In a very small office, situate in a very large warehouse, in that great
storehouse of the world's wealth, Tooley Street, sat a clerk named
Edward Hooper.
Among his familiar friends Edward was better known by the name of Ned.
He was seated on the top of a tall three-legged stool, which, to judge
from the uneasy and restless motions of its occupant, must have been a
peculiarly uncomfortable seat indeed.
There was a clock on the wall just opposite to Ned's desk, which that
young gentleman was in the habit of consulting frequently--very
frequently--and comparing with his watch, as if he doubted its veracity.
This was very unreasonable, for he always found that the two timepieces
told the truth; at least, that they agreed with each other.
Nevertheless, in his own private heart, Ned Hooper thought that clock--
and sometimes called it--"the slowest piece of ancient furniture he had
ever seen."
During one of Ned's comparisons of the two timepieces the door opened,
and Mr Auberly entered, with a dark cloud, figuratively speaking, on
his brow.
At the same moment the door of an inner office opened, and Mr Auberly's
head clerk, who had seen his employer's approach through the dusty
window, issued forth and bowed respectfully, with a touch of condolence
in his air, as he referred with much regret to the fire at Beverly
Square, and hoped that Miss Auberly was not much the worse of her late
alarm.
"Well, she is not the better for it," said Mr Auberly; "but I hope she
will be quite well soon. Indeed, the doctor assures me of this, if care
is taken of her. I wish that was the only thing on my mind just now;
but I am perplexed about another matter, Mr Quill. Are you alone?"
"Quite alone, sir," said Quill, throwing open the door of the inner
office.
"I want to consult with you about Frederick," said Mr Auberly as he
entered.
The door shut out the remainder of the consultation at this point, so
Edward Hooper consulted the clock again and sighed.
If sighs could have delivered Hooper from his sorrows, there is no doubt
that the accumulated millions of which he was delivered in that office,
during the last five years, would have filled him with a species of
semi-celestial bliss.
At last, the hands of the clock reached the hour, _the_ hour that was
wont to evoke Ned's last sigh and set him free; but it was an
aggravating clock. Nothing would persuade it to hurry. It would not,
for all the untold wealth contained in the great stores of Tooley
Street, have abated the very last second of the last minute of the hour.
On the contrary, it went through that second quite as slowly as all the
others. Ned fancied it went much slower at that one on purpose; and
then, with a sneaking parade of its intention to begin to strike, it
gave a prolonged hiss, and did its duty, and nothing _but_ its duty; by
striking the hour at a pace so slow, that it recalled forcibly to Ned
Hooper's imaginative mind, "the minute-gun at sea."
There was a preliminary warning given by that clock some time before the
premonitory hiss. Between this harbinger of coming events, and the
joyful sound which was felt to be "an age," Ned was wont to wipe his pen
and arrange his papers. When the hiss began, he invariably closed his
warehouse book and laid it in the desk, and had the desk locked before
the first stroke of the hour. While the "minute-gun at sea" was going
on, he changed his office-coat for a surtout, not perfectly new, and a
white hat with a black band, the rim of which was not perfectly
straight. So exact and methodical was Ned in these operations, that his
hand usually fell on the door-latch as the last gun was fired by the
aggravating clock. On occasions of unusual celerity he even managed to
drown the last shot in the bang of the door, and went off with a
sensation of triumph.
On the present occasion, however, Ned Hooper deemed it politic to be so
busy, that he could not attend to the warnings of the timepiece. He
even sat on his stool a full quarter of an hour beyond the time of
departure. At length, Mr Auberly issued forth.
"Mr Quill," said he, "my mind is made up, so it is useless to urge such
considerations on me. Good-night."
Mr Quill, whose countenance was sad, looked as though he would
willingly have urged the considerations referred to over again, and
backed them up with a few more; but Mr Auberly's tone was peremptory,
so he only opened the door, and bowed the great man out.
"You can go, Hooper," said Mr Quill, retiring slowly to the inner
office, "I will lock up. Send the porter here."
This was a quite unnecessary permission. Quill, being a good-natured,
easy-going man, never found fault with Ned Hooper, and Ned being a
presumptuous young fellow, though good-humoured enough, never waited for
Mr Quill's permission to go. He was already in the act of putting on
the white hat; and, two seconds afterwards, was in the street wending
his way homeward.
There was a tavern named the "Angel" at the corner of one of the streets
off Tooley Street, which Edward Hooper had to pass every evening on his
way home. Ned, we grieve to say, was fond of his beer; he always found
it difficult to pass a tavern. Yet, curiously enough, he never found
any difficulty in passing this tavern; probably because he always went
in and slaked his thirst _before_ passing it.
"Good evening, Mr Hooper," said the landlord, who was busy behind his
counter serving a motley and disreputable crew.
Hooper nodded in reply, and said good evening to Mrs Butler, who
attended to the customers at another part of the counter.
"Good evenin', sir. W'at'll you 'ave to-night, sir?"
"Pot o' the same, Mrs B," replied Ned.
This was the invariable question and reply, for Ned was a man of
regularity and method in everything that affected his personal comforts.
Had he brought one-tenth of this regularity and method to bear on his
business conduct, he would have been a better and a happier man.
The foaming pot was handed, and Ned conversed with Mrs Butler while he
enjoyed it, and commenced his evening, which usually ended in
semi-intoxication.
Meanwhile, Edward Hooper's "chum" and fellow-lodger sat in their mutual
chamber awaiting him.
John Barret did not drink, but he smoked; and, while waiting for his
companion, he solaced himself with a pipe. He was a fine manly fellow,
very different from Ned; who, although strong of limb and manly enough,
was slovenly in gait and dress, and bore unmistakable marks of
dissipation about him.
"Very odd; he's later than usual," muttered Barret, as he glanced out at
the window, and then at the tea-table, which, with the tea-service, and,
indeed everything in the room, proved that the young men were by no
means wealthy.
"He'll be taking an extra pot at the `Angel,'" muttered John Barret,
proceeding to re-light his pipe, while he shook his head gravely; "but
he'll be here soon."
A foot on the stair caused Barret to believe that he was a true prophet;
but the rapidity and firmness of the step quickly disabused him of that
idea.
The door was flung open with a crash, and a hearty youth with glowing
eyes strode in.
"Fred Auberly!" exclaimed Barret in surprise.
"Won't you welcome me?" demanded Fred.
"Welcome you? Of course I will, most heartily, old boy!" cried Barret,
seizing his friend's hand and wringing it; "but if you burst in on a
fellow unexpectedly in this fashion, and with such wild looks, why--"
"Well, well, don't explain, man; I hate explanations. I have come here
for sympathy," said Fred Auberly, shutting the door and sitting down by
the fire.
"Sympathy, Fred?"
"Ay, sympathy. When a man is in distress he naturally craves for
sympathy, and he turns, also naturally, to those who can and will give
it--not to _everybody_, John Barret--only to those who can feel _with_
him as well as _for_ him. I am in distress, John, and ever since you
and I fought our first and last battle at Eton, I have found you a true
sympathiser. So now, is your heart ready to receive the flood of my
sorrows?"
Young Auberly said the latter part of this in a half-jesting tone, but
he was evidently in earnest, so his friend replied by squeezing his hand
warmly, and saying, "Let's hear about it, Fred," while he re-lighted his
pipe.
"You have but a poor lodging here, John," said Auberly, looking round
the room.
Barret turned on his friend a quick look of surprise, and then said,
with a smile:
"Well, I admit that it is not _quite_ equal to a certain mansion in
Beverly Square that I wot of, but it's good enough for a poor clerk in
an insurance office."
"You are right," continued Auberly; "it is _not_ equal to that mansion,
whose upper floors are at this moment a _chevaux-de-frise_ of charcoal
beams and rafters depicted on a dark sky, and whose lower floors are a
fantastic compound of burned bricks and lime, broken boards, and
blackened furniture."
"You don't mean to say there's been a fire?" exclaimed Barret.
"And _you_ don't mean to tell me, do you, that a clerk in a fire
insurance office does not know it?"
"I have been ill for two days," returned Barret, "and have not seen the
papers; but I'm very sorry to hear of it; indeed I am. The house is
insured, of course?"
"I believe it is," replied Fred carelessly; "but _that_ is not what
troubles me."
"No?" exclaimed his friend.
"No," replied the other. "If the house had not been insured my father
has wealth enough in those abominably unpicturesque stores in Tooley
Street to rebuild the whole of Beverly Square if it were burnt down.
The fire costs me not a thought, although, by the way, it nearly cost me
my life, in a vain attempt I made to rescue my poor dear sister Loo--"
"_Vain_ attempt!" exclaimed Barret, with a look of concern.
"Ay, vain, as far as I was concerned; but a noble fireman--a fellow that
would make a splendid model for Hercules in the Life Academy--sprang to
the rescue after me and saved her. God bless him! Dear Loo has got a
severe shake, but the doctors say that we have only to take good care of
her, and she will do well. But to return to my woes. Listen, John, and
you shall hear."
Fred Auberly paused, as though meditating how he should commence.
"You know," said he, "that I am my father's only son, and Loo his only
daughter."
"Yes."
"Well, my father has disinherited me and left the whole of his fortune
to Loo. As far as dear Loo is concerned I am glad; for myself I am sad,
for it is awkward, to say the least of it, to have been brought up with
unlimited command of pocket-money, and expectations of considerable
wealth, and suddenly to find myself all but penniless, without a
profession and without expectations, at the age of twenty-two."
He paused and looked at his friend, who sat in mute amazement.
"Failing Loo," continued Fred calmly, "my father's fortune goes to some
distant relative."
"But why? wherefore?" exclaimed Barret.
"You shall hear," continued Auberly. "You are aware that ever since I
was able to burn the end of a stick and draw faces on the nursery-door,
I have had a wild, insatiable passion for drawing; and ever since the
memorable day on which I was whipped by my father, and kissed,
tearfully, by my beloved mother, for caricaturing our cook on the
dining-room window with a diamond-ring, I have had an earnest,
unextinguishable desire to become a--a painter, an artist, a dauber, a
dirtier of canvas. D'ye understand?"
"Perfectly," said Barret.
"Well, my father has long been resolved, it seems, to make me a man of
business, for which I have no turn whatever. You are aware that for
many years I have dutifully slaved and toiled at these heavy books in
our office--which have proved so heavy that they have nearly squeezed
the soul out of me--and instead of coming to like them better (as I was
led to believe I should), I have only come to hate them more. During
all this time, too, I have been studying painting late and early, and
although I have not gone through the regular academical course, I have
studied much in the best of all schools, that of Nature. I have urged
upon my father repeatedly and respectfully, that it is possible for me
to uphold the credit of the family as a painter; that, as the business
can be carried on by subordinates, there is no necessity for me to be at
the head of it; and that, as he has made an ample fortune already, the
half of which he had told me was to be mine, I would be quite satisfied
with my share, and did not want any more. But my father would never
listen to my arguments. The last time we got on the subject he called
me a mean-spirited fellow, and said he was sorry I had ever been born;
whereupon I expressed regret that he had not been blessed with a more
congenial and satisfactory son, and tried to point out that it was
impossible to change my nature. Then I urged all the old arguments over
again, and wound up by saying that even if I were to become possessor of
the whole of his business to-morrow, I would sell it off, take to
painting as a profession, and become the patron of aspiring young
painters from that date forward!
"To my surprise and consternation, this last remark put him in such a
towering rage, that he vowed he would disinherit me, if I did not then
and there throw my palette and brushes into the fire. Of course, I
declined to do such an act, whereupon he dismissed me from his presence
for ever. This occurred on the morning of the day of the fire. I
thought he might perhaps relent after such an evidence of the mutability
of human affairs. I even ventured to remind him that Tooley Street was
not made of asbestos, and that an _occasional_ fire occurred there! But
this made him worse than ever; so I went the length of saying that I
would, at all events, in deference to his wishes, continue to go to the
office at least for some time to come. But, alas! I had roused him to
such a pitch that he refused to hear of it, unless I should `_throw my
palette and brushes into the fire_!' Flesh and blood, you know, could
not do that, so I left him, and walked off twenty miles into the country
to relieve my feelings. There I fell in with _such_ a splendid `bit;' a
sluice, with a stump of a tree, and a winding bit of water with
overhanging willows, and a peep of country beyond! I sat down and
sketched, and forgot my woes, and _rejoiced_ in the fresh air and
delightful sounds of birds, and cows, and sheep, and _hated_ to think of
Tooley Street. Then I slept in a country inn, walked back to London
next day, and, _voila_! here I am!"
"Don't you think, Fred, that time will soften your father?"
"No, I don't think it. On the contrary, I know it won't. He is a good
man; but he has an iron will, which I never saw subdued."
"Then, my dear Fred, I advise you to consider the propriety of throwing
your palette and brushes into--"
"My dear John, I did not come here for your advice. I came for your
sympathy."
"And you have it, Fred," cried Barret earnestly. "But have you really
such an unconquerable love for painting?"
"Have I really!" echoed Fred. "Do you think I would have come to such a
pass as this for a trifle? Why, man, you have no idea how my soul longs
for the life of a painter, for the free fresh air of the country, for
the poetry of the woods, the water, and the sky, for the music of bird
and beast and running brook. You know the true proverb, `Man made the
town; but God made the country!'"
"What," asked Barret, "would become of the town, if all men thought as
you do?"
"Oh! John Barret, has town life so marred your once fine intellect,
that you put such a question in earnest? Suppose I answer it by
another: What would become of the country if all men thought and acted
as you do?"
Barret smiled and smoked.
"And what," continued Auberly, "would become of the fine arts if all men
delighted in dirt, dust, dullness, and desks? Depend upon it, John,
that our tastes and tendencies are not the result of accident; they were
given to us for a purpose. I hold it as an axiom that when a man or a
boy has a strong and decided bias or partiality for any particular work
that he knows _something_ about, he has really a certain amount of
capacity for that work beyond the average of men, and is led thereto by
a higher power than that of man. Do not misunderstand me. I do not say
that, when a boy expresses a longing desire to enter the navy or the
army, he has necessarily an aptitude for these professions. Far from
it. He has only a romantic notion of something about which,
experimentally, he knows nothing; but, when man or boy has put his hand
to any style of work, and _thereafter_ loves it and longs after it, I
hold that that is the work for which he was destined, and for which he
is best suited."
"Perhaps you are right," said Barret, smoking harder than ever. "At all
events, I heartily sympathise with you, and--"
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a loud burst of
whistling, as the street-door opened and the strains of "Rule Britannia"
filled the entire building. The music was interrupted by the sudden
opening of another door, and a rough growl from a male voice.
"Don't get waxy, old feller," said the performer in a youthful voice, "I
ain't a-goin' to charge you nothink for it. I always do my music
gratis; havin' a bee-nevolient turn o' mind."
The door was slammed violently, and "Rule Britannia" immediately burst
forth with renewed and pointed emphasis.
Presently it ceased, and a knock came to Barret's door.
"Well, what d'ye want, you noisy scamp?" said Barret, flinging the door
open, and revealing the small figure of Willie Willders.
"Please, sir," said Willie, consulting the back of a note; "are you
Mister T-Tom--Tupper, Esquire?"
"No, I'm not."
"Ain't there sitch a name in the house?"
"No, not that I know of."
Willie's face looked blank.
"Well, I was told he lived here," he muttered, again consulting the
note.
"Here, let me look," said Barret, taking the note from the boy. "This
is Tippet, not Tupper. He lives in the top floor. By the way,
Auberly," said Barret, glancing over his shoulder, "Isn't Tom Tippet a
sort of connection of yours?"
"Yes; a distant one," said Fred carelessly, "too distant to make it
worth while our becoming acquainted. He's rich and eccentric, I'm told.
Assuredly, he must be the latter if he lives in such a hole as this.
What are you staring at, boy?"
This question was put to Willie.
"Please, sir, are _you_ the Mr Auberly who was a'most skumfished with
smoke at the Beverly Square fire t'other day, in tryin' to git hold o'
yer sister?"
Fred could not but smile as he admitted the fact.
"Please, sir, I hope yer sister ain't the wuss of it, sir."
"Not much, I hope; thank you for inquiring; but how come you to know
about the fire, and to be interested in my sister?"
"'Cause I was there, sir; an' it was _my brother_, sir, Frank Willders,
as saved your sister."
"Was it, indeed!" exclaimed Fred, becoming suddenly interested. "Come,
let me hear more about your brother."
Willie, nothing loth, related every fact he was acquainted with in
regard to Frank's career, and his own family history, in the course of
which he revealed the object of his visit to Mr Tippet. When he had
finished, Frederick Auberly shook hands with him and said:
"Now, Willie, go and deliver your note. If the application is
successful, well; but if it fails, or you don't like your work, just
call upon me, and I'll see what can be done for you."
"Yes, sir, and thankee," said Willie; "where did you say I was to call,
sir?"
"Call at--eh--ah--yes, my boy, call _here_, and let my friend Mr Barret
know you want to see me. He will let me know, and you shall hear from
me. Just at present--well, never mind, go and deliver your note now.
Your brother is a noble fellow. Good-night. And you're a fine little
fellow yourself," he added, after Willie closed the door.
The fine little fellow gave vent to such a gush of "Rule Britannia" at
the moment, that the two friends turned with a smile to each other.
Just then a man's voice was heard at the foot of the stair, grumbling
angrily. At the same moment young Auberly rose to leave.
"Good-night, Barret. I'll write to you soon as to my whereabout and
what about. Perhaps see you ere long."
"Good-night. God prosper you, Fred. Good-night."
As he spoke, the grumbler came stumbling along the passage.
"Good-night again, Fred," said Barret, almost pushing his friend out.
"I have a particular reason for not wishing you to see the fr-, the man
who is coming in."
"All right, old fellow," said Fred as he passed out, and drew up against
the wall to allow a drunken man to stumble heavily into the room.
Next moment he was in the street hastening he knew not whither; but
following the old and well-known route to Beverly Square.