AT THE BROWN BEAR.
The Brown Bear, the tavern usually patronized by Mr. Fildew of an
evening, was situate in a quiet street no great distance from
Bloomsbury Square. It was one of the few taverns dating from a bygone
generation that had escaped the hands of the modern innovator. It
could boast no plate-glass windows lighted up with a score of
gas-jets. There was plenty of old mahogany, black with age, to be seen
inside the bar, but there were no mirrors and no gilding; neither was
there any lavish display of colored glass or artificial shrubs. You
went down one step from the street into the bar, the floor of which
was sprinkled with sand, as in the days when George the Third was
king. A huge oaken beam supported the ceiling. On a topmost shelf
stood a couple of immense punchbowls backed by some flagons of antique
design, and below them were several bottles of Schiedam and other
liquors that had been ripening for a dozen years. There was an air of
sombre substantiality about the whole place.
Behind the bar was the "coffee-room," so called. Straight-backed,
rush-bottomed chairs occupied three sides of it, in front of which
were ranged four or five oblong tables, black with age and much
polishing. At the upper end of the room was an elaborately carved
arm-chair, where the president or chairman for the evening took his
seat, opposite which stood a brass box containing tobacco, the lid of
which flew open as often as a halfpenny was dropped through an orifice
at the opposite end. A few smoke-dried prints of coaching and sporting
subjects, and three or four pipe-racks, decorated the walls.
The general public were not allowed to invade this sanctum for them
there was another room at the opposite end of the bar. The coffee-room
was set apart and kept sacred for a certain set of regular customers,
and such private friends as they might choose to bring with them from
time to time, who, year in and year out, made a point of spending
their evenings at the Brown Bear. Some there were who put in an
appearance almost every night, some of them showed up only two or
three times a week, but they were all known to each other and to the
landlord, the freemasonry of good-fellowship, or what passed among
them as such, being the one bond that kept them together. Several of
them were small tradesmen of the neighborhood, two or three were
connected with the law, a few of them were men whose work in this
world was over, and who were ekeing out the remainder of their days on
some small pension or private means of their own.
At nine P.M. such of the company as might be present voted one of
their number into the chair, a post which it was not considered
etiquette to vacate till the clock struck twelve. At ten o'clock they
were generally joined by the landlord, who, on such occasions, ordered
and paid for what he drank like an ordinary customer. The last
proceeding of each evening was for the chairman to treat such of the
company as might be left to "goes" of grog at his own expense; one
cannot expect to have the honors of this world thrust upon one without
having to pay for them.
It is quite possible that some of the frequenters of the Brown Bear
were drawn thither by the love of hearing themselves talk, and of
having others to listen to them, rather than by any more convivial
motives. As a consequence, the affairs of the nation were discussed
and settled, and the proceedings of the party in power impugned or
approved of, as the case might be, to the satisfaction of everybody
concerned; while such minor topics as the weather, the crops, the last
murder, or the latest scandal in high life, did not fail to come in
for their due share of attention. Some old fogies there were who
scarcely opened their lips except to order their grog, or to interject
an "exactly" or a "just so" at the proper moment, whenever any
particular proposition was pointedly aimed at them, but who otherwise
puffed placidly at their pipes in stolid silence. These non-talkers
were by no means among the least popular of the company, for how can a
man who feels called upon to enlighten his fellow-citizens do so with
any satisfaction to himself unless he has appreciative listeners? That
those others chose to be listeners rather than talkers was by no means
put down to any obtuseness of intellect on their part, for are we not
taught that a still tongue is a sign of a wise head? and a man may be
brimful of wisdom, and yet be at pains to conceal that fact from his
fellows.
Among such a company as this it might almost have seemed as if a man
like Mr. Fildew would hardly have felt himself at home; but such was
by no means the case. The truth is, that the majority of the
frequenters of the Brown Bear, that is to say, the small tradesmen
portion of them, looked up to our friend and yet looked down upon him.
They looked down upon him because they had a suspicion, which, in
their case, was next to a certainty, that he was always in a chronic
state of impecuniosity; because they themselves had their snug little
investments in one form or other, and could have bought him up, root
and branch, a hundred times over; and, finally, because it is one of
the blessed privileges of those who have money to look down on those
who have none. They looked up to Fildew because there was something
about the man which told them he had at one time belonged to a sphere
from which they were forever debarred. Through all his poverty and
shabbiness, a faint aroma of fashion and high life seemed still to
cling to him. The popular notion at the Brown Bear was that he had at
one time been an officer in some crack regiment, who had ruined
himself by gambling and been discarded by his friends. If he spoke of
the aristocracy, which, to give him credit, was but rarely, he spoke
as though he were one to the manner born. He seemed to know Eton and
Oxford as well as he knew Tottenham-court Road, and to be familiar
with most of the West End clubs. A nobleman's name could hardly be
mentioned without his being able to tell something about him that the
frequenters of the Brown Bear had never heard of before. In his very
way of talking, in his mode of accentuating his words, there was an
indefinable something which marked him out at once from the ordinary
frequenters of the coffee-room of the B. B. They knew, these petty
tradesmen, that "His Grace" looked down upon them from the height of
some, to them, invisible pedestal; and they in turn looked down upon
him from the serene height of their money-bags; and yet, as they
argued among themselves when he was not by, he must, to a certain
extent, have liked their company, else why did he seek it so
persistently night after night the year round?
It was about half-past eight this evening when John Fildew walked into
the bar of the Brown Bear. He nodded to the landlord, and that worthy
at once touched a spring inside the bar which communicated with the
door of the coffee-room, after which the door opened to Fildew's hand,
and he entered. With one man in the room he shook hands, to the rest
of the company be vouchsafed a general and comprehensive nod. Then he
took a vacant chair, and having called for a "go" of brandy cold, he
proceeded to select a churchwarden pipe from a heap on the table
before him and to charge it with tobacco.
"How's the weather by this time, your grace?" asked Mr. Nutt, the
shoemaker. "It was just wetting a bit when I came in."
"The stars are out again," said Fildew, answering to the title as a
matter of course. "Not much likelihood of any rain to-night."
It was not often that he joined in the discussions, political or
otherwise, that were pretty sure to crop up before the evening was at
an end. He generally sat a silent if not an amused listener. If
appealed to directly he would give his opinion, but not otherwise.
That curious, sneering smile of his would now and then light up his
features at the enunciation by one or other of his friends of some
more wildly outrageous statement than common, but for the most part he
and his pipe held silent session together and troubled no one with
what they thought.
It was quite understood in the room why Mr. Fildew should shake hands
with Mr. Denzil and no one else. Mr. Fildew was a man who rarely shook
hands with any one. His reasons for making an exception in favor of
the young law-writer may be told in a few words. One evening, about a
year anterior to the particular evening to which we have now come, Mr.
Denzil had made his appearance at the Brown Bear considerably the
worse for liquor. At the moment of his entrance Mr. Fildew was
explaining to the company the ceremonial in connection with a royal
levée at St. James's. "What can a shabby dog like you know about the
interior of a palace?" hiccoughed Denzil. "If you have ever been
inside St. James's it must have been when you were sent for to sweep
the chimneys."
"Silence, you drunken fool," said Mr. Fildew, in quietly contemptuous
tones.
But Denzil was not in a mood to be silenced, and would probably have
insulted the company all round had not three or four of his more
intimate friends removed him as quietly as possible. After that
evening he and Mr. Fildew spoke to each other no more.
Six or seven months had passed away when one evening somebody inquired
what had become of Denzil, upwards of a week having gone by since his
last appearance at the B. B.
"My pot man told me to-day that he had heard he was queer," remarked
the landlord.
"What's the matter with him? Not d. t. again, eh?"
"Some sort of fever, I'm afraid. Catching, too, I hear."
"Poor Denzil! Let us hope he'll not want for good nursing."
"How can he have good nursing," said another, "when, as I happen to
know, he hasn't a single relation within a hundred miles of London? He
rents a back bedroom on a third floor, and gets his meals out. That's
the sort of home Denzil has."
"Poor devil! They ought to have taken him to the hospital. He'd have
been properly cared for there."
"They say he's too ill to be moved," remarked the landlord, as he
placidly puffed at his pipe. Had the health of his favorite terrier
been in question, some show of feeling might naturally have been
expected from him.
Then Mr. Fildew spoke. "Gentlemen," he said, "my opinion is that a
deputation of the present company ought without delay to inquire into
the circumstances attendant on Mr. Denzil's illness, and make such
arrangements as may be necessary for having him properly cared for."
There was a dead silence in the room. Everybody puffed away with
increased energy at their pipes.
Mr. Pyecroft, the small-ware dealer, a thin man with a squeaky voice,
was the first to speak. "Did you say the fever was a catching one, Mr.
Landlord?"
"So my potman was given to understand. A bad kind of fever--very."
"Humph! Well, I for one, as a family man, must say," resumed Pyecroft,
"that much as I respect our friend Denzil, and sincerely as I hope
he'll soon be among us again as jovial as ever, I don't see my way to
go and inquire personally after his health. My duty to my wife and
children tells me that I ought to take the greatest possible care of
my own health, for their sakes, if not for my own."
"Hear, hear! my sentiments exactly," resounded from three or four
parts of the room. "Number Two is all very well when Number One has
been properly cared for."
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Scoop, the tailor, with a doleful shake of the
head, "I am afraid that this is one of those unfortunate cases in
which friendship finds itself with its hands tied. I don't really see
that we can do anything. James, another go of Scotch with an extra
squeeze of lemon this time."
Mr. Fildew rose to his feet and put his hat on.
"Surely your grace is not going already?" said Mr. Nutt.
"Why, the evening's quite a baby yet," remarked jovial-faced little
Tubbins, the undertaker. "But perhaps there's a lady in the case, eh?
Ah, sly dog, sly dog!" and he gave a comprehensive wink for the
benefit of the company at large.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Fildew, gravely, "I am going to the lodgings of
Mr. Denzil. If any one here chooses to accompany me, so much the
better. If not, I shall go alone."
He waited a moment, but no one spoke or moved.
Then he turned on his heel and walked slowly out.
He found Denzil in a raging fever, with no one to attend to him but a
poor lad who slept in the next room. For ten days and as many nights
he and this lad took it in turns to nurse the sick man, until the
fever left him and he was on the high-road to recovery. Then an old
aunt was telegraphed for out of Devonshire, and Mr. Fildew went his
way. And that is the reason why ever afterwards he and Denzil shook
hands when they met each other at the B. B.
To-night the coffee-room was more lively than usual, for Mr. Wimbush,
the funny man of the company, had advanced the humorous proposition
that the moment a prime-minister failed to secure a majority in the
House he ought to be decapitated, and was putting it to his friends
generally which of them would like to take office under such
circumstances. Lumbering witticisms and time-honored jokes were being
bandied about; a joke was hardly looked upon as a joke at the B. B.
till it had done duty some half-dozen times, and came to be recognized
as an old friend. But John Fildew sat as grave as a judge, behind his
pipe, and took no part in the merriment around him.
By and by in came Mr. Nipper, the auctioneer, with the evening paper
in his hand. He sat down next Mr. Fildew, rubbed up his hair, and
selected a pipe. "Any news this evening worth reading?" asked Fildew,
more for the sake of saying something than because he cared to know
what the news might be.
"No, everything seems very stale just now," said the auctioneer, as he
blew down the stem of his pipe, and twisted his little finger
appreciatively round the inside of the bowl. "There's an account of a
fatal accident to one of our young swells; but the country could spare
a lot like him without being any the worse off," added Nipper, who
prided himself on his democratic principles.
"There are swells and swells," responded Mr. Fildew, dryly. "What was
the name of this particular one?"
"The Earl of Loughton. Pitched off his hunter and broke his neck. Not
quite one-and-twenty."
Mr. Fildew, who had been in the act of lifting his glass to his lips,
put it down untasted. Mr. Nipper turned and stared at him.
"Hullo! I say, what's the matter? Was the young lord a friend of your
grace?" This was asked with something of a grin. "By Jove! you are all
of a shake."
"The Earl of Loughton was no friend of mine. I never saw him in my
life. But I happen to be acquainted with the man who will succeed him
in the title."
"Bully for you, my boy," responded Mr. Nipper, who could not forget
that he had once spent six months in the States. "Here's the account.
Perhaps you would like to read it." He pointed to a brief paragraph,
which Fildew, with the newspaper held up within an inch or two of his
nose, read carefully through more than once.
"I must write to my friend to-night and congratulate him," he said, in
his usual quiet, matter-of-fact tone, as he laid down the newspaper.
"It will be a great surprise for him."
"Let us hope that in the day of his prosperity the friends of his
adversity will not be forgotten," said Nipper, who was one of the
orators of the B. B.
"It is but a barren honor that he will come into," answered Fildew.
"The title will be his, but the estates go elsewhere;" and nodding a
curt "goodnight" to the auctioneer, he emptied his glass and left the
room.