The Three Clerks by Anthony Trollope

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'What's the matter with her?' repeated Mrs. Davis. 'Well, I think
you might know what's the matter with her. You don't suppose
she's made of stone, do you?'

Charley saw that he was in for it. It was in vain that Norman's
last word was still ringing in his ears. 'Excelsior!' What had he
to do with 'Excelsior?' What miserable reptile on God's earth was
more prone to crawl downwards than he had shown himself to be?
And then again a vision floated across his mind's eye of a young
sweet angel face with large bright eyes, with soft delicate skin,
and all the exquisite charms of gentle birth and gentle nurture.
A single soft touch seemed to press his arm, a touch that he had
so often felt, and had never felt without acknowledging to
himself that there was something in it almost divine. All this
passed rapidly through his mind, as he was preparing to answer
Mrs. Davis's question touching Norah Geraghty.

'You don't think she's made of stone, do you?' said the widow,
repeating her words.

'Indeed I don't think she's made of anything but what's suitable
to a very nice young woman,' said Charley.

'A nice young woman! Is that all you can say for her? I call her
a very fine girl.' Miss Golightly's friends could not say
anything more, even for that young lady. 'I don't know where
you'll pick up a handsomer, or a better-conducted one either, for
the matter of that.'

'Indeed she is,' said Charley.

'Oh! for the matter of that, no one knows it better than
yourself, Mr. Tudor; and she's as well able to keep a man's house
over his head as some others that take a deal of pride in
themselves.'

'I'm quite sure of it,' said Charley.

'Well, the long and the short of it is this, Mr. Tudor.' And as
she spoke the widow got a little red in the face: she had, as
Charley thought, an unpleasant look of resolution about her--a
roundness about her mouth, and a sort of fierceness in her eyes.
'The long and the short of it is this, Mr. Tudor, what do you
mean to do about the girl?'

'Do about her?' said Charley, almost bewildered in his misery.

'Yes, do about her. Do you mean to make her your wife? That's
plain English. Because I'll tell you what: I'll not see her put
upon any longer. It must be one thing or the other; and that at
once. And if you've a grain of honour in you, Mr. Tudor--and I
think you are honourable--you won't back from your word with the
girl now.'

'Back from my word?' said Charley.

'Yes, back from your word,' said Mrs. Davis, the flood-gates of
whose eloquence were now fairly opened. 'I'm sure you're too much
of the gentleman to deny your own words, and them repeated more
than once in my presence--Cheroots--yes, are there none there,
child?--Oh, they are in the cupboard.' These last words were not
part of her address to Charley, but were given in reply to a
requisition from the attendant nymph outside. 'You're too much of
a gentleman to do that, I know. And so, as I'm her natural
friend--and indeed she's my cousin, not that far off--I think
it's right that we should all understand one another.'

'Oh, quite right,' said Charley.

'You can't expect that she should go and sacrifice herself for
you, you know,' said Mrs. Davis, who now that she had begun
hardly knew how to stop herself. 'A girl's time is her money.
She's at her best now, and a girl like her must make her hay
while the sun shines. She can't go on fal-lalling with you, and
then nothing to come of it. You mustn't suppose she's to lose her
market that way.'

'God knows I should be sorry to injure her, Mrs. Davis.'

'I believe you would, because I take you for an honourable
gentleman as will be as good as your word. Now, there's
Peppermint there.'

'What! that fellow in the parlour?'

'And an honourable gentleman he is. Not that I mean to compare
him to you, Mr. Tudor, nor yet doesn't Norah; not by no means.
But there he is. Well, he comes with the most honourablest
proposals, and will make her Mrs. Peppermint to-morrow, if so be
that she'll have it.'

'You don't mean to say that there has been anything between
them?' said Charley, who in spite of the intense desire which he
had felt a few minutes since to get the lovely Norah altogether
off his hands, now felt an acute pang of jealousy.' You don't
mean to say that there has been anything between them?'

'Nothing as you have any right to object to, Mr. Tudor. You may
be sure I wouldn't allow of that, nor yet wouldn't Norah demean
herself to it.'

'Then how did she get talking to him?'

'She didn't get talking to him. But he has eyes in his head, and
you don't suppose but what he can see with them. If a girl is in
the public line, of course any man is free to speak to her. If
you don't like it, it is for you to take her out of it. Not but
what, for a girl that is in the public line, Norah Geraghty keeps
herself to herself as much as any girl you ever set eyes on.'

'What the d--- has she to do with this fellow then?'

'Why, he's a widower, and has three young children; and he's
looking out for a mother for them; and he thinks Norah will suit.
There, now you have the truth, and the whole truth.'

'D--- his impudence!' said Charley.

'Well, I don't see that there's any impudence. He has a house of
his own and the means to keep it. Now I'll tell you what it is.
Norah can't abide him--'

Charley looked a little better satisfied when he heard this
declaration.

'Norah can't abide the sight of him; nor won't of any man as long
as you are hanging after her. She's as true as steel, and proud
you ought to be of her.' Proud, thought Charley, as he again
muttered to himself, 'Excelsior!'--'But, Mr. Tudor, I won't see
her put upon; that's the long and the short of it. If you like to
take her, there she is. I don't say she's just your equal as to
breeding, though she's come of decent people too; but she's good
as gold. She'll make a shilling go as far as any young woman I
know; and if L100 or L150 are wanting for furniture or the like
of that, why, I've that regard for her, that that shan't stand in
the way. Now, Mr. Tudor, I've spoke honest; and if you're the
gentleman as I takes you to be, you'll do the same.'

To do Mrs. Davis justice, it must be acknowledged that in her way
she had spoken honestly. Of course she knew that such a marriage
would be a dreadful misalliance for young Tudor; of course she
knew that all his friends would be heart-broken when they heard
of it. But what had she to do with his friends? Her sympathies,
her good wishes, were for her friend. Had Norah fallen a victim
to Charley's admiration, and then been cast off to eat the
bitterest bread to which any human being is ever doomed, what
then would Charley's friends have cared for her? There was a fair
fight between them. If Norah Geraghty, as a reward for her
prudence, could get a husband in a rank of life above her,
instead of falling into utter destruction as might so easily have
been the case, who could do other than praise her--praise her and
her clever friend who had so assisted her in her struggle?

Dolus an virtus--

Had Mrs. Davis ever studied the classics she would have thus
expressed herself.

Poor Charley was altogether thrown on his beam-ends. He had
altogether played Mrs. Davis's game in evincing jealousy at Mr.
Peppermint's attentions. He knew this, and yet for the life of
him he could not help being jealous. He wanted to get rid of Miss
Geraghty, and yet he could not endure that anyone else should lay
claim to her favour. He was very weak. He knew how much depended
on the way in which he might answer this woman at the present
moment; he knew that he ought now to make it plain to her, that
however foolish he might have been, however false he might have
been, it was quite out of the question that he should marry her
barmaid. But he did not do so. He was worse than weak. It was not
only the disinclination to give pain, or even the dread of the
storm that would ensue, which deterred him; but an absurd dislike
to think that Mr. Peppermint should be graciously received there
as the barmaid's acknowledged admirer.

'Is she really ill now?' said he.

'She's not so ill but what she shall make herself well enough to
welcome you, if you'll say the word that you ought to say. The
most that ails her is fretting at the long delay.--Bolt the door,
child, and go to bed; there will be no one else here now. Go up,
and tell Miss Geraghty to come down; she hasn't got her clothes
off yet, I know.'

Mrs. Davis was too good a general to press Charley for an
absolute, immediate, fixed answer to her question. She knew that
she had already gained much, by talking thus of the proposed
marriage, by setting it thus plainly before Charley, without
rebuke or denial from him. He had not objected to receiving a
visit from Norah, on the implied understanding that she was to
come down to him as his affianced bride. He had not agreed to
this in words; but silence gives consent, and Mrs. Davis felt
that should it ever hereafter become necessary to prove anything,
what had passed would enable her to prove a good deal.

Charley puffed at his cigar and sipped his gin and water. It was
now twelve o'clock, and he thoroughly wished himself at home and
in bed. The longer he thought of it the more impossible it
appeared that he should get out of the house without the scene
which he dreaded. The girl had bolted the door, put away her cups
and mugs, and her step upstairs had struck heavily on his ears.
The house was not large or high, and he fancied that he heard
mutterings on the landing-place. Indeed he did not doubt but that
Miss Geraghty had listened to most of the conversation which had
taken place.

'Excuse me a minute, Mr. Tudor,' said Mrs. Davis, who was now
smiling and civil enough; 'I will go upstairs myself; the silly
girl is shamefaced, and does not like to come down'; and up went
Mrs. Davis to see that her barmaid's curls and dress were nice
and jaunty. It would not do now, at this moment, for Norah to
offend her lover by any untidiness. Charley for a moment thought
of the front door. The enemy had allowed him an opportunity for
retreating. He might slip out before either of the women came
down, and then never more be heard of in Norfolk Street again. He
had his hand in his waistcoat pocket, with the intent of leaving
the sovereign on the table; but when the moment came he felt
ashamed of the pusillanimity of such an escape, and therefore
stood, or rather sat his ground, with a courage worthy of a
better purpose.

Down the two women came, and Charley felt his heart beating
against his ribs. As the steps came nearer the door, he began to
wish that Mr. Peppermint had been successful. The widow entered
the room first, and at her heels the expectant beauty. We can
hardly say that she was blushing; but she did look rather
shamefaced, and hung back a little at the door, as though she
still had half a mind to think better of it, and go off to her
bed.

'Come in, you little fool,' said Mrs. Davis. 'You needn't be
ashamed of coming down to see him; you have done that often
enough before now.'

Norah simpered and sidled. 'Well, I'm sure now!' said she.
'Here's a start, Mr. Tudor; to be brought downstairs at this time
of night; and I'm sure I don't know what it's about'; and then
she shook her curls, and twitched her dress, and made as though
she were going to pass through the room to her accustomed place
at the bar.

Norah Geraghty was a fine girl. Putting her in comparison with
Miss Golightly, we are inclined to say that she was the finer
girl of the two; and that, barring position, money, and fashion,
she was qualified to make the better wife. In point of education,
that is, the effects of education, there was not perhaps much to
choose between them. Norah could make an excellent pudding, and
was willing enough to exercise her industry and art in doing so;
Miss Golightly could copy music, but she did not like the
trouble; and could play a waltz badly. Neither of them had ever
read anything beyond a few novels. In this respect, as to the
amount of labour done, Miss Golightly had certainly far surpassed
her rival competitor for Charley's affections.

Charley got up and took her hand; and as he did so, he saw that
her nails were dirty. He put his arms round her waist and kissed
her; and as he caressed her, his olfactory nerves perceived that
the pomatum in her hair was none of the best. He thought of those
young lustrous eyes that would look up so wondrously into his
face; he thought of the gentle touch, which would send a thrill
through all his nerves; and then he felt very sick.

'Well, upon my word, Mr. Tudor,' said Miss Geraghty, 'you're
making very free to-night.' She did not, however, refuse to sit
down on his knee, though while sitting there she struggled and
tossed herself, and shook her long ringlets in Charley's face,
till he wished her--safe at home in Mr. Peppermint's nursery.

'And is that what you brought me down for, Mrs. Davis?' said
Norah. 'Well, upon my word, I hope the door's locked; we shall
have all the world in here else.'

'If you hadn't come down to him, he'd have come up to you,' said
Mrs. Davis.

'Would he though?' said Norah; 'I think he knows a trick worth
two of that;' and she looked as though she knew well how to
defend herself, if any over-zeal on the part of her lover should
ever induce him to violate the sanctum of her feminine retirement.

There was no over-zeal now about Charley. He ought to have been
happy enough, for he had his charmer in his arms; but he showed
very little of the ecstatic joy of a favoured lover. There he sat
with Norah in his arms, and as we have said, Norah was a handsome
girl; but he would much sooner have been copying the Kennett and
Avon canal lock entries in Mr. Snape's room at the Internal
Navigation.

'Lawks, Mr. Tudor, you needn't hold me so tight,' said Norah.

'He means to hold you tight enough now,' said Mrs. Davis. 'He's
very angry because I mentioned another gentleman's name.'

'Well, now you didn't?' said Norah, pretending to look very
angry.

'Well, I just did; and if you'd only seen him! You must be very
careful what you say to that gentleman, or there'll be a row in
the house.'

'I!' said Norah. 'What I say to him! It's very little I have to
say to the man. But I shall tell him this; he'd better take
himself somewhere else, if he's going to make himself troublesome.'

All this time Charley had said nothing, but was sitting with his
hat on his head, and his cigar in his mouth. The latter appendage
he had laid down for a moment when he saluted Miss Geraghty; but
he had resumed it, having at the moment no intention of repeating
the compliment.

'And so you were jealous, were you?' said she, turning round and
looking at him. 'Well now, some people might have more respect
for other people than to mix up their names that way, with the
names of any men that choose to put themselves forward. What
would you say if I was to talk to you about Miss----'

Charley stopped her mouth. It was not to be borne that she should
be allowed to pronounce the name that was about to fall from her
lips.

'So you were jealous, were you?' said she, when she was again
able to speak. 'Well, my!'

'Mrs. Davis told me flatly that you were going to marry the man,'
said Charley; 'so what was I to think?'

'It doesn't matter what you think now,' said Mrs. Davis; 'for you
must be off from this. Do you know what o'clock it is? Do you
want the house to get a bad name? Come, you two understand each
other now, so you may as well give over billing and cooing for
this time. It's all settled now, isn't it, Mr. Tudor?'

'Oh yes, I suppose so,' said Charley.

'Well, and what do you say, Norah?'

'Oh, I'm sure I'm agreeable if he is. Ha! ha! ha! I only hope he
won't think me too forward--he! he! he!'

And then with another kiss, and very few more words of any sort,
Charley took himself off.

'I'll have nothing more to do with him,' said Norah, bursting
into tears, as soon as the door was well bolted after Charley's
exit. 'I'm only losing myself with him. He don't mean anything,
and I said he didn't all along. He'd have pitched me to Old
Scratch, while I was sitting there on his knee, if he'd have had
his own way--so he would;' and poor Norah cried heartily, as she
went to her work in her usual way among the bottles and taps.

'Why, you fool you, what do you expect? You don't think he's to
jump down your throat, do you? You can but try it on; and then if
it don't do, why there's the other one to fall back on; only, if
I had the choice, I'd rather have young Tudor, too.'

'So would I,' said Norah; 'I can't abide that other fellow.'

'Well, there, that's how it is, you know--beggars can't be
choosers. But come, make us a drop of something hot; a little
drop will do yourself good; but it's better not to take it before
him, unless when he presses you.'

So the two ladies sat down to console themselves, as best they
might, for the reverses which trade and love so often bring with
them.

Charley walked off a miserable man. He was thoroughly ashamed of
himself, thoroughly acknowledged his own weakness; and yet as he
went out from the 'Cat and Whistle,' he felt sure that he should
return there again to renew the degradation from which he had
suffered this night. Indeed, what else could he do now? He had,
as it were, solemnly plighted his troth to the girl before a
third person who had brought them together, with the acknowledged
purpose of witnessing that ceremony. He had, before Mrs. Davis,
and before the girl herself, heard her spoken of as his wife, and
had agreed to the understanding that such an arrangement was a
settled thing. What else had he to do now but to return and
complete his part of the bargain? What else but that, and be a
wretched, miserable, degraded man for the rest of his days;
lower, viler, more contemptible, infinitely lower, even than his
brother clerics at the office, whom in his pride he had so much
despised?

He walked from Norfolk Street into the Strand, and there the
world was still alive, though it was now nearly one o'clock. The
debauched misery, the wretched outdoor midnight revelry of the
world was there, streaming in and out from gin-palaces, and
bawling itself hoarse with horrid, discordant, screech-owl slang.
But he went his way unheeding and uncontaminated. Now, now that
it was useless, he was thinking of the better things of the
world; nothing now seemed worth his grasp, nothing now seemed
pleasurable, nothing capable of giving joy, but what was decent,
good, reputable, cleanly, and polished. How he hated now
that lower world with which he had for the last three years
condescended to pass so much of his time! how he hated himself
for his own vileness! He thought of what Alaric was, of what
Norman was, of what he himself might have been--he that was
praised by Mrs. Woodward for his talent, he that was encouraged
to place himself among the authors of the day! He thought of all
this, and then he thought of what he was--the affianced husband
of Norah Geraghty!

He went along the Strand, over the crossing under the statue of
Charles on horseback, and up Pall Mall East till he came to the
opening into the park under the Duke of York's column. The London
night world was all alive as he made his way. From the Opera
Colonnade shrill voices shrieked out at him as he passed, and
drunken men coming down from the night supper-houses in the
Haymarket saluted him with affectionate cordiality. The hoarse
waterman from the cabstand, whose voice had perished in the night
air, croaked out at him the offer of a vehicle; and one of the
night beggar-women who cling like burrs to those who roam the
street a these unhallowed hours still stuck to him, as she had
done ever since he had entered the Strand.

'Get away with you,' said Charley, turning at the wretched
creature in his fierce anger; 'get away, or I'll give you in
charge.'

'That you may never know what it is to be in misery yourself!'
said the miserable Irishwoman.

'If you follow me a step farther I'll have you locked up,' said
Charley.

'Oh, then, it's you that have the hard heart,' said she; 'and
it's you that will suffer yet.'

Charley looked round, threw her the odd halfpence which he had in
his pocket, and then turned down towards the column. The woman
picked up her prize, and, with a speedy blessing, took herself
off in search of other prey.

His way home would have taken him up Waterloo Place, but the
space round the column was now deserted and quiet, and sauntering
there, without thinking of what he did, he paced up and down
between the Clubs and the steps leading into the park. There,
walking to and fro slowly, he thought of his past career, of all
the circumstances of his life since his life had been left to his
own control, and of the absence of all hope for the future.

What was he to do? He was deeply, inextricably in debt. That
wretch, M'Ruen, had his name on bills which it was impossible
that he should ever pay. Tradesmen held other bills of his which
were either now over-due, or would very shortly become so. He was
threatened with numerous writs, any one of which would suffice to
put him into gaol. From his poor father, burdened as he was with
other children, he knew that he had no right to expect further
assistance. He was in debt to Norman, his best, he would have
said his only friend, had it not been that in all his misery he
could not help still thinking of Mrs. Woodward as his friend.

And yet how could his venture to think longer of her,
contaminated as he now was with the horrid degradation of his
acknowledged love at the 'Cat and Whistle!' No; he must think no
more of the Woodwards; he must dream no more of those angel eyes
which in his waking moments had so often peered at him out of
heaven, teaching him to think of higher things, giving him higher
hopes than those which had come to him from the working of his
own unaided spirit. Ah! lessons taught in vain! vain hopes!
lessons that had come all too late! hopes that had been cherished
only to be deceived! It was all over now! He had made his bed,
and he must lie on it; he had sown his seed, and he must reap his
produce; there was now no 'Excelsior' left for him within the
bounds of human probability.

He had promised to go to Hampton with Harry Norman on Saturday,
and he would go there for the last time. He would go there and
tell Mrs. Woodward so much of the truth as he could bring himself
to utter; he would say farewell to that blest abode; he would
take Linda's soft hand in his for the last time; for the last
time he would hear the young, silver-ringing, happy voice of his
darling Katie; for the last time look into her bright face; for
the last time play with her as with a child of heaven--and then
he would return to the 'Cat and Whistle.'

And having made this resolve he went home to his lodgings. It was
singular that in all his misery the idea hardly once occurred to
him of setting himself right in the world by accepting his
cousin's offer of Miss Golightly's hand and fortune.

CHAPTER XXI

HAMPTON COURT BRIDGE

Before the following Saturday afternoon Charley's spirits had
somewhat recovered their natural tone. Not that he was in a happy
frame of mind; the united energies of Mr. M'Ruen and Mrs. Davis
had been too powerful to allow of that; not that he had given
over his projected plan of saying a long farewell to Mrs.
Woodward, or at any rate of telling her something of his
position; he still felt that he could not continue to live on
terms of close intimacy both with her daughters and with Norah
Geraghty. But the spirits of youth are ever buoyant, and the
spirits of no one could be endowed, with more natural buoyancy
than those of the young navvy. Charley, therefore, in spite of
his misfortunes, was ready with his manuscript when Saturday
afternoon arrived, and, according to agreement, met Norman at the
railway station.

Only one evening had intervened since the night in which he had
ratified his matrimonial engagement, and in spite of the delicate
nature of his position he had for that evening allowed Mr.
Peppermint to exercise his eloquence on the heart of the fair
Norah without interruption. He the while had been engaged in
completing the memoirs of 'Crinoline and Macassar.'

'Well, Charley,' they asked, one and all, as soon as he reached
the Cottage, 'have you got the story? Have you brought the
manuscript? Is it all finished and ready for that dreadful
editor?'

Charley produced a roll, and Linda and Katie instantly pounced
upon it.

'Oh! it begins with poetry,' said Linda.

'I am so glad,' said Katie. 'Is there much poetry in it, Charley?
I do so hope there is.'

'Not a word of it,' said Charley; 'that which Linda sees is a
song that the heroine is singing, and it isn't supposed to be
written by the author at all.'

'I'm so sorry that there's no poetry,' said Katie. 'Can't you
write poetry, Charley?'

'At any rate there's lots of love in it,' said Linda, who was
turning over the pages.

'Is there?' said Katie. 'Well, that's next best; but they should
go together. You should have put all your love into verse,
Charley, and then your prose would have done for the funny
parts.'