A PURVEYOR OF NEWS.
Mr. Hobson gave his address at Duke Street, St. James's, a lodging-house frequented by gentlemen from the neighbouring clubs. But he was never there except asleep. There was nothing strange in this as none of the occupants of the house were much there, except at night-time—they lived at their clubs.
So, for all the landlady knew, did Mr. Hobson. But we know better. He had no club, and his daily absence from breakfast—simply a cup of coffee and a roll, which he took in the French fashion, early—till late at night was to be accounted for by his constant presence at his office or place of business, although it was both and neither. This was in a little street off Bloomsbury, the first floor over a newspaper shop.
Mr. Hobson passed here as an agent for a country paper. It was supposed to be his business to collect and transmit news to his principals at a large seaport town on the East Coast. These were days before the present development of newspaper enterprise, when leading provincial journals have their own London offices and a private wire. Mr. Hobson's principles were very liberal according to the idea of that time; they seemed to grudge no expense with regard to the transmission of news.
Telegrams were costly things in those days, but Mr. Hobson sometimes sent off half-a-dozen in the course of a morning. He was served too, and exceedingly well, by special agents of his own, who came to him at all hours—in cabs driven recklessly, or on foot, in a stealthy, apologetic way, as though doubtful whether the news they brought would be acceptable.
The office upstairs bore out the notion of the news-agency. Its chief furniture consisted of two long, sloping tables, on which lay files of daily papers. There was one big book-case handy near the fireplace, and over the desk at which Mr. Hobson sat. On the shelves of this were ranged a couple of dozen volumes, each bearing a label on which were various letters and numerals.
On the desk itself were the usual writing appliances, a large pair of scissors, and a wide-mouthed bottle of gum.
Let us look in at Mr. Hobson on his first arrival at his office, soon after eight o'clock.
His first business was to ring his bell, which communicated with the shop below.
"My papers! It is past eight."
"Here they are, sir, the whole lot—Times, 'Tizer, Morning Chronicle, and Morning Post."
"Why do you oblige me to ask for them? Can't you bring them as I have told you? It makes me so late with my work." And, having delivered himself of these testy remarks, he threw himself into an arm-chair and proceeded to devour the morning's news.
"Nothing fresh from the East?" As he now talked to himself, this smooth-shaven, typical Englishman spoke, strange to say, in French. "Have Messieurs the correspondents no news? No letter in the Post? None in the Morning Chronicle? How disappointing! Ha! what's this? Two columns in the Times. How admirably that excellent paper is served! Let's see what it says."
He hastily ran his eye down the columns, muttering to himself: "Ha! mostly strong language—finding fault. How kind of you to be dissatisfied with the administration, and to tell us why. The siege practically suspended, eh? Fuses won't fit the shells—so much the better, then the mortars can't fire.
"But that's no news: my friends and good masters will have found that out for themselves. Anything else? 'Our new battery, which is only seven hundred yards from the enemy's guns, is nearly completed.' Which battery does he mean? Has he referred to it before?"
And Mr. Hobson, as we shall still call him, got up from his seat and took a volume down from the shelf. It was labelled "T. 14, M. 55." These expressions expanded meant that it contained extracts from the Times, the 14th volume, for May, 1855.
After referring to an alphabetical index, he quickly turned over the leaves of the book till he found a certain page.
"Ah! here it is," he said. "'We have commenced another battery just in front of the quarries, the nearest to the enemy's works. It will be armed with the heaviest ordnance,' &c. &c. And now it is nearly ready. That must be passed on without delay."
Mr. Hobson turned to his desk and indited a telegram. It was addressed to Arrowsmith, Hull, and said—
"New shop, as already indicated, will be opened at once. Let our Gothenburg correspondent know."
"I will take it over myself. But let me first see whether there is anything to add."
He resumed his reading, and presently came to the following passage:—
"'Lord Lyons had just returned from a cruise in the Black Sea. This confirms my impression that some new movement is contemplated. Regiments have been placed under orders, and there is great stir among the fleet. A secret expedition is on the point of being despatched somewhere, but the real destination no one as yet knows. Camp-gossip is, of course, busy; but I will not repeat the idle and misleading rumours that are on every lip.'
"Another expedition planned! I must know more of this. Where can it be going? Is it meant for the Sea of Azof and Kertch, like the last, which alarmed us so, and never got so far?
"What a business that was! We heard of it long beforehand; preparations for transport, and the embarkation of the troops. The fleet left Kamiesch, steering northward, past Sebastopol, and we thought the latter would be attacked. But lo! next morning the enemy were not in sight; the fleet had returned to Kamiesch Bay. What did it mean? It was weeks before I learnt the right story, and then it came from Paris. General Canrobert had changed his mind. The Emperor had told him not to send away any troops, but to keep all concentrated before Sebastopol. So the expedition to Kertch—for it was directed against Kertch, and the northward move was only intended to deceive us—all ended in smoke. Can they be going again to Kertch? It is hardly likely. They have some deeper designs, I feel sure. This would tally with my latest advice. Let me read once more what the Prince says."
He took a key from his pocket, opened his desk, and unlocked an inner receptacle, from which he took a letter in cypher.
"'We have learnt,' he read, fluently, without using any key, 'that the enemy contemplate a great change in their plan of operations. It is reported that they propose to raise the siege, or at least reduce it to a mere blockade. The great bulk of the allied army would then be transferred to sea to another point where it would take the field against our line of communications. It is essential that we should know at the earliest date whether there is any foundation in this report. Use every endeavour to this end.'
"Yes; there can be no doubt that this surmise is corroborated by the latest news. But I must have more precise and correct information without delay. How is it to be obtained? Which of my agents can help me best? Lavitsky? He works in Woolwich Arsenal—he might know if more wheeled transport had been ordered. Or Bauer, at Portsmouth—he would know of any movements in the fleet. Or—
"Of course!" and he slapped his forehead, despising his own stupidity. "Cyprienne—she can, and must, manage this."
He proceeded to put back the papers into the secret drawer; he replaced the volume on the shelf, and, taking the telegram he had written in his hand, left the office, carefully locking the door behind him.
Hailing a cab, he was driven first to a telegraph-station, where he sent off his despatch, only adding the words:—
"Other important transactions in the shipping interest will shortly be undertaken; more precise details will speedily follow."
Then he directed the cabman to drive to Thistle Grove, Brompton.
"Is Mrs. Wilders visible yet?" he asked the servant, on reaching her house.
"Madame does not receive so early," replied the man, a foreigner, speaking broken English, who was new to the establishment, and had never seen Mr. Hobson before.
"Take in my name!" said Mr. Hobson, peremptorily. "It is urgent, say. I must see her at once."
"I will tell madame's maid."
"Do so, and look sharp about it. Don't trouble about me—be off and tell the maid. I know my way;" and Mr. Hobson marched himself into the morning-room.
This room, in the forenoon, was on the shady side of the house—it looked on to a pretty garden, a small, level lawn of intensely green grass, jewelled with flowers. The windows, reaching to the ground, were wide open, and near one was drawn a small round table, on which was set a dainty breakfast-service of pink-and-white china, glistening plate, and crimson roses, standing out in pleasant relief upon the snowy damask.
"Beyond question, madame has a knack of making herself comfortable. I have seldom seen a cosier retreat on a broiling summer's day, and in this dusty, dirty town. She has not breakfasted yet, nor, except for my cup of coffee, have I. I will do myself the pleasure of joining her. A cutlet and a glass of cool claret will suit me admirably just now, and we can talk as we eat."
While he stood there, admiring cynically, Mrs. Wilders came in.
She was in a loose morning wrapper of pale pink, and had seemingly taken little trouble with her day's toilette as yet. Her negligé dress hinted at hurry in leaving her room, and she addressed her visitor in a hasty, impatient way.
"What is this so urgent that you come intruding at such an unseemly hour?"
"You grow indolent, my dear madame. Why, it is half-past eleven."
"I have not yet breakfasted."
"So I see. I am delighted. No more have I."
"Was it to ask yourself to breakfast that you came here this morning?"
"Not entirely; another little matter brought me; but we can deal with the two at the same time. Pray order them to serve: I am excessively hungry."
Mrs. Wilders, without answering, pettishly pulled the bell.
"Lay another cover," she told the man, "and bring wine with the breakfast. You will want it, I suppose," she said to her guest; "I never touch it in the morning."
"How charmingly you manage! You have a special gift as a housewife. What a delightful meal! I have seen nothing more refined in Paris."
There was a delicious lobster-salad, a dish of cold cutlets and jelly, and a great heap of strawberries with cream.
"Now get to business," said Mrs. Wilders, in a snarling, ill-tempered way; "let's have it out."
"It's a pity you are out of humour this morning," observed Mr. Hobson, with a provoking forbearance. "I have come to find fault."
Mrs. Wilders shrugged her shoulders, implying that she did not care.
"It may seem ungracious, but I must take you to task seriously. How is it you give me no news?"
"I tell you all I hear; what more do you want?"
"A great deal. Look here, Cyprienne, I am not to be put off with stale, second-hand gossip—the echoes of the Clubs; vague, empty rumours that are on everybody's tongue long before they come to me. I must have fresh, brand-new intelligence, straight from the fountain-head. You must get it for me, or—"
The old frightened look which we have seen on Mrs. Wilders's face before when brought into antagonism with this man returned to it, and her voice was less firm, her manner less defiant, as she said—
"Spare me your threats. You know I am most anxious to oblige you—to help you."
"You have put me off too long with these vague promises. I must have something more tangible at once."
"It is so difficult to find out anything."
"Not if you go the right way to work. A woman of your attractions, your cleverness, ought to be able to twist any man round her finger. You have done it often enough already, goodness knows. Now, there's old Faulks; when did you see him last?"
"Not a week ago."
"And you got nothing out of him? I thought he was devoted to you."
"He is most attentive, most obliging, but still exceedingly wary. He will talk about anything rather than business. I have tried him repeatedly. I have introduced the subject of his nephew, of whom he is now so proud."
"Your enemy, you mean—that young McKay."
"Exactly. I thought that by bringing the conversation to the Crimea I might squeeze out something important. But no! he is always as close as an oyster."
"He will be ready enough to talk about his dear nephew before long. You may look out for some startling news about McKay."
"Really?" said Mrs. Wilders, growing suddenly excited. "Your plan has succeeded, then?"
"Any day you may hear that he has been removed effectually, and for ever, from your path. But for the moment that will keep. What presses is that you should squeeze old Faulks. There is something that I must know to-day, or to-morrow at latest. You must go and see him at once."
"At his office?"
"Why not?"
"But on what pretence? I have never been there as yet. He has always come here to lunch or dine. He is fond of a good dinner."
"Ask him again."
"But I could do that by letter. He may suspect me if I go to him without some plausible excuse."
"Trump up some story about his nephew. Only get to him; he will soon give you an opening you can turn to account. I trust to your cleverness for that; only lose no time."
"Must I go to-day?"
"This very afternoon; directly you leave the house."