TOM RYFE
At half-past eight in the morning Mr. Bargrave's office in Gray's Inn
was still empty. It had been swept, indeed, and "straightened," as he
called it, by a young gentleman, whose duty it was to be in attendance
at all hours from sunrise to sunset, when nobody else was in the
way, and who fulfilled that duty by slipping out on such available
occasions to join the youth of the quarter in sports of clamour,
strength, and skill. Just now he was half-a-mile off in Holborn,
running at full speed, shouting at the top of his voice, with no
apparent object but that of exercising his own physical powers and
the patience of the general public in his exertions. It was not,
therefore, the step of this trusty guardian which fell sharp and
quick on the stone stair outside the office, nor was it his hand,
nor pass-key, that opened the door to admit Mr. Bargrave's nephew,
assistant, and possible successor in the business, Tom Ryfe.
That gentleman entered with the air of a master, looked about him,
detected the absence of his young subordinate as one who is disgusted
rather than surprised, and lifted two envelopes lying unopened on the
table with an oath. "As usual," he muttered, "telegram and letter,
same date--same place. Arrive together, of course! Chances are, if
there is any hurry you get the letter before the telegram. Halloa!
here's a business. Bargrave's sure to be an hour late, and that young
scamp not within a mile. If I had my way--Hang it! I _will_ have my
way. At all events I must manage _this_ business my way, for it seems
there's not a moment to spare, and nobody to help me. Dorothe-a!"
The dirtiest woman to be found, probably, at that hour in the whole of
London, appeared from a lower storey in answer to his summons. Pushing
her hair off a grimy forehead with a grimier hand, she listened to
his directions, staring vacantly, as is the manner of her kind, but
understanding them, nevertheless, and not incapable of remembering
their purport: they were short and intelligible enough.
"Tell that young scamp he is to sleep in the office tonight. He
mustn't leave it on any consideration while I'm away. I'm going into
the country, and I'll break his head when I come back."
Tom Ryfe then huddled the letter into his pocket for perusal at
leisure, hailed a hansom, and in less than a quarter of an hour was in
his uncle's breakfast-room, bolting ham, muffins, and green tea, while
his clothes were packed.
Mr. Bargrave, a bachelor, who liked his comforts, and took care to
have them, was reading the newspaper in a silk dressing-gown, and a
pair of gold spectacles. He had finished breakfast--such a copious
and leisurely repast as is consumed by one who dines at six, drinks a
bottle of port every day at dessert, and never smoked a cigar in his
life. No earthly consideration would hurry him for the next half-hour.
He looked over the top of his newspaper with the placid benignity of a
man who, considering digestion one of the most important functions of
nature, values and encourages it accordingly.
"Sudden," observed Mr. Bargrave, in answer to his nephew's
communication. "Something of a seizure, no doubt. Time is of
importance; the young lady's telegram should have come to hand last
night. Be so good as to make a note on the back. Three doctors, does
she say? Bless me! They'll never let him get over it. Most unfortunate
just now, on account of the child--of the young lady. You can take the
necessary instructions. I will follow, if required. It's twenty-three
minutes' drive to the station. Better be off at once, Tom."
So Tom took the hint, and was off. While he drives to the station we
may as well give an account of Tom's position in the firm of Bargrave
and Co.
Old Bargrave's sister had chosen to marry a certain Mr. Ryfe, of whom
nobody knew more than that he could shoot pigeons, had been concerned
in one or two doubtful turf transactions, and played a good hand at
whist. _While_ he lived, though it was a mystery _how_ he lived, he
kept Mrs. Ryfe "very comfortable," to use Bargrave's expression. When
he died he left her nothing but the boy Tom, a precocious urchin,
inheriting some of his father's sporting propensities, with a certain
slang smartness of tone and manner, acquired in those circles where
horseflesh is affected as an inducement to speculation.
Mrs. Ryfe did not long survive her husband. She had married a scamp,
and was, therefore, very fond of him: so before he had been dead a
year, she was laid in the same grave. Then her brother took the boy
Tom, and put him into his own business, making him begin by sweeping
out the office, and so requiring him to rise grade by grade till he
became confidential clerk and head manager of all matters connected
with the firm.
At twenty-six years of age, Tom Ryfe possessed as much experience
as his principal, joined to a cunning and sharpness of intellect
peculiarly his own. To take care of number one was doubtless the
head clerk's ruling maxim; but while thus attending to his personal
welfare, he never failed to affect a keen interest in the affairs
of numbers two, three, four, and the rest. Tom Ryfe was a "friendly
fellow," people declared; "a deuced friendly fellow, and knew what he
was about, mind you, better than most people."
"Every great man," said the Emperor Nicholas, "has a hook in his
nose." In the firmest characters, no doubt, there is a weakness
by which they are to be led or driven; and Tom Ryfe, like other
notabilities, was not without this crevice in his armour, this breach
in his embattled wall. He had shrewdness, knowledge of the world,
common sense, and yet the one great object of his efforts was to be
admitted into a class of society far above his own, and to find there
an ideal lady with whom to pass the rest of his days.
"I'll marry a top-sawyer," he used to say, whenever his uncle broached
the question of his settlement in life. "Why, bless ye, it's the same
tackle and the same fly that takes the big fish and the little one.
It's no more trouble to make up to a duchess than a dairymaid. I'll
pick a real white-handed one, you see if I don't. A wife that can
_move_, uncle, cool, and calm, and lofty, like an air balloon; wearing
her dresses as if she was made for them, and her jewels as if she
didn't know she'd got them on; looking as much at home in the Queen's
drawing-room as she does in her own. That's my sort, and that's the
sort I'll choose! Why, there's scores of 'em to be seen any afternoon
in the Park. Never tell me I can't go in and take my pick. 'Nothing
venture, nothing have,' they say. I ain't going to venture much. I
don't see occasion for it, but I'll _have_ what I want, you see if I
won't, or I'll know the reason why."
Whereon Bargrave, who considered womankind in general as an
unnecessary evil, would reply--
"Time enough, Tom, time enough. I haven't had much experience with the
ladies myself, except as clients, you know. The less I see of 'em, I
think, the more I like 'em. Better put it off a little, Tom. It can be
done any day, my boy, when you've an hour to spare. I wouldn't be in
a hurry if I was you. There's a fresh sample ticketed every year; and
they're not like port wine, you must remember, they don't improve with
keeping."
Tom Ryfe had plenty of time to revolve his speculations, matrimonial
and otherwise, during his journey to Ecclesfield Manor by one of those
mid-day trains so irritating to through-passengers, which stop at
intermediate stations, dropping brown-paper parcels, and taking up old
women with baskets. He reviewed many little affairs of the heart in
which he had lately been engaged, without, however, suffering his
affections to involve themselves too deeply for speedy withdrawal. He
reflected with great satisfaction on his own fastidious rejection of
several "suitable parties," as he expressed it, who did not quite
reach his standard of aristocratic perfection, remembering how Mrs.
Blades, the well-to-do widow, with fine eyes and a house in Duke
Street, had fairly landed him but for that unfortunate dinner at which
he detected her eating fish with a knife; how certain grated-looking
needle-marks on Miss Glance's left forefinger had checked him just in
time while in the act of kissing her hand; and how, on the very eve of
a proposal to beautiful Constance de Courcy, whose manner, bearing,
and appearance, no less than her name, denoted the extreme of
refinement and high birth, he had sustained a shock, galvanic but
salutary, from her artless exclamation, "O my! whatever shall I do? If
here isn't pa!"
"No," thought Tom, as he rolled on into the fair expanse of down
country that lay for miles round Ecclesfield, "I haven't found one yet
quite up to the pattern I require. When I do I shall go in and
win, that's all. I don't see why my chance shouldn't be as good as
another's. I'm not such a bad-looking chap when I'm dressed and my
hair's greased. I can do tricks with cards like winking. I can ride a
bit, shoot a bit--'specially pigeons--dance a bit, and make love to
'em no end. I've got the gift of the gab, I know, and I stick at
nothing. That's what the girls like, and that's what will pull me
through when I find the one I want. Another station, and not there
yet! What a slow train this is!"
It was a slow train, and Tom, arriving at Ecclesfield, saw on the face
of the servant who admitted him that he was too late. In addition to
the solemn and mysterious hush that pervades a house in which the dead
lie yet unburied, a feeling of horror, the result of some unlooked-for
and additional calamity, seemed to predominate; and Tom was hardly
surprised, however much he might be shocked, when the old
butler gasped, in broken sentences, "Seizure--last night--quite
unconscious--all over this morning. Will you take some refreshment,
sir, after your journey?"
Mr. Bruce had been dead a few hours--dead without time to set his
house in order, without consciousness even to wish his child good-bye.
She came down to see Mr. Bargrave's clerk that afternoon, pale, calm,
collected, beautiful, but stern and unbending under the sorrow against
which her haughty nature rebelled. In a few words, referring to a
memorandum the while, she gave him her directions for the funeral and
its ceremonies; desired him to ascertain at once the state of her late
father's affairs, the amount of a succession to which she believed
herself entitled; begged he would return with full information that
day fortnight; ordered luncheon for him in the dining-room; and so
dismissed him as a bereaved queen might dismiss the humblest of her
subjects.
Tom Ryfe, returning to London by the next train, thought he had never
felt so small; and yet, was not this proud, sorrowing, and beautiful
young damsel the ideal he had been seeking hitherto in vain? It is
not too much to say that for twenty miles he positively _hated_ her,
striving fiercely against the influence, which yet he could not but
acknowledge. In another twenty, his good opinion of his best friend
Mr. Ryfe reasserted itself. He had seen something of the world, and
possessed, moreover, a certain shallow acquaintance with human nature,
not of the highest class, so he argued thus--
"Women like what they are unaccustomed to. The Grand Duchess of
Gerolstein makes love to a private soldier simply because she don't
know what a private soldier is. This girl must have lived amongst a
set of starched and stuck-up people who have not two ideas beyond
themselves and their order. She has never so much as seen a smart,
business-like, active fellow, ready to take all trouble off her hands,
and make up her mind for her before she can turn round--young, too,
and not so bad-looking, though I dare say she's used to good-looking
chaps enough. The man's game who went in for Miss Bruce would be
this: constant attention to her interests, supreme disregard for her
feelings, and never to let her have her own way for a moment. She'd be
so utterly taken aback she'd give in without a fight. Why shouldn't I
try my chance? It's a good spec. It must be a good spec. And yet,
hang it! such a high-handed girl as that would suit _me_ without a
shilling. It dashed me a little at first; but I like that scornful way
of hers, I own. What eyes, too! and what hair! I wonder if I'm a fool.
No; nothing's impossible; it's only difficult. What! London already?
Ah! there's no place like town."
The familiar gas-lamps, the roll of the cabs, the bustle in the
streets, dispelled whatever shadows of mistrust in his own merits
remained from Tom's reflections in the railway carriage; and long
before he reached his uncle's house, he had made up his mind to "go
in," as he called it, for Miss Bruce, morally confident of winning,
yet troubled with certain chilling misgivings, as fearing that _this_
time he had really fallen in love.
Many and long, during the ensuing week, were the consultations between
old Bargrave and his nephew as to the future prospects of the lady in
question. Her father had died without a will. That fact seemed pretty
evident, as he had often expressed his intention of preparing such an
instrument, but had hitherto moved no farther in the matter.
"Depend upon it, Tom," said his uncle, that very evening over their
port wine, "he wouldn't go to anybody else. He was never much of
a business man, and he couldn't have disentangled his affairs
sufficiently to make 'em clear, except to me. It's a sad pity for many
reasons, but I'm just as sure there's no will as I am that my glass is
empty. Help yourself, Tom, and pass the wine."
"Then she takes as next of kin," said Tom, thinking of Maud's dark
eyes, and filling his glass. "Here's her health!"
"By all means," assented Bargrave. "Her very good health, poor girl!
But as to the succession I have my doubts; grave doubts. There's a
trust, Tom. I looked over the deed while you were down there to-day.
It is so worded that a male heir might advance a prior claim. There
_is_ a male heir, a parson in Dorsetshire, not a likely man to give in
without a fight. We'll look at it again to-morrow. If it reads as I
think, I wouldn't give a pinch of snuff for the young lady's chance."
Tom's face fell. "Can't we fight it, uncle?" said he, stoutly,
applying himself once more to the port; but Bargrave had drawn his
silk handkerchief over his face, and was already fast asleep.
So uncle and nephew went into the trust-deed, morning after morning,
arriving in its perusal at a conclusion adverse to Miss Brace's
interest; but then, as the younger man observed, "the beauty of our
English law is, that you can always fight a thing even if you haven't
a leg to stand on."
It was almost time for Tom Ryfe's return journey to Ecclesfield, and
a coat ordered for the express purpose of captivating Miss Bruce had
actually come home, when the post brought him a little note from
that lady, which afforded him, as such notes often do, an absurd and
overweening joy. It was bordered with the deepest black, and ran as
follows--
DEAR SIR,
('_Dear_ sir,' thought Tom, 'ah! that sounds much sweeter than plain
sir')--I venture to trouble you with a commission in the nature of
business. A packet, containing some diamond ornaments belonging to me,
will be left by the jeweller at Mr. Bargrave's office to-morrow. Will
you kindly bring it down with you to Ecclesfield?
Yours, very obediently,
"Maud Bruce."
Tom kissed the signature. He was very far gone already, and took care
to be at the office in time to receive the diamonds. That boy was
out of the way, of course! So Tom summoned the grimy Dorothea to his
presence.
"I shall be busy for an hour," said he; "don't admit anybody unless he
comes by appointment, except it's a man with a packet of jewelry. Take
it in yourself, and bring it here at once. I've got to carry it down
with me to-night by the train. Do you understand?"
"Is it a long journey as you're a-goin', sir?" asked Dorothea. "I
should like to clean up a bit while you was away."
"Only to Bragford," answered Tom; "but I might not be back for a day
or two. Mind about the parcel, though," he added, in the exuberance
of his spirits. "The thing's valuable. It's for a young lady. It's
jewels, Dorothea. It's diamonds."
"Lor!" said Dorothea, going back to her scrubbing forthwith.
The jeweller being dilatory, Tom had finished his letters before that
artificer arrived, thus saving Dorothea all responsibility in the
valuable packet confided to his charge, for Mr. Ryfe received it
himself in the outer office, whither he had resorted in a fidget to
compare a time-table with a railway-map of England. He fretted to set
off at once. He had finished his business; he had nothing to do now
but eat an early dinner at his uncle's, and so start by the afternoon
train on the path of love, triumph, and success, leaving the boy,
coerced by ghastly threats, to take charge of the office in his
absence.
We have all seen a bird moulting, draggled, dirty, woebegone, not to
be recognised for the same bird, sleek and glossy in its holiday-suit
of feathers, pruning its wing for a flight across the summer sky. Even
so different was the Dorothea of the unkempt hair, the soapy arms, the
dingy apron, and the grimy face, from a gaudy damsel who emerged in
the afternoon sun out of Mr. Bargrave's chambers, bright with all the
colours of the rainbow, and scrupulously dressed, according to the
extreme style of the last prevailing fashion but two.
She was a good-looking woman enough now that she had "cleaned
herself," as she expressed it, but for a certain roughness of hair,
coarseness of skin, and general redundancy of outline, despite of
which drawbacks, however, she attracted many admiring glances from
cab-drivers, omnibus-conductors, a precocious shoeblack, and the
policeman on duty, as she tripped into Holborn and mingled with the
living stream that flows unceasingly down that artery of London.
Dorothea seemed to know where she was going well enough, and yet the
coarse red cheek turned pale while she approached her goal, though it
was but a flashy, dirty-looking gin-shop, standing at a corner where
two streets met. Her colour rose though, higher than before, when a
pot-boy, with a shock of red hair, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up to
his shoulders, thus accosted her--
"You're just in time, miss; he'd 'a been off in a minit, but old
Batters, he come in just now, and your young man stopped to take his
share of another half-quartern."