ON the next day, I was introduced
to the Jew's workshop, and to
the eminent gentlemen occupying
it. My model Rembrandt was put
before me; the simple elementary
rules were explained; and my
materials were all placed under
my hands.
Regard for the lovers of the
Old Masters, and for the moral
well-being of society, forbids
me to be particular about the
nature of my labors, or to go
into dangerous detail on the
subject of my first failures
and my subsequent success. I
may, however, harmlessly admit
that my Rembrandt was to be of
the small or cabinet size, and
that, as there was a run on Burgomasters
just then, my subject was naturally
to be of the Burgomaster sort.
Three parts of my picture consisted
entirely of different shades
of dirty brown and black; the
fourth being composed of a ray
of yellow light falling upon
the wrinkled face of a treacle-colored
old man. A dim glimpse of a hand,
and a faint suggestion of something
like a brass washhand basin,
completed the job, which gave
great satisfaction to Mr. Pickup,
and which was described in the
catalogue as--
"A Burgomaster
at Breakfast. Originally in
the collection
of Mynheer Van Grubb. Amsterdam.
A rare example of the master.
Not engraved. The chiar'oscuro
in this extraordinary work is
of a truly sublime character.
Price, Two Hundred Guineas."
I got five pounds for it. I
suppose Mr. Pickup got one-ninety-five.
This was perhaps
not very encouraging as a beginning,
in a pecuniary
point of view. But I was to get
five pounds more, if my Rembrandt
sold within a given time. It
sold a week after it was in a
fit state to be trusted in the
showroom. I got my money, and
began enthusiastically on another
Rembrandt--"A Burgomaster's Wife
Poking the Fire." Last time,
the chiar'oscuro of the master
had been yellow and black, this
time it was to be red and black.
I was just on the point of forcing
my way into Mr. Pickup's confidence,
as I had resolved, when a catastrophe
happened, which shut up the shop
and abruptly terminated my experience
as a maker of Old Masters.
"The Burgomaster's Breakfast" had
been sold to a new customer,
a venerable connoisseur, blessed
with a great fortune and a large
picture-gallery. The old gentleman
was in raptures with the picture--with
its tone, with its breadth, with
its grand feeling for effect,
with its simple treatment of
detail. It wanted nothing, in
his opinion, but a little cleaning.
Mr. Pickup knew the raw and ticklish
state of the surface, however,
far too well, to allow of even
an attempt at performing this
process, and solemnly asserted,
that he was acquainted with no
cleansing preparation which could
be used on the Rembrandt without
danger of "flaying off the last
exquisite glazings of the immortal
master's brush." The old gentleman
was quite satisfied with this
reason for not cleaning the Burgomaster,
and took away his purchase in
his own carriage on the spot.
For three weeks
we heard nothing more of him.
At the end of that
time, a Hebrew friend of Mr.
Pickup, employed in a lawyer's
office, terrified us all by the
information that a gentleman
related to our venerable connoisseur
had seen the Rembrandt, had pronounced
it to be an impudent counterfeit,
and had engaged on his own account
to have the picture tested in
a court of law, and to charge
the seller and maker thereof
with conspiring to obtain money
under false pretenses. Mr. Pickup
and I looked at each other with
very blank faces on receiving
this agreeable piece of news.
What was to be done? I recovered
the full use of my faculties
first; and I was the man who
solved that important and difficult
question, while the rest were
still utterly bewildered by it. "Will
you promise me five and twenty
pounds in the presence of these
gentlemen if I get you out of
this scrape?" said I to my terrified
employer. Ishmael Pickup wrung
his dirty hands and answered, "Yesh,
my dear!"
Our informant in this awkward
matter was employed at the office
of the lawyers who were to have
the conducting of the case against
us; and he was able to tell me
some of the things I most wanted
to know in relation to the picture.
I found out
from him that the Rembrandt
was still in our customer's
possession. The old gentleman
had consented to the question
of its genuineness being tried,
but had far too high an idea
of his own knowledge as a connoisseur
to incline to the opinion that
he had been taken in. His suspicious
relative was not staying in the
house, but was in the habit of
visiting him, every day, in the
forenoon. That was as much as
I wanted to know from others.
The rest depended on myself,
on luck, time, human credulity,
and a smattering of chemical
knowledge which I had acquired
in the days of my medical studies.
I left the conclave at the picture-dealer's
forthwith, and purchased at the
nearest druggist's a bottle containing
a certain powerful liquid, which
I decline to particularize on
high moral grounds. I labeled
the bottle "The Amsterdam Cleansing
Compound"; and I wrapped round
it the following note:
"Mr. Pickup's
respectful compliments to Mr.--(let
us say, Green).
Is rejoiced to state that he
finds himself unexpectedly able
to forward Mr. Green's views
relative to the cleaning of 'The
Burgomaster's Breakfast.' The
inclosed compound has just reached
him from Amsterdam. It is made
from a recipe found among the
papers of Rembrandt himself--has
been used with the most astonishing
results on the Master's pictures
in every gallery of Holland,
and is now being applied to the
surface of the largest Rembrandt
in Mr. P.'s own collection. Directions
for use: Lay the picture flat,
pour the whole contents of the
bottle over it gently, so as
to flood the entire surface;
leave the liquid on the surface
for six hours, then wipe it off
briskly with a soft cloth of
as large a size as can be conveniently
used. The effect will be the
most wonderful removal of all
dirt, and a complete and brilliant
metamorphosis of the present
dingy surface of the picture."
I left this note and the bottle
myself at two o'clock that day;
then went home, and confidently
awaited the result.
The next morning
our friend from the office
called, announcing
himself by a burst of laughter
outside the door. Mr. Green had
implicitly followed the directions
in the letter the moment he received
it--had allowed the "Amsterdam
Cleansing Compound" to remain
on the Rembrandt until eight
o'clock in the evening--had called
for the softest linen cloth in
the whole house--and had then,
with his own venerable hands,
carefully wiped off the compound,
and with it the whole surface
of the picture! The brown, the
black, the Burgomaster, the breakfast,
and the ray of yellow light,
all came clean off together in
considerably less than a minute
of time. If the picture, was
brought into court now, the evidence
it could give against us was
limited to a bit of plain panel,
and a mass of black pulp rolled
up in a duster.
Our line of defense was, of
course, that the compound had
been improperly used. For the
rest, we relied with well-placed
confidence on the want of evidence
against us. Mr. Pickup wisely
closed his shop for a while,
and went off to the Continent
to ransack the foreign galleries.
I received my five and twenty
pounds, rubbed out the beginning
of my second Rembrandt, closed
the back door of the workshop
behind me, and there was another
scene of my life at an end. I
had but one circumstance to regret--and
I did regret it bitterly. I was
still as ignorant as ever of
the young lady's name and address.
My first visit
was to the studio of my excellent
artist-friend,
whom I have already presented
to the reader under the sympathetic
name of "Dick." He greeted me
with a letter in his hand. It
was addressed to me--it had been
left at the studio a few days
since; and (marvel of all marvels!)
the handwriting was Mr. Batterbury's.
Had this philanthropic man not
done befriending me even yet?
Were there any present or prospective
advantages to be got out of him
still? Read his letter, and judge.
"SIR--Although
you have forfeited by your
ungentlemanly conduct
toward myself, and your heartlessly
mischievous reception of my dear
wife, all claim upon the forbearance
of the most forbearing of your
relatives, I am disposed, from
motives of regard for the tranquillity
of Mrs. Batterbury's family,
and of sheer good-nature so far
as I am myself concerned, to
afford you one more chance of
retrieving your position by leading
a respectable life. The situation
I am enabled to offer you is
that of secretary to a new Literary
and Scientific Institution, about
to be opened in the town of Duskydale,
near which neighborhood I possess,
as you must be aware, some landed
property. The office has been
placed at my disposal, as vice-president
of the new Institution. The salary
is fifty pounds a year, with
apartments on the attic-floor
of the building. The duties are
various, and will be explained
to you by the local committee,
if you choose to present yourself
to them with the inclosed letter
of introduction. After the unscrupulous
manner in which you have imposed
on my liberality by deceiving
me into giving you fifty pounds
for a n audacious caricature
of myself, which it is impossible
to hang up in any room of the
house, I think this instance
of my forgiving disposition still
to befriend you, after all that
has happened, ought to appeal
to any better feelings that you
may still have left, and revive
the long dormant emotions of
repentance and self-reproach,
when you think on your obedient
servant,
"DANIEL BATTERBURY."
Bless me! What A long-winded
style, and what a fuss about
fifty pounds a year, and a bed
in an attic! These were naturally
the first emotions which Mr.
Batterbury's letter produced
in me. What was his real motive
for writing it? I hope nobody
will do me so great an injustice
as to suppose that I hesitated
for one instant about the way
of finding that out. Of
course I started off directly
to inquire if Lady Malkinshaw
had had another narrow escape
of dying before me.
"Much better, sir," answered
my grandmother's venerable butler,
wiping his lips carefully before
he spoke; "her ladyship's health
has been much improved since
her accident."
"Accident!" I exclaimed. "What,
another? Lately? Stairs again?"
"No, sir; the drawing-room
window this time," answered the
butler, with semi-tipsy gravity. "Her
ladyship's sight having been
defective of late years, occasions
her some difficulty in calculating
distances. Three days ago, her
ladyship went to look out of
the window, and, miscalculating
the distance--" Here the butler,
with a fine dramatic feeling
for telling a story, stopped
just before the climax of the
narrative, and looked me in the
face with an expression of the
deepest sympathy.
"And miscalculating the distance?" I
repeated impatiently.
"Put her head through a pane
of glass," said the butler, in
a soft voice suited to the pathetic
nature of the communication. "By
great good fortune her ladyship
had been dressed for the day,
and had got her turban on. This
saved her ladyship's head. But
her ladyship's neck, sir, had
a very narrow escape. A bit of
the broken glass wounded it within
half a quarter of an inch of
the carotty artery" (meaning,
probably, carotid); "I heard
the medical gentleman say, and
shall never forget it to my dying
day, that her ladyship's life
had been saved by a hair-breadth.
As it was, the blood lost (the
medical gentleman said that,
too, sir) was accidentally of
the greatest possible benefit,
being apoplectic, in the way
of clearing out the system. Her
ladyship's appetite has been
improved ever since--the carriage
is out airing of her at this
very moment--likewise, she takes
the footman's arm and the maid's
up and downstairs now, which
she never would hear of before
this last accident. 'I feel ten
years younger' (those were her
ladyship's own words to me, this
very day), 'I feel ten years
younger, Vokins, since I broke
the drawing-room window.' And
her ladyship looks it!"
No doubt. Here was the key
to Mr. Batterbury's letter of
forgiveness. His chance of receiving
the legacy looked now further
off than ever; he could not feel
the same confidence as his wife
in my power of living down any
amount of starvation and adversity;
and he was, therefore, quite
ready to take the first opportunity
of promoting my precious personal
welfare and security, of which
he could avail himself, without
spending a farthing of money.
I saw it all clearly, and admired
the hereditary toughness of the
Malkinshaw family more gratefully
than ever. What should I do?
Go to Duskydale? Why not? It
didn't matter to me where I went,
now that I had no hope of ever
seeing those lovely brown eyes
again.
I got to my new destination
the next day, presented my credentials,
gave myself the full advantage
of my high connections, and was
received with enthusiasm and
distinction.
I found the new Institution
torn by internal schisms even
before it was opened to the public.
Two factious governed it--a grave
faction and a gay faction. Two
questions agitated it: the first
referring to the propriety of
celebrating the opening season
by a public ball, and the second
to the expediency of admitting
novels into the library. The
grim Puritan interest of the
whole neighborhood was, of course,
on the grave side--against both
dancing and novels, as proposed
by local loose thinkers and latitudinarians
of every degree. I was officially
introduced to the debate at the
height of the squabble; and found
myself one of a large party in
a small room, sitting round a
long table, each man of us with
a new pewter inkstand, a new
quill pen, and a clean sheet
of foolscap paper before him.
Seeing that everybody spoke,
I got on my legs along with the
rest, and made a slashing speech
on the loose-thinking side. I
was followed by the leader of
the grim faction--an unlicked
curate of the largest dimensions.
"If there were, so to speak,
no other reason against dancing," said
my reverend opponent, "there
is one unanswerable objection
to it. Gentlemen! John the Baptist
lost his head through dancing!"'
Every man of the grim faction
hammered delightedly on the table,
as that formidable argument was
produced; and the curate sat
down in triumph. I jumped up
to reply, amid the counter-cheering
of the loose-thinkers; but before
I could say a word the President
of the Institution and the rector
of the parish came into the room.
They were both men of authority,
men of sense, and fathers of
charming daughters, and they
turned the scale on the right
side in no time. The question
relating to the admission of
novels was postponed, and the
question of dancing or no dancing
was put to the vote on the spot.
The President, the rector and
myself, the three handsomest
and highest-bred men in the assembly,
led the way on the liberal side,
waggishly warning all gallant
gentlemen present to beware of
disappointing the young ladies.
This decided the waverers, and
the waverers decided the majority.
My first business, as Secretary,
was the drawing out of a model
card of admission to the ball.
My next occupation was to look
at the rooms provided for me.
The Duskydale Institution occupied
a badly-repaired ten-roomed house,
with a great flimsy saloon built
at one side of it, smelling of
paint and damp plaster, and called
the Lecture Theater. It was the
chilliest, ugliest, emptiest,
gloomiest place I ever entered
in my life; the idea of doing
anything but sitting down and
crying in it seemed to me quite
preposterous; but the committee
took a different view of the
matter, and praised the Lecture
Theater as a perfect ballroom.
The Secretary's apartments were
two garrets, asserting themselves
in the most barefaced manner,
without an attempt at disguise.
If I had intended to do more
than earn my first quarter's
salary, I should have complained.
But as I had not the slightest
intention of remaining at Duskydale,
I could afford to establish a
reputation for amiability by
saying nothing.
"Have you seen Mr. Softly,
the new Secretary? A most distinguished
person, and quite an acquisition
to the neighborhood." Such was
the popular opinion of me among
the young ladies and the liberal
inhabitants. "Have you seen Mr.
Softly, the new Secretary? A
worldly, vainglorious young man.
The last person in England to
promote the interests of our
new Institution." Such was the
counter-estimate of me among
the Puritan population. I report
both opinions quite disinterestedly.
There is generally something
to be said on either side of
every question; and, as for me,
I can always hold up the scales
impartially, even when my own
character is the substance weighing
in them. Readers of ancient history
need not be reminded, at this
time of day, that there may be
Roman virtue even in a Rogue.
The objects, interests, and
general business of the Duskydale
Institution were matters with
which I never thought of troubling
myself on assuming the duties
of Secretary. All my energies
were given to the arrangements
connected with the opening ball.
I was elected by acclamation
to the office of general manager
of the entertainments; and I
did my best to deserve the confidence
reposed in me; leaving literature
and science, so far as I was
concerned, perfectly at liberty
to advance themselves or not
, just as they liked. Whatever
my colleagues may have done,
after I left them, nobody at
Duskydale can accuse me of having
ever been accessory to the disturbing
of quiet people with useful knowledge.
I took the arduous and universally
neglected duty of teaching the
English people how to be amused
entirely on my own shoulders,
and left the easy and customary
business of making them miserable
to others.
My unhappy
countrymen! (and thrice unhappy
they of the poorer
sort)--any man can preach to
them, lecture to them, and form
them into classes--but where
is the man who can get them to
amuse themselves? Anybody may
cram their poor heads; but who
will brighten their grave faces?
Don't read story-books, don't
go to plays, don't dance! Finish
your long day's work and then
intoxicate your minds with solid
history, revel in the too-attractive
luxury of the lecture-room, sink
under the soft temptation of
classes for mutual instruction!
How many potent, grave and reverent
tongues discourse to the popular
ear in these siren strains, and
how obediently and resignedly
this same weary popular ear listens!
What if a bold man spring up
one day, crying aloud in our
social wilderness, "Play, for
Heaven's sake, or you will work
yourselves into a nation of automatons!
Shake a loose leg to a lively
fiddle! Women of England! drag
the lecturer off the rostrum,
and the male mutual instructor
out of the class, and ease their
poor addled heads of evenings
by making them dance and sing
with you. Accept no offer from
any man who cannot be proved,
for a year past, to have systematically
lost his dignity at least three
times a week, after office hours.
You, daughters of Eve, who have
that wholesome love of pleasure
which is one of the greatest
adornments of the female character,
set up a society for the promotion
of universal amusement, and save
the British nation from the lamentable
social consequences of its own
gravity!" Imagine a voice crying
lustily after this fashion--what
sort of echoes would it find?--Groans?
I know what sort of echoes
my voice found. They were so
discouraging to me, and to the
frivolous minority of pleasure-seekers,
that I recommended lowering the
price of admission so as to suit
the means of any decent people
who were willing to leave off
money-grubbing and tear themselves
from the charms of mutual instruction
for one evening at least. The
proposition was indignantly negatived
by the managers of the Institution.
I am so singularly obstinate
a man that I was not to be depressed
even by this.
My next efforts to fill the
ballroom could not be blamed.
I procured a local directory,
put fifty tickets in my pocket,
dressed myself in nankeen pantaloons
and a sky-blue coat (then the
height of fashion), and set forth
to tout for dancers among all
the members of the genteel population,
who, not being notorious Puritans,
had also not been so obliging
as to take tickets for the ball.
There never was any pride or
bashfulness about me. Excepting
certain periods of suspense and
anxiety, I am as even-tempered
a Rogue as you have met with
anywhere since the days of Gil
Blas.
My temperament being opposed
to doing anything with regularity,
I opened the directory at hazard,
and determined to make my first
call at the first house that
caught my eye. Vallombrosa Vale
Cottages. No. 1. Doctor and Miss
Dulcifer. Very good. I have no
preferences. Let me sell the
first two tickets there. I found
the place; I opened the garden
gate; I advanced to the door,
innocently wondering what sort
of people I should find inside.
If I am asked what was the
true reason for this extraordinary
activity on my part, in serving
the interests of a set of people
for whom I cared nothing, I must
honestly own that the loss of
my young lady was at the bottom
of it. Any occupation was welcome
which kept my mind, in some degree
at least, from dwelling on the
bitter disappointment that had
befallen me. When I rang the
bell at No. 1, did I feel no
presentiment of the exquisite
surprise in store for me? I felt
nothing of the sort. The fact
is, my digestion is excellent.
Presentiments are more closely
connected than is generally supposed
with a weak state of stomach.
I asked for Miss Dulcifer,
and was shown into the sitting-room.
Don't expect me to describe
my sensations: hundreds of sensations
flew all over me. There she was,
sitting alone, near the window!
There she was, with nimble white
fingers, working a silk purse!
The melancholy in her face
and manner, when I had last seen
her, appeared no more. She was
prettily dressed in maize color,
and the room was well furnished.
Her father had evidently got
over his difficulties. I had
been inclined to laugh at his
odd name, when I found it in
the directory! Now I began to
dislike it, because it was her
name, too. It was a consolation
to remember that she could change
it. Would she change it for mine?
I was the first to recover;
I boldly drew a chair near her
and took her hand.
"You see," I said, "it
is of no use to try to avoid
me. This
is the third time we have met.
Will you receive me as a visitor,
under these extraordinary circumstances?
Will you give me a little happiness
to compensate for what I have
suffered since you left me?"
She smiled and blushed.
"I am so surprised," she answered, "I
don't know what to say."
"Disagreeably surprised?" I
asked.
She first went on with her
work, and then replied (a little
sadly, as I thought):
"No!"
I was ready enough to take
advantage of my opportunities
this time; but she contrived
with perfect politeness to stop
me. She seemed to remember with
shame, poor soul, the circumstances
under which I had last seen her.
"How do you come to be at Duskydale?" she
inquired, abruptly changing the
subject. "And how did you find
us out here?"
While I was giving her the
necessary explanations her father
came in. I looked at him with
considerable curiosity.
A tall stout gentleman with
impressive respectability oozing
out of him at every pore--with
a swelling outline of black-waistcoated
stomach, with a lofty forehead,
with a smooth double chin resting
pulpily on a white cravat. Everything
in harmony about him except his
eyes, and these were so sharp,
bright and resolute that they
seemed to contradict the bland
conventionality which overspread
all the rest of the man. Eyes
with wonderful intelligence and
self-dependence in them; perhaps,
also, with something a little
false in them, which I might
have discovered immediately under
ordinary circumstances: but I
looked at the doctor through
the medium of his daughter, and
saw nothing of him at the first
glance but his merits.
"We are both very much indebted
to you, sir, for your politeness
in calling," he said, with excessive
civility of manner. "But our
stay at this place has drawn
to an end. I only came here for
the re-establishment of my daughter's
health. She has benefited greatly
by the change of air, and we
have arranged to return home
to-morrow. Otherwise, we should
have gladly profited by your
kind offer of tickets for the
ball."
Of course I had one eye on
the young lady while he was speaking.
She was looking at her father,
and a sudden sadness was stealing
over her face. What did it mean?
Disappointment at missing the
ball? No, it was a much deeper
feeling than that. My interest
was excited. I addressed a complimentary
entreaty to the doctor not to
take his daughter away from us.
I asked him to reflect on the
irreparable eclipse that he would
be casting over the Duskydale
ballroom. To my amazement, she
only looked down gloomily on
her work while I spoke; her father
laughed contemptuously.
"We are too completely strangers
here," he said, "for our loss
to be felt by any one. From all
that I can gather, society in
Duskydale will be glad to hear
of our departure. I beg your
pardon, Alicia--I ought to have
said my departure."
Her name was Alicia! I declare
it was a luxury to me to hear
it--the name was so appropriate,
so suggestive of the grace and
dignity of her beauty.
I turned toward her when the
doctor had done. She looked more
gloomily than before. I protested
against the doctor's account
of himself. He laughed again,
with a quick distrustful lo ok,
this time, at his daughter.
"If you were to mention my
name among your respectable inhabitants," he
went on, with a strong, sneering
emphasis on the word respectable, "they
would most likely purse up their
lips and look grave at it. Since
I gave up practice as a physician,
I have engaged in chemical investigations
on a large scale, destined I
hope, to lead to some important
public results. Until I arrive
at these, I am necessarily obliged,
in my own interests, to keep
my experiments secret, and to
impose similar discretion on
the workmen whom I employ. This
unavoidable appearance of mystery,
and the strictly retired life
which my studies compel me to
lead, offend the narrow-minded
people in my part of the county,
close to Barkingham; and the
unpopularity of my pursuits has
followed me here. The general
opinion, I believe, is, that
I am seeking by unholy arts for
the philosopher's stone. Plain
man, as you see me, I find myself
getting quite the reputation
of a Doctor Faustus in the popular
mind. Even educated people in
this very place shake their heads
and pity my daughter there for
living with an alchemical parent,
within easy smelling-distance
of an explosive laboratory. Excessively
absurd, is it not?"
It might have been excessively
absurd, but the lovely Alicia
sat with her eyes on her work,
looking as if it were excessively
sad, and not giving her father
the faintest answering smile
when he glanced toward her and
laughed, as he said his last
words. I could not at all tell
what to make of it. The doctor
talked of the social consequences
of his chemical inquiries as
if he were living in the middle
ages. However, I was far too
anxious to see the charming brown
eyes again to ask questions which
would be sure to keep them cast
down. So I changed the topic
to chemistry in general; and,
to the doctor's evident astonishment
and pleasure, told him of my
own early studies in the science.
This led to
the mention of my father, whose
reputation had
reached the ears of Doctor Dulcifer.
As he told me that, his daughter
looked up--the sun of beauty
shone on me again! I touched
next on my high connections,
and on Lady Malkinshaw; I described
myself as temporarily banished
from home for humorous caricaturing,
and amiable youthful wildness.
She was interested; she smiled--and
the sun of beauty shone warmer
than ever! I diverged to general
topics, and got brilliant and
amusing. She laughed--the nightingale
notes of her merriment bubbled
into my ears caressingly--why
could I not shut my eyes and
listen to them? Her color rose;
her face grew animated. Poor
soul! A little lively company
was but too evidently a rare
treat to her. Under such circumstances,
who would not be amusing? If
she had said to me, "Mr. Softly,
I like tumbling," I should have
made a clown of myself on the
spot. I should have stood on
my head (if I could), and been
amply rewarded for the graceful
exertion, if the eyes of Alicia
had looked kindly on my elevated
heels!
How long I stayed is more than
I can tell. Lunch came up. I
eat and drank, and grew more
amusing than ever. When I at
last rose to go, the brown eyes
looked on me very kindly, and
the doctor gave me his card.
"If you don't mind trusting
yourself in the clutches of Doctor
Faustus," he said, with a gay
smile, "I shall be delighted
to see you if you are ever in
the neighborhood of Barkingham."
I wrung his hand, mentally
relinquishing my secretaryship
while I thanked him for the invitation.
I put out my hand next to his
daughter, and the dear friendly
girl met the advance with the
most charming readiness. She
gave me a good, hearty, vigorous,
uncompromising shake. O precious
right hand! never did I properly
appreciate your value until that
moment.
Going out with my head in the
air, and my senses in the seventh
heaven, I jostled an elderly
gentleman passing before the
garden gate. I turned round to
apologize; it was my brother
in office, the estimable Treasurer
of the Duskydale Institute.
"I have been half over the
town looking after you," he said. "The
Managing Committee, on reflection,
consider your plan of personally
soliciting public attendance
at the hall to be compromising
the dignity of the Institution,
and beg you, therefore, to abandon
it."
"Very well," said I, "there
is no harm done. Thus far, I
have only solicited two persons,
Doctor and Miss Dulcifer, in
that delightful little cottage
there."
"You don't
mean to say you have asked them to
come to the ball!"
"To be sure
I have. And I am sorry to say
they can't accept
the invitation. Why should they
not be asked?"
"Because nobody
visits them."
"And why should
nobody visit them?"
The Treasurer put his arm confidentially
through mine, and walked me on
a few steps.
"In the first place," he said, "Doctor
Dulcifer's name is not down in
the Medical List."
"Some mistake," I suggested,
in my off-hand way. "Or some
foreign doctor's degree not recognized
by the prejudiced people in England."
"In the second place," continued
the Treasurer, "we have found
out that he is not visited at
Barkingham. Consequently, it
would be the height of imprudence
to visit him here."
"Pooh! pooh!
All the nonsense of narrow-minded
people, because
he lives a retired life, and
is engaged in finding out chemical
secrets which the ignorant public
don't know how to appreciate."
"The shutters are always up
in the front top windows of his
house at Barkingham," said the
Treasurer, lowering his voice
mysteriously. "I know it from
a friend resident near him. The
windows themselves are barred.
It is currently reported that
the top of the house, inside,
is shut off by iron doors from
the bottom. Workmen are employed
there who don't belong to the
neighborhood, who don't drink
at the public houses, who only
associate with each other. Unfamiliar
smells and noises find their
way outside sometimes. Nobody
in the house can be got to talk.
The doctor, as he calls himself,
does not even make an attempt
to get into society, does not
even try to see company for the
sake of his poor unfortunate
daughter. What do you think of
all that?"
"Think!" I repeated contemptuously; "I
think the inhabitants of Barkingham
are the best finders of mares'
nests in all England. The doctor
is making important chemical
discoveries (the possible value
of which I can appreciate, being
chemical myself), and he is not
quite fool enough to expose valuable
secrets to the view of all the
world. His laboratory is at the
top of the house, and he wisely
shuts it off from the bottom
to prevent accidents. He is one
of the best fellows I ever met
with, and his daughter is the
loveliest girl in the world.
What do you all mean by making
mysteries about nothing? He has
given me an invitation to go
and see him. I suppose the next
thing you will find out is, that
there is something underhand
even in that?"
"You won't
accept the invitation?"
"I shall, at
the very first opportunity;
and if you had seen
Miss Alicia, so would you."
"Don't go. Take my advice and
don't go," said the Treasurer,
gravely. "You are a young man.
Reputable friends are of importance
to you at the outset of life.
I say nothing against Doctor
Dulcifer--he came here as a stranger,
and he goes away again as a stranger--but
you can't be sure that his purpose
in asking you so readily to his
house is a harmless one. Making
a new acquaintance is always
a doubtful speculation; but when
a man is not visited by his respectable
neighbors--"
"Because he doesn't open his
shutters," I interposed sarcastically.
"Because there are doubts about
him and his house which he will
not clear up," retorted the Treasurer. "You
can take your own way. You may
turn out right, and we may all
be wrong; I can only say again,
it is rash to make doubtful acquaintances.
Sooner or later you are always
sure to repent it. In your place
I should certainly not accept
the invitation."
"In my place, my dear sir," I
answered, "you would do exactly
what I mean to do."
The Treasurer took his arm
out of mine, and without saying
another word, wished me good-morning.
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