CHAPTER XXVI.
All the rest of that day, Tom went about his work like a wooden thing; he answered questions and handled things that came in his way, but his thoughts were running heavily back and forth over the long dreary years since Mr. Willoughby picked him up in his chaise, and always coming round to the same miserable point at last. How brave and patient he had meant to be, how faithful he had tried to be, through it all, for the sake of those at home, and how he had meant to deserve all the promotion he should ever get, and let the firm feel he had repaid them well for all they did for him. And who had ever taken the slightest notice whether he did or not, who had ever been the wiser for it all? And now that it was almost over, now that he thought such recompense as money could give was just before him, to be shunned and sneered at for a thief!
Who had even noticed? He remembered suddenly what Aleck had said to him, that dark terrible time, about One who always did, and was always ready to help.
“Yes,” he said, “I know it. I lived on that all the next year, and I never felt so much like a man in my life; but since I came here, that, and everything else that had any life in it, seems to have been driven out of me. If I could have hung on to it, it might have helped me through everything. It’s my own fault that I didn’t, I suppose, but after a fellow gets to feeling so horridly as I have from one year’s end to another, he lets go of everything sometimes. If I could only have gone somewhere else! There’s Thorndyke now, he never’ll know what a chance he had there, with Aleck always next to him! But there’s an end to everything, and I’ll—”
But up came once more the thought of “the rest at home.” If he left the store, and went out into the world, how many more years might it be before he could be worth anything to them! And where could he go, and what could he do, if he went out from Fenimore’s with such whisperings as were likely to follow him! And yet, it seemed to him another day there would be worse than a thousand deaths. That day was done, at last, at all events, and Tom, as he passed out into the dark, saw no one, and scarcely knew where he was. But a familiar voice sounded in his ears.
“I say, Haggarty, what a hurry you’re in!”
He turned and saw Davis, his old schoolfellow at the professor’s. He had not seen him from that time, until a few days before. He only knew that he went abroad directly after graduating, and had returned within a fortnight, “for a visit.”
“Why, man alive,” he said, as a gaslight fell on Tom’s face, “what’s the matter with you? How white you are! Are you sick?”
“I wish I were,” said Tom, “and sick enough to have an end come to it all,” and then shocked at having said so much to Davis, he stopped suddenly.
“Hallo!” said Davis, “what’s the matter? Is luck bad to-day?”
“I don’t know,” said Tom, “some people never have any, you know. How are you?”
“Look here,” said Davis, drawing Tom’s arm through his, “come along and let’s understand about this. We’re old friends you know. There’s no use in being down about the way the game goes; take heart and throw again, that’s all.”
They walked away, and Davis began to talk of old times and of the changes that had come. “And to think of you being left head of the family and going to business! I was expecting you over there every year for a while, till I found out how things were. Tell me how you like it;” and he went on with one question after another, until before Tom could believe it himself, he had drawn from him a pretty good idea of how matters stood.
“I wouldn’t stay there,” said Davis; “I’d clear out and be found missing some bright morning.”
“Perhaps you would,” said Tom, “with nobody looking to you to be anything to them, and more money than you know what to do with.”
“Oh, is that the difficulty? I didn’t know that was the case; but it isn’t the worst thing in the world to be got over. I can tell you a way to ease matters off and get a start on your own feet before a very long time;” and drawing Tom’s arm closer, he dropped into a low, confidential tone.
“But I can’t!” exclaimed Tom, starting back in horror, as Davis came to his point at last.
“Hold on,” said Davis, and went on talking rapidly in the same low whisper without giving Tom a chance for another word.
“Look here!” said Tom, stopping in his walk, and turning on Davis like some desperate creature driven to bay at last; “what do you take me for? Do you mean to insult me?”
“Pooh!” said Davis, in the most imperturbable tone, regaining his hold on Tom’s arm and drawing him into step again; “don’t fly out with a fellow for trying to befriend you. There are slow ways of getting on in the world, and quicker ones for those who can’t afford to wait, that’s all; and I thought you were in a hurry. If you agree, I’ll introduce you to as gentlemanly a set of fellows as you know, and I’ll warrant you a welcome, for the truth is we want one more, of just your measure too, to make our set complete. Don’t make up your mind in a hurry; it’s early yet. Meet me here again at nine o’clock.”
“But I tell you I wont,” began Tom. “I don’t want to hear any such—”
“Pooh!” interrupted Davis again; “what’s the use of toiling a dozen years under somebody’s thumb when you might make enough to stand on your own feet in as many months? The world owes us a living, anyhow, and I don’t see why handling a bit of paper skilfully isn’t quite as much the gentlemanly thing as measuring away with a yardstick half a lifetime. Just come up like a man, and I’ll be responsible for the rest.”
It was seven o’clock, and for an hour and a half Tom pushed drearily up and down the streets through a drizzling mist, but the fog lay thicker and darker in his own brain. What should he say; what should he do? He must do something, for he would rather die than have another year like the last. Rather die? Of course he would; but people don’t always die for the wishing, and who would there be to take his father’s place if he should?
These thoughts crowded and whirled, and then came Aleck’s words, those words spoken so long ago, but never forgotten, “Some One that always notices.”
“I can’t help it,” he cried; “I believe I’m desperate. I’ve tried to do my best all these years, and what’s the use? as Davis says. Oh, if I only had one friend that really cared for me that I could go to and tell everything! I should have, I suppose, if I was worth it, and Hal would have respected me if I’d been worth it; but he never did, and of course nobody else did, only they were kind enough to keep it out of sight.”
If Tom could only have seen Thorndyke at that moment, and known what he was thinking of as he sat at his desk, with papers pushed away and his eyes fixed somewhere a good way beyond, with a pained and troubled look!
“Hoosier general!” he was saying to himself; “I wonder what that means? Something that Tom winced under, that was plain enough. I don’t see how Fenimore finds it in his heart to worry him so, and I’m sure there’s more of it going on than Tom knows how to get along with. I wish I could do something to help him out of it. I wish I could get him over here; it would be such a comfort now that Aleck is out of the way so much! But he’s doing so well there, and he’s worked his way almost to the top of the ladder, I could never ask him. I heard Fenimore praising him to the rest of the firm the other day, and I don’t wonder.”
But Tom didn’t hear; he plodded up and down without knowing that he was tired, and that he had eaten not a mouthful since morning, and that the drizzling mist had penetrated and chilled him through. He was only thinking of the store and of the hour of going back, and that if he did not soon find some way of escape by which he could still hold on to his duty at home, he was afraid he should let go of it! Oh, why was he left so? Why could not his father have lived? The city bell struck eight, and the echo of Davis’ voice seemed to repeat his words.
“Come up like a man!”
“Like a man!” echoed Tom again. “Like a counterfeiter and forger! What did he want me to bring him Fenimore & Co.’s signature for? He thinks there’s nothing decent in me, like the rest of the world, I suppose. But no one ever thought I could quite make a thief yet!”
He started with a sudden stab of recollection.
“Yes, they have, too! Hal called me a thief, and tried his best to show me off for one! What difference does it make if I go with Davis? And who cares, whatever I do?”
Nine o’clock struck at last, and as he reached the lamppost Davis had marked as a rendezvous, a figure stepped from behind it.
“Oh, here you are! That’s the right kind of a fellow!” whispered Davis, slipping a hand into Tom’s arm. “Now come along and I’ll introduce you to some of my friends.”
“Stop!” said Tom, squaring himself, “I’ll tell you in the outset, I want nothing to do with any black work you may have going on; but if you can take me somewhere where it’s warm and bright, let’s go. I can’t walk here all night, and I can’t go home and talk to people, to save my life.”