CHAPTER II--MRS. LIRRIPER RELATES HOW JEMMY TOPPED UP
Well my dear and so the evening readings of those jottings of the
Major's brought us round at last to the evening when we were all
packed and going away next day, and I do assure you that by that
time though it was deliciously comfortable to look forward to the
dear old house in Norfolk Street again, I had formed quite a high
opinion of the French nation and had noticed them to be much more
homely and domestic in their families and far more simple and
amiable in their lives than I had ever been led to expect, and it
did strike me between ourselves that in one particular they might be
imitated to advantage by another nation which I will not mention,
and that is in the courage with which they take their little
enjoyments on little means and with little things and don't let
solemn big-wigs stare them out of countenance or speechify them
dull, of which said solemn big-wigs I have ever had the one opinion
that I wish they were all made comfortable separately in coppers
with the lids on and never let out any more.
"Now young man," I says to Jemmy when we brought our chairs into the
balcony that last evening, "you please to remember who was to 'top
up.'"
"All right Gran" says Jemmy. "I am the illustrious personage."
But he looked so serious after he had made me that light answer,
that the Major raised his eyebrows at me and I raised mine at the
Major.
"Gran and godfather," says Jemmy, "you can hardly think how much my
mind has run on Mr. Edson's death."
It gave me a little check. "Ah! it was a sad scene my love" I says,
"and sad remembrances come back stronger than merry. But this" I
says after a little silence, to rouse myself and the Major and Jemmy
all together, "is not topping up. Tell us your story my dear."
"I will" says Jemmy.
"What is the date sir?" says I. "Once upon a time when pigs drank
wine?"
"No Gran," says Jemmy, still serious; "once upon a time when the
French drank wine."
Again I glanced at the Major, and the Major glanced at me.
"In short, Gran and godfather," says Jemmy, looking up, "the date is
this time, and I'm going to tell you Mr. Edson's story."
The flutter that it threw me into. The change of colour on the part
of the Major!
"That is to say, you understand," our bright-eyed boy says, "I am
going to give you my version of it. I shall not ask whether it's
right or not, firstly because you said you knew very little about
it, Gran, and secondly because what little you did know was a
secret."
I folded my hands in my lap and I never took my eyes off Jemmy as he
went running on.
"The unfortunate gentleman" Jemmy commences, "who is the subject of
our present narrative was the son of Somebody, and was born
Somewhere, and chose a profession Somehow. It is not with those
parts of his career that we have to deal; but with his early
attachment to a young and beautiful lady."
I thought I should have dropped. I durstn't look at the Major; but
I know what his state was, without looking at him.
"The father of our ill-starred hero" says Jemmy, copying as it
seemed to me the style of some of his story-books, "was a worldly
man who entertained ambitious views for his only son and who firmly
set his face against the contemplated alliance with a virtuous but
penniless orphan. Indeed he went so far as roundly to assure our
hero that unless he weaned his thoughts from the object of his
devoted affection, he would disinherit him. At the same time, he
proposed as a suitable match the daughter of a neighbouring
gentleman of a good estate, who was neither ill-favoured nor
unamiable, and whose eligibility in a pecuniary point of view could
not be disputed. But young Mr. Edson, true to the first and only
love that had inflamed his breast, rejected all considerations of
self-advancement, and, deprecating his father's anger in a
respectful letter, ran away with her."
My dear I had begun to take a turn for the better, but when it come
to running away I began to take another turn for the worse.
"The lovers" says Jemmy "fled to London and were united at the altar
of Saint Clement's Danes. And it is at this period of their simple
but touching story that we find them inmates of the dwelling of a
highly-respected and beloved lady of the name of Gran, residing
within a hundred miles of Norfolk Street."
I felt that we were almost safe now, I felt that the dear boy had no
suspicion of the bitter truth, and I looked at the Major for the
first time and drew a long breath. The Major gave me a nod.
"Our hero's father" Jemmy goes on "proving implacable and carrying
his threat into unrelenting execution, the struggles of the young
couple in London were severe, and would have been far more so, but
for their good angel's having conducted them to the abode of Mrs.
Gran; who, divining their poverty (in spite of their endeavours to
conceal it from her), by a thousand delicate arts smoothed their
rough way, and alleviated the sharpness of their first distress."
Here Jemmy took one of my hands in one of his, and began a marking
the turns of his story by making me give a beat from time to time
upon his other hand.
"After a while, they left the house of Mrs. Gran, and pursued their
fortunes through a variety of successes and failures elsewhere. But
in all reverses, whether for good or evil, the words of Mr. Edson to
the fair young partner of his life were, 'Unchanging Love and Truth
will carry us through all!'"
My hand trembled in the dear boy's, those words were so wofully
unlike the fact.
"Unchanging Love and Truth" says Jemmy over again, as if he had a
proud kind of a noble pleasure in it, "will carry us through all!
Those were his words. And so they fought their way, poor but
gallant and happy, until Mrs. Edson gave birth to a child."
"A daughter," I says.
"No," says Jemmy, "a son. And the father was so proud of it that he
could hardly bear it out of his sight. But a dark cloud overspread
the scene. Mrs. Edson sickened, drooped, and died."
"Ah! Sickened, drooped, and died!" I says.
"And so Mr. Edson's only comfort, only hope on earth, and only
stimulus to action, was his darling boy. As the child grew older,
he grew so like his mother that he was her living picture. It used
to make him wonder why his father cried when he kissed him. But
unhappily he was like his mother in constitution as well as in face,
and lo, died too before he had grown out of childhood. Then Mr.
Edson, who had good abilities, in his forlornness and despair, threw
them all to the winds. He became apathetic, reckless, lost. Little
by little he sank down, down, down, down, until at last he almost
lived (I think) by gaming. And so sickness overtook him in the town
of Sens in France, and he lay down to die. But now that he laid him
down when all was done, and looked back upon the green Past beyond
the time when he had covered it with ashes, he thought gratefully of
the good Mrs. Gran long lost sight of, who had been so kind to him
and his young wife in the early days of their marriage, and he left
the little that he had as a last Legacy to her. And she, being
brought to see him, at first no more knew him than she would know
from seeing the ruin of a Greek or Roman Temple, what it used to be
before it fell; but at length she remembered him. And then he told
her, with tears, of his regret for the misspent part of his life,
and besought her to think as mildly of it as she could, because it
was the poor fallen Angel of his unchanging Love and Constancy after
all. And because she had her grandson with her, and he fancied that
his own boy, if he had lived, might have grown to be something like
him, he asked her to let him touch his forehead with his cheek and
say certain parting words."
Jemmy's voice sank low when it got to that, and tears filled my
eyes, and filled the Major's.
"You little Conjurer" I says, "how did you ever make it all out? Go
in and write it every word down, for it's a wonder."
Which Jemmy did, and I have repeated it to you my dear from his
writing.
Then the Major took my hand and kissed it, and said, "Dearest madam
all has prospered with us."
"Ah Major" I says drying my eyes, "we needn't have been afraid. We
might have known it. Treachery don't come natural to beaming youth;
but trust and pity, love and constancy,--they do, thank God!"
