When Tony Butler found himself inside of the swinging glass-door at
Downing Street, and in presence of the august Mr. Willis, the porter, it
seemed as if all the interval since he had last stood in the same place
had been a dream. The head-porter looked up from his “Times,” and with
a severity that showed he had neither forgotten nor forgiven, said,
“Messengers' room--first pair--corridor--third door on the left.” There
was an unmistakable dignity in the manner of the speaker which served
to show Tony not merely that his former offence remained unpardoned, but
that his entrance into public life had not awed or impressed in any way
the stern official.
Tony passed on, mounted the stairs, and sauntered along a very ill-kept
corridor, not fully certain whether it was the third, fourth, or fifth
door he was in search of, or on what hand. After about half an hour
passed in the hope of seeing one to direct him, he made bold to knock
gently at a door. To his repeated summons no answer was returned, and he
tried another, when a shrill voice cried, “Come in.” He entered, and saw
a slight, sickly-looking youth, very elaborately dressed, seated at a
table, writing. The room was a large one, very dirty, ill-furnished, and
disorderly.
“Well, what is it?” asked the young gentleman, without lifting his head
or his eyes from the desk.
“Could you tell me,” said Tony, courteously, “where I ought to go? I
'm Butler, an extra messenger, and I have been summoned to attend and
report here this morning.”
“All right; we want you,” said the other, still writing; “wait an
instant.” So saying, he wrote on for several minutes at a rapid pace,
muttering the words as his pen traced them; at last he finished, and,
descending from his high seat, passed across the room, opened a door,
which led into another room, and called out,--
“The messenger come, sir!”
“Who is he?” shouted a very harsh voice.
“First for Madrid, sir,” said the youth, examining a slip of paper he
had just taken from his pocket.
“His name?” shouted out the other again.
“Poynder, sir.”
“I beg your pardon,” suggested Tony, mildly. “I'm Butler, not Poynder.”
“Who's talking out there,--what's that uproar?” screamed the voice, very
angrily.
“He says he 's not for Madrid, sir. It's a mistake,” cried the youth.
“No; you misunderstand me,” whispered Tony. “I only said I was not
Poynder.”
“He says he 's in Poynder's place.”
“I'll stop this system of substitutes!” cried the voice. “Send him in
here.”
“Go in there,” said the youth, with a gesture of his thumb, and his face
at the same time wore an expression which said as plain as any words
could have spoken, “And you 'll see how you like it.”
As Tony entered, he found himself standing face to face to the awful
official, Mr. Brand, the same who had reported to the Minister his
intended assault upon Willis, the porter. “Aw! what's all this about?”
said Mr. Brand, pompously. “You are Mr.--Mr.--”
“Mr. Butler,” said Tony, quietly, but with an air of determination.
“And instead of reporting yourself, you come here to say that you have
exchanged with Poynder.”
“I never heard of Poynder till three minutes ago.”
“You want, however, to take his journey, sir. You call yourself first
for Madrid?”
“I do nothing of the kind. I have come here because I got a telegram two
days ago. I know nothing of Poynder, and just as little about Madrid.”
“Oh--aw! you're Butler! I remember all about you now; there is such a
swarm of extras appointed, that it's impossible to remember names or
faces. You 're the young gentleman who--who--yes, yes, I remember it
all; but have you passed the civil-service examiners?”
“No; I was preparing for the examination when I received that message,
and came off 'at once.”
“Well, you 'll present yourself at Burlington House. Mr. Blount will
make out the order for you; you can go up the latter end of this week,
and we shall want you immediately.”
“But I am not ready. I was reading for this examination when your
telegram came, and I set off at the instant.”
“Blount, Mr. Blount!” screamed out the other, angrily; and as the
affrighted youth presented himself, all pale and trembling, he went on:
“What's the meaning of this, sir? You first attempt to pass this person
off for Poynder: and when that scheme fails, you endeavor to slip him
into the service without warrant or qualification. He tells me himself
he knows nothing.”
“Very little, certainly, but I don't remember telling you so,” said
Tony.
“And do you imagine, sir, that a bravado about your ignorance is the
sure road to advancement? I can tell you, young gentleman, that the days
of mighty patronage are gone by; the public require to be served
with competent officials. We are not in the era of Castlereaghs and
Vansittarts. If you can satisfy the Commissioners, you may come back
here; if you cannot, you may go back to--to whatever life you were
leading before, and were probably most fit for. As for you, Mr. Blount,
I told you before that on the first occasion of your attempting to
exercise here that talent for intrigue on which you pride yourself, and
of which Mr. Vance told me you were a proficient, I should report you. I
now say, sir,--and bear in mind I say so openly, and to yourself, and in
presence of your friend here,--I shall do so this day.”
“May I explain, sir?”
“You may not, sir,--withdraw!” The wave of the hand that accompanied
this order evidently included Tony; but he held his ground undismayed,
while the other fell back, overwhelmed with shame and confusion.
Not deigning to be aware of Tony's continued presence in the room,
Mr. Brand again addressed himself to his writing materials, when a
green-cloth door at the back of the room opened, and Mr. Vance entered,
and, advancing to where the other sat, leaned over his chair and
whispered some words in his ear. “You 'll find I 'm right,” muttered he,
as he finished.
“And where's the Office to go to?” burst out the other, in a tone of
ill-repressed passion; “will you just tell me that? Where's the Office
to go--if this continues?”
“That's neither your affair nor mine,” whispered Vance. “These sort of
things were done before we were born, and they will be done after we 're
in our graves!”
“And is he to walk in here, and say, 'I 'm first for service; I don't
care whether you like it or not'?”
“He 's listening to you all this while,--are you aware of that?”
whispered Vance; on which the other grew very red in the face, took
off his spectacles, wiped and replaced them, and then, addressing Tony,
said, “Go away, sir,--leave the Office.”
“Mr. Brand means that you need not wait,” said Vance, approaching Tony.
“All you have to do is to leave your town address here, in the outer
office, and come up once or twice a day.”
“And as to this examination,” said Tony, stoutly, “it's better I should
say once for all--”
“It's better you should just say nothing at all,” said the other,
good-humoredly, as he slipped his arm inside of Tony's and led him away.
“You see,” whispered he, “my friend Mr. Brand is hasty.”
“I should think he _is_ hasty!” growled out Tony.
“But he is a warm-hearted--a truly warm-hearted man--”
“Warm enough he seems.”
“When you know him better--”
“I don't want to know him better!” burst in Tony. “I got into a scrape
already with just such another: he was collector for the port of Derry,
and I threw him out of the window, and all the blame was laid upon me!”
“Well, that certainly was hard,” said Vance, with a droll twinkle of his
eye,--“I call that very hard.”
“So do I, after the language he used to me, saying all the while,
'I'm no duellist,--I'm not for a saw-pit, with coffee and pistols for
two,'--and all that vulgar slang about murder and such-like.”
“And was he much hurt?”
“No; not much. It was only his collar-bone and one rib, I think,--I
forget now,--for I had to go over to Skye, and stay there a good part of
the summer.”
“Mr. Blount, take down this gentleman's address, and show him where
he is to wait; and don't--” Here he lowered his voice, so that the
remainder of his speech was inaudible to Tony.
“Not if I can help it, sir,” replied Blount; “but if you knew how hard
it is!”
There was something almost piteous in the youth's face as he spoke; and,
indeed, Vance seemed moved to a certain degree of compassion as he said,
“Well, well, do your best,--do your best, none can do more.”
“It's two o'clock. I 'll go out and have a cigar with you, if you don't
mind,” said Blount to Tony. “We 're quite close to the Park here; and a
little fresh air will do me good.”
“Come along,” said Tony, who, out of compassion, had already a sort of
half-liking for the much-suffering young fellow.
“I wish Skeffy was here,” said Tony, as they went downstairs.
“Do you know Skeff Darner, then?”
“Know him! I believe he 's about the fellow I like best in the world.”
“So do I,” cried the other, warmly; “he hasn't his equal living; he 's
the best-hearted and he's the cleverest fellow I ever met.”
And now they both set to, as really only young friends ever do, to extol
a loved one with that heartiness that neither knows limit nor measure.
What a good fellow he was,--how much of this, without the least of
that,--how unspoiled, too, in the midst of the flattery he met with!
“If you just saw him as I did a few days back,” said Tony, calling up in
memory Skeffy's hearty enjoyment of their humble cottage-life.
“If you but knew how they think of him in the Office,” said Blount,
whose voice actually trembled as he touched on the holy of holies.
“Confound the Office!” cried Tony. “Yes; don't look shocked. I hate that
dreary old house, and I detest the grim old fellows inside of it.”
“They 're severe, certainly,” muttered the other, in a deprecatory tone.
“Severe isn't the name for it. They insult--they outrage--that's
what they do. I take it that you and the other young fellows here are
gentlemen, and I ask, Why do you bear it,--why do you put up with it?
Perhaps you like it, however.”
“No; we don't like it,” said he, with an honest simplicity.
“Then, I ask again, why do you stand it?”
“I believe we stand it just because we can't help it.”
“Can't help it!”
“What _could_ we do? What would _you_ do?” asked Blount
“I 'd go straight at the first man that insulted me, and say, Retract
that, or I 'll pitch you over the banisters.”
“That's all very fine with you fellows who have great connections and
powerful relatives ready to stand by you and pull you out of any scrape,
and then, if the worst comes, have means enough to live without work.
That will do very well for you and Skeffy. Skeffy will have six thousand
a year one of these days. No one can keep him out of Digby Darner's
estate; and you, for aught I know, may have more.”
“I have n't sixpence, nor the expectation of sixpence in the world. If I
am plucked at this examination I may go and enlist, or turn navvy, or go
and sweep away the dead leaves like that fellow yonder.”
“Then take my advice, and don't go up.”
“Go up where?”
“Don't go up to be examined; just wait here in town; don't show too
often at the office, but come up of a morning about twelve,--I 'm
generally down here by that time. There will be a great press for
messengers soon, for they have made a regulation about one going only so
far, and another taking up his bag and handing it on to a third; and the
consequence is, there are three now stuck fast at Marseilles, and two at
Belgrade, and all the Constantinople despatches have gone round by the
Cape. Of course, as I say, they 'll have to alter this, and then we
shall suddenly want every fellow we can lay hands on; so all you have
to do is just to be ready, and I 'll take care to start you at the first
chance.”
“You 're a good fellow,” cried Tony, grasping his hand; “if you only
knew what a bad swimmer it was you picked out of the water.”
“Oh, I can do that much, at least,” said he, modestly, “though I'm not
a clever fellow like Skeffy; but I must go back, or I shall 'catch it.'
Look in the day after to-morrow.”
“And let us dine together; that is, you will dine with me,” said Tony.
The other acceded freely, and they parted.
That magnetism by which young fellows are drawn instantaneously towards
each other, and feel something that, if not friendship, is closely akin
to it, never repeats itself in after life. We grow more cautious about
our contracts as we grow older. I wonder do we make better bargains?
If Tony was then somewhat discouraged by his reception at the Office, he
had the pleasure of thinking he was compensated in that new-found friend
who was so fond of Skeffy, and who could talk away as enthusiastically
about him as himself. “Now for M'Gruder and Cannon Row, wherever that
may be,” said he, as he sauntered along; “I 'll certainly go and
see him, if only to shake hands with a fellow that showed such 'good
blood.'” There was no one quality which Tony could prize higher than
this. The man who could take a thrashing in good part, and forgive him
who gave it, must be a fine fellow, he thought; and I 'm not disposed to
say he was wrong.
The address was 27 Cannon Street, City; and it was a long way off, and
the day somewhat spent when he reached it.
“Mr. M'Gruder?” asked Tony of a blear-eyed man, at a small faded desk in
a narrow office.
“Inside!” said he, with a jerk of his thumb; and Tony pushed his way
into a small room, so crammed with reams of paper that there was barely
space to squeeze a passage to a little writing-table next the window.
“Well, sir, your pleasure?” said M'Gruder, as Tony came forward.
“You forget me, I see; my name is Butler.”
“Eh! what! I ought not to forget you,” said he, rising, and grasping the
other's hand warmly; “how are you? when did you come up to town? You see
the eye is all right; it was a bit swollen for more than a fortnight,
though. Hech, sirs! but you have hard knuckles of your own.”
It was not easy to apologize for the rough treatment he had inflicted,
and Tony blundered and stammered in his attempts to do so; but M'Gruder
laughed it all off with perfect good-humor, and said, “My wife will
forgive you, too, one of these days, but not just yet; and so we'll go
and have a bit o' dinner our two selves down the river. Are you free
to-day?”
Tony was quite free and ready to go anywhere; and so away they went,
at first by river steamer, and then by a cab, and then across some
low-lying fields to a small solitary house close to the Thames,--“Shads,
chops, and fried-fish house,” over the door, and a pleasant odor of each
around the premises.
“Ain't we snug here? no tracking a man this far,” said M'Grader, as
he squeezed into a bench behind a fixed table in a very small room. “I
never heard of the woman that ran her husband to earth down here.”
That this same sense of security had a certain value in M'Grader's
estimation was evident, for he more than once recurred to the sentiment
as they sat at dinner.
The tavern was a rare place for “hollands,” as M'Grader said; and they
sat over a peculiar brew for which the house was famed, but of which
Tony's next day's experiences do not encourage me to give the receipt
to my readers. The cigars, too, albeit innocent of duty, might have been
better; but all these, like some other pleasures we know of, only were
associated with sorrow in the future. Indeed, in the cordial freedom
that bound them they thought very little of either. They had grown to be
very confidential; and M'Gruder, after inquiring what Tony proposed to
himself by way of a livelihood, gave him a brief sketch of his own rise
from very humble beginnings to a condition of reasonably fair comfort
and sufficiency.
“I 'm in rags, ye see, Mr. Butler,” said he, “my father was in rags
before me.”
“In rags!” cried Tony, looking at the stout sleek broadcloth beside him.
“I mean,” said the other, “I 'm in the rag trade, and we supply the
paper-mills; and that's why my brother Sam lives away in Italy. Italy is
a rare place for rags,--I take it they must have no other wear, for
the supply is inexhaustible,--and so Sam lives in a seaport they call
Leghorn; and the reason I speak of it to you is that if this messenger
trade breaks down under you, or that ye 'd not like it, there's Sam
there would be ready and willing to lend you a hand; he 'd like a fellow
o' your stamp, that would go down amongst the wild places on the coast,
and care little about the wild people that live in them. Mayhap this
would be beneath you, though?” said he, after a moment's pause.
“I 'm above nothing at this moment except being dependent; I don't want
to burden my mother.”
“Dolly told us about your fine relations, and the high and mighty folk
ye belong to.”
“Ay, but they don't belong to me,--there 's the difference,” said Tony,
laughing; then added, in a more thoughtful tone, “I never suspected that
Dolly spoke of me.”
“That she did, and very often too. Indeed, I may say that she talked of
very little else. It was Tony this and Tony that; and Tony went here and
Tony went there; till one day Sam could bear it no longer--for you see
Sam was mad in love with her, and said over and over again that he never
met her equal. Sam says to me, 'Bob,' says he, 'I can't bear it any
more.' 'What is it,' says I, 'that you can't bear?'--for I thought it
was something about the drawback duty on mixed rags he was meaning. But
no, sirs; it was that he was wild wi' jealousy, and couldn't bear her to
be a-talkin' about you. 'I think,' says he, 'if I could meet that same
Tony, I 'd crack his neck for him.'”
“That was civil, certainly!” said Tony, dryly.
“'And as I can't do that, I 'll just go and ask her what she means by it
all, and if Tony's her sweetheart?'”
“He did not do that!” Tony cried, half angrily.
“Yes, but he did, though; and what for no? You would n't have a man lose
his time pricing a bale of goods when another had bought them? If she
was in treaty with you, Mr. Butler, where was the use of Sam spending
the day trying to catch a word wi' her? So, to settle the matter at
once, he overtook her one morning going to early meeting with the
children, and he had it out.”
“Well, well?” asked Tony, eagerly.
“Well, she told him there never was anything like love between herself
and you; that you were aye like brother and sister; that you knew each
other from the time you could speak; that of all the wide world she did
not know any one so well as you; and then she began to cry, and cried so
bitterly that she had to turn back home again, and go to her room as if
she was taken ill; and that's the way Mrs. M'Gruder came to know what
Sam was intending. She never suspected it before; but, hech sirs! if she
did n't open a broadside on every one of us! And the upshot was, Dolly
was packed off home to her father; Sam went back to Leghorn; and there's
Sally and Maggie going back in everything ever they learned; for it
ain't every day you pick up a lass like that for eighteen pounds a year,
and her washing.”
“But did he ask her to marry him?” cried Tony.
“He did. He wrote a letter--a very good and sensible letter too--to her
father. He told him that he was only a junior, with a small share, but
that he had saved enough to furnish a house, and that he hoped, with
industry and care and thrifty ways, he would be able to maintain a wife
decently and well; and he referred to Dr. Forbes of Auchterlonie for
a character of him; and I backed it myself, saying, in the name of the
house, it was true and correct.”
“What answer came to this?”
“A letter from the minister, saying that the lassie was poorly, and in
so delicate a state of health it would be better not to agitate her by
any mention of this kind for the present; meanwhile he would take up
his information from Dr. Forbes, whom he knew well; and if the reply
satisfied him, he 'd write again to us in the course of a week or two;
and Sam's just waiting patiently for his answer, and doing his best, in
the mean while, to prepare, in case it's a favorable one.”
Tony fell into a revery. That story of a man in love with one it might
never be his destiny to win had its own deep significance for him. Was
there any grief, was there any misery, to compare with it? And although
Sam M'Gruder, the junior partner in the rag trade, was not a very
romantic sort of character, yet did he feel an intense sympathy for him.
They were both sufferers from the same malady,--albeit Sam's attack was
from a very mild form of the complaint.
“You must give me a letter to your brother,” said he at length. “Some
day or other I 'm sure to be in Italy, and I'd like to know him.”
“Ay, and he like to know _you_, now that he ain't jealous of you.
The last thing he said to me at parting was, 'If ever I meet that Tony
Butler, I 'll give him the best bottle of wine in my cellar.'”
“When you write to him next, say that I 'm just as eager to take _him_
by the hand, mind that. The man that's like to be a good husband to
Dolly Stewart is sure to be a brother to _me_.”
And they went back to town, talking little by the way, for each was
thoughtful,--M'Grader thinking much over all they had been saying; Tony
full of the future, yet not able to exclude the past.