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.