The Struggles of Brown, Jones and Robinson

CHAPTER XIX

GEORGE ROBINSON’S MARRIAGE

Thus ended George Robinson’s dream of love. Never again will he attempt that phase of life. Beauty to him in future shall be a thing on which the eye may rest with satisfaction, as it may on the sculptor’s chiselled marble, or on the varied landscape. It shall be a thing to look at, — possibly to possess. But for the future George Robinson’s heart shall be his own. George Robinson is now wedded, and he will admit of no second wife. On that same Tuesday which was to have seen him made the legal master of Maryanne’s charms, he vowed to himself that Commerce should be his bride; and, as in the dead of night he stood on the top of the hill of Ludgate, he himself, as high-priest, performed the ceremony. “Yes,” said he on that occasion, “O goddess, here I devote myself to thy embraces, to thine and thine only. To live for thee shall satisfy both my heart and my ambition. If thou wilt be kind, no softer loveliness shall be desired by me. George Robinson has never been untrue to his vows, nor shalt thou, O my chosen one, find him

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so now. For thee will I labour, straining every nerve to satisfy thy wishes. Woman shall henceforward be to me a doll for the adornment of whose back it will be my business to sell costly ornaments. In no other light will I regard the loveliness of her form. O sweet Commerce, teach me thy lessons! Let me ever buy in the cheapest market and sell in the dearest. Let me know thy hidden ways, and if it be that I am destined for future greatness, and may choose the path by which it shall be reached, it is not great wealth at which I chiefly aim. Let it rather be said of me that I taught the modern world of trade the science of advertisement.”

Thus did he address his new celestial bride, and as he spoke a passing cloud rolled itself away from before the moon’s face, and the great luminary of the night shone down upon his upturned face. “I accept the omen,” said Robinson, with lightened heart; and from that moment his great hopes never again altogether failed him, though he was doomed to pass through scorching fires of commercial disappointment.

But it must not be supposed that he was able to throw off his passion for Maryanne Brown without a great inward struggle. Up to that moment, in which he found Brisket in Mr. Brown’s room, and, as he stood for a moment on the landingplace, heard that inquiry made as to the use of his name, he had believed that Maryanne would at last be true to him. Poppins, indeed, had hinted his suspicions, but in the way of prophecy Poppins was a Cassandra. Poppins saw a good deal with those twinkling eyes of his, but Robinson did not trust to the wisdom of Poppins. Up to that hour he had believed in Maryanne, and then in the short flash of an instant the truth had

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come upon him. She had again promised herself to Brisket, if Brisket would only take her. Let Brisket have her if he would. A minute’s thought was sufficient to bring him to this resolve. But hours of scorching torment must be endured ere he could again enjoy the calm working of a sound mind in a sound body.

It has been told how in the ecstasy of his misery he poured out the sorrows of his bleeding heart before his brethren at the debating club. They, with that ready sympathy which they always evince for the success or failure of any celebrated brother, at once adjourned themselves; and Robinson walked out, followed at a distance by the faithful Poppins.

“George, old fellow!” said the latter, touching his friend on the shoulder, at the corner of Bridge Street.

“Leave me!” exclaimed Robinson. “Do not pry into sorrows which you cannot understand. I would be alone with myself this night.”

“You’d be better if you’d come to the ‘Mitre,’ and smoke a pipe,” said Poppins.

“Pipe me no pipes,” said Robinson.

“Oh, come. You’d better quit that, and take it easy. After all, isn’t it better so, than you should find her out when it was too late? There’s many would be glad to have your chance.”

“Man!” shouted Robinson, and as he did so he turned round upon his friend and seized him by the collar of his coat. “I loved that woman. Forty thousand Poppinses could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.”

“Very likely not,” said Poppins.

“Would’st thou drink up Esil? Would’st thou eat a crocodile?”

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“Heaven forbid,” said Poppins.

“I’ll do it. And if thou prate of mountains — “ “But I didn’t.”

“No, Poppins, no. That’s true. Though I should be Hamlet, yet art not thou Laërtes. But Poppins, thou art Horatio.”

“I’m Thomas Poppins, old fellow; and I mean to stick to you till I see you safe in bed.”

“Thou art Horatio, for I’ve found thee honest. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in our philosophy.”

“Come, old fellow.”

“Poppins, give me that man that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him in my heart’s core; ay, in my heart of hearts; — as I do thee.” And then, falling on Poppins’ neck, George Robinson embraced him.

“You’ll be better after that,” said Poppins. “Come, let’s have a little chat over a drop of something hot, and then we’ll go to bed. I’ll stand Sammy.”

“Something hot!” said Robinson. “I tell you, Poppins, that everything is hot to me. Here, here I’m hot.” And then he struck his breast. “And yet I’m very cold. ‘Tis cold to be alone; cold to have lost one’s all. Poppins, I’ve loved a harpy.”

“I believe you’re about right there,” said Poppins.

“A harpy! Her nails will grow to talons, and on her feet are hoofs. Within she is horn all over. There’s not a drop of blood about her heart. Oh, Poppins!”

“You’re very well out of it, George. But yet I’m sorry for you. I am, indeed.”

“And now, good-night. This way is mine; yours there.”

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“What! to the bridge? No; I’m blessed if you do; at any rate not alone.”

“Poppins, tell me this; was Hamlet mad, or did he feign so?” “Faith, very likely the latter. Many do that now. There are better rations in Bedlam, than in any of the gaols; — let alone

the workhouses.”

“Ay; go mad for rations! There’s no feigning there, Poppins. The world is doing that. But, Poppins, Hamlet feigned; and so do I. Let the wind blow as it may, I know a hawk from a handsaw. Therefore you need not fear me.”

“I don’t; but I won’t let you go on to that bridge alone. You’ll be singing that song of a suicide, till you’re as low as low. Come and drink a drop of something, and wish Brisket joy with his wife.”

“I will,” said Robinson. And so the two went to the “Mitre;” and there, comforted by the truth and honesty of his friend, Robinson resolved that he would be weak no longer, but, returning at once to his work, would still struggle on to rescue the house of Brown, Jones, and Robinson from that bourne of bankruptcy to which it was being hurried by the incompetency of his partners.

The following day was Sunday, and he rose at twelve with a racking headache. He had promised to take a chop with his friend at two, and at that hour he presented himself, with difficulty, at Mrs. Poppins’s room. She was busy laying the cloth as he entered, but his friend was seated, half-dressed, unshorn, pale, and drooping, in an old arm-chair near the window.

“It’s a shame for you, George Robinson,” said the lady, as he entered, “so it is. Look at that, for a father of a family, —

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coming home at three o’clock in the morning, and not able to make his way upstairs till I went down and fetched him!”

“I told her that we were obliged to sit out the debate,” said Poppins, winking eagerly at his friend.

“Debate, indeed! A parcel of geese as you call yourself! Only geese go to bed betimes, and never get beastly drunk as you was, Poppins.”

“I took a bit of stewed cheese, which always disagrees with me.”

“Stewed cheese never disagrees with you when I’m with you. I’ll tell you what it is, Poppins; if you ain’t at home and in bed by eleven o’clock next Saturday, I’ll go down to the ‘Goose and Gridiron,’ and I’ll have that old Grandy out of his chair. That’s what I will. I suppose you’re so bad you can’t eat a bit of nothing?” In answer to which, Robinson said that he did not feel himself to be very hungry.

“It’s a blessing to Maryanne to have lost you; that’s what it is.”

“Stop, woman,” said Robinson.

“Don’t you woman me any womans. I know what stuff you’re made off. It’s a blessing for her not to have to do with a man who comes home roaring drunk, like a dead log, at three o’clock in the morning.”

“Now, Polly, — “ began poor Poppins.

“Oh, ah, Polly! Yes. Polly’s very well. But it was a bad day for Polly when she first sat eyes on you. There was Sergeant MacNash never took a drop too much in his life. And you’re worse than Robinson ten times. He’s got no children at home, and no wife. If he kills hisself with tobacco and gin, nobody will

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be much the worse. I know one who’s got well out of it, anyway. And now, if either of you are able to eat, you can come.” Robinson did not much enjoy his afternoon, but the scenes, as they passed, served to reconcile him to that lonely life which must, henceforward, be his fate. What was there to enjoy in the fate of Poppins, and what in the proposed happiness of Brisket? Could not a man be sufficient for himself alone? Was there aught of pleasantness in that grinding tongue of his friend’s wife? Should not one’s own flesh, — the bone of one’s bone, — bind up one’s bruises, pouring in balm with a gentle hand? Poppins was wounded sorely about the head and stomach, and of what nature was the balm which his wife administered? He, Robinson, had longed for married bliss, but now he longed no longer.

On the following Monday and Tuesday he went silently about his work, speaking hardly a word to anybody. Mr. Brown greeted him with an apologetic sigh, and Jones with a triumphant sneer; but he responded to neither of them. He once met Maryanne in the passage, and bowed to her with a low salute, but he did not speak to her. He did not speak to her, but he saw the colour in her cheek, and watched her downcast eye. He was still weak as water, and had she clung to him even then, he would even then have forgiven her! But she passed on, and, as she left the house, she slammed the door behind her.

A little incident happened on that day, which is mentioned to show that, even in his present frame of mind, Robinson was able to take advantage of the smallest incident on behalf of his firm. A slight crowd had been collected round

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CHAPTER XX

SHOWING HOW MR. BRISKET DIDN’T SEE HIS WAY

Then two months passed by, and the summer was over. Early in September Mr. Brown had been taken ill, and he went to Margate for a fortnight with his unmarried daughter. This had been the means of keeping Brisket quiet for a while with reference to that sum of money which he was to receive, and had given a reason why the marriage with him should not be performed at once. On Mr. Brown’s return, the matter was discussed, and Brisket became impatient. But the middle of October had come before any steps were taken to which it will be necessary to allude in the annals of the firm.

At that time Brisket, on two successive days, was closeted with his proposed father-in-law, and it was evident to Robinson that after each of these interviews Mr. Brown was left in an unhappy frame of mind. At this time the affairs of the shop were not absolutely ruinous, — or would not have been so had there been a proper watch kept on the cash taken over

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the counter. The heaviest amounts due were to the stationer, printer, and advertising agents. This was wrong, for such people of course press for their money; and whatever hitch or stoppage there may be in trade, there should, at any rate, be no hitch or stoppage in the capability for advertising. For the goods disposed of by the house payments had been made, if not with absolute punctuality on every side, at any rate so fairly that some supply was always forthcoming. The account at the bank had always been low; and, though a few small bills had been discounted, nothing like a mercantile system of credit had been established. All this was wrong, and had already betrayed the fact that Brown, Jones, and Robinson were little people, trading in a little way. It is useless to conceal the fact now, and these memoirs would fail to render to commerce that service which is expected from them, were the truth on this matter kept back from the public. Brown, Jones, and Robinson had not soared upwards into the empyrean vault of commercial greatness on eagle’s wings. There are bodies so ponderous in their nature, that for them no eagle’s wings can be found. The firm had commenced their pecuniary transactions on a footing altogether weak and unsubstantial. They had shown their own timidity, and had confessed, by the nature of their fiscal transactions, that they knew themselves to be small. To their advertising agents they should never have been behindhand in their payments for one day; but they should have been bold in demanding credit from their bank, and should have given their orders to the wholesale houses without any of that hesitation or reserve which so clearly indicates feebleness of purpose.

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