Dolus an virtus—
Had Mrs. Davis ever studied the classics she would have thus expressed herself.
Poor Charley was altogether thrown on his beam-ends. He had altogether played Mrs. Davis's game in evincing jealousy at Mr. Peppermint's attentions. He knew this, and yet for the life of him he could not help being jealous. He wanted to get rid of Miss Geraghty, and yet he could not endure that anyone else should lay claim to her favour. He was very weak. He knew how much depended on the way in which he might answer this woman at the present moment; he knew that he ought now to make it plain to her, that however foolish he might have been, however false he might have been, it was quite out of the question that he should marry her barmaid. But he did not do so. He was worse than weak. It was not only the disinclination to give pain, or even the dread of the storm that would ensue, which deterred him; but an absurd dislike to think that Mr. Peppermint should be graciously received there as the barmaid's acknowledged admirer.
'Is she really ill now?' said he.
'She's not so ill but what she shall make herself well enough to welcome you, if you'll say the word that you ought to say. The most that ails her is fretting at the long delay.—Bolt the door, child, and go to bed; there will be no one else here now. Go up, and tell Miss Geraghty to come down; she hasn't got her clothes off yet, I know.'
Mrs. Davis was too good a general to press Charley for an absolute, immediate, fixed answer to her question. She knew that she had already gained much, by talking thus of the proposed marriage, by setting it thus plainly before Charley, without rebuke or denial from him. He had not objected to receiving a visit from Norah, on the implied understanding that she was to come down to him as his affianced bride. He had not agreed to this in words; but silence gives consent, and Mrs. Davis felt that should it ever hereafter become necessary to prove anything, what had passed would enable her to prove a good deal.
Charley puffed at his cigar and sipped his gin and water. It was now twelve o'clock, and he thoroughly wished himself at home and in bed. The longer he thought of it the more impossible it appeared that he should get out of the house without the scene which he dreaded. The girl had bolted the door, put away her cups and mugs, and her step upstairs had struck heavily on his ears. The house was not large or high, and he fancied that he heard mutterings on the landing-place. Indeed he did not doubt but that Miss Geraghty had listened to most of the conversation which had taken place.
'Excuse me a minute, Mr. Tudor,' said Mrs. Davis, who was now smiling and civil enough; 'I will go upstairs myself; the silly girl is shamefaced, and does not like to come down'; and up went Mrs. Davis to see that her barmaid's curls and dress were nice and jaunty. It would not do now, at this moment, for Norah to offend her lover by any untidiness. Charley for a moment thought of the front door. The enemy had allowed him an opportunity for retreating. He might slip out before either of the women came down, and then never more be heard of in Norfolk Street again. He had his hand in his waistcoat pocket, with the intent of leaving the sovereign on the table; but when the moment came he felt ashamed of the pusillanimity of such an escape, and therefore stood, or rather sat his ground, with a courage worthy of a better purpose.
Down the two women came, and Charley felt his heart beating against his ribs. As the steps came nearer the door, he began to wish that Mr. Peppermint had been successful. The widow entered the room first, and at her heels the expectant beauty. We can hardly say that she was blushing; but she did look rather shamefaced, and hung back a little at the door, as though she still had half a mind to think better of it, and go off to her bed.
'Come in, you little fool,' said Mrs. Davis. 'You needn't be ashamed of coming down to see him; you have done that often enough before now.'
Norah simpered and sidled. 'Well, I'm sure now!' said she. 'Here's a start, Mr. Tudor; to be brought downstairs at this time of night; and I'm sure I don't know what it's about'; and then she shook her curls, and twitched her dress, and made as though she were going to pass through the room to her accustomed place at the bar.
Norah Geraghty was a fine girl. Putting her in comparison with Miss Golightly, we are inclined to say that she was the finer girl of the two; and that, barring position, money, and fashion, she was qualified to make the better wife. In point of education, that is, the effects of education, there was not perhaps much to choose between them. Norah could make an excellent pudding, and was willing enough to exercise her industry and art in doing so; Miss Golightly could copy music, but she did not like the trouble; and could play a waltz badly. Neither of them had ever read anything beyond a few novels. In this respect, as to the amount of labour done, Miss Golightly had certainly far surpassed her rival competitor for Charley's affections.
Charley got up and took her hand; and as he did so, he saw that her nails were dirty. He put his arms round her waist and kissed her; and as he caressed her, his olfactory nerves perceived that the pomatum in her hair was none of the best. He thought of those young lustrous eyes that would look up so wondrously into his face; he thought of the gentle touch, which would send a thrill through all his nerves; and then he felt very sick.
'Well, upon my word, Mr. Tudor,' said Miss Geraghty, 'you're making very free to-night.' She did not, however, refuse to sit down on his knee, though while sitting there she struggled and tossed herself, and shook her long ringlets in Charley's face, till he wished her—safe at home in Mr. Peppermint's nursery.
'And is that what you brought me down for, Mrs. Davis?' said Norah. 'Well, upon my word, I hope the door's locked; we shall have all the world in here else.'
'If you hadn't come down to him, he'd have come up to you,' said Mrs. Davis.
'Would he though?' said Norah; 'I think he knows a trick worth two of that;' and she looked as though she knew well how to defend herself, if any over-zeal on the part of her lover should ever induce him to violate the sanctum of her feminine retirement.
There was no over-zeal now about Charley. He ought to have been happy enough, for he had his charmer in his arms; but he showed very little of the ecstatic joy of a favoured lover. There he sat with Norah in his arms, and as we have said, Norah was a handsome girl; but he would much sooner have been copying the Kennett and Avon canal lock entries in Mr. Snape's room at the Internal Navigation.
'Lawks, Mr. Tudor, you needn't hold me so tight,' said Norah.
'He means to hold you tight enough now,' said Mrs. Davis. 'He's very angry because I mentioned another gentleman's name.'
'Well, now you didn't?' said Norah, pretending to look very angry.
'Well, I just did; and if you'd only seen him! You must be very careful what you say to that gentleman, or there'll be a row in the house.'
'I!' said Norah. 'What I say to him! It's very little I have to say to the man. But I shall tell him this; he'd better take himself somewhere else, if he's going to make himself troublesome.'
All this time Charley had said nothing, but was sitting with his hat on his head, and his cigar in his mouth. The latter appendage he had laid down for a moment when he saluted Miss Geraghty; but he had resumed it, having at the moment no intention of repeating the compliment.
'And so you were jealous, were you?' said she, turning round and looking at him. 'Well now, some people might have more respect for other people than to mix up their names that way, with the names of any men that choose to put themselves forward. What would you say if I was to talk to you about Miss——'
Charley stopped her mouth. It was not to be borne that she should be allowed to pronounce the name that was about to fall from her lips.
'So you were jealous, were you?' said she, when she was again able to speak. 'Well, my!'
'Mrs. Davis told me flatly that you were going to marry the man,' said Charley; 'so what was I to think?'
'It doesn't matter what you think now,' said Mrs. Davis; 'for you must be off from this. Do you know what o'clock it is? Do you want the house to get a bad name? Come, you two understand each other now, so you may as well give over billing and cooing for this time. It's all settled now, isn't it, Mr. Tudor?'
'Oh yes, I suppose so,' said Charley.
'Well, and what do you say, Norah?'
'Oh, I'm sure I'm agreeable if he is. Ha! ha! ha! I only hope he won't think me too forward—he! he! he!'
And then with another kiss, and very few more words of any sort, Charley took himself off.
'I'll have nothing more to do with him,' said Norah, bursting into tears, as soon as the door was well bolted after Charley's exit. 'I'm only losing myself with him. He don't mean anything, and I said he didn't all along. He'd have pitched me to Old Scratch, while I was sitting there on his knee, if he'd have had his own way—so he would;' and poor Norah cried heartily, as she went to her work in her usual way among the bottles and taps.
'Why, you fool you, what do you expect? You don't think he's to jump down your throat, do you? You can but try it on; and then if it don't do, why there's the other one to fall back on; only, if I had the choice, I'd rather have young Tudor, too.'
'So would I,' said Norah; 'I can't abide that other fellow.'
'Well, there, that's how it is, you know—beggars can't be choosers. But come, make us a drop of something hot; a little drop will do yourself good; but it's better not to take it before him, unless when he presses you.'
So the two ladies sat down to console themselves, as best they might, for the reverses which trade and love so often bring with them.
Charley walked off a miserable man. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, thoroughly acknowledged his own weakness; and yet as he went out from the 'Cat and Whistle,' he felt sure that he should return there again to renew the degradation from which he had suffered this night. Indeed, what else could he do now? He had, as it were, solemnly plighted his troth to the girl before a third person who had brought them together, with the acknowledged purpose of witnessing that ceremony. He had, before Mrs. Davis, and before the girl herself, heard her spoken of as his wife, and had agreed to the understanding that such an arrangement was a settled thing. What else had he to do now but to return and complete his part of the bargain? What else but that, and be a wretched, miserable, degraded man for the rest of his days; lower, viler, more contemptible, infinitely lower, even than his brother clerics at the office, whom in his pride he had so much despised?
He walked from Norfolk Street into the Strand, and there the world was still alive, though it was now nearly one o'clock. The debauched misery, the wretched outdoor midnight revelry of the world was there, streaming in and out from gin-palaces, and bawling itself hoarse with horrid, discordant, screech-owl slang. But he went his way unheeding and uncontaminated. Now, now that it was useless, he was thinking of the better things of the world; nothing now seemed worth his grasp, nothing now seemed pleasurable, nothing capable of giving joy, but what was decent, good, reputable, cleanly, and polished. How he hated now that lower world with which he had for the last three years condescended to pass so much of his time! how he hated himself for his own vileness! He thought of what Alaric was, of what Norman was, of what he himself might have been—he that was praised by Mrs. Woodward for his talent, he that was encouraged to place himself among the authors of the day! He thought of all this, and then he thought of what he was—the affianced husband of Norah Geraghty!
He went along the Strand, over the crossing under the statue of Charles on horseback, and up Pall Mall East till he came to the opening into the park under the Duke of York's column. The London night world was all alive as he made his way. From the Opera Colonnade shrill voices shrieked out at him as he passed, and drunken men coming down from the night supper-houses in the Haymarket saluted him with affectionate cordiality. The hoarse waterman from the cabstand, whose voice had perished in the night air, croaked out at him the offer of a vehicle; and one of the night beggar-women who cling like burrs to those who roam the street a these unhallowed hours still stuck to him, as she had done ever since he had entered the Strand.
'Get away with you,' said Charley, turning at the wretched creature in his fierce anger; 'get away, or I'll give you in charge.'
'That you may never know what it is to be in misery yourself!' said the miserable Irishwoman.
'If you follow me a step farther I'll have you locked up,' said Charley.
'Oh, then, it's you that have the hard heart,' said she; 'and it's you that will suffer yet.'
Charley looked round, threw her the odd halfpence which he had in his pocket, and then turned down towards the column. The woman picked up her prize, and, with a speedy blessing, took herself off in search of other prey.
His way home would have taken him up Waterloo Place, but the space round the column was now deserted and quiet, and sauntering there, without thinking of what he did, he paced up and down between the Clubs and the steps leading into the park. There, walking to and fro slowly, he thought of his past career, of all the circumstances of his life since his life had been left to his own control, and of the absence of all hope for the future.
What was he to do? He was deeply, inextricably in debt. That wretch, M'Ruen, had his name on bills which it was impossible that he should ever pay. Tradesmen held other bills of his which were either now over-due, or would very shortly become so. He was threatened with numerous writs, any one of which would suffice to put him into gaol. From his poor father, burdened as he was with other children, he knew that he had no right to expect further assistance. He was in debt to Norman, his best, he would have said his only friend, had it not been that in all his misery he could not help still thinking of Mrs. Woodward as his friend.
And yet how could his venture to think longer of her, contaminated as he now was with the horrid degradation of his acknowledged love at the 'Cat and Whistle!' No; he must think no more of the Woodwards; he must dream no more of those angel eyes which in his waking moments had so often peered at him out of heaven, teaching him to think of higher things, giving him higher hopes than those which had come to him from the working of his own unaided spirit. Ah! lessons taught in vain! vain hopes! lessons that had come all too late! hopes that had been cherished only to be deceived! It was all over now! He had made his bed, and he must lie on it; he had sown his seed, and he must reap his produce; there was now no 'Excelsior' left for him within the bounds of human probability.
He had promised to go to Hampton with Harry Norman on Saturday, and he would go there for the last time. He would go there and tell Mrs. Woodward so much of the truth as he could bring himself to utter; he would say farewell to that blest abode; he would take Linda's soft hand in his for the last time; for the last time he would hear the young, silver-ringing, happy voice of his darling Katie; for the last time look into her bright face; for the last time play with her as with a child of heaven—and then he would return to the 'Cat and Whistle.'
And having made this resolve he went home to his lodgings. It was singular that in all his misery the idea hardly once occurred to him of setting himself right in the world by accepting his cousin's offer of Miss Golightly's hand and fortune.
Before the following Saturday afternoon Charley's spirits had somewhat recovered their natural tone. Not that he was in a happy frame of mind; the united energies of Mr. M'Ruen and Mrs. Davis had been too powerful to allow of that; not that he had given over his projected plan of saying a long farewell to Mrs. Woodward, or at any rate of telling her something of his position; he still felt that he could not continue to live on terms of close intimacy both with her daughters and with Norah Geraghty. But the spirits of youth are ever buoyant, and the spirits of no one could be endowed, with more natural buoyancy than those of the young navvy. Charley, therefore, in spite of his misfortunes, was ready with his manuscript when Saturday afternoon arrived, and, according to agreement, met Norman at the railway station.
Only one evening had intervened since the night in which he had ratified his matrimonial engagement, and in spite of the delicate nature of his position he had for that evening allowed Mr. Peppermint to exercise his eloquence on the heart of the fair Norah without interruption. He the while had been engaged in completing the memoirs of 'Crinoline and Macassar.'
'Well, Charley,' they asked, one and all, as soon as he reached the Cottage, 'have you got the story? Have you brought the manuscript? Is it all finished and ready for that dreadful editor?'
Charley produced a roll, and Linda and Katie instantly pounced upon it.
'Oh! it begins with poetry,' said Linda.
'I am so glad,' said Katie. 'Is there much poetry in it, Charley? I do so hope there is.'
'Not a word of it,' said Charley; 'that which Linda sees is a song that the heroine is singing, and it isn't supposed to be written by the author at all.'
'I'm so sorry that there's no poetry,' said Katie. 'Can't you write poetry, Charley?'
'At any rate there's lots of love in it,' said Linda, who was turning over the pages.
'Is there?' said Katie. 'Well, that's next best; but they should go together. You should have put all your love into verse, Charley, and then your prose would have done for the funny parts.'
'Perhaps it's all fun,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'But come, girls, this is not fair; I won't let you look at the story till it's read in full committee.' And so saying, Mrs. Woodward took the papers from her daughters, and tying them up, deposited them safe in custody. 'We'll have it out when the tea-things are gone.'
But before the tea-things had come, an accident happened, which had been like to dismiss 'Crinoline and Macassar' altogether from the minds of the whole of the Woodward family. The young men had, as usual, dined in town, and therefore they were all able to spend the long summer evening out of doors. Norman's boat was down at Hampton, and it was therefore determined that they should row down as far as Hampton Court Park and back. Charley and Norman were to row; and Mrs. Woodward agreed to accompany her daughters. Uncle Bat was left at home, to his nap and rum and water.
Norman was so expert a Thames waterman, that he was quite able to manage the boat without a steersman, and Charley was nearly his equal. But there is some amusement in steering, and Katie was allowed to sit between the tiller-ropes.
'I can steer very well, mamma: can't I, Harry? I always steer when we go to the island, and we run the boat straight into the little creek, only just broad enough to hold it.' Katie's visits to the island, however, were not so frequent as they had heretofore been, for she was approaching to sixteen years of age, and wet feet and draggled petticoats had lost some of their charms. Mrs. Woodward, trusting more to the experience of her two knights than to the skill of the lady at the helm, took her seat, and they went off merrily down the stream.
All the world knows that it is but a very little distance from Hampton Church to Hampton Court Bridge, especially when one has the stream with one. They were very soon near to the bridge, and as they approached it, they had to pass a huge barge, that was lazily making its way down to Brentford.
'There's lots of time for the big arch,' said Charley.
'Pull away then,' said Harry.
They both pulled hard, and shot alongside and past the barge. But the stream was strong, and the great ugly mass of black timber moved behind them quicker than it seemed to do.
'It will be safer to take the one to the left,' said Harry.
'Oh! there's lots of time,' said Charley.
'No,' said Harry, 'do as I tell you and go to the left.—Pull your left hand a little, Katie.'
Charley did as he was bid, and Katie intended to do the same; but unfortunately she pulled the wrong hand. They were now very near the bridge, and the barge was so close to them as to show that there might have been danger in attempting to get through the same arch with her.
'Your left hand, Katie, your left,' shouted Norman; 'your left string.' Katie was confused, and gave first a pull with her right, and then a pull with her left, and then a strong pull with her right. The two men backed water as hard as they could, but the effect of Katie's steering was to drive the nose of the boat right into one of the wooden piers of the bridge.
The barge went on its way, and luckily made its entry under the arch before the little craft had swung round into the stream before it; as it was, the boat, still clinging by its nose, came round with its stern against the side of the barge, and as the latter went on, the timbers of Norman's wherry cracked and crumpled in the rude encounter.
The ladies should all have kept their seats. Mrs. Woodward did do so. Linda jumped up, and being next to the barge, was pulled up into it by one of the men. Katie stood bolt upright, with the tiller-ropes still in her hand, awe-struck at the misfortune she had caused; but while she was so standing, the stern of the boat was lifted nearly out of the water by the weight of the barge, and Katie was pitched, behind her mother's back, head foremost into the water.
Norman, at the moment, was endeavouring to steady the boat, and shove it off from the barge, and had also lent a hand to assist Linda in her escape. Charley was on the other side, standing up and holding on by the piers of the bridge, keeping his eyes on the ladies, so as to be of assistance to them when assistance might be needed.
And now assistance was sorely needed, and luckily had not to be long waited for. Charley, with a light and quick step, passed over the thwarts, and, disregarding Mrs. Woodward's scream, let himself down, over the gun-wale behind her seat into the water. Katie can hardly be said to have sunk at all. She had, at least, never been so much under the water as to be out of sight. Her clothes kept up her light body; and when Charley got close to her, she had been carried up to the piers of the bridge, and was panting with her head above water, and beating the stream with her little hands.
She was soon again in comparative safety. Charley had her by one arm as he held on with the other to the boat, and kept himself afloat with his legs. Mrs. Woodward leaned over and caught her daughter's clothes; while Linda, who had seen what had happened, stood shrieking on the barge, as it made its way on, heedless of the ruin it left behind.
Another boat soon came to their assistance from the shore, and Mrs. Woodward and Katie were got safely into it. Charley returned to the battered wherry, and assisted Norman in extricating it from its position; and a third boat went to Linda's rescue, who would otherwise have found herself in rather an uncomfortable position the next morning at Brentford.
The hugging and kissing to which Katie was subjected when she was carried up to the inn, near the boat-slip on the Surrey side of the river, may be imagined; as may also the faces she made at the wineglassful of stiff brandy and water which she was desired to drink. She was carried home in a fly, and by the time she arrived there, had so completely recovered her life and spirits as to put a vehement negative on her mother's proposition that she should at once go to bed.
'And not hear dear Charley's story?' said she, with tears in her eyes. 'And, mamma, I can't and won't go to bed without seeing Charley. I didn't say one word yet to thank him for jumping into the water after me.'
It was in vain that her mother told her that Charley's story would amuse her twice as much when she should read it printed; it was in vain that Mrs. Woodward assured her that Charley should come up to her room door; and hear her thanks as he stood in the passage, with the door ajar. Katie was determined to hear the story read. It must be read, if read at all, that Saturday night, as it was to be sent to the editor in the course of the week; and reading 'Crinoline and Macassar' out loud on a Sunday was not to be thought of at Surbiton Cottage. Katie was determined to hear the story read, and to sit very near the author too during the reading; to sit near him, and to give him such praise as even in her young mind she felt that an author would like to hear. Charley had pulled her out of the river, and no one, as far as her efforts could prevent it, should be allowed to throw cold water on him.
Norman and Charley, wet as the latter was, contrived to bring the shattered boat back to Hampton. When they reached the lawn at Surbiton Cottage they were both in high spirits. An accident, if it does no material harm, is always an inspiriting thing, unless one feels that it has been attributable to one's own fault. Neither of them could in this instance attach any blame to himself, and each felt that he had done what in him lay to prevent the possible ill effect of the mischance. As for the boat, Harry was too happy to think that none of his friends were hurt to care much about that.
As they walked across the lawn Mrs. Woodward ran out to them. 'My dear, dear Charley,' she said, 'what am I to say to thank you?' It was the first time Mrs. Woodward had ever called him by his Christian name. It had hitherto made him in a certain degree unhappy that she never did so, and now the sound was very pleasant to him.
'Oh, Mrs. Woodward,' said he, laughing, 'you mustn't touch me, for I'm all mud.'
'My dear, dear Charley, what can I say to you? and dear Harry, I fear we've spoilt your beautiful new boat.'
'I fear we've spoilt Katie's beautiful new hat,' said Norman.
Mrs. Woodward had taken and pressed a hand of each of them, in spite of Charley's protestations about the mud.
'Oh! you're in a dreadful state,' said she; 'you had better take something at once; you'll catch your death of cold.'
'I'd better take myself off to the inn,' said Charley, 'and get some clean clothes; that's all I want. But how is Katie—and how is Linda?'
And so, after a multitude of such inquiries on both sides, and of all manner of affectionate greetings, Charley went off to make himself dry, preparatory to the reading of the manuscript.
During his absence, Linda and Katie came down to the drawing-room. Linda was full of fun as to her journey with the bargeman; but Katie was a little paler than usual, and somewhat more serious and quiet than she was wont to be.
Norman was the first in the drawing-room, and received the thanks of the ladies for his prowess in assisting them; and Charley was not slow to follow him, for he was never very long at his toilet. He came in with a jaunty laughing air, as though nothing particular had happened, and as if he had not a care in the world. And yet while he had been dressing he had been thinking almost more than ever of Norah Geraghty. O that she, and Mrs. Davis with her, and Jabesh M'Ruen with both of them, could be buried ten fathom deep out of his sight, and out of his mind!
When he entered the room, Katie felt her heart beat so strongly that she hardly knew how to thank him for saving her life. A year ago she would have got up and kissed him innocently; but a year makes a great difference. She could not do that now, so she gave him her little hand, and held his till he came and sat down at his place at the table.
'Oh, Charley, I don't know what to say to you,' said she; and he could see and feel that her whole body was shaking with emotion.
'Then I'll tell you what to say: 'Charley, here is your tea, and some bread, and some butter, and some jam, and some muffin,' for I'll tell you what, my evening bath has made me as hungry as a hunter. I hope it has done the same to you.'
Katie, still holding his hand, looked up into his face, and he saw that her eyes were suffused with tears. She then left his side, and, running round the room, filled a plate with all the things he had asked for, and, bringing them to him, again took her place beside him. 'I wish I knew how to do more than that,' said she.
'I suppose, Charley, you'll have to make an entry about that barge on Monday morning, won't you?' said Linda. 'Mind you put in it how beautiful I looked sailing through the arch.'
'Yes, and how very gallant the bargeman was,' said Norman.
'Yes, and how much you enjoyed the idea of going down the river with him, while, we came back to the Cottage,' said Charley. 'We'll put it all down at the Navigation, and old Snape shall make a special minute about it.'
Katie drank her tea in silence, and tried to eat, though without much success. When chatting voices and jokes were to be heard at the Cottage, the sound of her voice was usually the foremost; but now she sat demure and quiet. She was realizing the danger from which she had escaped, and, as is so often the case, was beginning to fear it now that it was over.
'Ah, Katie, my bonny bird,' said her mother, seeing that she was not herself, and knowing that the excitement and overpowering feelings of gratitude were too much for her—come here; you should be in bed, my foolish little puss, should you not?'
'Indeed, she should,' said Uncle Bat, who was somewhat hard-hearted about the affair of the accident, and had been cruel enough, after hearing an account of it, to declare that it was all Katie's fault.
'Indeed, she should; and if she had gone to bed a little earlier in the evening it would have been all the better for Master Norman's boat.'
'Oh! mamma, don't send me to bed,' said she, with tears in her eyes. 'Pray don't send me to bed now; I'm quite well, only I can't talk because I'm thinking of what Charley did for me;' and so saying she got up, and, hiding her face on her mother's shoulder, burst into tears.
'My dearest child,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'I'm afraid you'll make yourself ill. We'll put off the reading, won't we, Charley? We have done enough for one evening.'
'Of course we will,' said he. 'Reading a stupid story will be very slow work after all we've gone through to-day.'
'No, no, no,' said Katie; 'it shan't be put off; there won't be any other time for hearing it. And, mamma it must be read; and I know it won't be stupid. Oh; mamma, dear mamma, do let us hear it read; I'm quite well now.'
Mrs. Woodward found herself obliged to give way. She had not the heart to bid her daughter go away to bed, nor, had she done so, would it have been of any avail. Katie would only have lain and sobbed in her own room, and very probably have gone into hysterics. The best thing for her was to try to turn the current of her thoughts, and thus by degrees tame down her excited feelings.
'Well, darling, then we will have the story, if Charley will let us. Go and fetch it, dearest.' Katie raised herself from her mother's bosom, and, going across the room, fetched the roll of papers to Charley. As he prepared to take it she took his hand in hers, and, bending her head over it, tenderly kissed it. 'You mustn't think,' said she, 'that because I say nothing, I don't know what it is that you've done for me; but I don't know how to say it.'
Charley was at any rate as ignorant what he ought to say as Katie was. He felt the pressure of her warm lips on his hand, and hardly knew where he was. He felt that he blushed and looked abashed, and dreaded, fearfully dreaded, lest Mrs. Woodward should surmise that he estimated at other than its intended worth, her daughter's show of affection for him.
'I shouldn't mind doing it every night,' said he, 'in such weather as this. I think it rather good fun going into the water with my clothes on.' Katie looked up at him through her tears, as though she would say that she well understood what that meant.
Mrs. Woodward saw that if the story was to be read, the sooner they began it the better.
'Come, Charley,' said she, 'now for the romance. Katie, come and sit by me.' But Katie had already taken her seat, a little behind Charley, quite in the shade, and she was not to be moved.
'But I won't read it myself,' said Charley; 'you must read it, Mrs. Woodward.'
'O yes, Mrs. Woodward, you are to read it,' said Norman.
'O yes, do read it, manna,' said Linda.
Katie said nothing, but she would have preferred that Charley should have read it himself.
'Well, if I can,' said Mrs. Woodward.
'Snape says I write the worst hand in all Somerset House,' said Charley; 'but still I think you'll be able to manage it.'
'I hate that Mr. Snape,' said Katie,sotto voce. And then Mrs. Woodward unrolled the manuscript and began her task.
'Well, Linda was right,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'it does begin with poetry.'
'It's only a song,' said Charley, apologetically—'and after all there is only one verse of that'—and then Mrs. Woodward began
'Ladies and gentlemen, that is the name of Mr. Charles Tudor's new novel.'
'Crinoline and Macassar!' said Uncle Bat. 'Are they intended for human beings' names?'
'They are the heroine and the hero, as I take it,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'and I presume them to be human, unless they turn out to be celestial.'
'I never heard such names in my life,' said the captain.
'At any rate, uncle, they are as good as Sir Jib Boom and Captain Hardaport,' said Katie, pertly.
'We won't mind about that,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'I'm going to begin, and I beg I may not be interrupted.'
"The lovely Crinoline was sitting alone at a lattice window on a summer morning, and as she sat she sang with melancholy cadence the first part of the now celebrated song which had then lately appeared, from the distinguished pen of Sir G— H—,"
'Who is Sir G— H—, Charley?'
'Oh, it wouldn't do for me to tell that,' said Charley. 'That must be left to the tact and intelligence of my readers.'
'Oh, very well,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'we will abstain from all impertinent questions'—'from the distinguished pen of Sir G— H—. The ditty which she sang ran as follows:—
My heart's at my office, my heart is always there—My heart's at my office, docketing with care;Docketing the papers, and copying all day,My heart's at my office, though I be far away.
"'Ah me!' said the Lady Crinoline—"
'What—is she a peer's daughter?' said Uncle Bat.
'Not exactly,' said Charley, 'it's only a sort of semi-poetic way one has of speaking of one's heroine.'
"'Ah me!' said the Lady Crinoline—'his heart! his heart!—I wonder whether he has got a heart;' and then she sang again in low plaintive voice the first line of the song, suiting the cadence to her own case:—
His heart is at his office, his heart isalwaysthere.
"'It was evident that the Lady Crinoline did not repeat the words in the feeling of their great author, who when he wrote them had intended to excite to high deeds of exalted merit that portion of the British youth which is employed in the Civil Service of the country.
"Crinoline laid down her lute—it was in fact an accordion—and gazing listlessly over the rails of the balcony, looked out at the green foliage which adorned the enclosure of the square below.
"It was Tavistock Square. The winds of March and the showers of April had been successful in producing the buds of May."
'Ah, Charley, that's taken from the old song,' said Katie, 'only you've put buds instead of flowers.'
'That's quite allowable,' said Mrs. Woodward—"successful in producing the buds of May. The sparrows chirped sweetly on the house-top, and the coming summer gladdened the hearts of all—of all except poor Crinoline.
"'I wonder whether he has a heart, said she; 'and if he has, I wonder whether it is at his office.'
"As she thus soliloquized, the door was opened by a youthful page, on whose well-formed breast, buttons seemed to grow like mushrooms in the meadows in August.
"'Mr. Macassar Jones,' said the page; and having so said, he discreetly disappeared. He was in his line of life a valuable member of society. He had brought from his last place a twelvemonth's character that was creditable alike to his head and heart; he was now found to be a trustworthy assistant in the household of the Lady Crinoline's mother, and was the delight of his aged parents, to whom he regularly remitted no inconsiderable portion of his wages. Let it always be remembered that the life even of a page may be glorious. All honour to the true and brave!"
'Goodness, Charley—how very moral you are!' said Linda.
'Yes,' said he; 'that's indispensable. It's the intention of theDaily Delightalways to hold up a career of virtue to the lower orders as the thing that pays. Honesty, high wages, and hot dinners. Those are our principles.'
'You'll have a deal to do before you'll bring the lower orders to agree with you,' said Uncle Bat.
'We have a deal to do,' said Charley, 'and we'll do it. The power of the cheap press is unbounded.'
"As the page closed the door, a light, low, melancholy step was heard to make its way across the drawing-room. Crinoline's heart had given one start when she had heard the announcement of the well-known name. She had once glanced with eager inquiring eye towards the door. But not in vain to her had an excellent mother taught the proprieties of elegant life. Long before Macassar Jones was present in the chamber she had snatched up the tambour-frame that lay beside her, and when he entered she was zealously engaged on the fox's head that was to ornament the toe of a left-foot slipper. Who shall dare to say that those slippers were intended to grace the feet of Macassar Jones?"
'But I suppose they were,' said Katie.
'You must wait and see,' said her mother; 'for my part I am not at all so sure of that.'
'Oh, but I know they must be; for she's in love with him,' said Katie.
"'Oh, Mr. Macassar,' said the Lady Crinoline, when he had drawn nigh to her, 'and how are you to-day?' This mention of his Christian name betrayed no undue familiarity, as the two families were intimate, and Macassar had four elder brothers. 'I am so sorry mamma is not at home; she will regret not seeing you amazingly.'
"Macassar had his hat in his hand, and he stood a while gazing at the fox in the pattern. 'Won't you sit down?' said Crinoline.
"'Is it very dusty in the street to-day?' asked Crinoline; and as she spoke she turned upon him a face wreathed in the sweetest smiles, radiant with elegant courtesy, and altogether expressive of extreme gentility, unsullied propriety, and a very high tone of female education. 'Is it very dusty in the street to-day?'
"Charmed by the involuntary grace of her action, Macassar essayed to turn his head towards her as he replied; he could not turn it much, for he wore an all-rounder; but still he was enabled by a side glance to see more of that finished elegance than was perhaps good for his peace of mind.
"'Yes,' said he, 'it is dusty;—it certainly is dusty, rather;—but not very—and then in most streets they've got the water-carts.'
"'Ah, I love those water-carts!' said Crinoline; 'the dust, you know, is so trying.'
"'To the complexion?' suggested Macassar, again looking round as best he might over the bulwark of his collar.
"Crinoline laughed slightly; it was perhaps hardly more than a simper, and turning her lovely eyes from her work, she said, 'Well, to the complexion, if you will. What would you gentlemen say if we ladies were to be careless of our complexions?'
"Macassar merely sighed gently—perhaps he had no fitting answer; perhaps his heart was too full for him to answer. He sat with his eye fixed on his hat, which still dangled in his hand; but his mind's eye was far away.
"'Is it in his office?' thought Crinoline to herself; 'or is it here? Is it anywhere?'
"'Have you learnt the song I sent you? said he at last, waking, as it were, from a trance.
"'Not yet,' said she—'that is, not quite; that is, I could not sing it before strangers yet.'
"'Strangers!' said Macassar; and he looked at her again with an energy that produced results not beneficial either to his neck or his collar.
"Crinoline was delighted at this expression of feeling. 'At any rate it is somewhere,' said she to herself; 'and it can hardly be all at his office.'
"'Well, I will not say strangers,' she said out loud; 'it sounds—it sounds—I don't know how it sounds. But what I mean is, that as yet I've only sung it before mamma!'"
'I declare I don't know which is the biggest fool of the two,' said Uncle Bat, very rudely.' As for him, if I had him on the forecastle of a man-of-war for a day or two, I'd soon teach him to speak out.'
'You forget, sir,' said Charley,' he's not a sailor, he's only in the Civil Service; we're all very bashful in the Civil Service.'
'I think he is rather spooney, I must say,' said Katie; whereupon Mrs. Woodward went on reading.
"'It's a sweet thing, isn't it?' said Macassar.
"'Oh, very!' said Crinoline, with a rapturous expression which pervaded her whole head and shoulders as well as her face and bust—'very sweet, and so new.'
"'It quite comes home to me,' said Macassar, and he sighed deeply.
"'Then it is at his office,' said Crinoline to herself; and she sighed also.
"They both sat silent for a while, looking into the square—Crinoline was at one window, and Macassar at the other: 'I must go now,' said he: 'I promised to be back at three.'
"'Back where?' said she.
"'At my office,' said he.
"Crinoline sighed. After all, it was at his office; it was too evident that it was there, and nowhere else. Well, and why should it not be there? why should not Macassar Jones be true to his duty and to his country? What had she to do with his heart? Why should she wish it elsewhere? 'Twas thus she tried to console herself, but in vain. Had she had an office of her own it might perhaps have been different; but Crinoline was only a woman; and often she sighed over the degradation of her lot.
"'Good morning, Miss Crinoline,' said he.
"'Good morning, Mr. Macassar,' said she; 'mamma will so regret that she has lost the pleasure of seeing you.'
"And then she rung the bell. Macassar went downstairs perhaps somewhat slower, with perhaps more of melancholy than when he entered. The page opened the hall-door with alacrity, and shut it behind him with a slam.
"All honour to the true and brave!
"Crinoline again took up the note of her sorrow, and with her lute in her hand, she warbled forth the line which stuck like a thorn in her sweet bosom:—
His heart is in his office—his heart IS ALWAYSthere."
'There,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'that's the end of the first chapter.'
'Well, I like the page the best,' said Linda, 'because he seems to know what he is about.'
'Oh, so does the lady,' said Charley; 'but it wouldn't at all do if we made the hero and heroine go about their work like humdrum people. You'll see that the Lady Crinoline knows very well what's what.'
'Oh, Charley, pray don't tell us,' said Katie; 'I do so like Mr. Macassar, he is so spooney; pray go on, mamma.'
'I'm ready,' said Mrs. Woodward, again taking up the manuscript.
"CHAPTER II. — "The lovely Crinoline was the only daughter of fond parents; and though they were not what might be called extremely wealthy, considering the vast incomes of some residents in the metropolis, and were not perhaps wont to mix in the highest circles of the Belgravian aristocracy, yet she was enabled to dress in all the elegance of fashion, and contrived to see a good deal of that society which moves in the highly respectable neighbourhood of Russell Square and Gower Street.
"Her dresses were made at the distinguished establishment of Madame Mantalini, in Hanover Square; at least she was in the habit of getting one dress there every other season, and this was quite sufficient among her friends to give her a reputation for dealing in the proper quarter. Once she had got a bonnet direct from Paris, which gave her ample opportunity of expressing a frequent opinion not favourable to the fabricators of a British article. She always took care that her shoes had within them the name of a French cordonnier; and her gloves were made to order in the Rue Du Bac, though usually bought and paid for in Tottenham Court Road."
'What a false creature!' said Linda.
'False!' said Charley; 'and how is a girl to get along if she be not false? What girl could live for a moment before the world if she were to tell the whole truth about the get-up of her wardrobe—the patchings and make-believes, the chipped ribbons and turned silks, the little bills here, and the little bills there? How else is an allowance of £20 a year to be made compatible with an appearance of unlimited income? How else are young men to be taught to think that in an affair of dress money is a matter of no moment whatsoever?'
'Oh, Charley, Charley, don't be slanderous,' said Mrs. Woodward.
'I only repeat what the editor says to me—I know nothing about it myself. Only we are requested 'to hold the mirror up to nature,'—and to art too, I believe. We are to set these things right, you know.'
'We—who are we?' said Katie.
'Why, theDaily Delight,' said Charley.
'But I hope there's nothing false in patching and turning,' said Mrs. Woodward; 'for if there be, I'm the falsest woman alive.