[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 17.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
POST-OFFICE LIFE-ASSURANCE AND ANNUITIES.
The numerous aids which the government have from time to time afforded
through the agency of the Post-office for the encouragement of thrift
and providence amongst the poorer classes have generally been attended
with so much success, that it is surprising to hear of even one
exception in regard to such efforts. There is no doubt, however, as
was pointed out two years ago in this _Journal_, that the existing
scheme of Post-office Life-assurance and Annuities, which has been in
operation since 1865, has sadly hung fire, and but little advantage
has been taken of the system, as may be inferred from the fact, that
although it has been established almost twenty years, the total number
of policies for life-assurance issued during that period is not more
than six thousand five hundred and twenty-four; while the number
of annuity contracts granted during the same period is only twelve
thousand four hundred and thirty-five. Taking the latest returns, too,
we find that the life policies now existing have dwindled down to so
low a number as four thousand six hundred and fifteen; while the number
of annuity contracts now only reaches nine thousand three hundred and
seventy-three. These figures at once show how trifling and unimportant
have been the results from this branch of Post-office business; but
perhaps the causes for this want of success are not far to seek, if we
consider how circumscribed and restricted the present system is in its
action.
It was but natural, therefore, that so energetic a reformer as Mr
Fawcett should speedily turn his attention to this important subject,
on taking the helm in the affairs of the great department over
which he has so ably presided during the past four years. A select
Committee of the House of Commons was appointed in 1882, of which the
Postmaster-general was chairman; and after thoroughly inquiring into
the whole subject, that Committee unanimously recommended in their
Report the adoption of a scheme for the amelioration of the present
system of Post-office Life-assurance and Annuities which had been
put forward and explained to them by Mr James J. Cardin, the present
Assistant-receiver and Accountant-general to the Post-office. An Act of
Parliament was passed during the same session legalising the proposed
changes; and as it is understood that the new system will be brought
into operation on the first of May this year, it seems desirable, and
indeed important, that the undoubted benefits and privileges that will
accrue therefrom should be made known as widely as possible.
The essential feature of the new Post-office scheme for assuring lives
and granting annuities is, that every person wishing to assure his or
her life or to purchase an annuity through the Post-office shall become
a depositor in the Post-office savings-bank—a plan that will offer to
the public numerous facilities, and a large amount of convenience in
respect of this kind of business, which have hitherto not existed. In
the first place, the intending insurants or annuitants will in future
be able for that purpose to go to any post-office savings-bank in
the country—of which there are now over seven thousand. At present,
life-assurance and annuity business can be transacted at only two
thousand post-offices; but the intended system will at once place five
thousand additional post-offices at the disposal of the public in this
respect. In the next place, the cosmopolitanism of the savings-bank
system will apply equally to the assurance and annuities business
under its new conditions; and this it may be pointed out will prove
an advantage of no mean order to the classes for whom Post-office
Assurance and Annuities would appear to be chiefly designed, if it be
remembered how frequently working-men move about from place to place.
Under the present system, the insurant or annuitant is tied to the
particular post-office at which the insurance or the contract for
the annuity was originally effected, excepting by going through the
formalities involved in giving notice to the chief office in London of
a desire to change the place of payment of the premiums, which by most
persons of the classes concerned is regarded as a somewhat irksome job.
The great idea of the whole scheme seems to be to afford the public
in respect of Post-office Assurance and Annuities a maximum amount
of convenience with a minimum amount of trouble; and nothing could
probably further this object more successfully than Mr Cardin’s scheme
of working the assurance and annuities business in with that of the
savings-bank; for all the advantages and benefits which the public now
enjoy in regard to the latter-named branch of the Post-office will be
equally shared by those who intend to assure their lives or purchase
annuities through the same department. Mr Fawcett, who is a true
champion of the principles of thrift, has in all his schemes to this
end recognised the supreme importance of simplicity in the necessary
machinery, so far as the public at all events are concerned; and it
was probably the fact of such simplicity being a predominating feature
of the new insurance scheme that commended it so favourably to Mr
Fawcett’s mind.
Any person desiring to assure his life or to purchase an annuity
through the Post-office, will first of all procure the form or forms
applicable to his case, and such information as he may require from a
post-office at which savings-bank business is transacted, the number
of such offices in the United Kingdom being, as already stated, over
seven thousand. On completion of the necessary preliminaries, which
will be reduced to the smallest limits compatible with the safe conduct
of the business, he will be furnished, if not already a Post-office
savings-bank depositor, with a deposit book; and a deposit account
will be opened in his name, and he will then be asked to authorise the
transfer of the amount of all future premiums as they become due, from
his savings-bank to his assurance or annuity account. He will pay into
the savings-bank account thus opened such sums as he conveniently can
from time to time; and these sums, together with any accumulations
by way of interest, or from dividends on stock purchased under the
savings-bank regulations, will form the fund from which the Post-office
will take the premiums as they annually become due. So long, therefore,
as the annuitant or insurant, as the case may be, takes care to have a
sufficient balance in his savings-bank account when the premiums become
due, he will have no further trouble in the matter. In the event of the
balance being insufficient, the fact will be specially notified to him,
and reasonable time allowed for making good the deficiency.
The advantage in this scheme which the classes for whom it is
designed will probably best appreciate is the liberty, and consequent
convenience, of paying the premiums not in one annual lump sum and
on a specific date, but from time to time as may be agreeable to the
insurant or annuitant, and in such sums as may at the time suit his
pocket. He may indeed save a penny at a time for his annual premiums by
using the savings-bank stamp slip, which has spaces on it for twelve
stamps, and which when filled up may be passed into the post-office.
It is astonishing what benefits can be procured by the saving of only
a penny a week. For instance, a youth of sixteen, by putting a penny
postage-stamp each week on one of the slips referred to, might either
secure for himself at sixty, old-age pay of about three pounds a
year, or insure his life for about thirteen pounds; and if the saving
commenced at five years of age, the old-age pay would be about five
pounds a year. Another appreciable benefit which the new system will
afford as regards payment is, that by allowing the premiums to be paid
in as savings-bank deposits, the higher charges necessarily made when
premiums have to be collected in regular periodical instalments will be
saved to the insurant or annuitant, as the case may be.
To make a providence or thrift scheme at all successful it is of course
essential that the general working of such a scheme should be adapted
to the character of the classes whom it is intended to reach; and it is
precisely in this respect that the new scheme of Post-office Assurance
and Annuities would seem to succeed. As Mr Fawcett is himself ready
to admit, the purchase of an annuity or the keeping up of a policy of
insurance is at present a constant source of trouble to the person
concerned. Attendance at a particular post-office is necessary for the
payment of a premium, a special book has to be kept, and other rules
have to be observed. All this will be changed under the new system; and
when once the annuity has been purchased or the assurance effected, no
further action on the part of the person concerned will be necessary.
The premiums will be transferred at the chief office in London from
his savings-bank account to his assurance or annuity account without
trouble to him. He will thus be saved the task of remembering the
precise amount of premium due or the particular day on which it is to
be paid; and this arrangement will also abolish the necessity for a
special insurance or annuity book.
The operation of the new scheme will, so far as can be seen, lead to
some collateral advantages, of which not a few persons will be ready
to avail themselves. A depositor, for instance, in the Post-office
savings-banks, or a holder of government stock obtained through that
medium, will be able to give authority to the Postmaster-general
to use the interest or the dividends as the case may be, which may
accrue, for the purposes of purchasing a life policy or an annuity, or
both, as might be directed. Thus, as Mr Cardin tells us, a man at the
age of thirty, with one hundred pounds deposited in the Post-office
savings-bank, will be able to give an order directing that half the
interest thereon shall be applied to the assurance of his life for
fifty-three pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence, and the other
moiety to the purchase of a deferred annuity of eight pounds six
shillings and eightpence, commencing at the age of sixty; and if his
one hundred pounds were invested in government stock, the amounts of
his life-assurance and his deferred annuity would be greater, as the
dividends would be of greater amount than the interest received on a
mere deposit.
It may be briefly pointed out that under the Act of Parliament for
legalising the changes about to be wrought in the Post-office Assurance
and Annuities system, some important alterations in the limits will
be made. It has been long recognised that the present limits were ill
adapted to the kind of business sought. The higher limits were too low,
and the lower limits too high. The former will now be raised to the
useful maximum of two hundred pounds; while the present lower limit
of twenty pounds has been altogether abolished, so that an assurance
can be effected or an annuity purchased for any sum below two hundred
pounds. There will also be some beneficial changes as to the limits of
age. There can be no doubt that the first steps taken by the young to
make provision for the future act as a powerful incentive to greater
efforts, and that thus an annuity or life policy of considerable amount
is gradually built up. Mr Fawcett and the select Committee over which
he presided, recognising this fact, felt that such beginnings of thrift
could not be made too soon, and consequently recommended that the
present limits of age which restrict life-assurance to sixteen, and the
grant of annuities to ten, should be respectively reduced to eight and
five years; and these proposals have been sanctioned by the Act. It
should be added, that for obvious reasons, it was considered expedient
to limit the amount of the assurance to be effected upon the life of
a very young child; and the Act provides, therefore, that the amount
shall not exceed five pounds on the life of a child between the ages of
eight and fourteen years.
In conclusion, there can be no question that the changes which we
have indicated here will prove of the greatest value, now that the
importance of life-assurance and of making provision for old age is
becoming more appreciated among the people. It is true, of course, that
numerous benefit and friendly societies exist which offer various kinds
of privileges; but from causes that are not far to seek, the poor have
come to view such societies with a certain amount of distrust; and it
is needful that the government should step in to render the poorer
classes not only all the facilities at its command, but also that
assurance as regards stability which alone a government department can
impress on such classes.
We have attempted to show some of the principal advantages which will
accrue from that system, and there is one more that should not be
omitted. It is, that any person who may suddenly or unexpectedly become
possessed of a certain sum of money may invest it in the Post-office,
and by a single payment secure either an annuity in old age or a
life-assurance. The advantage of being able to make a single payment
is obvious; for it at once removes all further trouble and anxiety
from the mind of the person so investing his money as to the future;
a reflection which, to most persons, must be a source of infinite
satisfaction.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XXV.—A WORD IN SEASON.
The suspicion which Philip now entertained regarding his uncle’s habits
rendered the letters received from him the more surprising—they were so
calm, kindly, and firm. He did not receive many: Mr Shield preferred
that his instructions should be conveyed to him by Messrs Hawkins and
Jackson. There was one waiting for him, however, on the morning on
which he took possession of his chambers in Verulam Buildings, Gray’s
Inn.
Wrentham had tried to persuade him to take chambers in the West End,
indicating Piccadilly as the most suitable quarter for the residence of
a young man of fortune who was likely to mix in society. There he would
be close to the clubs, and five minutes from every place of amusement
worth going to.
But Philip had notions of his own on this subject. He had no particular
desire to be near the clubs: he expected his time to be fully occupied
in the enterprise on which he was entering. What leisure he might have
would of course be spent at Willowmere and Ringsford. The chambers
in Verulam Buildings were all that a bachelor of simple tastes could
desire. They were on the second floor, and the windows of the principal
apartment overlooked the green square. To the left were quaint old
gables and tiles, which the master-painter, Time, had transformed into
a wondrous harmony of all the shades and tints of green and russet.
Sitting there, with the noisy traffic of Gray’s Inn Road shut out by
double doors and double windows on the other side of the building, he
could imagine himself to be miles away from the bustle and fever of the
town, although he was in the midst of it. And sitting there, he read
this letter from Mr Shield, which began as usual without any of the
customary phrases of address:
‘I now feel that you have begun your individual life in
earnest; and I am glad of it. By this step you secure full
opportunity to show us what stuff you are made of. As already
explained, I do not intend to interfere with you in any way. I
do not wish you to seek my advice, and do not wish to give any.
Once for all, understand me—my desire is to test by your own
acts and judgment whether or not you are worthy of the fortune
which awaits you.
‘When I say the fortune which awaits you, I mean something more
than money.
‘I hope you will stand the test; but you must not ask me to
help you to do so. Circumstances may tempt me at times to
give you a word of warning; but my present intention is to do
my best to resist the temptation. You must do everything for
yourself and by yourself, if you are to satisfy me.
‘I admire the spirit which prompts your enterprise, and
entirely approve of its object. But here let me speak my first
and probably my last word of warning. No doubt you are anxious
to convince me that the capital which has been placed at your
disposal is not to be thrown away; and it is this anxiety,
backed by the enthusiasm of inexperience, that leads you into
your first blunder. You calculate upon reaping from six to
eight per cent. on your investment. I do not pretend to have
gone thoroughly into the subject; but considering the kind of
investment and the manner in which you propose to work it, my
opinion is that if you count upon from two to three per cent.,
you will be more likely to avoid disappointment than if you
adhere to the figures you have set down. At anyrate, you will
err on the safe side.
‘Further: you should also, and to a like extent, moderate your
calculations as to the degree of sympathy and co-operation you
will receive from the people you intend to benefit. I should
be sorry to rob you of any part of the joy which faith in his
fellow-men gives to youth. I think the man is happier who fails
because he has trusted others, than he who succeeds because he
has trusted no one but himself. I have failed in that way, and
may fail again; yet my belief in the truth of this principle of
trust is unchanged.
‘At the same time, whilst you have faith in others, your eyes
should be clear. Before you give your confidence, do what you
can to make sure that it is not given to a knave. Should you,
with eyes open, allow yourself to be deceived, you would be a
fool, not a generous man. I was a fool.
‘Pardon this allusion to myself; there was no intention of
making any when this letter was begun.
‘Briefly, whilst hoping that your enterprise may be completely
successful, I wish to remind you of the commonplace fact that
greed and selfishness are elements which have to be reckoned
with in everything we attempt to do for or with others, whether
the attempt be made in the wilds of Griqualand or in this
centre of civilisation. It is a miserable conclusion to arrive
at in looking back on the experience of a life; but it is the
inevitable one. The only people you will be able to help are
those who are willing to help themselves in the right way—which
means those who have learned that the success of a comrade
is no barrier to their own success. You will have to learn
that the petty jealousies which exist amongst the workers in
even the smallest undertakings are as countless as they are
incomprehensible to the man who looks on all around him with
generous eyes. You will be a happy man if twenty years hence
you can say that your experience has been different from mine.
‘You are not to think, however, that I consider all people
moved by greed and selfishness alone: I only say that these
are elements to be taken into account in dealing with them.
The most faithful friends are sometimes found amongst the most
ignorant of mankind: the greatest scoundrels amongst those who
are regarded as the most cultivated.
‘Do you find this difficult to understand? You must work out
its full meaning for yourself. I say no more. You have your
warning. Go on your way, and I trust you will prosper.’
This was signed abruptly, Austin Shield, as if the writer feared that
he had already said too much.
‘How he must have suffered,’ was Philip’s thought, after the first few
moments of reflection over this letter. It was the longest he had ever
received from his uncle, and seemed to disclose more of the man’s inner
nature than he had hitherto been permitted to see. ‘How he must have
suffered! Would I bear the scar so long if—— What stuff and nonsense!’
He laughed at himself heartily, and a little scornfully for allowing
the absurd question even to flit across his mind. As if any possible
combination of circumstances could ever arise to take Madge away from
him! The tombstone of one of them was the only barrier that could ever
stand between them; and the prospect of its erection was such a long
way off, that he could think of it lightly if not philosophically.
But as he continued to stare out at those quaint russet gables and
the green square, a dreamy expression slowly filled his eyes, and
visions of the impossible passed before him. He had thrown himself
into this work which he had found to do with such earnestness, that he
had already passed more than one day without going to see Madge. Her
spirit was in the work, and inspired his devotion to it, and all his
labour was for her. In that way she was always with him, although her
form and clear eyes might not be constantly present to his mind. That
was a consolatory thought for himself; but would it satisfy her? Was
it sufficient to satisfy himself how he had allowed three days to pass
without his appearance at Willowmere?
He was startled when he recollected that it was three days since he had
been there. Three days—an age, and how it could have passed so quickly
he was unable to understand. He had certainly intended every evening
to go as usual. But every day had been so full of business—details of
plans and estimates to study and master—that he had been glad to lie
down and sleep. The task was the more laborious for him, as he had
not had previous knowledge of its practical intricacies, and he was
resolved to understand thoroughly everything that was done.
‘I suppose she will laugh, and say it is like me—always at extremes;
either trying to do too much, or doing too little. At anyrate, she
will be convinced that I have taken kindly to harness. We’ll see this
afternoon.’
There was another influence which unconsciously detained him in town.
He shrank somehow from the interview with his father which must take
place on his return to Ringsford. He had hoped to be able to take
with him some friendly message from Mr Shield which would lead to the
reconciliation of the two men; and as yet he was as far as ever from
being able to approach the subject with his uncle.
His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Wrentham, spruce and
buoyant, a flower in his button-hole, and looking as if he had made a
safe bet on the next racing event.
‘Came to tell you about that land,’ he said.
‘I suppose you have made arrangements for the purchase?’ rejoined
Philip, as he folded his uncle’s letter and replaced it in the envelope.
Wrentham followed the action with inquisitive eyes. He was asking
himself, ‘Has that letter anything to do with this coolness about the
bargain, on which he was so hot a few days ago, or is it accident?’
Then, with a little real wonder, and some affectation of amusement at
the innocence of his principal:
‘My dear Philip!’—Wrentham was one of those men who will call
an acquaintance of a few hours by his Christian name, and by an
abbreviation of it after an intimacy of a couple of days—‘you don’t
mean to say that you imagine a question of the transfer of land in this
greatest city of the world is to be settled off-hand in a forenoon?’
‘O no; I did not think that, Wrentham; but as the land is very much on
the outskirts of the city, and has been for a long time in the market,
I did not expect that there would be much delay in coming to terms
about it.’
‘Ah! but you forget that it is within easy distance of an existing
railway station, and close by the site of one which will be in working
order before your houses can be built.’
‘Exactly. That is why I chose the spot.’
‘Just so; and you can have it; but the fellows know its full value, and
mean to have it. Look at that.’
He handed him a paper containing the statement of the terms on which
the land in question was to be sold. Philip read it carefully, frowned,
and tossed it back to his agent.
‘Ridiculous!’ he exclaimed. ‘They must have thought you were acting
for the government or a railway company. I believe it is considered
legitimate to fleece _them_. Half the money is what I will give, and no
more.’
When a clever man thinks he has performed a particularly clever trick,
and finds that, by some instinct of self-preservation, the person to
be tricked upsets all his calculations, whilst there still remains
a chance of persuading him that he is making a mistake, there comes
over the clever person a peculiar change. It is like a sudden lull in
the wind: he shows neither surprise nor regret on his own part, but a
certain respectful pity for the blindness of the other in not seeing
the advantage offered him. So with Wrentham at this moment. He left the
paper lying on the table, as if it had no further interest for him, and
took out his cigar-case.
‘You don’t mind a cigar, I suppose?... Have one?’
‘Thank you. Here is some sherry: help yourself.’
Wrentham helped himself, lit his cigar, and sank back on an easy-chair,
like a man whose day’s work is done, and who feels that he has earned
the right to rest comfortably.
‘I’ve been trotting between pillar and post about that land all day,’
he said languidly, ‘because I fancied you had set your mind on it;
and now I feel as tired as if I had been doing a thousand miles in a
thousand hours. Glad it’s over.’
‘You do not think it is worth making the offer, then?’
‘My dear boy, they would think we were making fun of them, and be
angry.’
Wrentham rolled the cigar between his fingers and smiled complacently.
‘Surely, they must be aware that the price they are asking is
absurd—they cannot hope to obtain it from any one in his senses. Look
at this paragraph: there is land bought by the corporation yesterday—it
is almost within the city, and the price is more than a third less than
these people are asking from us.’
Wrentham’s eyes twinkled over the paragraph.
‘Ah, yes; but, you see, these people were obliged to sell; ours are
not. However, we need not bother about it. They require more than you
will give, and there is an end of it. The question is, what are we to
do now?’
‘Take land farther out, where the owners will be more reasonable, and
we can reduce our rents so as to cover the railway fares.’
‘But the farther out you go, the more difficulty you will have in
finding workmen.’
‘I have thought of that, and have secured an excellent foreman, who
will bring us the labourers we require; and for the skilled workmen, an
advertisement will find them.’
‘And who is the man you have engaged?’
‘Caleb Kersey.’
Wrentham laughed softly as he emitted a long serpentine coil of smoke.
‘On my word, you do things in a funny way. I am supposed to be your
counsellor as well as friend; and you complete your arrangements before
you tell me anything about them. I don’t see that my services are of
any use to you.’
‘We have not had time to find that out yet. What advice could you have
given me in reference to Kersey?’
‘Oh, I have nothing to say against the man, except that, as soon as you
had your establishment ready to begin operations, he would have every
soul in your employment out on strike for higher wages or for new terms
of agreement, which will cause you heavy loss whether you knuckle down
or refuse. I know the kind of man: he will be meek enough until he gets
you into a corner—or thinks he has—and then he turns round and tells
you that he is master of the situation, whatever you may be. That’s his
sort.’
‘I think you are mistaken, Wrentham. I am sure that you are mistaken so
far as Kersey is concerned. He managed that business of the harvest for
my father when nobody else could, and he managed it admirably. He wants
nothing more than fair-play between master and man, and he believes
that my scheme is likely to bring about that condition.’
‘All right,’ said Wrentham, smiling, and helping himself to another
glass of wine; ‘here’s good luck to him—and to you. We are all
naturally inclined to be pleased with the people who agree with us.
We’ll say that I am mistaken, and, on my honour, I hope it may be so.’
Philip flushed a little: he could not help feeling that Wrentham was
treating him as if he were a child at play, and did not or could not
see that he was a man making a bold experiment and very much in earnest.
‘It is not merely because Kersey agrees with me that I have engaged
him,’ he said warmly. ‘I know something about the man, and I have
learned a good deal from him. He has the power to convey my meaning to
others better than I could do it myself. They might doubt me at first;
they will trust him; and he is one of those men who are willing to
work.’
‘That is everything you want in the meanwhile, except the land on
which to begin operations. I promised to take your answer back to
these people by four o’clock. I shall have just time to drive to their
office. I suppose that there is nothing to say except that we cannot
touch it at the price?’
‘Nothing more.’
‘Very well. I will report progress to-morrow; but I have no expectation
of bringing them down to your figure. Good-day.’
Although Wrentham bustled out as if in a hurry, he descended the stairs
slowly.
‘He may have gone in for a mad scheme,’ he was thinking; ‘but he is a
deal ’cuter in his way of setting about it than I bargained for....
This is confoundedly awkward for me.... Must get out of it somehow.’
(_To be continued._)
MY OLD COLLEGE ROOMS.
No easy task would it be to analyse the medley of conflicting emotions
that run riot in the heart of an old ’varsity man revisiting the haunts
of his academical ‘auld langsyne.’ Even were I equal to it, I would not
publish the results of my experiment. Far too sacred, too personal, at
least for the pages of a magazine, were my own thoughts and memories
the other day, as I stealthily stole up my old staircase in ——’s,
Oxford. ‘Stealthily stole,’ I say advisedly; for I felt unpleasantly
more like a burglar in my pilgrim-ascent, than a respectable country
clergyman. In a university sense, generations had passed away since my
college days; since I, in my generation, was wont to rollick in and
out of those ancient ‘oaks’ and about those venerable banisters. One
felt a kind of sad impression that one belonged to a bygone age; that
one’s only rightful _locus standi_ in the university now was a shelf
in the fossil department of its museum; that one was _de trop_ in this
land of the living; that one was ‘unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown,’
a sort of college ghost that ought long since to have been laid. But
now, the gray goose-quill would fain flutter on, by the page, with
emotions which, as I have said, are too sacred for publication. I will
confine myself to more exoteric details. At the funny old cupola-like
entrance—where, on the first impulse, I found myself all but taking
off my hat to the ‘silent speaking’ stones of its venerable, unsightly
pile—I had met a porter, but not _the_ porter. On the staircase I
had met a scout, but not _the_ scout. No civil salute and smile of
recognition from either of those; only a curious stare—a look that
seemed to ask, ‘What business have you to come back and revisit
earth’—(I beg the reader’s pardon!)—‘_college_, disturbing us in our
day and generation?’
Then, at last, well ‘winded’ by my climb, I actually stood once
again in front of my own old ‘oak;’ and much I wonder if ever pious
Druid stood with deeper feelings of reverence before his own! It was
superscribed with a most unusual, though not foreign, name; one which
to me at least was new. So far, this was a comfort; for ‘Jones’ would
have made me very sad and at ‘Smith’ I feel I should have wept. As
it was, I found myself already speculating with some curiosity what
manner of man might own to it. Somehow, with perhaps pardonable vanity,
I seemed to have expected ‘Ichabod;’ but that was not the present
occupant’s name. At the inner door, which was ajar, I knocked, honestly
trying not to peep; but the gentleman was not at home. Just then, a
jolly young fellow, books under arm, and obviously out from lecture,
came bounding up the stairs, two or three steps at a time, in the
real old style. Oh, how the aged, nearly worn-out parson envied now
the limbs and wind that could perform that once familiar feat! There
used to be a _je ne sais quoi_—a sense of freedom, I suppose it was,
after being ‘cribbed, cabined, and confined’ for an hour at lecture,
that always made one sadly forgetful for the nonce of one’s dignity
in that matter of going up-stairs. At other times, the leisurely
step which betokened the importance of the (newly fledged) ‘man’ was
carefully observed; and used, no doubt, to make due impression upon the
freshman—that junior Verdant who always had what Carlyle would call a
‘seeing eye’ for such details of deportment. But coming from lecture,
even the old hand, the third-year man, now, as of yore, involuntarily
betrays a lingering trace of schoolboy days by a very natural, but most
undignified, hop, skip, and jump up-stairs, to doff cap and gown and
don flannels for the river.
Well, up he came, this embryo bishop, statesman, or judge—I know not
which—and fixing him Ancient Mariner-wise with my eye, I told him my
story; feeling rather sheepish until I had satisfactorily accounted for
my being discovered hovering about the coal-bin on his landing. More
than one kind of expression flitted over the youth’s features as he
listened to me; but the predominating one, which his politeness in vain
struggled to conceal, was characteristic of the antiquary surveying
some newly dug up relic of a past epoch. ‘I am not Mr Ichabod’ (let
us suppose the name), he said; ‘but I am his neighbour on this floor;
and I’m sure he would wish you to go into your old rooms. I will
explain it to him. He will be sorry that he was out when you came.’
With this and a mutual touch of hats, we parted; he to his rooms, and
I, after an absence of some forty-five years, to mine. Suggestive
enough was the very first object that caught my eye upon entering; for
over the bedroom door was placed, by way of ornament, a real skull,
with crossbones! There it serenely rested on a black cushion fixed to
a small shelf, horribly grinning at me. I could have wished a more
pleasant welcome to greet me after my long absence.
‘Eheu! fugaces, Postume, Postume’ (The years fly by, and are lost to
me, lost to me), I had said to myself all the morning, as I wandered
about the old college haunts of my far-away youth; and if my perception
of that sad fact needed quickening, that skull certainly brought it
home to me with a vengeance! Clearly, my successor was a bit of a
‘mystic.’ Weird prints on the walls; curious German literature on the
shelves and tables; outlandish ornaments everywhere: these and such as
these spoke for their absent owner, and I felt that I could conjecture
the man by his various kickshaws. I pictured him to myself reading
for ‘a class’ by the midnight oil, and occasionally stimulating his
flagging interest in the classics by casting a philosophic glance at
the skull, to bethink him of the flight of time and man’s ‘little
day’ for work. Or, again, I could see him as he refreshed himself on
the sofa with a grim legend or two of the Rhine, and meditated upon
the fate of some medieval fool wandering about to sell his soul, _si
emptorem invenerit_, until he met and did fatal business with the dread
merchant of the nether world. At such times, no doubt, his death’s head
would have a specially attractive charm for him, and elicit some such
sigh as ‘Alas! poor Yorick,’ in reference to the deluded Rhinelander.
Two more clues to the character of my young friend were obvious, and
right glad I was to obtain them. In the first place, he was not, as
are too many of his university generation, so ‘mad,’ through much
‘learning,’ as to deny or ignore his God. Witness a well-worn Bible
and Prayer-book; and even an illuminated text opposite his bed—the
gift, perhaps, of a pious mother, or handiwork of a pious sister, whose
holy influence he did not despise. And, again, he was not one of our
unhealthy ascetics of modern society, secular ascetics, I mean—if I may
coin such an expression—whose artificial merits are purely negative.
Witness his rack of grotesquely shaped and well-cleaned pipes, no less
than that three-handled jorum, with the shrivelled peel of the previous
evening still therein!
Having taken notice of such apparent trifles on every side, and not
liking to trespass longer, I prepared to leave. But if the ‘man’ who
occupies my Old Rooms is brought as safely to his journey’s end as I
have now well nigh been brought to mine, my last half-minute alone in
that ancient ‘upper chamber’ was not spent there in vain.
MY FELLOW-PASSENGER.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
The next afternoon, I landed at Southampton; and having left my luggage
with Raynor’s at the railway station, and exchanged my twenty-five
sovereigns for their equivalent in Bank of England notes, I started
off to see some relatives living a short way out of the town. After
a few pleasant hours at Hambledon Hall, I drove back to Southampton,
took an evening train to London, and by half-past nine was comfortably
installed in my old quarters, No. 91 Savile Street, W.
In the morning arrived a telegram from Raynor: ‘Heard of a good
thing in Dublin. Going there at once. May be a long business. Better
countermand my rooms. Will write.’ Here without doubt was an end, at
least for the present, of our partnership. Whether Paul intended me to
gather that the ‘good thing’ was to involve my presence in Ireland, I
knew not; but having already come to a very distinct understanding with
him that the _venue_ of any future operations must, as far as I was
concerned, be laid in or near London, I was able to decide at once that
even the claims of friendship did not demand my expatriation to the
other side of the Irish Channel.
London was hot, airless, and uninviting this 21st of July. Two days had
elapsed, during which I had heard nothing more from Raynor; and as I
loitered down to my club, there came into my mind the recollection of
Keymer, a breezy little homestead among the Sussex downs, where lived a
middle-aged bachelor cousin of mine, and of his cordial invitation to
repeat a visit I had paid him the previous summer. Half an hour later I
had posted my letter to Henry Rodd, whose reply by return post was all
I could wish: On and after the 24th, he would be delighted to see me
for as long as I cared to stay.
On the morning of the 26th, the day upon which I was to leave for
Keymer, my landlady presented herself in my sitting-room, and with an
expression as of one who has intelligence to convey, opened upon me
with: ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, but there was a gentleman called
yesterday, askin’ whether we had any one lodgin’ here as was jest back
from furrin parts, because he’d got a friend who he thought was goin’
to some lodgin’s in this street, and he couldn’t find him out—not the
gentleman, couldn’t, that is, sir. I’m sure he knew you, sir, because
he said, when I called you Mr Rodd, “Ah! is that Mr _P._ Rodd?” says
he. “Yes,” says I to the gent; “it’s Mr Peter Rodd.” “O yes,” says
he, careless-like, “I know Mr Peter Rodd by name.” Then he give me
five shillin’s, sir, and told me be sure and not trouble you about his
’avin’ been, seein’ as ’ow you wouldn’t know who he was—he didn’t give
no name, sir—but I thought I’d best tell you, sir, because it didn’t
seem right-like his givin’ me five shillin’s to say nothin’ about it.
Excuse me for mentionin’ it, sir; but it’s what I call ’ush-money, and
it’s burnin’ ’oles in my pocket ever since.’
Here the worthy woman paused for breath; and wondering much who
this lavish unknown might be, and how he came to know so obscure an
individual as myself by name, I, perhaps indiscreetly, asked for a
description of his appearance, being then unaware of the curious fact,
that people in good Mrs Morton’s station of life are wholly incapable
of conveying to a third person the faintest impression of a stranger’s
exterior. Thus she could not say whether he was dark or fair, tall or
short, young or old, stout or thin. Upon one point only did her memory
serve her: ‘His necktie was a speckly, twisted up in a sailorses’
knot.’ Having triumphantly furnished me with this useful clue to the
visitor’s identity, Mrs Morton took herself down-stairs.
A sudden thought struck me, and I ran to the window. No; there was
not a soul to be seen in the quiet little street save a very ordinary
looking person in a gray dustcoat, sunning himself against the
pillar-box at the corner some fifty yards away; evidently a groom
waiting for orders, I thought. An hour later, I went out to make some
purchases, lunched at Blanchard’s, and drove back to Savile Street to
prepare for my journey to Sussex. There, in friendly converse with a
policeman at the same corner, was Citizen Gray-coat. I looked sharply
at him as my cab passed. His tie was _not_ ‘speckly,’ nor had he any
outward pretensions to the title of ‘gentleman.’
I reached Keymer without adventure late in the afternoon, my cousin
himself driving over in his trap to meet me. Turning round on the
platform, after our first hand-shaking, to look for my travelling-bag,
I saw stooping in the act of reading the card attached to the
handle—_the man in the gray dustcoat_.
It could not be a chance! No; look at it which way I would, there
scowled at me the unpleasant but undeniable fact that I was being
‘watched.’ For what purpose, it was of course impossible to tell,
though I had no difficulty in connecting the visitor of the day before
with the apparition in gray at the little Sussex junction. I waited
till the evening to mention the matter to my cousin Henry, who,
after a ringing laugh and many small jokes at my expense, suddenly
became serious, and remarked: ‘But I say, Peter, it is an excessively
disagreeable thing to be followed about in that sort of way. Can’t you
account for the mistake in any way, so as to be able to get rid of the
fellow to-morrow?’
At that moment the suspicion against which I had fought so hard was
borne in with irresistible force upon my mind, and almost dizzy with
the physical effort to conceal its effect, I muttered my concurrence
with Rodd, that for his sake no less than my own, steps should at once
be taken to come to an understanding with the man and relieve him of
his duty. Looking forward with interest to learning the nature of the
mistake next day, we parted for the night.
That circumstances were so shaping themselves as to do away with
the necessity of any action from our side, did not, and could not
enter into my calculations, as, bitterly wondering when and how this
miserable suspicion would become a sickening certainty, I fell into a
dream-haunted and unquiet sleep.
We had breakfasted, and were leaving the house towards eleven o’clock
the next morning, intending, if we could sight him, to interview
the gray-coated sentry, when a station fly drove up to the door and
deposited a well-built and gentlemanly looking person, who, slightly
raising his hat, said: ‘May I ask if either of you gentlemen is Mr
Peter Rodd?’
Casually noticing that the speaker wore a speckled tie, I replied:
‘That is my name.’
‘Then it is my duty to inform you, sir, that I have a warrant for
your arrest on a criminal charge, and at the same time to caution you
against saying anything which may hereafter be used in your disfavour.’
‘What is the charge?’ I asked, ‘with the air,’ as Henry afterwards
observed, ‘of a man who is in the habit of being arrested every morning
after breakfast.’
‘Suspicion of having stolen on or about the 23d June a sum of one
thousand five hundred and fifty pounds in gold from the Alliance Bank,
Cape Town, in which you were an employee under the name of Percival
Royston.’
‘And what evidence have you that this gentleman is the person for
whose arrest you have a warrant?’ interposed my cousin.
‘Strictly speaking, I have told you all I am permitted to do,’ was
the courteous answer. ‘But it will not be a very grave breach of duty
if I say that my prisoner is known to have reached England in the
_Balbriggan Castle_, to have exchanged gold for notes at Southampton,
and to be in possession of a quantity of luggage marked P. R., some of
which has been found upon examination to contain clothes, books, and
letters bearing the name Percival Royston, Alliance Bank, Cape Town;
while in other boxes were found similar articles with the name Peter
Rodd, showing the adoption of the alias.’
‘Would it be within your province to release your prisoner upon
undoubted proof that he is not the person wanted?’
The officer thought for a moment, and replied: ‘If such proof
could be confirmed by a magistrate—and after communicating with
headquarters—_yes_.’
‘Then,’ said my cousin, ‘will you be good enough to bring your prisoner
to the manor-house, and ask the squire—who is a magistrate—three simple
questions?—The name of your prisoner—How long it is since they last
met—What is to his knowledge the total duration of the prisoner’s
recent absence from England?’
This my captor readily consented to do; and after the three questions
had been answered by the squire—at whose house I had dined just a year
before—telegraphed to Scotland Yard, asking whether it was known how
long Royston had been continuously in the service of the bank. The
answer came speedily: ‘Five or six years;’ followed half an hour later
by a second message: ‘A mistake has occurred. Do not arrest Rodd. If
already done, express regret, and return at once.’ There was just
time for him to catch an up-train; and after carrying out his last
instructions with great politeness, the detective drove off, stopping,
as I observed, at the end of the drive to pick up a man who was leaning
against the gate-post, his hands buried deep in the pockets of a gray
dustcoat.
The next post from London brought a very ample explanation and apology
for ‘the painful position in which I had been placed through an
exceedingly regrettable mistake. This had arisen through the imperfect
information furnished to the authorities in the first instance as to
the movements of the real culprit, who, they had unfortunately no room
whatever to doubt, was the passenger going under the name of Paul
Raynor. This person, it was now ascertained, had taken passage on board
a sailing-ship for South America. The similarity of initials, with
other facts of which I was aware, had combined to mislead those engaged
in the case; while the discovery of Royston’s luggage in my possession
had of course confirmed their suspicions.
‘They were directed to add that the alias under which I knew him had
of course been assumed only after the _Balbriggan Castle_ had actually
sailed, as the message brought by the next homeward-bound steamer
to Madeira, and thence telegraphed to England, did not contain this
important item of information.’