Pale with conflict William Jordan took himself yet again to No. 24
Trafalgar Square on the following day. He still carried in his pockets
the twenty pieces of gold. His guilt was written in his mien, yet the
little world about him could not read.
“Mr. Jordan,” said Mr. W. P. Walkinshaw with great kindness, “it has
seemed to me lately that all is not well with you. You have not been
looking yourself. I would like to suggest that you take a fortnight’s
rest; I think I can answer for it that the firm will raise no
objection. I would like to suggest that you run down to Margate to take
a breath of the sea.”
“You are k-kind, sir,” said the young man, with the simplicity that the
good Mr. Walkinshaw had long come to recognize as part of him, “but my
m-malady is of another nature.”
Mr. Walkinshaw shook his head solemnly, and subsequently observed to
Mr. Aristophanes Luff, “That young man is suffering. He ought to seek
medical advice.”
“One can imagine that Hamlet looked like that,” mildly observed Mr.
Aristophanes Luff.
As William Jordan sat on his high stool in the left-hand corner, he saw
through the glass partition that divided the counting-house from the
exit into Trafalgar Square, Jimmy Dodson pass out of the door into the
street. At the moment this apparently unrelated circumstance addressed
his mind with no especial significance. But soon it began to produce a
kind of vibration in it, as though it were charged with a meaning that
his faculties had not the power to seize. Quite suddenly, however, the
young man discarded the paper and string he was manipulating and came
down from his high stool.
“Oh, yes,” he muttered to himself softly, “I understand now, I
understand now.”
Again his limbs, in their weariness, mounted those well-remembered
stairs. He passed the ante-chamber wherein his evil genius was wont to
reside, but who, at this moment, all unconscious, was taking his way
across the square. He tapped softly upon the door of the head of the
firm. He entered silently, but without vacillation.
Mr. Octavius Crumpett was reading, with an occasional chuckle of
audible pleasure, the manuscript of the latest polite fiction of Sir
Topman Murtle, K.C.B., “the Queen’s favourite novelist,” and his own
cherished and familiar friend.
“What an insight that man has into the human heart!” he kept exclaiming
at intervals, as some uncommonly illuminating flash of intuition
lighted his own sympathetic intelligence. At last this august gentleman
chanced to pause in his labour of love. He looked up. And looking up he
beheld the outline of a silent figure standing at the far end of the
room with its hand still on the door it had closed so softly.
“Good-morning, Mr.--er--er--er--dear me!” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett.
How trying it was that he should actually fail to remember the name
of one who rendered faithful service to that house! Really such an
untoward incident had not occurred to the august gentleman for years.
But in a sudden unmistakable ray of inspiration the name of the
youthful clerk entered his mind.
“Good-morning, Mr. _Jordan_,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, almost
proudly, almost triumphantly.
At the sound of that amiable and pleasant voice the strange-looking
young man came forward to the table, and taking a handful of gold
pieces from his pockets, placed them in a heap upon the table before
Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s astonished gaze.
“I wish to submit myself, sir, to the consequences of my action,” said
the young man, in soft yet self-contained speech.
At first Mr. Octavius Crumpett was powerless to give expression to
his bewildered astonishment. But slowly, solemnly, mournfully the
manuscript pages of the polite fiction of his distinguished friend
fluttered from his grasp; and placing the palms of his beautifully-kept
hands, with their delicately-trimmed nails, together, he murmured,
“This is calamitous!”
Minutes seemed to pass in which the head of the firm appeared to
resign himself to the fervour of a moral trepidation, which was yet so
chastened that its only outward manifestation was that of gentle sorrow.
“This is ineffably calamitous!” murmured Mr. Octavius Crumpett.
William Jordan stood placidly with his hands by his sides.
“I would have hailed the opportunity,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “of
paying a _substantial_ sum of money to a charitable institution had it
been possible by that means to prevent such a thing happening to this
house. Mr. Jordan, I feel I must ask you to have the kindness to go
down-stairs for a short time, while I--ah, I--ah, earnestly deliberate
as to the right course to adopt.”
The young man bowed and withdrew. As he was passing out of the door,
Mr. Octavius Crumpett said, “Do--ah, I understand, Mr. Jordan, that
you have no palliation to offer, no words of contrition to express?”
“None, sir,” said the young man. His voice was precise; his absence of
gesture was that of a statue.
At the top of the stairs William Jordan encountered James Dodson, who
was ascending them.
“My God, Luney, you must be mad!” cried his mentor, giving one
half-tragic glance at the face of the young man.
William Jordan passed down the stairs as though he had neither seen nor
heard him.
For a considerable time Mr. Octavius Crumpett meditated upon his
course of action. He was a humane, enlightened, high-principled,
liberal-minded gentleman; a notable product of that which a
long-established society had achieved in the way of civilization. In
respect and solicitude for his kind he yielded to none. But he was now
face to face with the most sinister problem that a sheltered experience
had ever been called upon to confront.
As he sat revolving the matter in his thoughts, he seemed to feel that
sterner and more forcible clay was required to grapple with an issue so
momentous. In his enlightened desire to keep abreast of the foremost
practice upon the subject, he rang his bell and summoned one upon
whom, whose youth and subordinate rank notwithstanding, he had already
learned to lean.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with unmistakable horror and
distress in his kind brown eyes, “I was justified in my conjecture.
The money was left upon the table; it was abstracted--and--and by one
employed in this house.”
Mr. Dodson stood in a solemnity that paid homage to the occasion.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, after a long pause, which
was fraught with embarrassment for both gentlemen, “I find myself upon
the horns of a dilemma. I desire to be just to this great house whom a
grave public scandal threatens; I desire to be just to my own humane
feelings; yet above everything, Mr. Dodson, I feel that I ought to act
in accordance with the best and latest modern opinion; in a word, Mr.
Dodson, one is desirous of consulting the public welfare.”
“I understand perfectly, sir,” said Mr. Dodson, with an air of weight
that engaged the respectful attention of his good and large-minded
employer. “I understand _perfectly_, sir, the position in which you are
placed. It is one of great delicacy. One of great delicacy. I may say,
sir, it is one of the--ah, _greatest_ possible delicacy. But if, sir, I
might presume to speak----”
By the decree of Fate, however, it was not given to Mr. Dodson to
presume to speak, for at that moment the door was opened, and one
scarcely less in distinction than Mr. Octavius Crumpett himself was
announced. It was Sir Topman Murtle, K.C.B.
Mr. Dodson withdrew in a respectful silence, in which much was
expressed.
The pen of the devout historian approaches warily and with awe the
momentous task of delineating the outline of the Queen’s favourite
novelist. He was in his mature, full-blooded, middle period; the period
of his most flamboyant successes; the period of the most memorable and
appealing portraits. As they or their replicas adorn the walls of every
self-respecting gallery in the United Kingdom, modelled upon Millais in
his second manner, the faithful are with confidence thereto referred.
It is only necessary to say for the purposes of this biography that
Sir Topman Murtle, K.C.B., was a small, stout, middle-aged gentleman
of a consummate English type--the type that is found in England, and
nowhere else. In point of attire he was no less prosperous than Mr.
Octavius Crumpett himself. His manner was cordial yet consonant with
true dignity; his fine bearing and white gaiters were pregnant of
unmistakable distinction.
When these august personages had greeted one another with a cordial
frankness that was very pleasant to witness, said Sir Topman Murtle, in
a smooth, high-pitched voice, “Before we approach the subject of _The
Angel’s Bride_, I should value your advice, my dear Crumpett, upon a
subject which is giving me, at the present moment, some little concern.
I feel myself to be on the horns of a dilemma.”
The word “dilemma” touched a responsive chord in the bosom of Mr.
Octavius Crumpett, M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.).
“My dilemma is this, Crumpett,” said his distinguished visitor. “It has
recently been suggested to me by my friend, the Prime Minister, that I
should allow myself to be nominated to the Privy Council.”
“I congratulate you unreservedly, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett,
M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.), with unfeigned emotion.
“But, Crumpett, the problem shapes itself in my mind,” said Sir Topman
Murtle, “will the acceptance of that which one is bound to consider as
an undoubted honour, be wholly consistent with that reverence for the
dignity of letters which I hope I don’t exaggerate?”
“I am sure, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a conviction of
singular depth, “one feels that whatever you did it would be impossible
for you to degrade the position in the world of letters to which your
talents have called you.”
“I have a profound faith in your judgment, Crumpett,” said Sir Topman
Murtle, “I am always stimulated by your clearness of thought and your
depth of conviction. But, in a manner of speaking, would it not be
possible to betray the higher tenets of one’s calling by giving one’s
assent to official recognition, however honourable and however greatly
to be cherished by a private individual? You will remember that Carlyle
refused a baronetcy?”
“No, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a conviction that
seemed to grow deeper than ever, “there is not a shade of doubt in my
mind that your sensitiveness upon this point is over-nice. Carlyle
refused a baronetcy, but Scott accepted one; and Joseph Addison, one of
the earliest names upon our books, accepted office in the government of
his day.”
“All the same, Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “I feel qualms.”
“They are uncalled for, I assure you, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius
Crumpett, with splendid finality, “wholly uncalled for.”
“One can hardly fancy the Right Honourable William Shakespeare, P.C.,”
said Sir Topman Murtle, with an air of grave perplexity.
“Had Shakespeare been an educated man,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett,
thoughtfully balancing his paper-knife of solid silver on the point
of his forefinger, “I believe it is generally recognized that there
is no honour to which he might not have aspired. And let me say this,
Murtle,” continued Mr. Octavius Crumpett, warming to his theme with an
energy of which few would have suspected him to be capable, “let me say
this. It is due to your sense of the higher citizenship that such a one
as yourself should allow the welfare of the public to be paramount.”
“Ah, the public,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “the public; upon my word for
the moment I had nearly forgotten the public!”
“No representative man must ever forget what he owes to the public,”
said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a sententiousness in which he seldom
permitted himself to indulge.
The impact of Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s irresistible conviction began to
have its effect on Sir Topman Murtle.
“Yes,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “for the moment I had almost allowed
myself to forget the public. It is a merciful thing, Crumpett, that you
recalled it to my mind in time. I agree with you that we ought not to
allow a sentiment, which some might consider high-flown, to override a
sense of duty.”
“And now, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett with gently heaving
bosom, “I must expose the horns of my own dilemma.”
With profound emotion the chief of the house of Crumpett and Hawker
unfolded the tragic and sordid story.
“I am a humane man, Murtle, as I hope, and trust and believe,” he
concluded; “and I do not know how I could face anything in the nature
of a scandal in regard to this house, but--but----”
“Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “no one appreciates more fully
than do I the painfulness of your position, but scruple may become
vacillation, and vacillation may become weakness. Can it be possible,
Crumpett, that you also are about to forget the duty you owe to the
public?”
“No one has a profounder reverence, Murtle, than have I for those who
make a practice of rendering unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s,”
said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, who, unhappy as he was, spoke with the
humility of a Christian gentleman; “but--but the misguided young man
restored the money himself, and I have every reason to believe it is
his first deviation from the path of strict rectitude.”
“Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, placing his own white and fleshy
hand, whose finger-nails were carefully trimmed, upon the shoulder
of his friend with a firmness that was remarkable, “your scruples do
honour to your good heart, but I feel sure they are misplaced. Whatever
it may cost you, you must discharge your duty to the State. That duty
must necessarily be distasteful--to the sensitive mind it always is;
but pray remember, Crumpett, that you will not be the only martyr to
the inexorable cause of the public. And it has always seemed to me,
Crumpett, that the greater the pain we incur in following a given
course of action, the more imperative, the more sacred the need for
that course of action becomes.”
Mr. Octavius Crumpett heaved a profound sigh.
“Yes, Murtle,” he said, with the meekness of one at the feet of
Gamaliel, “you have worked out that beautiful idea in _The Angel’s
Bride_; but really I would that this question were one that a stronger
and wiser and more competent nature had to decide.”
“The question, Crumpett, decides itself,” said Sir Topman Murtle in
a manner that seemed to imply that a stronger and wiser and more
competent nature had already decided it.
And indeed, as Sir Topman Murtle said, the question did decide itself,
for at this moment William Jordan, wearing his overcoat, and carrying
his hat, entered the room. He was accompanied by a stalwart police
constable.
“It is my wish, sir,” said the young man, speaking in a calm and clear
voice, “to place myself in the hands of justice.”
Mr. Octavius Crumpett heaved a sigh of relief. He, too, had passed
through his mental crisis.