Collected works of j s f.., p.26
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 26
He shook his head.
“No,” said he; “but I mean to do so tomorrow. I shall also ask Julia to go and call on Maggie.”
“Do you think she will.”
“Yes, if I ask her to. I shall ask her to take Maggie to church next Sunday morning and bring her to dinner, and we will go with them to church, Len.”
“What, to Dumbury’s church, Tom Christmas?”
“I suppose so,” he said, with a sigh. “Never mind, we can think about something else while old Dumbury is holding forth. It will please Julia immensely if we go.”
“I say, Tom Christmas, is Maggie Primrose a joined believer? Because, if not, don’t you think you had better coach her up a little before next Sunday? Miss Julia is sure to put a few leading questions to her.”
Miss Julia, I think, was not over well pleased to hear her brother’s news, which he communicated to her early next morning. Possibly she foresaw coming troubles.
“I suppose you will be getting married next, Thomas?” she said, as she poured out our coffee. “I trust you will not hurry matters too much. Nowadays young men think of nothing else but getting married.”
It stands to reason that if young men think of nothing but marriage, the maidens must be considerably influenced by their thoughts. Now Miss Julia Christmas had been a maiden for five-and-thirty years, so that I think her conclusions were premature.
“I shall not marry for a long time yet, sister Julia,” answered Tom.
“When did the fatal deed come off, Tom Christmas?” I inquired, a quarter of an hour later, as we were setting out for the City. “You are getting such a desperately deep sort of fellow nowadays that I can’t make you out always.”
“You remember last Sunday afternoon, Len,” he said. “You went to sleep, you know, after dinner, and lay snoring until five o’clock. Unprofitable one! while you slept I went forth and won the prize. I met her, Len; she was going for a walk all by herself and I asked her if I might not go with her. We went out there by Highgate and Hornsey, and it seemed somehow, Len, that everything looked brighter and fresher than it usually does. You know the old church out there, with all its ivy fresh and green about it? We went into the churchyard, and — and — and that is all,” he concluded, somewhat lamely.
“And that is all, eh? Which means, Tom, that I am to imagine the rest.”
“Imagine it or not, Len, you will never be able to conceive it until you go and fall in love yourself. Dear me! I seem to have lived ages since Sunday last. I am going to work terribly hard, Leonard, so that I can get some money in hand and get married. And then, my boy, if Julia does marry Dumbury, why, you shall smoke all over the house if you like.”
Just then we overtook Maggie Primrose, and to her I repeated all the congratulations which I had already poured into Tom’s ears. She thanked me very prettily, and looked up at Tom with a trusting air which I was glad to see. It really seemed as if this frail little Primrose had crept into the shadow of a rock big and strong enough to shelter her from all the storms of life.
After that I used to make all sorts of excuses for leaving these two together in their outward and homeward walks. I used to put off my daily pilgrimage to the printer’s establishment until five o’clock, at which hour I would divest myself of my office coat, and make myself ready for going out.
“Oh, by-the-bye, Tom,” I used to say as I passed his desk, “I am just going down to the printer’s, so I won’t come back here. I’ll walk straight home from there.”
I never dared to look him in the face while I uttered these pieces of casuistry, but once taking a side peep at him I saw that he, too, was somewhat shy of looking at me. And so we continued deceiving each other, or rather I continued to deceive him, for I believe he thought to the very end that my duties always took me away at an earlier hour than usual.
The Sunday whereon Maggie Primrose was introduced to Mrs and Miss Christmas was quite an eventful one. Tom and I, attired in our very best, proceeded about ten o’clock to Miss Primrose’s lodgings (she boarded with a most respectable greengrocer and his good lady, who were really very kind to her, and whom I shall always think a great deal of for that reason), and escorted her in a sort of semi-state to our house. I think she never looked prettier than she did that morning, for the excitement brought a little colour to her cheeks, and her brown eyes were full of light.
“A werry nice couple, sir,” said Mr. Migson, the greengrocer, who was smoking his Sunday morning pipe in the door as we went forth, and with whom I lingered a moment to pass the time of day and make myself generally agreeable. “A werry nice couple, hindeed, as I ‘ave said to my missus many a time of late.”
He jerked his thumb, first in the direction of Tom and Maggie, and then in the direction of Mrs. Migson, who was tidying up the breakfast in the little parlour.
“I am very glad you approve of Miss Primrose’s choice, Mr. Migson,” I said. “For I am quite sure you and Mrs. Migson must have taken a great interest in the young lady.”
Mr. Migson removed the pipe from his mouth and spat with great vehemence across the pavement.
“Lord bless you, sir! why, the hinterest wot we takes in that there young lady is sumthin’ wonderful. We thinks more of her than we should of twinses — which we never had no babbies ourselves in our time. Between you an’ me, sir, the pore young thing’s to be pitied. Father was a parson, and she’s a lady. Well, there ain’t no finer and stiddier young feller than Mr. Thomas Christmas ‘twixt here an’ Land’s End, that there ain’t, s’elp me bob! W’y, I’ve known ’em ever since they come into the Square — nigh on to seven year. I’ve supplied ’em with every wegetable they’ve ever eaten, and they don’t owe me a penny, sir, not a penny, and there’s precious few of my customers can say that. He’s a rare ‘un, is young Mr. Christmas. I seen him off and away, bright and early, in a morning to his work, and home to his mar in a hevenin’. None of yer publics, and free-and-easies, and hifalutin torf business for him. W’y, you don’t have to send in a bill there at all! As reg’lar as the fust o’ the month comes round here he is with his ‘Now, Mr. Migson, what do I owe you, sir?’ Tell yer what it is, sir — when missie comes and tells me and my missus — which she looks on us as sort o’ friends — that she’s a-goin’ to marry Mr. Tom Christmas, I says, ‘Then, my dear, you’re a-going to marry the very bestest young man in all Hengland!”’
I told Mr. Migson that I believed he was quite right, and was glad to know that he had such a good opinion of my friend. I also told him that it was very kind and Christian-like of him and his good lady to be so kind to Miss Primrose, on receiving which praise he blushed very much beneath his tanned cheek and shuffled about from one foot to the other.
“W’y, you see, sir,” said Mr. Migson, “it’s werry hard, ain’t it now, for a pore young thing like missie to be left an orfund? You wouldn’t like it yourself now, would you, sir? And when she fust comes to lodge here, and we see how pore she was and yet the lady in everythin’, we sort o’ took to her. We ain’t much of scollards, me an’ the missus, and the Scripture reader, wot comes round with them there track papers, says as ’ow we’re both heathens cos we don’t never go to church nor chapel; but our motter, sir, is, ‘Let’s do as much good as we can,’ and that we means to stick to, blarmed if we don’t.”
I said good morning to him then and followed Tom and Maggie, feeling that I should hear nothing half so true or beautiful at Mr. Dumbury’s fashionable church as the sentiments conveyed in Mr. Migson’s “motter,’’ despite the fact that that gentleman was only a heathen. I was late in consequence of remaining to talk with him, and when I got to the house Tom had gone through the ceremonies, and Miss Julia had retired upstairs to put on her bonnet.
Maggie was sitting by Mrs. Christmas when I entered, while Tom stood by the window watching them, and Sarah Ann, the maid-of-all-work, peeped through the door with a laudable desire to catch a glimpse of our new visitor. Mrs. Christmas, who was just the least bit weak in her head, was evidently highly pleased with her son’s sweetheart, and sat stroking Maggie’s hand, much as a child strokes a new toy. Julia, too, I could see, was not unfavourably disposed towards her prospective sister-in-law.
“A nice, modest, lady-like girl, Leonard Tempest,” she observed to me as we came back from church, where Mr. Dumbury had been most profoundly faithful and had preached us a discourse on sudden deaths, “and one that I quite approve. Though, perhaps, not perfected in sanctification she promises in time to become a very precious vessel. She told me as we came to church that she had never missed attendance on the means of grace twice a Sunday in all her life. A great example for some people, Leonard Tempest.”
“Yes, Miss Christmas,” I said, meekly. “I hope she will influence Tom for good.”
“If Thomas Christmas could be influenced for good, Leonard Tempest, his sister would have influenced him long ago. I have pleaded with him, and my late dear friend, the saintly Emma Jane Piper, strove hard with him. He is given over to his idols.”
“What sort of idols, Miss Julia?”
“Thomas Christmas, Leonard Tempest, is a confirmed unbeliever. He has striven to seek into the secrets that no man has a right to learn. I give him up. Mind that he does not make shipwreck of you also. Remember, Leonard Tempest, that you will have to die.”
“Thank you, Miss Julia. I’ll strive to remember it.”
I am afraid that poor Maggie found it rather tedious, that Sunday afternoon and evening at our house. Miss Julia’s ideas of Sunday would have done credit to that arch-heretic Calvin himself. She shuddered if anybody laughed, she closed her eyes and groaned if Tom or I spoke of secular matters, and if she had seen us take up a newspaper or a novel she would have looked for the wrath of Heaven to descend upon us. On Sunday afternoons she used to give her mother, who was too infirm to go to church, a volume of sermons out of the big bookcase, and the poor old lady had bad times of it if she was unable to converse with her daughter about the selected discourse on the latter’s return. Sarah Ann of the kitchen, having washed up, and mended the fire, was expected to repair to Mr. Dumbury’s Sabbath-school, where Miss Julia also went and taught for a couple of hours. Sarah Ann, I think, did not enjoy the day of rest very much. She had to go to church again at night, and did not get even a chance of speaking to a male person, because Miss Julia’s eagle eye was on her small figure all the way there and back. I often laugh now to think what a doleful, dismal day Sunday must have seemed to that poor maid-of-all-work. She had to learn a “text” some time during the day and repeat it to Miss Christmas. After supper was over she had to read her Bible in the kitchen, which she did in the most conscientious fashion, spelling every word aloud, and piping forth the result in a high, thin voice which would have done credit to the blind men who read in the streets. If she ever ventured to request “something with pictures in it,” Miss Julia used to give her a large quarto copy of “Foxe’s Book of Martyrs,” which contained a number of engravings quite as remarkable for ingenuity as the letter-press itself. Over these horrible conceptions poor Sarah Ann used to sit with pallid cheek and beating heart thinking, I doubt not, of the horrible moment when she should have to climb candleless to bed, and there dream of rack and thumb-screw and fire.
Tom and Maggie went out for a walk that Sunday afternoon, and Miss Julia and Sarah Ann having departed to Sabbath-school, I remained at home with Mrs. Christmas and heard her talk. She was very fond of talking, and had as great a talent for reminiscences as Greville or Mosley; indeed, she would have been invaluable as the chronicler of a movement, for names and places and deeds jumbled themselves together in her head in the most approved fashion, and if she began to tell you an anecdote respecting the Duke of Wellington she was sure to divert it into one of General Tom Thumb — the connecting link being the fact that they were both military men, and that Major Piker, Mrs. Christmas’s father, knew both of them. We went to church again in the evening, and I noticed that Tom went to sleep as soon as Dumbury gave out his text, and slept soundly, but without snoring, all through the sermon. And then we came home, and, after supper, Miss Julia conducted the family devotions. And then Tom opened the old cottage piano and asked Maggie to sing for us, for he had found that his sweetheart possessed a voice. And he and Maggie having found an old copy of “Hymns, Ancient and Modern,” which collection Miss Julia at once denounced as Popish, our little Primrose sat down and sang us “Abide with Me,” and “Rock of Ages,” and “O Paradise,” and finally “Lead, kindly Light.” And Tom Christmas, hidden behind the window-curtain, cried, I am positive, being susceptible and soft-hearted and a great baby, and I, too, felt my eyes somewhat dim, and Miss Christmas, in spite of the Popish hymn-book, melted a little, and kissed Maggie when Tom took her away to good Mr and Mrs. Migson’s domicile.
CHAPTER VI.
MR. RUPERT TREMAYNE.
I HAVE ALREADY told you that Mr. Spivey was very fond of the company of great people, and that he would do anything and go anywhere in order to have a few minutes’ chat or even a cool nod from anybody who was Somebody. I have also told you that his somebodies very often turned out to be nobodies, with unpleasant habits of borrowing half-crowns and asking for advances out of the petty cash. I think this was perhaps a righteous judgment on Mr. Spivey for presuming to make himself that which he certainly was not. But despite the fact that his somebodies were usually very disappointing, Mr. Spivey, who was nothing, if not plucky and persevering, stuck to his guns with much zeal, and made bold efforts to bring down something that should be worth exhibiting. Snubs, like that which the well-known Bumpo administered to him, seemed to glide away from his soul like water from a duck’s oily back; failures, like that which he experienced when he published Mr. McMurdo’s novel, a production in which Spivey had much confidence, and every one else no pleasure, only determined him in his onward course. He was bound to capture something great some day — only the capture must be effected at very small cost. That was where the difficulty came in. Great authors, or hawthurs, as Spivey called them, could have been had in plenty, if the cheques had been correspondingly big; but Spivey’s idea was to have a big bag for a very few cartridges.
Now, in the early summer of the year 187-- , there appeared from the press of a London firm, a novel or novelette, which set everybody by the ears. That is to say, one portion — the least intelligent — of the reading public vowed that such a work had not been issued within the memory of the oldest inhabitant; the other portion — the most intelligent — said that if productions of this class were to be looked upon as good work, it was quite certain that our national tastes were going to the bad, instead of to the good. Nevertheless, both portions of the reading public bought and read the book, which was sold at a shilling, and stood in huge piles on every bookstall in town and country. I dare say the most intelligent class of readers read the book with as much avidity as the least intelligent, although, as is the way with your clever people, they affected to despise its style and tone. It was, of course, a very sensational book, and dealt with themes which the last ten years have hackneyed for us; but which were then comparatively new to English fiction. Murders there were in plenty, with much realism and detail; there was also more than a trace of supernatural dealings, and there was that contempt of certain national virtues which some of our novelists have taken to borrowing from the novelists of a less healthy nation. The style and theme, in fact, were new — wherefore the people left the old paths and went to bow down before a new idol. Then, too, the book was published under an assumed name, and the latter was one eminently calculated to impress itself upon the imagination of young ladies and very young gentlemen. It was Rupert Tremayne. Fancy the possibilities existing behind a name like that! Who might not Rupert Tremayne be? Perhaps a member of our nobility, who had been blighted in his early youth, and after wandering through the earth like Cain or Mephistopheles, or some of those other nice, interesting people, don’t you know, had written down this fascinating chronicle of love and passion. Perhaps the main incidents were passages from his own life. Indeed, they must be, for who could have imagined so gruesome a murder, or such thrilling descriptions of the grand passion? Yes, Rupert Tremayne must indeed be a remarkable man — half Corsair or Giaour or something of that sort. So declared the young ladies who read the book and lay awake half the night weeping o’er the wrongs of its hero, who was indeed such a remarkable character, that if he had lived in civilised circles, he would infallibly have been sent to Portland for ten years, or finished off altogether at the hands of Mr. Calcraft’s successor.
When a book makes a sensation the first question asked by everybody is — has the author written anything else? Everybody asked this in connection with Mr. Rupert Tremayne’s book. Were there any other works of his? Who published them? What were they called?
Alas, Mr. Rupert Tremayne had only published one previous volume — a book of tender little things, bound in delicate apple-green cloth and entitled “Lotus and Aloe.” They, too, were of the please-pity-me order, and produced as many tears as the realistic story. They gave an insight into the author’s soul, and opened up vistas of moonlight and perfume and kisses, and jewelled daggers, and mysterious deeds done in Venetian chambers. The little apple-green volume found its way into every boudoir, and some of its more understandable contents were set to music and sung by æsthetic-gowned damsels in Mayfair drawing - rooms, amidst a general sense of unutterable woe and misery.
And after this of course Society began to clamour for the man himself. It must see him and hear him, and invite him to balls, and routs, and tennis. He must pose on river-side lawns and at a minister’s breakfast-table in company with Professer Trotaround, the Asiatic Explorer, and Mr. Tapthumb, the eminent pulpit orator, and Miss Chickamanga, the American actress.
He must give himself up to be stared at, and exhibited, and bowed down to, and therefore Society set itself to find him out and bring him forward.
