The time was nine o'clock in the morning. The place was a private
room in one of the old-fashioned inns which still remain on
the Borough side of the Thames. The date was Monday, the 11th
of August. And the person was Mr. Bashwood, who had traveled
to London on a summons from his son, and had taken up his abode
at the inn on the previous day.
He had never yet looked so pitiably old and helpless as he looked
now. The fever and chill of alternating hope and despair had
dried, and withered, and wasted him. The angles of his figure had
sharpened. The outline of his face had shrunk. His dress pointed
the melancholy change in him with a merciless and shocking
emphasis. Never, even in his youth, had he worn such clothes as
he wore now. With the desperate resolution to leave no chance
untried of producing an impression on Miss Gwilt, he had cast
aside his dreary black garments; he had even mustered the courage
to wear his blue satin cravat. His coat was a riding-coat of
light gray. He had ordered it, with a vindictive subtlety of
purpose, to be made on the pattern of a coat that he had seen
Allan wear. His waistcoat was white; his trousers were of the
gayest summer pattern, in the largest check. His wig was oiled
and scented, and brushed round, on either side, to hide the
wrinkles on his temples. He was an object to laugh at; he was an
object to weep over. His enemies, if a creature so wretched could
have had enemies, would have forgiven him, on seeing him in his
new dress. His friends—had any of his friends been left—would
have been less distressed if they had looked at him in his coffin
than if they had looked at him as he was now. Incessantly
restless, he paced the room from end to end. Now he looked at
his watch; now he looked out of the window; now he looked at
the well-furnished breakfast-table—always with the same wistful, uneasy inquiry in his eyes. The waiter coming in, with the urn of boiling water, was addressed for the fiftieth time in the one form of words which the miserable creature seemed to be capable of uttering that morning: "My son is coming to breakfast. My son is very particular. I want everything of the best—hot things and cold things—and tea and coffee—and all the rest of it, waiter; all the rest of it." For the fiftieth time, he now reiterated those anxious words. For the fiftieth time, the impenetrable waiter had just returned his one pacifying answer, "All right, sir; you may leave it to me"—when the sound of leisurely footsteps was heard on the stairs; the door opened; and the long-expected son sauntered indolently into the room, with a neat little black leather bag in his hand.
"Well done, old gentleman!" said Bashwood the younger, surveying
his father's dress with a smile of sardonic encouragement. "You're ready to be married to Miss Gwilt at a moment's notice!"
The father took the son's hand, and tried to echo the son's
laugh.
"You have such good spirits, Jemmy," he said, using the name in
its familiar form, as he had been accustomed to use it in happier
days. "You always had good spirits, my dear, from a child. Come
and sit down; I've ordered you a nice breakfast. Everything of
the best! everything of the best! What a relief it is to see you! Oh, dear, dear, what a relief it is to see you." He stopped and sat down at the table, his face flushed with the effort to control the impatience that was devouring him. "Tell me about her!" he burst out, giving up the effort with a sudden self-abandonment. "I shall die, Jemmy, if I wait for it any longer. Tell me! tell me! tell me!"
"One thing at a time," said Bashwood the younger, perfectly
unmoved by his father's impatience. "We'll try the breakfast
first, and come to the lady afterward! Gently does it, old
gentleman—gently does it!"
He put his leather bag on a chair, and sat down opposite to
his father, composed, and smiling, and humming a little tune.