第 35 页

This gentleman looked barely thirty. He was well dressed, of a sprightly

and gay appearance, a well-knit figure, and a rich dark complexion. As

Arthur came over the stile and down to the water's edge, the lounger

glanced at him for a moment, and then resumed his occupation of idly

tossing stones into the water with his foot. There was something in his

way of spurning them out of their places with his heel, and getting them

into the required position, that Clennam thought had an air of cruelty

in it. Most of us have more or less frequently derived a similar

impression from a man's manner of doing some very little thing: plucking

a flower, clearing away an obstacle, or even destroying an insentient

object.

The gentleman's thoughts were preoccupied, as his face showed, and he

took no notice of a fine Newfoundland dog, who watched him attentively,

and watched every stone too, in its turn, eager to spring into the

river on receiving his master's sign. The ferry-boat came over, however,

without his receiving any sign, and when it grounded his master took him

by the collar and walked him into it.

'Not this morning,' he said to the dog. 'You won't do for ladies'

company, dripping wet. Lie down.'

Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat, and took his seat.

The dog did as he was ordered. The man remained standing, with his hands

in his pockets, and towered between Clennam and the prospect. Man and

dog both jumped lightly out as soon as they touched the other side, and

went away. Clennam was glad to be rid of them.

The church clock struck the breakfast hour as he walked up the little

lane by which the garden-gate was approached. The moment he pulled the

bell a deep loud barking assailed him from within the wall.

'I heard no dog last night,' thought Clennam. The gate was opened by

one of the rosy maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the

man.

'Miss Minnie is not down yet, gentlemen,' said the blushing portress, as

they all came together in the garden. Then she said to the master of the

dog, 'Mr Clennam, sir,' and tripped away.

'Odd enough, Mr Clennam, that we should have met just now,' said

the man. Upon which the dog became mute. 'Allow me to introduce

myself--Henry Gowan. A pretty place this, and looks wonderfully well

this morning!'

The manner was easy, and the voice agreeable; but still Clennam thought,

that if he had not made that decided resolution to avoid falling in love

with Pet, he would have taken a dislike to this Henry Gowan.

'It's new to you, I believe?' said this Gowan, when Arthur had extolled

the place. 'Quite new. I made acquaintance with it only yesterday

afternoon.'

'Ah! Of course this is not its best aspect. It used to look charming in

the spring, before they went away last time. I should like you to have

seen it then.'

But for that resolution so often recalled, Clennam might have wished him

in the crater of Mount Etna, in return for this civility.

'I have had the pleasure of seeing it under many circumstances during

the last three years, and it's--a Paradise.'

It was (at least it might have been, always excepting for that wise

resolution) like his dexterous impudence to call it a Paradise. He only

called it a Paradise because he first saw her coming, and so made her

out within her hearing to be an angel, Confusion to him! And ah! how

beaming she looked, and how glad! How she caressed the dog, and how the

dog knew her! How expressive that heightened colour in her face, that

fluttered manner, her downcast eyes, her irresolute happiness! When had

Clennam seen her look like this? Not that there was any reason why he

might, could, would, or should have ever seen her look like this,

or that he had ever hoped for himself to see her look like this; but

still--when had he ever known her do it!

He stood at a little distance from them. This Gowan when he had talked

about a Paradise, had gone up to her and taken her hand. The dog had put

his great paws on her arm and laid his head against her dear bosom. She

had laughed and welcomed them, and made far too much of the dog, far,

far, too much--that is to say, supposing there had been any third person

looking on who loved her.

She disengaged herself now, and came to Clennam, and put her hand in his

and wished him good morning, and gracefully made as if she would take

his arm and be escorted into the house. To this Gowan had no objection.

No, he knew he was too safe.

There was a passing cloud on Mr Meagles's good-humoured face when they

all three (four, counting the dog, and he was the most objectionable

but one of the party) came in to breakfast. Neither it, nor the touch

of uneasiness on Mrs Meagles as she directed her eyes towards it, was

unobserved by Clennam.

'Well, Gowan,' said Mr Meagles, even suppressing a sigh; 'how goes the

world with you this morning?'

'Much as usual, sir. Lion and I being determined not to waste anything

of our weekly visit, turned out early, and came over from Kingston, my

present headquarters, where I am making a sketch or two.' Then he told

how he had met Mr Clennam at the ferry, and they had come over together.

'Mrs Gowan is well, Henry?' said Mrs Meagles. (Clennam became

attentive.)

'My mother is quite well, thank you.' (Clennam became inattentive.) 'I

have taken the liberty of making an addition to your family dinner-party

to-day, which I hope will not be inconvenient to you or to Mr Meagles. I

couldn't very well get out of it,' he explained, turning to the latter.

'The young fellow wrote to propose himself to me; and as he is well

connected, I thought you would not object to my transferring him here.'

'Who is the young fellow?' asked Mr Meagles with peculiar complacency.

'He is one of the Barnacles. Tite Barnacle's son, Clarence Barnacle, who

is in his father's Department. I can at least guarantee that the river

shall not suffer from his visit. He won't set it on fire.'

'Aye, aye?' said Meagles. 'A Barnacle is he? We know something of that

family, eh, Dan? By George, they are at the top of the tree, though! Let

me see. What relation will this young fellow be to Lord Decimus now? His

Lordship married, in seventeen ninety-seven, Lady Jemima Bilberry, who

was the second daughter by the third marriage--no! There I am wrong!

That was Lady Seraphina--Lady Jemima was the first daughter by the

second marriage of the fifteenth Earl of Stiltstalking with the

Honourable Clementina Toozellem. Very well. Now this young fellow's

father married a Stiltstalking and his father married his cousin who was

a Barnacle.

The father of that father who married a Barnacle, married a Joddleby.--I

am getting a little too far back, Gowan; I want to make out what

relation this young fellow is to Lord Decimus.'

'That's easily stated. His father is nephew to Lord Decimus.'

'Nephew--to--Lord--Decimus,' Mr Meagles luxuriously repeated with his

eyes shut, that he might have nothing to distract him from the full

flavour of the genealogical tree. 'By George, you are right, Gowan. So

he is.'

'Consequently, Lord Decimus is his great uncle.'

'But stop a bit!' said Mr Meagles, opening his eyes with a fresh

discovery. 'Then on the mother's side, Lady Stiltstalking is his great

aunt.'

'Of course she is.'

'Aye, aye, aye?' said Mr Meagles with much interest. 'Indeed, indeed? We

shall be glad to see him. We'll entertain him as well as we can, in our

humble way; and we shall not starve him, I hope, at all events.'

In the beginning of this dialogue, Clennam had expected some great

harmless outburst from Mr Meagles, like that which had made him burst

out of the Circumlocution Office, holding Doyce by the collar. But his

good friend had a weakness which none of us need go into the next street

to find, and which no amount of Circumlocution experience could long

subdue in him. Clennam looked at Doyce; but Doyce knew all about it

beforehand, and looked at his plate, and made no sign, and said no word.

'I am much obliged to you,' said Gowan, to conclude the subject.

'Clarence is a great ass, but he is one of the dearest and best fellows

that ever lived!'

It appeared, before the breakfast was over, that everybody whom this

Gowan knew was either more or less of an ass, or more or less of a

knave; but was, notwithstanding, the most lovable, the most engaging,

the simplest, truest, kindest, dearest, best fellow that ever lived.

The process by which this unvarying result was attained, whatever the

premises, might have been stated by Mr Henry Gowan thus: 'I claim to be

always book-keeping, with a peculiar nicety, in every man's case, and

posting up a careful little account of Good and Evil with him. I do

this so conscientiously, that I am happy to tell you I find the most

worthless of men to be the dearest old fellow too: and am in a condition

to make the gratifying report, that there is much less difference than

you are inclined to suppose between an honest man and a scoundrel.' The

effect of this cheering discovery happened to be, that while he seemed

to be scrupulously finding good in most men, he did in reality lower

it where it was, and set it up where it was not; but that was its only

disagreeable or dangerous feature.

It scarcely seemed, however, to afford Mr Meagles as much satisfaction

as the Barnacle genealogy had done. The cloud that Clennam had never

seen upon his face before that morning, frequently overcast it again;

and there was the same shadow of uneasy observation of him on the comely

face of his wife. More than once or twice when Pet caressed the dog,

it appeared to Clennam that her father was unhappy in seeing her do it;

and, in one particular instance when Gowan stood on the other side of

the dog, and bent his head at the same time, Arthur fancied that he saw

tears rise to Mr Meagles's eyes as he hurried out of the room. It was

either the fact too, or he fancied further, that Pet herself was not

insensible to these little incidents; that she tried, with a more

delicate affection than usual, to express to her good father how much

she loved him; that it was on this account that she fell behind the

rest, both as they went to church and as they returned from it, and

took his arm. He could not have sworn but that as he walked alone in

the garden afterwards, he had an instantaneous glimpse of her in

her father's room, clinging to both her parents with the greatest

tenderness, and weeping on her father's shoulder.

The latter part of the day turning out wet, they were fain to keep the

house, look over Mr Meagles's collection, and beguile the time with

conversation. This Gowan had plenty to say for himself, and said it

in an off-hand and amusing manner. He appeared to be an artist by

profession, and to have been at Rome some time; yet he had a slight,

careless, amateur way with him--a perceptible limp, both in his devotion

to art and his attainments--which Clennam could scarcely understand.

He applied to Daniel Doyce for help, as they stood together, looking out

of window.

'You know Mr Gowan?' he said in a low voice.

'I have seen him here. Comes here every Sunday when they are at home.'

'An artist, I infer from what he says?'

'A sort of a one,' said Daniel Doyce, in a surly tone.

'What sort of a one?' asked Clennam, with a smile.

'Why, he has sauntered into the Arts at a leisurely Pall-Mall pace,'

said Doyce, 'and I doubt if they care to be taken quite so coolly.'

Pursuing his inquiries, Clennam found that the Gowan family were a very

distant ramification of the Barnacles; and that the paternal Gowan,

originally attached to a legation abroad, had been pensioned off as a

Commissioner of nothing particular somewhere or other, and had died at

his post with his drawn salary in his hand, nobly defending it to the

last extremity. In consideration of this eminent public service, the

Barnacle then in power had recommended the Crown to bestow a pension of

two or three hundred a-year on his widow; to which the next Barnacle in

power had added certain shady and sedate apartments in the Palaces at

Hampton Court, where the old lady still lived, deploring the degeneracy

of the times in company with several other old ladies of both sexes. Her

son, Mr Henry Gowan, inheriting from his father, the Commissioner, that

very questionable help in life, a very small independence, had been

difficult to settle; the rather, as public appointments chanced to

be scarce, and his genius, during his earlier manhood, was of that

exclusively agricultural character which applies itself to the

cultivation of wild oats. At last he had declared that he would become

a Painter; partly because he had always had an idle knack that way,

and partly to grieve the souls of the Barnacles-in-chief who had not

provided for him. So it had come to pass successively, first, that

several distinguished ladies had been frightfully shocked; then, that

portfolios of his performances had been handed about o' nights, and

declared with ecstasy to be perfect Claudes, perfect Cuyps, perfect

phaenomena; then, that Lord Decimus had bought his picture, and had

asked the President and Council to dinner at a blow, and had said, with

his own magnificent gravity, 'Do you know, there appears to me to

be really immense merit in that work?' and, in short, that people of

condition had absolutely taken pains to bring him into fashion. But,

somehow, it had all failed. The prejudiced public had stood out against

it obstinately. They had determined not to admire Lord Decimus's

picture. They had determined to believe that in every service, except

their own, a man must qualify himself, by striving early and late, and