams must be
abandoned.’
‘I am beginning to understand that it is so. I have been plunged in
ignorance. But it is difficult to give up the old ideals.’
‘You are a more human creature than I thought you, Robert. I don’t
believe you will ever be so happy over there as you have been in this
old shed among the shavings.’
‘It isn’t happiness I want; it is success and power. Well, George’--he
came to the bench and sat down beside me--‘I shall not give up because
things are different from what I expected. I mean to go on, though
perhaps in another way. I mean, I say, to go on.’
‘With a wriggle and a twist?’
‘I shall wriggle as little as may be. Now listen carefully, and don’t
interrupt. I am going to make a proposal to you of the greatest
importance.’
‘Go on; I will not interrupt.’
‘Well, I see very plainly, to begin with, that the way open to me means
a good deal of expenditure. I must have good chambers, some place where
I can receive people. I must keep myself well groomed.’
‘Both points are important.’
‘I must have a club. I must cultivate people. There are already plenty
of men in the House who want to know me. I must be able to give a
dinner occasionally, as Lady Frances advised; and there are the daily
expenses, which in the West End run away with so much money. One must
go about in cabs; it isn’t possible to go without cabs. Why, here
I used to spend nothing at all from day to day except our modest
housekeeping money. It means money. I must have money, George.’
‘Yes, if you are going to live over there. But you’ve got your business
here.’
‘I can’t live in two places. There you have it. If I am to get on, I
must live in the West End; and I can’t carry on this business from
Piccadilly Chambers, that’s quite certain.’
‘I’m afraid it’s impossible. Shall you sell this business?’
‘No, I can’t afford to sell the business. But I’ve thought of a plan,
and I’ll lay it before you to turn over in your mind. First of all, are
you perfectly serious and in earnest about the boat-building trade?
Mind, I never believed it. Do you really and truly intend to go into
the trade as a living?’
Put in that way, I was staggered, because, you see, I perceived at once
what he was driving at.
‘What I thought,’ I replied slowly, ‘when I came here was that I
might learn the business from you, and that I might then take my
small capital, which is no more than three thousand pounds, and start
as a boat-builder in one of the Colonies--British Columbia, for
example--wherever I could find an opening. That was my plan, subject to
my mastering the mysteries of the craft.’
‘You have mastered most of them, and you are a first-class hand
already. But you can’t be trusted yet in the buying and the selling.’
‘Since I’ve kept the books for you I’ve learned something of them as
well.’
‘Yes; but you can’t run alone yet. However, that part of it might be
managed. Now for my plan. You’ve got a good pile, though you call it
so little. It’s a good deal more than I shall want. Give up the idea
of a Colony. Settle here in the old place--you can go on living in the
old house, if you like--and become my partner--the managing partner.
You shall buy your share. Don’t think that I want only to get your
money, though that will be of the greatest use to me just now. You will
make your solicitor examine the books--for that matter, you have the
books already in your hands--and he will tell you what you ought to
offer, if you entertain the proposal. Come! Burnikel and Burnikel it
has always been called. There were once two cousins in it before they
quarrelled over the old man’s diamonds. Let there be two cousins in it
again. Robert and George they were once. Robert and George they will be
again.’ He got up from the bench. ‘You want time to decide,’ he said.
‘Don’t press yourself. Take as much time as you like. I will advise you
in any difficulty, but I will no longer think for the business. You
will have to do that. Well, turn it over in your mind, and tell me when
you have decided.’
So he got up and left me. Then the men came back from their dinner, and
the work went on again.
The most remarkable part of the proposal was that we were actually
going to reverse the situation, to change places. I was to give up
clubs, chambers, friends, society, and everything that belongs to the
class in which I had been brought up. As I had no fortune that was
inevitable. But I was to put my cousin in my place. He would give up
his business--hitherto his livelihood--and take my place, and belong to
the world. And I was to take his place down in this deserted city of
warehouses, where, except the clergy of the parish and myself, there
would be no single resident who by any stretch of imagination could
call himself of the gentle class.
Ninety years ago the two cousins, Robert and George Burnikel, were
partners. After all these years two other cousins, Robert and George
Burnikel, were to become partners again.
Ninety years ago Robert and George parted. Robert stayed at the yard;
George went West. Now this situation was reversed: George was to stay
at the yard; Robert was going West.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE SECOND SPEECH.
Then came the second opportunity. It was three weeks after the first.
The occasion was the first reading--or was it the second?--of a Bill
for the prohibition of more than five--or was it fifty?--hours’ labour
in the day, or something to that effect. For my own part, I concern
myself about Acts of Parliament only when they bring the tax-gatherer
to the door with his little piece of paper. It is a remarkable
circumstance in this highly political country that our politics are
mostly limited to getting one man in, and that we care very little,
when he is once in, what he does, or what anyone else does. If you
doubt this allegation, listen to the talk in the train, or where men
gather together.
However, we knew it was coming, and Robert got me a seat in the
Speaker’s Gallery, where I sat during the questions with as much
patience as I could command. The Gallery was not crowded; the strangers
were people up from the country, with a few Americans. They had
opera-glasses, and whispered the names of the members whose faces they
knew. The House of Commons is one of the sights of London, which is
the reason why so few Londoners ever go to it. As for the House of
Lords, I wonder how many Londoners have ever seen that august body in
deliberation.
The Bill was introduced with a somewhat short and self-excusing speech.
I wish I could remember what the Bill really proposed. Not that it
mattered, however. As the subject was not attractive, the House rapidly
thinned. There, again, we are the most political people in the world;
but the moment a subject is introduced which deals with the realities
of life, the welfare of the millions, the case of the unemployed, the
rule of India, the agricultural depression, the safety of the Empire,
the condition of the navy, the weakness of the army, the departure of
trade, the silver question, the House is swiftly and suddenly thinned
or emptied. I suppose the reason is that the human brain can only stand
a certain amount of dull speech, and that these subjects generally fall
into the hands of dull and uninteresting speakers. I really do not
know what this speaker said. Presently he sat down. Then Robert arose.
I think I was more anxious about his success than he was himself. He
was perfectly calm and self-possessed. In his hand he held a small
bundle of papers, a striking presence, and he began speaking slowly,
with measured phrase, and with his rich musical voice, which at once
commanded attention. Of all the gifts of oratory, the most useful is a
rich and flexible voice. Then his first speech of three weeks ago, now
almost forgotten, was again remembered, and the House became quickly
filled again.
As I have forgotten what the Bill was about, and as I paid no attention
to the first speaker’s Introduction of the Bill, and as I concentrated
my attention to the style of Robert’s oratory and to the effect it
produced, without the least reference to the matter, I cannot reproduce
for you the substance of his speech. You may find it in Hansard; in
fact, you are sure to find it in Hansard, if you please to look;
you will also find it worth reading. He spoke on a labour question,
from his own point of view, as one who was at once a craftsman and an
employer. ‘I am myself,’ he said, with the pride of a duke and the
appearance of a gentleman of ancient lineage--‘I am myself a Master
Craftsman.’
Then he proceeded, from his own experience, and from quotations from
Blue-books, to marshal his facts and to set forth his arguments. I did
not listen; it was enough for me to let that rolling music of his voice
play about my ears, and to watch its effects upon the faces below.
Could he grip those faces? He could. Could he move those faces? He
could. The average Parliamentary face is singularly cold. One might as
well expect that one wave out of all the others would move a hard rock.
Yet Robert moved that rocky face. Could he make those faces smile? He
could. He had taught himself the lesson--the most difficult for some
men to learn--that a speaker should be able to amuse. He related gently
humorous anecdotes, so that the House bubbled with rippling laughter,
which is far more delightful than the broad roar at more comic strokes.
Robert would certainly never become the comic man of the House; but he
might become one of the humorists. And this was a new development. Who
would have imagined three months before this that the grimly-in-earnest
young man, who was going to thunder his gospel into the unwilling ears
of the House until he conquered it and laid it at his feet, had become
one of those who could treat the most serious subjects from a humorous
point of view, and convince by laughter where he would have failed by
indignation?
I think, not being a critic, that Robert, like Mr. Gladstone, possessed
the wonderful gift of being able to invest the baldest facts and the
most intricate figures with interest and charm. Like a novelist, he
made them personal. He connected figures with men, and brought facts
into touch with humanity. And this he did, as it seemed, spontaneously,
without effort or any appearance of lecturing. In the House of
Commons a man must not be a lecturer, but an orator. The lecturer is
necessarily a critic or a teacher. As lecturer, without imagination,
he explains carefully how the orator, the poet, the novelist, the
dramatist, produces his effects. He knows exactly, and can tell all
the world how it is done--the trick of it. Yet he cannot produce the
thing himself. Therefore he is of no use in the House. The orator,
poet, dramatist, novelist, on the other hand, produces these effects
continually; yet he cannot tell you how he does it.
Robert, then, had this gift of making things attractive. He spoke for
an hour or more. The members remained in respectful silence until he
worked them up into producing their signs of approbation, of which the
House is never chary when it is moved.
When he sat down it was with the pleasing consciousness that he had at
least made the House for the second time ask whether they had actually
got another coming man. The speech, in fact, produced a very marked
impression. Some of the papers quoted it, and made it the subject of
leaders.
A few days afterwards he spoke again, and again as a man of personal
experience, as a Master Craftsman. His experiences were interesting
and effective. And a third time, and a fourth, but always when he had
something to say that ought to be said.
Lady Frances gave a dinner-party--a political dinner--at which some of
the heads of the Party were present. And she invited Robert. Among her
guests was old Lord Caerleon, to whom he had already been introduced.
It was a large party, and Robert’s place was down below among the
younger men, who were civil to him. But, of course, in the conversation
it was impossible for him not to feel that he was an outsider.
After dinner, however, Lord Caerleon again talked with him apart. He
talked as one who knows the game, and as one who has played it, and now
looked on rather tired of it.
‘I have read your speeches, Mr. Burnikel,’ he said, much as a
schoolmaster may speak of a boy’s set of verses. ‘As reported, they
were fair. I am told that they produced--ah! some effect upon the
House. I am told that you have a good delivery and a good voice. Is
that so?’
‘It is so,’ said Robert calmly. ‘I have a good voice by nature, and a
good delivery by art.’
‘Yes.’ Lord Caerleon looked just a little astonished at a young man who
thus immodestly claimed these gifts. ‘A good voice is a great thing.
You have begun well, Mr. Burnikel. But a good beginning in the House
counts for nothing. The House is filled, to me, with the ghosts of men
who in my recollection made a good beginning.’
‘I have made a good beginning, Lord Caerleon; and, with your
permission, I intend not to become a ghost at all.’
‘Very good--very good indeed. But, Mr. Burnikel, how are you going to
get on? Permit me--I understand, for some mysterious reasons of your
own, you still wish to be considered an Independent Member. You told me
so, if I remember rightly, in this house two or three weeks ago.’
‘That is so. I am returned by my constituents as an Independent Member.’
‘I don’t think it matters much what they think. But I suppose you
talked the usual stuff--voting to order, no conscience, changing
opinions, and the rest of it?’
‘All the rest of it,’ said Robert quietly.
‘Of course you did. Now, then, Mr. Burnikel, let us go into the
question of Party for a few minutes; not the whole question of Party,
on which you have read--or ought to have read--your Constitutional
History, but that part of the question that affects you personally.’
‘You do me great honour.’
‘I talk to you, sir, because I think that you may possibly--I don’t
know--turn out an acquisition to either party. Otherwise, of course,
one cannot at my age, and with my experience, pretend to take the least
interest in the average member. I take the personal side, then. You
propose, I believe, to make a career in politics?’
‘I do.’
‘Lady Frances tells me--you told me so yourself, if I remember
rightly--that you are extremely ambitious. I am pleased to hear it.
Well, you cannot be too ambitious. Nothing does a young man so much
good. It is impossible to be too ambitious. It was my own great
happiness, for example, to be born with enormous ambitions, which
have been gratified, yet not satiated--not satiated. Get me a chair;
I think I will sit down. So; thank you. Ambition,’ he went on, ‘the
desire for personal distinction, is one of the finest gifts that a
boy can conceive. I always had it. You would, I dare say, if we were
to compare symptoms, and if you were dissected, present the same
phenomena. Therefore, you may suppose that what you were as a boy that
I was too--with such differences as the accidents of birth, and perhaps
position, may have caused. For your encouragement, sir, I will tell you
that my rise in the House was not due to any family influence. I was
the son of a country clergyman, but, like your cousin, Sir George--an
excellent young man, if he possessed any ambition--the grandson of a
Judge and a Peer. There was very little money in the family, but enough
for me to get into the House. And I say, in my age, that my highest
ambitions have been gratified, but not satiated. Believe me, sir, the
ambitious man enjoys the winning of every step--one after the other. He
is never satiated; he can never say “enough.”’
‘Well, sir,’ said Robert, ‘you have never had occasion to regret having
embarked upon this splendid career.’
‘Certainly not. If I were to be offered the choice once again, I would
choose the same career.’
‘You have led the House,’ said Robert; ‘you have been in three
Cabinets; you have been First Lord of the Treasury. Well, my lord, what
you desired and attained, that I have the audacity also to desire.
Perhaps I shall attain it.’
‘Not if you continue in your present course. The one condition which
was imposed upon me is also imposed upon you. You must rise in the
customary manner by becoming a faithful servant of your party.’
‘That we will see,’ said Robert, obstinate and incredulous.
‘How, then, do you propose to climb? My dear sir, before you rises an
inaccessible precipice. There are only two ladders. Would you fly?’
‘I wish to climb by doing good work.’
‘My case, too--exactly my case. I kept on saying that while I was at
Oxford. It is really a very fine thing to think, though it is a very
foolish--and, indeed, a boyish--thing to say. Mr. Burnikel, you ought
to understand by this time that there is only one possible way of
climbing, and that is, as I said, by one of the only two ladders. No
other way exists, believe me, young man. If there were any other way,
it would have been found out long ago.’
‘There was the case of John Bright.’
‘He had to join the Party at last, remember. John Bright was in every
way exceptional; he wanted neither money, nor place, nor power, nor
rank. You, I should imagine, want everything.’
Robert was silent.
‘So that’s settled. If you want to climb, enter by the usual gate, and
you will find the ladder waiting for you. Let us pass on to consider
the noble work by which you desire to make a mark in history. Noble
work, for a politician, means great and beneficent measures. You, as
an Independent Member, would never be able to pass any considerable
measure--not any single measure of the least importance. Why? Because
all great measures are adopted, as soon as it is found possible to pass
them, by the Government. As for moving public opinion so as to make
these measures possible, that is done by essayists, leader-writers,
authors, poets, dramatists, and other intelligent persons, who nowadays
prevent a Minister from being original in his ideas. You, as an
Independent Member, would have no chance at all--not the least ghost of
a chance--even of introducing a Bill.’
‘I always thought----’
‘Think so no longer. Look about you and face the facts. They are
these: An Independent Member, whatever he could formerly accomplish,
which wasn’t much, will never more be able to introduce or to pass any
measure, good or bad; he can never become a leader in the House; he
can never have the least chance of proving himself a statesman; all he
can hope to do is to get the House to listen to him, and, through the
House, the outside world; and believe me, sir, on the most favourable
condition possible, you will never, as an Independent Member, acquire
half or a quarter of the influence over your country that is enjoyed by
an anonymous leader-writer on a great daily paper.’
Robert made no reply.
‘Will such a condition content you, sir? Does such a position gratify
your ambitions? Why, you have just told me what they are. Pray,
sir’--Lord Caerleon looked up sharply with his keen eyes under his
shaggy eyebrows--‘will this content you?’
‘No; it will not.’
‘Let us go on, then. You have told me that you have been pleased,
in the education of your Shadwell constituents, to speak of party
allegiance as a slavery, a stifling of conscience, a suppression of
manhood, and so on. You did talk like this?’
‘Certainly. It is the only way of talking.’
‘So you think. Now let us look at it in this way: There is a party
which, in the main, clings to the old things, and only admits change
when new and irresistible forces command change. There is another party
which is always desiring change, because they think that things might
look prettier, or because things would be more logical, or because
things might help the people, or themselves, by being changed. In the
main, every measure belongs to one or other of these parties. Is not
that so?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Every measure which is brought forward by one or other of the two
sides has been talked about, advocated, discussed in newspapers, in
magazines, everywhere, long before. It is brought forward at last
when one party has made up its mind to support it, and the other to
oppose it. The House is divided into two camps, in which are the two
armies. The Bill is proposed and meets its fate. All is done in order,
according to the rules of the game. You understand?’
‘Of course.’
‘What would you have? A House filled with a mob of six hundred
undisciplined, separate individuals, all clamouring together--every one
fighting to bring forward some fad and fancy of his own? What a House
would that be? What kind of legislation would you expect of such a
House?’
Robert at the moment could suggest no kind of legislation.
‘Suppose you think over the matter from this point of view, Mr.
Burnikel. Construct--that is, in your imagination--the House filled
with Independent Members, and see how it would work. Oblige me by doing
this.’
Robert bowed gravely.
‘I dare say that you have already recognised this view of the question.
But there are times when the mind seems more especially open to the
apprehension of plain truths. This is, perhaps, one of those occasions.
The very name of Lady Frances fills one with the idea of Party.’
‘I will, at least, consider your view.’
‘Well--and now, Mr. Burnikel, I want to speak quite plainly, and, I
take it, you are not a man to be offended with plain speech. Very
good. You are not a rich man, I believe, nor a man of family?’
‘I have already told you that I am a boat-builder--a Master
Craftsman--and my income is small.’
‘I have heard as much. Well, your birth and position should be no bar
to your ambitions. You have heard that I began with much the same
disadvantage. You will very soon find your way about. You are in
excellent hands so long as Lady Frances takes an interest in you, and I
hope that you will find, as I did, that this is the very best country
in the world for a young man of ability and courage and ambition.’ He
rose from the chair. ‘So. I have said nearly all I wished to say.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robert humbly. He was touched by the comparison of
the man who had succeeded with himself.
‘Not quite all. Some of the people think that you may possibly be a
coming man. I’m sure I don’t know.’ Lord Caerleon, who had worked
himself up into some eagerness, became all at once limp and tired.
‘There are too many wrecks. I have had too many disappointments. But--I
say--I don’t know. Anything may happen. I don’t think I could have
made such a clever speech as yours of the other day. I don’t know.
Anyhow, we are watching you. And--I don’t know--it depends entirely on
your own ability and common-sense. I believe you may find friends and
backers--when you give up nonsense, and are content to play the game
according to the rules. But--I don’t know. Good-evening, Mr. Burnikel.’
He inclined his head with dignity. The interview was at an end.
‘I was very glad,’ said Lady Frances, after this conversation, ‘to see
Lord Caerleon talking so long and so earnestly with you. It is a sign
that he takes a personal interest in you. Believe me, Mr. Burnikel, it
is a great honour to have been able to interest that old Parliamentary
hand.’
‘I am indeed very much obliged to him for the trouble he took to
convert me to his views.’
‘I will tell you a secret, as people always say when they tell a thing
that everybody knows: Lord Caerleon came here this evening on purpose
to meet you and have the talk with you.’
‘Did he really?’ Robert, who was not to be dazzled, blushed like a girl.
‘He did indeed. And, Mr. Burnikel, I understand from your cousin that
you are a very masterful man, and that you think very much of your own
opinion. Only, remember, you are young, as regards political life.
You cannot possibly know as much, or anything like as much, as Lord
Caerleon, who is seventy-seven; and as regards the House, you are yet
only a theorist, and Lord Caerleon has an experience of fifty years.
You are a very strong man, Mr. Burnikel, but strength wants experience.
You must not feel shame at the outset to be guided.’
Thus skilfully did this diplomatist play upon the weakness of the
strong man. The stronger the man, the more this weakness may be played
upon. It is your weakling who has no such vanity.
‘Let us talk again about this subject, Mr. Burnikel. I cannot talk
freely to-night. Come to-morrow afternoon--it is not my day--and
we will consider the thing calmly and from your own personal
point of view. Oh, I understand it perfectly; but ambition, Mr.
Burnikel--ambition must use the appointed ways. We belong to our
own generation; we are subject to the conditions of our time; and,
_enfin_, you must not waste what might be--and will be--a great career,
for the sake of a visionary scruple.’
Robert went away in a thoughtful mood. The observations made by the
noble lord went straight home. If, by remaining an Independent Member,
he obtained neither power nor place, nor even the introduction of
the great, remarkable, never before imagined, measures of which, in
ignorance of his powers and possibilities, he had vaguely dreamed, he
might as well keep out of Parliament altogether, and go on haranguing
the working men of Shadwell.
The day after the dinner Frances wrote me a letter.
‘I have just parted,’ she said, ‘with your remarkable cousin. He
dined with me last night, and heard plain truths from old Lord
Caerleon. He went home staggered, and he came this afternoon to
consult with me. He protested vigorously, of course; his principles,
his teaching, his convictions, were all against Party. As if that
mattered with so young a man! He protested, however, too vigorously;
the very strength of his protestation showed that he was weakening.
Of course, his pride, which is colossal, and his self-confidence,
which is unbounded, prevent his giving in without a struggle. But he
will give in, George--he will give in--and we shall have, I believe,
a recruit worth fifty of the men that the other side can show. I
have never seen any reason to depart from the opinion which I formed
at the very outset--that your cousin has in him the very highest
possibilities.
‘The thing which makes me quite certain of his conversion is that
self-interest, which in him means ambition, and pride, and desire
for conquest, will be continually prodding and prompting him. It
is like the dropping of water upon a stone. I am sure there can be
no stronger force, and it is always in action upon every man. It is
especially a characteristic of this man. Generally self-interest
means money. Not so with your cousin. Dear me! if we take away
self-interest, how many noble patriots and great and pious persons
would be left? Well, it is for your cousin’s interest--looked at
from every point of view--that he should join us; and now that he
fully understands it--and understands as well that he can never get
on without joining us--he swears he will never, never, never do
so--standing on the point of honour--as one who, while she swore
she’d ne’er consent, consented. Oh, he will come in, as soon as he
can square it with his pride.
‘You see, he lived alone; he read books; he formed theories; he did
not know how things were worked practically; he did not know men
and women; and so he got notions in his otherwise sensible pate.
He fully intended--which was a very nice thing to intend--to do
“great and noble” work--what kind of work that is I cannot tell
you--all by himself, which an admiring world would behold, and for
which an admiring Premier would ladle out rewards. And, of course,
he saw in his dreams the House of Commons looking on, not with
eyes of envy, but of wonder and applause, and he heard the papers
ringing wedding-bells of praise. It is the one discernible note of
his out-of-the-world upbringing and his solitary self-making, that
he could seriously entertain this idea, and could imagine himself
mounting in this Will-o’-the-wisp fashion to the place of First Lord
of the Treasury, and all kinds of sweet things. A most childish
dream, and yet in its way the dream of a generous man. He who could
imagine a career of this sort cannot be altogether a selfish man.
The lower nature, you see, thinks of the reward first and the kind
of work afterwards. It does not detract from the higher nature that
a man should think of his reward after he has thought of his work.
Otherwise he would be more than human. So I do not blame your cousin,
but rather respect him the more. A childish dream. I told him so
to-day, and I told him why. And an ignorant dream. I told him that as
well. He thinks so now; but it shamed him, just for the moment, to
confess that he has been all wrong. A man like Robert Burnikel cannot
bear to be thought ignorant.
‘I had on the table a copy of the _Morning Herald_. It contained a
leader against him and his last speech--quite a leader of the old
stamp. I had thought the trick of writing such leading articles was
gone. Every sentence perverted; every phrase misinterpreted, and made
to mean something more, something less, and something different--a
masterpiece of party malignity--a leading article, in fact, that
cannot fail to do our friend all the good in the world.
‘I handed him the paper; he had not yet seen it. Well, you would
hardly believe that a real politician could be so young and so
foolish. He actually flew into a rage over it; he lost, for a moment,
command of himself.
‘“My dear friend,” I said, “the thing is so exaggerated that I
thought you had written it yourself.”
‘“Written it myself--myself?”
‘“Written it yourself. Don’t you understand, Mr. Burnikel, that what
the young politician wants is plenty of abuse from the other side.
There is a story of a certain aged statesman who very kindly advanced
a young man of the opposite bench, in whom he took a fatherly
interest, by personally abusing him for a whole twelve months. In
five years that young man was Chancellor of the Exchequer. Now, if we
could only find some good man on the other side to abuse you. It is
difficult, but it might be done.”
‘“Rise through abuse?”
‘“Certainly; I will tell you why: First, because it keeps people
talking of you, thinking of you, and giving you increased importance
in the Party; and next, because the abuse is always grossly
exaggerated, and people compare it with your printed utterances. If
you were rich enough, you should pay a journalist so much a year to
abuse you twice a week.”
‘He threw down the paper. “Mean artifice!” he cried. “Does this also
belong to Party?”
‘“You must not take things so seriously, Mr. Burnikel,” I said. “It
is true that the abuse will in the long-run end in strengthening your
position. As for hiring a man, you ought to understand by this time
what we mean in earnest, and what in the language which we use to
each other.”
‘“Oh,” he cried, “I am an awkward, stupid log!”
‘“Never mind, Mr. Burnikel. You are half a nautical person; you shall
be the ship’s log, which is very good reading, I believe. Now, let us
say no more about this article. You must learn to accept these things
philosophically. They are all in the day’s work. A man who wants to
stand on a pinnacle must expect to have dead cats thrown at him.
Force of habit, you see, makes the journalist who used to throw dead
cats and addled eggs at the man in the pillory now throw them at the
man on the pinnacle. They don’t hurt--that is, they don’t hurt the
man who belongs to the Party--they do him good; they only hurt and
defile the man who has no Party to protect him, and no friends.”
‘Eleven o’clock.
‘I have just opened a note from him. He has joined us. Yes; the
Independent Member has vanished.
‘“DEAR LADY FRANCES,” he says, “I have thought over what you said
this afternoon; you have convinced and converted me. I am now quite
sure that the only way of working the machinery of Government is by
means of Party. You have shown me that I have been quite wrong. I
shall join your Party as one of its private soldiers, and I shall
set myself to learn the obedience and discipline of which you
spoke.”
‘There, George; I have converted him. Now, it was not by my arguments
at all, but by those of Lord Caerleon, that he was converted. There
were all the signs of conviction on his face last night after that
conversation. I thought, indeed, of inviting him to sit down on the
stool of repentance before the world. But do you think he is capable
of confessing himself converted by a man? Never. By a woman, perhaps,
although he is too much absorbed in his own ambition to think much
about women--never by a man. I am contented, however, with my share
of the work. You made your cousin a gentleman, my dear George. You
gave him manners. At first, I plainly see, he was probably little
better than a self-satisfied prig of the boorish sort--a lower
middle-class, prejudiced, book-learned, ignorant prig--yet with
wonderful capacities. I shall make him a model statesman of the
modern kind. What else can we, between us, do for him?’
‘Well, my dear Frances,’ I said to myself, folding up the letter, ‘the
next thing you might do for him--if you would, just to oblige me--is to
make him a model husband, and so get him out of my way.’
CHAPTER XXII.
A SURPRISE.
And now I have to relate the occurrence of a very surprising incident.
It was not only surprising in the way it happened, accompanied by
circumstances that have a kind of supernatural appearance, but also in
the time when it happened. Had it been earlier or had it been later,
this history might never have been written. Had it never happened at
all, what might have become of Isabel? And for myself, I might as
well have jumped off my own quay into the flowing river, for all the
hope or joy of living that would have been left to me. The wonder of
the thing is that it was not found out long before. A hundred times
and more the place had been searched; an accident might have revealed
the secret; a jar, a fall, might have thrown open the hiding-place; a
casual cabinet-maker might have found it out had he looked in the right
direction. But kindly fate left the discovery to me.
The room allotted to me for a bedroom was that in which old John
Burnikel’s bare and naked four-poster was standing. When I was first
shown the room, it had no other furniture than the four-poster and the
old man’s sea-chest. They had now clothed the forlorn bedstead, and put
in certain chairs and things, so as to make a habitable room of it.
The window faced south, and as it was on the second-floor, it looked
over the boat-shed upon the river. Here I slept every night in the bed
where the old Master Mariner died, quite untroubled by any thoughts
about him or the long-lost diamonds, and unvisited by the ghost of
their former owner.
It was in the beginning of August, when the nights are still short.
Perhaps it was a hot night; perhaps there was more noise of passing
steamers from the river than usual--the Silent Highway is generally
much noisier than Cheapside by night, as well as by day. Whatever
the cause, I woke up, starting suddenly into wakefulness. It was
early dawn, but the light was rapidly increasing. My blind was up, my
curtains drawn, my window wide open. I lay lazily watching the sky in
the south grow lighter--gray at first, and then suffused with some of
the eastern glow--a tender, subdued glow like the colour on Isabel’s
cheek, which so quickly comes and goes--the tell-tale glow. Perhaps,
had I not begun to think about Isabel, I might have gone to sleep
again, in which case this thing would not have happened.
The gray hues passed away, the rosy hues passed away; there remained
the clear deep blue of early morning before the smoke begins, when the
sky may be like the sky of Africa for clearness and for depth, and when
the river, with its bridges and its boats, all asleep in silence, save
for the wish and wash of the ebb and flow, is an enchanted stream.
Presently I closed my eyes again. Contrary to reasonable expectation,
I did not go to sleep again. It was that kind of hopeless wakefulness
which makes sleep past praying for. I insist upon this point on account
of what followed, which was not a dream, for I was awake; but a kind
of vision, and only remarkable because it coincided with the discovery
which followed.
Do not suppose that I attribute this vision to any supernatural
interference. Nothing of the kind. Neither the ancient mariner, the
master mariner, nor the unfortunate nabob of whose existence I first
learned in the vision, ever appeared to me or afflicted me with
terrors. I have never been in the least afraid of ghosts. Had old
John Burnikel come to my bedside, I would have had the secret of the
diamonds out of him before I let him go, as sure as my name is George
Burnikel. But he never came; he made no sign. I think he must have
forgotten in the other world all about his diamonds; his ghost never
once appeared to me. Had it done so, I would have had the great secret,
I say, out of him in no time. ‘Ghost,’ I should have said, ‘where are
those diamonds? Who stole them? What is the truth about them? If they
were stolen, and have long since been dispersed, let me know. If they
still remain to be discovered, somewhere or other, tell me where they
are. I adjure thee, I command thee, by all the charms and spells that
you ghosts are fools enough to dread, tell me where those diamonds are.’
That is what I should have said. But the only man I know who ever
claimed to have raised a ghost--and that was also the ghost of a
sailor--told me that he was only too glad to let him go back again
below, below, below, and that, though as brave as most, he did not
dare to ask any questions. I don’t believe a word of it. However,
ghosts are scarce; perhaps I should have behaved in the same manner.
And this, I take it, is the case with most; otherwise we should know
more about certain things whose uncertainty is sometimes disagreeable.
All you have to do is to raise your ghost and not be afraid of him.
There was no ghost, and yet the air seemed this morning full of the
Burnikel legend. There was the sound of a ship slowly making her way
up the river--a Hamburg or Norwegian steamer, perhaps. One is never
allowed perfect calm at Wapping. I lay on my back in the old wooden
four-poster, which they had fitted with a spring mattress instead of
a feather-bed, and I recalled the wonderful story: how the old man
one night displayed his bag of precious stones, worth anything you
please; how he told the cousins it would be theirs; how, a day or two
afterwards, he was found dying, and told them collectively that they
knew where the bag was kept; how they did not know, but searched and
could not find it, and accused each other, and fought and separated.
I lay on my back recalling this odd story, which was chiefly
interesting because it was a story without an end.
Another interest it might have, if one were to consider how John
Burnikel got those diamonds, because the old man’s romance of the Great
Mogul and the invitation to fill his pockets in the Royal Treasure
Vaults was clearly too ridiculous; it was so very plainly invented with
intent to deceive.
The first thing that happened after this awaking was a vision. It was a
very odd vision. To begin with, I was not asleep. To this day I cannot
understand how this vision, of all others, came to me. One never dreams
original plots of novels; quite new stories never come to anyone; and
this story, except for one little half-forgotten circumstance, was
quite new. Some novelists have pretended that their plots habitually
come to them in dreams, but I do not believe it. Dreams and visions are
erratic, incoherent, and unconnected things for the most part. That
makes my vision all the more remarkable.
I suppose I must have dropped into some kind of bodily torpor. I am
sure I was not asleep, because all through the business I knew that I
was lying on the bed, although the action of the piece, so to speak,
was elsewhere. However that may be, it is really useless to explain
or account for a vision. The one that came to me was, so to speak, a
magnified and embroidered piece of work, springing from something that
Isabel had once told me. Why, I had quite forgotten it. She was talking
about her people, who were no more illustrious in station than my own;
and she informed me that once there was a strange man among them who
had run away to sea, and come home again in rags twenty years later,
raving about a fortune he had lost in India. Nothing more than that.
A very slight material of which to construct a vision. Yet it came,
and as long as I live I shall believe that the vision was somehow a
revelation of the truth sent to me just before the great discovery.
It began by my stepping out of the house--but I knew all along that
I was in the bed--and walking down the narrow lane leading out of
the High Street to Wapping Old Stairs. There I found, sitting on the
stairs, an elderly gentleman dressed in clothes extremely shabby. He
wore a coat of brown cloth, he had worsted stockings, hat frayed and
worn at the edge--quite a poor man he seemed to be. From his dress it
was evident that he belonged to the eighteenth century, which I like to
consider a picturesque period.
He sat upon the top step of Wapping Old Stairs, and he looked across
the river; and as he gazed the tears ran down his face.
It is not often that one gets the chance of talking to a man of the
eighteenth century, but it seemed not unnatural. I sat down beside him
as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
‘What, sir,’ I asked timidly, ‘is the cause of this grief?’
He sighed heavily. ‘My diamonds!’ he said, ‘my diamonds!’
‘What diamonds? I am a stranger to your time, worthy sir, and I know
nothing of your diamonds.’
‘What troubles me,’ he said, ‘is that I think I must have lost my soul
in getting them together, in which case I have thrown away my soul for
nothing.’
‘Dear me, sir, this is serious indeed.’
‘Yes, young man, they were amassed by scraping and grinding, and
squeezing and skinning. Never were people ground down more miserably;
and it was I who did it in my master’s service--in the service of the
devil, I think. And now I have lost the diamonds as well. What have I
got in exchange for my soul?’
I ought to have thought of John Burnikel at this point, but I did not.
‘Tell me more about the diamonds,’ I said.
‘Once I was a Nabob,’ he began, fetching a sigh as deep as an Artesian
well.
‘Really? A Nabob? I thought a Nabob had a carriage and four, and troops
of servants.’
‘Once I was a Nabob.’ Then he stopped and looked around him
suspiciously. The watermen lay asleep in their boats. It was a Sunday
afternoon in summer. The ships were moored in long lines down the river
from London Bridge, which we could not see for the bend, down to the
Lower Pool. ‘Is there no one here but yourself?’ he whispered.
‘No one; and I belong to the next century.’
‘So you do. And you can’t lock me up in a madhouse, can you? Oh, it’s
dreadful to be in a madhouse when you are not mad! Horrible! They knock
you about! they starve you! they abuse you! they chain you up--when
you are not mad at all. Young man, never, if you can possibly help it,
lock up anyone in a madhouse.’
I promised him that I would not.
‘They put me in on account of these lost diamonds. They said I was mad.’
‘What diamonds, then?’
‘Sir, it relieves my grief to tell the cause. I was one of those
unlucky youths who cannot remain at home and do what the others do. I
had to run away when I was fourteen to prevent being apprenticed to
some vile trade--saddlery, I believe. So I ran away and went to sea;
and when we got to Calcutta, because the Captain was a brute, and the
mate was a brute, and the bo’s’n was a brute, I ran away from the
ship, and went up country, and entered the service of a native Prince.
And him I served for twenty years and more--served well--squeezed and
ground and skinned his people for him. And I got rich in his service,
for he gave me great presents. I told you--I was once a Nabob. Great
presents he gave me, though he was a devil.’
‘Very good, so far.’
‘When he let me go I carried down to Calcutta all my treasure in jewels
and gold pieces. I bought jewels, of which I understood the value very
well, with my money, and put them in a bag with what I had already--a
long, narrow canvas bag--and put the bag in a leathern belt, where it
could not be seen. And then I took passage in a homeward bound, with
all my fortune upon my person, worn night and day, in that narrow
leathern belt. Lots of people brought treasure home from India that
way. It was thought a safe way.’
‘Well?’
He sighed heavily. ‘On the voyage,’ he resumed, ‘I believe soon after
sailing, I was taken ill: it was brain-fever, sunstroke, or something.
When I came to myself again I was on shore--brought ashore and taken to
Bedlam because I was still disordered in my wits with my fever, or my
sunstroke.’
‘Oh! You were taken to Bedlam.’
‘I was taken to Bedlam and kept there--I don’t know how long. When they
let me go, and I remembered things, the belt was gone--the belt with
the diamonds was gone, I say!’
‘Who took it?’
‘I don’t know. Some sailor on the ship, perhaps; the keepers at Bedlam,
perhaps. So I went home to my own people, who lived at Canterbury, and
were saddlers. And when I went home in rags, they drove me out, and
when I raved about my diamonds, they locked me up again in another
madhouse.’
All this time I never thought of old John Burnikel at all.
‘That was very unlucky. What was the name of the ship?’ I asked him.
‘I cannot remember; I have never been able to remember.’
‘Or of the captain?’
‘I cannot remember.’
‘What is your own name? Can you remember that?’
‘Samuel Dering.’
‘Oh! Are you by any accident related to Captain Dering, and Isabel, his
daughter, both living in the year 1895?’
‘They will be my great-grand-nephew and great-great-grand-niece.’
‘Then they ought to have the diamonds, if they were found?’
‘Certainly they ought. I give them to Isabel. Please tell her so.’
‘And the name of the captain--was it John Burnikel?’
‘It was!’ He sprang to his feet. ‘Captain Burnikel it was! Where is he?
where is he?’
‘Dead, my friend--dead for nearly ninety years--as dead as you
yourself.’
He looked at me reproachfully, and the vision vanished. I was lying in
the old man’s bed and gazing at the sky. It was an odd trick of the
brain, more especially as I had never heard any hint or suggestion
of the kind. But at this moment I believe that I dreamed the truth,
and that old John Burnikel simply cut the belt from the waist of a
passenger gone mad for the time with sunstroke, or some other cause.
The passenger recovered after landing, but could not remember the name
of the ship or the captain, and he was the great-grandfather of Isabel.
Nothing in the story at all, except for the accident which followed.
My eyes fell upon the sea-chest. It was a large iron-bound trunk--the
sea-chest of an officer, not a common sailor, who is only allowed, I
believe, a sea-bag.
The more I looked at that chest, the more I thought about the
unfortunate Nabob turning all his fortune into precious stones, and
tying them up in a canvas bag worn as a belt. The vision, I repeat,
was so clear, the words were so plain, that I had not the least doubt
about the truth of the thing. John Burnikel had grown rich suddenly by
robbing a sick man of his fortune. No one suspected him; no one can
trace gems unless they are very large indeed; no one thought that he
possessed any precious stones till the last year of a very long life,
and then he accounted for their possession by a cock-and-bull story.
Had the injured man, this poor ruined Nabob, found him out, he could
bring no charge against him, for he had no kind of proof. And then an
irresistible desire seized me to search the chest once more on my own
account. It had been ransacked, I knew, time after time by Robert and
his predecessors. Never mind; I must look for myself.
So I sprang out of bed, and dragging the box out of the corner into the
middle of the room, I threw open the lid and began to search, taking
out the contents slowly one by one.
The chest had been left just as it was since the old man’s death.
Nothing had been taken away, only it had been searched a hundred times;
every separate member of the family had searched it over and over again
for three generations in hopes of finding that lost fortune. But in
vain. And now it was my turn.
The chest certainly contained a collection which showed travel. It was
divided into two unequal compartments, one about two feet six long,
and the other about eighteen inches. Both compartments were provided
with a tray about two and a half inches deep. The things in the chest
were not arranged in order, but just lay about, one on the other, piled
up, just as they were thrown in by the last who examined the contents.
The things were not such as we should now call rare; they consisted
of curios brought from voyages in the Far East and sea-going things
of the time. Thus, an ancient rusty flint and steel pistol belonged
to the sailor. An Oriental dagger must have been picked up in some
native shop of Calicut or Bombay. The mariner’s compass, the roll of
charts, the telescope, the sextant, the large silver watch, belonged
to the sailor; so, I suppose, did a mummified flying-fish, which still
preserved something of its ancient salt-sea smell; a carved sandal-wood
box; one or two Oriental pipes; a large figure of Buddha, or somebody
else, looking supremely wise and philosophic--or perhaps theosophic;
certain silk handkerchiefs, mostly eaten by moths; slippers in gilt
leather; a book of Hindoo pictures, ugly and fleshly; one or two things
in mother-of-pearl; half a dozen gold rings; twenty or thirty silver
bangles tied together. All these things spoke of the Eastern traveller,
and, a hundred years ago, would be thought curious.
The first thing that made me jump was a leathern belt lying at the
bottom of the box. A leathern belt! Why, it confirmed, I thought,
that strange story concerning the fever-stricken passenger. He had
his leathern belt. Well, but anybody may have a leathern belt. And
this was quite a common thing--a broad strap with a buckle, black with
wear or with age. I took it out and examined it. Now, which was a very
remarkable coincidence, the leather was double; it could be pulled open
along the upper line, and there was room within for just such a long
slim bag as was described by my imaginary Nabob. I passed my fingers
along the whole length of this curious double belt--the secret-holding
belt. No, there were no jewels left.
Nothing more was in the box of the least importance. All the things
lay on the floor beside the box; the thing itself, with its lid wide
open, stood below the window, the full light falling into its two
compartments. As you know, I am a fairly good hand at a lathe, and I
am by trade a practical boat-builder--a craftsman; my eye is therefore
trained. Now, as I looked into the empty chest, thinking about that
belt, I perceived that, at the back of the chest in the larger
compartment, the longer side was not quite at right angles with the
bottom of the chest. The difference was very slight--an inclination of
a very few degrees from the right angle; still, it was there, and to a
practised eye quite visible. But in the smaller compartment the right
angle left nothing to be desired; it was a true right angle. Was this
accidental? I lifted the chest, and changed its position. Yes; there
could be no doubt about the inclination of the lower two inches all
along the back of the larger compartment. I turned the box over; the
back was perfectly rectangular. But here, again, I observed a curious
point. The chest was solidly built: the wood was thick all over; but
the wood of the back was two inches thick. Why had they taken such
extraordinary precautions to strengthen the chest? And then a strange
sense of excitement fell upon me, because I was now quite certain that
all these signs meant something which I was going to discover.
The chest was lined with paper of a pattern which contained, at
intervals of four or five inches, a black thick line; one of these
lines occurred just above the beginning of the angle. The effect of the
line was, of course, to darken the part just above and just below. Now,
when I looked narrowly into the place, I fancied that I saw below the
line another, which looked as if it was a solution of the continuity.
Two inches below, at the very bottom of the chest, there was a mark of
some kind, but not that of a solution of the continuity.
A practical man in the boat-building trade never goes about, even in
his bedroom, without a good strong jack-knife--one that will serve
many purposes, if necessary. I found mine, and I tested this apparent
juncture. Yes; the blade penetrated easily. I passed it along the box,
backwards and forwards; the wood creaked, being old and dry. What was
the meaning of this slit? I turned the knife round. The wood slowly
gave way, and this part of the box grindingly and grudgingly opened. It
turned on creaking hinges, being kept in place by two rusty springs.
I dragged it quite open with my fingers. It was a long, narrow,
slightly-curved shutter, fitting tightly to the side of the box at a
small angle almost imperceptible. Behind, the thick wood of the box had
been hollowed out; and thus a secret cupboard was found, the existence
of which would never be suspected.
In that narrow recess lay the thing for which everybody had been
searching for nearly a hundred years--the cause of the cousins’ quarrel
and separation: the long narrow bag of brown canvas stuff, like one of
the old-fashioned purses, only open at the end instead of the middle.
With a beating heart I took it out. The narrow brown canvas bag, just
as the ruined Nabob had told me! Did he appear just then in order to
tell me? I laid it on the bed. It was tied very tightly with string at
one end. There were things in it. What things?
I threw the bag on the bed and leaned out of the window. The morning
air was fresh; the sun was bright; the river--I could see it over the
boat-shed--danced in the sunlight and the breeze. I sat there for some
time--I know not how long--my brain running away with me, filled with
confused murmurs as of people all talking together: the original Robert
and George clamouring for a division; old John himself telling us how
the great Eastern King bade him fill his pockets and fear not; the
poor old ragged Nabob sitting on Wapping Old Stairs in order to bewail
his loss; and Isabel whispering that I should be better without these
diamonds. A curious jumble of voices and of thoughts.
Perhaps it was not, after all, the bag of diamonds.
I left the window. I dared to put the thing to the proof; I cut the
string with my knife, and I poured out the contents upon the sheet of
the open bed.
Heavens! what a shower was that which descended! Danaë herself never
saw so fine a sight. They fell in a small cascade of splendid light and
colour--diamond, pearl, emerald, ruby, sapphire, jasper, topaz, beryl,
opal, hyacinth, turquoise, agate, every conceivable gem poured out of
the long sack--two feet six long and three inches broad--and there they
lay before me in a heap, glittering in the morning light. There were
thousands of stones, large and small; not rough stones, but all cut and
polished.
I had found the old man’s precious hoard. What they were worth I could
not imagine, nor have I ever learned. Only to amass such an immense
sum in the service of an Eastern Prince in twenty years must, I should
imagine, as the Nabob hinted, be extremely dangerous to the welfare of
the soul.
I ran my fingers through the pile. I played with the pretty things. I
threw them up to watch the light playing on them as they fell. I rolled
them over and over. Then began various temptations. I am not ashamed
to confess to very elementary suggestions that I should ‘sneak’ those
jewels. Said the voice of the Tempter: ‘Nobody knows what you have
found. Take the stones and go back to Piccadilly. There will be heaps
and heaps for you to live upon in that bag as long as you are likely
to live, and afterwards. Piccadilly is much more pleasant than Wapping.
Boat-building is a mean, mechanical craft. Remember that you belong to
that end of town. This is a Providential occasion; it is sent to you on
purpose to restore you to your old position.’
To this Tempter--I don’t know why he took the trouble to come at
all--one could easily find a reply. ‘Sir,’ I said, with dignity, ‘you
do not know to whom you are speaking. Go away, sir. Go to the Devil,
sir!’
The second Tempter said, ‘Why, just as this treasure would have
belonged to the original Robert and George had they found it, so it
belongs to the new Robert and George, now that they have found it. Call
him in quickly, and share it with him. Halves. That will give you both
plenty to live upon.’
To which I made answer on reflection: ‘My grandfather had brothers and
sisters. They went down in the world while he went up. I have cousins
somewhere who have as much right to the inheritance as I myself.
And Robert has brothers and sisters--no doubt, cousins as well. The
inheritance belongs to them as well as to Robert. If every one of us
has his share, there will not be much left.’
Then said the Tempter: ‘Why tell the far-off unknown cousins anything
about it? Probably they are much better without their share; much best
for most men to keep poor: they are out of temptation. Besides, there
is not too much to be divided between you and Robert. You will be able
to go back to the West End; it’s a much more pleasant life. Here you
will vegetate and grow stupid; your manners will fall from you; your
ideas will grow sordid, like your business. Better go West again, and
stay there. You will never again get such a chance. Boat-building is a
mean, mechanical craft.’
‘You, too,’ I said, with a struggle, ‘may go to your own place,
wherever that may be.’
I put back the stones in their bag. I closed the shutter; I filled the
chest with its contents. I closed the lid, and pushed the chest back
into the corner. Then I lay down on the bed and fell fast asleep.
When I awoke it was past six, and the life on the river had long
since begun. Had I dreamed? At first I thought so. The dream of the
unfortunate Nabob and his narrative was just as vivid as the dream of
finding the diamonds. Fired with this thought, I sprang out of bed and
tore open the box; yes, along the bottom ran that thin line which I had
opened with my knife. I doubted no longer.
I had found the diamonds.
I dressed quickly and hurried down to the river, where I went out for
a pull in one of our own boats--‘Burnikel and Burnikel.’ The exercise
and the fresh air set my brain right. I was able to see the thing in
its true light: namely, the find did not affect me at all. For nearly
ninety years that sea-chest had been in the possession of the tenant
of the house. Robert received it as part of his inheritance; to him,
as to the eldest, the family house and the family business; to the
others, a small sum of money each and the wide, wide world. The chest
was Robert’s, with all its contents; just as the old man’s bed was
Robert’s, and all the furniture of the house was his.
After breakfast the Captain retired to his own room. Isabel and I
were left alone. She proceeded, according to her wont, to wash up
the teacups; it is an ancient, homely custom among old-fashioned
housewives, and belongs to a time when china was dear and very precious.
‘You look serious, George,’ she said. ‘Has anything important happened?’
‘Something very important.’
‘Is it anything that will take you away from this place?’
Then I looked around and considered this maiden, how sweet and good
she was, and how much simpler and sweeter than the girls of society;
and how lovely she was, especially when the colour, like the dainty
delicate bloom of the peach, rose to her cheek. And how she loved
me--that I knew; and how I was bent upon taking her away from her cold,
unloving _fiancé_; and how she would never find any place in society
where she would be happy; and how I could not live without her.
Of course, the chest belonged absolutely to Robert--the chest and all
that it contained.
‘No, Isabel, nothing will ever happen that will take me from your
presence unless you command me to go.’
Despite my promise, some such words would fly out from time to time.
My excuse is that I was thinking continually how to effect Isabel’s
release.
She made no reply, but went on washing up the cups and saucers.
‘Isabel,’ I said, remembering the tearful Nabob, ‘do you remember
telling me about a certain member of your family who came home from
India and always raved about a lost fortune? Where did your people come
from?’
‘They lived at Canterbury once.’ That was where the Nabob went. ‘I do
not know how long they lived there.’
‘And about that man coming from India? Do you know anything about the
fortune that he lost?’
‘There was a man once--I have heard my great-grandfather, who lived to
a very old age, speak of his uncle, who was a very strange man. He had
been abroad, and he was wandering in his wits, and used to sit down
and cry over a lost fortune, which he said was in a belt. That is all
I know about him. My great-grandfather always said that he believed in
the loss of the fortune. But why do you ask?’
‘Only because I dreamed about him last night. Odd, wasn’t it? Dreamed
that he sat on the steps, and wept over his lost fortune.’
‘You dreamed about him? About my great-great-uncle, of whom you have
heard that strange thing!’
‘Yes. It’s a strange world. I dreamed about him. I will tell you some
day--soon--what I dreamed. It’s a very strange world indeed, Isabel.
And the most wonderful things get found out, years and years and years
after they have been done and forgotten.’
Then, for reasons of my own, I resolved to tell no one about the
diamonds for the present. One or two things had to be done before
Robert should learn of his recovered inheritance.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A MAN OF SOCIETY.
Never before, I am quite sure, was transformation more rapid than that
which changed the Hon. Member for Shadwell in less than six months
from a man out of the world to a man of the world. In April he came
to my chambers and introduced himself. Before the end of the season
he was in the House, in a West End Club, in Society. He was a rising
young man of the Party; the leaders were civil to him; he knew a
good many people; he was listened to in the House; he wrote a paper
in the Vacation about some branches of the Labour Question to the
_Contemporary Review_; he also read a paper on some statistics before
a learned society; he attended in August a Congress of working men and
told them truths. I believe he distributed prizes at a Sunday-school in
his Borough. In one way or another the papers were continually talking
about him. Now, the first step in the noble art of getting on is to
keep your name well before the public; everybody understands that. You
must make people talk about you. And since people’s memories are most
miserably short, you must do something else very soon to make them talk
about you again. The effect of this forced familiarity is that when the
promotion comes nobody is in the least astonished. I think, for my own
part, that he was artfully and secretly managed all this time; I have
my suspicions as to the person who pulled the strings. As for myself,
he was incapable of _réclame_! The people who pulled the strings and
made him dance and made the world talk about him sat in the background
or in the underground. Nobody knows what an enormous political
cellarage there is!
This was his life. It changed him completely in six months. He was
always a man of presence. He was now in appearance a gentleman of
sixteen quarterings at least; the aristocracy of Castile could produce
no scion of nobler figure. Anyone, however, may have the appearance
of a gentleman. Robert had acquired, in addition, the manner and the
speech of one who has always lived with gentlefolk, so that their
manners have become his own by a kind of instinct. I suppose he
acquired these manners easily because he had so little to unlearn. A
man who has lived alone among books can hardly have incurable habits.
I do not say that he talked as a man of his age belonging to public
school life, college life, or the army, would talk. No outsider can
possibly acquire that manner of speech.
‘Your cousin, George,’ said Frances, ‘reminds me of a certain courteous
gentleman of Virginia whom I met some years ago. There was an old-world
courtesy about him; he was a gentleman, but not of our stamp; he was
conscious of his rank and manners, he thought of both very much, and
I should say that he lived among people very much unlike him. Robert
reminds me of him. Nobody would deny that he is a man of fine, of
rather studied, manners; nobody would deny that he is a gentleman, yet
not one of us. He is to spend a fortnight with me at Beau Séjour’--this
was her country house--‘in September. He grows apace, George.’
‘He is a lucky man, Frances. You have taken him up and advanced him.’
‘He is more than lucky. Anybody may be lucky. He is strong.’
When the House rose, about the third week of August, and all the world
went out of town, he came home to the house and the dockyard. I looked
to see him fall back upon the old life: work in the yard all day,
and sit in his study all the evening. He did nothing of the kind. He
moved about restlessly, he came to the yard and looked at the work
in progress, but without interest. He received the ordinary business
communications without interest. He had still a share in the house,
yet he behaved as if he no longer cared even to hear what was done. I
suppose he had grown out of the work. Strange! And it was just as I was
growing into it, feeling the sense of struggle and competition, which
gives its living interest to all forms of trade.
One day he was sitting in the yard, looking out upon the river. The
men had gone; it was past five o’clock. The day was cloudy, and a
driving rain fell upon the river, which looked gray, and stormy, and
threatening.
‘This is a horrible place to live in!’ he said abruptly. ‘It is more
horrible than it used to be!’
‘Come, you lived in it yourself for a long time.’
‘But I always knew that it was a horrible place; one couldn’t help
knowing that. I always intended to get away. Man, if I had known only
a tenth part of the pleasures of that other life, I should have been
devoured with the rage and fierceness of discontent. I say it is a
horrible place--cribbed, cabined, and confined! With whom can you talk?
With the Captain and Isabel. George, how can you do it? How could
you bring yourself to do it--you who know the other life? I don’t
understand it. You who know that incomparable woman! Why, now that I do
know it, rather than leave it I would go out and rob upon the highway!’
‘You like that other life so much? Strange!’
‘Why is it strange? It is the only life worth leading. You taught me to
like it when you taught me what it meant. I should otherwise have been
outside everything all my life.’
‘I am not the only one who taught you, Robert.’
‘No; there is Lady Frances. Well, I owe it to you that I have learned
what a woman may be. I owe it to you. How could I know before to what
heights a woman could rise? Good heavens! how could I know?’
‘Very little, truly. You remember, however, that you never gave
yourself the trouble to inquire into the subject.’
‘I had no chance. There is a woman--clever, accomplished, full of
resource, of gracious manners. Good heavens, George! And you could go
away, leave her, and come down here!’
‘Beautiful too, if you ever think about beauty,’ I added calmly.
‘I never do when I am in her society.’ He meant well, though the
compliment was doubtful. He intended to explain that the charm of her
conversation was so great that he could think of nothing else.
‘Some men think her extremely beautiful--I do myself. You may remember,
also, that she is well-born and rich.’
‘I would rather not remember those points,’ he said shortly. ‘I would
rather not remember that there are any barriers between us.’
‘Are good birth and fortune barriers? Not always. However, there is one
barrier of your own making, Robert. She is sitting in the house over
the way at this minute.’
He took up a handful of chips and began to throw them into the river
one by one, with gloomy countenance. ‘A barrier of your own making,
Robert. I suppose you can unmake it if you like?’
‘My word is passed.’
‘You belong to society now, you much-promoted person. When you marry,
your wife must belong to society as well, or you will have to go out of
it. Do you think that Isabel is ready to take her place in the world of
society as well as, say, Lady Frances?’
Robert, to those who knew him, betrayed any strong emotion by the
quick change in his face. It was disgust, plain disgust, which crossed
his face when I put this question.
‘Isabel,’ I went on relentlessly, ‘is a girl with many graces.’
‘I have never seen any,’ he said.
‘Of great beauty, of great delicacy of mind, sweet and gentle.’
‘So is a doll.’
‘You have never even tried to discover the soul of the girl whom you
have promised to marry. I know her a great deal better than you.’ That,
at least, was quite true, yet not exactly as he thought. ‘The point is
whether she has the training and the knowledge required by a great lady
in society; and I am quite certain, Robert, that she has not.’
‘My word is passed; but’--he threw all the rest of the chips into the
stream and got up--‘I am not going to marry yet awhile--not for a very
long while yet.’
‘Well, but consider--is it right?’
‘Does she want to marry somebody else, then? Let her speak to me if she
does. And how can I talk of marrying yet?’ he added irritably. ‘Nobody
knows better than you what my resources are; and I haven’t got my foot
upon the lowest round of the ladder yet.’
‘Let Isabel go, then.’
‘I have passed my word.’
I said no more. It is always a pity to say too much. We went over the
way and had tea.
The day after this conversation he addressed his constituents, not
defending or excusing his conduct in ceasing to be an Independent
Member, but giving them his reasons in a lordly and condescending
manner, which I believe pleased these honest fellows much better than
if he had fawned upon them. Who would not wish to be represented by
a man who had opinions of his own, rather than by one who pretended
to accept the imaginary opinions of the mob? ‘You fellows haven’t got
any opinions,’ said Robert, standing on the platform. ‘I have. You
send me to represent my own opinions, which you know, and not yours,
which you don’t know. Opinion! How can fifty men be said to have an
opinion? Well, you all hold certain opinions that belong to simple law
and order. You know that politicians are necessary. You think that
rich men get too rich. You sometimes think that there ought to be work
and wages for everybody. Some of you allow yourselves to think what is
foolishness: that wages ought to be always going up. What is the good
of such an opinion as that?’ And so on, telling them very plainly that
he thought nothing at all of their intellects. And they liked it.
After a week, during which we saw very little indeed of him, he went
away again, with scant leave-taking. He carried away with him all his
possessions--his books, his papers, and all; so that it was manifest
that he meant to return no more. In fact, he came again once and only
once, as you shall hear.
‘Has he said anything, Isabel?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Not a single word. I was horribly afraid that he would. Not one word.’
‘It is wonderful,’ I said, looking upon this sweet and lovely maiden.
‘Well, Isabel, the day of redemption draweth nigh. Yet but a little
while, and I shall knock the fetters from your feet, and you shall be
free to fly--to soar--to scale the very heavens in the joy of your
freedom.’
So we were left alone again, having the quiet house, so quiet when
all the workmen had gone home, all to ourselves, with the Captain to
take care of us. It was not an unhappy time, despite that betrothal
which I fain would snap asunder; partly because we were together, and
partly because I was certain that the promise must be broken as soon as
Robert understood himself a little better. The evenings grew too short
for more than a sail on the river; then too short for that. We spent
them at home, by ourselves. Isabel discovered that I could sing; or she
played to me with a soft and sympathetic touch, which made me dream
things unutterable. On Saturday afternoons we went to picture-galleries
and to theatres and concerts--always somewhere. On Sunday morning, if
it was fine, we went to St. Paul’s, or Westminster, or the Temple,
where the voices are sweet and pure and the singing is regulated. When
it was wet, we went to St. John’s, our own parish church, and sat under
the tablets of the Burnikels. I never really enjoyed family pride at
the West End; here, on the spot, one felt every inch a Burnikel. We
were like Paul and Virginia, and Paul was a most enviable person. I
had brought my lathe from Piccadilly and set it up in the study, and
Isabel would sit reading while I made the splinters fly; or we read
together. I read aloud while she worked, or she read aloud while I took
a pipe; or, best of all, she sat opposite me while I had that pipe
and talked--talked of things pure, and sweet, and heavenly, insomuch
that the hearts of those who heard flowed within them. At such time I
loved to turn the lamp low, so that the sweet face of my mistress might
be lit and coloured by the red fire in the grate or the lamp in the
street. And all this time, during August and September, not a word from
Robert.
It was for his sake, in order to advise him, that Frances continued
in town till the end of August, and when she went down to her country
house he went, too, as one of her party.
‘Your cousin,’ she wrote, ‘is staying here. He does not go out with
the men shooting. I suppose that he cannot shoot. He works in the
library; he has brought some books of his own here. He is writing
a little series of three letters for the _Times_ on one of his
own subjects. He has read them to me first. I find them admirably
expressed and models of good sense. He grows every day, George; his
head will one day touch the skies. He still lacks the one grace
that will complete his oratory if he arrives at it--the grace of
lightness. He can be light and humorous on occasion, but his general
tone is serious. It is a seriousness which sits well upon a young
man, because in this age of badinage and cynicism no one is serious,
except Robert himself, who looks as serious as a Dean. There is also
something on his mind. I do not suppose it is the want of money,
because you told me something about his affairs, and I believe that
he has a few hundreds. It is not disappointment, because no young man
has ever got on so well in so short a time since the days of Pitt.
I think he will be Pitt the Third. In that case you will see him in
the Cabinet in four or five years at the outside. It is not that he
feels himself out of his element in this country house, which is,
I suppose, rather a finer house than the one you have at Wapping.
Nothing dazzles him--neither wealth, nor troops of servants, nor
titles, nor women in grand frocks, nor diamonds. What, then, is the
matter with him? If he were another kind of man, he would long since
have got himself sent away by making love to me. As you know, George,
I am always sending them away for this very sufficient cause. But
this man does not make love. What is on his mind? You who know him
may be able to advise upon this subject. The symptoms are a tendency
to the gathering of a sudden cloud upon the face; a disposition
of the mind to wander away, out of sight, so to speak; a sudden
looking forth of the eyes into space. He is thinking of something
disagreeable. It cannot be his past, because he is no more ashamed
of having been a boat-builder than you are of becoming one; though
what is honest self-respect in one case is disgraceful abandonment of
caste in the other. What can it be? I suspect--nay, I am sure--that
there is some woman in the case. Has he early in youth made a fool
of himself with an unworthy woman? Has he trammelled himself? Is he,
perchance, a married man, and married to Awfulness and Terribleness?
Oh, the having to marry such women! I am very much concerned upon
this point, George. Let me know about it, if you can. Don’t try to
screen him if he wants any screening. I think so much of him, I tell
you beforehand, that I would forgive him if I could. Only there are
some things which must not be forgiven.
‘I am not going to stay here after October, when I shall return to
town and to dear, delightful politics, and to you, my dear George, if
you can tear yourself from your abominable chips and come to see me.
Have you developed more callosities on your hands?--F.’
What was on Robert’s mind? Well, I think I could tell her. But should
I? Would it be best to tell her?
CHAPTER XXIV.
AN EXPLANATION.
It was about the middle of October that Frances came up from the
country. Considering that her uniform practice was to remain there
until the middle of January every year, it was reasonable to suppose
that there was some urgent cause why she returned so soon.
Perhaps she would tell me. It was her general custom to tell me
everything. For instance, when her marriage, at the age of eighteen,
with an elderly Secretary of State, was under consideration, we
talked it over together, weighing the arguments for and against it,
dispassionately, which we could very well do, because Frances was not
in love with the elderly statesman, though she greatly admired him, and
we were not in love with each other.
I called upon her on Sunday morning, a time when I should be certain to
find her quite alone. She received me in her breakfast-room. I observed
that her face showed certain signs of trouble, or, at least, uneasiness
of some kind. It was in her eyes chiefly, eyes remarkable for their
serenity, that the trouble was shown. There was a dark line under them,
and her forehead, the forehead remarkable for its sunshine, looked
clouded.
‘You are not well, Frances?’
‘I am always well, George. Sit down and tell me all about yourself.’
‘I have got nothing to tell you about myself; but I will tell you, if
you please, about Isabel.’
I proceeded to tell her, at length, a great deal about Isabel. Of
course, Frances would not believe that a girl could be refined, and
graceful, and well-mannered, who was living at Wapping, the daughter of
a skipper.
‘You tell me to believe all this of such a girl, George. It is absurd.
Where would the girl find these graces? Believe me, a refined and
well-bred girl is a most artificial product. It takes the greatest
watchfulness and the most careful companionship to create refinement in
a girl--a refined and well-bred girl is not in the least a creature of
Nature, nor, I should suppose, of Wapping.’
‘I cannot tell you where she found her refinement, Frances. I suppose,
where she found her sweet face and her soft voice and her tender eyes.’
‘George, you are a lover. Oh! it must be beautiful to be a man, if only
for the man’s power of imagination. I fear your angel would be to me a
Common Object.’
‘No, Frances. Have I not known you all my life? This privilege is an
education. Do you think that, after going through such a school of
manners, I could be capable of falling in love with a Common Object?’
‘It is prettily said, George. I half believe you on the strength of
that pretty little speech. Since she appears to you all these things,
I can only hope that she is really all these things. You must take me
to see her. Only, you know, men who fall in love do sometimes permit
themselves the most crazy fancies. It makes them happy, poor dears, and
I suppose it does no harm to the woman. I dare say she doesn’t even
understand what the man thinks about her. Well, and you are engaged,
and you are going to be married. When?’
‘Here comes the trouble. We are not engaged. And we cannot become
engaged.’
‘Why not?’
‘On account of Robert.’
‘Oh!’ She blushed quickly. ‘Then, there is a woman, after all. What
about Robert?’
‘Four or five years ago, when she came with her father to live with him
and to keep his accounts, he told her that some time or other he should
want a wife, and that he should marry her. There was to be no wooing,
he said, and there has been no love-making ever since. He has never
addressed a word of love-making to her.’
‘Well? And why can’t the girl let him go? She must feel that she is a
clog upon him.’
Frances spoke more harshly than was customary with her.
‘Robert says that he has passed his word. Isabel says that she owes
everything to Robert, and that she is bound by common gratitude to wait
for him until he releases her. She will obey him in all things. If he
says “Marry me,” she will marry him. If he says “Wait,” she will wait.
If he says “Go,” she will go.’
‘Gratitude of this kind, George, is touching, but it may be
embarrassing. What does Robert say?’
‘Robert says that he has passed his word. But he also says that it will
be long years before he can think of marrying her. I have tried to make
him understand that it is cruel to keep a girl on like this.’
‘Does he love her? Oh, I cannot think he does. I have watched him while
he was thinking of her. I knew it was a woman, and I knew he had got
into some kind of scrape with a woman. Men who are in love do not glare
and glower when they think of the object of their affections.’
‘Does he love her?’ I repeated, rising, and looking out of the window.
‘Nobody can answer that question, Frances, better than you.’
It was a bold thing to say; but one must sometimes say bold things. I
remained at the window, looking out upon the Park, but I saw nothing.
Frances made no reply.
I came back and resumed my seat.
‘What do you want to do, George?’
‘I want Robert to release her.’
‘Tell him so, then.’
‘I know what he would say. I have told him so already. He says that
his word is given. Isabel has assured him that she will wait for him.
Isabel has always been so gentle, even meek, with him, that he would
understand with difficulty that she would, in fact, rather not.’
‘Well, what do you propose, then?’
‘I would try to work upon his ambitions. There is no doubt that poor
Isabel, who has no social ambitions, would be a clog upon him. Seeing
what kind of man he is, and the future that lies before him, would it
be provident for him to hamper himself with a wife who can never belong
to your world?’
‘It would be madness.’
‘Well, Frances, you have taken a very kind interest in him from the
first.’
‘For your sake, George; you know that.’
‘It was for my sake at the outset; now, I hope and believe, you
continue your interest in him for his own sake.’
She coloured. Thus doth guilt betray itself. Had she taken no such
personal interest in the man, there would have been no cause for the
mantling soft suffusion. It really was very pretty. Whatever softened
Frances’s regal beauty improved the attraction of it.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘the girl must be an incomparable nymph to have
conquered two such men. However, Robert must not marry a girl of
humble rank--at least, for a very long time to come. When he stands
quite firmly, and has secured his position--but even then it would be
madness.’
‘If he were to marry the right kind of woman it would be different. He
should have in a wife, first good connections, then social position,
then some measure of wealth.’
Frances inclined her head. ‘Those are all things that would help a
rising man.’
‘Since he is a young man, and has eyes in his head, beauty would be a
great additional advantage.’
‘I suppose it would.’
‘Well, Frances, do you know that woman?’
She answered one question with another: ‘Where should one look to find
such a woman?’
‘To be sure, Robert is a man without family; he can’t get over that.
One may give him the manners of a gentleman, but nothing can make him a
gentleman by birth.’
‘If,’ said Lady Frances, ‘your cousin is a gentleman by manners and
by instinct, what matters his birth? People may say behind his back
that he has been in some kind of trade; that won’t hurt him a bit. The
fact that he has been a boat-builder of Wapping will never prevent his
rising in the House. He is bound to rise. He will probably become in a
very few years a Cabinet Minister. I suppose there is hardly any woman
in the country who would not think herself fortunate in marrying a man
sure to become in a few years a Cabinet Minister.’
‘Meantime he is only a candidate for this distinction, and nobody,
except yourself, Frances, and one or two others, knows that he is
likely to get what he wants. Therefore again I ask, Do you know of any
woman--such as we desire for him--who would take him?’
‘How am I to know?’ she replied sharply. ‘I do not look about the town
in search of wives for my friends.’
‘But you know everybody. Do you know of any woman who possesses all
these acquirements?’
‘You are very strange to-day, George. Your love affairs make you
importunate.’
‘You shall be as haughty as you please in five minutes, Frances.’ I
took her hand. ‘My dear Frances, you have always been so sisterly with
me; and now I am in this terrible trouble, and in order to get out of
it, I must speak plainly--very plainly.’
‘Well, George’--she threw herself back in her chair and folded her
arms--‘you may speak as plainly--yes, as plainly--as you desire.’
‘Thank you. Well, then, do you remember a certain memorable day--a most
disastrous day--when I came to tell you that my misguided parent had
played ducks and drakes with the whole of my respectable fortune? I was
very low in spirits that day.’
‘Yes, I remember it well.’
‘We had a good deal of talk about ways and means. I disgusted you by
the absence of any healthy ambition.’
‘You always have disgusted me that way,’ she said. ‘What has all this
to do with your cousin?’
‘I am working round to him. You will see the connection in a moment.
Well, you fired up then, and became indignant, and looked splendid. I
like to see you when you are indignant. You then uttered words--burning
words. You said that all the time you had been watching another George
Burnikel growing up besides me. You said that he was ever so much
taller, handsomer, more ambitious, more industrious, more resolute,
more everything. You said also that you had always hoped that, in the
fulness of time, the smaller figure would be absorbed in the greater
figure, and there would then be a George Burnikel worth looking at. Do
you remember saying this?’
‘Yes, I remember, at least, thinking in that way.’
‘And I have often thought, Frances, that, if I could have become that
bigger animal--the ambitious and the resolute--perhaps--I don’t know,
but perhaps--you might have consented. Well, I must not ask, because I
quite understand that the thing was impossible. You have always been
too great for me, Frances. I must be contented with Isabel, who has no
ambition, poor child! and asks for nothing but love, which is pretty
well all I have to give her.’
‘I do not know what might have happened if things had been different.’
‘I was even tempted, being so very small a creature, to assume that
ambition, and to go about tricked with the feathers that pleased you.
Being a humble barn-door fowl, I thought of pretending to be an eagle.’
‘I am very glad you did not, George, because I might have believed you.’
‘Oh! You would have found me out very soon. However, that nobler
creature, that superior George, that imaginary person whom you figured,
he does exist; he is, in fact, my cousin. Look at him, Frances; he
is exactly like me, only bigger all over, body and brain. He is as
ambitious as Lucifer, which is exactly what you want; also he is
nearly as proud as my Lord Lucifer, which ought to please you; he is
masterful through and through, which pleases you; he makes everything
and everybody subservient to his ambition; he has learned an immense
quantity of things, to serve his own ambition; he is eloquent; he is
handsome; he has manners, though he will never acquire the conventional
manner--why, that is in itself a distinction.’
‘George, you were never so eloquent about yourself.’
‘One cannot be. And then, which is something, he is a true man; when
he says a thing he means it; he has no past to cover up, like so many
men. He will never have anything to conceal in the future. And he will
command the whole world, except one person--that person, Frances, is
yourself. You are the only person who can rule him; for he worships
you, as yet afar off, with no thought of worshipping nearer.’
‘What do you mean, George? What authority or grounds have you for
saying this? What has Rob--your cousin--said to you?’
‘I mean exactly what I say. He has said nothing; but I have eyes in my
head.’
‘The man has never spoken one word that I could interpret in such a
sense.’
‘He never will, unless you bid him speak, and until he is released from
his word; then you will find him eloquent enough.’
‘Well, but even supposing so much, George, it is not in my power to
release him. Why cannot he release himself?’
‘No; but if a word of hope is authorized--in case.’
She bent her head. Then she looked up and laughed.
‘George,’ she said, ‘you must indeed be desperately in love to
undertake the _rôle_ of match-maker.’
‘That word of hope.’ I took her hand, as if I had been her lover
indeed, instead of only a go-between. ‘What will you say that I may
repeat to him? How shall I let him understand that your interest in
him is personal?’
‘George, you shame me! How can I send a message of hope to a man who is
engaged to another woman? The thing is ridiculous. Go away and make him
release that girl.’
‘Yet I may say--what may I say?’ I insisted.
‘Say whatever you please, George. Go; you are a meddlesome creature.
I hope your Isabel will prove inconstant. There are Stairs at
Wapping--Old Stairs, I believe--and sailors convenient for inconstant
maids.’
‘You are interested in him. Confess, Frances,’ I persisted.
She covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, George,’ she murmured, ‘I
have always been interested in him from the very first.’ She sprang
to her feet. ‘Tell him, George, if you wish, that I like a man to be
strong and brave. Yes, I like a man to be capable of sweeping the curs
out of his way, as that cousin of yours cleared the stage of those curs
at Shadwell.’
‘And this great gulf of family. How can it be bridged over?’
‘He must build the bridge if he wishes to cross over.’
‘My Lady Greatheart,’ I said, and kissed her fingers, ‘there is the
poem, you know; the lines run like this:
‘“In robe and crown the Queen stooped down
To meet and greet him on his way.”
The metre is a little dickey in the next lines, but the sense quite
makes up for that defect. The sense is entirely beautiful:
‘“It is no wonder,” said the House of Commons;
“He is so very much stronger than the whole of the
Rest of the House of Commons put together.”’
CHAPTER XXV.
THE PROUD LOVER.
Thence I proceeded straight to Robert. Man, I discovered, is in these
matters more difficult than woman. Pride, to begin with--you shall see
how horrid an obstacle was pride. Never before had I understood the
ecclesiastical hatred of pride. I went about my business in the grand
or diplomatic style. That is, I concealed the real object, and worked
round to it. I believe that it is always easy to deceive a strong mind.
That is to say, it is a part of strength to proclaim a purpose and to
march straight towards it. It is your weak, knock-kneed persons who,
having always to crawl and wriggle for themselves, see through the
wrigglings of some and divine the intentions of others.
Robert was at work, of course. Nobody ever found him doing nothing. He
looked up, welcomed his visitor, and carefully covered his papers. He
never liked anyone to know what he was forging and contriving.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘let us talk for half an hour. Then we will go and get
some dinner; after that we will stroll about. What are you going to do
this evening?’
‘I thought of going to Lady Frances’s.’
‘Good. You see her pretty often, don’t you?’
‘Very often. It is quite impossible to see her too often.’
‘Quite impossible,’ I replied mechanically, watching his face. He was
nervous when he spoke; he took up things and put them down. I had never
seen him nervous before.
‘I wonder if there are many other women like her,’ he said slowly.
‘There is no other woman like her in the whole world, my cousin.’
‘She understands--that is the extraordinary thing--she understands
everything; an argument; a position; a combination: one hasn’t to
explain or to talk about it--she understands. If she were in the House,
she would lead it. She suggests a policy; she confers with Ministers;
she catches the drift of the public mind; she knows how far they can
go, and what they should attempt. George, I declare that I never before
imagined it possible that such a woman could be found!’
All these things he had said before. Robert was not accustomed so to
repeat himself.
‘And now you have found her, Robert, and she is your fast friend. Of
course, I’ve known her all my life; she has become a kind of sister,
you know, by long habit; but my admiration of her is quite equal to
yours. And have you nothing to say about her beauty?’
‘She is the most perfect woman I have ever seen,’ said Robert, his
voice dropping, because when a man feels strongly on such a subject
he doesn’t like to talk loudly about it. ‘Tall and queenly: she looks
born to command’--the quality which he most desired for himself he must
needs admire in a woman.
‘But her beauty, Robert? Her eyes--her face--her features.’
‘Yes. I think less of them--that is, of course, they belong to
her--they make up the greatness and the splendour of her. If it were
not for her beauty, she would not be half so queenly.’
‘She advises you in your public work; does she talk to you ever of your
more private affairs?’
‘She knows my history, such as it is, of course. I was not going to her
under false pretences. Besides, there is nothing to be ashamed of. I
told her at the outset that I am but a Craftsman--a Master Craftsman.’
‘Have you told her that you once--a good long time ago--promised to
marry Isabel?’
Robert changed colour. ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘There was no need to
tell her that.’
‘I think, if I were you, Robert, I should tell her.’
‘Why? What is the use of telling her such an insignificant fact?’
‘Insignificant? Your marriage an insignificant fact to your best
friend? Why, Robert, it is the most significant fact in the world. All
your future depends upon your marriage.’
‘It will not come off for years; I must make my position first. You
must know I cannot take upon me for ever so long the burden of a
wife--and a wife who would only pull me down instead of helping me up.’
‘I know that very well. You want a wife who would help you up.’
‘What does Isabel understand about these things? Nothing. What does she
care? Nothing.’ His voice showed the bitterness within him. ‘Has she
shown the least interest in my ambitions? Why, from the very first she
has been content to be my clerk when she might have been my companion.’
‘Come--come--you have never given her any encouragement. You never
suffered her to think of being a companion. She has always been afraid
of you. She is afraid of you still. Robert, I shouldn’t like to marry a
woman who was afraid of me.’
So it began all over again; but this time with results.
‘There is no question of like or dislike, unfortunately.’
‘I would let her go before the wedding-bells began to ring.’
‘You forget, George. I have promised to marry her. I will keep my
promise--some day.’
‘All very well. But there is her side of the question. Is it fair or
right to keep this girl waiting for you year after year--living almost
alone in that corner of the earth, wasting her youth, wasting her
beauty, longing for love, every year widening the distance between you,
while you chafe at the chain you drag and she droops and languishes in
bondage?’
‘I must keep my word,’ he repeated obstinately. ‘And, besides, Isabel
promised to wait for me as long as I choose. She knows she has got
to wait. As for my marrying now, she knows, and you know, that it is
impossible. What have I got to live upon? The money which you paid for
your share, and about two hundred pounds a year for my share. Do you
suppose that I can marry and live among my new friends on two or three
hundred pounds a year?’
‘Then let Isabel go,’ I repeated, as obstinate as my cousin for once.
‘If I do, who is to protect the child? Am I to turn her, penniless,
into the street? No, George, I am bound to her; and I must make the
best of it. Otherwise----’ His head fell.
I became more hopeful. When a man--any man, the most obstinate of
men--talks about making the best of it, he would certainly like to get
rid of it.
‘A man like you, Robert,’ I went on after a bit, saying the thing which
was in his mind at the time (there’s a diplomatic move for you; always,
if you can, make use of the other man’s own mind), ‘wants above all
things a wife who will stand by him, and think for him, and advance
him by her influence and her personality. The wife for you, or for any
man with such ambitions as yours, should supplement your qualities;
she should be well-born, well-mannered, influential; well-considered,
beautiful, and rich.’
‘Should be--yes, should be. But there is only one such woman that I
know of----’
‘Yes. There is only one that I know of. Her name is Lady Frances.’
He sprang to his feet and began to walk about.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘I believe you’ve got something or other
up your sleeve. Out with it, man. Don’t let us have any fencing here.’
‘I mean that with such a wife as Lady Frances to back you up, and with
your own abilities to help you on, you would be quite certain to step
into your place in the front before very long--far sooner, Robert, than
you can hope to do by your unaided efforts. That is all I mean.’
‘It is impossible. There is, first--Isabel in the way. You are a good
fellow to think about me--I don’t believe any other man in the world
would do so much for me. But no----’
‘Never mind Isabel for the moment. Let us talk only about yourself. Do
you--do you----’ I remembered the stipulation in the other engagement
about the foolishness of kisses: did the man, when he made that
stipulation, understand, the least in the world, the meaning of love?
Had he ever felt any kind of love at all for poor Isabel? and I put a
leading question: ‘Have you the--the kind of regard for Lady Frances
which you ought to have for the woman you would marry? I don’t mean the
kind of regard which you have for Isabel, because she is not the woman
you would marry.’
‘Man!’ he cried passionately; ‘you don’t know--I haven’t told you.
Nobody would think it possible that I should have the presumption.’
One has seen the passion of love represented on the stage, with
exaggeration, as we think everything on the stage must be exaggerated.
One has read of the passion of love in the older poets, with their
hot flames, and darts, and swoons, and fierce consuming fires, and
ecstatics, and raptures--exaggeration, we say. One reads of love in
modern novels, and sometimes we ask how these writers can set down
the exaggeration of passion with which they do sometimes regale their
readers. Henceforth I declare that I shall never witness a love scene
on the stage, never read an Elizabethan love poem, never read a burning
page in a novel, and be able to call it exaggeration. Because the
confession, the scene, the monologue, the unfolding of a heart, which
now I witnessed, proved to me that there can be no exaggeration in poet
and dramatist. Imagination cannot cross the bounds of possibility in
love. They spoke of flames and fires, because there are no words with
which to speak of the strength of the passion which may sometimes seize
and hold the heart.
Yet only in the nobler natures, in the strongest men, and in the men
who have never known before the smarting of love, nor wasted the
passion that is in them on objects unworthy.
This man, hitherto so cold to love, so contemptuous of women, now raged
about the room like a caged wild beast. It seems a breach of confidence
only to hint at his broken voice, his distorted face, his features
aflame, half shamed, while he confessed the passion which possessed him.
‘George!’ he cried, ‘I worship her. Yes, for every quality that she
possesses--for her quickness, for her sympathy, for her insight, for
her beauty, for all, for all, I worship her.’
‘You do well,’ I said weakly.
But he regarded not what I said.
‘Good heavens!’ he went on; ‘I count the hours between my visits. I
make a thousand excuses to go there. When I reach the door, I remember
that I was there only yesterday, and I creep away again. I lie awake at
nights thinking of her. The only time when I am not thinking of her is
when I am at work, for then I am doing what I know she would approve.’
I murmured something, I know not what.
‘I confess to you, George, I want no other music than her voice. I
think I could gaze upon her face and in her eyes for ever, and never
grow tired. Only to pass other women in the street makes me angry to
think that they look so small and common.’
‘They are small and common, perhaps, because they are meant for small
and common lovers.’
‘If you come to think about her beauty, why, I hardly ever think of
it except that it is a part of her, always a part of her; and she is
always in my mind.’
‘Poor Robert! Yet perhaps there may be hope; no woman is so far above
you as to be impossible.’
‘Hope? How can there be hope? Don’t talk nonsense!’
‘I should think--but, then, I am not a woman--that love like this, so
real, so full of worship, does not come often in the way of a woman. I
can tell you, if the fact afford you any hope, that Frances has refused
men by scores. She will never marry any man--I am quite sure; she has
told me as much--unless he is a strong and able man. Why should such a
woman give herself away to a man of the lower nature?’
‘What hope can that bring me? George----’ And here he broke out into a
torrent of passionate cries and ejaculations. For my own part, I kept
myself in hand. I let him bring it all out. Every ejaculation, every
word of the confession, strengthened my position.
‘Always in my mind,’ he concluded, throwing himself into a chair,
‘always in my mind, day and night. There! now you know!’
‘Yes, now I know. I have guessed as much a long time. Of course it
was inevitable. You were bound to fall in love with her, from the
beginning. That was certain.’
‘I might ask why you took me, then, if it was certain. But I don’t ask.
For I would rather go on hopelessly all my life, than never meet and
speak with her at all. Yes, I have had to thank you for many things,
George, but for nothing so much as this.’
‘Thank you, Robert,’ I said. ‘Well, you are in love at last. That is
the cardinal fact. Poor Isabel! You never thought of her like this.’
‘Never. Poor child! Don’t imagine that I ever thought of Isabel in
this way at all. I was only sorry for her. I thought that her father
was dying--and she was a very good clerk--so I said I would marry
her, partly to keep her on as a clerk, and partly to protect her from
poverty. It didn’t seem to me that it would make any difference to my
future. But as for love! How could one love a girl and despise her for
her intellect?’
‘You have no cause to despise Isabel,’ I replied, with some wrath. ‘Let
me tell you that. You never took the trouble to consider her intellect
at all. Well, the long and the short of it is that, whatever else
happens, you must let her go.’
‘No, she must release herself. I will never go back from my word.’
‘Well then, Robert, here is a bargain. If I bring you her release--by
her own wish, written in her own hand; if I show you that she will not
suffer but rather gain in the long-run for her release; if I can assure
you that she will be happier for the present by being released--will
you accept that letter of hers and let her go?’
Anybody else would have understood at once what I meant. Robert
did not. He had not yet acquired the habit of thinking about other
people and their motives and minds. That would come by contact with
a sympathetic woman. He told me afterwards that it seemed to him the
very last thing possible, for me to fall in love with Isabel--whom
he himself could not love--and to desire to marry a girl without any
knowledge of society. Perhaps, being new to the thing, he thought at
this moment too much about society. Perhaps I knew a great deal more
about society, and therefore thought too little of its advantages.
Besides, I was now a boat-builder, quite disconnected from society, and
I really never asked whether Isabel was a woman who might be relied
upon to shine at her own receptions, and to receive at her dinner-table
the most distinguished people in political circles.
‘You make three conditions,’ he said. ‘Every one of these seems to
me impossible. Yet you have a way of your own. I do not believe that
Isabel will send me a release; after these five years she has grown
accustomed to consider me as her future husband. She moves in a groove;
she considers me as her guardian, and her father as my dependent. No;
Isabel will never release me--she cannot.’
‘But,’ I insisted, ‘supposing these conditions to be fulfilled?’
‘Oh, if they are fulfilled, of course I am the last man in the world to
keep a woman against her wish. If she would rather marry a foreman of
works----’
There was the least touch of coldness; perhaps no man, not even my
cousin Robert, likes to be dismissed by any woman.
‘That is settled, then. And now to return to Lady Frances.’
He shook his head. ‘Oh, that is hopeless.’
‘I am not so sure. Consider the thing from a political point of view.
You offer yourself, with your career; she brings herself, with all that
it means--an immense contribution. Perhaps she may think in her modesty
that your side of the balance lifts up her side.’
Robert shook his head again, but with less firmness. The shaking of
a man’s head is a most expressive gesture, because there are so many
shades in it.
‘Next, we will consider the situation from a personal point of view.
Frances is in every way admirable and delightful, it is true.’
‘Yes,’ he sighed--‘admirable and delightful.’
‘But you, my cousin, are not a bad specimen of a man--well set up,
and well looking, and well mannered. And you are a masterful kind of
creature, and women admire masterfulness in a man. And you have already
shown cleverness, and women admire cleverness.’
‘Yes. It is all very well, but----’
‘And then the lady is a young widow, her own mistress; free to please
herself, and she has shown herself difficult to please. She is wealthy,
and----’
Here he jumped up again. He was very jumpy this afternoon. ‘Yes,’ he
cried; ‘she is wealthy, and there--there you have the whole difficulty.
We will suppose that she might possibly get over the differences of
birth and rank, and all that, because they mean nothing.’ You perceive
that Robert was as yet imperfectly acquainted with the true inwardness
of things--birth and rank to mean nothing? Dear me! And to hear these
words from my own pupil! ‘They mean nothing,’ he repeated. ‘She is the
daughter of an Earl, and I am a boat-builder. What do I care about
that, eh?’ He turned upon me quite fiercely. ‘As if that could be any
real obstacle! I am a man, I say’--he snorted in his wrath--‘I say, a
man in whom a woman may take pride. I know that very well. I believe
that even Lady Frances--though she is all that she is--might take a
pride in me. Lesser women,’ he added, with his usual arrogance, ‘would.
Of course they would.’
‘Well, what bee have you got in your bonnet now?’
‘Can’t you understand? You say she is rich. I know she is rich. And
that’s the real obstacle. As for the rest, I have thought over all that
you said by myself. Only I liked to hear it from you as well. It’s the
money, George.’
‘What about the money? Now, don’t go raising foolish ghosts about
Frances’s money. What if she is rich? What does that matter?’
‘I have tried to get over it, and I can’t. One must keep some
self-respect. George, how would you like to live in your wife’s
palace--your wife’s, not your own?’
‘Her country house isn’t a palace.’ But it is, as Robert knew.
‘How would you like to be every day sitting at your wife’s table, not
your own; drinking your wife’s wine, not your own; waited on by your
wife’s servants, not your own; spending the money that your wife--your
wife--chose to give you? No, I could not--I could not--say no more
about it. I would rather remain as I am, and go on thinking about her
without hope all my life, than marry her for her money--for her money!
Pah!’
‘If you come to that, you might just as well say to another woman, “How
would you like, all your life, going about enjoying honour--not your
own, but your husband’s; a name not your own, but your husband’s?”’
‘Nonsense!’ said Robert; ‘the things are not parallel. Of course a
woman may take all that a man has to give.’
‘And a man all that a woman has to give.’
What was it my solicitor had told me? ‘Marry money--marry money.’ And
I despised that advice, and now I was trying to make Robert do just
exactly that very same thing. Well, it was quite certain that this
proud, independent person would never become a dependent on his wife.
Fortunately I had a card up my sleeve.
‘You are perhaps right,’ I said, with assumed thoughtfulness. ‘You
could never become that unhappy creature--the man who lives upon his
wife’s money. You have got some hundreds a year, however.’
‘And she has how many thousands a year? My whole income would not pay
my share of the servants.’
‘Then, again, a man and wife are not obliged to have equal fortunes. If
one is a little richer than the other----’
‘A little--oh, he says a little!’
‘Go on; you will give me a chance presently.’
‘Let her give away all but two hundred pounds a year; then we should
start on equal terms.’
‘No, because you would have still before you your ambition, with its
solid side, and she would have nothing left. In ten years’ time you
might be drawing five thousand pounds a year official salary, and she
have nothing more than her three hundred. No, Robert; the equitable way
would be to reckon your future prospects and your future position as an
asset worth ten thousand pounds a year, or anything you please a year.’
Robert shook his head. ‘An asset is something that can be realized.
No one would advance a farthing on the security of my prospects. As a
business man, George, you really ought to know by this time what an
asset means.’
‘You are not going to a pawnbroker or a bank. You have an asset, I say,
that in a certain lady’s eyes would outweigh all her own advantages.’
‘All the same, George,’ he replied doggedly, ‘I shall not stoop to live
upon my wife.’
‘You are nothing but a perverse, obstinate, and pig-headed _bourgeois_.
You had better come back to Wapping. Come, then; I will meet you on
your own ground. You admit that a few thousands more or less matter
nothing.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. All I do know is, that I’ve got about two
hundred pounds a year, and that Lady Frances has got twenty thousand
pounds a year, and that the thing is impossible on that ground alone.’
‘It isn’t impossible on that ground, if you could rise to the
situation. You have done very well, Robert, so far; but you ought to
throw off the last vestige of the shop.’
‘What the devil has the shop got to do with Lady Frances and her money?’
‘Why, you are not going into partnership! Her money would be simply a
means of keeping you in a set of people and style of life necessary
for your ambitions. It is a detail. You feel that you belong to
that kind of life. You don’t want to use her money for gambling, or
for horse-racing, or anything at all. The roof, which would perhaps
be hers, and the food, and the wine, and the rest of it, would be
nothing--nothing at all--in comparison with the solid advantages of
society and influence. You ought to rise above such considerations,
really. I am ashamed that you are tied down by such unworthy
considerations. They belong to Wapping-in-the-Ouse, believe me, not to
Piccadilly.’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘I cannot live upon my wife,’ he said
doggedly. ‘Wapping or Piccadilly, I care not where I live, so that I do
not live upon my wife.’
‘Well, then----’
‘Say no more about it, George; she is as far from me now as if I were
at Wapping. I am sorry I told you. Yet, I don’t know; it’s a relief to
tell somebody, and you are the only man to whom I ever told anything.
Meantime, there’s an end. She doesn’t suspect, at any rate.’
I was for the moment diplomatically doubtful. I might tell him at once
of the wonderful find that would clear away one obstacle at least. But,
then, I knew so well beforehand the lofty scorn with which Frances
would sweep away such an obstacle; how she would make him understand
the paltry nature of her own wealth compared with the riches and
abundance of his own abilities; how she would make him ashamed of his
own weakness in not perceiving this fact for himself, and how he could
become converted and resigned and submissive, this strong, proud man.
Knowing all this, I would not tell him--yet.
‘There are,’ I summed up, ‘three obstacles in the way. There is
Isabel. Very good; you shall be released. Oh, I am not guessing. I
tell you plainly that she does not care for you, except as a generous
benefactor. You can’t marry a girl who is only grateful. You have never
made love to her.’
‘Of course not; I had no time.’
‘And therefore you cannot expect her to be in love with you. Moreover,
my dear cousin, I have reason to believe that, if she were free to-day,
she would be engaged to-morrow.’
‘Oh! To some little clerk in the docks, I suppose. Isabel has no
greater ambition than that.’
‘Perhaps.’ He had no suspicion at all, yet he knew that I had been
wandering about with this girl all the summer evenings. ‘Girls,’ I
said, ‘are sometimes singularly free from ambition. Some of them want
nothing but love and a tranquil home; they are easily contented.’
‘I suppose that is so,’ he said with pity. ‘And so Isabel really wants
to be released. That is the meaning of your mysterious offer, is it?’
‘At least, she has always been afraid of you, as well as grateful. She
would never want to be released unless she knew that you wished it. I
shall fill her heart with happiness to-night when I tell her what you
really want.’
‘Then let her be happy--with her dock clerk.’ His face cleared
immediately, and he laughed. ‘Poor child!’ he said. ‘She was a good
clerk and a good accountant. How should her mind soar any higher?’
‘As for the other obstacle, Robert, that objection, I tell you again,
on the score of wealth--it is unworthy of you; it is also unpractical.
You ought to be quite above such considerations.’
‘All the same, George,’ he repeated, ‘to live upon my wife would choke
me.’
‘You shall not be choked, my dear Robert. This obstacle, too, shall be
removed. Trust me--believe me--when I tell you, on my word of honour,
that it shall be removed.’
I had, I say, the greatest confidence in Lady Frances and in the
arguments which I knew she would employ to break down this heart of
stone; but there was also the additional comfort of feeling that the
bag of precious jewels was in that seaman’s chest. How beautiful
is the working out of the Doctrine of Chances! When one takes up a
hand at cards there are millions to one against the particular hand
that turns up; yet it does turn up--it always turns up--in the face
of those overwhelming odds. So with that bag of diamonds. Everybody
in the Wapping branch of the Burnikel family had examined that
chest--turned it upside down, taken everything out--yet had never
found that hiding-place. If it had been found at any time it would
have changed the fortune and altered the future of the whole family.
Robert would have been impossible. Had Robert been born, brought up
and trained otherwise, he would have been quite another Robert. He
would have understood, for instance--which he has never yet perfectly
succeeded in understanding--the audacity of his ambition, and, as
it would seem to those who know the world--but not to himself--its
impossibility. Why do young men of obscure birth and poverty succeed so
often and so greatly? Because they do not understand the audacity of
their own ambition. ‘I will win scholarships; I will go to Cambridge;
I will be Senior Wrangler; I will be Master of my college; I will be
Vice-Chancellor of the University,’ says the lad of parts, low down in
the world. The lad of parts higher up understands that the very flower
of the English-speaking youth are his rivals; that he must beat the
best; that he must actually be the best; and he is discouraged. For
climbing--for nerve and hand and eye--the poor boy has a far better
chance than the rich. All our boys, before they are born, ought to pray
for poverty--with brains and courage.
All these fine reflections passed through my head between my last
speech and Robert’s reply. He held out his hand. ‘Trust you, George?’
he said. ‘Isn’t it rather late in the day to ask that question? But
how--how can that obstacle be removed?’
‘I shall not tell you. Now go on without any misgiving, and conquer--if
you can. Only, Robert, pray remember, this is not quite the same thing
as the other venture, you know. Then you had to do with a schoolgirl--a
child; now you have an equal. You cannot understand; you must stoop to
woo, even you, O Samson.’
‘Only an equal? An equal? Don’t speak like a fool, George--you who know
her!’
‘You think that way at last. You have found someone to whom you are not
equal. So much the better. But--I say, how about the foolishness of
fondling and kisses?’
‘Oh!’ There rose upon his cheek the roseate hues of early dawn, yet
he was six-and-twenty. ‘Of course this is different--quite different.
Isabel was only a schoolgirl, as you say. That kind of thing would only
unsettle her at that age. This is quite different.’
CHAPTER XXVI.
RELEASE.
I found my mistress--it was nearly nine o’clock in the evening--in the
parlour playing her thoughts to herself. The room had no light except
that of the street-lamp, which showed her in her light gray dress,
something like a ghost. She turned her head as I opened the door. In
the lamplight I saw her sweet, serious face and her limpid eyes. I
was dragged by ropes to fall at her feet. But I refrained. There was
something to be said first.
‘George,’ she said, ‘you are worried about something. What has
happened?’
There must have been something in my eyes--yet the room was so dark.
Perhaps she could feel in some magnetic way--the way of love--the
presence of emotion. This kind of thought-reading is a branch of the
science which has been too much neglected. It is, unfortunately,
incapable of being put upon any stage, or even illustrated in any
drawing-room. Which is, of course, the reason of this neglect.
‘Isabel,’ I said, ‘you are a witch. Come into the study, and I will
tell you why I am moved.’
The study was also in twilight, the light of the same lamp in the
street falling upon the polished wainscot, and reflected about the
room. My hand touched Isabel’s, and again that temptation fell upon me
to take the girl in my arms and to kiss her, and never to be weary of
that kissing.
‘You promised, George,’ she said, reading my mind a second time. ‘Not
yet--not yet.’
‘I promised, Isabel, only until there was no longer need to keep that
promise.’
‘There is still the need, and greater need than ever. Quiet yourself,
George--I can hear your heart beating. Tell me, or let me go.’
I lit the candles. ‘I am quiet, Isabel.’
‘Now tell me what has happened.’
‘That need, Isabel, exists no longer.’
‘Exists no longer? Is Robert dead?’
‘No, he is living still; but that need exists no longer.’
‘What has happened, then?’
‘Sit down, Isabel. Take a pen and paper. So! Now, write at my
dictation. It is the only act of obedience that I shall ever ask of
you. All the future I shall be your slave. This evening alone I ask you
to obey me.’
She hesitated. Then she sat down.
‘Write: “My dear Robert.”’
‘I am to write to Robert?’
‘You shall hear, if you will be obedient for this one and only
occasion. “My dear Robert”--have you got that?’
‘It looks very odd on paper. This is the first letter I have ever
written to him.’
‘Write: “I learn that you yourself are anxious that our engagement
should be broken off.” Have you got that?’
‘But, George, anxious? Robert anxious? What does this mean?’
‘Finish the letter. “To me it has always been a meaningless engagement,
and really impossible. When you made that promise to me I was only
a schoolgirl, and I was frightened. My only comfort was in thinking
that it was to be a long engagement. I release you from your promise
very willingly. You made a mistake, and you have been too proud to
acknowledge it, though I have never ceased from the beginning to
understand that it was a mistake.--Yours.” What will you be--“yours
sincerely”? That will do. “Isabel.” Have you written it?’
‘Yes, I have written it. But I do not understand it. Does he really and
truly desire his release? Why?’
‘He does, really and truly. But he will never ask you himself. The
release must come from you.’
‘You have not told me why. Is Robert going to be engaged to someone
else?’
‘Perhaps. You are not jealous? But of course not. How could you be
jealous? I think it is very likely that he will be engaged before long.’
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘I have no right to be jealous. He never loved me. I
never cared enough about him to be jealous. His engagement was just a
part of his kindness. It gave him the right to maintain us without the
appearance of almsgiving. No, George, I am not jealous.’
‘At present he could not afford to marry, unless it was some woman with
money. He understands, however, that he has no right to bind you any
longer to a loveless engagement. He says he has had no time to make
love. If he marries, it should be to some woman of political influence,
and with political friends, who would advance him.’
‘He never thinks of anything at all but his own advancement. I wonder
if he has a heart somewhere hidden away?’
‘He has plenty of heart, Isabel, if you can get at it. The misfortune
in your case was that while he was here the business of his own
advancement did occupy all his soul, and all his strength, and all his
mind, and all his heart. The ground is cleared now, and he has begun
his march. The rest is easy, and now is the time for the flowers of
passion to show themselves and to expand. We may look to see strange
things before long.’ With such shallow humbug did I attempt to veil the
truth. But in vain. Women’s minds are swift and far-shooting.
‘There must be another woman,’ she said thoughtfully, and not in the
least jealously; ‘otherwise he would not have considered the question
of his engagement at all. Why should he? I am hidden away down here:
he was not going to marry me for years--any number of years. He never
writes to me; he takes no notice of me; his engagement did not make
the least difference to him. Yet he suddenly expresses his wish to be
released. Well, George, he shall be released. About that other woman
you will tell me what you please.’
Therefore I told her all.
‘Robert in love!’ she laughed gently. ‘I cannot understand it. Will
he tell her, as he told me, that there is to be no foolishness of
fondling?’
‘I don’t think he will, Isabel.’
She heaved a deep sigh. ‘I have worked for him,’ she said, ‘for five
long years--you will never understand how long those years have been.
He is a hard master; he expects the best work always; no one must be
tired or sick or weak who works for him.’
‘A hard master indeed.’
‘And never a word of praise or approbation. Oh, George! I have longed
for a word of kindness. It was dreadful to be engaged to a man who was
only a master all the time. Never a word of kindness would he give me.’
‘He was absorbed, Isabel; he thought of nothing but the work--never
anything of the people who helped in the work.’
‘What was the work? What did he intend? He never told me. I was like a
man blindfolded dragging a heavy cart along a road that led whither he
knew not. Well, he wants his release; he shall have it,’ she repeated.
‘Since he wants that, Isabel, forgive him all the rest.’
‘I have forgiven him, George. I have forgiven him since you
came--and--and--and since my heart was softened.’ The tears rose to her
eyes.
‘Isabel!’
‘Are you sure, George, that he desires his release?’
‘Quite sure. Robert knows that I have come this evening with the
intention of asking you for it.’
‘Then I will write him a longer letter than this.’ She tore up the
little note that I had dictated, and wrote another and a much longer
letter. ‘I shall not suffer my loveless lover, my patient bridegroom,
to depart without a little explanation. I am glad--oh, so glad!--to be
released. But, still, no one likes to be told to go without a little
understanding of things.’
It was certainly a much finer letter than mine. But then, you see, I
was thinking of nothing but the release, and Isabel was thinking of
what the man had done for her.
‘DEAR ROBERT’ (she wrote),
‘George tells me that the time has come when you desire the
termination of our engagement, entered upon by you out of pity.
You wanted an excuse for maintaining two penniless people--one of
them helpless, and the second too young and ignorant to be of much
use. I understand now exactly why you forced this engagement upon
yourself without any thought of love. That was four years ago. I was
then seventeen, and am now one-and-twenty. During this long time I
have looked for any word of interest, for any look of affection from
you. No such word or look have I ever received from you. It has been
quite plain to me, all along, that you had no kind of love for me. I
could not tell you this--partly because we owe you so much that we
must always do whatever you desire; partly because it is hard for a
woman to say such things; and partly because I was afraid. That you
should release me, therefore, is a great relief to me. It must be
unhappiness enough for a woman to marry a man whom she does not love:
it must be far worse if that man does not even pretend to love her.
‘You are quite free, Robert. You have lifted a great weight from my
heart. You will be far happier yourself without the fetters of an
engagement which had proved impossible. You must marry a woman who
will help you in your ambitions. This I could never do, and when you
become a great and famous man you will be pleased to remember that
you released one who would feel no pride in your success, and could
take no part in your ambition. And so I am always, and just as much
as ever, your grateful and obedient servant, clerk, and housekeeper,
but never your bride,
‘ISABEL.’
I took the letter and placed it in an envelope. It was done. Robert had
got his release, and Isabel was free.
‘Oh, my love!’ I cried, and held out my arms.
‘Oh! No--George!’ She shrank back. ‘Not so soon. Oh! I am like a
newly-made widow, but I am full of joy. Is it right? Oh! George--so
soon!’
‘Isabel! At last! At last!’
CHAPTER XXVII.
CONCLUSION.
I should very much like to tell you exactly what Robert said, and what
Frances said, and how he played the wooer, and how she accepted the
wooing. I cannot, however, for the very sufficient reason that I have
not been told by either what passed between them. It is enough that
Frances accepted as her husband this man of the people, who will remain
a man of the people, though he has joined a party, and now fights under
the banner of his party, and is almost the party chief. He will remain
a man of the people, working for them in legislation so far as laws
can help, which is not much: by teaching, by addresses, by writing. He
can never cast off the early conditions of his life, nor get rid of
the early impulses, nor forget the nobler ambitions. What was it that
Frances said? The lesser nature puts the reward first and the work
second; the nobler nature puts the work first and the reward second.
There lies before him, unless accident prevents, a long and perhaps a
successful career; the labours of the future may wear him out, though
this kind of work seems to prolong life and strength; he will have
beside him a woman as strong as himself in her way, full of sympathy
with his work, full of admiration for his strength; a woman who loves
him all the more, perhaps, because he needs not so much as some men do,
the support and encouragement of love. I think of them, not as those
who cling together like the columns of a cathedral aisle, but as those
who stand together side by side; but the man looks out upon the world,
and the woman looks up towards the man.
And now there only remains to tell you about the diamonds.
Robert brought her down to Wapping. She came to tea with us--the homely
_bourgeois_ five o’clock meal which Isabel prepared, just as she had
prepared the little banquet for my first visit. I laughed when I saw
once more this noble spread: the plate of ham in slices, the plate
of shrimps, the cakes--half a dozen kinds of cake--the biscuits, the
muffins, the buttered toast, the thin bread-and-butter. Isabel saw
nothing to laugh at; nor, indeed, was there. Tea, considered as a meal,
is most properly graced by these delightful accompaniments. And it is
the principal meal, the most social meal of the greater part of our
people, and the greater part of the American people.
To this feast, then, came the Lady Frances. She came dressed like a
queen, with wonderful lace and embroidery. She looked like a queen,
gracious and kindly. Isabel had put on a plain white dress. She had
never looked better--my dainty mistress--than when she stood, so simple
and so sweet, beside that reginal woman.
‘George has told me about you,’ said Frances, taking Isabel’s hand.
‘I have been wanting to make your acquaintance. My dear, we shall be
cousins; we must be great friends.’ So she stooped and kissed her, and
I could see that she was pleased with my simple maid of Wapping Old
Stairs.
Then the Captain was presented, and behaved as an honest old sailor
should: full of admiration of so much beauty and grandeur, and not
afraid.
Frances took off her hat, and we all sat down to tea, and were
cheerful. The talking was conducted chiefly by Frances and myself.
Robert sat silent, preoccupied. Only from time to time he lifted his
eyes and rested them for a moment on Frances with a softer light in
them than I had ever seen before. Love doth tame speedily the most
masterful of men.
Tea despatched, I took Frances over the way to see the Yard. I thought
that Robert would perhaps like to say something to Isabel. What he did
say was very simple and straightforward. He said, quite meekly, in the
presence of the Captain: ‘Isabel, I thank you for the release. You
have forgiven me, I am sure, for what was meant for the best--a great
mistake, a great cruelty to you, as now I understand.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said; ‘it was impossible. Why did you not let me know
before? But there is nothing to forgive. The gratitude remains, Robert,
and the obligation; and you will be very happy, I am sure.’
‘Believe me, Isabel,’ he replied humbly, ‘I could not be happy unless I
was sure you were happy too, in the same way.’
As for me, Frances spoke very gracious words. ‘George,’ she said, not
pretending in the least to be interested in the ribs of a barge which
we were building--yet a beautiful barge--‘you have brought me to this
place of chips and shavings for no other purpose than merely to ask me
what I think of her. Well, she seems a sweet and lovely girl; and she
loves you, George. I saw it in her eyes and in her voice. What do you
chiefly desire of life, George? Love and tranquillity, is it not?’
‘Indeed, Frances, there seems nothing better to desire.’
‘Then you will have the desire of your heart. But, George, if you have
sons, remember that you have a hereditary title. Rank has its uses,
and yours may be useful to them. Perhaps your sons may aspire. I can
perfectly understand how Robert came to make so great a mistake--who
could bear to think of that delicate creature turned out upon the
world?--and I understand why Robert desired his release; and I
understand as well, my dear George, that your Isabel will make you
perfectly happy.’
Looking at this little speech as it is written down in cold language, I
perceive that it has a suspicion of condescension in it, as if Isabel
was good enough for me, and not good enough for Robert. But one cannot
convey the manner of the words, which was wholly sweet and sisterly.
So she glanced round the shed, and stepped to the edge of the quay, and
looked up and down the river.
‘It is all impossible, George,’ she said. ‘I cannot understand how
Robert came out of such a place, or how you could go into it. Why, it
is nothing more than a kind of carpenter’s shop.’
‘By your leave, Frances, a boat-builder’s yard. Chips and chunks and
shavings belong to the craft of carpenter, it is true, but to that of
boat-builder as well.’
‘Well, I am glad that Robert is out of it. I confess, my dear George,
that I could not live down here, nor can I promise to come here
often--perhaps never again. All this side of life, with the warehouses,
the ships, the wharves, the waggons, seems to me to belong to the
Service. The place is kitchen, scullery, pantry, cellars. You and I
were born in the class that is served, not in the Service. I do not
want so much as to see the kitchen. Yet you--well, I say no more.
Curiosity brought you here, an interesting couple made you stay here,
love has chained you here. Let us go back to the others.’
The moment had arrived for my surprise, which I had arranged with the
greatest care, so as to produce a fine dramatic effect. I took the
party into the study. On the rug before the fireplace stood old John
Burnikel’s sea-chest, hidden by a table-cover. No one in the house, not
even Isabel, knew what I was doing. And even Isabel did not know why I
did it.
‘This, Frances,’ I said, ‘is Robert’s study. In this room he learned
all he knows.’
‘It is a beautiful old room. I had no idea that there could be among
these warehouses so lovely a house. This wainscoting is worthy of any
house, however fine. So this was your room, Robert, was it?’
‘This was my room. What have you got on the floor, George?’
‘You shall see directly, as soon as Frances has done admiring the
walls. Sit down, Frances; sit down, Isabel. I am going to show you
something of interest. Now, Robert, remember the last talk we had. We
spoke of obstacles--did we not?--in the way of a certain event of some
importance to you.’
‘Yes, we did.’
‘I told you that the first obstacle was waiting for your wish to be
expressed. Is that obstacle removed?’
‘It is.’
‘The second obstacle was a difference in birth and social position
which cannot be removed, but may be trampled upon.’
‘We have trampled upon it,’ said Frances, for her lover looked at her.
‘Robert has forgotten that there ever existed this apparent, not real,
obstacle.’
‘There remains the third obstacle. Shall I remind you of what you said?’
‘I said that it would choke me to live upon my wife’s money.’
‘And now you say?’
‘Let me say it for him.’ She still held her hand upon his shoulder.
Yes, I am quite right: she will not cling to her husband, she will
stand beside him--the Queen Consort. ‘Robert forgot that wealth is
nothing. It can give me no more than a house, and servants, and
carriages. It is of no other use to me. But it may be of use to Robert,
and he takes it--with me. It is a part of me; he takes me altogether,
just as I am. The woman herself, with her heart, and her soul, and her
thoughts, and her abilities, if she has any, and with the woman her
rank, and her family, and her wealth. Is that so, Robert?’
‘It is so, Frances,’ he replied humbly.
‘Wealth may be useful to such a man as Robert. It is good for such a
man to have a well-appointed house. Freedom from money anxieties with
some men is almost a necessity. Do you not agree, Robert?’
‘You have made me understand,’ he said. ‘I thought I was asserting my
independence when I was only betraying narrow prejudice. That you--you
should give me money shames me no more now than that you should give
me yourself, and that will shame me always.’ Oh, the change in Robert,
that he should say this!
‘You know, you two,’ Frances went on, ‘I want Robert to become a great
man. It is his ambition, and it is mine as well. I want him to become
greater--far greater--than he allows himself to dream. I want him to be
such a leader of men as has not been seen for many a century in this
country. He must never be accused of mean or sordid motives; never be
led aside by temptations which ruin smaller men. Oh! be certain that
he will become what I think he may become. I would give not only all
my heart and all my soul and all my strength and all my wealth--which
is nothing--but I would give my very life--my heart’s blood--at this
moment to make him great.’ She laid her hand upon his shoulder; he
stooped and kissed her forehead, and in his softened eye I saw--oh, the
wonder of it!--actually a tear! In Robert’s eyes, a tear! This foolish
love makes schoolgirls of us all. And Frances was splendid--she was
splendid.
‘Well,’ I said, after a moment, ‘things being as they are, I am
inclined to stop. However, we must carry this thing through to the end.
I understand, Robert, that you no longer desire that kind of equality
of which we spoke the other day.’
‘No longer,’ he replied. ‘I would rather owe everything to--Frances.’
It was quite pretty to notice how he dropped his voice at the very
mention of her name. ‘Everything,’ he repeated.
‘I am truly sorry, Robert,’ I continued, ‘to disturb an arrangement
which is so beautiful. But when I told you that the obstacle of
comparative income was removed, I meant more than its removal by
Frances, though of that I was certain. I meant, my cousin, that I was
able to place in your hands a fortune which would go far at least to
equalize things.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Robert.
‘I am now going to show you. In fact, Robert, I am about to restore to
you, as the sole and rightful heir, the family fortune.’
‘The family fortune? What is that?’
‘Oh, basest of Burnikels! He has forgotten the lost bag of jewels.’
With these words I removed the tablecloth and exposed the sea-chest.
‘The jewels? Is it possible that you have found them?’
‘It is more than possible. Isabel, dear child, help me to take out the
contents of the chest.’
We took out everything--the sextant, the Indian things, the mummified
flying-fish, the odds and ends, and laid them on the floor.
‘I have done that a hundred times,’ said Robert.
‘What is the bag of jewels?’ asked Frances.
‘It is a bag full of the most lovely precious stones,’ I told her.
‘Our great-great-uncle, John Burnikel, master mariner, possessed this
treasure. How he got it I do not know. That is, a knowledge of the
truth came to me in a dream, and I do know. Some day I will tell you.
He used to say himself that an Indian Rajah, presumably the Great Mogul
of Delhi, took him into his treasury and bade him fill his pockets with
jewels in return for some signal services rendered to the Mogullian
Dynasty. Well, he died, and his nephews could not find that bag
anywhere, and nobody has ever been able to find it--until now. It was
reserved for me to make this discovery. Is the box quite empty, Isabel?
One moment. The nephews quarrelled over the loss, Frances; they fought,
I believe; they dissolved partnership. One was my great-grandfather,
and the other was Robert’s. That’s all the history. Now, you will
observe that the box and all that it contains belongs to Robert. His
great-grandfather bought or took over the old mariner’s furniture.
His own father bequeathed it to him. The box with all its contents,
therefore, without any possible doubt, or dispute, is his own. Now,
then, you’ve got nothing to say to that, I suppose, Robert?’
‘I suppose not. But why so fierce?’
‘Very good. I thought you might begin advancing absurd objections about
other people’s imaginary rights. It’s all yours. And now look at the
box. Do you see any possible hiding-place in it, Frances? See. It is
empty; the sides are papered. I hold it up and turn it over. There are
two compartments, both of the same depth. Is there any possibility of a
hiding-place?’
‘I can see none,’ said Frances; ‘but, of course, there must be. You are
like a conjurer before he shows his trick. Why don’t you turn up your
sleeves, and assure us that there is no deception?’
‘What do you think, Robert?’
‘I have thought of a false bottom, and I have measured. I used to think
that there is no possibility of a hiding-place. But I am now convinced
that there must be, otherwise you would not talk in this way.’
‘Well, look along the lower line of the pattern at the back--the thick
dark line. Can you discern nothing?’
‘No, no. Yet there seems to be a line not in the paper. What is that?’
‘You shall see.’ So I knelt down, opened my knife, and slowly passed it
along the almost invisible junction of the shutter or lid of which you
have heard. This widened the opening.
‘There is a secret pocket, after all!’ cried Robert.
‘There is. This is a lid with a spring which keeps it tightly pressed.
You do not look for hinges at the bottom of the box, and you do not
observe the line of juncture. I think it is one of the most admirable
hiding-places I ever saw, and I have seen a good many. Now, Robert,
I pull open this lid. You see this side of the chest is made of wood
much thicker than the other side; also, if you look at the outside, you
will observe that it widens at the bottom. The widening is designed by
the cabinet-maker who made this excellent box, for in it he has cut
out a narrow little cupboard in which anything could be hidden, and
where nothing could be suspected. In this cupboard’--I pulled open the
lid--‘look, Robert--lies the bag.’
I took out the bag. It was, as I have told you, more like one of those
long round things which they lay on the windows in order to keep out
the draught. I gave it to Robert. ‘There is your fortune, Robert. You
are the heir to the family fortune. It is yours, and yours only.’
He received the bag with the awkwardness of one who has the most
unexpected thing in the world sprung upon him.
‘Pour out the contents, man,’ I said. ‘Let us see your treasure.’
He poured out the glittering contents on the table. There they
were--diamond, ruby, emerald, turquoise, pearl, opal, chalcedony, and
the rest; of all sizes from a seed pearl to a ruby as big as a pigeon’s
egg; diamonds worth thousands; pearls worth the ransom of an earl.
‘Oh, heavens!’ cried Frances. ‘What are we to do with all these things?’
‘They are yours,’ said Robert. ‘Let me give them all to you.’
‘No; they are your fortune. They are yours. Stay, I will take them,
Robert, in case at any time you may want something--I know not what.
Oh! after all these years that you should find them, George! Oh! but
you should have some of them.’
‘Take half of them, George.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Your house is the best place for them, Frances.
We will have none of them. Put all back in the bag--so.’ I tied
the mouth. ‘Take it home with you, Frances. In the High Street of
Wapping-on-the-Wall we want no diamonds--do we, Isabel?’
So she consented and took the jewels, greatly marvelling. And, lo! it
was time for them to go. So we said farewell.
‘We shall see each other seldom, Frances,’ I said. ‘We are setting off
along roads that never meet. Perhaps in the years to come we may try
to meet, if only to ask each other whether the tranquil life is better
than the fight and struggle.’
So the two women kissed with tears, and Robert gave me his hand, and
they left me down at Wapping-on-the-Wall--a Master Craftsman--with
Isabel.
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
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