“Fetch a policeman!” The truth flashed across me as I heard the words. Instead of standing here an accuser, I stood the accused. Hawkesbury had been before me with a vengeance!
The very shock of the discovery called back the presence of mind, which, on my first summons, I had almost lost. I was determined at least that nothing I should do or say would lend colour to the false charge against me.
“Batchelor,” said Mr Merrett, after Hawkesbury had gone and the door was locked—“Batchelor, we have sent for you here under very painful circumstances. You doubtless know why.”
“I must ask you to tell me, sir,” I replied, respectfully, but with a tremble in my voice which I would have given anything to conceal.
“I will tell you,” said Mr Merrett, “when you have first told Mr Barnacle and me what you have been doing since eight o’clock this morning.”
“And let me advise you,” said Mr Barnacle, looking up, “to tell the truth.”
“I certainly will tell the truth,” I began.
What possessed that unlucky voice of mine to quaver in the way it did? Those few words, I was convinced, would tell more against me than the most circumstantial narrative. I clutched hold of the back of a chair near me, and made a desperate effort to steady myself as I proceeded. I gave an exact account of everything that had happened since I entered the office that morning, omitting nothing, glossing over nothing, shirking nothing. They both listened attentively, eyeing me keenly all the time, and betraying no sign in their faces whether they believed me or not.
“Then you mean to say,” said Mr Merrett, when it was done, “that you were not in this room at all?”
“Yes, I never entered it.”
“Were you ever in this room without our knowledge?”
“Yes, a fortnight ago. Smith and I were here early, and hearing a noise inside, we opened the door and came in to see what it was.”
“What did you find?”
“Hawkesbury, working at the table where Mr Barnacle is now sitting.”
“What occurred?”
I related precisely what had occurred, repeating as nearly as I could the very words that had been used.
There was a silence, and then Mr Merrett, in his most solemn tones, said, “Now, Batchelor, answer this question. You say you were here before any one else arrived this morning?”
“Yes, sir. I had been here about five minutes before Hawkesbury came.”
“What were you doing during that time?”
“I was working at my desk.”
“You are quite sure?”
“Perfectly,” said I, my cheeks burning and my heart swelling within me to be thus spoken to by those whom, with all my faults, I had never once so much as dreamt of deceiving.
“You did not enter this room?”
“No.”
Mr Merrett touched his bell, and Hawkesbury appeared. I scarcely wondered he should try to avoid my eye as he stood at the table waiting.
“Hawkesbury, repeat once more, in Batchelor’s hearing, what you have already told us.”
He kept his head down and his face averted from me as he said, “I arrived here at a quarter to nine this morning, and noticed the door of this room open, and when I came to see who was there I saw Batchelor in the act of shutting the safe. He did not notice me at first, not until he was coming out of the room. I asked him what he was doing here. He seemed very much disconcerted, and said he had been looking for some papers he had left on Mr Barnacle’s table the day before. I asked him what he had been doing with the safe, and where he had got the key to open it. He got into a great state, and begged me to say nothing about it. I said I was bound to tell you what I had seen. Then he flew into a rage, and told me he’d serve me out. I told him that wouldn’t prevent me doing what was right. Then he left the office, and didn’t come back till a quarter to ten.”
All this Hawkesbury repeated glibly and hurriedly in a low voice. To me, who stood by and heard it, it was a cowardly lie from beginning to end. But to my employers, I felt, it must sound both businesslike and straightforward; quite as straightforward, I feared, as my own equally exact but tremblingly-spoken story.
“You hear what Hawkesbury says?” said Mr Merrett, turning to me.
I roused myself with an effort, and answered quietly, “Yes, sir.”
“What have you to say to it?”
“That it is false from beginning to end.”
“You deny, in fact, ever having been at this safe, or in this room?”
“Most certainly.”
They all looked grave, and Mr Merrett said, solemnly, “I am sorry to hear you deny it, Batchelor. If you had made a full confession we should have been disposed to deal more leniently with you.”
“I never did it—it’s all false!” I cried, suddenly losing all self-control. “You know it’s false; it’s a plot to ruin me and Jack.”
“Silence, sir!” said Mr Merrett, sternly.
“I won’t be silent,” I shouted; “I never deceived you, and yet you go and believe what this miserable—”
Mr Merrett touched his bell angrily; but before any one answered it Mr Barnacle had looked up.
The junior partner had been silent all this time, an attentive but impassive listener to all that had passed. Once or twice during Hawkesbury’s story he had darted a quick glance at the speaker, and once or twice during my indignant protest his brows had knit, as it seemed, in anger. Mr Barnacle had always had the reputation of being the sterner of the two partners, and now, as he abruptly joined in the conversation, I felt as if it boded very little good for me.
“One moment,” said he to Mr Merrett; “there are a few more questions we should ask, I think. Batchelor, you are doing yourself no good by this noise,” he added, turning to me.
He was right, and I saw it. I quieted down with an effort, and wondered what was coming next.
Wallop appeared at the door in answer to the bell, and was told he was not wanted. Then Mr Barnacle turned to Hawkesbury and asked, “What brought you here so early as a quarter to nine, Hawkesbury?”
This question surprised Hawkesbury as much as it delighted me. I hardly expected to have a cross-examination in my favour conducted by Mr Barnacle.
“I came to do some work,” said Hawkesbury.
“What work?”
“I had several things to catch up.”
“What? Invoices, or letters, or accounts, or what?”
“I had the petty-cash to balance.”
“That is supposed to be done every day, is it not?”
“Yes; but I had got rather behind.”
“How many days behind?” said Mr Barnacle.
“Really I can’t quite say,” said Hawkesbury, who did not seem used to being driven into a corner. “My journey North threw me out of it.”
“Then you have not balanced the petty-cash since before you went North, nearly three weeks ago? Am I to understand that?”
“Yes,” said Hawkesbury.
“Is this the first morning you have come here early?”
“No. I have been once or twice.”
“This is the only time you found Batchelor here?”
“No; about a fortnight ago he was here with Smith. I found them both in this room.”
“What were they doing?”
“They were writing something at the table. They were in a great rage with me when I came in.”
“Was the safe open at the time?”
Hawkesbury had got past the stage of sticking at trifles.
“Yes,” he said; “when I came in it was. But they made a rush and turned me out of the room and locked the door. And then when I came in again it was shut.”
“And did you mention this to anybody?”
“No.”
“And why, pray?”
Hawkesbury was taken aback by the sudden question. It was evident he could not make his story square at all four corners.
“I—I—hoped I might be mistaken,” said he, uncomfortably. “In fact, I meant to mention the affair, but—but I forgot.”
“Oh,” said Mr Barnacle, in a way that made the witness writhe.
“I hope you don’t doubt my word,” said Hawkesbury, attempting to assume a lofty air of virtuous indignation.
Mr Barnacle vouchsafed no reply.
“What we desire,” said Mr Merrett, “is to come at the truth of the matter, and I can only say that it would be much better if the culprit were to make a full confession here now.”
He looked hard at me as he spoke, and I did my best to stand the look as an innocent man should.
“A cheque for eight pounds has been missed,” continued Mr Merrett, “which was only drawn yesterday, and left in the safe. I ask you, Batchelor, do you know anything of it?”
“No, sir,” I replied.
“Do you?” said Mr Barnacle to Hawkesbury.
Hawkesbury flushed as he replied, “I never expected to be asked such a question, Mr Barnacle. I know nothing about it.”
Mr Merrett evidently disliked his partner’s persistency in putting to Hawkesbury the same questions as had been put to me, but he could hardly complain. He turned to his nephew and said, “Did you fetch a policeman, Hawkesbury?”
“No; I was just going when you called me in here.”
Mr Merrett touched his bell, and Crow appeared.
“Is Doubleday in?” asked the senior partner.
“No, sir.”
“As soon as he comes in, tell him he is wanted.”
Crow took an eyeful of us as we stood there, evidently dying of curiosity to know what it all meant, and then retired.
“You two had better go to your work for the present,” said Mr Barnacle; “but understand that you are neither of you at liberty to leave the office. Merrett, I will go down to the bank.”
“Do,” said Mr Merrett.
And so this first painful interview ended. My feelings on finding myself once more at my desk among my fellow-clerks may be more easily imagined than described.
My indignation and sense of injury would scarcely allow me to think calmly on my position. That my employers should be ready, on the testimony of such a fellow as Hawkesbury, to believe a charge like this against me, was simply unbearable, and my own helplessness to prove my innocence only added tenfold to my trouble. Oh! if Jack were only here, I might get some light.
I hurriedly dashed off a note to him, telling him all, and begging him to come. Yet what was the use of writing when I was not allowed to leave the office to post the letter?
I only wished Mr Barnacle would come back from the bank, and that I might know the worst.
As for Hawkesbury, he had shut himself up in his glass box, and was invisible.
Presently, not a little to my comfort, Doubleday returned. Fortunately, Crow was in another part of the office at the time, so that before he delivered his message I had time for a hurried consultation.
“Doubleday,” said I, in a whisper, “I am accused of stealing a cheque; can you help me out?”
“Guilty, or not guilty?” inquired Doubleday, taking a practical view of the case at once. This was pleasant, but it was no time to be particular.
“It is a lie from beginning to end, invented by Hawkesbury to shield himself from a similar charge.”
“Oh, that’s it? He’s been coming out in that line has he?”
I hurriedly narrated the morning’s adventures, greatly to his astonishment and wrath. He took in the situation at once.
“Jolly awkward fix,” said he. “Seen the cheque?”
“No; Mr Barnacle is down at the bank now.”
“Doubleday,” said Crow, entering at this moment, “the governors want you—sharp.”
“They are going to send you for a policeman,” I said. “If anything happens, Doubleday, will you please telegraph to Smith, at Mrs Shield’s, Packworth, and tell him to come to me, and also find out Billy, the shoeblack, and say I want to see him.”
Doubleday looked at me with something like amazement as I made this request, which, however, he promised to fulfil, and then waited on Mr Merrett in the partners’ room.
However, he returned almost immediately, and said he was to wait until Mr Barnacle came back.
It seemed ages before that event happened. Meanwhile Doubleday advised me not to be seen talking to him, or anybody, but to go to my desk and keep my own counsel. It was good advice, and I took it. Mr Barnacle returned presently, accompanied by a man who I fancied must be connected with the bank. The two partners and this stranger were closeted together for some time in the inner-room, and then Doubleday was summoned.
After what seemed a century he emerged and beckoned to me to go in. “You’re wanted,” he said.
I could gather neither comfort nor hope from his face as he stood to let me pass.
“Come when I ring,” said Mr Merrett to him.
Once more I stood before my employers. The stranger was still in the room, and eyed me as I entered in a manner which made me feel as if, whatever I was, I ought to be the guilty person.
“This matter, Batchelor,” began Mr Merrett, solemnly, “is more serious than we imagined. Not only has a cheque been stolen, but it has been tampered with. Look here!”
So saying he held out the cheque. It was dated the previous day, and payable to bearer. But the amount, instead of being eight pounds, was eighty. The alteration had been neatly made, and no one who did not know the original amount drawn for would have suspected that £80 was not the proper sum.
“This cheque,” said Mr Merrett, “was presented at the bank this morning at ten o’clock and cashed.”
I made no reply, being determined to say as little as I could.
“You were here at this hour, I believe,” continued Mr Merrett, “but you had left the office between 9 and 9:45.”
“No, sir. I have not left the office since I arrived at half-past eight.”
Mr Merrett touched the bell.
“Send Hawkesbury here,” he said to Doubleday.
Hawkesbury appeared, and at Mr Merrett’s bidding, after being shown the cheque, repeated once more his story in the hearing of the stranger.
It did not vary from the former version, and included the statement that I had quitted the office at the time alleged.
“Did you leave the office at all?” inquired Mr Barnacle.
“No,” said Hawkesbury.
“Not at all?”
“No, I said so,” replied he.
“And no one came to see you here?”
“No.”
“Your friend Masham did not?”
Hawkesbury, much offended to be thus catechised, made no reply.
Mr Barnacle coolly repeated the question.
“No—he did not!”
“What were you doing all the time?”
“I was working.”
“Yes, what particular work were you engaged in?”
“I told you—I was balancing the petty-cash.”
“Did you finish it?”
“Nearly.”
Mr Barnacle touched the bell, and Doubleday appeared.
“Doubleday, go to Hawkesbury’s desk and bring me the petty-cash book and box.”
Hawkesbury turned pale and broke out into a rage.
“What is this for, Mr Barnacle? I am not going to stand it! What right have you to suspect me?”
“Give Doubleday the key,” repeated Mr Barnacle.
“No,” exclaimed Hawkesbury, in a white heat. “I will not, I will fetch the book myself. He doesn’t know where to find it. He has no business to go to my desk.”
“Remain where you are, Hawkesbury,” said Mr Barnacle.
“What right have you to search my desk? I have private things in it. Uncle Merrett, are you going to allow this?”
“Mr Barnacle has a perfect right to see the petty-cash account,” said Mr Merrett, looking, however, by no means pleased.
“Why don’t you examine his desk?” said Hawkesbury, pointing to me; “he is the one to suspect, not me. Why don’t you search his desk?”
“I have no objection to my desk being searched,” said I, feeling a good deal concerned, however, at the thought of the mess that receptacle was in.
“It is only fair,” said Mr Barnacle. “This gentleman will search both, I dare say. Doubleday, show this gentleman both desks.”
It was a long, uncomfortable interval which ensued, Hawkesbury breaking out in periodical protests against his desk being examined, and I wondering where and how to look for help. The partners meanwhile stood and talked together in a whisper at the window.
At length the gentleman, who, it had dawned on me, was not a bank official, but a detective, returned with Doubleday, who carried in his hands a few books and papers.
The petty-cash book and box were first delivered over, and without examination consigned to the safe.
“These letters were in the same desk,” said the detective, laying down the papers on the table. They appeared to be letters, and in the address of the top one I instantly recognised the handwriting of the letter sent to Mary Smith, which I still had in my pocket.
Hawkesbury made an angry grasp at the papers. “They are private letters,” he exclaimed, “give them up! What right have you to touch them?”
“Hawkesbury,” said Mr Barnacle, “in a case like this it is better for you to submit quietly to what has been done. Nothing in these papers that does not concern the matter in hand is likely to tell against you. Is that all, officer?”
“That’s all in that desk,” said the detective. “In the other young gentleman’s desk the only thing besides business papers and litter was this key.”
A key? What key could it be? It was the first I had seen of it!
“Let me look at it,” said Mr Merrett, suddenly, as the detective laid it on the table.
It was handed to him, and his face changed as he took it. He turned for a moment to show it to Mr Barnacle and whisper something. Then he said, “This is my key of the safe, which I left last night in the pocket of my office coat in this room!”
My misfortunes had now fairly reached a climax, and it seemed useless to struggle against circumstances any more.
Of course, I could see, as soon as my stunned senses recovered sufficiently to enable me to perceive anything, that the same false hand which had pointed me out as a thief had also placed that key in my desk as part of his wicked plot. I remembered that when I was conveyed up to the sample-room that morning my desk had been open. Nothing, therefore, could have been more simple than to secrete the key there during my absence, and so lay up against me a silent accuser which it would be far harder to gainsay than a talking one.
But what was the use of explaining all this when evidently fortune had decreed that I should become a victim? After all, was it not better to give in at once, and let fate do its worst?
“This is my key of the safe,” said Mr Merrett, and all eyes turned on me.
Nothing I could say, it was clear, could do any good. I therefore gaped stupidly at the key and said nothing.
“How came it in your desk, Batchelor?” asked Mr Barnacle.
I didn’t know, and therefore I couldn’t say, and consequently said nothing.
“Have you any explanation to offer?” repeated Mr Barnacle.
“No,” I replied.
“Then, officer,” said Mr Merrett, “we must give him in charge.”
The bare idea of being walked off to a police-station was enough to drive all my sullenness and reserve to the four winds.
Suddenly finding my tongue, I cried—
“Oh, please don’t, please don’t! I can explain it all. For mercy sake don’t be cruel—don’t send me to prison! I am innocent, Mr Merrett, Mr Barnacle; I can explain it all. Please don’t have me locked up.”
In my confusion and panic I turned round and addressed these last words to Hawkesbury, who received them with a smile in which there was more of triumph than pity.
“You false coward!” I exclaimed, suddenly seeing who it was, “you did this. You put the key in my desk while I was locked up stairs.”
“Really, Batchelor,” replied he, in his sweetest tones, “I’m afraid you hardly know what you’re saying. I don’t understand you.”
“You do,” said I, “and you understand how helpless I am to defend myself. You and Masham did your work well this morning.”
“At any rate,” retorted he, firing up, “we gave you a lesson for your impudence.”
Mr Merrett had been speaking with the detective, and did not hear this dialogue; but Mr Barnacle did, happily for me.
“Then,” he said, turning short round to Hawkesbury, “Masham was here this morning?”
Hawkesbury, thus suddenly cornered, turned first red, then white, and tried to mumble out some evasion. But Mr Barnacle was not the man to be put off in that way.
“Then he was here this morning?” he demanded again.
Hawkesbury had no retreat, and he saw it.
“He just called in for a moment,” he said, sullenly; “that’s all.”
“Oh,” said Mr Barnacle, “you can go to your desk, Hawkesbury, for the present.”
Hawkesbury, looking anything but triumphant, obeyed, and Mr Barnacle, who evidently suspected the real truth more than his partner did, turned to me.
“Batchelor, do you still decline to offer any explanation of the discovery of this key in your desk?”
“I can only say,” I replied, “that it must have been put there, for I never touched it.”
“Who would put it there?”
“Hawkesbury, I suppose. When he and his friend dragged me up stairs my desk was left open.”
“Can you describe this Masham?”
I could, and did.
“The description,” said the detective, “tallies exactly with that given at the bank of the person who presented the cheque.”
“Do you know his writing?”
“I know what I believe to be his writing,” said I.
“Is that it?” inquired Mr Barnacle, showing me an envelope addressed to Hawkesbury.
“No, that is not the handwriting I believe to be his.”
“Is that?” showing another.
“No.”
“Is that?” This time it was the envelope I had already recognised.
“Yes, that is it.”
“How are you able to recognise it?”
“By this,” said I, producing the letter to Mary Smith from my pocket. The handwriting on the two envelopes was compared and found to be alike, and further to correspond with a signature at the back of the cheque. The clerk, it seemed, being a little doubtful of the person who presented the cheque, had required him to write his name on the back; and the fictitious signature “A. Robinson” was accordingly given in Masham’s hand.
“That seems clear,” said the detective.
“I see,” said Mr Barnacle, looking again at the envelope I had given him, “this letter is addressed to the place where Smith lives. Is Masham a friend of Smith or his family?”
“Would you mind reading the letter, sir?” I said; “that will answer the question better than I can.”
Mr Barnacle did so, and Mr Merrett also.
In the midst of my trouble it was at least a satisfaction to see the look of disgust which came into both their faces as they perused its contents.
“A dastardly letter!” said Mr Merrett. “How came Masham to know of Smith’s private affairs?”
“Hawkesbury overheard Smith and me talking of them on the first occasion that we found him here, and must have told Masham, who had a grudge against Smith.”
“You heard, of course, that Hawkesbury included Smith as well as yourself in his accusation?”
“Yes, I did. And I wish he was here to confirm my denial of it. What happened was—”
“Yes,” said Mr Barnacle, “you need not go into that again. But answer one more question, Batchelor. Are you acquainted with Masham?”
“Slightly. I once was introduced to him by Hawkesbury and spent a day with him.”
“Have you any reason to believe he is a swindler?”
“I know of nothing which would warrant me in saying so,” replied I.
“Do you know whether Hawkesbury owes him money?”
“Yes—at least I have been told so.”
“By whom?”
“By a boy—a shoeblack who—”
“A shoeblack!” exclaimed Mr Merrett. “Is that your only authority?”
“I believe he is honest,” I said; “he overheard a conversation between Masham and a friend, in which Masham mentioned that Hawkesbury owed him £15.”
“Really,” said Mr Merrett, “this is almost absurd to take such testimony as that.”
“It wouldn’t be amiss to see the boy, though,” said Mr Barnacle; “a great deal depends on whether or no Hawkesbury owed money to Masham. Where is this boy to be found?”
“Oh, I could fetch him at once. I know where he works,” I said.
“No,” said Mr Barnacle, “you must stay here. Doubleday can go.” And he touched the bell.
“Doubleday,” he said, when that youth entered, “we want you to bring here a shoeblack.”
“Yes, sir,” said Doubleday, artlessly: “will any one do?”
“No, no,” said Mr Barnacle, “the boy we wish to see is—where is he, Batchelor?”
“He works at the top of Style Street,” I said; “you will know the place by the writing all over the flagstones on either side.”
With this lucid direction Doubleday started, and I in the meanwhile was left to go on with my usual work. Most of the fellows were away at dinner, and Hawkesbury as before was invisible, so I had the place pretty much to myself, and was spared, for a time, at any rate, a good deal of unwelcome questioning.
In due time there was a sound of scuffling and protest on the stairs outside, and Doubleday reappeared dragging in Billy. That youthful hero, evidently doubting the import of this strange summons, was in a highly indignant frame of mind at being thus hauled along by the mischievous Doubleday, who, vouchsafing no explanation and heeding no protest, had simply made a grab at his unlucky young victim, and then led him away, box, brushes, and all, to Hawk Street.
“Do you hear? turn it up—do you hear?” he cried, as they entered. “Oh, go on, you let my arm be—let me go, do you hear?”
At this point he recognised me, who thought it well to interpose.
“Don’t alarm yourself, Billy,” said I, “no one’s going to hurt you.”
“This cove do—and he are!”
“Well, he didn’t mean. The gentlemen here want to ask you some questions, that’s all.”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to be arsted no questions. They ain’t my governors, so I let them know. I ain’t a-goin’ to be arsted questions by any one ’sep my governor.”
“But what they want to ask you, Billy,” said I, “has something to do with Mr Smith’s happiness and mine. All you have to do is to tell the truth.”
This explanation mollified the ruffled Billy somewhat.
“Come, young cock-sparrow,” said Doubleday, returning from announcing the distinguished visitor, “you’re wanted inside. They want you, too, Batch.”
We entered. Billy, as usual, was more at his ease than any one else. “What cheer? Well, what do you want to arst me?” he cried, jauntily.
The partners, thus encouraged, looked rather amused, and Mr Barnacle said, “You’re the little shoeblack, are you?”
“In corse I are!”
“And you know this gentleman?”
“Yaas; I knows the animal!”
“And you know Mr Smith?”
“What! my governor? He ain’t no concern of yourn,” retorted the boy, firing up a little at this liberty taken with his “governor’s” name.
Mr Barnacle gazed curiously at the strange urchin through his spectacles, and then resumed, in as coaxing a tone as he could assume, “You know a person called Masham, do you?”
“Yaas; I knows ’im.”
“What sort of person is he?”
“What sort? Why, he are a beauty, so I tell you!”
“Yes; but I mean, what sort of looking man? Is he tall or short? Has he dark hair or light? Would you know him if you saw him?”
“Know him? Oh no—no fear—I know the beauty!”
“Well, what sort of looking man is he?” asked Mr Barnacle.
“He’s a ugly bloke with a mug like yourn, and a ’orseshoe pin in ’is weskit.”
“Yes? And what colour is his hair?”
“Carrots!”
That was quite enough. This unromantic portrait corresponded sufficiently nearly with the description already given.
“Now,” said Mr Barnacle, “will you tell us when you last blacked his boots?”
“A Toosdy.”
“Do you remember whether he was alone?”
“Ain’t you arstin’ me questions, though!” exclaimed Billy. “Of course he ’ad a bloke along of him, and, says he, ‘That there parson’s son,’ says he, ‘is a cuttin’ it fat?’ says he. ‘He do owe me a fifteen pun,’ says ’e, ‘and ef ’e don’t hand it over sharp,’ says he, ‘I’ll wake ’im up!’ And then—”
“Yes,” said Mr Barnacle; “that’s enough, my man, thank you.”
When Billy had gone, Mr Merrett turned to me and said, “Go to your work, Batchelor, and tell Doubleday to send Hawkesbury here.”
I obeyed, feeling that, after all, as far as I was concerned, the storm had blown over.
Doubleday went to Hawkesbury’s glass box and opened the door. “You’re wanted, Hawkes— Hullo!”
This exclamation was caused by the discovery that Hawkesbury was not there!
“Where’s Hawkesbury?” he inquired of the office generally.
“He’s not come back,” said Crow.
“When did he go out?”
“Why, the usual time, to be sure.”
Doubleday gave a low whistle, and exclaimed, “Bolted!” And so it was. That afternoon Hawkesbury did not appear again at Hawk Street, or the next day, or the next week, or the next month. And when inquiry was made at the rectory, all that could be ascertained was that he had left home, and that not even his father knew where he had gone.
And now, reader, my story is all but done. One short scene more, and then my friend Smith and I must retire out of sight.
It was on a Christmas day, three years after the event last narrated, that a little party assembled in a tiny house in Hackney to spend a very quiet evening.
It was, I daresay, as modest a party in as modest a house as could have been found that Christmas-time in all London.
The house had hardly yet lost the smell of paint and varnish which had greeted its occupants when they first moved into it a week ago. To-day, however, that savour is seriously interfered with by another which proceeds from the little kitchen behind, and which dispenses a wonderfully homelike influence through the small establishment. In fact, the dinner now in course of preparation will be the first regular meal which that household has celebrated, and the occasion being more or less of a state one, the two ladies of the house are in a considerable state of flutter over the preparations.
While they are absorbed in the mysterious orgies of the kitchen, the four gentlemen are sitting round the cheery little parlour fire with their feet on the fender, talking about a great many things.
One of the gentlemen is middle-aged, with hair turning white, and a face which looks as if it had seen stormy weather in its journey through life. He is the quietest of the party, the talk being chiefly sustained by two younger men of about twenty-one years, considerably assisted by a boy who appears to be very much at home on every subject, especially boots and mothers. Indeed, this boy (who might be ten, or might be fifteen, there is nothing in his figure or face or voice to say which), is the liveliest member of the party, and keeps the others, even occasionally the older gentleman, amused.
In due time the ladies appear, as trim and unconcerned as if they had never put their foot in a kitchen all their lives, and the circle round the fire widens to admit them. The elder of these ladies is a careworn but pleasant, motherly-looking body, who calls the elder gentleman “sir” when she speaks to him, and invariably addresses one of the two young men—the one with the black eyes—as Mister Johnny. As for the younger lady, whose likeness to Mister Johnny is very apparent, she is all sunshine and smiles, and one wonders how the little parlour was lighted at all before she entered it.
At least the other young man—he without the black eyes—wonders thus as he looks towards where she sits with the elder gentleman’s hand in her own, and her smiles putting even the hearth to shame.
“So, Billy,” says she, addressing the boy, “you’ve been made office-boy at Hawk Street, I hear?”
“I are so—leastways I ham so,” replies Billy, who appears to be in some difficulty just now with his mother tongue.
“You mustn’t stand on your head in the office, you know,” says the young lady, with a mischievous smile, “or the junior partner would be horrified.”
The young lady’s brother smiles, as if this observation referred to him, and the elderly lady looks particularly proud, for some reason or other.
“That there bloke—” begins the boy.
“Order, sir,” exclaims the young lady; “haven’t I told you, Billy, that ‘bloke’ is not a nice word? It’s all very well for a shoeblack, but it won’t do for an office-boy.”
“You do jaw me—” again began the boy.
“I what you?”
“Jaw—leastways you tork, you do,” said Billy, who appeared to be as much in awe of the young lady as he was hopeless of attaining the classical English.
“I say, Mary,” laughed the brother, “you might give Billy a holiday to-day, as it’s Christmas Day. You can’t expect him to master the Queen’s English all at once.”
So Billy is allowed to express himself for the rest of the evening in the way most natural to him, and shows his gratitude by making ample use of his liberty.
Presently the elder lady disappears, and returns in a minute or two with the information that dinner is ready, an announcement which Billy greets with the laconic ejaculation, “Proper!”
It is a cheery Christmas dinner that. The elderly gentleman is rather quiet, and so is the young gentleman called Fred, who looks a great deal oftener at the young lady than he does at the plate before him. But the others make up in fun and chatter for the silence of these two, and as the meal goes on the good spirits of the party rise all round.
“This is rather better than Drury Lane, eh, Jack?” says Fred.
“Rather,” says Jack. “The only fear is about its being too far away for father.”
“Not at all,” says the elder gentleman. “I’m better already for the walk every day. You’ve no idea how agreeable the streets are at three o’clock every morning.”
“Do you remember our first walk out this way, Fred,” says Jack, “when we tried to find out Flanagan?”
“Yes, I do, indeed. We missed him, but we found Billy instead.”
“Yaas, and you was a nice pair of flats, you was, when I fust comed across you,” observes Billy, who, I regret to say, has not quite finished his mouthful of plum-pudding before he speaks.
“They’re pulling down the court, I see, Billy,” says Fred.
“They are so. ’Tain’t no concern of mine, though, now she’s hooked it.”
Billy says this with a grave face, and means no irreverence in thus speaking of his dead mother.
“Mr Hawkesbury will be almost sorry to see it pulled down,” says Jack, “for he had done so much good there.”
“Poor Mr Hawkesbury!” says Mary. “I wish he would have come to us to-day. But he says he would be happier at his regular work, and we hadn’t the heart to urge him.”
“He’s good deal happier now, though,” says Fred, “since he heard from his son. In fact, he’s had one or two letters, and Hawkesbury really seems to be turning over a new leaf; so the father is quite hopeful.”
There is a pause, and then Jack changes the subject.
“Talking of pulling down places,” says he, “I saw an advertisement to-day, Fred, of the sale of that valuable and desirable place, Stonebridge House.”
“Did you?” says Fred.
And then follows a talk about old school days in which more present are interested than the two who actually take part.
“It seems a long while since we were there,” says Jack.
“It’s seven years six months and a week to-day since I left,” says Fred.
“Why, how exact you are in your dates!” smiles the young lady.
“It was on the eighteenth of June,” replies Fred. “I recollect it because it was on the twenty-first that I first met you.”
He had not meant to say this, and blushes when it escapes him, and for the next minute or two he occupies himself with his plate. So does the young lady with hers.
Then the talk drifts off to other subjects, and the party fall to sketching out the programme of their new life in London. Jack is to be home to tea every evening at seven, and as Jack’s father has not to leave for his newspaper office till eight, the little family will at any rate get one hour a day together. And as soon as the spring comes Miss Mary is going to convert the little strip of garden behind into a second paradise, and Mr Fred, if he pleases, may come and help her. Indeed, it is taken for granted that, although his lodging is away in a street hard by, he is to be considered as free of this house and one of the family; as also is Billy, provided he does not call Jack “bloke,” and attends diligently to the instructions Miss Mary promises to give him two evenings a week.
In due time dinner is ended, and the little party once more congregate round the parlour fire. Scarcely have they assembled when there is a ring at the door, and next moment a cheery gentleman called Doubleday is announced. Every one welcomes the visitor warmly, and room is made for him in the magic circle.
“Thought I’d call and pay my respects,” says Mr Doubleday, bobbing to the ladies. “Jolly snug little box you’ve got here, too.”
“Yes, it is snug,” says Jack.
“Glad to see you settled down before I go,” says the other. “Settled down both here and at Hawk Street too, eh?”
“I’m awfully sorry you’re going abroad,” says Jack, “we shall miss you badly.”
“Oh, I’ll soon be back. You see, it’s rather a good offer, this Bombay agency, and I’m bound to have to hop over to the old country every now and then to look you up.”
“The oftener the better,” says every one.
Mr Doubleday fidgets a bit in his chair, and then remarks, “I say, Smith, excuse my saying it, but I’m very glad you ever came to Hawk Street, and I may as well tell you so.”
Jack is about to say something, but Doubleday is before him.
“I know what you’re going to say, but it’s a fact. Batch here thinks so too.”
Mr Fred assents warmly.
“Fact is,” says Doubleday, “I don’t know how you did the trick, but you’ve drawn more than one of us out of Queer Street.”
“What do you—” begins Jack, but Doubleday continues, “Of course you’ll deny it, but no one believes you; do they, Batch? Why, even Crow was saying yesterday—”
“That’s Flanikin,” exclaimed Billy at this point, as another ring sounded at the door.
This interruption, though it cuts short Mr Doubleday’s speech, is a decidedly pleasant one; and when a burly, rosy-faced Irish gentleman enters and joins the party the magic circle seems finally complete.
I need not recount all the talk of that happy Christmas evening. It was a merry Christmas, without doubt, though not a boisterous one. No one seemed to want any better enjoyment than chatting over old times, or sitting and listening while others chatted; and when Mary’s sweet voice rang out presently in the words of some of the grand old Christmas hymns, the joy that lit up more than one face in the happy group spoke more eloquently than words of the true happiness which this season of peace and goodwill brought to their hearts.
In due time the hands of the little clock crawl round to eleven, and the two visitors rise to leave.
When they are gone the rest of the party once more draw in round the fire. By some accident, I suppose, Mr Fred’s chair finds itself next to Miss Mary’s, which, as it turns out, is convenient, for these two young people happen to have a good deal to say to one another which can only be spoken in whispers.
What they say, or most of what they say, is doubtless silly enough. But one or two sentences have some truth in them, and seem to express what is in the hearts of all that little party.
“Yes,” says Mary, “it really does seem as if this was the beginning of a happy time for us all.”
“I hope and trust it may be,” Fred responds.
“Dear father seems better in health and spirits already, doesn’t he? And Jack—Well, I dare say you are jealous of our taking him away from you?”
“Jealous, no!” says Fred. “He deserves all the happiness he has found, and far more.”
“Yes,” responds Mary. “He has always been a good brother.”
“This one thing I know,” says Fred. “If there is any good in me—and there’s precious little—I owe it all, under God, to my friend Smith.”
And, reader, I owe it still.