Walter Besant
All Sorts and Conditions of Men: An Impossible Story
CHAPTER XLVII.
A PALACE OF DELIGHT
During this time the Palace of Delight was steadily rising. Before Christmas its walls were completed and the roof on. Then began the painting, the decorating, and the fittings. And Angela was told that the building would be handed over to her, complete according to the contract, by the first of March.
The building was hidden away, so to speak, in a corner of vast Stepney, but already rumors were abroad concerning it, and the purpose for which it was erected. They were conflicting rumors. No one knew at all what was intended by it; no one had been within the walls; no one knew who built it. The place was situated so decidedly in the very heart and core of Stepney, that the outside public knew nothing at all about it, and the rumors were confined to the small folk round it. So it rose in their midst without being greatly regarded. No report or mention of it came to Harry's ears, so that he knew nothing of it, and suspected nothing any more than he suspected Miss Kennedy of being some other person.
The first of March in this present year of grace 1882 fell upon a Wednesday. Angela resolved that the opening-day should be on Thursday, the second, and that she would open it herself; and then another thought came into her mind; and the longer she meditated upon it, the stronger hold did the idea take upon her.
The Palace of Delight was not, she said, her own conception; it was that of the man – the man she loved. Would it not be generous, in giving this place over to the people for whom it was built, to give its real founder the one reward which he asked?
Never any knight of old had been more loyal. He obeyed in the spirit as well as the letter her injunction not to speak of love; not only did he refrain from those good words which he would fain have uttered, but he showed no impatience, grumbled not, had no fits of sulking; he waited, patient. And in all other things he did her behest, working with a cheerful heart for her girls, always ready to amuse them, always at her service for things great and small, and meeting her mood with a ready sympathy.
One evening, exactly a fortnight before the proposed opening-day, Angela invited all the girls, and with them her faithful old captain and her servant Harry, to follow her because she had a thing to show them. She spoke with great seriousness, and looked overcome with the gravity of this thing. What was she going to show them?
They followed, wondering, while she led the way to the church, and then turned to the right among the narrow lanes of a part where, by some accident, none of the girls belonged.
Presently she stopped before a great building. It was not lit up, and seemed quite dark and empty. Outside, the planks were not yet removed, and they wore covered with gaudy advertisements, but it was too dark to see them. There was a broad porch above the entrance, with a generously ample ascent of steps like unto those of St. Paul's Cathedral. Angela rang a bell and the door was opened. They found themselves in an entrance-hall of some kind, imperfectly lighted by a single gas-jet. There were three or four men standing about, apparently waiting for them, because one stepped forward, and said:
"Miss Messenger's party?"
"We are Miss Messenger's party," Angela replied.
"Whoever we are," said Harry, "we are a great mystery to ourselves."
"Patience," Angela whispered; "part of the mystery is going to be cleared up."
"Light up, Bill," said one of the men.
Then the whole place passed suddenly into daylight, for it was lit by the electric globes. It was a lofty vestibule. On either side were cloak-rooms; opposite were entrance-doors. But what was on the other side of these entrance-rooms none of them could guess.
"My friend," said Angela to Harry, "this place should be yours. It is of your creation."
"What is it, then?"
"It is your Palace of Delight. Yes; nothing short of that. Will you lead me into your palace?"
She took his arm while he marvelled greatly and asked himself what this might mean. One of the men then opened the doors, and they entered, followed by the wondering girls.
They found themselves in a lofty and very spacious hall. At the end was a kind of throne – a red velvet divan, semicircular under a canopy of red velvet. Statues stood on either side; behind them was a great organ; upon the walls were pictures. Above the pictures were trophies in arms; tapestry carpets – all kinds of beautiful things. Above the entrance was a gallery for musicians; and on either side were doors leading to places of which they knew nothing.
Miss Kennedy led the way to the semicircular divan at the end. She took the central place, and motioned the girls to arrange themselves about her. The effect of this little group sitting by themselves and in silence, at the end of the great hall, was very strange and wonderful.
"My dears," she said, after a moment – and the girls saw that her eyes were full of tears – "my dears, I have got a wonderful story to tell you. Listen.
"There was a girl, once, who had the great misfortune to be born rich. It is a thing which many people desire. She, however, who had it knew what a misfortune it might become to her. For the possessor of great wealth, more especially if it be a woman, attracts all the designing and wicked people in the world, all the rogues and all the pretended philanthropists to her, as wasps are attracted by honey; and presently, by sad experience, she gets to look on all mankind as desirous only of robbing and deceiving her. This is a dreadful condition of mind to fall into, because it stands in the way of love and friendship and trust, and all the sweet confidences which make us happy.
"This girl's name was Messenger. Now, when she was quite young she knew what was going to happen, unless she managed somehow differently from other women in her unhappy position. And she determined as a first step to get rid of a large quantity of her wealth, so that the cupidity of the robbers might be diverted.
"Now, she had a humble friend – only a dressmaker, – who, for reasons of her own, loved her and would have served her if she could. And this dressmaker came to live at the East End of London.
"And she saw that the girls who have to work for their bread are treated in such a way that slavery would be a better lot for most of them. For they have to work twelve hours in the day, and sometimes more; they sit in close, hot rooms, poisoned by gas; they get no change of position as the day goes on; they have no holiday, no respite, save on Sunday; they draw miserable wages, and they are indifferently fed. So that she thought one good thing Miss Messenger could do was to help those girls, and this was how our Association was founded."
"But we shall thank you, all the same," said Nelly.
"Then another thing happened. There was a young – gentleman," Angela went on, "staying at the East End too. He called himself a working-man, said he was the son of a sergeant in the army, but everybody knew he was a gentleman. This dressmaker made his acquaintance, and talked with him a great deal. He was full of ideas, and one day he proposed that we should have a Palace of Delight. It would cost a great deal of money; but they talked as if they had that sum, and more, at their disposal. They arranged it all; they provided for everything. When the scheme was fully drawn up, the dressmaker took it to Miss Messenger. O my dear girls! this is the Palace of Delight. It is built as they proposed; it is finished; it is our own; and here is its inventor."
She took Harry's hand. He stood beside her, gazing upon her impassioned face; but he was silent. "It looks cold and empty now, but when you see it on the opening day; when you come here night after night; when you get to feel the place to be a part, and the best part, of your life, then remember that what Miss Messenger did was nothing compared with what this – this young gentleman did. For he invented it."
"Now," she said, rising – they were all too much astonished to make any demonstration – "now let us examine the building. This hall is your great reception-room. You will use it for the ball nights, when you give your great dances; a thousand couples may dance here without crowding. On wet days it is to be the playground of the children. It will hold a couple of thousand, without jostling against each other. There is the gallery for the music, as soon as you have got any."
She led the way to a door on the right.
"This," she said, "is your theatre."
It was like a Roman theatre, being built in the form of a semicircle, tier above tier, having no distinction in places, save that some were nearer the stage and some further off.
"Here," she said, "you will act. Do not think that players will be found for you. If you want a theatre you must find your own actors. If you want an orchestra you must find your own for your theatre, because in this place everything will be done by yourselves."
They came out of the theatre. There was one other door on that side of the hall.
"This," said Angela, opening it, "is the concert-room. It has an organ and a piano and a platform. When you have got people who can play and sing, you will give concerts."
They crossed the hall. On the other side were two more great rooms, each as big as the theatre and the concert-room. One was a gymnasium, fitted up with bars and ropes, and parallel rods and trapezes.
"This is for the young men," said Angela. "They will be stimulated by prizes to become good gymnasts. The other room is the library. Here they may come, when they please, to read and study."
It was a noble room, fitted with shelves and the beginning of a great library.
"Let us go upstairs," said Angela.
Upstairs the rooms were all small, but there were a great many of them.
Thus there were billiard-rooms, card-rooms, rooms with chess, dominos, and backgammon-tables laid out, smoking-rooms for men alone, tea and coffee rooms, rooms where women could sit by themselves if they pleased, and a room where all kinds of refreshments were to be procured. Above these was a second floor, which was called the School. This consisted of a great number of quite small rooms, fitted with desks, tables, and whatever else might be necessary. Some of these rooms were called music-rooms, and were intended for instruction and practice on different instruments. Others were for painting, drawing, sculpture, modelling, wood-carving, leather-work, brass-work, embroidery, lace-work, and all manner of small arts.
"In the Palace of Delight," said Angela, "we shall not be like a troop of revellers, thinking of nothing but dance and song and feasting. We shall learn something every day; we shall all belong to some class. Those of us who know already will teach the rest. And oh! the best part of all has to be told. Everything in the palace will be done for nothing except the mere cleaning and keeping in order. And if anybody is paid anything, it will be at the rate of a working-man's wage – no more. For this is our own palace, the club of the working-people; we will not let anybody make money out of it. We shall use it for ourselves, and we shall make our enjoyment by ourselves.
"All this is provided in the deed of trust by which Miss Messenger hands over the building to the people. There are three trustees. One of these, of course, is you – Mr. Goslett."
"I have been so lost in amazement," said Harry, "that I have been unable to speak. Is this, in very truth, the Palace of Delight that we have battled over so long and so often?"
"It is none other. And you are a trustee to carry out the intentions of the founder – yourself."
They went downstairs again to the great hall.
"Captain Sorensen," Angela whispered, "will you go home with the girls? I will follow in a few minutes."
Harry and Angela were left behind in the hall.
She called the man in charge of the electric light, and said something to him. Then he went away and turned down the light, and they were standing in darkness, save for the bright moon which shone through the windows and fell upon the white statues and made them look like two ghosts themselves standing among rows of other ghosts.
"Harry," said Angela.
"Do not mock me," he replied: "I am in a dream. This is not real. The place – "
"It is your own Palace of Delight. It will be given to the people in a fortnight. Are you pleased with your creation?"
"Pleased? And you?"
"I am greatly pleased. Harry" – it was the first time she had called him by his Christian name – "I promised you – I promised I would tell you – I would tell you – if the time should come – "
"Has the time come? O my dear love, has the time come?"
"There is nothing in the way. But oh! – Harry – are you in the same mind? No – wait a moment." She held him by the wrists. "Remember what you are doing. Will you choose a lifetime of work among working-people? You can go back, now, to your old life; but – perhaps – you will not be able to go back, then."
"I have chosen, long ago. You know my choice – O love – my love."
"Then, Harry, if it will make you happy – are you quite sure it will? – you shall marry me on the day when the Palace is opened."
"You are sure," she said, presently, "that you can love me, though I am only a dressmaker?"
"Could I love you," he replied, passionately, "if you were anything else?"
"You have never told me," he said, presently, "your Christian name."
"It is Angela."
"Angela! I should have known it could have been no other. Angela, kind heaven surely sent you down to stay awhile with me. If, in time to come, you should be ever unhappy with me, dear, if you should not be able to bear any longer with my faults, you would leave me and go back to the heaven whence you came."
They parted, that night, on the steps of Mrs. Bormalack's dingy old boarding-house, to both so dear. But Harry, for half the night, paced the pavement, trying to calm the tumult of his thoughts. "A life of work – with Angela – with Angela? Why, how small, how pitiful seemed all other kinds of life in which Angela was not concerned!"
CHAPTER XLVIII.
MY LADY SWEET
My story, alas! has come to an end, according to the nature of all earthly things. The love vows are exchanged, the girl has given herself to the man – rich or poor. My friends, if you come to think of it, no girl is so rich that she can give more, or so poor that she can give less, than herself; and in love one asks not for more or less. Even the day is appointed, and nothing is going to happen which will prevent the blessed wedding-bells from ringing, or the clergyman from the sacred joining together of man and of maid, till death do part them. What more to tell? We ought to drop the curtain while the moonlight pours through the windows of the silent palace upon the lovers, while the gods and goddesses, nymphs, naiads, and oreads in marble look on in sympathetic joy. They, too, in the far-off ages, among the woods and springs of Hellas, lived and loved, though their forests know them no more. Yet, because this was no ordinary marriage, and because we are sorry to part with Angela before the day when she begins her wedded life, we must fain tell of what passed in that brief fortnight before the Palace was opened, and Angela's great and noble dream became a reality.
There was, first of all, a great deal of business to be set in order. Angela had interviews with her lawyers, and settlements had to be drawn up about which Harry knew nothing, though he would have to sign them; then there were the trust-deeds for the Palace. Angela named Harry, Dick Coppin, the old Chartist, now her firm and fast friend, and Lord Jocelyn, as joint trustees. They were to see, first of all, that no one got anything out of the Palace unless it might be workmen's wages for work done. They were to carry out the spirit of the house in making the place support and feed itself, so that whatever amusements, plays, dances, interludes, or mummeries were set afoot, all might be by the people themselves for themselves; and they were to do their utmost to keep out of the discordant elements of politics, religion, and party controversy.
All the girls knew by this time that Miss Kennedy was to be married on the second of March – the day when the Palace was to be opened. They also learned, because the details were arranged and talked over every evening, that the opening would be on a very grand scale indeed. Miss Messenger herself was coming to hand it over in person to the trustees on behalf of the people of Stepney and Whitechapel. There was to be the acting of a play in the new theatre, a recital on the new organ, the performance of a concert in the new concert-room, playing all the evening long by a military band, some sort of general entertainment; and the whole was to be terminated by a gigantic supper given by Miss Messenger herself, to which fifteen hundred guests were bidden – namely, first, all the employees of the brewery with their wives, if they had any, from the chief brewer and the chief accountant down to the humblest boy in the establishment; and, secondly, all the girls in the Association, with two or three guests for each; and, thirdly, a couple of hundred or so chosen from a list drawn up by Dick Coppin, and the cobbler, and Harry.
As for Harry, he had now, by Angela's recommendation, resigned his duties at the Brewery, in order to throw his whole time into the arrangement for the opening day; and this so greatly occupied him that he sometimes even forgot what the day would mean to him. The invitations were sent in Miss Messenger's own name. They were all accepted, although there was naturally some little feeling of irritation at the brewery when it became known that there was to be a general sitting down of all together. Miss Messenger also expressed her wish that the only beverage at the supper should be Messenger's beer, and that of the best quality. The banquet, in imitation of the Lord Mayor's dinner on the ninth of November, was to be a cold one, and solid, with plenty of ices, jellies, puddings, and fruit. But there was something said about glasses of wine for every guest after supper.
"I suppose," said Angela, talking over this pleasant disposition of things with Harry, "that she means one or two toasts to be proposed. The first should be to the success of the Palace. The second, I think" – and she blushed – "will be the health of you, Harry, and of me."
"I think so much of you," said Harry, "all day long, that I never think of Miss Messenger at all. Tell me what she is like, this giver and dispenser of princely gifts. I suppose she really is the owner of boundless wealth?"
"She has several millions, if you call that boundless. She has been a very good friend to me, and will continue so."
"You know her well?"
"I know her very well. O Harry, do not ask me any more about her or myself. When we are married I will tell you all about the friendship of Miss Messenger to me. You trust me, do you not?"
"Trust you! O Angela!"
"My secret, such as it is, is not a shameful one, Harry; and it has to do with the very girl, this Miss Messenger. Leave me with it till the day of our wedding. I wonder how far your patience will endure my secrets? for here is another. You know that I have a little money?"
"I am afraid, my Angela," said Harry, laughing, "that you must have made a terrible hole in it since you came here. Little or much, what does it matter to us? Haven't we got the two thousand? Think of that tremendous lump."
"What can it matter?" she cried. "O Harry, I thank Heaven for letting me, too, have this great gift of sweet and disinterested love. I thought it would never come to me."
"To whom, then, should it come?"
"Don't, Harry, or – yes – go on thinking me all that you say, because it may help to make me all that you think. But that is not what I wanted to say. Would you mind very much, Harry, if I asked you to take my name?"
"I will take any name you wish, Angela. If I am your husband, what does it matter about any other name?"
"And then one other thing, Harry. Will your guardian give his consent?"
"Yes, I can answer for him that he will. And he will come to the wedding if I ask him."
"Then ask him, Harry."
"So," said Lord Jocelyn, "the dressmaker has relented, has she? Why, that is well. And I am to give my consent? My dear boy, I only want you to be happy. Besides, I am quite sure and certain that you will be happy."
"Everybody is, if he marries the woman he loves," said the young man sententiously.
"Yes – yes, if he goes on loving the woman he has married. However, Harry, you have my best wishes and consent, since you are good enough to ask for it. Wait a bit." He got up and began to search about in drawers and desks. "I must give your fiancée a present, Harry. See – here is something good. Will you give her, with my best love and good wishes, this? It was once my mother's."
Harry looked at the gaud, set with pearls and rubies in old-fashioned style.
"Is it not," he asked, "rather too splendid for a – poor people in our position?"
Lord Jocelyn laughed aloud.
"Nothing," he said, "can be too splendid for a beautiful woman. Give it her, Harry, and tell her I am glad she has consented to make you happy. Tell her I am more than glad, Harry. Say that I most heartily thank her. Yes, thank her. Tell her that. Say that I thank her from my heart."
As the day drew near the girls became possessed of a great fear. It seemed to all as if things were going to undergo some great and sudden change. They knew that the house was secured to them free of rent; but they were going to lose their queen, that presiding spirit who not only kept them together, but also kept them happy. In her presence there were no little tempers, and jealousies were forgotten. When she was with them they were all on their best behavior. Now it is an odd thing in girls, and I really think myself privileged, considering my own very small experience of the sex, in being the first to have discovered this important truth – that, whereas to boys good behavior is too often a gêne and a bore, girls prefer behaving well. They are happiest when they are good, nicely dressed, and sitting all in a row with company manners. But who, when Miss Kennedy went away, would lead them in the drawing-room? The change, however, was going to be greater than they knew or guessed; the drawing-room itself would become before many days a thing of the past, but the Palace would take its place.
They all brought gifts; they were simple things, but they were offered with willing and grateful hearts. Rebekah brought the one volume of her father's library which was well bound. It was a work written in imitation of Hervey's "Meditations," and dwelt principally with tombs, and was therefore peculiarly appropriate as a wedding present. Nelly brought a ring which had been her mother's, and was so sacred to her that she felt it must be given to Miss Kennedy; the other girls gave worked handkerchiefs, and collars, and such little things.
Angela looked at the table on which she had spread all her wedding presents: the plated teapot from Mrs. Bormalack; the girls' work; Nelly's ring; Rebekah's book; Lord Jocelyn's bracelet. She was happier with these trifles than if she had received in Portman Square the hundreds of gifts and jewelled things which would have poured in for the young heiress.
And in the short fortnight she thought for everybody. Josephus received a message that he might immediately retire on the pension which he would have received had he been fortunate in promotion, and been compelled to go by ill-health: in other words, he was set free with three hundred pounds a year for life. He may now be seen any day in the Mile End Road or on Stepney Green, dressed in the fashion of a young man of twenty-one or so, walking with elastic step, because he is so young, yet manifesting a certain gravity, as becomes one who attends the evening lectures of the Beaumont Institute in French and arithmetic, and takes a class on the Sabbath in connection with the Wesleyan body. After all, a man is only as old as he feels; and why should not Josephus, whose youth was cruelly destroyed, feel young again, now that his honor has been restored to him?
On the morning before the wedding, Angela paid two visits of considerable importance.
The first was to Daniel Fagg, to whom she carried a small parcel. "My friend," she said, "I have observed your impatience about your book. Your publisher thought that, as you are inexperienced in correcting proofs, it would be best to have the work done for you. And here, I am truly happy to say, is the book itself."
He tore the covering from the book, and seized it as a mother would seize her child.
"My book!" he gasped, "my book!"
Yes, his book; bound in sober cloth, with an equilateral triangle on the cover for simple ornament. "The Primitive Alphabet, by Daniel Fagg!" "My book!"
Angela explained to him that his passage to Melbourne was taken, and that he would sail in a week; and that a small sum of money would be put into his hands on landing: and that a hundred copies of the book would be sent to Australia for him, with more if he wanted them. But she talked to idle ears, for Daniel was turning over the leaves and devouring the contents of his book.
"At all events," said Angela, "I have made one man happy."
Then she walked to the Trinity Almshouse, and sought her old friend, Captain Sorensen.
To him she told her whole story from the very beginning, begging only that he would keep her secret till the next evening.
"But, of course," said the sailor, "I knew, all along, that you were a lady born and bred. You might deceive the folk here, who've no chance, poor things, of knowing a lady when they see one – how should they? But you could not deceive a man who's had his quarter-deck full of ladies. The only question in my mind was, why you did it."
"You did not think that what Bunker said was true – did you, Captain Sorensen?"
"Nay," he replied. "Bunker never liked you; and how I am to thank you enough for all you've done for my poor girl – "
"Thank me by continuing to be my dear friend and adviser," said Angela. "If I thought it would pleasure you to live out of this place – "
"No, no," said the captain, "I could not take your money; any one may accept the provision of the asylum and be grateful."
"I knew you would say so. Stay on, then, Captain Sorensen. And as regards Nelly, my dear and fond Nelly – "
It needs not to tell what she said and promised on behalf of Nelly.
And at the house the girls were trying on the new white frocks and white bonnets in which they were to go to the wedding. They were all bridemaids, but Nelly had the post of honor.
