Hirell : a novel

Front matter

LONDON: FREDERICK WARNE X CO.

_ — _„ -3

ALFRED TENNYSON'S WOBKS

CHAPTER I. JOHN liYMER CUNLIFF

There are no dreamers like unimaginative people. With siu.1i persons dreams remain to the last pure dreams. They Lave no power to make the actual grow out of the ideal ; and Nature, in a kind of divine foresight and pity, compensates them by keeping up this inner light ; which, however feeble and discoloured, warms and cheers, even though there be no window in the sanctuary of the soul through which the rays may pass out to guide the benighted steps. Faithful to the last they dream, touchingly unconscious of the process. They could not tell anything, perhaps, if asked. But not the less do they dream, and dream on, of what will never be ; and thus assert their share in the profounder instincts of humanity. But they also toil on, along the roughest, the dryest, and the dustiest of roads ; patient and enduring ; and never think to complain that such things should be in their hearts if they may not realise them.

But there are men whose dreams, no matter how wide and glorious their scope, are ever monitions to duty ; who see their thoughts return to them, as the messenger returned to Joshua, laden with tokens of the Promised Land, and who know they can go and take possession if they will. Not without heroic discipline of self, perhaps ; certainly not without great and protracted effort. But they can do it. They do not. Again they are tempted, and yet again. Every faculty cries out to them for leave to do its own proper work,

B

HIRELL.

to grow strong, healthy, victorious. But the reluctant feet still cling to the familiar soil. The ej'es, dazzled for a moment, turn away, and see all things more dubiously. The lips answer, ' Yes, but not now.'

And Nature deals with these men, too — justly, not pityingly. They are the worst of traitors to her ! And she so loved them ! So poured upon them her choicest gifts ! She leaves them to their fate. And they are, or try to believe themselves to be, happy ; for they no longer dream those disturbing dreams.

She leaves them. Yes, as the sun leaves the tropical forest at eve, stifling in its own rankness, a prey to a thousand unclean things. And yet how beautiful many of them are ? One doesn't see them properly in the open, harsh, unsympathetic daylight. It hurts the eye, too, so much looking at the sun. We see well enough here, after all. The soul, bike the eye, soon accommodates itself to a soft, luxurious gloom. Who knows but it may shut out unpleasant objects, and bring nearer to us things we may like ? Besides, we are modest, and prefer that some things should be veiled. Let us look around and enjoy while we can. Let us take the goods our toiling sires provide. What wealth we have ! What leisure ! What infinite opportunities for active gratification ! What delicious couches for repose ! And — yes, once more we can dream sweet dreams, from which it is a pain to awake.

The light streams from the little conservatory on his face — on John Cunliff s face, as it bends over his writing-desk in his luxurious bachelor apartments, overlooking one of the parks. The light, being that of the September noon-day, is strong, and shows the face more truthfully than flatteringly, thus : — A long face, with a colourless complexion, light hair, parted in the middle of the head, and falling rather long, as in the earliest Anglo-Saxon portraits ; not golden hair, or chestnut brown, but only pale, dead brown. A straight, long nose ; lips full, fh'm, well-shaped, flexible, expressive. A long chin, with a small, pointed beard. Surely there must be large and brilliant eyes to ennoble and glorify so seemingly commonplace a countenance ?

He looks up from his writing towards the flowers in the conservatory. The eyes are not even blue, nor dark, nor large. Grey, with green lights in them as they look towards

JOHN KYMER CUNLIFF.

the sun ; keen as an eagle's ; bright, and, like the lips, expressive ; a little darker and more tender in colour when bent again contemplatively on the writing, but not handsome eyes at any time, if studied only lor themselves ; and yet the face as a whole is good, original, and in some of its aspects has a certain massive and melancholy beauty, caused by no particular feature ; — unless, indeed, by the broad, smooth, finely-rounded brow — but due to the perfect harmony of all.

What is he doing ?

It is a question that apparently he would not care to have put to him even in look, for when the man-servant enters with coals, Mr. Cunlifi' slides his letter under the hollow of Ins desk-slope ; and appears to be busily engaged, with elbows propped on the desk, studying a large photograph from one of the Hampton Court cartoons that he has just purchased, and mounted straight before him beyond his desk, by the aid of a pile of books, at a suitable angle for examination ; antl towards which his eye had unconsciously turned at every pause in his letter-writing, as if with a true artistic love. When the servant has gone out he draws forth the letter. Then, after a pause, he rises, goes to the door, a.nd locks it. Still dissatisfied, he unlocks it, rings the bell, and when the man comes, says —

' Mind ! I am at home to no one to-day.'

' Except, sir, I suppose to — '

' To no one ! '

' Very well, sir. I'll take care.'

This time the door was not locked after the servant, and the work at the desk recommenced.

What is he doing ?

Can we discover for ourselves by watching him ?

The human face is always one of the most attractive, but also one of the most perplexing, of problems. Lavatcr, no doubt, was right enough in his theory that the character is to be seen in the countenance. But then we need an angel to read it for us, and keep us from making the most dangerous mistakes. What, we might ask, could be clearer than the passions that express themselves in the looks and gestures of two men engaged in a deadly struggle ; deadly to life, or to reputation, or to one's dearest hopes ? Surely there, if anywhere, we might hope to find the perfect outward manifestations of those inward forces which so jealously shun the light ?

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HIRELL.

But no. Neither of the combatants forgets, for an instant, that the other's eye is upon him ; and that consciousness modifies, perhaps even falsifies, all expression.

But there is a position in which the student of physiognomy may revel to his soul's content. It is that of a man who, believing himself free from observation, is writing a letter which stirs his nature to the depths, and which may affect his whole future. And such a letter, it is impossible to doubt, John Cunliff is now engaged on.

Can it be that he is in debt and serious danger? No. Men don't lock their doors, even for an instant, against a servant in order to answer a creditor. Nor do they spend half an hour over the turn of a single sentence in writing to him. Neither do they tear up sheet after sheet, and pause again and again, as if hopeless of self-satisfaction in style ; and pace up and down the room with nervous irritable gestures, before sitting down once more to the apparently unconquerable task.

No, John Cunliff 's difficulty is not one of debt. What then ?

Is he discovering that the beautiful fruit which was held to his lips when he entered the world eight years ago — independent in purse, radiant with youth, energy, enthusiasm, and the honours of a successful University career — this fruit of pleasure of which he has been eating ever since, with palate growing less keen, but habit growing more exacting, — is he discovering, at last, as he gets to a core, having exhausted bloom, rind, and pulp, that the essence of all is but a bitter ash ? Is that his discovery ? And is he sitting down in the first hours of remorse to unwind the toils that hold him fast ; and beginning to tell the truth with all fit considerateness to others whose fate is involved with his own ? No. For even the most considerate of beings will, at such times of domestic revolution, think chiefly of themselves, and make short work of others' sacrifices while striving to complete their own.

But may not this still be his true position, only that there is an addition to be made ? Perhaps he intends to reward himself for his self-denial. Or rather he, perhaps prudently, won't over-estimate his own heroism ; and intends, while turning from the Delilahs of life — the typical Delilahs only, let us say — to take to himself a beautiful and virtuous spouse, provided only she will consent ? An

JOHN RYMER CUNLIFF.

excellent resolve — -but not in the least resembling John CunlifFs. Else why the lowering expression of that naturally frank face ; the almost furtive glances towards the door of so fearless an eye ; or the peculiar colouring of his cheeks, that has partly driven off the ordinary pallor, and which seems to suggest, you hardly know how or why, the idea of a man engaged in a terrible struggle, that yet has nothing in it of the noble, or even of the self-respecting ? Never did a man sit down to write an honest and manly love-letter and bear the while an aspect like John CunlifFs.

He must have been insulted ; or, worse still, have himself given mortal offence, and he now offers or accepts a challenge. But the days of duelling are past ; and men either summon or are summoned to the Divorce Court ; accept or compel refuge with the police : or arbitrate their rights and wrongs at Nisi Priiis. They don't agree to fight. Besides, there breaks through the powerful restraint that one sees John Cunliff imposes on himself occasional glimpses of an extraordinary change of feeling. Chaos suddenly changes into creation. All his unpleasant thoughts seem to die, and pleasant ones to spring up into vivid and attractive life. And then he walks about the room with an elastic step ; glances at his favourite pictures on the walls, which always send him with new zest to his Raphael photograph ; or he goes into the conservatory to see what new plants the florist has brought in the weekly exchange for those gone out of bloom ; but pauses unthinkingly, and yet full of thought, over a rose so long, that one gets the notion he has forgotten all anxieties, and is abandoning himself to some fascinating day-dream.

What, then, is he doing ? Why, simply writing a short, and surely very innocent letter ; if this be all : —

' I hear you have half accepted Lady Sellon's invitation to go back with her into the country after her hasty visit to town ; that she goes very early to-morrow morning ; and that she thinks you will come to her this evening prepared to stay. If she does not see you this evening, she will conclude you refuse to go. I ventured to say you had expressed so much pleasure at the thought that I was sure you would accept. If so, may I not hope to see you later in her drawing-room, that I may explain how [ have fulfilled the slight commission with which vou honoured me ? Or, as I must myself make a call

HIRELL.

in your neighbourhood about eight o'clock, may I, if I should have the good fortune to come across your carriage on its way to Lady Sellon's, venture to ask to be taken in "i I shall not add much to the weight of your trunks. By-the-by, what an exquisite carte-de-visite of yourself was that which you showed so reluctantly yesterday ; and which, but for Lady Sellon's kind treachery, would have remained unknown to us all ! You gave away copies, but did not give one to me. I did not ask then, it is true. Now I do. I wait anxiously to know if you forgive the request.'

Surely an innocent letter ! But why is it unsigned ? Why is there no indication of the name of the lady to whom it is addressed ? Obviously it is a lady to whom John Cunliff writes.

He must be one of the least conceited of men, to be so unwilling even now, when he has got a fair and completed copy after innumerable failures, to read it over and over so many times, and always with increasing dissatisfaction. To judge from his attitude — his head supported on his left arm, which is elbowed on the desk, looking sideways at the letter which tho right hand has drawn away and holds up just a little while, resting on tlie farthest part of the slope — there is not a senteiiee or a thought in it over which he does not hold a mental cavil ; and which lie only leaves unaltered because he dares not embark on a new attempt, and is hopeless of improving tho texture if he did.

' It must go as it is — or not at all,' ho says to himself.

One more pause — the open letter on the slope, elbows on each side, hands clasped and drawn down over the eyes as if to shut out the too brilliant light from the conservatory — and shut in tho letter while a last thoughtful look at it is taken.

Suddenly he breaks the pause ; encloses the envelope, addresses it, and two minutes later drops it in the post-office letter-box, saying to himself, with half a smile —

' That settles my part of the business, at any rate. Six hours will tell me all the rest.'

IVAITIiVG FOR AN ANSWER.

Chapter II. Waiting Fur An Answer

When the letter had been dropped into the box, Cunliff stood for a moment in the street, irresolute — then turned towards a shop to purchase some gloves, but suddenly hurried back to his rooms, as if wishing neither to see nor to be seen. On his way he met a respectable-looking man, evidently fresh from a journey, who stopped and bowed with marked respect.

' Jarman ! You in London ! Anything the matter? ' asked CunliiF, stretching out his hand.

' No, sir — no. But as you were so anxious about the payment into the bank to-day, I thought I'd come myself, with all I have been able to collect.'

Cunliff looked as if he could have dispensed with this personal attention on the part of his obsequious agent ; whose inclined head, subdued attitude of deference, upward sideglance from a brown bright eye, and respectful words, only called forth a rough, ' Oh, very well ! ' and then Cunliff turned on his heel, leaving Mr. Jarman to follow as he pleased. That gentleman accordingly hung back just enough to admit of conversation without seeming to claim intimate acquaintance.

' And how much have you got for me ? ' demanded Cunliff, the moment the door was closed upon them in his own room.

' A little less than sixteen hundred pounds.'

' You mean beyond what must go to the mortgages ? '

' I am sorry to say, sir, inclusive of that.'

' You didn't sell the timber, then ? '

' The best of it ; but it only fetched four hundred and ten pounds.'

Cunliff looked at the agent, and his face darkened.

' I assure you, sir,' said the agent, ' I have done my best to force in all arrears, even under painful circumstances — '

' I told you, Mr. Jarman,' interrupted Cunliff, in a rapid, impetuous tone, ' I did not wish to hurt deserving people among my tenants.'

' Yes, sir, I understood that ; and I hope I have drawn the arrears I refer to with as little damage as was possible.'

' You must go into this matter more fully with me.'

' Oh, certainly ! Now ? '

HIRELL.

' X — o, not to-day ! I'm busy.'

' Of course, sir, any time will do for that.'

Cunliff glanced at the agent, then turned away moodily. Nothing could the agent say that did not jar. His employer looked so thoroughly dissatisfied that it was a wonder he ventured on his next theme : ' I had, sir, I must confess, another motive for presenting myself to you to-day.'

' Then why the devil didn't you say so ? What is it ? The fact is, Mr. Jarman, I'm thoroughly disappointed. I expected at least five hundred more. And when I intimated to you that I might possibly travel, and not find it convenient for a long time to wait for remittances, I did expect you would have managed better. Sixteen hundred pounds ! Absurd ! Why, half goes for things that, as you know, must be provided for ! But what's this other matter ? '

' Pardon me for what I am going to say. I have been thinking you might be put out at this unsatisfactory result, and as I have a thousand pounds lying idle, if you will allow me to anticipate your next rents, and — '

' Jarman, you surprise me ! I didn't expect this. No, thank you. It's very kind — very! Excuse my ill-temper; I'm out of sorts. But I don't think I can avail myself of your kindness.'

'Wliv, sir, may I ask? ' And Mr, Jarman's attitude of respect and upward side-look of enquiry compelled Cunliff to ask himself the same question — ' Why ? ' Not getting any decisive answer, he said —

' Mind you take interest, till you have repaid yourself.'

' Yes, sir ; I'll mind that ! ' said Mr. Jarman, with a rich smile overspreading hi3 face, which seemed to say for them both — As if ho were the man to forget !

' You won't care about my being inhospitable ? ' said Cunliff'. ' If I do decide to go, I shall start this very evening.'

' Pray don't mention it, sir ! '

' Of course you noted my request ? '

' Not to say anything about your journey ? '

' Yes : not till you know I am off. '

' I have been, and will be, very careful.'

' Oh, it's merely this : two or three different things are tempting me into new expenses at home, and so I'm half inclined to join a military friend on a Continental tour, and economise.'

WAITING FOR AX ANSWER.

Something tickled Mr. Jarman's throat, and caused him to cough ; but he only looked red and discomposed when Mr. Cunliff stared at him, and said —

' Have we done for the day, then ? '

'Hem! yes. One thing I will just mention — merely that you may, when at leisure, kindly take it into consideration.'

' And that is — ?' asked Cunliff, wondering at the agent's hesitation.

' The cottages, sir — the labourers' and the workmen's cottages— ' Mr. Jarman spoke in a low and confidential tone that particularly irritated the listener.

' Well ? '

' They are getting bad, and people talk, and there's some illness — not much, but a little. You'll forgive my mentioning it, sir ? '

' Of course. Quite right. I ought to have attended to this before. But I couldn't see my way to doing the business effectually. So, Jarman, I must get you to draw me up a comprehensive report, and add your own suggestions.'

' I beg pardon — I did so, and sent it to you about a year ago.'

' Did you ? Oh, very good. I can't stop now ; neither can I just now spare a sixpence. But it shall be seen to. Say so if you like.'

' And the money ? '

' Pay all into the bank, instantly. Thank you ! I wish you good-bye in case we don't meet again for the present.'

Mr. Jarman shook hands as he always did with his ' superiors,' that is, he managed by the very set of his shoulders, and the movement of his apologetic hands, to express how highly he felt the compliment, without at the same time doing aught that a bystander could have charged against him as fulsome or unmanly. Indeed, Mr. Jarman gave the impression of a gentleman who had only bent his mind to circumstances, but with a little more than ordinary determination as to the bend, and as to to the subdued and graceful dignity of its manifestation.

It was an odd thing that when Cunliff had got rid of his visitor, happening to entangle his feet in the crimson wool mat at the threshold of his door, he sent it flying towards the open conservatory, and had the satisfaction to hear a crash of falling pots and plants, which made him grind his teeth as io 1IIRELL.

he waited for the end— but when it was over, his only comment was —

' I couldn't refuse without insulting him. Excellent man, and thoroughly detestable ! ' He then shut the conservatory door, and forgot all but his immediate cares. And in some such fashion as this was the fabric of his thought : —

' Six hours. One gone. What on earth am I to do with the other five ? Five hours, twenty quarters, three hundred minutes — no, I won't go into the seconds, lest I should turn wild, and lose what little reputation for sanity this day may leave me. And yet, in the name of Heaven, how am I to get through five hours of this ? '

To keep down the irritable fit that was taking possession of him, he found or made things to do which in a measure engrossed him. He read a French novel — a rather exciting one — for a few minutes, then threw it away, walked till he was tired, and then read again, and so got rid of a couple of hours.

Then he went over his banker's book ; and no worn-out clerk of an old-fashioned private bank could have done it more slowly, methodically, or painstakingly. It was as if he felt he was in the mood for mistakes, and mistakes should not lie made. His strong will carried him successfully through. When he had finished, he dallied a little with his cheque-book in his hand, thinking : —

' If I draw the cheque, I needn't do any more till I know. I must draw it close. The bank won't mind — I may when I'm far off.'

He drew the cheque, examined it with minute care — went twice or thrice over it as if conscious of failing attention, to be sure that no accidental violation of form might cause embarrassment at the last moment, and was about, when satisfied, to put it in his pocket, when he remembered something, and rang the bell.

' George, did the tailor send the things ? ' ho said, as the man entered.

' Yes, sir. They are in the dining-room. Would you like to try any of them on ? '

' No. Yes ! Bring the waistcoat. The last fitted badly.'

The servant brought the waistcoat, and left it on the table. When he had gone, Cunliff, without even a single glance at the shape or quality, changed it for the one he wore ; slid his hand into a pocket inside the breast which he had specially

WAITING FOR AN ANSWER. u

ordered ; and there ended the trial of the waistco&t, with entire satisfaction to the owner.

Into that coveted pocket he put the cheque ; and then, as he stood musing, his eye happened to fall on his ivory card-case, and some loose cards bearing the words —

' MR. JOHN K. CUNLIFF.'

He gathered the cards up into the case, and put that with the cheque in his new pocket.

One thought leading to another, he began to hunt for somo plain cai'ds and a less showy case ; and having found both, he dropped them carelessly into his coat- pocket. He looked at his watch and spoke aloud —

' Two hours yet ! They will pass ! But it isn't easy to believe it.'

A spasm of disgust of his own voice drove him to silence, and to the study of the map of the Continent, which hung over the back of a chair in a corner. This interested him. So much so, that he began to make memoranda in pencil, partly from the map, partly from a Murray's Handbook. And thus, and by beginning to sort the papers taken from his pocket — a week's accumulation — while casting a sort of halfcomic, half-helpless look at the medley in his desk, and instituting an auto-da-fe with a wax taper for stake, he whiled away another hour.

Then he could no longer engage in any occupation. He could read nothing ; look at neither plants, pictures, nor photographs. He could not sit still at the table, nor stand still at the window, whither he went determined to watch the doings of the world without, while comfortably secure the world could not watch his doings within.

To and fro, like a wild beast in his cage, he moved. And, like the beast, seemed to take a desperate pleasure in feeling the bars, by always touching with his foot as he reached it — the touch being very like a kick — the skirting-board that bounded his walks.

' This infernal hot sun ! How hot it is ! ' he once exclaimed, and drew down the blinds. And then, on his next coming to the spot, he drew them up again, and with a change in his manner and aspect, ' Somehow, one always needs light in this queer world. And I'm a pretty fellow, to have the impudence to say so, just now. Well ! Only forty minutes more to the time wken the postman generally makes his rounds. I can fix him to a nicety. I'll bet he's here within the thirty-seven and the forty-two — that's giving him five minutes' grace. Yes, and what'll you bet he brings you ? '

Silent, John Cunliff ? Yes, he is absolutely silent.

The door opens. The servant enters on tiptoe with a confidential smirk.

' I saw Mr. Arnold coming — '

' Not at home ! Didn't I say so ? ' almost gasped Cunliff below his breath.

' Yes, sir,' answered the frightened man. ' But, sir, 1 thought I'd run up and tell you before he spoke — '

' Quick then ! '

The servant hurried out ; a little too fast, it seemed, for presently he was heard apologising. Then, as Cunliff' advanced to shut the door, he met at the threshold, Mr. Arnold, with his brown, healthy vigorous face, volunteer garb, and a superb new rifle in his hand.

' Cunliff, how are you ? I found the door open — the hall empty ; so I thought I wouldn't stand on ceremony.'

' Delighted, I'm sure ! But you haven't enlisted — taken the Queen's pay for life, have you ? '

'Oh, the rille and uniform ! Just fresh from Wimbledon — on my way home. Private match. Such an exciting one — such a scene ! We were done for when they told me to go in and lose, for to go in and win was simply impossible. Cunliff, old fellow, I did it ! I won ! '

Mr. Arnold waa a tall, robust man, who found it only a sort of profitable and honourable recreation to guide a lucrative business, and become a popular M.P., and who was therefore able to devote the serious business part of his life, with all its responsibilities, to volunteering and manly sports. He was the crack shot- of his corps.

To Cunliff' s extreme discomfort, Mr. Arnold began to give, in fuller detail, a glowing, almost boyish recital of his triumphs that morning, when he had won the superb Mountstorm rifle lie carried in his hand, after a most critical and exciting contest. He finished by saying : —

' But I'll tell you what really did please me. When the thing was done — and, by Jove, I wish you had only heard the shout, and felt the grab, as I was carried off' my legs, in spite of most energetic remonstrances of list and foot — that Lord

WAITING FOR AN ANSWER. 13

Bullyblow, as ivo used to call liim at school — -Don't you remember him? Why you polished him off after half an hour's struggle, having previously very kindly disposed of me.'

' I remember,' said Cunliff, with a laugh.

' Well ; though he and I always hated one another as boys, and though he's now a furious Tory, and I — '

'Am now a bitter Radical.'

' Perhaps — perhaps not. Well, he was one of the most uproarious. He's left his mark, I can tell you, on my right thigh, with his tremendous grip. I like that, and honour the fellow now, though I held him only as a snob before. But, I say, Cunliff, what's the matter with you ? '