with her. A gentleman who could not himself deign to carry even that small bundle must be indeed a gentleman! Had he come with a portmanteau—even with a carpet-bag—the porter’s service would have been no evidence of rank; but accustomed as she was chiefly to gentlemen engaged in commercial pursuits, it was new to her experience,—a gentleman with effects so light, and hands so aristocratically helpless. Herein were equally betokened the two attributes of birth and wealth; namely, the habit of command and the disdain of shillings. A vague remembrance of the well-known story how a man and his dog had arrived at the Granby Hotel, at Harrowgate, and been sent away roomless to the other and less patrician establishment, because, while he had a dog, he had not a servant; when, five minutes after such dismissal, came carriages and lackeys and an imperious valet, asking for his grace the Duke of A————, who had walked on before with his dog, and who, oh, everlasting thought of remorse! had been sent away to bring the other establishment into fashion,—a vague reminiscence of that story, I say, flashed upon the landlady’s mind, and she exclaimed, “I only thought, sir, you might prefer the stables; of course, it is as you please. This way, sir. He is a fine animal, indeed, and seems mild.”
“You may bring up the bundle, porter,” quoth the Pere Noble. “Take my arm, my dear; these steps are very steep.”
The landlady threw open the door of a handsome sitting-room,—her best: she pulled down the blinds to shut out the glare of the sun; then retreating to the threshold awaited further orders.
“Rest yourself, my dear,” said the Actor, placing Sophy on a couch with that tender respect for sex and childhood which so specially belongs to the high-bred. “The room will do, ma’am. I will let you know later whether we shall require beds. As to dinner, I am not particular,—a cutlet, a chicken, what you please, at seven o’clock. Stay, I beg your pardon for detaining you, but where does the Mayor live?”
“His private residence is a mile out of the town, but his counting-house is just above the Town Hall,—to the right, sir.”
“Name?”
“Mr. Hartopp!”
“Hartopp! Ah! to be sure! Hartopp. His political opinions, I think, are” (ventures at a guess) “enlightened?”
LANDLADY.—“Very much so, sir. Mr. Hartopp is highly respected.”
WAIFE.—“The chief municipal officer of a town so thriving—fine shops and much plate glass—must march with the times. I think I have heard that Mr. Hartopp promotes the spread of intelligence and the propagation of knowledge.”
LANDLADY (rather puzzled).—“I dare say, sir. The Mayor takes great interest in the Gatesboro’ Athemeum and Literary Institute.”
WAIFE.—“Exactly what I should have presumed from his character and station. I will detain you no longer, ma’am” (ducal bow). The landlady descended the stairs. Was her guest a candidate for the representation of the town at the next election? March with the times!—spread of intelligence! All candidates she ever knew had that way of expressing themselves,—“March” and “Spread.” Not an address had parliamentary aspirant put forth to the freemen and electors of Gatesboro’ but what “March” had been introduced by the candidate, and “Spread” been suggested by the committee. Still she thought that her guest, upon the whole, looked and bowed more like a member of the Upper House,—perhaps one of the amiable though occasionally prosy peers who devote the teeth of wisdom to the cracking of those very hard nuts, “How to educate the masses,” “What to do with our criminals,” and such like problems, upon which already have been broken so many jawbones tough as that with which Samson slew the Philistines.
“Oh, Grandfather!” sighed Sophy, “what are you about? We shall be ruined, you, too, who are so careful not to get into debt. And what have we left to pay the people here?”
“Sir Isaac! and THIS!” returned the Comedian, touching his forehead. “Do not alarm yourself: stay here and repose; and don’t let Sir Isaac out of the room on any account!”
He took off his hat, brushed the nap carefully with his sleeve, replaced it on his head,—not jauntily aside, not like a jeune premier, but with equilateral brims, and in composed fashion, like a pere noble; then, making a sign to Sir Isaac to rest quiet, he passed to the door; there he halted, and turning towards Sophy, and, meeting her wistful eyes, his own eye moistened. “Ah!” he murmured, “Heaven grant I may succeed now, for if I do, then you shall indeed be a little lady!”
He was gone.
CHAPTER X
Showing with what success Gentleman Waife assumes the pleasing part of friend to the enlightenment of the age and the progress of the people.
On the landing-place, Waife encountered the Irish porter, who, having left the bundle in the drawing-room, was waiting patiently to be paid for his trouble.
The Comedian surveyed the good-humoured shrewd face, on every line of which was writ the golden maxim, “Take things asy.” “I beg your pardon, my friend; I had almost forgotten you. Have you been long in this town?”
“Four years, and long life to your honour!”
“Do you know Mr. Hartopp, the Mayor?”
“Is it his worship the Mayor? Sure and it is the Mayor as has made a man o’ Mike Callaghan.”
The Comedian evinced urbane curiosity to learn the history of that process, and drew forth a grateful tale. Four summers ago Mike had resigned the “first gem of the sea” in order to assist in making hay for a Saxon taskmaster.
Mr. Hartopp, who farmed largely, had employed him in that rural occupation. Seized by a malignant fever, Mr. Hartopp had helped him through it, and naturally conceived a liking for the man he helped. Thus, as Mike became convalescent, instead of passing the poor man back to his own country, which at that time gave little employment to the surplus of its agrarian population beyond an occasional shot at a parson,—an employment, though animated, not lucrative, he exercised Mike’s returning strength upon a few light jobs in his warehouse; and finally, Mike marrying imprudently the daughter of a Gatesboro’ operative, Mr. Hartopp set him up in life as a professional messenger and porter, patronized by the Corporation. The narrative made it evident that Mr. Hartopp was a kind and worthy man, and the Comedian’s heart warmed towards him.
“An honour to our species, this Mr. Hartopp!” said Waife, striking his staff upon the floor; “I covet his acquaintance. Would he see you if you called at his counting-house?”
Mike replied in the affirmative with eager pride. “Mr. Hartopp would see him at once. Sure, did not the Mayor know that time was money? Mr. Hartopp was not a man to keep the poor waiting.”
“Go down and stay outside the hall door; you shall take a note for me to the Mayor.”
Waife then passed into the bar, and begged the favour of a sheet of note-paper. The landlady seated him at her own desk, and thus wrote the Comedian:
“Mr. Chapman presents his compliments to the Mayor of Gatesboro’, and requests the Honour of a very short interview. Mr. Chapman’s deep interest in the permanent success of those literary institutes which are so distinguished a feature of this enlightened age, and Mr. Mayor’s well-known zeal in the promotion of those invaluable societies, must be Mr. Chapman’s excuse
