Bennett Arnold
A Man from the North
CHAPTER XIII
Every solicitor's office has its great client, whose affairs, watchfully managed by the senior partner in person, take precedence of all else, and whom every member of the staff regards with a particular respect caught from the principals themselves. Messrs. Curpet and Smythe were London agents to the tremendous legal firm of Pontifex, of Manchester, said to enjoy the largest practice in the midlands; and they were excusably proud of the fact. One of the first lessons that a new clerk learnt in the establishment at New Serjeant's Court was that, at no matter what expenditure of time and trouble, Pontifex business, comprising some scores of separate causes, must be transacted so irreproachably that old Mr. Pontifex, by repute a terrible fellow, might never have cause of complaint. On those mornings, happily rare, when a querulous letter did by chance arrive from Manchester, the whole office trembled apprehensively, and any clerk likely to be charged with negligence began at once to consider the advisability of seeking a new situation.
The Pontifex bill of costs was made up annually in June. As the time drew near for presenting it, more and more clerks were pressed into its service, until at the last everyone found himself engaged, in one way or another, upon this colossal account.
When Richard arrived at the office, he found the immense pile of white foolscap sheets upon his table, and next it the still higher pile of blue sheets forming the draft bill. All was finished except the checking of the figures and the final castings. As the cashier and accountant, he was ultimately responsible for this. He parcelled out the sheets, keeping the largest share for himself, and the work began. In every room there was a low muttering of figures, broken by an occasional oath when someone happened to lose the thread of an addition. The principals hovered about, full of solicitude and encouragement, and, according to custom on such occasions, lunch was served on the premises at the firm's expense. Richard continued to add while eating, keeping his head clear and seldom making a mistake; nothing existed for him but the column of pounds, shillings, and pence under his eyes.
The pile of finished sheets grew, and soon the office boys, commanded by Jenkins, were passing the earlier portion of the bill through the copying-press. As the hours went by, the helpers from other departments, no longer required, went back to their own neglected duties, and Richard did the last additions alone. At length the bill was absolutely finished, and he carried it himself to the stationer's to be sewed. In half an hour it came back, and he laid it ceremoniously before Mr. Curpet. The grand total went round the office, leaping from lip to lip like the result of an important parliamentary poll. It was higher than in any previous year by nearly a thousand pounds. Each of the clerks took a personal pride in its bigness, and secretly determined to petition for an increase of salary at the first opportunity. They talked together in groups, discussing details, while a comfortable lassitude spread from room to room.
Richard stood by the open window, absently watching the pigeons and the cleaners at the Law Courts opposite. In a corner an office boy, new to his work, was stamping envelopes with slow precision. Jenkins, with one foot on a table, was tying a shoe lace. It had struck six ten minutes ago, and everyone was gone except Mr. Smythe, whose departure Jenkins awaited with impatience. The hot day subsided slowly to a serene and lovely evening, and the customary noises of the Strand ascended to Richard like the pastoral hum of a valley to a dweller on a hill, not breaking but rather completing the stillness of the hour. Gradually his brain freed itself from the obsession of figures, though he continued to muse vaguely over the bill, which had just been posted. It would certainly be settled by cheque within a week, for Messrs. Pontifex were invariably prompt. That cheque, which he himself would enter and pay into the bank, amounted to as much as he could earn in twenty years, if he remained a clerk. He tried to imagine the scene in which, at some future date, he would give Mr. Curpet notice of his intention to resign his position, explaining that he preferred to support himself by literature. The ineffable sweetness of such a triumph! Could he ever realise it? He could, he must; the alternative of eternal clerkship was not to be endured. His glance fell on Jenkins. That poor, gay, careless, vulgar animal would always be a clerk. The thought filled him with commiseration, and also with pride. Fancy Jenkins writing a book called "The Psychology of the Suburbs"!
"I'm going to smoke," Jenkins said; "be blowed to Bertie dear." (Mrs. Smythe had once addressed her husband in the office as "Bertie dear," and thenceforth that had been his name among the staff.) Richard made no answer. When a minute later Jenkins, discreetly directing his puffs to the open window, asked him for the titles of one or two of Zola's novels in English, and their price, he gave the required information without turning round and in a preoccupied tone. It was his wish at that moment to appear dreamy. Perhaps a hint of the intellectual difference between them would suggest itself even to Jenkins. Suddenly a voice that seemed to be Mr. Smythe's came from the other side of the glass partition which separated the room from the general corridor.
"Jenkins, what the devil do you mean by smoking in the office?" The pipe vanished instantly, and Jenkins faced his accuser in some confusion, only to find that he had been victimised. It was Mr. Aked.
"You're as gassy as ever, I see," Jenkins said with a shade of annoyance. Mr. Aked laughed, and then began to cough badly, bending forward with flushed cheeks.
"Surely you shouldn't have left the house to-day," Richard said, alarmed.
"Why not?" The retort was almost fierce.
"You're not fit."
"Fiddlesticks! I've only got a bit of a cough."
Richard wondered what he had called for.
Jenkins began to discuss with him the shortcomings of Mr. Smythe as an employer, and when that fruitful subject had been exhausted there was a silence.
"Coming home?" Mr. Aked asked Richard, who at once prepared to leave.
"By the way, Larch, how's the mash?" Jenkins wore his archest manner.
"What mash?"
"Why, the girl you said you were going to see yesterday afternoon."
"I never said – " Richard began, looking nervously towards Mr. Aked.
"Oh, no, of course not. Do you know, Mr. Aked, he's begun his little games with the women. These fellows from the country – so shy and all that – they're regular cautions when you come to know them." But Mr. Aked made no response.
"I was thinking you might as well come down to-morrow night instead of Friday," he said quietly to Richard, who had busied himself with the locking of a safe.
"To-morrow? Certainly, I shall be very glad," Richard answered. Evidently Mr. Aked was as eager as himself to make a beginning of the book. No doubt that was why he had called. Surely, together they would accomplish something notable!
Jenkins had climbed on a lofty stool. He gave vent to a whistle, and the other two observed that his features were twisted into an expression of delirious mirth.
"Aha! aha!" he grinned, looking at Richard. "I begin to perceive. You're after the pretty niece, eh, Master Larch? And a nice plump little thing she is, too! She came here once to fetch uncle home."
Mr. Aked sprang instantly forward and cuffed Jenkins' ear.
"It's not the first time I've had to do that, nor the second," he said. "I suppose you never will learn to behave yourself." Jenkins could easily have thrashed the old man – he really looked old to-day – and no consideration for the latter's age would have restrained him from doing so, had not the habit of submission acquired during those years when Mr. Aked ruled the outer office proved stronger than his rage. As it was, he took up a safe position behind the stool and contented himself with words.
"You're a beauty, you are!" he began. "How's the red-haired A. B. C. girl getting on? You know, the one that lost her place at the Courts' restaurant through you. If she hadn't been a fool, she'd have brought an action for breach of promise. And how many more are there? I wonder – "
Mr. Aked made an uncertain dart after him, but he vanished through the doorway, only to encounter Mr. Smythe. With a rather servile "'d afternoon, sir," to the latter, Mr. Aked walked rapidly out of the office.
"What the devil are you all up to?" Mr. Smythe inquired crossly. "Is Aked after money, Larch?"
"Not at all, Mr. Smythe. He only called to see me."
"You are a friend of his, are you?"
"Well, I know him."
"H'm! Jenkins, come and take a letter."
As Richard hurried down into the court, he felt exceedingly angry with Mr. Aked. Why could not the man be more dignified? Everyone seemed to treat him with contempt, and the cause was not altogether obscure. He had no dignity. Richard felt personally aggrieved.
Neither of them spoke of the recent incident as they walked down to the Temple station. Mr. Aked, indeed, said nothing; a fit of coughing occupied him. Somehow Richard's faith in "The Psychology of the Suburbs" had lessened a little during the last half-hour.
CHAPTER XIV
"Is that you, Mr. Larch?"
He distinctly made out Adeline's head and bust above him. Her white apron was pressed against the bannisters, as with extended arms and hands grasping the stair-rail she leaned over to see who was below.
"It is, Miss Aked," he answered. "The door was open, and so I walked in. Is anything wrong?"
"I've just sent Lottie out for the doctor. Uncle is very ill. I wish you'd see that he comes at once. It's in the Fulham Road, a little to the left – you'll notice the red lamp."
As Richard ran out, he met the doctor, a youngish man with a Scots face and grey hair, hurrying down the street, the servant-girl breathless in the rear.
"Master was took ill last night, sir," the latter said, in answer to Richard's question. "Pneumonia, the doctor says as it is, and something else, and there's coming a nurse to-night. Master has attacks of it, sir – he can't get his breath."
He stood in the passage, uncertain what to do; the doctor had already gone upstairs.
"It must be very serious," he murmured.
"Yes, sir." Lottie began to whimper. Richard said he would call again later to make inquiries, and presently discovered himself in Fulham Road, walking slowly towards Putney.
Mr. Aked's case was hopeless; of that Richard felt sure. The man must be getting on in years, and his frame, not constitutionally vigorous, had doubtless been fatally weakened by long-continued carelessness. What a strange creature of whims and enthusiasms he was! Although there could be no question as to his age, Richard never regarded him as more than a few years older than himself. He had none of the melancholy, the circumspection, the fixity of view, the prudent tendency towards compromise, the serene contented apathy, which usually mark his time of life. He was still delicately susceptible to new influences, his ideals were as fluid as Richard's own. Life had taught him scarcely anything, and least of all sagacity and a dignified carriage. He was the typical bachelor, whose deeper feelings have never been stirred. Did regrets for a possibly happier past, shadows of dead faces, the memory of kisses, ever ruffle his equanimity? Richard thought not. He must always have lived in the present. But he was an artist: though somehow the man had descended in his estimation, Richard clung to that. He possessed imagination and he possessed intellect, and he could fuse them together. Yet he had been a failure. Viewed in certain lights, Richard admitted he was a pitiful figure. What was his true history? Richard felt instinctively that none could answer that question, even in outline, except Mr. Aked, and suddenly he discerned that the man's nature, apparently frank to immodesty, had its own reserves, the existence of which few ever suspected. And when the worst was said, Mr. Aked possessed originality; in an incongruous way he still retained the naïve graces of youthfulness; he was inspiring, and had exerted influences for which Richard could not but be grateful.
"The Psychology of the Suburbs" had receded swiftly into the background, a beautiful, impossible idea! Richard knew now that it could never have been carried out. A little progress would have been made, and then, as difficulties increased, both he and Mr. Aked would have tacitly abandoned their enterprise. They were very much alike, he thought, and the fancied similarity pleased him. Perhaps at some future time he might himself carry the undertaking to completion, in which case he would dedicate his book to the memory of Mr. Aked. He did not regret that the dream of the last few days was ended. It had been very enjoyable, but the awakening, since according to his present wisdom it must have occurred sooner or later, was less unpleasant now than it could have been at any more advanced stage. Moreover, it was pleasant to dream of the dream.
Mr. Aked was dying: he knew it from Adeline's tone. Poor Adeline! To whom would she turn? She had implied that the only relatives for whom she cared, these being on her mother's side, were in America. From whom would she seek assistance? Who would conduct the formalities of the funeral, and the testamentary business, such as it was? His loathing for funerals seemed to have vanished, and he was not without hope that Adeline, though their acquaintance was of the shortest, might engage his help for her helplessness. And after the funeral, what would she do? Since she would probably have enough to live upon, she might elect to remain where she was. In which case he would visit her now and then of an evening. Her imminent loneliness gave her a pathetic charm, and he made haste to draw a picture of himself and her on either side the fireplace talking familiarly while she knitted or sewed.
Yes, he was actually a grown man, and entitled to his romances. He might eventually fall in love with her, having discovered in her character rare qualities now unsuspected. It was improbable, but not impossible, and he had, in fact, already glanced at the contingency several times before. Oh for a passion, a glorious infatuation, even if it ended in disaster and ruin! The difficulty was that Adeline fell short of the ideal lover. That virginal abstraction was to have been an artist of some sort, absolutely irreligious, broad in social views, the essence of refinement, with a striking but not necessarily beautiful face, soft-spoken, and isolated – untrammelled by friends. Adeline was no artist; he feared she might be a regular attendant at chapel and painfully orthodox as to the sexual relations. Was she refined? Had she a striking face? He said Yes, twice. Her voice was low and full of pretty modulations. Soon, perhaps, she would be alone in the world. If only she had been an artist… That deficiency, he was afraid, would prove fatal to any serious attachment. Still, it would be good to visit her.
He was crossing Putney Bridge. Night had fallen, and the full brilliant moon showed a narrow stream crawling between two broad flats of mud. Just below the bridge a barge lay at anchor; the silhouette of a man moved leisurely about on it, and then a boat detached itself from the stem of the barge and dropped down river into darkness. On the bridge busses and waggons rattled noisily. Young men with straw hats and girls in white blouses and black skirts passed to and fro in pairs, some chattering, some silent. The sight of these couples gave Richard an idea for the abandoned "Psychology of the Suburbs." What if Mr. Aked recovered? He remembered his sister telling him that their grandfather had survived after having been three times surrendered to death by the doctors. "The Psychology of the Suburbs" began to attract him. It might come to completion, if Mr. Aked lived, and then… But what about those evenings with the lonely Adeline? The two vistas of the future clashed with and obscured each other, and he was overcome by vague foreboding. He saw Mr. Aked struggling for breath in the mean suburban bedroom, and Adeline powerless at his side. The pathos of her position became intolerable.
When he got back to Carteret Street, it was she who came to the door.
"How is he?"
"About the same. The nurse has come. She told me to go to bed at once, but I don't feel as if I wanted to sleep. You will sit down a little?"
She took the rocking-chair, and leaning back with a gesture of lassitude rocked gently; her white face, with the red eyes and drooping eyelids, gave sign of excessive fatigue, and on her lips there was a gloomy pout. After she had described Mr. Aked's condition in some detail and told what the doctor had said, they sat silent for a while in that tense atmosphere which seems to stifle vitality in a house of dangerous sickness. Overhead the nurse moved about, making the window rattle softly now and then.
"You have known uncle a long time, haven't you?"
"Not at all," Richard answered. "It's a very funny thing, but though I seem to know him quite well, I've not met him half a dozen times in my life. I saw him first about a year ago, and then I met him again the other day at the British Museum, and after we'd had dinner together we were just like old friends."
"I certainly thought from what he said that you were old friends. Uncle has so few friends. Except one or two neighbours I do believe you are the first person that has ever called at this house since I came to live here."
"At any rate, we have soon got to know each other," said Richard, smiling. "It isn't a week since you asked me if my name was Larch." She returned the smile, though rather mechanically.
"Perhaps my mistake about your being an old friend of Uncle Aked's explains that," she said.
"Well, we won't bother about explaining it; there it is, and if I can help you in any way just now, you must tell me."
"Thank you, I will." She said it with perfect simplicity. Richard was conscious of a scarcely perceptible thrill.
"You must have had an awful time last night, all alone," he said.
"Yes, but I was too annoyed to feel upset."
"Annoyed?"
"Because uncle has brought it all on himself by carelessness. I do think it's a shame!" She stopped rocking, and sat up, her face full of serious protest.
"He's not the sort of man to take care of himself. He never thought – "
"That's just it. He should have thought, at his age. If he dies, he will practically have killed himself, yes, killed himself. There's no excuse, going out as he did, in spite of all I said. Fancy him coming downstairs last Sunday in the state he was, and then going out on Monday, though it was warm!"
"Well, we'll hope he will get better, and it may be a lesson to him."
"Hark! What was that?" She sprang to her feet apprehensively and listened, her breast pulsing beneath the tight black bodice and her startled inquiring eyes fixed on Richard's. A very faint tinkle came from the rear of the house.
"Perhaps the front-door bell," he suggested.
"Of course. How silly of me! I fancied… Who can it be at this time?" She went softly into the passage. Richard heard the door open, and then a woman's voice, which somehow seemed familiar, —
"How is Mr. Aked to-night? Your servant told our servant that he was ill, and I felt anxious."
"Oh!" Adeline exclaimed, discomposed for a moment, as it seemed to Richard; then she went on coldly, "Uncle is about the same, thank you," and almost immediately closed the door.
"A person to inquire about uncle," she said to Richard, with a peculiar intonation, on re-entering the room. Then, just as he was saying that he must go, there was a knock on the ceiling and she flew away again. Richard waited in the passage till she came downstairs.
"It's nothing. I thought he was dying! Oh!" and she began to cry freely and openly, without attempting to wipe her eyes.
Richard gazed hard at the apron string loosely encircling her waist; from that white line her trembling bust rose like a bud from its calyx, and below it the black dress flowed over her broad hips in gathered folds; he had never seen a figure so exquisite, and the beauty of it took a keener poignancy from their solitude in the still, anxious night – the nurse and the sick man were in another sphere.
"Hadn't you better go to bed?" he said. "You must be tired out and over-excited." How awkward and conventional the words sounded!
