I do believe, from my very heart and soul, that there is not the
slightest possible good in attempting to write a book regularly. I say
with prime ministers and maid-servants, with philosophers and fools,
"I've tried it, and surely I ought to know." It may be objected that
the result entirely depends upon the way in which a thing is tried,
and that a very simple experiment would fail or might fail in the
hands of a fool or a maid-servant, which would succeed in those of a
prime minister or a philosopher. Nevertheless, it is true that critics
make rules which life will not conform to. Art says one thing, nature
another; and, in such a case, a fig for art! Art may teach us how to
embellish nature, or show us what to portray.
"Do not be continually changing the scene," says the critic, "do not
run from character to character; introduce no personage who does not
tend to bring about some result;" but in the course of human events
the scene is always shifting; the characters which pass before our
eyes, cross and return at every instant, and innumerable personages
flit before us like shadows over a glass, leaving no trace of their
having been. Others, indeed, appear for an instant not only on the
limited stage of domestic life, but often on the great scene of the
world, act their appointed part, produce some particular effect, and
then like those strange visitants of our system, the comets, rush back
into the depths from which they emerged but for an hour.
All this has been written to prove that it is perfectly right and
judicious that I should introduce my beloved reader into the study of
Mr. Wharton, or rather Abraham Wharton, Esq., solicitor, and
attorney-at-law. Mr. Wharton was a small, spare, narrow man, of a
tolerably gentlemanlike figure; and, to look at his back, one of those
prepossessions which lead us all by the nose, made one believe that
his face must be a thin, sharp, foxlike face, probably with a dark
black beard, closely shaved, making the muzzle look blue.
On getting round in front, however, the surprise of the new
acquaintance was great to see a red and blotchy countenance, with
sharp black eyes, and very little beard at all. There was generally a
secret simper upon his lips intended to be courteous, but that simper,
like an exchequer bill, was very easily convertible, and a poor
client, an inferior solicitor on the opposite side, or an unready
debtor, soon found that it would be changed into heavy frowns or
sarcastic grins.
Mr. Wharton was very proper and accurate in his dress. His coat was
always black,--even when he went out to hunt, which was not a rare
occurrence, he never sported the red jacket. In riding, he would
occasionally indulge in leather, elsewhere than from the knee
downwards; but the habiliment of the lower man was, upon all ordinary
occasions, a pair of dark gray pantaloons. He was now so habited in
his study, as he called the room behind that where seven clerks were
seated, for the business he was engaged in was one in the ordinary
course, though of extraordinary interest to Mr. Wharton. It was, in
short, the consummation of plucking a poor bird which had been
entrapped long before. Now it was not intended to leave him a feather,
and yet Mr. Wharton was inclined to do the thing as decorously as
possible. By decorously I do not mean tenderly--such an unnecessary
delicacy never entered into Mr. Wharton's head. The decorum that he
thought of was merely _the seeming in the world's eyes_, as a great
deal of other decorum is, both male and female. He was about to be as
hard, as relentless, as iron-hearted as a cannon-ball, but all with
infinite professions of kindness and good feeling, and sorrow for the
painful necessity, &c. &c. &c., for Mr. Wharton followed Dr.
Kitchener's barbarous recipe for devouring oysters, and "tickled his
little favourites before he ate them."
The lawyer was standing at a table with some papers before him--not
too many--for he was not like those bankrupt attorneys of the capital
who fill their rooms with brown tin cases, marked in large white
letters "House of Lords," he preferred as little show of business as
possible. His object now-a-days was not to get practice, but to make
money. Practice enough he had; too much for the common weal.
A clerk--a sort of private secretary indeed--was sitting at the other
end of the table, and the two had discussed one or two less important
affairs, affecting a few hundred pounds, when Mr. Wharton at length
observed, "I think to-morrow is the last day with Sir John Slingsby,
Mr. Pilkington, is it not?"
He knew quite well that it was; but, it would seem, he wished to hear
his clerk's opinion upon the subject.
"Yes, Sir," answered Mr. Pilkington, "I don't see a chance for him."
"Nor I either," answered Mr. Wharton; "I am afraid he is quite run
out, poor man. The six months' notice of fore-closure was all right,
and the interest now amounts to a large sum."
"A very large sum indeed, Sir, with the costs," answered Mr.
Pilkington; "you don't think, Sir, he'll attempt to revise the costs
or haggle about the interest."
"He can't, Mr. Pilkington," replied Mr. Wharton, drily, "the costs are
all secured by bond and accounts passed, and it was a client of mine
who advanced him the money at seven-and-a-half to pay the interest
every six months on my mortgage. I had nothing to do with the
transaction."
Mr. Pilkington smiled, and Mr. Wharton proceeded.
"Why you know quite well, Pilkington, that it was Dyer who advanced
the money, and his bankruptcy brought the bonds into my hands."
"I thought there was only one bond, Sir," answered Mr. Pilkington;
"you told me to have a fresh bond every six months for the running
interest and the arrears, and the interest upon former advances, to
guard against loss."
Mr. Wharton now smiled and nodded his head, saying, for he was vain of
his shrewdness, and vanity is a weak passion, "True, true, Pilkington,
but last half-year I saw that things were coming to a close, and
therefore thought it better to have two bonds. It looks more regular,
though the other is the most convenient mode."
"And besides it secures the interest on the last half-year's
interest," said Pilkington; but to this observation Mr. Wharton made
no reply, turning to another part of the same subject.
"Just bid Raymond to step down to Mr. Wittingham's," said the lawyer,
"and tell him with my compliments I should be glad to speak with him
for a minute. I must give him a hint of what is going on."
"Why, Sir," said Mr. Pilkington, hesitating "you know he has a bond
too, out on the same day, and he'll be sure to go before you, having
also a bill of sale."
"I know, I know," answered Mr. Wharton, "but I should like him to be
the first, Pilkington."
"Will there be enough to cover all?" asked the clerk, doubtfully.
"Ample," answered his great man; "besides, the whole sum coming
thundering down at once will ensure that no one will be fool enough to
help. I have heard, indeed, something about a friend who would advance
money to pay Wittingham's bond. Let him!--all the better, that cannot
supersede my debt. Wittingham will get his money, and Sir John won't
easily find much more on any security he has to offer. Besides, when
some one begins, it gives the very best reason for others going on,
and Wittingham won't be slow, depend upon it. Tell Mr. Raymond to
fetch him."
The clerk retired, not venturing to urge any more objections; but when
he returned again, Mr. Wharton himself continued the conversation
thus,
"Wittingham is a curious person to deal with; one does not always know
what can be his objects."
Mr. Wharton had always an object himself, and, therefore, he fancied
that no man could act without one. He never took the impulse of
passion, or the misdirection of folly, or the pigheadedness of
obstinacy into account. However, with Mr. Wittingham he was in some
degree right, as to his generally having an object; but he was in some
degree wrong also, for all the other causes of human wrong-going,
passion, folly, and pigheadedness, had their share in the modes,
methods, and contrivances by which the worthy magistrate sought his
ends.
"Now, what can be the meaning," continued Mr. Wharton, "of his
opposing so strongly all steps against this Mr. Beauchamp and that
Captain Hayward, who were engaged in the duel with his son?"
"They say he had quarrelled with Harry Wittingham and disinherited
him," replied the clerk; "and old Mrs. Billiter, the housekeeper, is
quite furious about it. She declares that it is all old Wittingham's
fault; that if it had not been for him, nothing of the kind would have
happened; and that he murdered the young man. I do not know what it
all means; but they say she will nurse Harry Wittingham through it
after all."
Mr. Wharton mused for a minute or two, and then said,
"You do not mean, he is out of danger?"
"Oh dear, no, Sir," answered Mr. Pilkington, who perceived a slightly
dissatisfied twang in his superior's question; "Mr. Slattery, the
surgeon, said he might sink at anytime for the next ten days."
"Humph," said Mr. Wharton, "that is all right. It will keep the others
out of the way for some time to come; and a very good thing, too, for
Mr. Beauchamp himself. He it is who is treating for the Moreton Hall
estate; there is a little hitch in the business, which will be soon
removed; but he seems to me just the sort of man who would take Sir
John Slingsby's mortgage as an investment, as soon as the other. At
all events, he might create difficulties in a business which had
better be settled as soon as possible for all parties, and might burn
his own fingers, poor man, into the bargain. You had the bills posted
up, Pilkington?"
"Oh, yes, Sir," replied the clerk, "for twenty miles round, offering a
reward. There is no fear, Sir. They are safe enough--most likely in
France by this time."
Mr. Wharton seemed satisfied; and, after a few minutes, worthy Mr.
Wittingham entered the office, and was thence ushered into the study;
but, alas! it was no longer the Mr. Wittingham of former days. The
somewhat fresh complexion; the stiff, consequential carriage; the
vulgar swagger, were all gone; and Mr. Wittingham looked a very sick
old gentleman, indeed; weak in the knees, bent in the back, and sallow
in the face. The wig was ill-adjusted, the Melton coat a world too
wide; you could have put a finger between the knee-bands of the
breeches and the stockings; and the top-boots slipped down almost to
the ancles. It was marvellous how one who had been so tall and thin
before, could have become, to the eye, so much taller and thinner. The
great Prince of Parma, wrote despatches, reviewed troops, and
conducted a negotiation, within one hour before a long and lingering
malady terminated in death. He knew he was dying, and yet went through
all his ordinary business, as if he had only to dress and go out to a
party instead of into his grave. This was a wonderful instance of the
persistence of character under bodily infirmity, or rather of its
triumph over corporeal decay. But that of Mr. Wittingham was more
remarkable. The external Wittingham was wofully changed: his oldest
friend would not have known him; but the internal Wittingham was still
the same; there was not a tittle of difference. He was not in the
least softened, he was not in the least brightened: his was one of
those granite natures, hard to cut, and impossible to polish. Although
he had very little of the diamond in him, yet, as the diamond can only
be shaped by the powder of the diamond, nothing but Wittingham could
touch Wittingham. His own selfishness was the only means by which he
was accessible.
"Ah, Mr. Wharton," he said, "you sent for me; what is in the wind now?
Not about these two young men any more, I trust. That account is
closed. I will have nothing to do with it. Henry Wittingham called out
this Captain Hayward; Captain Hayward was fool enough to go out with
Henry Wittingham. They each had a shot, and the balance struck was a
pistol-ball against Henry Wittingham. Perhaps, if all the items had
been reckoned, the account might have been heavier, but I am not going
to open the books again, I should not find any thing to the credit of
my son, depend upon it."
"Oh, no, my good friend," said Mr. Wharton, in the most amiable tone
possible; "I knew the subject was disagreeable to you, and therefore
never returned to the business again. The other magistrates did what
they thought their duty required, in offering a reward, &c., but as
you had a delicacy in meddling where your son was concerned, the
matter was not pressed upon you."
"Delicacy! fiddlesticks' ends!" retorted Mr. Wittingham. "I never had
a delicacy in my life!--I did not choose! That is the proper word. But
if it was not about this, why did you send for me?"
"Why, my dear Sir," said Mr. Wharton, "I thought it due in honour to
give you a hint--as I know you are a large creditor of Sir John
Slingsby--that matters are not going altogether well there."
"I have known that these six years," answered the magistrate; "honour,
indeed! You have a great deal to do with honour, and delicacy, and all
that; but I am a man of business, and look to things as matters of
business. Speak more plainly, Wharton, what is there going worse than
usual at the Park? Does he want to borrow more money?
"He did a fortnight ago, and could not get it," replied Mr. Wharton,
drily; for the most impudent rogue in the world does not like to feel
himself thoroughly understood. "But the short and the long of the
matter is this, my good Sir:--Sir John can go on no longer. Six
months' notice of fore-closure is out tomorrow; other steps must be
taken immediately; large arrears of interest are due; two or three
bonds with judgment are hanging over our poor friend; and you had
better look after yourself."
"Well, well, there is time enough yet," said Mr. Wittingham, in a much
less business-like tone than Mr. Wharton expected; "the preliminaries
of the law are somewhat lengthy, Mr. Wharton? _fi-fas_ and _ca-sas_
take some time; and I will think of the matter."
"As you please, my good friend," answered Wharton; "only just let me
hint, that all the preliminaries have been already gone through. An
execution will be put in early to-morrow; there are a good many
creditors, and there may be a sort of scramble, as the school-boys
have it, where the quickest runner gets the biggest nut. I thought it
but kind and fair to tell you, as a neighbour and a friend, especially
as your debt is no trifle, I think."
"An execution early to-morrow!" exclaimed Mr. Wittingham; "won't the
estate pay all?"
"About two-thirds, I imagine," said Wharton, telling, as was his wont,
a great lie with the coolest face possible.
"And what will Sir John do?" said the magistrate, "and poor Miss
Slingsby?"
"I am afraid we must touch Sir John's person," replied the lawyer,
with a sneer; "and as to poor Miss Slingsby, I see nothing for it, but
that she should go out as a governess. But do not let us talk
nonsense, Wittingham. You are a man of sense and of business. I have
given you a caution, and you will act upon it. That is all I have to
do with the matter."
To Mr. Wharton's surprise, however, he did not find Mr. Wittingham so
ready to act in the way he hinted as had been anticipated. The old
gentleman hesitated, and doubted, and seemed so uneasy that the
solicitor began to fear he had mistaken his character totally, to
apprehend that, after all, he might be a kind-hearted, benevolent old
gentleman. The reader, however, who has duly remarked the conversation
between the magistrate on his sick-bed, and worthy Dr. Miles, may,
perhaps, perceive other causes for Mr. Wittingham's hesitation. He had
found that Sir John Slingsby possessed a secret which might hang his
son. Now, although I do not mean at all to say that Mr. Wittingham
wished his son to die, in any way, or that he would not have been
somewhat sorry for his death, by any means, yet he would have much
preferred that the means were not those of strangulation. To have his
son hanged, would be to have his own consideration hanged. In short,
he did not at all wish to be the father of a man who had been hanged;
and consequently he was somewhat afraid of driving Sir John Slingsby
into a corner. But each man, as Pope well knew, has some ruling
passion, which is strong even in death. Sir John Slingsby owed Mr.
Wittingham five thousand pounds; and Mr. Wittingham could not forget
that fact. As he thought of it, it increased, swelled out, grew heavy,
like a nightmare. To lose five thousand pounds at one blow! What was
any other consideration to that? What was the whole Newgate-calendar,
arranged as a genealogical tree and appended to his name either as
ancestry or posterity? Nothing, nothing! Dust in the balance! A
feather in an air-pump! Mr. Wittingham grew exceedingly civil to his
kind friend, Mr. Wharton; he compassionated poor Sir John Slingsby
very much; he was sorry for Miss Slingsby; but he did not in the least
see why, when other people were about to help themselves, he should
not have his just right. He chatted over the matter with Mr. Wharton,
and obtained an opinion from him, without a fee, as to the best mode
of proceeding--and Mr. Wharton's opinions on such points were very
sound; but in this case particularly careful. Then Mr. Wittingham went
home, sent for his worthy solicitor, Mr. Bacon, whom he had employed
for many years, as cheaper and safer than Mr. Wharton, and gave him
instructions, which set the poor little attorney's hair on end.
Mr. Bacon knew Mr. Wittingham, however; he had been accustomed to
manage him at petty sessions; and he was well aware that it was
necessary to set Mr. Wittingham in opposition to Mr. Wittingham,
before he could hope that any one's opinion would be listened to. When
those two respectable persons had a dispute together, there was some
chance of a third being attended to who stepped in as an umpire.
But, in the present case, Mr. Bacon was mistaken. He did not say one
word of the pity, and the shame, and the disgrace of taking Sir John
Slingsby quite by surprise; but he started various legal difficulties,
and, indeed, some formidable obstacles to the very summary proceedings
which Mr. Wittingham contemplated. But that gentleman was as a gun
loaded with excellent powder and well-crammed down shot, by Mr.
Wharton; and the priming was dry and fresh. Mr. Bacon's difficulties
were swept away in a moment; his obstacles leaped over; and the
solicitor was astonished at the amount of technical knowledge which
his client had obtained in a few hours.
There was nothing to be done but obey. Mr. Wittingham was too good a
card to throw out: Sir John Slingsby was evidently ruined beyond
redemption; and with a sorrowful heart--for Mr. Bacon was, at bottom,
a kind and well-disposed man--he took his way to his office with
his eyes roaming from one side of the street to the other, as if he
were looking for some means of escaping from a disagreeable task.
As they thus roamed, they fell upon Billy Lamb, the little deformed
pot-boy. The lawyer eyed him for a minute or so as he walked along,
compared him in imagination with one of his own clerks, a tall,
handsome-looking fellow, with a simpering face; thought that Billy
would do best, though he was much more like a wet capon, than a human
being, and beckoning the boy into his office, retired with him into an
inner room, where Mr. Bacon proceeded so cautiously and diffidently,
that, had not Billy Lamb's wits been as sharp as his face, he would
have been puzzled to know what the solicitor wanted him to do.