"For the servant to show you to the door."
"I do not need him; I know my way out. Your time is valuable, and it is inconsiderate of me to take up so much of it. Is my mother in?"
"No."
"I am sorry; I wished to see her. She is well, I hope."
"Quite well. She has not a sorrow in the world. And now, for the last time, leave the room-and the house."
His peremptory, harsh tone had no effect upon Kingsley, who, with a genial nod and a "Good-morning, father," left the house with a light step.
In the evening he informed Nansie and Mr. Loveday of his visit to his father, and, to their astonishment, described it as one of a pleasant character. Their astonishment was all the greater when they read a letter which was delivered personally to Kingsley. It was from a firm of lawyers, and was written in accordance with instructions received from Mr. Manners. In the first place it conveyed an intimation that Kingsley would not be allowed again to enter his father's house; in the second place it contained a warning that if he made any further endeavor to force himself into his father's presence, proceedings would be taken against him for the trespass.
"I think," said Kingsley, "that lawyers must have been invented expressly to torment mankind; they never can put a thing pleasantly. My father, I suppose, is too busy to write to me himself, so he told his lawyers to do so, and they, wishing to make things as unpleasant as possible, send me a communication couched in terms which my father would certainly resent. Of course I shall not go to him again until he sends for me."
So saying, he tore up the letter and put it into the fire.
A few days afterwards it was announced in the papers that Mr. Manners had broken up his London establishment, and with his wife and his nephew, Mr. Mark Inglefield, had started on a foreign tour, which was likely to be of long duration. This paragraph was read by Kingsley, and caused in him the first spark of resentment he had exhibited since his return.
"I am sorry," he said, "that my father has taken up with such a man as Mark Inglefield. He is dangerous and coldblooded, and, I am afraid, no friend of mine. Not that I want him for a friend, but that, being with my father, he may say something against us. However, to use your dear mother's saying, Nansie, 'Everything will come right in the end.'"
With this comfortable assurance he dismissed the matter from his mind, as was his habit.
And here the course of our story renders it necessary that the curtain shall fall for a certain time. When it rises again seventeen years will have passed away.
CHAPTER XXIX
Before, however, we join the threads which link the past with the present, we will briefly glance through the years during which Nansie's and Kingsley's daughter grew into the beautiful springtime of young maidenhood, and before whom fair visions rose even in the midst of surroundings pernicious enough to poison the sweetest dreams. They poison many, and the awaking would be sad and bitter were the home influences with which they were from their birth familiar of a purer and more refining nature. In judging them we judge them from our standpoint instead of theirs, and we too often condemn where we should pity. In respect of these influences Nansie's home shone forth a sweet and bright example of what may be accomplished when the early training is good. There were few poorer homes than Nansie's, there were few lives more full of struggle, but she kept herself and those most dear to her pure through all the bitter phases of the battle she was destined to fight. She worked hard, and taxed her strength to the utmost, but she never complained, least of all to or of her husband, who should by right have been the bread-winner. The greatness of the sacrifice he had made for her had, as we have seen, deeply impressed her. At first, it is true, the heavenly glamour of true love had wholly possessed her, but even then, had she known what she learned when it was too late, she would not have accepted the sacrifice, though her heart had been broken. Indeed, in those never-to-be-forgotten days the actual responsibility lay not with her. Kingsley made so light of the difference in their social positions, and she was so entirely guided by him whom she regarded as the king of men, that she had no idea of the extent of his father's wealth or of the difficulties in their way. Had she been aware of these, not only her love for Kingsley, but her practical good sense and self-respect, would have effectually directed her not to yield to his implorings. But these hidden from her, she followed the dictates of her heart. All the more devoted and considerate towards him was she when she learned the truth; all the more noble did his conduct appear in her eyes. If reproach lay at either door, it lay at hers; if either of them had the right to complain, it was he. In the early days of their union she had discovered that he was deficient in those qualities which are necessary to fight the hard battle of life even with moderate success. Should she blame him for this? What right had she to do so? He had not deceived her, and his prospects and education had not been of a nature to render him fit for the cruel battle. All the more was he to be pitied; all the more need was there that she should show him the tenderest consideration. And she did so. Willingly did she take upon her own shoulders the burden of the struggle, and worked cheerfully and willingly with heaviest odds against her. From the effects of the railway accident he never recovered, and his memory never returned to him. Although he did little to help the home, his gentleness, his contentment with a crust, his light-heartedness, brightened it. And so they went on to middle age, with a full measure of love to lighten their lot.
CHAPTER XXX
At the end of seventeen years we renew our acquaintance with the personages who play their part in this story; but before they are reintroduced it will be pertinent to touch upon certain political changes which had taken place in the social condition of the people during this period. The growth of these changes had been going on for a great number of years, and the seeds may be said to have been sown with the advent of the cheap press. A slow growth at first, the slender roots beneath the soil having scarcely strength to take firm hold; but as they became stronger they became bolder, and were now winding themselves firmly and stoutly around the roots of the old institutions which, fixed as they had been for centuries, were in this audacious grasp beginning to show signs of weakness and decay. There was a time when what is known as the higher classes would have regarded as incredibly monstrous the idea of affinity between them and those who moved in the lower grooves. There was a time when the lower classes themselves would have regarded as the height of effrontery the idea of raising their eyes in any other than a timid way to the higher classes who ruled and dominated them. That time is past, never to be revived. There exist here and there in England instances of feudalism almost as marked as any that can be drawn from the time that is gone. In those places the high hand is still employed to destroy any hope of progress among the people, but these instances are rare, and are becoming still rarer. The penny newspaper has drawn prince and peasant, noble and serf-for we have the latter even in free England-closer together, and has taught the multitude that all men and women are human alike, and that there exists in the upper grades no divine right of power and supremacy. And, strangely enough, it is through this very means that the higher classes have been forced to recognize the power and the might of the lower. This new condition of things has also been promoted by other causes than the advancement of intelligence. The increase of population has forced upon reasoning minds among the people the inevitable necessity of radical changes in the hitherto existing order of things; and the scarecrow of vested interests, which is set up by those who lay claim to them, will be powerless to check the onward march. There are, unhappily, retarding influences, springing from the very vices of the people, which prove stumbling-blocks in every step that is taken or suggested. But for these vices the victims themselves are scarcely to blame. It is not an inherent matter, it is a matter of birth, whether one grows up with the courtly airs of St. James's or with the degrading characteristics of St. Giles's; and it is good to observe that there are statesmen in St. James's who recognize the fact, and who are working honestly and earnestly towards a better end-or, rather, not to speak paradoxically, towards a better beginning. And yet, despite these reflections, society perhaps never labored under greater ills than at present. The ephemeral, vicious fashions of St. James's were never in greater vogue than now; the cunning and vices of St. Giles's were never more conspicuous and apparent. There was a time when much of this, both in the higher and lower classes, was hidden, but in the present day everything is brought to light in the conflict of testimony which a fair-minded survey is forced to perceive. There are cogent and powerful arguments to be adduced in justification by each side against the other, but these are small, meandering rivulets which but slightly affect the rolling of the grand tide. Out of this seeming chaos good must come. It is, as it has ever been, still the fashion of the age-even now that darkness no longer weighs heavily upon it-to shift and evade a responsibility. Thus, the owner of a great landed estate, in portions of which hotbeds of vice and misery can be found, is in the habit of shrugging his shoulders when public attention is directed to them, and of saying, in effect, "It is not my affair, it is the affair of my agents." But this attitude, which springs either from fear, cowardice, or indifference, can no longer be accepted. It is the owner alone who is responsible; it is the owner and the owner alone who thrives and fattens upon these systems, who is in justice accountable for the evils of which he is undoubtedly the breeder; and the attitude he assumes proves him to be unfitted for his responsibilities. The remedy is his to apply, and if he apply it not in time the power of doing so will be taken out of his hands. The present opportunity is his; the future with its dark possibilities lies before him. It is well if he take heed of this before it is too late. Let us present an illustration bearing upon our story.
Two years after Kingsley's return Nansie and her uncle, who constituted the government of ways and means of the household, decided that the rooms they occupied were too dear; they paid for these rooms five shillings a week. They looked out for others, and decided upon two rooms at the top of a house in a narrow court, in comparison with which Church Alley was a paradise. This court was so narrow that the occupants of the houses on either side could hold conversation with each other from opposite windows. The rooms were very small, the ceilings very low, the ventilation horrible, the sanitary arrangements disgraceful-a description of affairs which renders it all the more wonderful how Nansie's daughter, Hester, and how Nansie herself, could have kept themselves pure and sweet in an atmosphere so inimical to healthful moral and physical growth. The court-with other thoroughfares as narrow and stunted and vicious in its immediate neighborhood-was built upon part of an estate which belonged to a family the head of which sat in the House of Lords. There was in the house in which Nansie resided a cellar, politely called a basement. In this cellar were two rooms-one back, one front. The back room had a fireplace, but no window; what light filtered into it was filtered through a pane of glass let into the compartment which divided it from the front room, and as this front room itself could boast of but one window, the light it supplied to its neighbor was of a character so dismal and forlorn as scarcely to relieve the darkness into which, by the laws of its structure, it was plunged. But, indeed, to call it by the name of light was the bitterest of mockeries, not alone because of the small play it had, but because of the dust and cobwebs which covered both sides of the pane of glass. In this back room, however, lived a family of father, mother, and three children, all pigging together-there is no other word to describe it-in the narrow space which may fitly be likened to the Black Hole of Calcutta. They had certainly one advantage-that they could run out when they pleased and breathe the fetid air of the court, and thence into wider thoroughfares where the air was not vile enough to poison them. Had this opportunity not been theirs they would have died in a week. The social station of the head of this family was that of a scavenger, for six months of the year out of work. His wife occasionally got half a day's washing to do; the children were young and helpless, and the life they all lived can be more easily imagined than described. To describe it faithfully would be impossible in the pages or columns of any respectable journal, the details were so frightful and vile. And it is in no class spirit, in no spirit but that of mournfulness and amazement, that the fact is repeated-that the virtual owner of this back cellar sat in the House of Lords.
The front room of the cellar was occupied by a cobbler. The window which supplied light to his room was a practicable one, resembling a shutter of glass, which could be put up and taken down at will; and during the whole of the year, in fair weather or foul-except upon those occasions, which were frequent enough, when he was drunk-the man could be seen by passersby plying his thread and awl. Fortunately for himself and for everybody about him, he was a bachelor.
There were two rooms on the ground-floor, the front occupied by a "baked-tater man," his wife, and two young children. At those periods of the year when baked potatoes with their seasoning of pepper and salt were not in request, the man, being a strict Conservative, was idle, allowing his wife to accompany a friend of his, who drove quite a roaring trade in fairly good neighborhoods with his barrow of seasonable flowers. For this labor she was paid in coin one shilling a day, and a share of his bread and cheese or bread and meat, as well as of the sundry pots of beer his thirsty soul demanded in his peregrinations. Their two children played in the gutters, being not exceptional in this respect, because most of the children in the court found in the gutters a veritable Crystal Palace of delights.
The back room on the ground-floor was occupied by a large family-father, mother, and seven children-all employed from morning till night, and often from night till morning, upon the manufacture of match-boxes, at the rate of two-pence three-farthings a gross. Their united earnings never exceeded fifteen shillings, often were less. Thus the grim effort to make both ends meet, no less than their close and long hours of toil, rendered them white, pinched, haggard-looking, and almost fleshless.
On the first-floor front lived a married couple with an only child. The man had once been a law-writer, probably not a very skilful or capable scribe, seeing he had never been able to save a penny. However, it was here he found himself plunged into poverty's depths and unable to follow his calling, the muscles of his right hand being paralyzed. The wife had become a shirtmaker, and was assisted by her child, a girl of sixteen. Neither of these was a skilful workwoman, and after the payment of their rent there was seldom left at the end of the week more than seven or eight shillings to expend in food.
The first-floor back was tenanted by a widow with two children, twins, a little more than a year old. Being unable to find any other means of living she had, by force of circumstances, drifted into the rear ranks of the ballet, where she helped to fill the stage on a salary of two shillings a night. Commencing late in life to learn to dance, there was for her no hope of promotion in the ranks. Her lot was hard enough, Heaven knows; but she would have found it harder, because of the impossibility of leaving her babies every night for a good many hours together, had it not been for the kindness of the law-writer's wife and daughter, who often looked after them when the mother was absent.
In the rooms on the second floor, which were very small attics with slanting roofs, lived Nansie, Kingsley, and their daughter. Mr. Loveday took his meals with them, but slept elsewhere. The front attic was used as a living-room during the day, and as a bedroom during the night-the shut-up bedstead being sometimes occupied by Kingsley alone and sometimes by Hester. Altogether there slept in this small house twenty-eight persons. The frontage of the house was twelve feet, its depth twenty feet; and it will be gathered from these dimensions how utterly unsuitable it was in the way of health and morals for so large a number of occupants. In this respect anything more vicious can scarcely be imagined, and yet this house was but one of many built upon land owned by an enormously wealthy man, one who helped to make laws for the social regeneration of the people. Were the facts forced upon his knowledge in the way of accusation, he would doubtless plead ignorance of the circumstances, as others have pleaded before him; but this convenient blindness to the truth will not serve; this convenient shifting of responsibility is of no avail; an unfaithful steward he has been, and an unfaithful steward he remains.
CHAPTER XXXI
It was a great night at the Wilberforce Club, and the members mustered in force. Numbers were unable to obtain admission, and the spaces outside the room in which the club held its meetings were thronged by working-men and lads, many of them members of the Wilberforce. These, although disappointed at being shut out, did not give vent to their feelings in the shape of grumbling, but good-humoredly accepted the position, and split themselves into convenient knots for the purposes of discussion.
The Wilberforce was a working-man's club, similar in its nature and aims to the numerous institutions of a like character which exist in the centres of labor in all the great towns and cities of the kingdom. It commenced with small beginnings, the original number of members being twelve, who met weekly at the lodgings of one or the other for the purpose of discussing political matters affecting themselves. A very short time passed before others made application to be allowed to join the band of twelve, and then the idea was formed of organizing a working-man's club, to be called the Wilberforce. The originator of this movement was a man of strong opinions, by trade a carpenter. He was a ready orator, and he ruled over his followers by force of this gift, as well as by the superior knowledge he possessed of the movements of the age in which he lived. It may not be uninteresting to place upon record a report of the meeting at which the club may have said to have been born.
By consent of a licensed victualler it was held in a room in the "Three Jolly Butcher Boys," a noted public-house in the neighborhood. There were some thirty persons present, all humble, earnest, hard-working laborers in different crafts. Mr. Bartholomew, the carpenter and initiator of the movement, elected himself into the chair.
"We are only a scattered body as yet," he said, "and none of us has the proper authority to propose and second a chairman, so by your leave-" He moved to the head of the table and seated himself. Drawing out his two-foot rule he used it as a mace to rap the table.
"A dozen of us," he said, rising to his feet when all the others were seated and silent, "have been meeting for a little while past at one place and another, with a notion that opening our minds to each other wouldn't do any harm. That has been proved; it has done good. There ain't one of the dozen who don't understand the rights and wrongs of things better than he did before. Now, this was no hole-and-corner affair, and as it's got about, and as there's a wish of a good many others to join us, why, I say, 'Join us and welcome.'"
There was a murmur of approval, and a general rapping of knuckles and scraping of feet on the part of the original eleven.
"The more the merrier, I say," continued Mr. Bartholomew. "What we are working for, or what we are going to work for, is the general good of all alike-in a fair way, mind! Nothing wrong, nothing violent-"
"Hear, hear," from the auditors.
"Everything constitutional. When my wife doesn't agree with me, I don't knock her down, as brutes do, I argue with her; if that don't make her agree with me, I keep on arguing with her; and if she's that obstinate that she won't agree with me even then, I go on arguing with her; and the upshot of it is that I fairly wear her down, and in the end she's bound to agree with me."
Murmurs of approval and a little laughter from the audience, with here and there a sotto-voce remark: "Bartholomew knows what he's about."
"Now," pursued Mr. Bartholomew, "that's what I call constitutional. I don't mean to say that I ain't open to conviction myself; but when a man knows he's right, all that he's got to do is to go ahead-always in a constitutional way. Now there's the government-it's right, or it's wrong. If it's right, let it remain as it is; if it's wrong, it's got to be altered."
"It's wrong, that's what it is," blurted out a working-man.
"Not so fast, not so fast," said Mr. Bartholomew; "saying it's wrong don't make it so. We've got to find it out by argument and open minds, constitutionally, and that ain't a thing for to-night; and it ain't a thing that can be settled in a day, or a week, or a month, or a year. It'll take time, because-I don't mind confessing to you my opinion-that what's got to be done is no trifling matter; it's a mighty matter, mates, with kings and queens, and princes and princesses, and prime-ministers and chancellors of the exchequer, all mixed up in it. Do you know what I call those ladies and gentlemen, mates? I call them the frillings. The solid mass, the real body, is here." He gave the table a great thump with his fist.
"Bravo, Bartholomew!" from many voices. "We've got a man at the head of us!"
The excitement was beginning to rise.
"You ain't got anybody at the head of you. All that sort of thing-forming ourselves into an institution, election of officers, and so on-has got to be done. We're just now having a little friendly chat before dinner. Yes, mates, we are the solid body of the country, and it has struck me for a long time past that the time has come for us to make ourselves known and heard. I won't quite say that it's a matter of mathematics, but it is a matter of numbers. Every man has two arms and two legs-except those that's got wooden ones-a head to think, and often think wrongly, mind you, a heart to love, and a stomach to fill, which, if you don't fill, plays the very devil with you. There's something in Coriolanus-"
"Where's that?" cried one, interrupting the other.
"'Where's that,' Bill?" echoed Mr. Bartholomew. "It ain't a 'where' at all; it's a who. Coriolanus was a great general; and when the institution is formed, which we have met to-night to form, I hope you'll read about him in William Shakespeare; for what we're going to have in that institution, besides other things that's got to be settled, is books, mates."
"Hear, hear."
"And papers."
"Hear, hear."
"A little idea just comes to my mind. There's a good number of men in the world pretty much like boxes, shut up tight, locked up tighter. We're going to open those boxes; we're going to unlock 'em; we're goin' to let panes of glass into 'em, that the light can be seen through."
"Bravo! bravo! bravo!" from all parts of the room.
"Because, mates, don't you make any mistake. The fault doesn't lie with the ladies and gentlemen I made mention of a minute or two ago, it lies with us; and if we don't help ourselves-constitutionally, mind-we can't expect anybody else to help us. They're not wrong. I don't blame 'em, much" – and there was a touch of humor in his manner of uttering this small word which caused general laughter-"I blame ourselves. I was saying that every man has the regulation number of limbs and members, the regulation measure of appetite, the regulation instincts, sentiments, and all that sort of thing, and I was going to say, when I was interrupted, that you'll find something in Coriolanus about the stomach which rather bears upon the point. I dare say there are one or two in the room who'll remember my mentioning this at a meeting before the last general election, when I spoke against the Conservative candidate. It was a Conservative meeting, and the hall was pretty well packed with one-siders, but the candidate-a gentleman, mates-got me a fair hearing, and I was listened to. Yes, you were there, and you" – pointing to two in the room who nodded gravely. "Well, when I'd done about this Coriolanus and the stomach business, up gets the Conservative candidate and says: 'I don't for a moment doubt that our good friend, Mr. Bartholomew'-he knew my name; I handed it up to him on paper, not having an engraved card-"
"Ha! ha! ha!" from the back of the room.
Mr. Bartholomew looked severely in that direction, and said:
"What are you ha-ha-ha-ing about? Do you think I want to make a point against gentlemen who carry cards? You're mistaken, though perhaps I too was wrong in the way I put it. 'I don't for a moment doubt,' said the Conservative candidate, 'that our good friend, Mr. Bartholomew, who I hope one day will blossom into a good Conservative'-between you and me, mates, that will be never."
"Hear, hear."
"'I don't for a moment doubt that he is right about what he says of Coriolanus and the application of it. I don't remember the lines myself, but I will take them from him, and I will give him an answer in an anecdote. There was a serpent once, a regulation serpent, a twining, slimy, creeping, crawling reptile, with head and tail, and all other necessary parts. Now, Mr. Bartholomew knows that it is a law of nature for serpents that in going through life the head goes first. I don't know exactly how old the serpent was when its tail ranged itself upon what I may call the opposition side. It said to the head: "Look here, I ain't going to be dragged about in this manner all day long, and all night long, just where you like to take me. I won't stand it. It's my turn for an innings; fair play is fair play." All the other parts of the serpent joined in the argument, and the tail was so noisy and blustering that it carried along with it every bit of the serpent but the head. Now, it unfortunately happened,' said the Conservative candidate, 'that this particular head of this particular serpent was weak-minded; anyhow, it was foolish enough to say: "Put it to the vote, and I'll stand by it. You shall decide who goes first, the tail or me." It was put to the vote, and it was decided by a large majority that the tail was right, and that it ought to have an innings. "Very well," says the head, I resign." Then the tail, crying, "Come along," took command. But, my friends,' said the Conservative candidate, 'you don't need to be told-though perhaps it will enlighten Mr. Bartholomew-that the eyes of a serpent's body are in its head, and not in its tail, and that as the tail dragged its way along it couldn't see where it was going. It got into a prickly hedge, and when the other portions of the body felt the sting and the pain they cried out: "What are you about?" "Oh, that's nothing," answered the tail, working its way out of the prickly hedge, I am new to the business, that's all; you must put up with a mistake or two-that's only fair, you know." "Yes, yes," said the other parts of the body; "go on, go on." He did, and came to a part of the forest where there was a smouldering fire. Straight into this fire crept the tail, and, maddened with pain, crept farther into it, hoping to escape, and in less than no time the tail and the other rebellious parts of the body were burned to ashes. The head alone remained.'"
Mr. Bartholomew paused for a moment or two, and then said:
"I see some of you fidgeting at your pipes. Fill 'em and smoke 'em. We're not regularly formed, and whether we shall always be at liberty to smoke while we're talking is a matter for you to settle by and by."
The pipes being filled and lighted, Mr. Bartholomew went on.
"That was the story the Conservative candidate told, and it set the packed meeting cheering and laughing to that degree that I couldn't get in another word, and was supposed to be settled. But the Conservative candidate made a great many serious mistakes in that illustration. He intended to liken the government of England, and everybody else in it, to one single being; whether it was beast, bird, or fish don't matter, because it won't do, mates, because it doesn't apply. True enough there must be a head to all constituted societies, to all forms of government, but, mates-"
And here the speaker rested his two hands upon the table and bent earnestly forward.
"We who are governed have eyes; we're not like the serpent's tail-we can see where we're going. The road is stretched before us, and our eyes are open. The serpent's tail not only had no eyes, he had no brains-we have, and we can judge. The serpent's tail not only had no eyes and no brains, it had no heart-we have, and we can see and judge, and love and suffer and enjoy with as large a capacity as those who govern us. I don't for one moment believe that the view the Conservative candidate took-he didn't get in, you know, mates-"
"Ha, ha, ha!" from the audience.