Chapter Thirty Four.
How I got rid of the Petty-Cash, and of Mr Smith’s Secret.
Billy’s mother was, for the first time in my experience, sober. I stayed behind for her on the stairs, while Mr Smith retired to his own room, saying he would come up and see us all in the morning. I wished he would have stayed and countenanced me in my interview with the unhappy woman.
“What’s all this, mister?” she said, as she came up.
Once, possibly, Billy’s mother might have been a handsome and even attractive woman, but drink had defaced whatever beauty she once had, and had degraded her terribly, as it always does, both in body and mind.
“Billy has been badly hurt,” I said, “and we thought you ought to come.”
“Who hurt him?” she demanded.
There was no sympathy or even concern in her tone. She spoke like a person to whom all the world is an enemy, in league to do her wrong.
“There was a struggle,” I said. “A man was hitting Mr Smith—”
“Mr Smith!” she exclaimed, fiercely; “who’s he—who’s Mr Smith?”
“Why, my friend who sometimes goes to see you in the court.”
“Oh!” said she, with a contemptuous laugh, “that fool!”
“Some one was striking him, and Billy put himself between them, and was badly hurt.”
“Well, what’s come to him? Is he dead, or what?” demanded the woman.
“No, he’s not, mercifully,” said I. “He’s getting better, we hope.”
“And you mean to say,” said the woman, with her wrath rising, “you’ve got that child among you, and you’re not content with robbing him and keeping him away from me, but here you’ve half-murdered him into the bargain, you— Where is he, mister? I’ll take him back along with me; I’ve had enough of this tomfoolery, I tell you.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “it would kill him to move him! You mustn’t think of it.”
“Get out of the way!” she exclaimed, fiercely, trying to push past me. “I’ll take him out of this. I’ll teach you all whose child the boy is! Get out of my way! Let me go to him.”
What could I do? I had no right to keep a mother from her son; and yet, were she to carry out her threat, no one could say what the result to the boy might not be.
In my dilemma I thought of Mr Smith, and conducted my intractable visitor to his room, in the hopes that he might be able to dissuade her from carrying out her threat.
But nothing he could do or say could bring her to reason. She appeared to be persuaded in her own mind that the whole affair was a conspiracy to do her some wrong, and that being so, entreaties, threats, and even bribes would not put her off her idea of taking Billy away with her.
“Come now,” said she, after this ineffectual parley had gone on for some time, “I’m not going to be made a fool of by you two any more. Where’s Billy? where are you hiding him? It’s no use you trying to impose on me with your gammon!”
“He’s upstairs,” said I, feeling that further resistance was worse than useless. “I’ll run up and tell Jack you’re coming. Billy may be asleep.”
But the woman caught me roughly by the arm. “No, no!” said she, “I don’t want none of your schemes and plots; I can go up without your help, mister.”
So saying, she broke away from us and went up the stairs.
“Don’t follow her,” said Mr Smith; “the fewer up there the better. Jack will manage.”
So we spent an anxious half-hour, listening to the voices and sound of feet above, and wondering how the interview was going on. Evidently it began with an altercation, and once Billy’s shrill treble joined in in a way which sounded very familiar. Eventually the angry tones of the woman ceased, and presently she returned to us, quiet in her manner, though still hunted-looking and mistrustful.
To our relief she was alone.
“I’m coming for him in the morning,” said she as she passed us.
We could never make out how Jack had subdued her and put her off. When we asked him, he said simply he begged her to wait a little, at any rate, till the boy was better, and had then promised to bring him home himself.
That night I shared Mr Smith’s room—or rather I occupied it during his absence, leaving Jack and Billy in possession upstairs.
My reflections during the night were not pleasant. If it had not been for my folly, my sin, in times past, the calamity of this evening would never have happened. These “friends” of former days were not to be shaken off as easily as they had been picked up, and meanwhile it was not I who was made to suffer, but Jack and Billy, who had never been guilty of my follies and sins. And, more than this, I felt the burden of Mr Smith’s secret still hanging unrelieved on my mind. And how was I to get rid of it and tell. Jack all, while this anxiety about Billy lasted?
In the early morning Mr Smith returned, and I confided to him all my troubles. He was very sympathetic, and agreed with me that the present was hardly the time to tell Jack his secret. And yet it was plain to see he was in terrible suspense till it should be all over.
We did not sleep much that night, and in the morning hastened to the room above. To our relief, we found Billy much better. He was even grinning as usual as we entered, and greeted us both in very like his old familiar way.
“What cheer!” said he, feebly but cheerily. “I are got a dose off that there Mashing! He do give yer toppers!”
“Come, hush, Billy!” said Jack, pleasantly; “didn’t I tell you not to talk?”
“Yaas,” said the boy, relapsing abruptly into silence.
His mother, as we rather anticipated, did not put in an appearance. My uncle did, and, after ascertaining that all was going on well, went off, leaving, greatly to my astonishment and not a little to my gratification, a sovereign in my hand as he said good-bye.
There was something kindly about my uncle, after all!
Leaving Mr Smith in charge, Jack and I went down to the office that morning with lighter hearts than we had expected to have.
Crow was waiting for us outside the office, with an anxious face.
“I say,” said he, as he came up, and not heeding Jack’s wrathful looks, “is it true what I hear, that that boy was killed last night?”
“Who told you so?” demanded Jack.
“I heard it from Daly. And Masham has bolted. Is it true, then?”
“No!” said Jack, “and no thanks to you it isn’t, you coward!”
Crow had evidently been too much frightened by the news he had heard to resent this hard name. He answered, meekly, “I’m glad it’s not true. I’m ashamed of that affair last night, and there’s no harm in telling you so.”
This was a good deal to come from a fellow like Crow. We did not reply, but entered the office.
There, for a few hours at least, hard work drove away all other cares. At dinner-time Jack rushed home, and brought back a further good report of the patient, whom the doctor had seen, and pronounced to be making satisfactory progress.
As for me, I stayed at the office and made up for the lost time of the evening before. Part of my work was a grand balancing up of the petty-cash, which, as Hawkesbury was due back next morning, I would then have to be prepared to hand over. It was no small satisfaction to find that my accounts were right to a penny, and to know that in the fair copy of those accounts which I drew up no ingenuity or patience would be able to discover an error. Indeed, I was so particular, that, having made a minute blot in my first fair copy, I went to the trouble of writing out another, absolutely faultless, preserving the other in my desk, as an occasional feast to my own eyes in my self-satisfied moments.
That evening I was strongly tempted to unburden my secret to Jack as we walked home. But I could not bring myself up to the point. At least, I could not do so till we got to the door of our lodgings, and then it was too late, for Jack had rushed to Billy’s bedside, and it was hopeless to get him to think of anything else. So I had to wait on, and once more to endure the sight of Mr Smith’s anxious, frightened face.
The following morning brought a letter from my uncle, addressed, not to me, but to Jack Smith. It contained a five-pound note, which he said might be useful when Billy’s doctor’s bill had to be paid, and anything that was over might go to buy the boy a suit of clothes! My uncle was certainly coming out in a new light! It was like him writing to Jack instead of me, and I thought nothing of that. But for him to send a five-pound note for the benefit of a little stranger was certainly a novelty, which surprised as much as it encouraged me about my relative.
The money, as it happened, was very opportune, for neither of us was very flush of cash at the time.
Billy, who was now steadily recovering from the shock of his blow, pleaded very hard to be allowed to get up, and only Jack’s express command could keep him in bed.
“Ga on, governor,” said he, “let’s get up. I ain’t a-getting no coppers for that there penny bang, no more I ain’t; and I ain’t a-larnin’ nothink, and she,” (we knew only too well whom he meant), “may be up to all manner of larks, and me not know nothink about it.”
“You shall get up soon, when you’re better,” was Jack’s reply.
“I are better, governor.”
“Yes, but you won’t be unless you lie still for a day or two more, and do what you’re told,” said Jack, firmly.
Whereat the boy subsided.
Hawkesbury turned up at his place at the office in a benevolent frame of mind, and received over my petty-cash and the beautiful copy of accounts which accompanied it with the utmost condescension.
He was extremely obliged to me, he said, for taking charge of the accounts during his absence, and had no doubt he would find everything correct when he went through the figures. He hoped it had not given me much extra work, and that during his absence I had been in the enjoyment of good health and spirits.
All which “gush” I accepted with due gratitude, wondering inwardly whether he had been actually made a partner since I last saw him—he was so very gracious.
“By the way,” said I, when the ceremony was at an end, and feeling a little mischievously inclined, as well as being anxious to vent my feelings on the point—“by the way, your particular friend Masham came to our lodging the other evening.”
“Ah, did he?” said Hawkesbury, blandly; “I’m glad he called. He wanted to see you again. He took rather a fancy to you that day, you know.”
“Did he?” said I. “I think he was rather sorry he called, though.”
“Why?”
“Why, because Smith gave him the thrashing he deserved, and the thrashing he’s not likely to forget in a hurry either!”
“I don’t understand,” said Hawkesbury. “What has Smith to do with my friend Masham?”
“Just what he has to do with any other blackguard,” retorted I, warming up.
“Batchelor, you are forgetting yourself, I think,” said Hawkesbury. “I hope what you are saying is not true.”
“If you mean about Masham being a blackguard,” said I, “it’s as true as that he is your friend.”
“I really don’t know what all this means,” said Hawkesbury, haughtily. “I must ask Masham himself.”
“I’m afraid you won’t find him,” I said. “He nearly murdered the boy who was with us at the time. And as the report went out that the child was actually dead, he is prudently keeping out of the way for the present. I’m sure he will be—”
“Excuse me, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, interrupting. “I really haven’t time to talk now. Kindly get on with your work, and I will do the same.”
I may not have derived much good by this edifying conversation, but I had at least the satisfaction of feeling that Hawkesbury now knew what I thought of his friend.
Jack said that evening he thought it was a pity I had said as much as I had, and further reflection made me think the same. However, it couldn’t be helped now, and anything that made clear the estimation in which I held Masham was on the whole no bad thing.
That evening when we got back we found Mr Smith at home. He had come, he said, to insist on taking Jack’s place with Billy for the night. Jack protested in vain that he felt quite fresh, that he was not in the least sleepy, and so on. Mr Smith was inexorable for once, so we had finally to retire together to the room downstairs, and leave him in possession.
As we said good-night he gave me a look which I well understood.
“It’s awful nonsense,” said Jack, “making out I want sleep. Why, I’ve slept most of every night I’ve been up there. I’m sure more than he has.”
“He thinks a good deal about you, Jack, I fancy,” said I, anxious to steer the talk round in the required direction. Jack nodded and went and opened the window.
“It’s awfully close to-night,” said he.
We stood leaning out of the window for some minutes, watching the few passengers in the street below and saying nothing. What Jack was thinking about I could not tell. What was passing through my mind I knew well enough.
“How do you think he seems?” asked I, after a long pause.
“Who, Billy? He’s getting on wonderfully.”
“I didn’t mean Billy,” said I. “I meant Mr Smith.”
“Oh, you ought to know better than I do. I really have hardly seen him the last few days. I’ve not heard him cough so much, though.”
“He’s not been himself at all the last few days,” I said.
“No wonder,” said Jack. “That night’s work was enough to upset anybody.”
“Oh, I don’t mean in that way,” I said, feeling hopeless as to ever getting out my secret. “Though I am sure he was very much concerned about Billy. But he seems to have other things on his mind too.”
“Has he? He works too hard, that’s what it is; and not content with that,” added he, “he insists on sitting up all night with Billy.”
There was another pause. I was no nearer than before, and for any hint I had given Jack of what was coming he knew as little of it as he did of the North Pole.
I must be more explicit, or I should never get out with it.
“Do you know, Jack,” said I presently, “he’s been telling me a good deal of his history lately?”
“Oh,” said Jack, “you two have got to be quite chummy. By the way, we ought to hear the result of the exam, on Tuesday, certainly.”
“It is very strange and sad,” said I, thinking more of what was in my mind than of what he was saying.
“What do you mean? They oughtn’t to take more than a week surely to go through the papers.”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about that,” I said. “I was thinking of Mr Smith’s story.”
“Why, what’s up with you, Fred? You’ve gone daft about Mr Smith, surely. What’s strange and sad?”
“The story of his life, Jack. He was once—”
“Stop,” said Jack, firmly. “I dare say it’s all you say, Fred, but I’d rather you didn’t tell it me.”
“Why not?” I said.
“He told it to you, but not to me. If he wants me to know it, he will tell me himself.”
I could not but feel the rebuke. Had I but been as careful of another secret, half my troubles would never have come upon me.
“You are quite right, Jack,” I said. “I know by this time that I should have no business to tell other people’s secrets. But, as it happens, Mr Smith is anxious for me to tell you his story; and that is the reason, I believe, why he has insisted on leaving us together to-night.”
I had launched my ship now!
Jack looked at me in a puzzled way.
“Wants you to tell me his story?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He has a reason. I think you had better hear it, Jack.”
Jack was no fool. He had wits enough to tell him by this time that in all this mysterious blundering talk of mine there was after all something more serious than commonplace tittle-tattle. My face and tone must have proved it, if nothing else did.
He remained leaning out of the window by my side as I told him that story in words as near those of Mr Smith himself as I could recall.
He interrupted me by no starts or exclamations, but remained silent, with his head on his hands, till the very end.
Indeed, he was so still after it was all told that for a moment I felt uneasy, lest he was taken ill.
But presently he looked up, with his face very pale, and said, “I can scarcely believe it, Fred.”
There was nothing in his tone or look to say whether the disclosure came to him as good news or bad. I longed to know, but I dared not ask. A long silence followed. He sat down on a chair with his face turned from me. I felt that to say another word would be a rude disturbance.
After a while he rose and said, in a voice very low and trembling, “I’ll go up stairs, Fred.”
“No,” said I, taking his arm and gently leading him back to his chair. “I’ll go up, old boy, and look after Billy to-night.”
He did not resist, and I hastened up.
Mr Smith met me at the door with anxious face.
“Well?” he inquired, in a voice which trembled as much as Jack’s had done.
“He knows all,” I said.
“Yes? and—”
“And he is downstairs, expecting you,” I said.
With a sigh very like a sob, Mr Smith left me and went down the stairs. All that long night, as I sat beside Billy and watched his fitful sleep, I could hear the sound of voices in the room below.
What they said to one another I never knew, and never inquired.
But next morning, when Jack came and summoned me to breakfast, his happy face and Mr Smith’s quiet smile answered far more eloquently than words every question I could possibly have asked about that strange and sacred meeting between a lost father and a lost son.
Chapter Thirty Five.
How Jack and I talked louder than we need have done.
About a week after the experiences narrated in the last chapter, my friend Smith and I went down one morning early to Hawk Street.
We usually took a short walk on our way when we happened to be early, and I don’t exactly know why we did not do so this time. But certain it is that instead of reaching the office at half-past nine, we found ourselves there a few minutes before nine.
The housekeeper was sweeping the stairs and shaking the mats on the pavement as we arrived.
She naturally looked surprised to see us, and said she had the office yet to sweep out, and we had better take a walk.
But, being lazily disposed, we declined the invitation, and determined to brave the dust and go up.
The office was certainly not very tempting for work. The windows were wide open, and the din of omnibuses and other traffic from the street below was almost deafening. Stools and chairs were stacked together in the middle of the floor, and the waste-paper of yesterday littered the whole place. Even our own desks were thick with dust.
Under these depressing circumstances we were forced to admit that possibly the housekeeper was right, and that we had better take a walk.
“It’s a nuisance,” said I, “for I had to leave one or two things unfinished yesterday.”
“I’ve a good mind to try,” said Jack. “Unless I can catch up my work I shall have to stay late to-night, and I don’t want to do that, as father is going to try to get away early.”
So we dusted our desks as best we could, shut the windows to keep out the noise, recovered our stools from the assortment in the middle, and prepared to make the best of it.
“Do you know, Jack,” said I, as I was getting out my papers, “it is so queer to hear you talking of Mr Smith as father? I can hardly realise it yet.”
“No more can I, often,” said Jack, “though I am getting more used to the idea.”
“When are you going to take him to Packworth?” I asked.
“I’m not quite sure. He thinks he can get a week at the end of this month, and I shall try to get the partners to let me take my holiday at the same time.”
“I hope you’ll be able to manage it.”
“So do I. Poor father is in very low spirits at the prospect of meeting Mary, I think. You know we shall have to tell her everything.”
“Will you? Is it necessary?”
“Oh, yes. At least father says it is. If she were to hear of his story from any other source, he says he would never dare see her again. It will be far better to tell her. But I wish it was over.”
“So do I,” I said. “Poor Mary!”
I had got quite into the way of talking of her to Jack by her Christian name, as if she were my sister as well as his.
“I suppose,” said I, “she will still live with Mrs Shield at Packworth?”
“Oh, yes, for the present. There’s no place to bring her to in London till we get a little better off.”
“I hope that won’t be very long,” said I.
“I’m afraid father’s situation on the staff of the Banner is not a very—”
“Hush!” I exclaimed, suddenly.
We had remained, so far, in undisturbed possession of the office, and there was no chance of any new-comer entering without our knowing. But while Jack was speaking I thought I heard a sound, not on the stairs outside, but in the partners’ room, which opened out of the counting-house.
Suppose one of the partners had been there all the while, and heard all we had said.
Jack stopped dead in his talk, and with pale face looked inquiringly at me.
“I thought I heard a noise in there,” said I, pointing to the door.
“What?” said Jack, with a gasp. The same thought was evidently crossing his mind which had crossed mine.
“It can’t be either of the partners,” whispered he, “at this hour.”
“We’d better see,” said I; “it may be a thief.”
We went quietly to the door. All was silent as we listened; and yet I felt I could not have been mistaken about the noise. The door was closed to, but not fastened. Jack opened it softly.
There, sitting at the partners’ table, with his head on his hands, apparently absorbed in work, and unconscious of everything else, sat—Hawkesbury!
A spectre could not have startled and horrified us more!
At first he did not seem to be aware of our presence, and it was not till Jack advanced a step, and involuntarily exclaimed “Hawkesbury!” that he looked up in a flurried way.
“Why, Smith!” he exclaimed, “and Batchelor! What a start you gave me! What are you doing here at this hour, and in this room?”
“We’ve been here a quarter of an hour,” said Jack, solemnly.
“Have you? How quiet you’ve been!”
This, at any rate, was a relief. He could hardly have heard our conversation.
“But what are you doing in here?” he added, in an important voice. “You must know this room is private, and not for the clerks.”
“We heard a noise,” said I, “and did not know who was here.”
Hawkesbury smiled incredulously.
“All I can say is,” said he, “I hope you are not in the habit of coming in here when you are by yourselves in the office. But kindly leave me now—I am busy.”
He had a lot of papers spread out on the table before him, which he was gathering together in his hand while he spoke. Whether they were accounts, or letters, or what, we could not tell; but as there was nothing more to be said we withdrew to the counting-house. He followed us out in about five minutes, carrying the papers to his desk. Then, informing the housekeeper in an audible voice that he would just go and get breakfast, he left us to ourselves.
“What a mercy,” said I, “he doesn’t seem to have heard what we were talking about!”
Jack smiled bitterly.
“Unless I’m mistaken, he’s heard every word!”
“Surely, Jack,” I exclaimed, stunned by the very idea, “you don’t mean that?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Our feelings during the remainder of that day may be more easily imagined than expressed. If there was one person in the world more than another we would have wished not to hear what had been said, it was Hawkesbury. Thanks to my folly and meanness, he had known far too much as it was, before, and trouble had fallen on Jack in consequence. Now, if Jack’s surmise was true, to what use might he not put the knowledge just obtained?
No one quite understood Hawkesbury. But I knew enough of him to see that jealousy of my friend Smith mixed up with all the motives for his conduct at Hawk Street. His tone of superiority, his favouring one clerk above another, his efforts to assert his influence over me had all been part of a purpose to triumph over Jack Smith. And yet, in spite of it all, Jack had held on his way, rising meanwhile daily in favour and confidence with his employers, and even with some of his formerly hostile fellow-clerks.
But now, with this new secret in his hand, Hawkesbury once more had my friend in his power, and how he would use it there was no knowing.
All that day he was particularly bland and condescending in his manner to me, and particularly pompous and exacting in his manner to Jack, and this, more than anything else, convinced me the latter was right in his suspicion.
Our discussion as we walked home that night was dismal enough. The brighter prospects which had seemed to dawn on Jack and his father appeared somehow suddenly clouded, and a sense of trouble hung over both our minds.
“One thing is certain,” said Jack, “I must tell the partners everything now.”
“Perhaps you are right—if there is any chance of his telling them. But he could surely hardly act so shamefully.”
“It may be too late, even now,” said Jack. “You know, when I was taken on at Hawk Street, and they asked me about my father, I said simply he was abroad. I’ve thought since it was hardly straightforward, and yet it didn’t seem necessary to tell them all about it.”
“Certainly not. Why should your prospects be ruined because your father—”
“Because my father,” said Jack, taking me up quietly, “had lost his? That’s what I thought. But perhaps they will think differently. At any rate, I will tell them.”
“If you do,” said I, “and they take it kindly, as I expect they will, I don’t see what more harm he can do you.”
“Unless,” said Jack, “he thinks it his duty to tell the proprietors of the Banner.”
“What possible good could that do him?” I asked.
“Why, he might as well think it his duty to tell Mary.”
Jack said nothing, and we walked on, very uneasy and depressed.
When we arrived at our lodgings we found Billy, whose recovery was now almost complete, sitting up in the bed with a jubilant face.
“You’re a-done it, governor,” cried he, as we entered. “You are a-done it.”
“Done what?” said Jack.
“Why, that there sam.”
“What about it?” we cried, eagerly.
“Oh, that there flashy bloke, Flanikin, ’e comes up, and says ’e, ‘Jack Smith in?’ says he—meanin’ you, governor. ‘Ain’t no concern of yourn,’ says I—not ’olding with them animals as comes to see yer. ‘Yes it is,’ says ’e, a blowin’ with the run he’d ’ad. ‘Tell ’im the moment ’e comes in that ’e’s fust in the sam,’ says he.”
“Hurrah!” I cried, forgetting everything in this good news. “Old man, how splendid!”
Jack too for a moment relaxed his grave face as he answered my greeting.
“I can hardly believe it,” said he.
“Oh, there ain’t no error, so I tells you,” cried Billy, “the cove ’ad been up to the shop, he says, and copied it down. He was nigh off ’is ’ead, was that there Flanikin, and ’e’s a-comin’ in to see you ’imself, he says, afore eight o’clock.”
And before eight Flanagan turned up and confirmed the glorious news with a printed list, in which sure enough “Smith” stood out distinctly in the first place.
“You know, I thought it might be another Smith,” said Flanagan, laughing; “there are one or two of the same name in the world, I know. But there’s not another in the list, so it’s all right. I say, wouldn’t old Henniker be proud of you now, my boy—eh, Fred? She’d let you sneeze without pulling you up for it, I do believe.”
A letter by the evening post to Jack brought the official confirmation of the news from the examiners, and announced further that the distinction carried with it a scholarship worth £50 a year for three years.
In the midst of our jubilation, Mr Smith came in, and that evening, but for the morning’s cloud which still hung over us, our happiness would have been complete.
The next day Jack took an early opportunity of seeking an interview with the partners, and making a clean breast to them of his birth and position. He gave me an account of the interview afterwards, and said that while Mr Merrett, as usual, took everything kindly and even sympathetically, Mr Barnacle was disposed to regard Jack’s representation of himself on first coming to the office as not candid, and so blameworthy. However, they both agreed that he had done the proper thing in speaking out now, and willingly agreed to let him take his holiday at the time proposed, so as to accompany his father to Packworth.
So a great weight was taken off our minds, and the consciousness that now nothing remained concealed from our employers enabled us to bear Hawkesbury’s lofty manner with comparative indifference.
I even yet had my doubts whether he could really have overheard our talk that morning. Nothing certainly that he said or did gave colour to the suspicion; only his almost deferential manner to me, and his almost scornful manner to Jack, seemed to hint that it might be so.
Jack’s opinion, however, on the point was unshaken.
An uneventful fortnight passed. Billy was up again and back at his work as usual, except that he was strictly forbidden to walk about on his hands any more—a terrible hardship for the lad.
The first half-year’s cheque of Jack’s scholarship had come, and had been proudly deposited in the bank, as a nucleus of a fund in which father, son, and daughter were some day to participate.
And now the long-looked-for time had arrived when Jack and his father were to pay their promised visit to Packworth. I had seen them both half rejoicing in, half dreading the prospect; and now that I saw them actually start, I scarcely knew whether most to pity or envy them.
It was a lonely evening for me, the evening after I had seem them off. They had promised to write and tell me how they fared; but meanwhile I felt very desolate. Even Billy’s company failed altogether to raise my spirits.
However, as it happened, that youth had some news to give me which at any rate tended to divert my mind for a time from my bereaved condition.
“I seen that Mashing agin,” he said, abruptly.
“Did you? Where?”
“Down Trade Street. I was on a pal’s beat there, for a change, and he comes and wants his boots blacked. I knows the animal, but he don’t twig me, bein’ off my beat. I would a-liked to give the beauty a topper, so I would; but, bless you, where’s the use!”
“So you blacked his boots for him?”
“I did so. An’ ’e got a pal along of him, and they was a-jawin’ about a parson’s son as owed Mashing fifteen pound, and saying as they’d crack him up if he didn’t pay up. And then they was a-jawin’ about the shine up here that night, and the pal was a-chaffin’ Mashing cos of the wipin’ my bloke give ’im, and Mashing he says he reckons he’s quits with the prig—meaning the governor—by this time, he says. And t’other one say ‘’Ow?’ And Mashing says as the governor’s a conwex son, and he knows who Mr Conwex is, he says, and he are writ a letter to Miss Conwex, he says, down in the country, that’ll open ’er goggle eyes, he says.”
“What!” I exclaimed, starting from my seat, “he’s written to Mary, the brute!”
“Dunno so much about your Mary, but that’s what he says,” replied Billy, composedly.
“When—when did he write—eh?” I cried.
“’Ow do I know?” retorted Billy, who evidently misunderstood and failed to appreciate my agitated manner.
“I aren’t arsked ’im. Arst ’im yourself if you want to know.”
And he drew himself up in evident dudgeon.
I didn’t know what to do. It was no time to denounce or lament. The thought of the poor innocent girl receiving such a letter as Masham would be likely to write was too much to endure. If only I could prevent her seeing it!
“When did you hear all this?” I said to Billy.
“Find out. ’Tain’t no concern of yourn,” said the offended hero.
“But, Billy,” said I, “it’s most important. Do you, know that what Masham has done will make your Mr Smith miserable?”
Billy started at this.
“If I’d a known that, I’d a wrung his leg off,” said he.
“But when was it? This morning?”
“No, last night.”
Last night! Then the letter would already have reached Packworth, and long before Jack and his father arrived the happiness of her life would have been dashed.
It seemed no use attempting anything. I determined, however, to send a telegram to meet Jack on his arrival, so as to warn him, in case the letter should still be undelivered. I worded it carefully, for fear it might be opened before Jack arrived.
“Hawkesbury did hear our talk. He told Masham, who has written a letter to some one we both care for.”
This I flattered myself was sufficiently unintelligible to any one but Jack.
I spent the rest of the evening in fighting against the tumult of my own feelings. My impulse had been to rush at once to Hawkesbury and charge him with his infamy. But what good would that do? And who was I, to prefer such a charge against another? My next was to find out Masham, and take some desperate revenge on him. But, after all, my only authority was Billy’s report of a conversation overheard by him; and, though it might be all true, I had no right, I felt, without further proof, even if then, to do anything.
On the whole, I came to the conclusion I had better go to bed, which I did. But whether I slept or not the reader may guess.
Chapter Thirty Six.
How Hawkesbury and I came across one another rather seriously.
It took a great effort to appear before Hawkesbury next morning as if I was not aware of his meanness. Now Jack was away, he once again put on an air of friendliness towards me which was particularly aggravating. Had he only made himself disagreeable, and given me an opportunity of venting my wrath, I should have been positively grateful. But to stand by all day and be simpered to, and even cringed to, was galling in the extreme.
I did once venture on a mild protest.
He was speaking to me about the coming holidays, and begging me in a most humble manner to choose what time I should like to take mine, assuring me that any time would do for him.
I suggested, curtly, that as Doubleday had not yet had his holiday I considered he had first choice.
“Oh,” he said, “I don’t think so. Besides, Batchelor, Doubleday and I could both be away at the same time; but I really would hardly feel comfortable in going unless you could take charge of the petty-cash while I am away.”
“Smith will be back,” I said; “he could do that for you.”
As I expected, his face clouded.
“I can’t agree with you there, Batchelor. But don’t let us talk of that. I hope you will choose the time you would like best. I can easily arrange for any time.”
“I don’t know what makes you so wonderfully civil,” said I, losing patience at all this soft soap. “After all that has happened, Hawkesbury, I should have thought you might have spared yourself this gush, as far as I was concerned.”
“I would like bygones to be bygones between us, Batchelor. I know quite well I have been to blame in many things! I am sorry for them now, if it prevents our being friends.”
And he smiled sweetly.
I gave it up in disgust, and let him say what he liked. It was not worth the trouble of preventing him, unless I was prepared for an open rupture, which just then I felt would be unwise, both on Jack’s account and my own.
So he had the satisfaction of believing his sweetness had made its due impression on my savage breast, and of scoring to himself a victory in consequence.
As I had found it before, hard work proved now to be the best specific for dull spirits, and during the next few days I gave the remedy a full trial.
It seemed ages before any letter came from Packworth, and I was dying to hear. For meanwhile all sorts of doubts and fears took hold of me. How had that strange family meeting gone off? Had it been marred by Masham’s cruel letter? or was the poor lost father once more finding happiness in the sight of one whom he had last seen an infant beside his dead wife? Surely if sympathy and common interest were to count for kinship, I was as much a member of that little family as any of them!
At last the letter came. It was from Jack:
“Dear Fred,—We got down on Wednesday. Father went that night to the hotel, as his heart failed him at the last moment. I went on to Mrs Shield’s, and found your telegram on my arrival. I was horrified, but hardly surprised at what it told me. Happily, Mary was in bed, as I had not been expected till the morning, so I was able to explain all to Mrs Shield. She knew all about it before I told her; for the enclosed letter had arrived by the post in the morning, addressed to Mary. Mercifully, seeing it was in a strange hand, and, as I have often told you, being most jealously careful of Mary, Mrs Shield took it into her head to open the letter and read it before giving it to Mary, and you may imagine her utter horror. She of course did not let her see it, and thus saved the child from what would have been a fearful shock; and I was able to break it all to her gradually. Father is to come this evening—I am thankful it is all so well over.
“How are you getting on? Anything fresh at Hawk Street? I don’t envy Hawkesbury or his friend their feelings just now; but I am determined to take no notice of this last brutal plot. Good-bye now.
“Yours ever,—
“J.S.”
The enclosure, written in an evidently disguised hand, was as follows:—
“An unknown admirer thinks it may interest Mary Smith to know that her father is a common thief and swindler, who has just come back from fourteen years’ penal servitude among the convicts. He is now living in London with his son, Mary’s brother, who, Mary may as well know, is following close in his dear father’s footsteps, however pious he may seem to others. This is the truth, or the writer would not have taken the trouble to send it. The best thing, if Mary wants to prevent the whole affair being made public, is to make her brother leave his place in London at once, and go somewhere in the country where he will be a nuisance to nobody.”
My first feeling on reading this was one of devout thankfulness for the Providence which had kept it from falling into the hands for which it was designed. But my wrath soon drove out every other feeling—wrath ten times the more fierce because it was helpless.
I could do nothing. I might go and attempt to thrash Masham, or I might thrash Hawkesbury, who was equally to blame, if not more. But what good would it do? It would only make bad worse. Jack’s secret, instead of being the private property of a few, would become common talk. I should be unable to bring positive proof of my charges, and even if I could, I should only be putting myself in the wrong by using force to redress my wrongs. No, after all, the only punishment was to take no notice of the affair, to let the two blackguards flatter themselves their plot had succeeded, and to leave them to find out as best they could that they had failed.
So I kept my hands resolutely in my pockets when next I met Hawkesbury, and consoled myself by picturing what his feelings would have been, had he known that that letter of his and his friend’s was in my pocket all the time.
However, my resolution to have nothing to do with him was upset very shortly, and in an unexpected manner.
Since the eventful morning when Jack and I had had that unlucky conversation at Hawk Street, I had not again put in an appearance there before the stated time. Now, however, that I was all by myself in town, with very few attractions towards a solitary walk, and a constant sense of work to catch up at Hawk Street, it occurred to me one fine morning—I should say one wet morning—when the streets were very uninviting, to seek shelter at the unearthly hour of half-past eight in Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s premises.
The housekeeper, greatly to my satisfaction, was engaged in clearing out the offices below ours, so that I was able to ascend without challenge and establish myself at my desk. I had not been there five minutes when another footstep sounded on the stairs and Hawkesbury entered.
I had thought it quite possible he might be there when I arrived, and was therefore not nearly so surprised to see him as he appeared to see me.
“What, Batchelor!” he exclaimed, “are you here?”
“Yes,” I replied, “are you?”
Why should he express such surprise, I wondered, at my doing just what he was doing?
“What brings you here at this hour?” he demanded, dropping for a moment the coaxing tone with which I had become so familiar the last day or two.
“What brings you here, for the matter of that?” I retorted.
If he thought I was going to clear out to please him, he was mistaken.
“Don’t address me like that,” he replied, with as great a tone of authority as he could assume. “I have a right to be here. You have none.”
“Until I am told so by some one better than yourself I sha’n’t believe it,” I replied.
I was losing my temper fast. Masham’s letter burned in my pocket, and the sight of this fellow giving himself airs to me was as much as I could stand.
Fortunately for us both, however, he did not prolong the discussion, but went to his desk.
It was evident, despite his assumed displeasure, he was very much put out about something. That something, I could not help thinking, must be my presence. He fidgeted about uneasily, looking now at the clock, now at me, now opening his desk, now shutting it, now scribbling on the paper before him, now tearing it up.
All this I saw as I tried to proceed steadily with my work. At last he brought me an envelope he had just addressed, and said in a rather more persuasive manner than he had yet assumed—
“Batchelor, would you kindly take this note round to Hodge and Company’s? It is very important; they should have had it yesterday.”
“Hodge’s are never open till ten,” I said.
“Oh yes, indeed they are. At least they expect this letter by nine o’clock. It’s a bill of lading for their goods.”
“If that’s so,” replied I, “the mail went out yesterday—you know that—and there’s not another till Monday.”
“Oh, but there’s a letter with it that has to be attended to immediately.”
“It’s not been copied,” said I, who had charge of the letter-book, and was responsible for copying everything that went out.
“I’ve kept a copy. I’ll see to that. It’s only to ask them to call round,” he said, with evident confusion.
I did not believe a word he said. And more than that, I strongly suspected all this was a device to get me out of the office—and that was what I had no intention of submitting to.
“If it’s to ask them to call round,” I said, “it will do when the commissionaire comes at half-past nine.”
“But I tell you it must be there at nine,” he exclaimed.
“Then,” said I, “you had better take it yourself.”
I had ceased to be afraid of Hawkesbury, or the look with which he returned to his desk might have made me uneasy.
I could see that as the time went on he became still more uneasy.
Once more he came to me.
“Will you go with the letter?” he demanded angrily.
“No, I won’t go with the letter,” I replied, in decided tones.
“You’ll be sorry for it, Batchelor,” he said, in a significant way.
“Shall I?”
“You would not like my uncle and Mr Barnacle to be told of your early visits here without leave.”
“They are quite welcome to know it.”
“And of my catching you and Smith going into their private room.”
“Where we found you,” I replied, laughing, “busy at nobody knows what?”
He looked at me hard as I drew this bow at a venture, and then said, “You must know, Batchelor, that I have a right to sit in that room when I choose. And,” he added, dropping his voice to a whisper and looking at me in a most significant way—“and if the door happens to be open, and if you and Smith happen to talk secrets, there’s every chance of their being overheard!”
This was his trump card! If anything was to settle the question of my obeying him and taking Hodge and Company’s letter, this was to do it.
“Then you did hear what was said?” I asked.
“Yes, I did,” he said.
“And you mean to say—”
“I mean to say,” said he, with a glance up at the clock, “that you had better take this letter at once, Batchelor.”
“And if I don’t?”
“If you don’t, your friend Smith shall smart for it.”
Before I could make up my mind what to do—whether to feign alarm and take the letter, leaving him to suppose he still had the whip-hand over us, or whether to undeceive him at once, and defy him point-blank—before I could reply at all, the door suddenly opened, and Masham entered.
If anything was still wanted to decide me, this sufficed. I felt certain now that there was mischief on foot somewhere, and the appearance of this bird of ill-omen was sufficient to account for Hawkesbury’s eagerness to get me out of the way.
What could have brought these two to arrange a meeting here, at the office, and at an hour when in the ordinary course of things no one else would be present?
I determined to stay where I was at all risks.
Masham on seeing me started, and looked inquiringly at Hawkesbury.
“What’s he doing here?” he said. The very sound of his voice made my blood boil.
“He is going to take a letter to the Borough for me,” said Hawkesbury, bestowing a meaning glance on me.
“I’m not going to take it,” said I.
“What?” exclaimed Hawkesbury, in sudden fury.
“I’m not going to take it. I’m going to stay where I am.”
“You know the consequences?” he muttered between his teeth.
“Yes.”
“You know what it means for your friend Smith?”
“Yes.”
He looked perplexed, as well he might. That I should defy him in the face of his threat against Jack Smith was the last thing he had expected, “Batchelor,” said he, altering his tone suddenly to one of entreaty, “I have very important business to arrange with Masham. Would you mind leaving us for half an hour? I would not ask you, only I shall get into awful trouble if I can’t talk to him alone for a little.”
It passed my comprehension how, after threatening me with Jack’s ruin, he should now turn round with such an appeal. And he put on such a beseeching manner that in the midst of my wrath I half pitied him. However, I was not to be moved. “If you want to see him so privately as all that,” said I, “take him up to the sample-room. No one will disturb you there.”
He gave me one look of hatred and menace, and then said to Masham, “We must fix another time, Masham; we can’t go into the matter now.”
“Eh?” said Masham, who had hitherto stood by in silence. “What do you say? If we can’t do it now, we won’t do it at all, my boy.”
Hawkesbury went up to him and whispered something.
“Oh, we’ll soon settle that!” said the other, laughing. “He won’t go, won’t he! We’ll help him, that’s all? Whereabouts is the coal-hole?”
So saying he made a grab at my arm, and before I could resist Hawkesbury had secured the other.
I struggled all I could, but unavailingly. Between them I was dragged up stairs to the sample-room, into which I were ignominiously thrust, and the door locked behind me. At first my rage and indignation were too great to allow me to think of anything but kicking at the door and shouting to my captors to release me. But this I soon discovered was fruitless, and in due time I gave it up, and resolved to wait my time and make the best of my lot.
That some mischief was afoot I now felt certain, and whatever it was, I felt equally sure it was being enacted during my imprisonment. Yet what could I do? I could only listen to the sound of voices below and speculate as to what was going on. Suddenly, however, it flashed across me that the room in which I was was not over the office, but over the partners’ room, and that therefore the sounds I heard must proceed from thence.
What could they be up to? I heard a door open and shut, and a noise of what might have been keys, followed by a heavy slamming-to of something which, for the thud it gave, might have been the iron safe itself.
I felt very uncomfortable, but I was forced to remain chafing where I was for nearly half an hour, when the lock of my prison turned and the two entered the room. They both seized me as before.
“Now you can come down,” said Masham.
“Not till he promises to say nothing about this,” said Hawkesbury.
“He knows what to expect if he doesn’t!” said Masham.
“After all,” said Hawkesbury, “we didn’t mean to hurt you; Masham and I only wanted to settle some horse-racing and other scores, and as the papers were all in my desk, we were bound to use the office, and of course I couldn’t ask him round any other time. If you’d been half a gentleman, Batchelor, you would have left us at once.”
“I don’t believe you,” I replied. “What did you want in the partners’ room, I should like to know, eh?”
“What!” exclaimed Hawkesbury, in a rage. “We were never there, were we, Masham?”
“Never knew there was a partners’ room,” said Masham, “and if there had been, what if we had been in it?”
“We were in the counting-house all the time,” said Hawkesbury. Then he added, “But come down now, and take my advice, Batchelor, and don’t ruin yourself.”
“Ruin myself!” cried I, with a scornful laugh; “I don’t see how letting the partners know your goings on would ruin me.”
“You’ll see!” was the reply.
He doubtless considered the threat enough, but, knowing as I did that Jack had told the partners everything Hawkesbury could possibly tell, I could afford to treat it with contempt.
Masham took his departure, and I returned with Hawkesbury to the counting-house, where we were soon joined by our fellow-clerks.
I was very uncomfortable, and hardly knew how to act. That it was my duty to tell the partners what had happened I had no doubt; but how much to tell them, and when, I could not make up my mind. I determined to take Doubleday into my confidence, and get the advantage of his good advice and clear head.
But it was easier said than done. Almost as soon as he came in Doubleday had to go down to the docks, and the opportunity of consulting him was thus delayed. Every moment that passed I felt more and more uneasy. Mr Barnacle had already arrived, and Mr Merrett was due in a few minutes. What right had I to delay even for a moment a matter which affected the credit of the whole house?
Yet suppose, after all, I had found a mare’s-nest! Suppose Hawkesbury’s explanation of what had occurred should by any chance have been correct—suppose the sounds I heard during my confinement had not been caused by those two at all, but by the housekeeper sweeping out the room and putting it in order? If that was so, what a fool I should make of myself!
No; I resolved, for all the difference it would make, I would wait till I could consult Doubleday.
Hawkesbury was very busy that morning; he was constantly fidgeting in and out of his little box, giving vague directions to one clerk and another, and keeping a special eye on me and all I did.
When Mr Merrett arrived he went as usual to say good-morning to his uncle, and as usual followed him into the partners’ room, to receive such letters as might require answering.
I wished Doubleday had not been called down to the docks this morning of all others. He would have told me in a moment what I ought to do, or, which came to the same thing, what he would have done in my place. Anything would be better than this suspense. I was tempted even then to break in upon the partners and tell them what had happened, and what my suspicions were. But I could not do it while Hawkesbury was there. When he came out—
By the way, what an unconscionable lot of letters there must be to keep him in there all this time! He was usually there about five minutes, but this morning he had been half an hour at the very least.
The thought suddenly occurred to me, could he be telling the partners about Jack Smith’s antecedents? In the midst of all my uneasiness I almost smiled to think how sold he would be when he discovered they had heard it all already!
Ah! here he was at last.
No. It was Mr Merrett who appeared at the door with an extremely long face; and looking round the office, fixed his eyes on me, and said, “Batchelor—come in here!”
I obeyed.
Instead of going in as usual before me, he waited till I had entered, and then followed me, closing the door behind him.
What on earth does it all mean?
Mr Barnacle sat looking straight before him through his spectacles. Hawkesbury also sat at the table, twisting a quill pen backwards and forwards with his fingers.
“Hawkesbury,” said Mr Merrett, as he re-entered, “you might leave us, please. I will call you when you are wanted.”
Hawkesbury, without looking at me, rose to obey. As he reached the door, Mr Merrett stepped after him, and whispered something. At ordinary times I should not have heard what he whispered, or thought of listening for it. But there was such a silence in the room, and my nerves were strung up to such a pitch, that I distinctly caught the words.
What I heard was this—
“Fetch a policeman!”