Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “It was his letter I bade you read, – the gross insolence of his manner of addressing me. Where’s his account, Raper? How does he stand with us?”

      “That’s a long affair to make out,” said Joe, untying a thick roll of papers.

      “I don’t want details. Can you never understand that? Tell me in three words how he stands.”

      “Deeply indebted, – very deeply indebted, sir,” said Joe, poring over the papers.

      “Tell Crowther to come over this evening at six o’clock, and write to Carew by this post, thus: —

      “‘Mr. Fagan regrets that in the precarious condition of the money market he is obliged to return you the bills, herewith enclosed, without acceptance. Mr. F., having some large and pressing claims to meet, desires to call your attention to the accompanying memorandum, and to ask at what early period it will be your convenience to make an arrangement for its settlement.’

      “Make out an account and furnish it, Raper; we’ll see how he relishes Shylock when he comes to read that.”

      Joseph sat with the pen in his hand, as if deep in thought.

      “Do you hear me, Raper?” asked Fagan, in a harsh voice.

      “I do,” said the other, and proceeded to write.

      “There’s a judgment entered upon Carew’s bond of February, isn’t there?”

      “There is! Crowther has it in his office.”

      “That’s right. We ‘ll see and give him a pleasant honeymoon.” And with these words, uttered with an almost savage malevolence, he passed out into the street.

      Joe Raper’s daily life was a path on which the sunlight seldom fell; but this day it seemed even darker than usual, and as he sat and wrote, many a heavy sigh broke from him, and more than once did he lay down his pen and draw his hand across his eyes. Still he labored on, his head bent down over his desk, in that selfsame spot where he had spent his youth, and was now dropping down into age unnoticed and unthought of. Of those who came and went from that dreary room, who saw and spoke with him, how many were there who knew him, who even suspected what lay beneath that simple exterior! To some he was but the messenger of dark tidings, the agent of those severe measures which Fagan not unfrequently employed against his clients. To others he seemed a cold, impassive, almost misanthropic being, without a tie to bind him to his fellow-man; while not a few even ascribed to his influences all the harshness of the “Grinder.” It is more than likely that he never knew of, never suspected, the different judgments thus passed on him. So humbly did he think of himself, so little disposed was he to fancy that he could be an object of attention to any, the chances are that he was spared this source of mortification. Humility was the basis of his whole character, and by its working was every action of his simple life influenced. It might be a curious subject of inquiry how far this characteristic was fashioned by his habits of reading and of thought. Holding scarcely any intercourse with the world of society, companionless as he was, his associates were the great writers of ancient or modern times, – the mighty spirits whose vast conceptions have created a world of their own. Living amongst them, animated by their glorious sentiments, feeling their thoughts, breathing their words, how natural that he should have fallen back upon himself with a profound sense of his inferiority! How meanly must he have thought of his whole career in life, in presence of such standards!

      Upon this day Joe never once opened a book; the little volumes which lay scattered through his drawers were untouched, nor did he, as was his wont, turn for an instant to refresh himself in the loved pages of Metastasio or of Uhland. Whenever he had more than usual on hand, it was his custom not to dine with the family, but to eat something as he sat at his desk. Such was his meal now: a little bread and cheese, washed down by a glass of water.

      “Miss Polly hopes you’ll take a glass of wine, Mr. Joe,” said a maid-servant, as she appeared with a decanter in her hand.

      “No! Thanks – thanks to Miss Polly; many thanks – and to you Margaret; not to-day. I have a good deal to do.” And he resumed his work with that air of determination the girl well knew brooked no interruption.

      It was full an hour after sunset when he ceased writing; and then, laying his head down between his hands, he slept, – the sound, heavy sleep that comes of weariness. Twice or thrice had the servant to call him before he could awake, and hear that “Miss Polly was waiting tea for him.”

      “Waiting for me!” cried he, in mingled shame and astonishment. “How forgetful I am; how very wrong of me! Is Mr. Crowther here, Margaret?”

      “He came an hour ago, sir.”

      “Dear me, how I have forgotten myself!” And he began gathering up his papers, the hard task of the day, in all haste. “Say I’m coming, Margaret; tell Miss Polly I’m so sorry.” And thus with many an excuse, and in great confusion, Raper hurried out of the office, and upstairs into the drawing-room.

      Fagan’s house was, perhaps, the oldest in the street, and was remarkable for possessing one of those quaint, old-fashioned windows, which, projecting over the door beneath, – formed a species of little boudoir, with views extending on either side. Here it was Polly’s pleasure to sit, and here she now presided at her tea-table; while in a remote corner of the room her father and Mr. Crowther were deep in conversation.

      “Have you finished the statement? Where ‘s the account?” cried Fagan, roughly interrupting the excuses that Raper was making for his absence.

      “Here it is, – at least, so far as I was able to make it. Many of our memoranda, however, only refer to verbal arrangements, and allude to business matters transacted personally between you and Mr. Carew.”

      “Listen to him, Crowther; just hear what he says,” said Fagan, angrily. “Is not that a satisfactory way to keep accounts?”

      “Gently, gently; let us go quietly to work,” said Crowther, a large, fat, unwieldy man, with a bloated, red face, and an utterance rendered difficult from the combined effects of asthma and over-eating. “Raper is generally most correct, and your own memory is admirable. If Miss Polly will give me a cup of her strongest tea, without any sugar, I ‘ll answer for it I ‘ll soon see my way.”

      When Raper had deposited the mass of papers on the table, and presented the cup of tea to Crowther, he stole, half timidly, over to where Polly sat.

      “You must be hungry, Papa Joe,” – it was the name by which she called him in infancy, – “for you never appeared at dinner. Pray eat something now.”

      “I have no appetite, Polly, – that is, I have eaten already. I ‘m quite refreshed,” said he, scarcely thinking of what he said, for his eyes were directed to the table where Crowther was seated, and where a kind of supercilious smile on the attorney’s face seemed evoked by something in the papers before him.

      “Some cursed folly of his own, – some of that blundering nonsense that he fills his brains with!” cried Fagan, as he threw indignantly away a closely written sheet of paper, the lines of which unmistakably proclaimed verse.

      Joe eyed the unhappy document wistfully for a second or two, and then, with a stealthy step, he crept over, and threw it into the hearth.

      “I found out the passage, Polly,” said he, in a whisper, so as not to disturb the serious conference of the others; and he drew a few well-thumbed leaves from his pocket, and placed them beside her, while she bent over them till her glossy ringlets touched the page.

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