if, instead of ascending the broad staircase immediately on entering the tin-tax office, you were to proceed straight forward, you would come to the messengers' lobby, which is the outpost, protecting the penetralia where the commissioners and the secretary are enshrined. the principal duty of these messengers, besides answering bells and carrying about official papers, was to protect the august personages just referred to from being intruded upon by "the public;" and as one learnt from his scripture history that the term "gentiles" meant "all nations except the jews," so, after a very little official experience, one became aware that "the public" meant every body who did not hold an appointment in the tin-tax office. the duties incumbent upon certain emissaries of the office, in regard to the collection of revenue, made the head-quarters at rutland house a grand resort of the "public," who generally came here with very belligerent intentions, and who either referred to printed documents in their hands and wished to see mr. simnel the secretary (whose name appeared attached to the documents) or occasionally even demanded an interview with the chief commissioner, the great sir hickory maddox, himself. it is needless to say that these wishes were never gratified: the messengers of the tin-tax office were men to whom, in the discharge of his favourite accomplishment, ananias could not have held a candle; men with imperturbable faces and ready tongues, who took the "public's" measure in an instant, and sent him to whatsoever clerk they thought would most readily dispose of his grievance. "i wish to see the chief commissioner," would exclaim a briton, red in face, dripping in head, and bursting with indignation. to him calm, majestic mr. potts, the chief messenger, a fat man with a big forehead, a large stomach, flat feet in low shoes, and a general butlerish appearance--"sir 'ickry is with the chanclr of schequer, sir, on most important bisness." "the secretary, then." "the seckittary have gone with sir 'ickry, sir;--what is your bisness, sir?" "why, i've been overcharged--" "ah, thought so, sir! rebate on prop'ty dooty. walker, show the gentleman to number 15,"--and away down the loud-resounding passages, or up the mountainous stairs, would the unfortunate "public" be hurried.
the superior rooms lay up a little passage to the right of the messengers' lobby, and were three in number. first came the board-room, a large and solemn salmon-coloured apartment, where the commissioners sat when for despatch of business assembled. a big, dull-faced clock ticked on the mantelshelf; solemn green maps of distant countries, from year's end to year's end undisturbed, curled themselves round in dusty layers on the walls; and a large red-leather sofa, on which mr. beresford, in the absence of the other commissioners, and after a hard night's waltzing, had enjoyed hours of pleasant repose, filled up a recess. in the centre of the room stood a heavy writing-table, with pads of blotting-paper, pools of black ink, and bundles of quill-pens distributed at regular intervals. at the head of this table always stood a red-leather arm-chair, and this arm-chair always on business occasions contained the sacred person of the chief commissioner, sir hickory maddox. a little man, sir hickory, with a parchment face, a blue eye like a bit out of a china plate, stiff gray hair brushed into a point on the top of his head, and formal little gray whiskers: always dressed in a little black frock-coat, and little gray waistcoat and trousers; wearing too a heavy gold-set cornelian seal, and a cumbrous old-fashioned watch-key, just projecting from his fob,--buoys to show whereabouts his thick gold chronometer was sunk, in some unknown depths. a kind-hearted, fussy, hard-working man, whose family had been for generations in the public service, who had himself worked for years in the draft and docket office, had risen and distinguished himself there, and had finally been rewarded with the chief-commissionership of the tin-tax, and with being created a k.c.b. his official position he esteemed one of the most enviable in the kingdom; he thought of nothing but official matters; and when, being of a hospitable turn, he had solemn dinners at his house in wimpole street, all the guests were magnates of other offices or--for he was a kind chief in that respect--juniors of the tin-tax. and invariably, just as the cloth was drawn, the butler would appear at his master's elbow, bearing a salver, on which lay an enormous red-leather official despatch-pouch. the little man would smile feebly at his guests, would shrug his shoulders, and saying, "our labours follow us even here," would unlock the pouch, glance at its contents (probably the globe, and private note), and relocking it, say, "lay it on the library-table, benson. i must go into the matter before i sleep. however, nunc vino pellite curas! port, sherry, madeira, and claret!"
between sir hickory maddox the senior, and mr. beresford the junior, there were two other commissioners. one was the honourable morris peck, who had been a gentleman usher at court,--at whose name years ago young ladies used to blush, and matrons to gather themselves together in brood-hen fashion for the protection of their chicks,--a roysterer at crockford's, a friend of pea-green payne and the golden hall and that lot,--a "devil of a fellow, sir!" but who was now merely a hook-nosed old gentleman in a high coat-collar and a curly-brimmed hat; wearing false teeth, dyed hair, and blacked eyebrows; who always slept peacefully until his signature was required, when he gave it in a very shaky schoolboy scrawl. the other was mr. miles o'scardon, an irish gentleman of ancient family, but limited means, who had represented ballyhogue in parliament for years, and who had obtained his appointment for the fidelity with which he had always obeyed the summons of the ministerial whip. beyond the board-room lay the sanctum of the chief-commissioner's private secretary, a young man always chosen for his good looks, his good clothes, and his gentlemanly bearing, who was envied by his brother juniors, but who had to answer sir hickory's bell, and was consequently taunted by the epithet "jeames." and beyond that, though unconnected with it, lay the secretary's room.
a large, light, airy room, far away from the noise and bustle, and looking on to the river. round the walls are huge oak-presses, filled with tied-up bundles of confidential papers, secret reports of the out-door agents of the tin-tax office, which, if published, would have astonished the world by throwing quite a new light on the incomes of several of its idols. maps were there too, and framed tables of statistics, and the stationers' almanac; and over the mantelpiece hung a proof-before-letters engraving of the portrait of sir hickory maddox, after grant, with an exact likeness of that great official's favourite inkstand and quill-pen, and with a correctness in the fit of the trousers such as was never achieved by the great original. there was a round table in the middle of the room, divided into two equal portions by a line of books of reference--guide-books, m'culloch's commercial dictionary, haydn's dates, the post-office directory, bradshaw, and other light reading: one side of the line of demarcation was bare (save at one o'clock, when it bore the little tray containing the secretary's light luncheon); on the other lay the secretary's blotting-book, pen-stand, and paper-case.
about the time when the conversation recorded in the last chapter was going on between his clerks, mr. simnel, the secretary, sat in his official room, signing his name to printed papers, which he took one by one from a large heap at his right hand, and, after signing, dropped at his feet. it was plain that his thoughts were otherwise absorbed; for as the sheets fell from his hand and fluttered to the ground, he never looked after them, but would occasionally pause in his occupation, lay down his pen, nurse his right leg with both hands, and rock himself quietly to and fro. as he moved here and there in the sunlight, you might have perceived that his limbs were long and ungainly; that he had big broad hands with thick corrugated veins, and finger-nails strong, hard, and cut to a point; that he was very bald, and that such fringe of hair as remained was of a dull red; that he had a large sensual face, big projecting brown eyes, thick clumsy nose, full scarlet underlip, heavy jowl, and large massive chin. you could have noticed, too, that, in certain lights, this face was worn and jaded and almost haggard, traversed here and there with deep furrowed lines, marked with crow's-feet and wrinkles and deep indentations. as you gazed, perhaps, all this faded away, the face beamed forth happy, jolly, sensual as ever; but you felt that the wrinkles were there, and that so soon as the flicker passed away, they would be seen again.
not in the discharge of his easy labours at the tin-tax office had mr. simnel acquired these lines and wrinkles. the calm direction of that engine of the state had only come upon him of late years, and never had caused him any trouble. but mr. simnel had compressed a great many years' experience into forty years of life, and the crow's-feet and indentations were the result of brain-labour, worry, and anxiety. mr. simnel's first recollection of any thing found him a little boy, in a skeleton-suit, at the grammar-school of combcardingham,--a city which every body save the envious inhabitants of its rival dockborough allowed to be the metropolis of the north. little bob simnel did not know whose son he was, or how his schooling was paid for; all he knew was, that he boarded with an old lady, the widow of a tax-collector, who was very kind to him, and that he soon found out the best thing he could do was to stick to his book. to his book he stuck manfully; walked through all the classes of the grammar-school, one by one, until he became junior boy of the sixth form, until he became senior boy of the sixth form, until the visiting examiner, the bishop of latakia, new zealand, declared that he had the greatest pleasure in naming mr. robert simnel as the gainer of the exhibition of seventy-five pounds a year; and added, as he shook hands with said robert, that whichever university he might prefer would be honoured by his choice. young mr. simnel, however, did not go to either oxford or cambridge: after a lengthened interview with the head-master, the rev. dr. barker, mr. simnel gracefully resigned the exhibition in favour of swetter, major, who "proxime accessit," and entered as the articled clerk of messrs. banner and blair, accounted the sharpest lawyers in combcardingham, and known through all the county as great electioneering agents for the liberal party. a few years passed on; mr. simnel had finished his articles had become the junior partner of messrs. banner and blair, and was working steadily and well, when an event happened which insured his success for life.
it was this: combcardingham, for the three last general elections, had returned the same two members--sir thomas prodd and mr. shuttler; both local magnates, employing hundreds of hands, supporting local charities, known throughout the county, and liberal to the backbone. one morning news sped to london that mr. shuttler was dead; and that evening a tall, thin gentleman, with a hare-lip, arrived by afternoon express in combcardingham, and engaged the waterloo hotel as the head-quarters of mr. farquhar, the conservative candidate. blue bills on a dead-wall unpleasantly proclaimed this fact to m. simnel as he was shaving himself the next morning; and he perceived that young woofham, the hope of the liberal party, would not be brought in without a struggle. so he, metaphorically, took off his coat and set to work; canvassed, intrigued, cajoled, went through all the dirty round of electioneering tactics, but found he did not make much way; found, in truth, that the hare-lipped man seemed to have fortunatus's purse somewhere about him, and that young woofham was a miserly young hunks, who did not see the borough as a proper investment for his ingots. what was to be done? to lose the borough would be a tremendous blow to the government, who had always looked upon it as their own, and to whom it was always supposed to owe allegiance. but the money? the night before the nomination, mr. simnel, with his face muffled in a huge handkerchief, despatched the following telegraphic message to mr. weal, the government whip, at the retrenchment club: "no. 104 is putting on the steam at combcardingham. if no. 102 does not do likewise, up goes the sponge." while no. 102 mall-pall is the retrenchment club, no. 104 is, it is needless to say, the no surrender (familiarly known as the wig and whiskers), the head-quarters of the conservative party. by the early morning express a messenger, with a letter from mr. weal, arrived at mr. simnel's office, and during the day the doubts under which many of the electors suffered were satisfactorily explained away, and at the close of the poll mr. woofham's name stood well ahead of his rival. mr. weal and his party did not forget their telegraphing friend at combcardingham. after the election was over, mr. simnel was summoned to london, had an interview with certain of the dii majors, and at the end of six months was inducted into the secretaryship of the tin-tax office, then vacant.
they did not like him at first at the tin-tax; they thought bingham ought to have succeeded to the berth; and bingham--who was a very gouty old gentleman, who took a great deal of snuff, and swore a great deal, and kept a pocket-dictionary in the right-hand top-drawer of his desk wherewith to correct his orthography--thought so too. but sir hickory maddox, who was not merely very popular, but very much respected by his men, showed such thorough appreciation of mr. simnel's talents, and so thoroughly endorsed all the secretary's acts, that the men began to waver in their allegiance to the bingham faction; to think that bingham was little better than an old idiot; that "new blood" in the secretariat might probably not only improve the status of the tin-tax office, but get a new and improved scale for the clerks; and when they found that, after a couple of years, the new secretary actually did accomplish this feat, the new secretary was popular for ever. popular officially, not privately. the juniors at the tin-tax had been in the habit of chaffing their late lamented secretary; of bribing him, by gifts of game and hothouse fruits, to grant them odd days and even weeks of leave of absence; of chatting with him familiarly on current events. mr. simnel's manners effectually checked all that kind of thing. with the commissioners he might unbend; with the juniors he was adamant. but if he met one of his men in society, in the opera lobby, or at a botanical fête, he would make a point of shaking hands with him as though they hadn't seen each other for ages, and of talking with him of every subject possible--except the tin-tax office.
the pile of papers for signature had melted to one solitary document, the floor was strewn with the evidences of mr. simnel's handiwork, and mr. simnel himself sat nursing his leg and swaying himself gently to and fro in meditation. occasionally he would pass his disengaged hand through his fringe of hair, and smile quietly to himself, then make a few figures on his blotting-pad, add them, and set-to rocking again. in the midst of this occupation he heard his door open, and looking up, saw mr. beresford.
"why, what the deuce does this mean?" he exclaimed, in surprise. "i thought you were on tom tiddler's ground, picking up unlimited gold and silver, wooing heiresses, and settling a belgravian ménage; and you turn up in this dingy old barrack. is it all over?--has the lady succumbed? and do you want me to help you to choose fire-irons and window-curtains?"
mr. beresford did not reply for a minute; then he said, shortly and decisively, "i've been sold!"
mr. simnel gave one short, loud whistle, and said interrogatively, "wouldn't?"
mr. beresford, seating himself on the edge of the table, looked up at mr. simnel, who had taken up his position on the rug, with his back to the empty fireplace, and said, "no chance; booked beforehand!"
whereupon mr. simnel gave a louder whistle, and said, "tell!"
"you know how i stand, simnel, well enough," said mr. beresford; "and this looked a very safe coup, i thought, specially after i got your telegram. there were two or three fellows staying down at bissett who i thought were on, too. man named lyster; do you know him?--tall man, dark beard, yaw-haw beast, from indian army."
"i know him!" was all mr. simnel's reply to this flattering sketch.
"and another man, newspaper man, belongs to the 'retrenchment' and the 'fly-by-night;' churchill, you know."
"i know churchill. was he going in for an heiress?"
"no, not exactly; at least i thought so, but it turned out not. but i didn't like these fellows hanging about; specially lyster--romantic party, sigh and that sort of business. so, when i found from you it was all right, i made up my mind to see where i was."
"well; and miss townshend wouldn't have it?"
"not at all! we were sitting after dinner, when the women had gone to the drawing-room, the very day i got your telegram, and old wentworth told us there was a man coming down the next day,--schr?tter, or schr?der, a german merchant in mincing lane--"
"i know him," interrupted simnel: "gustav schr?der; elderly man. what took him to bissett?"
"love, sir--love! he's engaged to be married to miss townshend!"
"whew!" said mr. simnel, with his longest and shrillest whistle. "the deuce he is! that is news! how does the young lady like it?"
"well, not much. she couldn't, of course, be expected to feel very enthusiastic about a short, stout, gray-headed german, who talks the most infernal jargon, and hasn't got a sound tooth in his head. took him out shooting once, but he made the most awful mess of it; devilish near shot the beaters, and sprained his ankle leaping a half-foot ditch. the girl seemed horribly ashamed of him, and of his clumsy compliments and elephantine gambols; but she's evidently booked--her father takes care of that."
"ah, ha!" said mr. simnel, nursing his knee, rocking himself to and fro, and rapidly going off into an absent fit; "ah, ha!"
"i hate to hear you say 'ah, ha,' simnel!" said mr. beresford, with some asperity. "you're always up to some plottings and plans when you utter those seemingly benevolent grunts. i suppose you suspect old townshend of some grand diablerie in this affair. i never could make out what it is that you know about that old gentleman."
"know about him?" said simnel, rousing himself with a laugh; "that he gives capital dinners and has plenty of money; that he's about to marry his daughter to one of the richest men in the city. what more need one know about a man? i don't know what church he goes to, or what peculiar shade of religion he affects; whether he's a good father or a bad one; whether he rules his daughter, or is ruled by her. but i do know that he drinks tod-heatly's champagne, and banks at the london and westminster. this news looks fishy for your business, beresford!"
"simply a case of stump," said mr. beresford, rising from the table, plunging his hands into his trousers-pockets, and striding up and down the room.
"what do you mean to do?"
"borrow two hundred pounds more of you," exclaimed beresford, stopping short on the edge of the rug, and confronting mr. simnel.
"and then?" asked the latter gentleman, smiling calmly.
"god knows!" said beresford, with something like a shudder. "something must turn up; the bishop must die or lady lowndes, and there'd be a safe something from them; or there'll be some girl--"
"ye-es," interrupted mr. simnel drily, seating himself at his desk, and unlocking a draw therein. "you're the most marvellously sanguine fellow, perfectly micawberish in your notions of something turning up, and your making a coup. but--suppose t'other! suppose it didn't come off! now you owe me,"--looking at a paper which he took from the drawer,--"six hundred pounds already, and i've only got insurance policies for security."
"you get your interest," growled beresford.
"a mild six;" said mr. simnel, with a shrug of his shoulders and his pleasant smile. "a mild six; just what i should get in bombay preference, or great luxembourg centrals, or a dozen other safe investments. however, you shall have this two hundred; but i should be glad to see your way in the future. is there no girl with money whom you think you could propose to speedily?"
"not one," said beresford, stopping in his walk and reseating himself on the table. "oh, by jove, i forgot to tell you that."
"what?"
"about kate mellon,--tremendous scene just before i left;" and mr. beresford proceeded to recount the dialogue between him and kate mellon, which was recorded in the fourth chapter of this story. he told the tale honestly throughout, and when he had finished he looked up in mr. simnel's face, and said, "deuced awkward position, wasn't it?"
mr. simnel had not lost one word of the story; on the contrary, he had listened to it with the greatest eagerness and interest, but he did not answer mr. beresford's final query. he had fallen into his old, leg-nursing attitude, and was rocking himself silently to and fro.
"devilish unpleasant, wasn't it?" reiterated mr. beresford.
"eh!" said mr. simnel in a loud high key. "yes, most unpleasant, of course. we'll talk more about that; but you must be off now. to-day's only half a day, you know; and i've got all sorts of things to do before i go. you shall have that two hundred on monday, all right. good-by! see you on monday," and the secretary shook hands with the commissioner until the latter was fairly outside the door.
then mr. simnel returned to his desk, and took up his leg again.
"it seems to be coming on now," he said to himself, "and all together too. the old man always meant little alice for a duke, and now to let her go to such carrion as old schr?der; that looks like smash. he holds heavily in pernambucos, in cotopaxis, and other stuff that's run down like water lately; and he must have dropped at least ten thousand in that blessed bird-in-the-hand insurance. i think the time has come to put the screw on, and i don't think"--turning to a drawer and taking from an envelope a paper yellow with age--"that he'll dishonour this. what an awful time ago it seems! there,"--replacing the paper,--"go back till you're wanted. you've kept so long that--ah, by jove! the other business! to be married, eh? to be married, kate?" releasing his leg and plucking at his lips. "to be married to master charley beresford! not while i live, my child! not while i live, and have power to turn a screw on in your direction too!"
