Part 21

As William Jordan sat on his high stool in the left-hand corner, he saw through the glass partition that divided the counting-house from the exit into Trafalgar Square, Jimmy Dodson pass out of the door into the street. At the moment this apparently unrelated circumstance addressed his mind with no especial significance. But soon it began to produce a kind of vibration in it, as though it were charged with a meaning that his faculties had not the power to seize. Quite suddenly, however, the young man discarded the paper and string he was manipulating and came down from his high stool.

“Oh, yes,” he muttered to himself softly, “I understand now, I understand now.”

Again his limbs, in their weariness, mounted those well-remembered stairs. He passed the ante-chamber wherein his evil genius was wont to reside, but who, at this moment, all unconscious, was taking his way across the square. He tapped softly upon the door of the head of the firm. He entered silently, but without vacillation.

Mr. Octavius Crumpett was reading, with an occasional chuckle of audible pleasure, the manuscript of the latest polite fiction of Sir Topman Murtle, K.C.B., “the Queen’s favourite novelist,” and his own cherished and familiar friend.

“What an insight that man has into the human heart!” he kept exclaiming at intervals, as some uncommonly illuminating flash of intuition lighted his own sympathetic intelligence. At last this august gentleman chanced to pause in his labour of love. He looked up. And looking up he beheld the outline of a silent figure standing at the far end of the room with its hand still on the door it had closed so softly.

“Good-morning, Mr.--er--er--er--dear me!” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett.

How trying it was that he should actually fail to remember the name of one who rendered faithful service to that house! Really such an untoward incident had not occurred to the august gentleman for years. But in a sudden unmistakable ray of inspiration the name of the youthful clerk entered his mind.

“Good-morning, Mr. _Jordan_,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, almost proudly, almost triumphantly.

At the sound of that amiable and pleasant voice the strange-looking young man came forward to the table, and taking a handful of gold pieces from his pockets, placed them in a heap upon the table before Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s astonished gaze.

“I wish to submit myself, sir, to the consequences of my action,” said the young man, in soft yet self-contained speech.

At first Mr. Octavius Crumpett was powerless to give expression to his bewildered astonishment. But slowly, solemnly, mournfully the manuscript pages of the polite fiction of his distinguished friend fluttered from his grasp; and placing the palms of his beautifully-kept hands, with their delicately-trimmed nails, together, he murmured, “This is calamitous!”

Minutes seemed to pass in which the head of the firm appeared to resign himself to the fervour of a moral trepidation, which was yet so chastened that its only outward manifestation was that of gentle sorrow.

“This is ineffably calamitous!” murmured Mr. Octavius Crumpett.

William Jordan stood placidly with his hands by his sides.

“I would have hailed the opportunity,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “of paying a _substantial_ sum of money to a charitable institution had it been possible by that means to prevent such a thing happening to this house. Mr. Jordan, I feel I must ask you to have the kindness to go down-stairs for a short time, while I--ah, I--ah, earnestly deliberate as to the right course to adopt.”

The young man bowed and withdrew. As he was passing out of the door, Mr. Octavius Crumpett said, “Do--ah, I understand, Mr. Jordan, that you have no palliation to offer, no words of contrition to express?”

“None, sir,” said the young man. His voice was precise; his absence of gesture was that of a statue.

At the top of the stairs William Jordan encountered James Dodson, who was ascending them.

“My God, Luney, you must be mad!” cried his mentor, giving one half-tragic glance at the face of the young man.

William Jordan passed down the stairs as though he had neither seen nor heard him.

For a considerable time Mr. Octavius Crumpett meditated upon his course of action. He was a humane, enlightened, high-principled, liberal-minded gentleman; a notable product of that which a long-established society had achieved in the way of civilization. In respect and solicitude for his kind he yielded to none. But he was now face to face with the most sinister problem that a sheltered experience had ever been called upon to confront.

As he sat revolving the matter in his thoughts, he seemed to feel that sterner and more forcible clay was required to grapple with an issue so momentous. In his enlightened desire to keep abreast of the foremost practice upon the subject, he rang his bell and summoned one upon whom, whose youth and subordinate rank notwithstanding, he had already learned to lean.

“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with unmistakable horror and distress in his kind brown eyes, “I was justified in my conjecture. The money was left upon the table; it was abstracted--and--and by one employed in this house.”

Mr. Dodson stood in a solemnity that paid homage to the occasion.

“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, after a long pause, which was fraught with embarrassment for both gentlemen, “I find myself upon the horns of a dilemma. I desire to be just to this great house whom a grave public scandal threatens; I desire to be just to my own humane feelings; yet above everything, Mr. Dodson, I feel that I ought to act in accordance with the best and latest modern opinion; in a word, Mr. Dodson, one is desirous of consulting the public welfare.”

“I understand perfectly, sir,” said Mr. Dodson, with an air of weight that engaged the respectful attention of his good and large-minded employer. “I understand _perfectly_, sir, the position in which you are placed. It is one of great delicacy. One of great delicacy. I may say, sir, it is one of the--ah, _greatest_ possible delicacy. But if, sir, I might presume to speak----”

By the decree of Fate, however, it was not given to Mr. Dodson to presume to speak, for at that moment the door was opened, and one scarcely less in distinction than Mr. Octavius Crumpett himself was announced. It was Sir Topman Murtle, K.C.B.

Mr. Dodson withdrew in a respectful silence, in which much was expressed.

The pen of the devout historian approaches warily and with awe the momentous task of delineating the outline of the Queen’s favourite novelist. He was in his mature, full-blooded, middle period; the period of his most flamboyant successes; the period of the most memorable and appealing portraits. As they or their replicas adorn the walls of every self-respecting gallery in the United Kingdom, modelled upon Millais in his second manner, the faithful are with confidence thereto referred. It is only necessary to say for the purposes of this biography that Sir Topman Murtle, K.C.B., was a small, stout, middle-aged gentleman of a consummate English type--the type that is found in England, and nowhere else. In point of attire he was no less prosperous than Mr. Octavius Crumpett himself. His manner was cordial yet consonant with true dignity; his fine bearing and white gaiters were pregnant of unmistakable distinction.

When these august personages had greeted one another with a cordial frankness that was very pleasant to witness, said Sir Topman Murtle, in a smooth, high-pitched voice, “Before we approach the subject of _The Angel’s Bride_, I should value your advice, my dear Crumpett, upon a subject which is giving me, at the present moment, some little concern. I feel myself to be on the horns of a dilemma.”

The word “dilemma” touched a responsive chord in the bosom of Mr. Octavius Crumpett, M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.).

“My dilemma is this, Crumpett,” said his distinguished visitor. “It has recently been suggested to me by my friend, the Prime Minister, that I should allow myself to be nominated to the Privy Council.”

“I congratulate you unreservedly, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, M.A., D.C.L. (Oxon.), with unfeigned emotion.

“But, Crumpett, the problem shapes itself in my mind,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “will the acceptance of that which one is bound to consider as an undoubted honour, be wholly consistent with that reverence for the dignity of letters which I hope I don’t exaggerate?”

“I am sure, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a conviction of singular depth, “one feels that whatever you did it would be impossible for you to degrade the position in the world of letters to which your talents have called you.”

“I have a profound faith in your judgment, Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “I am always stimulated by your clearness of thought and your depth of conviction. But, in a manner of speaking, would it not be possible to betray the higher tenets of one’s calling by giving one’s assent to official recognition, however honourable and however greatly to be cherished by a private individual? You will remember that Carlyle refused a baronetcy?”

“No, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a conviction that seemed to grow deeper than ever, “there is not a shade of doubt in my mind that your sensitiveness upon this point is over-nice. Carlyle refused a baronetcy, but Scott accepted one; and Joseph Addison, one of the earliest names upon our books, accepted office in the government of his day.”

“All the same, Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “I feel qualms.”

“They are uncalled for, I assure you, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with splendid finality, “wholly uncalled for.”

“One can hardly fancy the Right Honourable William Shakespeare, P.C.,” said Sir Topman Murtle, with an air of grave perplexity.

“Had Shakespeare been an educated man,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, thoughtfully balancing his paper-knife of solid silver on the point of his forefinger, “I believe it is generally recognized that there is no honour to which he might not have aspired. And let me say this, Murtle,” continued Mr. Octavius Crumpett, warming to his theme with an energy of which few would have suspected him to be capable, “let me say this. It is due to your sense of the higher citizenship that such a one as yourself should allow the welfare of the public to be paramount.”

“Ah, the public,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “the public; upon my word for the moment I had nearly forgotten the public!”

“No representative man must ever forget what he owes to the public,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a sententiousness in which he seldom permitted himself to indulge.

The impact of Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s irresistible conviction began to have its effect on Sir Topman Murtle.

“Yes,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “for the moment I had almost allowed myself to forget the public. It is a merciful thing, Crumpett, that you recalled it to my mind in time. I agree with you that we ought not to allow a sentiment, which some might consider high-flown, to override a sense of duty.”

“And now, Murtle,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett with gently heaving bosom, “I must expose the horns of my own dilemma.”

With profound emotion the chief of the house of Crumpett and Hawker unfolded the tragic and sordid story.

“I am a humane man, Murtle, as I hope, and trust and believe,” he concluded; “and I do not know how I could face anything in the nature of a scandal in regard to this house, but--but----”

“Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, “no one appreciates more fully than do I the painfulness of your position, but scruple may become vacillation, and vacillation may become weakness. Can it be possible, Crumpett, that you also are about to forget the duty you owe to the public?”

“No one has a profounder reverence, Murtle, than have I for those who make a practice of rendering unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, who, unhappy as he was, spoke with the humility of a Christian gentleman; “but--but the misguided young man restored the money himself, and I have every reason to believe it is his first deviation from the path of strict rectitude.”

“Crumpett,” said Sir Topman Murtle, placing his own white and fleshy hand, whose finger-nails were carefully trimmed, upon the shoulder of his friend with a firmness that was remarkable, “your scruples do honour to your good heart, but I feel sure they are misplaced. Whatever it may cost you, you must discharge your duty to the State. That duty must necessarily be distasteful--to the sensitive mind it always is; but pray remember, Crumpett, that you will not be the only martyr to the inexorable cause of the public. And it has always seemed to me, Crumpett, that the greater the pain we incur in following a given course of action, the more imperative, the more sacred the need for that course of action becomes.”

Mr. Octavius Crumpett heaved a profound sigh.

“Yes, Murtle,” he said, with the meekness of one at the feet of Gamaliel, “you have worked out that beautiful idea in _The Angel’s Bride_; but really I would that this question were one that a stronger and wiser and more competent nature had to decide.”

“The question, Crumpett, decides itself,” said Sir Topman Murtle in a manner that seemed to imply that a stronger and wiser and more competent nature had already decided it.

And indeed, as Sir Topman Murtle said, the question did decide itself, for at this moment William Jordan, wearing his overcoat, and carrying his hat, entered the room. He was accompanied by a stalwart police constable.

“It is my wish, sir,” said the young man, speaking in a calm and clear voice, “to place myself in the hands of justice.”

Mr. Octavius Crumpett heaved a sigh of relief. He, too, had passed through his mental crisis.

XXXIV

On the following morning, within the precincts of a stuffy, drab-coloured, malodorous building, which was so seldom visited by daylight that the gas was already lit, Mr. Octavius Crumpett, looking grave and perturbed, accepted by the invitation of the presiding magistrate and a fellow-member of his club, one Mr. Ashmole Pursglove, C.B., Q.C., a seat on the bench.

The prisoner, worn and pale, was already standing in the dock. Below him was a solicitor engaged by Mr. James Dodson at the suggestion of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. Mr. Dodson himself was beside him. A close observer would have said that his own composure was considerably less than that of the accused.

The case was of such a trivial character that it was disposed of immediately. The accused, upon his own confession, was charged with abstracting the sum of twenty pounds, the property of his employer. The accused’s solicitor spoke very earnestly as to the excellent character the prisoner had always borne; he had been seven years in the prosecutor’s employ; and he insisted upon the fact that the theft would not have been brought to light had not the accused himself restored the money and confessed his action. To this the prisoner’s employer added an earnest request that the unfortunate young man be dealt with leniently, as he had given every satisfaction to the house of Crumpett and Hawker, and they had no desire whatever to press the case.

“William Jordan,” said the magistrate, in the tone of a somewhat petulant male parent, “having regard to the fact that your employer, whose goodness of heart and philanthropy of disposition are well known, has himself interceded for you, and having regard also to the fact that since the commission of your act you appear to have done all in your power to repair it, I should be inclined to feel that the ends of justice would be met by a nominal sentence upon you. But unfortunately I learn that this is not the first occasion upon which you have been before this court; and as you have already enjoyed what I may say I am inclined to consider the questionable philanthropy of the First Offenders’ Act, upon a charge similar to this present, although upon the former occasion it involved theft from the person, I now feel that I have no alternative but to deal with you in a salutary manner. William Jordan, you must go to hard labour for six months.”

The young man stood erectly to receive this sentence. About his lips was a smile which was proud, humble, yet almost happy.

XXXV

After the prisoner had bowed with a self-possession and an ample courtesy to the presiding magistrate, and to his late employer--which both gentlemen thought in the circumstances were very remarkable--and he had stepped down from the dock, Mr. Octavius Crumpett said to his acquaintance and fellow-clubman, Mr. Ashmole Pursglove, “Pursglove, this affair has cost me much pain. That man has been in the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker seven years, and I understand that in all that time his conduct has been exemplary. Yet his career reveals a depth of depravity that is truly shocking. Not one of his companions in the office had suspected it.”

“I can only remark, Crumpett,” said Mr. Ashmole Pursglove, “that in my judgment that man has the air and demeanour of a finished criminal. I am afraid there is nothing to be said for a man of that type. Our social system makes no sort of provision for him. If I could have my way he would be detained as a hopeless lunatic. He would not be given back to society again.”

“It is curious, Pursglove,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “what an insight into the human heart is given to some men. You know Murtle. Well, Murtle said to me, after having witnessed the man give himself into custody, ‘There is not the least doubt in my mind, Crumpett, that that man is capable of anything.’ And I little thought when Murtle said this, upon, as I considered, very insufficient data, how amply his judgment was to be confirmed.”

After Mr. Octavius Crumpett had shaken hands very cordially with the presiding magistrate, had also thanked him for his disinterested services, and further, had subscribed five pounds to the funds of the court, he entered a hansom and requested to be driven to his club. In the course of the journey he continually made the observation: “Murtle was right! Murtle was quite right! What an astonishing insight that man has into the human heart!”

XXXVI

In the meantime Mr. James Dodson had hurriedly left the precincts of the court. He had made his way headlong to the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel.

“Chrissie,” said the eminent philosopher, “I want something that in the quickest possible time will make me blind to the world. And as soon as I am blind to the world I want you to put me in a cab and send me home.”

“What’s up, Jimmy?” said the lady at the buffet, betraying a lively curiosity. “It isn’t love, because I know by experience that you are not built in that way.”

“A lot you know about it,” said the philosopher hoarsely. “You think because you have thrown me over twice and I have not said a word about it, I haven’t got any feelings at all. You are wrong, Chrissie. If you touch me in the right spot I have to squeal just like anybody else. I want to knock my head against that beer-engine until I can’t feel anything more. And why do you think I want to do that?”

“Ask me another, James Dodson,” said the siren. “But for whatever reason you want to do it, I know very well it is not love.”

“Well, if it is not love,” said Mr. Dodson, “I don’t know what the name is for it. Here is a chap I have known seven years, who was nothing to me at first, who was not the kind of chap a fellow like me would take up with, who has been found guilty of doing things--not one thing mind you, but two--and although he has been found guilty, I say--and he owns up himself--and he has just been put away for six months’ hard labour--the whole business makes me feel--makes me feel, Chrissie, as though I want to commit a murder.”

“Whatever you do, Jimmy,” said the siren, who was genuinely alarmed, “you must keep off brandy. You are absolutely off the square. I can’t make out what is the matter with you; I should have said you would have been the last chap in the world to let go like this.”

“So should I, old girl,” said Mr. Dodson. “I don’t recognize J. D. in this affair at all. The fact is, J. D. never has recognized himself in his dealings with that poor lunatic. But there has come to be something about that chap that is more to me than my own flesh and blood. If it isn’t love I don’t know what it is; yet why it should be love I don’t know. As you know, old girl, I don’t believe much in religion as a general thing, but it has seemed to me lately that that chap was just a saint in disguise. And now they have taken him from me--put him away in gaol--to hard labour--and he deserves it too--and--and, old girl, it has kind of knocked the bottom out of my little world altogether--and--and I feel that I shall never be able to believe in anything again.”

“Steady, old boy,” said Chrissie with an ample yet robust sympathy. “I don’t like to see you let go.”

“I don’t like it either,” said the philosopher whitely. “But I feel just now that I must either let out a little or go mad. One thing is dead sure; I mustn’t go back to the office at present. If I do I am certain to murder Octavius.”

“Jimmy,” said Chrissie, with matronly reserve from behind the buffet, “if you like to bring that ring back again to-morrow I’ll wear it.”

“You give me something that will put me to sleep,” said the philosopher hoarsely and with wild eyes. “Anything--I don’t care what--as long as it does it soon.”

XXXVII

One misty but pleasant morning of the early autumn, a four-wheeled cab was drawn up against the kerb immediately opposite the portals of a London penitentiary. A wizened and undersized young man with black hair, a short bristling moustache, and his hands in his pockets, stood with his back to this vehicle. Upon his not particularly agreeable countenance was a curious air of expectancy.

Ever and anon the young man might have been seen to take out his watch. By the manner in which he regarded it, it was to be surmised that he was growing impatient. He began to pace up and down the pavement in front of the prison. Already he had been waiting more than an hour. It began to seem that he whom he awaited would never appear.

At last there stepped through the sombre portals of the gaol an extremely slight figure, rather above than below the middle height. It was that of a young man. His hands were remarkably slender and delicate; his eyes were large and deep yet extraordinarily luminous; his hair was shaved close to his head. The tardy beams of the sun which were beginning to creep over the great city declared his gaunt face to be suffused by a somewhat curious pallor. In the centre of the right cheek was a slight yet almost hideous natural disfigurement.