Chapter Thirty.
How I paid off a Score, and made a rather Awkward Discovery.
I stood staring at the five-pound note which Flanagan had left in my hand in a state of utter bewilderment.
My first impulse was to give chase to my benefactor and compel him to take back the money. My second was to do nothing of the sort, but rejoice with thankfulness over the help thus unexpectedly sent me.
It was little enough I had done to deserve any one’s kindness, and it was only too reasonable to expect to have to get myself out of my own troubles. But here, like some good fairy, my old Irish schoolfellow had stepped on to the scene, and sent all those troubles to the right-about with a single turn of the hand.
What rejoicings Jack and I had that night over my good fortune! What careful plans we made for a systematic repayment of the loan! and how jubilantly I looked forward to handing Hawkesbury back his thirty shillings in the morning!
Since I had received that letter of his my wrath had somewhat abated towards him. Much as I disliked and suspected him, still I could not feel quite certain that he might not after all have meant well by what he did, however blundering and objectionable a way he had taken to show it. That, however, did not interfere with my satisfaction now at the prospect of being quits.
It was a positive luxury, as Jack and I entered the office next morning, to be able to meet his amiable, condescending smile in a straightforward way, and not by colouring up and looking confused and chafing inwardly.
I was anxious to get the ceremony over as soon as possible, and therefore walked straight up to his desk, and, placing the thirty shillings before him, said, in a voice which I did not trouble to conceal from the other clerks present.
“That’s the thirty shillings you paid Wallop for me the other day, Hawkesbury. I’m much obliged for the loan of it.”
If some one had informed him he was to start in five minutes for the North Pole, he could not have looked more amazed or taken aback. Nothing, evidently, had been farther from his thoughts than that I should be able to repay the loan, and to have it here returned into his hands before I had been his debtor a week fairly astonished him.
His face darkened suddenly into an expression very unusual with him, as he looked first at the money, then at me.
However, I gave him no time to say anything, but hurried off to my desk, feeling—for the first time since my return to Hawk Street—that there was not a man at the office I dared not look in the face.
As I expected, he sidled up to me at the first opportunity.
“Batchelor,” said he, “you must really take the money back. I am sure you must want it. I should be quite uncomfortable to feel I was depriving you of it.”
And so saying, he actually laid the two coins down on my desk.
“Thank you,” I began; “but if—”
“Please don’t talk so loud,” said he; “I would rather everybody didn’t hear.”
“Then,” said I, “kindly take the money off my desk. It’s yours.”
“But, really, Batchelor, I don’t feel comfortable—”
“I do,” I interrupted.
“I am sure you are not in a position to afford it,” said he. “Excuse my asking, but—”
“I suppose you’d like to know where I got it from,” said I, irritated at his persistency. “You may be surprised to hear I didn’t steal it, and equally surprised to hear I have no notion of gratifying your curiosity.”
I was perfectly amazed at my own hardihood in thus addressing him. But now I had paid him I was afraid of him no more. He was too much put out to keep up his chronic smile as he said. “I hardly expected to be spoken to in this way by you, Batchelor, after all that has happened. If you had been left to yourself, I’m sure you would not have spoken so, but your friend Smith appears to have a special spite against me.”
I was tempted to retort, but did not, and he went back pensively to his desk, taking the money with him.
The remainder of the five-pound note served to discharge my debts to the Twins, and to Tucker, the pastrycook, and Weeden, the tobacconist. The last two I paid myself; the first I sent by Doubleday, not wishing to encounter again the familiar heroes of the “usual lot.”
It was with a light heart and a sense of burden removed from my life that I returned that evening to the lodgings, whither jack had preceded me.
On my arrival I found him in a state of uneasiness.
“Very queer,” said he, “Billy’s not turned up. He was to be here at seven, and it’s now half-past; I never knew him late before.”
“Very likely he’s had some unexpected customers to detain him,” I said.
“Not likely. Billy wouldn’t be late for an appointment here if the Prince of Wales himself came to get his boots blacked.”
“What can have become of him, then?” I said.
“I wish I knew. I am afraid he’s got into trouble.”
We waited another half-hour, and no Billy appeared. Smith looked more and more anxious.
“I think,” said he, “we’d better go and look for him, Fred; what do you say?”
“I’ll come, certainly,” said I; “but where do you expect to find him?”
“If there is no sign of him in Style Street, I expect he’ll be in the court where his mother lives.”
I had a lively recollection of my last visit to that aristocratic thoroughfare. But I did not wish to seem unwilling to accompany Jack in his quest. Only I rather hoped we should find our man—or boy—in Style Street.
But that we did not do. The flagstone on which he was wont to establish his box was there, bare and unoccupied except for the scrawling letters and sums traced out with his finger-tip. High or low, he was not to be found in Style Street.
We went on in the growing dark towards the court.
“Do you know the house he lives at?”
“I’m not sure,” said Jack.
“Do you know what name to inquire for?”
“No, only Billy,” said Jack.
“Don’t you think,” said I, “it’s rather unlikely we shall come across him in a crowded court like that, knowing neither the name nor the house where he lives?”
“Let us try, anyhow,” said Jack.
We went on, and soon reached the well-known “slum.” I must confess honestly I would rather not have entered. Last time we had been there one of us had been struck by smallpox, and both had had to run for our lives, and it seemed to me—perhaps my illness had made me a coward—that we were running an unnecessary risk now by plunging into it just because Billy happened to be an hour late for an appointment.
However, Jack was determined, and I was determined to stick by Jack.
When we first entered, the court was as before, swarming with men and women and children, and in the crowd we passed some way unnoticed.
Presently, however, Jack stopped and asked a woman—
“Do you know in what house a little boy called Billy who black boots lives?”
The woman who was engaged in sewing a black sleeve on to an old grey coat, looked up sharply, and demanded—
“What do you want to know for?”
“I want to see him,” said Jack.
“What do you want to see him for?”
“He didn’t come to the ragged school to-night.”
The woman flared up.
“We don’t want none of your ragged schools! You go and teach yourselves manners—that’s what you’d better do, and don’t come nosing about here—as if we couldn’t get on without a parcel of snuffing young prigs like you to tell us what to do. That’s what I think of you.”
And the honest British matron tossed her head in a huff, and went on with her patchwork.
“If everybody was as honest as you,” said Jack—where the sly dog learned the art of flattery I can’t imagine—“no one would interfere. But we are afraid Billy’s mother is not very good to him.”
The woman looked up again, as if not quite sure what to make of this speech. But Jack looked so much in earnest that she said, shortly—
“You’re about right there. I’m a poor woman, but I hope I know better than to make a beast of myself to my own childer.”
Then she knew Billy, and could tell us where he lived after all.
Jack began, almost confidentially—
“Do you think—”
But he got no farther just then, for we had not noticed a group of idlers who, attracted by our presence in the court, and curious to know our business, had gathered round, and now began, half in jest, half in earnest, to hustle us, crying—
“Go on home. Go and teach yourselves. We don’t want none of your ABC.”
We thought it wise to walk slowly on, without appearing to be running away.
About half way up the court, however, a further stoppage occurred.
This was occasioned by the appearance of another stranger in the court besides ourselves—a clergyman, who, with a small but offence-less crowd at his heels, was making a grand tour of the various houses and flats.
He was a tall, kindly-looking man, with hair just turning white, who looked like a man who did not spare himself or live for himself. He had a pleasant word for everybody, however unpleasant and unpromising they might seem, and bore all the remarks and jests of unfriendly loafers with great good-humour and composure.
The sight of him in the midst of our difficulties was most welcome. We quickened our steps to meet him. The knot of roughs who were following us looked on this as a rout, and set up a yell of defiance. Others, seeing us walking rapidly away, joined in the demonstration, and one or two, not content with following us with their voices, followed us with stones.
Just as we came up to the clergyman a stone intended for one of us whizzed past my ear, and struck him on the cheek. He never moved a muscle, or even looked to see where it came from, but walked on to meet us.
“Oh! sir,” said Jack, stepping forward, “we’re so glad to meet you. We’re looking for a little boy called Billy, who lives in this court, who generally comes to our ragged school, but wasn’t there this evening. He’s a shoeblack. Do you know where he lives?”
“I wish I could tell you,” said the clergyman, “but this is my first visit here. Where is your school?”
“Oh, it’s not properly a school, but Billy and sometimes one or two others come to our lodgings, and learn to write and read. He has never missed before. That’s what makes me fear something is wrong.”
At that moment the object of our search stood before us, with his usual grin wider than ever.
“What cheer, blokes?” was his greeting. “Oh, ’ere, governor, I reckon you’re a-goin’ to turn me up ’cos I wasn’t at the racket school. But my old gal, she’s a-missin’. She’s always a-skylarkin’ somewheres, she is, and I was a-lookin’ for her.”
“Have you found her?” asked Jack, whose pleasure at finding his young protégé was unconcealed.
“Found ’er! No; but I knows where she is.”
“Where?”
“In the station, for smashin’ winders. Ain’t she a wonner?”
“My poor boy!” said the clergyman, sympathisingly.
“Ga on! I ain’t your boy. Don’t know yer; I’m this ’ere bloke’s chap, and I ain’t a-goin’ to be larned by no one else.”
It was impossible to avoid smiling at this frank declaration, seriously as it was uttered.
“When did your mother get into trouble?” asked Jack.
“This very afternoon, bless ’er old ’art. She was on the fly all yesterday, a-goin’ on any’ow. So I comes round afore the racket school, to see if she was a-coolin’ down, and, there! if she ’adn’t hooked it! I ’as a good look up and down the court, but she’d walked. So I cuts to the nighest station, and sees a pal o’ mine outside. ‘It’s all right,’ says he; ‘she’s in there,’ meaning the lock-up. ‘Wot was she up to?’ says I. ‘Winders agin,’ he says. So she’s all safe, she is.”
“I tell you what it is, Billy,” said Smith. “I’m afraid you let her spend the money you get for blacking boots on drink. That’s what gets her into trouble.”
“That ain’t no concern of yourn,” said Billy. Then, suddenly correcting himself, he added, “Leastways it ain’t no concern of these here two blokes. Mister, I say, governor, is it too late for to learn me to-night?”
“Yes, it’s too late to-night; but we’ll have the school to-morrow instead. Where will you live while your mother’s away?”
“Oh, ain’t you funny!” said the boy, with a grin. “As if a chap liked me lived anywheres!”
“Well,” said Jack, taking my arm, and not desirous to prolong the discussion, “mind you turn up to-morrow, Billy.”
“No fears,” cried Billy, with a grin, accompanying us for a step or two, walking on his hands.
“That’s a most extraordinary lad,” said the clergyman.
“There’s a lot of good in him,” responded Smith.
“And you are doing your best to bring it out,” said the clergyman.
“Which way are you going?” said he, when presently with no further adventure we had got through the court.
“To Drury Lane,” said I.
“Ah, down this street. That’s my way too. Will you just come into my house and have a bit of supper?”
Jack never liked accepting invitations, but there was something so friendly and simple-minded about this clergyman that it would almost have seemed rude to say no.
“This is quite a new part of the town to me,” said he, as we walked along. “I suppose you know it well?”
“Yes,” said I, “we lived close here for some months.”
“I wished you lived here still,” he said. “I want workers of your sort in my new parish.”
He insisted on including me in his compliments, not knowing how little I deserved them.
“My walk this evening,” said he, “is really the first serious voyage of discovery I have made in my parish, and the result is not very encouraging. It seems a very low neighbourhood, worse a good deal than I expected. However, there will be all the more to do.”
There was something so modest and yet so resolute in the way he spoke that we both liked him.
His house, a dull-looking City rectory, was at the end of the street, and here we halted.
“We’re rather in a state of confusion here,” said he, as he rang the bell, “we only moved in this week. So you must take us as you find us.”
We entered, and were ushered into a pleasant parlour, which appeared to be the only completely furnished room at present.
“Is Mr Edward at home?” asked our host of the servant.
“Yes, sir, he’s upstairs.”
“Ask him to come down,” said he, “and bring in supper.”
He explained to us that Edward was his son, whom he would like us to know.
“I’m often sorry for him,” said the father; “he has no mother, and I am too much occupied to be much with him. I wish he had some good friends in London.”
He emphasised the word “good,” as much as to say that some of his son’s friends were not very desirable.
The servant brought in supper, and said that Master Edward would be down presently.
Meanwhile our host chatted pleasantly, chiefly about his parish and his plans for improving it. I could not help admiring him more and more as he went on. He was not, to all appearance, a very clever man, but there was an honest ring about all he said which made me feel that, had I only known him in the months past I might have been spared many of my follies and troubles.
At last there was a step in the hall outside, and the door opened. What was our amazement and consternation when we beheld in Edward, the good clergyman’s son—Hawkesbury!
Our consternation, however, hardly exceeded his, on seeing who his father’s visitors were. And as for the clergyman himself, the sight of our mutual astonishment fairly took him aback.
It was half a minute at least before any one could sufficiently recover his surprise to speak. During the interval my great fear was how Smith would act. I knew he detested Hawkesbury, and believed him to be a hypocrite and a deceiver, and I knew too that he was rarely able to contain himself when face to face with the fellow. How he would behave now, a guest in the father’s house, I could not imagine. Fool that I was! I was always doubting my friend!
“Why, how is this,” said Mr Hawkesbury, “you seem to know one another?”
“Yes,” said I, “Hawkesbury here is at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s with Smith and me.”
“How very curious!” said the clergyman; “and, to be sure, I neither knew your names, nor you mine. Well, as you all know one another, I needn’t introduce you.”
“Father,” said Hawkesbury, standing still at the door, “I want to speak to you a moment, please.”
“Yes, presently; but come in now, Edward, we are waiting to begin supper. Now, what an odd coincidence to come across you in this way!”
“I want to speak to you, father,” again said Hawkesbury.
The father looked vexed as he turned towards his son.
Smith rose at the same moment and said, holding out his hand to Mr Hawkesbury, “I think, if you will excuse us, we had better go, sir.”
“What, before supper! why, how is this?”
“I think your son would rather not have us here,” said Jack, solemnly.
The father looked in amazement, first at us, then at his son, who once more asked to speak to his father.
The good man, in evident bewilderment, begged us to excuse him for a moment. But Jack, taking my arm once more, said, before our host could leave the room, “Good-night, sir. Thank you very much for your kindness.”
And before I well knew where I was, we were standing out in the street.