The Three Clerks by Anthony Trollope

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But circumstances were mischancy with Mr. Nogo, and all he said
redounded only to the credit of our friend Charley. His black
undoubtedly was black; the merits of Charley and Mr. Corkscrew,
as public servants, had been about equal; but Mr. Whip Vigil
turned the black into white in three minutes.

As he got upon his legs, smiling after the manner of his great
exemplar, he held in his hand a small note and a newspaper. 'A
comparison,' he said, 'had been instituted between the merits of
two gentlemen formerly in the employment of the Crown, one of
them had been selected for further employment, and the other
rejected. The honourable member for Mile End had, he regretted to
say, instituted this comparison. They all knew what was the
proverbial character of a comparison. It was, however, ready made
to his hands, and there was nothing left for him, Mr. Whip Vigil,
but to go on with it. This, however, he would do in as light a
manner as possible. It had been thought that the one gentleman
would not suit the public service, and that the other would do
so. It was for him merely to defend this opinion. He now held in
his hand a letter written by the protege of the honourable member
for Limehouse; he would not read it--' (cries of 'Read, read!')
'no, he would not read it, but the honourable member might if he
would--and could. He himself was prepared to say that a gentleman
who chose to express himself in such a style in his private
notes--this note, however, was not private in the usual sense--
could hardly be expected to command a proper supply of wholesome
English, such as the service of the Crown demanded!' Then Mr.
Vigil handed across to Mr. Nogo poor Screwy's unfortunate letter
about the pork chops. 'As to the other gentleman, whose name was
now respectably known in the lighter walks of literature, he
would, if permitted, read the opinion expressed as to his style
of language by a literary publication of the day; and then the
House would see whether or no the produce of the Civil Service
field had not been properly winnowed; whether the wheat had not
been garnered, and the chaff neglected.' And then the right
honourable gentleman read some half-dozen lines, highly
eulogistic of Charley's first solitary flight.

Poor Mr. Nogo remained in silence, feeling that his black had
become white to all intents and purposes; and the big badger sat
by and grinned, not deigning to notice the dogs around him. Thus
it may be seen that that which is sauce for the goose is not
sauce for the gander.

Early in the spring Norman was married; and then, as had been
before arranged, Charley once more went to Surbiton Cottage. The
marriage was a very quiet affair. The feeling of disgrace which
had fallen upon them all since the days of Alaric's trial had by
no means worn itself away. There were none of them yet--no, not
one of the Cottage circle, from Uncle Bat down to the parlour-
maid--who felt that they had a right to hold up their faces
before the light of day as they had formerly done. There was a
cloud over their house, visible perhaps with more or less
distinctness to all eyes, but which to themselves appeared black
as night. That evil which Alaric had done to them was not to be
undone in a few moons. We are all of us responsible for our
friends, fathers-in-law for their sons-in-law, brothers for their
sisters, husbands for their wives, parents for their children,
and children even for their parents. We cannot wipe off from us,
as with a wet cloth, the stains left by the fault of those who
are near to us. The ink-spot will cling. Oh! Alaric, Alaric, that
thou, thou who knewest all this, that thou shouldest have done
this thing! They had forgiven his offence against them, but they
could not forget their own involuntary participation in his
disgrace. It was not for them now to shine forth to the world
with fine gala doings, and gay gaudy colours, as they had done
when Gertrude had been married.

But still there was happiness--quiet, staid happiness--at the
Cottage. Mrs. Woodward could not but be happy to see Linda
married to Harry Norman, her own favourite, him whom she had
selected in her heart for her son-in-law from out of all the
world. And now, too, she was beginning to be conscious that Harry
and Linda were better suited for each other than he and Gertrude
would have been. What would have been Linda's fate, how
unendurable, had she been Alaric's wife, when Alaric fell? How
would she have borne such a fall? What could she have done, poor
lamb, towards mending the broken thread or binding the bruised
limbs? What balm could she have poured into such wounds as those
which fate had inflicted on Gertrude and her household? But at
Normansgrove, with a steady old housekeeper at her back, and her
husband always by to give her courage, Linda would find the very
place for which she was suited.

And then Mrs. Woodward had another source of joy, of liveliest
joy, in Katie's mending looks. She was at the wedding, though
hardly with her mother's approval.

As she got better her old spirit returned to her, and it became
difficult to refuse her anything. It was in vain that her mother
talked of the cold church, and easterly winds, and the necessary
lightness of a bridesmaid's attire. Katie argued that the church
was only two hundred yards off, that she never suffered from the
cold, and that though dressed in light colours, as became a
bridesmaid, she would, if allowed to go, wear over her white
frock any amount of cloaks which her mother chose to impose on
her. Of course she went, and we will not say how beautiful she
looked, when she clung to Linda in the vestry-room, and all her
mother's wrappings fell in disorder from her shoulders.

So Linda was married and carried off to Normansgrove, and Katie
remained with her mother and Uncle Bat.

'Mamma, we will never part--will we, mamma?' said she, as they
comforted each other that evening after the Normans were gone,
and when Charley also had returned to London.

'When you go, Katie, I think you must take me with you,' said her
mother, smiling through her tears. 'But what will poor Uncle Bat
do? I fear you can't take him also.'

'I will never go from you, mamma.'

Her mother knew what she meant. Charley had been there, Charley
to whom she had declared her love when lying, as she thought, on
her bed of death--Charley had been there again, and had stood
close to her, and touched her hand, and looked--oh, how much
handsomer he was than Harry, how much brighter than Alaric!--he
had touched her hand, and spoken to her one word of joy at her
recovered health. But that had been all. There was a sort of
compact, Katie knew, that there should be no other Tudor
marriage. Charley was not now the scamp he had been, but still--
it was understood that her love was not to win its object.

'I will never go from you, mamma.'

But Mrs. Woodward's heart was not hard as the nether millstone.
She drew her daughter to her, and as she pressed her to her
bosom, she whispered into her ears that she now hoped they might
all be happy.

CHAPTER XLVII

CONCLUSION

Our tale and toils have now drawn nigh to an end; our loves and
our sorrows are over; and we are soon to part company with the
three clerks and their three wives. Their three wives? Why, yes.
It need hardly be told in so many words to an habitual novel-
reader that Charley did get his bride at last.

Nevertheless, Katie kept her promise to Mrs. Woodward. What
promise did she ever make and not keep? She kept her promise, and
did not go from her mother. She married Mr. Charles Tudor, of the
Weights and Measures, that distinguished master of modern
fiction, as the _Literary Censor_ very civilly called him
the other day; and Mr. Charles Tudor became master of Surbiton
Cottage.

Reader! take one last leap with me, and presume that two years
have flown from us since the end of the last chapter; or rather
somewhat more than two years, for we would have it high midsummer
when we take our last farewell of Surbiton Cottage.

But sundry changes had taken place at the Cottage, and of such a
nature, that were it not for the old name's sake, we should now
find ourselves bound to call the place Surbiton Villa, or
Surbiton Hall, or Surbiton House. It certainly had no longer any
right to the title of a cottage; for Charley, in anticipation of
what Lucina might do for him, had added on sundry rooms, a
children's room on the ground floor, and a nursery above, and a
couple of additional bedrooms on the other side, so that the
house was now a comfortable abode for an increasing family.

At the time of which we are now speaking Lucina had not as yet
done much; for, in truth, Charley had been married but little
over twelve months; but there appeared every reason to believe
that the goddess would be propitious. There was already one
little rocking shrine, up in that cosy temple opening out of
Katie's bedroom--we beg her pardon, we should have said Mrs.
Charles Tudor's bedroom--one precious tabernacle in which was
laid a little man-deity, a young Charley, to whom was daily paid
a multitude of very sincere devotions.

How precious are all the belongings of a first baby; how dear are
the cradle, the lace-caps, the first coral, all the little duds
which are made with such punctilious care and anxious efforts of
nicest needlework to encircle that small lump of pink humanity!
What care is taken that all shall be in order! See that basket
lined with crimson silk, prepared to hold his various garments,
while the mother, jealous of her nurse, insists on tying every
string with her own fingers. And then how soon the change comes;
how different it is when there are ten of them, and the tenth is
allowed to inherit the well-worn wealth which the ninth, a year
ago, had received from the eighth. There is no crimson silk
basket then, I trow.

'Jane, Jane, where are my boots?' 'Mary, I've lost my trousers!'
Such sounds are heard, shouted through the house from powerful
lungs.

'Why, Charley,' says the mother, as her eldest hope rushes in to
breakfast with dishevelled hair and dirty hands, 'you've got no
handkerchief on your neck--what have you done with your
handkerchief?'

'No, mamma; it came off in the hay-loft, and I can't find it.'

'Papa,' says the lady wife, turning to her lord, who is reading
his newspaper over his coffee--'papa, you really must speak to
Charley; he will not mind me. He was dressed quite nicely an hour
ago, and do see what a figure he has made himself.'

'Charley,' says papa, not quite relishing this disturbance in the
midst of a very interesting badger-baiting--'Charley, my boy, if
you don't mind your P's and Q's, you and I shall fall out; mind
that;' and he again goes on with his sport; and mamma goes on
with her teapot, looking not exactly like Patience on a monument.

Such are the joys which await you, Mr. Charles Tudor; but not to
such have you as yet arrived. As yet there is but the one little
pink deity in the rocking shrine above; but one, at least, of
your own. At the moment of which we are now speaking there were
visitors at Surbiton Cottage, and the new nursery was brought
into full use. Mr. and Mrs. Norman of Normansgrove were there
with their two children and two maids, and grandmamma Woodward
had her hands quite full in the family nursery line.

It was a beautiful summer evening, and the two young mothers were
sitting with Mrs. Woodward and Uncle Bat in the drawing-room,
waiting for their lords' return from London. As usual, when they
stayed late, the two men were to dine at their club and come down
to tea. The nursemaids were walking on the lawn before the window
with their charges, and the three ladies were busily employed
with some fairly-written manuscript pages, which they were
cutting carefully into shape, and arranging in particular form.

'Now, mamma,' said Katie, 'if you laugh once while you are
reading it, you'll spoil it all.'

'I'll do the best I can, my dear, but I'm sure I shall break
down; you have made it so very abusive,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Mamma, I think I'll take out that about official priggism--
hadn't I better, Linda?'

'Indeed, I think you had; I'm sure mamma would break down there,'
said Linda. 'Mamma, I'm sure you would never get over the
official priggism.'

'I don't think I should, my dear,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'What is it you are all concocting?' said Captain Cuttwater;
'some infernal mischief, I know, craving your pardons.'

'If you tell, Uncle Bat, I'll never forgive you,' said Katie.

'Oh, you may trust me; I never spoil sport, if I can't make any;
but the fun ought to be very good, for you've been a mortal long
time about it.'

And then the two younger ladies again went on clipping and
arranging their papers, while Mrs. Woodward renewed her protest
that she would do her best as to reading their production. While
they were thus employed the postman's knock was heard, and a
letter was brought in from the far-away Australian exiles. The
period at which these monthly missives arrived were moments of
intense anxiety, and the letter was seized upon with eager
avidity. It was from Gertrude to her mother, as all these letters
were; but in such a production they had a joint property, and it
was hardly possible to say who first mastered its contents.

It will only be necessary here to give some extracts from the
letter, which was by no means a short one. So much must be done
in order that our readers may know something of the fate of those
who perhaps may be called the hero and heroine of the tale. The
author does not so call them; he professes to do his work without
any such appendages to his story--heroism there may be, and he
hopes there is--more or less of it there should be in a true
picture of most characters; but heroes and heroines, as so
called, are not commonly met with in our daily walks of life.

Before Gertrude's letter had been disposed of, Norman and Charley
came in, and it was therefore discussed in full conclave.
Alaric's path in the land of his banishment had not been over
roses. The upward struggle of men, who have fallen from a high
place once gained, that second mounting of the ladder of life,
seldom is an easy path. He, and with him Gertrude and his
children, had been called on to pay the full price of his
backsliding. His history had gone with him to the Antipodes; and,
though the knowledge of what he had done was not there so
absolute a clog upon his efforts, so overpowering a burden, as it
would have been in London, still it was a burden and a heavy one.

It had been well for Gertrude that she had prepared herself to
give up all her luxuries by her six months' residence in that
Millbank Paradise of luxuries: for some time she had little
enough in the 'good and happy land,' to which she had taught
herself and her children to look forward. That land of promise
had not flowed with milk and honey when first she put her foot
upon its soil; its produce for her had been gall and bitter herbs
for many a weary month after she first landed. But her heart had
never sunk within her. She had never forgotten that he, if he
were to work well, should have at least one cheerful companion by
his side. She had been true to him, then as ever. And yet it is
so hard to be true to high principles in little things. The
heroism of the Roman, who, for his country's sake, leapt his
horse into a bottomless gulf, was as nothing to that of a woman
who can keep her temper through poverty, and be cheerful in
adversity.

Through poverty, scorn, and bad repute, under the privations of a
hard life, separated from so many that she had loved, and from
everything that she had liked, Gertrude had still been true to
her ideas of her marriage vow; true, also, to her pure and single
love. She had entwined herself with him in sunny weather; and
when the storm came she did her best to shelter the battered stem
to which she had trusted herself.

By degrees things mended with them; and in this letter, which is
now passing from eager hand to hand in Katie's drawing-room,
Gertrude spoke with better hope of their future prospects.

'Thank God, we are once more all well,' she said; 'and Alaric's
spirits are higher than they were. He has, indeed, had much to
try them. They think, I believe, in England, that any kind of
work here is sure to command a high price; of this I am quite
sure, that in no employment in England are people so tasked as
they are here. Alaric was four months in these men's counting-
house, and I am sure another four months would have seen him in
his grave. Though I knew not then what other provision might be
made for us, I implored him, almost on my knees, to give up that.
He was expected to be there for ten, sometimes twelve, hours a
day; and they thought he should always be kept going like a
steam-engine. You know Alaric never was afraid of work; but that
would have killed him. And what was it for? What did they give
him for that--for all his talent, all his experience, all his
skill? And he did give them all. His salary was two pounds ten a
week! And then, when he told them of all he was doing for them,
they had the baseness to remind him of----. Dearest mother, is
not the world hard? It was that that made me insist that he
should leave them.'

Alaric's present path was by no means over roses. This certainly
was a change from those days on which he had sat, one of a mighty
trio, at the Civil Service Examination Board, striking terror
into candidates by a scratch of his pen, and making happy the
desponding heart by his approving nod. His ambition now was not
to sit among the magnates of Great Britain, and make his voice
thunder through the columns of the _Times_; it ranged somewhat
lower at this period, and was confined for the present to a strong
desire to see his wife and bairns sufficiently fed, and not left
absolutely without clothing. He inquired little as to the feeling of
the electors of Strathbogy.

And had he utterly forgotten the stirring motto of his early
days? Did he ever mutter 'Excelsior' to himself, as, with weary
steps, he dragged himself home from that hated counting-house?
Ah! he had fatally mistaken the meaning of the word which he had
so often used. There had been the error of his life. 'Excelsior!'
When he took such a watchword for his use, he should surely have
taught himself the meaning of it.

He had now learnt that lesson in a school somewhat of the
sternest; but, as time wore kindly over him, he did teach himself
to accept the lesson with humility. His spirit had been wellnigh
broken as he was carried from that court-house in the Old Bailey
to his prison on the river-side; and a broken spirit, like a
broken goblet, can never again become whole. But Nature was a
kind mother to him, and did not permit him to be wholly crushed.
She still left within the plant the germ of life, which enabled
it again to spring up and vivify, though sorely bruised by the
heels of those who had ridden over it. He still repeated to
himself the old watchword, though now in humbler tone and more
bated breath; and it may be presumed that he had now a clearer
meaning of its import.

'But his present place,' continued Gertrude, 'is much--very much
more suited to him. He is corresponding clerk in the first bank
here, and though his pay is nearly double what it was at the
other place, his hours of work are not so oppressive. He goes at
nine and gets away at five--that is, except on the arrival or
dispatch of the English mails.' Here was a place of bliss for a
man who had been a commissioner, attending at the office at such
hours as best suited himself, and having clerks at his beck to do
all that he listed. And yet, as Gertrude said, this was a place
of bliss to him. It was a heaven as compared with that other
hell.

'Alley is such a noble boy,' said Gertrude, becoming almost
joyous as she spoke of her own immediate cares. 'He is most like
Katie, I think, of us all; and yet he is very like his papa. He
goes to a day-school now, with his books slung over his back in a
bag. You never saw such a proud little fellow as he is, and so
manly. Charley is just like you--oh! so like. It makes me so
happy that he is. He did not talk so early as Alley, but,
nevertheless, he is more forward than the other children I see
here. The little monkeys! they are neither of them the least like
me. But one can always see oneself, and it don't matter if one
does not.'

'If ever there was a brick, Gertrude is one,' said Norman.

'A brick!' said Charley--'why you might cut her to pieces, and
build another Kensington palace out of the slices. I believe she
is a brick.'

'I wonder whether I shall ever see her again?' said Mrs.
Woodward, not with dry eyes.

'Oh yes, mamma,' said Katie. 'She shall come home to us some day,
and we will endeavour to reward her for it all.'

Dear Katie, who will not love you for such endeavour? But,
indeed, the reward for heroism cometh not here.

There was much more in the letter, but enough has been given for
our purpose. It will be seen that hope yet remained both for
Alaric and his wife; and hope not without a reasonable base. Bad
as he had been, it had not been with him as with Undy Scott. The
devil had not contrived to put his whole claw upon him. He had
not divested himself of human affections and celestial hopes. He
had not reduced himself to the present level of a beast, with the
disadvantages of a soul and of an eternity, as the other man had
done. He had not put himself beyond the pale of true brotherhood
with his fellow-men. We would have hanged Undy had the law
permitted us; but now we will say farewell to the other, hoping
that he may yet achieve exaltation of another kind.

And to thee, Gertrude--how shall we say farewell to thee,
excluded as thou art from that dear home, where those who love
thee so well are now so happy? Their only care remaining is now
thy absence. Adversity has tried thee in its crucible, and thou
art found to be of virgin gold, unalloyed; hadst thou still been
lapped in prosperity, the true ring of thy sterling metal would
never have been heard. Farewell to thee, and may those young
budding flowerets of thine break forth into golden fruit to
gladden thy heart in coming days!

The reading of Gertrude's letter, and the consequent discussion,
somewhat put off the execution of the little scheme which had
been devised for that evening's amusement; but, nevertheless, it
was still broad daylight when Mrs. Woodward consigned the
precious document to her desk; the drawing-room windows were
still open, and the bairns were still being fondled in the room.
It was the first week in July, when the night almost loses her
dominion, and when those hours which she generally claims as her
own, become the pleasantest of the day.

'Oh, Charley,' said Katie, at last, 'we have great news for you,
too. Here is another review on "The World's Last Wonder."'

Now 'The World's Last Wonder' was Charley's third novel; but he
was still sensitive enough on the subject of reviews to look
with much anxiety for what was said of him. These notices were
habitually sent down to him at Hampton, and his custom was to
make his wife or her mother read them, while he sat by in lordly
ease in his arm-chair, receiving homage when homage came to him,
and criticizing the critics when they were uncivil.

'Have you?' said Charley. 'What is it? Why did you not show it me
before?'

'Why, we were talking of dear Gertrude,' said Katie; 'and it is
not so pleasant but that it will keep. What paper do you think it
is?'

'What paper? how on earth can I tell?--show it me.'

'No; but do guess, Charley; and then mamma will read it--pray
guess now.'

'Oh, bother, I can't guess. _The Literary Censor_, I
suppose--I know they have turned against me.'

'No, it's not that,' said Linda; 'guess again.'

'_The Guardian Angel_,' said Charley.

'No--that angel has not taken you under his wings as yet,' said
Katie.

'I know it's not the _Times_,' said Charley, 'for I have
seen that.'

'O no,' said Katie, seriously; 'if it was anything of that sort,
we would not keep you in suspense.'

'Well, I'll be shot if I guess any more--there are such thousands
of them.'

'But there is only one _Daily Delight_,' said Mrs. Woodward.

'Nonsense!' said Charley. 'You don't mean to tell me that my dear
old friend and foster-father has fallen foul of me--my old
teacher and master, if not spiritual pastor; well--well--well!
The ingratitude of the age! I gave him my two beautiful stories,
the first-fruits of my vine, all for love; to think that he
should now lay his treacherous axe to the root of the young tree
--well, give it here.'

'No--mamma will read it--we want Harry to hear it.'

'O yes--let Mrs. Woodward read it,' said Harry. 'I trust it is
severe. I know no man who wants a dragging over the coals more
peremptorily than you do.'

'Thankee, sir. Well, grandmamma, go on; but if there be anything
very bad, give me a little notice, for I am nervous.'

And then Mrs. Woodward began to read, Linda sitting with Katie's
baby in her arms, and Katie performing a similar office for her
sister.