Life in London

by Edwin Hodder

A Test Of Friendship.

We pass over two years of George Weston's life—years full of strange experiences—and look into the office in Falcon-court one morning in the summer of 18—.

Mr. Compton is away on the Continent for a holiday tour, Mr. Sanders is still the manager, and nearly all the same old faces are in the office. George, who is now verging on the legal age of manhood, has risen to a good position in the establishment, and is regarded as second only to Mr. Sanders. He is wonderfully altered from when we saw him first in that office. He is still handsome; but the old sparkling lustre of his eye has gone, and no trace of boyishness is left.

Hardy is still there. Two years have not made so much difference in him as George. He looks older than he really is; but there is no mistaking him for the quiet, gentlemanly Charles Hardy of former days. Lawson and Williams are there, coarse and bloated young men, whose faces tell the history of their lives. Hardy rarely exchanges a word with them. George does more frequently, but not with the air of superiority he once did.

A close observer would have noticed in George that morning a careworn anxious look; would have heard an occasional sigh, and have seen him at one time turning pale, and again flushing with a crimson red.

"You are not well," said Hardy. "You have not done a stroke of work all this morning; quite an unusual thing for you, George."

"I am not well," he replied; "but it is nothing of importance. I shall get Mr. Sanders to let me off for an hour's stroll when he comes in from the Bank."

Mr. Sanders came in from the Bank, but he was later than usual. His round generally occupied an hour; this morning he had been gone between two and three. George watched him anxiously as he took off his hat, rubbed his nose violently with his pocket handkerchief, and stood gazing into the fire, ejaculating every now and then, as was his custom if anything extraordinary or disagreeable had happened, "Ah! umph!"

"The old boy has found out that the wind has veered to the northeast, or has stepped upon some orange peel," whispered Lawson to Williams, who saw that something had gone wrong with the manager.

"Your proposed stroll will be knocked on the head," said Hardy to George. "Mr. Sanders is evidently in an ill humour."

"I shall not trouble him about it," said George; "shirking work always worries him, and he seems to be worried enough as it is."

When Mr. Sanders had gazed in the fire for half an hour, and had walked once or twice up and down the office, as his manner was on such occasions, he turned to George and said, "I want to speak with you in the next room."

"I wish you a benefit, Weston," said Williams as he passed. "Recommend him a day or two in the country, for the good of his health and our happiness."

"Mr. Weston," said the manager, when George had shut the door and seated himself, "I am in great difficulties. This event has happened at a most unfortunate time, Mr. Compton is away, and I don't know how to act for the best. Will you give me your assistance in the matter?"

"Cannot you make the accounts right, sir?" asked George. "I thought you had satisfactorily arranged them last night."

"No, Weston; I have been through them over and over again, but I cannot get any nearer to a balance. I have been round to the Bank this morning again, and have seen Mr. Smith about it, but he cannot assist me. However, inquiries will be made this afternoon, and all our accounts carefully checked and examined; in the meantime, I wish you would have out the books and go through them for me. Hardy can assist you, if you like."

"I will do all I can for you, to make this matter right," said George; "but I can do it better alone. If you will give Hardy the job I was about, I will check the books here by myself."

All that afternoon George sat alone in Mr. Compton's room surrounded with books and papers. But he did not examine them. Resting his head upon his hands, he looked upon them and sighed. Now the perspiration stood in big drops upon his forehead and his hands trembled. Then he would walk up and down the room, halting to take deep draughts of water from a bottle on the table.

Mr. Sanders occasionally looked in to ask how he was going on, and if he had discovered the error.

"No," said George; "the accounts seem right; but I cannot make them agree with the cash-book. There is still a hundred pounds short; but I will go through them again if you like."

"Perhaps you had better. I expect Mr. Smith here by six o'clock; will you remain with me and see him? He may assist us."

"Certainly," said George; "I feel as anxious as you do about the matter, for all the bills and cheques have passed through my hands as well as yours; and I shall not rest easy until the missing amount is discovered."

Mr. Smith arrived just as the clerks were leaving the office, and Mr. Sanders and George were alone with him.

"Well," said Mr. Smith, "we have gone carefully over every item to-day, and at last the defalcation is seen. This cheque," he continued, producing the document, "is forged. The signature is unquestionably Mr. Compton's, but the rest of the writing is counterfeit."

"A forged cheque!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, aghast; "impossible!"

"There must be some mistake here," said George, "the accounts in our books, if I recollect rightly, correspond with the cheques; but—"

"It is a clumsily arranged affair, although the forgery is a masterpiece of penmanship," said Mr. Smith; "and if it passes first through your office, and is entered in your books with the false amount, it is clear that some one in your employ has committed the offence. I leave the matter now with you for the present," he added, to Mr. Sanders; "of course you will put the case at once into the proper medium and find out the offender."

When Mr. Smith had gone, George sat down again in the seat he had occupied during that long afternoon, pale and exhausted.

"This is a lamentable business," said Mr. Sanders, pacing the room, "a lamentable business, indeed! I confess I am completely baffled. Mr. Weston, I look to you for assistance. Can you form any idea how this matter has come about? Have you suspicion of any of the clerks?"

"I am equally at a loss with you how to manage in this case. I have no reason to doubt the integrity of any one in this office. Except one," said George, as if a sudden idea had come to his mind. "Yes, I have a suspicion of one; but I cannot tell even you who it is, until I have made inquiries sufficient to warrant the suspicion. Can you let the affair rest over to-night, and in the meantime I will do what I can, and confer with you in the morning."

"That seems the only plan," answered Mr. Sanders. "If I can render any assistance in making these inquiries, I will."

"No, thank you, you will have trouble enough in the matter as it is; and I can do what I have to do better alone."

Half an hour after this conversation, a cab was travelling at the utmost speed along the Clapham road. It stopped at the house of Harry Ashton, and George alighted.

"Ashton," said he, "I want to speak to you for two minutes. I have got into trouble; don't ask me how, or in what way. Unless I can borrow a hundred pounds to-night, I am ruined. Can you get it for me?"

"My dear George, sit down and calm yourself, and we will talk the matter over," said Ashton. "It strikes me you are up to some joke, or you would never suppose that I, an assistant surveyor with a present limited income, could fork out a hundred pounds down as a hammer.

"I am not joking. I dare not explain more. I require your confidence for what I have already said; but I know you have money, and moneyed friends. Can you get it for me anyhow, from anywhere?"

"No, I cannot, and that's plump," answered Ashton; "it is the end of the quarter, and I have not more than ten pounds in my pocket You are welcome to that, if it is any good; but I cannot go into the country to my father's to-night, that is very certain; and if I could, he would not advance so much without knowing exactly what it was for; nor should I care to lend that sum, even to you, George, unless I knew what you were going to do with it, and when I should see it back. If it is so pressing, you might have my ten, ten more from Dixon, and I could get a pound or two from other sources."

"No, that would take too long, and I have but an hour or two to make the arrangements." As he spoke, George fell into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.

"What, George, my old pippin, what is the matter?" said Ashton, going to him. "You have lost at cards again, I suppose: but take heart, man, never get out of pluck for such a thing as that. But you are ill, I know you are, you are as white as a sheet. Here, take tins glass of brandy."

"I only feel faint." said George, rising. "I shall be all right when I get out into the open air. Good-bye, Ashton, my old school-chum, we shall never meet again after to-night; but I shan't forget our happy days together—I mean the days at Dr. Seaward's—they were the happy ones, after all."

"George, you are ill, and your brain is touched. Not meet again after to-night? Nonsense, we don't part so easily, if that is the case;" and Ashton locked the door, and put the key in his pocket.

"Unfasten that door!" almost shouted George; "you do not know my strength at this moment, and I might do you some harm; but I should not like to part with my oldest friend like that. Open the door!"

"Not a bit of it," answered Ashton. "Tell me more particulars, and I will try what I can do in getting the money."

"No; you have told me you cannot. I have one more chance elsewhere; let me try that. Ashton, do not be a fool; open that door, and let me go."

"Then I will go with you," answered Ashton; and he unlocked the door. But while he turned to get his hat, George rushed from the room, opened the hall-door, and, closing it again upon Ashton, jumped into the cab awaiting him, and giving the word, "Islington, quick!" drove off, leaving his friend in the road, running after the vehicle, and calling upon the driver to stop.

"Don't mind him," George called to the man; "an extra five shillings for driving quickly."

Ashton was at his wit's end. He ran on, till he could run no longer. Just then, an empty cab passing, he hailed the driver.

"Drive after that cab in front," said Ashton, as he got in; "follow it wherever it goes. Sharp's the word, man!"

It was a long time before the traffic in the roads allowed Ashton's cab to overtake the one ahead; but both came up nearly abreast in the Waterloo road, and then the one he was pursuing turned abruptly towards the railway station.

"Ah! George, my old fellow," said Ashton to himself, "you little think I have been so closely on your scent; but I knew I had not seen the last of you."

Both cabs drew up at the station steps together. Ashton jumped out, and ran to meet George; but blank was his astonishment to see an oldish lady and her attendant alight from the vehicle, which he had imagined contained his friend!

We will leave Ashton at the Waterloo station in a mortified and disconsolate state, quarrelling with the driver for having pursued the wrong cab, and follow George Weston to Islington.

"Hardy," he said, as soon as he found himself alone with his friend, "are you willing to help me, to save me, perhaps, from ruin? I want to raise a hundred pounds to-night. I must have it. Do you think you can get it for me?"

"Me get a hundred pounds? Why, George, my friend, you know the thing is a clear impossibility. I could not get it, if it were to save my own life. But why is it so urgent?" he asked.

"You will know in a day or two. I have now one resource left, and only one. Will you go to-night to my uncle, Mr. Brunton. Tell him that I want to save a friend from ruin, and want to borrow a hundred and fifty pounds, which shall be faithfully repaid. Do not give him to understand I want it for myself, but that it is for a friend dear to him and to me. Use every argument you can, and above everything persuade him not to make any inquiries about it at present. Say I shall have to take part of it into the country to-morrow morning, and I will see him or write to him in the evening. Say anything you like, so that you can get the money for me, and prevent him coming to the office to-morrow morning."

"George, I am afraid you have got into some bad business again," said Hardy. "You know I am willing to help you; but I cannot do so, if it is to encourage you in getting yourself into still greater trouble."

"This is the last time, Hardy, I shall ever ask a favour of you. Do assist me; you cannot guess the consequences if you do not."

"Then tell me, George, what it is that is upsetting you. I never saw you look so wild and excited before. You can confide in me, old fellow; we have always kept each other's counsel."

"To-morrow you shall know all. Now, do start off at once, and see what you can do. If you cannot bring all the money, bring what you can. Put the case urgently to my uncle; he cannot refuse me. I will be here again in about three hours' time; it will not take you longer than that."

Hardy took a cab, and drove off at once. George remained in the street; he paced up and down, and took no rest—he was far too excited and nervous for that. He had got a dangerous game to play, and his plans were vague and shadowy. He had promised Mr. Sanders he would make inquiries about the person he suspected had forged the cheque, and let him know in the morning. His plan was to try and raise the money, pay it to Mr. Sanders on account of the transgressor, and induce him to take no further steps until Mr. Compton returned home. On no other ground would he refund the money on behalf of the forger; and unless Mr. Sanders would agree to these terms, George was determined the matter might take its own way, and be placed in the hands of the magistrates or police.

The hours seemed like days to George while Hardy was on his mission. At length he returned.

"What success?" asked George running to meet him as soon as he came in view.

"Your uncle is in a terrible state of alarm on your account," replied Hardy, "and I fear he will be at the office some time to-morrow, although I tried to persuade him not to do so, because it was no matter in which you were so deeply interested as he supposed. But he cannot lend you the money, nor can he get the amount you want until to-morrow afternoon. However he had fifty pounds with him, and he has sent that."

George took it eagerly. "My plan must fail," he said to Hardy; "but it would only have been a question of time after all. Hardy, you will hear strange reports of me after to-morrow; do not believe them all; remember your old friend as you once knew him, not as report speaks of him. Good-night, old fellow, you have been a good friend to me. I wish we could have parted differently."

"Parted!" ejaculated Hardy; "what do you mean? where are you going?"

"I cannot tell, but I shall see you at the office to-morrow morning as usual; I will tell you more then. Do not say a word to anybody about what has occurred to-night. I know I may trust you; may I not?"

"Yes, always," answered Hardy; "but I wish you would trust me a little more, and let me share this trouble with you. We have been old friends now for years, George; shared ups and downs, and joys and sorrows together; been brothers in everything which concerned each other's welfare: and now you are distressed, why not relieve yourself by letting me bear part of it with you? Recollect our old and earliest days of friendship, and show that they are still dear to you, as they are to me, by telling me what has gone wrong with you, and how I can serve or soothe you in the emergency."

George could not bear this last touch of kindness. Had Hardy reproached him for having acted foolishly, or warned him from getting into future trouble; had he even accused him of having sought to lead others astray, besides wandering in downward paths himself, George could have listened calmly and unmoved! but this out-going of his friend's heart overcame him, and he burst into tears.

"Good night, Hardy," he said, wringing his friend's hand. "If a prayer may come from my lips, so long unused to prayer, I say God bless you, and preserve you from such a lot as mine." George could not utter another word; he could only shake hands again, and then hurried away to the hotel where he sometimes slept.

It was past midnight when he arrived there. Calling for some spirits and water, and writing materials, he seated himself dejectedly at a table and wrote. The first letter ran as follows:—

"MY DEAREST MOTHER,

"I have some painful news to tell you—so painful that I would rather you should have received intelligence of my death, than that which this letter contains. I know you will not judge me harshly, dear mother; I know you will stretch out to me your forgiveness, and still pray for me that I may receive pardon from your heavenly Father—would I could say mine.

"Step by step I have been going wrong, as you know—as I might have known—and now I have sunk to the lowest depths, from which I shall never rise again. Mother, I know the sorrow you will feel when you hear what has happened. I grieve more for you than I do for myself; I would give all the world, if I had it, to save your heart the misery which awaits it, from the conduct of a worthless, rebellious son.

"I cannot bear to see that sorrow. My heart seems nearly broken as it is, and it would quite break if I were to see you suffering as you will suffer.

"I could not bear to see again any whom I have known under other circumstances. I could not bear to be taunted with all the remembrances of the past. Dear mother, I have resolved to leave you—leave London—perhaps leave England. I may never see you again; it is better for you that I never should.

"My tears blind me as I write; if tears could cleanse the past, my guilt would be soon removed. God bless you, dearest mother! I will write to you again; and some day, after I have been into new scenes, started anew in life, and won back again the character I have lost—then, perhaps, I may once more see you again.

"Uncle Brunton will tell you more. He will comfort you; he must be husband, brother, and son to you now.

"God bless you, my dearest mother! I have so wronged you, have been such a continual trouble to you, instead of the comfort poor father thought I should have been, and so unworthy of your love, that I hardly dare hope you will forgive and forget the past, and still pray for

"Your erring Son—
"GEORGE WESTON."

George then wrote two letters to Mr. Brunton. In one of them he thanked him for all his care and kindness, passionately regretted the causes of anxiety he had given him, and the disgrace which now attached to his name. In the other, he begged the loan of the £50 sent to him through Hardy, which, he said, he hoped to pay back in a few years. He also requested that Mr. Brunton would arrange all his accounts, and pay them either from his mother's income, or by advancing the money as a loan.

When the morning dawned, it found George still writing. As the clock struck seven, he packed up what few things he had with him, paid his hotel bill, and drove off to Falcon-court. He was there by eight o'clock, before any of the clerks had arrived.

"Have the letters come?" he asked the housekeeper.

"Yes, sir, they are in Mr. Compton's room," was the answer.

George hastened into the room, looked through the packet, and alighting upon a letter with a foreign post-mark addressed to Mr. Sanders in Mr. Compton's handwriting, he broke the seal. The note was short, merely saying that he had arrived in Paris, on his way home, and expected to be back in a day or two; therefore any communications must be forwarded at once, or he would have left Paris.

George went direct to the Electric Telegraph Office. A form was handed to him, on which the message he desired to send must be written, and he filled it up thus:—

"From Mr. Sanders to Mr. Compton.

"Come back at once. A cheque has been forged in your name for £100. George Weston is the forger. It is a clear and aggravated case. Shall he be arrested? Will you prosecute? Answer at once."

In an incredibly short space of time an answer was returned. George was at the Telegraph Office to receive it.

"From Mr. Compton to Mr. Sanders.

"I will return to-morrow. Take no steps in the matter; let it be kept silent, I am deeply grieved, but I will not prosecute under any circumstances."

"Well, Mr. Weston," said Mr. Sanders, when George entered the office," I expected you would have been here before; but I suppose you have had some difficulty in your investigations?"

"I have had difficulty," George answered. "I have been endeavouring to borrow a hundred pounds to pay the deficiency, and then I would have screened the forger; but my plan has failed, and it is better that it should, because the innocent would have been sure to have suffered for the guilty. I am now bound to tell you the name of the criminal upon his own confession."

"Who is it? who is it?" asked Mr. Sanders, eagerly.

"I—George Weston," he answered. "No matter how I did it, or why; I alone am guilty."

Mr. Sanders caught hold of the back of a chair for support. His hands trembled, and his voice failed him.

"It is a shock to you, sir," said George; "and it will be a shock to Mr. Compton. Give him this letter when he comes home, it will explain the circumstances to him. I deeply regret that I should have caused you so much anxiety as I have during the past week, while this inquiry has been pending. I knew the truth must come out sooner or later—but I would rather you should know it from me; crushed and ruined as I am, I have no hope that you will look with any other feelings than those of abhorrence on me, but you do not know the heavy punishment I have already suffered, or you would feel for me."

"Are you aware, George Weston, that there is a yet heavier punishment, and that, as Mr. Compton's representative, I shall feel it my painful duty to—"

"No, sir; here is Mr. Compton's opinion upon the case," said George, handing the telegraphic message to Mr. Sanders, who listened with astonishment as he explained the circumstances. "But should Mr. Compton, upon a careful examination into the case, wish to prosecute," he continued, "I will appear whenever and wherever he pleases. And now, Mr. Sanders, I leave this office, ruined and disgraced, the result of my own folly and sin."

George spoke hoarsely, and his face was pale as Death. Mr. Sanders was moved; and put out his hand to shake hands with him, and say good-bye, but George held his back.

"Remember, sir, you are an honest man; you cannot shake hands with me," said George.

"Weston, I am not your judge; there is One who will judge not only this act, but all the acts that have led to it," said Mr. Sanders, solemnly. "I have had more interest and greater hopes in you than in any young man who ever came into this office; and I feel more sorrow now, on your account, than I can put into words. Do not let this great and disastrous fall sink you into lower depths of sin. If you have forfeited man's respect and esteem, there is a God with whom there is mercy and forgiveness. Seek Him, and may He bless you! Good-bye, George Weston," and the manager, with tears in his eyes, wrung the cold, trembling hand that was stretched out to his.

George took up his carpet-bag, which he had brought from the hotel, and was about to leave, but he paused a moment.

"Will you send Hardy in here?" he asked Mr. Sanders. "I must have a word with him before I go."

Hardy had been expecting all the morning to have some explanation from George, and had been uneasy at his absence. When he went into Mr. Compton's room he was surprised to see George, with his bag in his hand, ready to make a departure.

"Hardy," said George, "I told you last night I should soon have to bid you good-bye, and now the time has arrived. I am going away from the office, and perhaps from England, but I cannot tell you where I am going. I leave in disgrace; my once good name is now blighted and withered; my old friends will look upon me with abhorrence."

"No, George, I am one of your old friends; I never shall," interrupted Hardy. "I do not know what you have done, nor do I wish to know, but I cannot believe your heart and disposition are changed, or will ever change so much as to make me regard you in any other light than that of a dear and valued friend. But where are you going, George? Do tell me that."

"No, Hardy, I cannot. I am going away, God only knows where; it may be abroad, it may not. I am going somewhere where I shall not be known, and where I can try to work back for myself a character and a good name, which I can never redeem in London. Some day I may let you know where I am."

"But, George, does your mother know where you are going?"

"No," said George, and his voice was tremulous as he spoke. "No; I have no mother now. I am too fallen to claim relationship with one so good and noble and holy as my mother is."

"Oh, George, give up this wild scheme! Have you thought that you are going the most direct way to break your mother's heart, and to make her life, as well as your own, blank, solitary, and miserable? Whatever wrong you have done, do not add to it by breaking that commandment which bids us honour our parents. Your mother has claims upon you which you have no right to disregard in this way."

"I have thought it all well over, Hardy. I believe it is for her good as well as for mine that our paths should run differently, but I cannot explain all now. I am in dread lest my uncle should call here before I get away. Hardy, good-bye, old fellow."

"No, I cannot say good-bye yet. George, give me your address; promise to let me see you again, and I will promise to keep your secret sacredly."

"I do not know where I am going; I have no fixed plan; but I do promise to write to you, Hardy."

"And now, George, make me one other promise. If you are in difficulties, and I can assist you, or do anything for you in any way, at any time, you will let me know—remember I shall always be Charles Hardy to you, and you will always be George Weston to me. Do you agree?"

"Yes, Hardy, I agree. I cannot thank you. I cannot say what I would, or tell you what I feel. May you be blessed and be happy, and never know what it is to have a heavy, broken heart like mine. And now one promise from you. Go and see my mother; try and comfort her; tell her how I grieve to part from her."

George could not continue; the nervous twitching of his face showed the struggle within, and it was a relief when the hot tears broke through and coursed down his cheek. Hardy was greatly affected. He loved George with an intensity of love like that which knit together the soul of Jonathan and David; he had been to him more than a brother ever since they had been acquainted; in hours of business and recreation, in joys and sorrows, in plans and aims, they had been one; and now the tie was to be severed, and severed under such sad circumstances.

There is a solemnity about sorrow which speech desecrates. Not another word was spoken by either—both hearts were too full for that; but as the tears ran thickly down their cheeks, they grasped each other's hand, and then, fairly sobbing, George hurried from the office.