Old Wadd's Love Affair

by J. J. Bell

 

OLD WADD'S LOVE-AFFAIR

By J. J. Bell

THE building at 196, St. George street was nigh a century old. It appeared mean and melancholy beside the palatial edifices which had recently become its neighbors, and which seemed to look down from their lofty height of ornate, red sandstone upon its dingy gray walls and plain, narrow windows with pitiless pride and superiority.

Time was when merchant-princes had their counting-houses in Number 196; but now, if you were to watch the entry for a day—nay, a week—you would probably fail to detect, among those who passed in and out, a single individual whose bearing suggested even moderate prosperity in the paths of commerce. The offices within were occupied by strugglers, youthful and aged, eager and tired, hopeful and despairing, and a removal was more likely to betoken a failure than a success. Yet there were among the tenants a few who had spent the greater, if not the better, parts of their lives in the old place, making ends meet year by year by the simple expedient of tight-lacing the waist of existence till it could be girded by the inelastic belt of circumstance. Of such was Mr. Wadd, or William Borland Wadd, writer and notary public, as the blurred, painted letters on the left-hand wall of the entry designated him.

Were you calling upon Mr. Wadd for the first time, you would advance for some yards into the dusky entry, which smelt of more pipe-clay than it exhibited, and climb a flight of worn steps guarded by an iron rail which had once been green. On the first landing you would be greeted with the sign:

William B. Wadd, Writer, Up-stairs.

Thus encouraged, you would ascend to the next floor, where you would find:

Wm. B. Wadd, Writer, Up-stairs.

Rising a story higher, you would read:

Wm. B. Wadd, Writer, Up-stairs.

And, finally, you would reach the top floor, and behold:

Mr. Wadd.

Following the direction of the finger, you would come to a door with a brass plate bearing his full designation, and a great deal of dirt and oxidation, and a hook from which a knocker had once hung. As you would be unable to open the door, you would pull the small brass bell-knob, the only thing in the vicinity with any pretensions to polish, and, before the tinkling had ceased, you would see the door slowly open—worked by a string from Mr. Wadd's sanctum—and hear a voice exclaim:

“Come straight in; straight in.”

Accepting the invitation, you would pass through an unoccupied outer office containing a high, double desk, a couple of stools, and a stand bearing a copying-press—no other furniture; and you would enter the private room, the door of which was also manipulated with a string, to find yourself in the presence of William Borland Wadd, writer and notary public, a little, clean-shaven man, gray and partly bald, with a long, beaky nose, and small, bright, spectacled eyes.

In a brief glance round the room, this is what you would behold: A pair of small-paned, dirty windows, and between them, on a dingy red wall, a map of the world as it was colored fifty years ago; to the right, a huge bookcase with several of its dusty panes cracked or broken and its sparse contents leaning at various angles, as if they had grown wearied—they were certainly heavy works—of standing at the perpendicular, and a mantel-piece decorated with empty ink bottles; to the left, a couple of mahogany chairs with threadbare horse-hair seats, a metal umbrella-stand, which would startle you by weakly collapsing did you seek to make use of it, and a couple of old engravings spotted and yellow on the margins; against the remaining wall, a table laden with folded and tape-bound documents and a number of deed-boxes.

In the centre of the uncarpeted floor, at one side of a massive consulting desk littered with papers, on a revolving chair which groaned when he moved, you would see Mr. Wadd, his slippered feet resting on a burst hassock, and his rheumatic fingers partly covered by brown mittens, holding the pen by means of which he terrified small debtors and sustained his own solitary existence. And then, of course, you and he would get to business, which is none of ours.

Mr. Wadd's most important clients were a number of large wholesale firms who had dealings with thousands of small retailers throughout the country, and who endeavored to keep down bad debts by pulling up all customers whose accounts were, without sufficient reason, overdue. He had also a connection with big stores that supplied private parties. Every month or so, Mr. Wadd, or “poor old Wadd,” as the bookkeepers called him, received several bundles of accounts, few of them over five pounds, with instructions to recover the amounts due from the respective debtors. He charged a shilling—plus a penny for postage—for each letter he wrote, and, further, obtained a small commission on the money returned. It was a poor enough income that he made, but he had no one dependent upon him, and, so far as any one knew or cared, he was never in actual want.

He was a wretched scribe—it has been related that a rural grocer once mistook a most threatening demand for immediate payment for a congratulatory note upon a recent addition to his family—but, as a rule, his communications were deciphered by the unfortunate persons to whom they were addressed, and in quite a number of cases payment was forthcoming. The letters usually began with an expression of surprise at the overdue state of the account, went on to threaten court proceedings, and concluded with the words, 'Blame yourself for the expenses.' Debtors who were able to pay nearly always remitted the money direct to the firms, but now and then a cheque or postal-order came to Mr. Wadd, and such an arrival was an event in his existence. Exchanging his slippers for his boots, his mittens for gloves, and donning a furry silk hat he would leave his office, not forgetting to affix to the door a card bearing the legend, “Back presently,” and would hobble to the address of the firm, whose money he carried with exaggerated care in a special pocket inside his waistcoat. Inquiring for the head of the firm, who was usually willing to “humor old Wadd,” he would be shown into the great man's private room.

“My dear sir,” he would say, “I am happy to inform you that I have this day received from Thomas Slow—or another party—of Drumdenny—or another place—full payment of his account due to you—two pounds, seven shillings and fourpence—and have returned his account duly discharged.”

The head of the firm, thus saved from bankruptcy, would simply congratulate and thank Mr. Wadd, who, after paying over the money and taking a receipt for it, would return to his shabby office one of the proudest men in all the city, and, resuming his slippers and mittens, would proceed with redoubled zest to indite threatening requests, or still more threatening reminders, to the debtors on his list who required them. As a matter of fact, he enjoyed his work, and prosecuted it with an enthusiasm worthy of a happier cause. No lover longing to pour forth his heart, ever plunged pen in ink and put it to paper more eagerly than did Mr. Wadd when writing to some luckless tradesman who had had the temerity to ignore a previous epistle, and no treaty affecting the world's welfare could have been signed more proudly than his receipt for sums under five pounds sterling.

There was a dignity about the old man which, having regard to his humble circumstances, was really pathetic, although it struck most of those who came in contact with him as simply ridiculous; and he had a way of interrupting clients, who had called to consult him, by taking off his spectacles, wiping them with a large yellow handkerchief, and saying, “I well recollect a case in which I was successful,” thereafter going into the most minute details of some trifling small-debt action, while the client vainly endeavored to get back to his own matter.

Between the hours of nine and six, Mr. Wadd rarely left his office except on business. At one o'clock precisely, he lunched at his desk on four small wine-biscuits and a glass of villainous sherry at a shilling a bottle. Still, it was sherry, and the name itself was respectable. Perhaps, as he sipped the rank stuff, he remembered the days of his apprenticeship, when his wealthy principals partook of biscuits and sherry in their private room, and talked of thousands and tens of thousands in the airiest fashion conceivable, for, though full forty years had passed since then, he had not lost the trick of nodding to an imaginary partner ere he put his lips to the glass. But Mr. Wadd had never had a partner. Once, long ago, when business looked brighter, he had engaged a clerk, but the brightness had soon faded and the clerk had departed. So he was used to solitude by day. while his evenings were spent in an old-fashioned tavern, over tobacco and ale, in company with any habitué who was willing to listen, or pretend to listen, to his innumerable recollections of cases.

 

But it is time to quit the discussion of Mr. Wadd himself, and to come to the tale of how he once fell a victim to sentiment and yet retained his business principles, of how his heart beat softly while his hand wrote harshly; and of how, at sixty-six, he found the first debtor who had ever gained his sympathy

It happened two years ago. The only other tenant on the top flat of 196, St George street was a young artist, Paul Vannan, by name, who had occupied his studio for a quarter ere Mr Wadd set eyes on him, during which period he provided a daily irritation to the writer's nerves. He seemed to be a merry-hearted fellow, for he mounted the stairs whistling loudly, and shut his door with a careless slam that caused Mr Wadd to jump in his chair and mutter: “The next time he does that I'll go out and give him a piece of my mind.” But, somehow, Mr Wadd never fulfilled his threat, and. indeed. after a few months, he grew to like the whistling, and ceased to start at the slamming of the door.

They met for the first time on the stair, one Spring forenoon about eleven o'clock. Mr Wadd had just received payment of a debt of nearly three pounds, and was on his way to hand it over to his client, feeling as important as if he were the governor of the Bank of England. He heard the whistling below him, and presently the young man appeared.

For a moment, Mr Wadd clean forgot his errand. He had often wondered what the artist was like, but now there was the last face that might have been pictured in his imagination. Years and years ago he had seen it in the flesh—but then it had been the face of a woman, a woman who, he remembered, with something like a shock, had married an artist.

“A fine morning,” said the young man, cheerfully, as he passed, wondering why the other had given him such a startled, wistful look.

“A fine morning,” returned Mr. Wadd, recovering himself half-a~dozen steps lower.

Then he proceeded upon his business, but his client afterward remarked to his partner:

“Old Wadd wasn't so pleased with himself to-day as usual.”

During the next week or two, Mr. Wadd fell into the habit of listening for the whistler coming up the stair. “Like a bird, like a bird!” he would murmur to himself, and, when the studio door slammed, he would smile and return to his work.

One May morning, they met on the stair a second time and exchanged greetings, and a few mornings later Mr. Wadd left his office when he heard the whistling, and descended to the street merely to gain a sight of the young man. He was so ashamed of himself that for some days he tried not to hear the whistling. But the attraction was too strong, and, again and again, he went down-stairs, trying to appear on business bent, as Paul Vannan came up, and, after waiting in the entry for a minute, ascended to his chambers in a stealthy fashion as if he feared detection.

The old man had fallen in love with the young. There is no other way of expressing it. Not for forty years had his heart warmed to a fellow-being as it warmed to the unconscious artist. He wondered if the other were successful, and took to halting beside picture dealers' windows and peering in as he walked to his lodging in the evenings in the hope of discovering a work by Paul Vannan.

And his search was at last rewarded, for, in a certain window, he found two small landscapes with tickets bearing the artist's name. He knew nothing about pictures; he had never desired to see any work a second time; but now he became an art critic, and found fault with all paintings not by Paul Vannan. He spent an evening hunting around the walls of a large exhibition, and came away weary and disgusted because Paul Vannan was not represented. He inquired of his acquaintances at the tavern, and, when one and all asserted that they had never even heard of Paul Vannan, he quickly lost his temper, and railed at them for a parcel of fools. And yet, beyond a passing remark on the weather, he had not exchanged a word with the young man.

During the Summer, the studio was closed, the artist being at work in the country, and Mr. Wadd yearned to hear the whistling on the stairs. It was not till the middle of October that he heard it. and, when the welcome sound reached him, he hobbled forth in his slippers and mittens, a very excited and gladdened old gentleman. But, when Paul approached him, he was tongue-tied, and his thoughts became confusion.

“A fine morning,” remarked the young man, pleasantly, as he stepped toward his studio.

“A fine morning,” returned Mr. Wadd, with an effort, pretending he was going down-stairs.

The studio door slammed and—and that was all! The old man went back to his den, feeling that he would never be any nearer to his beloved.

A month passed with occasional meetings on the stair, and then the whistling ceased. The artist still came regularly to his studio, but he arrived in silence and shut the door quietly. Mr. Wadd began to experience sore dread. What ailed Paul? He always spoke to himself of the young man as Paul.

After a while, he could bear the suspense no longer. One morning, he stood with his ear to the inside of his office door until he heard footsteps. Whereupon he went out and descended the stairs. Vannan gave him greeting, but not in his familiar cheery voice, and, presently, Mr. Wadd returned to his room with the knowledge, gained from a glance in passing, that his beloved was in trouble. Weeks went on, but the whistling and slamming were not resumed, and, by the New Year, the old man was in a fever of anxiety and misery.

His cup was filled when, on a January afternoon, the manager of the General Stores, Limited, called upon him to request him to take steps to recover the sum of fifteen pounds, twelve and sixpence, for goods supplied to Paul Vannan, Esq.

“Funny thing,” observed the manager, “the party has his studio on this very floor. But I don't suppose he'll fall upon you and murder you. It's a bigger amount than usual, but we thought it would be all right. He paid regularly for nearly two years, but, after all, we can't depend on those artist fellows. Write him a stiff one, and, if he doesn't pay in three days, you had better take out a summons.”

Mr. Wadd stared helplessly at the document in his hand.

“It—it doesn't seem so very much overdue,” he stammered.

“Oh, the account's old enough. We've given him plenty of reminders, and the chances are that he's in deep water all round. We've been gentle with long-winded folk before, and paid for it. So give him one of your terrors, Mr. Wadd, and let me know the result. Afternoon!” and the manager hurried away, saying to himself: “Surely the old boy is failing. He never recalled a single case that he had been successful in.”

Left to himself, Mr. Wadd laid the account on his desk, and groaned in despair.

“Poor fellow, poor fellow!” he sighed. “I might have refused the case, but that wouldn't have helped him. Some one else would have taken it in hand. What's to be done? What's to be done?”

For a moment, he thought of stepping across to the studio. But no! that was impossible. He could not face Paul in such circumstances. The young man was proud, so much might be read in his face; and it would hurt him to be offered assistance by a complete stranger. Wherefore assistance must be given anonymously. But how?

Suddenly, a way occurred to Mr. Wadd—a beautiful way. He left his desk and opened a small safe concealed in the bookcase. Mr. Wadd had no bank account. It had never seemed worth while opening one.

Presently, he departed from his office, forgetting to affix the customary intimation to the door. Ten minutes later, he was staring aghast at a picture dealer's window. The pictures he had come to see were gone. Trembling, he entered the shop, and the dealer eyed the shabby old figure curiously. Stammering, Mr. Wadd asked a question.

“No,” said the dealer, “they aren't sold. They are still here.”

He did not offer to show the landscapes. Surely this was no buyer. But Mr. Wadd laughed softly, and inquired the price.

“Ten guineas apiece,” said the dealer. “Vannan is a coming man.”

He thought he was as likely to get ten guineas as five.

Mr. Wadd fumbled in his breast pocket and brought forth a handful of notes and gold.

“I have only nineteen pounds with me,” he said, with a sigh. “Will you trust me for the balance till next week?”

Something touched the dealer.

“You wish the pictures? You like them? Well, I think Mr. Vannan might let you have the pair for nineteen pounds. I'll inquire of him.”

“No, no! Give them to me now, and take the money, and let me pay the balance next week. Take down my name and address”—he gave it—“but pray do not mention them to the artist. Promise me that, sir, promise me that!”

Eventually, the old man got matters his own way, and returned to his office with a parcel under each arm. Having removed the coverings, he set the pictures upon the two chairs on his right, and admired them for several minutes.

“Clever fellow! clever fellow!” he muttered. “Paul will soon get past his troubles and be a great man.”

He sat down at his desk and took up the account against the artist. He began to chuckle.

“It's the best joke,” he said to himself, “the best joke that ever was! Paul will never suspect. He'll never imagine when he passes me on the stair that I've a pair of his fine pictures in here. He'll think I've nothing here but a pen and ink and paper and a nasty way of putting them together. Well, well, it's a good joke! And Paul will soon be whistling again! Now I'll just write the boy one of my stiff ones, as they call 'em.”

He chuckled once more as he laid a sheet of notepaper before him.

The letter was still unsigned when the bell rang. A boy entered with a note for the writer; and asked for an answer. The note was from the manager of the General Stores, Limited, and was to the effect that a cheque had just been received from Mr. Vannan, so that Mr. Wadd need not go further in the matter. It concluded with the hope that Mr. Wadd had not posted his demand for payment. The old man drew a long breath.

“Say that it's all right, all right,” he said to the messenger.

When the boy had gone, he sat still for nearly half an hour. Then he left his desk, and, having lit the gas, examined his purchases once more, and admired them.

“Paul will find the money useful, anyhow,” he murmured, as he laid them carefully in a cupboard beneath the bookcase. He was later than usual in leaving his office that night.

 

Next morning, he sat at his desk listening, listening, listening. And at last his eyes brightened and his face grew radiant.

“He's whistling!” he said softly to himself.

The studio door slammed.

Mr. William Borland Wadd, writer and notary public, was quite happy.