Chapter Twenty One.
How a Door closed between my Friend Smith and me.
If any one had told me a month before that I should quarrel with my friend Smith, I should have laughed at the bare idea. But now the impossible thing had happened.
That night as I lay awake in my bed I felt that I had not a friend in the world. I had wounded, in the cruellest way, the only true friend I ever had, and now I was to suffer for it. The words had come hastily and thoughtlessly, but they had come; and Jack, I knew, regarded me as a coward and a brute.
The next day we scarcely spoke a word to one another, and when we did it was in so constrained a manner that it would have been more comfortable had we remained silent. We walked to and from the office by separate ways, and during the mid-day half-hour we lunched for the first time at different eating-houses.
I longed to explain—to beg his pardon. But he was so stiff and distant in his manner that I could not venture to approach him. Once I did try, but he saw me coming and, I fancied, turned on his heel before I got up.
What was I to do? If this was to last, I should be miserable for ever. Yet how could it end? Would I write him a letter, or would I get some one to plead my cause for me? Or would I let him see how wretched I was, and work on his feelings that way? It was all my fault, I knew. Yet he might have come out a little and made a reconciliation easy. Surely if he had really been my friend, thought I, he would not be so quick to cast me off, and judge me by one or two hasty words!
What between an evil conscience, vexation, and disappointment, I was that day about the most miserable fellow alive. The fellows at the office all noticed and added to my discomfort by ostentatiously condoling with me.
“Poor old chap!” said Doubleday; “he’s been letting you have it, has he? Awful shame.”
“As if a fellow mayn’t get screwed without his interfering,” laughed Crow.
“It’s nothing of the sort,” said I, as usual taking in earnest what was meant as a jest; “I was never screwed.”
Crow’s only answer was a whistle, which greatly amused all the others.
“Never mind,” said Doubleday, “come along with us to-night, old man; we’ve got a little spree on, haven’t we, Crow? We’re going to get tea and shrimps at the Magpie, and then going in a body to the Serio-Comics, and finish up with a supper somewhere or other. Going to make a regular night of it. Come along.”
“I don’t want to,” I said; “besides, I can’t afford it.”
“Afford your great-grandmother! Why, a fellow who can entertain the whole lot of us as you did can’t be so very hard up, can he, Wallop? So come, none of your gammon. You’re coming with us to-night, my boy, and old Bull’s-eye can sit and scowl at himself in the looking-glass if he likes.”
I went with them, glad enough to get anywhere out of Jack’s sight. We had a “rollicking evening,” as the fellows called it; which meant that after a noisy and extravagant tea at the Magpie we adjourned in a body to the performance, where we made quite as much noise as the rest of the audience put together, after which we finished up with a fish supper of Doubleday’s ordering, at a restaurant, the bill for which came to two shillings a head.
I was not in a condition to enjoy myself. The thought of Jack haunted me all the evening and made me miserable. I fancied him walking back from Hawk Street alone. He would stop to talk to Billy, I knew, and then he would go on to Beadle Square and bury himself in his book till bedtime. Would he ever think of me? Why, even the little shoeblack was more to him now than I was.
I got home late—so late that Mrs Nash protested angrily, and threatened to stand my irregularities no longer. Jack was not asleep when I entered the room, but at sight of me he turned over in his bed and drew the clothes round him. I was angry and miserable and made no attempt to speak to him. But I could not sleep. The spirit seemed to have gone out of my life in London, and I dreaded to-morrow as much as ever I had hated to-day.
I rose early in the morning, and after a hurried breakfast started from the house before Jack came down. At least I could take refuge in my work at the office.
I had the place to myself for quite half an hour, when Hawkesbury arrived.
“Well, Batchelor,” said he, “you are industrious. I thought I should be first to-day, but you are before me. Where’s your friend Smith?”
“I don’t know,” I said, hurriedly.
“I’m afraid,” said Hawkesbury, with his sweet smile, “you and Smith haven’t been getting on well lately. I noticed yesterday you never spoke to one another.”
“I’m not obliged to speak to him,” I growled.
“Certainly not. In fact I think it’s very kind indeed of you to make him your friend under the circumstances.”
Of course I knew what these last words meant. A day or two ago they would have terrified me; but now in my mortified state of mind they didn’t even offend me.
“Jack and I always got on well,” I said, “until he began to interfere with my affairs. I didn’t like that.”
“Of course not; nobody does. But then you know he has always been a sort of guardian to you.”
“He was never anything of the sort,” I retorted.
“Well,” said Hawkesbury, pleasantly, but with a touch of melancholy in his voice, “I never like to see old friends fall out. Would you like me to speak to him and try to make it up?”
“Certainly not,” I exclaimed. “If I want it, I can do that myself.”
“What can he do himself?” cried Doubleday, entering at this moment with Crow and Wallop, and one or two others of last night’s party. “Was the young un saying he could find his way home by himself after that supper last night, eh? My eye, that’s a good ’un, isn’t it, Crow?”
“Nice gratitude,” cried Crow, “after our carrying him home and propping him up against his own front door.”
“I wonder what his friend Smith thought of it?” said Wallop; “he must have been shocked.”
“When you fellows have done,” I said, who had felt bound to submit to all this with the best grace I could, “I’ll get on with my work.”
“What a joker the fellow is!” said Doubleday. “One would think he was always at his work.”
“I want to work now,” I said. “I do indeed.”
“Do you indeed?” said Doubleday, mocking my tones and making a low bow.
“Since when did you take a fancy for hard labour?”
“Hard labour?”
At that moment the door opened and Jack Smith entered.
I could notice the quick start he gave as the words fell suddenly on his ear. He gave one scared look round the office, and then went quietly to his desk.
At the sight of him there was an abrupt silence amongst us. Crow and Wallop stopped short in the middle of their exclamation. Hawkesbury and I buried ourselves in our work, and Doubleday, standing before the fire, began to whistle softly.
Could anything have happened more awkwardly and suspiciously? Jack must certainly believe we were all talking about him, and the ill-fated word he had overheard would naturally suggest to him—
“When you’ve done laughing, young Batchelor,” said Doubleday, stopping short in his whistling, “we’ll get to work.”
This unexpected remark, which of course was a delicate way of calling everybody’s attention to my rueful countenance, served to put all the rest of the company except myself at their ease, and Mr Barnacle’s entrance a minute afterwards put an end for the time to any further conversation.
But the day dragged on miserably. What must Jack think of me? He would be sure to believe the worst of me, and it was impossible for me to explain.
“After all,” I thought, “if he does choose to form wrong conclusions, why should I afflict myself? No one was even speaking of him when he entered the office. What business of mine is it to put him right?”
And then, as usual, I forgot all about the injury I had done him, all my treachery, all my meanness, and instead felt rather aggrieved, and persuaded myself it was I, not he, who was the injured person.
At dinner-time I ostentatiously went out arm-in-arm with Hawkesbury, and when on returning I met Smith on the stairs I brushed past him as if I had not seen him.
That afternoon I was called upon unexpectedly to go down to the docks to see after the shipment of some goods. I was relieved to have the excuse for being alone and getting away from the unpleasant surroundings of Hawk Street.
It was late in the afternoon when I returned, so late that I almost expected the fellows would some of them have left for the day. But as I entered the office I noticed they were all there, and became aware that something unusual was taking place. From the loud tones of the speakers I concluded the partners had left for the day.
At first I could not tell whether it was a joke or a quarrel that was being enacted; but it soon began to dawn on me. Jack Smith was being set on by the others.
What his offence had been I could not quite gather, though I believe it consisted in his insisting on using the ledger he was at work on till the actual hour for ceasing work arrived, while Harris, who was responsible for the locking-up of the books, and who wanted this evening to go half an hour earlier, was demanding that he should give it up now.
“I must finish these accounts to-night,” said Jack.
“I tell you I’m not going to be kept here half an hour just to please you,” replied Harris.
“We’re not supposed to stop work till seven,” said Jack; “that’s the time we always work to when Mr Barnacle is here. And it’s only half-past six now.”
“What business of yours is it when we’re supposed to work to, Mr Prig?” demanded Harris, savagely. “You’re under my orders here, and you’ll do what I tell you.”
“I’m under Mr Barnacle’s orders,” said Jack, going on with his writing.
“You mean to say you’re not going to do what I tell you?” asked Harris, in a rage.
“I’m going to do what’s right—that’s all,” said Smith, quietly.
“Right! You humbug! You’re a nice respectable fellow to talk about right to us, Mr Gaol-bird! As if we didn’t know who you are! You son of a thief and swindler! Right, indeed! We don’t want to hear about right from you!”
Jack gave one startled, scared, upward look as he spoke; but it was turned not to the speaker, but to me. I shall never forget that look. I could have sunk into the earth with shame and misery as I encountered it.
He closed the ledger, and with white face and quivering lips took his hat and walked silently from the office.
To me his manner was more terrible than if he had broken out into torrents of passion and abuse. At the sight of his face that moment my treachery and sin appeared suddenly in their true light before my eyes. I had been false to my best friend, and more than false.
Who could tell if I had not ruined him? Vain and selfish fool that I had been! Always thinking what others would think of me, and never how best I could help him in his gallant struggle against his evil destiny.
I rushed wildly from the office after him, and overtook him on the stairs.
“Oh, Jack,” I cried, “it really wasn’t my—oh! I’m so dreadfully sorry, Jack! If you’ll only let me explain, I can—”
He was gone. The door shut-to suddenly in my face, leaving me alone with my misery, and shutting out my one hope of recovering my only friend.
I returned miserable to the office—miserable and savage. Though I knew I had only myself to blame for what had happened, I was fain to vent my anger on the cowardly set who had used my secret against my friend. But when I tried to speak the words would not come. I locked up my desk dejectedly, and without a word to any one, and heedless of the looks and titters that followed me, walked from the place.
Half way down the street I became aware of a footstep following hurriedly, as if to overtake me. Could it be Jack? Was there yet a chance? No, it was Hawkesbury.
“Oh, Batchelor,” he said, “I am so sorry. It’s most unfortunate the way it came out, isn’t it?”
I made no answer, and drew my arm out of his.
“Harris is such a short-tempered fellow,” he went on, not noticing my manner, “but I never thought he would go as far as he did. I assure you, Batchelor, when I heard it, I felt quite as sorry as you did.”
“I should like to know who told Harris about it,” I said. “I didn’t.”
“Didn’t you? Wasn’t he there that evening you told all the rest of us? To be sure he wasn’t. He must have heard the others speaking about it.”
“They all promised—that is, I begged them all—not to tell any one,” I said, with a groan.
“Yes, I remember your asking me that evening. It’s a great shame if the fellows have told Harris. But he may have heard some other way.”
“How could he?” said I.
“Well, I suppose it was all in the papers at the time,” said Hawkesbury.
“Harris would hardly be in the habit of reading newspapers thirteen or fourteen years old,” I said, bitterly.
“Was it so long ago as that?” said Hawkesbury. “No, it hardly does seem likely. Somebody must have told him.”
“It was a blackguard thing of him to do,” I said, “and I’ll take good care never to speak to him again.”
“Well, you’d be quite justified in cutting him dead,” replied Hawkesbury. “I’d do the same if he’d done as much to a friend of mine.”
I did not reply to this. After all, had Harris been much more to blame than I had been in the first instance?
“Well,” said Hawkesbury, “I hope it will soon blow over. One never likes unpleasant things like this coming up. You must tell Smith how angry I am with Harris.”
“I don’t suppose Smith will ever speak to me again,” I said.
“Really? Oh, I hope it’s not so bad as that. After all, you know,” said Hawkesbury, “it would have been much more straightforward of him to tell the fellows what he was at first. They don’t like being taken by surprise in a matter like this. I really don’t see that he has so much to complain of.”
“But it was so low of Harris to fling it in his teeth like that,” I said.
“Well, yes, it was,” said Hawkesbury; “but it was not as bad as if he had said something about him that wasn’t true. Well, good-night, Batchelor. I hope it will be all right in time.”
I was not much comforted by this conversation; and yet I was not altogether displeased to find that Hawkesbury agreed with me in condemning Harris’s conduct, and his last argument, though it took away nothing from my unkindness, certainly did strike me. However unpleasant and cruel Jack’s treatment had been, one must remember that the story told about him was true. Yes, it was a great consolation to feel that, whatever else had happened, no one had told a lie!
As I passed the top of Style Street, meditating on these things, I became aware that Billy was striding across my path with a face full of grimy concern.
“I say, master,” he cried, “where’s t’other bloke?”
“I don’t know,” I said, walking on.
“What, ain’t you saw him?” he demanded, trotting along, blacking-brush in hand, by my side.
“Yes—go away, do you hear? I don’t want you walking beside me.”
“That there clock,” said Billy, pointing up to a clock just over his usual place of business—“that there clock’s been gone seving a lump, and he ain’t been.”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” I cried angrily. “Come, get away, unless you want your ears boxed.”
“Won’t he’s boots be in a muck, though,” continued the boy, wholly regardless of my wrath, “without no shine.”
“Do you hear what I say?” cried I, stopping short threateningly.
Billy slunk off more disconsolately than I had ever seen him, leaving me to pursue my way unmolested.
I do not know where I wandered to that evening, or what I thought of as I walked. My mind was too confused and miserable to take in anything clearly, except that I had lost my friend.
Fellows passed me arm-in-arm, in earnest talk or with beaming faces, and only reminded me of what I had lost. Memories of the past crowded in upon me—of Stonebridge House, where his friendship had been my one comfort and hope; of our early days in London, when it seemed as if, with one another for company, nothing could come amiss, and no hardship could be quite intolerable; of his illness and absence, and my gradual yielding to frivolity and extravagance; then of his return and confidence in me. Would that he had never told me that wretched secret! If he had only known to whom he was telling it, to what a pitiful, weak, vain nature he was confiding it, he would have bitten his tongue off before he did it, and I should have yet been comparatively happy!
But the evil was done now, and what power on earth could undo it?
I slunk home to Beadle Square when I imagined every one else would be in bed.
Mrs Nash met me at the door.
“Your friend Smith’s gone,” she said.
“Gone!” I exclaimed. “Where?”
“How should I know? He paid his bill and took off his traps two hours ago, and says he’s not coming back!”
You may guess, reader, whether I slept that night.