Фредерик Марриет
The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
Chapter Forty
In which our Hero tries Change of Air
The reader will observe that there has been a little altercation at the end of the last chapter. Emma Phillips was guilty of letting drop a received truism, or rather a metaphor, which offended our hero. “Did innocence and mystery ever walk hand in hand?” If Emma had put that question to us, we, from our knowledge of the world, should have replied, “Yes, very often, my dear Miss Phillips.” But Emma was wrong, not only in her metaphor, but in the time of her making it. Why did she do so? Ah! that is a puzzling question to answer; we can only say, at our imminent risk, when this narrative shall be perused by the other sex, that we have made the discovery that women are not perfect; that the very best of the sex are full of contradiction, and that Emma was a woman. That women very often are more endowed than the generality of men we are ready to admit; and their cause has been taken up by Lady Morgan, Mrs Jamieson, and many others who can write much better than we can. When we say their cause, we mean the right of equality they would claim with our sex and not subjection to it. Reading my Lady Morgan the other day, which, next to conversing with her, is one of the greatest treats we know of we began to speculate upon what were the causes which had subjected woman to man; in other words, how was it that man had got the upper hand, and kept it? That women’s minds were not inferior to men’s we were forced to admit; that their aptitude for cultivation is often greater, was not to be denied. As to the assertion that man makes laws, or that his frame is of more robust material, it is no argument, as a revolt on the part of the other sex would soon do away with such advantage; and men, brought up as nursery-maids, would soon succumb to women who were accustomed to athletic sports from their youth upwards. After a great deal of cogitation we came to the conclusion, that there is a great difference between the action in the minds of men and women; the machinery of the latter being more complex than that of our own sex. A man’s mind is his despot: it works but by one single action; it has one ruling principle—one propelling power to which all is subservient. This power or passion (disguised and dormant as it may be in feeble minds) is the only one which propels him on; this primum mobile, as it may be termed, is ambition, or, in other words, self-love; everything is sacrificed to it.
Now, as in proportion as a machine is simple so is it strong in its action—so in proportion that a machine is complex, it becomes weak; and if we analyse a woman’s mind, we shall find that her inferiority arises from the simple fact, that there are so many wheels within wheels working in it, so many compensating balances (if we may use the term, and we use it to her honour), that although usually more right-minded than man, her strength of action is lost, and has become feeble by the time that her decision has been made. What will a man allow to stand in the way of his ambition—love? no—friendship? no—he will sacrifice the best qualities, and, which is more difficult, make the worst that are in his disposition subservient to it. He moves only one great principle, one propelling power—and the action being single, it is strong in proportion. But will a woman’s mind decide in this way? Will she sacrifice to ambition, love, or friendship, or natural ties? No; in her mind the claims of each are, generally speaking, fairly balanced—and the quotient, after the calculation has been worked out, although correct, is small. Our argument, after all, only goes to prove that women, abstractedly taken, have more principle, more conscience, and better regulated minds than men—which is true if—if they could always go correct as timekeepers; but the more complex the machine, the more difficult it is to keep it in order, the more likely it is to be out of repair, and its movements to be disarranged by a trifling shock, which would have no effect upon one of such simple and powerful construction as that in our own sex. Not only do they often go wrong, but sometimes the serious shocks which they are liable to in this world will put them in a state which is past all repair.
We have no doubt that by this time the reader will say, “Never mind women’s minds, but mind your own business.” We left Emma in the drawing-room, rather astonished at our hero’s long speech, and still more by his (for the first time during their acquaintance) venturing to breathe a contrary opinion to her own sweet self.
Emma Phillips, although she pouted a little, and the colour had mounted to her temples, nevertheless looked very lovely as she pensively reclined on the sofa. Rebuked by him who had always been so attentive, so submissive—her creature as it were—she was mortified, as every pretty woman is, at any loss of power—any symptoms of rebellion on the part of a liege vassal; and then she taxed herself; had she done wrong? She had said, “Innocence and mystery did not walk hand in hand.” Was not that true? She felt that it was true, and her own opinion was corroborated by others, for she had read it in some book, either in Burke, or Rochefoucault, or some great author. Miss Phillips bit the tip of her nail and thought again. Yes, she saw how it was; our hero had risen in the world, was independent, and was well received in society; he was no longer the little Joey of Gravesend; he was now a person of some consequence, and he was a very ungrateful fellow; but the world was full of ingratitude; still she did think better of our hero; she certainly did. Well; at all events she could prove to him that—what?—she did not exactly know. Thus ended cogitation the second, after which came another series.
What had our hero said—what had he accused her of? That she no longer bestowed on him her confidence placed in him for many years. This was true; but were not the relative positions, was not the case different? Should he now retain any secret from her?—there should be no secrets between them. There again there was a full stop before the sentence was complete. After a little more reflection, her own generous mind pointed out to her that she had been in the wrong; and that our hero had cause to be offended with her; and she made up her mind to make reparation the first time that they should be alone.
Having come to this resolution, she dismissed the previous question, and began to think about the secret itself, and what it possibly could be, and how she wished she knew what it was; all of which was very natural. In the meantime our hero had made up his mind to leave Portsmouth, for a time at all events. This quarrel with Emma, if such it might be considered, had made him very miserable, and the anxiety he had lately suffered had seriously affected his health.
We believe that there never was anybody in this world who had grown to man’s or woman’s estate and had mixed with the world, who could afterwards say that they were at any time perfectly happy; or who, having said so, did not find that the reverse was the case a moment or two after the words were out of their mouth. “There is always something,” as a good lady said to us; and so there always is, and always will be. The removal of Furness was naturally a great relief to the mind of our hero; he then felt as if all his difficulties were surmounted, and that he had no longer any fear of the consequences which might ensue from his father’s crime. He would now, he thought, be able to walk boldly through the world without recognition, and he had built castles enough to form a metropolis when his rupture with Emma broke the magic mirror through which he had scanned futurity. When most buoyant with hope, he found the truth of the good lady’s saying—“There is always something.”
After remaining in his room for an hour, Joey went down to the counting-house, where he found Mr Small and Mr Sleek both at work, for their labours had increased since Joey had so much neglected business.
“Well, my good friend, how do you find yourself?” said Mr Small.
“Very far from well, sir. I feel that I cannot attend to business,” replied Joey, “and I am quite ashamed of myself; I was thinking that, if you had no objection to allow me a couple of months’ leave of absence, change of air would be very serviceable to me. I have something to do at Dudstone, which I have put off ever since I came to Portsmouth.”
“I think change of air would be very serviceable to you, my dear fellow,” replied Mr Small; “but what business you can have at Dudstone I cannot imagine.”
“Simply this—I locked up my apartments, leaving my furniture, books, and linen, when I went away, more than four years ago, and have never found time to look after them.”
“Well, they must want dusting by this time, O’Donahue, so look after them if you please; but I think looking after your health is of more consequence, so you have my full consent to take a holiday, and remain away three months, if necessary, till you are perfectly re-established.”
“And you have mine,” added Mr Sleek, “and I will do your work while you are away.”
Our hero thanked his senior partners for their kind compliance with his wishes, and stated his intention of starting the next morning by the early coach, and then left the counting-house to make preparations for his journey.
Joey joined the party, which was numerous, at dinner. It was not until they were in the drawing-room after dinner, that Mr Small had an opportunity of communicating to Mrs Phillips what were our hero’s intentions. Mrs Phillips considered it a very advisable measure, as Joey had evidently suffered very much lately: probably over-exertion might have been the cause, and relaxation would effect the cure.
Emma, who was sitting by her mother, turned pale; she had not imagined that our hero would have followed up his expressed intentions of the morning, and she asked Mr Small if he knew when O’Donahue would leave Portsmouth. The reply was, that he had taken his place on the early coach of the next morning: and Emma fell back on the sofa, and did not say anything more.
When the company had all left, Mrs Phillips rose and lighted a chamber candlestick to go to bed, and Emma followed the motions of her mother. Mrs Phillips shook hands with our hero, wishing him a great deal of pleasure, and that he would return quite restored in health. Emma, who found that all chance of an interview with our hero was gone, mustered up courage enough to extend her hand and say,—“I hope your absence will be productive of health and happiness to you, Mr O’Donahue,” and then followed her mother.
Joey, who, was in no humour for conversation, then bade farewell to Mr Small and Mr Sleek, and, before Emma had risen from not a very refreshing night’s rest, he was two stages on his way from Portsmouth.
Chapter Forty One
In which our Hero has his Head turned the Wrong Way
Although it may be very proper, when an offence has been offered us, to show that we feel the injury, it often happens that we act too much upon impulse and carry measures to extremities; and this our hero felt as the coach wheeled him along, every second increasing his distance from Emma Phillips; twenty times he was inclined to take a postchaise and return, but the inconsistency would have been so glaring, that shame prevented him; so he went on until he reached the metropolis, and on arriving there, having nothing better to do, he went to bed. The next day he booked himself for the following day’s coach to Manstone, and having so done, he thought he would reconnoitre the domicile of Major and Mrs McShane, and, now that Furness was no longer to be dreaded, make his existence known to them. He went to Holborn accordingly, and found the shop in the same place, with the usual enticing odour sent forth from the grating which gave light and air to the kitchen; but he perceived that there was no longer the name of McShane on the private door, and entering the coffee-room, and looking towards the spot where Mrs McShane usually stood carving the joint, he discovered a person similarly employed whose face was unknown to him; in fact, it could not be Mrs McShane, as it was a man. Our hero went up to him, and inquired if the McShanes still carried on the business, and was told that they had sold it some time back. His next inquiry, as to what had become of them, produced an “I don’t know,” with some symptoms of impatience at being interrupted. Under such circumstances, our hero had nothing more to do but either to sit down and eat beef or to quit the premises. He preferred the latter, and was once more at the hotel, where he dedicated the remainder of the day to thinking of his old friends, as fate had debarred him from seeing them.
The next morning Joey set off by the coach, and arrived at Manstone a little before dusk. He remained at the principal inn of the village, called the Austin Arms, in honour of the property in the immediate vicinity; and, having looked at the various quarterings of arms that the signboard contained, without the slightest idea that they appertained to himself, he ordered supper, and looking out of the window of the first floor, discovered, at no great distance down the one street which composed the village, the small ale-house where he had before met Mary. Our hero no longer felt the pride of poverty; he had resented the treatment he had received at the Hall when friendless, but, now that he was otherwise, he had overcome the feeling, and had resolved to go up to the Hall on the following day, and ask for Mary. He was now well dressed and with all the appearance and manners of a gentleman: and, moreover, he had been so accustomed to respect from servants, that he had no idea of being treated otherwise. The next morning, therefore, he walked up to the Hall, and, knocking at the door, as soon as it was opened, he told the well-powdered domestics that he wished to speak a few words to Miss Atherton, if she still lived with Mrs Austin. His appearance was considered by these gentlemen in waiting as sufficient to induce them to show him into a parlour, and to send for Mary, who in a few minutes came down to him, and embraced him tenderly. “I should hardly have known you, my dear boy,” said she, as the tears glistened in her eyes; “you have grown quite a man. I cannot imagine, as you now stand before me, that you could have been the little Joey that was living at Mrs Chopper’s.”
“We are indebted to that good woman for our prosperity,” replied Joey. “Do you know, Mary, that your money has multiplied so fast that I almost wish that you would take it away, lest by some accident it should be lost? I have brought you an account.”
“Let me have an account of yourself, my dear brother,” replied Mary; “I have no want of money; I am here well and happy.”
“So you must have been, for you look as young and handsome as when I last saw you, Mary. How is your mistress?”
“She is well, and would, I think, be happy, if it were not for the strange disease of Mr Austin, who secludes himself entirely, and will not even go outside of the park gates. He has become more overbearing and haughty than ever, and several of the servants have quitted within the last few months.”
“I have no wish to meet him, dear Mary, after what passed when I was here before? I will not put up with insolence from any man, even in his own house,” replied our hero.
“Do not speak so loud, his study is next to us, and that door leads to it,” replied Mary; “he would not say anything to you, but he would find fault with me.”
“Then you had better come to see me at the Austin Arms, where I am stopping.”
“I will come this evening,” replied Mary.
At this moment the door which led to the study was opened, and a voice was heard—
“Mary, I wish you would take your sweethearts to a more convenient distance.”
Joey heard the harsh, hollow voice, but recognised it not; he would not turn round to look at Mr Austin, but remained with his back to him, and the door closed again with a bang.
“Well,” observed Joey, “that is a pretty fair specimen of what he is, at all events. Why did you not say I was your brother?”
“Because it was better to say nothing,” replied Mary; “he will not come in again.”
“Well, I shall leave you now,” said Joey, “and wait till the evening; you will be certain to come?”
“O yes, I certainly shall,” replied Mary. “Hush! I hear my mistress with Mr Austin. I wish you could see her, you would like her very much.”
The outer door of the study was closed to, and then the door of the room in which they were conversing was opened, but it was shut again immediately.
“Who was that?” said our hero, who had not turned round to ascertain. “Mrs Austin; she just looked in, and seeing I was engaged, she only nodded to me to say that she wanted me, I presume, and then went away again,” replied Mary. “You had better go now, and I will be sure to come in the evening.”
Our hero quitted the hall; he had evidently been in the presence of his father and mother without knowing it, and all because he happened on both occasions to have his face turned in a wrong direction, and he left the house as unconscious as he went in. As soon as our hero had left the hall, Mary repaired to her mistress.
“Do you want me, madam?” said Mary, as she went to her mistress.
“No, Mary, not particular, but Mr Austin sent for me; he was annoyed at your having a strange person in the house, and desired me to send him away.”
“It was my brother, madam,” replied Mary.
“Your brother! I am very sorry, Mary, but you know how nervous Mr Austin is, and there is no reasoning against nerves. I should have liked to have seen your brother very much; if I recollect rightly, you told me he was doing well at Portsmouth, is he not?”
“Yes, madam; he is now a partner in one of the first houses there.”
“Why, Mary, he will soon have you to keep his own house, I presume, and I shall lose you; indeed, your are more fit for such a situation than your present one, so I must not regret it if you do.”
“He has no idea of taking a house, madam,” replied Mary, “nor have I any of quitting you; your place is quite good enough for me. I promised to go down and meet him this evening, with your permission, at the Austin Arms.”
“Certainly,” replied Mrs Austin; and then the conversation dropped.
Our hero remained at the inn two days, a portion of which Mary passed with him, and then he set off for Dudstone; he did not make Mary a confident of his attachment to Emma Phillips, although he imparted to her the death of Furness, and the relief it had afforded him, promising to return to see her before he went back to Portsmouth.
Joey once more set off on his travels, and without incident arrived at the good old town of Dudstone, where he put up at the Commercial Hotel; his only object was, to ascertain the condition of his lodgings: for the first two years he had sent the rent of the room to the old woman to whom the house belonged, but latterly no application had been made for it, although his address had been given; and, occupied by other business more important, our hero had quite forgotten the affair, or if he did occasionally recall it to his memory, it was soon dismissed again. His key he had brought with him, and he now proceeded to the house and knocked at the door, surmising that the old woman was possibly dead, and his property probably disposed of; the first part of the surmise was disproved by the old woman coming to the door; she did not recognise our hero, and it was not until he produced the key of his room that she was convinced that he was the lawful owner of its contents. She told him she could not write herself, and that the party who had written to Portsmouth for her was dead, and that she felt sure he would come back at some time and settle with her; and, moreover, she was afraid that the furniture would be much injured by having been shut up so long, which was not only very likely, but proved to be the case when the door was opened; she also said that she could have made money for him, had he allowed her to let the lodgings furnished, as she had had several applications. Our hero walked into his apartment, which certainly had a very mothy and mouldy appearance. As soon as a fire had been lighted, he collected all that he wanted to retain for himself, the books, plate, and some other articles, which he valued for Spikeman’s sake, and as old reminiscences, and putting them up in a chest, requested that it might be sent to the inn; and then, upon reflection, he thought he could do no better with the remainder than to make them a present to the old woman, which he did, after paying up her arrears of rent, and by so doing made one person, for the time, superlatively happy, which is something worth doing in this chequered world of ours. Joey, as soon as he had returned to the inn, sat down to write to Spikeman, and also to Mr Small, at Portsmouth, and having posted his letters, as he did not quit Dudstone until the next morning, he resolved to pay a visit to his former acquaintances, Miss Amelia and Miss Ophelia. His knock at the door was answered by Miss Amelia, as usual, but with only one arm unoccupied, a baby being in the other, and the squalling in the little parlour gave further evidence of matrimony. Our hero was obliged to introduce himself, as he was stared at as an utter stranger; he was then immediately welcomed, and requested to walk into the parlour. In a few minutes the whole of the family history was communicated. The old lady had been dead three years, and at her death the young ladies found themselves in possession of one thousand pounds each. This thousand pounds proved to them that husbands were to be had, even at Dudstone and its vicinity. Miss Amelia had been married more than two years to a master builder, who had plenty of occupation, not so much in building new houses at Dudstone as in repairing the old ones, and they were doing well, and had two children. Her sister had married a young farmer, and she could see her money every day in the shape of bullocks and sheep upon the farm; they also were doing well. Joey remained an hour: Mrs Potts was very anxious that he should remain longer, and give her his opinion of her husband; but this, Joey declined, and, desiring to be kindly remembered to her sister, took his leave, and the next morning was on his way to London.
