Chapter XXVII: Patrician and Proletary

It was deep mid-winter, and Colonel Orpington was at home at his house in Hill Street, Berkeley Square. Miss Orpington was at home too, temporarily. She had just come up from one of the charming country-houses where she and her chaperone had been spending Christmas, and in a week's time she was about to rush off to another charming country-house, where she would meet the same people, and they would all do the same things, and thoroughly enjoy themselves. This forthcoming one is the last visit she will pay before her marriage. Early in the ensuing spring the Yorkshire baronet with money is to claim Miss Orpington for his own; meantime the interval between the two visits is spent by the young lady in shopping and visiting during the day, and making her father take her to the theatre at night.

Colonel Orpington accepts the position with his usual complacency. He has lived long enough in the world to allow very few things indeed to ruffle him. Even the fact of his not having had any answer from Fanny Stafford does not annoy him.

"A younger man," he says to himself, "would fret and fume, and get in a deuce of a stew. What would be the good of that? It would not make the answer come any quicker, and it would not have any effect upon the girl's decision when she had made up her mind to send it. I am not at all sure that this delay is not rather good than otherwise. My heart does not beat quite so quickly as it did five-and-twenty years since, nor does the blood tingle in my veins to such an extent as at that period, and I can afford to wait. And even if the young lady should make up her mind to decline my proposition, I should certainly not commit suicide, though I confess I hope she may accept it for more reasons than one.

"I expect that this house will be deuced dull after Emily marries. I should have to get a clergyman's widow, or somebody of that kind, to come and be housekeeper. That would be horribly dull, and I don't see why I should have all the expense of keeping this place up. All the people I want to entertain I could have at the club; and if it is necessary for me to give a couple of ladies' dinners during the season--well, they can be done at Greenwich or Richmond, by Hart or Ellis, at less expense and without any trouble. I think I should have chambers in Piccadilly, or somewhere thereabouts; and then that other little arrangement would suit me admirably, provided the Paradise which I propose to establish was situated within an easy drive of town.

"I shall have to lay out a new line of life for myself, I think. I confess I don't see my way to what Emily said the other night about my being constantly with them. She is a very nice girl, and Hawker's a good fellow in his way; but his place is a deuced long way off, and I am getting a little too old to like to be 'braced', as they call it, by that infernally keen air that sweeps over the Yorkshire moors. Besides, they'll be having children, and that kind of thing; and it would be a confounded nuisance to have to be called 'Grandpapa!' Ridiculous position for a man of my appearance! So that, except when they are in town, and one can go to dinner, or to her box at the opera, or that kind of thing, I don't expect I shall see much of them. Grandpapa! by Jove, that would be positively awful!"

And the Colonel rises from his seat, and looks at himself in the glass, and poodles his hair, and strokes his moustache, and is eminently satisfied with his appearance.

It is in the breakfast-room that the Colonel makes these remarks to himself. Miss Orpington has not yet come down. She has announced by her maid that she has a headache, she supposes from the close atmosphere of the theatre the previous evening, and is taking her breakfast in bed. The Colonel has finished his meal, and is wondering what he will do with himself. He strolls to the window, and looks into the street, which is thick with slush. There has been a little snow early in the morning, and it has melted, as snow does nine times out of ten in London, and has been left to lie where it melted, as it always is in London, and the result is a universal pool of slush and mud, a couple of inches deep. The Colonel shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, and turns away. He had some notion of going for a ride, but he doesn't see the fun of being splashed up to his eyes, and of having to hold damp and slippery reins with aching fingers. So he thinks he will stroll down to the club and look through the papers, and have a chat with anybody who may be available.

At that moment Miss Orpington enters the room. She walks up to her parent, who is standing on the hearthrug, and turning her head, presents to him the lobe of her ear. The Colonel bestows an affectionate embrace on this portion of his daughter's anatomy, and inquires after her headache.

He is reassured at hearing it is better. Then Miss Orpington inquires, "Who is the person in the hall?"

"Person in the hall!" The Colonel has not the smallest idea.

"There is a person in the hall," Miss Orpington avers. "A tradesman-looking person--bootmaker, or something of that kind, she should think from his appearance."

Then the Colonel gives a little start, and remembers that something had been said to him about half an hour ago about somebody wishing to see him.

The bell is rung, and inquiries are made from the servant about the person in the hall.

A mysterious stranger, who declines to give his name, but is extremely anxious to see Colonel Orpington, and will take no refusal. Had been waiting there half an hour, and seemed inclined to wait on.

Miss Orpington says, "How very odd!" The Colonel raises his eyebrows, and ejaculates, "Deuced!" then tells the servant to show the mysterious person into the library; and after the lapse of a few minutes he himself proceeds thither.

On entering the room Colonel Orpington perceives the stranger to be a tall, good-looking young man belonging to the middle-classes, and with a curious expression on his face which reminds the Colonel of someone of his acquaintance whom he cannot immediately recollect. The man, who is standing, bows at the Colonel's entrance, but declines to take the seat to which he is motioned.

"You wish to speak to me, I believe?" said the Colonel, stiffly.

He had committed a stretch of courtesy by inviting a young man obviously in the commercial interest to take a seat, and was somewhat outraged at finding his civility not appreciated.

"You are Colonel Orpington?" said the visitor.

"I am. I understand you decline to give your name."

"For the present, yes. When you have heard my business, if you do not by that time guess who I am, I shall be happy to tell you."

"Deuced polite of you, I'm sure," said the Colonel with a grin. "Perhaps you'll tell me what your business is. Some account to be settled, I suppose? If so, I am not in the habit of discussing such matters. If the money is due, you can have it and go."

"There is an account to be settled," said the visitor; "but it is not of the nature that you suppose."

He spoke very quietly but very earnestly; so earnestly that the Colonel leaned forward in his seat and looked at him with an attention which he had hitherto not bestowed upon him.

"Is this a plant?" said the wily old warrior to himself. "My friend here looks very much of the outraged-brother order; but I have had nothing of that kind on hand for years." Then aloud, "What is your business, then?"

"I have come here, Colonel Orpington, to appeal to your feelings as a gentleman and a man of honour."

"Monstrous good of you to take the trouble, I'm sure," said the Colonel, with the old grin.

"Hear me out first, and then say what you please," said the visitor. "Depend upon it, I should not have come here on the chance of submitting myself to miscomprehension and indignity, if I had not some adequate motive."

Again the Colonel noticed the likeness to someone in this man's face, and again he failed to trace it to its original.

"There is no need to make a long story of what I have to say; it can be very shortly told. You will understand me at once, Colonel Orpington, when I tell you that my name is Merton, and that I am the brother of a young woman with whom you have been for some time past in communication."

"It is the outraged-brother business, after all," said the Colonel to himself. "This man has found his sister was in the habit of occasionally coming to chambers; perhaps has learned that I occasionally give her money; and he jumps at once to a wrong conclusion."

Then looked up and said, "Well, sir!"

"You have made my sister a tool for a most dishonourable purpose. You have caused her to aid you in a plot against one of her own sex, her friend, and situated much as she might have been herself."

"By Jove," muttered the Colonel beneath his breath, "I was wrong; he is on the other tack!"

"I do not presume to understand how you had the audacity----"

"Sir!" cried the Colonel.

"I repeat the word--the audacity to attempt to induce my sister to become a spy, and something worse than a spy! You must have had greater powers of perception than I gave you credit for to comprehend that you could offer her such a post, and that she would accept it. Of her part in the transaction I have nothing to say, nor indeed of yours so far as she is concerned."

"That being the case, Mr.---- Mr.--I beg your pardon--Merton, perhaps we had better bring this interview to an end," said the Colonel, rising to his feet. "I am not going to pick words with you as to the expression which you have chosen to apply to the commission which your sister executed for me. She executed and was paid for it, and there's an end of it."

"Not yet," said John Merton. "You don't imagine that I should come here, in the present day, when all these things are taken for granted, to endeavour to wring your conscience by proving to you that you tempted a young girl to do a dishonest, disloyal, and dishonourable act? You don't imagine I am quixotic enough to think that even if you listen to me patiently, what I said to you would have one grain of effect a moment after the door had closed upon me? You don't think I am a missionary from the lower classes come to prate to the upper of decency and honour?"

He spoke in a loud high key, his eyes were flashing, and his whole face was lit up with excitement.

"What my sister did for you is done and ended so far as she is concerned, and I will not give you the excuse for a smile by telling you that she is sorry for it now, and sees her conduct in a light in which she did not before perceive it. You _do_ smile, and I know why: you think it is easy to profess repentance when the deed has been done and the reward paid. You paid to my sister at various times sums amounting to thirty pounds. In this envelope," laying one on the table, "are three ten-pound notes. So far, Colonel Orpington, we are quits."

The Colonel sat still, with his eyes intently fixed on his visitor. As he remained silent, John Merton proceeded:

"I wish the other matter could be as easily settled. But in this I meet you on even terms; in the other I come as a suppliant."

The Colonel's face became a little more hard, and he sat a little more erectly in his chair, as he heard these last words.

"Through my sister's aid, directly or indirectly, you made the acquaintance of Miss Stafford. Well," he continued, as he noticed a motion of protest on the Colonel's part, "you may not actually have made her acquaintance--that, I believe, commenced at the place where she was employed--but it was through my sister's aid that you knew of her, that you learned all about her, and that you found out she was likely to swallow the gilded bait by which even now you are endeavouring to secure her. When a man in your position pays attention to a girl in hers, it can be but with one meaning and intention. Whether Miss Stafford knew that or not, during these last few months in which you have been constantly hanging about her, I cannot say: but she knows it now; for you yourself have placed it before her in language impossible to be misunderstood."

"Look here, sir!" cried the Colonel, starting forward.

"Wait and hear me, sir," said John Merton; "you must, you shall! I told you I was prepared to submit to indignity, to endure your sneers and sarcasms. I would not have put myself in the way of them for my sister's sake; but I would for Fanny Stafford."

"Ah, ha!" said the Colonel to himself, "a lover instead of brother; greater virtuous indignation, infinitely more savage, but with less claim to show it."

"I have known her," continued John Merton, "for some years, and it is not too much to say that I have loved her all the time."

"Exactly," said the Colonel complacently.

"I told you I was prepared for sneers," said John; "I shall not shrink from avowing to you even that mine has been a hopeless passion; that, after bearing it a long, long time in silence, I took courage to speak to Miss Stafford, and received a definite and unmistakable dismissal. You will glory in that avowal, because you will think it increases the chances that the answer for which you are waiting will be a favourable one. I know you are waiting for such an answer. You see I know all."

"You seem to be devilish well posted up," growled the Colonel, "certainly."

"I don't think that her rejection of me would influence Miss Stafford one way or the other in this matter; I put myself entirely out of the question. Though her answer will have a certain effect on my future life, I by no means come here as a desponding lover to implore any leniency towards himself from his rival----"

"I should think not," observed the Colonel parenthetically.

"The leniency I would implore must be exercised towards her. I come to you, not as a Christian man to show you the sin you contemplate, and to implore you to avoid its commission; for I have not the right to do so, nor would it be of the least avail; I know that perfectly. I simply come to ask you to spare her, just to spare her."

"Not a bad idea, Mr. Merton," said the Colonel, with his baleful grin. "You are the young warrior who rescues the damsel from the giant's castle, and in gratitude the damsel--though she did not care for him before--of course bestows her hand on him, and they live happy ever after."

"No, by my solemn soul, no! In all human probability I shall never set eyes upon Miss Stafford again; but I should like to know that some honest man's home was cheered by her presence, some honest man's children called her mother, although such happiness is not in store for me."

"Look here, Mr. Merton," said the Colonel. "I have let you run on to a certain length without interrupting you, because you explained at once that you wished to talk off straight away. But I think now I must pull you up, if you please. You have made out a very pretty story, hanging well together, and that kind of thing; and I have not contradicted you because I am not in the habit of lying, and I don't choose to stoop even to what is called prevarication. So, supposing we take all this for granted, I say to you, 'Why don't you speak to the young lady herself? The matter rests with her; it is she who has to decide it.' I shall not appear in George Street with a band of freebooters to carry her off, nor will she be seized upon by any men in black masks as she walks home to her lodgings. This is the latter half of the nineteenth century, when such actions are not common. A simple Yes or No is all she has to say, and the affair is entirely in her hands."

"I told you at once that I did not deny your perspicacity in reading character. You showed it in your selection of my sister as your agent; you show it further in your selection of Miss Stafford"--here John Merton's voice sank to a whisper, and he spoke through his teeth--"to be what you propose to make her. You know that you have exactly gauged the mind and temperament of this girl; that, strong-minded in some things, she is weak in others; vain, too sensitive and too refined for the people with whom she is brought into contact, and longing for luxuries which, while they are denied to her, she sees other people enjoy."

"I must reciprocate your compliment about the knowledge of character, Mr. Merton," said the Colonel; "your description of Miss Stafford appears to me quite exact."

"Knowing this, you know equally well," continued John Merton, "that she is the style of person to be caught by the temptations which you have thought fit to offer her; you know perfectly well that her hesitation in deciding on your proposition is simply caused by the small remnants of the influence of proper bringing-up and self-respect struggling with her wishes and inclinations."

"If Miss Stafford's wishes and inclinations prompt her to do what I am asking her to do, I really cannot see why I should be expected to consent to thwart them and upset my own plans."

"Colonel Orpington," said John Merton, sternly, "I have told you that I would not pretend to thrust the religious side of this question upon you; and in return I have a right to call upon you to drop this society jargon, and let us talk this matter out as men. I will make this concession to your vanity: I will tell you I fully believe that Miss Stafford's future fate is in your hands; that if you choose to persist in the offer which you have made to her, or rather if you do not actually withdraw it, she will become something so degraded that I, who love her so, would sooner see her dead."

"Look here, my good sir," interrupted the Colonel, impatiently; "you were good enough to talk about my using 'society's jargon;' I must trouble you to drop the language of the penny romances. What the deuce do you mean by 'something so degraded?' If Miss Stafford accepts my propositions, she will have everything she wants."

"Will she?" said John Merton, quickly. "Will she have your name? or, even supposing she makes use of it, will she have any lawful right to do so? Will she have the companionship of honest women, the friendship of honest men?"

"She will have, what is a deuced sight better, the envy of pretty women, and the companionship of pleasant fellows," said the Colonel.

"You meet my earnestness with flippancy," said John Merton. "I know Fanny Stafford, and, with all her vanity and all her love of luxury, I know that after a time the life would be insupportable to her. Her proud spirit would never brook the stares which would greet her, and the whisperings which would follow her progress. No amount of money at her command would make up to her for that."

"I still think that this is a matter for Miss Stafford's decision," said the Colonel. "You really cannot expect me to place before her all the disadvantages of my own offer in the strong light in which you review them."

John Merton paused a moment; then he said:

"I will not take up more than five minutes more of your time, Colonel Orpington, but I should like just to discuss this question perhaps rather more from your point of view. What I have hitherto mentioned, you say concerns Miss Stafford; but now about yourself. Supposing events to follow as you have proposed----"

"As I have every expectation they will," said the Colonel, pleasantly smiling.

"You have a right to that expectation," said John. "Well, supposing they so fall out, you are too much a man of the world to expect that your--well, what you are pleased to call your love for Miss Stafford will last for ever."

"It will be uncommonly unlike any other love if it did," said the Colonel.

"Exactly; it will run its course and die out, as similar passions have, I should imagine, expired in previous years. What do you propose to do then?"

"I decline to anticipate such a state of affairs," said the Colonel; "sufficient for the day-----"

"Exactly," said John Merton; "only in this case the evil once done would be sufficient for the rest of your days on earth. Do you imagine that a girl of Fanny Stafford's proud temperament would condescend to accept anything at your hands, when she knew that your feelings for her had died out, and that you were probably spreading for another woman exactly the same nets into which she had been entrapped? I know her well enough to be certain that under such circumstances she would refuse, not merely to be supported by you, but even to see you. What would become of her then? She would take to suicide, the usual resort of her class."

"Most likely she would take to suicide," said the Colonel.

"If she did," said John Merton, very sternly, taking a step in advance, and bringing down his hand upon the table at which the Colonel was sitting, "I don't suppose her death would lie heavily upon your soul; but I would make you answer for it, so help me God!"

"By George, do you threaten me, sir?" said the Colonel, springing to his feet. The next instant he sank easily back into his chair, saying, "Pshaw! the thing is too preposterous; you don't imagine I could fight _you?_"

"I had no such idea, Colonel Orpington; but what I threatened just now I would carry out. If this girl becomes your victim, and if that result which I have just foreshadowed, and which seems to me inevitable, should ensue, I will take care that your name is dragged before the public as the girl's seducer and the cause of her ruin. These are not very moral times, but the gay Lothario stamp of man is rather laughed at nowadays, especially when he has not the excuse of youth for his folly; and when mixed up with his folly there are such awkward episodes as desertion and suicide, people no longer laugh at him, they cut him. The newspapers write articles about him; and his friends, who are doing the same thing themselves, but do not labour under the disadvantage of being found out, shake their heads and are compelled to give him up. From all I have heard of you, Colonel Orpington, you are far too fond of society and too great a favourite in it to risk being treated in such a manner for such a temporary amusement."

"If you have heard anything of me, sir," said the Colonel, rising in a rage, "you may have heard that I never brook confounded impertinence, and I'm d--d if I stand it any longer! I will trouble you to leave this house at once, and never let me set eyes on you again," he added, ringing the bell.

"I trust I shall never have occasion to come across you, Colonel Orpington," said John Merton firmly; "whether I do or not entirely rests upon yourself. Depend upon it, that I shall hold to everything I have said, and that I shall not shrink from carrying out what I have fully made up my mind to do on account of any menaces."

He bowed slightly to the Colonel, turned round, and slowly walked from the room.

Left to himself, the Colonel took to pacing up and down the library with great strides. He was evidently labouring under great annoyance; he bit his lips and tossed his head in the air, and muttered to himself as he walked up and down.

"That fellow struck the right note at last," he said. "Insolent brute! All that palaver about honest man's fireside, and children calling her mother, and that kind of thing, one has heard a thousand times; but if all happened as he prophesied--and I confess it is the usual ending to such things--and he made a row as he threatened, it would be deuced unpleasant. He is right about the Lothario business being over; and more than right about people grinning at you when you are mixed up in such matters at fifty years of age. And if it were to come to what he suggested, death and that kind of thing, there would probably be a great row. Those infernal newspaper paragraphs about the heartless seducer--they don't like those things at the Court or the Horse Guards; and then one would have to run the gauntlet of the clubs and that kind of thing. By Jove, it's worth considering whether the game is worth the candle, after all!"

At that moment Miss Orpington entered.

"Who was that person, papa?" said she. "I thought I heard you speak quite angrily to him."

"Very likely, my dear," said the Colonel; "he was a very impertinent and unmannerly person from--from those confoundedly troublesome slate-quarries and lead-mines in South Wales."