Delphi Collected Works of Ouida

by Ouida

  The Philistine minister looks at the disorder of the chamber with some surprise, and seats himself unbidden.

  “My dear Bertram,” he says, rather distantly, “old acquaintance should not be forgot. Its memories bring me here to-day.”

  “Thanks,” says Bertram, equally coldly; and looks an interrogation.

  Sir Henry coughs.

  “You have a good many protégés amongst the lower classes, I think?”

  “I deny that there is a lower class.”

  “I know you do. But let us for the moment use the language of a benighted and unkind world. Your peculiar views of duty have led you into forming these associations which cannot be agreeable to your taste. But did it not occur to you that they might be compromising as well as — as rather unrefined?”

  “Pray explain yourself,” says Bertram, with hostility in his tone.

  Sir Henry feels nettled at the manner in which his amiably intended visit is received.

  “Certainly,” he says. “In two words, you have a friend of the name of Hopper?”

  Bertram colours.

  “Frederic Hopper, yes. A very unfortunate person, originally a victim of the London police.”

  “Possibly. The police are always accused of being oppressors or accomplices,” continues the minister. “This person is known to them as ‘Wet Whistle,’ because he has exaggerated views of the medicinal value of stimulants. This victim came again in collision with the brute force of the police early this morning, and you were present.”

  Bertram is silent, conscious that the episode is not heroic.

  “Mr. Frederic Hopper does not interest me in the least,” says Stanhope, with culpable heartlessness;— “but it seems you used very singular language to the constables in the Park; and when the man was brought before the Westminster police-court he gave your name as that of the person who had indoctrinated him with subversive views, and it seems that you admitted having done so to the constables in Hyde Park, and stated that you deserved arrest more than did this man Hopper. The police, of course, reported all that you said at headquarters; and you are likely to be very seriously annoyed about this matter. It is very dangerous to play at anarchism in these days—”

  “If any one is to blame, it is I rather than Hopper; but there is no question of anarchism.”

  “I should certainly consider you the more to blame of the two. A magistrate would take the same view. The Chief Commissioner is of opinion that you ought to have been arrested with Hopper, since he places all the blame of the subversive principles which he had been delivering in public upon you.”

  Bertram does not reply.

  “He states that you had repeatedly wanted him to place explosives in public buildings, and that you had promised him the run of the cellars of Buckingham Palace, if he would throw a hand grenade into the royal carriage as the Queen drives from Paddington Station next Monday.”

  Bertram smiles faintly.

  “Are you sure that these vivid romances are not composed in Scotland Yard?”

  Sir Henry is thoroughly annoyed.

  “No, sir. Scotland Yard has too many real tragedies to deal with to have time or patience to compose mock melodramas. The man Hopper said this, and much more, inculpating you as an anarchist. All this might have passed as a drunken ranter’s ravings, but unfortunately there were your published opinions in that organ of yours, the Age to Come. The magistrate, Mr.

  Adeane, being acquainted with these, thought the matter serious enough to communicate with me, whilst he committed the fellow for seven days. Mr. Adeane was justly of opinion that if you will incite persons to violent and nefarious acts, your social rank and intellectual culture ought not to save you from punishment.”

  “Certainly they ought not.”

  “Then you do not admit holding such opinions?”

  “No; I am altogether opposed to force; to force of any kind.”

  “Then your protégé lied?”

  “If he used such expressions, yes.”

  “If! Do you suppose a magistrate would send a deposition which was never made to the Home Office? I repeat that what gave weight and credence to this wretched agitator’s accusations of you were the very — very — advanced opinions acknowledged and disseminated by you in the Age to Coyne. Re-read for yourself these passages,” continues Stanhope, taking out his note-book. “Page iv par vi. No. 52; page iii par xi. No. 23; page xix par ii. No. 9; page viii par xv. No. 45 — what is the meaning of such phrases as these?— ‘The poor have always been robbed by capital since the creation of currency and the invention of trade. All excesses are to be excused to them in taking back their own.’ Or this: ‘The rich man, however estimable in private character, is in position a thief, and in conscience a scoundrel.’ Or this: ‘Poor-rates and workhouses are the insult which is added to injury by the rich in their relations with the poor.’ Or this: ‘Nitric acid destroys more readily but not more cruelly than taxation.’”

  “Do you consider these statements unjustified by the state of society?” asks Bertram.

  “I consider them most dangerous when put before illiterate persons,” replies Stanhope. “The half-truths, or the quarter-truths, which they contain, are as poisonous as nux vomica.”

  “Pray, then, let me go and pick oakum with the unfortunate man whom you consider I have contaminated.”

  Stanhope with difficulty keeps down his rising anger.

  “My dear Bertram, I regret that you appreciate my intentions so little. I received the communication I speak of from Mr. Adeane concerning you; and if I had done what I ought I should perhaps have given you some trouble. But I know you; and I know that it is an exaggerated altruism which runs away with you into dangerous places; and that you are the last man in the world to inculcate or to approve of crime.”

  “But what is crime?” murmurs Bertram. “Have not regicides many apologists? Is Carlyle alone in admiring Cromwell? As boys are we not adorers of Harmodius and Aristogiton?”

  “Fortunately,” continues Sir Henry, waving aside these historical precedents, “the magistrate took a lenient view of the case, considered it excused by drink (we are always so immorally lenient to drink in this country!), and so I was enabled, by using unacknowledged influence (a thing I loathe to do), to get the affair hushed up. But I cannot prevent your being marked by the police and considered a dangerous person. You will probably be ‘shadowed’ for some time, and if anything of this sort occurs again it will be out of my power to save you from exceedingly disagreeable consequences.”

  Bertram is silent.

  “Are you anxious to be a martyr in company with Hopper?” asks Stanhope, with impatience.

  “If Hopper be made one, certainly.”

  Stanhope rises from his chair.

  “I regret that I intervened to screen you from the consequences of your lubies. I stretched my prerogative, and risked the accusation of illegality in my functions, in order to extricate you from the dilemma in which your own imprudence placed you, and this I did in memory of old Eton days. But I assure you that I shall not interfere again, and I am sorry that you so little appreciate my friendship. Men in office, it is true, should have no personal feelings.”

  “I am of course grateful for your personal regard,” replies Bertram, in icy tones, “but I cannot allow any one to criticise or control my opinions.”

  Sir Henry does not deign to reply. He takes his hat, and with a curt “good-day” goes out of the room.

  “How impossible it is to live under a government which is utterly barbarian and unenlightened!” reflects Bertram; “and to think that Stanhope could become a member of it!

  Such a fine scholar, such a devoted Hellenist, as he was at Eton! And now sunk to a Home Secretary! — a keeper of the ban-dogs of the law! It is so extraordinary that these Philistines never can comprehend the beauty of altruistic and collectivist views. They always confound them with anarchy! As if any two creeds could possibly be more opposed. It is extremely disagreeable all the sa
me. ‘Marked by the police!’ as if I had broken into a silversmith’s shop! I wonder where Critchett kept the mineral waters? I don’t know where anything is. If I had always served myself, how much better it would have been. It is so degrading this continual dependence upon others. Every kind of wrong-doing brings its own chastisement, and our heresy and egotism in keeping others in servitude is visited on us by our own impotency to help ourselves in the simplest acts of daily life.”

  Some one taps at the door in the midst of his reflections.

  “Come in!” he cried, irritably. “Will annoyances never cease?

  “It’s me, sir,” says Mrs. Brown. “Please as how I’ve come to bring you back these two sovereigns as you gave my son.”

  “Why? I gave them willingly.”

  “I can’t hev him paid for his misbehaviour, sir, and he did misbehave hisself. Kate spoke in jest, and Sam, being tipsy, took it in earnest.”

  Bertram, fascinated by a social problem, answers dreamily. “Tell me, Mrs. Brown, your son attended a Board School?”

  “He did, sir.”

  “And he passed the fourth standard?”

  “He did, sir.”

  “Then, my good woman, what benefit has that education been to him?”

  “Lord, none, sir; and nobbut fools could ever suppose as ‘t would be any!” replies Mrs. Brown, briskly.

  “How very sad!” murmurs Bertram. “But I have always feared that the whole system of modern education was one gigantic error. You cannot feed minds wholesale as you feed machines.”

  “His sad as poor folks should be made to pay for such gammon as them schools, sir,” says Mrs. Brown. “I beg your pardon humbly for my boy’s misconduct, and you’ll please take back the money. As for the rest that Ann hev told me I’ll make bold to say as I ‘eartily agree with it. You know, Mr. Bertram, I never could ‘old with that pack o’ nonsense o’ your marriage with my girl.”

  “I know you never approved, Mrs. Brown.”

  “No, sir, ‘cause I knows my place. Lord, sir, ye’d hev been miserable and my poor girl too.”

  “Not through any fault of mine, Mrs. Brown.”

  “No, sir; perhaps not. But miserable ye’d both hev bin. We’ll alius remember ye kindly, sir, and I ‘opes as ye’ll still send us yer linen.”

  “Certainly, certainly. I shall always be your friend Pray take those sovereigns.”

  “No, sir; let ’em lie. And might I be so bold as to ask hev ye took up your ‘eritance, sir?”

  “My cousin’s fortune? No, I have refused it.”

  “Lord, sir! That’s a real right-down pity.”

  “I do not see it so, Mrs. Brown.”

  “Well, sir, a gent as wears such shirts as you shouldn’t quarrel with his bread and butter—”

  A postman at that moment comes through the antechamber into the room, and tenders a registered letter with the receipt book for signature.

  “What am I to do?” asks Bertram, helplessly. “Critchett has always seen to things of this kind.”

  “You’re to sign your name in the book, sir,” says Mrs.

  Brown. He signs; and the postman retires.

  “I’ll leave ye to read your letter, sir,” says Mrs. Brown; “and if a poor woman may give ye a word of advice, take them cobwebs out of your brain, sir, and open your eyes and see the world as ‘t is. That ere man as ye thought so much on was a raskill, as rotten as shellfish o’ Saturday nights. Ye’ve too good a ‘eart, Mr. Bertram, a deal too good a ‘eart; and if you make yourself honey flies will eat yer; that’s true as gospel, sir.”

  “Wilfrid! Wilfrid!” shouts an excited voice in the anteroom, as a robust form and a ruddy face, the face and form of a country gentleman, are visible in the distance.

  Mrs. Brown discreetly retires.

  “My dear Wilfrid, is it possibly true what I heard in the Marlborough this moment?” cries Southwold, out of breath. “Have you actually inherited the whole fortune of those Italian Erringtons, and have never said a syllable about it to your aunt and myself? It is really — really — most extraordinary conduct.”

  “I do not see that the matter concerns you,” says Bertram, tranquilly.

  “Not concern us?” repeats Southwold, considerably astonished. “Well, anything so very fortunate occurring in my wife’s family must concern every member of it. I never knew this young man, nor his father. There was that unfortunate dissension between your people and his. But it is very consoling that the grave has now closed on all past feud; and that the poor fellow did not allow his father’s animosity to alienate him from his kith and kin. I really cannot congratulate you sufficiently.”

  “There is nothing to congratulate me upon,” replies Bertram, impatiently.

  “What?”

  “Nothing whatever.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I decline the bequest.”

  “Eh?”

  “I decline the bequest.”

  Lord Southwold pants like a blown horse, his small blue eyes grow large and black; his ruddy face deepens to purple. “Good God! You are mad as a hatter!”

  “Are hatters less sane than the rest of society? I am incredulous of the possibility.”

  “You can’t mean what you say — you are joking!”

  “I am entirely serious. And, if you will allow me to say so, you must be aware that the matter does not, I repeat, in the most remote manner concern you.”

  “Good Lord! Am I not your aunt’s husband?”

  “I have always heard so, and Burke vouches for it.”

  Southwold emits a strangled sound that is an oath, a snarl, and a groan in one.

  “You ought to be placed in a padded room, sir?” he says at length, when he recovers his voice.

  “Oh, I am never violent!” says Bertram with a slight smile, as he glances at the pieces of the broken whip.

  “Where do the money and estates go?” roars Southwold.

  “To a very respectable destination — Magdalen College.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it.”

  “Oh Lord!”

  The unhappy gentleman, gasping for breath, drops down on a seat.

  “With this fortune you could marry Cicely Seymour! The girl likes you — more fool she!”

  Bertram changes colour.

  “You have no right to speak of that young lady: she is your guest.”

  Southwold becomes furious.

  “You dare to lecture me? You infernal ass! who are only fit for a strait-waistcoat.”

  Bertram shrugs his shoulders.

  “You are stark staring mad!” roars Southwold; “and I tell you you are a disgrace to your family.”

  Bertram smiles.

  “How extremely immoral, then, to wish me to accept and administer a great property.”

  “Damnation!”

  Southwold puts his hat on his head, strikes his cane violently on the back of a chair, and rushes out of the room.

  “What can it possibly matter to him?” murmurs Bertram. “The idea of money excites some people as valerian does cats.”

  Lord Southwold, in a whirlwind of disgust, walks as rapidly as a gouty toe will let him through the three or four streets which divide him from his own house in Berkeley Square, and mounts the staircase of his home with his wrath at boiling-point. He goes into his wife’s morning-room, where she and Cicely Seymour are sitting, one reading, the other writing letters.

  “It’s true!” he shouts. “It’s perfectly true! it’s been left to him and he won’t have it — can you believe that? he won’t have it!”

  Cicely looks up from her book and says nothing; his wife looks up from her writing-pad and says with a sigh:

  “I can believe it — of him.”

  “Well, I can’t; though I’ve heard him say it with my own ears,” returns her lord, as he drops down on a soft seat with the air of a man crushed, annihilated, effaced from creation.

  “And he said, ‘What could it possibly matter to us?’” he a
dded in a faint tone.

  Cicely closes her book.

  “Well, dear Lord Southwold, why should it matter p.”

  “Why?” he ejaculates. “Why?”

  “Why?” repeats his wife. “Oh, Cicely!”

  “Well, why?” she says, a little impatiently. “If Mr. Bertram likes to live a poor man instead of becoming a rich one, what business is it of anybody’s?”

  “Oh Lord!” sighs her host.

  “Good heavens, Cicely!” cries his wife. “You might as well ask what does a man’s suicide matter to his family?”

  “Suicide is a disgrace, or at least it is esteemed so. This is an honour.”

  “An honour!” echo both her host and hostess in one breath.

  “A very rare honour,” she replies, “to have a relative who in these days has the courage and loyalty to principle to refuse a fortune.”

  Southwold is too utterly amazed and shocked to have any power to answer her.

  “My dear girl, this is very far - fetched,” says his wife. “You are talking great nonsense, and approving great folly. I cannot believe that even my nephew Wilfrid will be capable of adhering to such a crazy and thankless decision.”

  “I am sure he will adhere to it,” says Cicely Seymour, warmly. “At least if he do not I shall be very mistaken in him. Do you think,” she adds with indignation, “that his principles are mere sugared beignets, mere frothy soufflees of eggs and cream?”

  “His principles!” cries Southwold, with a snort like an angry horse. “Do you mean those preposterous tomfooleries with which he entertained us yesterday?”

  “I mean the doctrines taught in his own journal. He is an individualist, an altruist, a collectivist, a Mazzïnist, a Tolstoiist. How could such a man with any consistency, with any decency, accept a great fortune?”

  “My dear Cicely,” said Lady Southwold, with unkind incisiveness. “Only a great fortune could get such opinions forgiven to him; and as he is going to marry a washerwoman’s daughter, if what you heard in the Park is true, he will certainly never get her into society on any income less than thirty thousand a year!”

  “He will not want to get her into society. Nobody gathers a dog-rose to put it under a forcing-frame.”