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Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson

<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3> <h4>MR. BRISKET THINKS HE SEES HIS WAY, AND MR. ROBINSON AGAIN WALKS ON BLACKFRIARS BRIDGE.  </h4> For some half-hour on that night, as Robinson had slowly walked backwards and forwards across the bridge, ideas of suicide had flitted across his mind. Should he not put an end to all this,—to all this and so much else that harassed him and made life weary. "''Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,'" he said, as he looked down into the dark river. And then he repeated a good deal more, expressing his desire to sleep, but acknowledging that his dreams in that strange bed might be the rub. "And thus 'calamity must still live on,'" he said, as he went home to his lodgings. Then came those arrangements as to the partnership and the house in Bishopsgate Street, which have already been narrated. During the weeks which produced these results, he frequently saw Maryanne in Smithfield, but never spoke to her, except on the ordinary topics of the day. In his demeanour he was courteous to her, but he never once addressed her except as Miss Brown, and always with a politeness which was as cold as it was studied. On one or two occasions he thought that he observed in her manner something that showed a wish for reconciliation; but still he said nothing to her. "She has treated me like a dog," he said to himself, "and yet I love her. If I tell her so, she will treat me worse than a dog." Then he heard, also, that Brisket had declared more than once that he could not see his way. "I could see mine," he said, "as though a star guided me, if she should but stretch forth her hand to me and ask me to forgive her." It was some week or two after the deed of partnership had been signed, and when the house at No. 81 had been just taken, that Miss Twizzle came to Robinson. He was, at the moment, engaged in composition for an illustrious house in the Minories that shall be nameless; but he immediately gave his attention to Miss Twizzle, though at the moment he was combating the difficulties of a rhyme which it had been his duty to repeat nineteen times in the same poem. "I think that will do," said he, as he wrote it down. "And yet it's lame,—very lame: <div class="center"> <table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="1"> <tr> <td align="left"> But no lady ever loses By going to the shop of—" </td> </tr> </table></div> And then Miss Twizzle entered. "I see you are engaged," said she, "and, perhaps, I had better call another time." "By no means, Miss Twizzle; pray be seated. How is everything going on at the Hall of Harmony?" "I haven't been there, Mr. Robinson, since that night as Mr. Brisket did behave so bad. I got such a turn that night, as I can't endure the sight of the room ever since. If you'll believe me, I can't." "It was not a pleasant occurrence," said Robinson. "I felt it very keenly. A man's motives are so vilely misconstrued, Miss Twizzle. I have been accused of—of—cowardice." "Not by me, Mr. Robinson. I did say you should have stuck up a bit; but I didn't mean anything like that." "Well; it's over now. When are they to be married, Miss Twizzle?" "Now, Mr. Robinson, don't you talk like that. You wouldn't take it all calm that way if you thought she was going to have him." "I mean to take it very calm for the future." "But I suppose you're not going to give her up. It wouldn't be like you, that wouldn't." "She has spurned me, Miss Twizzle; and after that—." "Oh, spurn! that's all my eye. Of course she has. There's a little of that always, you know,—just for the fun of the thing. The course of love shouldn't run too smooth. I wouldn't give a straw for a young man if he wouldn't let me spurn him sometimes." "But you wouldn't call him a—a—" "A what? A coward, is it? Indeed but I would, or anything else that came uppermost. Laws! what's the good of keeping company if you ain't to say just what comes uppermost at the moment. 'Twas but the other day I called my young man a raskil." "It was in sport, no doubt." "I was that angry at the time I could have tore him limb from limb; I was, indeed. But he says, 'Polly,' says he, 'if I'm a he-raskil, you're a she-raskil; so that needn't make any difference between us.' And no more it didn't. He gets his salary rose in January, and then we shall be married." "I wish you all the happiness that married life can bestow," said Robinson. "That's very prettily said, and I wish the same to you. Only you mustn't be so down like. There's Maryanne; she says you haven't a word for her now." "She'll find as many words as she likes in Aldersgate Street, no doubt." "Now, Robinson, if you're going to go on like that, you are not the man I always took you for. You didn't suppose that a girl like Maryanne isn't to have her bit of fun as long as it lasts. Them as is as steady as old horses before marriage usually has their colt's fling after marriage. Maryanne's principles is good, and that's everything;—ain't it?" "I impute nothing to Miss Brown, except that she is false, and mercenary, and cruel." "Exactly; just a she-raskil, as Tom called me. I was mercenary and all the rest of it. But, laws! what's that between friends? The long and short of it is this; is Barkis willing? If Barkis is willing, then a certain gentleman as we know in the meat trade may suit himself elsewhere. Come; answer that. Is Barkis willing?" For a minute or two Robinson sat silent, thinking of the indignities he had endured. That he loved the girl,—loved her warmly, with all his heart,—was only too true. Yes; he loved her too well. Had his affection been of a colder nature, he would have been able to stand off for awhile, and thus have taught the lady a lesson which might have been of service. But, in his present mood, the temptation was too great for him, and he could not resist it. "Barkis is willing," said he. And thus, at the first overture, he forgave her all the injury she had done him. A man never should forgive a woman unless he has her absolutely in his power. When he does so, and thus wipes out all old scores, he merely enables her to begin again. But Robinson had said the word, and Miss Twizzle was not the woman to allow him to go back from it. "That's well," said she. "And now I'll tell you what. Tom and I are going to drink tea in Smithfield, with old Brown, you know. You'll come too; and then, when old Brown goes to sleep, you and Maryanne will make it up." Of course she had her way; and Robinson, though he repented himself of what he was doing before she was out of the room, promised to be there. And he was there. When he entered Mr. Brown's sitting-room he found Maryanne and Miss Twizzle, but Miss Twizzle's future lord had not yet come. He did not wait for Mr. Brown to go to sleep, but at once declared the purpose of his visit. "Shall I say 'Maryanne?'" said he, putting out his hand; "or is it to be 'Miss Brown?'" "Well, I'm sure," said she; "there's a question! If 'Miss Brown' will do for you, sir, it will do uncommon well for me." "Call her 'Maryanne,' and have done with it," said Miss Twizzle. "I hate all such nonsense, like poison." "George," said the old man, "take her, and may a father's blessing go along with her. We are partners in the haberdashery business, and now we shall be partners in everything." Then he rose up, as though he were going to join their hands. "Oh, father, I know a trick worth two of that!" said Maryanne. "That's not the way we manage these things now-a-days, is it, Polly?" "I don't know any better way," said Polly, "when Barkis is willing." "Maryanne," said Robinson, "let bygones be bygones." "With all my heart," said she. "All of them, if you like." "No, not quite all, Maryanne. Those moments in which I first declared what I felt for you can never be bygones for me. I have never faltered in my love; and now, if you choose to accept my hand in the presence of your father, there it is." "God bless you, my boy! God bless you!" said Mr. Brown. "Come, Maryanne," said Miss Twizzle, "he has spoke out now, quite manly; and you should give him an answer." "But he is so imperious, Polly! If he only sees me speaking to another, in the way of civility—as, of course, I must,—he's up with his grand ways, and I'm put in such a trembling that I don't know how to open my mouth." Of course, every one will know how the affair ended on that evening. The quarrels of lovers have ever been the renewal of love. Miss Brown did accept Mr. Robinson's vows; Mr. Brown did go to sleep; Tom, whose salary was about to be raised to the matrimonial point, did arrive; and the evening was passed in bliss and harmony. Then, again, for a week or two did George Robinson walk upon roses. It could not now be thrown in his teeth that some other suitor was an established tradesman; for such also was his proud position. He was one of that firm whose name was already being discussed in the commercial world, and could feel that the path to glory was open beneath his feet. It was during these days that those original ideas as to the name and colour of the house, and as to its architectural ornamentation, came from his brain, and that he penned many of those advertisements which afterwards made his reputation so great. It was then that he so plainly declared his resolve to have his own way in his own department, and startled his partners by the firmness of his purpose. It need hardly be said that gratified love was the source from whence he drew his inspiration. "And now let us name the day," said Robinson, as soon as that other day,—the opening day for Magenta House,—had been settled. All nature would then be smiling. It would be the merry month of May; and Robinson suggested that, after the toil of the first fortnight of the opening, a day's holiday for matrimonial purposes might well be accorded to him. "We'll go to the bowers of Richmond, Maryanne," said he. "God bless you, my children," said Mr. Brown. "And as for the holiday, Jones shall see the shutters down, and I will see them up again." "What!" said Maryanne. "This next first of June as ever is? I'll do no such thing." "Why not, my own one?" "I never heard the like! Where am I to get my things? And you will have no house taken or anything. If you think I'm going into lodgings like Sarah Jane, you're mistook. I don't marry unless I have things comfortable about me,—furniture, and all that. While you were in your tantrums, George, I once went to see William Brisket's house." "—— William Brisket!" said Robinson. Perhaps, he was wrong in using such a phrase, but it must be confessed that he was sorely tried. Who but a harpy would have alluded to the comforts of a rival's domestic establishment at such a moment as that? Maryanne Brown was a harpy, and is a harpy to this day. "There, father," said she, "look at that! just listen to him! You wouldn't believe me before. What's a young woman to look for with a man as can go on like that?—cursing and swearing before one's face,—quite awful!" "He was aggravated, Maryanne," said the old man. "Yes, and he'll always be being aggravated. If he thinks as I ain't going to speak civil of them as has always spoke civil to me, he's in the wrong of it. William Brisket never went about cursing at me in that way." "I didn't curse at you, Maryanne." "If William Brisket had anything to say of a rival, he said it out honest. 'Maryanne,' said he to me once, 'if that young man comes after you any more, I'll polish his head off his shoulders.' Now, that was speaking manly; and, if you could behave like that, you'd get yourself respected. But as for them rampagious Billingsgate ways before a lady, I for one haven't been used to it, and I won't put up with it!" And so she bounced out of the room. "You shouldn't have swore at her, George," said Mr. Brown. "Swear at her!" said Robinson, putting his hand up to his head, as though he found it almost impossible to collect his scattered thoughts. "But it doesn't matter. The world may swear at her for me now; and the world will swear at her!" So saying, he left the house, went hastily down Snow Hill, and again walked moodily on the bridge of Blackfriars. "'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished," said he: "—devoutly!—devoutly! And when they take me up,—up to her, would it be loving, or would it be loathing?—A nasty, cold, moist, unpleasant body!" he went on. "Ah me! it would be loathing! He hadn't a father; he hadn't a mother; he hadn't a sister; he hadn't a brother;—but he had a dearer one still, and a nearer one yet, than all other.—'To be or not to be; that is the question.'—He must in ground unsanctified be lodged, till the last trumpet! Ah, there's the rub! But for that, who would these fardels bear?" Then he made up his mind that the fardels must still be borne, and again went home to his lodgings. This had occurred some little time before the opening of the house, and on the next morning George Robinson was at his work as hard,—ay, harder—than ever. He had pledged himself to the firm, and was aware that it would ill become him to allow private sorrows to interfere with public duties. On that morrow he was more enterprising than ever, and it was then that he originated the idea of the four men in armour, and of Fame with her classical horn and gilded car. "She'll come round again, George," said Mr. Brown, "and then take her at the hop." "She'll hop no more for me," said George Robinson, sternly. But on this matter he was weak as water, and this woman was able to turn him round her little finger. On the fourteenth of May, the day previous to the opening of the house, Robinson was seated upstairs alone, still at work on some of his large posters. There was no sound to be heard but the hammers of the workmen below; and the smell of the magenta paint, as it dried, was strong in his nostrils. It was then that one of the workmen came up to him, saying that there was a gentleman below who wished to see him. At this period Robinson was anxious to be called on by commercial gentlemen, and at once sent down civil word, begging that the gentleman would walk up. With heavy step the gentleman did walk up, and William Brisket was shown into the room. "Sir," said George Robinson as soon as he saw him, "I did not expect this honour from you." And then he bethought himself of his desire to tear out the monster's tongue, and began to consider whether he might do it now. "I don't know much about honour," said Brisket; "but it seems to me an understandin's wanted 'twixt you and I." "There can be none such," said Robinson. "Oh, but there must." "It is not within the compass of things. You, sir, cannot understand me;—your intellectual vision is too limited. And I,—I will not understand you." "Won't you, by jingo! Then your vision shall be limited, as far as two uncommon black eyes can limit it. But come, Robinson, if you don't want to quarrel, I don't." "As for quarrelling," said Robinson, "it is the work of children. Come, Brisket, will you jump with me into yonder river? The first that reaches the further side, let him have her!" And he pointed up Bishopsgate Street towards the Thames. "Perhaps you can swim?" said Brisket. "Not a stroke!" said Robinson. "Then what a jolly pair of fools we should be!" "Ah-h-h-h! That's the way to try a man's metal!" "If you talk to me about metal, young man, I'll drop into you. You've been a-sending all manner of messages to me about a barrel of gunpowder and that sort of thing, and it's my mind that you're a little out of your own. Now I ain't going to have anything to do with gunpowder, nor yet with the river. It's a nasty place is the river; and when I want a wash I shan't go there." "'Dreadfully staring through muddy impurity!'" said Robinson. "Impurity enough," continued the other; "and I won't have anything to do with it. Now, I'll tell you what. Will you give me your word, as a man, never to have nothing more to say to Maryanne Brown?" "Never again to speak to her?" "Not, except in the way of respect, when she's Mrs. Brisket." "Never again to clasp her hand in mine?" "Not by no means. And if you want me to remain quiet, you'd a deal better stow that kind of thing. I'll tell you what it is—I'm beginning to see my way with old Brown." "Et tu, Brute?" said Robinson, clasping his hands together. "I'm beginning to see my way with old Brown," continued Brisket; "and, to tell you the truth at once, I don't mean to be interfered with." "Has—my partner—promised—her hand to you?" "Yes, he has; and five hundred pounds with it." "And she—?" "Oh, she's all right. There isn't any doubt about she. I've just come from she, as you call her. Now that I see my way, she and I is to be one." "And where's the money to come from, Mr. Brisket?" "The father 'll stand the money—in course." "I don't know where he'll get it, then; certainly not out of the capital of our business, Mr. Brisket. And since you are so keen about seeing your way, Mr. Brisket, I advise you to be quite sure that you do see it." "That's my business, young man; I've never been bit yet, and I don't know as I'm going to begin now. I never moves till I see my way. They as does is sure to tumble." "Well; see your way," said Robinson. "See it as far as your natural lights will enable you to look. It's nothing to me." "Ah, but I must hear you say that you renounce her." "Renounce her, false harpy! Ay, with all my heart." "But I won't have her called out of her name." "She is false." "Hold your tongue, or I'll drop into you. They're all more or less false, no doubt; but I won't have you say so of her. And since you're so ready about the renouncing, suppose you put it on paper—'I renounce my right to the hand and heart of Maryanne Brown.' You've got pen and ink there;—just put it down." "It shall not need," said Robinson. "Oh, but it does need. It'll put an end to a world of trouble and make her see that the thing is all settled. It can't be any sorrow to you, because you say she's a false harpy." "Nevertheless, I love her." "So do I love her; and as I'm beginning to see my way, why, of course, I mean to have her. We can't both marry her; can we?" "No; not both," said Robinson. "Certainly not both." "Then you just write as I bid you," said Brisket. "Bid me, sir!" "Well,—ask you; if that will make it easier." "And what if I don't?" "Why, I shall drop into you. That's all about it. There's the pen, ink, and paper; you'd better do it." Not at first did Robinson write those fatal words by which he gave up all his right to her he loved; but before that interview was ended the words were written. "What matters it?" he said, at last, just as Brisket had actually risen from his seat to put his vile threat into execution. "Has not she renounced me?" "Yes," said Brisket, "she has done that certainly." "Had she been true to me," continued Robinson, "to do her a pleasure I would have stood up before you till you had beaten me into the likeness of one of your own carcases." "That's what I should have done, too." "But now;—why should I suffer now?" "No, indeed; why should you?" "I would thrash you if I could, for the pure pleasure." "No doubt; no doubt." "But it stands to reason that I can't. God, when He gave me power of mind, gave you power of body." "And a little common sense along with it, my friend. I'm generally able to see my way, big as I look. Come; what's the good of arguing. You're quick at writing, I know, and there's the paper." Then George Robinson did write. The words were as follows;—"I renounce the hand and heart of Maryanne Brown. I renounce them for ever.—George Robinson." On the night of that day, while the hammers were still ringing by gaslight in the unfinished shop; while Brown and Jones were still busy with the goods, and Mrs. Jones was measuring out to the shop-girls yards of Magenta ribbon, short by an inch, Robinson again walked down to the bridge. "The bleak wind of March makes me tremble and shiver," said he to himself;—"but, 'Not the dark arch or the black flowing river.'" "Come, young man, move on," said a policeman to him. And he did move on. "But for that man I should have done it then," he whispered, in his solitude, as he went to bed. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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