With a murmur, partly of remonstrance with the speaker's arrogance and his insinuations against their respectability; and partly meant for a cheer, the family drank the health of Mr. John Haveril.
"Thank ye," he said, with no visible emotion. "Now, take another glass – send it round, waiter – while I say something. It's just this." As he spoke his manner insensibly changed. He became the man of business, hard as nails. "I take it that some of you are here to see your cousin again, and some of you are here to get what you can, and some for both reasons. It's natural, and I don't blame anybody. When a body's poor, he always thinks that a rich man can make him rich, too. Well, he can't – not unless he makes over half his pile. And I'll tell you why. A chap is poor because he's foolish or lazy. Either he can't see the way or he won't stir himself. You can't help a blind man – nor you can't help a lazy man. If you give either of them what he wants, he spends it all, and then holds out his hand and asks for more." The bankrupt dropped his head, and sank into a chair. The champagne helped him to apply this maxim to his own case. "The best thing that can be done for any one is to dump him down in a new country where he'll sink or swim. You, sir," he pointed a minatory finger to Cousin Charles, "you would like more capital, would you?"
"Not in the presence of this multitude, Mr. Haveril," Cousin Charles replied.
"Those who want capital, either here or anywhere else, have got to make it for themselves."
"So true – so true," said Cousin Charles. "Listen to this, all of you."
"Make it for themselves. Same as I did. How much capital had I to start with? Just nothing. Whatever you want, make it for yourself by your own smartness. There's nothing else in the world to get a man along but smartness. In whatever line you are, cast about for the prizes in that line and look out for opportunities. If you can't see them, who can help you? As for you, sir," he addressed the bankrupt, "you want money. Well, if I give you money you will eat it up, and then come for more. What's the use, I ask any of you?"
He looked round. Nobody answered. Cousin Charles, perspiring at the nose, murmured faintly, "So true – so true," but not with conviction. Some of the women wiped away a tear – they had taken four glasses of champagne, but fortunately a waiter does not quite fill up the glasses.
"Not one of you would be a bit the better off, in the long run, if I gave him a thousand pounds."
"Not to give, but to advance," said Cousin Charles.
"Not a bit the better off," John Haveril repeated. "Not a bit. We've got to work in this world – to work, and to think, and to lay low, and to watch. Those who can do nothing of all this had better sit down quiet in a retired spot. My friends, there's nothing shameful in taking a back seat. Most of the seats are in the back. Make up your mind that such is your lot, and you may be happy, though you've got no money. I've been poor, and now I'm rich. Seems to me I was just as happy when I was poor and looking out."
He paused for a moment.
"Alice doesn't want to throw you over. What then? Why – this. Any one of you who came to ask for something may do it in writing. Let him send me a letter – and tell me all about it. If it's a thing that will do you no harm, I'll do it for you. But I don't expect it is, only to feel that you've got somebody who'll give you what you ask for just because you ask for it. Why, there can't be in all the world anything worse for him. Remember that you've got to work for a living, to begin with; harder if you make your fortune, and harder still if you want to keep it. That's the dispositions of Providence, and I'm not going to stand in the way of the Lord. Go home, then. Take example by me, if you can. But if you came to coax dollars out of Alice, give it up."
The audience looked at each other ruefully. They did not know what to say in reply. Nor did they know how to get off. Nobody would move first. Cousin Charles stepped forward.
"Mr. Haveril," he said, "in the name of the family, worthy or unworthy, as the case may be; greedy or disinterested, as it may be; I thank you. Whatever words may drop from you, sir, will be treasured. What you have said are golden words. We shall, I hope, write them down and engrave them on the marble tombstones of our hearts. They will be buried with us. My friends," he addressed the family, "you can go."
"Not without you," said the pew-opener – "you and your respectability."
"Some of us will prepare that little note, I dare say – I fear so, Mr. Haveril," Cousin Charles went on. "In business, as you know, the introduction of capital is not a gift nor a charity; but I will explain later on, when these have gone."
"Not without you," said the lady pew-opener, planting her umbrella firmly on the carpet.
There was so much determination in her face that Cousin Charles quailed; he bent, he bowed, he submitted.
"On another, a more favourable occasion, then, when we can be private," he said. "Good-bye, Cousin Alice. You look younger than ever. Ah, if these friends present could remember you as I can, in the spring-time of youth and beauty, among the laurels and the laburnums and the lilacs of Hoxton Square! Love's young dream, cousin; love's young dream." He grasped her hand, his voice vibrating with emotion. "Alice," he said, "on Sunday evenings we gather round us a little circle at South Hackney. Intellect and respectability. Supper at eight. I shall hope to see you there soon and often."
He then seized Mr. Haveril's hand. "If I may, sir – if I may."
"You may, sir – you may." He held out a hand immovable, like a sign-post.
"As men of business – men of business – we shall understand each other."
"Very like, very like," said Mr. Haveril, with distressing coldness.
He had fallen into his third manner, and his eyes were far off. He spoke mechanically.
Cousin Charles clapped his hat on his head and walked out. He was followed by the lady pew-opener, who called out after him over the broad balustrade —
"You and your respectability, indeed! Go and sweat your shop-girls! You and your respectability!"
CHAPTER IX.
ONE MORE
"They are all gone, John," said Alice. "Oh, what a visit! I am ashamed! I never thought my people could have gone on so! As for Cousin Charles, he's just dreadful!"
One was left. The unfortunate bankrupt, overcome by the champagne, was asleep in his chair. John Haveril dragged him up by the collar.
"Now then, you, sir! What do you mean by going to sleep here?"
The unfortunate rubbed his eyes and pulled himself together. Presently he remembered where he was.
"Cousin Alice," he said, "are we alone?" He whispered confidentially. "They all want your money – particularly Charles. He's the most grasping, greedy, cheeseparing, avaricious, unscrupulous, bully of a cousin that ever had a place of business. Don't give him anything. Give it to me. I'm starving, Alice. I haven't eaten anything all day. It's true. I've got no work and no money."
"John, give him something."
"It's no good," said John. "He'll only eat it, and then ask for more."
"But give him something. Let him eat it."
John plunged his hand into his pocket. After the manner of the eighteenth century, it was full of gold.
"Well, take it." He transferred a handful to the clutch of the poor wretch. "Take it. Go and eat it up. And don't come back for more."
The man took it, bowed low, and shambled off. It made Alice ashamed only to see the attitude of the poor hungry creature, and the abasement of poverty.
"Well, Alice," said John, "we've seen the last of the family, until their letters begin to come in. Halloa! Who's this?"
For John became aware of the girl who had been standing beside the door, unnoticed. When all were gone, she stepped in lightly.
"Mrs. Haveril," she said – "I ought to call you Cousin Alice, but I am afraid you have had cousins enough. My name is Pennefather – Molly Pennefather."
"Why, I was a Pennefather – same as Charles, who's just gone out, and the ragged wretch who was Cousin Alfred."
"Yes; and others of the truly dreadful people who have just gone out. I don't know any of them. Fortunately, they wouldn't have anything to do with my poor old dad, because he disgraced the family and went on the stage. If they hadn't been so haughty, I might have had to know them now."
"Your father? Is he Willy Pennefather?"
"He was. But he died five years ago."
"He died? Poor Willy! Oh, John, if you'd known my cousin Will! How clever he was! And how bright! Dead, is he?"
"He was never a great success, you know, because he couldn't settle down. And at last he died. And I – Well, I'm studying for the stage myself."
"Oh, you are Willy's daughter! My dear, you look straight. But there's been such a self-seeking – "
"I don't want your money, indeed!"
"Oh, but have you got money, my dear?"
"No; but some day I suppose I shall have – by my Art. That's the way to talk about the profession nowadays. Well, I mean that I don't want your money, Cousin Alice."
"If you haven't got any money and don't want any – " John began.
"You see, we are not all built like Mr. John Haveril," she interrupted, with a sweet smile. "Art, I am told, makes one despise money. When I am furnished with my Art, I dare say I shall despise money."
"Oh, coom now, lass!" From time to time, but rarely, John Haveril became Yorkshire again. "Despise the brass?"
"Not the people who have the brass. That is an accident."
"I don't know about accidents."
"Well, you've got money; once you hadn't. You're John Haveril all the same – see? Besides, it's quite right that some people should have money. They can take stalls at theatres. If you will let me be friends with you, Mr. Haveril, and won't look so dreadfully suspicious – "
"Well, I don't care," he said. "You look as if – "
"As if I was telling the truth. Shake hands, then."
Mrs. Haveril gave her a hand, and then, looking in her face, threw her arms round her neck.
"My dear child," she said, "you're the very picture of your father – Cousin Will. I thought there must be some one in the family fit to love." She hugged and kissed the girl with a sudden wave of affection. "Oh, Molly, my dear, I am sure I shall love you!"
"I'm so glad. Well, may I call you Alice? I will tell you what theatres to go to. Oh, I shall make myself very useful to you!" She clasped her hands, laughing – a picture of youth and truth and innocence. "Some time or other you shall see me on the stage."
"We get lots of actors out in the West – and actresses too. Some of them are real lovely," said John Haveril.
She laughed. "Oh! There are actresses and actresses. And some elevate their Art, and some degrade it. Now, let me see. Oh, father is dead, poor dear! I told you. And the rest of the family – Well, you saw for yourself, cousin, they are not exactly the kind of people for a person of your consideration. You should lend them all some money – not much – and make them promise to pay it back on a certain day – next Monday week, at ten o'clock. It's a certain plan. Then you'll have no further trouble with them. Otherwise, they'll crowd round you like leeches."
"I can't let my own flesh and blood starve."
"Starve! Rubbish! They won't starve! What have they been doing while you've been away? Unless you encourage them not to work." And now she sank gracefully upon a footstool, and took her cousin's hands. "Oh," she said, "it is so nice to have a relative of whom one may be proud, after all those cousins. Oh, it must be a dreadful thing to have such lots of money! Why, I've got nothing!"
"You've had no champagne," said Cousin John, lifting his Jeroboam.
"Thank you, Cousin John, I don't drink champagne. Well, now, what can I do for you this afternoon?"
"I don't know, my dear. We neither of us know much about London, and we just wander about, for the most part, or drive about, and wonder where we are."
The girl jumped up. "Order a carriage and pair instantly. I shall drive you round and show you the best shops. You are sure to want something. As for me, remember that I want nothing. An actress appears in costume which the management finds. You, however, Alice, are different. You must dress as becomes your position."
"My dear child," said Alice, in the very first shop, "you must let me give you a dress – you really must."
"I don't want it, I assure you," she laughed. "But if it pains you not to give me one, why, I will take it."
She did take it. That evening there arrived at the boarding-house, addressed to Miss Pennefather, first a bonnet, for which five guineas would be cheap; a dress, the price of which the male observer could not even guess; a box of kid gloves, a mantle, and two or three pairs of boots.
"And, oh," said the girl, when she left the hotel that night, "what a lovely thing it is to feel that there will be no horrid mercenary considerations between us! You will admire my Art, but I shall not envy your money. Cousin John, admit that I am better off than you – one would rather be admired than envied."
She reached home. In her room lay the parcels and the packages. She opened them all. She put on the bonnet, she stroked the soft stuff with a caressing palm, she gazed upon the gloves, she held up the boots to the light.
"Am I a dreadful humbug?" she said. "I must be – I must be. What would Dick say? But one cannot – No, one cannot refuse. I am not a stick or a stone. And Cousin Alice actually enjoyed the giving! But no money. Molly, you must not take their money."
CHAPTER X.
COUSIN ALFRED'S SECRET
It was a few days later, in the forenoon. John Haveril was gone into the City on the business of keeping together what he had got – a business which seems to take up the whole of a rich man's time and more, so that he really has no chance of looking for the way to the kingdom of heaven. His wife sat at the window of her room in the hotel, contemplating the full tide of life below. She was not in the least a philosopher – the sight of the people, and the carriages, and the omnibuses, did not move her to meditate on the brevity of life as it moves some thinkers. It pleased her; she thought of places where she had lived in Western America, and the contrast pleased her. Nor was she moved, as a poet, to find something to say about this tide of life. The poet, you know, looks not only for the phrase appropriate, but for the phrase distinctive. Mrs. Haveril had never heard of such a thing. She only thought that there was nothing like it in the Western States, and that she remembered nothing like it in the village of Hackney. Molly was lying on the sofa, reading a novel.
One of the hotel pages disturbed her dreamery, which was close upon dropping off, by bringing up in a silver salver a dirty slip of paper, on which was written in pencil —
"Mr. Alfred Pennefather. For Mrs. Haveril. Bearer waits."
"Is it a man in rags? Is he a disgrace to the hotel?"
"Well, ma'am, he is in rags. As for his being a disgrace – he says he's your cousin." Here he laughed, holding the silver salver before his mouth.
"I wouldn't laugh at a poor man, if I were you. Why," said Mrs. Haveril, drawing a bow at a venture, "you've got cousins of your own in the workhouse. Send him up, right away," she added.
The man came in. The page shut the door quickly behind him, to conceal the figure of rags not often seen in that palatial place.
It was Alfred the Broken; strange to say, though it was less than a week since he had received that gift of golden sovereigns, the appearance of the man was as seedy as ever; his hat – a ridiculously tall silk hat with a limp brim – can anything look more forlorn? – his coat with ragged wrists; his boots parting from the soles; a ragged and decayed person, more ragged, more decayed, than before.
"Well?" the lady's voice was not encouraging. "You came here last week with the rest of them."
"I did, Alice – I did."
"You had champagne with the rest; you heard what my husband had to say: when the rest were gone, he gave you money. What have you done with that money? What do you want now?"
"I want to have a quiet talk with you."
The man had that sketchy irresolute face which foretells, in certain levels of life, social wreck. Not an evil face, exactly – the man with the evil face very often gets on in life – but with a weak face. You may see such a face any day in a police-court. First, it is a charge connected with the employer's accounts, then it is generally a charge of petty robbery. The last case I saw myself was one of boots snatched from an open counter. Between the first charge and the second there is a dreadful change in the matter of clothes; but there is never any change in face. As for Alfred Pennefather, one could understand that he had once been the gay and dashing Alf among his pals; that he had heard the midnight chimes ring; that he knew by experience the attractions of the public billiard-room, and the joys of pool; that he read the sporting papers; that he put a "bit" on his fancy; that whatever line of life he might attempt, therein he would fail; and that repeated failures would place him outside the forgiveness of his friends. For repeated misfortunes, as well as repeated follies, we can never forgive.
"You can talk," said his cousin. "This – young lady" – she was going to say "cousin of yours" – "does not count. Go on."
"I hoped, the other day, Alice, to find you alone. In that crowd of greedy impudent beggars and flatterers, I could not. I assure you I was ashamed of being in such company. As for Cousin Charles, if it had not been for you – "
"Go on to something else, please. You all came for what you could get; now, what do you want?"
"I'll sit down." He took the most comfortable chair in the room, and stretched out his legs. "This is the lap of luxury. Alice, you're a happy woman."
"Oh! Go on."
"The world has been against me, Alice, from the beginning. Look at these boots. Ask yourself whether the world has not been against me. Don't believe what they say. Scandalous, impudent liars, all of them, especially Charles. No fault of mine. No, Alice. It's the world."
"What do you want, again?"
"I want an advance."
"Then do what my husband told you – write to him. What has become of the money he gave you? Is that spent already?"
"Don't call it spent, Alice. Debts paid, common necessaries bought."
"Debts! Who would trust you? Necessaries! Why, you are shabbier than ever."
"Well, I can prove to you, Alice, that the money was well laid out."
When, after many days, the man at the bottom of the ladder gets a few pounds in gold, the first temptation is to make a night of it. What? We are not money-grabbers. To-morrow for a new rig-out; to-morrow for the weary business of finding employment; to-night for joy and the wine-cup. When the morrow dawns the wine-cup still lingers in the brain – but the gold pieces – where are they? Gone as a dream – a splendid dream of the night. Thus, after a little sleep and a little slumber, poverty cometh again as a robber: and want as an armed man.
"Don't let's talk about money spent," he said cheerfully. "Let's talk about the future. I'm right down at the bottom of the ladder, Alice. Help me up."
If a man says that he is at the bottom of the ladder, he generally speaks the truth. It is one of those little things about which we are agreed not to tell lies. And when he asks to be helped up, he always speaks with sincerity.
"I have no money of my own."
"You've things that make money." His eyes fell on a bracelet lying on the table.
Alice shook her finger at him. "Cousin Alfred," she said, "if you mean that I am going to give you my husband's presents for you to take to a pawnbroker, I will have you bundled out of the house. Now, tell me what you came for, before I ring the bell for the waiter."
He began to cry. He really was underfed and very miserable. "Oh! she's got a hard heart – and all I want is forty pounds – for the good will and stock-in-trade of a tobacconist – to become a credit to the family."
"I have no money of my own," Alice repeated. "If that is all you have to say, go away. My husband may come back at any moment."
"He won't. I watched. He's gone into the City on the top of a 'bus. With all his money, rides outside a 'bus. He's gone, and I mean, Alice – "
Molly rose and put down her novel. Then she advanced and seized the man, taking a combined handful of shirt-collar and coat-collar, which she twisted in her strong hand. He spread out his legs and hands; he struggled; the grip tightened; he rolled over; the coat-collar came off in her hand.
"Get up and go, you miserable creature!" she cried.
He rose slowly.
"Go!" said Molly.
"No coat-collar would stand such treatment," he said. "Pay me for the damage you have done to my wardrobe."
"Give him a shilling, Molly, and let him go."
"Wait a minute – wait a minute. Oh, don't be violent, Alice! I've got a secret. If you knew it, you'd give me money. I'll sell it for forty pounds."
"Sell it to my husband."
He got up feeling for his injured coat-collar. "This girl's so impetuous. May I sit down again?"
"No," said Molly. "Stand. If you don't tell your secret in two minutes, out you go."
"It's about your marriage, Alice. You were married about twenty-six years ago – it was in 1871, I remember. You married a play-acting fellow – Anthony by name – "
"That's no secret."
"Which wasn't his real name, but his theatrical name. His real name was Woodroffe."
"That is no secret, either."
"Your family wouldn't stand by you, being proud of their connections, although the only gentleman of the lot was myself – and I was in a bank."
"Oh, get on to your secret!"
"But, Cousin Will – Charles's brother – he stood by you, because he was in the play-acting line himself, and he got the boot, too, from the family. Will gave you away. You were married in South Hackney Church. After the wedding you went away. Will met me that same day; I remember I was a little haughty with him, because a bank clerk can't afford to know a common actor. He told me about it."
"What is your secret?"
"Two or three years later I met Will again, and borrowed something off him. Then he told me you had gone off to America."
"That is no secret."
"I'm coming to the secret. Don't you be impatient, Alice. It's my secret, not yours. Now, then. About fifteen years ago, I met a fellow at a billiard-table. He wouldn't play much, and he had some money, and so I thought – well – I got him to lodge with us. Mother kept lodgings in Myddleton Square in those days. He came; he said his name was Anthony, and he was a comedian from the States. We are coming to the secret now. Well, he stayed with us there a few weeks, and I took some money off him at pool; but he never paid his rent, and went away."
"Go on."
"That was your husband, Alice – your husband, I say – your husband." His voice fell to a mysterious whisper.
"Well; and why not?"
"Well – if you will have it – I'll say it out loud. That was your husband. You married John Haveril because you thought your husband was dead. Perhaps you hoped he would never find you out. Very well. He's alive still. I've seen him. That's my secret."
"I care nothing whether he is alive or dead."
"That's bluff. He's alive, I say; and I know where he is at this very minute."
"Now you have told your secret, you may go," said Molly.
"I tell you," said Alice, "that I do not care to know anything at all about that man."
"Well – but – if he is living, how can you be anybody else's wife? Look here, Alice. I'm telling the truth. John Anthony, whose name is Woodroffe, is in London. Last week I met him by accident, but he doesn't remember me. We were engaged in the same occupation. Why should I conceal the poverty to which I am reduced by the hard hearts of wealthy friends? We were carrying boards in Oxford Street. At night we used the same doss-house."
"I tell you that I do not wish to hear anything about that man. If he is in poverty and wickedness, he deserves it."
"Wouldn't you help him now?"
"I tell you I have no money."
"But this man is your husband."
"I tell you again, I do not want to know anything about the man."
"Well, I can go and tell him that you're here, rolling in gold. Forty pounds I want, and then I'll become a credit to the family – as a tobacconist. Else you shall have your husband back again. I've only to set him on to you."
"I don't want your secret."
"Not to keep your husband from finding you out? Have you no heart, Alice?"
Molly pointed to the door. "Out!" she ordered. "Out, this instant!"
He turned away reluctantly. "I thought better of you, Alice. Well, it's a wicked world. Go straight, and you go downhill. Chuck your respectability, and you're like the sparks that fly upward. When I came here the other day, I thought I was coming to see a respectable woman."
"Out!" Molly advanced upon him.
He placed a chair in front of him. "I know where your husband is – in the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary; that's where he is. I shall go to him. 'Anthony,' I shall say, 'your wife's over here – with another man.'"
Molly threw the chair down, and rushed at him.
He fled before the fire and fury of those eyes.
"Molly dear," Alice asked, "am I hard-hearted? I have not a spark of feeling left for that man; it moved me not in the least to hear of his wretched plight. He is to me just a stranger – a bad man – suffering just punishment."
"But his name is Woodroffe. That is strange, is it not?"
"Yes; his name is Woodroffe. He belonged, he always said, to a highly respectable family. That fact did not make him respectable."
"I wonder if he is any relation to Dick – my old friend, Dick Woodroffe. He's a musician now, and singer, too, and his father was a comedian before him."
"Well, dear, I don't know. As for that man in the infirmary, I dare say John will go and see if anything can be done for him. He deserted me first, and divorced me afterwards, Molly, twenty-four years ago – for incompatibility of temper. That is the kind of man he is."