He finished his work, and walked down with it to the Statesman Office. On his return he found a commissionaire in the hall talking to his servant. He asked the latter where her mistress was, but the girl said she had not come in, at the same time handing him a letter. It was very brief; it merely said:
"You have decided; and henceforth you and I never meet again. Mrs. Schröder, with whom I am staying, will send her maid for a box which I have left ready packed. I hope you may be more happy with your correspondent, and in your return to your old life, than you have been with B. C."
As Frank Churchill read this, the lines wavered before his eyes, and he reeled against the wall.
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
MR. SCADGERS PAYS A VISIT.
Those who had been most intimately acquainted with Mr. Scadgers of Newman Street had never known him under any circumstances devote a portion of his valuable time to sacrificing to the Graces. He was popularly supposed to sleep in his clothes; and as those garments were seldom entirely free from fluff or "flue," there were probably some grounds for the supposition; but he could not have slept in his big high-boots, though no one had ever seen him without them, save Jinks. Jinks had more than once seen his master with slippered feet, and trembled; for Mr. Scadgers' boots were to him what those other Ingoldsby-celebrated boots were to the Baron Ralph de Shurland, what his hair was to Samson, what his high-heels were to Louis Quatorze. Without his boots, Mr. Scadgers was quite a different man; he talked of "giving time," of "waiting a day or two," of "holding-off a bit;" this was in his slippers: but when once his boots were on, in speaking of the same debtor he told Jinks to "sell him up slick, and clear off all his sticks." He always seemed to wear the same suit of black, and all the washing that he was ever known to indulge in was by smearing himself with the damp corner of a towel, which he kept in the office between the chemist's bottles, one of which held the water; while his toilette was completed by running a pocket-comb through his close-cropped hair, and then smoothing it down with the palms of his hands, whisking his boots with his red-silk pocket-handkerchief, and putting sharp spiky points to his nails by the aid of a vicious-looking buck-handled penknife.
Thoroughly accustomed to his patron's appearance, Jinks was, then, struck with wonderment on beholding him one morning enter the office in comparatively gorgeous array. Through the folds of a white waistcoat there protruded a large shirt-frill, certainly of rather a yellow hue, and not so neat in the plaits as it ought to have been, but for all that an undeniable frill, such as adorned the breasts of the dandies of the last generation; his usual napless greasy hat had been discarded for a very elegant article in white beaver, which had apparently been the property of some other gentleman, and acquired by its present owner in that species of commercial transaction known as a "swop," as it was much too large for Mr. Scadgers, and obliterated every sign of his hair, while a corner of the red-silk pocket-handkerchief fell out gracefully over the back of his head. In his hand Mr. Scadgers carried one damp black-beaver glove, and a thick stick like an elongated ruler, with a silver top and a silk tassel. Mr. Jinks was so overpowered at this apparition that he sat gazing with open mouth at his master, unable to speak a word; he had one comfort, however,--Mr. Scadgers had his boots on, so that under all this frivolity there lurked an intention of stern business.
Mr. Scadgers took no notice of his subordinate's astonishment; but placing the glove and the stick on his desk, taking off the white hat, and having a thorough mopping with the red-silk pocket-handkerchief, looked through his letters, and proceeded to indorse them, for Jinks to answer, in his usual business way. Some of his correspondence amused him, for he smiled and shook his head at the letter in a waggish way, as though the writer were chaffing him; in glancing over another he would lay his finger alongside his nose and mutter, "No, no, my boy! not by no means, no how!" while at others his larger eye would gleam ferociously, the upper corner of his mouth would twist higher than ever, and he would shake his fist at the paper and utter words not pleasant to hear. His mental emotions did not, however, interfere with his business habits: as he finished each letter he wrote the substance of his reply on the back for Jinks to copy, drew three or four cheques, which he also handed over to his factotum, and locked away some flimsy documents which had formed the contents of certain of the letters, in his cash-box. Some of the letters received by that morning's post had contained bank-notes, and these Mr. Scadgers examined most scrupulously before putting them away, holding them between his eyes and the light to examine the water-mark, carefully scrutinising the engraving, and finally comparing the numbers, dates, and ciphers, with the list contained in a printed bill pasted against the inside of his desk-lid headed "Stolen." Over one of the notes, after comparing it with this list, Mr. Scadgers chuckled vastly.
"90275 LB January 12! there you are correct to a T. I thought they'd turn up about this time. I say, Jinks, here's one of the notes as was stolen from Robarts's; you recollect? Come up from Doncaster in renewal-fee from Honourable Capting Maitland. He took it over the Leger, no doubt: they always thought at Scotland Yard that that was the way those notes would get put off; and they was right. Send this back to the capting, Jinks,--he's gone back to Leeds barracks now,--and tell him all about it; we can't have that, you know; might get us into trouble; and if he wants a renewal, he must send another. He won't know where he got it from, bless you! reg'lar careless cove as ever was; he ain't due till Friday, and he's sent up to-day in a reg'lar fright. You must step round to Moss's and tell 'em to proceed in Hetherington's matter. There's a letter there from Sir Mordaunt, askin' for more time, and promisin' all sorts of things; but I'm sick of him and his blather. Tell Moss to put the screw on, and he'll pay up fast enough. Write a line to young Sewell, and tell him he can have 125l., and the rest in madeiry. He's in Scotland; you'll find his address in the book,--Killy-something; say the wine can be sent to the Albany; but I won't do it in any other way. Any one been in this morning?"
"Only Sharp, from Parkinson's," said Mr. Jinks, who was already deep in letter-writing.