ATLEE’S EMBARRASSMENTS
When Atlee returned to dress for dinner, he was sent for hurriedly by
Walpole, who told him that Lord Danesbury’s answer had arrived with the
order, ‘Send him over at once, and write fully at the same time.’
‘There is an eleven o’clock packet, Atlee, to-night,’ said he: ‘you must
manage to start by that. You’ll reach Holyhead by four or thereabouts, and
can easily get to the castle by mid-day.’
‘I wish I had had a little more time,’ muttered the other. ‘If I am to
present myself before his Excellency in such a “rig” as this--’
‘I have thought of that. We are nearly of the same size and build; you are,
perhaps, a trifle taller, but nothing to signify. Now Buckmaster has
just sent me a mass of things of all sorts from town; they are in my
dressing-room, not yet unpacked. Go up and look at them after dinner: take
what suits you--as much--all, if you like--but don’t delay now. It only
wants a few minutes of seven o’clock.’
Atlee muttered his thanks hastily, and went his way. If there was a
thoughtfulness in the generosity of this action, the mode in which it
was performed--the measured coldness of the words--the look of impassive
examination that accompanied them, and the abstention from anything that
savoured of apology for a liberty--were all deeply felt by the other.
It was true, Walpole had often heard him tell of the freedom with which he
had treated Dick Kearney’s wardrobe, and how poor Dick was scarcely sure he
could call an article of dress his own, whenever Joe had been the first
to go out into the town. The innumerable straits to which he reduced that
unlucky chum, who had actually to deposit a dinner-suit at an hotel to save
it from Atlee’s rapacity, had amused Walpole; but then these things were
all done in the spirit of the honest familiarity that prevailed between
them--the tie of true _camaraderie_ that neither suggested a thought of
obligation on one side nor of painful inferiority on the other. Here it
was totally different. These men did not live together with that daily
interchange of liberties which, with all their passing contentions, so
accustom people to each other’s humours as to establish the soundest and
strongest of all friendships. Walpole had adopted Atlee because he
found him useful in a variety of ways. He was adroit, ready-witted, and
intelligent; a half-explanation sufficed with him on anything--a mere hint
was enough to give him for an interview or a reply. He read people readily,
and rarely failed to profit by the knowledge. Strange as it may seem,
the great blemish of his manner--his snobbery--Walpole rather liked than
disliked it. I was a sort of qualifying element that satisfied him, as
though it said, ‘With all that fellow’s cleverness, he is not “one of us.”
He might make a wittier reply, or write a smarter note; but society has
its little tests--not one of which he could respond to.’ And this was an
inferiority Walpole loved to cherish and was pleased to think over.
Atlee felt that Walpole might, with very little exercise of courtesy, have
dealt more considerately by him.
‘I’m not exactly a valet,’ muttered he to himself, ‘to whom a man flings a
waistcoat as he chucks a shilling to a porter. I am more than Mr. Walpole’s
equal in many things, which are not accidents of fortune.’
He knew scores of things he could do better than him; indeed, there were
very few he could not.
Poor Joe was not, however, aware that it was in the ‘not doing’ lay
Walpole’s secret of superiority; that the inborn sense of abstention is the
great distinguishing element of the class Walpole belonged to; and he
might harass himself for ever, and yet never guess where it was that the
distinction evaded him.
Atlee’s manner at dinner was unusually cold and silent. He habitually made
the chief efforts of conversation, now he spoke little and seldom. When
Walpole talked, it was in that careless discursive way it was his wont to
discuss matters with a familiar. He often put questions, and as often went
on without waiting for the answers.
As they sat over the dessert and were alone, he adverted to the other’s
mission, throwing out little hints, and cautions as to manner, which Atlee
listened to in perfect silence, and without the slightest sign that could
indicate the feeling they produced.
‘You are going into a new country, Atlee,’ said he at last, ‘and I am sure
you will not be sorry to learn something of the geography.’
‘Though it may mar a little of the adventure,’ said the other, smiling.
‘Ah, that’s exactly what I want to warn you against. With us in England,
there are none of those social vicissitudes you are used to here. The game
of life is played gravely, quietly, and calmly. There are no brilliant
successes of bold talkers, no _coups de théâtre_ of amusing _raconteurs_:
no one tries to push himself into any position of eminence.’
A half-movement of impatience, as Atlee pushed his wine-glass before him,
arrested the speaker.
‘I perceive,’ said he stiffly, ‘you regard my counsels as unnecessary.’
‘Not that, sir, so much as hopeless,’ rejoined the other coldly.
‘His Excellency will ask you, probably, some questions about this country:
let me warn you not to give him Irish answers.’
‘I don’t think I understand you, sir.’
‘I mean, don’t deal in any exaggerations, avoid extravagance, and never be
slapdash.’
‘Oh, these are Irish, then?’
Without deigning reply to this, Walpole went on--
‘Of course you have your remedy for all the evils of Ireland. I never met
an Irishman who had not. But I beg you spare his lordship your theory,
whatever it is, and simply answer the questions he will ask you.’
‘I will try, sir,’ was the meek reply.
‘Above all things, let me warn you against a favourite blunder of your
countrymen. Don’t endeavour to explain peculiarities of action in this
country by singularities of race or origin; don’t try to make out that
there are special points of view held that are unknown on the other side of
the Channel, or that there are other differences between the two peoples,
except such as more rags and greater wretchedness produce. We have got over
that very venerable and time-honoured blunder, and do not endeavour to
revive it.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Fact, I assure you. It is possible in some remote country-house to chance
upon some antiquated Tory who still cherishes these notions; but you’ll not
find them amongst men of mind or intelligence, nor amongst any class of our
people.’
It was on Atlee’s lip to ask, ‘Who were our people?’ but he forbore by a
mighty effort, and was silent.
‘I don’t know if I have any other cautions to give you. Do you?’
‘No, sir. I could not even have reminded you of these, if you had not
yourself remembered them.’
‘Oh, I had almost forgotten it. If his Excellency should give you anything
to write out, or to copy, don’t smoke while you are over it: he abhors
tobacco. I should have given you a warning to be equally careful as regards
Lady Maude’s sensibilities; but, on the whole, I suspect you’ll scarcely
see her.’
‘Is that all, sir?’ said the other, rising.
‘Well, I think so. I shall be curious to hear how you acquit yourself--how
you get on with his Excellency, and how he takes you; and you must write it
all to me. Ain’t you much too early? it’s scarcely ten o’clock.’
‘A quarter past ten; and I have some miles to drive to Kingstown.’
‘And not yet packed, perhaps?’ said the other listlessly.
‘No, sir; nothing ready.’
‘Oh! you’ll be in ample time; I’ll vouch for it. You are one of the
rough-and-ready order, who are never late. Not but in this same flurry of
yours you have made me forget something I know I had to say; and you tell
me you can’t remember it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And yet,’ said the other sententiously, ‘the crowning merit of a private
secretary is exactly that sort of memory. _Your_ intellects, if properly
trained, should be the complement of your chief’s. The infinite number of
things that are too small and too insignificant for _him_, are to have
their place, duly docketed and dated, in _your_ brain; and the very
expression of his face should be an indication to you of what he is looking
for and yet cannot remember. Do you mark me?’
‘Half-past ten,’ cried Atlee, as the clock chimed on the mantel-piece; and
he hurried away without another word.
It was only as he saw the pitiable penury of his own scanty wardrobe that
he could persuade himself to accept of Walpole’s offer.
‘After all,’ he said, ‘the loan of a dress-coat may be the turning-point of
a whole destiny. Junot sold all he had to buy a sword, to make his first
campaign; all I have is my shame, and here it goes for a suit of clothes!’
And, with these words, he rushed down to Walpole’s dressing-room, and not
taking time to inspect and select the contents, carried off the box, as it
was, with him. ‘I’ll tell him all when I write,’ muttered he, as he drove
away.