The Poor Relation's Story
He was very reluctant to take precedence of so many respectedmembers of the family, by beginning the round of stories they wereto relate as they sat in a goodly circle by the Christmas fire; andhe modestly suggested that it would be more correct if "John ouresteemed host" (whose health he begged to drink) would have thekindness to begin. For as to himself, he said, he was so littleused to lead the way that really-- But as they all cried out here,that he must begin, and agreed with one voice that he might, could,would, and should begin, he left off rubbing his hands, and took hislegs out from under his armchair, and did begin.I have no doubt (said the poor relation) that I shall surprise theassembled members of our family, and particularly John our esteemedhost to whom we are so much indebted for the great hospitality withwhich he has this day entertained us, by the confession I am goingto make. But, if you do me the honour to be surprised at anythingthat falls from a person so unimportant in the family as I am, I canonly say that I shall be scrupulously accurate in all I relate.I am not what I am supposed to be. I am quite another thing.Perhaps before I go further, I had better glance at what I AMsupposed to be.It is supposed, unless I mistake--the assembled members of ourfamily will correct me if I do, which is very likely (here the poorrelation looked mildly about him for contradiction); that I amnobody's enemy but my own. That I never met with any particularsuccess in anything. That I failed in business because I wasunbusiness-like and credulous--in not being prepared for theinterested designs of my partner. That I failed in love, because Iwas ridiculously trustful--in thinking it impossible that Christianacould deceive me. That I failed in my expectations from my uncleChill, on account of not being as sharp as he could have wished inworldly matters. That, through life, I have been rather put uponand disappointed in a general way. That I am at present a bachelorof between fifty-nine and sixty years of age, living on a limitedincome in the form of a quarterly allowance, to which I see thatJohn our esteemed host wishes me to make no further allusion.The supposition as to my present pursuits and habits is to thefollowing effect.I live in a lodging in the Clapham Road--a very clean back room, ina very respectable house--where I am expected not to be at home inthe day-time, unless poorly; and which I usually leave in themorning at nine o'clock, on pretence of going to business. I takemy breakfast--my roll and butter, and my half-pint of coffee--at theold-established coffee-shop near Westminster Bridge; and then I gointo the City--I don't know why--and sit in Garraway's Coffee House,and on 'Change, and walk about, and look into a few offices andcounting-houses where some of my relations or acquaintance are sogood as to tolerate me, and where I stand by the fire if the weatherhappens to be cold. I get through the day in this way until fiveo'clock, and then I dine: at a cost, on the average, of one andthreepence. Having still a little money to spend on my evening'sentertainment, I look into the old-established coffee-shop as I gohome, and take my cup of tea, and perhaps my bit of toast. So, asthe large hand of the clock makes its way round to the morning houragain, I make my way round to the Clapham Road again, and go to bedwhen I get to my lodging--fire being expensive, and being objectedto by the family on account of its giving trouble and making a dirt.Sometimes, one of my relations or acquaintances is so obliging as toask me to dinner. Those are holiday occasions, and then I generallywalk in the Park. I am a solitary man, and seldom walk withanybody. Not that I am avoided because I am shabby; for I am not atall shabby, having always a very good suit of black on (or ratherOxford mixture, which has the appearance of black and wears muchbetter); but I have got into a habit of speaking low, and beingrather silent, and my spirits are not high, and I am sensible that Iam not an attractive companion.The only exception to this general rule is the child of my firstcousin, Little Frank. I have a particular affection for that child,and he takes very kindly to me. He is a diffident boy by nature;and in a crowd he is soon run over, as I may say, and forgotten. Heand I, however, get on exceedingly well. I have a fancy that thepoor child will in time succeed to my peculiar position in thefamily. We talk but little; still, we understand each other. Wewalk about, hand in hand; and without much speaking he knows what Imean, and I know what he means. When he was very little indeed, Iused to take him to the windows of the toy-shops, and show him thetoys inside. It is surprising how soon he found out that I wouldhave made him a great many presents if I had been in circumstancesto do it.Little Frank and I go and look at the outside of the Monument--he isvery fond of the Monument--and at the Bridges, and at all the sightsthat are free. On two of my birthdays, we have dined on e-la-modebeef, and gone at half-price to the play, and been deeplyinterested. I was once walking with him in Lombard Street, which weoften visit on account of my having mentioned to him that there aregreat riches there--he is very fond of Lombard Street--when agentleman said to me as he passed by, "Sir, your little son hasdropped his glove." I assure you, if you will excuse my remarkingon so trivial a circumstance, this accidental mention of the childas mine, quite touched my heart and brought the foolish tears intomy eyes.When Little Frank is sent to school in the country, I shall be verymuch at a loss what to do with myself, but I have the intention ofwalking down there once a month and seeing him on a half holiday. Iam told he will then be at play upon the Heath; and if my visitsshould be objected to, as unsettling the child, I can see him from adistance without his seeing me, and walk back again. His mothercomes of a highly genteel family, and rather disapproves, I amaware, of our being too much together. I know that I am notcalculated to improve his retiring disposition; but I think he wouldmiss me beyond the feeling of the moment if we were whollyseparated.When I die in the Clapham Road, I shall not leave much more in thisworld than I shall take out of it; but, I happen to have a miniatureof a bright-faced boy, with a curling head, and an open shirt-frillwaving down his bosom (my mother had it taken for me, but I can'tbelieve that it was ever like), which will be worth nothing to sell,and which I shall beg may he given to Frank. I have written my dearboy a little letter with it, in which I have told him that I feltvery sorry to part from him, though bound to confess that I knew noreason why I should remain here. I have given him some shortadvice, the best in my power, to take warning of the consequences ofbeing nobody's enemy but his own; and I have endeavoured to comforthim for what I fear he will consider a bereavement, by pointing outto him, that I was only a superfluous something to every one buthim; and that having by some means failed to find a place in thisgreat assembly, I am better out of it.Such (said the poor relation, clearing his throat and beginning tospeak a little louder) is the general impression about me. Now, itis a remarkable circumstance which forms the aim and purpose of mystory, that this is all wrong. This is not my life, and these arenot my habits. I do not even live in the Clapham Road.Comparatively speaking, I am very seldom there. I reside, mostly,in a--I am almost ashamed to say the word, it sounds so full ofpretension--in a Castle. I do not mean that it is an old baronialhabitation, but still it is a building always known to every one bythe name of a Castle. In it, I preserve the particulars of myhistory; they run thus:It was when I first took John Spatter (who had been my clerk) intopartnership, and when I was still a young man of not more than five-and-twenty, residing in the house of my uncle Chill, from whom I hadconsiderable expectations, that I ventured to propose to Christiana.I had loved Christiana a long time. She was very beautiful, andvery winning in all respects. I rather mistrusted her widowedmother, who I feared was of a plotting and mercenary turn of mind;but, I thought as well of her as I could, for Christiana's sake. Inever had loved any one but Christiana, and she had been all theworld, and O far more than all the world, to me, from our childhood!Christiana accepted me with her mother's consent, and I was renderedvery happy indeed. My life at my uncle Chill's was of a spare dullkind, and my garret chamber was as dull, and bare, and cold, as anupper prison room in some stern northern fortress. But, havingChristiana's love, I wanted nothing upon earth. I would not havechanged my lot with any human being.Avarice was, unhappily, my uncle Chill's master-vice. Though he wasrich, he pinched, and scraped, and clutched, and lived miserably.As Christiana had no fortune, I was for some time a little fearfulof confessing our engagement to him; but, at length I wrote him aletter, saying how it all truly was. I put it into his hand onenight, on going to bed.As I came down-stairs next morning, shivering in the cold Decemberair; colder in my uncle's unwarmed house than in the street, wherethe winter sun did sometimes shine, and which was at all eventsenlivened by cheerful faces and voices passing along; I carried aheavy heart towards the long, low breakfast-room in which my unclesat. It was a large room with a small fire, and there was a greatbay window in it which the rain had marked in the night as if withthe tears of houseless people. It stared upon a raw yard, with acracked stone pavement, and some rusted iron railings half uprooted,whence an ugly out-building that had once been a dissecting-room (inthe time of the great surgeon who had mortgaged the house to myuncle), stared at it.We rose so early always, that at that time of the year webreakfasted by candle-light. When I went into the room, my unclewas so contracted by the cold, and so huddled together in his chairbehind the one dim candle, that I did not see him until I was closeto the table.As I held out my hand to him, he caught up his stick (being infirm,he always walked about the house with a stick), and made a blow atme, and said, "You fool!""Uncle," I returned, "I didn't expect you to be so angry as this."Nor had I expected it, though he was a hard and angry old man."You didn't expect!" said he; "when did you ever expect? When didyou ever calculate, or look forward, you contemptible dog?""These are hard words, uncle!""Hard words? Feathers, to pelt such an idiot as you with," said he."Here! Betsy Snap! Look at him!"Betsy Snap was a withered, hard-favoured, yellow old woman--our onlydomestic--always employed, at this time of the morning, in rubbingmy uncle's legs. As my uncle adjured her to look at me, he put hislean grip on the crown of her head, she kneeling beside him, andturned her face towards me. An involuntary thought connecting themboth with the Dissecting Room, as it must often have been in thesurgeon's time, passed across my mind in the midst of my anxiety."Look at the snivelling milksop!" said my uncle. "Look at the baby!This is the gentleman who, people say, is nobody's enemy but hisown. This is the gentleman who can't say no. This is the gentlemanwho was making such large profits in his business that he must needstake a partner, t'other day. This is the gentleman who is going tomarry a wife without a penny, and who falls into the hands ofJezabels who are speculating on my death!"I knew, now, how great my uncle's rage was; for nothing short of hisbeing almost beside himself would have induced him to utter thatconcluding word, which he held in such repugnance that it was neverspoken or hinted at before him on any account."On my death," he repeated, as if he were defying me by defying hisown abhorrence of the word. "On my death--death--Death! But I'llspoil the speculation. Eat your last under this roof, you feeblewretch, and may it choke you!"You may suppose that I had not much appetite for the breakfast towhich I was bidden in these terms; but, I took my accustomed seat.I saw that I was repudiated henceforth by my uncle; still I couldbear that very well, possessing Christiana's heart.He emptied his basin of bread and milk as usual, only that he tookit on his knees with his chair turned away from the table where Isat. When he had done, he carefully snuffed out the candle; and thecold, slate-coloured, miserable day looked in upon us."Now, Mr. Michael," said he, "before we part, I should like to havea word with these ladies in your presence.""As you will, sir," I returned; "but you deceive yourself, and wrongus, cruelly, if you suppose that there is any feeling at stake inthis contract but pure, disinterested, faithful love."To this, he only replied, "You lie!" and not one other word.We went, through half-thawed snow and half-frozen rain, to the housewhere Christiana and her mother lived. My uncle knew them verywell. They were sitting at their breakfast, and were surprised tosee us at that hour."Your servant, ma'am," said my uncle to the mother. "You divine thepurpose of my visit, I dare say, ma'am. I understand there is aworld of pure, disinterested, faithful love cooped up here. I amhappy to bring it all it wants, to make it complete. I bring youyour son-in-law, ma'am--and you, your husband, miss. The gentlemanis a perfect stranger to me, but I wish him joy of his wisebargain."He snarled at me as he went out, and I never saw him again.It is altogether a mistake (continued the poor relation) to supposethat my dear Christiana, over-persuaded and influenced by hermother, married a rich man, the dirt from whose carriage wheels isoften, in these changed times, thrown upon me as she rides by. No,no. She married me.The way we came to be married rather sooner than we intended, wasthis. I took a frugal lodging and was saving and planning for hersake, when, one day, she spoke to me with great earnestness, andsaid:"My dear Michael, I have given you my heart. I have said that Iloved you, and I have pledged myself to be your wife. I am as muchyours through all changes of good and evil as if we had been marriedon the day when such words passed between us. I know you well, andknow that if we should be separated and our union broken off, yourwhole life would be shadowed, and all that might, even now, bestronger in your character for the conflict with the world wouldthen be weakened to the shadow of what it is!""God help me, Christiana!" said I. "You speak the truth.""Michael!" said she, putting her hand in mine, in all maidenlydevotion, "let us keep apart no longer. It is but for me to saythat I can live contented upon such means as you have, and I wellknow you are happy. I say so from my heart. Strive no more alone;let us strive together. My dear Michael, it is not right that Ishould keep secret from you what you do not suspect, but whatdistresses my whole life. My mother: without considering that whatyou have lost, you have lost for me, and on the assurance of myfaith: sets her heart on riches, and urges another suit upon me, tomy misery. I cannot bear this, for to bear it is to be untrue toyou. I would rather share your struggles than look on. I want nobetter home than you can give me. I know that you will aspire andlabour with a higher courage if I am wholly yours, and let it be sowhen you will!"I was blest indeed, that day, and a new world opened to me. We weremarried in a very little while, and I took my wife to our happyhome. That was the beginning of the residence I have spoken of; theCastle we have ever since inhabited together, dates from that time.All our children have been born in it. Our first child--nowmarried--was a little girl, whom we called Christiana. Her son isso like Little Frank, that I hardly know which is which.The current impression as to my partner's dealings with me is alsoquite erroneous. He did not begin to treat me coldly, as a poorsimpleton, when my uncle and I so fatally quarrelled; nor did heafterwards gradually possess himself of our business and edge meout. On the contrary, he behaved to me with the utmost good faithand honour.Matters between us took this turn:- On the day of my separation frommy uncle, and even before the arrival at our counting-house of mytrunks (which he sent after me, NOT carriage paid), I went down toour room of business, on our little wharf, overlooking the river;and there I told John Spatter what had happened. John did not say,in reply, that rich old relatives were palpable facts, and that loveand sentiment were moonshine and fiction. He addressed me thus:"Michael," said John, "we were at school together, and I generallyhad the knack of getting on better than you, and making a higherreputation.""You had, John," I returned."Although" said John, "I borrowed your books and lost them; borrowedyour pocket-money, and never repaid it; got you to buy my damagedknives at a higher price than I had given for them new; and to ownto the windows that I had broken.""All not worth mentioning, John Spatter," said I, "but certainlytrue.""When you were first established in this infant business, whichpromises to thrive so well," pursued John, "I came to you, in mysearch for almost any employment, and you made me your clerk.""Still not worth mentioning, my dear John Spatter," said I; "still,equally true.""And finding that I had a good head for business, and that I wasreally useful TO the business, you did not like to retain me in thatcapacity, and thought it an act of justice soon to make me yourpartner.""Still less worth mentioning than any of those other littlecircumstances you have recalled, John Spatter," said I; "for I was,and am, sensible of your merits and my deficiencies.""Now, my good friend," said John, drawing my arm through his, as hehad had a habit of doing at school; while two vessels outside thewindows of our counting-house--which were shaped like the sternwindows of a ship--went lightly down the river with the tide, asJohn and I might then be sailing away in company, and in trust andconfidence, on our voyage of life; "let there, under these friendlycircumstances, be a right understanding between us. You are tooeasy, Michael. You are nobody's enemy but your own. If I were togive you that damaging character among our connexion, with a shrug,and a shake of the head, and a sigh; and if I were further to abusethe trust you place in me--""But you never will abuse it at all, John," I observed."Never!" said he; "but I am putting a case--I say, and if I werefurther to abuse that trust by keeping this piece of our commonaffairs in the dark, and this other piece in the light, and againthis other piece in the twilight, and so on, I should strengthen mystrength, and weaken your weakness, day by day, until at last Ifound myself on the high road to fortune, and you left behind onsome bare common, a hopeless number of miles out of the way.""Exactly so," said I."To prevent this, Michael," said John Spatter, "or the remotestchance of this, there must be perfect openness between us. Nothingmust be concealed, and we must have but one interest.""My dear John Spatter," I assured him, "that is precisely what Imean.""And when you are too easy," pursued John, his face glowing withfriendship, "you must allow me to prevent that imperfection in yournature from being taken advantage of, by any one; you must notexpect me to humour it--""My dear John Spatter," I interrupted, "I DON'T expect you to humourit. I want to correct it.""And I, too," said John."Exactly so!" cried I. "We both have the same end in view; and,honourably seeking it, and fully trusting one another, and havingbut one interest, ours will be a prosperous and happy partnership.""I am sure of it!" returned John Spatter. And we shook hands mostaffectionately.I took John home to my Castle, and we had a very happy day. Ourpartnership throve well. My friend and partner supplied what Iwanted, as I had foreseen that he would, and by improving both thebusiness and myself, amply acknowledged any little rise in life towhich I had helped him.I am not (said the poor relation, looking at the fire as he slowlyrubbed his hands) very rich, for I never cared to be that; but Ihave enough, and am above all moderate wants and anxieties. MyCastle is not a splendid place, but it is very comfortable, and ithas a warm and cheerful air, and is quite a picture of Home.Our eldest girl, who is very like her mother, married John Spatter'seldest son. Our two families are closely united in other ties ofattachment. It is very pleasant of an evening, when we are allassembled together--which frequently happens--and when John and Italk over old times, and the one interest there has always beenbetween us.I really do not know, in my Castle, what loneliness is. Some of ourchildren or grandchildren are always about it, and the young voicesof my descendants are delightful--O, how delightful!--to me to hear.My dearest and most devoted wife, ever faithful, ever loving, everhelpful and sustaining and consoling, is the priceless blessing ofmy house; from whom all its other blessings spring. We are rather amusical family, and when Christiana sees me, at any time, a littleweary or depressed, she steals to the piano and sings a gentle airshe used to sing when we were first betrothed. So weak a man am I,that I cannot bear to hear it from any other source. They played itonce, at the Theatre, when I was there with Little Frank; and thechild said wondering, "Cousin Michael, whose hot tears are thesethat have fallen on my hand!"Such is my Castle, and such are the real particulars of my lifetherein preserved. I often take Little Frank home there. He isvery welcome to my grandchildren, and they play together. At thistime of the year--the Christmas and New Year time--I am seldom outof my Castle. For, the associations of the season seem to hold methere, and the precepts of the season seem to teach me that it iswell to be there."And the Castle is--" observed a grave, kind voice among thecompany."Yes. My Castle," said the poor relation, shaking his head as hestill looked at the fire, "is in the Air. John our esteemed hostsuggests its situation accurately. My Castle is in the Air! I havedone. Will you be so good as to pass the story?"
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