Walter Besant
All Sorts and Conditions of Men: An Impossible Story
Angela was one of those persons who cannot be moved by the ordinary methods. She looked at Tom as if he was some strange creature, watching what he did, listening to what he said, as if she was not like unto him. It is not quite a fair way of describing Angela's attitude of mind; but it is near enough; and it represents what passed through the brain of the Salvation captain.
"Will you preach to us?" she repeated the third time.
He mechanically opened his hymn-book.
"Number three hundred and sixty-two," he said quietly.
He sang the hymn all by himself, at the top of his voice, so that the windows rattled, to one of those rousing and popular melodies which have been pressed into the service of the army; it was, in fact, "Molly Darling," and the people at Stepney Green asked each other in wonder if a meeting of the Salvation Army was actually being held at Miss Kennedy's.
When he had finished his hymn he began to preach.
He stammered at first, because the surroundings were strange; besides, the cold, curious eyes of Miss Kennedy chilled him. Presently, however, he recovered self-possession, and began his address.
There is one merit, at least, possessed by these preachers; it is that of simplicity. Whatever else they may be, they are always the same; even the words do not vary while there is but one idea.
If you want to influence the dull of comprehension, such as the common donkey, there is but one way possible. He cannot be led, or coaxed, or persuaded; he must be thwacked. Father Stick explains and makes apparent, instantly, what the logic of all the schools has failed to prove. In the same way, if you wish to awaken the spiritual emotions among people who have hitherto been strange to them, your chance is not by argument, but by appeals, statements, prophecies, threats, terrors, and pictures, which, in fact, do exactly correspond, and produce the same effect as Father Stick; they are so many knock-down blows; they belabor and they terrify.
The preacher began: the girls composed themselves to listen, with the exception of Rebekah, who went on with her work ostentatiously, partly to show her disapproval of such irregular proceedings and partly as one who, having got the truth from an independent source, and being already advanced in the narrow way, had no occasion for the captain's persuasion.
It is one thing to hear the voice of a street preacher in his own church, so to speak, that is, on the curbstone, and quite another thing to hear the same man and the same person in a quiet room. Tom Coppin had only one sermon, though he dressed it up sometimes, but not often, in new words. Yet he was relieved of monotony by the earnestness which he poured into it. He believed in it, himself; that goes a long way. Angela began by thinking of the doctrine, but presently turned her attention to the preacher, and began to think what manner of man he was. Personally he was pale and thin, with strong black hair, like his brother, and his eyes were singularly bright.
Here was a man of the people: self-taught; profoundly ignorant as to the many problems of life and its solutions; filled, however, with that noble sympathy which makes prophets, poets, martyrs; wholly possessed of faith in his narrow creed, owning no authority of church or priest; believing himself under direct Divine guidance, chosen and called, the instrument of merciful Heaven to drag guilty souls from the pit; consciously standing as a servant, day and night, before a Throne which other men regard afar off or cannot see at all; actually living the life of hardship, privation, and ill-treatment, which he preached; for the sake of others, enduring hardness, poverty, contumely; taking all these things as part and parcel of the day's work; and, in the name of duty, searching into corners and holes of this great town for the vilest, the most hardened, the most depraved, the most blinded to a higher life.
This, if you please, is not a thing to be laughed at. What did Wesley more? What did Whitfield? Nay, what did Paul?
They paid him for his services, it is true; they gave him five-and-twenty shillings a week; some of this great sum he gave away; the rest provided him with poor and simple food. He had no pleasures or joys of life; he had no recreations; he had no hope of any pleasures; some of the officers of his army – being men and women as well as preachers – loved each other and were married; but this man had no thought of any such thing, he, as much as any monk, was vowed to the service of the Master, without rest or holiday, or any other joy than that of doing the work that lay before him.
A great pity and sympathy filled Angela's heart as she thought of these things.
The man before her was for the moment a prophet; it mattered nothing that his creed was narrow, his truths only half truths, his doctrine commonplace, his language in bad taste, his manner vulgar; the faith of the man covered up and hid these defects; he had a message to mankind; he was delivering that message; to him it was a fresh, new message, never before intrusted to any man; he had to deliver it perpetually, even though he went in starvation.
Angela's heart softened as she realized the loyalty of the man. He saw the softening in her eyes and thought it was the first sign of conviction.
But it was not.
Meantime, if Angela was thinking of the preacher, the girls, of course with the exception of Rebekah, were trembling at his words.
Suddenly – the unexpected change was a kind of rhetorical trick which often proved effective – the preacher ceased to denounce and threaten, and spoke of pardon and peace; he called upon them in softer voice, in accents full of tears and love, to break down their pride, to hear the voice that called them… We know well enough what he said, only we do not know how he said it. Angela looked about the room. The Captain sat with his hands on his knees, and his face dutifully lifted to the angle which denotes attention; his expression was unmoved; evidently, the captain was not open to conviction. As for the girls, they might be divided into classes. They had all listened to the threats and the warnings, though they had heard them often enough before; now, however, some of them seemed as if they were impatient, and as if with a little encouragement they could break into scoffing. But others were crying, and one or two were steadfastly regarding the speaker, as if he had mesmerized them. Among these was Nelly. Her eyes were fixed, her lips were parted, her breathing was quick, her cheek was pale.
Great and wonderful is the power of eloquence; there are few orators; this ex-printer, this uneducated man of the ranks was, like his brother, born with the gift that is so rare. He should have been taken away and taught, and kept from danger, and properly fed and cared for. And now it is too late. They said of him in his connection that he was blessed in the saving of souls: the most stubborn, the most hardened, when they fell under the magic of his presence and his voice, were broken and subdued; what wonder that a weak girl should give way?
When he paused he looked round; he noted the faces of those whom he had mesmerized; he raised his arm; he pointed to Nelly and beckoned her, without a word, to rise.
Then the girl stood up as if she could not choose but obey. She moved a step toward him; in a moment she would have been at his feet, with sobs and tears, in the passion of self-abasement which is so dear to the revivalist. But Angela broke the spell. She sprang toward her, caught her in her own arms, and passed her hand before her eyes.
"Nelly!" she said gently. "Nelly, dear."
The girl sank back in her chair, and buried her face in her hands. But the moment was gone, and Captain Coppin had lost his recruit.
They all breathed a deep sigh. Those who had not been moved looked at each other and laughed; those who were, dried their eyes and seemed ashamed.
"Thank you," said Angela to the preacher. "You have preached very well, and I hope your words will help us on our way, even though it is not quite your way."
"Then be of our way. Cease from scoffing."
She shook her head.
"No, I do not scoff, but I cannot join your way. Leave us now, Mr. Coppin. You are a brave man. Let us reverence courage and loyalty. But we will have no more sermons in this room. Good-night."
She offered him her hand, but he would not take it, and with a final warning, addressed to Angela in particular and the room in general, he went as he had come, without greeting or word of thanks.
"These Salvation people," said Rebekah, "are all mad. If people want the way of truth there's the chapel in Redman's Row, and father's always in it every Saturday."
"What do you say, Captain Sorensen?" asked Angela.
"The Church of England," said the captain, who had not been moved a whit, "says that two sacraments are necessary. I find nothing about stools of repentance. Come, Nelly, my girl, remember that you are a Church-woman."
"Yet," said Angela, "what are we to say when a man is so brave and true, and when he lives the life? Nelly dear – girls all – I think that religion should not be a terror but a great calm and a trust. Let us love each other and do our work and take the simple happiness that God gives, and have faith. What more can we do? To-night, I think, we cannot dance or sing, but I will play to you."
She played to them – grand and solemn music – so that the terror went out of their brains, and the hardening out of their hearts, and next day all was forgotten.
In this manner and this once did Tom Coppin cross Angela's path. Now he will cross it no more, because his work is over. If a man lives on less than the bare necessaries in order to give to others; if he does the work of ten men; if he gives himself no rest any day in the week, what happens to that man when typhus seizes him?
He died, as he had lived, in glory, surrounded by Joyful Jane, Hallelujah Jem, Happy Polly, Thankful Sarah, and the rest of them. His life has been narrated in the "War Cry;" it is specially recorded of him that he was always "on the mountains," which means, in their language, that he was a man of strong faith, free from doubt, and of emotional nature.
The extremely wicked and hardened family, consisting of an old woman and half a dozen daughters, for whose soul's sake he starved himself and thereby fell an easy prey to the disease, have nearly all found a refuge in the workhouse, and are as hardened as ever, though not so wicked, because some kinds of wickedness are not allowed in that place of virtue. Therefore it seems almost as if poor Tom's life has been fooled away. According to a philosophy which makes a great deal of noise just now, every life is but a shadow, a dream, a mockery, a catching at things impossible, and a waste of good material, ending with the last breath. Then all our lives are fooled away, and why not Tom's as well as the rest? But if the older way of thinking is, after all, right, then that life can hardly have been wasted which was freely given – even if the gift was not accepted – for the advantage of others. Because the memory and the example remain, and every example – if boys and girls could only be taught this copy-book truth – is like an inexhaustible horn, always filled with precious seed.
CHAPTER XXXII.
BUNKER AT BAY
Harry was thinking a good deal about the old man's strange story of the houses. There was, to be sure, little dependence to be placed in the rambling, disjointed statements made by so old a man. But, then, this statement was so clear and precise. There were so many children – there were so many houses (three for each child), and he knew exactly what became of all those houses. If the story had been told by a man in the prime of life, it could not have been more exact and detailed. But what were the houses – where were they? And how could he prove that they were his own?
What did Bunker get when he traded the child away?
Harry had always been of opinion that he got a sum of money down, and that he was now ashamed of the transaction, and would fain have it remain unknown. This solution accounted, or seemed to account, for his great wrath and agitation when the subject was mentioned. Out of a mischievous delight in making his uncle angry, Harry frequently alluded to this point; but the story of the houses was a better solution still. It accounted for Mr. Bunker's agitation as well as his wrath. But his wrath and his terror appeared to Harry to corroborate very strongly the old man's story. And the longer he thought about it the more strongly he believed it.
Harry asked his landlady whether, in her opinion, if Mr. Maliphant made a statement, that statement was to be accepted as true?
Mrs. Bormalack replied that as he never made any statement, except in reference to events long since things of the past, it was impossible for her to say whether they were true or not; that his memory was clean gone for things of the present – so that of to-day and yesterday he knew nothing; that his thoughts were always running on the old days; and that when he could be heard right through, without dropping his voice at all, he sometimes told very interesting and curious things. His board and lodging were paid for him by his grandson, a most respectable gentleman, and a dockmaster; and that as to the old man's business he had none, and had had none for many years, being clean forgotten – although he did go every day to his yard, and stayed there all day long.
Harry thought he would pay him another visit. Perhaps something more would be remembered.
He went there again in the morning.
The street, at the end of which was the yard, was as quiet as on the Sunday, the children being at school and the men at work. The great gates were closed and locked, but the small side-door was unlocked. When he opened it all the figureheads turned quickly and anxiously to look at him. At least Harry declares they did, and Spiritualists will readily believe him. Was he, they asked, going to take one of them away and stick it on the bow of a great ship, and send it up and down upon the face of the ocean to the four corners of the world. Ha! They were made for an active life. They pined away in this inactivity. A fig for the dangers of the deep! From Saucy Sal to Neptune they all asked the same question in the same hope. Harry shook his head, and they sighed sadly and resumed sadly their former positions, as they were, eyes front, waiting till night should fall and the old man should go, and they could talk with each other.
"This," thought Harry, "is a strange and ghostly place."
You know the old and creepy feeling caused by the presence, albeit unseen, of ghosts. One may feel it anywhere and at all times – in church, at a theatre, in bed at night – by broad daylight – in darkness or in twilight. This was in the sunshine of a bright December day – the last days of the year 1881 were singularly bright and gracious. The place was no dark chamber or gloomy vault, but a broad and open yard, cheerfully decorated with carved figureheads. Yet, even here, Harry experienced the touch of ghostliness. The place was so strange that it did not astonish him at all to see the old man suddenly appear in the door of his doll's house, waving his hand and smiling cheerily, as one who speeds the parting guest. The salutations were not intended for Harry, because Mr. Maliphant was not looking at him.
Presently he ceased gesticulating, became suddenly serious (as happens to one when his friend's back is turned, or he has vanished), and returned to his seat by the fire.
Harry softly followed, and stood before him waiting to be recognized.
The old man looked up at last, and nodded his head.
"Been entertaining your friends, Mr. Maliphant?"
"Bob was here, only Bob. You have just missed Bob," he replied.
"That's a pity – never mind. Can you, my ancient, carry your memory back some twenty years? You did it, you know, last Sunday for me."
"Twenty years? Ay, ay – twenty years. I was only sixty-five or so then. It seems a long time until it is gone – twenty years! Well, young man, twenty years – why, it is only yesterday!"
"I mean to the time when Caroline Coppin, you know your old friend Caroline, was married."
"That was twenty years before, and more; when William the Fourth died and Queen Victoria (then a young thing) came long to reign over us – " His voice sank, and he continued the rest of his reminiscence to himself.
"But Caroline Coppin?"
"I'm telling you about Caroline Coppin, only you won't listen."
There was nothing more to be got out of him. His recent conversation with Bob's spirit had muddled him for the day, and he mixed up Caroline with her mother or grandmother. He relapsed into silence, and sat with his long pipe unfilled in his hand, looking into the fireplace; gone back in imagination to the past. As the old man made no sign of conversation, but rather of a disposition to "drop off" for a few minutes, Harry began to look about the room. On the table lay a bundle of old letters. It was as if the living and the dead had been reading them together.
Harry took them up and turned them over, wondering what secrets of long ago were contained in those yellow papers, with their faded ink. The old man's eyes were closed – he took no heed of his visitor; and Harry standing at the table began shamelessly to read the letters. They were mostly the letters of a young sailor addressed to one apparently a good deal older than himself – for they abounded in such appellations as "my ancient," "venerable," "old salt," and so forth. But the young man did not regard his correspondent with the awe which age should inspire, but rather as a gay and rollicking spirit who would sympathize with the high-jinks of younger men, even if he no longer shared in them, and who was an old and still delighted treader of those flowery paths which are said by moralists to be planted with the frequent pitfall and the crafty trap. "The old man," thought Harry, "must have been an admirable guide to youth, and the disciple was apt to learn."
Sometimes the letters were signed "Bob," sometimes "R. Coppin," sometimes "R. C." Harry, therefore, surmised that the writer was no other than his own uncle Bob, whose ghost he had just missed.
Bob was an officer on board of an East Indiaman, but he spoke not of such commonplace matters as the face of the ocean or the voice of the tempest. He only wrote from port, and told what things he had seen and done, what he had consumed in ardent drink. The letters were brief, which seemed as well, because if literary skill had been present to dress up effectively the subjects treated, a literary monument might have been erected, the like of which the world has never seen.
It is, indeed, a most curious and remarkable circumstance that even in realistic France the true course of the prodigal has never been faithfully described. Now the great advantage formerly possessed by the sailor – an advantage cruelly curtailed by the establishment of "homes," and the introduction of temperance – was, that he could be and was a prodigal at the end of every cruise; while the voyage itself was an agreeable interval provided for recovery, recollection, and anticipation.
"Bob, Uncle Bob, was a flyer," said Harry. "One should be proud of such an uncle. With Bob and Bunker and the bankrupt builder, I am indeed provided."
There seemed nothing in the letters which bore upon the question of his mother's property, and he was going to put them down again, when he lighted upon a torn fragment on which he saw in Bob's big handwriting the name of his cousin Josephus.
"Josephus, my cousin, that he will … (here a break in the continuity) … 'nd the safe the bundle … (another break) … for a lark. Josephus is a square-toes. I hate a man who wont' drink. He will … (another break) if he looks there. Your health and song, shipmate. – R. C."
He read this fragment two or three times over. What did it mean? Clearly nothing to himself.
"Josephus is a square-toes." Very likely. The prodigal Bob was not. Quite the contrary – he was a young man of extremely mercurial temperament. "Josephus, my cousin, that he will … 'nd the safe the bundle." He put down the paper, and without waking the old man he softly left the room and the place, shutting the door behind him; and then he forgot immediately the torn letter and its allusion to Josephus. He thought next that he would go to Bunker and put the question directly to him. The man might be terrified – might show confusion – might tell lies. That would matter little; but if he showed his hand too soon Bunker might be put upon his guard. Well, that mattered little – what Harry hoped was, rather to get at the truth than to recover his houses.
"I want," he said, finding his uncle at home, and engaged in his office drawing up bills – "I want a few words of serious talk with you, my uncle."
"I am busy; go away – I never want to talk to you. I hate the very sight of your face."
He looked indeed as if he did – if a flushing cheek and an angry glare of the eyes are any sign.
"I am not going away until you have answered my questions. As to your hatred or your affection, that does not concern me at all. Now will you listen, or shall I wait?"
"To get rid of you the sooner," growled Bunker, "I will listen now. If I was twenty years younger I'd kick you out."
"If you were twenty years younger, there might, it is true, be a fight. Now then?"
"Well, get along – my time is valuable."
"I have several times asked you what you got for me when you sold me. You have on those occasions allowed yourself to fall into a rage, which is really dangerous in so stout a man. I am not going to ask you that question any more."
Mr. Bunker looked relieved.
"Because, you see, I know now what you got."
Mr. Bunker turned very pale.
"What do you know?"
"I know exactly what you got when I was taken away."
Mr. Bunker said nothing; yet there was in his eyes a look as if a critical moment long expected had at last arrived, and he waited.
"When my mother died and you became my guardian, I was not left penniless."
"It's a lie – you were."
"If I had been, you would have handed me over to your brother-in-law, Coppin, the builder; but I had property."
"You had nothing."
"I had three houses – one of those houses is, I believe, that which has been rented from you, by Miss Kennedy. I do not know yet where the other two are; but I shall find out."
"You are on a wrong tack," said his uncle; "now I know why you wouldn't go away. You came here to ferret and fish, did you? You thought you were entitled to property, did you? Ho! – you're a nice sort o' chap to have house property, ain't you? Ha! ho!" But his laughter was not mirthful.
"Let me point out," Harry went gravely on, "what it is you have done. The child whom you kept for a year or two was heir to a small estate, bringing in, I suppose, about eighty or a hundred pounds a year. We will say that you were entitled to keep that money in return for his support; but when that child was carried away and adopted you said nothing about the property. You kept it for yourself, and you have received the rents year after year, as if the house belonged to you. Shall I go on, and tell you what judges and lawyers and police people call this sort of conduct?"
"Where's your proofs?" asked the other – his face betraying his emotion. "Where's your proofs?"
"I have none yet – I am going to search for those proofs."
"You can't find them – there are none. Now, young man, you have had your say, and you can go. Do you hear? You can go."
"You deny, then, that the houses were mine?"
"If you'd come to me meek and lowly – as is your humble station in life – I would ha' told you the history of those houses. Yes, your mother had them, same as her brothers and her sister. Where are they now? I've got 'em all – I've got 'em all. How did I get 'em? By lawful and honorable purchase – I bought 'em. Do you want proofs? You shan't have any proofs. If you'd behaved humble you should ha' seen those proofs. Now you may go away and do your worst. Do you hear? You may do your worst."
He shook his fist in Harry's face. His words were brave, but his voice was shaky and his lips were trembling.
"I don't believe you," said Harry. "I am certain that you did not buy my houses. There was no one left to care for my interests, and you took those houses."
"This is the reward," said Bunker, "for nussin' of this child for nigh upon three years. Who would take an orphan into his bosom? But it was right, and I'd do it again. Yes. I'd do it again."
"I don't doubt you," the ungrateful nephew replied, "especially if that other orphan had three substantial houses, and there was nobody but yourself to look after him."
"As for your proofs, go and look for them. When you've found 'em, bring 'em to me – you and your proofs."
Harry laughed.
"I shall find them," he said; "but I don't know where or when. Meantime you will go on as you do now – thinking continually that they may be found. You won't be able to sleep at night – you will dream of police courts. You will let your thoughts run on handcuffs – you will take to drink. You will have no pleasure in your life. You will hasten your end; you will – " Here he desisted; for his uncle (dropping into his chair) looked as if he was about to swoon.
"Remember, I shall find these proofs some day. A hundred a year, for twenty years, is two thousand pounds. That's a large sum to hand over; and then, there is the interest. Upon my word, my uncle, you will have to begin the world again."
