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

put on them for the three years before? And yet that is precisely what you dignify with the name of compensation. Tell him if he built a house, that he lived in it; if he fenced the land, that the neighbors’ cattle made fewer trespasses; if he drained, the soil was the drier. Your cry of compensation won’t do, Raper. I might as well ask an insurance office to pay me for taking care of my health, and give me a bonus whenever I took castor oil!”

      “The cases are not alike, sir. If his improvements be of a permanent character – ”

      “Is this an office, Mister Raper, or is it a debating society?” broke in Fagan. “My answer to Moore is, pay, and go – to the devil, if he likes.”

      “Sir Harry Wheeler,” continued Joe, “writes from Cheltenham that he thinks there must be a mistake about the bill for three hundred and forty odd, – that it was included In the bond he gave in September last.”

      “File a bill, send for Crowther, and let him proceed against him.”

      “But I think he ‘s right, sir; the memorandum is somewhere here. I put it amongst the W’s; for we have no box for Sir Harry.”

      “It’s a nice way to keep accounts, Mister Raper; I must say it’s very creditable to you,” said Fagan, who, when any inaccuracy occurred, always reproached Joe with the system that he rigidly compelled him to follow. “Perhaps it’s classical, however; maybe it’s the way the ancients did it! But I ‘ll tell you what, sir, you ‘d cut an ugly figure before the courts if you came to be examined; your Latin and Greek wouldn’t screen you there.”

      “Here it is, – here’s the note,” said Joe, who had all the while been prosecuting his search. “It’s in your own hand, and mentions that this sum forms a portion of the debt now satisfied by his bond.”

      “Cancel the bill, and tell him so. What’s that letter yonder?”

      “It is marked ‘strictly private and confidential,’ sir; but comes from Walter Carew, Esq.”

      “Then why not give it to me at once? Why keep pottering about every trifle of no moment, sir?” said Fagan, as he broke the seal, and drew near to the window to read. It was very brief, and ran thus: —

      Dear Fagan, – Shylock could n’t hold a candle to you; such an infernal mess of interest, compound interest, costs, and commission as you have sent me I never beheld! However, for the present I must endure all your exactions, even to the tune of fifty per cent. Let me have cash for the enclosed three bills, for one thousand each, drawn at the old dates, and, of course, to be ‘done’ at the old discount.

      I have just taken a wife, and am in want of ready money to buy some of the customary tomfooleries of the occasion.

      Regards to Polly and her fat terrier.

      Yours, in haste,

      Walter Carew.

      “Read that,” said Fagan, handing the letter to his clerk, while the veins in his forehead swelled out with passion, and his utterance grew hoarse and thick.

      Raper carefully perused the note, and then proceeded to examine the bills, when Fagan snatched them rudely from his hand.

      “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