INTRODUCES MR. ALFRED WESTWOOD.
One chilly day in that most depressing of all English months, November,
Mr. Merapie’s principal clerk stood in a manner at once easy and
graceful before the fire in the outer office. His right foot was firmly
planted upon an old-fashioned chair covered with hair-cloth, and thus he
was enabled to rest his elbow on his knee, and finally to place under
his chin a remarkably slender gentlemanlike hand, adorned with two
rings, and set off to greater advantage by a broad linen wristband,
white as the driven snow, and fine as Irish looms could weave it.
To attitudinize after this fashion he considered one of the especial
privileges of his situation, none of the junior clerks being ever
permitted—at least never in his presence—thus conjointly to enjoy the
luxury of thought, heat, and dignity, with one foot supported by the
crazy chair, which was giving up its stuffing by almost imperceptible
degrees.
Whenever he was in a particularly good, or a peculiarly bad, temper, he
assumed the position above indicated, and addressed by turns words of
encouragement or of rebuke to his fellow-labourers, as he exhibited his
jewellery, caressed his whiskers, and apparently reflected how handsome
he was.
For vanity was the most perceptible feature in the character of Mr.
Alfred Westwood, whose cleverness was only equalled by his impudence—his
impudence by his hypocrisy—his hypocrisy by his ambition—and his
ambition by his self-esteem. He was fond of money, not exactly for love
of it, but for love of himself. He wanted it to spend in the purchase of
expensive broadcloths, fine linens, cambric handkerchiefs, new hats,
rare perfumes, macassar oil, gold chains, signet rings, extraordinary
soaps, and endless cigars. There was no clerk, or, indeed, no young
sprig of the aristocracy, in London who dressed so well, or seemed so
confirmed and utterly hopeless a dandy, as Alfred Westwood, whose hair
was always arranged after the most becoming and approved mode; whose
speech, carriage, deportment, manners, were, as he fondly believed,
unexceptionable; who learnt privately all the new dances as they came
out; who was conversant with the appearance of every scrap of feminine
nobility that drove in the Park, or rode down Rotten Row; who saw each
new piece which was brought out at, and criticised every new actor who
crossed the boards of, any one of the theatres; who could wind his way
blindfold through the West End—thread all the intricacies of that magic
region better, perhaps, than if he had been born and brought up in
Belgravia; who, to condense all into one single sentence, desired in the
innermost recesses of his heart to be considered a fashionable man about
town; and who was, in fact, head clerk in the establishment of Mr.
Merapie, a rich, eccentric merchant, possessed of almost fabulous
wealth, and residing in the “Modern Babylon.”
No man of mortal mould was ever able to get a near sight of the history
of Mr. Westwood’s life, and read it through from beginning to end. It
was currently believed he once had parents, but no one could state the
circumstance as a fact of his own knowledge. Sisters, brothers, cousins,
relatives, friends, he had apparently none; he appeared merely to be a
stray waif, possessed of many personal attractions, floating lightly
over the sea of London society, who came of necessity in contact with,
and greeted scores of his fellow-creatures during the course of his
passage from a far distant port to some unknown destination, but who
belonged to no one, made a confidant of no one, seemed claimed by no
one, was loved by no one—save himself.
He was of what that queen of blessed memory, Elizabeth, would, perhaps,
have termed a “just height,” inasmuch as he was neither inconveniently
tall, nor yet remarkably short; somewhat slight in figure, but extremely
well-proportioned; of a fair complexion, with brown eyes, hair and
whiskers rather dark than light, and teeth so white and regular, that
from a benevolent desire not to deprive society at large of a certain
pleasure, he was perpetually smiling in a manner which, although a few
disagreeable persons considered it artificial, he himself deemed
perfectly bewitching.
But if vanity be of all human weaknesses and follies the most
contemptible and unendurable, it is also the least really hurtful to any
one, save the individual who, through its intervention, lives in an
atmosphere of perpetual self-congratulation; and, had Mr. Westwood’s
sole characteristic been an unbounded admiration for his own person, he
might daintily have walked through life, the City, and his beloved West
End, unchronicled, unheeded by me.
It was, however, his leading foible, whilst ambition appeared to be his
crying sin. He desired not only admiration, but position; he wished to
trade, to amass wealth, to retire, to have a town residence and a
country seat, servants, equipages, vineries, green-houses, paintings,
grand society; and to accomplish these few trifling desires, he at the
age of seven-and-twenty had started, as the phrase runs, “on his own
account,” with an available capital of ten pounds three and ninepence,
and a stock of assurance which, if it could only have been coined into
gold, might for years have been drawn upon _ad libitum_, with a positive
certainty that any banker in the kingdom would honour the cheque.
But impudence, unhappily, cannot by any process of alchemy be turned
into sovereigns, although it may, and frequently does, prove the means
of obtaining them; and ten pounds three and ninepence, unlike the
present fashionable swimming vests, will not expand to unheard-of
dimensions, and keep the fortunate possessor’s head above water “for
ever;” and moreover, people will sometimes weary of giving credit, and
begin to ask decidedly for a settlement. In consequence of all these
things, Alfred Westwood, at the expiration of two brief years, found
himself “unable”—so he told all whom it might concern—“to meet his
liabilities.” In plain words, his debts were just on the verge of seven
thousand pounds, and his assets not a farthing above five and twopence.
In the interim he had lived like a lord, kept a cob, hired a valet, and
lodged in St. James’s: and when in due course he passed through the
Bankruptcy Court he blandly told the commissioner his expenditure had
been most moderate—_only_ six hundred per annum; and in an extremely
genteel accent entered an indignant protest against an illiberal and
insulting demand made by his creditors (when he politely appeared, at
their desire, to answer their questions, and afford them all the
assistance in his power), that he should give up, for their benefit, his
watch, chain, rings, and eye-glass, with which articles he had adorned
himself, to the end that he might, even in ruin, look like a gentleman.
But remonstrance proving vain, with a sigh he relinquished these
unpaid-for mementoes of happier days, made a full statement of his
affairs, solemnly affirmed he and he alone was the party deserving of
commiseration, and proved to the satisfaction, though decidedly not to
the gratification, of all present, that, let him be what he might—knave,
simpleton, dupe, schemer, or fop—nothing in the shape of compensation
could be wrung out of him, whether freeman or prisoner; that he had no
friends who would “stand by him,” or, in other words, pay them; that a
merciless prosecution would do him little harm, and could not, by
possibility, benefit the sufferers in the slightest degree; that,
finally, it was worse than useless to fling good money after bad; and
therefore Mr. Westwood escaped better than a better man, and was
permitted to go on his way rejoicing.
Although he thought an immense deal on the subject, he said “never a
word” when he heard his creditors were about to insure his life, in
order to secure themselves, if possible, against total loss; but
apparently contrite, broken spirited, and broken hearted, did all that
was required of him, meekly got the requisite documents filled up and
signed, went quietly before the ruling powers “to be viewed,” and have
the probabilities of his death discussed and the consequent rate of
premium decided on; patiently held his peace for a period, and permitted
those whom he had so deliberately cheated to complete their part of the
business ere he, with a grim smile on his lips, began his.
What with actual anxiety, slight indisposition, and two or three
sleepless nights, he found himself sufficiently ill to be able to carry
his project into execution with a chance of success; and, accordingly,
discarding all useless ornaments, with a very shabby coat, hair neither
glossy nor well arranged, and a hat which he had dinged a little for the
occasion, he repaired to an insurance office, where he well knew his
life was considered a matter of some importance.
He desired to speak with the principals upon important business, he
said; and on the strength of this assertion, he was ushered forthwith
into the “presence chamber.”
“Gentlemen,” he began, in a cool, straightforward manner, “I believe you
are rather interested in my longevity; I am Alfred Westwood, formerly a
merchant, now a beggar, whose creditors have insured my life in your
office.”
The fact being accurately remembered, the individuals thus addressed
bent anxious glances on his face, scrutinized him from head to foot, and
mentally calculated how many premiums he was “good for,” whilst he
proceeded:
“I have come, therefore, to inform you, with feelings of deep
regret—regret, more of course on my own account than yours—that I fear
you will very speedily be called upon to pay the various policies which
have been effected in this case.”
It certainly was a somewhat startling announcement, and the two elderly
and one middle-aged gentlemen, to whom he so tranquilly communicated the
likelihood of his demise, exclaimed in a breath,
“Good heavens! it is not possible——”
“With all due respect,” returned Mr. Westwood, “permit me to remark, it
is not merely possible, but probable; my death _must_ take place ere
long, so far as I can see; not, indeed, from any disease that medicine
or skill is able to cure, but because of a malady, from the certainly
fatal effects of which you, and you alone, can deliver me.”
“We!” ejaculated the trio, once again in unison.
“You, gentlemen,” solemnly responded their visitor.
“And what may the malady be, and how can we avert it?” they demanded.
“The malady is starvation,” he replied, concealing, by a desperate
effort, an almost irresistible inclination to smile; “money or a
lucrative employment will save my life and your pockets. All my worldly
goods, everything, in short, I was possessed of, save a tranquil
conscience and the clothes I now wear, I made over to my creditors. What
man could do more? and yet they are not satisfied; their malice pursues
me so relentlessly that, in consequence of their evil reports, I can
obtain no situation, no matter how humble. I am not fitted, either by
education or constitution, for manual labour, even were such offered to
me: I have no friends able to assist me: I have brains, talent,
energy,—would prove invaluable to any person requiring an active,
indefatigable clerk. I desire not, indeed, to make a new character for
myself, but to demonstrate that which has been asserted of my present
one is false. I have been unfortunate and wish to repair the past; but
every office is closed before me, every mortal seems prejudiced against
me. People will not permit me to work, I cannot beg; in fine, gentlemen,
I must starve unless you, for your own interests, aid me in this
dilemma. Recollect, I do not ask you to do this for my sake, but for
your own; for I know quite enough of human nature to believe self is the
motive power that turns the world, is the mainspring of men’s actions,
is, in brief, the sole reason why, although I do stand in need of
sympathy and compassion—though I am a ruined man, though I have been
more ‘sinned against than sinning,’ you will help me.”
Westwood was right; he had studied the worst part of human nature
intently, and judged it correctly. Had he possessed the eloquence of a
Demosthenes, he could not more speedily have struck the feeling in the
hearts of his auditors, which he desired to reach, than by thus quietly
stating that, if they did not at once lay out a small amount, either of
time or money, to save his life, they would most probably have to pay,
ere long, a large amount, in consequence of his death. His tale was a
likely one enough; his haggard looks confirmed the statement; gold, they
were satisfied he had none; it might be perfectly correct that almost
insuperable obstacles precluded his obtaining employment; further, he
had not flattered them; and even business men are too apt to fall into a
trap baited with what, although a few persons term it contemptuous
rudeness, uttered either for a motive or from chagrin, most others style
frank, truthful sincerity. At all events, one thing was, as he stated,
self-evident; it was apparently their _interest_ to serve him, and
accordingly, as he was clever, shrewd, and plausible, they speedily did
so. The principals of the insurance office to which the creditors had
paid premiums, held a sort of perplexed conference together; the end of
which was, that a situation, not very lucrative indeed, but still a
“start,” was procured for Mr. Alfred Westwood. He received
five-and-twenty pounds for pressing necessities, to slightly replenish
his wardrobe and enable him once again to appear as a “gentleman.” In
short, he got, for the second time, fairly afloat; and when the
_ci-devant_ bankrupt found himself again in a position to earn money, he
gaily twisted his whiskers, passed the men he had, in plain words,
“robbed,” with a high head and confident air, and mentally murmuring, “I
was too fast before, I will be slow and sure this time,” commenced, _de
nouveau_, the struggle of existence, not as a pleasant experiment, but
as an important reality.
Years passed on: some termed Alfred Westwood a conceited fop, but others
affirmed he knew perfectly what he was about: he always dressed well,
perpetually kept up appearances, apparently denied himself no
gratification, retained one situation until he saw another likely to
suit him better, but not a moment longer; became noted for shrewd
cleverness and long-headedness; mounted fortune’s ladder cautiously,
and, with a vivid memory of his former desperate tumble, never took his
foot from one step till he was morally certain of being able to place it
on the next, and keep it there; finally, he entered, at a salary of two
hundred per annum, the counting house of Mr. John Merapie, as assistant
to the principal clerk, and in that capacity did so much more than the
above individual had ever dreamt of attempting, that, at the expiration
of one brief year, Mr. Westwood found himself next to Mr. Merapie, chief
of the establishment,—vice Roger Aymont superannuated, or, in other
words, superseded.
And thus, patient reader, it came to pass that, at the not very advanced
age of thirty-five, Mr. Alfred Westwood, possessed of a comfortable
income, tormented with no incumbrance, in the shape of invalid father,
helpless mother, insane brother, delicate sister, or tiresome child,
stood enjoying the luxury of his own happy thoughts, as previously
chronicled at the commencement of this chapter.
“Westwood” was the word which brought his foot down and his head erect
in a second of time—“Westwood.”
“Sir,” responded the individual so addressed; having elicited which mark
of attention, Mr. Merapie proceeded:
“I have to attend the Lord Mayor’s banquet this evening, and should
therefore feel glad if you could make it convenient to meet my sister,
Mrs. Frazer, who, as you have heard, is coming from the North, and see
her safely home to the Square.”
Whereupon Mr. Westwood, smiling in his sweetest manner, declared,
“Nothing could give him more pleasure.”
“Thank you—wouldn’t trouble you if I could avoid doing so,” returned Mr.
Merapie, “but necessity, you are aware——”
“Knows no law,” supplied his clerk with a deferential bow, which bow
fairly taking Mr. Merapie away from the outer office, and leaving Mr.
Westwood temporary master of the inner one, he at once repaired to the
latter, drew two chairs close together opposite the fire-place, leant
his head against the back of one and disposed his limbs in a graceful
attitude upon the other, crossed his arms majestically over his chest,
and remained thus pondering and calculating chances till the time
arrived for him to go and make acquaintance with the new comers, Mrs.
Frazer and her two children.
Carefully as he might have scanned the pages of a book wherein his
fortune was written, did Alfred Westwood scrutinize the faces of the
“widowed and the orphaned,” whom he, a stranger, thus met and greeted on
their arrival to an almost unfamiliar place.
He beheld a languid, fashionable-looking lady, a boy, in whom her very
soul seemed centred, and lastly, a slight pale child, with nothing
especially remarkable about her, save a pair of soft mellow eyes, a
perfect wilderness of dark curls, and a peculiarly quick intelligent
expression of countenance.
Alfred Westwood noted every gesture, feature, word, as he conducted the
trio “home;” and when, after having seen them and their luggage safely
deposited in Mr. Merapie’s house, situated in what that gentleman termed
“The Square,” he turned to walk to his own lodgings by the bright
gaslight through some of the countless London streets, he murmured, as
if by way of conclusion to some very knotty argument he had long been
debating within himself, “They may prove of service to me, perhaps; at
all events, I defy them to raise an obstacle in my path.”