Story 5--Chapter II.
Under Temptation.
There is, and there always was, about Walbrook something of an exasperating nature. I don’t care whether you journey upon wheels, or by means of your nature-given supports, you shall always find an obstruction. The pathways are as narrow and awkward as the road; and while there is always a perky, impudent-looking, heavily-laden truck, with its handle either cocked up in defiance, or pointed down insultingly, as it obstructs the horse-drawn traffic, there is sure to be some one carrying a box of stationery, or a bale of paper-hangings, or something or another with hard, harsh corners, to come in contact with your front or your back, to injure your hat, or tear your coat with a ragged nail, or jostle you off into the gutter. It don’t matter when you go down Walbrook, passing by the sombre Mansion House, and seeking to be at peace in the quiet shades of Budge-row, or Watling, you shall certainly have your feathers ruffled, mentally of course; therefore, it was not surprising that Frank Marr, a sturdy young fellow of goodly aspect, and some eight-and-twenty years, should look angry and frowning as he sought the house of old John Richards.
Not that it was at all surprising for people either going to or coming from John Richards’ office to look lowering of brow, for interviews with that gentleman were none of the most pleasant; they had too much to do with interest, and renewing, and bill stamps, and too little to do with hard cash—unless it were for repayments—to be gratifying to any one.
But Frank Marr’s business, as he thought, did not relate to money; and without hanging about the passage in the hope of catching sight of May Richards, his old playmate and boyhood’s love, he asked to be, and was shown at once into the presence of old John Richards,—“Grab-all,”—“Grind-’em,”—“Screw-bones,”—“Publican,”—for by all these pleasant sobriquets was the money-lender known.
But Frank Marr, merchant, who had just passed through the Bankruptcy Court, after five years’ hard struggle with unforeseen difficulties, and paid ten shillings in the pound, after all the expenses had come out of his estate—Frank Marr knew that he had chosen a bad morning for his visit. John Richards’ enemy had him by the leg; and swathed and bandaged, suffering terribly from gout, but transacting business all the same, as many a trembling client knew to his cost, he sat with a curious smile upon his face as the young man entered.
“Now for a fierce volley of rage and curses,” thought Frank; “he shall hear me, though, all the same!” But to his great surprise the old man greeted him most civilly.
“Well, Mr Marr, what’s in the wind, eh? Little accommodation bill, eh? Whose names?”
“No, Mr Richards,” said Frank, dashing at once into the subject nearest his heart, “I have not come about money.”
“Indeed!” said the money-lender, grinning with pain, but still speaking suavely. “Pray what is it, then?”