Part 9

A somewhat ponderous, double-chinned, exceedingly handsome and prosperous gentleman was standing with the back of his ample form to the fire. The skirts of his frock-coat were outspread, and two white and rotund hands held them apart. He was dressed with a care that was almost religious. His hair was groomed immaculately; his short side-whiskers had been treated by the hand of a master. He wore a glass in the right eye. Everything about him, even the pearl which gave distinction and rigidity to his necktie, was a testimonial to his status. And upon the countenance of this gentleman was a simper of such an urbane expansiveness, that its function apparently was to be antiseptic to a dignity which, without this precaution, must have proved too much for human nature’s daily food.

“You wrote a nice letter,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “a very nice letter. Did you write it without aid?”

“Y-y-yes, s-sir,” said the boy. He felt a thrill of joy to know that the power of speech had returned.

“A most creditable letter,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett with the benign purr of an unusually well-nurtured feline. “A little unconventional, perhaps--but no matter. May I ask where you were educated?”

“I--I--I d-don’t t-think I k-know, sir,” the boy stammered. This question was not in the programme.

“Curious,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, purring more benignly than ever--“Curious not to know where one was educated. Yet, perhaps it is immaterial. One board school must be very like another. What is your age?”

The boy’s heart gave a leap. This question was unmistakably in the programme.

“E-eighteen y-years and f-fifteen days, sir,” he said.

“How odd,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, whose delightful simper expanded to the region of the smile. “What a curious computation. One had no idea that the Board School was so precise in these matters. I must mention this to my friend Arnold. By the way, I showed my friend Arnold your nice letter. He did not consider it typical of the Board School. He said the style had a flavour of latinity. Do they provide for instruction in Latin in the Board School curriculum?”

“I--I--I d-don’t t-think I know, sir,” said the boy. The question was not in the programme.

“Then perhaps we might assume that they don’t,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett. “Perhaps the pleasing flavour of latinity in your epistolary style is due to one of those mysterious side currents of descent which continually perplex the best biographers.”

Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s manner of saying this seemed to be designed to suggest that if his natural power of mind had betrayed him into saying anything unusual, he hoped it would be understood that the solecism of which he was guilty was not due to ignorance of the foremost practice, but was rather the fruit of uncontrollable natural forces.

“You do not look very robust,” he said, looking at the frail figure steadily through the glass that rendered his right eye so formidable. “Are you used to hard work?”

“I have determined, sir, to inure my frame to the hardest labour,” said the boy. This question was in the programme.

“The English they impart at the Board School,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “is sound and wholesome, if a trifle bookish. I think some of our public schools might copy their methods with advantage. I must speak to Arnold. I wish your chest was a bit broader, my boy,” he said kindly, “and that your cheeks were not so pale, and your eyes were not so sunken, because in other respects you do not seem to be unworthy of the traditions of this house. Do you mind showing me your finger-nails?”

This request was not in the programme, but by now the boy had obtained sufficient self-command to enable him to pluck off his gloves nervously. Of late he had been compelled to wear gloves constantly because he could never keep his hands warm.

In the detached but efficient manner of one accustomed to immolate his private feelings upon the altar of duty, Mr. Octavius Crumpett scrutinized each of the cold and fragile hands, through which shone the delicate veins.

“They are nicely kept,” he said; “they are kept very nicely indeed. I may say that the other applicants, notwithstanding the character of their testimonials, had not a scrupulous regard for personal decency. It would give me great pleasure personally to see you in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker”--there was an accession of pride to the mellifluous accents of Mr. Octavius Crumpett--“for you strike one as an exceedingly _gentleman-like_ and _well-conditioned_ boy, but in a physical sense nature does not seem to have been so much your friend. However, Mr. Jordan, perhaps you will be good enough to touch that bell.”

From his station before the fire Mr. Octavius Crumpett indicated a bell on his table; and although Mr. Jordan had never touched a bell before in his life, he was able to understand what was required of him, for now all his faculties seemed to be strung up to a point of almost perilous receptivity; and, further, he was able to reel across the carpet, and, by a miraculous intervention on the part of providence, was able to make the bell give forth an audible sound.

The visible and actual proof of that which he had accomplished was furnished by the entrance of the undersized and wizened boy.

“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “I shall be obliged if you will ask Mr. Walkinshaw to have the kindness to come up-stairs.”

Mr. Dodson withdrew with the air of an ambassador.

The boy’s gaze was one of intense entreaty as he looked through the sacred mists which veiled the Olympian form of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. That emblem of a monumental culture still stood with the skirts of his coat outspread before the fire. Its genial warmth seemed still to make him purr and simper in every crease and fold of his chaste portliness. At every breath he drew he seemed to approximate more nearly to an extraordinarily fine and handsome feline, which finds itself in unusually luxurious surroundings.

His meditations, which must have been those of an optimist, were curtailed by the entrance of a thin, formal, intellectual, yet slightly melancholy gentleman, whose refined and sensitive features were yet stamped with the simper of a large content. Perhaps this cachet of those who take a large view of things had not always been upon that refined countenance, but many years’ association with a foremost practitioner of the amenities of life had had an indelible effect. Habit had become nature. Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw might once have had his modest doubts as became any other private gentleman; but he was as fundamentally sound as the great house of Crumpett and Hawker itself. Of the simper there could be no doubt; for in mien, in manner, in deportment he was designed to suggest that, like the wizened boy himself, he had been modelled carefully upon a superb original which at this moment was standing with its coat-tails held away from the fire.

“Mr. Walkinshaw,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “I have interviewed the applicants; and, after giving every consideration to each candidate among those of whom we decided to limit our choice, I have come to the conclusion that Mr. William Jordan, Junior, is most fitted to enter the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker. Unfortunately he is not very robust. Have you any views, Mr. Walkinshaw?”

Presumably in these high altitudes these very dangerous implements were permitted to the English gentleman. Or, perhaps, it was that with his fine instinct, Mr. Octavius Crumpett had divined that in any case the views of Mr. Walkinshaw would be orthodox. For after that gentleman had proceeded very earnestly to scrutinize the shrinking countenance of Mr. William Jordan, Junior, his views concurred with those that had been already expressed by the head of the firm.

“No, sir,” said Mr. Walkinshaw; “not very robust.”

“May I ask, Mr. Walkinshaw,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “are the duties of an arduous nature which are incident to the career of a handy youth? I am afraid I have no first-hand knowledge.”

The simper of Mr. Octavius Crumpett was of a most winning character.

“No, sir, I dare say not,” said Mr. Walkinshaw, taking the extreme course of permitting himself to lapse sufficiently from the deportment of his model as to indulge in a hearty laugh. But the circumstances seemed to demand it. “I think I am correct, sir,” continued Mr. Walkinshaw, “in saying that the duties usually incident to the career of a handy youth are not in any sense of the word light ones. But in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker they may admit of mitigation.”

“Could you tell me, Mr. Walkinshaw, what would be asked of one who sustained that character in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker?” said the head of that great house with a sweetness that was a happy mingling of the cherub and the seraph.

“His chief duty would consist, sir, in pasting labels on rejected manuscripts,” said Mr. Walkinshaw; “and he would be called upon to fill in his time by addressing envelopes, carrying ledgers, copying letters, keeping the counting-house tidy, and in trying to be of general service.”

“Do you feel that you could sustain these responsibilities?” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett to the applicant.

“I will not fail, sir,” said the boy.

The manner in which he expressed this determination seemed favourably to impress both gentlemen.

“I think, Mr. Walkinshaw,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, in a voice that was charged with emotion, “in the circumstances we shall be almost justified in introducing Mr. William Jordan, Junior, into the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker.”

“I concur, sir,” said Mr. Walkinshaw, in a voice whose own emotion was attuned with supreme good breeding to that of his chief. “I concur.”

“I hope, Mr. Jordan,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, whose beautiful and vibrant tones had acquired a paternal inflection, “that you will contrive to maintain the excellent impression you have already created. For let me assure you, Mr. Jordan, it is easier for the average youth to become an Extension Lecturer than it is for him to occupy a stool in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker. Good-morning, Mr. Jordan.”

Mr. Octavius Crumpett concluded by thrusting out his right hand so suddenly and so unexpectedly, that the boy shrank away from him as though he were expecting to receive a blow.

“Shake it,” whispered Mr. Walkinshaw in his ear.

The boy grasped the firm white hand with a timidity that would not have been out of place had it been the fore-paw of a polar bear. However, his trepidation seemed further to prepossess him in the favour of both gentlemen. It was not always that those of his callow years had this nice but lively discrimination of the fine shades of the social cosmogony into which unsmiling Fate had projected them.

Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw conducted in person down the steep stairs the latest addition to the clerical staff of Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker. He led him into the counting-house, into the midst of that concourse of fellow-labourers in what was now to be his vineyard through which he had already passed.

As Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw did this he said, with an impressiveness of which the occasion seemed to be worthy, “Above all, Mr. Jordan, it behoves you to remember that the humblest occupant of a stool in the counting-house of Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker is _ab ovo_ a candidate for election to the Athenæum Club under the rule _honoris causâ_.”

Unfortunately, Mr. Jordan’s limited acquaintance with the practical sciences did not permit him to realize the golden vista which thus early in life had come to unfold itself before him.

With this exhortation Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw relinquished his charge into the safe keeping of the undersized and wizened boy.

“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Walkinshaw, “be good enough to assume responsibility for Mr. William Jordan, Junior. Be good enough to inspire him, as far as in you lies, with the particular tone that tradition exacts from all who are associated, even in the humblest capacity, with this eminent and old-established publishing house. His main duty, Mr. Dodson, will, as you know, consist in tying up, sealing, and labelling rejected MSS. See to it that he observes particular care in using black wax in all cases of rejection. In the less frequent, the much less frequent instances of acceptance, he will, of course, observe the rule of using red sealing wax. That is, of course, for fiction only. For biography and travel he will, of course, use yellow, and I need not remind you that for poetry and _belles lettres_ he will invariably use purple.”

“Oh yes, sir,” said the wizened boy, with an air of great intelligence, “Mr. Jordan shall be initiated into everything.”

XV

It was in this fashion that the boy entered upon a new and curious phase of his existence. In the hours that intervened between the moment of his entrance into that strange place and seven o’clock that evening, when he was at liberty to return to the great world out of doors, and thereby to his father in the little room, he walked on air and moved in a dream.

Even when he had resigned his hat and overcoat and gloves, and had been shown where to place them; even when he had climbed a high stool in the mercifully secluded left-hand corner of that dreadfully public place at the side of the wizened boy, whose name was Mr. James Dodson, who henceforward was to be his mentor in many things, even then he could not realize what had happened to him. He could not realize that his prayers had been answered; that in sober truth he had become a conqueror.

For the remainder of that strange, terrible, yet entrancing day he was not an apt pupil, but he did his best. His thoughts were merged in a devout sense of wonder at finding himself there. Many and surprising were his vagaries on this first day in those interminable hours which kept him from the little room. They filled his mentor with pain, incredulity, and protest.

“We do find ’em, we do!” Mr. Dodson communicated in his second or unofficial manner to one of his fellow-labourers in the vineyard before the end of the day. “That d----d fool, Octavius, must be up the pole. This kid has got about as much savvy as a bottle-nosed hornet.”

When at last came the hour of his release the boy returned in a state of great exaltation to his father in the little room. A week ago it had seemed impossible that he would ever be able to obtain pieces of silver by the work of his hands, but now that miracle was come to pass.

However, the glamour of achievement passed all too soon. Disillusionment began on the morning of the following day. It was then that the full measure of nervous bewilderment at all the strange things about him descended upon him; it was then that the sense of his natural impotence was communicated to him first.

It called for all his fortitude to sustain that long term between eight o’clock in the morning and seven o’clock at night. The minutes passed so tardily that it seemed they would never admit of his release. Long before the end of the day it was as much as he could do to refrain from running away from it all in the horror of sheer nausea. He longed to flee anywhere--anywhere so long as he could escape from this strange servitude to which he had committed himself.

The clerks staring at him from their tall stools; his curious surroundings; their publicity; the curt and uncompromising manner in which he was addressed; and above all the many and remarkable duties he was called upon to perform--duties which somehow did not seem to coincide with the peculiar form of “handiness” upon which he had been wont to plume himself--all these circumstances made calls upon his courage as he scarcely knew how to meet. Yet not once during the day did he allow to escape his thoughts the paramount necessity of proving himself worthy of his good fortune. The need of obtaining pieces of silver had grown to be as great as that of drawing the breath of life.

Only too soon was it apparent to those trained minds in whose midst he was now placed that he was woefully deficient in natural ability. But his intense anxiety to do all that was required of him; his innate courtesy, which was curiously disarming to old and young alike, although sometimes it did not save him from sharp words, and even from tricks and hardships being put upon him; his almost ridiculous docility; his unceasing endeavours to be of service to others, misguided though they were; his unprecedented blindness to his own personal interests; and above all his painfully, ridiculously obvious mental deficiencies, which by general consensus “he could not help,” saved him from being complained of openly to the highest quarters as “hopelessly incompetent,” which all about him during the early days of his servitude considered him to be.

“He is about as capable of sitting a stool in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker,” said Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw, that august gentleman to whose charge he had been committed in the first instance by the head of the firm, and who occupied a low chair at a small table in the middle of the room, and who also exuded “the traditions of the firm” at every pore, “as he is of editing an edition of Thackeray. I shall be compelled to make a complaint if he does not bring a little common intelligence to bear on the most elementary duties. Here he has actually sealed the Lady Rowena Montmorency’s prose poem--accepted prose poem--in yellow, in spite of the fact that prose poems stand in a class by themselves and must be sealed in pink; and further he has omitted to stamp the parcel with the monogram of the firm, although it expressly lays down on page four of the printed rules of procedure, that the MSS. of the daughters of peers must in all cases be so treated. Mr. Dodson, please have the goodness to inform him that if this occurs again I shall be compelled to bring it to the notice of Mr. Octavius. And if such a thing should come to the ear of Mr. Octavius I cannot answer for the consequences.”

“I will, sir,” said Mr. Dodson respectfully.

Thereupon Mr. Dodson returned to the high stool in the left-hand corner, which had been allotted to Mr. William Jordan, Junior. He was engaged in trying to wrap up a novel of portentous length, which had received a somewhat uncompromising quietus at the hands of Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker. Mr. Dodson watched his _protégé_ somewhat grimly as he wrestled not very effectually with the leaves of this production and endeavoured to encase them in brown paper and string.

“Look here, lunatic, you want it tighter,” said Mr. Dodson, having rendered him who sought to tie the parcel excessively unhappy by his presence. “Slew it round a bit, and turn over the corners like I showed you yesterday. Pa’s been talking about you. He says if you don’t do better you will get the boot.”

“I--I b-beg your p-pardon, sir,” stammered the boy.

“Don’t be so d----d polite, you lunatic!”

The boy had already made the surprising discovery that his mentor possessed two manners, _i. e._ that of public life which approximated to the dignity of the house of Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker; and also that of private intercourse, which was apt to be so idiomatic as sometimes not to be intelligible. “If you’d use a little less butter,” said Mr. Dodson, “and show a little more brightness at your work, you and I would get on better. You know what I told you about the Lady Rowena Thingumbob’s accepted prose poem?--well I might never have said anything for all the notice you take. I can’t be always at your elbow. To-morrow you had better bring your nurse.”

XVI

The boy had now been a week in the service of Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker. And although every minute of the weary hours he passed daily at that dread place, No. 24 Trafalgar Square, had grown already to be one long and unceasing tribulation; although he could not sleep at night for thinking of what the remorseless morrow had in store; although he was nearly debarred altogether from his lifelong intercourse with the ancient authors; although he was so weary with labour and humiliation by the hour of seven that he could scarcely drag his limbs along the streets, he was yet sustained continually by the thought that he was gaining pieces of silver to maintain that sanctuary which awaited him, in the midst of millions upon millions of street-persons, for the purpose of affording a solace for his distress.

When the first week’s wages were put into his hand, three dull florins and four worn shillings, the quick tears sprang into his eyes. He placed the coins in his pocket with trembling fingers. There and then he longed to run out into the streets of the great city to shout his joy. Such an achievement as this was too wonderful to realize; the dreams of his wildest avarice had been exceeded. How those pieces of silver burnt in his pocket throughout the interminable hours of the afternoon! How he longed for the hour of seven to strike that he might run back to the little room and lay them before his father!

He was still more severely censured that afternoon by Mr. Dodson. He even suffered the ignominy of being summoned to the table by Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw, and of being admonished publicly for his incompetence. He was spoken to so sternly, and he felt the position in which he stood to be one of such humiliation, that in spite of the frantic efforts he put forth to conquer his weakness in the presence of others, the tears came again into his eyes.

“I--I will do better, sir,” he said, in such a tone of distress that it seemed to soften the smiles of those who heard the words. “I--I will do better. I am praying continually that I may do better.”

“What can one do with a fellow like that?” said Mr. Walkinshaw subsequently, in an eloquent aside to his second in command, Mr. Aristophanes Luff. “I suppose he suffers from a form of religious mania; at least a child could see that he is mentally weak. I am sure he ought to be complained of; he is not anything like up to our traditions; how Mr. Octavius could have fallen into such an error heaven only knows; but really I haven’t the heart to say so.”

“There can be no doubt he is a little deficient mentally,” observed Mr. Aristophanes Luff, “but perhaps we might give him another week.”

Seven o’clock struck at last, and the clerks discarded their pens and went home. The boy was always the last to go forth, not because he had been told to remain; it was simply that his curiously innate sense of the fitness of things, which was out of all harmony with his development in the practical sciences, declared that he must never seek to take precedence of his elders. To-night a fire was kindled in his veins. It seemed as though the others would never close their desks and go. He could hardly curb his desire to rush out before them all. But at last they had all left the counting-house, and he was at liberty to carry the treasure to his father in the little room.

Like one possessed he ran home with the pieces of silver making wild music in his pocket. He seemed almost delirious with joy as he threaded his way through the press with a heedlessness which seemed almost contemptuous. It was truly astonishing with what ease and lightness he had already come to move about the great world out of doors. To-night he did not fear the crossings in the least. He felt no desire to shrink from the ever-pressing crowd of street-persons who formerly had elbowed him into the gutter. To-night he could bear his part with all who walked abroad in that vast city.