Chapter Thirty Two.
How I came to have several Important Cares upon me.
I scarcely knew whether I was awake or dreaming as Mr Smith closed his strange story with the inquiry—
“Now do you wonder at my questions?”
Little had I thought when that evening I knocked at his door and entered, that before I left the room I should have found Jack’s father.
It was some time before I could talk coherently or rationally, I was so excited, so wild at the discovery. My impulse was to rush to Jack at once, and tell him what I had found, to run for Mr Hawkesbury, to telegraph to Mrs Shield—to do something.
“Don’t be foolish,” said he, who was now as composed as he had lately been wild and excited. “We may be wrong after all.”
“But there can be no doubt,” I said. “This Mrs Shield is his old nurse and his sister’s—he has told me so himself—who took care of them when their father—went away.”
Mr Smith sighed.
“Surely,” I cried, “you will come and tell Jack all about it?”
“Not yet,” said he, quietly. “I have waited all these years; I can wait two days more—till his examinations are over—and then you must do it for me, my boy.”
It was late before I left him and went up to my bed in Jack’s room.
There he lay sound asleep, with pale, untroubled face, dreaming perhaps of his examination to-morrow, but little dreaming of what was in store when that was over.
It was little enough I could sleep during the night. As I lay and tossed and thought over the events of the evening, I did not know whether to be happy or afraid. Supposing Jack should refuse to own his father! Suppose, when he heard that story of sin and shame, he should turn and repudiate the father who had so cruelly wronged him and his sister!
What a story it was! And yet, as I went over its details and pictured to myself the tragedy of that ruined life, I trembled to think how nearly a similar story might have been mine, had I not by God’s grace been mercifully arrested in time.
Who was I, to think ill of him? He had been driven to his ruin by a shock which had nearly robbed him of reason. I had fallen through sheer vanity and folly, and who was to say I might not have fallen as low as he, had there been no hand to save me, no friend to recall me, by God’s mercy, to myself?
I was thankful when I heard Jack stir, and had an excuse for getting up.
“Hullo!” said he, as I did so; “you were a jolly long time posting that letter last night, or else I must have gone to sleep pretty quickly.”
“I just looked in to talk to Mr Smith,” I said, “on my way back.”
“Ah, do you know, I think he’s working too hard. He didn’t look well last night.”
“He seemed a little out of sorts,” I said, “but I’m afraid that’s nothing very unusual. Well, old boy, how do you feel in prospect of your exam.?”
“Oh, all right,” said Jack, complacently. “I suppose I ought to feel in mortal terror and nervousness and despondency. I believe that’s what’s expected of a fellow before an exam. If so, I’m unorthodox. Perhaps it’s a sign I shall be plucked.”
“I’m not afraid of that,” said I.
“Well, I have a notion I may pull through.”
“If you pass,” said I, struck with a thought that had not before occurred to me, “shall you go to college, Jack?”
He laughed at the question.
“I should have to come out first of all,” said he, “to get what would keep me at college. And even so, I’m not cut out for that sort of life.”
“If you mean living by your brains, I say you are.”
“Of course you say so. You’re always stuffing me up. But, apart from that, you know there are other reasons why I should not be likely to get on well at a university.”
I knew what his meaning was only too well.
“But what rubbish we are talking!” said he. “We’ve made up our minds I’m going to come out first, when it’s more likely all I shall do will be to scrape through with a pass, and not take honours at all.”
At this point Mr Smith looked in to wish Jack joy before he started, and greatly to my relief Billy entered at the same time.
The latter visitor was quite unexpected.
“Well, Billy, what’s up?” I inquired.
“Ga on! As if you didn’t know,” replied the grinning youth.
“I don’t know.”
“What,” said Billy, jerking his head towards Jack, “ain’t he goin’ to ’is ’sam, then?”
“Yes, he’s going to his examination this morning.”
“And I are a-goin’ to give him a proper shine afore he goes,” replied the boy, almost fiercely.
“Of course you are, Billy,” said Jack. “I believe I should come to grief altogether if I went without having my boots polished.”
“In corse you would,” said the delighted Billy, commencing operations forthwith.
“I say, governor,” said he, looking up, halfway through his task, “I give the animal a topper last night.”
“What animal?” inquired Jack.
“That there ’Orksbury, so I did. Him and ’is pal comes along and twigs me a-sottin’ on my box. ‘That’s the kid. Mashing,’ says ’Orksbury. Mashing he up to me, and says he, ‘Would you like a shillin’, my boy?’ says he. ‘You’re ’avin’ a lark with me,’ says I. ‘No, I ain’t,’ says ’e, ’oldin’ it out. ‘What do yer want?’ says I. ‘You know Smith?’ says ’Orksbury. ‘That ain’t no concarn of yourn,’ says I. ‘You ain’t got no concarn with my governor,’ says I. ‘Oh, then you don’t want the shillin’?’ says he. ‘No, I don’t,’ says I, seein’ they was up to games. ‘What do you mean by it?’ says Mashing, a-pullin’ my ear. (Bless you, ’e don’t know the way to pull a cove’s ear; my old gal can do it proper.) ‘No one is going to do anything to Smith,’ says ’e. ‘We only want you to give him this,’ says he, pullin’ out a bit of paper. ‘Don’t give it ’im,’ says ’Orksbury; ‘he’s a young thief,’ says ’e, ‘and ’e’ll only spoil it all.’ ‘I will so,’ says I, ‘and I’ll spoil you too,’ says I, aimin’ a brush at his ’ed. They gives me a wipin’ for it, but there, they can’t ’arf do it. And they says if I want my shillin’ I can go and get it from that cantin’ son of a thief—meanin’ you, governor—what kep’ me. Bless you, they did jaw, them two, but I give that ’Orksbury a topper, which I owed ’im one afore.”
This spirited address on the part of our young friend I need hardly say interested us all deeply. We all resented the outrage which had been offered to him, and admired the spirit with which he had stood to his colours during the interview.
This little episode served to smooth the way for Mr Smith’s interview with Jack. It gave him time to compose himself, and get over the emotion which the first sight of his lost son since last night’s discovery naturally roused.
When he did speak it was steadily and cheerily as ever.
“Just popped up,” he said, “to wish you success, my boy. Keep your head during the viva-voce, and remember that rule about the second aorist.”
“All serene,” said Jack, laughing. “I say, Mr Smith,” added he, “if I don’t pass I shall feel myself the most ungrateful brute out.”
“So you will be,” replied Mr Smith, nodding pleasantly as he left the room.
I wondered at his nerve, and admired the self-control which could thus enable him to talk and even jest at such a time.
I had time to walk round with Jack to the place of examination before business, and give him my final benediction at the door.
Then I hurried off to Hawk Street.
It was a long, dull day there without him. Hawk Street had long since ceased to be exciting. The fellows I liked—and they were very few—did not obtrude their affections on me during business hours, and the fellows I disliked had given up the pastime of baiting me as a bad job. I had my own department of work to attend to, and very little communication with any one else in the doing of it, except with Doubleday, who, as the reader knows, usually favoured me when anything specially uninviting wanted doing.
Of Hawkesbury I now saw and heard less than any one. He had been promoted to a little glazed-in box of his own, where in stately solitude he managed the petty-cash, kept the correspondence, and generally worked as hard as one who is a cut above a clerk and a cut below a partner is expected to do.
On the day in question I was strongly tempted to break in upon his solitude and demand an explanation of his conduct to Billy on the preceding evening. But a moment’s reflection convinced me of the folly of such a course. It was not likely, if I got any answer at all, I should get a satisfactory one, while to reopen communications at all after what had occurred might be unwise and mischievous. For ever since Hawkesbury and I had ceased to be on talking terms at the office I had been more comfortable there, and involved in fewer troubles than ever before.
So I let well alone.
During the day an important telegram arrived at the office, which kept the partners closeted together in the inner-room for an hour, in earnest conference, at the end of which time Hawkesbury was sent for.
Doubleday, who had seen the telegram, told me it was to say that a vessel reported lost had turned up, with a cargo which was now double the value in the market it would have been had she arrived when expected. However, there were points connected with the insurance and other matters which would require the presence of one of the firm at Liverpool, and this was evidently the object of the present confabulation.
“A year ago,” said Doubleday, “they would have sent me. But now the darling comes in for all the trips.”
Which proved to be the case now. Hawkesbury emerged from the inner-room with an important face, and told the junior clerk (I no longer held that distinguished post), to fetch a hansom immediately. Doubleday nudged me.
“If it was you or me, I fancy we’d fetch our own hansoms, eh! Never mind, we’ve neither of us got uncles.”
“Haven’t we?” said I, laughing. “I have.”
“Ah—so have I, for the matter of that. Three—all as poor as church mice too. I mean we’ve not got uncles in the firm. But what puzzles me is, what is to become of the petty-cash? I suppose I’m to be favoured with that job during his lordship’s absence. I shall certainly cover the book with crape.”
“Batchelor,” called Hawkesbury at that moment, just putting his head out of the door of his box, “will you step here, please?”
Doubleday nudged me again, harder than ever.
“I say,” said he, with glee, “you’re to be sent too to carry his bag—see if you aren’t.”
However, Doubleday was wrong for once. The honour he prophesied was not reserved for me. But another was, almost as surprising.
“Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, almost in his old wheedling tone, “I shall be away for three or four days. I’ll get you to keep the petty-cash accounts till I return. I won’t leave the regular book out, as I have not time to balance it. You can enter anything on a separate paper, which I will copy in when I return. There is £3 in the cash-box now. You had better keep it locked up in your desk.”
I could not help being surprised that he should fix on me of all persons to undertake this responsibility for him during his absence. It seemed so much more naturally to devolve on its former guardian that I could not help asking, “Don’t you think Doubleday had better—”
“I prefer you should do it, please,” said Hawkesbury, decisively, bustling off to another desk at the same moment, and so cutting short further parley.
So I had nothing for it but to take up the cash-box, and, after making sure it contained exactly the £3 he had mentioned, transfer it to my own desk.
When I told Doubleday that afternoon what had happened he waxed very facetious on the head of it. He was undoubtedly a little hurt that I should be selected for the charge instead of him. But we were too good friends to misunderstand one another in the matter.
“I expect he’s left it with you because you’re a young hand, and he thinks you’re sure to make a mess of it. That would just suit him.”
“I’ll do my best to deprive him of the luxury of putting me right,” said I.
“If you do get up a tree,” said Doubleday, “I’m your man. But I hope you won’t, for I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”
After all it was not such very alarming work. A few people dropped in during the day and paid small amounts in cash, which I received, and carefully entered on my sheet. And a few demands came from various quarters for small disbursements in the way of postage-stamps, telegrams, cab fares, and the like, all which I also carefully entered on the other side of my account.
Before I left in the evening I balanced the two sides, and found the cash in my box tallying exactly with the amount that appeared on my sheet. Whereat I rejoiced exceedingly, and, locking-up my desk, thought the keeping of the petty-cash was ridiculously simple work.
That evening when I reached the lodgings I found Jack had arrived before me. I was eager to hear of his success or otherwise at the examination, and he was prepared to gratify my curiosity.
He had got on well, he thought. The viva-voce portion, which he had dreaded most, had been easy, or, at any rate, the questions which fell-to him had been such as he could readily answer. As for the written part, all he could say was that he had replied to all the questions, and he believed correctly, although time prevented him from doing one or two as full justice as they deserved. In fact, after talking it over, we both came to the conclusion that the day’s effort had been a success, and if to-morrow turned out as well, all doubt as to the result might be dispensed with.
Then I told him of my adventures, which did not seem altogether to overjoy him.
“I don’t know why it is,” said he, “but Hawkesbury is a fellow I cannot but mistrust.”
“But,” said I, “I don’t see what there can possibly be to suspect in his handing over this simple account to me to keep.”
“All I can say is,” said he, “I wish he hadn’t done it. Why didn’t he hand it over to Doubleday?”
“I wondered at that,” said I, “but there’s no love lost between those two. Doubleday says he thinks he did it because I am a bit of a fool, and he wants the pleasure of seeing me in a mess over the account.”
Jack laughed.
“Doubleday is always flattering somebody,” said he. “Never mind; it may be only fancy on my part after all.”
Jack wanted to get to his books that evening, but I dissuaded him.
“It can do no good,” said I, “and it may just muddle you for to-morrow. Take an easy evening now, and go to bed early. You’ll be all the fresher for it to-morrow.”
So, instead of study, we fell-to talking, and somehow got on to the subject of the home at Packworth.
“By the way, Fred,” said Jack, “I got a letter from you the other day.”
“From me?” I cried; “I haven’t written to you for months.”
“It was from you, though, but it had been a good time on the road, for it was written from Stonebridge House just after I had left.”
“What! the letter you never called for at the post-office?”
“The letter you addressed to ‘J.’ instead of ‘T.’ my boy; But I’m glad to have it now. It is most interesting.”
“But however did you come by it?” I asked.
“If you will stop runaway horses when your hands are full you must expect to lose things. This letter was picked up by Mrs Shield after that little adventure, and only came to light out of the lining of her bag last week. She remembered seeing it lying on the road, she says, and picking it up, along with Mary’s shawl and handkerchief, which had also fallen. But she was too flurried to think anything of it, and until it mysteriously turned up the other day she had forgotten its existence. So there’s a romantic story belonging to your letter.”
I could not be satisfied till the interesting document was produced and conned over. We laughed a good deal in the reading, over the reminiscences it brought up, and the change that had come over both our lives since then.
“Mrs Shield says Mary insisted it belonging to her, and that she had no right to send it to me,” said Jack, laughing. “What do you think of that?”
“It’s very kind of her,” said I, “to think anything about it. I say, Jack,” I added, blushing a little, “got that photo about you?”
Jack handed out his treasure, and we fell-to talking a good deal about the original of the picture, which interested me quite as much as it did Jack.
“Do you know, Fred,” said he, presently, “she doesn’t know anything about—about father? She believes she is an orphan, and that I am the only relation she has.”
“I’m sure,” said I, “it’s far better so.”
“Yes,” said Jack, sadly. “At present it is. But some day she ought to know.”
“Why?” said I.
“If he ever—but we’re not going to talk of that. What do you say to turning in? That’s half-past ten striking by the church.”
So ended the first day of suspense.
I regret to say that my last act that day was one of petty larceny!
During our talk about Mary I had held the photograph in my hand, looking at it occasionally, and occasionally laying it down on my knee. When Jack rose and proposed turning in for the night he gathered together the other papers he had taken from his pocket and replaced them. But, strangely enough, he forgot to look for the photograph, or else supposed it was with the other papers.
It wasn’t, for it lay under my hand all the while, and presently, when his back was turned, it lay in my pocket.
Later on, when the lights were out and all was quiet, it lay under my pillow for greater security!
No wonder the reader is shocked! If ever there was a clear case of purloining this was. I know it, dear reader. I knew it at the time, and yet I did it.
For I had a motive, which perhaps the reader can guess.
The picture which had lain first under my hand, then in my pocket, then under my pillow, experienced yet another change of situation that night.
Just as the first streak of dawn struggled through the window I heard a door close and a footstep in the room below. Mr Smith had come home.
Lightly and silently I crept from my bed, and with my treasure in my hand sped down the stairs and slipped into his room.
And for an hour after that the picture lay in a hand which had never touched it before, and the bright laughing eyes looked up and met the tearful eyes of a father!