Storyteller.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 43, 20 January 1894, Page 13

Storyteller.

MY LUOK(?)

(Written for the Southern Cross)

[By J Nib.]

Agricultural Art Union. No. 4971. Mr John Bunch Topover. Prize ; Valuable Oil Painting of a Lady. I am the John Bunch Topover referred to above. I came by my ticket quite casually, and it had sunk from 4he top to the bottom of a tile of unpaid bills at the time of drawing. My first experience of prize winning, and, please Heaven, my last ! Bead my story to the end. Tori •will then see the cruelty, the wretched irony of Fate (as the novelists say) in a person of my circumstances being awarded any prize of marketable value.

I had not felt in so happy a frame <of mind for some years as I did one evening, a week ago. I had just finished a month’s engagement as agent for Mr Toole’s new insurance company. Not only had I a cheque dor eight pounds in my pocket, but I liad been engaged for another month. I whistled from sheer happiness as I journeyed homeward. I had to pass inv shoemaker’s on the way. On the strength of my future employment. I determined to consult him on the state of my boots. Would the}'bear unending again ? Yes, they would, and not only that, hut the good fellow would do them while I waited. His boy did one, he the other, while I sat in my socks by the fire. It often strikes me that poverty has its compensations. There are few things I enjoy more than Brown’s stories. Now if I could afford to have two pail’s of hoots, I should send -one pair to be mended and wear the other, so I shook! never hear the old naan’s opinions on passing events. Get Brown on the “ Woman’s Franchise !” I do wish Mrs Didham (my wife’s mother) could hear him ! I Ikeep poverty’s compensations in mind as much as possible. As I was going out of Brown’s, I saw a pretty pair of slippers,' soft and warm—the very things for poor Jo. I asked the price. Cheap ! I put them back, and had got half waydown the street, but for the life of me, I could not walk away and leave those slippers there, while I had the money- that would buy- them in mypocket. I returned, bought them, and felt richer with the slippers than the money. Perhaps y-ou may think they were for my wife. I should have told you Jo is my niece. Years ago my brother Jim’s wife left him and his crippled child. The same night a knock came at our parlour window. Jim stood outside with his two-year-old baby- wrapped in a rug. He held her to me and my wife, saying—“ Jack, she has no mother, and is a cripple. Keep her for me that I may he off.” I turned to my- wife, Mary. She had her baby- in her arms. She looked at Jim, then at her own child. “ No mother and a cripple,” I repeated softly-. My- wife hesitated a second, then said —“John, my- arms are full, but yours are free.” The next minute the forsaken, shivering, malformed little being was cuddled up in them, and there she lias been —first literally-, then figuratively- —ever since. Perhaps some may know what I mean when I say that Jo has been better than church to me. As to my- handsome, clever brother Jim, we have never seen or heard of him since. At times when I come home a little bit down, and Mary-, good wife though she be, cannot spare time from the troubles I’ve brought on her, to throw more than a hasty word to me, I know ■there will alway’s be a welcome in a little room upstairs. When I get there, I ask (somehow I know Jo nlway-s expects me to do so) “ Much pain to-day, Jo ?” Then the crooked little figure on the big rocking chair makes a pre-

tence of straightening itself, an old-y-oung face looks up and smiles brightly, and most likely answers in this wise :

“Bunch, I’ve had a cruel night and a pretty bad day-, but I have not an ache left in my back now. I’ve knitted the last of that order for socks, and I want y-ou to take them and bring me the money-. No one* but y-ou. Bunch, because you’re such a sharp old man of business.” Then we both laugh, and I tell her al! we have done, and all I’ve tried to do, the latter being always the biggest part. For her sake I make as light of my disappointments as I can, until at last I find, that what with trying to pick out the funny- side of my troubles and amuse this poor niece of mine, who never sees more of life than that which comes up the narrow stairs to her, that they gradually become light, so that by the time I’m called to supper I’m quite bright and cheerful.

The worst thing that can happen to a man is to get into debt. There y-ou have the whole thing. I might write pages and not say so much. Debt ! That one word tells all. That is w-hat has been the matter with me. The complaint, I may say, is chronic. Several times I have been nearly going into that great Hospital for the debilitated in credit, namely-, the bankruptcy court, but my soul has recoiled from the indecent exposure required while the person is being operated on. I feel certain that if I became a patient (I mean an insolvent) l should come out unnerved for future effort and morally dead. No, I’m in debt, have been, and probably always shall be ; but never, never shall the name of John Bunch Topover figure in y-our bankruptcy columns !

My trouble has always taken the form of balances —a modified phase, you will graciously observe, of debt, but still, alas ! debt !

During the fifteen y-ears of my married life I have never seemed.to be able to clear a bill light off. I’ve never been evtravagant, never willingly idle, but, except for a few months at a time, I have never got steady employment. A little here and there, and-that little never regularly paid, may account for much. Then, when I am out of work, I’m not the sort of man to get it easily-—to quote Pinafore “I’m unpleasant to look at, and my name’s agen me.” I find it hard, too, with my family-, to dress as well as people like in their employes, for like the subjects of Wordsworth’s ballad —“ We are seven.” The eldest we named John. He is earning six-and-eightpence a week in a lawyer’s office. Then comes Mary, as good as gold. She helps her mother. Next Cecilia Ariadne. Ns! Sebastian Selwyn. Really-, I can never remember which is the eldei’ of those two dear children! Some babies died between. Never mind, I’ll run off the rest. Clytie Veronica, Hercules Isben, and the baby, who is crying at the present minute (and at all present minutes), Mrs Didham has named Gladstone Stout Ward. You may have noticed that the larger and poorer a family becomes, so much the more romantic and ambitious the names of the younger members. In such manner I think do parents endeavour to make reprisal and apology to the unwanted ones for bringing them into a world already too well filled.

Ah, those balances! Don’t think I’ve been indolent, don’t think my creditors have been hard. There have been one or two so generous that even now I could stand up and bless their names. Many have allowed me to settle by- contra accounts in the shape of something’ they wanted done. There is, believe me, nothing, as a rule, that a creditor will refuse to accept sooner than lose all. All, I could tell you dozens of ways I have paid off old balances. Perhaps the merriest, heartiest time I had was last winter, when old Blewitt proposed that I should put him and his wife through the Lancers, so that he might ojien a lodge ball.

“ Charge me for it, old boy,” sai ke. “ Dash it, that five pound mug be paid this year, or we shall be over the limitation !”

My parents had given me a smattering of accomplishments. Most men of my stamp have had that sort of education, and I used to be a goos dancer. Armed with Edward Scott’ dance book to modernize my tuition I not only taught Blewitt and his wife the Lancers, but all the round dances as well.

My wife played for us. It did me good to hear her ring out the old tunes again. The instrument was poor Jim’s wedding present to her. I had only old Blewitt, his wife, and two daughters the first night, but it gradually got -wind, and by the second we had double sets. Heaven forgive me —all balances. “ Balancez !” cried I in the third figure of the quadrille. “ What ? ” roared old Blewitt. “ Balancez, so,” said I, showing them. “ Send I may live,” cried that old vulgarian Blewitt; “ you’ve hit it,” and he gave me a slap on the back stagger—“ Balance, say, so it is!” The whole class took it up, while old Blewitt, who is a poor figure at dancing, had to sit down while he got over his joke. I never cared much for Blewitt. Jo used to call those Tuesday nights “ creditors’ meetings.” Last winter I got rid of a good many debts in this pleasant manner —indeed I may say that I had been gradual! 3" getting things straight. Duns had ceased coming with threats. What a time I once had with them. There was one particularly disreputable little man who used really to lodge on our front doorstep. 111-look-ing, ill-speaking, and ill-smelling, it g - ave me a turn to find him there, which was always when I felt most tired and had been more than usually unfortunate. The way he found out anything I owed, and got the collection of it. was really marvellous. Jo used to call him ‘ the ferret.” Well, up to a feAV days ago he had not been inside our gate for six months. Some debts still remained, but there was only one that seemed to me really impossible. It had once been sixty pounds. I had reduced it, heaven only knows how, to forty pounds. It had been made through a mad venture of mine a venture I had put all the wildest hopes of my lost boyhood in. It was very mad—everyone said so —afterwards ! You will understand me best, perhaps, if I say that it was something that stood to me in the same position as that secret dream does to you, dear reader, that made my heart leap as yours does, that brightened my eyes as yours brighten when you are left alone to add another brick to that stealthily-built castle that even your dearest and nearest know not of.

Yes, I had a terrible time before that sixty pounds became a balance. Oliver, the principal creditor, at first considered me an impudent swindler, and took out a summons which quickly developed into a warrant. However, he waited. When I brought him pound by pound, and he had got used to the matter, I think he understood me a little. He has since died, and I have no doubt that now he understands me even better. Anyway, up to a few days ago I had heard nothing of any further claim, and I believed from my last conversation with Mr Oliver that he meant to take no more trouble in the matter, but to leave the payment to time and my honour. Besides Oliver, there were a few odd pounds here and there which I was expected to pay when I could. So you see on the evening I mentioned I had some reason to consider things were looking up with me. After I had purchased Jo her slippers, I determined my wife should not wait longer for the new dress she had put off getting month after month. I chose a dark-blue serge, and paid for it to be made like the one the stylish young person who served me had on. I laughed to myself as I thought how susprised and pleased Mary would be.

After that I determined that the children should have a plum-pudding, for on Christmas Day they had to go without. I had about four pounds left when all this was over. About -nine o’clock I reached home, feeling neither tired nor hungry. All fatigue was forgotten in the thought of the good news and good things I had for all. As I went up the path I pictured to myself how Mary would hold her hreath when I told her of my next month’s sure pay. How she would scold, smile, and finally cry when I told her of the new dress. Xes, she would be sure to get red and cry a little —“ women are strange !” And Jo ? Ah, there, poor Jo! Slippers for feet that had never walked—and never would walk ! And those children, those children, how they would shout! Past 11. Tf I have reason to he pleased with myself I always ring at the front door. Whenever I am down on my luck (as the saying is) I go round to the hack. It is needless to say that the latter is my usual entrance. That night what a scuffle there was in the passage ! My three children endeavoured against each other to let me in, locking and double-locking the door in their efforts. They had evidently been waiting for me. When they did get it open I could hardly hear myself speak. They all shouted at once:

“ Let me tell Fa! Be quiet!” Pa, you’ve won “ don’t be so rude, John ; Pa, you’ve won a prize.” Their voices were here drowned by Gladstone Stout Ward, who appeared screaming on Mrs Didham’s arm. Mrs Didhara silenced everyone but Gladstone, and between Ins shrieks Mie delivered herself in jerks of the following - intelligence :

“ My dearest John, don’t come in. Hun as fast as your legs can carry you to Jones’ art union shop. My dear, dearest John, you’ve won a prize ——a valuable oil-painting- of a lady; •value five guineas. There is the ■ticket. It’s been advertised a week. INdvv, don’t be too late, as you alw r ays are. Run !” With that she turned me round, and giving- me a push with Jier disengaged hand, shut the door.

With Mrs Hidham’s injunctions and Gladstone Stout Ward’s shrieks in my ears I turned away, still burdened with my parcels. Hid I feel pleased F Really, I cannot say. The only feeling I was conscious of at first was disappointment at finding Mrs Didham at our house. Gradually, however, I toook hold of the idea that I had actually won a prize—l F

In the meantime I had become aware of footsteps following mine. I turned and recognised my old enemy -—“ the ferret.” He crossed the road, and I never thought of him again. I ran on. The pace begun to stir my blood. I became excited over my good fortune. I stood at a lighted shop window and read my ticket — 144 A valuable oil painting of a lady!” Xm fond of art —our room, I pride myself, shows that. An oil pointing ! Well done ! My luck had turned ! With beating heart I reached the shop. It was cleared of every prize but the one I came to claim. Groups of idlei’S stood about it. I explained m3' business to the man in charge. The larrikins called to each ether that the dude had come for his girl at last, and among many rude jokes, I went forward to take my prize. The painting represented a lady of the seventeenth century —complexion a greenish tinge ; brownish red ey'es, which from the first impressed me with their .saturnine expression ; and a quantity of untidy-looking black hair. Such was the outward aspect of my one hit of luck (?) After many' efforts, I got the picture, which measured five foot by four, on ray' head (I found afterwards that I must, in my endeavours to take up my prize, have laid down the parcel containing the children’s pudding, for 1 never saw it afterwards). Attended part of the way- by' the larrikins, 1 carried it homewards. At the same moment, as my house -jtioor was flung open for my entrance

a figure slipped past me, from the shadow of the porch —“ The ferret!” He preceded me into my drawingroom, and with a mocking how, assisted Mrs Didham to lift the prize from my head ? “ What the ?” “ Exactly,” said he, with the evil grin I remembered of old. “ What do you mean by coming in here like this ? I’ll—”

“ Softly, my dear friend, I’ve come —-to stay !” and he showed me, what I knew to be before I read it, a warrant—a warrant for the recovery of my debt to the late Mr Oliver. “ How did you come by this ?” I demanded.

- “It was that blessed beauty there that helped me to this bit of business. My dear hoy, I never thought you had so much furniture! That piano will fetch thirty pounds. Oh, my dear boy, this ain’t right and honest of you ! There’s an easy chair, too. Oh, I’m really ashamed of you! How did I get Oliver’s claim ? Well, I comes from Mr Pinch, old Oliver’s son-in-law. I used to visit Pinch pretty often once, on else’s account. Pinch was always civil to me, and I always try to help those who are.” Here he gave me a spiteful look. “ I always goes to the Athenreum to read the day’s court cases. I makes my living that way. Every night I goes, my dear boy, and reads them, takes a list and goes off the next day to the creditors. It is just a week ago now that after reading the court business I turned to the art union and sees your name there I had a ticket, but poor honest men like me never gets no prizes. Who should come and look over the same prize with me, but Pinch r 1 Somehow, like a flash, corned to me the thought of your old debt to bis father-in-law. We laid our heads together, and I proposes to him we should look over the old man’s papers, and that is how I comes here.”

1 walked np and down. How I longed to kick the little beast out Even in ny trouble, I noticed how the eyes of the picture followed, and seemed to mock, me. “ Any good my going to see Mr Pinch,” I asked at last. “Why should you F Oh, I blushes for you, my dear boy ; I blushes for you. Try to like being honest. Do tiy !” The desire to kick him out again nearly mastered me, and again I could have sworn that the ‘ lady ’ enjoyed the whole scene. Her espionage and the bodily presence of that unwholesome bailiff at length caused me to retreat. I sought the family conclave which had assembled in the room where my supper had long been waiting. I do not feel inclined to write down all that took place there. Mrs Didham characterised my conduct as “ perfectly brutal.” Last of all, I went to Jo’s room. Neither do I feel inclined to write down all that happened there. Perhaps I made a fool of myself. Perhaps ! I don’t know. Anyway, I came out feeling less like a ruffian than when I went in. After all, the slippers had not been lost, nor Mary’s dress. I still had those fragments of my wrecked anticipations left. I think, on the whole, J shall preserve my self-respect best if I omit most of the particulars of the last few days, merely noting two or three consequent events. Among them, is being compelled by every tradesman we run a monthly account with, to pay ready-raoney for every article. Fortunately, I have had Mr Toole’s four pounds. Many letters ha, - e come, most of them revivals of old claims. Before I could go round to Mr Toole last Monday, I had a note from him, enclosing a week’s salary, to the effect that he regretted, but it was an unbreakable rule of his that among his employes there should be none who • were m public difficulties. Of course ray furniture had been advertised for sale under sheriff’s order in the paper. By the time I received Mr Toole's

dismissal .1 had passed to the stage where despair makes a man so callous that he can laugh at his own tragedy. A man must be pretty far gone before he can do that —so far that he needs but an easy means of escape from this bitter-sweet life, never to come back at all.

Ah, that longing to put your head down, down aye, even to Mother hfarth herself, content if there might only be for you no to-morrow ! Yes, these last few da} r s, during which “ the ferret ” has sat at our front window reading my books, have been loaded with degradation. As a matter of form I have been hither and thither, but where could I get forty pounds ? My furniture was sold two hours ago. The auctioneer kept as a last lot that diabolical “lady.” Fancy my disgust to find, by the time her turn came, that sufficient had been raised to pay all Pinch’s claim. My Luck clings to me to the last. The auctioneer good-naturedly sent a man (who is waiting downstairs now) to carry my “ prize ” home again. As I followed him, w r ith head hung down, to my despoiled house, I was stopped by a small boy with—- “ Ticket for the Bathers’ Club Art Union, sir ? Only a bob, and you may win hundreds, sir. Buy a ticket, sir. Do buy a ticket, sir 1” My answer was brief, if cruel. I heard the little imp yell. Then call to a friend in disgust-—“ Look at him, Bill. He won the Agricultural Art Union prize— ‘ a valuable oil-painting of a ladjg’ vally five guineas, and the old beggar won’t buy another ticket. Yah !”

Dear reader, my experience is finished.

I intended requesting the man who waits below to take “ the valuable oilpainting ” as an offering to Mrs Didham. He has already waited long, so I will now say fare-well !

Balance of Stoky. My hand shakes so, that I can hardly write. So strong is habit that I hare actually made another debt within the last hour. Header, it is to you I owe it. I have not quite cleared up with you ! The man downstairs is—my brother Jim ! He has returned rich and prosperous —able to give Jo every comfort. Jim is going to open a brunch of his American house in this our glorious, enfranchised land! I am to be manager, with a salary of three hundred a year, and a year’s back pay ! No more debts ! Excuse excitement, I am quite off my balance ! Again, dear reader—farewell ! May the future bring you, without my previous misfortunes, a good share of enjoyment in “ My Luck.”