Chapter 32
Misfortunes, saith the adage, never come singly. There is little doubtthat troubles are exceedingly gregarious in their nature, and flyingin flocks, are apt to perch capriciously; crowding on the heads of somepoor wights until there is not an inch of room left on their unluckycrowns, and taking no more notice of others who offer as goodresting-places for the soles of their feet, than if they had noexistence. It may have happened that a flight of troubles brooding overLondon, and looking out for Joseph Willet, whom they couldn't find,darted down haphazard on the first young man that caught their fancy,and settled on him instead. However this may be, certain it is that onthe very day of Joe's departure they swarmed about the ears of EdwardChester, and did so buzz and flap their wings, and persecute him, thathe was most profoundly wretched.
It was evening, and just eight o'clock, when he and his father, havingwine and dessert set before them, were left to themselves for the firsttime that day. They had dined together, but a third person had beenpresent during the meal, and until they met at table they had not seeneach other since the previous night.
Edward was reserved and silent. Mr Chester was more than usually gay;but not caring, as it seemed, to open a conversation with one whosehumour was so different, he vented the lightness of his spirit in smilesand sparkling looks, and made no effort to awaken his attention. So theyremained for some time: the father lying on a sofa with his accustomedair of graceful negligence; the son seated opposite to him with downcasteyes, busied, it was plain, with painful and uneasy thoughts.
'My dear Edward,' said Mr Chester at length, with a most engaging laugh,'do not extend your drowsy influence to the decanter. Suffer THAT tocirculate, let your spirits be never so stagnant.'
Edward begged his pardon, passed it, and relapsed into his former state.
'You do wrong not to fill your glass,' said Mr Chester, holding up hisown before the light. 'Wine in moderation--not in excess, for that makesmen ugly--has a thousand pleasant influences. It brightens the eye,improves the voice, imparts a new vivacity to one's thoughts andconversation: you should try it, Ned.'
'Ah father!' cried his son, 'if--'
'My good fellow,' interposed the parent hastily, as he set down hisglass, and raised his eyebrows with a startled and horrified expression,'for Heaven's sake don't call me by that obsolete and ancient name. Havesome regard for delicacy. Am I grey, or wrinkled, do I go on crutches,have I lost my teeth, that you adopt such a mode of address? Good God,how very coarse!'
'I was about to speak to you from my heart, sir,' returned Edward, 'inthe confidence which should subsist between us; and you check me in theoutset.'
'Now DO, Ned, DO not,' said Mr Chester, raising his delicate handimploringly, 'talk in that monstrous manner. About to speak fromyour heart. Don't you know that the heart is an ingenious part ofour formation--the centre of the blood-vessels and all that sort ofthing--which has no more to do with what you say or think, than yourknees have? How can you be so very vulgar and absurd? These anatomicalallusions should be left to gentlemen of the medical profession. Theyare really not agreeable in society. You quite surprise me, Ned.'
'Well! there are no such things to wound, or heal, or have regard for. Iknow your creed, sir, and will say no more,' returned his son.
'There again,' said Mr Chester, sipping his wine, 'you are wrong. Idistinctly say there are such things. We know there are. The hearts ofanimals--of bullocks, sheep, and so forth--are cooked and devoured, asI am told, by the lower classes, with a vast deal of relish. Men aresometimes stabbed to the heart, shot to the heart; but as to speakingfrom the heart, or to the heart, or being warm-hearted, or cold-hearted,or broken-hearted, or being all heart, or having no heart--pah! thesethings are nonsense, Ned.'
'No doubt, sir,' returned his son, seeing that he paused for him tospeak. 'No doubt.'
'There's Haredale's niece, your late flame,' said Mr Chester, as acareless illustration of his meaning. 'No doubt in your mind she was allheart once. Now she has none at all. Yet she is the same person, Ned,exactly.'
'She is a changed person, sir,' cried Edward, reddening; 'and changed byvile means, I believe.'
'You have had a cool dismissal, have you?' said his father. 'Poor Ned!I told you last night what would happen.--May I ask you for thenutcrackers?'
'She has been tampered with, and most treacherously deceived,' criedEdward, rising from his seat. 'I never will believe that the knowledgeof my real position, given her by myself, has worked this change. I knowshe is beset and tortured. But though our contract is at an end, andbroken past all redemption; though I charge upon her want of firmnessand want of truth, both to herself and me; I do not now, and never willbelieve, that any sordid motive, or her own unbiassed will, has led herto this course--never!'
'You make me blush,' returned his father gaily, 'for the folly of yournature, in which--but we never know ourselves--I devoutly hope there isno reflection of my own. With regard to the young lady herself, she hasdone what is very natural and proper, my dear fellow; what you yourselfproposed, as I learn from Haredale; and what I predicted--with no greatexercise of sagacity--she would do. She supposed you to be rich, orat least quite rich enough; and found you poor. Marriage is a civilcontract; people marry to better their worldly condition and improveappearances; it is an affair of house and furniture, of liveries,servants, equipage, and so forth. The lady being poor and you pooralso, there is an end of the matter. You cannot enter upon theseconsiderations, and have no manner of business with the ceremony. Idrink her health in this glass, and respect and honour her for herextreme good sense. It is a lesson to you. Fill yours, Ned.'
'It is a lesson,' returned his son, 'by which I hope I may never profit,and if years and experience impress it on--'
'Don't say on the heart,' interposed his father.
'On men whom the world and its hypocrisy have spoiled,' said Edwardwarmly, 'Heaven keep me from its knowledge.'
'Come, sir,' returned his father, raising himself a little on the sofa,and looking straight towards him; 'we have had enough of this. Remember,if you please, your interest, your duty, your moral obligations, yourfilial affections, and all that sort of thing, which it is so verydelightful and charming to reflect upon; or you will repent it.'
'I shall never repent the preservation of my self-respect, sir,' saidEdward. 'Forgive me if I say that I will not sacrifice it at yourbidding, and that I will not pursue the track which you would have metake, and to which the secret share you have had in this late separationtends.'
His father rose a little higher still, and looking at him as thoughcurious to know if he were quite resolved and earnest, dropped gentlydown again, and said in the calmest voice--eating his nuts meanwhile,
'Edward, my father had a son, who being a fool like you, and, like you,entertaining low and disobedient sentiments, he disinherited and cursedone morning after breakfast. The circumstance occurs to me with asingular clearness of recollection this evening. I remember eatingmuffins at the time, with marmalade. He led a miserable life (the son,I mean) and died early; it was a happy release on all accounts; hedegraded the family very much. It is a sad circumstance, Edward, when afather finds it necessary to resort to such strong measures.
'It is,' replied Edward, 'and it is sad when a son, proffering him hislove and duty in their best and truest sense, finds himself repelledat every turn, and forced to disobey. Dear father,' he added, moreearnestly though in a gentler tone, 'I have reflected many times on whatoccurred between us when we first discussed this subject. Let there bea confidence between us; not in terms, but truth. Hear what I have tosay.'
'As I anticipate what it is, and cannot fail to do so, Edward,' returnedhis father coldly, 'I decline. I couldn't possibly. I am sure it wouldput me out of temper, which is a state of mind I can't endure. Ifyou intend to mar my plans for your establishment in life, and thepreservation of that gentility and becoming pride, which our familyhave so long sustained--if, in short, you are resolved to take your owncourse, y
ou must take it, and my curse with it. I am very sorry, butthere's really no alternative.'
'The curse may pass your lips,' said Edward, 'but it will be but emptybreath. I do not believe that any man on earth has greater power to callone down upon his fellow--least of all, upon his own child--than he hasto make one drop of rain or flake of snow fall from the clouds above usat his impious bidding. Beware, sir, what you do.'
'You are so very irreligious, so exceedingly undutiful, so horriblyprofane,' rejoined his father, turning his face lazily towards him, andcracking another nut, 'that I positively must interrupt you here. It isquite impossible we can continue to go on, upon such terms as these. Ifyou will do me the favour to ring the bell, the servant will show youto the door. Return to this roof no more, I beg you. Go, sir, sinceyou have no moral sense remaining; and go to the Devil, at my expressdesire. Good day.'
Edward left the room without another word or look, and turned his backupon the house for ever.
The father's face was slightly flushed and heated, but his manner wasquite unchanged, as he rang the bell again, and addressed the servant onhis entrance.
'Peak--if that gentleman who has just gone out--'
'I beg your pardon, sir, Mr Edward?'
'Were there more than one, dolt, that you ask the question?--If thatgentleman should send here for his wardrobe, let him have it, do youhear? If he should call himself at any time, I'm not at home. You'lltell him so, and shut the door.'
So, it soon got whispered about, that Mr Chester was very unfortunatein his son, who had occasioned him great grief and sorrow. And thegood people who heard this and told it again, marvelled the more at hisequanimity and even temper, and said what an amiable nature that manmust have, who, having undergone so much, could be so placid and socalm. And when Edward's name was spoken, Society shook its head, andlaid its finger on its lip, and sighed, and looked very grave; and thosewho had sons about his age, waxed wrathful and indignant, and hoped, forVirtue's sake, that he was dead. And the world went on turning round, asusual, for five years, concerning which this Narrative is silent.
Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty Page 33
