CHAPTER III.The Father and the Son.
I Will have nothing to do with antecedents. The reader must find themout if he can, as the book must explain what precedes the book.
The past is a tomb. There let events, as well as men, sleep in peace.Fate befal him who disturbs them; and indeed were there not even asort of profanation in raking up things done as well as in troublingthe ashes of the dead, what does man obtain by breaking into the graveof the past? Nothing but dry bones, denuded of all that made theliving act interesting. History is but a great museum of osteology,where the skeletons of great deeds are preserved without themuscles--here a tall fact and there a short one; some sadlydismembered, and all crumbling with age, and covered with dust andcobwebs. Take up a skull, chapfallen as Yorick's. See how it grins atyou with its lank jaws and gumless teeth. See how the vacant socketsof the eyes glare meaningless, and the brow, where high intelligencesat throned, commanding veneration, looks little wiser than a driedpumpkin. And thus--even thus, as insignificant of the living deedsthat have been, are the dry bones of history, needing the inductiveimagination of a Cuvier to clothe them again with the forms that oncethey wore.
No, no, I will have nothing to do with antecedents. They were pastbefore the Tale began, and let them rest.
Nevertheless, it is always well worth while, in order to avoid anylong journeys back, to keep every part of the story going at once, andmanfully to resist both our own inclination and the reader's, tofollow any particular character, or class of characters, or series ofevents. Rather let us, going from scene to scene, and person toperson, as often as it may be necessary, bring them up from the rear.It is likewise well worth while to pursue the career of such newcharacter that may be introduced, till those who are newly madeacquainted with him, have discovered a sufficient portion of hispeculiarities.
I shall therefore beg leave to follow Mr. Wittingham on his wayhomeward; but first I will ask the reader to remark him as he pausesfor a moment at the inn-door, with worthy Mr. Groomber a step behind.See how the excellent magistrate rubs the little vacant spot betweenthe ear and the wig with the fore-finger of the right-hand, as if hewere a man amazingly puzzled, and then turns his head over hisshoulder to inquire of the landlord if he knows who the two guestsare, without obtaining any further information than that one of themhad been for some weeks in the house--which Mr. Wittingham well knewbefore, he having the organ of Observation strongly developed--andthat the other had just arrived; a fact which was also within theworthy magistrate's previous cognizance.
Mr. Wittingham rubs the organ above the ear again, gets the finger upto Ideality, and rubs that, then round to Cautiousness, and havingslightly excited it with the extreme point of the index of theright-hand, pauses there, as if afraid of stimulating it too strongly,and unmanning his greater purposes. But it is a ticklish organ, sooncalled into action, in some men, and see how easily Mr. Wittingham hasbrought its functions into operation. He buttons his coat up to thechin as if it were winter, and yet it is as mild an evening as onecould wish to take a walk in by the side of a clear stream, with thefair moon for a companion, or something fairer still. It is evidentthat Cautiousness is at work at a terrible rate, otherwise he wouldnever think of buttoning up his coat on such a night as that; and nowwithout another word to the landlord, he crosses the street, and bendshis steps homeward with a slow, thoughtful, vacillating step,murmuring to himself two or three words which our friend Ned Haywardhad pronounced, as if they contained some spell which forced histongue to their repetition.
"Very like me," he said, "very like me? Hang the fellow! Very like me!Why, what the devil--he can't mean to accuse me of robbing thecarriage. Very like me! Then, as the mischief must have it, that itshould be Mrs. Clifford too! I shall have roystering Sir John upon myback--'pon my life, I do not know what to do. Perhaps it would bebetter to be civil to these two young fellows, and ask them to dinner;though I do not half like that Beauchamp--I always thought there wassomething suspicious about him with his grave look, and his longsolitary walks, nobody knowing him, and he knowing nobody. Yet thisCaptain Hayward seems a great friend of his, and he is a friend of SirJohn's--so he must be somebody--I wonder who the devil he is?Beauchamp?--Beauchamp? I shouldn't wonder if he were some manrusticated from Oxford. I'll write and ask Henry. He can most likelytell."
The distance which Mr. Wittingham had to go was by no means great, forthe little town contained only three streets--one long one, and twoothers leading out of it. In one of the latter, or rather at the endof one of the latter, for it verged upon the open country beyond thetown, was a large house, his own particular dwelling, built upon therise of the hill, with large gardens and pleasure-grounds surroundingit, a new, well-constructed, neatly pointed, brick wall, two greengates, and sundry conservatories. It had altogether an air offreshness and comfort about it which was certainly pleasant to lookupon; but it had nothing venerable. It spoke of fortunes lately made,and riches fully enjoyed, because they had not always been possessed.It was too neat to be picturesque, too smart to be in good taste. Iwas a bit of Clapham or Tooting transported a hundred or two milesinto the country--very suburban indeed!
And yet it is possible that Mr. Wittingham had never seen Clapham inhis life, or Tooting either; for he had been born in the town where henow lived, had accumulated wealth, as a merchant on a small scale, ina sea-port town about fifty miles distant; had improved considerably,by perseverance, a very limited stock of abilities; and, having doneall this in a short time, had returned at the age of fifty, to enactthe country gentleman in his native place. With the ordinary ambitionof low minds, however, he wished much that his origin, and the meansof his rise should be forgotten by those who knew them, concealed fromthose who did not; and therefore he dressed like a country gentleman,spoke like a country gentleman, hunted with the fox-hounds, and added"J. P." to his "Esquire."
Nevertheless, do what he would, there was something of his formercalling that still remained about him. It is a dirty world this welive in, and every thing has its stain. A door is never painted fiveminutes, but some indelible finger-mark is printed on it; a table isnever polished half an hour, but some drop of water falls and spotsit. Give either precisely the same colour again, if you can! Eachtrade, each profession, from the shopkeeper to the prime minister,marks its man more or less for life, and I am not quite sure that thestamp of one is much fouler than that of another. There is greatvulgarity in all pride, and most of all in official pride, and thedifference between that vulgarity, and the vulgarity of inferioreducation is not in favour of the former; for it affects the mind,while the other principally affects the manner.
Heaven and earth, what a ramble I have taken! but I will go back againgently by a path across the fields. Something of the merchant, thesmall merchant, still hung about Mr. Wittingham. It was not alone thathe kept all his books by double entry, and even in his magisterialcapacity, when dealing with rogues and vagabonds, had a sort of debtorand creditor account with them, very curious in its items; neither wasit altogether that he had a vast idea of the importance of wealth, andlooked upon a good banker's book, with heavy balance in favour, as thechief of the cardinal virtues; but there were various peculiarities ofmanner and small traits of character, which displayed the habit ofmind to inquiring eyes very remarkably. His figures of speech,whenever he forgot himself for a moment were all of thecounting-house: when on the bench he did not know what to do with hislegs for want of a high stool; but the trait with which we have mostto do was a certain propensity to inquire into the solidity andmonetary respectability of all men, whether they came intorelationship with himself or not. He looked upon them all as "Firms,"with whom at some time he might have to transact business; and I muchdoubt whether he did not mentally put "and Co.," to the name of everyone of his acquaintances. Now Beauchamp and Co. puzzled him; hedoubted that the house was firm; he could make nothing out of theiraffairs; he had not, since Mr. Beauchamp first appeared in the place,been able even to get a glimpse of their transactions; and thou
gh itwas but a short distance, as I have said, from the inn to his owndwelling, before he had reached the latter, he had asked himself atleast twenty times, "Who and what Mr. Beauchamp could be?"
"I should like to look at his ledger," said Mr. Wittingham to himselfat length, as he opened his gate and went in; but there was a bookopen for Mr. Wittingham in his own house, which was not likely to showa very favourable account.
Although the door of Mr. Wittingham's house, which was a glass door,stood confidingly unlocked as long as the sun was above the horizon,yet Mr. Wittingham had always a pass-key in his pocket, and when thefirst marble step leading from the gravel walk up to the entrance wasfound, the worthy magistrate's hand was always applied to an aperturein his upper garment just upon the haunch, from which the key was sureto issue forth, whether the door was open or not.
The door, however, was now shut, and the pass-key proved serviceable;but no sooner did Mr. Wittingham stand in the passage of his ownmansion than he stopped short in breathless and powerlessastonishment; for there before him stood two figures in closeconfabulation, which he certainly did not expect to see in that place,at that time, in such near proximity.
The one was that of a woman, perhaps fifty-five years of age, but wholooked still older from the fact of being dressed in the mode ofthirty years before. Her garments might be those of an upper servant,and indeed they were so; for the personage was neither more nor lessthan the housekeeper; but to all appearance she was a resuscitatedhousekeeper of a former age; for the gown padded in a long roll justunder the blade-bones, the straight cut bodice, the tall butflat-crowned and wide-spreading cap, were not of the day in which shelived, and her face too was as dry as the outer shell of a cocoa-nut.The other figure had the back turned to the door, and was evidentlyspeaking earnestly to Mrs. Billiter; but it was that of a man, tall,and though stiffly made, yet sinewy and strong.
Mr. Wittingham's breath came thick and short, but the noise of hissuddenly opening the door, and his step in the hall, made thehousekeeper utter a low cry of surprise, and her male companion turnquickly round. Then Mr. Wittingham's worst apprehensions wererealised, for the face he saw before him was that of his own son,though somewhat disfigured by an eye swollen and discoloured, and adeep long cut just over it on the brow.
The young man seemed surprised and confounded by the unexpectedapparition of his father, but it was too late to shirk the encounter,though he well knew it would not be a pleasant one. He was accustomed,too, to scenes of altercation with his parent, for Mr. Wittingham hadnot proceeded wisely with his son, who was a mere boy when he himselfretired from business. He had not only alternately indulged him andthwarted him; encouraged him to spend money largely, and to dazzle theeyes of the neighbours by expense, at the same time limiting his meansand exacting a rigid account of his payments; but as the young man hadgrown up he had continued sometimes to treat him as a boy, sometimesas a man; and while he more than connived at his emulating the greatin those pleasures which approach vices, he denied him the sums bywhich such a course could alone be carried out.
Thus a disposition, naturally vehement and passionate, had beenrendered irritable and reckless, and a character self-willed andperverse had become obstinate and disobedient. Dispute after disputearose between father and son after the spoilt boy became the daringand violent youth, till at length Mr. Wittingham, for the threefoldpurpose of putting him under some sort of discipline, of removing himfrom bad associates, and giving him the tone of a gentleman, had senthim to Oxford. One year had passed over well enough, but at thecommencement of the second year, Mr. Wittingham found that hisnotions of proper economy were very different from his son's, and thatOxford was not likely to reconcile the difference. He heard of himhorse-racing, driving stagecoaches, betting on pugilists, gambling,drinking, getting deeper and deeper in debt; and his letters ofremonstrance were either not answered at all, or answered withcontempt.
A time had come, however, when the absolute necessity of recruitinghis finances from his father's purse had reduced the youth to promisesof amendment and a feigned repentance; and just at the time our taleopens, the worthy magistrate was rocking himself in the cradle ofdelusive expectations, and laying out many a plan for the future lifeof his reformed son, when suddenly as we have seen, he found himstanding talking to the housekeeper in his own hall with the marks ofa recent scuffle very visible on his face.
The consternation of Mr. Wittingham was terrible; for though by nomeans a man of ready combinations in any other matter than pounds,shillings and pence, his fancy was not so slow a beast as to fail injoining together the description which Ned Hayward had given of themarks he had set upon one of the worthy gentlemen who had been foundattacking Mrs. Clifford's carriage, and the cuts and bruises upon thefair face of his gentle offspring. He had also various private reasonsof his own for supposing that such an enterprise as that which hadbeen interrupted in Tarningham-lane, as the place was called, mightvery well come within the sphere of his son's energies, and for amoment he gave himself up to a sort of apathetic despair, seeing allhis fond hopes of rustic rule and provincial importance dashed to theground by the conduct of his own child.
It was reserved for that child to rouse him from his stupor, however;for, though undoubtedly the apparition of his father was any thing butpleasant to Henry Wittingham, at that particular moment, when he wasarranging with the housekeeper (who had aided to spoil him with allher energies) that he was to have secret board and lodging in thehouse for a couple of days, without his parent's knowledge, yet hiswas a bold spirit, not easily cowed, and much accustomed to outfacecircumstances however disagreeable they might be. Marching straight upto his father then, without a blush, as soon as he had recovered fromthe first surprise, he said, "So, you see I have come back, Sir, for aday or two to worship my household gods, as we say at Oxford, and toget a little more money; for you did not send me enough. However, itmay be as well, for various reasons, not to let people know that I amhere. Our old dons do not like us to be absent without leave, and maythink that I ought to have notified to them my intention of giving yousuch an agreeable surprise."
Such overpowering impudence was too much for Mr. Wittingham'spatience, the stock of which was somewhat restricted; and he firstswore a loud and very unmagisterial oath; then, however, recollectinghimself, without abating one particle of his wrath, he said in a sterntone, and with a frowning brow, "Be so good as to walk into that roomfor five minutes, Sir."
"Lord, Sir, don't be angry," exclaimed the housekeeper, who did not atall like the look of her master's face, "it is only a frolic, Sir."
"Hold your tongue, Billiter! you are a fool," thundered Mr.Wittingham. "Walk in there, Sir, and you shall soon hear my mind as toyour frolics."
"Oh, certainly, I will walk in," replied his son, not appearing in theleast alarmed, though there was something in the expression of hisfather's countenance that did frighten him a little, because he hadnever seen that something before--something difficult to describe--astruggle as it were with himself, which showed the anger he felt to bemore profound than he thought it right to show all at once. "Icertainly will walk in and take a cup of tea if you will give me one,"and as he spoke he passed the door into the library.
"You will neither eat nor drink in this house more, till your conductis wholly changed, Sir," said Mr. Wittingham, shutting the door behindhim, "the books are closed, Sir--there is a large balance against you,and that must be liquidated before they can be opened again. Whatbrought you here?"
"What I have said," answered the young man, beginning to feel that hissituation was not a very good one, but still keeping up his affectedcomposure, "the yearnings of filial affection and a lack ofpocket-money."
"So, you can lie too, to your father," said Mr. Wittingham, bitterly."You will find that I can tell the truth however, and to begin, I willinform you of what brought you hither--but no, it would take too muchtime to do that; for the sooner you are gone the better for yourselfand all concerned--you must go, Sir, I tell you--yo
u must godirectly."
A hesitation had come upon Mr. Wittingham while he spoke; his voiceshook, his lip quivered, his tall frame was terribly agitated; and hisson attributed all these external signs of emotion to a very differentcause from the real one. He thought he saw in them the symptoms of arelenting parent, or at least of an irresolute one, and he prepared toact accordingly; while his father thought of nothing but the danger ofhaving him found in his house, after the commission of such an outrageas that which he had perpetrated that night; but the very thought madehim tremble in every limb--not so much for his son indeed, as forhimself.
"I beg pardon, my dear Sir," replied the young man, recovering all hisown impudence at the sight of his father's agitation; "but it wouldnot be quite convenient for me to go to-night. It is late, I am tired;my purse is very empty."
"Pray how did you get that cut upon your head?" demanded themagistrate, abruptly.
"Oh, a little accident," replied his son; "it is a merescratch--nothing at all."
"It looks very much like a blow from the butt-end of a heavyhorsewhip," said his father, sternly; "just such as a man who hadstopped two ladies in a carriage, might receive from a strong arm cometo their rescue. You do not propose to go then? Well, if that be thecase, I must send for the constable and give you into his hands, forthere is an information laid against you for felony, and witnessesready to swear to your person. Shall I ring the bell, or do you go?"
The young man's face had turned deadly pale, and he crushed the twosides of his hat together between his hands. He uttered but one word,however, and that was, "Money."
"Not a penny," answered Mr. Wittingham, turning his shoulder, "not onepenny, you have had too much already--you would make me bankrupt andyourself too." The next moment, however, he continued, "Stay; on onecondition, I will give you twenty pounds."
"What is it?" asked the son, eagerly, but somewhat fiercely too, forhe suspected that the condition would be hard.
"It is that you instantly go back to Oxford, and swear by all you holdsacred--if you hold any thing sacred at all--not to quit it for twelvemonths, or till Mary Clifford is married."
"You ask what I cannot do," said the son, in a tone of deep and bitterdespondency, contrasting strangely with that which he had previouslyused; "I cannot go back to Oxford. You must know all in time, and mayas well know it now--I am expelled from Oxford; and you had your sharein it, for had you sent me what I asked, I should not have been drivento do what I have done. I cannot go back; and as to abandoning mypursuit of Mary Clifford, I will not do that either. I love her, andshe shall be mine, sooner or later, let who will say no."
"Expelled from Oxford!" cried Mr. Wittingham, with his eyes almoststarting from their sockets. "Get out of my sight, and out of myhouse; go where you will---do what you will--you are no son of mineany more. Away with you, or I will myself give you into custody, andsign the warrant for your committal. Not a word more, Sir, begone; youmay take your clothes, if you will, but let me see no more of you. Icast you off; begone, I say."
"I go," answered his son, "but one day you will repent of this, andwish me back, when perhaps you will not be able to find me."
"No fear of that," answered Mr. Wittingham, "if you do not return tillI seek you, the house will be long free from your presence. Away withyou at once, and no more words."
Without reply, Henry Wittingham quitted the room, and hurried up tothe bed-chamber, which he inhabited when he was at home, openedseveral drawers, and took out various articles of dress, and somevaluable trinkets--a gold chain, a diamond brooch, two or threejewelled pins and rings. He lingered a little, perhaps fancying thathis father might relent, perhaps calculating what his own conductshould be when he was summoned back to the library. But when he hadbeen about five minutes in his chamber, there was a tap at the door;and the housekeeper came in.
"It is no use, Billiter," said the young man, "I am going. My fatherhas treated me shamefully."
"It is no use indeed, Master Harry," replied the good woman, "he is ashard as stone. I have said every thing he would let me say, but hedrove me out of the room like a wild beast. But don't give it up,Master Harry. Go away for a day or two to Burton's Inn, byChandleigh--he'll come round in time, and you can very well spend aweek or so there, and be very comfortable."
"But money, Billiter, money!" exclaimed the young man, whose heart hadsunk again to find that all his expectations of his father'sresolution giving way were vain. "What shall I do for money?"
"Stay a bit, stay a bit," said the good woman; "what I have got youmay have, Master Harry, as welcome as the flowers in May. I've tenpounds here in this little purse;" and she dived into one of the largepockets that hung outside of her capacious petticoat, producing a verydirty, old knitted purse with a steel clasp, and adding, as she put itin her young master's hand, "It is a pity now that Mr. Wittinghamwheedled me into putting all the rest of my earnings into theTarningham bank, where he has a share---but that will do for thepresent, if you are careful, Master Harry--but don't go to drinkclaret and such expensive nasty stuff, there's a good boy."
"That I won't, Billiter," answered Henry Wittingham, pocketing themoney without remorse of conscience, "and I will repay you when Ican--some day or another I shall certainly be able, for the houses atExmouth are settled upon me;" and packing up all that he thought fitto take in a large silk-handkerchief, he opened the door again, andbegan to descend the stairs. A chilly sensation crept over him ere hereached the bottom, as memory brought back happy days, and he thoughtthat he was going forth from the home of his youth, perhaps for ever,that he was an exile from his father's dwelling, from his love, anoutcast, a wanderer, with nothing but his own wayward spirit for hisguide--nought but his own pride for his support. He was not yetsufficiently hardened to bear the shadow of his exile lightly, to lookupon it as a relief from restraint, a mere joyous adventure whichwould have its interest during its progress, and would soon be over.But, nevertheless, his pride was strong, and as yet unchecked; andwhen the thought of going back to his father, asking his forgiveness,and promising all that he required, crossed his mind, he cast it fromhim with disdain, saying, "Never! never! He shall ask me humblyfirst." And, with this very lowly determination, he walked out of thehouse.
"I shall be able to hear of you at Burton's, by Chandleigh," said thehousekeeper, as he stood on the top step.
"Yes, yes, you will hear of me there," he replied, and descending thesteps, he was soon wandering in darkness amongst parterres, every stepof the way being as familiar to him as his father's library.
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