This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
At the Aurora—one of those rare antiquated taverns, smelling ofcomfortable time and solid English fare, that had sprung up in the greatcoffee days, when taverns were clubs, and had since subsisted on theattachment of steady bachelor Templars there had been dismay, and evensorrow, for a month. The most constant patron of the establishment—anold gentleman who had dined there for seven-and-twenty years, four daysin the week, off dishes dedicated to the particular days, and had growngrey with the landlady, the cook, and the head-waiter—this old gentlemanhad abruptly withheld his presence. Though his name, his residence, hisoccupation, were things only to be speculated on at the Aurora, he wasvery well known there, and as men are best to be known: that is to say,by their habits. Some affection for him also was felt. The landladylooked on him as a part of the house. The cook and the waiter wereaccustomed to receive acceptable compliments from him monthly. Hisprecise words, his regular ancient jokes, his pint of Madeira and after-pint of Port, his antique bow to the landlady, passing out and in, hismethod of spreading his table-napkin on his lap and looking up at theceiling ere he fell to, and how he talked to himself during the repast,and indulged in short chuckles, and the one look of perfect felicity thatplayed over his features when he had taken his first sip of Port—thesewere matters it pained them at the Aurora to have to remember.
For three weeks the resolution not to regard him as of the past wasgeneral. The Aurora was the old gentleman's home. Men do not playtruant from home at sixty years of age. He must, therefore, be seriouslyindisposed. The kind heart of the landlady fretted to think he mighthave no soul to nurse and care for him; but she kept his corner near thefire-place vacant, and took care that his pint of Madeira was there. Thebelief was gaining ground that he had gone, and that nothing but hisghost would ever sit there again. Still the melancholy ceremonycontinued: for the landlady was not without a secret hope, that in spiteof his reserve and the mystery surrounding him, he would have sent her alast word. The cook and head-waiter, interrogated as to their dealingswith the old gentleman, testified solemnly to the fact of their havingperformed their duty by him. They would not go against their interestsso much as to forget one of his ways, they said-taking oath, as it were,by their lower nature, in order to be credited: an instinct men have ofone another. The landlady could not contradict them, for the oldgentleman had made no complaint; but then she called to memory thatfifteen years back, in such and such a year, Wednesday's, dish had been,by shameful oversight, furnished him for Tuesday's, and he had eaten itquietly, but refused his Port; which pathetic event had caused alarm andinquiry, when the error was discovered, and apologized for, the oldgentleman merely saying, 'Don't let it happen again.' Next day he drankhis Port, as usual, and the wheels of the Aurora went smoothly. Thelandlady was thus justified in averring that something had been done bysomebody, albeit unable to point to anything specific. Women, who arealmost as deepl