A VERY WET SATURDAY.
To this man, prosperous in spite of the reverses he had
experienced--contented notwithstanding the recollections his memory must
have held--hypocritical to Heaven and his fellows as he had once been to
his fellows alone--to this man who, having turned over a new leaf on
which nothing was traced save piety and respectability, found money,
and, as a natural consequence, a certain amount of consideration also,
there came on an especially wet Saturday, in a very recent year of
grace, one of his clerks, who handed to him a slip of paper on which two
names were written, and waited to hear his pleasure as to admitting the
owners of them to a private audience.
"Ask them to walk in," said Mr. Asherill; and accordingly two men did
walk in, with foreigner stamped upon them from head to foot.
"Pray be seated," suggested Mr. Asherill, acknowledging, from his side
of the table, their greetings, but either not seeing or not wishing to
see that one at least of the two was prepared to shake hands.
There had been a time--but that was in his unregenerate and impecunious
state--when friends were as scarce as florins, so it seems almost
ungenerous to state the fact of Mr. Asherill having once been glad to
hear himself familiarly accosted by the shorter, fairer, and apparently
franker of his visitors.
For many reasons Mr. Asherill disliked gentlemen who had not been
privileged to be born Britons. In his capacity as a Christian and a
Dissenter he disapproved of people whom he classed roughly all round as
"Papists," "Jesuits," and "Infidels." In his capacity as a citizen of
the City of London, he regarded foreigners as interlopers, and had once
actually written a letter to the then Chancellor of the Exchequer
suggesting a tax upon Germans, Greeks, Frenchmen, and others, as a means
at once of raising the revenue and of relieving Englishmen from an
irritating and disastrous competition.
Further, Mr. Asherill not merely believed that foreign men and women
were unbelievers, and that they crossed the Channel for no other object
except to pick the pocket of John Bull, but he also fancied--not
entirely without reason perhaps--that, polite manners and politer words
nevertheless, all foreigners with whom he came in contact had taken his
measure pretty accurately, and were laughing at him in their sleeve.
In a word, the very idea of such falseness and frivolity, when conjoined
with the art of making money, was odious to Mr. Asherill; and he had
made much good play amongst staid heads of families, and in the company
of elders of churches, by giving utterance to opinions that had at least
the merit of sincerity, on the subject of peaceful foreign invasion.
For these reasons, and for others which will explain themselves ere
long, Mr. Asherill did not think it necessary to exhibit any effusion of
feeling at sight of his visitors.
"Disagreeable day," he remarked in a deprecating sort of manner, as
though he were mentally apologizing to a higher authority for even
commenting on the state of the weather.
"Beastly," answered the taller man in a tone which clearly implied he at
least entertained no fear of Providence being offended by any strictures
on the English climate.
"Vairy bad," agreed his companion in an accent which indicated he was
more of a foreigner than the previous speaker.
And this was the case.
Bertrand Kleinwort was a German pure as imported, whilst Henry Werner
laboured under the (personal) disadvantages of having been born in
England and of having been brought up under somewhat different social
circumstances to those which usually tend to the triumph of the Teutonic
over the Saxon race.
One accustomed to notice such matters might also have observed another
distinction between the two men. While both were Germans, subject to the
difference above mentioned, both had also Jewish blood in their veins,
with the important difference that they certainly owed their origin to
separate descendants of the lost tribes.
I should be sorry to insult the memory of any one of the ten sons of
Jacob who failed to send down clear title-deeds with his posterity, by
suggesting to which of the number Mr. Kleinwort might directly trace his
existence, but it certainly was to another brother than he from whose
loins sprang the progenitor of Henry Werner.
Most people would have preferred Kleinwort to Werner; preferred his soft
pleading voice, his tone of ready sympathy, his pleasant, cheerful,
plausible, confidential manners, till they felt his deathly grip, and
understood, too late, the cold snake-like cruelty which underlay his
smooth kindly exterior; the devilish deliberation with which he lay in
ambush for his prey till the moment came, and with it, for ever,
farewell to hope--aye, and it had been to things dearer than hope, or
wealth, or life itself.
As for Werner, with dark impassive face and impenetrable, almost sullen
manners, he had performed some feats of sailing remarkably close to the
wind, which had drawn upon him animadversions from masters, and
judges, and juries, and a few honest men in the City--a few of the
typical ten who may yet save it, if indeed there are--almsgiving
notwithstanding--ten left. He had kept up impending bankrupts till he
was clear, and it seemed expedient to let them go; he had allowed
people, to "refer to him," who saw him safe out and let other people in;
he had, it was whispered, once or twice accepted for payment paper, some
of the names on which were more than suspicious, taken in conjunction
with other names appended to the document, and no harm had come to him
in consequence; in a word, once upon a time, Henry Werner could not have
been considered particular, and now, when he had become very particular,
those matters were, by persons of a retentive turn of mind, remembered
against him.
Mr. Asherill remembered them, which was bad, seeing he had travelled an
even worse road himself; but then it must be taken into account that a
ticket-of-leave man who sincerely repents the error of his ways cannot
afford exactly to be seen in company even with a very young pickpocket.
"Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?" asked Mr. Asherill, looking
across the table at his visitors, and digging the point of a steel pen
into his blotting-paper as he spoke.
"We have brought you one very good thing," said Mr. Kleinwort, speaking
slowly, and painfully, English bad as the weather.
"Much obliged, I am sure. What is it?"
"Oh! one small thing; not big, but good. Must be done this very day; no
fear of costs; lots of what you call peekings; no large bones but
meaty;" and Mr. Kleinwort, who was all head and stomach, like a modern
representation of Christmas, as popularly depicted, with a plum-pudding
for paunch, laughed at his own wit.
Mr. Werner did not laugh; he scowled at his companion. Mr. Asherill did
not laugh either. He looked from one to the other, and then asked, in a
tone an undertaker might have envied--
"Who has gone now?"
"Archibald Mortomley," said Mr. Werner, glancing at him with dark eyes,
from under darker brows.
"You don't mean that?" exclaimed Mr. Asherill, with a briskness
suggestive of the old Adam.
"I mean that," answered Mr. Werner; and then ensued a pause.
Mr. Asherill broke it.
"If not an impertinent question, gentlemen, what have you to do with
this?"
"I am his friend," said Mr. Werner, with a hesitation natural, perhaps,
to a man who looked so incapable of being a friend to any one.
"And I a creditor," said Mr. Kleinwort, with a fluency which seemed to
strike Mr. Asherill, who surveyed them both, and stared at them over and
through.
"What does he owe you?" he asked at last, addressing himself to Mr.
Kleinwort.
"Fifteen hundred pounds."
"For what?"
"Money advanced."
"Through whom?"
"Through nobody, except me, myself."
"Nonsense; it is of no use talking in this way to me. You never had
fifteen hundred pence, let alone fifteen hundred pounds to advance to
any one."
"Upon mine sacred word of honour," Mr. Kleinwort was beginning, when Mr.
Werner stopped him.
"It is all right, Mr. Asherill," he said, "Kleinwort has advanced
fifteen hundred pounds; I know how and I know why."
"Is Mr. Kleinwort the petitioning creditor?" inquired Mr. Asherill of
Mr. Werner.
"I," interposed Mr. Kleinwort; "I, mein Gott! No! It is a pity, ach,
such a pity. Such a place, such a plant, such a business! Did not I
myself go down with Forde to see what was possible? Did I not say to the
little lady, Mortomley's wife, 'It is a pity, such a pity to let all
everything go; think what you and your friends can do, and then come to
me; you shall have what you want if Bertrand Kleinwort can procure it
for you.'"
Mr. Asherill looked at the devoted foreigner curiously.
"And what said the little lady?" he inquired.
"She turned up her nose at me--what small amount of nose there was to
turn--she looked at me. Soh!" And Mr. Kleinwort glanced out of the
corner of his eyes, and puckered his face into a grotesque sneer. "She
flounced her dress about in a pet, and said, 'Thank you very much, but
we are all tired of pouring water into a sieve; and, for myself, I think
bankruptcy must be heaven in comparison to the life we have been leading
lately.'"
"And you?" suggested Mr. Asherill.
"I then made answer, 'Madame, you will not find bankruptcy so pleasant
as you think.' She folded her hands and said, 'We will take our
chance.'"
"And what was Mortomley doing all this time?" asked Mr. Asherill.
With an expressive shrug Mr. Kleinwort answered, "Ill or making believe
to be ill; it all comes to the same for us."
"Is the man really ill?" said Mr. Asherill, turning to Mortomley's
'friend.'
"I do not know; the doctor and his wife say he is; but then doctors and
wives will say anything," Mr. Werner replied impatiently.
"You both, however, believe that if he had been in the way this
misfortune need not have come to pass?"
"Most assuredly," said Mr. Kleinwort, eagerly.
"It might have been deferred, at all events," acquiesced Mr. Werner.
"Mrs. Mortomley is a relation of yours by marriage, I think," suggested
Mr. Asherill, addressing Mr. Werner.
"By no means. My wife is a niece of Lord Darsham; Mrs. Mortomley, the
daughter of a poor country clergyman. My wife knew Mrs. Mortomley when
they were both young girls, and a sort of acquaintance has been kept up
since."
Mr. Werner spoke the preceding sentence very rapidly, and grew very red
in spite of his dark complexion, as if the question and answer had
embarrassed him; but Mr. Asherill seemed to take little heed of his
agitation, for he turned at once to Mr. Kleinwort, remarking,
"Is Forde in this, too?"
"Ach, yes," returned the other; "in what is it poor Forde is not? He is
so good, so kind, so easy, or what you English call in your droll
way--soft."
"Perhaps," remarked Mr. Asherill dubiously, "he has had a good deal to
do with you, Kleinwort?"
"A little; yes, a little; not with me exact, but correspondents of
mine."
"And I expect he will have more to do with you before all transactions
are finally closed," continued Mr. Asherill.
"It may be; who can tell? business grows."
"True," agreed Mr. Asherill, "and falls off, which brings us back to
Mortomley. Why, as you two are so much interested in the affair, do you
not act as friendly trustees and help to pull him through?"
"Oh! it is deucedly unpleasant being mixed up in such affairs," said Mr.
Werner hastily.
"He means nothing by that," remarked Mr. Kleinwort, in reference to his
companion's adverb, at which Mr. Asherill had shaken his head in grave
remonstrance. "As to Mortomley, poor fellow, Forde asked me to see to
the property, but I made answer--
"No, no; I have mine own business to attend to; anything in reason it is
possible to do for the poor fellow and that mistaken little lady, yes;
but I cannot neglect my own family and my own interests, even for the
sake of that most beautiful child her mother refused to let kiss old,
ugly Kleinwort."
"Oh! Mrs. Mortomley would not then allow her child to kiss you?"
commented Mr. Asherill.
"Mein Gott, no!" exclaimed the German, warming with his subject; "ten
million pardons, Asherill. Mein Gott in my affluent language means not
the same, by hundreds of degrees, as the same phrase rendered into
English. The small miss is a company child, wearing her hair soh;"--and
Mr. Kleinwort made a feint of arranging a Gainsborough fringe over his
ample forehead,--"who is neither shy nor forward, but has a knowledge of
_les convenances_ customary with young ladies and gentlemen even of the
smallest age, who have mixed in society since able to walk alone, and
she, in answer to my petition, would have come to me. All who know
Kleinwort know his weakness for children,--lovely innocents,--everything
we men are not. But madam said, 'Lenore, I want you;' and, taking the
tiny creature's hand, looked at me as a tigress with a cub might have
regarded a hunter with a cocked gun. And Gott in Himmel knows," finished
Mr. Kleinwort plaintively--, "I wanted to do no harm to child, mother, or
father; only, as bad fortune would have it, poor dear Forde was rough.
Like all timid, nervous people he always is rough with tender women and
weak men, and so caused that mistaken little Mrs. Mortomley to put up
her mane."
"What sort of person is this Mrs. Mortomley, who seems to have disturbed
your friend's equanimity?" inquired Mr. Asherill, turning to Mr. Werner.
"Much like other women; there is not a great deal of difference among
them," was the reply.
"Ah! is not that Werner?" remarked Mr. Kleinwort; but Mr. Asherill
silenced him with an impatient movement.
"Gentlemen," he said in his best manner, "I am sorry to seem ungrateful
for your kindness, but I may tell you, in a word, this is a business
which will not suit me. It had better, far better, be arranged
privately. Your safest policy would be to find amongst yourselves money
to carry on the business. It and Mortomley must be right enough."
"The man is ill and has no stuff left in him," exclaimed Mr. Werner
energetically and colloquially, forgetting in his haste what he had said
previously concerning wives and doctors. Mr. Asherill, however, quietly
marked a point, while he observed, "Yes."
"And there is no one left--no, not one," added Mr. Kleinwort eagerly,
"but a nephew in a velvet suit, who paints poor pictures and swaggers,
and in effect, if not in deed, snaps his fingers at us all; and his
sister, who is going to marry a rich man, and wants to be rid of the
connection, and little madam with the big temper, who thinks to fight
the world single-handed, but who does not know, oh! she knows not all
that means."
"And Mortomley?" suggested Mr. Asherill.
"For him we will just now, if you please, carry what you call nought,"
answered Mr. Kleinwort quickly.
Mr. Asherill smiled again, and mentally scored another trick; but he
only said aloud,
"Nevertheless, with many thanks for your offer, this is a business I
would much rather decline."
"Forde wants you to undertake it as a particular favour," remarked Mr.
Werner.
"Oh! indeed."
"Yes," agreed Mr. Kleinwort; "his words were, 'Tell Asherill there can
be no loss; that there must be profit, and that he will be doing me and
other people, Mortomley included, a good turn besides.'"
Mr. Asherill leaned back in his arm-chair and closed his eyes; he
touched the fingers of his right hand with his left, and might have
looked, to those who knew no better, engaged in prayer.
Messrs. Kleinwort and Werner did know better; nevertheless, they
regarded him impatiently, not knowing what turn his meditations might
take, and meantime matters were pressing.
At length. Mr. Asherill unclosed his eyes and resumed an upright
position.
"I cannot," he began, addressing the two men, who, for reasons best
known to themselves, anxiously awaited his fiat, "do what you desire
myself,--I wish I could; but there are reasons which render it
impossible. Perhaps, however, my young partner, who is a perfect
gentleman, may be able to help you."
He touched his bell as he spoke, and a solemn silence ensued till a
clerk appeared in answer to the summons.
"Request Mr. Swanland to have the kindness to step this way," said Mr.
Asherill, and remained mute once more till his partner entered.
A man not young, certainly, though in comparison to Mr. Asherill,
relatively;--a man, not a gentleman, though cast in a different and more
modern mould from that which had turned out his senior; a man who had
taken much pains with his manners, his speech, and his deportment; and
who, though he had striven to graduate for a high place in the world's
university, and failed, would never cease to give himself the airs of
one who had, or ought to have, won distinguished honours.
Mr. Swanland entered. He came into the room with a quiet, almost
stealthy step, and, seeing strangers with his partner, bowed to them
stiffly and ceremoniously.
Bertrand Kleinwort looked him over. "No liver, no digestion, no brains,
no heart--he will do," was the German's mental comment, showing that,
although right in his premises, even a German may sometimes be wrong in
his inferences.
With eyes not unlike those of an Albino, the object of this flattering
private criticism surveyed Mr. Kleinwort and Werner for a moment; then
his gaze sought the carpet whilst Mr. Asherill spoke.
"These gentlemen, Mr. Swanland," he began, "Mr. Kleinwort, Mr. Werner,"
indicating each with a wave of his hand, "have come here about a matter
in which Forde is interested."
"Indeed," said Mr. Swanland, in a tone which implied Mr. Forde was no
more to him than any other inhabitant of London.
"I have told them," went on Mr. Asherill, "it is not a matter with which
I should personally care to be connected, but that, perhaps, you may
feel yourself able to oblige them; my opinion is that the affair ought
to be, and could be arranged differently. Pray remember, Mr. Werner, I
advised a private settlement--the introduction of fresh blood--a
friendly meeting of the principal creditors, if necessary--but nothing
of a public nature. No--no--no. Tell Forde this. Tell him I refused to
be mixed up with it. Tell him that whilst I do not presume to dictate to
Mr. Swanland, I should prefer his refusing to be mixed up with the
liquidation of Mortomley's estate, profitable though it may prove."
Having with great gravity delivered himself of which sentence, Mr.
Asherill rose and, saying he would leave his visitors to discuss affairs
with his young partner, bade them good morning, took his hat, and
departed.
Not merely out of the office, but out of the building. As has already
been said, it was Saturday; business in the City was over for the day,
and if it had not been, Mr. Asherill had no especial business to attend
to. He wanted, moreover, to place himself beyond the possibility of
being asked for any further opinion on the, to him, odious subject of
Mortomley's downfall, and he therefore went through the sopping streets
in quest of quietness, and what he called a "mouthful of lunch."
Not to any new-fangled restaurant, or bar, or dining-room, was he in the
habit of repairing to recruit exhausted nature, but to an old-fashioned
City tavern, where the head waiter was gracious and familiar, and the
landlord obsequious to him; where the steaks were tender and juicy, the
chops done to a turn, the potatoes piping hot and dry and mealy, perfect
balls of flour, the ale old and mellow, and the wine, when circumstances
required his indulgence in that luxury, of a vintage which Mr. Asherill,
who was no mean judge of such matters, approved.
As he retraced his steps towards Salisbury Buildings, he met rushing
across the road two of his own clerks.
"Going home, Bailey?" he said to the taller and older of the pair, in a
tone which seemed at once to hold a benediction in it, and a
recommendation to turn the morrow to profitable account.
"No, sir; we want to catch the 2.43 train to Leytonstone. Mr. Swanland
wishes us to get to this place early, as the work must be finished
to-day very particularly."
Thus Mr. Bailey, while he held a piece of paper to his employer, who,
after putting on his gold eye-glasses, took it, and, umbrella in one
hand and paper in the other, stood on the crowded side-path in the
pelting rain whilst he read twice over the address presented to him:--
"_A. Mortomley, Esqre._,
"_Homewood_,
"_Whip's Cross_."
"Homewood," said Mr. Asherill, as if he were reciting one of the
Penitential Psalms.
"Homewood--poor Mortomley! These things are really very sad."
And with a shake of his head, he handed the paper back to his clerk;
and, after bidding him not lose the 2.43 train, proceeded on his way.
Mr. Asherill's knowledge of the depravity of human nature was
unfortunately so great that it certainly could not have surprised him to
see Bailey wink at his younger companion as they parted company with
their principal. In reply to which, the junior, with the irrepressible
frivolity of boyhood, thrust his tongue in his cheek.
All immensely vulgar, no doubt; yet, to a disinterested observer,
immensely suggestive.