Chapter Twenty.
How I served my Friend Smith anything but a Good Turn.
A week sufficed to put Hawkesbury quite at his ease at Hawk Street. And it sufficed also to reconcile most of the clerks to the new arrival. For Hawkesbury, although he proved plainly he was aware of his position and prospects, showed no inclination to be stiff or unfriendly with his new associates. On the contrary, he took a good deal of trouble to make himself agreeable, and succeeded so well that in less than a week Doubleday pronounced him “not such a cad as he might be,” which was very great praise from him.
Jack Smith, however, was irreconcilable. He seemed to have an instinctive dislike to his old schoolfellow, and resented the least approach on his part to friendliness. It was in vain I argued with him and urged him.
“I’m sure he’s civil enough,” I said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Why ever are you so down on him? I’m sure he would only be too glad to be friendly.”
“I don’t like him,” said Jack.
“At any rate,” said I, “you need not take so much trouble to make an enemy of him. Some day you may be sorry for it.”
Jack did not answer, and I saw it was no use pursuing the unpleasant topic. But I was vexed with him. Why should he consider himself better than all of us who had accepted the proffered friendship of our new comrade?
“Young Batch,” said Doubleday one morning about a week after Hawkesbury’s arrival, “come up to my diggings this evening. The other fellows are coming up, and the new boss too.”
This was rather an awkward question, as since Jack’s return I had not gone out, and I imagined every one would conclude it was no use inviting me without him.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Doubleday, noticing my hesitation. “You’ll ask Bull’s-eye’s leave, and then tell me. Here, Bull’s-eye, Smith—whatever your name is—I want young Batch to come up to supper with me this evening, and like a dutiful boy he says he can’t come till you give him leave. What do you say?”
“Don’t be an ass, Doubleday!” I cried, quite ashamed and confused to stand by and hear Smith thus appealed to. “I—I’m afraid I can’t come this evening.”
“Previous engagement?” said Doubleday, with a wink.
“No,” I said; “I’m going for a walk with Smith.”
“I’m going to stay here late to-night,” said Jack, quietly, “I want to catch up some work.” I wished I knew what he meant by it. “All serene! then the young ’un can come to us, can’t he?” said Doubleday.
“Thanks,” said I, not appearing to notice that the question was addressed to Smith.
My decision appeared to afford much amusement to the other clerks.
“Landed at last!” said Doubleday, mopping his face with his handkerchief and puffing like a man who had just gone through some great exertion.
I did not join in the laughter that followed, and spent the rest of the day rather uncomfortably. In the evening I left Jack at his desk.
“I hope you don’t mind my going,” I said. He looked up, half vexed, half astonished. “What do you mean?” he replied. “Surely it’s nothing to do with me?”
“Oh, I know. But I wouldn’t care to do it if you didn’t like it. Besides, I feel rather low going when you’re not asked too.”
“I shouldn’t go if I was asked,” replied Jack.
“Why not?” I inquired.
“I’ve something better to do with my time and my money than that sort of thing,” he replied, quietly.
I went up to Doubleday’s that evening more uneasy in my mind than I had been for a long time. I was angry with him for asking me; I was angry with myself for going; and I was angry with Smith because I felt his rebuke was a just one.
“Hullo, young un!” cried my host as I entered his now familiar lodgings; “all waiting for you. Why, how glum you look! Has the Lantern been lecturing you? or have you been having a dose of cold eel-pie on the road? or what? Come on. You know all these fellows. By the way, my boy, glorious news for you! Don’t know what we’ve all done to deserve it, upon my honour, but Abel here has knocked out one of his front teeth, so there’ll be no more trouble about spotting him now.”
Abel grinned and exhibited the gap in his jaw which had called forth this song of thankfulness from our host.
“How ever did you do it?” I asked, glad to turn the conversation from myself.
“Ran against a lamp-post,” replied the mutilated Twin.
This simple explanation caused much merriment, for every one chose to believe that Abel had been intoxicated at the time, and as Abel himself joined in the laugh, it was easy to see that if that had been the cause of the accident, neither he nor any one else would be greatly ashamed of it.
“What would Jack think?” I could not help saying to myself.
Hawkesbury walked over to where I was and shook hands. “I’m glad you’ve come,” said he, sweetly smiling; “I was afraid you would be prevented.”
“No, I’d nothing to prevent me,” replied I, colouring up.
“I fancied you would prefer staying with your friend Smith, or that he might not like you to come.”
“Smith is working late at the office to-night,” I replied, shortly.
“Now you fellows!” cried Doubleday, “if you want any grub, sit down. Batch, old man, will you take that end of the table? you’re used to lobsters, I know.”
Once more I blushed to the roots of my hair, as I obeyed in as unconcerned a manner as I could.
“What’s the joke about the lobster?” asked Hawkesbury, innocently.
I wished the ground would open and swallow me. Was that unlucky lobster, then, to haunt me all the days of my life?
“There was no joke about it, I can tell you that!” said Whipcord, with a significant grimace; “was there, Daly?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Daly, looking mysterious; “there was one rather good joke about it, if what I was told is true.”
“What’s that?” demanded the company.
“It was paid for!”
Don’t you pity me, reader? I was obliged to join in the laugh, and appear to enjoy it.
“They’re rather down on you,” said Hawkesbury, amiably.
“Oh, they like their little joke,” said I.
“So they do—who’s got the butter?” said Doubleday—“so does everybody—hang it, the milk’s burnt; don’t you taste it burnt, Field-Marshal? I’ll give my old woman notice—so does everybody, except—the muffins, please, Crow—except your precious friend Smith. I don’t suppose he ever enjoyed a joke in his life now, or—help yourself, Hawkesbury—or saw one either, for the matter of that, notwithstanding his bull’s-eyes.”
“I don’t know,” said I, relieved again to divert the talk from myself, and glad at the same time to put in a mild word for my friend, “I think Smith has a good deal of fun in him.”
“I’d like to know where he keeps it,” said Crow; “I never saw it.”
“Oh! I did,” said Hawkesbury, “at school. He was a very amusing fellow at school, wasn’t he, Batchelor? Did Batchelor ever tell you of the great rebellion that he and Smith got up there?”
I had not told the story, and was there and then called upon to do so—which I did, much to the gratification of the company.
“Why don’t you bring this mysterious Mr Smith down to show to us one evening?” asked Whipcord. “We’re always hearing about him. I’d like to see him, wouldn’t you, Twins?”
“Very,” replied Abel, who evidently had been thinking of something else.
“I’m not sure,” said I, “whether he’d come out. I don’t think he cares much about visiting.”
“I hope he doesn’t think it’s wrong to visit,” said the Field-Marshal.
“No, not that,” said I, sorry I had embarked on the subject; “but somehow he doesn’t get on, I think, in company.”
“I should rather say he doesn’t!” said Crow—“at any rate, at Hawk Street, for a more stuck-up, disagreeable, self-righteous prig I never saw.”
“I think,” said Hawkesbury, mildly, “you judge him rather hardly, Crow. Some of us thought the same at school; but I really think he means well.”
“Yes,” said I, ready to follow up this lead, “his manner’s against him, perhaps, but he’s a very good fellow at bottom.”
“Besides,” said Hawkesbury, “he really has had great disadvantages. He has no friend at all in London, except Batchelor.”
This was flattering, certainly, and naturally enough I looked sheepish.
“I beg your pardon,” said Hawkesbury, suddenly perceiving his error, “I meant that he has very few friends at all; isn’t that so, Batchelor?”
“Yes,” said I, “very few.”
“Wasn’t he in a grocer’s shop, or some place of the kind, before he came to us?” asked Doubleday.
“Yes,” I answered.
“No wonder he’s a rough lot,” said Whipcord. “I should have thought his governor might have done better for him than that.”
“But,” I said, feeling flurried by all this, and hardly knowing what I said, “he hasn’t got a father—that is—I mean—”
“What do you mean?” asked Flanagan.
I was in a dreadful plight. Every one must have seen by my confusion that I was in a fix, and how was I to get out of it?
“Eh, what about his father?” demanded Doubleday.
“Oh,” said I, “he’s living abroad.”
“Where, Botany Bay?” asked Daly, with a laugh.
I felt my face grow scarlet, and my whole manner utterly confused and guilty-looking, as I pretended not to hear the question, and turned to speak to Crow about some other matter. But my assailants were too quick for me. My manner had roused their curiosity and excited their suspicions, and I was not to be let off.
“Eh? Is that where he resides?” again demanded Daly.
“I really can’t say where he lives,” I replied, abruptly, and in a tone so unlike my ordinary voice that I hardly recognised it myself.
I was conscious of a startled look on the faces of one or two of the company as I said this, and of a low whistle from Crow.
What had I done?
“I don’t think,” said Hawkesbury, with his usual smile, “your friend Smith would be grateful to you, Batchelor, for letting the cat out of the bag like this.”
“What cat?” I exclaimed, in an agitated voice. “You are all mistaken, indeed you are. Smith’s father is not a—I mean he’s merely away for his health, I assure you.”
“Rather a lingering illness,” drily replied the Field-marshal, amid general laughter, “if it’s kept him abroad all these years.”
“If you will take my advice, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, “you’ll be careful how you tell everybody a thing like this. It’s not a pleasant sort of thing to be known of a fellow.”
“Indeed, indeed,” I cried once more, almost beside myself with terror and rage, “you’re all wrong. I wish I’d said nothing about it. Won’t you believe me?”
“Delighted,” said Whipcord, who with every one else had been enjoying my dismay, and laughing at my efforts to extricate myself. “You say Smith’s governor is a—”
“No—it’s false. I was telling a lie!” I cried, in tones of misery which any ordinary mortal would have pitied. “I don’t know what he is. I never heard of him. Indeed, indeed, I was only speaking in fun.”
Thus wildly did I hope by a shield of lies to hide the secret which I had—by my manner more than my words—betrayed.
“I’m afraid, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, with a grave but sweet smile, “you either are not telling quite the truth, or you are speaking in fun about a very serious matter.”
“Oh yes, you’re right,” I cried; “I’ve been telling lies; upon my honour I have.”
“Upon his honour he’s been telling lies,” said Daly. “The fellow will have his joke. Never saw such a joker in all my days.”
I would fain have rushed from the place, but I dared not. Every word I said involved me deeper, and yet I could not leave them all like this without one effort at least either to recover my secret—Jack’s secret—or else to appeal to their confidence and generosity.
It was evident they were not disposed to believe anything I told them, except the one hideous fact. And that, though I had not uttered it in so many words, every one believed from my lips as if I had been inspired.
I sat in abject misery while the meal lasted, listening to the brutal jests made at the cost of my absent friend, and knowing that I was responsible for them all.
Directly supper was over I appealed to Doubleday.
“I do hope you won’t say anything about this at the office, Doubleday,” I said, imploringly. “It would be such a dreadful thing for it to get out.”
“Then it is true?” demanded Doubleday.
“No—that is—I—I—don’t know,” responded I, “but oh! don’t say anything about it.”
“Bless me, if you don’t know,” said he, “why do you make such a fuss? Take my advice, young un, and don’t say any more about it to any one. You’ve done very well so far, and if you want the fellows to forget all about it you’d better not remind them of it so much.”
“But, Doubleday,” I implored once more, “out of friendship for me—”
“Out of friendship for you let me offer you a cigar,” said Doubleday. “Now you fellows, what’s it to be—whist, nap, poker, or what?”
I turned in despair to Hawkesbury.
“Please, Hawkesbury,” I said, “promise to say nothing about it at the office. I would be so grateful if you would.”
“Then,” said Hawkesbury, asking the same question as Doubleday had just asked, “it is true?”
I dared not say “Yes,” and to say “No” would, I knew, be useless.
“Oh, please don’t ask me,” I said, only “promise—do, Hawkesbury.”
Hawkesbury smiled most sweetly.
“Really,” he said, “one would think it was such a nice subject that a fellow would like to talk about it!”
“Then you won’t!” I cried, ready to jump at the least encouragement; “oh, thanks, Hawkesbury!”
This was the only comfort I could get. Crow laughed at me when I appealed to him; and the other fellows reminded me that as they had not the pleasure of knowing my pet gaol-bird they were afraid they couldn’t tell him what I had done, much as they would like.
Flanagan alone treated it seriously.
“Batchelor,” said he, “I never believed you were such a fool. Can’t you see you’re only making things worse by your fuss? Why can’t you hold your tongue? Smith has little enough to thank you for as it is.”
He had indeed! As I walked home that evening, I felt as if I would never dare to look him in the face again.
It was late when I reached Beadle Square. Jack had returned before me, and was fast asleep in bed. A candle burned beside him, and on the counterpane, as if dropped from his hand, lay a book—a Roman History.
I groaned as I looked at him, and envied him his quiet sleep, the reward of honest work and a good conscience. I crept into bed that night as silently as I could, for fear of waking him.
The next few days I was on thorns. I dreaded to be alone with Jack, and still more dreaded to be by when the fellows were—now an ordinary pastime—chaffing him at the office. It was like living on a volcano which might at any moment explode. However, the days went on, and my fears did not come to pass. The fellows had either forgotten all about it, or, more likely, their sense of honour prevented them from making it known. I was devoutly thankful, of course, and by every means in my power endeavoured to show it. I made myself as agreeable as possible to my comrades, and bore all their chaff and persecution with the utmost good-humour, and went out of my way to secure and retain their good graces.
Of course I could not do this without in a way defying Jack’s influence. Though he had never once taken me to task in so many words, I knew well enough he considered I was wasting my time and money in this perpetual round of festivities. But I had to take the risk of that. After all, I was playing to shield him. If he only knew all, he would be grateful to me, I reflected, rather than offended.
He could not help noticing my altered manner, and of course put it down to anything but its true cause. He thought I was offended with him for not encouraging my extravagances, and that the great intimacy with Doubleday and Hawkesbury and Crow was meant to show him that I was independent of him.
However, he made one brave effort to pull me up.
“Fred,” said he, thoughtfully, one evening, as we walked home—“Fred, what are you going to do about your debts?”
“Oh, pay them some day, I suppose,” I said, shortly.
“When will that be?” he continued, quietly, not noticing my manner.
“I really can’t say,” I replied, not liking to be thus questioned.
“Do you know how much you owe?” he asked.
“Really, Jack, you take a great interest in my debts!”
“I do,” he replied, solemnly, and with the air of a fellow who had made up his mind to go through with an unpleasant duty.
“Well,” I said, warming up rather, “I fancy I can look after them quite as well by myself.”
“I’m afraid I am offending you,” said Jack, looking straight at me, “but I don’t think you do look after them properly.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“I mean,” said Jack, with his arm still in mine, “that you are head over ears in debt, and that, instead of paying off, you are spending your money in other ways. And I don’t think it’s right, Fred.”
“Upon my word, Jack,” I said, “it’s quite new for you to lecture me like this, and I don’t like it. What business is it of yours, I should like to know?”
“You are my friend,” he said, quietly.
I drew my arm roughly from his.
“If you are mine,” said I, “when I want your advice I’ll ask it.”
He looked at me a moment doubtfully with his big eyes. Then he said, “I was afraid of this; we never quarrelled before, Fred.”
“And we shouldn’t quarrel now,” I cried, “if you’d mind your own business.”
“It is my business,” he persisted—doggedly, as I thought.
“What’s your business?” I demanded, with rising rage.
“To beg you not to be a fool,” he replied, steadily.
My temper had already gone. My self-control now deserted me as I stopped abruptly, and turned to him.
“Your business!” I exclaimed, bitterly.
“Yes, Fred, my business,” he said, quietly, with a touch of sadness in his tone.
“Then let me tell you,” I exclaimed, forgetting everything but my resentment, “I don’t intend to be told my duty by you of all people!”
It was enough. He knew the meaning of those cowardly words. His face turned suddenly pale, and his eyes dropped, as with a half-groan he started to walk slowly on.
I would have given worlds to recall the words—worlds to be able to seize his arm and beg his forgiveness. But my wicked vanity kept me back, and I let him go on alone. Then I followed. It was the first of many, many sad, solitary walks for me.