the houses in st. barnabas square have an advantage over most other london residences in the possession of a "third room" on the ground-floor. most people who, purposing to change their domicile, have gone in for a study of the _times_ supplement or the mendacious catalogues of house-agents, have read of the "noble dining-room, snug breakfast-room, and library," and have found the said breakfast-room to be about the size and depth of a warm-bath, and the "library" a soul-depressing hole just beyond the glazed top of the kitchen-stairs, to which are eventually relegated your old boots, the bust of the friend with whom since he presented it you have had a deadly quarrel, some odd numbers of magazines, and the framework of a shower-bath which, in a moment of madness, you bought at a sale and never have been able to fit together.
but the houses in st. barnabas square have each, built over what in other neighbourhoods is called "leads,"--a ghastly space where the cats creep stealthily about in the daytime, and whence at night they yowl with preternatural pertinacity,--a fine large room, devoted in most instances to the purposes of billiards, but at lord beauport's given up entirely to lord caterham. it had been selected originally from its situation on the ground-floor giving the poor crippled lad easy means of exit and entrance, and preventing any necessity for his being carried--for walking was utterly impossible to him--up and down stairs. it was _his_ room; and there, and there alone, he was absolute master; there he was allowed to carry out what his mother spoke of as his "fads," what his father called "poor caterham's odd ways." his brother, lionel brakespere, had been in the habit of dropping in there twice or three times a-week, smoking his cigar, turning over the "rum things" on the table, asking advice which he never took, and lounging round the room, reading the backs of the books which he did not understand, and criticising the pictures which he knew nothing about. it would have been impossible to tell to what manner of man the room belonged from a cursory survey of its contents. three-fourths of the walls were covered with large bookcases filled with a heterogeneous assemblage of books. here a row of poets, a big quarto shakespeare in six volumes, followed by _youatt on the horse, philip van artevelde_, and stanhope's _christian martyr_. in the next shelf voltaire, all the tennysons, _mr. sponge's sporting-tour_, a work on farriery, and _blunt on the pentateuch_. so the _mélange_ ran throughout the bookshelves; and on the fourth wall, where hung the pictures, it was not much better. for in the centre were landseer's "midsummer-night's dream," where that lovely titania, unfairy-like if you please, but one of the most glorious specimens of pictured womanhood, pillows her fair face under the shadow of that magnificent ass's head; and frith's "coming of age," and delaroche's "execution of lady jane grey," and three or four splendid proof-engravings of untouchable sir joshua; and among them, dotted here and there, hunting-sketches by alken, and coaching bits from fores. scattered about on tables were pieces of lava from vesuvius, photographs from pompeii, a collection of weeds and grasses from the arctic regions (all duly labelled in the most precise handwriting), a horse's shoe specially adapted for ice-travelling, specimens of egg-shell china, a box of gleaming carpenter's tools, boxes of tunbridge ware, furs of indian manufacture, caricature statuettes by danton, a case of shells, and another of geological specimens. here stood an easel bearing a half-finished picture, in one corner was a sheaf of walking-sticks, against the wall a rack of whips. before the fire was a carved-oak writing-desk, and on it, beside the ordinary blotting and writing materials, wee an aneroid barometer, a small skeleton clock, and a silver handbell. and at it sat viscount caterham, his head drooping, his face pale, his hands idly clasped before him.
not an unusual position this with him, not unusual by any means when he was alone. in such society as he forced himself to keep--for with him it was more than effort to determine occasionally to shake off his love of solitude, to be present amongst his father's guests, and to receive some few special favourites in his own rooms--he was more than pleasant, he was brilliant and amusing. big, heavy, good-natured guardsmen, who had contributed nothing to the "go" of the evening, and had nearly tugged off their tawny beards in the vain endeavour to extract something to say, would go away, and growl in deep bas voices over their cigars about "that strordinary fler caterham. knows a lot, you know, that f'ler, 'bout all sorts things. can't 'ceive where picks it all up; and as jolly as old boots, by jove!"
old friends of lord beauport's, now gradually dropping into fogiedom, and clutching year by 672 year more tightly the conventional prejudices instilled into them in early life, listened with elevated eyebrows and dropping jaws to lord caterham's outspoken opinions, now clothed in brilliant tropes, now crackling with smart antithesis, but always fresh, earnest, liberal, and vigorous; and when they talked him over in club-windows, these old boys would say that "there was something in that deformed fellow of beauport's, but that he was all wrong; his mind as warped as his body, by george!" and women,--ah, that was the worst of all,--women would sit and listen to him on such rare occasions as he spoke before them, sit many of them steadfast-eyed and ear-attentive, and would give him smiles and encouraging glances, and then would float away and talk to their next dancing-partner of the strange little man who had such odd ideas, and spoke so--so unlike most people, you know.
he knew it all, this fragile, colourless, delicate cripple, bound for life to his wheelchair, dependent for mere motion on the assistance of others; a something apart and almost without parallel, helpless as a little child, and yet with the brain, the heart, the passions of a man. no keener observer of outward show, no clearer reader of character than he. from out his deep-set melancholy eyes he saw the stare of astonishment, sometimes the look of disgust, which usually marked a first introduction to him; his quick ear caught the would-be compassionate inflection of the voice addressing him on the simplest matters; he knew what the old fogies were thinking of as they shifted uneasily in their chairs as he spoke; and he interpreted clearly enough the straying glances and occasional interjections of the women. he knew it all, and bore it--bore it as the cross is rarely borne.
only three times in his life had there gone up from his lips a wail to the father of mercies, a passionate outpouring of his heart, a wild inquiry as to why such affliction had been cast upon him. but three times, and the first of these was when he was a lad of eighteen. lord beauport had been educated at charterhouse, where, as every one knows, founder's day is kept with annual rejoicings. to one of these celebrations lord beauport had gone, taking lord caterham with him. the speeches and recitations were over, and the crowd of spectators were filing out into the quadrangle, when lord caterham, whose chair was being wheeled by a servant close by his father's side, heard a cheery voice say, "what, brakespere! gad, lord beauport, i mean! i forgot. well, how are you, my dear fellow? i haven't seen you since we sat on the same form in that old place." lord caterham looked up and saw his father shaking hands with a jolly-looking middle-aged man, who rattled on--"well, and you've been in luck and are a great gun! i'm delighted to hear it. you're just the fellow to bear your honours bravely. o yes, i'm wonderfully well, thank god. and i've got my boy here at the old shop, doing just as we used to do, brakespere--beauport, i mean. i'll introduce you. here, charley!" calling to him a fine handsome lad; "this is lord beauport, an old schoolfellow of mine. and you, beauport,--you've got children, eh?"
"o yes," said lord beauport--"two boys."
"ah! that's right. i wish they'd been here; i should have liked to have seen them." the man rattled on, but lord caterham heard no more. he had heard enough. he knew that his father was ashamed to acknowledge his maimed and crippled child--ashamed of a comparison between the stalwart son of his old schoolfellow and his own blighted lad; and that night lord caterham's pillow was wet with tears, and he prayed to god that his life might be taken from him.
twice since then the same feelings had been violently excited; but the sense of his position, the knowledge that he was a perpetual grief and affliction to his parents, was ever present, and pervaded his very being. to tell truth, neither his father nor his mother ever outwardly manifested their disappointment or their sorrow at the hopeless physical state of their firstborn son; but lord caterham read his father's trouble in thousands of covert glances thrown towards the occupant of the wheeled chair, which the elder man thought were all unmarked, in short self-suppressed sighs, in sudden shiftings of the conversation when any subject involving a question of physical activity or muscular force happened to be touched upon, in the persistent way in which his father excluded him from those regular solemn festivities of the season, held at certain special times, and at which he by right should certainly have been present.
no man knew better than lord beauport the horrible injustice he was committing; he felt that he was mutely rebelling against the decrees of providence, and adding to the affliction already mysteriously dispensed to his unfortunate son by his treatment. he fought against it, but without avail; he could not bow his head and kiss the rod by which he had been smitten. had his heir been brainless, dissipated, even bad, he could have forgiven him. he did in his heart forgive his second son when he became all three; but that he, george brakespere, handsome brakespere, one of the best athletes of the day, should have to own that poor misshapen man as his son and heir!--it was too much. he tried to persuade himself that he loved his son; but he never looked at him without a shudder, never spoke of him with unflushed cheeks.
as for lady beauport, from the time that the child's malady first was proclaimed incurable, she never took the smallest interest in him, but devoted herself, as much as devotion was compatible with perpetual attendance at ball, concert, and theatre, to her second son. as a child, lord caterham had, by her express commands, been studiously kept out of her sight; and now that he was a man, she saw very much less of him than of many strangers. a dozen times in the year she would enter his room and remain a few minutes, asking for his taste in a matter of fancy-costume, or something of the kind; and then she would brush his forehead with her lips, and rustle away perfectly satisfied with her manner of discharging the duties of maternity.
and lord caterham knew all this; read it as in a book; and suffered, and was strong. who know most of life, discern character most readily, and read it most deeply? we who what we call "mix in the world," hurry hither and thither, buffeting our way through friends and foes, taking the rough and the smooth, smiling here, frowning there, but ever pushing onward? or the quiet ones, who lie by in the nooks and lanes, and look on at the strife, and mark the quality and effect of the blows struck; who see not merely how, but why the battle has been undertaken; who can trace the strong and weak points of the attack and defence, see the skirmishers thrown out here, the feigned retreat there, the mine ready prepared in the far distance? how many years had that crippled man looked on at life, standing as it were at the gates and peering in at the antics and dalliances, the bowings and scrapings, the mad moppings and idiotic mowings of the puppets performing? and had he not arrived during this period at a perfect knowledge of how the wires were pulled, and what was the result?
among them but not of them, in the midst of the whirl of london but as isolated as a hermit, with keen analytical powers, and leisure and opportunity to give them full swing, lord caterham passed his life in studying the lives of other people, in taking off the padding and the drapery, the paint and the tinsel, in looking behind the grins, and studying the motives for the sneers. ah, what a life for a man to pass! situated as lord caterham was, he must under such circumstances have become either a quilp or an angel. the natural tendency is to the former: but providence had been kind in one instance to lord caterham, and he, like mr. disraeli, went in for the angel.
his flow of spirits was generally, to say the least of it, equable. when the dark hour was on him he suffered dreadfully; but this morning he was more than usually low, for he had been pondering over his brother's insane downfall, and it was with something like real pleasure that he heard his servant announce "mr. barford," and gave orders for that gentleman's admittance.
the honourable algernon barford by prescriptive right, but "algy barford" to any one after two days' acquaintance with him, was one of those men whom it is impossible not to call by their christian names; whom it is impossible not to like as an acquaintance; whom it is difficult to take into intimate friendship; but with whom no one ever quarrelled. a big, broad-chested, broad-faced, light-whiskered man, perfectly dressed, with an easy rolling walk, a pleasant presence, a way of enarming and "old boy-ing" you, without the least appearance of undue familiarity; on the contrary, with a sense of real delight in your society; with a voice which, without being in the least affected, or in the remotest degree resembling the tone of the stage-nobleman, had the real swell ring and roll in it; a kindly, sunny, chirpy, world-citizen, who, with what was supposed to be a very small income, lived in the best society, never borrowed or owed a sovereign, and was nearly always in good temper. algy barford was the very man to visit you when you were out of spirits. a glance at him was cheering; it revived one at once to look at his shiny bald forehead fringed with thin golden hair, at his saucy blue eyes, his big grinning mouth furnished with sparkling teeth; and when he spoke, his voice came ringing out with a cheery music of its own.
"hallo, caterham!" said he, coming up to the chair and placing one of his big hands on the occupant's small shoulder; "how goes it, my boy? wanted to see you, and have a chat. how are you, old fellow, eh? where does one put one's hat, by the way, dear old boy? can't put it under my seat, you know, or i should think i was in church; and there's no place in this den of yours; and--ah, that'll do, on that lady's head. who is it? o, pallas athené; ah, very well then, _non invita minerva_, she'll support my castor for me. fancy my recollecting latin, eh? but i think i must have seen it on somebody's crest. well, and now, old boy, how are you?"
"well, not very brilliant this morning, algy. i--"
"ah, like me, got rats, haven't you?"
"rats?"
"yes; whenever i'm out of spirits i think i've got rats--sometimes boiled rats. oh, it's all very well for you to laugh, caterham; but you know, though i'm generally pretty jolly, sometimes i have a regular file-gnawing time of it. i think i'll take a peg, dear old boy--a sherry peg--just to keep me up."
"to be sure. just ring for stevens, will you? he'll--"
"not at all; i recollect where the sherry is and where the glasses live. _nourri dans le sérail, j'en connais les detours_. here they are. have a peg, caterham?"
"no, thanks, algy; the doctor forbids me that sort of thing. i take no exercise to carry it off, you know; but i thought some one told me you had turned teetotaller."
"gad, how extraordinarily things get wind, don't you know! so i did, honour!--kept to it all strictly, give you my word, for--ay, for a fortnight; but then i thought i might as well die a natural death, so i took to it again. this is the second peg i've had to-day--took number one at the foreign office, with my cousin jack lambert. you know jack?--little fellow, short and dirty, like a winter's day."
"i know him," said caterham, smiling; "a sharp fellow."
"o yes, deuced cute little dog--knows every thing. i wanted him to recommend me a new servant--obliged to send my man away--couldn't stand him any longer--always worrying me."
"i thought he was a capital servant?"
"ye-es; knew too much though, and went to too many evening-parties--never would give me a chance of wearing my own black bags and dress-boots--kept 'em in constant requisition, by jove! a greedy fellow too. i used to let him get just outside the door with the breakfast-things, and then suddenly call him back; and he never showed up without his mouth full of kidney, or whatever it was. and he always would read my letters--before i'd done with them, i mean. i'm shortsighted, you know, and obliged to get close to the light: he was in such a hurry to find out what they were about, that he used to peep in through the window, and read them over my shoulder. i found this out; and this morning i was ready for him with my fist neatly doubled-up in a thick towel. i saw his shadow come stealing across the paper, and then i turned round and let out at him slap through the glass. it was a gentle hint that i had spotted his game; and so he came in when he had got his face right, and begged me to suit myself in a month, as he had heard of a place which he thought he should like better. now, can you tell me of any handy fellow, caterham?"
"not i; i'm all unlikely to know of such people. stay, there was a man that--"
"yes; and then you stop. gad, you are like the rest of the world, old fellow: you have an _arrière pensée_ which prevents your telling a fellow a good thing."
"no, not that, algy. i was going to say that there was a man who was lionel's servant. i don't know whether he has got another place; but lionel, you know--" and lord caterham stopped with a knot in his throat and burning cheeks.
"i know, dear old boy," said algy barford, rising from his seat and again placing his hand on caterham's shoulder; "of course i know. you're too much a man of the world"--(heaven help us! caterham a man of the world! but this was algy barford's pleasant way of putting it)--"not to know that the clubs rang with the whole story last night. don't shrink, old boy. it's a bad business; but i never heard such tremendous sympathy expressed for a--for a buffer--as for lionel. every body says he must have been no end cornered before he--before he--well, there's no use talking of it. but what i wanted to say to you is this,--and i'm deuced glad you mentioned lionel's name, old fellow, for i've been thinking all the time i've been here how i could bring it in. look here! he and i were no end chums, you know; i was much older than he; but we took to each other like any thing, and--and i got a letter from him from liverpool with--with an enclosure for you, old boy."
algy barford unbuttoned his coat as he said these last words, took a long breath, and seemed immensely relieved, though he still looked anxiously towards his friend.
"an enclosure for me?" said lord caterham, turning deadly white; "no further trouble--no further misery for--"
"on my honour, caterham, i don't know what it is," said algy barford; "he doesn't hint it in his letter to me. he simply says, 'let the enclosed be given to caterham, and given by your own hand.' he underlines that last sentence; and so i brought it on. i'm a bungling jackass, or i should have found means to explain it myself, by jove! but as you have helped me, so much the better."
"have you it with you?"
"o yes; brought it on purpose," said algy, rising and taking his coat from a chair, and his hat from the head of pallas athené; "here it is. i don't suppose anything from poor lionel can be very brilliant just now; but still, i know nothing. goodby, caterham, old fellow; can't help me to a servant-man, eh? see you next week; meantime,--and this earnest, old boy,--if there's anything i can do to help lionel in any shape, you'll let me know, won't you, old fellow?"
and algy barford handed lord caterham the letter, kissed his hand, and departed in his usual airy, cheery fashion.
that night lord caterham did not appear at the dinner-table; and his servant, on being asked, said that his master "had been more than usual queer-like," and had gone to bed very early.
