Another man, also elderly, who sat next to the barrister, was a gentleman who sold an excellent business and retired, in order to betake himself more completely to toping. He drank in three taverns during the day. One was in Fleet Street, where he took his chop at three; one was near Drury Lane Theatre, where he dallied with a little whisky from five to nine; and this was the third. He was a quiet, happy, self-respecting, dignified old man. In the evening, he spoke not at all--for sufficient reasons; but he benevolently inclined his head if he was addressed.
Next to him sat a younger man, a solicitor, whose practice consisted in defending prisoners in the Police Courts. He had with him two friends, and he had a confident swagger, which pa.s.sed for ability. Next to him and his friends was a house agent, who had been a member for an Irish borough: and there was a gentleman, whose wife sang in music halls, so that this fortunate person could--and did--sit about in taverns all day long. His appearance was that of a deboshed City clerk, as he was. Not to mention other members of the company, Checkley was there, occupying a chair next to the money-lender.
Here he was called Mr. Checkley. He came every evening at nine o"clock, Sundays included. Like the money-lender, he wanted his little distractions, and took them in this way. Here, too, he was among those who respected him, not so much on account of his public and private virtues, or for his eminence in the law, as his money. It is not often that a solicitor"s clerk becomes a "warm" man, but then it is not often that one of the calling deliberately proposes to himself early in life to save money, and lives till seventy-five steadily carrying out his object. If you are good at figures, you will understand how Mr. Checkley succeeded. Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five he had an income which averaged about seventy-five pounds. He lived upon fifty pounds a year. From twenty-five to thirty-five he made an average of one hundred and fifty pounds: he still lived upon fifty pounds a year. At thirty-five he was induced by prudential considerations to marry: the lady, considerably his senior, had a thousand pounds. She was even more miserly than himself, and in a year or so after marriage, she fell into a decline, owing to insufficient nourishment, and presently expired. On the whole he calculated that he was the better man for the marriage by a thousand pounds. From thirty-five to forty-five his income rose to two hundred pounds: it then for twenty-five years stood at three hundred pounds a year; at the age of seventy Mr. Dering gave him four hundred pounds. Therefore, to sum up, he had put by out of his pay the sum of 11,675_l_.--and this without counting the compound interest always mounting up from his investments, which were all of a careful kind such as he understood: tenement houses, of which he had a good number: shares in building societies: money lent on bills of sale or on mortgage. At home--Mr. Checkley lived on the ground floor of one of his own houses--he grew more miserly as he grew older. The standard of luxury is not high when fifty pounds a year covers all; but of late he had been trying to keep below even that humble amount. He conducted his affairs in the evening between his office hours and nine at his own house, or among the people where his property lay. It was in the district, visited by few, lying east of Gray"s Inn Road: his own house was in a certain small square, a good half of the houses in which belonged to him.
At nine o"clock he arrived at the tavern. Here his drinks cost him nothing. A custom had grown up in the course of years for the money-lender to consult him on the many difficult points which arise in the practice of his profession. He was one of those who like to have one foot over the wall erected by the law, but not both. In other words, he was always trying to find out how far the law would allow him to go, and where it called upon him to stop. With this view he schemed perpetually to make his clients sign bonds under the delusion that they meant a hundredth part of what they really did mean. And as, like all ignorant men, he had the most profound belief in the power and the knowledge and the chicanery of lawyers, he was pleased to obtain Checkley"s advice in return for Checkley"s drinks.
It was a full gathering. The old clerk arrived late: he was gratified at hearing the ex-M.P. whispering to his friends that the new arrival was worth his twenty thousand pounds if a penny. He swelled with honourable pride. Yes. Twenty thousand pounds! And more--more. Who would have thought, when he began as an office boy, that he could ever achieve so much?
The money-lender, bursting with a new case, real or supposed, took his pipe out of his mouth and communicated it in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.
"Suppose----" it began.
"Then"--Checkley replied when the case was finished--"you would lay yourself open to a criminal prosecution. Don"t you go so much as to think of it. There was a case twenty-five years ago exactly like it. The remarks of the judge were most severe, and the sentence was heavy."
"Ah!" The usurer"s red face grew redder. "Then it can"t be thought of.
Pity, too. There"s a houseful of furniture and a shopful of stuff. And a young man as it would do good to him just to start fair again.
Pity.--Put a name to it, Mr. Checkley."
"Rum. Hot. With lemon," replied the sage. "You get more taste in your mouth, more upliftin" for your heart, as they say, more strengthenin"
for the stomach, better value all round for your money out of rum than any other drink that I know."
At this point, and before the waiter could execute the order, voices and steps were heard outside the room. The voices of two men. That of one loud, eager, noisy. That of the other quiet, measured, and calm.
Checkley sat upright suddenly and listened.
"That is young Cambridge," said the old barrister. "I thought he would be here--Sat.u.r.day night and all." He smiled, as if expectant of something, and drank off the rest of his beer at a draught.
"Most distinguished Cambridge man," whispered the ex-M.P. to his friends. "Wanst a Fellow of Cambridge College. Great scholar. Ornament to any circle. Dhrinks likes an oyster. Son of a Bishop too--Son of an Irish Bishop--Talks Greek like English. He"ll come in directly. He"s taking something outside. He"s always half dhrunk to begin, and quite dhrunk to finish. But he only talks the better--being Oirish. Most remarkable man."
The voice of this distinguished person Checkley knew. But the other voice? That he knew as well. And he could not remember whose voice it was. Very well indeed he remembered the sound of it. Some men never forget a face: some men never forget a shape or figure: some men never forget a voice: some men never forget a handwriting. A voice is the simplest thing, after all, to remember, and the most unchanging. From eighteen till eighty a man"s voice changes not, save that in volume it decreases during the last decade: the distinguishing quality of the voice remains the same to the end.
"Have a drink, my dear fellow." That was the voice of the Pride of Cambridge.
"Thanks. I don"t want a drink."
Whose voice was it? Checkley sat up eager for the door to be opened, and that doubt to be resolved.
It was opened. The two men came in first, the Cambridge man leading the way. He was a good-looking, smooth-faced man of thirty-two or so, with bright blue eyes--too bright--a fine face, full of delicacy and mobility, a high, narrow forehead, and quick sensitive lips; a man who was obviously in want of some one to take him in hand and control him: one of those men who have no will of their own, and fall naturally before any temptation which a.s.sails them. The chief temptation which a.s.sailed Freddy Carstone--it seems to stamp the man that his friends all called him Freddy--a Freddy is amiable, weak, beloved, and given to err, slip, fall, and give way--was the temptation to drink. He was really, as the ex-M.P. told his friends, a very fine scholar: he had been a Fellow of his college, but never received any appointment or office of Lecturer there on account of this weakness of his, which was notorious. When his Fellowship expired, he came to London, lived in Gray"s Inn, and took pupils. He had the reputation of being an excellent coach if he could be caught sober. He was generally sober in the morning; often a little elevated in the afternoon; and always cheerfully--not stupidly--drunk at night.
"You must have a drink," Freddy repeated. "Not want a drink? Hang it, old man, it isn"t what you want, it"s what you like. If I only took what I wanted, I should be--what should I be? Fellow and Tutor of the college--very likely Master--most probably Archdeacon--certainly Bishop.
Wasn"t my father a Bishop? Now, if you take what you like, as well as what you want--what happens? You go easily and comfortably down hill--down--down--down--like me. Tobogganing isn"t easier: the switchback railway isn"t more pleasant. Always take what you like."
"No--no, Freddy; thanks."
"What? You"ve got ambitions still? You want to be climbing? Man alive!
it"s too late. You"ve stayed away from your friends too long. You can"t get up. Better join us at the _Salutation_ Club. Come in with me. I"ll introduce you. They"ll be glad to have you. Intellectual conversation carried on nightly. Romantic scenery from the back window. Finest parlour in London. Come in and sample the Scotch.--Not want a drink? Who ever saw a man who didn"t want a drink?"
The other man followed, reluctantly--and at sight of him Checkley jumped in his chair. Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper from the hands of the ancient barrister, and buried his head in it. The action was most remarkable and unmistakable. He hid himself behind the paper; for the man whom the Cambridge scholar was dragging into the room was none other than Athelstan Arundel--the very man of whom Mr. Dering had been speaking that very afternoon: the very man whose loss he had been regretting: the man accused by himself of forgery. So great was his terror at the sight of this man that he was fain to hide behind the paper.
Yes: the same man: well dressed, apparently, and prosperous--in a velvet jacket and a white waistcoat, with a big brown beard--still carrying himself with that old insolent pride, as if he had never forged anything: looking not a day older, in spite of the eight years that had elapsed. What was he doing here?
"Come in, man," said Freddy again. "You shall have one drink at least, and as many more as you like.--Robert, two Scotch and soda. We haven"t met for eight long years. Let us sit down and confess our sins for eight years. Where have you been?"
"For the most part--abroad."
"You don"t look it. He who goes abroad to make his fortune always comes home in rags, with a pistol in his coat-tail, and a bowie-knife in his belt. At least we are taught so. You wear velvet and fine linen. You haven"t been abroad. I don"t believe you"ve been farther than Camberwell. In fact, Camberwell has been your headquarters. You"ve been living in Camberwell--on Camberwell Green, which is a slice of Eden, with--perhaps--didn"t pretty Polly Perkins live on Camberwell Green?--for eight long years."
"Let me call upon you in your lodgings, where we can talk.
"I haven"t got any lodgings. I am in Chambers--I live all by myself in Gray"s Inn. Come and see me. I am always at home in the mornings--to pupils only--and generally at home in the afternoon to pupils and topers and Lushingtons. Here"s your whisky. Sit down. Let me introduce you to the company. This is a highly intellectual society--not what you would expect of a Holborn Parlour. It is a club which meets here every evening--a first-cla.s.s club. Subscription, nothing. Entrance fee, nothing. Order what you like. Don"t pretend not to know your brother-members.--Gentlemen, this is my old friend, Mr. Athelstan Arundel, who has been abroad--on Camberwell Green--for the sake of Polly Perkins--for eight years, and has now returned."
The ex-M.P. nudged his friends to call their attention to something good. The rest received the introduction and the remarks which followed in silence.
"Arundel, the gentleman by the fireplace, he with the pipe--is our Shylock, sometimes called the Lord Shylock." The money-lender looked up with a dull and unintelligent eye: I believe the allusion was entirely above his comprehension.--"Beside him is Mr. Vulpes--he with his head buried in the paper--you"ll see him presently. Mr. Vulpes is advanced in years, but well preserved, and knows every letter of the law: he is, indeed, an ornament of the lower branch. Vulpes will let you a house--he has many most charming residences--or will advance you money on mortgage. He knows the law of landlord and tenant, and the law regarding Bills of Sale. I recommend Vulpes to your friendly consideration.--Here is Senex Bibulus Benevolens."--The old gentleman kindly inclined his head, being too far gone for speech.--"Here is a most learned counsel, who ought, had merit prevailed, to have been by this time Lord Chancellor, Chief Justice, Judge or Master of the Rolls, or Queen"s Counsel at least. So far he is still a Junior, but we hope for his speedy advancement.--Sir, I entreat the honour of offering you a goblet of more generous drink.--Robert, Irish whisky and a lemon for this gentleman.--There"--he pointed to the ex-M.P., who again nudged his friends and grinned--"is our legislator and statesman, the pride of his const.i.tuents, the darling of Ballynacuddery till they turned him out.--There"--he pointed to the deboshed clerk--"is a member of a great modern profession, a gentleman with whom it is indeed a pride to sit down. He is Monsieur le Mari: Monsieur le Mari complaisant et content."
"I don"t know what you mean," said the gentleman indicated. "If you want to talk Greek, talk it outside."
"I cannot stay," said Athelstan, looking about the room with scant respect. "I will call upon you at your Chambers."
"Do--do, my dear fellow." Athelstan shook hands and walked away. "Now, there"s a man, gentlemen, who might have done anything--anything he might have done. Rowed stroke to his boat. Threw up everything eight years ago and went away--n.o.body knew why. Sad to see so much promise wasted. Sad--sad. He hasn"t even touched his drink. Then I must--myself." And he did.
Observe that there is no such lamentation over the failure of a promising young man as from one who has also failed. For, by a merciful arrangement, the failure seldom suspects himself of having failed.
"Now, Mr. Checkley," said the barrister, "he"s gone away and you needn"t hide yourself any longer--and you can let me have my paper again."
Mr. Checkley spoke no more that evening. He drank up his rum-and-water, and he went away mightily perturbed. That Athelstan Arundel had come back portended that something would happen. And like King Cole"s prophet, he could not foretell the nature of the event.
CHAPTER IV
A REBELLIOUS CHILD
Elsie left her lover at the door. Most accepted suitors accompany their sweethearts into the very bosom of the family--the gynaeceum--the parlour, as it used to be called. Not so George Austin. Since the engagement--the deplorable engagement--it was understood that he was not to presume upon entering the house. Romeo might as well have sent in his card to Juliet"s mamma. In fact, that lady could not possibly regard the pretensions of Romeo more unfavourably than Mrs. Arundel did those of George Austin. This not on account of any family inequality, for his people were no more decidedly of the middle cla.s.s than her own. That is to say, they numbered as many members who were presentable and quite as many who were not. Our great middle cla.s.s is pretty well alike in this respect. In every household there are things which may be paraded and things _tacenda_: members unsuccessful, members disgraceful. All the world knows all the things which must be concealed: we all know that all the world knows them; but still we pretend that there are no such things, and so we maintain the family dignity. Nor could the widow object to George on account of his religious opinions, in which he dutifully followed his forefathers; or of his abilities, manners, morals, culture, accomplishments, or outward appearance, in all of which he was everything that could be expected of a young man who had his own fortune to make. A rich young man has no need of manners, morals, abilities, or accomplishments: a thing too often forgotten by satirists when they depict the children of Sir Midas Georgias and his tribe. The lady"s objection was simply and most naturally that the young man had nothing and would probably never have anything: that he was a managing clerk without money to buy a partnership in a highly congested profession. To aggravate this objection, he stood in the way of two most desirable suitors who were supposed to be ready should Elsie give them any encouragement. They were a rich old man whose morals could no longer be questioned; and a rich young man whose morals would doubtless improve with marriage--if, that is, they wanted improvement, for on this delicate subject ladies find it difficult to get reliable information.
And, again, the exalted position of the elder sister should have been an example and a beacon. Which of you, Mesdames, would look on with patience at such a sacrifice--a young and lovely daughter thrown away, with all her charms and all her chances, upon a man with two hundred pounds a year and no chance of anything much better? Think of it--two hundred pounds a year--for a gentlewoman!
There are some families--many families--with whom the worship of wealth is hereditary. The Arundels have been City people, married with other City people--in trade--for two hundred years and more: they are all members of City Companies: there have been Lord Mayors and Sheriffs among them: some of them--for they are now a clan--are rich: some are very rich; one or two are very, very rich: those who fail and go bankrupt quickly drop out of sight. All their traditions are of money-getting: they estimate success and worth and respect by the amount a man leaves behind--it is the good old tradition: they talk of money: they are not vulgar or loud or noisy or disagreeable in any way: but they openly and without disguise worship the great G.o.d Plutus and believe that he, and none other, is the G.o.d of the Christians. They have as much culture as other people, at least to outward show: they furnish their houses as artistically as other people: they buy pictures and books: but ideas do not touch them: if they read new ideas, they are not affected by them, however skilfully they may be put: they go to Church and hear the parable about Dives and they wonder how Dives could have been so hard-hearted. Then they go home and talk about money.
Elsie"s father, a younger son of the richest branch of this family, started with a comfortable little fortune and a junior partnership. He was getting on very well indeed: he had begun to show the stuff of which he was made, a good, stout, tenacious kind of stuff, likely to last and to hold out; he was beginning to increase his fortune: he looked forward to a successful career: and he hoped to leave behind him, after many, many years, perhaps three-quarters of a million. He was only thirty-five years of age, yet he was struck down and had to go. His widow received little more than her husband"s original fortune: it was small compared with what she might fairly have expected when she married, but it was large enough for her to live with her three children in Pembridge Gardens. What happened to the son, you know. He went away in a royal rage and had never been heard of since. The elder daughter, Hilda, when about two-and-twenty, as you also know, had the good fortune to attract the admiration of a widower of very considerable wealth, the brother of her guardian. He was forty years older than herself, but he was rich--nay, very rich indeed. Jute, I believe, on an extensive scale, was the cause of his great fortune. He was knighted on a certain great occasion when Warden of his Company, so that he offered his bride a t.i.tle and precedence, as well as a great income, a mansion in Palace Gardens, a handsome settlement, carriages and horses, and everything else that the feminine heart can desire.
The widow, soon after her husband died, found the time extremely dull without the daily excitement of the City talk to which she had been accustomed. There was no one with whom she could discuss the money market. Now, all her life, she had been accustomed to talk of shares and stocks and investments and fluctuations and operations and buying in and selling out. She began, therefore, to watch the market on her own account. Then she began to operate: then she gave her whole time and all her thoughts to the business of studying, watching, reading, and forecasting. Of course, then, she lost her money and fell into difficulties. Nothing of the kind: she made money. There is always plenty of virtuous indignation ready for those foolish persons who dabble in stocks. They are gamblers; they always lose in the long run: we all know that; the copy-books tell us so. If two persons play heads and tails for sovereigns, do they both lose in the long run? If so, who wins? Where does the money go? Even a gambler need not always lose in the long run, as all gamblers know. _La veuve_ Arundel was not in any sense a gambler. Nor was she a dabbler. She was a serious and calculating operator. She took up one branch of the great money market and confined her attentions to that branch, which she studied with so much care and a.s.siduity that she became a professional; that is to say, she threw into the study all her energies, all her thoughts, and all her intellect. When a young man does this on the Stock Exchange he may expect to win. Mrs. Arundel was not an ordinary young man; she was a sharp and clever woman: by hard work she had learned all that can be learned, and had acquired some of that prescience which comes of knowledge--the prophet of the future is, after all, he who knows and can discuss the forces and the facts of the present: the Sibyl at the present day would be a journalist. She was clear-headed, quick to see and ready to act: she was of a quick temper as well as a quick perception: and she was resolute. Such qualities in most women make them absolute sovereigns in the household. Mrs. Arundel was not an absolute sovereign--partly because she thought little of her household, and partly because her children were distinguished by much the same qualities, and their subjection would have proved difficult if not impossible.
This was the last house in London where one might have expected to find a girl who was ready to despise wealth and to find her happiness in a condition of poverty. Elsie was completely out of harmony with all her own people. There is a good deal of opinion going about in favour of the simple life: many girls have become socialists in so far as they think the ama.s.sing of wealth neither desirable nor worthy of respect: many would rather marry a man of limited means who has a profession than a rich man who has a business: many girls hold that Art is a much finer thing than wealth. Elsie learned these pernicious sentiments at school: they attracted her at first because they were so fresh: she found all the best literature full of these sentiments: she developed in due course a certain natural ability for art: she attended an art school: she set up an easel: she painted in pastel: she called her room a studio. She gave her friends the greatest uneasiness by her opinions: she ended, as you have seen, by becoming engaged to a young man with nothing. How could such a girl be born of such parents?
When she got home on Sat.u.r.day evening she found her mother playing a game of double _vingt un_ with a certain cousin, one Sydney Arundel. The game is very good for the rapid interchange of coins: you should make it a time game, to end in half an hour--one hour--two hours, and at the end you will find that you have had a very pretty little gamble. Mrs.