CHAPTER III

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.