IN THE OFFICE.
The morning sun was shining on the house of Greatorex and Greatorex.
It was a busy day in April. London was filling; people were flocking
to town; the season was fairly inaugurated, the law courts were full
of life.
The front door stood open; the inner door, closed, could be pushed
back at will. It bore a brass plate with the inscription, "Greatorex
and Greatorex, Solicitors," and it had a habit, this inner door, of
swinging-to upon clients' heels as they went out, for the spring was
sharp. In the passage which the door closed in, was a room on either
hand. The one on the left was inscribed outside, "Clerks' Office ";
that on the right, "Mr. Bede Greatorex."
Mr. Bede Greatorex was in his room today: not his private room; that
lay beyond. It was a moderate-sized apartment, the door in the middle,
the fireplace opposite to it. On the right, between the door and the
near window, was the desk of Mr. Brown; opposite to it, between the
fireplace and far window, stood Mr. Bede Greatorex's desk; two longer
desks ran along the walls towards the lower part of the room. At the
one, in a line with that of Mr. Bede Greatorex, the fireplace being
between them, sat Mr. Hurst, a gentleman who had entered the house for
improvement; at the one on the other side the door, in a line with Mr.
Brown's, sat little Jenner, a paid clerk. Sundry stools and chairs
stood about; a huge map hung above the fireplace; a stone bottle of
ink, some letter-scales, and various other articles more useful than
ornamental, were on the mantel-shelf: altogether, the room was about
as bare and dull as such offices usually are. The door at the end,
marked "Private," opened direct to the private room of Mr. Bede
Greatorex, where he held consultations with clients.
And he generally sat there also. It was not very often that he came to
his desk in the front office: but he chose to be there on occasions,
and this was one. This side of the house was understood to comprise
the department of Mr. Bede Greatorex; some of the clients of the firm
were his exclusively; that is, when they came they saw him, not his
father; and Mr. Brown was head-clerk and manager under him.
Bede Greatorex (called generally in the office, "Mr. Bede," in
contradistinction to his father, Mr. Greatorex) sat looking over some
papers taken out of his locked desk. Four years have gone by since you
saw him last, reader; for that prologue to the story with its sad
event, was not enacted lately. And the four years have aged him. His
father was wont to tell him that he had not got over the shock and
grief of John Ollivera's death; Bede's private opinion was that he
never should get over it. They had been as close friends, as dear
brothers; and Bede had been a changed man since. Apart from this grief
and regret and the effect it might have left upon him, suspicions had
also arisen latterly that Bede Greatorex's health was failing; in
short there were indications, fancied or real, that the inward
complaint of which his mother died, might, unless great care were
used, creep upon him. Bede had seen a physician, who would pronounce
no very positive opinion, but believed on the whole that the fears
were without foundation, certainly they were premature.
Another cause that tended to worry Mr. Bede Greatorex, lay in his
domestic life. More than three years ago now, he had married Miss
Joliffe; and the world, given you know to put itself into everybody's
business and whisper scandal of the best of us, said that in marrying
her, Bede Greatorex had got his pill. She was wilful as the wind;
spent his money right and left; ran him in debt; plunged into gaiety,
show, whirl, all of which her husband hated: she was in fact a
perfect, grave exemplification of that undesirable but expressive
term that threatens to become a household word in our once sober
land--"fast." Three parts of Bede's life--the life that lay apart from
his profession, his routine of office duties--was spent in striving to
keep from his father the extravagance of his wife, and the sums of
money he had to draw for personal expenditure. Bede had chivalric
ideas upon the point; he had made her his wife, and would jealously
have guarded her failings from all: he would have denied, had he been
questioned, that she had any. So far as he was able he would indulge
her whims and wishes; but there was one of them that he could not and
did not: and that related to their place of dwelling. Bede had brought
his wife to the home that had been his mother's, to be its sole
mistress in his late mother's place. It was a large, convenient,
handsome residence (as was previously seen), replete with every
comfort; but after a time Mrs. Bede Greatorex grew discontented. She
wanted to be in a more fashionable quarter; Hyde Park, Belgrave
Square; anywhere amidst the great world. After their marriage Bede had
taken her abroad; and they remained so long there that Mr. Greatorex
began to indulge a private opinion that Bede was never coming back
again. They sojourned in Paris, in Switzerland, in Germany; and
though, when they at length did return, Bede laughingly said he could
not get Louisa home, he had in point of fact been as ready to linger
away from it as she was. The Bedford Square house had been done up
beautifully, and for two years Mrs. Bede found no fault with it; she
had taken to do that lately, and it seemed to grow upon her like a
mania.
Upstairs now, now at this very moment, when her husband is poring over
his law-puzzles with bent brow, she is studying the advertisements of
desirable houses in the _Times_, almost inclined to go out and take
one on her own account. A charming one (to judge by the description)
was to be had in Park Lane, rent only six hundred a-year, unfurnished.
Money was as plentiful as sand in the idea of Mrs. Bede Greatorex.
You can go and see her. Through the passages and the intervening door
to the other house; or else go out into the street and make a call of
state at the private entrance. Up the wide staircase to the handsome
landing-place already told of, with its rich green carpet, its painted
windows, its miniature conservatory, and its statues; on all of which
the sun is shining as brightly as it was that other day four years
ago, when Bede Greatorex came home, fresh from the unhappy scenes
connected with the death of Mr. Ollivera. Not into the dining-room;
there's no one in it; there's no one in the large and beautiful
drawing-room; enter, first of all, a small apartment on the side that
they call the study.
At the table sat Jane Greatorex, grown into a damsel of twelve, but
exceedingly little and childlike in appearance. She was writing French
dictation. By her side, speaking the words in a slow, distinct tone,
with a good and pure accent, sat a young lady, her face one of the
sweetest it was ever man's lot to look upon. The hazel eyes were deep,
honest, steady; the auburn hair lay lightly away from delicate and
well-carved features; the complexion was pure and bright. A slender
girl of middle height, and gentle, winning manners, whose simple
morning dress of light cashmere sat well upon her.
Surely that modest, good, thoughtful young woman could not be Mrs.
Bede Greatorex! No: you must wait yet an instant for introduction to
her. That is only Miss Jane's governess, a young lady who has but
recently entered on her duties as such, and is striving to perform
them conscientiously. She is very patient, although the little girl is
excessively tiresome, with a strong will of her own, and a decided
objection to lessons of all kinds. She is the more patient because she
remembers what a tiresome child she was herself, at that age, and the
vast amount of trouble she gave wilfully to her sister-governess.
"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. Eliz a 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
today," 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 today. 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 put the
question.
"I was about to speak," said Mr. Bede Greatorex. "There's a new clerk
coming in today 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; someone 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 atop of him, and the man atop-faced 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?" inquired the
manager, wondering whether the new comer 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 hare 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've 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 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 to 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 Garrick. 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 am 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 dark
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 am 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.