CHAPTER 7
‘Now, I look at it in this way. It’s to celebrate the fiftieth year of the reign of Queen Victoria—yes: but at the same time, and far more, it’s to celebrate the completion of fifty years of Progress. National Progress, without precedent in the history of mankind! One may say, indeed, Progress of the Human Race. Only think what has been done in this half-century: only think of it! Compare England now, compare the world, with what it was in 1837. It takes away one’s breath!’
Thus Mr. Samuel Bennett Barmby, as he stood swaying forward upon his toes, his boots creaking. Nancy and Jessica listened to him. They were ready to start on the evening’s expedition, but Horace had not yet come home, and on the chance of his arrival they would wait a few minutes longer.
‘I shall make this the subject of a paper for our Society next winter—the Age of Progress. And with special reference to one particular—the Press. Only think now, of the difference between our newspapers, all our periodicals of to-day, and those fifty years ago. Did you ever really consider, Miss. Morgan, what a marvellous thing one of our great newspapers really is? Printed in another way it would make a volume—absolutely; a positive volume; packed with thought and information. And all for the ridiculous price of one penny!’
He laughed; a high, chuckling, crowing laugh; the laugh of triumphant optimism. Of the man’s sincerity there could be no question; it beamed from his shining forehead, his pointed nose; glistened in his prominent eyes. He had a tall, lank figure, irreproachably clad in a suit of grey: frock coat, and waistcoat revealing an expanse of white shirt. His cuffs were magnificent, and the hands worthy of them. A stand-up collar, of remarkable stiffness, kept his head at the proper level of self-respect.
‘By the bye, Miss. Lord, are you aware that the Chinese Empire, with four hundred MILLION inhabitants, has only ten daily papers? Positively; only ten.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Nancy.
‘I saw it stated in a paper. That helps one to grasp the difference between civilisation and barbarism. One doesn’t think clearly enough of common things. Now that’s one of the benefits one gets from Carlyle. Carlyle teaches one to see the marvellous in everyday life. Of course in many things I don’t agree with him, but I shall never lose an opportunity of expressing my gratitude to Carlyle. Carlyle and Gurty! Yes, Carlyle and Gurty; those two authors are an education in themselves.’
He uttered a long ‘Ah!’ and moved his lips as if savouring a delicious morsel.
‘Now here’s an interesting thing. If all the cabs in London were put end to end,’—he paused between the words, gravely,—‘what do you think, Miss. Morgan, would be the total length?’
‘Oh, I have no idea, Mr. Barmby.’
‘Forty miles—positively! Forty miles of cabs!’
‘How do you know?’ asked Nancy.
‘I saw it stated in a paper.’
The girls glanced at each other, and smiled. Barmby beamed upon them with the benevolence of a man who knew his advantages, personal and social.
And at this moment Horace Lord came in. He had not the fresh appearance which usually distinguished him; his face was stained with perspiration, his collar had become limp, the flower at his buttonhole hung faded.
‘Well, here I am. Are you going?’
‘I suppose you know you have kept us waiting,’ said his sister.
‘Awf’ly sorry. Couldn’t get here before.’
He spoke as if he had not altogether the command of his tongue, and with a fixed meaningless smile.
‘We had better not delay,’ said Barmby, taking up his hat. ‘Seven o’clock. We ought to be at Charing Cross before eight; that will allow us about three hours.’
They set forth at once. By private agreement between the girls, Jessica Morgan attached herself to Mr. Barmby, allowing Nancy to follow with her brother, as they walked rapidly towards Camberwell Green. Horace kept humming popular airs; his hat had fallen a little to the side, and he swung his cane carelessly. His sister asked him what he had been doing all day.
‘Oh, going about. I met some fellows after the procession. We had a splendid view, up there on the top of Waterloo House.’
‘Did Fanny go home?’
‘We met her sisters, and had some lunch at a restaurant. Look here; you don’t want me to-night. You won’t mind if I get lost in the crowd? Barmby will be quite enough to take care of you.’
‘You are going to meet her again, I suppose?’
Horace nodded.
‘We had better agree on a rendezvous at a certain time. I say, Barmby, just a moment; if any of us should get separated, we had better know where to meet, for coming home.’
‘Oh, there’s no fear of that.’
‘All the same, it might happen. There’ll be a tremendous crush, you know. Suppose we say the place where the trams stop, south of Westminster Bridge, and the time a quarter to eleven?’
This was agreed upon.
At Camberwell Green they mingled with a confused rush of hilarious crowds, amid a clattering of cabs and omnibuses, a jingling of tram-car bells. Public-houses sent forth their alcoholic odours upon the hot air. Samuel Barmby, joyous in his protectorship of two young ladies, for he regarded Horace as a mere boy, bustled about them whilst they stood waiting for the arrival of the Westminster car.
‘It’ll have to be a gallant rush! You would rather be outside, wouldn’t you, Miss. Lord? Here it comes: charge!’
But the charge was ineffectual for their purpose. A throng of far more resolute and more sinewy people swept them aside, and seized every vacant place on the top of the vehicle. Only with much struggle did they obtain places within. In an ordinary mood, Nancy would have resented this hustling of her person by the profane public; as it was, she half enjoyed the tumult, and looked forward to get more of it along the packed streets, with a sense that she might as well amuse herself in vulgar ways, since nothing better was attainable. This did not, however, modify her contempt of Samuel Barmby; it seemed never to have occurred to him that the rough-and-tumble might be avoided, and time gained, by the simple expedient of taking a cab.
Sitting opposite to Samuel, she avoided his persistent glances by reading the rows of advertisements above his head. Somebody’s ‘Blue;’ somebody’s ‘Soap;’ somebody’s ‘High-class Jams;’ and behold, inserted between the Soap and the Jam—‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only-begotten Son, that whoso believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ Nancy perused the passage without perception of incongruity, without emotion of any kind. Her religion had long since fallen to pieces, and universal defilement of Scriptural phrase by the associations of the market-place had in this respect blunted her sensibilities.
Barmby was talking to Jessica Morgan. She caught his words now and then.
‘Can you tell me what is the smallest tree in the world?—No, it’s the Greenland birch. Its full-grown height is only three inches—positively! But it spreads over several feet.’
Nancy was tempted to lean forward and say, ‘How do you know?’ But the jest seemed to involve her in too much familiarity with Mr Barmby; for her own peace it was better to treat him with all possible coldness.
A woman near her talked loudly about the procession, with special reference to a personage whom she called ‘Prince of Wiles.’