Walter Besant
All Sorts and Conditions of Men: An Impossible Story
"Here is property, young man!" cried the old man; he had lit his fire now and came to the door, craning forward and spreading his hands, "Look at the beauties. There's truth! There's expression! Mine, young man, all mine. Hundreds – thousands of pounds here, to be protected."
"Do you come here every day?" Harry asked.
"Every day. The property must be looked after."
"And do you sit here all day by yourself?"
"Why, who else should I sit with? And a man like me never sits alone. Bless your heart, young gentleman, of a morning when I sit before the fire and smoke a pipe, this room gets full of people. They crowd in, they do. Dead people, I mean, of course. I know more dead men than living. They're the best company, after all. Bob Coppin comes, for one."
Harry began to look about, wondering whether the ghost of Bob might suddenly appear at the door. On the whole he envied the old man his company of departed friends.
"So you talk," he said; "you and the dead people?" By this time the old man had got into his chair and Harry stood in the doorway, for there really was not room for more than one in the house at the same time, to say nothing of inconveniencing and crowding the merry company of ghosts.
"You wouldn't believe," said the old man, "the talks we have nor the yarns we spin, when we're here together."
"It must be a jovial time," said Harry. "Do they drink?"
Mr. Maliphant screwed up his lips and shook his head mysteriously.
"Not of a morning," he replied, as if in the evening the old rollicking customs were still kept up.
"And you talk about old times – eh?"
"There's nothing else to talk about, as I know."
"Certainly not. Sometimes you talk about my – about Caroline Coppin's father, I suppose. I mean the one who made money, not the one who went bankrupt."
"Houses," said Mr. Maliphant; "houses it was."
"Oh!"
"Twelve houses there were, all his own. Two sons and two daughters to divide among. Bob Coppin sold his at once – Bunker bought 'em – and we drank up the money down Poplar-way, him and me and a few friends together, in a friendly and comfortable spirit. A fine time we had, I remember. Jack Coppin was in his father's trade and he lost his money; speculated, he did. Builders are a believin' people. Bunker got his houses too."
"Jack was my cousin Dick's father, I suppose," said Harry. "Go ahead, old boy. The family history is reeling on beautifully. Where did the other houses go?"
But the old man had gone off on another tack. "There were more Coppins," he said. "When I was a boy, to be a Coppin of Stepney was a thing of pride. Josephus' father was church-warden, and held up his head."
"Did he, really?"
"If I hadn't the property to look after, I would show you his tombstone in Stepney church-yard."
"That," said Harry, "would be a great happiness for me. As for Caroline Coppin, now – "
"She was a pretty maid, she was," the old man went on. "I saw her born and brought up. And she married a sojer."
"I know, and her three houses were lost, too, I suppose?"
"Why should her houses be lost, young man?" Mr. Maliphant asked with severity. "Houses don't run away. This property doesn't run away. When she died she left a baby, she did, and when the baby was took – or was stolen – or something – Bunker said those houses were his. But not lost. You can't lose a house. You may lose a figurehead." He got up and looked outside to see if his were safe. "Or a big drum. But not a house."
"Oh!" Harry started. "Bunker said the houses were his, did he?"
"Of course he did."
"And if the baby had not died, those houses would still be the property of that baby, I suppose."
But Mr. Maliphant made no reply. He was now in the full enjoyment of the intoxication produced by his morning-pipe, and was sitting in his arm-chair with his feet on the fender, disposed, apparently, for silence. Presently he began to talk, as usual, to himself. Nor could he be induced, by any leading questions, to remember anything more of the things which Harry wanted him to remember. But he let his imagination wander. Gradually the room became filled with dead people, and he was talking with them. Nor did he seem to know that Harry was with him at all.
Harry slipped quietly away, shutting the door after him, so that the old man might be left quite alone with the ghosts.
The yard, littered with wood, crowded with the figureheads, all of which seemed turning inquiring and jealous eyes upon the stranger, was silent and ghostly. Thither came the old man every day, to sit before the fire in his little red-and-green doll's house, to cook his own beefsteak for himself, to drink his glass of grog after dinner, to potter about among his carved heads, to talk to his friends the ghosts, to guard his property, and to execute the orders which never came. For the shipbuilders who had employed old Mr. Maliphant were all dead and gone, and nobody knew of his yard any more, and he had it all to himself. The tide of time had carried away all his friends and left him alone; the memory of him among active men was gone; no one took any more interest in him, and he had ceased to care for anything: to look back was his only pleasure. No one likes to die at any time, but who would wish to grow so old?
And those houses. Why, if the old man's memory was right, then Bunker had simply appropriated his property. Was that, Harry asked, the price for which he traded the child away?
He went straight away to his cousin Dick, who, mindful of the recent speech at the club, was a little disposed to be resentful. It fortunately takes two to make a quarrel, however, and one of those two had no intention of a family row.
"Never mind, Dick," he said in answer to an allusion to the speech. "Hang the club. I want to ask you about something else. Now, then. Tell me about your grandfather."
"I cannot. He died before I can remember. He was a builder."
"Did he leave property?"
"There were some houses, I believe. My father lost his share, I know. Speculated it away."
"Your uncle Bob. What became of his share?"
"Bob was a worthless chap. He drank everything, so of course he drank up his houses."
"Then we come to the two daughters. Bunker married one, and of course he got his wife's share. What became of my mother's share?"
"Indeed, Harry, I do not know."
"Who would know?"
"Bunker ought to be able to tell you all about it. Of course he knows."
"Dick," said Harry, "should you be astonished to learn that the respectable uncle Bunker is a mighty great rogue? But say nothing, Dick. Say nothing. Let me consider how to bring the thing home to him."
CHAPTER XXX.
THE PROFESSOR'S PROPOSAL
When the professor called upon Angela that same Sunday morning and requested an interview, she perceived that something serious was intended. He had on, as if for an occasion, a new coat with a flower in the buttonhole, a chrysanthemum. His face was extremely solemn, and his fingers, which always seemed restless and dissatisfied unless they were making things disappear and come again, were quite still.
Certainly, he had something on his mind.
The drawing-room had one or two girls in it, who were reading and talking, though they ought to have been in church – Angela left their religious duties to their own consciences. But the dining-room was empty and the interview was held there.
The professor had certainly made up in his own mind exactly what was going to be said: he had dramatized the situation – a very good plan if you are quite sure of the replies; otherwise, you are apt to be put out.
"Miss Kennedy," he began, with a low voice, "allow me, first of all, to thank you for your great kindness during a late season of depression."
"I am very glad it is a late season," said Angela; "that means, I presume, that the depression has passed away."
"Quite, I am glad to say; in fact," the professor laughed cheerfully, "I have got engagements from now to nearly the end of April in the country, and am in treaty for a West-End engagement in May. Industry and application, not to speak of talent, will make their way in the long run. But I hope I am none the less grateful to you for your loan – let me call it a loan – when things were tight. I assure you, Miss Kennedy, that the run into the country, after those parish registers, was as good as a week's engagement, simple as it looked, and as for that Saturday night for your girls – "
"O Professor, we were agreed that it should appear to be given by you for nothing."
"Never mind what it was agreed. You know very well what was paid for it. Now, if it hadn't been for that night's performance and that little trip into the country, I verily believe they would have had to send for a nice long box for me – a box that can't be palmed, and I should have gone off in it to a country where perhaps they don't care for conjuring."
"In that case, professor, I am very glad to have been of help."
"And so," he went on – following the programme he had laid down in his own mind – "And so I came here to-day to ask if your interest in conjuring could be stimulated to a professional height."
"Really, I do not know. Professional? You mean – "
"Anybody can see that you've showed an interest in the subject beyond what is expected or found in women. What I came here to-day for is to ask whether you like the conjurer well enough to take to conjuring?"
Angela laughed and was astonished, after being told by Daniel Fagg that he would honor her by making her his wife, but for certain reasons of age. Now, having became hardened, it seemed but a small thing to receive the offer of a conjurer, and the proposal to join the profession.
"I think it must be the science, professor," she said; "yes, it must be the science that I like so much. Not the man who exhibits his skill in the science. Yes, I think of your admirable science."
"Ah," he heaved a deep sigh, "you are quite right, miss; science is better than love. Love! What sort of a thing is that, when you get tired of it in a month? But science fills up all your life: people are always learning – always."
"I am so glad, professor, that I can agree with you entirely."
"Which makes me bolder," he said, "because we could be useful to each other, without pretending to be in love, or any nonsense of that sort."
"Indeed. Now, I shall be very pleased to be useful to you without, as you say, any foolish pretence or nonsense."
"The way is this: you can play, can't you?"
"Yes."
"And sing?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever dance in tights?"
"No, I never did that."
"Ah, well – it's a pity; but one can't expect everything. And no doubt you'd take to it easy. They all do. Did you ever sing on the stage – at a music-hall, I mean?"
"No. I never did."
"There was a chap – but I suppose he was a liar – said you used to sing under an electric light at the Canterbury, with a character dance, and a topical song, and a kick up at the finish."
"Yes, professor. I think that 'chap' must certainly be written down a liar. But go on."
"I told him he was, and he offered to fight me for half a crown. When I said I'd do it, and willingly, for a bob, he went away. I think he's the fellow Harry Goslett knocked down one night. Bunker put him up to it. Bunker doesn't like you. Never mind him. Look here, now."
"I am looking as hard as I can."
"There's some things that bring the money in, and some that don't. Dressmaking don't; conjurin' does."
"Yet you yourself, professor – "
"Why," he asked, "because I am only four-and-twenty, and not much known as yet. Give me time; wait. Lord! to see the clumsy things done by the men who've got a name. And how they go down; and a child would spot the dodge! Now, mark my words – if you go in with me, there's a fortune in it."
"For your sake, I am glad to hear it; but it must be without me."
"It is for your sake that I tell you of it."
He was not in love at all. Love and science have never yet really composed their differences; and there was not the least dropping of his voice, or any sign of passion in his speech.
"For your sake," he repeated. "Because, if you can be got to see your way as I see it, there's a fortune for both of us."
"Oh!"
"Yes: now, miss, listen. Conjuring, like most things, is makin' believe and deceivin'. What we do is, to show you one thing and to do another. The only thing is, to do it so quick that it shan't be seen even by the few men who know how it is done. No woman yet was ever able to be a conjurer, which is a rum thing, because their fingers do pretty for music, and lace-work, and such. But for conjurin', they haven't the mind. You want a man's brain for such work."
"I have always," said Angela, "felt what poor, weak things we are, compared with men."
"Yes, you are," continued the professor gallantly. "But you do have your uses in the world – most things have. Now, as a confederate or assistant, there's nobody like a woman. They do what they are told to do. They are faithful over the secrets. They learn their place on the platform and they stay there. Some professors carry about a boy with them. But you can't place any real trust in a boy; he's always up to tricks, and if you wallop him – likely as not, next night he'll take and spoil your best trick out of revenge. Some have a man to help, but then he learns the secrets and tries to cut you out; but with a woman you're always pretty safe. A daughter's best; because then you pocket all the money yourself. But a wife is next best so long as she keeps steady and acts on the square."
"I never thought of it before," said Angela, "but I suppose it is as you say, and the real object for which women were created must have been the assistance of conjurers."
"Of course," said the professor, failing to see the delicate sarcasm of this remark – "of course. What better thing could they do? Why, here you sit slaving all day long, and all the year round; and what are you the better for it? A bare living – that's all you get out of it. Whether you go into shops, behind a bar, or into the workroom, it's the same story – a bare living. Look at the conjurin' line now: you live in splendor; you go on the stage in a most beautiful costume – silks and satins, gold and spangles; tights, if you like. You travel about the country free. You hear the people clapping their hands whenever you go in; and believin' that you do it all yourself. You've got nothing to do but just what you are told, and that's your life – with pockets full of money, and the proud consciousness that you are making your fortune."
"It certainly seems very beautiful to look at; are there no drawbacks?"
"None," answered the enthusiast. "It's the best profession in the world – there's no danger in it. There's no capital required. All it wants is cleverness. That's why I come to you; because you are a real clever girl, and what's more, you're good-looking – it is not always that looks and brains go together."
"Very well, professor. Let us come to the point – what is it you want me to do?"
"I want you, Miss Kennedy, to go about the country with me. You shall be my assistant; you shall play the piano, and come on dressed in a pink costume – which generally fetches at an entertainment. Nothing to say; and I will teach you by degrees all the dodges, and the way it's done you will learn. You'll be surprised when you find how easy it is, and yet how you can't do it. And when you hear the people telling what they saw, and you know just exactly what they could have seen if they'd had their eyes in their heads, you'll laugh – you will."
"But I'm afraid I can't think – "
"Don't raise difficulties, now," he spoke persuasively. "I am coming to them directly. I've got ideas in my head which I can't carry through without a real, clever confederate. And you must be that confederate. Electricity: now" – he lowered his voice, and whispered – "none of the conjurers have got a battery at work. Think of new feats of marvel and magic never before considered possible; and done secret by electricity. What a shame – what a cruel shame, to have let the world get hold of electricity! Why, it ought to have been kept for conjurers. And telephones – again, what a scope there is in a good telephone! You and me together, Miss Kennedy, could knock up an entertainment as nobody ever yet dreamed of. If you could dance a bit it would be an advantage. But, if you won't, of course, we must give it up. And, as to the dressmaking rubbish, why in a week you will be wondering how in the world you ever came to waste your time upon it at all, while such a chance was going about in the world. Not that I blame you for it; not at all. It was your ignorance kept you out of it, and your good luck threw you in the way of it."
"That may be so. But still, I am not sure – "
"I haven't done yet. Look here! I've been turning the thing over in my own mind a good bit. The only way I can think of for such a girl as you to go about the country with a show is for you to be married to the showman – so I'll marry you before we start, and then we shall be comfortable and happy, and ready for the fortune to come in. And you'll be quite sure of your share in it."
"Thank you, professor."
"Very good, then; no need for thanks. I've got engagements in the country for over three months. We'll marry at once, and you can spend that time in learning."
Angela laughed. Were women of "her class," she thought, so easily won, and so unceremoniously wooed? Were there no preliminary advances, soft speeches, words of compliment and flattery?
"I've been laying out a plan," the professor went on, "for the most complete thing you ever saw! Never before attempted on any stage! Marvelous optical illusion. Hush – electricity!" [He said this in a stage whisper.] "You are to be a fairy. Stale old business, isn't it? But it always pays. Silk stockin's and gauze, with a wand. I'm Sinbad the Sailor, or Robinson Crusoe. It doesn't matter what; and then you – "
"Stay a moment, professor" – she laid her hand upon his arm – "you have not waited for my answer. I cannot, unfortunately, marry you; nor can I go about the country with you; nor can I possibly become your confederate and assistant."
"You can't marry me? Why not, when I offer you a fortune?"
"Not even for fortune."
"Why not?"
"Well, for many reasons. One of them is that I cannot leave my dressmaking – rubbish, as it seems to you. That is, indeed, a sufficient reason."
"Oh!" – his face becoming sad – "and I set my heart upon it! The very first time I saw you I said to myself, 'There's a girl for the business – never was such a girl!' And to think you're thrown away on a dressmaking business. Oh! it's too bad! and that you're contented with your lot, humble as it is, when I offer to make you an artist, and to give you a fortune. That's what cuts me to the quick – that you should be contented."
"I am very much ashamed of myself," said Angela, with contrition; "but, you see, what you ask is impossible."
"And I only made up my mind last night that I would marry you, if nothing else would do."
"Did you – poor professor! I am quite sorry for you; but you should never marry a woman unless you are in love with her. Now it's quite clear that you are not in love with me."
"Love! I've got my work to think of."
"Then good-morning, professor. Let us part friends, if I cannot accept your offer."
He took her offered hand with reluctance, and in sorrow more than in anger.
"Do you really understand," he asked, "what you are throwing away? Fame and fortune – nothing less."
She laughed, and drew back her hand, shaking her head.
"Oh, the woman's a fool!" cried the professor, losing his temper, and slamming the door after him.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CAPTAIN COPPIN
It was at this time that Tom Coppin, Captain Coppin of the Salvation Army, paid his only visit to Angela, that visit that caused so much sensation among the girls.
He chose a quiet evening early in the week. Why he came has never been quite clear. It was not curiosity, for he had none; nor was it a desire to study the kind of culture which Angela had introduced among her friends, for he had no knowledge of, or desire for, culture at all. Nor does the dressmakers' workshop afford a congenial place for the exercise of that soldier's gifts. He came, perhaps, because he was passing on his way from a red-hot prayer meeting to a red-hot preaching, and he thought he would see the place which among others, the Advanced Club for instance, was keeping his brother from following in his own steps, and helping him to regard the world, its pleasures and pursuits, with eyes of affection. One knows not what he expected to find or what he proposed by going there, because the things he did find completely upset all his expectations, if he had any. Visions, perhaps, of the soul-destroying dance, and the red cup, and the loud laughter of fools, and the talk that is as the crackling of thorns, were in his mind.
The room was occupied, as usual, with the girls, Angela among them. Captain Sorensen was there too; the girls were quietly busy, for the most part, over "their own" work, because, if they would go fine, they must make their own fineries; it was a frosty night, and the fire was burning clear; in the most comfortable chair beside it sat the crippled girl of whom we know; the place was hers by a sort of right; she was gazing into the flames, listening lazily to the music – Angela had been playing – and doing nothing, with contentment. Life was so sweet to the child when she was not suffering pain, and was warm, and was not hungry, and was not hearing complaints, that she wanted nothing more. Nelly, for her part, sat with hands folded pensively, and Angela wondered what, of late days, it was that seemed to trouble her.
Suddenly the door opened, and a man, dressed in a tight uniform of dark cloth and a cap of the same, with "S. S." upon it, like the Lord Mayor's gold chain, stood before them.
He did not remove his cap, but he looked round the room, and presently called in a loud, harsh voice:
"Which of you here answers to the name of Kennedy?"
"I do," replied Angela; "my name is Kennedy. What is yours, and why do you come here?"
"My name is Coppin. My work is to save souls. I tear them out of the very clutches and claws of the devil; I will have them; I leave them no peace until I have won them; I cry aloud to them; I shout to them; I pray for them; I sing to them; I seek them out in their hiding-places, even in their dens and courts of sin; there are none too far gone for my work; none that I will let go once I get a grip of them; once my hand is on them out they must come if the devil and all his angels were pulling them the other way. For my strength is not of myself; it is – "
"But why do you come here?" asked Angela.
The man had the same black hair and bright eyes as his brother; the same strong voice, although a long course of street-shouting had made it coarse and rough; but his eyes were brighter, his lips more sensitive, his forehead higher; he was like his brother in all respects, yet so unlike that, while the Radical had the face of a strong man, the preacher had in his the indefinable touch of weakness which fanaticism always brings with it. Whatever else it was, however, the face was that of a man terribly in earnest.
"I have heard about you," he said. "You are of those who cry peace when there is no peace; you entice the young men and maidens who ought to be seeking pardon and preaching repentance, and you destroy their souls with dancing and music. I come here to tell you that you are one of the instruments of the devil in this wicked town."
"Have you really come here, Mr. Coppin, on purpose to tell me that?"
"That," he said, "is part of my message."
"Do you think," asked Angela, because this was almost intolerable, "that it is becoming a preacher like yourself to invade a quiet and private house in order to insult a woman?"
"Truth is not insult," he said. "I come here as I would go to a theatre or a singing-hall or any soul-destroying place. You shall hear the plain truth. With your music and your dancing and your pleasant ways, you are corrupting the souls of many. My brother is hardened in his unrepentance since he knew you. My cousin goes on laughing, and dances over the very pit of destruction, through you. These girls – "
"Oh!" cried Rebekah, who had no sympathy with the Salvation Army, and felt herself an authority when the religious question was touched, "they are all mad. Let him go away."
"I would," replied the captain, "that you were half as mad. Oh! I know you now; I know you snug professors of a Saturday religion – "
"Your mission," Angela interrupted, "is not, I am sure, to argue about another sect. Come, Mr. Coppin, now that you have told us who you are and what is your profession and why you come here, you might like to preach to us. Do so, if you will. We were sitting here quietly when you came, and you interrupt nothing. So that, if it would really make you feel any happier, you may preach to us for a few minutes."
He looked about him in hesitation. This kind of preaching was not in his line: he loved a vast hall with a thousand faces looking at him; or a crowd of turbulent roughs ready to answer the Message with a volley of brickbats; or a chance gathering of unrepentant sinners in a wide thoroughfare. He could lift up his voice to them; but to preach in a quiet room to a dozen girls was a new experience.
And it was not the place which he had expected. His brother, in their last interview, had thrown in his teeth this house and its doings as offering a more reasonable solution of life's problems than his own. "You want everybody," he said, "to join you in singing and preaching every day; what should we do when there was nobody left to preach at? Now, there, what they say is, 'Let us make ourselves comfortable.' There's a deal in that, come to think of.
"Look at those girls now: while you and your Happy Elizas are trampin' in the mud with your flag and your procession, and gettin' black eyes and brickbats, they are singin' and laughin' and dancin', and makin' what fun they can for themselves. It seems to me, Tom, that if this kind of thing gets fashionable you and your army will be played out."
Well, he had come to see this place, which had offered pleasure instead of repentance, as a method of improving life. They were not laughing and singing at all; there were no men present except one old gentleman in a blue coat with brass buttons. To be sure, he had a fiddle lying on a chair beside him. There was no indication whatever of the red cup, and no smell of tobacco. Now, pleasure without drink, tobacco, and singing had been in Tom's unregenerate days incomprehensible. "I would rather," said Dick, "see an army of Miss Kennedy's girls than an army of Hallelujah Polls." Yet they seemed perfectly quiet. "Make 'em happy, Tom, first," said Dick, who was still thinking over Harry's speech as a possible point of departure. Happiness is not a word in the dictionary of men like Tom Coppin; they know what it means; they know a spree; they understand drink; they know misery, because it is all round them – the misery of hunger, of disease, of intemperance, of dirt, of evil temper, of violence; the misery which the sins of one bring all, and sins of all upon each. Indeed, we need not go to Whitechapel to find out misery. But they know not happiness. For such as Captain Coppin there is, as an alternative for misery, the choice of glory. What they mean by glory is ecstasy, the rapture, the mysteries of emotional religion; he, they believe, is the most advanced who is most often hysterical; Dick, like many of his followers, yearned honestly and unselfishly to extend this rapture which he himself so often enjoyed: but that there should be any other way out of the misery save by way of the humble stool of conviction, was a thing which he could not understand. Happiness, calm, peace, content, the sweet enjoyment of innocent recreation – these things he knew nothing of; they had not come his way.
He had come; he had seen; no doubt the moment his back was turned the orgy would begin. But he had delivered his message: he had warned the young woman who had led the girls – that calm, cold woman who looked at him with curiosity and was so unmoved by what he said: he might go. With his whole heart he had spoken and had so far moved no one except the daughter of the Seventh-Day Independent – and her only a little. This kind of thing is very irritating. Suppose you were to put a red-hot poker into a jug of water without producing any steam or hissing at all, how, as a natural philosopher, would you feel?
"You may preach to us, if you like," said Miss Kennedy.
She sat before him, resting her chin upon her hand. He knew that she was beautiful, although women and their faces, graces, and sweet looks played no part at all in his thoughts. He felt, without putting the thing into words, that she was beautiful. Also, that she regarded him with a kind of contempt, as well as curiosity; also, that she had determined not to be moved by anything he might say; also, that she relied on her own influence over the girls. And he felt for a moment as if his trusty arms were dropping from his hands and his whole armor was slipping from his shoulders. Not her beauty; no, fifty Helens of Troy would not have moved this young apostle; but her position as an impregnable outsider. For against the curious outsider, who regard captains in the Salvation Army only as so many interesting results of growing civilization, their officers are powerless indeed.
If there is any real difference between the working-man of England and the man who does other work, it is that the former is generally emotional and the latter is not. To the man of emotion things cannot be stated too strongly; his leader is he who has the greatest command of adjectives; he is singularly open to the charm of eloquence; he likes audacity of statement; he likes to be moved by wrath, pity, and terror; he has no eye for shades of color; and when he is most moved he thinks he is most right. It is this which makes him so angry with the people who cannot be moved.
