All Sorts and Conditions of Men: An Impossible Story

"Triangles, my lady," said Daniel, bowing.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Fagg; I ought to have known, and the triangle goes with the fife and the drum in all the militia regiments. Professor, if there is any place in Portman Square where an entertainment can be held, we will remember you. Mr. Goslett – ah, Mr. Goslett, we shall miss you very much. Often and often has my husband said that, but for your own timely aid, he must have broken down. What can we now do for you, Mr. Goslett?"

Nothing could have been more generous than this dispensing of patronage.

"Nothing," said Harry. "But I thank you all the same."

"Perhaps Miss Messenger wants a cabinet made?"

"No, no," he cried hastily. "I don't want to make cabinets for Miss Messenger. I mend the office stools for the brewery, and I work – for – for Miss Kennedy," he added, with a blush.

Lady Davenant nodded her head and laughed. So happy was she that she could even show an interest in something outside the case.

"A handsome couple," she said simply. "Yes, my dear, go on working for Miss Kennedy, because she is worth it – and now, my lord. Gentlemen, I wish you farewell."

She made the most stately, the most dignified obeisance, and turned to leave them; but Harry sprang to the front and offered his arm.

"Permit me, Lady Davenant."

It was extraordinary enough for the coachman to be ordered to Stepney Green to take up a lord – it was more extraordinary to see that lord's noble lady falling on the neck of an ordinary female in a black stuff gown and an apron – namely, Mrs. Bormalack; and still more wonderful to see that noble lady led to the carriage by a young gentleman who seemed to belong to the place.

"I know him," said James, the footman, presently.

"Who is he?"

"He's Mr. Le Breton, nephew or something of Lord Jocelyn. I've seen him about; and what he's doing on Stepney Green the Lord only knows."

"James," said the coachman.

"John," said the footman.

"When you don't understand what a young gentleman is a-doin', what does a man of your experience conclude?"

"John," said the footman, "you are right as usual; but I didn't see her."

There was a little crowd outside, and it was a proud moment for Lady Davenant when she walked through the lane (which she could have wished a mile long) formed by the spectators, and took her place in the open carriage, beneath the great fur rug. His lordship followed with a look of sadness, or apprehension, rather than triumph. The door was slammed, the footman mounted the box, and the carriage drove off – one boy called "Hooray!" and jumped on the curbstone. To him Lord Davenant took off his hat. Another turned catherine-wheels along the road, and Lord Davenant took off his hat to him, too, with aristocratic impartiality; till the coachman flicked at him with his whip, and then he ran behind the carriage and used language for a quarter of a mile.

"Timothy," said her ladyship – "would that Aurelia Tucker were here to see!"

He only groaned: how could he tell what sufferings in the shape of physical activity might be before him? When would he be able to put up his feet again? One little disappointment marred the complete joy of the departure: it was strange that Miss Kennedy, who had taken so much interest in the business – who had herself tried on the dresses – should not have been there to see. It was not kind of her, who was usually so very kind, to be absent on this important occasion. They arrived at Portman Square a little before one. Miss Messenger sent them her compliments by her own maid, and hoped they would be perfectly comfortable in her house, which was placed entirely at their disposal; she was only sorry that absence from town would prevent her from personally receiving Lady Davenant.

The spaciousness of the rooms, the splendor of the furniture, the presence of many servants, awed the simple little American woman. She followed her guide, who offered to show them the house and led them into all the rooms, the great and splendidly furnished drawing-room, the dining-room, the morning-room, and the library, without saying a word. Her husband walked after her in the deepest dejection, hanging his head and dangling his hands, in forgetfulness of the statuesque attitude. He saw no chance whatever for a place of quiet meditation.

Presently they came back to the morning-room – it was a pleasant, sunny room; not so large as the great dining-room, nor so gaunt in its furniture, nor was it hung with immense pictures of game and fruit, but with light and bright water-colors.

"I should like," said her ladyship, hesitating, because she was a little afraid that her dignity demanded that they should use the biggest room of all – "I should like, if we could, to sit in this room when we are alone."

"Certainly, my lady."

"We are simple people," she went on, trying to make it clear why they liked simplicity; "and accustomed to a plain way of life – so that his lordship does not look for the splendor that belongs to his position."

"No, my lady."

"Therefore, if we may use this room mostly, and – and – keep the drawing-room for when we have company – " She looked timidly at the grave young woman who was to be her maid.

"Certainly, my lady."

"As for his lordship," she went on, "I beg he may be undisturbed in the morning when he sits in the library – he is much occupied in the morning."

"Yes, my lady."

"I think I noticed," said Lord Davenant, a little more cheerfully, "as we walked through the library, a most beautiful chair." He cleared his throat, but said no more.

Then they were shown to their own rooms, and told that luncheon would be served immediately.

"And I hope, Clara Martha," said his lordship, when they were alone, "that luncheon in this house means something solid and substantial – fried oysters now, with a beefsteak and tomatoes, and a little green corn in the ear, I should like."

"It will be something, my dear, worthy of our rank. I almost regret now that you are a teetotaler – wine, somehow, seems to belong to a title. Do you think that you could break your vow and take one glass, or even two, of wine – just to show that you are equal to the position."

"No, Clara Martha," her husband replied with decision. "No – I will not break the pledge – not even for a glass of old Bourbon."

There were no fried oysters at that day's luncheon, nor any green corn in the ear; but it was the best square meal that his lordship had ever sat down to in his life. Yet it was marred by the presence of an imposing footman, who seemed to be watching to see how much an American could eat. This caused his lordship to drop knives and upset glasses, and went very near to mar the enjoyment of the meal.

After the luncheon he bethought him of the chair in the library, and retired there. It was indeed a most beautiful chair – low in the seat, broad and deep, not too soft – and there was a footstool.

His lordship sat down in this chair, beside a large and cheerful fire, put up his feet, and surveyed the room. Books were ranged round all the walls – books from floor to ceiling. There was a large table with many drawers, covered with papers, magazines, and reviews, and provided with ink and pens. The door was shut, and there was no sound save of a passing carriage in the square.

"This," said his lordship "seems better than Stepney Green; I wish Nathaniel were here to see me."

With these words upon his lips, he fell into a deep slumber.

At half-past three his wife came to wake him up. She had ordered the carriage and was ready and eager for another drive along those wonderful streets which she had seen for the first time. She roused him with great difficulty, and persuaded him, not without words of refusal, to come with her. Of course she was perfectly wide awake.

"This," she cried, once more in the carriage, "this is London, indeed. Oh! to think we have wasted months at Stepney, thinking that was town. Timothy, we must wake up; we have a great deal to see and to learn. Look at the shops, look at the carriages. Do tell! It's better than Boston city. Now that we have got the carriage we will go out every day and see something; I've told them to drive past the Queen's Palace, and to show us where the Prince of Wales lives. Before long we shall go there ourselves, of course, with the rest of the nobility. There's only one thing that troubles me."

"What is that, Clara Martha? You air thinkin', perhaps, that it isn't in nature for them to keep the dinners every day up to the same pitch of elevation?"

She repressed her indignation at this unworthy suggestion.

"No, Timothy; and I hope your lordship will remember that in our position we can afford to despise mere considerations of meat and drink, and wherewithal we shall be clothed." She spoke as if pure Christianity was impossible beneath their rank, and, indeed, she had never felt so truly virtuous before. "No, Timothy, my trouble is that we want to see everything there is to be seen."

"That is so, Clara Martha. Let us sit in this luxurious chaise and see it all. I never get tired o' sittin', and I like to see things."

"But we can only see the things that cost nothing or the outside things, because we've got no money."

"No money at all?"

"None; only seven shillings and three-pence in coppers."

This was the dreadful truth. Mrs. Bormalack had been paid, and the seven shillings was all that remained.

"And, oh, there is so much to see! We'd always intended to run round some day, only we were too busy with the case to find the time, and see all the shows we'd heard tell of – the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, and the monument and Mr. Spurgeon's Tabernacle – but we never thought things were so grand as this. When we get home we will ask for a guidebook of London, and pick out all the things that are open free."

That day they drove up and down the streets, gazing at the crowds and the shops. When they got home tea was brought them in the morning-room, and his lordship, who took it for another square meal, requested the loaf to be brought, and did great things with the bread and butter – and having no footman to fear.

At half-past seven a bell rang, and presently Miss Messenger's maid came and whispered that it was the first bell, and would her ladyship go to her own room, and could she be of any help?

Lady Davenant rose at once, looking, however, much surprised. She went to her own room, followed by her husband, too much astonished to ask what the thing meant.

There was a beautiful fire in the room, which was very large and luxuriously furnished, and lit with gas burning in soft-colored glass.

"Nothing could be more delightful," said her ladyship, "and this room is a picture. But I don't understand it."

"Perhaps it's the custom," said her husband, "for the aristocracy to meditate in their bedrooms."

"I don't understand it," she repeated. "The girl said the first bell. What's the second? They can't mean us to go to bed."

"They must," said his lordship. "Yes, we must go to bed. And there will be no supper to-night. To-morrow, Clara Martha, you must speak about it, and say we're accustomed to later hours. At nine o'clock or ten we can go with a cheerful heart – after supper. But – well – it looks a soft bed, and I dare say I can sleep in it. You've nothing to say, Clara Martha, before I shut my eyes. Because if you have, get it off your mind, so's not to disturb me afterward."

He proceeded to undress in his most leisurely manner, and in ten minutes or so was getting into bed. Just as his head fell upon the pillows there was a knock at the door.

It was the maid who, came to say that she had forgotten to tell her ladyship that dinner was at eight.

"What?" cried the poor lady, startled out of her dignity. "Do you mean to say that we've got to have dinner?"

"Certainly, my lady;" this young person was extremely well behaved, and in presence of her masters and mistresses and superiors knew not the nature of a smile.

"My!"

Her ladyship standing at the door, looked first at the maid without and then at her husband, whose eyes were closed, and who was experiencing the first and balmy influences of sweet sleep. She felt so helpless that she threw away her dignity and cast herself upon the lady's maid. "See now!" she said, "what is your name, my dear?"

"Campion, my lady."

"I suppose you've got a Christian name?"

"I mean that Miss Messenger always calls me Campion."

"Well, then, I suppose I must, too. We are simple people, Miss Campion, and not long from America, where they do things different, and have dinner at half-past twelve and supper at six. And my husband has gone to bed. What is to be done?"

That a gentleman should suppose bed possible at eight o'clock in the evening, was a thing so utterly inconceivable that Campion could for the moment suggest nothing. She only stared. Presently she ventured to suggest that his lordship might get up again.

"Get up, Timothy; get up this minute!" Her ladyship shook and pushed him till he opened his eyes and lifted his head. "Don't stop to ask questions, but get up right away." Then she ran back to the door. "Miss Campion!"

"Yes, my lady."

"I don't mind much about myself, but it might not look well for his lordship not to seem to know things just exactly how they're done in England. So please don't tell the servants, Miss Campion."

She laid her hand on the maid's arm, and looked so earnest, that the girl felt sorry for her.

"No, my lady," she replied. And she kept her word, so that though the servants all knew how the noble lord and his lady had been brought from Stepney Green, and how his lordship floundered among the plates at lunch, and ate up half a loaf with afternoon tea, they did not know that he went to bed instead of dressing for dinner.

"And, Miss Campion," she was now outside the door, holding it ajar, and the movements of a heavy body hastily putting on clothes could be distinctly heard, "you will please tell me, presently, what time they do have things."

"Yes, my lady."

"Family prayers now? His lordship will lead, of course – a thing he is quite used to, and can do better than most, having always – " Here she stopped, remembering that there was no absolute necessity to explain the duties of a village schoolmaster.

"There are no family prayers, my lady, and your ladyship can have dinner or any other meal at any time you please."

"His lordship's time for meals will be those of his brother peers."

"Yes, my lady. Breakfast at ten?"

"Ten will do perfectly." It was two hours later than their usual time and her husband's sufferings would be very great. Still, everything must give way to the responsibilities of the rank.

"Will your ladyship take luncheon at half-past one, and tea at half-past five, and dinner at eight?"

"Yes, now that we know them, these hours will suit me perfectly. We do not in our own country take tea before dinner, but after it. That is nothing, however. And supper?"

"Your ladyship can have supper whenever you want it," replied the maid. She hesitated for a moment and then went on. "It is not usual for supper to be served at all."

"Oh! then we must go without."

By this time her husband was dressed, and, obedient to instruction, he had put on his new dress-coat, without, however, making any alteration in the rest of his morning garments. The effect, therefore, when they descended to the drawing-room would have been very startling, but for the fact that there was nobody to see it.

If luncheon was a great meal, dinner was far more magnificent and stately; only there were two footmen instead of one, and his lordship felt that he could not do that justice to the dinner which the dinner deserved, because those two great hulking fellows in livery watched him all the time. After dinner they sat in the great drawing-room, feeling very magnificent, and yet uncomfortable.

"The second dinner," said his lordship, in a half-whisper, "made me feel, Clara Martha, that we did right to leave Canaan City. I never before knew what they really meant by enjoying a title, and I don't think I ever thoroughly enjoyed it before. The red mullet was beautiful, and the little larks in paper baskets made me feel a lord all over."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE SAME SIGNS

"This he has done for love."

When Angela returned to her dressmakery, it was with these words ringing in her ears, like some refrain which continually returns and will not be silenced.

"This he has done – for love."

It was a great deal to do – a great deal to give up; she fully realized, after her talk with Lord Jocelyn, how much it was that he had given up – at her request. What had she herself done, she asked, in comparison? She had given money – anybody could give money. She had lived in disguise, under false pretences, for a few months; but she never intended to go on living in the East End, after she had set her association on a firm basis. To be sure, she had been drawn on into wider schemes, and could not retire until these, including the Palace of Delight, were well started. But this young man had given up all, cheerfully, for her sake. Because she was a dressmaker, and lived at Stepney, he would be a workman and live there as well. For her sake he had given up for ever the life of ease and culture which might have been his, among the gentlefolk to whom he belonged; for her sake he left the man who stood to him in loco parentis; for her sake he gave up all things that are dear to young men, and became a servant. And without a murmur. She watched him going to his work in the morning, cheerful, with the sunshine ever in his face – in fact, sunshine lived there – his head erect, his eyes fearless, not repenting at all of his choice, perhaps hopeful that in the long run those impediments spoken of might be removed; in that hope he lived. Should that hope be disappointed – what then? Only to have loved, to have sacrificed so much for the sake of love, Angela said to herself, thinking of something she had read, was enough. Then she laughed, because this was so silly, and the young man deserved to have some reward.

Then, as a first result of this newly acquired knowledge, the point of view seemed changed. Quite naturally, after the first surprise at finding so much cultivation in a working-man, she regarded him, like all the rest, from her own elevated platform. In the same way he, from his own elevation, had been, in a sense, looking down upon herself, though she did not suspect the fact. One might pause here, in order to discuss how many kinds of people do consider themselves on a higher level than their neighbors. My own opinion is that every man thinks himself on so very high a platform as to entitle him to consider the greater part of mankind quite below him; the fact that no one else thinks so has nothing to do with it. Any one, however, can understand how Angela would at first regard Harry, and Harry the fair dressmaker. Further, that, whatever acquaintance or intimacy grew up between them, the first impression would always remain, with the mental attitude of a slight superiority in both minds, so long as the first impression, the first belief as to the real facts, was not removed. Now that it was removed on one side, Angela, for her part, could no longer look down; there was no superiority left, except in so far as the daughter of a Whitechapel brewer might consider herself of finer clay than the son of a sergeant in the army, also of Whitechapel origin.

All for love of her.

The words filled her heart: they made her cheeks burn and her eyes glow. It seemed so great and noble a thing to do; so grand a sacrifice to make.

She remembered her words of contempt when, in a shamefaced, hesitating way, as if it was something wrong, he had confessed that he might go back to a life of idleness. Why, she might have known – she ought to have known – that it was not to an ignoble life among ignoble people that he would go. Yet she was so stupid.

What a sacrifice to make! And all for love of her!

Then the flower of love sprang up and immediately blossomed, and was a beauteous rose, ready for her lover to gather and place upon his heart. But as yet she hardly knew it.

Yet she had known all along that Harry loved her. He never tried to conceal his passion. "Why," she said to herself, trying to understand the meaning of the sudden change in herself – "why, it only seemed to amuse me; the thing was absurd; and I felt pity for him, and a little anger because he was so presumptuous; and I was a little embarrassed for fear I had compromised myself with him. But it wasn't absurd at all; and he loves me, though I have no fortune. Oh, heaven! I am a she-Dives, and he doesn't know it, and he loves me all the same."

She was to tell him when the "impediments" were removed. Why, they were removed already. But should she tell him? How could she dare to tell him? No girl likes to do her own wooing; she must be courted; she must be won. Besides – perhaps – but here she smiled – he was not so very much in love, after all. Perhaps he would change; perhaps he would grow tired and go home and desert her; perhaps he would fall in love with some one else. And perhaps Angela, the strong-minded student of Newnham, who would have no love or marriage, or anything of the kind, in her life, was no stronger than any of her sisters at the approach of Love the Unconquered.

She came back the evening after that dinner. Her cheek had a new color upon it; there was a new smile upon her lips; there was a new softness in her eyes.

"You look so beautiful this evening," said Nelly. "Have you been happy while you were away?"

"I have heard something that has made me happier," said Angela. "But you, dear Nelly, have not. Why are your cheeks so pale, and what is the meaning of the dark lines under your eyes?"

"It is nothing," the girl replied quickly. "I am quite well." But she was not. She was nervous and preoccupied. There was something on her mind.

Then Harry came, and they began to pass the evening in the usual way, practising their songs, with music, and the little dance, without which the girls could not have gone away happy. And Angela, for the first time, observed a thing which struck a chill to her heart, and robbed her of half her joy.

Why had she never before discovered this thing? Ah! ignorant maiden, despite the wisdom of the schools. Hypatia herself was not more ignorant than Angela, who knew not that the chief quality of the rose of love in her heart was to make her read the hearts of others. Armed with this magic power, she saw what she might have seen long before.

In the hasty glance, the quick flush, the nervous trembling of her hands, poor Nelly betrayed her secret. And by those signs the other girl, who loved the same man, read that secret.

"O selfish woman!" said Angela's heart. "Is your happiness to be bought at such a cost?"

A girl of lower nature might have been jealous. Angela was not. It seemed to her no sin in Nelly that she thought too much of such a man. But she pitied her. Nor did she, as some women might have done, suspect that Harry had trifled with her feelings. She knew that he had not. She had seen them together, day after day; she knew what his bearing had always been toward her, frank, courteous, and brotherly. He called her by her Christian name; he liked her, her presence was pleasant; she was pretty, sweet, and winning. No: she did not suspect him. And yet, what should she say to the poor girl? How comfort her? How reconcile her to the inevitable sorrow?

"Nelly," she whispered at parting, "if you are unhappy, my child, you must tell me what it is."

"I cannot," Nelly replied. "But oh! do not think about me, Miss Kennedy; I am not worth it."

Perhaps she, too, had read those same signs and knew what they meant.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

HARRY FINDS LIBERTY

Mention has been made of the Stepney Advanced Club, where Dick Coppin thundered, and burning questions were discussed, and debates held on high political points, and where more ideas were submitted and more projects set forth in a single year than in all the rest of London in two years. The members of the Advanced Club were mostly young men, but there was a sprinkling among them of grizzled beards who remembered '48 and the dreams of Chartism. They had got by this time pretty well all they clamored for in their by-gone days, and when they thought of this, and remembered how everything was to go well as soon as the five points of the Charter were carried, and how every thing still remained in the same upside-down, topsy-turvy, one-sided, muddle-headed perverseness just as if those points had not been carried, they became sad. Nevertheless, the habit of demanding remained, because the reformer is like the daughter of the horse-leech, and still cries for more. Yet they had less confidence than of old in the reformer's great nostrum of destruction. The younger men, of course, were quite sure, absolutely sure, that with a little more upsetting and down-pulling the balance would be set right, and a beautiful straight level of universal happiness would be reached.