Its life was parcelled out in almanacks and pocket-books; the coming of its moons, and stars, and tides, was known beforehand to the moment; all the workings of its seasons in their days and nights, were calculated with as much precision as Mr. Filer could work sums in men and women.
The New Year, the New Year. Everywhere the New Year! The Old Year was already looked upon as dead; and its effects were selling cheap, like some drowned mariner′s aboardship. Its patterns were Last Year′s, and going at a sacrifice, before its breath was gone. Its treasures were mere dirt, beside the riches of its unborn successor!
Trotty had no portion, to his thinking, in the New Year or the Old.
′Put ′em down, Put ′em down! Facts and Figures, Facts and Figures! Good old Times, Good old Times! Put ′em down, Put ′em down!′—his trot went to that measure, and would fit itself to nothing else.
But, even that one, melancholy as it was, brought him, in due time, to the end of his journey. To the mansion of Sir Joseph Bowley, Member of Parliament.
The door was opened by a Porter. Such a Porter! Not of Toby′s order. Quite another thing. His place was the ticket though; not Toby′s.
This Porter underwent some hard panting before he could speak; having breathed himself by coming incautiously out of his chair, without first taking time to think about it and compose his mind. When he had found his voice—which it took him a long time to do, for it was a long way off, and hidden under a load of meat—he said in a fat whisper,
′Who′s it from?′
Toby told him.
′You′re to take it in, yourself,′ said the Porter, pointing to a room at the end of a long passage, opening from the hall. ′Everything goes straight in, on this day of the year. You′re not a bit too soon; for the carriage is at the door now, and they have only come to town for a couple of hours, a′ purpose.′
Toby wiped his feet (which were quite dry already) with great care, and took the way pointed out to him; observing as he went that it was an awfully grand house, but hushed and covered up, as if the family were in the country. Knocking at the room-door, he was told to enter from within; and doing so found himself in a spacious library, where, at a table strewn with files and papers, were a stately lady in a bonnet; and a not very stately gentleman in black who wrote from her dictation; while another, and an older, and a much statelier gentleman, whose hat and cane were on the table, walked up and down, with one hand in his breast, and looked complacently from time to time at his own picture—a full length; a very full length—hanging over the fireplace.
′What is this?′ said the last-named gentleman. ′Mr. Fish, will you have the goodness to attend?′
Mr. Fish begged pardon, and taking the letter from Toby, handed it, with great respect.
′From Alderman Cute, Sir Joseph.′
′Is this all? Have you nothing else, Porter?′ inquired Sir Joseph.
Toby replied in the negative.
′You have no bill or demand upon me—my name is Bowley, Sir Joseph Bowley—of any kind from anybody, have you?′ said Sir Joseph. ′If you have, present it. There is a cheque-book by the side of Mr. Fish. I allow nothing to be carried into the New Year. Every description of account is settled in this house at the close of the old one. So that if death was to—to—′
′To cut,′ suggested Mr. Fish.
′To sever, sir,′ returned Sir Joseph, with great asperity, ′the cord of existence—my affairs would be found, I hope, in a state of preparation.
© e-libr.com
feedback