Good afternoon, Tom,’ he said to the hall-porter. ‘Are there any letters for me?’
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Tom, looking at his rack. ‘No, sir; I am sorry, never a one.’
‘Well, well,’ said Jack, ‘I suppose there has not been time. Have you seen Dr Maturin?’
‘Dr Maturin? Oh no, sir: I never even knew he was in England.’
jack walked upstairs. He was feeling cheerful, but very, very tired: light in heart, heavy in body. The night, most of it taken up with talking hard in the post-chaise, had not been restful; walking on paved, unyielding streets after so long at sea was physically exhausting; and the emotions of the night and day were more wearing still. His first call had been at his lawyers’. Here he had learnt that none of the cases had been decided one way or another; that everything was much as he had left it, except that the opinion of two eminent counsel on the first had been obtained, neither of them altogether unfavourable, and perhaps the case might come on early next term. This did at least mean that he could walk about without being arrested for debt and carried off to a sponging-house, so he went straight to his prize-agent, where he spent a busy morning, more fruitful than he had expected in the article of Adriatic captures, now made so long ago that he had almost forgotten their names, and then to his bank, where he had a singularly flattering compliment paid to him. He passed some time with one of the younger partners, and as they were coming down stairs together he observed that he must also call on the cashier –
he had little money on him. Mr Hoare stepped behind the counter and said This is Captain
Aubrey of the Navy; I believe we may manage gold for him.’ Almost everybody had had to be content with notes these many years past, but Jack left
the bank with twenty-five guineas, a comfortable weight in his pocket, a feeling of real, solid wealth. Then, having eaten in a chophouse, he walked to two different stockbrokers, his own and his father’s: the second he had not met before and he regretted the acquaintance as soon as it was made. Mr Shape had all the bouncing easiness and confidence of a City man of the third rate; he was not a regular stock-broker, not a member of the Exchange, but an outside dealer, and even for one as little used to business as Jack his establishment gave off an indefinable air of malpractice. However, he meant to be friendly and he told Jack that General Aubrey was in town, that he had seen him only a few days since, and that the old gentleman was ‘as spry as ever’. Shape would also very much have liked to know just why these securities were being bought and he threw out a good many hints; but when he was confronted with a scrub Jack could look tolerably. forbidding, and Shape’s confidence did not extend to the direct question.
After this rather unpleasant interlude Jack took a coach back to Whitehall. He nodded to the Admiralty, that fount of intense joy and deep distress, and walked through St James’s Park and to his club. He was fond of London and he liked his walk, but now he was quite done up. He called for a tankard of champagne and sat with it in an easy chair by a window overlooking the street. Within him the spring of life began to flow again, lapping gently / over his bruised heels and blistered feet; and cheerfulness, even the ebullience of the early morning, rose even faster as he reflected upon the immense amount of business he had accomplished that day. Presently he would gather himself together, rise up and go to the Grapes; there he might possibly find a letter from Sophie and perhaps run into Stephen. At least he would have word of him.
He smiled; and the smile was wiped from his face by the approach of Edward Parker, a former shipmate. He had nothing whatsoever against Edward Parker, but he did not want any man to commiserate with him about the Surprise. However, there was a way of dealing with the situation: Parker was a pretty good seaman, brave and successful; he belonged to a well-known naval family and he was sure of continuous employment and eventually of a flag; furthermore he was slim, handsome, and much caressed by women; but he valued himself only on two qualities that he did not possess: the ability to ride a horse like the cove in the poem, and to drink any man under the table.
‘Oh, Aubrey,’ cried he, ‘how very sorry I am to hear about Surprise.’
‘Never mind,’ said Jack. ‘This is St Groper’s day, the patron of topers: no tears on St Groper’s day. William, a tankard of the same for Captain Parker.’ The club had particularly elegant silver tankards and this one looked finer than usual as it came frosted all over on a shining salver. ‘St Groper,’ said Jack, ‘and his immortal memory in one heroic swig. Waste not a drop.’
Parker did manfully, but he weighed nine stone against Jack’s sixteen, and he had not tramped about London all day. Although he himself proposed the second can, it was his
undoing: after sitting with a fixed, artificial smile on his pale face for some minutes he made a barely coherent excuse and hurried from the room.
Jack settled back in his chair and contemplated the evening tide in St James’s Street.
There had been a long-lasting levee at the palace, and quantities of unusually gorgeous officers were to be seen, scarlet and gold, gleaming with silver and steel and plumed like Agamemnon, hurrying anxiously towards Piccadilly for fear of the coming shower. The more provident had servants with umbrellas, and some, tucking up their swords, dashed with jangling spurs into one or another of the clubs along the street. There were several, and almost immediately opposite Jack’s window stood Button’s, to which General Aubrey belonged. Jack was also a member, but he hardly
ever went there, not caring much for his company, which consisted of exceedingly rich men – it had more dukes than any other – and a fair number of blackguards, sometimes of excellent family.
Once the officers had reached shelter, civilians took over the street again, and Jack observed with regret that the fine coloured coats of his youth were losing more and more ground to black, which, though well enough in particular cases, gave the far pavement a mourning air. To be sure, bottle-green, claret-coloured, and bright blue did appear now and then, but the far side of the street was not the flower-garden that once it had been.
And pantaloons were almost universal among the young.
A good many acquaintances passed by. Blenkinsop of the Foreign Office, looking superior. Waddon, a Hampshire neighbour and an excellent creature but now very far from happy on the back of a recently-purchased horse that advanced sideways down towards the clock-tower, foaming and farting; and as soon as the half-hour struck the animal (a light chestnut gelding) uttered a kind of scream and rushed into the narrow alley by Lock’s. He saw Waddon emerge, looking sullen, having apparently abandoned the animal. He saw Wray of the Admiralty and another man whose name he could not recall walk into Button’s, both in black; more black coats followed them; then came the old familiar bright blue, and without much surprise Jack recognized his father.
At one time it must have been possible to love General Aubrey, since he had married a thoroughly amiable woman, Jack’s mother; but for the last twenty years and more even his dogs had felt no affection for him. His mind was almost wholly taken up with the notion of gaining money by some expedient or other; at one time he had felled all the timber on their land, although the trees were not even half mature, thus doing Jack a sad ill-turn at almost no profit to himself; and he now associated with some very odd creatures on the fringes
of banking, insurance and property development. He had also blasted Jack’s chance of inheriting an impoverished but reparable estate by marrying his dairymaid, at the cost of a swingeing settlement, and by begetting another son.
Yet Jack had a strong sense of filial piety and he had written a note in which he urged his father to put every penny he could into the securities on Palmer’s list, saying that his recommendations could not be explained and must remain secret. He had meant to hand this letter in, no more: but now, seeing that tall bony figure grasp the railings to heave himself up the steps he said ‘Damn it, he is my father, after all. I shall go and ask him how he does.’ ‘If you do,’ replied his somewhat clouded intelligence, ‘you will have to deal with questions.’ ‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘I have only to say that I am bound to silence – have given my word – for him to understand,’ and finishing his wine he walked across the street.