George Gissing
In the Year of Jubilee
CHAPTER 1
At eight oclock on Sunday morning, Arthur Peachey unlocked his front door, and quietly went forth. He had not ventured to ask that early breakfast should be prepared for him. Enough that he was leaving home for a summer holidaythe first he had allowed himself since his marriage three years ago.
It was a house in De Crespigny Park; unattached, double-fronted, with half-sunk basement, and a flight of steps to the stucco pillars at the entrance. De Crespigny Park, a thoroughfare connecting Grove Lane, Camberwell, with Denmark Hill, presents a double row of similar dwellings; its clean breadth, with foliage of trees and shrubs in front gardens, makes it pleasant to the eye that finds pleasure in suburban London. In point of respectability, it has claims only to be appreciated by the ambitious middle-class of Camberwell. Each house seems to remind its neighbour, with all the complacence expressible in buff brick, that in this locality lodgings are not to let.
For an hour after Peacheys departure, the silence of the house was unbroken. Then a bedroom door opened, and a lady in a morning gown of the fashionable heliotrope came downstairs. She had acute features; eyes which seemed to indicate the concentration of her thoughts upon a difficult problem, and cheeks of singular bloom. Her name was Beatrice French; her years numbered six and twenty.
She entered the dining-room and drew up the blind. Though the furniture was less than a year old, and by no means of the cheapest description, slovenly housekeeping had dulled the brightness of every surface. On a chair lay a broken toy, one of those elaborate and costly playthings which serve no purpose but to stunt a childs imagination. Though the time was midsummer, not a flower appeared among the pretentious ornaments. The pictures were a strange medleyautotypes of some artistic value hanging side by side with hideous oleographs framed in ponderous gilding. Miss. then violently rang the bell. When the summons had been twice French looked about her with an expression of strong disgust, repeated, there appeared a young woman whose features told of long and placid slumbers.
Well? what does this mean?
The cook doesnt feel well, miss; she cant get up.
Then get breakfast yourself, and look sharp about it.
Beatrice spoke with vehemence; her cheeks showed a circle of richer hue around the unchanging rose. The domestic made insolent reply, and there began a war of words. At this moment another step sounded on the stairs, and as it drew near, a female voice was raised in song.
And a penny in his pocket, la-de-da, la-de-da,and a penny in his pocket, la-de-da!
A younger girl, this, of much slighter build; with a frisky gait, a jaunty pose of the head; pretty, but thin-featured, and shallow-eyed; a long neck, no chin to speak of, a low forehead with the hair of washed-out flaxen fluffed all over it. Her dress was showy, and in a taste that set the teeth on edge. Fanny French, her name.
Whats up? Another row? she asked, entering the room as the servant went out.
Ive known a good many fools, said Beatrice, but Adas the biggest Ive come across yet.
Is she? Well, I shouldnt wonder, Fanny admitted impartially. And with a skip she took up her song again. A penny paper collar round his neck, la-de-da
Are you going to church this morning? asked her sister.
Yes. Are you?
Come for a walk instead. Theres something I want to talk to you about.
Wont it do afterwards? Ive got an appointment.
With Lord?
Fanny laughed and nodded.
Interrupted by the reappearance of the servant, who brought a tray and began to lay the table, they crossed the hall to the drawing-room. In half-an-hours time a sluttish meal was prepared for them, and whilst they were satisfying their hunger, the door opened to admit Mrs. Peachey. Ada presented herself in a costume which, at any season but high summer, would have been inconveniently cool. Beneath a loose thin dressing-gown her feet, in felt slippers, showed stockingless, her neck was bare almost to the bosom, and the tresses of pale yellow, upon which she especially prided herself, lay raggedly pinned together on the top of her flat head. She was about twenty-eight years old, but at present looked more than thirty. Her features resembled Fannys, but had a much less amiable expression, and betokened, if the thing were possible, an inferior intellect. Fresh from the morning basin, her cheeks displayed that peculiar colourlessness which results from the habitual use of paints and powders; her pale pink lips, thin and sullen, were curiously wrinkled; she had eyes of slate colour, with lids so elevated that she always seemed to be staring in silly wonder.
So youve got breakfast, have you? were her first words, in a thin and rather nasal voice. You may think yourselves lucky.
You have a cheek of your own, replied Beatrice. Whose place is it to see that we get meals?
And what can any one do with servants like Ive got? retorted the married sister.
Its your own fault. You should get better; and when youve got them, you should manage them. But thats just what you cant do.
Oh, youd be a wonderful housekeeper, we know all about that. If youre not satisfied, youd better find board and lodging somewhere else, as Ive told you often enough. Youre not likely to get it as cheap.
They squabbled for some minutes, Fanny looking on with ingenuous amusement, and putting in a word, now for this side, now for that.
And what am I going to have for breakfast? demanded Mrs. Peachey at length, surveying the table. Youve taken jolly good care of yourselves, it seems to me.
She jumped up, and rang the bell. When a minutes interval brought no reply, she rang again. Beatrice thought it probable that the bell might be rung without effect, till all was blue.
Well see about that, answered her sister, and forthwith invaded the lower parts of the house. Thence, presently, her voice became audible, rising gradually to shrillness; with it there blended the rougher accents of the housemaid, now in reckless revolt. Beatrice listened for a minute or two in the hall, then passed on into the drawing-room with a contemptuous laugh. Fanny, to whom the uproar seemed to bring a renewal of appetite, cut herself a slice of bread and butter, and ate it as she stood at the window.
Dirty cat! beast! swine!
The mistress of the house, fairly beaten away by superior force of vocabulary, reappeared with these and other exclamations, her face livid, her foolish eyes starting from their sockets. Fanny, a sort of Mother Carys chicken, revelled in the row, and screamed her merriment.
It was long before the domestic uproar wholly subsided, but towards eleven oclock the sisters found themselves together in the drawing-room. Ada sprawled limply on a sofa; Beatrice sat with legs crossed in the most comfortable chair; and Fanny twirled about on a music stool.
The only books in the room were a few show-volumes, which belonged to Arthur Peachey, and half-a-dozen novels of the meaner kind, wherewith Ada sometimes beguiled her infinite leisure. But on tables and chairs lay scattered a multitude of papers: illustrated weeklies, journals of society, cheap miscellanies, penny novelettes, and the like. At the end of the week, when new numbers came in, Ada Peachey passed many hours upon her sofa, reading instalments of a dozen serial stories, paragraphs relating to fashion, sport, the theatre, answers to correspondents (wherein she especially delighted), columns of facetiae, and gossip about notorious people. Through a great deal of this matter Beatrice followed her, and read much besides in which Ada took no interest; she studied a daily newspaper, with special note of law suits, police intelligence, wills, bankruptcies, and any concern, great or small, wherein money played a part. She understood the nature of investments, and liked to talk about stocks and shares with her male acquaintances.
They were the daughters of a Camberwell builder, lately deceased; to each of them had fallen a patrimony just sufficient for their support in elegant leisure. Adas money, united with a small capital in her husbands possession, went to purchase a share in the business of Messrs. Ducker, Blunt & Co., manufacturers of disinfectants; Arthur Peachey, previously a clerk to the firm, became a junior partner, with the result that most of the hard work was thrown upon his shoulders. At their marriage, the happy pair first of all established themselves in a modest house near Camberwell Road; two years later, growing prosperity brought about their removal to De Crespigny Park, where they had now resided for some twelve months. Unlike their elder sister, Beatrice and Fanny had learnt to support themselves, Beatrice in the postal service, and Fanny, sweet blossom! by mingling her fragrance with that of a florists shop in Brixton; but on their fathers death both forsook their employment, and came to live with Mrs. Peachey. Between them, these two were the owners of house-property, which produced L140 a year. They disbursed, together, a weekly sum of twenty-four shillings for board and lodging, and spent or saved the rest as their impulses dictated.
CHAPTER 2
Ada brooded over her wrongs; Beatrice glanced over The Referee. Fanny, after twirling awhile in maiden meditation, turned to the piano and jingled a melody from The Mikado. She broke off suddenly, and, without looking round, addressed her companions.
You can give the third seat at the Jubilee to somebody else. Im provided for.
Who are you going with? asked Ada.
My masher, the girl replied with a giggle.
Where?
Shop-windows in the Strand, I think.
She resumed her jingling; it was now Queen of my Heart. Beatrice, dropping her paper, looked fixedly at the girls profile, with an eyelid droop which signified calculation.
How much is he really getting? she inquired all at once.
Seventy-five pounds a year. Oh where, oh where, is my leetle dog gone?
Does he say, asked Mrs. Peachey, that his governor will stump up?
They spoke a peculiar tongue, the product of sham education and mock refinement grafted upon a stock of robust vulgarity. One and all would have been moved to indignant surprise if accused of ignorance or defective breeding. Ada had frequented an establishment for young ladies up to the close of her seventeenth year; the other two had pursued culture at a still more pretentious institute until they were eighteen. All could play the piano; all declaredand believedthat they knew French. Beatrice had done Political Economy; Fanny had been through Inorganic Chemistry and Botany. The truth was, of course, that their minds, characters, propensities had remained absolutely proof against such educational influence as had been brought to bear upon them. That they used a finer accent than their servants, signified only that they had grown up amid falsities, and were enabled, by the help of money, to dwell above-stairs, instead of with their spiritual kindred below.
Anticipating Fannys reply, Beatrice observed, with her air of sagacity:
If you think youre going to get anything out of an old screw like Lord, youll jolly soon find your mistake.
Dont you go and make a fool of yourself, Fanny, said Mrs. Peachey. Why, he cant be more than twenty-one, is he?
Hes turned twenty-two.
The others laughed scornfully.
Cant I have who I like for a masher? cried Fanny, reddening a little. Who said I was going to marry him? Im in no particular hurry to get married. You think everybodys like yourselves.
If there was any chance of old Lord turning up his toes, said Beatrice thoughtfully. I dare say hell leave a tidy handful behind him, but then he may live another ten years or more.
And theres Nancy, exclaimed Ada. Wont she get half the plunder?
May be plenty, even then, said Beatrice, her head aside. The piano business isnt a bad line. I shouldnt wonder if he leaves ten or fifteen thousand.
Havent you got anything out of Horace? asked Ada of Fanny. What has he told you?
He doesnt know much, thats the fact.
Silly! There you are. His father treats him like a boy; if he talked about marrying, hed get a cuff on the ear. Oh, I know all about old Lord, Ada proceeded. Hes a regular old tyrant. Why, youve only to look at him. And he thinks no small beer of himself, either, for all he lives in that grubby little house; I shouldnt wonder if he thinks us beneath him.
She stared at her sisters, inviting their comment on this ludicrous state of things.
I quite believe Nancy does, said Fanny, with a point of malice.
Shes a stuck-up thing, declared Mrs. Peachey. And she gets worse as she gets older. I shall never invite her again; its three times she has made an excuseall lies, of course.
Who will she marry? asked Beatrice, in a tone of disinterested speculation.
Mrs. Peachey answered with a sneer:
Shes going to the Jubilee to pick up a fancy Prince.
As it happens, objected Fanny, she isnt going to the Jubilee at all. At least she says she isnt. Shes above itso her brother told me.
I know who wants to marry her, Ada remarked, with a sour smile.
Who is that? came from the others.
Mr. Crewe.
With a significant giggle, Fanny glanced at the more sober of her sisters; she, the while, touched her upper lip with the point of her tongue, and looked towards the window.
Does he? Fanny asked of the ceiling.
He wants money to float his teetotal drink, said Beatrice. Hasnt he been at Arthur about it?
Not that I know, answered the wife.
He tried to get round me, but I
A scream of incredulity from Fanny, and a chuckle from Mrs. Peachey, covered the rest of the sentence. Beatrice gazed at them defiantly.
Well, idiots! Whats up now?
Oh, nothing.
Theres nobody knows Luckworth Crewe better than I do, Beatrice pursued disdainfully, and I think he knows me pretty well. Hell make a fool of himself when he marries; Ive told him so, and he as good as said I was right. If it wasnt for that, I should feel a respect for him. Hell have money one of these days.
And hell marry Nancy Lord, said Ada tauntingly.
Not just yet.
Ada rolled herself from the sofa, and stood yawning.
Well, I shall go and dress. What are you people going to do? You neednt expect any dinner. I shall have mine at a restaurant.
Who have you to meet? asked Fanny, with a grimace.
Her sister disregarded the question, yawned again, and turned to Beatrice.
Who shall we ask to take Fans place on Tuesday? Whoever it 15, theyll have to pay. Those seats are selling for three guineas, somebody told me.
Conversation lingered about this point for a few minutes, till Mrs. Peachey went upstairs. When the door was open, a childs crying could be heard, but it excited no remark. Presently the other two retired, to make themselves ready for going out. Fanny was the first to reappear, and, whilst waiting for her sister, she tapped out a new music-hall melody on the piano.
As they left the house, Beatrice remarked that Ada really meant to have her dinner at Gattis or some such place; perhaps they had better indulge themselves in the same way.