Framley Parsonage, Anthony Trollope [popular e readers txt] 📗

that I called, and that I shall be much obliged if he can meet me at the Dragon of Wantly⁠—say at two tomorrow. I will go down by the express.”

Mark Robarts, in talking over this coming money trouble with Sowerby, had once mentioned that if it were necessary to take up the bill for a short time he might be able to borrow the money from his brother. So much of the father’s legacy still remained in the hands of the private secretary as would enable him to produce the amount of the latter bill, and there could be no doubt that he would lend it if asked. Mr. Sowerby’s visit to the Petty Bag Office had been caused by a desire to learn whether any such request had been made⁠—and also by a half-formed resolution to make the request himself if he should find that the clergyman had not done so. It seemed to him to be a pity that such a sum should be lying about, as it were, within reach, and that he should not stoop to put his hands upon it. Such abstinence would be so contrary to all the practice of his life that it was as difficult to him as it is for a sportsman to let pass a cock-pheasant. But yet something like remorse touched his heart as he sat there balancing himself on his chair in the private secretary’s room, and looking at the young man’s open face.

“Yes; I’ll write to him,” said John Robarts; “but he hasn’t said anything to me about anything particular.”

“Hasn’t he? It does not much signify. I only mentioned it because I thought I understood him to say that he would.” And then Mr. Sowerby went on swinging himself. How was it that he felt so averse to mention that little sum of £500 to a young man like John Robarts, a fellow without wife or children or calls on him of any sort, who would not even be injured by the loss of the money, seeing that he had an ample salary on which to live? He wondered at his own weakness. The want of the money was urgent on him in the extreme. He had reasons for supposing that Mark would find it very difficult to renew the bills, but he, Sowerby, could stop their presentation if he could get this money at once into his own hands.

“Can I do anything for you?” said the innocent lamb, offering his throat to the butcher.

But some unwonted feeling numbed the butcher’s fingers, and blunted his knife. He sat still for half a minute after the question, and then jumping from his seat, declined the offer. “No, no; nothing, thank you. Only write to Mark, and say that I shall be there tomorrow,” and then, taking his hat, he hurried out of the office. “What an ass I am,” he said to himself as he went: “as if it were of any use now to be particular!”

He then got into a cab and had himself driven half way up Portman Street towards the New Road, and walking from thence a few hundred yards down a cross-street he came to a public-house. It was called the “Goat and Compasses,”⁠—a very meaningless name, one would say; but the house boasted of being a place of public entertainment very long established on that site, having been a tavern out in the country in the days of Cromwell. At that time the pious landlord, putting up a pious legend for the benefit of his pious customers, had declared that⁠—“God encompasseth us.” The “Goat and Compasses” in these days does quite as well; and, considering the present character of the house, was perhaps less unsuitable than the old legend.

“Is Mr. Austen here?” asked Mr. Sowerby of the man at the bar.

“Which on ’em? Not Mr. John; he ain’t here. Mr. Tom is in⁠—the little room on the left-hand side.” The man whom Mr. Sowerby would have preferred to see was the elder brother, John; but as he was not to be found, he did go into the little room. In that room he found⁠—Mr. Austen, Junior, according to one arrangement of nomenclature, and Mr. Tom Tozer according to another. To gentlemen of the legal profession he generally chose to introduce himself as belonging to the respectable family of the Austens; but among his intimates he had always been⁠—Tozer.

Mr. Sowerby, though he was intimate with the family, did not love the Tozers; but he especially hated Tom Tozer. Tom Tozer was a bull-necked, beetle-browed fellow, the expression of whose face was eloquent with acknowledged roguery. “I am a rogue,” it seemed to say. “I know it; all the world knows it: but you’re another. All the world don’t know that, but I do. Men are all rogues, pretty nigh. Some are soft rogues, and some are ’cute rogues. I am a ’cute one; so mind your eye.” It was with such words that Tom Tozer’s face spoke out; and though a thorough liar in his heart, he was not a liar in his face.

“Well, Tozer,” said Mr. Sowerby, absolutely shaking hands with the dirty miscreant, “I wanted to see your brother.”

“John ain’t here, and ain’t like; but it’s all as one.”

“Yes, yes; I suppose it is. I know you two hunt in couples.”

“I don’t know what you mean about hunting, Mr. Sowerby. You gents ’as all the hunting, and we poor folk ’as all the work. I hope you’re going to make up this trifle of money we’re out of so long.”

“It’s about that I’ve called. I don’t know what you call long, Tozer; but the last bill was only dated in February.”

“It’s overdue; ain’t it?”

“Oh, yes; it’s overdue. There’s no doubt about that.”

“Well; when a bit of paper is come round, the next thing is to take it up. Them’s my ideas. And to tell you the truth, Mr. Sowerby, we don’t think as ’ow you’ve been treating us just on the square lately. In that matter of Lord Lufton’s you was down on us uncommon.”

“You