failures and hopes deferred, and consequences.

now, it chanced that, about the time of which i write, a noted bank failed, and a considerable sum of money which had been temporarily deposited in it by the committee of the sailors’ home at wreckumoft was lost.

this necessitated retrenchment. all the salaries of officials were lowered—among them kenneth’s, although the directors assured him that it would be again raised as soon as the institution recovered from the shock of this loss.

meanwhile, however, the secretary was compelled to postpone his marriage indefinitely.

perhaps the shortest way to convey a correct idea of the dire effects of this failure to my reader will be to detail several conversations that took place in regard to it by various parties.

conversation first was held between the head cook and head waiter of the sailors’ home. these worthies were seated on one of the dressers in the kitchen of the establishment;—and a wonderful kitchen it was, with culinary implements so huge as to suggest the idea of giant operators. there was a grate that might have roasted an ox whole. there were pots big enough to have boiled entire sheep, caldrons of soup that a little boy might have swum in, rolls and loaves that would, apparently, have made sandwiches for an army, and cups and saucers, plates and dishes that might have set up any reasonable man for life in the crockery line. but the most astounding vessels in that amazing place were the tea-pot and coffee-pot of the establishment. they stood side by side like giant twins; each being five feet high by a yard in diameter, and the pounds of tea and gallons of water put into these pots night and morning for tea and breakfast seemed almost fabulous. (see note 1.)

“it’s werry unfortinet, werry,” said the presiding spirit of this region.

“so ’tis,” observed the head waiter.

“werry hard, too,” said the cook, “on a man like me, with a wife and six childer, to have his wages docked.”

“so ’tis—even for a man with a wife and four child’n like me,” said the head waiter; “but it comes hardest on the secretary, poor feller. he was just a-goin’ to get spliced, an’ there he’s ’bliged to put it off. he’s such a good feller too.”

“ah—it’s werry hard,” said the cook.

“werry,” said the head waiter.

having shaken their heads in concert, these worthies dropped the subject as being an unpleasant one.

in mr stuart’s drawing-room, referring to the same subject, miss penelope stuart said to mr george stuart—

“well, i’m sure, george, it seems to me that it would be only right and proper to forgive poor kenneth, not that he’s done anything exactly wrong, but forgiveness is a christian duty, whether it’s an enemy you’ve hurt, or a friend who has hurt you, that—that, how could he help it, you know, brother, now do be reasonable, and only think of the poor boy having to part with that great cart-horse—though it’ll be the death of him some day whether he parts with it or not, for it’s a dreadful creature, and dan too—i’m sure the perplexities people are put to by banks failing. why don’t people prevent them from failing? but the worst is his marriage being put off, and it so near. i do think, brother, you might take him back and—”

“pray hold your tongue, peppy,” said mr stuart, who was attempting to read the times, “i’m not listening to you, and if you are pleading for my son kenneth, let me say to you, once for all, that i have done with him for ever. i would not give him a sixpence if he were starving.”

“well, but,” persevered the earnest miss peppy, “if he were to repent, you know, and come and ask pardon, (dear me, where are those scissors? ah, here they are), surely you would not refuse, (the thimble next—what a world of worries!) to—to give him—”

“peppy, i have stated my sentiments, pray do not trouble me further in regard to this matter. nothing can move me.”

miss peppy sighed, and retired to pour her regrets into the sympathetic ear of mrs niven.

gaff sat in the chimney-corner of the “boodwar” smoking his pipe and staring at shrieky, which, having survived the voyage home, had been hung up in a cage in the little window, and was at that time engaged in calling loudly for squeaky, who, having also survived the voyage, was grubbing up stones and mud at the front door. mrs gaff was seated opposite to him, with tottie’s head in her lap; for she still solaced herself by smoothing her hair. billy was sitting on one of the six chairs whittling a piece of wood.

“it’s a bad business,” said gaff; “bad for everybody consarned; but wust for mr stuart.”

“an’ his man,” said billy.

“and susan,” said tottie.

“gaff,” said mrs gaff, “it’s my advice to you to go up to the bank, ask them for a thousand pounds, (if they have as much in the shop at the time, if not, ye can take what they have, and call again for the rest), give it all to miss lizzie gordon, and tell her to go and get married right off. we won’t miss it, gaff. in fact it seems to me that the more we give away the more we have to give. it’s an awful big fortin’ we’ve comed into. but that’s what i advise.”

“i doubt she wouldn’t take it,” said gaff.

“oh yes, she would,” cried his better half.

billy and tottie being of the same opinion, gaff laid aside his pipe, got out the tea-caddy, from which he took his cheque-book, and made tottie write out a cheque for 1000 pounds, payable to miss lizzie gordon.

“she deserves it well o’ me,” observed gaff, as he slowly printed his signature on the cheque, “for she gave me the noo testament, that’s bin o’ more valley to me than thousands o’ gold an’ silver—god bless her.”

the cheque was taken up and presented by gaff on the following morning, but to the honest man’s dismay, lizzie declined it positively, though she accompanied her refusal with many earnest expressions of gratitude, and kissed the seaman’s hard hand at parting.

gaff returned to the “boodwar,” lit his german pipe with the cheque, and said, “i knowed she wouldn’t tak’ it—dear girl.”

kenneth was standing in the bower at the foot of my garden, looking pensively on the distant landscape, which was bathed in the rich glow of the setting sun. his right arm embraced the slender waist of lizzie—his left encircled the shoulder of emmie graham.

“we must have patience, darling,” said kenneth, with an effort at cheerfulness.

“our hopes were as bright as that lovely sky some days ago,” said lizzie.

while she was speaking the sun descended behind a bank of heavy clouds.

“and thus have our hopes gone down,” murmured kenneth sadly.

“but, uncle,” observed emmie, “the sun is still shining behind the clouds.”

“thank you, emmie, for the comforting word,” said lizzie, “and our sun is indeed shining still.”

the trio left off contemplating the sky, and returned in improved spirits to bingley hall, where my strong-minded wife had just delivered herself of the following oration:—

“it’s of no use talking to me,” (she was right; i never found it to be of the least use to talk to her.) “old stuart is a monster—nobody will convince me to the contrary. i only wish i had the making of the laws, and i would have powerful cures got up for such as he. and his brother-in-law is no better—crusty indeed, bad though it is, the name is too good for him. don’t interrupt me. he is not like many of his neighbours, for he has had no provocation. the captain of dragoons has turned out a very good husband, and poor bella is as happy with him as such a flirt could expect to be.”

i ventured to remark at this point that my wife was wandering from the subject from which she started, but she became extremely angry, and finally put me down and snuffed me out by assuring me that i had been born at least a generation before my time.

dan horsey sat on the dresser of my kitchen, switching his boot with a riding-whip, and looking at susan with an extremely melancholy expression of countenance. susan was cleaning a silver tea-pot—her usual occupation when dan was present. cook—now resigned to her fate—was sighing and peeling potatoes in the scullery.

“och! darlint, me heart’s heavier than a cart o’ coals,” said dan. “bucephalus is to be sowld next week, and i’m to quit in a month!”

susan sighed.

“to be sure, i’d aisy git another place, but in the meantime that’ll put off our weddin’, jewel, till i don’ know when.”

susan sighed again, and dan hit his boot somewhat smartly, as if he were indignant with fate.

“but it’s wus,” continued dan, “for masther an’ miss gordon than for us, darlint—there, now, don’t toss yer head, mavourneen, ye know we can git spliced av we like whenever i git a noo sitiwation; but masther can’t well throw up the wan he’s got, an’ yit it won’t kape him an’ his wife. och! worse luck! av we could only diskiver a goold mine now, or somethin’ o’ that sort.”

“well, i am sorry for them,” said susan, with another sigh; “an’ i’m sure i hope that we’ll get over our troubles, all of us, though i don’t see very well how.”

“arrah! now, don’t look so blue, me angel,” said dan, rising and putting his arm round susan. “me heart is lighter since i comed here and saw yer sweet face. sure there’s midcine in the glance o’ yer purty blue eye. come now, cheer up, an’ i’ll ventur a prophecy.”

“what may that be?” asked susan with a smile.

“that you and i shall be spliced before two months is out. see if we won’t.”

susan laughed; but dan stoutly asserted that his prophecies always came true, and then, saying that he was the bearer of a letter to miss peppy, he bade susan adieu, and took himself off.

i turn now to miss puff, who happened about this time to be on a visit to us. she was seated one forenoon alone in the dining-room of bingley hall, when a loud ring came to the door-bell; a quick step was heard on the stair, and next moment the dining-room door burst open, and my son gildart rushed into the room.

gildart was wonderfully changed since the day he had sailed for china. he had grown tall and stout. moreover he had whiskers—not very bushy, perhaps, but, undeniable whiskers.

“hallo! puff!” he exclaimed, rushing towards his old friend with the intention of kissing her; but when miss puff rose to receive him, he felt constrained to check himself.

“why, how you are grown, and so changed!” he said, shaking her hand warmly.

miss puff was indeed changed, so much so that her old friends who had not seen her for some time could scarcely have known her. she was no longer fat and inane. her figure had become slim and graceful; her face had become expressive and remarkably pretty, and her manners were those of a well-bred and self-possessed lady. gildart felt that he could no more have taken the liberties he had ventured on in former years than he could have flown.

he soon became very chatty, however, and speedily began to question her in regard to his father and mother, (who, she told him, were not at home), and old friends.

“and what of my friend kenneth stuart?” said he.

“he is well, poor fellow,” replied miss puff; “but he is in unhappy circumstances just now.”

here she related the circumstances of the bank failure, and the evil consequences that followed, and were still pending over kenneth and many of their other friends in wreckumoft.

“that’s a sad business,” said gildart; “but i don’t see how it can be mended. i fear me it is a case of ‘grin and bear it.’ and your aunt, miss puff, what of the adorable miss flouncer?”

“she is now lady doles.”

“you don’t say so! well, i had given sir richard credit for more sense. how long is it since they married?”

“about two years.”

“is sir richard dead?”

“no, why should you think so?”

“because if it had been me, i should have succumbed in three months. it’s an awful thing to think of being married to a she-griffin.”

“she is my aunt, mr bingley,” said miss puff.

“ah, to be sure, forgive me. but now i must go and search for my father. adieu. miss puff—au revoir.”

gildart left the room with a strange sensation of emptiness in his breast.

“why, surely—it cannot be that i—i—am in love with that girl, that stupid, fat—but she’s not stupid and not fat now. she’s graceful and intelligent and pretty—absolutely beautiful; why, botheration, i am in love or insane, perhaps both!”

thus soliloquising my son entered my study.

the last conversation that i shall record, took place between mr stuart senior and colonel crusty. it occurred about two weeks after those conversations that have just been narrated. the colonel had been suddenly summoned to see his brother-in-law, “on his death-bed,”—so the epistle that summoned him had been worded by miss peppy.

that dinner at which these two friends had enjoyed themselves so much happened to disagree with mr george stuart, insomuch that he was thrown into a bilious fever—turned as yellow as a guinea and as thin as a skeleton. he grew worse and worse. wealth was at his command—so was everything that wealth can purchase; but although wealth procured the best of doctors in any number that the patient chose to order them, it could not purchase health. so mr stuart pined away. the doctors shook their heads and gave him up, recommending him to send for his clergyman.

mr stuart scorned the recommendation at first; but as he grew worse he became filled with an undefinable dread, and at last did send for his pastor. as a big cowardly boy at school tyrannises over little boys and scoffs at fear until a bigger than he comes and causes his cheek to blanch, so mr stuart bullied and scorned the small troubles of life, and scoffed at the anxieties of religious folk until death came and shook his fist in his face; then he succumbed and trembled, and confessed himself, (to himself), to be a coward. one result of the clergyman’s visit was that mr stuart sent for colonel crusty.

“my dear stuart,” said the colonel, entering the sick man’s room and gently taking his wasted hand which lay outside the counterpane, “i am distressed to find you so ill; bless me, how thin you are! but don’t lose heart. i am quite sure you have no reason to despond. a man with a constitution like yours can pull through a worse illness than this. come, cheer up and look at the bright side of things. i have seen men in hospital ten times worse than you are, and get better.”

mr stuart shook, or rather rolled, his head slowly on the pillow, and said in a weak voice—

“no, colonel, i am dying—at least the doctors say so, and i think they are right.”

“nonsense, my dear fellow,” returned the colonel kindly, “doctors are often mistaken, and many a man recovers after they have given him up.”

“well, that may be or it may not be,” said mr stuart with a sudden access of energy, “nevertheless i believe that i am a dying man, and i have sent for you on purpose to tell you that i am an ass—a consummate ass.”

“my dear stuart,” remonstrated the colonel, “really, you are taking a very warped view of—”

“i—am—an—ass,” repeated the sick man, interrupting his friend; “more than that, you are an ass too, colonel.”

the colonel was a very pompous and stately man. he had not been honoured with his true title since he left school, and was therefore a good deal taken aback by the plain-speaking of his friend. he attributed the words, however, to the weak condition of mr stuart’s mind, and attempted to quiet him, but he would not be quieted.

“no, no, colonel; it’s of no use trying to shut our eyes to the fact. you and i have set our hearts on the things of this world, and i have now come to see that the man who does that is a fool.”

“my dear fellow,” said the colonel soothingly, “it is bodily weakness that induces you to think so. most people speak thus when they are seriously ill; but they invariably change their opinion when they get well again.”

“you are wrong, colonel. i am now convinced that they do not change their opinions. they may change their wills, but their opinions must remain the same. the conclusion which i have now come to has been forced upon me by cool, logical reasoning; and, moreover, it has more than once flashed upon me in the course of my life, but i shut my eyes to it. the approach of death has only opened them to see very clearly what i was more than half aware of before. do not suppose that i make this confession of my folly to you in order to propitiate the deity. i do not for a moment expect that the god whom i have neglected all my life can be humbugged in this way. no, i have deliberately cast him off in time past, and i recognise it as my due that he should cast me off now. it is too late to repent, so i suppose that there is no hope for me.”

mr stuart paused here a few minutes. the shade of doubt expressed in his last words was occasioned by the recollection of the clergyman’s assurance that it was never too late to repent; that the finished work of jesus christ, (which leaves nothing for a man to do but to “believe and live”), would avail the sinner at the latest hour.

the colonel sat gazing at his friend in silence. presently the sick man resumed as though he had not paused:—

“therefore what i say to you now is not intended as a propitiatory offering, but is the result of clear and calm conviction. now listen to me, for i feel getting weak. let me entreat you to forgive your daughter. will you take that entreaty into earnest consideration? i do not ask you to promise. it is folly to make men promise what they don’t want to do. the chances are that they’ll break the promise. i only ask you to take this subject into your serious consideration. it is the request of a dying man. will you grant it?”

the colonel coughed, and looked troubled.

“colonel,” said mr stuart, “i have forgiven kenneth—that is to say, we are reconciled; for i can scarcely be said to forgive one who never offended me. the gladness that has ensued on that reconciliation is worth more to me than all the gold i ever made.”

“stuart,” said the colonel, somewhat suddenly, “i’ll do what you ask.”

“thank you; you’re a good fellow. squeeze my hand—there now, go away; i’ll sleep for a little. stay, perhaps, i may never waken; if so, farewell. you’ll find a fire in the library if you choose to wait till it’s over. god bless you.”

the sick man turned on his side with a sigh, and fell into a sleep so deep and quiet that the colonel left the room with some uncertainty as to whether his friend were still in the land of the living.

note 1. if the reader would see a somewhat similar kitchen, let him visit the sailors’ home, well street, london docks.