PAUL AT HOME.
It does not matter much to George Wainwright whether London is empty
or full. His books, his work, and his healthful play go on just the
same in winter and summer, in spring and autumn. He only knows it is
the season by the fact of seeing more people in the streets, more
horses and carriages in the Park across which he strides to his home;
and when other men go away on leave, he remains at the office without
the least desire to change the regular habits of his life. He has a
splendid constitution, perfectly sound, and unimpaired by excess of any
description; can do any amount of work without its having any influence
on him; and never had need to go away "on medical certificate," as is
the case with so many of his brethren at the Stannaries Office.
There is a decidedly autumnal touch in the air as it plays round George
Wainwright, striding across the Park this October morning. There is
sunshine, but it is thin and veneered, and very unlike the glorious
summer article; looks as if it had lost strength in its struggle with
the fog which preceded it, and as though it would make but a poor fight
against the mist which would come creeping up early in the afternoon.
But few leaves remain on the trees, and they are yellow and veinous,
and swirl dismally round and round in their descent to the moist earth,
where their already fallen comrades are being swept into heaps, and
pressed down into barrows, and wheeled away by the gardeners. The
ordinarily calm waters of the Serpentine are lashed into miniature
waves, and the pleasure-boats have vanished from its surface, as have
the carriages from the Drive and the horses from the Row. Only one
solitary equestrian stands out like a speck in the distance; for it is
Long Vacation still, and the judges and the barristers, those unvarying
early riders and constant examples of the apparently insurmountable
difficulty of combining legal lore with graceful equitation, have not
yet returned to town.
Ten o'clock strikes from the Horse Guards clock as George walks under
the archway, and makes his way across to the little back street
where the Stannaries Office is situated. Always punctual, he is more
particular than ever just now, for all the others of any standing are
away; and George was perfectly aware, from long experience, that if
someone responsible was not there to look after the junior clerks,
those young gentlemen would not come at all. As it was, he finds
himself the first arrival, and has changed his coat and rung for his
letters, for even the messengers get lax and careless at this time of
year--when the door opens and Mr. Dunlop enters, bringing with him a
very strong flavour of fresh tobacco, and not stopping short in the
popular melody which he is humming to say good-day until he has arrived
at the end of the verse.
"'And he cut his throat with a pane of glass, and stabbed his donkey
ar-ter!'" sings Mr. Dunlop, very much prolonging the last note. "That's
what I call an impressive ending to a tragic ballad!--Goodmorning, Mr.
Wainwright! I'm glad to see you here in good time for once, sir, at all
events."
"Billy, Billy, if you were here a little earlier yourself, you wouldn't
be pitched into so constantly."
"Perhaps not, sir, though 'pitched into' is scarcely a phrase to apply
to a gentleman in Her Majesty's Civil Service. However, my position
is humble, and I must demean myself accordingly. I am a norphan, sir,
a norphan, and have no swell parents to stay with in the country like
Mr. Derinzy, whose remarkably illegible and insignificant handwriting I
recognise on this letter which Hicks has brought in for you."
"Paul's hand, by Jove!" says George, "and this other one is Courtney's,
the chief's."
George opens the smaller letter, and emits a short whistle as he
glances through its contents. The whistle and the expression of
George's face are not lost upon Billy Dunlop, who says:
"Dear old person going to make it three months' leave, this year,
instead of two? or perhaps not coming back at all, but sends address
where his salary will find him?"
"On the contrary, he's coming back at once; he will be on duty
to-morrow."
"By Jove! and he's not been away six weeks yet. The poet was right,
sir. 'He stabbed his donkey arter!' There was nothing else left for him
to do."
"But," says George, laughing, "he says he thinks he shall go away to
Brighton in November, and advises me, if I want any leave, to take it
now, that I may be back when he goes."
"What an inexpressible old ruffian! What does he say about my leave?"
"Not a word. What could he say, Billy? You've had all your leave ages
ago."
Mr. Dunlop, who has retired into the sanctuary behind the
washing-screen, makes a rapid reappearance at these words, and says
hurriedly:
"I thought so. I thought that that pleasant month of March would be
the only portion of the year allotted to me for recreation. March,
by George! Why, Ettrick, Teviotdale, and all the rest of them put
together, are not worth speaking about. It seems a year ago. I can only
recollect it because it was so beastly cold I was obliged to spend
nearly all the time in bed. That's a nice way for a man to enjoy his
holiday! While you fellows are cutting about, and---- Hollo! what's the
matter with G.W.? He looks as if he were rapidly preparing himself for
his father's asylum. Some bad news from P.D., I suppose."
These last remarks of Mr. Dunlop's are based upon his observation of
George Wainwright's face, the expression of which is set and serious.
"Hold on with your chaff for a minute, Billy," he says, looking up.
"Paul is writing on business, and I want just to get hold of it as I go
along."
So Mr. Dunlop thinks he will do a little official work; and having
selected a sheet of foolscap with "Office of H.M. Stannaries"
lithographed on it, fills in the date in a very bold and flowing hand
(the gentlemen of the Stannaries Office always boasted that they were
not "mere clerks," and that their penmanship "didn't matter"), then
takes out his penknife, and begins adjusting the toilet of his nails.
Meanwhile George Wainwright plods his way with difficulty through
Paul's letter where the writing is so small and the lines so close
together, and his brows become more contracted and his face more set
and stern as he proceeds. This is what he reads:
"_The Tower, Beachborough_.
"DEAR OLD MAN,--I have so much writing at that confounded shop--don't
grin, now: I can see your cynical old under-lip shooting out at the
statement--that I thought I'd give my pen a holiday as well as myself;
and indeed I should not favour you with a sight of that 'bowld fist'
which so disgusts that old beast Branwhite--saw his name in the _Post_
as having been present at the Inverness gathering, hanging on to swells
as usual--if there had not been absolute occasion.
"By Jove? what a tremendously long sentence that is! Rather
broken-backed and weak in the knees too, eh? Don't seem to hang well
together? Rather a 'solution of continuity,' as they call it, isn't
there? Never mind, you'll understand what I mean. You see, my dear old
George, I don't know whether it is because I'm bored by being in the
country--and a fellow who is accustomed to town life must necessarily
hate everything else, and find it all horribly slow and dreary--but the
fact is, that instead of my leave doing me good, and setting me up, and
all that kind of thing, I find myself utterly depressed and wretched,
and nothing like half so well or so jolly as when I came down here.
"I thought I should go out boating and swimming and riding, and
generally larking; and instead of that I find myself sitting grizzling
over my pipe, and wondering what on earth I'm to do until evening, and
how I shall get through the time after dark until I can go to bed.
"You would go blazing away at your old books, or your writing, or your
music; but I'm not in that line, old boy. I haven't got what people
call 'resources'--in any way, by Jove! tin, or anything else. I want to
be amused, and I don't get it here, and that's all about it.
"You see, the truth is--and what's the good of having a fellow for your
pal, if you can't speak the truth to him, and what people in the play
call 'unbosom yourself,' and so on?--the truth is, our household here
is most infernally dull. I hadn't seen any of them for so long, that
they all came upon me like novelties; and they're so deuced original,
that they would be most interesting studies, if they did not happen
to be one's own people, don't you see, and that takes all the humour
out of the performance. There's my governor, for instance, is the most
wonderful party! If he were anybody else's governor he'd be quite good
fun enough for me to render the place sufficiently agreeable. I don't
think I should want any greater amusement than seeing him go yawning
about the house and through the village, bored out of his life, and
wishing everything at the devil. He seemed to pluck up a bit when I
first came down, and wanted to know all the news about town, and talked
about this fellow and that fellow--I knew the names well enough, and
had met a good many of the people; but when we came to compare notes,
I found that the governor was inquiring about the fathers of the
fellows I knew--fellows with the same names, you understand; and when I
explained this to him, and told him that most of his pals were dead or
gone under, don't you know, and that their sons reigned in their stead,
he cut up rather rough, and said he didn't know what the world was
coming to, and that young men weren't half as well brought-up nowadays
as they were in his time. Funny idea that, wasn't it? As though we
could help these old swells going under! Fact is--I don't like to
confess it, and would not to anybody but you, George--but since the
governor has got off the main line of life they have shunted him into
the siding for fogeydom, and there's not much chance of his coming out
again.
"I find a great change in my mother too. I've spoken to you so often
about all these domesticities, that I don't mind gossiping to you now.
It's an immense relief to me. I feel if I had not someone to confide
in, I should blow up. Well, you know, my mother was always the best
man in our household, and managed everything according to her own
will; but then she had a certain tact and _savoir faire_, a way of
ruling us all that no one could find fault with; and though we grumbled
inwardly, we never took each other into confidence, or combined against
the despotism. I find that's all altered now. Either she has lost
tact, or we have lost patience--a little of both, perhaps; but, at all
events, her attempts at rule and dictation are very palpable and very
pronounced, and our ripeness for revolt is no longer concealed. In
point of fact, the one thing which the governor and I have in common is
our impatience of the female thrall, and if ever we combine, it will be
to pass the Salic law.
"And apropos of that--rather neatly expressed, I find that is--there is
another female pretender to power--my cousin Annette; you have heard me
speak of her as a ward of my people's, and resident with them. She has
grown into a fine young woman, though her manners are decidedly odd.
I suppose this is country breeding: said as much to the governor, who
made a very odd face and changed the subject. Whether he thought it
the height of impudence in me to suppose that anyone who had had the
advantage of studying him daily could have country manners, or whether
there was any other reason, I don't know.
"One thing there can be no doubt of, and that is, that I am always
being thrown _tête-à,-tête_ with this young woman, principally, as
I imagine, by my mother's connivance. This might have been amusing
under other circumstances, for, as I said before, she is remarkably
personable and nice--not in my line, but still a very fine young woman;
but, situated as I am, I do not avail myself in the slightest degree of
the opportunities offered.
"Nor, I am bound to say, does Annette. She sits silent, and sometimes
actually sullen. She is a most extraordinary girl, George; I can't make
her out a bit. Sometimes she won't speak for hours, sometimes won't
even come down amongst us, and---- There is something deuced odd in all
this! I wish I had your clear old head here to scrutinise matters with
me, and help me in forming a judgment on them.
"You know what I refer to just above, about 'under other
circumstances?' Certain interview in Kensington Gardens, with certain
party that you happened to witness. Don't you recollect? Oh Lord,
George, if you knew what an utterly gone 'coon I am in that quarter,
you would pity me. No, you wouldn't! What's the use of talking to such
a dried-up old file as you about such things? I don't believe you were
ever in love in your life, ever felt the smallest twinge of what those
stupid fools the poets call the 'gentle passion.' Gentle, by Jove! it's
anything but gentle with me--upsets me frightfully, takes away all my
sleep, and worries me out of my life. I swear to you, that now I am
separated from her, I don't know how to live without her, and wonder
how I ever got on before I knew her. When I think I'm far away from
everybody, on the cliffs or down by the sea, I find myself holloing out
aloud, and stamping my foot, for sheer rage at the thought that so much
more time must go by before I can see her again. I told you it was a
strong case, George, when you spoke to me about it; but I had no idea
then that it was so strong as it is, or that my happiness was half so
much bound up in her."
There was a space here, and the conclusion of the letter, from the
appearance of the ink, had evidently been written at a different time.
"I left off there, George, thinking I might have something else to say
to you later; and so I have, but of a very different kind from what I
imagined.
"I have had a tremendous scene with my mother. She has given up
hinting, and spoken out plainly at last. It appears that her whole
soul is set upon my marrying my cousin Annette. This is the whole and
sole reason of their living out of town, and of the poor governor
being expatriated from the Pall Mall pavement and the gossip he loves
so well. It appears that Annette is an heiress--in rather a large
way too, will have no end of money--and that my poor dear mother,
determined to secure her for me, has been hiding down here in this
horrible seclusion, in order that the girl may form no 'detrimental'
acquaintance of youths who might be likely to cut me out! Not very
flattering to me, is it? But still it was well meant, poor soul!
"Now, you know, George, this won't do at all. If I entered into this
plan for a moment, I should have to give up that other little affair at
once; _and nothing earthly would make me do that!_ Besides, I do not
care for Annette; and as to her money, that would be deuced little good
to me, if However, one goes with the other, so we needn't say any more
about it.
"Of course, I fought off at once--pleaded Annette's bad state of
health--she is ill, often keeps her room, and has to have a nurse
entirely given up to her--said we were both very young, and asked for
time--but all no good. My mother was very strong on the subject; and
the governor, who sees a chance of his jailership being put an end to,
and of his getting back to haunts of civilisation, backed her up with
all his might, which is not much, poor old boy!
"So all I could do was to say that I never did anything without your
advice, and to suggest that you should be asked down here at once. My
mother wouldn't have it at first, until I said she feared you were a
gay young dog, who would make running with Annette to my detriment;
and then I told her what a quiet, solemn, old-fashioned old touch you
really were, and then she consented. So, dear old man, you're booked
and in for it. I really do want your counsel awfully, though I only
thought of making you a scapegoat when I first suggested your visit.
But now I am looking forward to it with the greatest anxiety from day
to day. Come at once. You can easily arrange about your leave--come,
and help me in this fix. _But recollect, don't attempt to break off the
acquaintance between me and that young lady, for that would be utterly
useless!_ God bless you. Come at once.
"Yours ever, P.D."
George Wainwright reads this letter through twice attentively, and the
frown deepens on his forehead. Then he folds it up and places it in his
breast-pocket, and remains for ten minutes, slowly stroking his beard
with his hand, and pondering the while. Then he looks up, and says:
"Billy, I'm thinking of taking the chief's advice, and going for a
little leave."
"Oh, certainly," says Mr. Dunlop; "don't mind me, I beg. Leave the
whole work of the department on my shoulders, pray. You'll find I'm
equal to the occasion, sir; and perhaps in some future time, when
I have 'made by force my merit known'--when the Right Honourable
William Dunlop is First Lord of the Treasury, has clutched the golden
keys, and shaped the whisper of the Throne into saying in the ear of
the Chancellor of the Exchequer, 'Put W. D. on the pension list for
ten thou.'--I may thank you for having given me the opportunity of
distinguishing myself!"