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My father looked up, and said, ‘Griffith, I am surprised at you.’  He was constrained to mutter some apology, and I believe Ellen privately begged my mother’s pardon, owning her to have been quite right; but, by the dear girl, the wonderful cascade and narrow gorge were seen through swollen eyes.  And poor Clarence must have had a fine time of it when Griffith had to ride off with him faute de mieux.

All was cleared off, however, when we met again, for Griff’s storms were very fleeting, and Ellen treated him as if she had to make her own peace with him.  She sacrificed her own enjoyment of Exeter Cathedral to go about with him when he had had enough of it, but on Sunday afternoon she altogether declined to walk with him till after the second service.  He laughed at her supposed passion for sacred music, and offered to wait with her to hear the anthem from the nave.  ‘No,’ she said, ‘that would be amusing ourselves instead of worshipping.’

‘We’ve done our devoir in that way already,’ said Griff.  ‘Paid our dues.’

‘One can’t,’ cried Ellen, with an eager look.  ‘One longs to do all the more when He has just let us have such a taste of His beautiful things.’

‘One, perhaps, when one is a little saint,’ returned Griff.

‘Oh don’t, Griff!  I’m not that; but you know every one wants all the help and blessing that can be got.  And then it is so delightful!’

He gave a long whistle.  ‘Every one to his taste,’ he said; ‘especially you ladies.’

He did come to the Cathedral with us, but he had more than half spoilt this last Sunday.  Did he value her for what was best in her, or was her influence raising him?

CHAPTER XXVI
C. MORBUS, ESQ

 
‘Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears,
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
   Sees but the dying man.’
 

Scott.

C. Morbus, Esq.  Such was the card that some wicked wag, one of Clarence’s fellow-clerks probably, left at his lodgings in the course of the epidemic which was beginning its ravages even while we were upon our pleasant journey—a shade indeed to throw out the light.

In these days, the tidings of a visitation of cholera are heard with compassion for crowded towns, but without special alarm for ourselves or our friends, since its conditions and the mode of combating it have come to be fairly understood.

In 1832, however, it was a disease almost unknown and unprecedented except in its Indian abode, whence it had advanced city by city, seaport by seaport, sweeping down multitudes before it; nor had science yet discovered how to encounter or forestall it.  We heard of it in a helpless sort of way, as if it had been the plague or the Black Death, and thought of its victims as doomed.

That terrible German engraving, ‘Death as a Foe,’ which represents the grisly form as invading a ballroom in Paris, is an expression of the feeling with which the scourge was regarded on that first occasion.  Two Years Ago gives some notion of the condition of things in 1849, but by that time there had been some experience, and means of prevention were better understood.  On the alarm in that year there was a great inspection of cottages throughout Earlscombe and Hillside, but in 1832 there was no notion of such precautions.  Nevertheless, on neither visitation, nor any subsequent one, has the disease come nearer to us than Bristol.

As far as memory serves me, the idea was that wholesome food, regular habits, and cleanliness were some protection, but one locality might be as dangerous as another.  There had been cases in London all the spring, but no special anxiety was felt when Clarence returned to his work in the end of July, much refreshed and invigorated by his holiday, and with the understanding that he was to have a rise in position and salary on Mr. Castleford’s return from Ireland, where he was still staying with his wife’s relations.  Clarence was received at the office with a kind of shamefaced cordiality, as if every one would fain forget the way in which he had been treated; and he was struck by finding that all the talk was of the advances of the cholera, chiefly at Rotherhithe.  And a great shock awaited him.  He went, as soon as business hours were over, to thank good old Miss Newton for the comfort and aid she had unwittingly given him, and to tell her from what she had saved him.  Alas! it was the last benefit she was ever to confer on her old pupil.  At the door he was told by a weeping, terrified maid that she was very ill with cholera, and that no hope was given.  He tried to send up a message, but she was in a state of collapse and insensible; and when he inquired the next morning, the gentle spirit had passed away.

He attended her funeral that same evening.  Griff said it was a proof how your timid people will do the most foolhardy things; but Clarence always held that the good woman had really done more for him than any one in actually establishing a contact, so to say, between his spirit and external truth, and he thought no mark of respect beyond her deserts.  She was a heavy loss to him, for no one else in town gave him the sense of home kindness; and there was much more to depress him, for several of his Sunday class were dead, and the school had been broken up for the time, while the heats and the fruits of August contributed to raise the mortality.

His return had released a couple more clerks for their holiday; it was a slack time of year, with less business in hand than usual, and the place looked empty.  Mr. Frith worked on as usual, but preserved an ungracious attitude, as though he were either still incredulous or, if convinced against his will, resolved that ‘that prig of a Winslow’ should not presume upon his services.  Altogether the poor fellow was quite unhinged, and wrote such dismal bills of mortality, and meek, resigned forebodings that my father was almost angry, declaring that he would frighten himself into the sickness; yet I suppressed a good deal, and never told them of the last will and testament in which he distributed his possessions amongst us.  Griff said he had a great mind to go and shake old Bill up and row him well, but he never did.

More than a week passed by, two of Clarence’s regular days for writing, but no letter came.  My mother grew uneasy, and talked of writing to Mrs. Robson, or, as we still called her, Gooch; but it was doubtful whether the answer would contain much information, and it was quite certain that any ill tidings would be sent to us.

At last we did hear, and found, as we had foreboded, that the letter had not been written for fear of alarming us, or carrying infection, though Clarence underlined the words ‘I am perfectly well.’

Having to take a message into the senior partner’s room, Clarence had found the old man crouched over the table, writhing in the unmistakable grip of the deadly enemy.  No one else was available; Clarence had to collect himself, send for the doctor, and manage the conveyance of the patient to his rooms, which fortunately adjoined the office; for, through all his influx of wealth, Mr. Frith had retained the habits and expenditure of his early struggling days.  His old housekeeper and her drudge showed themselves terrified out of their senses, and as incapable as unwilling.  Naval experience, and waiting on me, had taught Clarence helpfulness and handiness; and though this was the very thing that had appalled his imagination, he seemed, as he said afterwards, ‘to have got beyond his fright’ to the use of his commonsense.  And when at last the doctor came, and talked of finding a nurse, if possible, for they were scarce articles, the sufferer only entreated between his paroxysms, ‘Stay, Winslow!  Is Winslow there?  Don’t go!  Don’t leave me!’

No nurse was to be found, but to Clarence’s amazement Gooch arrived.  He had sent by the office boy to explain his absence; and before night the faithful woman descended on him, intending, as in her old days of authority, simply to put Master Clarry out of harm’s way, and take the charge upon herself.  Then, as he proved unmanageable and would not leave his patient, neither would she leave him, and through the frightful night that ensued, there was quite employment enough for them both.  Gooch fully thought the end would come before morning, and was murmuring something about a clergyman, but was cut short by a sharp prohibition.  However, detecting Clarence’s lips moving, the old man said, ‘Eh! speak it out!’  ‘And with difficulty, feeling as if I were somebody else,’ said Clarence, ‘I did get out some short words of prayer.  It seemed so awful for him to die without any.’

When the doctor came in early morning, the watchers were astonished to hear that their charge had taken a turn for the better, and might recover if their admirable care were continued.  The doctor had brought a nurse; but Mr. Frith would not let her come into the room, and there was plenty of need for her elsewhere.

Several days of unremitting care followed, during which Clarence durst not write to us, so little were the laws of infection understood.  Good Mrs. Robson stayed all the time, and probably saved Clarence from falling a victim to his zeal, for she looked after him as anxiously as after the sick man; and with a wondering and thankful heart, he found himself in full health, when both were set free to return home.  Clarence had written at the beginning of the illness to the only relations of whose existence or address he was aware, an old sister, Mrs. Stevens, and a young great-nephew in the office at Liverpool; and the consequence was the arrival of a sour-looking, old widow sister, who came to take charge of the convalescence, and, as the indignant Gooch overheard her say, ‘to prevent that young Winslow from getting round him.’

There were no signs of such a feat having been performed, when, the panic being past, my father went up to London with Griffith, who was to begin eating his terms at the Temple.  He was to share Clarence’s lodgings, for the Robsons had plenty of room, and Gooch was delighted to extend her cares to her special favourite, as she already reigned over Clarence’s wardrobe and table as entirely as in nursery days; and, to my great exultation, my father said it would be good for Griffith to be with his brother; and, moreover, we should hear of the latter.  Nothing could be a greater contrast than his rare notifications or requests, scrawled on a single side of the quarto sheet, with Clarence’s regular weekly lines of clerkly manuscript, telling all that could interest any of us, and covering every available flap up to the blank circle left for the trim red seal.

Promotion had come to Clarence in the natural course of seniority, and a small sum, due to him on his coming of age, was invested in the house of business, so that the two brothers could take between them all the Robsons’ available rooms.  Clarence’s post was one of considerable trust; but there were no tokens of special favour, except that Mr. Frith was more civil to my father than usual, and when he heard of the arrangement about the lodgings, he snarled out, ‘Hm!  Law student indeed!  Don’t let him spoil his brother!’

Which was so far an expression of gratitude that it showed that he considered that there was something to be spoilt.  Mr. Castleford, however, showed real satisfaction in the purchase of a share in the concern for Clarence.  His own eldest son inherited a good deal of his mother’s Irish nature, and was evidently unfit to be anything but a soldier, and the next was so young that he was glad to have a promising and trustworthy young man, from whom a possible joint head of the firm might be manufactured.

CHAPTER XXVII
PETER’S THUNDERBOLT

If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.’—

Twelfth Night.

In the early summer of 1833, we had the opportunity of borrowing a friend’s house in Portman Square for six weeks, and we were allowed to take Ellen with us for introduction to the Admiral and other old friends, while we were to make acquaintance with her connections—the family of Sir Horace Lester, M.P.

We were very civil; but there were a good many polite struggles for the exclusive possession of Ellen, whom both parties viewed as their individual right; and her unselfish good-humour and brightness must have carried her over more worries than we guessed at the time.

She had stayed with the Lesters before, but in schoolroom days.  They were indolent and uninterested, and had never shown her any of the permanent wonders of London, despising these as only fit for country cousins, whereas we had grown up to think of them with intelligent affection.  To me, however, much was as new as to Ellen.  Country life had done so much for me that I could venture on what I had never attempted before.  The Admiral said it was getting away from doctors and their experiments, but I had also done with the afflictions of attempts at growth in wrong directions.  Old friends did not know me, and more than once, as I sat in the carriage, addressed me for one of my brothers—a compliment which, Griff said, turned my head.  Happily I was too much accustomed to my own appearance, and people were too kind, for me to have much shyness on that score.  Our small dinner parties were great enjoyment to me, and the two girls were very happy in their little gaieties.

Braham and Catalani, Fanny Kemble, and Turner’s landscapes at his best, rise in my memory as supreme delights and revelations in their different lines, and awakening trains of thought; and then there was that entertainment which Griffith and Clarence gave us in their rooms, when they regaled us with all the delicacies of the season, and Peter and Gooch looked all pride and hospitality!  The dining-parlour, or what served as such, was Griff’s property, as any one could see by the pictures of horses, dogs, and ladies, the cups, whips, and boxing-gloves that adorned it; the sitting-room had tokens of other occupation, in Clarence’s piano, window-box of flowers, and his one extravagance in engravings from Raffaelle, and a marine water-colour or two, besides all my own attempts at family portraits, with a case of well-bound books.  Those two rooms were perfectly redolent of their masters—I say it literally—for the scent of flowers was in Clarence’s room, and in Griff’s, the odour of cigars had not wholly been destroyed even by much airing.  For in those days it was regarded by parents and guardians as an objectionable thing.

Peter was radiant on that occasion; but a few evenings later, when all were gone to an evening party except my father and myself, Mr. Robson was announced as wishing to speak to Mr. Winslow.  After the civilities proper to the visit of an old servant had passed, he entered with obvious reluctance on the purpose of his visit, namely, his dissatisfaction with Griff as a lodger.  His wife, he said, would not have had him speak, she was that attached to Mr. Griffith, it couldn’t be more if he was her own son; nor was it for want of liking for the young gentleman on his part, as had known him from a boy, ‘but the wife of one’s bosom must come first, sir, as stands to reason, and it’s for the good of the young gentleman himself, and his family, as some one should speak.  I never said one word against it when she would not be satisfied without running the risk of her life after Mr. Clarence; hattending of Mr. Frith in the cholery.  That was only her dooty, sir, and I have never a word to say against dooty: but I cannot see her nearly wore out, and for no good to nobody.’

It appeared that Mrs. Robson was ‘pretty nigh wore out, a setting up for Mr. Griffith’s untimely hours.’  ‘He laughed and coaxed—what I calls cajoling—did Mr. Griff, to get a latch-key; but we knows our dooty too well for that, and Mrs. Winslow had made us faithfully promise, when Master Clarence first came to us, that he should never have a latch-key,—Mr. Clarence, as had only been five times later than eleven o’clock, and then he was going to dine with Mr. Castleford, or to the theayter, and spoke about it beforehand.  If he was not reading to poor Miss Newton, as was gone, or with some of his language-masters, he was setting at home with his books and papers, not giving no trouble to nobody, after he had had his bit of bread and cheese and glass of beer to his supper.’

Ay, Peter knew what young gentlemen was.  He did not expect to see them all like poor Master Clarence, as had had his troubles; the very life knocked out of him in his youth, as one might say.  Indeed Peter would be pleased to see him a bit more sprightly, and taking more to society and hamusements of his hage.  Nor would there be any objection if the late ’ours was only once a week or so, and things was done in a style fitting the family; but when it came to mostly every night, often to two or three o’clock, it was too much for Mrs. Robson, for she would never go to bed, being mortal afraid of fire, and not always certain that Mr. Griffith was—to say—fit to put out his candle.  ‘What do you mean, Peter?’ thundered my father, whose brow had been getting more and more furrowed every moment.  ‘Say it out!—Drunk?’

‘Well sir, no, no, not to say that exactly, but a little excited, sir, and women is timid.  No sir, not to call intoxicated.’

‘No, that’s to come,’ muttered my father.  ‘Has this often happened?’

Peter did not think that it had been noticed more than three times at the most; but he went on to offer his candid and sensible advice that Mr. Griffith should be placed in a family where there was a gentleman or lady who would have some hauthority, and could not be put aside with his good-’umoured haffability—‘You’re an old fogy, Peter.’  ‘Never mind, Nursey, I’ll be a good boy next time,’ and the like.  ‘It is a disadvantage you see, sir, to have been in his service, and ’tis for the young gentleman’s own good as I speaks; but it would be better if he were somewheres else—unless you would speak to him, sir.’

To the almost needless question whether Clarence had been with his brother on these occasions, there was a most decided negative.  He had never gone out with Griffith except once to the theatre, and to dine at the Castlefords, and at first he had sat up for his return, ‘but it led to words between the young gentlemen,’ said Peter, whose confidences were becoming reckless; and it appeared that when Clarence had found that Gooch would not let him spare her vigil, he had obeyed her orders and ceased to share it.

Peter was thanked for the revelations, which had been a grievous effort to him, and dismissed.  My father sat still in great distress and perplexity, asking me whether Clarence had ever told me anything of this, and I had barely time to answer ‘No’ before Clarence himself came in, from what Peter called his language-master.  He was taking lessons in French and Spanish, finding a knowledge of these useful in business.  To his extreme distress, my father fell on him at once, demanding what he knew of the way Griffith was spending his time, ‘coming home at all sorts of hours in a disreputable condition.  No prevarication, sir,’ he added, as the only too familiar look of consternation and bewilderment came over Clarence’s face.  ‘You are doing your brother no good by conniving at his conduct.  Speak truth, if you can,’ he added, with more cruelty than he knew, in his own suffering.

‘Sir,’ gasped Clarence, ‘I know Griff often comes home after I am in bed, but I do not know the exact time, nor anything more.’

‘Is this all you can tell me?  Really all?’

‘All I know—that is—of my own knowledge,’ said Clarence, recovering a little, but still unable to answer without hesitation, which vexed my father.

‘What do you mean by that?  Do you hear nothing?’

‘I am afraid,’ said Clarence, ‘that I do not see as much of him as I had hoped.  He is not up till after I have to be at our place, and he does not often spend an evening at home.  He is such a popular fellow, and has so many friends and engagements.’

‘Ay, and of what sort?  Can’t you tell? or will you not?  I sent him up to you, thinking you a steady fellow who might influence him for good.’

The colour rushed into Clarence’s face, as he answered, looking up and speaking low, ‘Have I not forfeited all such hopes?’

‘Nonsense!  You’ve lived down that old story long ago.  You would make your mark, if you only showed a little manliness and force of character.  Griffith was always fond of you.  Can’t you do anything to hinder him from ruining his own life and that sweet girl’s happiness?’

‘I would—I would give my life to do so!’ exclaimed Clarence, in warm, eager tones.  ‘I have tried, but he says I know nothing about it, and it is very dull at our rooms for him.  I have got used to it, but you can’t expect a fellow like Griff to stay at home, with no better company than me, and do nothing but read law.’

‘Then you do know,’ began my father; but Clarence, with full self-possession, said, ‘I think you had better ask me no more questions, papa.  I really know nothing, or hardly anything, personally of his proceedings.  I went to one supper with him, after going to the play, and did not fancy it; besides, it almost unfitted me for my morning’s work; nor does it answer for me to sit up for him—it only vexes him, as if I were watching him.’

‘Did you ever see him come home showing traces of excess?’

‘No!’ said Clarence, ‘I never saw!’ and, under a stern, distressed look, ‘Once I heard tones that—that startled me, and Mrs. Robson has grumbled a good deal—but I think Peter takes it for more than it is worth.’

‘I see,’ said my father more gently; ‘I will not press you farther.  I believe I ought to be glad that these habits are only hearsay to you.’

‘As far as I can see,’ said Clarence diffidently, but quite restored to himself, ‘Griff is only like most of his set, young men who go into society.’

‘Oh!’ said my father, in a ‘that’s your opinion’ kind of tone; and as at that moment the yell of a newsboy was heard in the street, he exclaimed that he must go and get an evening paper.  Clarence made a step to go instead, but was thrust back, as apparently my father merely wanted an excuse for rushing into the open air to recover the shock or to think it over.

Clarence gave a kind of groan, and presently exclaimed, ‘If only untruth were not such a sin!’ and, on my exclamation of dismay, he added, ‘I don’t think a blowing up ever does good!’

‘But this state of things should not last.’

‘It will not.  It would have come to an end without Peter’s springing this mine.  Griff says he can’t stand Gooch any longer!  And really she does worry him intolerably.’

‘Peter professed to come without her knowledge or consent.’

‘Exactly so.  It will almost break the good old soul’s heart for Griff to leave her; but she expects to have him in hand as if he was in the nursery.  She is ever so much worse than she was with me, and he is really good-nature itself to laugh off her nagging as he does—about what he chooses to put on, or eating, or smoking, or leaving his room untidy, as well as other things.’

‘And those other things?  Do you suspect more than you told papa?’

‘It amounts to no more.  Griff likes amusement, and everybody likes him—that’s all.  Yes, I know my father read law ten hours a day, but his whole nature and circumstances were different.  I don’t believe Griff could go on in that way.’

‘Not with such a hope before him?  You would, Clarence.’

His face and not his tongue answered me, but he added, ‘Griff is sure of that without so much labour and trouble.’

‘And do you see so little of him?’

‘I can’t help it.  I can’t keep his hours and do my work.  Yes, I know we are drifting apart; I wish I could help it, but being coupled up together makes it rather worse than better.  It aggravates him, and he will really get on better without Gooch to worry him, and thrust my droning old ways down his throat,—as if Prince Hal could bear to be twitted with “that sober boy, Lord John of Lancaster.”  Not,’ he added, catching himself up, ‘that I meant to compare him to the madcap Prince.  He is the finest of fellows, if they only would let him alone.’

And that was all I could get from Clarence.