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A Rolling Stone Vol.III

Chapter V

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Chapter V.

‘Seems he a dove?—his feathers are but borrowed,
For he's disposed as the hateful raven.
Is he a lamb? his skin is surely lent him,
For he's inclined as the ravenous wolf.
Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?’

Because the worthy Mrs. Sherlock has been neglected for a while, it follows that she has during that time only been drifting peacefully across the smooth sea of prosperity. Her happiness has not afforded materials for history. Or, to eschew figures of speech, the boarding-house has been paying, the boarders have been the ordinary class of well-behaved, commonplace men and women; Sherlock and James have been as careful and industrious as Mrs. Sherlock herself, and in consequence of the united efforts of the family, a well-proportioned deposit in a certain bank, and divers investments in profitable affairs, have been growing at a rate very comforting to the hearts of worldly-minded people.

The amiable Mr. Borage was still an inmate of the house. Whether he ever intended to leave it had become extremely problematical. He was much more energetic than of old; he rose early, and did a good deal of walking or riding during the day; he

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even studied a little in the evenings, acting on a suggestion of Randall's, who had thought some employment of the brain might be of service in Mr. Borage's case.

Besides this, he regularly attended the debating class—more regularly than was pleasing to James. Miss Spowers, the young lady whom James secretly admired, still came to listen to the debates, and after sitting in the next seat at each meeting during twelve months, Borage, by means which James thought ungentlemanly, obtained an introduction, and had so assiduously cultivated her friendship that now James was overshadowed to such a degree that he felt himself thrust out into regions of coldness and obscurity.

James made a point of calling on the Spowers family twice or thrice a week; that is to say—as he wished others to believe,—he went there as often as that to see Miss Spowers' brother, an ungainly youth who, to judge from his conversation, lived that he might kick a huge ball about, in company with other young men of the same age and of a similarly advanced type of cerebral development. It was most exasperating to James that he should always find Borage there, basking in the smiles of all the Spowers, who appeared to worship him. Mr. Borage who all this while was as innocent as a dove, could not understand why James should be so disagreeable and contentious, but took very little notice of him, devoting all his attention to Miss Spowers; and that page 69 lady became so frigid in her manner to the unlucky James that at last he determined to bring the matter to an end. He spent the whole of a holiday in writing to Miss Spowers. Borage, more shrewdly, spent it in going to a picnic with the Spowers family. But, by a singular coincidence, he also wrote a letter shortly afterwards, and the coincidence became more remarkable when both brought their letters to Mrs. Sherlock, and asked the advice of that experienced woman. James was the first to appear with his letter, which his mother read with silent wonder.

The first page was occupied with diffidently approaching the subject, which, however, notwithstanding this cautious approach, appeared to be jerked out at last in the most abrupt manner. In the next half page James made a modest acknowledgment of his own unworthiness, and three sentences after this were devoted to judicious praise of the lady addressed. Then, to assure her that it would be very much to her advantage if she should decide on accepting him, he gave a whole page and a half to dilating on his future prospects—what he had done already, and what he Was determined to do. It was vaguely hinted that he might become something remarkable, and that Miss Spowers might share in his glory. In the conclusion he had not been able to deny himself the pleasure of shooting some light arrows at Borage, but unfortunately that wicked man was so darkly alluded to that it page 70 was not likely either Miss Spowers or any one else would know who was meant.

‘Well, James—well, well really!’ was all Mrs. Sherlock could ejaculate when she had come to the signature.

‘Will it do?’ meekly inquired James.

‘Do!’ said Mrs. Sherlock, regaining the power of speech. ‘If you send that, she'll think you've lost your senses. It's four pages long, and all about yourself. I don't know what you mean by this about defying spies and trampling on a viper hidden in the grass, but I should call it rubbish, and I'd cut it out if I were you.’

James determined that if he cut everything else out, that should stay in.

‘I don't know why you would write at all to a person who doesn't live half a mile away,’ said Mrs. Sherlock. ‘Are you afraid of speaking?’

‘I might have to wait a year for a chance of that,’ said James. ‘Whenever I go Borage is there, and he won't leave first, though I've tried to tire him out. I wonder what they can see in him.’

‘I thought you had more wisdom, James. People can generally see something in a young man whose parents are so well off as Mr. Borage's. There's nothing amiss with him, except that he's rather simple. What of that, I should like to know? Some girls will have to put up with simpletons, or not get married at all.’

James did not see the applicability of this state- page 71 ment; but he had no time to dispute it. Mr. Borage entered, holding a beautifully-written letter at arm's length, as if he should not have minded all the world reading it.

James immediately darted through the doorway, in such haste that the wind blew the letter out of his hand, and wafted it towards Mr. Borage, who picked it up and handed it to him with a smile, which in reality meant nothing, but which James thought most insolent. He flung out of the room, and tore his letter into such small fragments that hardly a word was left on each. Then he wrote another, and after that another, and yet another, until his brain was so fatigued with his unwonted labours in literary composition that he could not be certain that any word or expression was right, not even the commonest and simplest. The last-amended version was in some respects worse than the first. It was so short and curt, and so decided in its tone, that it seemed to intimate to Miss Spowers that she ought to accept the offer of the writer, whether it were agreeable to her or not, and that it would be her last chance of bettering her condition.

Meanwhile Mr. Borage was reading his letter, pacing up and down as he declaimed it aloud, and emphasising certain portions by stamping, so that Mrs. Sherlock began to fear for the carpet.

The letter was a fine piece of composition. Mr. Borage had been prodigal of the midnight oil; he had sat up twice until two in the morning, and after page 72 he had arranged every word and sentence to his satisfaction, had been so fastidious about the handwriting that he had Copied it as many as four times, and finally had attained to a graceful caligraphy which had astonished himself.

‘Dear Miss Spowers,’—began Mr. Borage, reading as he talked, with slight pauses here and there, and a stress upon the following word, which generally came out with a jerk,—‘I do not presume to address you without sufficient cause. I can hardly hope that you have guessed the thoughts which for a long time have been—Agitating my mind. Many times, words have risen to my lips which would have—Revealed them. I have often been on the point of divulging them; but after intense — Consideration, I have thought it better to avail myself of the medium of my pen, with which I can express myself more clearly than I could do verbally, and in your—Presence.’

Mr. Borage drew a deep breath, and stopping in his walk, turned to Mrs. Sherlock, and cried, ‘What do you think of that introduction? does it sound well? have I made it plain?’

‘Well, it's not very plain,’ said Mrs. Sherlock; ‘at least not to me, but you've put it into beautiful language.’

‘It took me a long time,’ said Mr. Borage.‘I assure you I've given my whole mind to this letter.’

Mrs. Sherlock said it looked like it, and Mr. Borage proceeded —‘There is little need that I page 73 should tell you anything about myself. During a friendship of nine months, and a slight acquaintanceship of more than twice that duration, you must have had many opportunities of judging of my abilities,—such as they are,—and of knowing me with all my faults, and all my merits if I have any.’

‘Yes; it's as well to put that in,’ Mrs. Sherlock could not help saying; but Mr. Borage was too absorbed to hear her.

‘Yet I may be bold enough to say that I have some. I could refer you to many friends in Melbourne, where our family is widely known and respected, who would gladly testify to my worth — (Dear me! I've written “your worth.” However am I to alter that?) I do not presume on this, for in many respects I am so sensible of my deficiencies that I tremble sometimes at the thought of—’

‘Aren't you a long while coming to what you want to say?’ asked Mrs. Sherlock, as Mr. Borage was obliged to pause on account of a dreadful sneeze.

‘I am just at it,’ he said. ‘One can't blurt out an important thing like this at once. I've always understood, Mrs. Sherlock, that in writing to a lady—abruptness should be avoided more than anything. I wish those doors could be shut. I am catching a cold I know, with all these draughts.’

‘I haven't much time to spare, Mr. Borage,’ replied his landlady, ‘and if the letter goes on page 74 much longer I shall have to leave you before it's finished.’

Mr. Borage promised to finish in three minutes. ‘I shouldn't have troubled you,’ he said; ‘but I knew you had had so much—Experience.’

‘Not in this kind of thing surely,’ objected Mrs. Sherlock. ‘I don't remember asking any one to marry me.’

‘Oh, I mean you've observed so much,’ said Mr. Borage, preparing to begin again. But it was fated that he should never be able to explain what it was that caused him to tremble. Mrs. Sherlock was called away to speak with an intending lodger. She left the door open, thus introducing so lively a current of air from the outside—both hall and passage doors being open at the same time—that Mr. Borage's letter, which he had momentarily laid on the table while suffering from a second severe sneeze, floated away as easily as a withered leaf upon the autumn blast. He tried to clutch it, but it was sucked into the little whirlwind which careered up the opening of the grate this gusty day, and he could only surmise that it went up the chimney, for he never saw it more.

He did not often lose his temper, but on this occasion it quite escaped from his control. He raged helplessly; all he could do was to stand outside waiting for his letter to emerge from the chimney, as he fully expected it would. He was prepared to follow it wherever it might be borne on the wings of page 75 the wind, or to whatever remote or extraordinary place it might alight in. But he turned his eyes to the chimney-tops in vain. At last, as he felt himself quite unequal to the toil of writing another letter, he adopted the plan of going to the dwelling of Miss Spowers, and repeating to her as many of the words of the vanished scroll as he could remember.

While he went on this mission Mrs. Sherlock came to terms with the new lodger. At first she was so little prepossessed with his appearance that she had thoughts of advising him to apply elsewhere. But manner is everything. Manners not only make the man, as has been said ever since the days of the wise William of Wykeham, but they enable him to make himself into several different kinds of man. The stranger was wonderfully gifted with manners; he was well acquainted with the first use of language as a means of disguising what it is not convenient to display, and he had a large fortune in his funds of assurance and self-esteem. He pleased Mrs. Sherlock; but she wished he had been as well attired as he was well mannered. He was decidedly slovenly in apparel, and when his luggage came, it was on a diminutive scale. He had been ‘roughing it,’ he said, in the North, and had worn out and destroyed all his clothing; but now he was in town he should have to replenish his attenuated wardrobe. Mrs. Sherlock, like a good creature who told no tales herself, believed him. He was very good-looking, she thought, and a very free-spoken gentleman.

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When he gave his name as Mr. Godfrey Palmer, she asked him if he was-related to Mr. Everard Palmer, in whose family her daughter had lived for a time.

‘Why, there is some relationship between us, I believe,’ said he, with an odd smile.

‘Indeed!’ cried Mrs. Sherlock. ‘Well, you have a look of him, sir. It is wonderful what likenesses there will sometimes be between very distant relatives. My son James now who is just coming in at the gate, is like no one on my side of the family, but he's the very image of a second cousin of my husband.’

‘Mr. Sherlock's second cousin must have been a very handsome man,’ said the lodger.

‘So he was,’ said Mrs. Sherlock; ‘and James is exactly like him.’

At the table that evening the new lodger seemed determined to ingratiate himself with the family. He could talk of the debating class with James, of the last new novel with Rosa, of household management with Mrs. Sherlock, amazing her with his wide and varied knowledge, and of town gossip and politics with the lodgers and Mr. Sherlock. And, with regard to politics, he made such confident assertions and such searching criticisms that Sherlock felt he had found a kindred spirit, and plunged into discussion with him. Sherlock began by declaring himself to be a Greyite, and called upon Mr. Godfrey Palmer to avow his Party. That person at once said he was a Greyite heart and soul. Then it was as if the floodgates of some reservoir of political discus- page 77 sion had suddenly been opened There was such talk about the corruption and imbecility of the existing Government, against land-rings and land-sharks, of native affairs and the maladministration of native ministers, of public works and public indebtedness; and such explanation of the abstruse questions of Separation, Triennial Parliaments, Elective Governors, and lastly, that awful catastrophe known as the Abolition of the Upper House, as had not hitherto been heard in that family, nor probably in any other. The names of leading politicians on both sides, and the watchwords and war-cries of their parties, were constantly cropping up in this avalanche of talk, so that Mrs. Sherlock declared they rang in her ears till bedtime, and Sherlock's mind was so agitated by a full disclosure of the iniquitous transactions of the powers that were, that he dreamed of them all night.

The stranger threw a new light on most of these matters, and explained many which had always puzzled Sherlock in a way that perfectly satisfied that worthy man, although one or two of the lodgers seemed more amused than the dryness of the subject warranted, and James wondered how such things could be.

‘Then any one can be Governor if this new order of things comes in?’ said Sherlock. ‘I didn't know it could be thrown open to the public’

‘Oh, yes, we shall all have a chance then,’ said Mr. Palmer. ‘I may put up for it myself.’

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‘And what do you think of Separation?’ inquired Sherlock. ‘Are you for that?’

‘Why, the fact is,’ answered Mr. Palmer, ‘it appears to me that we've always had separation. The country has been cut in two ever since I knew it. I should rather, be for joining it together. Run an embankment across each end of Cook's Straits, and keep out the Pacific. Then we should have room for a decent capital and seat of Government. Wellington could swell out and expand.’

Sherlock was struck with the magnitude of this idea. ‘What a speech Sir George Grey would make on a subject like that!’ he exclaimed. ‘Whatever do some of 'em mean by calling him the great Proconsul?’

‘Oh, it's only a term of endearment,’ said Mr. Godfrey Palmer.

After they had risen from the table Mr. Palmer asked Mrs. Sherlock to oblige him with all the old newspapers which she might have in the house. He wanted one, he said, which he believed was about a week old; he wished to look at an advertisement which had appeared in it for the last time. Mrs. Sherlock gave him a pile of newspapers, and he retired with them to the verandah, and sitting down in a lounging chair, leisurely examined the advertisement sheets.

When he was alone it was curious how the expression of his face altered. He knit his brows, and thrust his hands through the thick mass of black page 79 hair, beginning to be sprinkled with gray, which hung low on his forehead, almost: to the level of his eyebrows. He muttered to himself;—this was a habit he allowed himself when alone; at other times he never indulged in it; it might have been dangerous. Mrs. Sherlock had already noticed his white hands and long thin fingers; the hands of a ‘gentleman,’ she had said. And indeed in this respect Mr. Godfrey Palmer surpassed most gentlemen. Certainly there is no reason why a man who lives by his wits should have rough brown hands.

‘Yes; here it is,’ he said aloud, in his eagerness. ‘Godfrey Palmer is requested to call at the office of Messrs. Gatherall and Sampson, is he? Now, Gatherall and Sampson, why didn't you say why you so particularly wish to see that individual? Couldn't you have put in at the end that he would hear of something to his advantage? Close old fellows! If it isn't to his advantage I don't think you'll have the pleasure of renewing your acquaintance with Godfrey Palmer. But if it should be old Moresby's property at last—ah!’

He thought silently for a few minutes, and then got out of his chair with such haste that it tilted backwards. ‘Here, Mary Jane,’ he cried, addressing the servant-girl at a venture, ‘be so good as to return these to your mistress, with a thousand thanks, and say that I'll be much more obliged if she can tell me where to get a sight of some back numbers of the Illustrated London News.’

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‘Sir, my name is Blanche,’ said the girl with dignity, resenting the common appellation which had been thrust upon her. ‘And Mr. Borage, which is a lodger of ours, takes the 'Lustrated News’

‘Illustrious Borage! will he lend me them, do you suppose, Miss Blanche?’

‘Oh, Mr. Borage is so good-natured he'll lend anything; I'll get them in a moment.’

‘Well, just ask him for them politely, with my compliments,’ said Mr. Godfrey Palmer, settling down again in the easy chair.

The servant-girl reappeared with an armful of papers. Here was more occupation for Mr. Godfrey Palmer who carefully read the columns of Wills and Bequests, and looked at all the obituary notices. In Wills and Bequests he found nothing, but, after a long search, a name under the heading of Deaths caught his eye. ‘I thought so!’ he said, as he brought his hand down heavily on the pile of papers on his knee. ‘It has come at last, to set me on my feet again. It is that they want me for.’

After this Mr. Godfrey Palmer's spirits rose so rapidly and to such a giddy height that Mrs. Sherlock was not altogether unreasonable in the opinion she privately expressed, that they had been impelled to that height by means of other spirits. He must have had ‘something,’ she was sure, before he had come, for it was not possible that what he had received in her house could have produced the effect. The lodgers had flocked to the verandah page 81 to enjoy the evening coolness in the only place where it could be enjoyed in Mrs. Sherlock's close and confined premises. Mr. Godfrey Palmer began to be very loquacious, and they thronged round him to listen. At first they were amused by his originality, then very soon they began to be amazed at his irreverence, and his large stock in trade of what some of them objected to as ‘cool impudence.’ He was reckless in the exuberance of those spirits which had most certainly, as Mrs. Sherlock observed, ‘got into his head,’ and he was not long in divesting himself of the last remnants of the politeness which had been so obtrusive earlier in the evening. The innocent Mr. Borage listened and stared with wide open eyes, not understanding one-half of what he heard. He thought the new lodger a very nice fellow, so amusing and friendly. Mr. Borage had beamed with inward joy all dinner-time, and had only been waiting for the chance of opening his heart to some one. The engaging Mr. Palmer soon obtained his confidence, and when a sudden rush of the lodgers to the other end of the verandah, to see what Sherlock said was a magnificent meteor, but which turned out to be an inferior kind of rocket, had left them alone, he told him that he had been accepted by the charming Miss Spowers, of whom no doubt Mr Palmer had heard, as she was known and admired by a large circle of acquaintances.

‘Can't say that I have,’ replied the new lodger, page 82 coolly appropriating an expensive cigar of Mr. Borage's, ‘but I congratulate you. It's a jolly good thing for you, if she's got any money.’

‘Money! I never thought of that,’ said Mr. Borage, wondering at the difference between this speech and the polite and well-turned expressions which had been bestowed on him at the dinner-table.

‘Didn't you? Very foolish. What is life without its greatest sweetener?’

‘But I've money enough of my own,’ said Mr. Borage.

‘Oh, have you? That's a blessed thing,’ said Mr. Godfrey Palmer.

‘I'm sure I've often envied those who earned their own living,’ said Mr. Borage. ‘I think there's such a dignity in labour.’

At which the other laughed, much more loudly, Mr. Borage thought, than he need have done. ‘Yes; it's very dignified,’ he said, ‘but I could never do it;’ and he clasped his delicate hands.

‘I couldn't either,’ said Mr. Borage, now thinking that his new acquaintance must be similarly afflicted to himself. ‘With this buzzing in my head—have you ever felt it?—I can't apply myself to anything for long.’

‘Buzzing in your head?’ said the other, staring at him with his wild black eyes. ‘You ought to be glad of that—proves there's something inside.’

Mr. Borage was not quite sure what was meant by this reply; but he did not like it. Further page 83 conversation soon quenched the interest he had taken in Mr. Palmer, and made him repent that he had told him so many of his private affairs. Sherlock also was grievously undeceived. On endeavouring to lure him into the maze of political discussion once again, Mr. Godfrey Palmer made haste to disavow all the opinions which an hour previously he had advanced and skilfully proved by arguments of no mean power. One by one he abandoned his political principles, and veered round to the opposite side with such unblushing coolness that Sherlock, scandalised to the utmost, cried out, ‘After this, I shan't be surprised if you say you're no Greyite at all.’

‘Greyite! not I,’ contemptuously returned his opponent. ‘I was drawing you out a bit; that's all, my good friend. But the Greyites ought to be proud of you as a champion; you stick at nothing.’

‘Sir, you are no gentleman,’ said Sherlock, rising and leaving the room with as much dignity as he could command. He sought Mrs. Sherlock, and finding her, immediately said, ‘Martha, this new lodger is an abominable man.’

‘Whatever he is, I shan't keep him long,’ said Mrs. Sherlock, who also had seen and heard things which caused Mr. Godfrey Palmer's character to appear in its true light. ‘I believe he's brought more packs of playing cards than collars or pocket-handkerchiefs, and that most of the clothes he has are on him now. I'll give him a hint that we want his room if he doesn't turn out better than I expect.’

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Instead of redeeming his character, however, Mr. Godfrey Palmer sank still lower in the estimation of his landlady. As the other boarders seemed not to know exactly what to do with their leisure time he proposed several nice games at cards, and produced the much-handled packs which Mrs. Sherlock had noticed with a lowering brow. He was very skilful in these little games; his long thin fingers seemed to be made for card manipulations. On the contrary, the other players might have been divided into three classes—those who thought they understood the game, those who knew a little about it and wanted to learn, and those who had never tried it before. None of these gentlemen could recollect afterwards who had proposed that they should play for stakes. They began to do so after a while: at first for some modest sum, such as sixpence, and then for amounts of greater value and importance. At first their winnings and losings were evenly balanced, then they began to plunder one another, and finally they lost heavily to Mr. Godfrey Palmer, who had an extraordinary run of luck which (he said) he could not account for.

But he soothed the spirits of the vanquished with such a happy facetiousness, and such encouraging suggestions for their future play, that they felt sure this was only one of the little reverses all must expect who would learn the science of cards. And when Mr. Godfrey Palmer retired to his chamber, with a serene and contented mind he laid quite page 85 an imposing pile of half-crowns, five and ten shilling pieces on his dressing-table, and observed that it would keep him afloat till he could get something from Gatherall and Sampson, if things were as he imagined. Then he fell asleep, and dreamed that he was immensely rich, and that Gatherall and Sampson were crouching at his feet.