Chapter Twenty Nine.
How I began to see Daylight through my Troubles.
Those of my readers who have read their Virgil will most likely remember an observation made by one of the gentlemen who figure conspicuously in the story of the Aeneid. He dreaded his hereditary enemies, the Greeks, under any circumstances; but he never dreaded them so much as when they came and offered him presents!
This was pretty much my feeling when I was told that my debt to Wallop had been paid for me by Hawkesbury.
There had been a time in my life when I almost liked Hawkesbury. More recently I had suspected him of being not quite the angel I once believed him. Later still I had felt my suspicion grow to very decided dislike. And now, at the moment when he made me his debtor for thirty shillings, I positively loathed him.
I could not guess his motive. I was certain it was not out of pure love for me or pity for Wallop. Indeed, I was pretty certain there was far more mischief than good in the action. I would sooner have owed Wallop thirty pounds than Hawkesbury thirty shillings. He knew it, too, and for that very reason paid my debt to Wallop.
“Whatever business of Hawkesbury’s is it?” I demanded of Wallop, as soon as I could find words to express myself.
“Goodness knows,” replied Wallop, with a laugh.
“But I won’t let him do it. I don’t want him to pay my debts. You must give him the money back, Wallop.” Wallop grinned delightedly.
“Oh, quite so. It’s rather likely, when I’ve been waiting for my money the best part of a year, I should decline to receive it when I’ve got the chance! No, my boy, you can settle with Hawkesbury now. You owe him the thirty bob, not me!”
What was I to do? I demanded an explanation of Hawkesbury as soon as he appeared.
“Wallop tells me you’ve paid him the thirty shillings I owed him,” said I.
“Oh, he shouldn’t have told you,” said Hawkesbury, with the meek air of a benevolent man who doesn’t like to hear his own good deeds talked about.
“I wish you hadn’t done it,” said I.
“Oh, you mustn’t think of it,” said he, blandly. “It was only because I heard him threaten to get you into trouble if you didn’t pay him, and I should have been so sorry if that had happened.”
“Thank you, but really I prefer to pay my own debts!”
He laughed as if it was a joke.
“I’m sure you do; but as I knew you couldn’t do it, I thought it would be a relief to you if I did it for you.”
Could he be in earnest? He talked as if I ought to be grateful to him instead of in a rage, as I was. Certainly it was a queer position to be in—storming at a fellow who has just saved you from debt, perhaps disgrace, possibly ruin, I couldn’t make out what to think of it.
“I daresay you thought you were doing me a good turn,” I said as civilly as I could, “but as it happens I wish you had let the thing alone.”
He sighed forgivingly and went to his desk.
The moment Jack and I got outside at dinner-time I unburdened my woes to him.
He was in as great if not a greater commotion than I was.
“What does he mean by it?” he exclaimed. “Fred, you must pay him back at once, whatever it costs you!”
“All very well,” said I, “but you know I’ve nothing.”
“Can’t you pawn anything? can’t you get a job of some sort to do? anything to pay him off. I shall be miserable as long as you owe him a farthing!”
He spoke with a vehemence that quite astonished me.—“You don’t mean to say you’re going to let yourself stop in his debt?” he exclaimed, when I did not answer.
“Not a second after I can get the money.”
“When will you hear from your uncle?”
“To-morrow morning if he writes by return. But I’ve no hopes from him.”
“I suppose it would not do to ask the partners,” said Jack.
I was thunderstruck at the very idea. For Jack to entertain it for a moment only showed how desperately in earnest he was.
We could get no light on the subject, and I had the pleasure of being reminded by Hawkesbury’s smile all day long that I was in his power, and saw no way out.
That whole evening Jack and I sat and discussed the situation. We even rose early, to consult Mr Smith the elder on his return to the lodgings. He soon appreciated our difficulty; but he could suggest no relief. For he was as poor as either of us, and had as few friends.
My uncle’s letter did not come that day or the next.
Meanwhile I knew no peace. Hawkesbury’s manner was more suave and condescending than ever.
To the rest of my fellow-clerks during those two days I was the most cross-grained and obnoxious comrade conceivable. My only relief seemed to be in quarrelling with somebody, and as they all laid themselves out to bait and tease me one way or another I had a pretty lively time of it.
My chief hope was (and Jack shared in it), that if my uncle had been determined not to help me at all he would probably have written by return. The delay might mean he was at least considering the matter.
At last, on the third day of my waiting, the postman knocked at our door. With beating heart I rushed to receive the letter which I knew must be for me.
It was, but it was not from my uncle, it was from Hawkesbury.
“My Dear Batchelor,” he wrote, “I am very sorry to see that I have given you offence by settling your debt with Wallop. I really meant it for the best, because I knew you could not pay, and I was afraid if it came to my uncle’s or Mr Barnacle’s knowledge it might be awkward for you, for I happen to know my uncle feels very strongly about clerks getting into debt, especially through gambling. I’m afraid I can’t undo what has been done, for Wallop will hardly give me back the money. So I write to tell you how sorry I am, and to say I hope you will forgive me. Please do not trouble about the repayment of the loan; you must take whatever time suits you. I trust this little matter will not make us worse friends than before.
“Yours sincerely,—
“E. Hawkesbury.
“P.S.—I write this as I shall be away from the office the next two days, while we are moving to our new house. When we are settled in I hope you will come and see us.”
What was I to think of it? For the last three days I had been losing no opportunity of snubbing this fellow, and to demonstrate to him that, so far from feeling obliged to him, I disliked him all the more for what he had done. In return for which he now writes me this beautiful letter, breathing forgiveness and considerateness, and absolutely apologising for having paid thirty shillings to save me from ruin!
Either he must be a paragon of the first water, or else—
I gave it up, and handed the letter across to Jack Smith. He read it, with knit brows, from beginning to end, and then a second time; after which he tossed it back to me and said, “Well, what do you think of that?”
“What do you?”
“Rot, every bit of it!”
I expected he would say so. “But, Jack,” I began.
“You don’t mean to say,” said Jack, “you’re going to let yourself be taken in by that stuff?”
“But unless he means what he says, what possible motive can he have for writing a letter like that?”
Jack did not answer. We did not discuss the matter further, but I went down to the office that morning with the letter in my pocket, heartily wishing I could make up my mind what to think of it all as easily as Jack Smith.
One thing, at any rate, was a comfort—I should not see Hawkesbury for two days.
But if I was to be spared the sight of one unwelcome person, I had in store for me another which I little expected. I was coming with Jack out of the office on the second evening afterwards, after a hard day’s work, wondering why my uncle did not write, and sighing inwardly at the prospect of seeing Hawkesbury back next day, when a stranger accosted me in the street.
At least, I thought him a stranger until, standing full in front of him, I saw his face and heard him speak.
“Oh, good evening, Mr Batchelor, sir! The governor’s compliments, sir—Mr Shoddy’s compliments—and he’ll be particularly glad if you’ll step round now, sir.”
I owed Shoddy three pounds, and this summons fell on my ear like a knell.
“Better go,” said Jack.
How sick Jack must be of me, thought I, by this time. Ever since I had been back with him he had been for ever worried either with my health or my debts or my office rows. I was half tempted to ask him not to come, but I could not bring myself to be sufficiently self-denying.
“What does Mr Shoddy want me for?” I asked of the assistant as we walked along.
“I believe, sir, between ourselves, it’s about your little account, sir. How do the clothes wear, sir? Nice stuff that tweed we made them of. Could do you a very nice suit of the same now, sir, dirt cheap. Two fifteen to you, and measure the coat. We should charge three guineas to any one else.”
It occurred to me to wonder why so great exception should be made in my favour, especially as I had owed my present bill so long. However, we let the fellow rattle on at his shoppy talk, and soon arrived at Mr Shoddy’s ready-made clothes establishment.
I felt rather like a criminal being brought up before a judge than a customer before the tailor of his patronage.
“Good evening, Mr Batchelor,” said the tailor. “Take a seat, sir.”
I did so, and Jack took another.
A long pause ensued.
“You wished to see me,” observed I.
“Well, yes, I do,” said the tailor. “The fact is, Mr Batchelor, you aren’t treating me well. Those clothes were sold you for cash, sir—cash down!”
“Yes, I’m afraid I have been rather slow in paying, Mr Shoddy,” said I.
“Quite so, sir! The question is, have you the amount with you now—three pounds plus six shillings for interest to date?”
“I certainly have not the money with me,” said I.
“Ah! Then you are prepared to give me security, of course? Now what do you say to my drawing on Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, at one month, for the amount? I should be satisfied with their bill.”
I nearly jumped off my seat with horror.
“Merrett, Barnacle, and Company pay my tailor’s bill! Oh, no! quite out of the question!” I exclaimed.
“Ah, that’s a pity! I should have liked their bill, and you could pay them by instalments.”
“I wouldn’t on any account have them spoken to on the subject,” said I.
“Well, perhaps your friend here—”
“No,” said Jack; “I’ve no money at all.”
“Your uncle possibly—”
How had the man heard that I had an uncle? He seemed to know all about me, and I began to get uncomfortable.
“My uncle, I fear, would not advance the money. I have already asked him, and had no reply.”
“This is rather awkward for you, sir,” said Mr Shoddy, coolly. “I quite hoped you would have been prepared with a proposal.”
“I might be able to pay you a shilling a week,” I faltered.
Mr Shoddy shrugged his shoulders. “Three pounds six is sixty-six shillings, interest six and six; seventy-two shillings and sixpence—seventy-two and a half weeks—one year and four and a half months to pay off. Thank you, sir; can’t do it.”
“I don’t know what to do if you won’t accept that,” I faltered.
“Three shillings a week, secured,” said the tailor, “would meet the case, I think. What do you think?”
“I could never keep it up, I fear,” said I; “but I’d try.”
“Thank you, sir. You draw your salary weekly, I believe?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh, then, if I just look in and see one of the principals and explain, he’ll stop the three shillings a week for me, which will save all trouble. What time are they generally at home?”
The cool resolve of the man to make my employers a party to my debt positively terrified me. I begged him to give up the idea, promised wildly to do all sorts of things to pay him, and entreated him to give me more time.
He was politely inexorable. “Pleased to oblige you, but, after a year, we must look after our little accounts, mustn’t we? Let’s see, to-morrow I’m engaged. I’ll look in on Friday and settle it.”
No argument or entreaty of mine could make him understand such a step would be ruination to me. He was firmly convinced a guarantee from the firm would be the best security for his money, and so, simply disregarding all my protests and appeals, gaily promised to see me again on Friday.
What was I to do? My only hope was in my uncle’s answer, and that, as the reader knows, was small enough.
The following morning it arrived. It was brief, and to the point:—
“Dear Nephew,—I hold that lads of your age cannot learn too soon that the people to pay debts are those who make them. I return your list, as it may be useful.
“Yours,—
“F. Jakeman.”
It was what I had expected. My last hope of a respite now gone to the winds!
We walked down disconsolately to the office. Hawkesbury was back in his place, smiling as usual. But the dread of Shoddy’s visit to-morrow drove away all thought for the present of resentment against Hawkesbury. I was even constrained to greet him civilly, and when he asked if I had received his letter, to say yes, I was much obliged.
On leaving the office that evening the tailor’s assistant was hanging about outside as before. I imagined he had some fresh message, and went up to him eagerly. “Well,” said I, “what is it?”
“Nothing that I know of,” said he. “I was just passing this way, and thought I’d see how you were getting on. No orders, I suppose? None of your young gentlemen want a nice cheap suit? Pleased to make you a consideration for the introduction. If one or two of you joined together and took a piece, could do the lot very reasonably indeed.”
So, not only was I to be exposed before my employers to-morrow, but meanwhile my movements were being watched, for fear I should run away, I suppose.
“Jack,” said I, as we walked along, “I believe you are right after all.”
“How?” said Jack.
“The only thing to do is to tell the partners all about it, before Shoddy comes to-morrow!”
“Well,” said Jack, “I don’t see it could be much worse than letting them hear all about it from him.”
With which consoling but desperate resolution we proceeded.
To beguile the time, we went round by Style Street.
A youth was standing having his boots blacked as we came up. We thought we recognised the figure—though till he turned round we could not recall his name. Then to our surprise we saw it was Flanagan.
But such a swell as he was! He had alarmed me more than once by the grandeur of his attire when I had met him at the parties of the “usual lot.” I had seen him rarely since. As for Jack, the two had scarcely met since they left Stonebridge House.
“Hullo, Batchelor,” he cried, as we approached, “that you? I heard you’d been ill, and—why, Smith,” he broke out, catching sight of my companion, “how are you? Haven’t seen you for ages! And the rum thing is I was speaking about you this very moment—wasn’t I, kid?”
“Yaas,” said Billy, with a grin.
“You know, Batchelor, you once introduced me to this young gentleman when we were rolling home one night after a spree—fearfully slow parties some of those!—and I’ve given him a job pretty often since—and he was just telling me about you. Lodging Drury Lane way, I hear?”
“Yes,” said I. There was something so genuine in the tone of my old schoolfellow that I could almost forgive him his grand clothes.
“I say, couldn’t you come along to my rooms to-night? I’m all by myself. Jolly to talk over old days. Come on, Smith.”
“Thanks,” said Smith, who, I could see, felt half shy of this old comrade, “but I have to work for an exam., and it’s coming off now in a week or two.”
“Well, Batchelor, you come,” said Flanagan.
I hesitated a moment, and then consented. The fact was, I suspected Flanagan might possibly get his clothes made at Shoddy’s. In which case, as to all appearance he must be a good customer, he might, I thought, use his influence with the tailor to prevent the threatened visit to-morrow.
So I went with him, much to his satisfaction, and we had a pleasant evening together. He confided to me his troubles. How he was getting tired of the “usual lot,” and of London altogether, and wanted his father to let him be a farmer. How he was always getting into trouble up here in town, living by himself, with far more money than he wanted, and no one “to pull him up,” as he called it. How he often recalled Stonebridge House with all its hardships, and wished himself back there instead of in this unsatisfactory world of London.
“If I could only grind like Smith,” said he, “it wouldn’t be so bad; but what’s the use of my grinding? In fact, what’s the use of my being up here at all, when I only get into rows, and spend one half of my time going to the dogs and the other in pulling up?”
“Well,” said I, “that’s better than me, who spend all my time in going to the dogs.”
“Oh, but you had Smith to keep you steady,” said he. “You couldn’t go far wrong with him. I’ve got no one of that sort. I really wish my father would put me to farming. A fellow couldn’t go to the dogs, you know, all among the cows, and pigs, and horses—that is,” added he, laughing, “not the sort of dogs I mean.”
There was a great deal in Flanagan’s troubles with which I could sympathise. He was a fellow with a kind nature at bottom, but too easy-going to withstand the temptations of London.
In return for his confidence I told him most of my troubles. He was greatly interested in the story, and especially reproached himself with his share in aiding and abetting my past extravagances.
When, however, I came to tell him of my financial troubles with Hawkesbury and Shoddy he brightened up suddenly.
“Why, why ever didn’t you tell me of that before, Batchelor?” he exclaimed. “And this beggar Shoddy’s going to show you up, is he? Ha, ha! we’ll disappoint him for once in a way. I know him of old.”
“I was wondering if you knew him,” said I, suddenly feeling my spirits lightened, “and would mind asking him not to call up at the office.”
“Of course I will,” said Flanagan, jumping up and taking his hat. “Come along, old man, he won’t be shut up yet, I expect. If he is we’ll wake him up.”
And off we went, my heart full of joy at this unexpected hope.
Shoddy’s shop was still open, and its lord was at home. He greeted Flanagan obsequiously, as a good customer.
“Ah, Shoddy, how are you? Just make out my friend’s bill here, will you—look sharp!”
Shoddy, in as much surprise as I was, promptly obeyed, adding the interest for the last year and the next.
“Knock off that last six-and-six,” demanded my friend.
“But that’s for—”
“Knock it off, do you hear?” shouted Flanagan, “and receipt it.”
Fancy my astonishment! I had expected to see Shoddy persuaded to abandon his idea of calling at the office; but this was far more than I ever dreamt of.
“Oh, Flanagan,” I began, “you really—”
“Shut up,” said Flanagan. “May as well owe it to me as Shoddy. There,” added he, putting down the money and giving me the receipt, “and look here, Mr Shoddy, the next time you try your sharp practice on us I change my tailor.”
“And now,” said he, putting a note into my hand, “this will help to square accounts with Hawkesbury and some of the others. Mind you pay it back, do you hear?”
Before I could even turn to speak to him he had bolted round the corner and vanished!