by Ellen Wood
“No, Jane; it is not facture; it is facteur. We are speaking of a postman, you know. The two words are essentially different; different in meaning, in spelling, and in sound. I explained this to you yesterday.”
“I don’t like doing dictation, Miss Channing,” came the answering response.
“Go on, please. Le facteur, qui—”
“I’m tired to death. I know I’ve done a whole page.”
“You have done three lines. One of these days I will give you a whole page to do, and then you’ll know what a whole page is. Le facteur, qui arrive—”
Miss Jane Greatorex suddenly took a large penful of ink, and shook it deliberately on the copy-book. Leaving them to the contest, in which be you very sure the governess would conquer, for she was calm, kind, and firm, we will go to an opposite room, one that Mrs. Bede called her boudoir. A beautiful room, its paper and panelling of white and gold, its velvet carpet of delicate tints, its silk curtains of a soft rose-colour. But neither Mrs. Bede Greatorex, who sat there, nor her attire was in accordance with the room.
And, to say the truth, she had only come down from her chamber to get something left in it the night before: it was her favourite morning room, but Mrs. Bede was not wont to take up her position in it until made up for the day. And that was not yet accomplished. Her dark hair was untidy, her face pale and pasty, her dressing-gown, of a dull red with gold sprigs on it, sat loose. Seeing the Times on the table, she had caught it up, and thrown herself back in a reclining chair of satin-wood and pink velvet, while she looked over the advertisements. Mrs. Bede Greatorex was tall and showy, and there her beauty ended. As Louisa Joliffe, she had exercised a charm of manner that fascinated many, but she kept it for rare occasions now; and, they, always public ones. She had no children, and her whole life and being were wrapt in fashion, frivolity, and heartlessness. The graver duties of existence were wholly neglected by Louisa Greatorex: she seemed to live in ignorance that such things were. She never so much as glanced at the solemn thought that there must come a life after this life; she never for a moment strove to work on for it, or to help another on the pilgrimage: had she chosen to search her memory, it could not have returned to her the satisfaction of having ever performed a kind action.
One little specimen of her selfishness, her utter disregard for the claims and feelings of others, shall be given, for it occurred opportunely. As she sat, newspaper in hand, a young woman opened the door, and asked leave to speak to her. She was the lady’s-maid, and, as Mrs. Bede looked at her, knitting her brow at the request, she saw tears stealing down from the petitioning eyes.
“Could you please let me go out, madam? A messenger has come to say that my mother is taken suddenly worse: they think she is dying.”
“You can go when I am dressed,” replied Mrs. Bede Greatorex.
“Oh, madam, if you could please to let me go at once! I may not be in time to see her. Eliza says she will take my place this morning, if you will allow her.”
“You can go when I am dressed,” was the reiterated, cold, and decisive answer. “You hear me, Tallet. Shut the door.” And the maid withdrew, her face working with its vain yearning.
“She’s always wanting to go out to her mother,” harshly spoke Mrs. Bede Greatorex, as she settled herself to the newspaper again.
“One; two; three; four; five. Five houses that seem desirable. Bede may say what he chooses: in this miserable old house, with its professional varnish, we don’t stay. I’ll write at once for particulars,” she added, going to her writing-table, a costly piece of furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
The writing for particulars took her some little time, three-quarters of an hour about, and then she went up to be dressed; which ceremony occupied nearly an hour longer. Tallet might depart then. And thus you have a specimen of the goodness of heart of Louisa Greatorex.
But this has been a digression from the morning’s business, and we must return to the husband, whose wish and will she would have liked to defy, and to the office where he sat. The room was very quiet; nothing to be heard in it but the scratching of three pens; Mr. Brown’s, Mr. Hurst’s, and Mr. Jenner’s. This room was not entered indiscriminately by callers; the opposite door inscribed “Clerks’ Office,” was on the swing perpetually. This room was a very sedate one: as a matter of course so in the presence of Mr. Bede Greatorex; and the head of it in his absence, Mr. Brown, allowed no opportunity for discursive gossip. He was as efficient a clerk as Greatorex and Greatorex had ever possessed; young yet: a tall, slender, silent man, devoted to his business; about three years, or so, with them now. He wore a wig of reddish brown, and his whiskers and the hair on his chin were sandy.
Bede Greatorex shut some papers into his desk with a click, and began opening another parchment. “Did you get an answer yesterday, from Garnett’s people, Mr. Hurst?” he suddenly asked.
“No, sir. I could not see them.”
“Their clerk came in last evening to say we should hear from them to-day,” interposed Mr. Brown, looking up from his writing to speak.
It was in these moments — when the clerk’s eyes unexpectedly met those of Mr. Bede Greatorex — that the latter would feel a kind of disagreeable sensation shoot through him. Over and over again had it occurred: the first time when Mr. Brown had been in the office but a day. They were standing talking together on that occasion, when a sudden fancy took Bede that he had seen the man somewhere before. It was not to be called a recognition; but a kind of semi-recognition, vague, indefinite, uncertain, and accompanied by a disagreeable feeling, which had its rise perhaps in the very uncertainty.
“Have we ever met before?” Mr. Bede Greatorex had questioned; but Mr. Brown shook his head, and could not say. A hundred times since then, when he met the steady gaze of those remarkably light grey eyes (nearly always bent on their work), had Bede stealthily continued to study the man; but the puzzle was always there.
Mr. Brown’s eyes and face were bent on his desk again to-day. His master, holding a sheet of parchment up before him, as if to study the writing better, suffered his gaze to wander over its top and fix itself on Mr. Brown. The clerk, happening to glance up unguardedly, caught it.
He was one of the most observant men living, quiet though he seemed, and could not fail to be aware that he was thus occasionally subjected to the scrutiny of his master — but he never appeared to see it.
“Did you speak, sir?” he asked, as if he had looked up to ask the question.
“I was about to speak,” said Mr. Bede Greatorex. “There’s a new clerk coming in to-day to replace Parkinson. Nine o’clock was the hour fixed, and now it is half-past ten. If this is a specimen of his habits of punctuality, I fear he’ll not do much good. You will place him at Mr. Hurst’s desk.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Mr. Brown, making no comment. The out-going clerk, Parkinson, had been at Jenner’s desk.
“I am going over to Westminster,” continued Mr. Bede Greatorex, gathering some papers in his hand. “If Garnett’s people come in, they must wait for me. By the way, what about that deed — —”
The words were cut short by a clatter. A clatter and bustle of feet and doors; some one was dashing in from the street in a desperate hurry, with a vast deal of unnecessary noise. First the swing-door gave a bang, then the clerks’ door opened and banged; now this one was sent back with a breeze; and a tall fine-looking young man came bustling in, head foremost — Mr. Roland Yorke.
Not so very young, either. For more than seven years have elapsed since he was of age, and went careering off on a certain hopeful voyage of his to Port Natal, told of in history. He is changed since then. The overgrown young fellow of twenty-one, angular and awkward, has become quite a noble-looking man in his great strength and height. The face is a fine one, good-nature the predominant expression of the somewhat rough features, which are pale and clear and healthy: the indecision that might once have been detected in his countenance, has given place to earnestness now. Of regular beauty in
his face, as many people count beauty, there is none; but you would scarcely pass him in the street without turning to look at him. In manner he is nearly as much of a boy as a grown man can be, just as he ever was, hasty, thoughtless, and impulsive.
“I know I’m late,” he began. “How d’ye do, Mr. Greatorex?”
“Yes, you are late, Mr. Yorke,” was the response of Mr. Bede Greatorex, submitting to the hearty handshake offered. “Nine was the hour named.”
“It was the boat’s fault,” returned Roland, speaking with loud independence, just as he might had he been a ten thousand a-year client of the house. “I went down to see Carrick off at eight o’clock, and if you’ll believe me, the vessel never got away before ten. They were putting horses on board. Carrick says they’ll lose their tide over yonder; but he didn’t complain, he’s as easy as an old shoe. Since then I’ve had a pitch out of a hansom cab.”
“Indeed!”
“I told the fellow to drive like mad; which he did; and down went the horse, and I out a-top of him, and the man a-top of me. There was no damage, only it all served to hinder. But I’m ready for work now, Mr. Greatorex. Which is to be my place?”
To witness a new clerk announce himself in this loud, familiar kind of way, to see him grasp and shake the hand of Mr. Bede Greatorex: above all to hear him speak unceremoniously of the Earl of Carrick, one of the house’s noble clients, as if the two were hail-fellow-well-met, caused the whole office to look up, even work-absorbed Mr. Brown. Bede Greatorex indicated the appointed desk.
“This is where you will be, by the side of Mr. Hurst, a gentleman who is with us for improvement. Mr. Brown, the manager in this room” — pointing out the clerk with the end of his pen— “will assign you your work. Mr. Hurst, Mr. Roland Yorke.”
Roland took his seat at once, and turned up his coat-cuffs as a preliminary step to industry. Mr. Bede Greatorex, saying no more, passed through to his private room, and after a minute was heard to go out.
“What’s to do?” asked Roland.
Mr. Brown was already giving him something; a deed to be copied. He spoke a few instructions in a concise, quiet tone, and Roland Yorke set to work.
“What ink d’ye call this?” began Roland.
“It is the proper ink,” said Mr. Brown.
“It’s uncommon bad.”
“Have you ever been used to the kind of work, Mr. Yorke?” enquired the manager, wondering whether the new corner might be a qualified solicitor, brought to grief, or a gentleman-embryo just entering on his noviciate.
“Oh, haven’t I!” returned Mr. Yorke; “I was in a proctor’s office once, where I was worked to death.”
“Then you’ll soon find that to be good ink.”
“I had all the care of the office on my shoulders,” resumed Roland, holding the pen in the air, and sitting back on his stool while he addressed Mr. Brown. “There were three of us in the place altogether, not counting the old proctor himself, and we had enough work for six. Well, circumstances occurred to take the other two out of the office, and I, who was left, had to do it all. What do you think of that?”
Mr. Brown did not say what he thought. He was writing steadily, giving no encouragement for the continuance of the conversation. Mr. Hurst, his elbow on the desk, had his face turned to the speaker, surveying him at leisure.
“I couldn’t stand it; I should have been in my grave in no time; and so I thought I’d try a part of the world that might be more desirable — Port Natal. I say, what are you staring at?”
This was to Mr. Hurst. The latter dropped his elbow as he answered.
“I was looking whether you were much altered. You are: and yet I think I should have known you, after a bit, for Roland Yorke. When the name was mentioned I might have been at fault, but for your speaking of Lord Carrick.”
“He’s my uncle,” said Roland. “Who are you?”
“Jos Hurst, from Helstonleigh. Have you forgotten me? I was at the college school with your brothers, Gerald and Tod.”
Roland stared. He had not forgotten Josiah Hurst; but the rather short and very broad young man by his side, as broad as he was high, bore no resemblance to the once slim college boy. Roland never doubted: he got off his stool, upsetting it in the process, to shake heartily the meeting hand. Mr. Brown began to think the quiet of the office would not be much enhanced through its new inmate.
“My goodness! you are the first of the old fellows I’ve seen. And what are you, Hurst, — a lawyer?”
“Yes; I’ve passed. But the old doctor (at home, you know) won’t buy me a practice, or let me set up for myself, or anything, until I’ve had some experience: and so I have come to Greatorex and Greatorex to get it,” concluded Mr. Hurst, ruefully.
“And who’s he?” continued Roland, pointing to Jenner. “Greatorex said nothing about him.”
He was one of the least men ever seen, but he had a vast amount of work in him. Mr. Hurst explained that Jenner was only a clerk, but a very efficient one.
“He’d do twice the amount of work that I could, Yorke: I’m slow and sure; Jenner is sure and quick. How long have you been home from Port Natal?”
“Don’t bother about that now,” said Roland.
“Did you make your fortune out there?”
“What a senseless question! If I’d made a fortune there, it stands to reason I should not have to come into an office here.”
“How was I to know? You might have made a fortune and dissipated it?”
“Dissipated it in what?” cried Roland, with wide-open eyes. And to Mr. Hurst, who had gained some knowledge of what is called life, the look and the question bore earnest that Roland Yorke, in spite of his travelling experiences, was not much tainted by the world and its ways.
“Oh, in many things. Horse-racing, for instance.”
Roland threw back his head in the old emphatic manner. “If ever I do get a fortune, Jos, — which appears about as likely as that Port Natal and Ireland should join hands and spin a waltz with each other — I’ll take care of it.” —
Possibly in the notion occurring to him that idleness was certainly not the best way to acquire a fortune, Roland tilted his stool on its even legs, and began to work in earnest. When he had accomplished two lines, he took it to the manager.
“Will this do, Mr. Brown? I’m rather out of practice.”.
Mr. Brown signified that it would. He knew his business better than to give anything of much consequence to an unknown and untried clerk.
“Are you related to Sir Richard Yorke?” he asked of Roland.
“Yes, I am; and I’m ashamed of him. Old Dick’s my uncle, my late father’s brother; and his son and heir, young Dick, is my cousin. Old Dick is the greatest screw alive; he’d not help a fellow to save him from hanging. He’s as poor as Carrick; but I don’t call that an excuse for him; his estate is mortgaged up the neck.”
Mr. Brown needed not the additional information, which Roland proffered so candidly. His nature had not changed a whit. Nay, perhaps the free and easy life at Port Natal, about which we may hear somewhat later, had only tended to render him less reticent, if that were possible. Greatorex and Greatorex were the confidential solicitors to Sir Richard Yorke, and Mr. Brown was better acquainted than Roland with the baronet’s finances.
“I thought it must be so,” remarked Mr. Brown. “I knew there was some connection between Sir Richard and Lord Carrick. Are you likely to stay in our office long?” he questioned, inwardly wondering that Roland with two uncles so puissant should be there at all.
“I’m likely to stay for ever, for all I know. They are going to give me twenty shillings a week. I say, Mr. Brown, why do you wear a wig?”
Doubtless Mr. Brown thought the question a tolerably pointed one upon so brief an acquaintance. He settled to his work again without answering it. A hint that the clerk, just come under his wing, might return and settle to his. Which was not taken.
“My hair is as plentiful as ever it was,” said Roland, giving his da
rk hair a push backwards. “I don’t want a wig; and you can’t be so very much my senior; six or seven years, perhaps. I’m eight-and-twenty.”
“And I am three-and-thirty, sir. My hair came off in a fever a few years back, and it does not grow again. Be so good as to get on with what you have to do, Mr. Yorke.”
Thus admonished, Roland obediently sought his place. And what with renewed questions to Mr. Brown — that came ringing out at the most unexpected moments — what with a few anecdotes of life at Port Natal with which he confidently regaled Mr. Hurst, what with making the acquaintance of little Jenner, which Roland accomplished with great affability, and what with slight interludes of writing, a line here and a line there, the morning wore away agreeably.
CHAPTER VIII.
Arrival from Port Natal.
MR. ROLAND YORKE’S emigration to Port Natal cannot be said to have turned out a success. He had gone off in high spirits, a chief cabin passenger, Lord Carrick having paid the passage-money, forty pounds. He had carried with him, from the same good-natured source, fifty pounds, to begin life with when he should land, a small but sufficient outfit, and a case of merchandize consisting of frying-pans. Seven years, before, when Roland resolved to emigrate and run away from work at home, he became imbued with the conviction (whence derived, he scarcely knew, but it lay on his mind as a positive certainty) that frying-pans formed the best and most staple article on which to commence trading at Port Natal, invariably the foundation of a fortune. Some friend of his, a Mr. Bagshaw, who had previously emigrated, had imparted this secret to him; at least, Roland was impressed with the belief that he had; a belief which nothing could shake. Frying-pans and fortune were associated together in his dreams. He stood out strongly for the taking out forty dozen, but Lord Carrick declined to furnish them, allowing only the miserable number of four-and-twenty. “When ye see for ye’reself out there that there’s a market for them, send me word, and I’ll dispatch loads to ye by the first steamer, me boy,” said his lordship sensibly; and Roland was fain to put up with the advice and with the two dozen accorded. He arrived at Port Natal, all youth and joy and buoyancy. Seen from the deck of the vessel, when she anchored in the beautiful harbour, calm as a lake, Natal looked a very paradise. Ranges of hills on the west of the fair town were dotted with charming houses and pleasure grounds; and Roland landed fresh and full of hope as a summer’s morning: just as too many an emigrant from the dear old mother-country does land, at other parts besides Natal. And he bought experience as they do.