CHAPTER II

MR. GREWGIOUS’S NEW CLERK

MR. GREWGIOUS, in his solitary chambers in Staple Inn, sipping a cup of coffee after a late dinner, and sipping it in no very enviable frame of mind, has had a trying day. He is feeling deeply that he is getting too old for change, and yet change has been forced upon him — come upon him, as he says to himself, disconsolately, like a clap of thunder from a cloudless sky.

For, however unpleasant it may be, in some points of view, to have a clerk who, intellectually, is immeasurably your superior, and who never hesitates to force the conviction of this fact down your reluctant throat — a bitter tonic for your humility; however inconvenient it may be to have a clerk, so liable to wander into the mazes of fancy and lose himself there as to be never up to the point of poking his own fire, and therefore virtually compelling you to perform that office for him; however harrowing to the feelings it may be, to have a clerk so sunk in melancholy and clogged by the weight of a Tragedy which no one will buy of him, that it is a matter of hard work to hoist him to the surface of everyday life, when he is wanted there; yet all these evils, like all other evils to which mankind is subject, become comparatively easy to bear, from usage.

Not that Mr. Grewgious has had a want of applicants for the post vacated by his late clerk, Bazzard; no, indeed! that would have been a blessing, compared to the dread reality. Ever since he had been so unfortunate as to make his want known in the “Times,” crowds of applicants for the vacant place have been invading the quiet of Staple Inn, and making it as noisy as the noisy streets outside, with the echo of their footsteps. The frightened sparrows, scared from their search for crumbs below, fly dismayed to sheltering roof and chimney, looking down with ruffled feathers, cocked heads, and bright attentive eyes, upon the unwonted scene; and the husky door-bell of Mr. Grewgious’s chambers, breaking down under this unprecedented demand upon its strength, grows dumb and voiceless. Poor Mr. Grewgious himself — clerkless, and only assisted by a temporary boy who is usually absent, occupied in a vain attempt to bring down a sparrow, when the force of the invaders is numerically strongest — is quite knocked off his legs by the constant running to and fro, and what is worse, knocked off his balance too.

Aged clerks have presented themselves, with snowy heads and scanty locks, and faces, more pinched, perhaps, from want, than from old Time himself; and youthful clerks, with rosy health upon their beardless cheeks. Mysterious clerks, with untold horrors in their hollow eyes; and ingenuous clerks, with gaudy flowers in their buttonholes; dismal clerks, with long-drawn whining voices and heartrending sighs; and cheerful clerks, one broad grin from ear to ear; come-down-in-the-world clerks, with a sort of faded and shabby gentility about them still; and coming-up-in-the-world clerks, with a smack of the errand-boy upon them yet; fast clerks, in at the door and out again, before one could cry “Jack Robinson”; and slow clerks, impossible to be got rid of when once there. Distracting clerks, one and all, to worried Mr. Grewgious, who is most thankful to get rid of each in turn, and who, in a worse dilemma than at the first, has finally placed the temporary boy behind the outer door with strict injunctions to let no one in, and has retired, worn-out and disconsolate, to his inner sanctuary, to brood over the vicissitudes of human life, and to rest a little from the toils and labours of that trying day.

Is that a rap on the door? Now heaven be merciful to the ears of that temporary boy, for Mr. Grewgious, who has never administered a box on the ear in his life, has vowed to make his first experiment in that way on them, and to make it with a vengeance.

Incapable of rising to the emergency by doubly bolting and barricading the door to keep out the intruder, Mr. Grewgious utters his customary “come in,” and succumbs to his feelings in an easy chair, into which he sinks, a prey to despair, as a tall figure shows itself upon the threshold.

“Bless my soul!” he murmurs, “if it ain’t another!”

Another comes in with a low bow.

“Their name is Legion,” groans Mr. Grewgious, adding aloud with the resignation of utter despair, “Take a seat, sir.”

The new corner seating himself, and still remaining silent, Mr. Grewgious continues —

“You are come, I presume, in answer to the advertisement?”

A low bow again.

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