The story of the shattered chiwal-glass
and the visit of Tinman’s old schoolmate fresh
from Australia, was at many a breakfast-table before.
Tinman heard a word of it, and when he did he had no
time to spare for such incidents, for he was reading
to his widowed sister Martha, in an impressive tone,
at a tolerably high pitch of the voice, and with a
suppressed excitement that shook away all things external
from his mind as violently as it agitated his body.
Not the waves without but the engine within it is
which gives the shock and tremor to the crazy steamer,
forcing it to cut through the waves and scatter them
to spray; and so did Martin Tinman make light of the
external attack of the card of van Diemen
Smith, and its pencilled line: “An
old chum of yours, eh, matey?” Even the communication
of Phippun & Co. concerning the chiwal-glass, failed
to divert him from his particular task. It was
indeed a public duty; and the chiwal-glass, though
pertaining to it, was a private business. He
that has broken the glass, let that man pay for it,
he pronounced no doubt in simpler fashion,
being at his ease in his home, but with the serenity
of one uplifted. As to the name van Diemen
Smith, he knew it not, and so he said to himself
while accurately recollecting the identity of the
old chum who alone of men would have thought of writing
eh, matey?
Mr. Van Diemen Smith did not present
the card in person. “At Crickledon’s,”
he wrote, apparently expecting the bailiff of the town
to rush over to him before knowing who he was.
Tinman was far too busy. Anybody
can read plain penmanship or print, but ask anybody
not a Cabinet Minister or a Lord-in-Waiting to read
out loud and clear in a Palace, before a Throne.
Oh! the nature of reading is distorted in a trice,
and as Tinman said to his worthy sister: “I
can do it, but I must lose no time in preparing myself.”
Again, at a reperusal, he informed her: “I
must habituate myself.” For this purpose
he had put on the suit overnight.
The articulation of faultless English
was his object. His sister Martha sat vice-regally
to receive his loyal congratulations on the illustrious
marriage, and she was pensive, less nervous than her
brother from not having to speak continuously, yet
somewhat perturbed. She also had her task, and
it was to avoid thinking herself the Person addressed
by her suppliant brother, while at the same time she
took possession of the scholarly training and perfect
knowledge of diction and rules of pronunciation which
would infallibly be brought to bear on him in the
terrible hour of the delivery of the Address.
It was no small task moreover to be compelled to listen
right through to the end of the Address, before the
very gentlest word of criticism was allowed. She
did not exactly complain of the renewal of the rehearsal:
a fatigue can be endured when it is a joy. What
vexed her was her failing memory for the points of
objection, as in her imagined High Seat she conceived
them; for, in painful truth, the instant her brother
had finished she entirely lost her acuteness of ear,
and with that her recollection: so there was
nothing to do but to say: “Excellent!
Quite unobjectionable, dear Martin, quite:”
so she said, and emphatically; but the addition of
the word “only” was printed on her contracted
brow, and every faculty of Tinman’s mind and
nature being at strain just then, he asked her testily:
“What now? what’s the fault now?”
She assured him with languor that there was not a
fault. “It’s not your way of talking,”
said he, and what he said was true. His discernment
was extraordinary; generally he noticed nothing.
Not only were his perceptions quickened
by the preparations for the day of great splendour:
day of a great furnace to be passed through likewise! he,
was learning English at an astonishing rate into the
bargain. A pronouncing Dictionary lay open on
his table. To this he flew at a hint of a contrary
method, and disputes, verifications and triumphs on
one side and the other ensued between brother and sister.
In his heart the agitated man believed his sister
to be a misleading guide. He dared not say it,
he thought it, and previous to his African travel
through the Dictionary he had thought his sister infallible
on these points. He dared not say it, because
he knew no one else before whom he could practice,
and as it was confidence that he chiefly wanted above
all things, confidence and confidence comes of practice,
he preferred the going on with his practice to an
absolute certainty as to correctness.
At midday came another card from Mr.
Van Diemen Smith bearing the superscription:
alias Phil R.
“Can it be possible,”
Tinman asked his sister, “that Philip Ribstone
has had the audacity to return to this country?
I think,” he added, “I am right in treating
whoever sends me this card as a counterfeit.”
Martha’s advice was, that he
should take no notice of the card.
“I am seriously engaged,”
said Tinman. With a “Now then, dear,”
he resumed his labours.
Messages had passed between Tinman
and Phippun; and in the afternoon Phippun appeared
to broach the question of payment for the chiwal-glass.
He had seen Mr. Van Diemen Smith, had found him very
strange, rather impracticable. He was obliged
to tell Tinman that he must hold him responsible for
the glass; nor could he send a second until payment
was made for the first. It really seemed as if
Tinman would be compelled, by the force of circumstances,
to go and shake his old friend by the hand. Otherwise
one could clearly see the man might be off: he
might be off at any minute, leaving a legal contention
behind him. On the other hand, supposing he had
come to Crikswich for assistance in money? Friendship
is a good thing, and so is hospitality, which is an
essentially English thing, and consequently one that
it behoves an Englishman to think it his duty to perform,
but we do not extend it to paupers. But should
a pauper get so close to us as to lay hold of us,
vowing he was once our friend, how shake him loose?
Tinman foresaw that it might be a matter of five pounds
thrown to the dogs, perhaps ten, counting the glass.
He put on his hat, full of melancholy presentiments;
and it was exactly half-past five o’clock of
the spring afternoon when he knocked at Crickledon’s
door.
Had he looked into Crickledon’s
shop as he went by, he would have perceived Van Diemen
Smith astride a piece of timber, smoking a pipe.
Van Diemen saw Tinman. His eyes cocked and watered.
It is a disgraceful fact to record of him without
periphrasis. In truth, the bearded fellow was
almost a woman at heart, and had come from the Antipodes
throbbing to slap Martin Tinman on the back, squeeze
his hand, run over England with him, treat him, and
talk of old times in the presence of a trotting regiment
of champagne. That affair of the chiwal-glass
had temporarily damped his enthusiasm. The absence
of a reply to his double transmission of cards had
wounded him; and something in the look of Tinman disgusted
his rough taste. But the well-known features recalled
the days of youth. Tinman was his one living
link to the country he admired as the conqueror of
the world, and imaginatively delighted in as the seat
of pleasures, and he could not discard the feeling
of some love for Tinman without losing his grasp of
the reason why, he had longed so fervently and travelled
so breathlessly to return hither. In the days
of their youth, Van Diemen had been Tinman’s
cordial spirit, at whom he sipped for cheerful visions
of life, and a good honest glow of emotion now and
then. Whether it was odd or not that the sipper
should be oblivious, and the cordial spirit heartily
reminiscent of those times, we will not stay to inquire.
Their meeting took place in Crickledon’s
shop. Tinman was led in by Mrs. Crickledon.
His voice made a sound of metal in his throat, and
his air was that of a man buttoned up to the palate,
as he read from the card, glancing over his eyelids,
“Mr. Van Diemen Smith, I believe.”
“Phil Ribstone, if you like,”
said the other, without rising.
“Oh, ah, indeed!” Tinman temperately coughed.
“Yes, dear me. So it is. It strikes
you as odd?”
“The change of name,” said Tinman.
“Not nature, though!”
“Ah! Have you been long in England?”
“Time to run to Helmstone, and
on here. You’ve been lucky in business,
I hear.”
“Thank you; as things go. Do you think
of remaining in England?”
“I’ve got to settle about a glass I broke
last night.”
“Ah! I have heard of it.
Yes, I fear there will have to be a settlement.”
“I shall pay half of the damage. You’ll
have to stump up your part.”
Van Diemen smiled roguishly.
“We must discuss that,”
said Tinman, smiling too, as a patient in bed may
smile at a doctor’s joke; for he was, as Crickledon
had said of him, no fool on practical points, and
Van Diemen’s mention of the half-payment reassured
him as to his old friend’s position in the world,
and softly thawed him. “Will you dine with
me to-day?”
“I don’t mind if I do.
I’ve a girl. You remember little Netty?
She’s walking out on the beach with a young
fellow named Fellingham, whose acquaintance we made
on the voyage, and has n’t left us long to ourselves.
Will you have her as well? And I suppose you must
ask him. He’s a newspaper man; been round
the world; seen a lot.”
Tinman hesitated. An electrical
idea of putting sherry at fifteen shillings per dozen
on his table instead of the ceremonial wine at twenty-five
shillings, assisted him to say hospitably, “Oh!
ah! yes; any friend of yours.”
“And now perhaps you’ll shake my fist,”
said Van Diemen.
“With pleasure,” said
Tinman. “It was your change of name, you
know, Philip.”
“Look here, Martin. Van
Diemen Smith was a convict, and my benefactor.
Why the deuce he was so fond of that name, I can’t
tell you; but his dying wish was for me to take it
and carry it on. He left me his fortune, for
Van Diemen Smith to enjoy life, as he never did, poor
fellow, when he was alive. The money was got honestly,
by hard labour at a store. He did evil once,
and repented after. But, by Heaven!” Van
Diemen jumped up and thundered out of a broad chest “the
man was one of the finest hearts that ever beat.
He was! and I’m proud of him. When he died,
I turned my thoughts home to Old England and you, Martin.”
“Oh!” said Tinman; and
reminded by Van Diemen’s way of speaking, that
cordiality was expected of him, he shook his limbs
to some briskness, and continued, “Well, yes,
we must all die in our native land if we can.
I hope you’re comfortable in your lodgings?”
“I’ll give you one of
Mrs. Crickledon’s dinners to try. You’re
as good as mayor of this town, I hear?”
“I am the bailiff of the town,” said Mr.
Tinman.
“You’re going to Court, I’m told.”
“The appointment,” replied
Mr. Tinman, “will soon be made. I have not
yet an appointed day.”
On the great highroad of life there
is Expectation, and there is Attainment, and also
there is Envy. Mr. Tinman’s posture stood
for Attainment shadowing Expectation, and sunning
itself in the glass of Envy, as he spoke of the appointed
day. It was involuntary, and naturally evanescent,
a momentary view of the spirit.
He unbent, and begged to be excused
for the present, that he might go and apprise his
sister of guests coming.
“All right. I daresay we
shall see, enough of one another,” said Van
Diemen. And almost before the creak of Tinman’s
heels was deadened on the road outside the shop, he
put the funny question to Crickledon, “Do you
box?”
“I make ’em,” Crickledon replied.
“Because I should like to have a go in at something,
my friend.”
Van Diemen stretched and yawned.
Crickledon recommended the taking of a walk.
“I think I will,” said
the other, and turned back abruptly. “How
long do you work in the day?”
“Generally, all the hours of
light,” Crickledon replied; “and always
up to supper-time.”
“You’re healthy and happy?”
“Nothing to complain of.”
“Good appetite?”
“Pretty regular.”
“You never take a holiday?”
“Except Sundays.”
“You’d like to be working then?”
“I won’t say that.”
“But you’re glad to be up Monday morning?”
“It feels cheerfuller in the shop.”
“And carpentering’s your joy?”
“I think I may say so.”
Van Diemen slapped his thigh. “There’s
life in Old England yet!”
Crickledon eyed him as he walked away
to the beach to look for his daughter, and conceived
that there was a touch of the soldier in him.