'When first in London I arrived, on a visit—on a visit!'”
Before Abel had perused half the above extract he was in ecstasies: and when he had done he cut it out of the paper with his pocket-knife, in order the easier to preserve it for future use. The story soon became known throughout the country side, as Abel made a point of reading it aloud at every public-house he called at, and on every occasion when the hero of it chanced to displease him.
The gist of the joke, however, seemed, in the general opinion, to consist in the fact that Mr. Palethorpe himself had unwittingly brought it all the way from London in his own pocket, for the edification and amusement of the community. In fact, from that day until the end of his life, that worthy never heard the last of his expedition to London.
But, how did he settle matters with his mistress? That question may be solved when other events of greater importance have been described.
Something strange on the staircase, with a needful reflection or two upon it.
BY this time Colin's resources had become so low that but thirteen shillings remained to him of all he had brought from home; and of that small sum about one-half would be due to his landlady in the course of a few days. Yet he continued his kindness towards the poor singer on the second floor, and only the day previously had exchanged his last sovereign on her account. The feelings with which her appearance had first inspired him he could not wholly shake off; although he had since become acquainted with various circumstances which pointed out to him imperatively the necessity of at once setting such a connexion aside, and forgetting even that it had ever existed. He half formed a resolution to do so; and, in order to carry it the better into effect, made up his mind to quit the house altogether—a step he could the more readily take now, as he had not hitherto so much as even seen Miss Wintlebury except on the stage; and she, on the other hand, could know no more of him than his ever-ready and unassuming kindness might have informed her of. These thoughts crowded his mind as he sat at breakfast, and during several hours subsequently presented themselves under every possible phase to his review. About twelve o'clock in the day, as he was descending the stairs to the street, his sight was crossed on the first landing he reached, by a kind of vision in a white dress, which flitted from Miss Wintlebury's chamber to her sitting-room. Its hair was tightly screwed up in bits of newspaper all over its head, very strongly resembling a clumsy piece of mosaic. Its face was of a horrible cream-colour, and as dry as the hide of a rhinoceros. Its eyes dim and glazy. Its neck and shoulders—with respect to the developement of tendons and sinews—not greatly unlike an anatomical preparation. This surprising appearance no sooner heard Colin's footsteps approaching than it skipped rapidly into the sitting-room, and without turning at the instant to close the door, sat hastily down at a small table, on which stood a black teapot, and one cup and saucer, as if with the intention of taking its breakfast.
Somewhat alarmed, Colin hastened down, and was very glad to find Mrs. Popple on her hands and knees at the door, applying pipeclay to the step. Of her he immediately inquired the nature of the apparition he had seen; and was most shocked indeed when he found by her reply, that he had actually mistaken Miss Wintlebury herself for her own ghost. Still the fact was scarcely credible. Surely it was not possible to patch up such a shadow, into the handsome figure which had first inspired him with love; and the recollection of whose seeming beauties still attended upon his imagination with the constancy of a shadow in the sun.
“Ah, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Popple; “but you ain't any conception what a poor creatur' she is. I can carry her about this house like a doll, she's so light and thin. She walks about more like a sperit than anything substantive—that she do. I often think of turning her out of house altogether, for I 'm afraid I shall never get my rent of her; but then, again, when I 'm going to do it, a sum mut seems to whisper to me, and say, 'Missis Popple—Missis Popple, let her alone a bit longer.' And that is the way we go on.” Saying which, with a heavy sigh, she scrubbed away at the stones. Colin stood mute.
“She's dyin', sir, as fast she can,” added the landlady. “I niver see an indiwidiwal in a more gallopin' consumption in my life. I expect noat no less than having her corpse thrown on my hands every week that goes over my head.”
Could he altogether give up the poor creature of whom this was said? And yet, was it possible he could love her? Colin felt perplexed, puzzled. Like many other gentlemen, therefore, when placed in a similar predicament, he parted company with Mrs. Popple, without saying anything in reply, lest by speaking he should possibly chance—to say worse than nothing.
As the strange shock his feelings had sustained gradually wore off, his previously formed resolutions as gradually grew weaker. Irresistibly inclined to look on the best side only, he began to reason himself into the belief that the lady was not so bad as his own eyes, and Mrs. Popple's tongue, had represented. He had seen her, unluckily, under circumstances sufficiently disadvantageous to reduce to a very ordinary standard even one—as was not very unlikely of the greatest beauties living: and, as for his landlady's remarks, what did they amount to in fact? Since people always magnify what they talk about into a ten times more hideous affair than, according to the natural size of the subject, it would otherwise appear, just as our opticians exhibit monsters a foot lone on paper, which on closer inspection are found too insignificant in reality to be even visible to the unassisted eye. Perhaps Miss Wintle-bury might soon be recovered—soon grow strong again, and eventually be enabled to make a fortune by that voice which now scarcely found her in bread. Thoughts of this nature occupied his mind all day, and until his return home, at about six in the evening.
Shortly afterwards a circumstance occurred no less unexpected on his part than it will prove surprising to the reader; and which, as it finally settled the question of his love for the public singer, as well as another question of great importance to an individual in whom we have felt some concern during the previous part of this history, I shall lose no time in proceeding to relate.
A most uncommon courtship, a bit of jealousy, and a very plain declaration.
NOT long had Colin been at home before a message was sent up by Miss Wintlebury, begging the favour of a few minutes' conversation with him as early as it might be convenient to himself. Poor Colin blushed to the eyes as he heard the request, and in a manner so hurried that he scarcely knew his own words, replied that he would wait upon her immediately. He took some time, nevertheless, in adapting and adjusting his dress to his own taste, which he now discovered had suddenly become very particular; but, at length, when he grew ashamed of hanging back any longer, he summoned a desperate resolution, and, like the leader of a forlorn hope, went on to his mistress's door as though on an expedition of life or death.
For the fourth time he found Miss Harriet's appearance changed; though this fourth appearance seemed the most true one. She was yet young, and had been handsome; just as a primrose cropped a week since, and dangling its head over the side of a jar has been handsome, but is so no longer. Her cheeks were slightly—very slightly painted; for custom is custom still, even by the coffin side. Her countenance was naturally intelligent, and had been improved in expression by indulgence in the love of literature. The proportions of her figure were comely enough, and such as would not have matched ill beside even so well-formed an one as was Colin's.
“I am afraid you will think me very bold, Mr. Clink,” observed Miss Wintlebury, after the first forms of their meeting had been gone through; “but I wished to thank you personally for your exceeding kindness towards one who is a mere stranger to you. I feel it the more because, unfortunately for me, I have so rarely met with anything of the kind. I think my poor mother—and she has been gone these many years—was the only creature that ever loved me in this world!”
Here her voice grew tremulous, and her utterance half convulsive.
“I do not scruple to say so much now, because in the condition in which I am—I know I am—I am dying, and that is all about it;—in that condition, I say, no scruples prevent me uttering what otherwise I should be ashamed to own, because, with my feet almost in the grave, I feel secure against any imputations which else the world might bring against me. But, having almost done with the world, and feeling under no apprehension that anybody will look upon me in any other light than as a departing guest about to close the door upon her own back for ever, I am not ashamed to speak as a woman openly: for openly I must shortly speak before a far greater Being than any here.”
Colin sat, with his eyes fixed on the ground, mute and motionless,—striving to divert his feelings by counting the pattern flowers on the carpet; but he could scarcely see them, his eyes were full. With difficulty he swallowed his grief as Miss Wintlebury continued, “To-night, now, I am unable to go through the exertion of pleasing those drunkards yonder, as usual. Nor is this the first warning I have had that the poor concert of my life is close upon its finale.”
Accustomed as the young woman appeared to be to contemplate her own death within the little oratory of her own bosom, she yet displayed that feminine weakness of being unable to allude to it in words before another person without shedding tears.
“I hope, Miss,” began Colin, but he could not get on,—“I hope, ma'am———”
“It is not for myself!” she exclaimed resolutely, and as though determined to outface those tears,—“no, not for myself. That is very little worth crying for, indeed.”
She smiled with a ghastly expression of selfcontempt, and continued, “It is, sir, because I have it not in my power to repay you for your kindness to me. I must die in the debt of a stranger, for all help is now going from my hands. These few dresses and trinkets——”
And as she sobbed out the words she placed her hand upon a small heap of theatrical robes and decorations which lay beside her.
“These are all—and a very poor all they are—I have to repay you with, besides a buckle that I have here upon my band, which my mother gave me; and that I wish you to take off and keep when I am dead: but I must have it till then. I cannot part with it before.”
She paused, and gazed upon the trinket of which she spoke as though the thoughts it awakened congealed her into stone; for not a muscle of her countenance moved, and nothing showed she was alive save the rapid tears which dropped in painful noiselessness from her eyelashes to the ground.
“No, that is not quite all,” she resumed, almost in a whisper; “there is a necklace that was given me at school one Midsummer holiday: you shall have that, too. And I should like you to give it—I know you will forgive me saying so, won't you? Give it—if she be not too proud—give it—if there be any one in the world you love, give ither, and ask her to wear it for my poor sake!”
Colin was unused to the great sorrows of the world; his nature would have its way; he could contain his heart no longer, and burst into an agonizing and audible fit of grief. When his words came he begged her to desist; he refused to take anything from her as a recompense for what he had done; and, in as encouraging a tone as he could assume, he bid her cheer up, and hope for the best. He said she might yet recover, and be happy, why not?Hewould be her friend for ever, if she would but pluck her heart up, and look on things more cheerfully.
And, as he said this,—he knew not how he did it, or why,—but he kissed her forehead passionately, and pressed her hand within his own, as though those fingers might never be unclenched again.
At that moment the room door was very unceremoniously opened, and two persons stood before him.
Mrs. Popple had entered first, leading forwards Fanny Woodruff!
“Colin!” exclaimed the latter in a tone of mingled astonishment and reproach, and at the same time retreating precipitately from the room, while Miss Wintlebury sharply reproved her landlady for this rudeness, and Mr. Clink himself as suddenly assumed much more of the natural aspect of a fool than any person would have believed his features at all capable of. At length he spoke; and, rushing out after Fanny, exclaimed, “You shall not go! I have done no wrong! Come back—come back!”
“Sir!” replied Fanny, with the determined voice of a highly-excited spirit, “I have not accused you of anything, and, therefore, you need not defend yourself. But, indeed, Colin, I never expected this!”
“What—what have I done?”
“Nothing, perhaps, that you have not a perfect right to do if you think proper; but, however, I will not be troubled about it—I will not!” She applied her handkerchief to her eyes. “I am sorry for having interrupted you; but, since you are so much better engaged than with me, I will never trouble you again as long as I live!”
“Will you hear me?” demanded Colin.
“It is of no use. I am satisfied. You have a right to do as you think proper.”
“Of course I have, so long as I do right?”
“Right!”
“Yes, right. I have not injured you. I never told you I lovedyou—never!”
Those words startled Fanny as with the shock of an earthquake; shattering to fragments in one instant that visionary palace of Hope, which her heart had been occupied for years in rearing. She looked incredulously in his face, as though doubtful of his identity, and then burst into a flood of tears.
“True,” she murmured, “you never did—never! I have betrayed myself. But here, sir,” and she assumed as much firmness of manner as possible, while she held a small packet out for his acceptance. “Take this; for I came to give it you. It is all your mother and I——” Her breathing became heavy and convulsive. “We read your letter, and—Oh, save me! save me!” She fell insensible into the arms of Mrs. Popple, who instantly, at Colin's request, carried her into Miss Wintlebury's room, and placed her on the sofa.
The packet had fallen from her hand. It contained the three guineas which Colin had formerly given to her, besides two from his mother, and the whole amount of Fanny's own savings during the time she had been in service, making in all between eight and nine pounds.
Her unexpected appearance is readily explained. On perusing the melancholy news contained in that letter of Colin's, to which Fanny had alluded, she and his mother instantly formed the very natural conclusion that, bad as he had described his situation to be, he would endeavour to make the best of it to them; and that, therefore, to a positive certainty it was very much worse than his description would literally imply. A thousand imaginary dangers surrounding him, thronged upon their minds, which, they concluded, nothing short of a personal visit could modify or avert. Nothing less, indeed, could satisfy their feelings upon the subject; and hence it was agreed between them that, instead of writing to him, Fanny should undertake the journey, carrying with her all the money for his use which their joint efforts could procure.
The attentions of Mrs. Popple and Miss Wintlebury soon brought the young woman again to herself.
“Let me go!” said she. “I will return home to-night! I cannot stay here! I cannot bear it!”
“No, Fanny,” observed Colin, “that you shall not. You have mistaken me much—very much; when, if you knew all, you would be the first in the world to applaud me for what I have done.”
“I shall never be happy any more!” sighed Fanny almost inaudibly.
“I hope, young lady,” said Miss Wintlebury, addressing her, “thatIhave not been any cause of unhappiness to you? Because if so, perhaps it will be some comfort to you to know that I cannot continue so long. Look at me. Surely this poor frame cannot have excited either man's love or woman's jealousy; for no one could be so weak as to dream of placing his happiness on such a broken reed, nor any one so foolish as to take alarm at a shadow, which a few days at most—perhaps a few hours—must remove for ever.”
Fanny heard this discourse at first with indifference; but now she listened earnestly, and with evident surprise. Miss Wintlebury continued, “If—for so it almost seems—you foolishly imagine that I stand between that young gentleman and yourself, be assured you are deeply mistaken. Death, I too well know, has betrothed me; and I dare not, would not, accept another bridegroom. Now be at peace, and hear me but a moment longer. I know not who you are, though you and Mr. Clink are evidently acquainted; but if there be anything between you both,—if you love him, or he you,—all I say is, may Heaven bless you in it,—bless you! With one like him you could not fail to be blessed. A nobler, or a more generous and feeling creature never looked up to heaven.”
Overcome both by her bodily weakness and her feelings the poor girl sat down, and covered her face with her hands as she sobbed bitterly. During some minutes not a word was uttered; nor until the last speaker again rose, and took Fanny's hand, and led her across the room towards Colin, who stood by the fire-place, looking as grave and immoveable as though he were cast in lead.
“Come,” said she, “forget me, and let me see you friends.”
Suiting the action to the sentiment expressed, she placed Fanny's hand in Colin's. He gazed on her a moment, then clasped her in his arms, and kissed her a thousand times.
That night the three supped together, and were happy. And, as Fanny had not as yet taken any place of abode, she shared Miss Wintlebury's apartments; while Colin passed, amidst endless anxiety and excitement, an almost totally sleepless night.
Fanny did not choose to remain in town much longer than the occasion of her visit rendered absolutely essential; but during that time she related to Colin everything that could possibly interest him respecting the home he had left behind.
Amongst other matters of less importance, she surprised and astonished him with the information that, shortly after his own flight from Bramleigh, her father had been removed by Doctor Rowel from Nabbfield, and carried by night to a distant part of the country. But, as some particulars of this movement will require to be laid before the reader in the course of some subsequent chapter, I shall not trouble him with Fanny's statement, or Mr. Clink's remarks in reply, here; merely observing that the latter earnestly impressed upon her the necessity, both on her father's account, and his own too, of her applying at Kiddal Hall, and informing Mr. Lupton of the whole circumstances of the transaction at as early a period as possible.
All this Fanny promised to perform immediately on her arrival at Bramleigh. But when the period of departure came she returned thither with a heavy heart. The declaration made by Colin that he had never loved her (for so she interpreted it) still weighed heavily upon her bosom; nor did his subsequent kindness of behaviour, although it pleased for the moment, tend to any permanent alleviation of her feelings of sorrow derived from that source. The difference between her visit to town and this departure seemed to her like that to one who goes out in sunshine, with a glad day before her, but returns under clouds, and with no prospect but that of darkness at night. While, perplexed as Colin had partially felt between what he thought to be his duty, and his inclination, he so far discovered—if not to his positive satisfaction,—at least the entire absence of anything like real regret at Fanny's departure. In the mortification and agony of spirit consequent on her discovery of that fact, Fanny determined resolutely to banish Colin from her mind in every shape, save as a friend, for ever.
The reader is courteously introduced into a bone and bottle shop, and made acquainted with Peter Veriquear and the family of the Veriquears. A night adventure.
IN a bye-lane leading out of Hare Street, which, as my readers must be informed, is situated about the middle of the parish of Bethnal Green, there resided a certain tradesman, one Peter Veriquear by name; into whose service, as a man of all work, our hero, Mr. Clink, may now be supposed to have entered. By the recommendation, vote, and interest of Mistress Popple, who had some acquaintance with the Veriquears, it was that he obtained this eligible situation; a situation which found him a sort of endless employment of one kind or other, day and night, at the rate of six shillings per week, bed and board included.
When Colin first applied about the place, Mr. Veriquear replied, “If you want a situation, young man, that is your business, and not mine. If I have a place to dispose of, I have; and if I hav'n't, why of course I hav'n't. That is my business, and not yours.”
Colin hinted something about what Mrs. Popple had said.
“Well!” exclaimed Veriquear, “if Mrs. Popple told you so, she did. That is Mrs. Popple's business, and neither yours nor mine.”
“Then I am mistaken, sir?”
“I did not say you were mistaken. But, if you think you are, that is your own business, and not mine.”
“Then what, sir,” asked Colin, somewhat puzzled, “am I to understand?”
“Why,” replied Veriquear, “I shall say the same to you as I do to all young men,—understand your own business, if you have any, and, if you hav'n't, understand how to get one,—that is the next best thing.”
“And that,” rejoined our hero, “is exactly what I am desirous of doing.”
“Well, if you are, you are; that is your own concern.”
“You seem to be fond of joking,” remarked Colin, as the blood mounted to his cheeks.
“No, sir,” answered Veriquear, more sternly, “the man is not born that ever knew me joke in the whole course of my life. I have my own way, and that is no business of anybody's. Other people have theirs, and that is none of mine.”
“But can you give me any employment, sir?”
“Well, I suppose young men must live somehow, though that is their own concern; and I must find 'em work if I can, though that is mine.”
After some further conversation, in which Mr. Veriquear's character displayed itself much as above depicted, he arrived, through a very labyrinthine path, at the conclusion that Colin should be employed upon his establishment according to the terms previously stated.
Though Mr. Veriquear's premises stood nominally two stories high, and occupied a frontage some forty feet long, the roof scarcely reached to the chamber-windows of certain more modern erections on either side. The front wall,—a strange composition of timber, bricks, and plaster mingled together in very picturesque sort,—had in times gone by partially given way at the foundation, and now stood in an indescribably wry position. Having forcibly pulled the whole mass of tiling along with it, the ridge of the roof resembled the half-dislocated backbone of some fossil alligator, while a weather-beaten chimney, with great gaps between the bricks, which stood at one end, leaned sentimentally towards a dead gable, like Charlotte lamenting the sorrows of Werter. The windows, which were small and heavy, seemed to have been inserted according to the strictest laws of chance; for, exactly in those places where nobody would have expected them, there they were. By the side of the door Haunted some yards of filthy drapery, which flapped in the faces of the passers-by whenever they and a gust chanced to meet near the spot; and old bottles, secondhand ewers and basins, bits of rag, and various other descriptions of valuable “marine stores,” decorated a window which might, without much injustice, have been supposed to be glazed with clarified cow's-horn. Above, a huge doll, clad in long-clothes of dirty dimity, and suspended to a projecting iron by the crown of the head, swung in the blast like the effigy of some criminal on a gibbet-post. At the edge of the causeway, which had never been paved, and directly opposite the entrance to Mr. Veriquear's establishment, was placed a board elevated on a moveable pole, on which was painted, in attractive letters, “Wholesale and retail Rag, Bone, and Bottle Warehouse.”
Into this miserable den Colin permanently introduced himself for the first time one night between eight and nine o'clock. Some portion of that evening he had spent with Miss Wintle-bury, and had taken his adieu of her and the habitation she was in together, only after he had prevailed upon her to accept one of three sovereigns which alone he had retained out of the larger sum brought for his use by Fanny.
It was dusk when he arrived at his new abode. There was no light in the shop, save what little found its way thither from the fading heavens, which now were scantily spotted with half-seen stars. Peter Veriquear stood solemnly against the door-post, staring into the gloom, and blowing through his teeth a doleful noise, compounded both of singing and whistling, but resembling neither, either in tone or loudness. Colin felt low-spirited, though he strove to seem joyful.
“It grows dark very fast, sir,” said he, addressing Mr. Veriquear as he entered.
“Yes,” replied that gentleman, “it does; but I can't help that. What Nature chooses to do is no businesss of ours.”
“Certainly,” rejoined Colin; “but I said so only because it is customary to express some kind of opinion.”
“Well, that, of course, is your own concern; but, for my part, I never make it my business either to damn or praise the weather. Nature knows her own affairs, and manages them just the same without my meddling.”
As Peter said this, he turned and led into the shop his new assistant. Groping his way along in the direction of a distant inner doorway, through which the dim remains of a fire were visible, Colin first jostled against a stand, which rattled with the concussion as though all the bottles in the United Kingdom had been jingled together; and then, in his endeavour to steer clearer on the contrary side, fell prostrate on to a prodigious heap of tailors' ends, strongly resembling in size a juvenile Primrose Hill.
“I think it's my business to get a light,” observed Veriquear. “Stop where you are till I come again.”
Colin wisely maintained his position, in accordance with the sensible advice given him, lest, by making another endeavour in the dark, he should fall foul of a stack of bones, and thus exchange for a less comfortable anchorage. In cases of this kind, he well knew that a soft bottom is the best.
When Peter returned with a candle, Colin obtained a dim vision of the objects about him. The place was so black, for want of whitewash, that its limits seemed almost indefinable every way, save overhead, and there the close proximity of his crown to the rafters reminded him that no less care would be required in humouring Mr. Veriquear's house than in pleasing its master; while the quality and amount of its contents almost led him to believe he had entered some grand national closet, in which was deposited all the unserviceable stuff, the scraps, odds and ends of the general community. The reason of this was, that Peter Veriquear dealt in almost everything he could turn a penny by, and, being somewhat large in his speculations, always had a vast mass of property in substance upon his premises. 4 As a new emigrant to the wilds of North America betakes himself to an accurate survey of his locality before he pitches his tent, and commences operations, so, wisely, did Peter Veriquear conduct Colin over the whole of his territory that night, in order that he thereby might become acquainted early with the wide field of his future labours, Through a dirty unpaved yard behind, he conducted him over various shed-like warehouses, stored with every imaginable description of rags, sorted and unsorted, with bottles of all degrees of bodily extension, from the slender pale-faced phial to the middle-sized “mixture” and the corpulent “stout;” and on the ground-floor, into a deathly region of bones, which made the moveless air smell grave-like, and stored the prompt imagination with as many spectres of slaughtered cattle and skeleton horses, as might garnish the magic circles of twenty German tales.
In a wide rambling loft, accessible through this place by a step-ladder, and open to the laths of the roof on which the tiles were hung. Colin observed a small bed and a chair or two, with a broken piece of looking-glass fixed on the wall with nails, in order, as it might appear from the deserted character of the place, that the tenant, if weary of being alone, might contemplate a representative of himself, in lack of better company.
“Is this room occupied?” asked Colin.
“When there is anybody in it,—as there ought to be every night,” replied Veriquear. “It is my business to keep these premises safe, the same as it is other people's to rob them if they could.”
“Why, surely, sir,” objected Colin, with some slight astonishment, “nobody would think of stealing such things as there are here!”
“What is worth buying and selling is worth stealing.Ishould think so, if it were my affair to rob; just as I think it worth guarding, being my business to hinder robbery.”
“Then, shall I sleep here?” demanded Colin.
“Well,” responded Mr. Veriquear, “I suppose you will, if you can. You want sleep, like me, I dare say; but that you must manage yourself.Ican't make you sleep,—so it's no concern of mine.”
Our hero said nothing, but he thought the Fates could not have been in one of the most amiable of humours when they delivered him into the hands of Mr. Peter Veriquear.
Returning from this dim perambulation, the merchant led his assistant down a flight of brick steps into an underground kitchen, where a supper, consisting of a round mahogany-coloured cheese, which Colin mistook for a huge cricket-ball, three gaunt sticks of celery, and a brown loaf was placed upon a small round oak table, having one stem in the centre, and three crooked feet at the bottom, after the fashion of a washerwoman's Italian iron. The family of the Veriquears was here assembled. Mrs. Veri-quear, a sharp-nosed pyroligneous-acid-looking woman, sat on a low chair by the fireside, nursing a baby; a child of eighteen months old slept close by her in a wicker basket, which served at once for cradle and coach-body, as occasion might require, it being ingeniously contrived to fit a frame-work on four wheels, which stood up stairs, and thus served to carry the children about on a Sunday; while two other youngsters were squabbling on the hearthstone about their respective titles to a threelegged stool; and another, the eldest, was penning most villanous pot-hooks on the back of a piece of butter-paper, under the casual but severe superintendence of his worthy mother. Farthest removed from the fire, as well as the candle-light, sat one who wasinthe family, though not of it, a maiden of nineteen, Miss Aphra Marvel, a niece of Mr. Veriquear, who had been bequeathed to him by her father upon his death-bed, along with a small tenement worth about fifteen pounds a-year, the income from which was considered as a set-off against the cost of her board and bringing up. But could her departing parent have foreknown the great and multifarious services which his daughter was destined to perform in the family of his wife's brother, it is more than probable he would have acknowledged the propriety of charging fifteen pounds per annum as a compensation for her labour, rather than have left that sum in yearly requital of her cost. From twelve years of age to the present time, her duty it had been to make the fires, sweep the house, wash and nurse the babies, as they successively appeared upon the Veriquear stage of the world, wait on Mrs. Veriquear, prepare meals, make the beds, mend all the little masters' clothes, and, in short, do all and everything which could possibly require to be done; and yet she was regarded by her mistress and the children (whom she industriously instructed to that end) as an interloper, who was partly eating the bread out of their mouths every day, and consequently contributing to the eventual diminution of that stock which ought to be applied exclusively to the advancement of their own prospects in after-life.
When Colin entered, Miss Aphra cast her eyes momentarily up, and half blushed as she resumed her sewing. The children stared in wonder at him, as they might at the sudden appearance of a frog in the kitchen. The baby caught sight of him, and began to squeal like a sucking pig; while Mrs. Veriquear cast an ill-tempered eye upon him, as much as to say she wanted none of him there; and then shook her infant into an absolute scream with the exclamation,—“What are you crying at, you little fidget!He'snot going to hurt you, I'll take care of that. Hush—hush—hush-sh-sh!” And away went the rocking-chair at a rate quite tantamount to the extreme urgency of the occasion.
When they sat down to supper, it was discovered that Master William had picked out the hearts of two sticks of celery, and extracted a plug three inches long, by way of taster, from the Dutch cheese. This being a case that imperatively demanded the application of summary punishment, Colin got nothing to eat until Mr. Veriquear had risen from the table, and applied a few inches of old cane to the lad's shoulders, which he did with this brief preparatory remark, “Now, my boy, as you have made it your business to pull that plug out, it becomes mine to try if I can't plug you.”
Master William howled like a jackal before he was touched; his younger brother Ned cried because Bill did; and Mrs. Veriquear stormed at her husband, because he could not thrash the lad without making noise enough over it to wake the very dead. Miss Marvel looked as solemn during this farce as though it had been a tragedy; while Colin squeezed his nose up in his handkerchief as forcibly as though a lobster had seized it between his nippers, in order to prevent Mrs. Veriquear seeing how irreverently his fancy was tickled at this exhibition of domestic enjoyments.
Uninviting as his dormitory over the warehouses had previously appeared, the character of the kitchen and its inhabitants seemed so much more so, that it was with comparative delight he heard the clock of Shoreditch church strike ten, as a signal for him to take possession of a tin lantern provided for the occasion. Accordingly, carrying a bunch of keys in his hand, wherewith to lock himself in, he strode across the yard to his solitary and comfortless chamber.
During the first few hours which had elapsed after Colin had retired to his ghostly-look-ing dormitory, it was in vain he tried to coax and persuade himself to sleep. That fantastical deity, Somnus, seemed determined to contradict his wishes; and therefore he lay with his eyes wide open, counting how many chinks he could see between the tiles over his head, and listening to the musical compliments which passed between some friendly tom and tabby cats, whose tails and backs were evidently elevated in a very picturesque manner outside the ridge above him.
It could not be far off one o'clock, when a very distinct sound, as of something stirring below stairs, reached his ears. Though by no means naturally timid, the young man's heart suddenly jumped as though taking a spring from a precipice. Possibly the noise might be occasioned by the rats taking advantage of this untimely hour of the night to make free with Mr. Veriquear's bones; or the cats outside were in pursuit of the aforesaid rats; or the wind was making itself merry somehow amongst the bottles; or the doors or the shutters were undergoing a process of agitation from the same cause. Whatever might originate the sound, however, it was now repeated more distinctly. There was evidently on the premises something alive as well as himself. Was it possible that he could have got into a wrong place, and that they meditated murdering him for the sake of his body? He thought of a pitch-plaster being suddenly stuck over his mouth by some unseen hand, as he lay there on his back in the dark. It was horrible, and the conceit aroused him to determination. He cautiously slipped out of bed, and, clad in nothing more than his stockings and shirt, groped his way blindly to the step-ladder, which he silently descended.
Having reached the floor of the room below, he for the first time bethought himself that he had no weapon of defence, not even a common stick. But the great bone-heap was hard by, and from such armoury he soon possessed himself with the thigh-bone of a horse, which he contrived, without material disturbance, to draw out from amongst a choice collection of other similar relics. Again the noise which had alarmed him was repeated, and carried conviction to Colin's mind that Mr. Veriquear's precautions against robbers were more needful than he had previously believed; for that there were thieves about the premises he now no more doubted than he doubted his own existence. Determined to resist the knaves, and, grasping his bony cudgel with uncommon fervour, he placed himself in an offensive attitude, and stood prepared for he knew not what.
Not the famous fighting gladiator of antiquity, nor yet the modest statue dubbed Achilles in Hyde Park, the admiration and delight of our astonished countrymen and women, looks more threatening and heroic than did Colin, as, clad in the simple but classic drapery of his under-garment, he brandished a tremendous bone, and defied his unseen foe.
At that moment the fragmentary skull of some old charger, which lay on the windowsill at the farther end of the warehouse, seemed to become partially and very mysteriously illuminated, while the shadowy form of a man standing hard by became also indistinctly visible amidst the gloom. Colin maintained his standing in breathless silence, with his eyes steadily fixed upon the figure.
In the course of a few moments it turned slowly round, and began to advance gravely towards him, but whether or not with any intention of accosting him either by word or blow, he could not yet divine. Shortly it reached within arm's length of him, and was about to address doubtless some very mysterious speech to his ear, when the thought flashed on the young man's mind like lightning that now or never was the time; so raising his drumstick of a bone, he took aim, and, before a single protest against his measure could be entered, nearly felled the intruder to the earth.
“Don't strike!—don't strike!” cried the individual thus unexpectedly attacked. “I'm Veriquear!—I'm Veriquear!”
“Certainly,” thought Colin, “youarevery queer indeed!”—for he instantly recognised the voice as that of his employer, “I'm very sorry—”
“All right!—quite right!” said Veriquear, drawing a dark-lantern from a pocket behind him, and throwing abundleof rays like a bunch of carrots on the figure of his assistant. “It was decidedly your business to do as you have done; and I'm very much obliged to you—”
“You are very welcome,” interrupted Colin.
“For if you had not made it your duty to defend the place, I should have turned you away at a minute's notice to-morrow morning. I have done this on purpose to try your courage a little; only I meant to catch you in bed, instead of where you are.”
“But I regret having struck you,” protested Colin.
“As to that,” replied Peter, “that, you know, isyourbusiness; and if I like to run the risk of getting a beating, why, that, of course, is mine. Only I never yet had a man in my employ that I did not try in the same way; and many a one have I discharged because they would not turn again. It's no use having a dog that won't bark, and bite too, if he is wanted; so I always put them to the proof in the first instance.”
His hearer did not particularly admire Mr. Veriquear's sagacious method of trying the mettle of his men; but, inasmuch as it had so far ingratiated him into the favour of his employer, he did not lament the occurrence of a rencontre which, though it had promised seriously at the outset, terminated so harmlessly. He accordingly betook himself again to his pallet, and slept out soundly the remainder of the night; while Mr. Veriquear departed by the same way he had come, highly gratified with the courage of Colin, and rejoicing in the hard blow that he had so ably bestowed upon his shoulders.
A Sunday sight in London.—Colin meets with his best friend, and receives a heart-breaking epistle from Miss Wintlebury.
IT was not during the six days only, but on Sundays also, that Colin found employment at Peter Veriquear's. As regularly as the Sabbath came, he was converted into an animal of draught and burden, by being placed at the pole of that cradle-coach already alluded to, and engaged during stated hours in giving his employer's young family an airing amongst the delightful precincts of Hoxton New Town and the Hackney-road. On one of these occasions he very luckily, though accidentally, met with a gentleman whom he very much wished to see, and to whom, also, I shall have much pleasure in re-introducing the reader.
The day was uncommonly cold, considering the time of the year. Colin's face, as he breasted the blast, strongly resembled a raw carrot; while behind him sat four little red-and-blue looking animals, muffled up into no shape, and each “tiled” with an immense brimmed hat, which gave them altogether much the appearance of a basket of young flap-mushrooms.
“Don't cry, my dear!” said Colin, as he suddenly caught hold, and half twinged the cold button-like nose off the face of each in succession,—“Don't cry, dears,—and you shall have some pudding as soon as the baker has baked it. We shall soon be at home, Georgy. There, wrap your fingers up. See what a big dog that is!”
A tap on the shoulder with the end of a walking-cane interrupted his string of exclamations, and at the same moment a voice, which he had somewhere heard before, addressed him with—“And do not you remember whose dog he is?”
Colin turned hastily round, and beheld Squire Lupton standing on the edge of the curb-stone. If his cheeks were red before, they became scarlet now; for, though his occupation involved nothing censurable, he blushed deeply, and for the moment could not utter a word.
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Lupton, as he gazed in admiration on the contents of the four-wheeled basket, “so young, and such a family as that? God bless my soul!—why, surely they are not all your own?”
Colin did the best he could to clear himself of such an awful responsibility, avowing that he had no participation whatever in the affair, beyond what his duty in drawing them about might be considered to involve. Of this, indeed, the Squire did not require any very powerful proof, as he had given utterance to the remark more as a piece of pleasantry, than with any idea that it would be considered as meant in earnest.
As the streets of London do not at any time offer any very peculiar facilities for private conversation, and especially upon such important matters as those which both the Squire and Colin felt it necessary to be discussed between them, a very brief colloquy was all that passed on the present occasion, though sufficiently long to inform Mr. Lupton how poor a situation the young man had been obliged to accept since his arrival in town, merely to find himself in the most common necessaries of life. On the other hand, Colin ascertained that the Squire's absence from Kiddal, just after his last singular interview with him there, was in consequence of a visit which he was under the necessity of making to the metropolis, and to which was entirely owing his very fortunate, but accidental, meeting with him at the present moment. Before they parted, Mr. Lupton charged him, on his return home, to give Mr. Veriquear immediate warning to quit his service the following week, or as early as possible, as he had another mode of life in view for him, which he hoped would tend much more materially to his comfort and future happiness.
In the mean time, he requested him to wait upon him the following evening at a certain hotel at the west end of the town which he named, and where they might discuss all necessary matters in quiet and at leisure.
When Colin informed his employer of his adventure, and the consequence to which it had led in rendering it necessary that he should quit his service,—“Very well,” said Veriquear, “if you wish to leave me, that is no business of mine. As you came, so you must go. I am sorry to part with you; though I don't know what business it is of mine to grieve about it. You have your objects in the world, and I have mine; so I suppose we must each go his own way about them. Only if you consider yourself right in leaving so suddenly, I shall make it my duty not to pay you this week's wages.” Colin protested that as circumstances had altered with him, he considered that a matter of very little consequence, and would willingly forego any demand which otherwise he might make upon him. Mr. Veriquear felt secretly gratified at the sacrifice his man thus frankly volunteered to make; and, by way of requital, told him not only that he might consider himself at liberty to depart on any day of the ensuing week that he pleased, but also added, “And if at any time it should so happen that I can be of any service to you, apply to me; but mind you, it must not be about other people's business. If it is any business of mine, I 'll meddle; but your business, you know, is your own. Other people's is theirs; and mineismine, and nobody else's.”
Most probably Colin would that evening have called at Mrs. Popple's and communicated the agreeable intelligence, of which his head and heart were alike full, to poor Miss Wintlebury, had he not been arrested, just as he was on the point of setting out, by a small packet addressed to himself, which some unknown hand had left at the door, and within which, on opening, he found a trifling article or two of remembrance, and the following note:—
“My dear friend,
“It is with great satisfaction I sit down to write these few lines, informing you of the good news, that yesterday my father arrived from the country, bringing the intelligence that a comfortable small fortune had been left him by my uncle very unexpectedly, and that he has this day taken my brother and myself back again to our native place to pass the rest of our lives, and in hopes that thereby my own may be prolonged. But my poor dear father will be deceived! He knows not what anguish I have gone through, and he never shall know. Nevertheless, the country will be to me like a new heaven for the short time I am permitted to enjoy it; though the horrors of my past life will never cease to darken the scene.
“I can scarcely express the delight I feel in being enabled, through this reverse in our condition, to enclose a sum which, I trust, will leave me your debtor only in that gratitude which no payment can wipe away.
“The other trifles perhaps you may keep, if not too poor for acceptance; but as I know that our continued acquaintance could end only in deeper misery to us both, I deem it the only wise and proper course to withhold from you all knowledge of our future place of abode; and if you will in one thing more oblige me, never attempt to seek it out. I am bound speedily for another world, and must form no more ties with this.
“Heaven bless you and yours! And that you may be lastingly happy, as you deserve, will be the prayer, to the end of her days, of
“Harriet.”
A ten-pound note, a ring, and a brooch were enclosed.
Colin immediately repaired, on reading this, to his late lodgings, in hopes of seeing the writer before her departure; but he was too late. The contents of the letter were verified; and he could not obtain from the landlady the most remote information as to what part of the country she had retired.