CHAPTER IV. JOHN ARDWORTH.
At noon the next day Beck, restored to his grandeur, was at the helm ofhis state; Percival was vainly trying to be amused by the talk of two orthree loungers who did him the honour to smoke a cigar in his rooms; andJohn Ardworth sat in his dingy cell in Gray's Inn, with a pile of lawbooks on the table, and the daily newspapers carpeting a footstool ofHansard's Debates upon the floor,--no unusual combination of studiesamongst the poorer and more ardent students of the law, who often owetheir earliest, nor perhaps their least noble, earnings to employmentin the empire of the Press. By the power of a mind habituated to labour,and backed by a frame of remarkable strength and endurance, Ardworthgrappled with his arid studies not the less manfully for a night mainlyspent in a printer's office, and stinted to less than four hours' actualsleep. But that sleep was profound and refreshing as a peasant's. Thenights thus devoted to the Press (he was employed in the sub-editingof a daily journal), the mornings to the law, he kept distinct the twoseparate callings with a stern subdivision of labour which in itselfproved the vigour of his energy and the resolution of his will. Earlycompelled to shift for himself and carve out his own way, he hadobtained a small fellowship at the small college in which he had passedhis academic career. Previous to his arrival in London, by contributionsto political periodicals and a high reputation at that noble debatingsociety in Cambridge which has trained some of the most eminentof living public men [Amongst those whom the "Union" almostcontemporaneously prepared for public life, and whose distinction haskept the promise of their youth, we may mention the eminent barristers,Messrs. Austin and Cockburn; and amongst statesmen, Lord Grey, Mr. C.Buller, Mr. Charles Villiers, and Mr. Macaulay. Nor ought we to forgetthose brilliant competitors for the prizes of the University, Dr.Kennedy (now head-master of Shrewsbury School) and the late Winthrop M.Praed.], he had established a name which was immediately useful to himin obtaining employment on the Press. Like most young men of practicalability, he was an eager politician. The popular passion of theday kindled his enthusiasm and stirred the depths of his soul withmagnificent, though exaggerated, hopes in the destiny of his race. Heidentified himself with the people; his stout heart beat loud in theirstormy cause. His compositions, if they wanted that knowledge of men,that subtle comprehension of the true state of parties, thathappy temperance in which the crowning wisdom of statesmen mustconsist,--qualities which experience alone can give,--excitedconsiderable attention by their bold eloquence and hardy logic.They were suited to the time. But John Ardworth had that solidity ofunderstanding which betokens more than talent, and which is the usualsubstratum of genius. He would not depend alone on the precarious andoften unhonoured toils of polemical literature for that distinction onwhich he had fixed his steadfast heart. Patiently he plodded on throughthe formal drudgeries of his new profession, lighting up dulness by hisown acute comprehension, weaving complexities into simple system by thegrasp of an intellect inured to generalize, and learning to love evenwhat was most distasteful, by the sense of difficulty overcome, and theclearer vision which every step through the mists and up the hill gaveof the land beyond. Of what the superficial are apt to consider genius,John Ardworth had but little. He had some imagination (for a truethinker is never without that), but he had a very slight share of fancy.He did not flirt with the Muses; on the granite of his mind few flowerscould spring. His style, rushing and earnest, admitted at times of ahumour not without delicacy,--though less delicate than forcible anddeep,--but it was little adorned with wit, and still less with poetry.Yet Ardworth had genius, and genius ample and magnificent. There wasgenius in that industrious energy so patient in the conquest of detail,so triumphant in the perception of results. There was genius in thatkindly sympathy with mankind; genius in that stubborn determination tosucceed; genius in that vivid comprehension of affairs, and the largeinterests of the world; genius fed in the labours of the closet, andevinced the instant he was brought into contact with men,--evincedin readiness of thought, grasp of memory, even in a rough, imperiousnature, which showed him born to speak strong truths, and in their nameto struggle and command.
Rough was this man often in his exterior, though really gentle andkind-hearted. John Ardworth had sacrificed to no Graces; he would havethrown Lord Chesterfield into a fever. Not that he was ever vulgar,for vulgarity implies affectation of refinement; but he talked loud andlaughed loud if the whim seized him, and rubbed his great hands with aboyish heartiness of glee if he discomfited an adversary in argument.Or, sometimes, he would sit abstracted and moody, and answer brieflyand boorishly those who interrupted him. Young men were mostly afraid ofhim, though he wanted but fame to have a set of admiring disciples. Oldmen censured his presumption and recoiled from the novelty of his ideas.Women alone liked and appreciated him, as, with their finer insight intocharacter, they generally do what is honest and sterling. Some strangefailings, too, had John Ardworth,--some of the usual vagaries andcontradictions of clever men. As a system, he was rigidly abstemious.For days together he would drink nothing but water, eat nothing butbread, or hard biscuit, or a couple of eggs; then, having wound upsome allotted portion of work, Ardworth would indulge what he called aself-saturnalia,--would stride off with old college friends to an innin one of the suburbs, and spend, as he said triumphantly, "a day ofblessed debauch!" Innocent enough, for the most part, the debauch was,consisting in cracking jests, stringing puns, a fish dinner, perhaps,and an extra bottle or two of fiery port. Sometimes this jollity,which was always loud and uproarious, found its scene in one of thecider-cellars or midnight taverns; but Ardworth's labours on the Pressmade that latter dissipation extremely rare. These relaxations werealways succeeded by a mien more than usually grave, a manner more thanusually curt and ungracious, an application more than ever rigorousand intense. John Ardworth was not a good-tempered man, but he was thebest-natured man that ever breathed. He was, like all ambitious persons,very much occupied with self; and yet it would have been a ludicrousmisapplication of words to call him selfish. Even the desire of famewhich absorbed him was but a part of benevolence,--a desire to promotejustice and to serve his kind.
John Ardworth's shaggy brows were bent over his open volumes when hisclerk entered noiselessly and placed on his table a letter which thetwopenny-postman had just delivered. With an impatient shrug of theshoulders, Ardworth glanced towards the superscription; but his eyebecame earnest and his interest aroused as he recognized the hand."Again!" he muttered. "What mystery is this? Who can feel such interestin my fate?" He broke the seal and read as follows:--
Do you neglect my advice, or have you begun to act upon it? Are youcontented only with the slow process of mechanical application, or willyou make a triumphant effort to abridge your apprenticeship and emergeat once into fame and power? I repeat that you fritter away your talentsand your opportunities upon this miserable task-work on a journal. Iam impatient for you. Come forward yourself, put your force and yourknowledge into some work of which the world may know the author. Dayafter day I am examining into your destiny, and day after day I believemore and more that you are not fated for the tedious drudgery to whichyou doom your youth. I would have you great, but in the senate, nota wretched casuist at the Bar. Appear in public as an individualauthority, not one of that nameless troop of shadows contemned whiledreaded as the Press. Write for renown. Go into the world, and makefriends. Soften your rugged bearing. Lift yourself above that herd whomyou call "the people." What if you are born of the noble class! What ifyour career is as gentleman, not plebeian Want not for money. Use whatI send you as the young and the well-born should use it; or let it atleast gain you a respite from toils for bread, and support you in yourstruggle to emancipate yourself from obscurity into fame.
YOUR UNKNOWN FRIEND
A bank-note for 100 pounds dropped from the envelope as Ardworthsilently replaced the letter on the table.
Thrice before had he received communications in the same handwriting,and much to the same effect. Certainly, to a mind of less strength therewou
ld have been something very unsettling in those vague hints of astation higher than he owned, of a future at variance with the toilsomelot he had drawn from the urn; but after a single glance over his loneposition in all its bearings and probable expectations, Ardworth'ssteady sense shook off the slight disturbance such misty vaticinationshad effected. His mother's family was indeed unknown to him, he was evenignorant of her maiden name. But that very obscurity seemed unfavourableto much hope from such a quarter. The connections with the rich andwell-born are seldom left obscure. From his father's family he had notone expectation. More had he been moved by exhortation now generallyrepeated, but in a previous letter more precisely detailed; namely, toappeal to the reading public in his acknowledged person, and by somestriking and original work. This idea he had often contemplated andrevolved; but partly the necessity of keeping pace with the manyexigencies of the hour had deterred him, and partly also the convictionof his sober judgment that a man does himself no good at the Bar even bythe most brilliant distinction gained in discursive fields. He had thenatural yearning of the Restless Genius; and the Patient Genius (higherpower of the two) had suppressed the longing. Still, so far, thewhispers of his correspondent tempted and aroused. But hitherto he hadsought to persuade himself that the communications thus strangely forcedon him arose perhaps from idle motives,--a jest, it might be, of oneof his old college friends, or at best the vain enthusiasm of some morecredulous admirer. But the enclosure now sent to him forbade either ofthese suppositions. Who that he knew could afford so costly a jest orso extravagant a tribute? He was perplexed, and with his perplexitywas mixed a kind of fear. Plain, earnest, unromantic in the commonacceptation of the word, the mystery of this intermeddling with hisfate, this arrogation of the license to spy, the right to counsel, andthe privilege to bestow, gave him the uneasiness the bravest men mayfeel at noises in the dark. That day he could apply no more, he couldnot settle back to his Law Reports. He took two or three unquietturns up and down his smoke-dried cell, then locked up the letter andenclosure, seized his hat, and strode, with his usual lusty, swingingstrides, into the open air.
But still the letter haunted him. "And if," he said almost audibly,--"ifI were the heir to some higher station, why then I might have a heartlike idle men; and Helen, beloved Helen--" He paused, sighed, shook hisrough head, shaggy with neglected curls, and added: "As if even thenI could steal myself into a girl's good graces! Man's esteem I maycommand, though poor; woman's love could I win, though rich? Pooh! pooh!every wood does not make a Mercury; and faith, the wood I am made ofwill scarcely cut up into a lover."
Nevertheless, though thus soliloquizing, Ardworth mechanically bent hisway towards Brompton, and halted, half-ashamed of himself, at the housewhere Helen lodged with her aunt. It was a building that stood apartfrom all the cottages and villas of that charming suburb, half-way downa narrow lane, and enclosed by high, melancholy walls, deep set inwhich a small door, with the paint blistered and weather-stained, gaveunfrequented entrance to the demesne. A woman servant of middle age andstarched, puritanical appearance answered the loud ring of the bell, andArdworth seemed a privileged visitor, for she asked him no question as,with a slight nod and a smileless, stupid expression in a face otherwisecomely, she led the way across a paved path, much weed-grown, to thehouse. That house itself had somewhat of a stern and sad exterior. Itwas not ancient, yet it looked old from shabbiness and neglect. Thevine, loosened from the rusty nails, trailed rankly against the wall,and fell in crawling branches over the ground. The house had once beenwhitewashed; but the colour, worn off in great patches, distained withdamp, struggled here and there with the dingy, chipped bricks beneath.There was no peculiar want of what is called "tenantable repair;" thewindows were whole, and doubtless the roof sheltered from the rain. Butthe woodwork that encased the panes was decayed, and houseleek coveredthe tiles. Altogether, there was that forlorn and cheerless aspect aboutthe place which chills the visitor, he defines not why. And Ardworthsteadied his usual careless step, and crept, as if timidly, up thecreaking stairs.
On entering the drawing-room, it seemed at first deserted; but the eye,searching round, perceived something stir in the recess of a huge chairset by the fireless hearth. And from amidst a mass of coverings a paleface emerged, and a thin hand waved its welcome to the visitor.
Ardworth approached, pressed the hand, and drew a seat near to thesufferer's.
"You are better, I hope?" he said cordially, and yet in a tone of morerespect than was often perceptible in his deep, blunt voice.
"I am always the same," was the quiet answer; "come nearer still. Yourvisits cheer me."
And as these last words were said, Madame Dalibard raised herself fromher recumbent posture and gazed long upon Ardworth's face of power andfront of thought. "You overfatigue yourself, my poor kinsman," she said,with a certain tenderness; "you look already too old for your youngyears."
"That's no disadvantage at the Bar."
"Is the Bar your means, or your end?"
"My dear Madame Dalibard, it is my profession."
"No, your profession is to rise. John Ardworth," and the low voiceswelled in its volume, "you are bold, able, and aspiring; for this,I love you,--love you almost--almost as a mother. Your fate," shecontinued hurriedly, "interests me; your energies inspire me withadmiration. Often I sit here for hours, musing over your destiny to be,so that at times I may almost say that in your life I live."
Ardworth looked embarrassed, and with an awkward attempt at complimenthe began, hesitatingly: "I should think too highly of myself if I couldreally believe that you--"
"Tell me," interrupted Madame Dalibard,--"we have had many conversationsupon grave and subtle matters; we have disputed on the secret mysteriesof the human mind; we have compared our several experiences of outwardlife and the mechanism of the social world,--tell me, then, and frankly,what do you think of me? Do you regard me merely as your sex is apt toregard the woman who aspires to equal men,--a thing of borrowed phrasesand unsound ideas, feeble to guide, and unskilled to teach; or do yourecognize in this miserable body a mind of force not unworthy yours,ruled by an experience larger than your own?"
"I think of you," answered Ardworth, frankly, "as the most remarkablewoman I have ever met. Yet--do not be angry--I do not like to yieldto the influence which you gain over me when we meet. It disturbs myconvictions, it disquiets my reason; I do not settle back to my life soeasily after your breath has passed over it."
"And yet," said Lucretia, with a solemn sadness in her voice, "thatinfluence is but the natural power which cold maturity exercises onardent youth. It is my mournful ad vantage over you that disquiets yourhappy calm. It is my experience that unsettles the fallacies which youname 'convictions.' Let this pass. I asked your opinion of me, becauseI wished to place at your service all that knowledge of life which Ipossess. In proportion as you esteem me you will accept or reject mycounsels."
"I have benefited by them already. It is the tone that you advised meto assume that gave me an importance I had not before with that oldformalist whose paper I serve, and whose prejudices I shock; it is toyour criticisms that I owe the more practical turn of my writings, andthe greater hold they have taken on the public."
"Trifles indeed, these," said Madame Dalibard, with a half smile. "Letthem at least induce you to listen to me if I propose to make your pathmore pleasant, yet your ascent more rapid."
Ardworth knit his brows, and his countenance assumed an expression ofdoubt and curiosity. However, he only replied, with a blunt laugh,--
"You must be wise indeed if you have discovered a royal road todistinction.
'Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proudtemple shines afar!'
A more sensible exclamation than poets usually preface with theirwhining 'Ahs' and 'Ohs!'"
"What we are is nothing," pursued Madame Dalibard; "what we seem ismuch."
Ardworth thrust his hands into his pockets and shook his head. The wisewoman continued, unheeding his dissent f
rom her premises,--
"Everything you are taught to value has a likeness, and it is thatlikeness which the world values. Take a man out of the streets, poor andragged, what will the world do with him? Send him to the workhouse, ifnot to the jail. Ask a great painter to take that man's portrait,--rags,squalor, and all,--and kings will bid for the picture. You would thrustthe man from your doors, you would place the portrait in your palaces.It is the same with qualities; the portrait is worth more than thetruth. What is virtue without character? But a man without virtue maythrive on a character! What is genius without success? But how often youbow to success without genius! John Ardworth, possess yourself of theportraits,--win the character; seize the success."
"Madame," exclaimed Ardworth, rudely, "this is horrible!"
"Horrible it may be," said Madame Dalibard, gently, and feeling,perhaps, that she had gone too far; "but it is the world's judgment.Seem, then, as well as be. You have virtue, as I believe. Well, wrapyourself in it--in your closet. Go into the world, and earn character.If you have genius, let it comfort you. Rush into the crowd, and getsuccess."
"Stop!" cried Ardworth; "I recognize you. How could I be so blind? Itis you who have written to me, and in the same strain; you have robbedyourself,--you, poor sufferer,--to throw extravagance into these stronghands. And why? What am I to you?" An expression of actual fondnesssoftened Lucretia's face as she looked up at him and replied: "I willtell you hereafter what you are to me. First, I confess that it is Iwhose letters have perplexed, perhaps offended you. The sum that I sentI do not miss. I have more,--will ever have more at your command; neverfear. Yes, I wish you to go into the world, not as a dependant, but asan equal to the world's favourites. I wish you to know more of men thanmere law-books teach you. I wish you to be in men's mouths, create acircle that shall talk of young Ardworth; that talk would travel tothose who can advance your career. The very possession of money incertain stages of life gives assurance to the manner, gives attractionto the address."
"But," said Ardworth, "all this is very well for some favourite of birthand fortune; but for me--Yet speak, and plainly. You throw out hintsthat I am what I know not, but something less dependent on his nervesand his brain than is plain John Ardworth. What is it you mean?"
Madame Dalibard bent her face over her breast, and rocking herself inher chair, seemed to muse for some moments before she answered.
"When I first came to England, some months ago, I desired naturally tolearn all the particulars of my family and kindred, from which my longresidence abroad had estranged me. John Walter Ardworth was relatedto my half-sister; to me he was but a mere connection. However, I knewsomething of his history, yet I did not know that he had a son. Shortlybefore I came to England, I learned that one who passed for his sonhad been brought up by Mr. Fielden, and from Mr. Fielden I have sincelearned all the grounds for that belief from which you take the name ofArdworth."
Lucretia paused a moment; and after a glance at the impatient,wondering, and eager countenance that bent intent upon her, she resumed:
"Your reputed father was, you are doubtless aware, of reckless andextravagant habits. He had been put into the army by my uncle, andhe entered the profession with the careless buoyancy of his sanguinenature. I remember those days,--that day! Well, to return--wherewas I?--Walter Ardworth had the folly to entertain strong notions ofpolitics. He dreamed of being a soldier, and yet persuaded himself tobe a republican. His notions, so hateful in his profession, got wind; hedisguised nothing, he neglected the portraits of things,--appearances.He excited the rancour of his commanding officer; for politics then,more even than now, were implacable ministrants to hate. Occasionpresented itself. During the short Peace of Amiens he had been recalled.He had to head a detachment of soldiers against some mob,--in Ireland, Ibelieve; he did not fire on the mob, according to orders,--so, at least,it was said. John Walter Ardworth was tried by a court-martial, andbroke! But you know all this, perhaps?"
"My poor father! Only in part; I knew that he had been dismissed thearmy,--I believed unjustly. He was a soldier, and yet he dared to thinkfor himself and be humane!"
"But my uncle had left him a legacy; it brought no blessing,--none ofthat old man's gold did. Where are they all now,--Dalibard, Susan, andher fair-faced husband,--where? Vernon is in his grave,--but one son ofmany left! Gabriel Varney lives, it is true, and I! But that gold,--yea,in our hands there was a curse on it! Walter Ardworth had his legacy.His nature was gay; if disgraced in his profession, he found men to pityand praise him,--Fools of Party like himself. He lived joyously, drankor gamed, or lent or borrowed,--what matters the wherefore? He was indebt; he lived at last a wretched, shifting, fugitive life, snatchingbread where he could, with the bailiffs at his heels. Then, for a shorttime, we met again."
Lucretia's brow grew black as night as her voice dropped at that lastsentence, and it was with a start that she continued,--
"In the midst of this hunted existence, Walter Ardworth appeared, lateone night, at Mr. Fielden's with an infant. He seemed--so says Mr.Fielden--ill, worn, and haggard. He entered into no explanations withrespect to the child that accompanied him, and retired at once to rest.What follows, Mr. Fielden, at my request, has noted down. Read, and seewhat claim you have to the honourable parentage so vaguely ascribed toyou."
As she spoke, Madame Dalibard opened a box on her table, drew forth apaper in Fielden's writing, and placed it in Ardworth's hand. After somepreliminary statement of the writer's intimacy with the elder Ardworth,and the appearance of the latter at his house, as related by MadameDalibard, etc., the document went on thus:--
The next day, when my poor guest was still in bed, my servant Hannahcame to advise me that two persons were without, waiting to see me.As is my wont, I bade them be shown in. On their entrance (two rough,farmer-looking men they were, who I thought might be coming to hire mylittle pasture field), I prayed them to speak low, as a sick gentlemanwas just overhead. Whereupon, and without saying a word further, the twostrangers made a rush from the room, leaving me dumb with amazement; ina few moments I heard voices and a scuffle above. I recovered myself,and thinking robbers had entered my peaceful house, I called outlustily, when Hannah came in, and we both, taking courage, wentupstairs, and found that poor Walter was in the hands of these supposedrobbers, who in truth were but bailiffs. They would not trust him outof their sight for a moment. However, he took it more pleasantly than Icould have supposed possible; prayed me in a whisper to take care of thechild, and I should soon hear from him again. In less than an hour hewas gone. Two days afterwards I received from him a hurried letter,without address, of which this is a copy:--
DEAR FRIEND,--I slipped from the bailiffs, and here I am in a safelittle tavern in sight of the sea! Mother Country is a very bad parentto me! Mother Brownrigg herself could scarcely be worse. I shall workout my passage to some foreign land, and if I can recover my health(sea-air is bracing), I don't despair of getting my bread honestly,somehow. If ever I can pay my debts, I may return. But, meanwhile, mygood old tutor, what will you think of me? You to whom my sole returnfor so much pains, taken in vain, is another mouth to feed! And no moneyto pay for the board! Yet you'll not grudge the child a place at yourtable, will you? No, nor kind, saving Mrs. Fielden either,--God blessher tender, economical soul! You know quite enough of me to be sure thatI shall very soon either free you of the boy, or send you something toprevent its being an encumbrance. I would say, love and pity the childfor my sake. But I own I feel---By Jove, I must be off; I hear the firstsignal from the vessel that--
Yours in haste, J. W. A.
Young Ardworth stopped from the lecture, and sighed heavily. Thereseemed to him in this letter worse than a mock gayety,--a certain levityand recklessness which jarred on his own high principles. And the wantof affection for the child thus abandoned was evident,--not one fondword. He resumed the statement with a gloomy and disheartened attention.
This was all I heard from my poor, erring Walter for more than threeyears; but I knew, in
spite of his follies, that his heart was sound atbottom (the son's eyes brightened here, and he kissed the paper), andthe child was no burden to us; we loved it, not only for Ardworth'ssake, but for its own, and for charity's and Christ's. Ardworth's secondletter was as follows:--
En iterum Crispinus! I am still alive, and getting on in the world,--ay,and honestly too; I am no longer spending heedlessly; I am saving for mydebts, and I shall live, I trust, to pay off every farthing. First,for my debt to you I send an order, not signed in my name, but equallyvalid, on Messrs. Drummond, for 250 pounds. Repay yourself what the boyhas cost. Let him be educated to get his own living,--if clever, as ascholar or a lawyer; if dull, as a tradesman. Whatever I may gain, hewill have his own way to make. I ought to tell you the story connectedwith his birth; but it is one of pain and shame, and, on reflection, Ifeel that I have no right to injure him by affixing to his early birthan opprobrium of which he himself is guiltless. If ever I return toEngland, you shall know all, and by your counsels I will abide. Love toall your happy family. Your grateful FRIEND AND PUPIL. From this letterI began to suspect that the poor boy was probably not born in wedlock,and that Ardworth's silence arose from his compunction. I conceived itbest never to mention this suspicion to John himself as he grew up. Whyshould I afflict him by a doubt from which his own father shrank,and which might only exist in my own inexperienced and uncharitableinterpretation of some vague words? When John was fourteen, I receivedfrom Messrs. Drummond a further sum of 500 pounds, but without anyline from Ardworth, and only to the effect that Messrs. Drummond weredirected by a correspondent in Calcutta to pay me the said sum on behalfof expenses incurred for the maintenance of the child left to my chargeby John Walter Ardworth. My young pupil had been two years at theUniversity when I received the letter of which this is a copy:--
"How are you? Still well, still happy? Let me hope so! I have notwritten to you, dear old friend, but I have not been forgetful of you;I have inquired of you through my correspondents, and have learned, fromtime to time, such accounts as satisfied my grateful affection for you.I find that you have given the boy my name. Well, let him bear it,--itis nothing to boast of such as it became in my person; but, mind, I donot, therefore, acknowledge him as my son. I wish him to think himselfwithout parents, without other aid in the career of life than his ownindustry and talent--if talent he has. Let him go through the healthfulprobation of toil; let him search for and find independence. Till he isof age, 150 pounds per annum will be paid quarterly to your account forhim at Messrs. Drummond's. If then, to set him up in any business orprofession, a sum of money be necessary, name the amount by a line,signed A. B., Calcutta, to the care of Messrs. Drummond, and it willreach and find me disposed to follow your instructions. But after thattime all further supply from me will cease. Do not suppose, because Isend this from India, that I am laden with rupees; all I can hope toattain is a competence. That boy is not the only one who has claimsto share it. Even, therefore, if I had the wish to rear him to theextravagant habits that ruined myself, I have not the power. Yes, lethim lean on his own strength. In the letter you send me, write fully ofyour family, your sons, and write as to a man who can perhaps help themin the world, and will be too happy thus in some slight degree to repayall he owes you. You would smile approvingly if you saw me now,--asteady, money-getting man, but still yours as ever."
"P.S.--Do not let the boy write to me, nor give him this clew to myaddress."
On the receipt of this letter, I wrote fully to Ardworth about theexcellent promise and conduct of his poor neglected son. I told himtruly he was a son any father might be proud of, and rebuked, even toharshness, Walter's unseemly tone respecting him. One's child is one'schild, however the father may have wronged the mother. To this letterI never received any answer. When John was of age, and had made himselfindependent of want by obtaining a college fellowship, I spoke to himabout his prospects. I told him that his father, though residing abroadand for some reason keeping himself concealed, had munificently paidhitherto for his maintenance, and would lay down what might be necessaryto start him in business, or perhaps place him in the army, but that hisfather might be better pleased if he could show a love of independence,and henceforth maintain himself. I knew the boy I spoke to! Johnthought as I did, and I never applied for another donation to the elderArdworth. The allowance ceased; John since then has maintained himself.I have heard no more from his father, though I have written often to theaddress he gave me. I begin to fear that he is dead. I once went up totown and saw one of the heads of Messrs. Drummond's firm, a very politegentleman, but he could give me no information, except that he obeyedinstructions from a correspondent at Calcutta,--one Mr. Macfarren.Whereon I wrote to Mr. Macfarren, and asked him, as I thought verypressingly, to tell me all he knew of poor Ardworth the elder. Heanswered shortly that he knew of no such person at all, and that A. B.was a French merchant, settled in Calcutta, who had been dead for abovetwo years. I now gave up all hopes of any further intelligence, and wasmore convinced than ever that I had acted rightly in withholding frompoor John my correspondence with his father. The lad had been curiousand inquisitive naturally; but when I told him that I thought it my dutyto his father to be so reserved, he forebore to press me. I have onlyto add, first, that by all the inquiries I could make of the survivingmembers of Walter Ardworth's family, it seemed their full belief thathe had never been married, and therefore I fear we must conclude thathe had no legitimate children,--which may account for, though it cannotexcuse, his neglect; and secondly, with respect to the sums received ondear John's account, I put them all by, capital and interest, deductingonly the expense of his first year at Cambridge (the which I could notdefray without injuring my own children), and it all stands in his nameat Messrs. Drummond's, vested in the Three per Cents. That I have nottold him of this was by my poor dear wife's advice; for she said, verysensibly,--and she was a shrewd woman on money matters,--"If he knows hehas such a large sum all in the lump, who knows but he may grow idle andextravagant, and spend it at once, like his father before him? Whereas,some time or other he will want to marry, or need money for someparticular purpose,--then what a blessing it will be!"
However, my dear madam, as you know the world better than I do, youcan now do as you please, both as to communicating to John all theinformation herein contained as to his parentage, and as to apprisinghim of the large sum of which he is lawfully possessed.
MATTHEW FIELDEN.
P.S.--In justice to poor John Ardworth, and to show that whatever whimhe may have conceived about his own child, he had still a heart kindenough to remember mine, though Heaven knows I said nothing about themin my letters, my eldest boy received an offer of an excellent place ina West India merchant's house, and has got on to be chief clerk; and mysecond son was presented to a living of 117 pounds a year by a gentlemanhe never heard of. Though I never traced these good acts to Ardworth,from whom else could they come?
Ardworth put down the paper without a word; and Lucretia, who hadwatched him while he read, was struck with the self-control he evincedwhen he came to the end of the disclosure. She laid her hand on his andsaid,--
"Courage! you have lost nothing!"
"Nothing!" said Ardworth, with a bitter smile. "A father's love and afather's name,--nothing!"
"But," exclaimed Lucretia, "is this man your father? Does a father'sheart beat in one line of those hard sentences? No, no; it seems to meprobable,--it seems to me almost certain, that you are--" She stopped,and continued, with a calmer accent, "near to my own blood. I am now inEngland, in London, to prosecute the inquiry built upon that hope. Ifso, if so, you shall--" Madame Dalibard again stopped abruptly, andthere was something terrible in the very exultation of her countenance.She drew a long breath, and resumed, with an evident effort atself-command, "If so, I have a right to the interest I feel foryou. Suffer me yet to be silent as to the grounds of my belief,and--and--love me a little in the mean while!"
Her voice trembled, as if with rushing tears, at these last w
ords, andthere was almost an agony in the tone in which they were said, and inthe gesture of the clasped hands she held out to him.
Much moved (amidst all his mingled emotions at the tale thus made knownto him) by the manner and voice of the narrator, Ardworth bent down andkissed the extended hands. Then he rose abruptly, walked to and fro theroom, muttering to himself, paused opposite the window, threw it open,as for air, and, indeed, fairly gasped for breath. When he turned round,however, his face was composed, and folding his arms on his large breastwith a sudden action, he said aloud, and yet rather to himself than tohis listener,--
"What matter, after all, by what name men call our fathers? Weourselves make our own fate! Bastard or noble, not a jot care I. Give meancestors, I will not disgrace them; raze from my lot even the very nameof father, and my sons shall have an ancestor in me!"
As he thus spoke, there was a rough grandeur in his hard face and thestrong ease of his powerful form. And while thus standing and thuslooking, the door opened, and Varney walked in abruptly.
These two men had met occasionally at Madame Dalibard's, but no intimacyhad been established between them. Varney was formal and distant toArdworth, and Ardworth felt a repugnance to Varney. With the instinctof sound, sterling, weighty natures, he detected at once, and dislikedheartily, that something of gaudy, false, exaggerated, and hollow whichpervaded Gabriel Varney's talk and manner,--even the trick of his walkand the cut of his dress. And Ardworth wanted that boyish and beautifulluxuriance of character which belonged to Percival St. John, easy toplease and to be pleased, and expanding into the warmth of admirationfor all talent and all distinction. For art, if not the highest,Ardworth cared not a straw; it was nothing to him that Varney paintedand composed, and ran showily through the jargon of literary babble,or toyed with the puzzles of unsatisfying metaphysics. He saw but acharlatan, and he had not yet learned from experience what strengthand what danger lie hid in the boa parading its colours in the sun, andshifting, in the sensual sportiveness of its being, from bough to bough.
Varney halted in the middle of the room as his eye rested first onArdworth, and then glanced towards Madame Dalibard. But Ardworth, jarredfrom his revery or resolves by the sound of a voice discordant to hisear at all times, especially in the mood which then possessed him,scarcely returned Varney's salutation, buttoned his coat over hischest, seized his hat, and upsetting two chairs, and very considerablydisturbing the gravity of a round table, forced his way to MadameDalibard, pressed her hand, and said in a whisper, "I shall see youagain soon," and vanished.
Varney, smoothing his hair with fingers that shone with rings, slid intothe seat next Madame Dalibard, which Ardworth had lately occupied, andsaid: "If I were a Clytemnestra, I should dread an Orestes in such ason!"
Madame Dalibard shot towards the speaker one of the sidelong, suspiciousglances which of old had characterized Lucretia, and said,--
"Clytemnestra was happy! The Furies slept to her crime, and haunted butthe avenger."
"Hist!" said Varney.
The door opened, and Ardworth reappeared.
"I quite forgot what I half came to know. How is Helen? Did she returnhome safe?"
"Safe--yes!"
"Dear girl, I am glad to hear it! Where is she? Not gone to thoseMiverses again? I am no aristocrat, but why should one couple togetherrefinement and vulgarity?"
"Mr. Ardworth," said Madame Dalibard, with haughty coldness, "my nieceis under my care, and you will permit me to judge for myself how todischarge the trust. Mr. Mivers is her own relation,--a nearer one thanyou are."
Not at all abashed by the rebuke, Ardworth said carelessly: "Well, Ishall talk to you again on that subject. Meanwhile, pray give my love toher,--Helen, I mean."
Madame Dalibard half rose in her chair, then sank back again, motioningwith her hand to Ardworth to approach. Varney rose and walked to thewindow, as if sensible that something was about to be said not meant forhis ear.
When Ardworth was close to her chair, Madame Dalibard grasped hishand with a vigour that surprised him, and drawing him nearer still,whispered as he bent down,--
"I will give Helen your love, if it is a cousin's, or, if you will, abrother's love. Do you intend--do you feel--an other, a warmer love?Speak, sir!" and drawing suddenly back, she gazed on his face witha stern and menacing expression, her teeth set, and the lips firmlypressed together.
Ardworth, though a little startled, and half angry, answered with thelow, ironical laugh not uncommon to him, "Pish! you ladies are apt tothink us men much greater fools than we are. A briefless lawyer isnot very inflammable tinder. Yes, a cousin's love,--quite enough.Poor little Helen! time enough to put other notions into her head; andthen--she will have a sweetheart, gay and handsome like herself!"
"Ay," said Madame Dalibard, with a slight smile, "ay, I am satisfied.Come soon."
Ardworth nodded, and hurried down the stairs. As he gained the door, hecaught sight of Helen at a distance, bending over a flower-bed in theneglected garden. He paused, irresolute, a moment. "No," he mutteredto himself, "no; I am fit company only for myself! A long walk into thefields, and then away with these mists round the Past and Future; thePresent at least is mine!"