I Am Jonathan Scrivener

Front matter

by

CLAUDE HOUGHTON

The Argus Book Shop, Incorporated 333 South Dearborn Street

Chapter I

CHAPTER I

I

This book is an invitation to share an adventure.

It is necessary for me to introduce myself as I am the only person in the world who can tell this story, but you will be wise to regard me simply as a mechanism for the narration of certain events. It is not necessary to know much about me, but it is essential to know something, since the adventure I am inviting you to share was the result of a dramatic and mysterious change which totally transformed the whole manner of my life.

My name is James Wrexham. I am nearly thirty-nine. I was an only child and my mother died when I was very young. My father was an odd character, an enigma to everyone, and there was some mystery concerning the circumstances of his death. Personally I do not believe that he committed suicide but I may be wrong. He died when I was nineteen. I had just left school and discovered that not only was I practically penniless but that I had not a relative in the world. Moreover my father's eccentricities had alienated most of his friends. Hence my position was not enviable. Instead of going to the university I had to earn a living, and it was soon made clear to me that a public school education was not a passport to employment.

But a solution to my difficulties speedily presented itself. I received a letter from a man called Petersham in which he asked me to call upon him at my convenience. His note paper informed me that he was an auctioneer and estate agent. His offices were in the county town which was some twelve miles distant from my father's house. I visited him very shortly after I received his letter and I can remember the details of our first interview perfectly.

Petersham received me in his private room which commanded a view of the outer office through a glass partition. He was a small, alert man with a fiery moustache, a crooked nose, and the eyes of a lynx. He wasted no time on condolences, but looked me up and down with frank curiosity.

"So you're Oscar Wrexham's son," he said at last. "And now what are you going to do with all kinds of swell ideas in your head and no money in your pockets, eh?"

I told him I had no plans.

Petersham favoured me with his philosophy of life. It was a strange mixture of get-rich-quick and social servility. I did not listen with much attention for I was trying to imagine what link could possibly have existed between Petersham and my father and was therefore somewhat disconcerted when Petersham broke the thread of his oration and exclaimed:

"I know what you're thinking, young man. You're wondering what your father had in common with me. That's only natural, because your father was a gentleman and I'm not."

I imagine that I looked very embarrassed, but Petersham went on:

"Well, you can thank your lucky stars that I'm not a gentleman because if I were, you wouldn't be here. I started as an office boy, I did."

He shot out the last sentence almost viciously and as I did not know whether he required congratulations or sympathy, I said nothing.

"An office boy," he repeated. "I've had to fight, scheme, and work, and I've not done so badly, but I've missed a lot of business—and still miss it—because I am what I am. Now, as to your father, he once did me a service. It don't matter what it was. But I've never forgotten it, and that's why I wrote to you."

Then he explained his scheme to me. It was entirely logical. Briefly it was this: I was to join his staff and learn the business. He would pay me a sufficient salary then, later, if we got on together, he would make me a partner and it would be my duty to open up and develop a better class of business than he had been able to attract. He ended by saying:

"I've capitalized my energy and you must capitalize your birth and education, then we can help each other. That's democracy, as I understand it. I shan't charge all your wages in the early years against Salary Account. I shall debit some of it to Goodwill, because you're going to prove an asset in the business one day. Now, what do you say? Mind you, it will seem dull at first. You'll begin by making and checking inventories and that sort of thing. You know what an inventory is, of course?"

I said that I had no idea.

"Good God! there's your public school education for you! Well, think it over. And if you come here, don't mix up with the clerks. Keep yourself to yourself in the office, but hob-nob with your own class outside. And make no mistake about me: I'm a snob, I am, and it pays to be a snob. I'm offering you this job because you're the son of your father and because you've been to a good public school. Think it over, and take your time."

There was really nothing to think over. Petersham was the only person who took any interest in me and it was essential that I should earn a salary. I accepted his offer.

There is no need to recount the loneliness and misery of the next few years. Then the war came and I escaped from Petersham but not from drudgery. I was wounded after I had been in the line for a week and was employed on clerical duties for the remainder of my services. At the end of 1918 I returned to Petersham.

During my absence his business had developed rapidly. I never heard any more of the scheme he had outlined at our first interview. This was a great relief to me for temperamentally I was incapable of making useful friends and capitalizing those social advantages which Petersham had regarded as potential assets. We saw little of each other. My work was dull, largely mechanical, and it made practically no mental demands. I lived in rooms on the outskirts of the town. I had no friends, and gradually I became what is called queer. I prefer to forget those years. If it had not been for books, I do not know what would have happened to me, but books are a poor substitute for life. For a long period I lived in a state of rebellion and the attempts I made to evade loneliness only led to degradation. Then something happened: I became content to be a spectator of life and at the same time I became convinced that my relations with Petersham would not last much longer.

It is curious how certain I was that change was at hand. I was so certain that I was not excited and the fact that there was no sign even of the possibility of change had no effect whatever upon me. I did not will it; I did not hope for it; I knew that change was imminent.

And then it came. The manner of its approach was remarkable and all the circumstances attending it were mysterious.

One Saturday I left the office as usual at one o'clock and went to a café at which I lunched frequently. It was nearly empty. After I had finished my meal, I became aware of two men sitting near me. An animated conversation sprang up between them and although I could not hear what was said I realized that one was trying to convince the other of the desirability of a certain line of action. As I passed them on my way out I heard the younger say in a challenging tone:

"Caution! That's always your cry! You've got to take risks, I tell you! If you look, you never leap."

I paid my bill and went out. The last sentence I had heard echoed in my brain: "If you look, you never leap." I crossed the road and went into a barber's. All the assistants were engaged, so I took a paper at random from the sheaf on the table, sat down and began to read. The paper was The Times and my attention was immediately arrested by an advertisement in the Personal Column. It read as follows:

A gentleman of independent means who is leaving England requires a secretary to attend to his correspondence during his absence and to catalogue his library. The individuality of the applicant is of greater importance than his technical qualifications for the position.

Directly I had read the foregoing I made a copy of it. I also made a note of the firm of solicitors to which applications had to be sent. My determination to apply for the position was immediate and that fact is noteworthy even in a series of events every one of which was unusual.

That evening I studied the wording of the advertisement and the next day I spent several hours drafting my application. It was difficult to assess the precise meaning which my prospective employer attached to the word "individuality." I imagine that I wrote about a dozen letters before lunch and I remember that each seemed more stereotyped than the last. By about six in the evening I evolved an application which satisfied me, but on glancing through it again later in the evening, I decided that it was hopeless. I tore it up, then sat down and wrote a long epistle about myself at red-hot speed. I sealed the envelope without even reading the letter through, posted it, and banished the whole question from my mind.

Over a week elapsed, then I received a communication from the solicitors. The name of the firm was Winkworth, Wolland & Williams and their offices were in Sackville Street, Piccadilly. Their letter was as follows:—

"Dear Sir,

"With reference to your recent communication I am instructed by my client, Mr. Jonathan Scrivener, to say that he is impressed by your application and that he is disposed to believe that you would perform his requirements in an orderly and proper manner. In fact my client wishes me to add that subject to a formal interview with the undersigned you are justified in regarding your application as accepted.

"Subject to your convenience, I have to suggest that next Friday at 3 p.m., would be a suitable day and time for an interview and I shall be glad to hear in due course whether you could attend at this office on the day and at the time stated.

"Yours faithfully, "Walter Winkworth."

The wording, the whole atmosphere, of this letter were so unlike the commercial jargon in which Petersham indulged that I was very much amused, but two facts were established: one was that I had been successful, and the other was that Mr. Walter Winkworth clearly regarded the decision to employ me as an act for which his client must accept responsibility. In fact, a second reading of the letter made me suspect that Mr. Walter Winkworth highly disapproved of the whole affair and I had considerable doubts as to whether he had even been consulted in the matter of Mr. Scrivener's secretary.

One thing was clear, however: I had to go to London on the following Friday and this involved an interview with Petersham. After some deliberation, I decided that I would tell him that I had obtained a post in London and sever our relations at the earliest moment possible.

Prosperity had not altered Petersham much. He had not moved to larger offices and he still lived in the same villa, but he was now very stout and had become extremely proud of the fact that he had started as an office boy. He had evolved into an ardent Conservative and often said he would go in for politics if his business activities permitted.

I saw him one evening at five o'clock. He was smoking a cigar; a cup of very strong tea was on the table. I came to the point immediately:

"I want to go to London next Friday," I began, "as I2"

"What for?" he interrupted.

"I applied recently for a job in London and I've been successful."

"Never!" His amazement, if not complimentary, was profound. "God bless my soul! Well, I'll be damned!" Having uttered these rather contradictory exclamations he resumed his cigar and looked at me out of the corner of his eye as if he did not believe me. There was a pause, then he said: "Do you mean you want to leave here?"

"Yes," I replied. "I shall always be grateful to you for giving me a job when no one else would, but I've been in this town long enough and I want a change."

"But hold on a minute," he said, "what sort of a job. have you got? This line of business, I suppose?"

"No, I am to be secretary to a man of independent means."

"Friends of yours?" There was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"No, I've never seen him."

Petersham turned in his swivel chair and faced me for the first time. I realized that I should have to tell him exactly the position. Unfortunately he evidently had time to spare. I explained briefly how I had obtained the post of secretary to Mr. Scrivener. When I had finished he looked at me with a mystified expression.

"And you mean to tell me," he began, emphasizing each word, "you mean to tell me you're going to give up a permanent job here for a fairy tale like that?"

"Just so," I replied.

"And when you've catalogued his library and he comes back to London, out you go, I suppose?"

"I really don't know," I said, then I added, "and I really don't care."

"Now we're getting to it," he said. "Do you know what's the matter with you? You're queer. I've watched you more than you think. You're queer, like your father."

"Look here, Petersham," I said in a tone which surprised him. "You've often made obscure references to my father and I resent them. If you know anything about him, which I doubt, either tell me plainly or do not refer to him. As to my being queer, as you call it, you simply mean that I am not like you. It would never occur to you that I might regard you as queer."

"Me! Queer! I'm a business man."

"Precisely." After a pause I added: "I know just as well as you do that the job I am taking is a risk."

"Now, look here, Wrexham," he said ponderously, "you don't want any advice from me, that's clear. There's plenty that do, so I'll keep it for them. But understand this; you can't play fast and loose with your job here. If you go, you go. See?"

"I understand perfectly. I'm afraid I haven't proved the investment you thought I should be. On the other hand, I hope I've earned the money you've paid me."

"Yes, you've done that. You haven't had much, but you've earned what you've had. Our account is square. I think you're a fool to leave, but that's your business. Here!" he exclaimed suddenly, "what was the name of them solicitors you're going to see?"

"Winkworth, Wolland and Williams," I replied. He repeated the name of the firm twice, then pressed a bell on his table. A girl appeared.

"Get me those papers about the Barnett mortgage, and don't be all night about it."

The girl disappeared and returned in a few minutes with some documents. Petersham glanced at them.

"There's a memory for you! Three years ago, my boy! Here we are! Winkworth, Wolland and Williams acted for Barnett. They're in a big way of business. I met one of the partners. No end of a swell! Well, I'll be damned! You'd better keep in with them—never mind Scrivener, whatever his name is. I expect they could buy him up. Here! If you get a chance to put anything my way, don't miss it through dreaming about the moon. You'll have to mention my name to 'em naturally, so just remind 'em about the Barnett business." He glanced at the papers again. "No, on second thoughts, don't refer to the Barnett mortgage. I see they say some nonsense here about my methods being pretty sharp practice. Well, mention my name anyway, and see how it goes."

"Supposing Mr. Scrivener wants me immediately," I managed to say at last, "would you have any objection2"

"Go when you like, my boy. Don't consider me, go when you like. But send me a line now and again and let me know if there's anything doing. It's like you to get in with the swells just when you're leaving me. Winkworth, Wolland and Williams! They're in a big way, there's no doubt about that. When that Barnett affair was on, I never thought I'd have any chance of doing anything else with 'em, or—well, can't be helped. They've probably forgotten. They've got their fingers in a good many pies."

This was my last conversation with Petersham.

II

The following Friday I went to London. This visit was in the nature of an adventure as I did not know London intimately and the thought of the impending interview intrigued my imagination.

I arrived just before lunch. The sun was shining, streets and pavements were thronged, and in a second the life of the city claimed me. Another diminutive river had encountered the sea. I had lunch, then as I had an hour to spare, I sat down in the Green Park and speculated on the mysterious change which had occurred in my affairs and the certainty deepened in me that my old life was over for ever.

At precisely three o'clock I entered the offices of Messrs Winkworth, Wolland and Williams. An immaculately-dressed young man received me and asked my business. His whole attitude suggested that it was not his duty to attend to me, that normally he was engaged on affairs of great importance, but that at the minute he was performing the unworthy function of recognizing my existence. He showed me into a large waiting-room in which the heavy furniture was arranged with grim precision. A table stood in the middle of the room, on which virgin copies of The Times and The Morning Post were chastely displayed, flanked by copies of Punch and a periodical entitled Our Empire. A volume of Debrett occupied the centre of the mantelpiece in aristocratic isolation.

I sat down and looked at the other occupant of the room. He was an old gentleman with snow-white hair and a pink complexion. He took no notice of me but continued to read the newspaper, from which occupation he apparently derived little satisfaction for he punctuated his reading with ejaculations which were not complimentary to the writer. "Bah! Rubbish!" he exclaimed loudly. He read a few lines in silence, then shouted: "Humbug!" I do not think he realized that he was speaking aloud. "Damned pack of scallywags!" was his next comment. I became so interested in his criticisms that it seemed only a few minutes before I was summoned to Mr. Walter Winkworth's room. In reality half an hour had passed.

I was ushered into a room of great dignity. Everything was solid and impressive. A number of tin boxes were ranged round the walls and on each box was painted in white letters the name of the client whose documents it housed. It was clear that many members of the aristocracy entrusted their affairs to the firm of Winkworth, Wolland and Williams. A glance at those tin boxes was sufficient evidence as to that, and a glance at Mr. Winkworth would have dispelled the remaining doubts of even the most cynical observer.

He was rather tall, well-made, and wore a morning coat which fitted him to perfection. He had a white slip under his waistcoat and white spats over his patent shoes. His crisp hair, iron-grey at the temples, added to his distinction and a pince-nez dangling at the end of a black watered-silk ribbon seemed to proclaim that he was in practice in the West End, not the City. He took no notice of me, so I sat down and waited.

Mr. Winkworth was seated at a very elegant desk near the window and an attractive young lady sat by his side, note-book in hand. The silence was complete except for the ticking of a clock.

"Now, Miss Montgomery, be so good as to read that over, if you please."

His voice was, perhaps, a trifle over-ripe. He leant back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling while Miss Montgomery read the letter aloud. As I watched them, I felt that I was in a seat at the theatre.

"That meets the case, I think," he said when the reading was finished. "Please have it typed immediately and arrange that it catches to-night's country post."

She rose, put a paper in front of him, and glided noiselessly out of the room. He read the paper she had placed before him, then looked over at me.

"Ah! Mr.? Mr.?" He paused and I did not fill the blank as I was certain that he knew quite well who I was. "Mr. Wrexham. Of course! Mr. Wrexham." He looked down at a diary on his desk. "Three o'clock—Mr. Wrexham. Kindly take this seat."

I rose and took the seat indicated. He gazed at his highly polished nails with considerable satisfaction for several seconds, then he patted his tie and his hair, assumed a slightly stiffer attitude, then addressed me in a cold, formal manner.

"You wish to become Mr. Scrivener's secretary?"

"It was my reason for applying for the position," I answered.

"You did not state the salary you required," he said, turning slowly towards me and looking at me through half-closed eyes.

"I imagined that Mr. Scrivener would state the amount he was prepared to pay." There was a pause, then I added, "Perhaps I was wrong in thinking that to be the case."

He waved his hand. "We'll return to that later," he said, airily, as if I had introduced the subject. "What, exactly, are your qualifications for the position?"

"I have nothing to add, or to subtract from the details I gave in my application, Mr. Winkworth. I understood from your letter that Mr. Scrivener was favourably impressed by that application."

"We had a large number of applicants, a large number. Many from young men of considerable distinction." He rose and began to pace the room elegantly. "You were not at the university, I think, Mr. Wrexham?"

"Would it not save time if you read my letter again?" I inquired with a smile of genuine amusement. "All the facts concerning me are clearly set forth in it."

"No, sir, no!" he said irritably. "I have all the facts concerning this little matter in my head."

I said nothing, for I saw quite clearly that he was simply trying to hide the fact that Scrivener had already decided that I was to be his secretary. Why Mr. Winkworth thought it worth while to try to impress me, I could not imagine, but it was clear that he wished me to regard him as the arbiter of my destiny. Once I recognized this, he became a subject for study and I awaited his next move with interest. He returned to his chair.

"Mr. Wrexham," he began impressively, "you are, I take it, a man of the world."

"That's as good a description as any other."

"Just so. Doubtless, then, it has occurred to you that the negotiations between us have been somewhat unusual, and I tell you frankly I dislike the unusual very much indeed. Very—much—indeed, Mr. Wrexham."

I bowed and waited for him to continue.

"My procedure has been unusual because the circumstances have been unusual. I propose to be frank with you. My client, Mr. Jonathan Scrivener, is slightly eccentric. He is a gifted man, a brilliant man, but on occasions a headstrong man. The present circumstances are an example. He has decided to employ you as his secretary. He has not seen you, he has not asked you for references, yet he has decided to engage you as his secretary." He made a slow, ample gesture indicative of disapproval."

"When you used the word 'eccentric' just now, Mr. Winkworth, did you mean that2"

"Oh, dear no! Certainly not. Mr. Jonathan Scrivener is highly connected and is very wealthy. When I used the term eccentric I did not mean to imply that my client was—Oh! most definitely not! Not at all! On the contrary, a brilliant man of quite exceptional intellectual attainments."

As I could think of nothing to say, I remained silent. After a pause, he continued:

"You understand that Mr. Scrivener wishes you to take the position immediately?"

"I know nothing," I answered, "except that I had this appointment with you to-day. I thought it probable that Mr. Scrivener would be present."

"Certainly not! Mr. Scrivener has already left England."

This news surprised me considerably. My employer was clearly an original since it certainly was strange to engage a secretary without seeing him.

"Not only that," Winkworth went on, "my client wishes you to begin your duties immediately and to take up residence at once."

I could not help laughing, a procedure which annoyed the lawyer very much indeed.

"I must apologize, Mr. Winkworth, but may I inquire what the phrase 'to take up residence' means?"

"It means, sir, that you will live in Mr. Scrivener's flat during his absence."

I stared at Mr. Winkworth's round, self-satisfied face in complete bewilderment. I remember that his large, glistening teeth impressed me unfavourably.

"Will Mr. Scrivener be out of England for long?" I inquired.

"As to that, I have no idea and I doubt whether my client has."

"All this is very interesting," I said lightly. "And where does Mr. Scrivener live?"

"He lives in a flat in Pall Mall but he travels a great deal and that, I imagine, is the reason why he has decided to employ a secretary."

Mr. Winkworth swung his pince-nez from side to side and assumed an exceedingly diplomatic expression. I was now convinced, however, that he knew little more than I did about Scrivener. I decided to obtain the bare facts of the situation without any finesse.

"Very well," I began, "then the position is this: Mr. Scrivener wishes me to live in his flat in Pall Mall and to begin my duties immediately. Naturally I want to carry out his wishes. There remains only the question of salary."

"The salary is ten pounds a week, sir."

"That seems very generous," I replied.

"It is very generous. It is exceedingly generous. I am instructed to add," he continued, in a lifeless but legal manner, "that my client wished me to tell you that his return to London, whenever that event occurs, will not necessarily involve the termination of your employment. Please understand that if I make no comment on these arrangements, my silence does not necessarily imply that I concur in them."

"I understand perfectly. I have already taken up a great deal of your time. Do I understand that it is Mr. Scrivener's wish that I should go to his flat today?"

"Certainly, if your arrangements permit."

"I can be in his flat within an hour. My luggage is at the station. Had a reference been required, Mr. Petersham of2"

"A reference is not required, as I have already explained. That is the address." He handed me a paper. "There is a domestic on the premises and, I imagine, you will find a communication from my client. I think that is all."

I had already risen. I bowed to Mr. Winkworth and was about to leave the room when he said coldly:

"You will, of course, communicate with me, if necessary."

"Certainly, if necessary."

It was clear that he disliked me, but I was far too excited to think about Mr. Walter Winkworth. I hurried through the outer office and was soon walking rapidly down a sunlit Piccadilly.

Chapter II

CHAPTER II

I

As I walked down Piccadilly I thought over the interview which had just ended. I discovered that the change in my affairs had proved more fundamental than I had anticipated. My life in Petersham's office, and the solitary life I had lived outside it, were over. I was now secretary to a man I had never seen. My salary was a generous one. I was to live in his flat in Pall Mall. I did not know what the duration of his absence from London would be, or what effect his return would have upon our relations. In fact, I knew nothing whatever about him.

The sunlight, the animation of the streets, the crowded pavements, fascinated me because they represented the background of the adventure upon which I was now embarked. Everything was unfamiliar. The contours of my world had been obliterated. Yesterday, the externals of my life had been rigid, mechanical, monotonous. Day had followed day like a recurring decimal. I had trod the treadmill of relentless routine. But now I was an instrument in the hands of Providence. And, to mortals, the operations of Providence are usually indistinguishable from those of pure caprice.

I rang up the hotel and cancelled the room I had reserved, then I went to the station, collected my luggage, and drove to Pall Mall. I sat in the taxi and experienced the pleasant sensation that everything was beginning again.

Scrivener's flat was almost opposite St. James's Palace and was therefore only a few yards from St. James's Street. The buildings on either side of the entrance consisted of offices. I discovered that the flat was on the second floor. I paused outside the door for a moment surprised by the silence, then I rang the bell and half wondered whether anyone would respond to its summons.