the dulness of the autumnal season causing a heavy depression every where, by no means relaxed its maleficent influence in room no. 120 of the tin-tax office. the gentlemen therein located had each, as has every man in the world, his own private griefs, anxieties, and worries; and these never blossomed into such full vigour as in the autumn. in the first place, there was no more leave of absence to look forward to, which was, in itself, a dreadful thing; and then there was looming in the future the approach of christmas, a dread season which each of the different denizens of no. 120, for different reasons, regarded with dismay. to kind genial mr. kinchenton the coming christmas was specially fearful; for after a long struggle between inclination and duty, a struggle resulting in the victory of the latter, he had decided upon sending his boy percy, the apple of his eye, to school after the christmas holidays; and in the shadow of that coming event he was sitting moping and melancholy. mr. dibb was always bad in the autumn; his liver, always rebellious, was thoroughly intractable at that season known as the "fall of the leaf," and remained perfectly quiet, declining to perform any one of the functions intrusted to it, and calmly spurning any attempt to call it into action. so mr. dibb's complexion grew more and more like that of the cover of a well-worn school-copy of ainsworth's dictionary; and mr. dibb's temper became so cranky, that mr. crump, the extra-clerk, lived in a perfect cyclone of torn-up letters and accounts to "do over again;" so that said crump bemoaned his hard fate, and expressed himself as perfectly certain that he should have an earlier attack of chilblains than usual that year. mr. boppy too had his private grief, in the shape of a visitor at his establishment, mrs. boppy's mamma, a lady of vast size from the manufacturing districts, who had arrived on a month's visit, had monopolised the best portion of mr. boppy's house, and who demanded to have life shown to her. so mrs. boppy had instructed mr. boppy to convey her and her mamma to the thames tunnel, the top of the monument, the crypt of st. paul's, to the tower, to madame tussaud's wax-work, and other exhibitions much sought after by country people, but seldom visited by londoners; and had moreover stimulated her husband to ask for various half-holidays, which mr. kinchenton would readily have granted, but which were never obtained without a hand-to-hand combat with mr. dibb. "very well, mr. kinchenton," he would say, "mr. boppy must go, sir, if you say so, of course. you're the head of this room, i believe; though how the work's to be got through with mr. prescott absent on leave, mr. crump next to useless, and mr. pringle, who always takes three-quarters of an hour to his lunch--"
"what's that you're saying about me, mr. dibb?" mr. pringle would ask from over the top of his desk.
"says you take three-quarters of an hour for your lunch," would repeat the revengeful boppy.
"all right! better do that than make yourself a wretched hypochondriac, like some people. let digestion wait on appetite, and health on both, boppy! mr. dibb's got none of the three; doesn't know what any of them mean; so we must excuse him." and then mr. boppy would get his leave, and go away and do dismal duty with his relatives.
nor was mr. pringle in any thing like his usual flow of spirits. he was very mercurial, tremendously affected by the weather; and black skies, cold winds, and empty streets sent him down to zero. moreover his other-half, his chum, his bosom-friend, mr. prescott, was away on leave, paying his long-promised visit to old mr. murray of brooklands; and so mr. pringle was left to himself, and sat in his chambers smoking solitary pipes, and learning whole pages of the comic song-book, and perpetually falling asleep over the first page of the volume of boswell's life of johnson. for mr. kinchenton, who took great interest in honest george, had told him that no man was worth any thing unless he read something besides trashy novels and little warblers; and mr. pringle, determining to "go-in for something heavy," had selected the life of dr. johnson, whose rasselas he had read as a child, remembering it as "the adventures of a young cove and an old cove, with a doosid good bit about a bridge, or something, in it." moreover george pringle was by no means comfortable as to the state of his friend's money-matters. he had himself "ignored," as he phrased it, all his own transactions with scadgers; but he was in with prescott on one bill, and he knew that his friend had involved himself with several other pieces of stamped paper in the hands of the same worthy. and george had a strange notion that some of these were overdue; and knowing that the long vacation was rapidly drawing to a close, and that term-time was coming on, he feared that the mighty engines of the law might be set to work, and come a general smash. he had written to prescott about it; but had only received a couple of lines in reply, to say that he was very jolly, and that the things would be all right; so that all he could do was patiently to await his friend's return to town.
that happened one night, when pringle and boswell had had a severe disagreement, and pringle had let boswell drop into the fender, and had gone to sleep with his pipe in the corner of his mouth. there came a heavy bang at the oak, and pringle, starting up and opening it, found himself face to face with james prescott,--rosy, stout, jolly, and beaming, with a big portmanteau in his hand.
"hallo! old man!"
"hallo! old man! been asleep, eh? lazy old beggar! wanted me to rouse you up! give us a hand to the portmanteau, george, and help him in! that's it! well," taking off his coat and making a dive at his friend, and catching him by the shoulders, and peering inquiringly into his face, "and how goes it? what's the news? how are all the buffers at the shop? any body dead? any body got the sack? no promotion? always our luck!"
"things are much the same, i think; no news any where; they'll be glad to see you back, for they've been grumbling about the work--not that you'll be much help at that, though. and what have you been doing? had a good time?"
"good time? stunning!" and mr. prescott kissed his fingers and waved them in the air. "never put in such a time in my life. old boy was splendaceous, did every mortal thing one wanted,--good nag to ride, good shooting, capital cellar, let you smoke where you like--no end! my old governor was there too, as happy as a bird!"
"and the young lady--miss murray?"
"oh, emily! oh, i can't tell you how good that has turned out! she's out and away nicer than any thing that ever was; no nonsense about her; quiet, ladylike, sweet, affectionate little thing! you know, george, there are some women--"
"yes," interrupted mr. pringle--"i know there are! and there are some men who want a glass of grog--and i'm one; and there are others who are mad spoony--and you're another! i'll mix for you, and we'll light our pipes, and then i shall be in a better frame of mind to listen to jour dilation on miss murray's excellences."
mr. prescott, so soon as their glasses were before them, their pipes in their mouths, and they were established one on either side of the fireplace, lost no time in availing himself of his friend's permission, and plunged into those amatory raptures which we have all of us suffered under at our friends' hands. the singular difference of the young lady to, and her superiority over, every one else, the mixture of sense and sensibility which she displayed, the clever things she said and did, her delicacy, firmness, bashfulness, presence of mind,--all these were dilated on at full length by one gentleman, and listened to with becoming patience by the other. at last, when his friend fairly stopped for want of breath, mr. pringle asked,
"and have you put it all right, jim? of course you're not carrying on this kind of thing without meaning it; have you squared it with them all?"
"well, emily and i understand each other thoroughly; and it's all arranged between us, i think. i mean that i haven't said anything, you know; but people don't say any thing now in such cases. there's a kind of a--a--"
"yes," interrupted pringle--"yes; i suppose there is. but what about her father?"
"i haven't spoken to the old boy yet. not that i think he'd make much objection, turn rusty, or any thing of that sort, for he's tremendously kind and jolly; but i don't like to talk to him while i've got these infernal debts hanging over me. i don't think it's fair; and yet--have you heard any thing from old scadgers, george?"
"no, i haven't heard any thing; but--never mind, we'll talk about him to-morrow, when you've had a rest, and we're both clearer and cooler than we are now. now turn in and get a sleep, old man; good-night!"
the next morning, however, when mr. pringle introduced the subject of mr. scadgers and the acceptances which he held, mr. prescott showed a remarkable alacrity in changing the conversation, an alacrity which he exhibited on two or three subsequent occasions. he was in the habit, pringle observed, of receiving every morning with the greatest regularity a pink-coloured note with a country postmark, and after reading its contents he became very much absorbed, slightly ethereal, and generally indisposed to converse on mundane matters. but honest george pringle, who had no such pleasant distractions, knew perfectly well that time was running on, and that some positive step must be taken; so on the fourth morning after his friend's return he tackled him resolutely.
"i say, jim, about those bills? no good fencing about the business any longer; we must go into it, or we shall come to grief. i've a notion that some of them are overdue already, and i wonder scadgers hasn't been here pressing for either a settlement or a renewal."
"to tell you the truth, george, i'm in a funk about them myself. i saw a very suspicious-looking jew outside the office as i came in this morning,--a fellow in rusty black, with a blazing nose; and when he came towards me my heart jumped into my mouth. however, he only asked me which was mr. beresford's office--"
"mr. beresford's?"
"yes, our swell commissioner, you know; so i got off easy."
"what's the entire figure that you're liable for--including mine, and all the rest of them, i mean?"
"the entire figure? well, it can't be far off a couple of hundred. i had to spend such a lot when emily was in town; pit-stalls whenever she went to the opera, to be near her, and hire of horses, and my share of two or three greenwich dinners, and all that, walked into no end of tin. i don't know where the deuce i'm to get it, and that's the fact."
"do you owe any thing else? tailors or boot-makers, or any fellows of that sort?"
"not a sixpence! i cleared what little bills i had of that kind with part of old scadgers' money. and since i got that rise here last month, i could go on as straight as possible on what i get. but it's the infernal millstone of a back debt round my neck. i don't know what to do! i can't go and ask the dear old governor to advance; he's got quite enough to do with his income, and he'd be awfully knocked over to hear i was in for such a lot."
"of course you can't. now, look here; i'll tell you what you must do. you must first pledge your word to me and to yourself--not that any thing can be raised upon it, but it's the right thing to do--that you won't borrow another sixpence. and then you must go to old scadgers and tell him that you're in a fix; that you can't pay him in a lump: but that you'll let him have so much every quarter of the principal, and pay decent interest until it's cleared off. you must draw-in your horns a little, and live quietly on the remainder. i'll go security for you to old scadgers."
"you're a trump, george; but do you think he'll do it?"
"do it? he must. he makes far too good an income out of the fellows in this place and other government-offices to have any public row made about him and his goings-on. if it got blown, they'd have a leader on him in the scourge that would take the skin off his old back, and, worse than that, stop his business entirely. no, no; he'll do it fast enough. but we must go to him in a regular business manner. now what are the dates and amounts of these different things?"
"i've got a memorandum of them in my desk, that i made at the time. i'll get it out. hallo!" said prescott, opening his desk, and taking therefrom a sealed letter; "what's this?" holding it up.
"oh, by jove, i forgot to tell you! that came while you were away, and i put it in your desk, thinking to name it to you directly you returned. nothing particular, i hope?"
"i don't know; it's very thick, and i don't know the hand. it cannot be a writ, eh?" and prescott turned very pale.
"writ, nonsense! they don't send writs by post. don't you know the handwriting? it's not round enough for a lawyer's. open it, man; open it at once!"
and so, wanting to know the contents of the letter, they actually thought of opening it.
as prescott opened the envelope he drew from it a thick roll of papers, and unfolding them, looked at them with wonder. pringle, looking over his shoulder, started; and, taking them from his friend's hand, exclaimed,
"bills, by jove! cancelled bills look here, the signature torn off and hanging. the very bills you gave to scadgers; mine, compter's, your iou, and the lot! you've been chaffing me, jim--getting a rise out of me all this time, eh?"
"what do you mean by getting a rise? i'm as innocent in this matter as yourself."
"but do you mean to say that you didn't pay them?"
"i mean to say that i've never paid scadgers one individual sixpence!"
"then i mean to say that you're a devilish lucky fellow; for somebody else has."
"are these bills paid, then?"
"oh, don't be so preposterously green, jim. are the bills paid? of course they are! paid and returned to you to put in the fire, or do what you like with; you can never be called on for another penny. well, you're a lucky fellow. no one ever paid any thing for me. who the deuce can have done this for you?"
"i haven't the remotest idea. it couldn't be scadgers himself?"
"n--no!" said mr. pringle, grinning from ear to ear. "no, i don't think it was scadgers; he's not entirely in that line. who is there that knew you were in a fix?"
"no one, not a soul but yourself, and--"
"no, old fellow; i've not paid them, i'll take my oath. should have been delighted to help you, but hadn't the wherewith."
"then i'm done. i haven't a notion who can have helped me."
"well, it doesn't matter, so long as it's done. you're in luck's way, my boy. all this horrible excitement and doubt brought to an end, and you free as air. i say, how about the keeping quiet and not launching into any extra expense, now? will you hold to it?"
"i'll swear i will. and, what's more, now i am free, i'll strike while the iron's hot. to-day's friday; to-morrow a half-holiday. i'll go down to brooklands by the 2.40 train."
"i think you're right, jim," said pringle, quietly. "you've had your fling, and you seem to have a chance of settling well in life just now. tell the old father all about yourself--your income and your chances, i mean,--and don't give him the opportunity of flinging any thing in your teeth hereafter. well, whoever paid that amount of stuff for you did you a good turn, and no mistake. i wonder who it could be. no use asking scadgers, he'd be as close as death about it; indeed, if there were any hanky-panky, any mystery, i mean, he'd always swear he was out whenever one called, for fear it should be bullied out of him."
indeed, mr. pringle, not being of a very impulsive temperament, and not having very much to think about, bestowed far more wonderment on the question as to who could have been mr. prescott's anonymous benefactor than did mr. prescott himself. that gentleman, in love over head and ears, simply thought of the transaction as a means to an end; in any other position he would have bestowed upon it a certain amount of astonishment, but now all he cared for was to avail himself of the chance it had opened up to him. he had determined that, so soon as he found himself unfettered by debt, he would inform mr. murray of his attachment to his daughter, and ask the old gentleman's consent to their getting married. he knew well enough that his own official salary was by no means sufficient to maintain a wife--notably a wife, the daughter of a rich country squire--in the manner to which she had been accustom; but he knew equally well that the rich country squire would, in all probability, make a handsome settlement on his daughter; and to this he thoroughly looked forward. not that there should be urged against him the least suspicion of an arrière pensée; he loved the girl with all his heart and soul and strength; but as in these days he would never have thought of riding forth into fleet street and proclaiming her beauty and virtue, and challenging all who might feel inclined to gainsay them to single combat,--in like manner, in these days would he never have thought of marrying a woman without money. and this was the youth who would have taken kate mellon in her unrecognised position, and, so far as he knew, penniless! yes, but kate mellon was his first love; those were his earliest salad days; he has had much experience of the world since then, and is not honester or fresher from the contest.
there was, however, no doubt about his love for miss murray and his desire to see her, so he started off by the first train after business-hours on the next day, and was whirled off to havering station. one may suppose that he had found time to communicate the fact of his intended arrival; for he had scarcely proceeded a few paces up the steep hill which leads from the railway to the village before he saw coming spinning towards him a low basket-chaise drawn by a pair of roan galloways in plain black harness. and seated in the basket, driving the roans, was a young lady in the prettiest little round hat, and with the nicest short sealskin jacket and the daintiest dogskin driving-gauntlets, who gave the knowingest salute with her whip when she saw prescott, while the groom behind her jumped down and relieved the young gentleman of his portmanteau.
"punctual, sir, i think!" was the young lady's salutation after she had rescued the right-hand dogskin gauntlet from a prolonged pressure--"punctual, i think! i say, james, what on earth has brought you down again so quickly? you didn't give a hint in your note."
"you, of course," said mr. prescott, looking at her with the greatest delight.
"no, but really! papa, when he read your note, said he was delighted to have you again, and that he supposed you must have obtained some farther leave of absence. but i knew that was not likely, and i felt certain you were coming on some special business. oh, james, there's no bad news, is there?"
"no, my darling pet, no bad news,--good, splendid, excellent news! i'd tell you what it is now, but i can't, because it's news that's impossible to be told except with action; and if i were to take action, i should astonish the worthy person who is sitting behind us, and who is taking such care of my portmanteau."
"oh, james, how can you! you'll drive, of course. i can't fancy any thing more horrible than seeing a gentleman driven by a lady. now, bagshaw, all right. and so you won't tell me, james?"
"not yet, emily, not yet; and yet i don't see why on earth i shouldn't. bagshaw seems to be paying the greatest attention to the landscape, and, moreover, has established a wall of portmanteau between us and him of the most satisfactory. so i don't mind telling you, that i have come down to propose for you to your father, and to ask his consent to our marriage."
"oh, james, i never did! and ask papa's consent, indeed! do you know that you've never asked mine, sir?"
"haven't i? well, then, darling, i'll ask it now. no, no what nonsense! bagshaw can't see under the rug, and i can hold the ponies perfectly with one hand: give it me! so; and now about papa; what do you think? what do you advise?"
"i--i think he won't make any fuss, james; he's always fall of your praises, and he's not like those horrid fathers in books, who never will let their daughters marry the people they love--i didn't mean to say that--i meant the people who love them! but i think i'd speak to him after dinner."
"after dinner?"
"yes, you know, when you're left alone together. he's pleasanter then, i think. and then you can come to me in the drawing-room and tell me all about it."
mr. murray received james prescott with the greatest cordiality; and when dinner was over, and the cloth was removed, the old gentleman instructed banks the butler to bring up a bottle of the '20 and some devilled biscuits. banks, an old and faithful retainer, muttered something in his master's ear as to what dr. harwood had said; on which his master told him to go to the devil, and mind his own business. so the '20 was brought; and miss murray had half a glass, and then retired to the drawing-room; and mr. murray bade his guest pull his chair round to the fire and prepare for serious drinking.
then james prescott knew that the crisis of his fate was approaching, so he filled a bumper of port, drank half of it, looked the old gentleman steadily in the face, and said, "i wanted to speak to you, sir."
"all right!" said the old gentleman, helping himself; "speak on."
"about your daughter, miss murray, sir," said prescott, beginning to feel himself all aglow,--"about miss murray, sir."
"all right!" said the old gentleman, with perfect calmness--"what about her?"
"well, sir--i--the truth is--that i--i've formed an attachment to her, sir--she's--she's a most delightful girl, sir," said prescott, falling into hopeless bathos at once.
"she is, james," said the old gentleman,--like the sphynx, 'staring straight on with calm eternal eyes,'--"she is."
"she is, indeed, sir. i believe i may say that miss murray is aware of my entertaining this notion, sir--and that--that she's not displeased at it."
"of course not, of course not, james; what girl would be displeased at the notion that a young fellow found her delightful?"
"confound it! he won't give me a leg up, any how," said poor prescott to himself. then aloud, "if i could gain emily's--miss murray's consent, sir, would you have any objection to me for her husband?"
"ah, ha! ah, ha! james," laughed the old gentleman in great delight--"got it out at last, eh, my boy?--been beating about the bush this ten minutes. i saw you, i knew what was coming, but i wouldn't help you. you're not so good at this kind of business as your father would have been. the vicar would have had it all out in a minute; and if the girl's father had said no, he'd have run away with her that night. desperate fellow alan is--was, i mean; we're all stupid enough now! and so you want to marry emily? and you say, if she consents, will i? if she consents?--nonsense, james prescott! do you think i've forgotten that alphabet? or that it has changed during the last forty years? it's just the same as it was, sir, and i recollect every letter of it. you and emily have understood each other this long time. no, i've no objection to make. i'd sooner your father's son would marry my daughter than any duke in the land. you've not much money, but i've plenty, and none to care for but her. one thing, how much are you in debt?"
"not a sixpence."
"on your honour?"
"on my honour."
"that's enough for me! your father knows of this."
"not yet, sir. i haven't mentioned it to him; but--"
"but i have! we talked it all over when he was here. so you see we old people are not so blind as you think us. now, you're dying to go to emily, and i'm dying to have a nap. let us oblige each other."
mr. prescott did not need a repetition of the hint. in the course of the next two minutes he was in the drawing-room; and the selections from lucia, with which the piano was resounding, were suddenly stopped, and were heard no more until the advent of the old gentleman caused a necessity for candles and calm propriety. i do not think it is necessary for me to reproduce the dialogue which was carried on during the interval. it was very silly and very pleasant; perfectly easy to be imagined, and ought never to be described. only one bit of it is worth preservation.
"were you ever in love before, james?"
"once, dearest; only once in my life." (if he had been the age of old parr instead of six-and-twenty, he could not have said it with more earnestness.)
"and why did you not marry her?"
"it would not have done, darling. she was not of our grade in life. it would have been a wretched business. she felt that, and told me so."
"poor girl, poor girl!" said little emily; "i wonder where she is now!"
prescott did not answer. he was too full of his present happiness to think of his former love, who was at that moment lying with her life's breath ebbing fast away.