Just as the Irish ‘praste’ walked out, a gentleman rushed in, breathless and unannounced.
‘Ah, my dear boy,’ said he, ‘in the language of Scripture I ask, What doest thou here, Elijah?’
‘Ask as much as you like,’ said Wentworth; ‘but I do not know that I am bound to answer.’
‘Wentworth, you are making an ass of yourself. You may think the language rather strong, but it is true, nevertheless. You know I am a candid friend, and I tell you this is not your place.’
‘I am almost of the same opinion.’
‘Let us look at the thing seriously. What is Parliamentary life but the dreariest drudgery going?—worse than that of the treadmill. The House meets at four, and rises God knows when. In any civilized community the House would meet in the day, and the business would be got through in a creditable manner. In that House you must remain night after night, never out of the sound of the division-bell or the call of the whip. There is a nice smoking-room, I own, but as it is, I believe you smoke too much. There is a fine library, but it is not so convenient for you as your own in Clifford’s Inn. I believe the dinners are not bad; but you are a philosopher, and prefer your roast potato and your mutton-bone—
‘“A hollow tree,
A crust of bread and liberty.”
—to the dainties of the gourmand. On a hot night you can have a moonlight walk, to breathe the odours of the silvery Thames, and the chances are you will go home to be laid up with rheumatism.’
This latter aspect of the question was always a serious thing to the speaker. He was a medical man, and had constituted himself the guardian of Wentworth’s health. The two were warmly-attached friends. Buxton, for such was his name, had not made much way in his profession; in fact, he was not a lady’s man. He was rough in voice, blunt in manner, somewhat uncouth in appearance. He might have done for the army or navy; but as a general practitioner he had no chance.
Any respectable lady who had injured her health by tight-lacing or late hours, or her figure by high-heeled boots, or her complexion by cosmetics; any decent tradesman or substantial British merchant who had ruined his liver by a too generous diet and want of fresh air and exercise; any devoted parson who had induced—as he may well have done—softening of the brain, considering what he has to say, and to whom, not once a week, but all the year round, would have deemed Buxton, with his absence of all finesse, with his straightforward habit of talking, with his rude and, to them, impertinent and unfeeling questions, a brute; and thus Buxton spread out his net and displayed his head full of strange wares in vain. But he was honest to the core, and a genuine friend, with a love of science nothing could quench, and with a desire to benefit his neighbours, which in his case was its own reward.
His wants were not many, for he was a bachelor; and independently of his profession, he had a comfortable little property of his own. England owes much to her medical men. In the priesthood of the future they will not occupy the lowest scale. Already they rank amongst our greatest theological reformers. Undoubtedly one of the healthiest signs of the times is the attention paid by the modern Christian to that wonderful temple of ours, the human body, fashioned, as we would fain believe, in the Divine image by an Almighty power.
It is lamentable to see how at one time all trace of that elevating idea was lost sight of, and how widely it was accepted as a matter of course that this poor carcase, this earthly tabernacle, this vile body of sin and death, was, if the Divine life was to be kept alive, to be subjected to treatment which would have brought the wrong-doer within the four corners of any decent Act for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, had such an Act been in existence. A good many of the sighs and groans accepted as evidences of exalted piety in past days, were more the result of earthly than of celestial influences—more due to the fact that the digestion was weak than that the spirit was strong; that it was ill with the body rather than it was well with the soul.
It was a common error not many years since—it may be that it exists more or less now—for pious people to assume that a dislike of this world, a shutting of the mental eye to all the wonders and glory of it as revealed by the sun that walks by day, and the moon that rules by night, was a sure sign of fitness for another; that maudlin sentimentalism was religion in its purest form, that to be unhealthy and miserable was to be a saint. We have got rid of that folly, at any rate, and a good deal of the credit of it is due to Dr. Andrew Combe, brother of the phrenologist, George Combe, whose popular phrenology and other works did much to arouse and enlighten the public mind.
It is not now that to treat the body decently is considered a sign of a low state of spirituality—that we hear it urged as an excuse for neglecting to take care of one’s health, the most precious talent given by God to man, that it is wrong to take any trouble about the flesh in a state of sin and under bondage, and in a few short years to be food for worms. Such talk was pitilessly flouted, if ever Buxton chanced to come within ear-shot of it, and good people, accordingly, in their abounding charity, fancied he was a sceptic, that he denied the faith, and was worse than an infidel. Buxton continued:
‘What can you do, what can anyone do in the House of Commons, but register the people’s will. It is outside the House, not within, that the battle of public opinion is fought. To you or me a Parliamentary struggle is neither more nor less than a trial of the outs to get into office, or of the ins to retain place and power; for, let them call themselves what they will—Tories or Radicals, Advanced Reformers or Obstructionists—no Government can exist in this country that does not represent public opinion, and does not do honest work for its living. It was so in the days of rotten boroughs, of Sir Robert Walpole, of Pitt and Fox, of Castlereagh and Canning and Sidmouth, and is still so now.’
‘I have said as much to you a thousand times,’ said Wentworth, smiling.
‘Of course you have. Like myself, you are a man of sense. If you were a barrister, I would say, Get into Parliament by all means. If you did not do any good for your country, you might get a good place for yourself. If you were a parson you could get a living.’
‘Ah,’ said Wentworth, ‘that reminds me of a good story; you recollect Thompson, who edited the Political Pioneer?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well, he wrote, as you may remember, very violently and ridiculously in favour of the late Government. He took his articles to the right quarter, and asked for a reward. “If you were a barrister,” said the Government manager, “we could give you a berth; if you were a parson, we could give you a living. As it is, I fear we can’t help you.” Somehow or other Thompson managed to get ordained, and was given a living in the North, which he has been obliged to leave on account of drunkenness, and he is now back in town working at odds and ends on his old paper.’
‘Well,’ said Buxton, ‘I am not surprised at that. He never was a man for whom I had any respect, but I don’t want to see you shelved in that way. If you want office, of course you must get into Parliament, but I don’t think you care much about that sort of thing.’
‘No, I should think not.’
‘Then, what do you want to get into Parliament for? Think of the hypocrisy of public life. An independent M.P. is a nuisance to all parties, and can do no good. You dislike to hear the cry of the Church in danger, because you know the man who raises it means that he is afraid of losing his tithes. You laugh at the man who talks about preserving our glorious Constitution of Church and State, because you and I well know what he means is the preservation of caste and injustice. But is the Liberal politician much better, who, to keep his party in power, goes ranting about the country in the sacred name of Liberty and Freedom and Progress, and the Rights of Man? Depend upon it, there is little to choose between one set of men and the other. Both are equally selfish, equally thinking of number one, when they are most frantic for their revered leader, as they call him, or most eager to champion the masses; their care is the triumph of their party, mostly, too, with an eye to office themselves.’
‘Upon my word, I believe I have heard all this before.’
‘I believe you have, old boy, and as long as you keep such good company as you are in at the present time I believe you stand an uncommon good chance of hearing it again. There is nothing like line upon line, and precept upon precept. You can speak well, but you won’t have a chance of being heard in the House of Commons, where you will be muzzled in order that the officials may have their say. Besides, in the House speeches are mere make-believe. They never influence the voting. All that you can do is to vote black is white in the interests of your party, and is it worth while going into the House for that? Certainly not.’
‘Go on,’ said Wentworth sarcastically.
‘Thank you, I will. Then think of what you have to go through to into the House—the trouble you must take; the time you must waste; the money you must spend; the speeches you must make; the lies you must utter. You will have to tell the voters they are intelligent—you know the mass of them are nothing of the kind. You must make them believe that, if they do not strain every nerve to get you into Parliament, the sun will refuse to shine and the earth to yield her fruit. At any rate, if you do not say that, you will have to say something very much like it. You have got to make the voter feel that his vote will do away with the wrongs of ages, when you and I well know that in this land of ours nothing is done in a hurry if it is done well, and that, as Tennyson writes,
‘“Freedom broadens slowly down
From precedent to precedent.”
The time is coming when the only chance for anyone to get into Parliament will be either that he is a working man and can secure the votes of his class, or that he shall be some large employer of labour with a certain number of votes under his thumb, and Parliament will be little better than a parish vestry.’
‘Well, we have not come to that yet, and a man may do a great deal of good even in Parliament.’
‘Yes, he may, but he can do it better outside. It was an outside organization that carried the repeal of the Corn Laws, that carried reform in Parliament, that repealed the taxes on knowledge, that abolished West Indian slavery.’
‘Of course you mean the press.’
‘Of course I do, my boy. I repeat daily to myself the words of old Marvell, “Oh, printing, printing, how hast thou disturbed the peace of mankind! That lead, when moulded into bullets, is not so mortal as when formed into letters. There was a mistake, sure, in the story of Cadmus, and the serpent’s teeth which he sowed were nothing but the letters he invented.” Stick to the press, my boy, and don’t lower yourself by descending into the Parliamentary arena. It is long since the House of Commons was the best club in London, which conferred on a man prestige. It is now a place where the work is mostly dull, and always hard and unsatisfactory, and the company rather queer. Shall we give up to party what is meant for mankind?” Shall the blessed sun of day prove a Micker and eat blackberries?” Shall we harness Pegasus or Bucephalus to a common dray? Never, my boy, never!’
‘I hear you, Buxton, and the worst of it is that what you say is true.’
‘I am glad to hear you say so. Come back with me to town. Leave the borough to those who have nursed it. The ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master’s crib. An election is a matter of £ s. d. It is all very well to talk bunkum on the platform, but the wire-pullers want cash for themselves and to work with. When the masses are better educated, they will be proud to return a man like you.’
‘Well,’ said Wentworth, ‘I am of your opinion, and we’ll go back to town together.’
The mob, however, was determined not to let Wentworth depart in peace. They followed him with stones and mud until he found shelter in the station waiting-room.
‘Good heavens!’ said the station-master. ‘Mr. Wentworth, what a state you are in! What have you been up to? Who would have thought of seeing you in such a mess?’
‘Ah, Mr. Johnson, you remember me!’
‘I should think so, sir. We all missed you when you left Bethesda Chapel. But what have you been doing?’
‘Only speaking the truth to the free and independent electors of this enlightened borough.’
‘You mean casting pearls before swine.’
‘Well, I fear that is the proper way of putting it; but neither you nor I may say that in this place, and especially at this time.’
‘No, the people are half crazy, and most of them tipsy. They always are so at election time. I can’t say who are the worst, Liberals or Tories, rich or poor—they all seem to me bad alike. The fact is, parties are very fairly divided here, that the election is really in the hands of a few, who only want a debauch, and don’t care a rap for politics of any kind. The only question with them is, Who will spend the most money? But what are you going to do?’
‘Why, get out of the place as soon as possible.’
‘Well, perhaps that is the best thing you can do; but first let me see if I can’t help to make you look a little more respectable.’
The attempt was partly successful; and having washed and covered his rags with a great-coat, and exchanged his battered hat for a travelling cap, Wentworth took his seat in a first-class carriage, and, lighting his cigar, mused on the dangers he had run, and the disgusting scene of which he had been a witness.
‘Good heavens!’ said he to himself, ‘what a farce! And yet there are those who say, Vox populi, vox dei! Happily, as a rule, we get gentlemen in Parliament, and the result of an election is not bad on the whole. Shall we be able to say as much when a lower class of candidates are returned?’
The Liberal press were angry, and Wentworth came in for his share of abuse. He laughed as he read of his wickedness. Still more did he laugh as he thought of the people who had interviewed him—the needy Scotchman who sympathized with his manly struggle, had read his speeches with undying interest, who fervently prayed that he might win, and who, though he was not an elector, felt sure that Wentworth was a Scotchman, and would lend a brother Scot a small loan; the ladies who had endeavoured to capture him by storm; the collectors of various great societies who felt sure that Wentworth would not refuse to subscribe to their funds, as all the Liberal candidates had done the same; the stupid questions he had to answer; the slanders of which he had been the victim; the enthusiasm he had evoked; the temporary importance he had achieved. It was an experience which he would not have missed, and so far he was quite satisfied with the result.
The elections were over; Parliament had met; the nobles of the land had returned to town as well as their toadies, and admirers, and imitators; and all was gay and glittering in the parks, at the clubs, and in Belgravian salons. The quidnuncs of society were as busy as bees. In our time the Church and the theatre are in equal request, and it is hard to say who is the winner in the race for public favour, the last new star at the theatre or the last pulpit pet; the last strong man of the music-hall, the newest favourite of the ring. We are a catholic-minded people, and are grateful to anyone who will give us something to talk about.
For once the shopkeepers of Regent Street and Bond Street were in good spirits. There was every prospect of a successful season. London was full, and there was no end of society balls and dinners. An Austrian archduke was to appear on the scene. One of the richest of the American Bonanza kings had taken a great house in Grosvenor Square.
The deserted palace of Buckingham would once more open its doors, and there were to be Drawing-rooms, whether as regards numbers or brilliancy rivalling any that had ever been held.
We had a strong Government, with a strong majority behind, and speculators on the Stock Exchange were buying for a rise. The Rothschilds of London and Paris and Vienna had all agreed that there should be peace, and it was also understood that a great German Chancellor had kindly condescended to intimate that for the present, at any rate, the sword might be sheathed, and that honest peasant lads, instead of being served up as food for powder, might be usefully employed in agricultural occupations, much to the joy of hotel-keepers on the Rhine, at Baden-Baden and elsewhere. Even in the valleys and mountains of the Alps, in the new nation of Italy, in the gilded palaces of the Sultan on the Bosphorus, there was unusual light-heartedness, for the Eastern Question was indefinitely postponed. The talk of the clubs had ceased to have any reference to politics. A great calm had settled everywhere in the East of London, where poverty makes men Radicals and Social Democrats, and in the West, where the only burning question of the hour is how to put off the day of reckoning to a more convenient season.
If it had not been for the occasional appearance of a wealthy American heiress, whose father had ‘struck ile,’ of a fair Anonyma on horseback, in an exquisitely-appointed equipage in some fashionable thoroughfare, or for a whisper of a scandal in high life, or for a wild adventure now and then of a man about town, or the unexpected collapse of a favourite on the turf, or the disgraceful bankruptcy of a pious banker, society would have been duller than ditch water. As it was, what to do with the heavy hours intervening between luncheon and dinner seemed a problem too difficult for human ingenuity—even when most fitly trained and fairly developed—to solve.
It was precisely at this trying hour Sir Watkin Strahan might be seen lolling idly and discontentedly in one of the many armchairs which adorned the smoking-room of his Piccadilly club. By his side was an emptied glass, the ashes of a defunct cigar, and the usual journals which are humorously supposed to be comic, or to be remarkably witty, or to represent society. He did not look particularly pleased, not even when a brother member, evidently a chip of the same block, seated himself by his side, exclaiming:
‘Holloa, Sir Watkin, what brings yon up to town? I thought you were carrying all before you at Sloville.’
‘Sloville be d---d!’
‘Certainly, my dear friend, if you wish it. What’s Hecuba to me?’
‘Now, look at me, and drop that style of remark.’
We comply with the Baronet’s suggestion, and look at him. He was, after all, a handsome man, carefully dressed and fitted to shine in Belgravia; soft and gentle in manner, sleek as a tiger. Time had dealt gently with him, had spared his head of hair, and saved him from the obesity which attacks most men after a certain age. Mr. Disraeli tells us that the English aristocracy do not read, and live much in the open air. Hence their juvenility. At a distance Sir Watkin looked anywhere between five-and-twenty and fifty. To-day, however, he looked nearer the latter than the former. He did not look like a good man, such as you read of in evangelical biographies or on the tombstones in churchyards and cemeteries. There was a scowl on his forehead, anger in his eye and in his tones.
‘Well,’ said another friend, ‘all I can say is I have just seen ---,’ naming the Liberal whip, ‘and he’s terribly cut up. He thought you were safe for Sloville.’
‘So I should have been if it had not been for that infernal Wentworth. My canvassers and election agent made me feel quite certain of success. I believe they humbugged me frightfully.’
‘Oh, they always do that. It is their nature.’
‘But it is none the less disagreeable. My own opinion is, there was a good deal of bribery. Money seemed very plentiful. The Carlton had a finger in the pie. Old Shrouder was there; and he is always at his old game. There is not another such a rascal in all England.’
‘That’s saying a great deal. I wonder how the old scamp has managed to keep out of Newgate.’
‘Lord bless you, man! you know none of our hands are very clean; but I am sure I could get the new M.P. unseated on petition.’
‘What, and claim the vacant seat?’
‘No, alas! that won’t do. How can I say what my agent was up to, or what was done by idiotic friends? The law is so particular. They make out everything to be bribery nowadays. It is precious hard nowadays for a gentleman to get into Parliament, and that is a rascally shame. We have been in the place for a hundred years. There is not a charity in it I don’t support. I have spent a fortune in nursing the town. All I can say is, next Christmas some of the free and independent will feel rather silly when they miss the coals and blankets, and find the key of the wine cellar lost.’
‘I can’t make it out; there must be some other reason. Do you think that fellow Wentworth had anything to do with your defeat?’ asked the Baronet’s friend. ‘You know he seems to be rather high-minded, and these men are in the way at an election.’
‘Well, he might, with his nonsense, have kept some of the voters away. I did hear some ill-natured gossip about myself, but I can’t trace it to him.’
‘Oh!’ said his friend; ‘that’s what I was waiting for. The British mob won’t stand that sort of thing, though they ill-use their wives every day.’
‘Why, I never said what the gossip was.’
‘No, but I know. You’re not a saint, Sir Watkin.’
‘Nor you either. The people, somehow or other, had got it into their heads that I behaved badly to a Sloville girl.’
‘A thing you could never think of doing,’ said his friend, with affected indignation.
‘No, it is too near home,’ said the Baronet.
‘But you know I have always said to you that the way in which you went on with women would, one day or other, get you into a scrape. Stick to the married ones, and leave the young ones alone. That is my plan. If you get into a mess then, the woman is bound to help you out. The chances, you see, are two to one in your favour. But there is a better plan still.’
‘What is that?’
‘Leave ’em alone. They all mean mischief.’
‘Well, it is not everyone who is such a cool hand as you are.’
‘So much the worse for other people,’ was the reply. ‘But in the case of that Sloville girl, I really don’t see you have anything to reproach yourself with. She ran away from you, did she not? and I don’t see how any mischief could be made of that. I suppose she is still able to carry on the highly respectable calling of a dressmaker; I think she was that. She was an uncommonly fine girl; there was quite a style about her; and a girl like that can’t take much harm—that is, as long as she keeps her good looks.’
‘Oh no, the girl is all right. She is now the popular Miss Howard, of the --- Theatre.’
‘The deuce she is! Why, then, don’t you make it up with her? A bracelet and a dinner at the Star and Garter will do the trick.’
‘I fear not. The fact is, I met her accidentally a short time ago, and she held her head as high as Lucifer.’
‘Only acting, my dear boy. ’Tis only pretty Fanny’s way. ’Tis well—she might have come to you for money.’
‘I wish she had. That would have given me a pull on her.’
‘She might have served you with an action for breach of promise.’
‘That would have been too ridiculous.’
‘She was young. I don’t feel sure that she might not have had you up under the Act which makes the parent the guardian of the child till she is sixteen.’
‘Oh no, she was older than that.’
‘Perhaps she wants to excite you. She knows now that you are a single man, and she thinks it well to begin the renewal of her acquaintance with a little seasonable aversion.’
‘The fact is, she not only treated me with aversion, but she cut me dead.’
‘Yes, it was. I was always fond of her, and I am mad to get hold of her again.’
‘That ought not to be difficult to Sir Watkin Strahan.’
‘Perhaps not. But there is a man in the case—a newspaper fellow—the fellow, in short, who had the impudence to come down to Sloville to contest the borough. I believe he lost me the seat. I believe the girl got him to do it out of revenge.’
‘Then, I would be even with him.’
‘So I will before I’ve done with him. You may be sure I’ll have my revenge,’ said the Baronet angrily.
‘Yes, I can trust you for that,’ said his friend. ‘You are a good fellow, Sir Watkin, but you neither forget nor forgive.’
‘No, we don’t in our family, and we have found it answer our purpose very well.’
‘But, come, liquor up. Never mind the women; leave them to themselves.’
‘Ah, that is easier said than done. I suppose I must give up this sort of life. I must marry again, and reform, and settle down into a quiet life, look after my tenants, attend the parish church, do my duty as a magistrate and a breeder of fat cattle, as my fathers before me. They seem to have been all highly beloved and deeply regretted. That is, if I read aright the inscriptions on their monuments in Sloville Church.’
‘They must have been if they were at all like their latest representative,’ said his friend sarcastically.
‘You be blowed!’ was the uncomplimentary reply. ‘I tell you what. I see the girl is acting to-night. I have nothing better to do—I’ll go and see her.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No, I thank you; I’d rather go alone.’
‘You had better take me with you. You’ll get into another scrape. You always do when I am not with you.’
‘Thanks, but I think I am old enough to run alone. If I want your valuable aid I shall send for you.’
‘Do—I shall be here all right. It amuses me more to have a quiet rubber than to be tearing all over London by night after anything in petticoats.’
‘Ah, you are a philosopher.’
‘I wish I could return the compliment.’
‘By-the-by,’ said the Baronet, changing the subject, ‘did you ever hear of the curious predicament I am in?’
‘What do you mean—the birth and disappearance of the baby?’
‘Exactly so. You were in Italy at the time, or I should have liked to have talked it over. My lady, as you know, did me the favour to present me with a son and heir. I am not a judge of babies myself, nor am I particularly partial to them, but it was a creditable baby, so far as I can judge. I imagine its lungs were sound by the way in which it squealed. It had the regulation number of limbs, the family proboscis, and apparently the parental eyes. The women all voted it a sweet little innocent, and the image of its father.’
‘That’s a matter of course,’ said the friend.
‘Well, one day the child was missing.’
‘I remember hearing of it. It was said your lady was in delicate health at the time, and the shock caused her death.’
‘I believe it had something to do with it; but the fact was with all her admirable qualities she had peculiar notions, and that led to little unpleasantnesses between us at times, and she worried herself about trifles in a way I am sure that was not good for her, and I must own that when the child was missing, naturally, she was very much cut up.’
‘And the father?’ said the friend.
‘I took it more calmly, I own. You can’t expect a man of the world, like myself, to have been broken-hearted about the loss of a little bit of flesh like that. Had it lived to become a young man, and to have plagued his poor father as I plagued mine, or as most young fellows do, I should have been prostrated with grief, I dare say. As it was, I bore the loss with the heroism of a martyr, and the resignation of a saint.’
‘You need not tell me that; I can quite believe it,’ remarked his friend with a smile.
‘Well, as I have said, her ladyship worried herself a good deal unnecessarily. I never can understand why women have such particular ideas. I suppose they learn them from the parson. Now, there was Lady ---’ (naming the wife of a volatile premier forgotten now, but much beloved by the British public for his spirited foreign policy and his low Church bishops). ‘I had the honour of dining with her ladyship at the time there was a little scandal afloat respecting his lordship’s proceedings with a governess who had made her appearance in the family of one of his relatives. The thing was in the papers, and it was nonsense pretending to ignore it. Somehow or other it was incidentally alluded to.
‘“Ah,” said her ladyship, turning to me with one of her most bewitching smiles, “that is so like my dear old man.”
‘Her ladyship was a sensible woman, and loved her gay Lothario not a bit the less for his little peccadilloes. I never saw a more harmonious pair. They were a model couple, and if they had gone to Dunmow for the flitch of bacon, they would have won it. I never could get my lady to look at things in such a sensible manner, and I do fear that at times she fretted herself a good deal, and we know that is bad for health. One of our nursemaids was a perfect Hebe. I could not resist the temptation. I believe some ill-natured female aroused my lady’s suspicions. At any rate, one cold winter’s evening she forced herself into my sanctum. I did not happen to be alone. Hebe, as I called her, was with me. We had a scene. I took the mail train that same night to Paris. The poor girl, I understand, was turned out of the house the moment I had gone. My opinion is she stole that baby out of revenge. It was missing about a month after. I must own her ladyship took every step she could to prove that the girl had stolen the child. We had detectives hard at work, and when the child was restored in a mysterious way, the matter dropped. Then, alas! the child died, and the mother too. That was many years ago, and from that day to this I never have been able to hear anything of the woman. The child is buried in the family vault, but I have been much troubled lately.’
‘As how?’
‘Why, suppose the child is not dead. That the one restored was someone else’s. That I have a son and heir suddenly about to be sprung upon me, at an inconvenient season. That would be awkward, to say the least.’
‘D--- awkward,’ was the sympathetic reply.
‘Suppose, for the sake of argument, I were to marry again, and have a family, and another son and heir, and a claimant came forward for the family title and estate.’
‘Ah, that would be a nice business for the lawyers, and a godsend for the newspapers.’
‘Undoubtedly, but a bad one for everyone else, especially if the costs were to come out of the estate.’
‘Well, the lawyers would have to be paid.’
‘You may trust them for that, but I want to keep out of their clutches. In case of a second marriage all this business will have to be gone into; but marry I will, if it is only to spite the presumptive heir, a man whom I always hated as a sneaking boy, and I don’t love the man now he fancies he is going to step into my shoes, or, if not, who feels that his family will. I am bound to marry, if only out of spite.’
‘The best thing you can do, Sir Watkin, and I wish you well through it. I am not a marrying man myself. I never was. I am getting too old for it, and I could not afford it if I wished. When we are young we have dreams of love in a cottage, and try to persuade ourselves that what is enough for one is enough for two; that there is nothing half so sweet as love’s young dream. But, oh, the terrible awakening, when the dream is over, and the grim-reality of poverty stalks in at the door, and the husband has endless toil, and the wife endless sorrow, and even then the wolf is not kept from the door; and things are worse when the happy couple come to their senses and feel what fools they have been. There is little room for love then. I believe matrimony is the sin of the age. No one can pretend now that to increase and multiply is the whole duty of man. The world is over-peopled, half of the people of England cannot get a decent living as it is. Why am I to drag a respectable woman down into the depths of poverty? Why, I ask, is she to drag me down? I have my comforts, my clubs, my amusements, my occupations, my position in society. Were I married I should lose them all, unless I married a Miss Kilmansegg with her golden leg. But your case is different, Sir Watkin. You are bound to marry. It is a duty you to owe to your ancestors, who have given you title and fortune, to continue the family.’
It may be that some may not approve of this style of talk. They may question the need of great hereditary families. They may go so far as to insinuate that the happiness of such few individuals is often inconsistent with the welfare of the many; that the system which keeps up such is an artificial one; that the true aim of legislation should be the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Respectability in wonder may well ask what next? But in the coming era respectability will have a good deal to wonder about.
Left alone with himself, Sir Watkin revolved many things. He was not sorry after all, he tried to persuade himself, that he was not in Parliament. He was no eager politician, and he had none of that fatal fluency when on his legs, so common in our day among the ambitious clerks and traders who join Parliamentary societies, and figure in them with the hope at some time or other of calling themselves M.P.’s. It was time, he thought, that he should again try his luck in the matrimonial market, and, indeed, he had almost made up his mind to secure a prize which had been temptingly displayed.
He had been staying at Brighton, at a grand hotel, and there he had made the acquaintance of a wealthy merchant, an old widower, with an only daughter, for whose hand and heart he had already commenced angling. The father was chatty and cheerful in the smoking-room, of one of the Brighton clubs, and the girl, if she had not the birth of a lady, had all the accomplishments of one. She was not romantic, few girls nowadays are. She was not a philosopher in petticoats, as so many of them try to be. She read novels, could quote Tennyson, had the usual accomplishments, never failed to put in an appearance at a fashionable church on a Sunday, and had once or twice figured at a stall at a charity bazaar. Her figure looked well on horseback, and did not disgrace a Belgravian ball-room. It was to her credit that she had not attempted authorship. She was not a bad hand at a charade, and was a proficient in lawn tennis, where one weak curate after another had succumbed to her charms. Poor fellows, they singed their wings in vain at that candle. Neither father nor daughter was ecclesiastically inclined. In addition, she had had the measles and been vaccinated and confirmed, and was ambitious of worldly success.
‘Just a woman to make a lady of,’ said the Baronet to himself, as he watched her receding figure one morning as she was on her way to Brill’s Baths for a swimming lesson. ‘They tell me the old man has no end of tin, and this is his only child.’
He met the Baronet half way. When Sir William Holles, the son of that Sir William Holles, Lord Mayor of London, and Alderman of Candlewick Ward, and knighted by Henry VIII., was recommended by his friends to marry his daughter to the Earl of Cumberland, he replied:
‘Sake of God’ (his usual mode of expression), ‘I do not like to stand with my cap in hand to my son-in-law. I will see her married to an honest gentleman with whom I may have friendship and conversation.’
Sir Watkin relieved the London merchant of any apprehension on that score, when, one day, he managed to dine in his company. It was wonderful how well they got on together. Sir Watkin talked of stocks and shares, of foreign loans and the rate of exchange, of hostile tariffs, of the fall of this house and the rise of another, of aldermen and lord mayors, as if he had been a City man himself. It is true this talk is rather dull, but Sir Watkin was not brilliant by any means.
Back in town the Baronet felt rather dull. Such men often are dull. Time hangs heavily on the hands of such.
As Sir Watkin looked into the advertising columns of the evening paper he caught the name of Miss Howard. She was acting that very night. He would go and see her. Just as he resolved to carry out this idea, his old club friend reappeared upon the scene. Sir Watkin stated his intention. There could be no harm in his doing that. Perhaps she might soften; perhaps her anger was only assumed. Perhaps it was not the woman but the actress that seemed so indignant at their unexpected meeting.
‘How foolish,’ thought his friend, ‘Sir Watkin is! He had better take me with him, or he’ll be sure to get into a scrape. That’s like him. Just as he wants to pull off that Brighton affair he’s off after another woman.’
Sir Watkin meanwhile is making his way to the theatre. I don’t say that he is to be condemned because he did that. As a rule a man of a gay turn or of idle disposition is better inside a theatre than out. At any rate, there he is out of harm’s way, and not losing money, as he might be if he remained betting and gambling at his club. The life there produced is a good deal of it artificial and unnatural, but the spectacle is generally pleasant, and if the actors are often ridiculous, some of them are good, and a few of them clever.
It was late when Sir Watkin entered the theatre. For awhile he waited in vain; at length, on the stage, sure enough, was the woman he wanted to see. Did she recognise him in the stalls? He hoped she did. He was got up regardless of expense, and occupied a good place. He had dined well, and had somewhat the appearance of a son of Belial, flushed with insolence and wine. He felt that the actress was in his power. He knew the manager, and was certain that he could gain access, when he sought it, behind the scenes. Strange to say, the actress regarded him not. When you are acting, it is not always easy—especially if you are in earnest—to single out particular individuals from the motley mass in front of the footlights. The good actor throws himself into his part, and has something else to do than to gaze on occupants of the benches. His eyes and his heart are elsewhere. At the time, when Sir Watkin arrived, Miss Howard was a simple village girl, engaged in warding off the libertine advances of a wicked baron. It seemed that he was about to succeed in his foul designs. According to all human appearances he had her completely in his power. Happily her cry for help was heard, and, after a due amount of agony on her part, and of breathless suspense on the part of the audience, she was saved, and the curtain fell amidst thunders of applause. The piece was not much as regards novelty, but it was of a class that has just that touch of nature which makes the whole world kin. Miss Howard well acted the rôle of the virtuous village maiden, and when the true lover, who had come back with a fortune which he had made in the Australian diggings, turned up, everyone felt that her faith and virtue were to meet an appropriate reward. Sir Watkin, cynic as he was, could not but admire. At first he ventured to hesitate, dislike, to damn with faint praise, as in his somewhat superior style he attempted one or two remarks to those around; but the feeling was too strong, and he found himself applauding in spite of his stern resolve to do nothing of the kind. Yes, the girl had become a fine woman and a clever actress. She surely would not cut him if he made his way behind the scenes. In vain, however, he would have tried had not the manager seen him.
‘How d’ye do, Sir Watkin? glad to see you. You have not been much with us of late.’
‘No,’ replied the Baronet; ‘I’ve been busy elsewhere. You’ve got a good house to-night. A good deal of paper, I suppose?’
‘Not a bit of it. The public pay.’
‘I am glad to hear that. How do you account for it?’
‘Sir Watkin, I am surprised you ask such a question when you see what a star we’ve got.’
‘Oh, Miss Howard. Not bad. I should like to speak to her.’
‘By all means; come along.’
And they made their way to the back, cold and draughty, and very disenchanting, as the workmen were shifting the scenes.
‘Take care, Sir Watkin. Mind that trapdoor. Look out, Sir Watkin!’ and suchlike exclamations were uttered by the manager as one danger after another threatened. The scene-shifters, very dirty, were numerous. There a ballet-girl was talking to an admirer, as she was waiting her turn. There another was by herself practising the step which was, in a few minutes, to crown her with well-deserved applause. In the midst of them presently Miss Howard appeared. The manager hastened to introduce his old friend, who, with his hat off, was preparing one of the polite speeches for which men of the world are famous, and by means of which, occasionally, they ensnare a woman.
The lady walked on.
The manager was shocked.
It was now the Baronet’s turn.
‘Permit an old friend to offer Miss Howard his congratulations on her great success this evening.’
The lady thus addressed coldly bowed, but uttered never a word.
The situation was embarrassing. Fain would the Baronet have detained the actress.
‘Rose,’ he said passionately, ‘one word!’
But before he could utter another he found himself face to face with Wentworth, who, as usual, had come to see the actress home.
‘You here?’ said he to the Baronet.
‘Yes, and why not?’ said the latter angrily.
‘And you dare speak to that lady?’
‘Yes, why not? Do you think I am to be balked by a fellow like you?’
‘Say that again,’ said Wentworth, ‘and I’ll break every bone in your body.’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ exclaimed the manager, ‘pray be quiet! Sir Watkin, come along with me.’
The manager was in a dilemma. He would not for the world offend the Baronet, who had often aided him with money, and at the same time he was afraid of the press, of which Wentworth was a representative. As he said afterwards, he felt as if he were between the devil and the deep sea. His aim was to offend no one who could be of any use.
‘Come along with you—yes, I will, but I must have it out with this fellow first,’ said the Baronet, making a rush at Wentworth, who seemed quite prepared for the encounter.
Fortunately, just at that time there was a rush of ballet-girls between the angry combatants. They covered the Baronet in a cloud of muslin, who, though not seen, could be heard expressing indignation in no measured terms. The Baronet was powerless as, like a protecting wall, they encircled him, all smiles and sunshine—a contrast to his scowling face.
‘Pardon me, ladies,’ said he, ‘you’re rather in my way. I have been insulted on this stage, and I’ll have my revenge.’
What more the Baronet would have said is lost to history. The stage is full of pit-fells. One gave way as he was speaking, and suddenly he sank out of sight. The ballet-girls shrieked, and then burst into a fit of laughter as they saw no harm was done. It is needless to say the Baronet was soon extricated from his unpleasant position, and made a rapid retreat. It does not do to be ridiculous, especially when you are in a towering rage, as we all know there is but a step between the sublime and the ridiculous.
‘I wish,’ he said to himself, as he drove home, ‘I had stopped at the club. I was a fool to go behind the scenes. I would like to be revenged on that Wentworth, but how? That’s the difficulty. The age of duelling is past, murder has ceased to be one of the fine arts, and I must grin and bear it.’
So far the Baronet was right. In the eye of the law, and at the bar of public opinion, the man who resorts to force is hopelessly in the wrong. We moderns, like the gods of Epicurus, approve
‘The depth, but not the tumult of the soul.’
Poor Rose was not a little upset. Her face was marble, but her heart was sad. Was this man to track her steps?
‘Rose, my beautiful,’ said her companion, when they were fairly out of the theatre, ‘we have loved each other long, and the sooner we get married the better. It is not safe for you to be alone.’
It was thus he spoke, nor did he speak in vain.
We hear much of woman’s rights in these days. I am old-fashioned enough to believe that her first right is a husband to look after her. It is not well for man or woman to be alone.