Jilted! Or, My Uncle's Scheme, Volume 1 — John Shaqi
Jilted! Or, My Uncle's Scheme, Volume 1Russell, William Clark
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Jilted! Or, My Uncle's Scheme, Volume 1
Russell, William Clark
English fiction -- 19th century
“If I were to live a thousand years,” I thought, “and were I to devote
twelve hours of the day to counting money, I should never be able to do
what that fellow does.”
I expressed my surprise, and he asked me to try my hand on two pounds
of silver. It took me five minutes to tell twenty pieces. “Pshaw!” said
I, turning away, when he showed me that I made eighteen shillings
represent a pound, “this is somebody else’s work, for it certainly
isn’t mine.” And then I began to talk of the superiority of the French
over the English money.
Mr. Spratling worked like an automaton. I thought his zeal
contemptible, and wondered that any human being should be gifted with
so little tact as not to know how to qualify the vulgarity of labour
with an occasional dash of the gentility of indolence. But speaking of
him when he had gone out at one o’clock to get his dinner, my opinion
of the youth was greatly improved, by Mr. Curling telling me that he
got eighty pounds a year, on which he supported his blind mother, who
had no other resources but her child’s salary.
“By George!” I exclaimed, “he is a worthy young man; and if I have
any influence with my uncle, I’ll get his salary raised to a hundred
pounds.”
I don’t know how it came about, but I have a clear recollection of
leaving the bank at four o’clock, in a much more subdued mood than I
had entered it. I was under an engagement to my aunt to dine at Grove
End, but I felt so tired, after my long and unaccustomed confinement
to one room, that I begged my uncle to excuse me to her. Why was I
subdued? Perhaps because I was tired. Does physical weariness take the
conceit out of one? if so, here you have a reason for the change in me.
I am willing to look a little deeper, and attribute it to a feeling of,
perhaps, the only wholesome pride that had ever stirred me; the pride
of having been honestly occupied.
I left Mr. Curling still busy with his accounts, but he had told me
there was no need for me to stay. I walked home to my lodgings and
dined off a chop and half a pint of sherry, and then putting a pipe in
my mouth, strolled out in the direction of the green lanes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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