Annette had gone to the big metropolis, which burns in colonial imaginations as the sun of cities, and was about to see something of London, under the excellent auspices of her new friend, Mary Fellingham, and a dense fog. She was alarmed by the darkness, a little in fear, too, of Herbert; and these feelings caused her to chide herself for leaving her father.
Hearing her speak of her father sadly, Herbert kindly proposed to go down to Crikswich on the very day of her coming. She thanked him, and gave him a taste of bitterness by smiling favourably on his offer; but as he wished her to discern and take to heart the difference between one man and another, in the light of a suitor, he let her perceive that it cost him heavy pangs to depart immediately, and left her to brood on his example. Mary Fellingham liked Annette. She thought her a sensible girl of uncultivated sensibilities, the reverse of thousands; not commonplace, therefore; and that the sensibilities were expanding was to be seen in her gradual unreadiness to talk of her engagement to Mr. Tinman, though her intimacy with Mary warmed daily. She considered she was bound to marry the man at some distant date, and did not feel unhappiness yet. She had only felt uneasy when she had to greet and converse with her intended; especially when the London young lady had been present. Herbert’s departure relieved her of the pressing sense of contrast. She praised him to Mary for his extreme kindness to her father, and down in her unsounded heart desired that her father might appreciate it even more than she did.
Herbert drove into Crikswich at night, and stopped at Crickledon’s, where he heard that Van Diemen was dining with Tinman.
Crickledon the carpenter permitted certain dry curves to play round his lips like miniature shavings at the name of Tinman; but Herbert asked, “What is it now?” in vain, and he went to Crickledon the cook.
This union of the two Crickledons, male and female; was an ideal one, such as poor women dream of; and men would do the same, if they knew how poor they are. Each had a profession, each was independent of the other, each supported the fabric. Consequently there was mutual respect, as between two pillars of a house. Each saw the other’s faults with a sly wink to the world, and an occasional interchange of sarcasm that was tonic, very strengthening to the wits without endangering the habit of affection. Crickledon the cook stood for her own opinions, and directed the public conduct of Crickledon the carpenter; and if he went astray from the line she marked out, she put it down to human nature, to which she was tolerant. He, when she had not followed his advice, ascribed it to the nature of women. She never said she was the equal of her husband; but the carpenter proudly acknowledged that she was as good as a man, and he bore with foibles derogatory to such high stature, by teaching himself to observe a neatness of domestic and general management that told him he certainly was not as good as a woman. Herbert delighted in them. The cook regaled the carpenter with skilful, tasty, and economic dishes; and the carpenter, obedient to her supplications, had promised, in the event of his outliving her, that no hands but his should have the making of her coffin. “It is so nice,” she said, “to think one’s own husband will put together the box you are to lie in, of his own make!” Had they been even a doubtfully united pair, the cook’s anticipation of a comfortable coffin, the work of the best carpenter in England, would have kept them together; and that which fine cookery does for the cementing of couples needs not to be recounted to those who have read a chapter or two of the natural history of the male sex.
“Crickledon, my dear soul, your husband is labouring with a bit of fun,” Herbert said to her.
“He would n’t laugh loud at Punch, for fear of an action,” she replied. “He never laughs out till he gets to bed, and has locked the door; and when he does he says ‘Hush!’ to me. Tinman is n’t bailiff again just yet, and where he has his bailiff’s best Court suit from, you may ask. He exercises in it off and on all the week, at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day.”
Herbert rallied her for her gossip’s credulity.
“It’s truth,” she declared. “I have it from the maid of the house, little Jane, whom he pays four pound a year for all the work of the house: a clever little thing with her hands and her head she is; and can read and write beautiful; and she’s a mind to leave ‘em if they don’t advance her. She knocked and went in while he was full blaze, and bowing his poll to his glass. And now he turns the key, and a child might know he was at it.”
“He can’t be such a donkey!”
“And he’s been seen at the window on the seaside. ‘Who’s your Admiral staying at the house on the beach?’ men have inquired as they come ashore. My husband has heard it. Tinman’s got it on his brain. He might be cured by marriage to a sound-headed woman, but he ‘ll soon be wanting to walk about in silk legs if he stops a bachelor. They tell me his old mother here had a dress value twenty pound; and pomp’s inherited. Save as he may, there’s his leak.”
Herbert’s contempt for Tinman was intense; it was that of the young and ignorant who live in their imaginations like spendthrifts, unaware of the importance of them as the food of life, and of how necessary it is to seize upon the solider one among them for perpetual sustenance when the unsubstantial are vanishing. The great event of his bailiff’s term of office had become the sun of Tinman’s system. He basked in its rays. He meant to be again the proud official, royally distinguished; meantime, though he knew not that his days were dull, he groaned under the dulness; and, as cart or cab horses, uncomplaining as a rule, show their view of the nature of harness when they have release to frisk in a field, it is possible that existence was made tolerable to the jogging man by some minutes of excitement in his bailiff’s Court suit. Really to pasture on our recollections we ought to dramatize them. There is, however, only the testimony of a maid and a mariner to show that Tinman did it, and those are witnesses coming of particularly long-bow classes, given to magnify small items of fact.
On reaching the hall Herbert found the fire alight in the smoking-room, and soon after settling himself there he heard Van Diemen’s voice at the hall-door saying good night to Tinman.
“Thank the Lord! there you are,” said Van Diemen, entering the room. “I couldn’t have hoped so much. That rascal!” he turned round to the door. “He has been threatening me, and then smoothing me. Hang his oil! It’s combustible. And hang the port he’s for laying down, as he calls it. ‘Leave it to posterity,’ says I. ‘Why?’ says he. ‘Because the young ones ‘ll be better able to take care of themselves,’ says I, and he insists on an explanation. I gave it to him. Out he bursts like a wasp’s nest. He may have said what he did say in temper. He seemed sorry afterwards—poor old Mart! The scoundrel talked of Horse Guards and telegraph wires.”
“Scoundrel, but more ninny,” said Herbert, full of his contempt. “Dare him to do his worst. The General tells me they ‘d be glad to overlook it at the Guards, even if they had all the facts. Branding ‘s out of the question.”
“I swear it was done in my time,” cried Van Diemen, all on fire.
“It’s out of the question. You might be advised to leave England for a few months. As for the society here—”
“If I leave, I leave for good. My heart’s broken. I’m disappointed. I’m deceived in my friend. He and I in the old days! What’s come to him? What on earth is it changes men who stop in England so? It can’t be the climate. And did you mention my name to General Fellingham?”
“Certainly not,” said Herbert. “But listen to me, sir, a moment. Why not get together half-a-dozen friends of the neighbourhood, and make a clean breast of it. Englishmen like that kind of manliness, and they are sure to ring sound to it.”
“I couldn’t!” Van Diemen sighed. “It’s not a natural feeling I have about it—I ‘ve brooded on the word. If I have a nightmare, I see Deserter written in sulphur on the black wall.”
“You can’t remain at his mercy, and be bullied as you are. He makes you ill, sir. He won’t do anything, but he’ll go on worrying you. I’d stop him at once. I’d take the train to-morrow and get an introduction to the Commander-in-Chief. He’s the very man to be kind to you in a situation like this. The General would get you the introduction.”
“That’s more to my taste; but no, I couldn’t,” Van Diemen moaned in his weakness. “Money has unmanned me. I was n’t this kind of man formerly; nor more was Mart Tinman, the traitor! All the world seems changeing for the worse, and England is n’t what she used to be.”
“You let that man spoil it for you, sir.” Herbert related Mrs. Crickledon’s tale of Mr. Tinman, adding, “He’s an utter donkey. I should defy him. What I should do would be to let him know to-morrow morning that you don’t intend to see him again. Blow for, blow, is the thing he requires. He’ll be cringing to you in a week.”
“And you’d like to marry Annette,” said Van Diemen, relishing, nevertheless, the advice, whose origin and object he perceived so plainly.
“Of course I should,” said Herbert, franker still in his colour than his speech.
“I don’t see him my girl’s husband.” Van Diemen eyed the red hollow in the falling coals. “When I came first, and found him a healthy man, good-looking enough for a trifle over forty, I ‘d have given her gladly, she nodding Yes. Now all my fear is she’s in earnest. Upon my soul, I had the notion old Mart was a sort of a boy still; playing man, you know. But how can you understand? I fancied his airs and stiffness were put on; thought I saw him burning true behind it. Who can tell? He seems to be jealous of my buying property in his native town. Something frets him. I ought never to have struck him! There’s my error, and I repent it. Strike a friend! I wonder he didn’t go off to the Horse Guards at once. I might have done it in his place, if I found I couldn’t lick him. I should have tried kicking first.”
“Yes, shinning before peaching,” said Herbert, astonished almost as much as he was disgusted by the inveterate sentimental attachment of Van Diemen to his old friend.
Martin Tinman anticipated good things of the fright he had given the man after dinner. He had, undoubtedly, yielded to temper, forgetting pure policy, which it is so exceeding difficult to practice. But he had soothed the startled beast; they had shaken hands at parting, and Tinman hoped that the week of Annette’s absence would enable him to mould her father. Young Fellingham’s appointment to come to Elba had slipped Mr. Tinman’s memory. It was annoying to see this intruder. “At all events, he’s not with Annette,” said Mrs. Cavely. “How long has her father to run on?”
“Five months,” Tinman replied. “He would have completed his term of service in five months.”
“And to think of his being a rich man because he deserted,” Mrs. Cavely interjected. “Oh! I do call it immoral. He ought to be apprehended and punished, to be an example for the good of society. If you lose time, my dear Martin, your chance is gone. He’s wriggling now. And if I could believe he talked us over to that young impudent, who has n’t a penny that he does n’t get from his pen, I’d say, denounce him to-morrow. I long for Elba. I hate this house. It will be swallowed up some day; I know it; I have dreamt it. Elba at any cost. Depend upon it, Martin, you have been foiled in your suits on account of the mean house you inhabit. Enter Elba as that girl’s husband, or go there to own it, and girls will crawl to you.”
“You are a ridiculous woman, Martha,” said Tinman, not dissenting.
The mixture of an idea of public duty with a feeling of personal rancour is a strong incentive to the pursuit of a stern line of conduct; and the glimmer of self-interest superadded does not check the steps of the moralist. Nevertheless, Tinman held himself in. He loved peace. He preached it, he disseminated it. At a meeting in the town he strove to win Van Diemen’s voice in favour of a vote for further moneys to protect “our shores.” Van Diemen laughed at him, telling him he wanted a battery. “No,” said Tinman, “I’ve had enough to do with soldiers.”
“How’s that?”
“They might be more cautious. I say, they might learn to know their friends from their enemies.”
“That’s it, that’s it,” said Van Diemen. “If you say much more, my hearty, you’ll find me bidding against you next week for Marine Parade and Belle Vue Terrace. I’ve a cute eye for property, and this town’s looking up.”
“You look about you before you speculate in land and house property here,” retorted Tinman.
Van Diemen bore so much from him that he asked himself whether he could be an Englishman. The title of Deserter was his raw wound. He attempted to form the habit of stigmatizing himself with it in the privacy of his chamber, and he succeeded in establishing the habit of talking to himself, so that he was heard by the household, and Annette, on her return, was obliged to warn him of his indiscretion. This development of a new weakness exasperated him. Rather to prove his courage by defiance than to baffle Tinman’s ambition to become the principal owner of houses in Crikswich, by outbidding him at the auction for the sale of Marine Parade and Belle Vue Terrace, Van Diemen ran the houses up at the auction, and ultimately had Belle Vue knocked down to him. So fierce was the quarrel that Annette, in conjunction with Mrs. Cavely; was called on to interpose with her sweetest grace. “My native place,” Tinman said to her; “it is my native place. I have a pride in it; I desire to own property in it, and your father opposes me. He opposes me. Then says I may have it back at auction price, after he has gone far to double the price! I have borne—I repeat I have borne too much.”
“Are n’t your properties to be equal to one?” said Mrs. Cavely, smiling mother—like from Tinman to Annette.
He sought to produce a fondling eye in a wry face, and said, “Yes, I will remember that.”
“Annette will bless you with her dear hand in a month or two at the outside,” Mrs. Cavely murmured, cherishingly.
“She will?” Tinman cracked his body to bend to her.
“Oh, I cannot say; do not distress me. Be friendly with papa,” the girl resumed, moving to escape.
“That is the essential,” said Mrs. Cavely; and continued, when Annette had gone, “The essential is to get over the next few months, miss, and then to snap your fingers at us. Martin, I would force that man to sell you Belle Vue under the price he paid for it, just to try your power.”
Tinman was not quite so forcible. He obtained Belle Vue at auction price, and his passion for revenge was tipped with fire by having it accorded as a friend’s favour.
The poisoned state of his mind was increased by a December high wind that rattled his casements, and warned him of his accession of property exposed to the elements. Both he and his sister attributed their nervousness to the sinister behaviour of Van Diemen. For the house on the beach had only, in most distant times, been threatened by the sea, and no house on earth was better protected from man,—Neptune, in the shape of a coastguard, being paid by Government to patrol about it during the hours of darkness. They had never had any fears before Van Diemen arrived, and caused them to give thrice their ordinary number of dinners to guests per annum. In fact, before Van Diemen came, the house on the beach looked on Crikswich without a rival to challenge its anticipated lordship over the place, and for some inexplicable reason it seemed to its inhabitants to have been a safer as well as a happier residence.
They were consoled by Tinman’s performance of a clever stroke in privately purchasing the cottages west of the town, and including Crickledon’s shop, abutting on Marine Parade. Then from the house on the beach they looked at an entire frontage of their property.
They entered the month of February. No further time was to be lost, “or we shall wake up to find that man has fooled us,” Mrs. Cavely said. Tinman appeared at Elba to demand a private interview with Annette. His hat was blown into the hall as the door opened to him, and he himself was glad to be sheltered by the door, so violent was the gale. Annette and her father were sitting together. They kept the betrothed gentleman waiting a very long time. At last Van Diemen went to him, and said, “Netty ‘ll see you, if you must. I suppose you have no business with me?”
“Not to-day,” Tinman replied.
Van Diemen strode round the drawing-room with his hands in his pockets. “There’s a disparity of ages,” he said, abruptly, as if desirous to pour out his lesson while he remembered it. “A man upwards of forty marries a girl under twenty, he’s over sixty before she’s forty; he’s decaying when she’s only mellow. I ought never to have struck you, I know. And you’re such an infernal bad temper at times, and age does n’t improve that, they say; and she’s been educated tip-top. She’s sharp on grammar, and a man may n’t like that much when he’s a husband. See her, if you must. But she does n’t take to the idea; there’s the truth. Disparity of ages and unsuitableness of dispositions—what was it Fellingham said?—like two barrel-organs grinding different tunes all day in a house.”
“I don’t want to hear Mr. Fellingham’s comparisons,” Tinman snapped.
“Oh! he’s nothing to the girl,” said Van Diemen. “She doesn’t stomach leaving me.”
“My dear Philip! why should she leave you? When we have interests in common as one household—”
“She says you’re such a damned bad temper.”
Tinman was pursuing amicably, “When we are united—” But the frightful charge brought against his temper drew him up. “Fiery I may be. Annette has seen I am forgiving. I am a Christian. You have provoked me; you have struck me.”
“I ‘ll give you a couple of thousand pounds in hard money to be off the bargain, and not bother the girl,” said Van Diemen.
“Now,” rejoined Tinman, “I am offended. I like money, like most men who have made it. You do, Philip. But I don’t come courting like a pauper. Not for ten thousand; not for twenty. Money cannot be a compensation to me for the loss of Annette. I say I love Annette.”
“Because,” Van Diemen continued his speech, “you trapped us into that engagement, Mart. You dosed me with the stuff you buy for wine, while your sister sat sugaring and mollifying my girl; and she did the trick in a minute, taking Netty by surprise when I was all heart and no head; and since that you may have seen the girl turn her head from marriage like my woods from the wind.”
“Mr. Van Diemen Smith!” Tinman panted; he mastered himself. “You shall not provoke me. My introductions of you in this neighbourhood, my patronage, prove my friendship.”
“You’ll be a good old fellow, Mart, when you get over your hopes of being knighted.”
“Mr. Fellingham may set you against my wine, Philip. Let me tell you—I know you—you would not object to have your daughter called Lady.”
“With a spindle-shanked husband capering in a Court suit before he goes to bed every night, that he may n’t forget what a fine fellow he was one day bygone! You’re growing lean on it, Mart, like a recollection fifty years old.”
“You have never forgiven me that day, Philip!”
“Jealous, am I? Take the money, give up the girl, and see what friends we’ll be. I’ll back your buyings, I’ll advertise your sellings. I’ll pay a painter to paint you in your Court suit, and hang up a copy of you in my diningroom.”
“Annette is here,” said Tinman, who had been showing Etna’s tokens of insurgency.
He admired Annette. Not till latterly had Herbert Fellingham been so true an admirer of Annette as Tinman was. She looked sincere and she dressed inexpensively. For these reasons she was the best example of womankind that he knew, and her enthusiasm for England had the sympathetic effect on him of obscuring the rest of the world, and thrilling him with the reassuring belief that he was blest in his blood and his birthplace—points which her father, with his boastings of Gippsland, and other people talking of scenes on the Continent, sometimes disturbed in his mind.
“Annette,” said he, “I come requesting to converse with you in private.”
“If you wish it—I would rather not,” she answered.
Tinman raised his head, as often at Helmstone when some offending shopwoman was to hear her doom.
He bent to her. “I see. Before your father, then!”
“It isn’t an agreeable bit of business, to me,” Van Diemen grumbled, frowning and shrugging.
“I have come, Annette, to ask you, to beg you, entreat—before a third person—laughing, Philip?”
“The wrong side of my mouth, my friend. And I’ll tell you what: we’re in for heavy seas, and I ‘m not sorry you’ve taken the house on the beach off my hands.”
“Pray, Mr. Tinman, speak at once, if you please, and I will do my best. Papa vexes you.”
“No, no,” replied Tinman.
He renewed his commencement. Van Diemen interrupted him again.
“Hang your power over me, as you call it. Eh, old Mart? I’m a Deserter. I’ll pay a thousand pounds to the British army, whether they punish me or not. March me off tomorrow!”
“Papa, you are unjust, unkind.” Annette turned to him in tears.
“No, no,” said Tinman, “I do not feel it. Your father has misunderstood me, Annette.”
“I am sure he has,” she said fervently. “And, Mr. Tinman, I will faithfully promise that so long as you are good to my dear father, I will not be untrue to my engagement, only do not wish me to name any day. We shall be such very good dear friends if you consent to this. Will you?”
Pausing for a space, the enamoured man unrolled his voice in lamentation: “Oh! Annette, how long will you keep me?”
“There; you’ll set her crying!” said Van Diemen. “Now you can run upstairs, Netty. By jingo! Mart Tinman, you’ve got a bass voice for love affairs.”
“Annette,” Tinman called to her, and made her turn round as she was retiring. “I must know the day before the end of winter. Please. In kind consideration. My arrangements demand it.”
“Do let the girl go,” said Van Diemen. “Dine with me tonight and I’ll give you a wine to brisk your spirits, old boy.”
“Thank you. When I have ordered dinner at home, I——and my wine agrees with ME,” Tinman replied.
“I doubt it.”
“You shall not provoke me, Philip.”
They parted stiffly.
Mrs. Cavely had unpleasant domestic news to communicate to her brother, in return for his tale of affliction and wrath. It concerned the ungrateful conduct of their little housemaid Jane, who, as Mrs. Cavely said, “egged on by that woman Crickledon,” had been hinting at an advance of wages.
“She didn’t dare speak, but I saw what was in her when she broke a plate, and wouldn’t say she was sorry. I know she goes to Crickledon and talks us over. She’s a willing worker, but she has no heart.”
Tinman had been accustomed in his shop at Helmstone—where heaven had blessed him with the patronage of the rich, as visibly as rays of supernal light are seen selecting from above the heads of prophets in the illustrations to cheap holy books—to deal with willing workers that have no hearts. Before the application for an advance of wages—and he knew the signs of it coming—his method was to calculate how much he might be asked for, and divide the estimated sum by the figure 4; which, as it seemed to come from a generous impulse, and had been unsolicited, was often humbly accepted, and the willing worker pursued her lean and hungry course in his service. The treatment did not always agree with his males. Women it suited; because they do not like to lift up their voices unless they are in a passion; and if you take from them the grounds of temper, you take their words away—you make chickens of them. And as Tinman said, “Gratitude I never expect!” Why not? For the reason that he knew human nature. He could record shocking instances of the ingratitude of human nature, as revealed to him in the term of his tenure of the shop at Helmstone. Blest from above, human nature’s wickedness had from below too frequently besulphured and suffumigated him for his memory to be dim; and though he was ever ready to own himself an example that heaven prevaileth, he could cite instances of scandal-mongering shop-women dismissed and working him mischief in the town, which pointed to him in person for a proof that the Powers of Good and Evil were still engaged in unhappy contention. Witness Strikes! witness Revolutions!
“Tell her, when she lays the cloth, that I advance her, on account of general good conduct, five shillings per annum. Add,” said Tinman, “that I wish no thanks. It is for her merits—to reward her; you understand me, Martha?”
“Quite; if you think it prudent, Martin.”
“I do. She is not to breathe a syllable to cook.”
“She will.”
“Then keep your eye on cook.”
Mrs. Cavely promised she would do so. She felt sure she was paying five shillings for ingratitude; and, therefore, it was with humility that she owned her error when, while her brother sipped his sugared acrid liquor after dinner (in devotion to the doctor’s decree, that he should take a couple of glasses, rigorously as body-lashing friar), she imparted to him the singular effect of the advance of wages upon little Jane—“Oh, ma’am! and me never asked you for it!” She informed her brother how little Jane had confided to her that they were called “close,” and how little Jane had vowed she would—the willing little thing!—go about letting everybody know their kindness.
“Yes! Ah!” Tinman inhaled the praise. “No, no; I don’t want to be puffed,” he said. “Remember cook. I have,” he continued, meditatively, “rarely found my plan fail. But mind, I give the Crickledons notice to quit to-morrow. They are a pest. Besides, I shall probably think of erecting villas.”
“How dreadful the wind is!” Mrs. Cavely exclaimed. “I would give that girl Annette one chance more. Try her by letter.”
Tinman despatched a business letter to Annette, which brought back a vague, unbusiness-like reply. Two days afterward Mrs. Cavely reported to her brother the presence of Mr. Fellingham and Miss Mary Fellingham in Crikswich. At her dictation he wrote a second letter. This time the reply came from Van Diemen:
“My DEAR MARTIN,—Please do not go on bothering my girl. She does
not like the idea of leaving me, and my experience tells me I could
not live in the house with you. So there it is. Take it friendly.
I have always wanted to be, and am,
“Your friend,
“PHIL.”
Tinman proceeded straight to Elba; that is, as nearly straight as the wind would allow his legs to walk. Van Diemen was announced to be out; Miss Annette begged to be excused, under the pretext that she was unwell; and Tinman heard of a dinner-party at Elba that night.
He met Mr. Fellingham on the carriage drive. The young Londoner presumed to touch upon Tinman’s private affairs by pleading on behalf of the Crikledons, who were, he said, much dejected by the notice they had received to quit house and shop.
“Another time,” bawled Tinman. “I can’t hear you in this wind.”
“Come in,” said Fellingham.
“The master of the house is absent,” was the smart retort roared at him; and Tinman staggered away, enjoying it as he did his wine.
His house rocked. He was backed by his sister in the assurance that he had been duped.
The process he supposed to be thinking, which was the castigation of his brains with every sting wherewith a native touchiness could ply immediate recollection, led him to conclude that he must bring Van Diemen to his senses, and Annette running to him for mercy.
He sat down that night amid the howling of the storm, wind whistling, water crashing, casements rattling, beach desperately dragging, as by the wide-stretched star-fish fingers of the half-engulphed.
He hardly knew what he wrote. The man was in a state of personal terror, burning with indignation at Van Diemen as the main cause of his jeopardy. For, in order to prosecute his pursuit of Annette, he had abstained from going to Helmstone to pay moneys into his bank there, and what was precious to life as well as life itself, was imperilled by those two—Annette and her father—who, had they been true, had they been honest, to say nothing of honourable, would by this time have opened Elba to him as a fast and safe abode.
His letter was addressed, on a large envelope,
“To the Adjutant-General, “HORSE GUARDS.”
But if ever consigned to the Post, that post-office must be in London; and Tinman left the letter on his desk till the morning should bring counsel to him as to the London friend to whom he might despatch it under cover for posting, if he pushed it so far.
Sleep was impossible. Black night favoured the tearing fiends of shipwreck, and looking through a back window over sea, Tinman saw with dismay huge towering ghostwhite wreaths, that travelled up swiftly on his level, and lit the dark as they flung themselves in ruin, with a gasp, across the mound of shingle at his feet.
He undressed: His sister called to him to know if they were in danger. Clothed in his dressing-gown, he slipped along to her door, to vociferate to her hoarsely that she must not frighten the servants; and one fine quality in the training of the couple, which had helped them to prosper, a form of self-command, kept her quiet in her shivering fears.
For a distraction Tinman pulled open the drawers of his wardrobe. His glittering suit lay in one. And he thought, “What wonderful changes there are in the world!” meaning, between a man exposed to the wrath of the elements, and the same individual reading from vellum, in that suit, in a palace, to the Head of all of us!
The presumption is; that he must have often done it before. The fact is established, that he did it that night. The conclusion drawn from it is, that it must have given him a sense of stability and safety.
At any rate that he put on the suit is quite certain.
Probably it was a work of ingratiation and degrees; a feeling of the silk, a trying on to one leg, then a matching of the fellow with it. O you Revolutionists! who would have no state, no ceremonial, and but one order of galligaskins! This man must have been wooed away in spirit to forgetfulness of the tempest scourging his mighty neighbour to a bigger and a farther leap; he must have obtained from the contemplation of himself in his suit that which would be the saving of all men, in especial of his countrymen—imagination, namely.
Certain it is, as I have said, that he attired himself in the suit. He covered it with his dressing-gown, and he lay down on his bed so garbed, to await the morrow’s light, being probably surprised by sleep acting upon fatigue and nerves appeased and soothed.
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