Mr. Poskitt's Nightcaps. Stories of a Yorkshire Farmer

"What's the matter, Thomas?" inquired the younger twin.

Thomas groaned still more loudly.

"Matter!" he exclaimed at last, making a mighty effort and resorting to the decanters and cigars. "Matter a deal, Matthew. I dare say," he continued, after he had drunk his potion with a suggestion of its being bitter as aloes, "I dare say I should have been warned, for there's a many proverbs about the frailty and deceit of women. But, of course, never having had aught to do with them I was unarmed for the contest, so to speak."

"Then she's been a-deceiving of you, Thomas?" asked Matthew.

"Deceived me cruel," sighed Thomas. "I shall never believe in that sex again."

Matthew blew out a few spirals of blue smoke before he asked a further question.

"I could hope," he said at last, "I could hope, Thomas, that it were not on the money question?"

Thomas shook his head dolefully, afterwards replenishing his glass.

"It were on the money question, Matthew," he said. "I understood that she'd come to me with a considerable fortune; a very considerable fortune!"

"Well?" asked Matthew, breathlessly.

Thomas spread out his hands with a despairing gesture.

"All passes from her if she marries again!" he said tersely.

"Is it true?" inquired Matthew.

"Told me so herself – this very evening," answered Thomas.

A dead silence came over the farmhouse parlour. Thomas lighted a cigar and smoked pensively; Matthew refilled his churchwarden pipe and puffed blue rings at the ceiling, whereat he gazed as if in search of inspiration. It was he who spoke first.

"It's a bad job, this, Thomas," he said; "a very bad job. Of course, you'll not be for carrying out your part of the arrangement?"

"I have been cruel deceived," said Thomas.

"At the same time," said Matthew, "when this here engagement was made between you, you didn't make it a condition that the fortune should come with her?"

"No-o!" answered Thomas.

"Then, of course, if you throw her over she can sue you for breach of promise, and as you're a well-to-do man the damages would be heavy," remarked Matthew.

Thomas groaned.

"What must be done, Thomas, must be done by management," said the younger twin. "We must use diplomacy, as they term it. You must go away for a while. It's a slack time with us now, and you've naught particular to do – go and have a fortnight at Scarborough Spaw, and when that's over go and see Cousin Happleston at his farm in Durham; he'll be glad to see you. And while you're away I'll get the matter settled – leave it to me."

Thomas considered that very good advice and said he would act on it, and he went off to his room earlier than usual in order to pack a portmanteau, so that he could set off from the immediate scene of his late woes early next morning. When he had departed Matthew mixed himself his usual nightcap, and, having taken a taste of it to see that it was according to recipe, proceeded to warm his back at the fire, to rub his hands, and to smile.

"It were a good conception on my part to speak to Lawyer Sharpe on that matter," he thought to himself. "I wonder Thomas never considered of it."

He drew a letter from his breast-pocket, and read it slowly through. This is what he read —

"PRIVATE10, Market Place, Cornborough,May 11, 18 – .

"MR. MATTHEW POGMORE.

"DEAR SIR, – In accordance with your instructions I have caused the will of the late Mr. Samuel Walkinshaw, of the Dusty Miller Hotel in this town, to be perused at Somerset House. With the exception of a few trifling legacies to servants and old friends, the whole of the deceased's fortune was left unconditionally to the widow, there being no restriction of any kind as to her possible second marriage. The gross personalty was £15,237 odd; the net, £14,956 odd. In addition to this the freehold, good-will, stock and furniture of the Dusty Miller was also left to the widow.

"I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,

"SAMUEL SHARPE."

Matthew folded this epistle carefully in its original folds and restored it to his pocket, still smiling.

"Ah!" he murmured. "What a thing it is to have a little knowledge and to know how to take advantage of it!"

Then he, too, retired to bed and slept well, and rose next morning to see his twin-brother off, bidding him be of good cheer and prophesying that he should return a free man. Left alone, he chuckled.

Matthew allowed some days to elapse before he went into Cornborough. Mrs. Walkinshaw looked somewhat surprised to see him, though of late he had taken to visiting the house occasionally. As a privileged visitor he passed into her private parlour.

"And pray what's become of Thomas these days?" she inquired, when Matthew was comfortably placed in the cosiest chair.

Matthew shook his head. His manner was mysterious.

"Don't ask me, ma'am," he said, sorrowfully. "It's a painful subject. Of course, however, between you and me and the post, as the saying is, Thomas has gone to Scarborough Spaw, ma'am."

"To Scarborough!" exclaimed Mrs. Walkinshaw. "What for?"

Matthew sighed and then gave her an expressive look.

"He's very fond of a bit of gay doings, is Thomas, ma'am," he said. "Likes to shake a loose leg, now and then, you understand. It gets a bit dull at our place in time. But I'm all for home, myself."

Mrs. Walkinshaw, who had listened to this with eyes which grew wider and wider, flung down her fancy sewing in a pet.

"Well, upon my word!" she exclaimed. "Gone gallivanting to Scarborough without even telling me. Then I'll take good care he never comes back here again. A deceitful old rip! – I don't believe he was ever after anything but my money, for I tried a trick on him about it the other night, and he went off with a face as long as a fiddle and never said good-night. Old sinner!"

"We're all imperfect, ma'am," remarked Matthew. "Only some of us is less so."

Then he proceeded to make himself agreeable, and eventually went home well satisfied. And about five weeks later Thomas, whose holiday had been prolonged on Matthew's advice, received a letter from his twin-brother which made him think harder than he had ever thought in his life.

"DEAR BROTHER" (it ran), – "This is to tell you that you can return home safely now, as I was married to Mrs. Walkinshaw myself this morning. I have decided to retire from farming, and she will retire from the public way of business, as we find that with our united fortunes we can live private at Harrogate and enter a more fashionable sphere of life, as is more agreeable to our feelings. Business details between you and me can be settled when you return. So no more at present, from your affectionate brother,

"MATTHEW POGMORE.

"P.S. – You was misinformed in your meaning of what Mrs. Matthew Pogmore meant when she spoke of her fortune passing at her second marriage. She meant, of course, that it would pass to her second husband.

"P.S. again. – Which, naturally, it has done."

After this Mr. Thomas Pogmore concluded to go home and lead the life of a hermit amongst his sheep and cattle.

CHAPTER XII

A MAN OR A MOUSE

PROLOGUE

The cleverest man I ever knew was at the same time the wisest and kindest-hearted of men. Not that the possession of wisdom, nor the grace of kindness to his fellow-creatures, made him clever in a high degree, but that when I was in the journeyman stage of learning, feeling my feet, as it were, he gave me what I have ever since known – not considered, mind you, but known – to be the best and most invaluable advice that one creature could give to another. It was this – put into short words (and, mind you, this man was a big man, and a very successful business man, inasmuch as he raised one of the biggest concerns in his own town out of sheer nothing, and died a rich man, having used his wealth kindly and wisely at a time when things were not what they are now) —

"Poskitt – tha'rt nowt but a young 'un! Tha's goin' inta t' world, and tha'll find 'at theer'll be plenty o' men to gi' thee what they call advice. Now, I seen all t' world o' Human Nature, and I'll gi' thee better advice nor onnybody 'at tha'll ever find – 'cause I know! Listen to me —

"(i.) I'steead o' trustin' nobody, trust ivverybody – till thou finds 'em out. When thou finds 'em out (if thou ivver does), trust 'em agen! Noä man's a bad 'un, soä long as ye get on t' reight side on him. An' it's yer own fault, mind yer, if ye doän't.

"(ii.) Doän't think ower much about makkin' Brass. It's a good thing to mak' Brass, and a good thing to be in possession on it, but Brass is neyther here nor theer unless ye ware it on yer friends. Save yer Brass as much as ye can. Keep it for t' rainy Day – ye never know when that rainy Day's comin' – but don't skrike at a sixpence when ye know that a half-crown wodn't mak' a diff'rence. Doän't tak' yer sweetheart to market, and let her come home wi' a penny ribbon when ye know in yer own heart 'at ye might ha' bowt her a golden ring.

"(iii.) To end up wi' – trust ivvery man ye meet – not like a fool, but like a wiseacre. Love your neighbours – but tak' good care that they love you. If ye find that they don't, have nowt to do with 'em – but go on loving 'em all the same. If theer's Retribution, it weern't fall on you, but on them. But at th' same time, ye must remember that ivvery one on us mak's the other. An', to sum up all the lot, ivvery man 'at were ivver born on this earth mak's himself."

I

In one of those old Latin books which I sometimes buy in the old book-shops in the market-towns that I visit, out of which I can pick out a word or two, a sentence or two (especially if they are interleaved with schoolboys' attempts at cribs), there is a line which I, at any rate, can translate with ease into understandable English – a line that always puts me in mind of my old, wise friend's blunt sayings —

"Every man is the maker of his own fortune."

And that's why I am going to tell you this story of a man who did Three Things. First: Made Himself a Millionaire. Second: Lived in a Dream while he was in the Process. Third: Came out of the Dream – when it was all too late.

Now we will begin with him.

II

Samuel Edward Wilkinson, when I first knew him, was a small boy of twelve who, in the privacy of the back garden of a small provincial grammar-school, ate tarts and apples which he never shared with his school-fellows. He was the last of a large family – I think his mother succumbed to the strain of bearing him, the tenth or eleventh – and he had the look of a starved fox which is not quite certain where the nearest hen-roost is. The costume of small boys in those days – the early forties – did not suit him; the tassel of his peaked cap was too much dependent upon his right eyebrow, and the left leg of his nankeen trousers was at least an inch and a half higher than its corresponding member.

"Poskitt," he said to me, the first time that I ever indulged in any real private conversation with him, "what shall you do when you leave Doctor Scott's?"

"Go home," said I.

He was eating one of his usual jam-tarts at the time, and he looked at me sideways over a sticky edge of it.

"Poskitt – what's your father?" he asked.

"My father's a farmer – but it's our own land," said I.

He finished his tart – thoughtfully. Then he took out a quite clean handkerchief and wiped the tips of his fingers on it. He looked round, more thoughtfully than before, at the blank walls of Doctor Scott's back garden. I was sensible enough even at that age to see that he was regarding far-away things.

"My father," he said, after an obvious cogitation, "is a butcher. He makes a lot of money, Poskitt. But there are eleven of us. I am the eleventh. When I leave school – "

He stopped short there, and from his trousers pocket drew out two apples. You may think that he was going to give me one – instead of that he looked them over, selected what he evidently considered the best, bit into it, and put the other back in his pocket.

"When I leave school," he resumed, "I mean to go into business. Now, what do you think of business, Poskitt?"

I was so astonished, boy as I was, to hear this miserable mannikin talking as he did, that I dare say I only gaped at him. Between his bites at his apple he continued his evidences of a shrewd character.

"You see, Poskitt," he said, "I've thought a great deal while I've been here at Doctor Scott's. I don't think much of Doctor Scott – he's very kind, but he doesn't tell any of us how to make money. Your father's got a lot of money, hasn't he?"

"How do you know?" I said, rather angrily.

"Because," said he, quite calmly, "I see him give you money when he comes to see you. Nobody gives money away who hasn't got it. And you see, Poskitt, although my father makes a lot of money, too, he doesn't give me much – sixpence a week."

"How do you get your tarts and your apples, then?" I asked.

He gave me one more of those queer glances

"My mother and my sisters send me a basket," he answered. "Of course, Poskitt, we've got to get all we can out of this world, haven't we? And I want to get on and to make money. What do you consider the best way to make money, Poskitt?"

I was so young and irresponsible at that time, so full of knowledge of having the old farmstead and the old folks and everything behind me, that I scarcely understood what this boy was talking about. I dare say I gave him a surly nod, and he went on again – very likely, for aught I remember, eating the other apple.

"You see, Poskitt," he said, "there's one thing that's certain. A man must be either a man or a mouse. I won't be a mouse."

I was watching his face – I was at that time a big, ruddy-faced lad, with limbs that would have done credit to an offspring of Mars and Venus, and he looked the sort that would eventually end in a shop, with white cheeks above and a black tie under a sixpenny collar – and a strange revulsion came to me, farmer and landsman though I was. And I let him go on.

"I won't be a mouse, Poskitt!" he said, with a certain amount of determination. "I'll be a man! I'll make money. Now, what do you think the best way to make money, Poskitt?"

I don't think I made any answer then.

"I've thought it all out, Poskitt," he resumed. "You see, there are all sorts of professions and trades. Well, if you go into a profession, you've got to spend a great deal of money before you can make any. And in some trades you have to lay out a good deal before you can receive any profit. But there are trades, Poskitt, in which you get your money back very quickly – with profit. Now, do you know, Poskitt, the only trades are those which are dependent on what people want. You can't live without food, or clothes, or boots. Food, Poskitt, is the most important thing, isn't it? And why I talked to you is because I think you're the wisest boy in the school – which trade would you recommend me to enter upon?"

"Go and be a butcher!" I answered. "Like your father."

He shook his head in mild and deprecating fashion.

"I don't like the smell of meat," he said. "No – I shall take up some other line."

Then, as the smell of dinner came from the dining-room, he added the further remark that as our parents paid Doctor Scott regularly once a quarter, we ought to have our money's worth, and so walked away to receive his daily share of it.

III

Samuel Edward Wilkinson duly left school, and became, of his own express will, an apprentice to a highly respectable grocer who enlarged upon his respectability by styling himself a tea merchant and an Italian warehouseman. The people who visited the shop (which was situate in a principal street in an important sea-port town) were invariably impressed by the powder-blueness of the sign and by the red-goldness of the letters which stood out so plainly from the powder-blue. It had a cachet of its own, and the proprietor had two daughters. But Samuel Edward was then scarcely over fourteen years of age, and as his parents and the proprietor were of a distinctly Dissenting nature, his time was passed much more in stealing sugar-candy out of newly-opened boxes, and in attending prayer-meetings at the nearest chapel, than in following the good example of London 'prentices of the other centuries. In fact, by the time Samuel Edward Wilkinson was nineteen years of age, he was not merely a money-grubber, but that worst of all things – a tradesman who looks upon God Almighty and the Bible as useful weights to put under an illegal scale. And as Samuel Edward gained more of his experience in the knowledge of his fellow make-weighters, the more he began to believe less in his fellow-men – with the natural result that certain women who were not his fellows suffered.

As he grew up, Samuel Edward, naturally, had to live somewhere else. His master had no room in his house for apprentices who had approached to maturity. But, like all masters of that early-Victorian age, he knew where accommodation in a highly Christian family was to be had, and Samuel Edward found himself en famille with a middle-aged dressmaker and a pretty child whose sweet sixteenity was much more appealing than the maturer charms of his master's daughters. Samuel Edward was not without good looks, and the child fell in love with him, and remained so for longer years than she had counted upon. But Samuel Edward was as philandering in love as he was pertinacious in business, and the idea of marriage was not within his immediate purview.

"At what age do you think, a man ought to marry, Poskitt?" he said to me during one of his periodical visits to the old village, he being then about two-and-twenty.

"When he feels inclined, and means it," said I.

"Of course, Poskitt, a man should never marry unless he marries money," he continued. "For a young man in my position, now, what would you say the young woman ought to be able to bring?"

I had sufficient common sense even at that age to make no reply to this question. I let him go on, silent under his sublime selfishness.

"Don't you think, Poskitt, that it's only right that when a man marries a woman he should expect her to make a certain amount of compensation?" he said. "It's a very serious thing, is marriage, you know, Poskitt. Anybody with my ambition – which is to be a man and not a mouse, or, in other words, to pay twenty shillings in the pound, and keep myself out of the workhouse – has to look forward a good deal. Now there's a young lady that I know of – where I lodge, in fact – that's very sweet on me, but I don't think her mother could give her more than a couple of hundred, and, of course, that's next to nothing. You see, Poskitt, I want to have a business of my own, and you can't get a business without capital. And money's very hard to make, Poskitt. I think – I really think – I shall put off the idea of getting married."

"That's the very wisest thing you can do," I said. "But you'd better tell the young lady so."

"Well, you see, Poskitt," he answered, stroking his chin, "the fact is – there are two young ladies. The other one is – my cousin Keziah. Now, of course, I know Keziah will have money when her father dies, but then I don't know when he will die. If I could tell exactly when he'll die, and how much Keziah will have, I should make up my mind – as it is, I think I shall have to wait. After all, it really doesn't make such a great deal of difference – one woman is about as good as another so far as marriage is concerned, Poskitt, isn't she? The money's the main thing."

"Why don't you go and find a rich heiress, then?" I asked.

"Ah!" he replied. "I only wish I could, Poskitt! But you must remember that I've no advantages. My father's only a butcher, and trade is trade, after all. You've great advantages over me – your people own their land – you're nobs compared to what I am. But I shall make myself a man, Poskitt. There's only one thing in the world that's worth anything, and that's money. I'm going to make money."

IV

I never saw Samuel Edward Wilkinson again for a great many years – in fact, not until he came back to the village to marry his cousin Keziah. It was then publicly announced that Samuel and Keziah had been engaged since early youth – but anybody who knew anything was very well aware of the truth that the marriage was now hastened because Keziah's father was dead and had left her a thousand pounds. During those intervening years Samuel Edward had been steadily pursuing his way towards his conception of manhood. He had spent several years in London, and never wore anything in the way of head-covering but a silk hat.

"Yes, Poskitt," he said, "it's taken me a long time, but I've saved enough money at last – with Keziah's little fortune thrown in, of course – to buy my first master's business. It's a very serious thing, is business, you know, Poskitt, and so is marriage. But Keziah's a capable girl, you know, Poskitt – very capable."

As Keziah was then quite forty years of age, her capability was undoubted, but it seemed to me that Samuel Edward had been a long time making up his mind.

"And where's the young lady of the early days?" I asked him.

He stroked his whiskers and shook his head.

"Well, you know, Poskitt," he replied, "it's a very unfortunate thing that she, of course, resides in the very town where I've bought my business."

"Is she married?" I asked.

"No," he answered, "no – she's not married, Poskitt. Of course I couldn't think of marrying her when Keziah was able to put her hands on a thousand pounds. After all, everybody's got to look after Number One. It's a very anxious time with me just now, Poskitt, I do assure you. What with getting married and setting up a business, I feel a great deal of responsibility. If you're ever our way (and I expect you'll be coming to the cattle markets), call in, and I'll show you the improvements I've made. It's a very fine position, Poskitt, but it's a difficult thing in these days for a man to get his own."

V

Samuel Edward's name duly appeared in blazing gilt on the powder-blue of the old sign, and he and Keziah settled down in a suburban street in company with a handmaiden and a black-and-tan terrier. Their lives were discreet and orderly, and they went to the particular Dissenting community which they affected at least once every Sabbath Day. At eight o'clock every morning Samuel Edward repaired to business; at seven in the evening he returned home to pour out his woes to Keziah. One of his apprentices had done this; an assistant had done that; a customer had fled, leaving a bill unpaid. Keziah, who was as keen on money-making as her husband, was invariably sympathetic in these matters, which were about the only things she understood, apart from her knowledge that her thousand pounds was in the business. She and Samuel Edward were both resolved on making money.

And suddenly came a thunderstorm over their sky. The little dressmaking lady, having been formally engaged to Samuel Edward for long years, finding herself jilted, suddenly awoke to the knowledge that she had a spirit, and caused the faithless one to be served with a writ for breach of promise. And Samuel Edward's men of law, going into the matter, told him that he had no defence, and would have to pay.

Samuel Edward took to his bed, and refused to be comforted. Keziah wept, entreated, cajoled, threatened – nothing was of use. All was over, in Samuel Edward's opinion. The other side wanted the exact amount represented by Keziah's dowry – one thousand pounds. Samuel Edward lay staring at the stencilled wall-paper, and decided that life was a distinct disappointment. He would die.

Then Keziah took matters in hand. She, with the help of an astute man, paid the thousand pounds – whereupon the little dressmaker, who was still well under forty, promptly married another. And then Keziah literally tore Samuel Edward out of bed, shook him into life, and gave him to understand that from that day forward he would have to work harder, earlier, and later than he had ever done before. And Samuel Edward fell to – under a ceaseless and never-varying supervision.

VI

"I'm a warm man, you know, Poskitt," he said to me many a long year after that. "A warm man, sir! There's nobody knows except myself, Poskitt, how much I have. No, sir! Made it all, you know. Look at my business, Poskitt! – one of the biggest and best businesses in the country. Twenty different establishments. Four hundred employees. Bring my own tea from Ceylon and China in my own ships. All the result of energy, Poskitt – no sitting still with me, as you rustics do – no, sir!"