Chapter Thirty One.
How I made a still more Important Discovery.
A few evenings after the awkward discovery recorded in the last chapter Mr Hawkesbury himself called at our lodgings. He looked troubled and constrained, but as kind as usual.
He came to tell us how sorry he was to have been deprived of our company that evening, and to offer a sort of apology for his son’s conduct.
“I fear from what he tells me that you do not all get on very happily together at the office. I am so sorry, for I would have liked you all to be friends.”
It was hardly possible to tell the father frankly what we thought of his son, so I replied, vaguely, “No, we don’t get on very well, I’m sorry to say.”
“The fact is,” said Jack, “we never have been friends.”
“He told me so, greatly to my sorrow.”
“I suppose he also told you why?” asked Jack, glancing sharply at the clergyman.
The latter looked disturbed and a trifle confused as he replied, “Yes, he did tell me something which—”
“He told you I was a convict’s son,” said Jack, quietly.
“What!” exclaimed the clergyman, with an involuntary start—“what! No, he didn’t tell me that, my poor boy: he never told me that!”
“I am,” quietly said Jack.
I was amazed at the composure with which he said it, and looked the visitor in the face as he did so.
The face was full of pity and sympathy. Not a shade of horror crossed it, and for all he was Hawkesbury’s father, I liked him more than ever.
“Do you mind telling me what he did say about me?” asked Jack, presently.
“We will not talk about that,” said the clergyman.
Jack looked disposed for a moment to persevere in his demand, but the father’s troubled face disarmed him.
“Poor Edward has had great disadvantages,” he began, in a half-apologetic, half-melancholy way, “and I often fear I am to blame. I have thought too much of my work out of doors, and too little of my duty to him. I have not been to him all that a father should be.”
He said this more in the way of talking to himself than of addressing us. But I saw Jack colour up at the last reference, and hastened to change the subject.
We felt quite sorry for him when he rose to go. He evidently knew his son’s failings only too well, and with a father’s love tried to cover them. And I could see how in all he said he was almost pleading with us to befriend his boy.
To me it was more than painful to hear him talk thus—to speak to me as if I was a paragon of virtue, and to apologise to me for the defects of his own son. It was more than I could endure; and when he started to go I asked if I might walk with him.
He gladly assented, and then I poured into his ears the whole story of my follies and struggles and troubles in London.
I shall never forget the kind way in which he listened and the still kinder way in which he talked when he had heard all.
I am not going to repeat that talk here; the reader may guess for himself what a simple Christian minister would have to say to one in my case, and how he would say it. He neither preached nor lectured, and he broke out into no exclamations. Had he done so, I should probably have been flurried and frightened away. But he talked to me as a father to his son—or rather as a big brother to a young one—entering into all my troubles and difficulties, and even claiming a share in them himself.
It was a long time since I had had such a talk with any one, and it did me good.
An uneventful week or two followed. We occasionally saw Mr Hawkesbury at our lodgings, for Smith could never bring himself to the point of again visiting the rectory. Indeed, he was now so busily engaged in the evenings preparing for his coming examination that he had time for nothing, and even the education of the lively Billy temporarily devolved on me.
It was not till after a regular battle royal that that young gentleman could be brought to submit to be “larned” by any one but his own special “bloke,” and even when he did yield, under threats of actual expulsion from the school, he made such a point of comparing everything I did and said with the far superior manner in which Smith did and said it, that for a time it was rather uphill work. At length, however, he quieted down, and displayed no small aptitude for instruction, which was decidedly encouraging.
At the office Hawkesbury, ever since the uncomfortable meeting at his father’s, had been very constrained in his manner to Jack and me, attempting no longer to force his society on us, and, indeed, relapsing into an almost mysterious reserve, which surprised more of those who knew him than our two selves.
As Doubleday said—who had never quite got over his sense of injury—“he had shut himself up with his petty-cash, and left us to get on the best we could without him.”
Smith and I would both, for his father’s sake, have liked if possible to befriend him or do him a good turn. But he seemed studiously to avoid giving us the opportunity, and was now as distant to us as we had once been to him.
However, in other respects our life at Hawk Street proceeded pleasantly enough, not the least pleasant thing being a further rise in both our salaries, an event which enabled me to set aside so much more every week to repay Flanagan his generous loan, as well as to clear myself finally of debt.
Things were going on thus smoothly, and it was beginning to seem as if the tide of life was set calm for both of us, when an event happened which once more suddenly stirred us to excitement and perturbation.
It was a Sunday evening, the evening preceding Jack’s examination. He had been working hard, too hard, night after night for weeks past, and was now taking a literal day of rest before his ordeal. We were in our room with Mr Smith the elder, who was a regular Sunday visitor. He had devoted whatever spare time he could give of late to Jack’s preparations, “coaching” him in Latin and Greek, and reading with him Ancient History. And now he was almost as excited and anxious about the result as either of us two.
Indeed, Jack himself took the whole matter so coolly that it seemed he must either have been perfectly confident of success, or perfectly indifferent to it, and this evening he was doing quite as much to keep up our spirits as we his.
The examination, which was to last two days, was to begin at nine next morning, and Jack had received a gratifying permission from the partners to absent himself for those two days accordingly.
“It will be a pretty hard grind while it lasts,” Jack said, “for the examination goes on eight hours each day.”
“When is the viva-voce portion?” asked Mr Smith.
“To-morrow. They begin with it, and I shall be glad when it is over. I don’t mind the writing nearly so much.”
“Hadn’t you better go to bed now,” suggested I, “and get a good-night?”
“So I will,” said he, “presently. But I must first write to Mrs Shield.”
I happened to be looking towards Mr Smith the elder as Jack said this. He gave a quick involuntary start, which, however, he instantly turned off into a fit of coughing as his eyes met mine.
Mr Smith had had a racking cough ever since I had known him, but I don’t think I ever remembered his having a spasm of this kind before.
“The fact is,” said Jack, whose back was turned, as he looked for some note-paper on the shelf, “I ought to have written last week, but I was so busy. And if I put it off any longer they will both think something is wrong.”
I only heard what he said mechanically, for my eyes were fixed on Mr Smith.
His face had turned deadly white, and the old frightened look about his eyes came out now with startling intensity. He certainly must be ill or in pain.
“Are you—” I began.
But with a sudden effort he rose to his feet, and with a glance at Jack motioned to me to be silent, and leave the question unasked.
“What?” said Jack, turning round to me.
“Are you—going to write a long letter?” I asked.
“I can’t say till I begin,” said Jack, laughing, and sitting down to write.
“I’ll say good-night,” said Mr Smith, in a hoarse but otherwise composed voice.
“Good-night,” said Jack. “I wish you’d get rid of your cold. All that night work must be bad for you.”
Mr Smith shook hands with me in silence and quitted the room. I heard his footsteps go strangely down the stairs, and his door shut behind him in the room below.
I didn’t feel comfortable. I was afraid he was ill—more ill than he wished either of us to suspect. It was the only way in which I could account for the spasm which preluded that last fit of coughing.
If it was so, he would be naturally anxious to conceal the fact from Jack on the eve of his examination, and that would account for his abrupt interruption of my question.
However, I had no examination to-morrow, and I was determined if possible to know the truth about our friend that very evening.
I sat by while Jack wrote his letter, thinking it interminable, and wondering what he could have to say to fill two sheets. When it was done I insisted on taking it to the post.
“It’s after ten now,” said I, “and you really ought to be in bed.”
“You’re precious careful of me, old boy,” he said. “However, you shall have your own way for once.”
I saw him safe in bed before I started, and then hastened out.
To post the letter was the work of a minute or two, for there was a pillar-box a little way down the road. This done, I returned eagerly and with some trepidation to the lodgings, and knocked at Mr Smith’s door.
He made no answer, so I entered without leave.
He was sitting on a chair by the tireless hearth with his head on his hands, either asleep or buried in thought.
It was not till I touched him that he became aware of my presence, and then he did so with a start, as if I had been a ghost.
“Ah, Batchelor,” said he, recovering himself and leaning back in his chair.
“Are you ill, Mr Smith?” I asked.
“No, my boy, no,” said he; “not ill.”
“I thought you were—upstairs just now.”
“Did you? Ah! you saw me jump; I had a twinge. But don’t let’s talk of that. Sit down and let’s talk of something else.”
I sat down, very perplexed and uneasy, and more convinced than ever that Mr Smith was not himself.
“How do you think he’ll get on in his examination?” asked he, after a pause.
“Jack? Oh, I have very little doubts about it,” said I.
“No more have I; he’s well and carefully prepared.”
“Thanks a great deal to you,” said I. “Well, I did get him on a little with the Greek, I believe,” said Mr Smith.
Another pause ensued, during which Mr Smith sat looking hard into the empty grate. Then he asked, “You have known him a long time, Batchelor?”
“Yes; we were at school together.”
“Do you know his parents at all?”
“No,” I replied, feeling uncomfortable to be once more on this dangerous ground, although on my guard, and prepared to bite my tongue off rather than play my friend false again.
Mr Smith assumed as complete an air of unconcern as he could as he asked, “It’s a strange question, but do you know anything about them?”
I would have given a good deal to be out of that room. There was something in Mr Smith’s voice and manner and frightened eyes which made the question, coming from him, very different from the same inquiry flippantly thrown out by one of my old comrades. And yet I would not—I could not—answer it.
“I can’t say,” I replied, as shortly as possible, and rising at the same time to leave the room.
He prevented me by a quick gesture, which almost ordered me not to go, and I resumed my seat.
“You wonder why I ask the question?” said he, slowly.
“I think,” said I, “it would be best to ask it of Jack himself.”
Mr Smith said nothing, but sat brooding silently for a minute. Then he said, in a tone which sounded as if he was asking the question of himself rather than me, “Who is the Mrs Shield he writes to?”
He spoke so queerly and looked so strangely that I half wondered whether he was not wandering in his mind.
“Please,” said I, “do not ask me these questions. What is the matter with you, Mr Smith?”
“Matter, my boy!” said he, with a bitter laugh; “it’s a big question you ask. But I’ll tell you if you’ll listen.”
I repented of having asked the question, he looked so haggard and excited. However, there was nothing for it but to sit still while he, pacing to and fro in the room, told me his story in his own way.
“This is not the first time you have been curious about me, Batchelor. You have suspected I was or had been something different from the poor literary hack you see me, and you have been right, my boy.”
He stopped short in his walk as he said this, and his eyes flashed, just as I had sometimes seen Jack’s eyes flash in the old days.
“Sixteen—no, seventeen—years ago I was the happiest man alive. I can see the little cottage where we lived, my wife and child and I, with its ivy-covered porch and tiny balcony, and the garden which she so prided in behind. It seemed as if nothing could come and disturb our little paradise. I was not rich, but I had all I wanted, and some to spare. I used to walk daily across the field to—where the bank of which I was manager was situated, and they—she and the boy—came to meet me every evening on my return. I felt as if my life was set fair. I could picture no happiness greater than our quiet evenings, and no hope brighter than a future like the present.”
Here Mr Smith paused. This picture of a happy home he had drawn with a dreamy voice, as one would describe a fancy rather than a reality. After a pause he went on:
“The thing I thought impossible happened suddenly, fearfully, while I was even hugging myself in my prosperity and happiness. She died. A week before she had given me a sister for my boy. Our cup of joy seemed full to overflowing. The mother and child throve as well as any one could expect. She was to get up next day, and I was to carry her down stairs, and set her for a little amongst her flowers in the little drawing-room. I wished her good-bye gaily that morning as I went off to my work, and bade her be ready for me when I returned.
“Ah! what a return that was! At mid-day a messenger rushed into the bank and called to me to come at once to my wife. I flew to her on the wings of terror, and found her—dead!”
Here the speaker paused again. His voice had trembled at the last word, but his face was almost fierce as he turned his eyes to me.
I said nothing, but my heart bled for him. “The hope had gone from my life. I had no ballast, nothing to steady me in the tempest. My hope had been all in the present, and it perished with her. I cared for nothing, my little children were a misery to me, the old home was unendurable. I got leave of absence from my employers, and came up here—desperate. I dashed into every sort of dissipation and extravagance; I tried one excitement after another, if only I could drown every memory I had. I abandoned myself to so-called ‘friends’ of the worst sort, who degraded me to their own level, then forsook me. Still I plunged deeper—I was mad. My one dread was to have a moment to myself—a moment to think of my home, my children, my wife. How I lived through it all I cannot think—and I did not care.
“At last a letter reached me from my employers, requiring my presence at business. My money had long gone, my creditors pressed me on every hand, my friends one and all mocked at my destitution. I returned to —, hiding before my employers the traces of my madness, and letting them wonder how grief had changed me. My home I could not go near—the sight of it and of the children would have driven me utterly mad. I lived in the town. For a week or so I tried hard to keep up appearances—but the evil spirit was on me, and I could not withstand him. I had not then learnt to look to a Greater for strength. I must fly once more from one misery to another tenfold worse.
“But I had no money. My savings were exhausted. My salary was not due. I dared not beg it in advance. I was manager of the bank, and had control over all that was in it. The devil within me tempted me, and I yielded. I falsified the accounts, and tampered with the books of the bank. My very desperation made me ingenious, and it was not till I had been away a month with my ill-gotten booty that the frauds were discovered.”
Again he stopped, and I waited with strangely perturbed feelings till he resumed.
“At first I tried to hide myself, and spent some weeks abroad. But though I escaped justice, my misery followed me. During those weeks, I, who till then had been upright and honest, knew not a moment’s peace. At night I never slept an hour together, by day I trembled at every face I met. The new torture was worse than the old, and at last in sheer despair I returned to London and courted detection. It seemed as if they would never find me. The less I hid myself, the more secure I seemed. At last, however, they found me—it was a relief when they did.
“I acknowledged all, and was sentenced to penal servitude for fourteen years.”
“What!” I exclaimed, springing from my seat. “You are—”
“Hush!” said Mr Smith, pointing up to the ceiling, “you’ll wake him. Yes, I am, or I was, a convict. Listen to the little more I have to say.”
I restrained myself with a mighty effort and resumed my seat.
“I was transported, and for ten years lived the life of a convicted felon. It was a rough school, my boy, but in it I learned lessons an eternity of happiness might never have taught me. Christ is very pitiful. They brought me out of madness into sense, and out of storm into calm. As I sat at night in my cell I could bear once more to think of the little ivy-covered cottage, of the green grave in the churchyard, and of the two helpless children who might still live to call me father. What had become of them? They were perhaps growing up into boyhood and girlhood, beginning to discover for themselves the snares and sorrows of the world which had overcome me. Need I tell you I prayed for those two night and day? A convict’s prayer it was—a forger’s prayer, a thief’s prayer; but a father’s prayer to a pitiful Father for his children.
“After ten years I received a ‘ticket-of-leave,’ and was free to return home. But I could not do it yet. I preferred to remain where I was, in Australia, till the full term of my disgrace was ended, and I was at liberty as a free and unfettered man to show my face once more in England. It is not two years since I returned. No one knew me. Even in — my name had been forgotten. The ivy-covered cottage belonged to a stranger, and no one could tell me what had become of the forger’s children who once lived there. It was part of my punishment, and it may be my long waiting is not yet over.”
Here once more he paused, looking hard at me with his frightened eyes. I was going to speak, but he stopped me.
“No; let me finish. I came here, sought work, and found it; and found more than work—I found your friend. When I first met him he was unhappy and friendless. You know why better than I do. I watched him, and saw his gallant struggle against poverty and discouragement and perhaps unkindness. I found in him the first congenial companion I had met since she died. I shared his studies, and—and the rest you know. But now,” said he, as once more I was about to speak, “you will wonder what all this has to do with the questions I asked you just now. You may guess or you may not; I don’t know. This is why. When she died, and I madly deserted all the scenes of my old happiness, my two orphan children were left in the charge of a nurse, a young married woman then, whose name was Shield. Now do you wonder at my questions?”