| "The story of our Lives from Year to Year"
All the Year Round | ||
| No. 13. New Series. | Saturday, February 27, 1869. | Price Twopence. |
Wrecked in Port.
A Serial Story by the Author of "Black Sheep."
Book II.
Chapter III."News From the Humming City."
After the ladies left the dining-room, Walter Joyce, in the general re-arrangement of seats thereon ensuing, found himself placed next to Mr. Gould. It was soon obvious that his propinquity was not accidental on Mr. Gould's part. That keen-looking gentleman at once wheeled round in his chair, helped himself to a few olives and a glass of the driest sherry within his reach, and then fixing his bright steel-blue eyes on his neighbour, said, "That was news for you, that about young Creswell's accident, Mr. Joyce?"
"It was indeed," replied Walter; "and—to a certain extent—sad news."
"You knew the boy who was killed, and his father?"
"Both. I knew the boy well; he was a pupil in the school where I was an usher, and I knew the father—by sight—as a man in my position would know a man in his."
"Ah—of course!" and Mr. Gould glanced more keenly than ever at his interlocutor, to see whether he was speaking earnestly or contemptuously. Earnestly, he thought, after a glance, and Joyce fell a little in the worldly man's opinion. He sucked an olive slowly, made a little pattern on his plate with the stones, and then said, "Do you think this affair will make any difference in Mr. Creswell's future?"
"In his future? Will the loss of his son make any difference in his future? Are you serious in asking such a question, Mr. Gould? Will it not leave his life a blank, a vague misery without"
"Yes, yes, of course; I know all about that. You'll pardon me, Mr. Joyce, I'm a much older man than you, and therefore you won't mind my experiencing a certain amount of delight in your perfect freshness and simplicity. As to leaving the man's life blank, and all that—nonsense, my dear sir, sheer nonsense. He'll find plenty of distraction, even at his age, to fill up the blank. Now I was not considering the question from a domestic point of view in the least; what I meant was, do you think that it will alter any of his intentions as regards public life?"
"Public life?—Mr. Creswell?"
"Yes, indeed, public life, Mr. Creswell! I suppose now there's no harm in telling you that the Conservative authorities in London, the wire-pullers in Westminster, have long had it in their minds to wrest the second seat for Brocksopp from the Liberals, that at the next general election they have determined to make the fight, and they have selected Mr. Creswell as their champion."
"Mr. Creswell of Woolgreaves—going into Parliament?"
"Well, that's rather a summary way of putting it, Mr. Joyce," said the lawyer with a chuckle. "Say rather, going to try to get into Parliament! Didwell, of Brocksopp, the Liberal agent, is a deuced longheaded fellow, and will make a tremendous struggle to keep Mr. Creswell out in the cold. Do you know Didwell, of Brocksopp?"
"I have a slight acquaintance with him."
"Then you've a slight acquaintance with a remarkably sharp character, and one who never misses a chance for his party. It will be a tremendous fight, sir, this next election," said Mr. Gould, warming up, placing all his olive stones in a row, and charging at them with his dessert-knife;
