Wrecked in Port/Book II, Chapter III
Chapter III."News From the Humming City."
After the ladies left the dining-room, Walter Joyce, in the general re-arrangement of seats thereon ensuing, found himself placed next to Mr. Gould. It was soon obvious that his propinquity was not accidental on Mr. Gould's part. That keen-looking gentleman at once wheeled round in his chair, helped himself to a few olives and a glass of the driest sherry within his reach, and then fixing his bright steel-blue eyes on his neighbour, said, "That was news for you, that about young Creswell's accident, Mr. Joyce?"
"It was indeed," replied Walter; "and—to a certain extent—sad news."
"You knew the boy who was killed, and his father?"
"Both. I knew the boy well; he was a pupil in the school where I was an usher, and I knew the father—by sight—as a man in my position would know a man in his."
"Ah—of course!" and Mr. Gould glanced more keenly than ever at his interlocutor, to see whether he was speaking earnestly or contemptuously. Earnestly, he thought, after a glance, and Joyce fell a little in the worldly man's opinion. He sucked an olive slowly, made a little pattern on his plate with the stones, and then said, "Do you think this affair will make any difference in Mr. Creswell's future?"
"In his future? Will the loss of his son make any difference in his future? Are you serious in asking such a question, Mr. Gould? Will it not leave his life a blank, a vague misery without"
"Yes, yes, of course; I know all about that. You'll pardon me, Mr. Joyce, I'm a much older man than you, and therefore you won't mind my experiencing a certain amount of delight in your perfect freshness and simplicity. As to leaving the man's life blank, and all that—nonsense, my dear sir, sheer nonsense. He'll find plenty of distraction, even at his age, to fill up the blank. Now I was not considering the question from a domestic point of view in the least; what I meant was, do you think that it will alter any of his intentions as regards public life?"
"Public life?—Mr. Creswell?"
"Yes, indeed, public life, Mr. Creswell! I suppose now there's no harm in telling you that the Conservative authorities in London, the wire-pullers in Westminster, have long had it in their minds to wrest the second seat for Brocksopp from the Liberals, that at the next general election they have determined to make the fight, and they have selected Mr. Creswell as their champion."
"Mr. Creswell of Woolgreaves—going into Parliament?"
"Well, that's rather a summary way of putting it, Mr. Joyce," said the lawyer with a chuckle. "Say rather, going to try to get into Parliament! Didwell, of Brocksopp, the Liberal agent, is a deuced longheaded fellow, and will make a tremendous struggle to keep Mr. Creswell out in the cold. Do you know Didwell, of Brocksopp?"
"I have a slight acquaintance with him."
"Then you've a slight acquaintance with a remarkably sharp character, and one who never misses a chance for his party. It will be a tremendous fight, sir, this next election," said Mr. Gould, warming up, placing all his olive stones in a row, and charging at them with his dessert-knife; "they'll do all they can to beat us, and we shall have to do all we know to hold our own. When I say 'we,' of course I reckon you as a Conservative?"
"I—I have no political opinions. I take no interest in politics," said Joyce, absently. Mr. Creswell, from any but a domestic point of view; could not rouse an emotion in him.
"Don't you indeed,! No political opinions! Ah! I remember when I hadn't any myself! That was—dear me!" and the astute parliamentary agent made a new pattern with the olive-stones, while his thoughts went back for a quarter of a century, to a time when he was under articles in Gray's Inn, used to frequent the Cyder Cellars, and was desperately in love with the Columbine of the Adelphi.
They went to the drawing-room soon afterwards. There was some instrumental music of the most approved firework style, and then Captain Frampton growled away at "Il Balen" with great success, and Joyce was just making up his mind to slip away, when Lady Caroline Mansergh sat down to the piano, and began to sing one of Moore's melodies to her own accompaniment. Ah! surely it is not laying oneself open to the charge of fogeyism to grieve over the relegation to the "Canterbury" of those charming ballads, wherein the brightest fancies were wedded to the sweetest sounds? If the "makers of the people's ballads" possess the power ascribed to them, there is, indeed, but little cause to wonder at the want of tone prevalent in a society which, for its drawing-room music, alternates between mawkish sentimentality and pot-house slang! When the first note of Lady Caroline's rich contralto voice rippled round the room, the guests standing about in small knots, coffee cup in hand, gradually sidled towards the piano, and ere she had sung the first stanza even Colonel Tapp's ventriloquial grumbling—he was discussing army estimates and the infernal attempts at cheeseparing of the Manchester school—was hushed. No one in the room was uninfluenced by the singer's spell, on no one had it so much effect as on Walter Joyce, who sat far away in the shadow of a curtain, an open photograph-book unheeded on his knee, drinking in the melody, and surrendering himself entirely to its potent charms. His eyes were fixed on the singer, now on her expressive face, now on her delicate little hands as they went softly wandering over the keys, but his thoughts were very, very far away. Far away in the old school garden, with its broad grass-plots, its ruddy wall, its high elm-trees, frame-like bordering the sweet domestic picture. Far away with Marian, the one love which his soul had ever known. Ah, how visibly he saw her then, the trim figure noiselessly moving about on its domestic errands, the bright beryl eyes upturned in eager questioning towards his own, the delicate hand with its long thin fingers laid in such trusting confidence on his arm. What ages it seemed since he had seen her! what a tremendous gulf seemed ever to separate them! And what prospect was there of that union for which they had so fervently prayed? The position he was to gain—where was that? What progress had he made in—"friends once linked together, I've seen around me fall, like leaves in wintry weather!" Ay, ay, the poor old dominie, at rest—better there than anywhere else, better to be out of the strife and the worry, and—good Heavens! was this what he had promised her; was this the courage on which he had prided himself, and which was to carry him through the world! "Brava! brava! Oh, thank you so very much, Lady Caroline. Mayn't we hope for another? Thanks, so much!" The song was over; the singer had left the piano. He caught one glance as he bowed and murmured his thanks. He could not stand it any longer, his thoughts had completely unmanned him, and he longed for solitude. If it were rude to leave the party he must brave even Lady Hetherington's wrath, but he would try and get away unobserved. Now, while the hum of admiration was still going on, and while people were gathering round Lady Caroline, was the opportunity. He availed himself of it, slipped away unperceived, and hurried to his own room.
He closed the door behind him, turned the key, and flung himself on to the bed, in the dark. He felt that he could contain himself no longer, and now that he was alone and unseen, there was no further reason to restrain the tears which had been welling into his eyes, and now flowed unchecked down his cheeks. He was a man of nervous temperament, highly-wrought susceptibilities, and acute sympathies, which had been over-excited during the evening by the story of Tom Creswell's death, his own recollections of his past life, and the weird thought-compelling power of Lady Caroline's music. There was no special occasion for these tears; he knew nothing had happened to Marian, nothing—no, nothing had happened calculated in any way to interpose any—any barrier between them; his position was pleasant, his prospects brighter than he could have hoped—and yet, and yet! How very strange that she had not written lately, unless, indeed, she had been completely absorbed by ministering to the trouble round her. Walter could easily picture to himself the comfort she must have been to all, in the midst of the desolation which had fallen upon that hitherto prosperous house; he recollected how, even in the midst of her own deep sorrow, she had been able, at the time of her father's death, to rouse her mother from the lethargic state of grief into which she had fallen; and if Marian could do that then, while her own heart was bleeding, how much more would she be able to bestir herself now, when neither for the dead, nor for those left behind, had she anything but a kindly interest? And might not this sad event prove a useful lesson to her; might it not prove the one thing needful to render her a perfect character, showing her, as it would, that there are worse misfortunes than poverty, and that grief can slip in behind the shields of wealth and position, and abase the heads of their possessors to the dust? That longing for money and worship of position was the only blot in Marian's character, as seen by Walter Joyce's eyes, and if this accident led to its eradication, it would not have been without its beneficent purpose.
He rose from the bed, and felt his way towards his dressing-table. As he was groping for the matches, his hand fell upon an unopened letter. From Marian, without a doubt; he felt his heart throbbing; at once he struck a light and looked hurriedly for the familiar writing. No, not from Marian! Totally unlike her square neatly written, notes; a large blue letter, directed in a straggling hand, and awkwardly folded. Though Joyce was disappointed and vexed for an instant, he quickly recovered himself, and he took the letter up and smiled at it pleasantly, for he had recognised the style and the writing, and he knew that it had come from old Jack Byrne.
Thus it ran:
"London, Thursday.
"My Dear Boy. You'll wonder I haven't answered that capital letter you sent me, giving a description of Westhope and its people, and your life there. You'll wonder, because you are young; when you're as old as I am you won't wonder at anything, except when you sometimes find a man tell the truth; but you shouldn't wonder then, because it would only be an accident. I am very glad that you seem to be so comfortable aiming the swells, but I never had much fear about it. I know them, root and branch, the whole lot, though I'm only an old bird-stuffer; but I'm like Ulysses, I've seen men and cities, and used my eyes—used 'em so much that, by Jove, I don't think they'll last me much longer—at least for the fine work in my business. What was I saying? Oh, I see; I know the swells, and I know that if they see a man respect himself they always respect him. All of 'em, sir; don't make any mistake about it. All of 'em, the most ineffable transparencies, who think you're sewn up and stuffed in quite a different way from themselves, the kindly noodles, and the clever people—for there are clever people, a few, even among swells—all like to see a man respect himself. You'll have found out by this time, if you did not know it before, that Lord Hetherington is one of the kindly noodles, and one of the best of 'em. He can't help believing in his blood, and his lineage, and his descent from those bloodthirsty, ignorant, old ruffians of the middle ages, whose only good was that they killed other bloodthirsty, ignorant, old ruffians, and he can't help being a fool, that being the penalty which a man generally has to pay for being able to boast of his descent; but he is harmless and kind-hearted. How goes on the book? Take my advice, and make it light and anecdotical. Boil down those old chronicles and parchments of the great West family, and serve them up in a soufflet. And don't let your heavy pedagogical style be seen in the dish! If you do, everybody will know at once that my lord has had nothing to do with the book on the title-page of which his name figures. I suppose it wouldn't do to put in any bad spelling, would it? That would be immensely reassuring to all who know Lord Hetherington, as to the real authorship.
"And my lady, how is that grande dame? I've grinned a hundred times, thinking over your face of indignation and disgust at the manner in which she received you that day we went to call on their magnificences at the Clarendon, with a view to your engagement! How does she treat you now? Has she ordered you to black her boots yet, or to wash her lap-dog, or to take your meals with her lady's maid? Or, more likely still, has she never taken any notice at all of you, having no idea of your existence, beyond the fact that there is a writing-machine—you—in the library, as there is a churn in the dairy and a mangle in the laundry! And does this behaviour gird you, and do you growl inwardly about it, or are you a philospher, and able to despise anything that a woman can do to hurt you? If the latter, come up to town at once, and I will exhibit you in a show as a lusus naturæ, and we will divide the profits and make our fortunes.
"And while on that subject, Walter, let me drop my old cynical fun, and talk to you for a minute honestly and with all the affection of which my hard, warped, crabbed nature is capable. I can write to you what I couldn't say to you, my boy, and you won't think me gushing when I tell you that my heart had been tight locked and barred for years before I saw you, and that I don't think I've been any the worse since you found a key somehow—God knows how—to unlock it. Now then, after that little bit of maudlin nonsense, to what I was going to say. The first time we were ever in my old room together talking over your future, I proposed to start you for Australia. You declined, saying that you couldn't possibly leave England, and when I pressed you about the ties that bound you here, and learned that you had no father or mother, you boggled, and hesitated, and broke down, and I was obliged to help you out of your sentence by changing the subject. Do you remember all that? And do you think I didn't know what it all meant? That marvellous stupidity of young men, which prevents them from thinking that any one has ever been young, but themselves! I knew that it meant that you were in love, Walter, and that's what I want to ask you about. From that hour until the day we pressed hands in farewell at Euston-square, you never alluded to her again! In the long letter which you sent me, and which now lies before me, a letter treating fully of your present and your future life, there is no word of her! Don't think I am surprised at a fine, generous, hearty, hopeful young fellow not giving his love-confidence to a withered, dried-up old skittle like myself; I never expected it; I should not mention it now, save that I fear that the state of affairs can be scarcely satisfactory between you, or you, who have placed your whole story unreservedly before me, would not have hidden this most important part of it. Nor do I want to ask you for a confidence which you have not volunteered. I only wish you to examine the matter calmly, quietly, and under the exercise of your common sense, of which you have plenty. And if it is unsatisfactory in any way—give it up! Yes, Walter, give it up! It sounds harshly, ridiculously, I know, but it is honest advice, and if I had had any one to say it to me, years and years ago, and to enforce my adoption of it, I should have been a very different man. Believe in no woman's love, Walter, trust no woman's looks, or words, or vows. 'First of all would I fly from the cruel madness of love,' says Mr. Tennyson, and he is right. Cruel madness, indeed! we laugh at the wretched lunatic who dons a paper crown, and holds a straw for a sceptre, while all the time we are hugging our own tinsel vanities, and exulting in our own sham state! That's where the swells have the pull, my boy! They have no nonsense about mutual love, and fitness, and congeniality, and all that stuff, which is fitted for nothing but Valentine-mongers and penny romancists; they are not very wise, but they know that the dominant passion in a man's heart is admiration of beauty, the dominant passion in a woman's is ambition, and they go quietly into the mart and arrange the affair, on the excellent principle of barter. When I was your age I could not believe in this, had high hopes and aspirations, and scouted the idea of woman's inconstancy—went on loving, and hoping, and trusting, from month to month, and from year to year, wore out my youth and my freshness and my hope, and was then flung aside and discarded, the victim of 'better opportunities' and 'improved position.' Oh, Lord! I never intended to open my mouth about this, but if you ever want to hear the whole story, I'll tell you some day. Meanwhile, think over these hints, my boy! Life's too short and too hard as it is, and—verbum sap.
"Most probably you'll never take any further notice of me, after that. If you have corns, I must have been hard and heavy upon them, and you'll curse my impertinence; if you haven't you'll think me the prosiest of old bores. Just like me. I see plainly that I must have made a mess of it, which ever way it turns up.
"You tell me to send you news. Not much about; but what there is, encouraging and good for the cause. There is very little doubt that at the general election, which will come off in a few months, we shall be stronger by far than we ever expected, and shall cut the combs of some of those aristocrats and plutocrats very close indeed. There is a general feeling that blood and money bags have divided the spoil too long, and that worth and intellect may be allowed a chance of being brought into play. There are three or four men at the club, whom you know, and who are tolerably certain of seats, and who, if once they get the opportunity of making their voices heard in Parliament, will show the world of what stuff real Englishmen consist. Who do you think is helping us immensely? Shimmer, he of Bliffkins's! He has got an engagement on the Comet—a new journal which has just started in our interest, and he is writing admirably. A good deal of Lemprière's dictionary, and Bohn's quotations, and Solomon's proverbs, mixed up with a dashing incisive style and sound Saxon English, has proved immensely telling. People are buying the Comet everywhere, and Shimmer's salary has been twice raised, and he has been applied to for his photograph. He does not come much to Bliffkins's now, greatly to old Wickwar's relief. The old gentleman has expressed his opinion that since Robsperry (he is supposed to have meant Robespierre) there has been no such sanguinary democrat as Shimmer. When will you come back to us, Walter? I look at the place where I used to see you sitting, before I ever spoke to you; I sit and stare at it now until I feel my eyes D—d old fool!
"Good-bye, boy. Let me hear from you again soon. You know what you promised, if ever you wanted money, or anything.
"J. B.
"Opened again, to say Shimmer has been here, inquiring after you. Comet people want a correspondent at Berlin—special and important. S. thinks you'll do. Will you go?
"J. B."
The company had long since departed from Westhope; the family had long since retired to rest; dim lights glimmered here and there in the windows; but Walter Joyce remained sitting on the side of his bed, with Jack Byrne's open letter in his hand. When he wrote it, the old man little thought what a field of painful speculation he had laid open for its recipient.