George Geith of Fen Court. A novel

Front matter

GEORGE GEITH OF FEN COURT. GEORGE GEITH 01 FEN COURT. 1 Hotel BY F. G. TRAFFORD, AUTHOR OF "TOO MUCH ALONE." "CITY AND SUBURB," " THE* WORLD IN THE CHURCH. " "PHE3IIE KELLER." AND "MAXWELL DREWITT." Btto €idtim. LONDON : TINSLET BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1865. [The right of Translation is reserved.] JOHN CHnDS ASP BON, PRINTERS. TO ALEXANDER JOHNS, ESQ., or SuNNTLANDS, CAERICKFEKGUS, IN THANKFUL REMEMBRANCE OF KIND ADVICE, OF CORDIAL ENCOURAGEMENT, AND OF VALUABLE ASSISTANCE, & bis § cofe IS DEDICATED BY HIS OLD FRIEND, THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. INTRODUCTORY ... ... ... 1 II. GRANT AND CO. ... ... ... 7 III. BUSINESS ... ... ... 16 IV. THE SYTHLOW MINES ... ... ... 22 V. A FRIENDLY INVITATION ... ... ... 29 VI. PLEASURE ... ... ... ... 42 VII. A LITTLE COOL ... ... ... 49 VIII.

ALL ON ONE SIDE ... ... ... 60 IX. BACK TO TOWN ... ... ... 75 X. LADY GEITH ... ... ... 90 XI. AUNT AND NEPHEW ... ... ... 102 XII. OFFICE VISITORS ... ... ... 112 XIII. IN THE COUNTRY ... ... ... 123 XIV. NEW ACQUAINTANCES ... ... ... 130 XV. BERYL ... ... ... ... 139 XVI. FAMILY AFFAIRS ... ... ... 151 XVII. AT THE DOWER HOUSE ... ... ... 162 XVIII. QUITE AT HOME ... ... ... 173 XIX. HAPPINESS ... ... ... ... 186 XX. BERYL'S ADMIRER ... ... ... 196 XXI. BERYL EXPLAINS ... ... ■ ... CONTENTS. CHAP. FAGE XXII. ACROSS THE FIELDS ... ... ••• 214 XXIII. A LITTLE SURPRISE ... ... •■• 226 XXIV. MR RICHARD ELSENgAM ... ... 234 XXV. BACK TO TOWN '" ... ••■ 242 XXVI. DAY DREAMS ... ... ••• 254 XXVII. ALTERNATIONS ... ... ••• 259 XXVIII. CHRISTMAS EVE ... ... ... 266 XXIX. DOMESTIC PERPLEXITIES ... ... 273 XXX.

DEATH ... ... ... ... 285 XXXI. EAVESDROPPING ... ... ... 290 XXXII. IN LONDON ... ... ... 307 XXXIII. PLEASANT HOURS ... ... ... 315 XXXIV. THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLE ... ... 324 XXXV. DEFEATED ... ... ... ... 334 XXXVI. BARONET AND ACCOUNTANT ... ... 340 XXXVII. RESIGNED ... ... ... ... 349 XXXVIII. THE LAST MOLOZANE ... ... ... 353 XXXIX. SUNSHINE ... ... ... ... 361 XL. MARRIED ... ... ... ... 372 XLI. IN THE CITY ... ... ... 382 XLII. A LITTLE DISCOVERY ... ... ... 390 XLIII. NOT DEAD ... ... ... ... 401 XLIV. THE TWO BARONETS ... ... ... 407 XLV. THE OLD SKELETON ... ... ... 422 XLVI. TWO MOST WRETCHED ... ... ... 428 XLVII. GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? ... ... 439 XLVIII. PARTED ... ... ... ... 455 XLIX. TILL ETERNITY ... ... ... 462 CONCLUSION ... ... ...

Chapter I. Introductory

Quite close to Fencburch Street — within a few yards of tbat noisy and crowded thoroughfare — there lies bidden away as quiet and forsaken-looking a spot as tbe heart of man need desire to see. It is called Fen Court, and I should like to take my readers thitber. "We bave paced tbe City pavements together before now, and I am glad to be threading tbe familiar streets and alleys in good company again. A narrow covered passage affords ingress to Fen Court, which is but a portion of the graveyard once attached to St Gabriel, one of the many churches destroyed by tbe Great Fire of 1666, and never rebuilt. Tbe parish was subsequently united to tbat of St Margaret Pattens, and this little piece of ground is all that now remains to tell us of a church past wbicb flowed the clear waters of Langbourne.

It is beside tbe bones of those wbo peopled London in those days that we are standing. Shall we sit down for a moment on the churchyard wall, and leaning hack against tbe iron railings, tbink of the City they knew before commencing this common place story of modern men and modern doings ? Not a stone's throw from us stands tbe lordly Priory of the Holy Trinity ; not far from thence tbe house of the Crossed Friars ; close by that tbe abbey of tbe Nuns of St Clare, while B beyond the Minories stretched away those fields which Stowe traversed in after days ; and, beyond the fields, Ratcliffe swamps. Returning through one of the posterns of Aldgate, we arrive again at the Priory of tbe Holy Trinity, and find our selves at once in an aristocratic quarter. Here resided Sir Thomas Audley, wbo, dying in 1544, was succeeded by bis son-in-law, tbe Duke of Norfolk, from whom "Duke's Place."

Tbat narrow alley which now conducts from Fencburcb Street into Crutched Friars, took its name from Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, wbo bad his mansion hard by in tbe reign of Henry VI. ; and whilst monks and nuns, and lords and ladies, were settling themselves down at this — wbicb was then about the extremest eastern point of tbe City — all tbe road from St Catherine Coleman, where Lang bourne took its rise, was little better than a swamp, to say nothing of tbe fens and marshes out by Aldgate, and Moorgate, and Finsbury, which occupied tbe place of tbe lake tbat once washed tbe City walls. It is not easy to believe in these things now. Thinking of tbe City as we tbink of it at the present day, it seems almost incredible tbat three hundred years since, letters for bis Grace, the Archbishop of York, were forwarded to Tower Hill; whilst but half tbat period bas elapsed since a Countess of Devon shire lived in Devonshire square, Bisbopsgate — not in solitude, but surrounded by much gay company — tbe last lady of rank who clung to tbe City.

There is no need to look scornful about tbe matter, most beautiful matron, though you may read this book in a house in Belgravia — for though tbe City be unfashionable now, no man may ever blot its ancient glory, or its present power and strength, out of the page of history. Not all Pickford's wag gons can destroy its romance — not all tbe ninth of November mummery can efface tbe recollection of those days when City pageants were symbols of a real power — not all the feet that tramp across Tower Hill can obliterate tbe mournful histories written on its dust ; churches and graveyards, mean courts and narrow alleys, thronged streets and quiet lanes ; there is not one of these but repeats its old world tale, of misery and joy, iu tbe ear of tbe attentive listener. In tbe dim summer twilio-ht INTRODUCTORY. 3 we tread softly through tbe deserted thoroughfare, feeling tbat tbe ground whereon we stand is hallowed — by human suffering — by human courage — by valour and by woe !

But, after all, it is around tbe City churches that tbe most interesting memories of olden time cluster. "What story is there that tbe old walls will not repeat at our bidding ? From St Paul's down, each bas its own monuments, its own records — its own separate portion of tbe narrative of ancient days. Close by where we are now sitting, are some of these old churches, and, from one and another, the soft evening breeze brings whispers of the greatness and the sorrow tbey contain. Underneath tbe high altar of All-Hallows, Barking, lies, crumbling to dust, a heart which knew no such repose in life.* In the same church sleep Surrey the poet, and bishops Laud and Fisher, wbo were executed on tbe adjacent Tower Hill ; whilst a little to tbe north stands St Katharine Cree, where, in (for him) more prosperous days, Laud and his fat chaplains laid themselves open to the sarcasm of Prynne, whose description of the consecration of tbat church will be remembered so long as the history of ancient London has any charms for readers.

Near to St Katharine Cree we find St Andrew TJndershaft, which brings with its name thoughts of Spring and May, and garlands and festivity, as well as sadder memories of the great City historian, who, at eighty years of age, begged bis bread by royal licence, and whose bones were moved from under bis own monument to make way for those of a richer comer. Close by there is another All-Hallows, besides Barking, where tbe Princess Elizabeth flew to give thanks for ber release from tbe Tower — attracted thither, so runs tbe pleasant story, by tbe joyful ringing of its bells. Almost within a stone's throw, what a number of churches there are ! — St Mary-at-Hill, St Dunstan's in tbe East, St Margaret Pattens, St Catherine Coleman, Aldgate, St Benet, and St Dionisis Backcburcb ; whilst just beyond tbe wicket gate stood St Gabriel, in tbe almost forgotten graveyard of which we sit.

"Were all tbe City bouses — all the long lines of streets, all * Richard Cœur de Lion. B the closely-packed warehouses, all the overflowing shops swept away, tbe City churches would still form a town of them selves. Dreaming here, we cannot but marvel what this place was like when both bouses and churches were destroyed— when London was one broad sheet of flame, and its inhabitants were camped out in the open fields, looking at tbe ruin which was being wrought. o o ... Do you not wonder what tbe congregations were thinking about on that Sunday morning when the conflagration began ? How many were making up tbeir minds about tbe removal of their worldly goods — bow many thinking of the great and ter rible day of the Lord— how many, shivering with fear, thought, to quote tbe Rev. T. Vincent, tbat into those churches which were in flames, " God himself bad come down to preach in them as He did in Mount Sinai, when the mount burst into fire."

Doubtless some of those wbo sleep inside tbe rusty railings against wbicb we lean, beheld these things — saw tbe City de populated by plague, and purified by fire — followed tbe dead carts — looked down into tbe pits — hurried from tbe conflagration — witnessed executions on Tower Hill — attended tbe theatricals in the churchyard of St Katharine Cree — and followed royalty, when kings and queens rode in state through tbe streets. The very stones in this part of London talk to us eloquently of the past. Under tbe bouses spring tbe arches of almost for gotten churches — in dim aisles stand stately monuments — in narrow lanes, mansions once occupied by tbe nobility. Tbe dust of great and good, and notorious and suffering men, bas mingled long ago with tbe earth on wbicb we tread, and there is scarcely an inch of ground but bas some story or tradition connected with it.

If ghosts could return to tbeir former haunts, what a con gress should we behold in these old world streets ! Tbink of Tower Hill ! "What a regiment of headless men and women would draw up there, and march to "Westminster, to meet the spirits of their oppressors ! Think if tbe vaults were unsealed, and the graves opened, and tbe wrong, and tbe sin, and tbe cruelty, and tbe misery of tbe past suffered to INTRODUCTORY. 5 escape into the night, what a ghastly procession would meet us at every turning ! And, as it is, the ghosts we encounter in fancy, while thread ing the older parts of London, set us reflecting about tbe bodies we shall see at the Day of Judgment. Giving tbe imagination leave but to peep into the City churchyards — letting it bave only a glimpse of that horrid foundation on wbicb "Windmill Street and tbe adjacent thorough fares stand — suffering it to tbink of tbe graves lying deep under the City bouses — it is not so difficult to realize what tbat mighty gathering will be like when tbe dead, small and great, shall stand before God, and be judged according to tbeir works.

Fen Court is just tbe place for such pictures to be perfected. We are seated in the past with its dead, while up the passage comes to us the muffled roar of tbe life and traffic of the pre sent. "We are not looking from the present into tbe past, we are for tbe moment existing in the years gone by. It is the din of our day which is tbe dream, and the memories of tbe olden time tbat are tbe reality. There is not a sound to dispel tbe charm — not a footfall to break tbe silence. Tbe murmur of the human tide, ebbing and flowing through Fenchurcb Street, disturbs the illusion no more than if it were the thunder of the sea. The few offices in Fen Court are closed. Tbe children wbo come here to play bave been in bed this half-hour — the sparrows bave chirped themselves to sleep on the branches overhead.

There is a great virtue of stillness stealing down many a lane and into many a court and alley, for it is now getting dusk in the City, and tbe summer twilight brings silence on its quiet wings. Unless you know the City well — -know it, I mean, in all its moods and tenses — this statement may well surprise you, for there is a general impression abroad, tbat London is never quiet, except it may be from two to three o'clock A. m., when a comparatively recent writer states tbat " Riot, Profligacy, "Want, and Misery have retired, and Labour is scarcely risen." Nevertheless, I repeat my assertion, for the great stillness wbicb seems suddenly to fall on the City, with tbe summer semi-darkness, has always appeared to me little short of marvellous. In tbe winter it is different. Life hurries along the pave ments at a quicker rate under tbe gas-lamps than under tbe dull November sky ; tbe traffic of the day, increased if any thing, rolls through the muddy streets ; there is no end to the women one meets going shopping ; across tbe bridges people pour ceaselessly ; omnibuses are crowded ; cab horses are whipped into tbat three-foot gallop wbicb proclaims the last stage of weariness ; St Paul's Churchyard is thronged with ladies to whom tbe goods displayed in tbe shop windows offer attractions impossible to withstand ; behind the counters, pale young men strive with seductive smiles and graceful arrangements of rib bons and dresses to bring undecided customers to a decision, whilst in tbe back streets girls pour out of work-rooms and fill up the narrow side-paths, with groups of slight, delicate-looking, thinly clad, giggling chatterers.

Tbe winter evening brings with its darkness, turmoil and un rest, but tbe summer twilight falls softly on silent lanes and empty thoroughfares. The offices are closed, the shopkeepers bave put up their shutters, tbe human passions, fears, hopes, joys, and sorrows, tbat seethed along tbe pavement during the day, have been carried by tbeir possessors miles distant, to tbe far off sea-shore, to the pleasant Surrey bills, or tbe green Hertfordshire fields. The housekeepers and the City police are left in possession of tbe City houses and tbe City streets, and very gently night steals on, and silence with it. "Where we sit it is almost dark already, for tbe houses and tbe trees make a shade in Fen Court even at mid-day. Out in tbe open country, or in tbe nearer suburbs, it is probably light enough still ; but here, on this August evening, it is quite dark, and an increasing feeling of solemnity creeps over us as we sit by the graves in tbe gloom, whilst tbe evening breeze stirs softly and mournfully tbe leaves above our beads.

Chapter II. Grant And Co

Fen Court is far from cheerful now, and except that it was fifteen years younger — wbicb fact could not have made any material difference in its appearance — I do not know that it looked any brighter when George Geitb tenanted tbe second floor of tbe bouse wbicb stands next but one to tbe old gate way, on tbe Fenchurcb Street side, and transacted business there, trading under tbe firm of " Grant and Co., accountants." If quietness were what be wanted, he had it. Except in tbe summer evenings, when the children of the Fencburch Street housekeepers brought tbeir marbles through the passage, and fought over them on the pavement in front of the office doors, there was little noise of life in tbe old churchyard. The sparrows in tbe trees, or tbe footfall of some one entering or quit ting tbe Court, alone disturbed the silence.

The roar of Fen churcb Street on tbe one side, and of Leadenball Street on the other, sounded in Fen Court but as a distant murmur; and to a man whose life was spent among figures, and wbo wanted to devote bis undivided attention to his work, this silence was a blessing not to be properly estimated save by those who bave passed through that maddening ordeal, wbicb precedes being able to abstract the mind from external influences, and to keep it steady to one object, in spite alike of tbe rattle of a fire engine and the thunder of a railway van. For tbe historical recollections associated with tbe locality he had chosen, George Geith did not care a rush. It was tbe London of to-day in which be lived and moved and had bis being. Tbe London of old was as a sealed book unto bim ; and if any one bad opened its pages for bis benefit, he would not bave read a line of the ancient story.

Passing every day by places famous in former times, be never paused to inquire bow and when and why tbey ceased to be of note. In the present he thought of nothing, cared for nothing, save bis business ; and for the rest, his dreams, when be bad any, were of tbe future, not of tbe past. "What the past held of his — what of struggle, sorrow, resolve, grief, fear — no one was ever likely to learn from George Geitb. The people with whom be talked most did not know whence he bad come, what he had been, wbitber he was bound. Never a vessel hoisted fewer signals than the accountant. When other men hung out all their poor rags of colours, when they spread tbe stories of tbeir lives out for public inspection, this auditor remained obstinately mute. Not a word bad be to say about home, or friends, or relatives.

He made no pre tension to having seen better days — to having ever been any thing different from what the w-orld then saw him — a struggling man, wbo worked from early in tbe morning till late at night, and wbo seemed to have no thought nor care for anything save making of money and extending his connection. He lived with his work, slept in his back office, ate bis breakfast while he read his letters, and swallowed bis tea surrounded on all sides by books and balance-sheets, and labyrinths and mazes of figures. As for his dinner, at whatever hour in tbe day be could best spare ten minutes, he went to tbe nearest coffee-house, and bad a chop or steak, as the case might be. From which it will be clearly seen, that tbe accountant was not labouring for creature comforts — for rich dishes and old wines, for soft couches and idle hours ; but that be was working either for work's sake, or for some object far outside tbe round of bis daily and yearly existence.

And what an existence that was ! What a dull, monotonous road it would bave seemed to most, unrelieved as it was by social intercourse, unligbtened by domestic ties ; with no friend to talk to, no w-ife to love, no child to caress, no parent to provide for. A lonesome, laborious life, which bad little in it, even of change of employment ; for, so soon as one man's books were balanced, or schedule prepared, another merchant or bankrupt stood at the door, and behold, tbe same routine had to be gone through again. But monotony did not weary tbe accountant. Give him work enough, and strength sufficient to toil eighteen hours a day, and be was content. If he could have taken more out of himself be would have done it ; but, as tbat was impossible, be laboured through all the working days of the week, and up to twelve o'clock on Saturday nights ; as I hope you, my reader, may never have to labour for any cause whatsoever.

As is tbe fashion of tbe Londoners, those wbo knew Mr Geitb — whom tbey called Mr Grant — ever so slightly, asked him to come to dinner, tea, supper, what he would, on Sunday, and because he persistently declined these invitations, people said tbe accountant worked seven days in the week on bis treadmill in Fen Court. But in this instance people were wrong. "Whether be were a saint or a sinner, George Geith still kept the Sabbath day holy, so far as refraining from labour could keep it so. He put aside bis business, and laid down bis pen. He went to church, moreover, in tbe mornings regularly. Sometimes, too, be walked to Westminster Abbey, or to St Paul's, for afternoon service ; but that was seldom, for be usually slept until tea ; after wbicb meal be started off to one or other of tbe City churches, making in this way quite a little visitation of bis own during tbe course of a twelvemonth.

A strange life — one so apparently terrible to an outsider in its voluntary loneliness, tbat his clients marvelled bow he could support it. And yet, my reader, if I can succeed in putting you on friendly terms with this solitary individual, you will come gradually to understand why this existence was not unen durable to bim. It is getting dark in Fen Court, as we stand beside tbe rail ings in the gathering twilight. Tbe offices bave long been closed ; tbe housekeepers' children bave left tbeir marbles and their skipping-ropes, and are gone home to bed. The twitter of the sparrows is hushed, and there is nothing to be beard save tbe faint hum of tbe city traffic, and the rustling of the leaves, as the evening breeze touches them caressingly. It is getting darker and darker, so dark in fact tbat there is little more to be seen of Fen Court to-night ; but still, bave patience for a moment.

This man, whose story I have under taken to tell as well as I am able, bas just separated himself from tbe living stream flowing eastward along Fencburch Street, and is coming up the passage. You can hear bis footsteps ringing through the silence. Hark! bow they echo beneath the archway — quick, firm, even, unhurried. There is no shadow of turning or wavering about tbat tread. Listen to the foot falls ; you cannot distinguish tbe left from the right ; there is no drag, no twist, no irregularity. Do you think the man whom nature has taught to walk like that would be a person to refrain from using whip and spur if he bad an object to com pass ? I tell you, no. As he passes us in tbe gloom of the summer evening, unmindful of the graves lying to bis left, and deaf to the low sad tale tbe wind is whispering among tbe leaves, I tell you he is a man to work so long as he bas a breath left to draw; wbo would die in his harness rather than give up; who would fight against opposing circumstances whilst be bad a drop of blood in bis veins ; whose greatest virtues are untiring industry and indomitable courage, and wbo is worth half-a dozen ordinary men, if only because of his iron frame and un conquerable spirit.

He has let himself in by this time with his latch-key, taken sucb letters as are intended for his firm out of tbe box, and proceeded up tbe easy, old-fashioned staircase, past tbe painting banging on the first landing, and so into his own office, where he lights the gas, wbicb, flaring out across the churchyard, clears a little space for its reflection out of tbe blackness of tbe opposite wall. Night after night the flare and reflection tell tbe same tale of patient labour, of untiring application. It seems strange tbat tbe figures did not dance before bis eyes, and chase each other up and down bis desk. With many a one the pence would have nodded across to the pounds, and tbe shillings become confused with tbeir neighbours' columns • but the accountant suffered bis puppets to take no such liberties.

In the course of a year be went through miles of addition without a stumble ; what be carried never perplexed bim ; mid way up the shillings he never got crazed as common mortals might, but mounted gallantly to tbe summit as a racer goes straight to tbe winning-post, without a pause. The skeins of silk which, in tbe old fairy tale, tbe godmother gave to ber godchild to disentangle were nothing compared to the arithmetical confusion out of wbicb George Geitb produced order. Tbe cbaos of figures from whence he managed to extract a fair balance-sheet would bave seemed hopeless to any person untrained to passages of arms with the numeration table. Tbe mass of accounts through which be waded in the space of twelve months was of itself almost incredible. Alps on Alps of figures he climbed with silent patience, and tbe more Alps he climbed the higher rose great mountains of arithmetic in the background — mountains with gold lying on tbeir summits for bim to grasp and possess.

If you would like to see tbe man who thus laboured through tbe monotonous routine of an accountant's daily life, I do not know tbat any better opportunity than the present is likely to occur ; for, with one foot stretched wearily on tbe floor, and the other resting on the rail of his office-stool, he is sitting beside his desk, with tbe gaslight streaming full on his face, sorting out the letters be has just brought up-stairs with him. There are eight in all — seven of them he places in a little heap ready to his band, whilst tbe other is pushed on one side till tbe last. He is not handsome, certainly ! Too commonplace looking to be the hero of a novel, you object, perhaps ; but you are wrong here. Somehow it is these rough-hewn men wbo stand at the helms of tbe best craft tbat sail across the ocean of existence.

Looking over tbe portraits of those wbo have laboured hardest and longest in tbe fields of science, literature, theology, and human progress, we find tbat nature bas been niggardly with them in the matter of beauty. Pos sibly the better tbe quality of ber coin, tbe less pains she takes in stamping it for tbe world's market : but let this be as it may, I would rather accept George Geith's stern bard face for tbat of my hero, than have to tell tbe life's story of a handsomer man. He was fit for the fight be bad to wage ; and it is something to be permitted to tell of the struggles of one who, having elected to go down into the battle, bore the heat and burden of tbe day, and tbe agony of the wounds be received during tbe conflict, without a murmur. A man, moreover, who was able to work, not merely fiercely, but patiently ; for whom no task w-as too long, no labour too severe.

Look in his face and see bow it is scored all over with the marks of determination and energy ; look at tbe square forehead with two deep vertical lines graven on it, at tbe dark resolute eyes, at tbe well-marked unarched brows, at the straight decided nose, at tbe nostrils tbat expand and quiver a little when he is struck hard, as will sometimes happen in busi ness — the only sign of seeling ever to be traced in bis features. As for his mouth, were that mass of disfiguring bair away, you would see bow naturally, as bis thoughts get to work, bis lips compress and harden, not with the mannerism to be noted in weak women and weaker men, but with tbat fixed rigidity of the muscles never to be found save in a person wbo is strong mentally and physically ; strong in planning, in executing, in loving, in hating, for good or for evil.

There are tbe outward and visible signs of this strength in George Geitb, in his face, in bis carriage, in bis speech, in his movements. As be now sits reading bis letters, bis disengaged band lies on tbe desk clenched, as though he held tbe purpose and fruition of his life within it. There is a significance likewise about tbe fashion of bis beard wbicb be wears cut and trimmed carefully ; not a straggling bair is to be seen in tbe brown mass wbicb covers the lower part of his face like a gorse hedge. In the days when you, my reader, make this man's acquaintance, bair was no passport to credit, and people wondered at tbe accountant's defiance of City prejudices ; but tbey need not have wondered, for be bad suffered his beard to grow under tbe same impulse as tbat wbicb induces a criminal to stain bis skin, and don strange clothes when tbe police are on bis track.