Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1038 page)

Amelius waited quietly until the disturbance had worn itself out.

“I am sorry I have made you angry with me,” he said, smiling. “The blame for this little disturbance really rests with the public speakers who are afraid of you and who flatter you — especially if you belong to the working classes. You are not accustomed to have the truth told you to your faces. Why, my good friends, the people in this country, who are unworthy of the great trust which the wise and generous English constitution places in their hands, are so numerous that they can be divided into distinct classes! There is the highly-educated class which despairs, and holds aloof. There is the class beneath — without self-respect, and therefore without public spirit — which can be bribed indirectly, by the gift of a place, by the concession of a lease, even by an invitation to a party at a great house which includes the wives and the daughters. And there is the lower class still — mercenary, corrupt, shameless to the marrow of its bones — which sells itself and its liberties for money and drink. When I began this discourse, and adverted to great changes that are to come, I spoke of them as revolutionary changes. Am I an alarmist? Do I unjustly ignore the capacity for peaceable reformation which has preserved modern England from revolutions, thus far? God forbid that I should deny the truth, or that I should alarm you without need! But history tells me, if I look no farther back than to the first French Revolution, that there are social and political corruptions, which strike their roots in a nation so widely and so deeply, that no force short of the force of a revolutionary convulsion can tear them up and cast them away. And I do personally fear (and older and wiser men than I agree with me), that the corruptions at which I have only been able to hint, in this brief address, are fast extending themselves — in England, as well as in Europe generally — beyond the reach of that lawful and bloodless reform which has served us so well in past years. Whether I am mistaken in this view (and I hope with all my heart it may be so), or whether events yet in the future will prove that I am right, the remedy in either case, the one sure foundation on which a permanent, complete, and worthy reformation can be built — whether it prevents a convulsion or whether it follows a convulsion — is only to be found within the covers of this book. Do not, I entreat you, suffer yourselves to be persuaded by those purblind philosophers who assert that the divine virtue of Christianity is a virtue which is wearing out with the lapse of time. It is the abuse and corruption of Christianity that is wearing out — as all falsities and all impostures must and do wear out. Never, since Christ and his apostles first showed men the way to be better and happier, have the nations stood in sorer need of a return to that teaching, in its pristine purity and simplicity, than now! Never, more certainly than at this critical time, was it the interest as well as the duty of mankind to turn a deaf ear to the turmoil of false teachers, and to trust in that all-wise and all-merciful Voice which only ceased to exalt, console, and purify humanity, when it expired in darkness under the torture of the cross! Are these the wild words of an enthusiast? Is this the dream of an earthly Paradise in which it is sheer folly to believe? I can tell you of one existing community (one among others) which numbers some hundreds of persons; and which has found prosperity and happiness, by reducing the whole art and mystery of government to the simple solution set forth in the New Testament — fear God, and love thy neighbour as thyself.”

By these gradations Amelius arrived at the second of the two parts into which he had divided his address.

He now repeated, at greater length and with a more careful choice of language, the statement of the religious and social principles of the Community at Tadmor, which he had already addressed to his two fellow-travellers on the voyage to England. While he confined himself to plain narrative, describing a mode of life which was entirely new to his hearers, he held the attention of the audience. But when he began to argue the question of applying Christian Socialism to the government of large populations as well as small — when he inquired logically whether what he had proved to be good for some hundreds of persons was not also good for some thousands, and, conceding that, for some hundreds of thousands, and so on until he had arrived, by dint of sheer argument, at the conclusion that what had succeeded at Tadmor must necessarily succeed on a fair trial in London — then the public interest began to flag. People remembered their coughs and colds, and talked in whispers, and looked about them with a vague feeling of relief in staring at each other. Mrs. Sowler, hitherto content with furtively glancing at Mr. Farnaby from time to time, now began to look at him more boldly, as he stood in his corner with his eyes fixed sternly on the platform at the other end of the hall. He too began to feel that the lecture was changing its tone. It was no longer the daring outbreak which he had come to hear, as his sufficient justification (if necessary) for forbidding Amelius to enter his house. “I have had enough of it,” he said, suddenly turning to his wife, “let us go.”

If Mrs. Farnaby could have been forewarned that she was standing in that assembly of strangers, not as one of themselves, but as a woman with a formidable danger hanging over her head — or if she had only happened to look towards Phoebe, and had felt a passing reluctance to submit herself to the possibly insolent notice of a discharged servant — she might have gone out with her husband, and might have so escaped the peril that had been lying in wait for her, from the fatal moment when she first entered the hall. As it was she refused to move. “You forget the public discussion,” she said. “Wait and see what sort of fight Amelius makes of it when the lecture is over.”

She spoke loud enough to be heard by some of the people seated nearest to her. Phoebe, critically examining the dresses of the few ladies in the reserved seats, twisted round on the bench, and noticed for the first time the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Farnaby in their dim corner. “Look!” she whispered to Jervy, “there’s the wretch who turned me out of her house without a character, and her husband with her.”

Jervy looked round, in his turn, a little doubtful of the accuracy of his sweetheart’s information. “Surely they wouldn’t come to the sixpenny places,” he said. “Are you certain it’s Mr. and Mrs. Farnaby?”

He spoke in cautiously-lowered tones; but Mrs. Sowler had seen him look back at the lady and gentleman in the corner, and was listening attentively to catch the first words that fell from his lips.

“Which is Mr. Farnaby?” she asked.

“The man in the corner there, with the white silk wrapper over his mouth, and his hat down to his eyebrows.”

Mrs. Sowler looked round for a moment — to make sure that Jervy’s man and her man were one and the same.

“Farnaby?” she muttered to herself, in the tone of a person who heard the name for the first time. She considered a little, and leaning across Jervy, addressed herself to his companion. “My dear,” she whispered, “did that gentleman ever go by the name of Morgan, and have his letters addressed to the George and Dragon, in Tooley-street?”

Phoebe lifted her eyebrows with a look of contemptuous surprise, which was an answer in itself. “Fancy the great Mr. Farnaby going by an assumed name, and having his letters addressed to a public-house!” she said to Jervy.

Mrs. Sowler asked no more questions. She relapsed into muttering to herself, under her breath. “His whiskers have turned gray, to be sure — but I know his eyes again; I’ll take my oath to it, there’s no mistaking
his
eyes!” She suddenly appealed to Jervy. “Is Mr. Farnaby rich?” she asked.

“Rolling in riches!” was the answer.

“Where does he live?”

Jervy was cautious how he replied to that; he consulted Phoebe. “Shall I tell her?”

Phoebe answered petulantly, “I’m turned out of the house; I don’t care what you tell her!”

Jervy again addressed the old woman, still keeping his information in reserve. “Why do you want to know where he lives?”

“He owes me money,” said Mrs. Sowler.

Jervy looked hard at her, and emitted a long low whistle, expressive of blank amazement. The persons near, annoyed by the incessant whispering, looked round irritably, and insisted on silence. Jervy ventured nevertheless on a last interruption. “You seem to be tired of this,” he remarked to Phoebe; “let’s go and get some oysters.” She rose directly. Jervy tapped Mrs. Sowler on the shoulder, as they passed her. “Come and have some supper,” he said; “I’ll stand treat.”

The three were necessarily noticed by their neighbours as they passed out. Mrs. Farnaby discovered Phoebe — when it was too late. Mr. Farnaby happened to look first at the old woman. Sixteen years of squalid poverty effectually disguised her, in that dim light. He only looked away again, and said to his wife impatiently, “Let us go too!”

Mrs. Farnaby was still obstinate. “You can go if you like,” she said; “I shall stay here.”

CHAPTER 4

“Three dozen oysters, bread-and-butter, and bottled stout; a private room and a good fire.” Issuing these instructions, on his arrival at the tavern, Jervy was surprised by a sudden act of interference on the part of his venerable guest. Mrs. Sowler actually took it on herself to order her own supper!

“Nothing cold to eat or drink for me,” she said. “Morning and night, waking and sleeping, I can’t keep myself warm. See for yourself, Jervy, how I’ve lost flesh since you first knew me! A steak, broiling hot from the gridiron, and gin-and-water, hotter still — that’s the supper for me.”

“Take the order, waiter,” said Jervy, resignedly; “and let us see the private room.”

The tavern was of the old-fashioned English sort, which scorns to learn a lesson of brightness and elegance from France. The private room can only be described as a museum for the exhibition of dirt in all its varieties. Behind the bars of the rusty little grate a dying fire was drawing its last breath. Mrs. Sowler clamoured for wood and coals; revived the fire with her own hands; and seated herself shivering as close to the fender as the chair would go. After a while, the composing effect of the heat began to make its influence felt: the head of the half-starved wretch sank: a species of stupor overcame her — half faintness, and half sleep.

Phoebe and her sweetheart sat together, waiting the appearance of the supper, on a little sofa at the other end of the room. Having certain objects to gain, Jervy put his arm round her waist, and looked and spoke in his most insinuating manner.

“Try and put up with Mother Sowler for an hour or two,” he said. “My sweet girl, I know she isn’t fit company for you! But how can I turn my back on an old friend?”

“That’s just what surprises me,” Phoebe answered. “I don’t understand such a person being a friend of yours.”

Always ready with the necessary lie, whenever the occasion called for it, Jervy invented a pathetic little story, in two short parts. First part: Mrs. Sowler, rich and respected; a widow inhabiting a villa-residence, and riding in her carriage. Second part: a villainous lawyer; misplaced confidence; reckless investments; death of the villain; ruin of Mrs. Sowler. “Don’t talk about her misfortunes when she wakes,” Jervy concluded, “or she’ll burst out crying, to a dead certainty. Only tell me, dear Phoebe, would
you
turn your back on a forlorn old creature because she has outlived all her other friends, and hasn’t a farthing left in the world? Poor as I am, I can help her to a supper, at any rate.”

Phoebe expressed her admiration of these noble sentiments by an inexpensive ebullition of tenderness, which failed to fulfill Jervy’s private anticipations. He had aimed straight at her purse — and he had only hit her heart! He tried a broad hint next. “I wonder whether I shall have a shilling or two left to give Mrs. Sowler, when I have paid for the supper?” He sighed, and pulled out some small change, and looked at it in eloquent silence. Phoebe was hit in the right place at last. She handed him her purse. “What is mine will be yours, when we are married,” she said; “why not now?” Jervy expressed his sense of obligation with the promptitude of a grateful man; he repeated those precious words, “My sweet girl!” Phoebe laid her head on his shoulder — and let him kiss her, and enjoyed it in silent ecstasy with half-closed eyes. The scoundrel waited and watched her, until she was completely under his influence. Then, and not till then, he risked the gradual revelation of the purpose which had induced him to withdraw from the hall, before the proceedings of the evening had reached their end.

“Did you hear what Mrs. Sowler said to me, just before we left the lecture?” he asked.

“No, dear.”

“You remember that she asked me to tell her Farnaby’s address?”

“Oh yes! And she wanted to know if he had ever gone by the name of Morgan. Ridiculous — wasn’t it?”