Part 26

Jim walked on very soberly for a few minutes, thinking of tragic scenes he had seen. Even though he was so young, Heaven help him, he had seen tragic scenes. He had beheld with his own eyes the tribute of youth, which the infernal powers demand and receive wherever youth abounds. He knew it well enough. But for himself there was no question of that; for himself there was only a little escape from paternal coercion--a place to lounge in when he had nothing to do, a set of people obsequious, admiring him whenever he opened his mouth. Danger in the ‘Blue Boar!’ He could have laughed at the thought; and so had the nice fellows by whose example he was not warned. He did not say anything at all for a few minutes, being deeply moved by things he remembered, though not by any trouble for himself.

‘Plowden,’ said the curate, ‘that’s one thing I wanted to speak to you about. I don’t know how you feel, but to think upon those men makes me so sick at heart that I don’t know what to do. They’re so often nice fellows: and how are we to get hold of them? How are we to stop them? You’re freshly out of it, you’re of the present generation. What is a man that wants to stop them to do?’

Jim gave him a frightened half-glance, then lowered his eyes. ‘Good Heavens,’ he said, ‘what a question to ask! How am I to know?’

‘How is one to get at them? How is one to get hold of them?’ said the curate. ‘There’s always some way of getting at the young fellows in the slums. You may not do any good, but yet you can say out what you’ve got to say. There’s the river men, the boatmen, and all those. I don’t say that usually they pay a bit of attention, but now and then there’s a chance of getting hold of them and speaking one’s mind. They can’t help listening to you, and they know what you say is true. But the gentlemen are different. You can’t get at them, and they wouldn’t believe it if you did; they don’t know the result. They think they can stop when they please, and there will always be some one who will stick to them. How are we to get hold of them, Plowden?--our own very brothers, men of our own kind. They’re all our brothers, every one, to be sure; but think, Plowden, those fellows at Oxford, in London, everywhere. God help us! all the harm isn’t in the slums. There must be some way of getting at them too!’

Jim Plowden looked at the curate with an interest he had never felt before. He was moved by this earnestness, almost passion, that was in him. ‘The poor beggar must have a brother that’s gone to the bad,’ he said to himself. That it should be he himself about whom the curate was concerned, or that there was any reason why anybody should be so concerned for him, never entered into Jim’s head.

‘I see what you mean,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t answer your question if you were to give me a fortune for it. They know fast enough. They see other men going to the dogs every day. I suppose that ought to be better than sermons or any other kind of missionary work, or what a parson could do. I’m sure I can’t tell you, or how you’re to get hold of them. It won’t be with any teetotal stuff, if I must say what I think.’

A shade of anger crossed the curate’s face, and he looked at Jim with a wondering gaze, which awoke that young man’s surprise in return. ‘What do you look at me like that for?’ he said, half irritated in his turn.

‘Like what? I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean anything--particular. I suppose I thought I saw the others, the men I want to get hold of, through you, or behind you,’ he said. This was not a speech which was very agreeable to Jim, who did not see any reason why he should be chosen as a type of the young man of whom the curate wanted to get hold. But Mr. Osborne here made a diversion by another reference to Jim’s suspended power of recitation or reading, and by entering with him into a discussion of what would be suitable for the occasion, which distracted Jim’s attention. Before they got to Winwick Jim had proposed to read something--unwillingly, yet not without a little gratification too.

When they had accomplished their business, and secured the aid of two or three amateurs all very willing to exhibit themselves and their accomplishments, the two young men made their way to the lodgings of Mr. Ormerod, who was one of the curates of the place, and who produced for them the bread and cheese demanded in the shape of a beef-steak, round which they were all mildly merry as befitted the character of the party, and talked cricket and music, and other matters in which Jim felt himself quite able to take his share, and did so, to the surprise of his host, who had heard the usual derogatory murmurs which breathe into the air concerning every such young defaulter--and of his companion, who had given poor Jim the credit of being a fool as well as other troublesome things. The entertainment took solid shape in the hands of the two curates, and poor Jim felt a certain elation in feeling himself one of them--taking a part with those who were of ‘one’s own kind,’ as Osborne had said. A passing reflection even glanced through his mind that it would not have been nearly so comfortable had he been leaving the ‘Blue Boar,’ a little heated by the refreshment which it was necessary to take there, after an hour or two’s talk with Morris the vet., and the landlord, even on a subject so instructive as cows. He knew exactly what would have happened in that case. He would have been very late for lunch, for which meal the ladies would have waited till he came in; and his feeling that his morning had not been very profitably employed, as well as the refreshment that had been necessary, would have made him irritable. He would have answered his mother (who of course would have said something brutal to him) insolently, and then there would have followed a hush at table, no one saying anything, since all were angry, for the sake of the servant who waited. And his sisters would have looked as if they would like to cry, and his mother would have been red with wrath, and as soon as the meal was over he would have strolled off--to his study in the first place, where he would have opened his books, and then sat down to think how hard it was upon a fellow never to be left to himself, never to have funds for anything, to get angry words and tearful looks whatever he did. And then, after half an hour’s indignant musing, he would have strolled out again. Now how different everything was, as he walked through the hilly street of Winwick, keeping up with his companion’s long strides, fresh and good-humoured, feeling that he had done himself credit, with Mr. Ormerod’s wholesome beer, light upon both mind and stomach, and the three miles’ stretch of leafy road before him. To be sure there would be a little rush at the Rectory to meet him, a cry of ‘Jim, where have you been?’ But he was not afraid of that cry. If there were tearful looks they would be looks of pleasure. If his mother met him red with anxiety, she would soon be bubbling a hundred questions full of satisfaction. ‘Walked into Winwick with Osborne. I know I ought not to have done it, but don’t be frightened, I’ve time to do the Sophocles before father comes back. And we lunched with Ormerod at Winwick, who gave us a capital beef-steak.’ What a secret thrill of pleasure would run through the faded drawing-room at this explanation! There was no virtue in having gone off to Winwick instead of doing his work. To tell the truth, it was not a whit more virtuous than strolling into the ‘Blue Boar.’ But oh, the difference! the difference! The difference to himself, walking home with a calm conscience and a light heart! And the difference to them, whose trembling would all at once in a moment be turned into joy, though he did not doubt that for the moment they were unhappy enough now!

‘Come over, will you, in the evening, and try over that “Ride from Ghent,”’ said Mr. Osborne, when they parted.

‘I will, with pleasure,’ said Jim. They parted, though neither was aware of it, in sight of Florry, who had come out very wretched to see whether in her perambulations about the village she could catch a glimpse of Jim, and who came up to him a few moments after he had left the curate, in a state of curious commotion which Jim found it very difficult to understand.

‘Oh, Jim,’ she cried, ‘where have you been?’--the usual phrase. But then she added, ‘Have you been somewhere with Mr. Osborne?’ in a voice that fluttered like a bird.

‘I have been to Winwick with Osborne, and we lunched with Ormerod off an excellent beef-steak,’ said the complacent Jim.

But Florence answered not a word. She put down her veil, which was unnecessary, and struggled with it a little to draw it over her face, turning away her head.

XXXV

Jim was very busy about the book-shelves that evening, taking out and putting back various books, until, at last, his movements called forth the observations of his anxious family. The Rector, who had come home moody and troubled, and who had made no inquiry into Sophocles, neither had shown the interest that was expected in Jim’s expedition to Winwick with the curate, looked up fretfully and begged his son to have a little respect for other people’s occupations if he had none of his own. Mr. Plowden was doing nothing more serious than reading the evening paper, so that the gravity of this address was a little uncalled-for; but he was put out about something, as all the family was aware.

‘What are you looking for?’ said his mother, who had boundless patience with Jim.

‘I want to take two or three things over to Osborne,’ said Jim, ‘to let him choose. I’m to read something for him at his entertainment.’

‘What?’ said the Rector, looking over the top of his paper with angry eyes.

Upon which Jim repeated his announcement a little louder and with a slight air of defiance; or, at least, the air of a man ready to be defiant, as--when there is nothing but virtue in his mind, a man feels that he has a right to be.

‘His entertainment! His teetotal entertainment! Stuff and nonsense--cramming the fellows’ heads with pride and folly, as if they were better than their neighbours.’

‘Oh, James!’ said his wife, ‘let them be as silly as they like. What does that matter in comparison with ruining their families by drink?’

‘They’ll ruin their families by something else,’ said the Rector; ‘if not in one way they’ll get it out in another--politics, most likely, and socialism, and that sort of thing. What Osborne will do is to make them all a set of insufferable, narrow-minded prigs.’

‘Even that, James----’ began Mrs. Plowden.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said the Rector, ‘that you’ll make men Christians by teaching them that there’s a curse on one of the gifts of God. You may abuse any and all of the gifts of God; but to make a young ass think he is superior to his honest father, because he abstains, forsooth, and the old man likes his honest glass of beer!’

‘Mr. Osborne doesn’t teach them that, papa,’ said Florry from the further corner of the room, in which, her eyes, she said, being a little weak, she had established herself. Mr. Plowden turned upon her like a tempest.

‘Who are you?’ he said; ‘a little chit of a girl, to tell me what Osborne teaches them or doesn’t teach them! I should hope I am still able to judge for myself--at least, in such a question as this.’

‘Hush, Florry!’ said her mother, with a little nod at Florence. They were all aware that in certain conjunctures it was inexpedient to contradict the Rector. As for Jim, he held up two books to his mother behind backs over Mr. Plowden’s head and disappeared with them, shutting the door softly behind him. He was too much in the habit of closing doors softly and stealing out; but Mrs. Plowden’s mind being otherwise occupied, she did not think of this to-night.

If there had been anything wanted to throw Jim into the arms of the curate, that tirade did it. Had his father sent him forth to Mr. Osborne’s company with a blessing, it would have spoiled all; but to escape for all the world as if he were going to spend the evening with Mrs. Brown, put things at once on a right footing. Jim walked through the village, not in his usual lounging way, but with a long stride and head high. He glanced at the ‘Blue Boar,’ with the cheerful light shining through its red curtains, and thought with a little contempt of the fellows who were seated, he knew, in a cloud of smoke within, and with talk as smoky as the air, he thought to himself lightly. It was a place where a man might go to pass the time when he had nothing else to do; but he had never entertained any illusion on the subject of its dulness, Jim said to himself.

It is doubtful whether Mr. Osborne heard Jim’s step coming through the little garden of the cottage in which he lodged with the same exhilaration. The curate, indeed, had been of opinion that Jim was not at all likely to come, and had settled himself to his evening’s occupation with that view. He had not found much pleasure in the young man’s companionship during their long walk. He had caught the look of surprise, the lifting of the eyebrows, with which the people of Winwick testified their amazement to see such a superior person as Mr. Osborne accompanied by that unlucky Jim--and Mr. Osborne had not liked it. The fact that he did not like it, however, was the one good thing in the matter, for it gave him the conviction that since he did not like it, it must be the right thing. He had liked that little glorification of taking the pledge to induce old Mrs. Lloyd to do it; and this sensation had made him much less strong than he might have been as to the absolute virtue of the act. Mr. Osborne, as will be perceived, was really a very superior young man. When Mr. Ormerod had taken him aside, with again a lifting of the eyebrows, and asked him whether that young cub of Plowden’s had turned over a new leaf as he (Osborne) had taken him in tow, the curate of Watcham had been angry. ‘Don’t you think it might be perhaps my duty to help him to turn over a new leaf?’ he had said, with some asperity, at which the Winwick curate had lifted his eyebrows more and more. They had all thought that to consort with Jim was rather a token that Mr. Osborne himself was acquiring a relish for indifferent society, than that it was his duty to endeavour to reclaim that species of lost sheep. This naturally and beneficially excited the temper of Edward Osborne, which was a fine, animated, vigorous sort of temper, capable of doing a great deal to encourage him in an unpopular way. If it had been a young boatman on Riverside there would have been no lifting of eyebrows. So much the more was it evident that this particular thing was his duty, and that he was bound to pursue what these asses took upon them to disapprove of. A man may be a very good man, and yet feel his virtuous determination strengthened by the consciousness that those who are against him are asses. And just as Jim was encouraged by his father’s angry opposition, so was Mr. Osborne by the surprise, whether put in words or not, of his Winwick friends. They had all been greatly complimentary and touched to the heart by the episode of old Mrs. Lloyd.

But he had thought that his reformatory effort was over for the day. The invitation he had given Jim for the evening had been a sudden and passing impulse, and he had never suspected that it would be accepted. Even when it was accepted in word, he still thought nothing more would come of it. The young fellow would not be able to pass the ‘Blue Boar,’ or he would be caught at the schoolhouse by Mrs. Brown. Having done his duty amply, as he felt he had done, it was almost with relief that the curate concluded that Jim would never manage to pass the ‘Blue Boar.’ When he heard, on the contrary, a footstep ring upon the little line of pavement which divided in two the cottage garden where his lodgings were, Mr. Osborne was much startled, and it cannot be said that his start was one of pleasure. ‘Oh! here’s this confounded fellow again.’ I am afraid that was the thought that passed through his mind: and he pushed away his work with impatience, clearing away several books which he had been consulting. He wanted to make a conquest, a convert of Jim. He had a hundred reasons for wishing it. First, the conviction that on the whole it was a far more difficult task than administering the pledge to Mrs. Lloyd: second, that Jim Plowden, after all, would be a more considerable prize than the old woman, that lie was at least worth as much trouble as a young waterman on Riverside; third, that perhaps it might be allowed that an Oxford man and a gentleman has a peculiar duty towards another Oxford man and gentleman who is going astray, even though that duty is very little acknowledged. Fourthly---- No! there was nothing at all about Florence Plowden in the matter, nothing but an undying resentment against the girl who had presumed to teach him his duty! She might be right. I presume he felt in his heart that she was right, or he would not have taken the measures he had done. But he also felt in his heart that he could never forgive her for her temerity, for departing from the woman’s part so much as to venture to suggest to one of the priests of her parish what he should do. No, Florence Plowden told for nothing in the effort he was making. When her name floated up it awakened nothing but feelings of anger in his breast.

Poor Florry! She sat half in the dark with her knitting, pretending she felt her eyes weak, in order that she might not betray the melting mist of happiness that was in her face, the soft dew that kept coming into her eyes. If anybody had seen how near she was to crying, they would have thought her unhappy: whereas she was almost too happy to think, certainly too glad--except in a momentary impulse like that which had called upon her the reproof of both parents--to speak.

Jim put his books before Osborne, who grinned at the sight. It was intended for a smile, but it was a poor version of a smile. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘Browning, the “Ride to Aix.” Isn’t it just a little hackneyed? Oh, no, not the poem itself. I don’t mean that: but everybody does it. What’s the other? Ingoldsby. O--oh. I don’t know, if you ask me my opinion, that I care so very much for Ingoldsby, myself.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Jim, who for this once was wiser than his leader, ‘but _they_ do, you know. He’s always the most popular of all.’

‘Eh--oh--ah,’ said Mr. Osborne, putting his head on one side as though to see in that way the virtues which were visible to the people in general. ‘Now, I should have thought,’ he said, ‘that this sort of stuff was too--too conventional, too fictitious, in the wrong sense of the word, to please these sort of rough intelligences; that they would like something more--more straightforward, don’t you know.’

‘Like the “Ride to Aix”? But then they’re awfully anxious to know,’ said Jim, ‘what it was for, what the news was, and when it was, and all that; and I’ve never found yet any one that knew.’

Mr. Osborne discreetly turned that question aside, for on this point he had no more information than other people. ‘Suppose you read it and let me hear,’ he said. It was very good-humoured and kind of him. He expected nothing, if truth must be told, and he was really very full of occupation and had a great many things to do. But Jim, as it turned out, did not read badly at all. And there came a note of emotion in his voice as the gallop rang on; that sort of sympathy with the excitement of the strain, and climbing passion in the throat, which only a few readers are moved by. The curate listened in amaze while this high note of poetic sympathy thrilled through the lines, which Jim read with a pause or two and strain of breath to overcome himself. He could not understand what it meant to feel thus, and yet to drift into the parlour of the ‘Blue Boar’; to tremble and flush with the poetry, and then listen to Slaughter and White maundering about politics, or sit with the schoolmistress. There came over the curate for the first time in a great many years a sense of humility, a sudden conviction that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in his philosophy.

‘By Jove,’ said Jim, ‘I got through it pretty well this time. The worst is my voice always breaks at that line: “And into the square Roland staggered and stood.” One gets wound up so, don’t you know. After that I can always manage the rest.’

‘Give me the book,’ said Osborne; and he, too, read the last verses, but his voice did not break at all, the water did not come into his eyes. He read it all as if it were one of his own sermons. Decidedly there were things in heaven and earth--perhaps he acknowledged it a little grudgingly: ‘Evidently, Plowden, you have the knack of it much better than I.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Jim, with a good-humoured laugh. ‘You read so well. I’ve got no knack. It is only that a few of these things get over me somehow. Because--because they are mere stories and of no consequence.’

‘Plowden,’ said the curate.

‘Yes?’

‘I wonder if you’d be dreadfully offended if I asked you one thing?’

‘I am not very peppery,’ said Jim; ‘fire away?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I will, but you will be angry, I fear. It is just this. When you feel these things so, more than most people--more,’ he added, with a naïve surprise, ‘than I do myself; how is it, you know--that--I don’t want to offend you--how is it that----’

Jim’s countenance grew deeply red, a cloud came over it for a moment; then he shook his head as if to shake off any consideration of such questions. ‘I say, don’t ask me that kind of conundrum. I’m not good at guessing things,’ he said. ‘Will the “Ride” do?’

‘The “Ride” will do capitally,’ said the curate. He too shook off with a flush the questions which had risen involuntarily to his lips. He was grateful to Jim for passing it over, for neither taking offence in words nor jumping up and breaking off the conference. ‘What sort of people do you think will come,’ he said, ‘since you seem to have experience of these things?’

‘Oh!’ said Jim, ‘a number of the village people will come--the daughters of the tradespeople, and those shifting folks that live in Pleasant Place, and a number of the “gentry”--the General----’

Mr. Osborne made a sign of impatience and dissatisfaction.

‘Don’t you want the gentry to come? But the others like it. I assure you they do. Mrs. White and Mrs. Slaughter will not come, they are too grand. They’re able to pay for their pleasure when they make up their minds to go out.’

Jim said this with a gleam of Florry’s mimicry, which discomposed the curate more than he could say. ‘You seem to know all about it,’ he cried, a little sharply. ‘But I want the men from Riverside, the fellows from the boats. I don’t want ladies and gentlemen. What I want is to keep the men from the public-house. Do you mean to say the same sort of thing has been done here before?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Jim, ‘we have done it before; but I don’t think we got any of the Riverside men. The people who come generally are--well, just the village people, Osborne, the people you know, particularly the women and the Sunday School lads, those that my sisters teach carving to, and so forth; and the ones that come to the night-school.’

‘Ah!’ said the curate, ‘that is always something,’ with a sigh of relief.

‘And all that my mother calls the nice, respectable people,’ said Jim, with a laugh, destroying the momentary good effect he had produced.

The curate put his face in his hands, and was silent for a minute. ‘So that I have been taking all this trouble,’ he said, ‘and getting people to come over from Winwick, and laying myself under obligations--to amuse the old women--and the gentry, as you call them.’

‘Well, yes; there will be old Mrs. Lloyd, and some more of her kind,’ Jim said.