Collected works of j s f.., p.868
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 868
I was so young and irresponsible at that time, so full of knowledge of having the old farmstead and the old folks and everything behind me, that I scarcely understood what this boy was talking about. I dare say I gave him a surly nod, and he went on again — very likely, for aught I remember, eating the other apple.
“You see, Poskitt,” he said, “there’s one thing that’s certain. A man must be either a man or a mouse. I won’t be a mouse.”
I was watching his face — I was at that time a big, ruddy-faced lad, with limbs that would have done credit to an offspring of Mars and Venus, and he looked the sort that would eventually end in a shop, with white cheeks above and a black tie under a sixpenny collar — and a strange revulsion came to me, farmer and landsman though I was. And I let him go on.
“I won’t be a mouse, Poskitt!” he said, with a certain amount of determination. “I’ll be a man! I’ll make money. Now, what do you think the best way to make money, Poskitt?”
I don’t think I made any answer then.
“I’ve thought it all out, Poskitt,” he resumed. “You see, there are all sorts of professions and trades. Well, if you go into a profession, you’ve got to spend a great deal of money before you can make any. And in some trades you have to lay out a good deal before you can receive any profit. But there are trades, Poskitt, in which you get your money back very quickly — with profit. Now, do you know, Poskitt, the only trades are those which are dependent on what people want. You can’t live without food, or clothes, or boots. Food, Poskitt, is the most important thing, isn’t it? And why I talked to you is because I think you’re the wisest boy in the school — which trade would you recommend me to enter upon?”
“Go and be a butcher!” I answered. “Like your father.”
He shook his head in mild and deprecating fashion.
“I don’t like the smell of meat,” he said. “No — I shall take up some other line.”
Then, as the smell of dinner came from the dining-room, he added the further remark that as our parents paid Doctor Scott regularly once a quarter, we ought to have our money’s worth, and so walked away to receive his daily share of it.
III
Samuel Edward Wilkinson duly left school, and became, of his own express will, an apprentice to a highly respectable grocer who enlarged upon his respectability by styling himself a tea merchant and an Italian warehouseman. The people who visited the shop (which was situate in a principal street in an important sea-port town) were invariably impressed by the powder-blueness of the sign and by the red-goldness of the letters which stood out so plainly from the powder-blue. It had a cachet of its own, and the proprietor had two daughters. But Samuel Edward was then scarcely over fourteen years of age, and as his parents and the proprietor were of a distinctly Dissenting nature, his time was passed much more in stealing sugar-candy out of newly-opened boxes, and in attending prayer-meetings at the nearest chapel, than in following the good example of London ‘prentices of the other centuries. In fact, by the time Samuel Edward Wilkinson was nineteen years of age, he was not merely a money-grubber, but that worst of all things — a tradesman who looks upon God Almighty and the Bible as useful weights to put under an illegal scale. And as Samuel Edward gained more of his experience in the knowledge of his fellow make-weighters, the more he began to believe less in his fellow-men — with the natural result that certain women who were not his fellows suffered.
As he grew up, Samuel Edward, naturally, had to live somewhere else. His master had no room in his house for apprentices who had approached to maturity. But, like all masters of that early-Victorian age, he knew where accommodation in a highly Christian family was to be had, and Samuel Edward found himself en famille with a middle-aged dressmaker and a pretty child whose sweet sixteenity was much more appealing than the maturer charms of his master’s daughters. Samuel Edward was not without good looks, and the child fell in love with him, and remained so for longer years than she had counted upon. But Samuel Edward was as philandering in love as he was pertinacious in business, and the idea of marriage was not within his immediate purview.
“At what age do you think, a man ought to marry, Poskitt?” he said to me during one of his periodical visits to the old village, he being then about two-and-twenty.
“When he feels inclined, and means it,” said I.
“Of course, Poskitt, a man should never marry unless he marries money,” he continued. “For a young man in my position, now, what would you say the young woman ought to be able to bring?”
I had sufficient common sense even at that age to make no reply to this question. I let him go on, silent under his sublime selfishness.
“Don’t you think, Poskitt, that it’s only right that when a man marries a woman he should expect her to make a certain amount of compensation?” he said. “It’s a very serious thing, is marriage, you know, Poskitt. Anybody with my ambition — which is to be a man and not a mouse, or, in other words, to pay twenty shillings in the pound, and keep myself out of the workhouse — has to look forward a good deal. Now there’s a young lady that I know of — where I lodge, in fact — that’s very sweet on me, but I don’t think her mother could give her more than a couple of hundred, and, of course, that’s next to nothing. You see, Poskitt, I want to have a business of my own, and you can’t get a business without capital. And money’s very hard to make, Poskitt. I think — I really think — I shall put off the idea of getting married.”
“That’s the very wisest thing you can do,” I said. “But you’d better tell the young lady so.”
“Well, you see, Poskitt,” he answered, stroking his chin, “the fact is — there are two young ladies. The other one is — my cousin Keziah. Now, of course, I know Keziah will have money when her father dies, but then I don’t know when he will die. If I could tell exactly when he’ll die, and how much Keziah will have, I should make up my mind — as it is, I think I shall have to wait. After all, it really doesn’t make such a great deal of difference — one woman is about as good as another so far as marriage is concerned, Poskitt, isn’t she? The money’s the main thing.”
“Why don’t you go and find a rich heiress, then?” I asked.
“Ah!” he replied. “I only wish I could, Poskitt! But you must remember that I’ve no advantages. My father’s only a butcher, and trade is trade, after all. You’ve great advantages over me — your people own their land — you’re nobs compared to what I am. But I shall make myself a man, Poskitt. There’s only one thing in the world that’s worth anything, and that’s money. I’m going to make money.”
IV
I never saw Samuel Edward Wilkinson again for a great many years — in fact, not until he came back to the village to marry his cousin Keziah. It was then publicly announced that Samuel and Keziah had been engaged since early youth — but anybody who knew anything was very well aware of the truth that the marriage was now hastened because Keziah’s father was dead and had left her a thousand pounds. During those intervening years Samuel Edward had been steadily pursuing his way towards his conception of manhood. He had spent several years in London, and never wore anything in the way of head-covering but a silk hat.
“Yes, Poskitt,” he said, “it’s taken me a long time, but I’ve saved enough money at last — with Keziah’s little fortune thrown in, of course — to buy my first master’s business. It’s a very serious thing, is business, you know, Poskitt, and so is marriage. But Keziah’s a capable girl, you know, Poskitt — very capable.”
As Keziah was then quite forty years of age, her capability was undoubted, but it seemed to me that Samuel Edward had been a long time making up his mind.
“And where’s the young lady of the early days?” I asked him.
He stroked his whiskers and shook his head.
“Well, you know, Poskitt,” he replied, “it’s a very unfortunate thing that she, of course, resides in the very town where I’ve bought my business.”
“Is she married?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, “no — she’s not married, Poskitt. Of course I couldn’t think of marrying her when Keziah was able to put her hands on a thousand pounds. After all, everybody’s got to look after Number One. It’s a very anxious time with me just now, Poskitt, I do assure you. What with getting married and setting up a business, I feel a great deal of responsibility. If you’re ever our way (and I expect you’ll be coming to the cattle markets), call in, and I’ll show you the improvements I’ve made. It’s a very fine position, Poskitt, but it’s a difficult thing in these days for a man to get his own.”
V
Samuel Edward’s name duly appeared in blazing gilt on the powder-blue of the old sign, and he and Keziah settled down in a suburban street in company with a handmaiden and a black-and-tan terrier. Their lives were discreet and orderly, and they went to the particular Dissenting community which they affected at least once every Sabbath Day. At eight o’clock every morning Samuel Edward repaired to business; at seven in the evening he returned home to pour out his woes to Keziah. One of his apprentices had done this; an assistant had done that; a customer had fled, leaving a bill unpaid. Keziah, who was as keen on money-making as her husband, was invariably sympathetic in these matters, which were about the only things she understood, apart from her knowledge that her thousand pounds was in the business. She and Samuel Edward were both resolved on making money.
And suddenly came a thunderstorm over their sky. The little dressmaking lady, having been formally engaged to Samuel Edward for long years, finding herself jilted, suddenly awoke to the knowledge that she had a spirit, and caused the faithless one to be served with a writ for breach of promise. And Samuel Edward’s men of law, going into the matter, told him that he had no defence, and would have to pay.
Samuel Edward took to his bed, and refused to be comforted. Keziah wept, entreated, cajoled, threatened — nothing was of use. All was over, in Samuel Edward’s opinion. The other side wanted the exact amount represented by Keziah’s dowry — one thousand pounds. Samuel Edward lay staring at the stencilled wall-paper, and decided that life was a distinct disappointment. He would die.
Then Keziah took matters in hand. She, with the help of an astute man, paid the thousand pounds — whereupon the little dressmaker, who was still well under forty, promptly married another. And then Keziah literally tore Samuel Edward out of bed, shook him into life, and gave him to understand that from that day forward he would have to work harder, earlier, and later than he had ever done before. And Samuel Edward fell to — under a ceaseless and never-varying supervision.
VI
“I’m a warm man, you know, Poskitt,” he said to me many a long year after that. “A warm man, sir! There’s nobody knows except myself, Poskitt, how much I have. No, sir! Made it all, you know. Look at my business, Poskitt! — one of the biggest and best businesses in the country. Twenty different establishments. Four hundred employees. Bring my own tea from Ceylon and China in my own ships. All the result of energy, Poskitt — no sitting still with me, as you rustics do — no, sir!”
Now let us analyze what this man really was. Because Keziah literally drilled him into the pulling of himself together after his first great slap in the face, he began to amass money, and very soon so deepened his boyish instincts that money became his fetish. Money — money — money — nothing but money! He estimated the value of a man by the depth of that man’s purse; he thoroughly believed, with the Northern Farmer, that the poor in a lump are bad. And at last he was a very rich man indeed — and then found, as all such men do, that he had no power to enjoy his wealth. He could travel — and see nothing, for he did not understand what he saw. He could buy anything he liked — and have no taste for it. The little dressmaker had children — he had none. And as his wealth increased, his temper grew sour. He had never read anything beyond his trade journal and his newspaper, and therefore he had nothing to think about but his money.
And so I come back to what my old friend said in his bluff Yorkshire fashion —
“Doän’t think ower much about makkin’ Brass! It’s a good thing to mak’ Brass, and a good thing to be in possession on it, but Brass is neyther here nor theer unless ye ware it on yer friends.”
And whether Samuel Edward Wilkinson considered in the end of his days that he had made a man of himself, or whether he had, after all, a sneaking idea that he was little more than a mouse, I can’t say. But his great idea (that he could buy so many people up ten times over and feel none the worse) had a certain pathos in that fact, that even to his dull brain there came at times the conviction that when the end came he would be as poor as any mouse that ever crept into its hole.
CHAPTER XIII
A DEAL IN ODD VOLUMES
IT WAS BAKING-DAY at Low Meadow Farm, and the kitchen being rendered unusually hot by the fact that it was also a blazing afternoon in July, Mrs. Maidment, in the intervals of going to the oven, sat in a stout elbow-chair at the kitchen door and fanned herself with her apron. She was a comfortably built lady of at least fifty, and heat told upon her, as she had remarked several times since breakfast. Her placid, moon-like countenance, always rosy, was now as fiery as a winter afternoon’s sun, and when she was not fanning herself she mopped her brow with one of her late husband’s handkerchiefs, which she had taken from a drawer in the press as being larger than her own, and therefore more suitable for the purpose.
While she sat at the door Mrs. Maidment glanced at the prospect before her — at the garden, the orchard, the fields beyond where the crops were already whitening to harvest. Her thoughts were of a practical nature.
“I’m sure if Maidment can look down from Above,” she murmured, “he’ll say it’s all in very good order. He never could abide naught that were not in proper order, couldn’t Maidment. And if we only get a good harvest — —”
At that moment the widow’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden clicking of the side gate. She turned and saw a strange man leading an equipage into the yard. The equipage consisted of a very small pony, which looked as if a generous feed of corn would do it good, and of a peculiarly constructed cart, very shallow in body, and closed in at the top by two folding doors — it resembled nothing so much, in fact, as a cupboard laid flat-wise and provided with wheels. As for the person who led in this strange turn-out, and at whom Mrs. Maidment was staring very hard, he was a somewhat seedy-looking gentleman in a frock-coat which was too large and trousers which were too short; there was a slight cast in his right eye, but there was no mistaking the would-be friendliness of his smile. He bowed low as he drew the pony towards Mrs. Maidment, and he removed a straw-hat and revealed a high forehead and a bald head. Mrs. Maidment stared still harder.
“Good-afternoon, ma’am,” said the stranger, bowing again. “Allow me to introduce myself, ma’am, as a travelling bookseller — it’s a new departure in the book trade, and one that I hope to do well in. Permit me to show you my stock, ma’am — all the newest volumes of the day by the most famous authors.”
He threw back the folding-doors of his cart with a flourish and stepped aside. The July sun flashed its fierce beams on row upon row of flashily-bound, high-coloured volumes in green and scarlet and much fine gold.
“The very latest, I assure you, ma’am,” said their vendor.
Mrs. Maidment fanned herself and gazed at the glory before her.
“Well, I don’t know, master,” she said. “I’m not one for reading myself, except the newspaper and a chapter in the Bible of a Sunday. But my daughter’s fond of her book — she might feel inclined. Here, Mary Ellen! — here’s a man at the door selling books.”
Miss Mary Ellen Maidment, a comely damsel of nineteen with bright eyes and peach-like cheeks, emerged expectant from the kitchen. The itinerant bookseller greeted her with more bows and smiles.
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Mary Ellen, lifting up her hands. “What a lot of beautiful books!”
“Your ma said you were fond of your book, miss,” said the owner of this intellectual treasure mine. “Yes, miss, this is an especially fine line. What’s your taste, now, miss? Poetry?”
“I like a good piece,” answered Mary Ellen.
The itinerant selected two gorgeously bound volumes, and deftly balancing them on the palm of one hand, pointed to their glories with the outstretched forefinger of the other.
“‘The Complete Poetical Works of Mrs. H*ee*mans,’” he said. “A very sweet thing that, miss — one of the best articles in the poetry line.” He pointed to the other. “‘The Works of the late Eliza Cook.’ A very superior production that, miss. It was that talented lady who wrote ‘The Old Arm-Chair,’ of which you have no doubt heard.”
“I learnt it once at school,” said Mary Ellen. “Have you got any tales?”
“Tales, miss — yes, miss,” replied the vendor, setting Mrs. Hemans and Miss Cook aside, and selecting a few more volumes. “Here’s a beautiful tale by the talented Emma Jane Worboise, the most famous authoress of her day.”
“Is there any love in it?” asked Mary Ellen.
“My daughter,” broke in Mrs. Maidment, “likes books with love matters and lords and ladies in ’em — she reads pieces of ’em to me at nights.”
“That, ma’am, is the only sort I carry,” said the book-proprietor. “Now, miss, just let me show you — —”
In the end Mary Ellen purchased one tale which dealt with much love and many lords and ladies, and another which the seller described as a pious work with a strong love interest, and recommended highly for Sunday reading. She also bought Mrs. Hemans, because on turning over her pages she saw several lines which she thought were pretty. And while she went up-stairs to fetch her purse Mrs. Maidment asked the stranger inside to drink a jug of ale. One can imagine his sharp glance round that old farmhouse kitchen, with its lovely old oak furniture, its shining brass and pewter, its old delf-ware....
