Chapter Eighteen.
Poverty and Love both come in at the Door.
We left Reginald in a somewhat comfortable frame of mind after his interview with the pleasant clergyman and the stroke of business he had transacted on behalf of the Corporation. It had been refreshing to him to converse in terms of peace with any fellow-mortal; and the ready satisfaction of this visitor with the method of business adopted by the Company went far to dispel the uneasy impressions which Mrs Wrigley’s visit had left earlier in the day.
After all, he felt that he was yet on probation. When Christmas came, and he was able to discuss matters personally with the directors, he had no doubt his position would be improved. He flattered himself they might think he was useful enough to be worth while keeping; and in that case of course he would have a right to ask to be put on rather more comfortable a footing than he possessed at present, and to be entrusted with a certain amount of control over the business of the Corporation. He would also be able mildly to suggest that it would be more convenient to him to receive his salary monthly than quarterly, so as to enable him not only to live respectably himself, as became their secretary, but also to give regular help to his mother at home. As it was, with a beggarly thirteen shillings a week to live on, he was little better than a common office-boy, he would have said to himself, but at that particular moment the door opened, and the very individual whom his thoughts connected with the words appeared before him.
It was the very last apparition Reginald could have looked for. He had given up all idea of seeing the young desperado any more.
Though he could not exactly say, “Poverty had come in at the door and Love had flown out of the window”—for the young gentleman had departed by the door—he yet had made up his mind that Cupid had taken to himself wings and flown away, with no intention of ever returning to the scene of his late struggle.
But a glance at the starved, emaciated figure before him explained very simply the mystery of this strange apparition. The boy’s hands and lips were blue with cold, and his cheek-bones seemed almost to protrude through his pallid, grimy cheeks. He looked, in fact, what he was, the picture of misery, and he had no need of any other eloquence to open the heart of his late “governor.”
“Say, what’s yer name,” he said, in a hollow imitation of his old voice, “beg yer pardon, gov’nor—won’t do it no more if yer overlook it this time.”
“Come in out of the cold and warm yourself by the fire,” said Reginald, poking it up to a blaze.
The boy obeyed, half timidly. He seemed to be not quite sure whether Reginald was luring him in to his own destruction. But at any rate the sight of the fire roused him to heroism, and, reckless of all consequences, he walked in.
“Don’t do nothink to me this time, gov’nor,” whimpered he, as he got within arm’s length; “let us off, do you hear? this time.”
“Poor boy,” said Reginald kindly, putting a stool for him close beside the fire; “I’m not going to do anything but warm you. Sit down, and don’t be afraid.”
The boy dropped almost exhausted on the stool, and gazed in a sort of rapture into the fire. Then, looking up at Reginald, he said,—
“Beg your pardon, gov’nor,—ain’t got a crust of bread you don’t want, ’ave yer?”
The hint was quite enough to send Reginald flying to his little “larder.”
The boy devoured the bread set before him with a fierceness that looked as if he had scarcely touched food since he had gone away. He made clear decks of all Reginald had in the place; and then, slipping off the stool, curled himself up on the floor before the fire like a dog, and dropped off into a heavy sleep. Reginald took the opportunity to make a hurried excursion to the nearest provision shop to lay in what store his little means would allow. He might have spared himself the trouble of locking the door behind him, though, for on his return the boy had never stirred.
The little sleeper lay there all night, until, in fact, the coals could hold out no longer, and the fire went out. Then Reginald woke him and carried him off to his own bed, where he dropped off into another long sleep which lasted till midday. After partaking of the meal his benefactor had ready for him on waking, he seemed more like himself, and disposed to make himself useful.
“Ain’t got no envellups to lick, then?” said he, looking round the deserted room.
“No, there’s nothing to do here just now,” said Reginald.
The boy looked a little disappointed, but said, presently,—
“Want any errands fetched, gov’nor?”
“No, not now. I’ve got all I want in for the present.”
“Like yer winders cleaned?”
“Not much use with this frost on them,” said Reginald.
Thwarted thus on every hand, the boy asked no more questions, but took upon himself to go round the office and dust it as well as he could with the ragged tail of his coat. It was evidently his way of saying, “Thank you,” and he seemed more easy in his mind when it was done.
He stopped once in the middle of his task as he caught Reginald’s eyes fixed half curiously, half pityingly upon him.
“Say—gov’nor, I ain’t going to read no more books; do ye hear?”
There was something quite pathetic in the tones in which this declaration of renunciation was made. It was evidently a supreme effort of repentance, and Reginald felt almost uncomfortable as he heard it.
“That there Noogate Calendar made a rare flare-up, didn’t it, gov’nor?” continued Love, looking wistfully towards the grate, if perchance any stray leaves should have escaped the conflagration.
“Not such a flare-up as you did,” said Reginald, laughing. “Never mind, we’ll try and get something nicer to read.”
“No fear! Never no more. I ain’t a-goin’ to read nothink again, I tell yer,” said the boy, quite warmly.
And for fear of wavering in his resolution he went round the room once more, rubbing up the cheap furniture till it shone, and ending with polishing up the very hearth that had served as the sacrificial altar to his beloved Newgate Calendar only a few days before. There was little or no more work to be done during the day. A few letters had come by the morning’s post, angrily complaining of the delay in delivering the promised goods. To these Reginald had replied in the usual form, leaving to Love the privilege of “licking them up.” He also wrote to Mr Medlock, enclosing the two pounds the pleasant clergyman had left the day before, and once more urging that gentleman to come down to Liverpool.
He went out, happily unconscious of the fact that a detective dogged every step he took, to post these letters himself, and at the same time to lay in a day’s provisions for two. It was with something like a qualm that he saw his last half-sovereign broken over this purchase. With nine shillings left in his pocket, and twelve days yet to Christmas, it was as clear as daylight that things were rapidly approaching a crisis. It was almost a relief to feel it.
On his way back to the office he passed a secondhand book-stall. He had lingered in front of it many times before now, turning over the leaves of this and that odd volume, and picking up the scraps of amusement and information which are always to be found in such an occupation. To-day, however, he overhauled the contents of the trays with rather more curiosity than usual; not because he expected to find a pearl of great price among the dust and dog’s ears of the “threepenny” tray. Reginald was the last person in the world to consider himself a child of fortune in that respect.
No! he had Master Love on his mind, and the memory of that blazing Newgate Calendar on his conscience, and, even at the cost of a further reduction of his vanishing income, he determined not to return provided with food for Love’s body only, but also for Love’s mind.
Accordingly he selected two very shabby and tattered volumes from the “threepenny” tray—one a fragment of Robinson Crusoe, the other Part One of the Pilgrim’s Progress, and with these in his pocket and the eatables in his hands, he returned to his charge as proud as a general who has just relieved a starving garrison.
After the frugal supper the books were triumphantly produced, but Master Love, still mindful of his recent tribulations, regarded them shyly at first, as another possible bait to his own undoing; but presently curiosity, and the sight of a wonderful picture of Giant Despair, overcame his scruples, and he held out his hand eagerly.
It was amusing to watch the critical look on his face as he took a preliminary glance through the pages of the two books. Reginald was half sorry he had not produced them one at a time; but it being too late now to recall either, he awaited with no little excitement the decision of the young connoisseur upon them. Apparently Love found considerable traces of what he would call “jam” in both. The picture of Crusoe coming upon the footprint in the sand, and that of the great battle between Christian and Apollyon, seemed to gather into themselves the final claims of the two rivals, and for a few moments victory trembled in the balance. At last he shut up Robinson Crusoe and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Say, what’s yer name,” said he, looking up and laying his finger on the battle scene; “which of them two does for t’other?”
“The one in the armour,” said Reginald.
“Thought so—t’other one’s a flat to fight with that there long flagpole. Soon as ’e’s chucked it away ’e’s a dead ’un. Say, what did they do with ’is dead body? No use a ’idin’ of it. If I was ’im I’d a cut ’is throat, and left the razor in ’is ’and, and they’d a brought it in soosanside. Bless you, coroners’ juries is reg’lar flats at findin’ out them sort of things.”
“Suppose you read what it says,” said Reginald, hardly able to restrain a laugh; “if you like you can read it aloud; I’d like to hear it again myself.”
The boy agreed, and that evening the two queerly assorted friends sat side by side in the dim candle-light, going over the wonderful story of the Pilgrim. Reginald judiciously steered the course through the most thrilling parts of the narrative, carefully avoiding whatever might have seemed to the boy dull or digressive.
Love stopped in his reading frequently to discuss the merits of the story and deliver himself of his opinion as to what he would have done under similar circumstances. He would have made short work with the lions chained by the roadside; he would have taken a bull’s-eye lantern through the dark valley; and as for the river at the end, he couldn’t understand anybody coming to grief there. Why, at Victoria Park last Whit Monday he had swum three-quarters of a mile himself!
In vain Reginald pointed out that Christian had his armour on. The young critic would not allow this as an excuse, and brought up cases of gentlemen of his acquaintance who had swum incredible distances in their clothes and boots.
But the story that delighted him most was that of the man who hacked his way into the palace. This was an adventure after his own heart. He read it over and over again, and was unsparing in his admiration of the hero, whom he compared for prowess with “Will Warspite the Pirate,” and “Dick Turpin,” and even his late favourite “Tim Tigerskin.” His interest in him was indeed so great that he allowed Reginald in a few simple words to say what it meant, and to explain how we could all, if we went the right way about it, do as great things as he did.
“Why you, youngster, when you made up your mind you wouldn’t read any more of those bad books, you knocked over one of your enemies.”
“Did I, though? how far in did I get?”
“You got over the doorstep, anyhow; but you’ve got plenty more to knock over before you get right into the place. So have I.”
“My eye, gov’nor,” cried the boy, his grimy face lighting up with an excited flush, “we’ll let ’em ’ave it!”
They read and discussed and argued far into the night; and when at last Reginald gave the order to go to bed there were no two friends more devoted than the Secretary of the Select Agency Corporation and his office-boy.
Love’s sleep that night was like the sleep of a pugilistic terrier, who in his dreams encounters and overcomes even deep-mouthed mastiffs and colossal Saint Bernards. He sniffed and snorted defiance as he lay, and his brow was damp with the sweat of battle, and his lips curled with the smile of victory. As soon as he awoke his hand sought the pocket where the wonderful book lay; and even as he tidied up the office and prepared the gov’nor’s breakfast, he was engaged in mortal inward combats.
“Say, gov’nor,” cried he, with jubilant face, as Reginald entered, “I’ve done for another of ’em. Topped him clean over.”
“Another of whom?” said Reginald.
“Them pals a-waitin’ in the ’all,” said he; “you know, in that there pallis.”
“Oh! in the Beautiful Palace we were reading about,” said Reginald. “Who have you done for this time?”
“That there Medlock,” said the boy.
“Medlock! What are you talking about?” said Reginald, in blank amazement.
“Oh, I’ve give him a wonner,” said the boy, beaming. “He says to me, ‘Collar all the letters your gov’nor writes ’ome,’ he says, ‘and I’ll give you a tanner for every one you shows me.’”
“Love, you’re talking rubbish!” said Reginald indignantly.
“Are I? don’t you make no mistake,” said the boy confidently; “I knows what he says; and that there letter you wrote home last night and leaves on the table, ‘That’s a tanner to me,’ says I to myself when I sees it this morning. ‘A lie,’ says I, recollecting of that chap in the story-book. So I lets it be; and my eye, ain’t that a topper for somebody—oh no!”
Reginald stared at the boy, half stupefied. The room whirled round him; and with a sudden rush the hopes of his life seemed to go from under him. It was not for some time that he could find words to say, hoarsely,—
“Love, is this the truth, or a lie you are telling me?”
“Lie—don’t you make no error, gov’nor—I ain’t on that lay, I can tell you. I’m goin’ right into that there pallis, and there’s two on ’em topped a’ready.”
“You mean to say Mr Medlock told you to steal my letters and give them to him?”
“Yes, and a tanner apiece on ’em, too. But don’t you be afraid, he don’t get none out of me, not if I swings for it.”
“You can go out for a run, Love,” said Reginald. “Come back in an hour. I want to be alone.”
“You aren’t a-giving me the sack?” asked the boy with falling countenance.
“No, no.”
“And you ain’t a-goin’ to commit soosanside while I’m gone, are yer?” he inquired, with a suspicious glance at Reginald’s blanched face.
“No. Be quick and go.”
“’Cos if you do, they do say as a charcoal fire—”
“Will you go?” said Reginald, almost angrily, and the boy vanished.
I need not describe to the reader all that passed through the poor fellow’s mind as he paced up and down the bare office that morning. The floodgates had suddenly been opened upon him, and he felt himself overwhelmed in a deluge of doubt and shame and horror.
It was long before he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to see anything clearly. Why Mr Medlock should take the trouble to prevent his home letters reaching their destination was incomprehensible, and indeed it weighed little with him beside the fact that the man who had given him his situation, and on whom he was actually depending for his living, was the same who could bribe his office-boy to steal his letters. If he were capable of such a meanness, was he to be trusted in anything else? How was Reginald to know whether the money he had regularly remitted to him was properly accounted for, or whether the orders were being conscientiously executed?
Then it occurred to him the whole business of the Corporation had been done in his—Reginald’s—name, that all the circulars had been signed by him, and that all the money had come addressed to him. Then there was that awkward mistake about his name, which, accidental or intentional, was Mr Medlock’s doing. And beyond all that was the fact that Mr Medlock had taken away the only record Reginald possessed of the names of those who had replied to the circulars and sent money.
He found himself confronted with a mountain of responsibility, of which he had never before dreamed, and for the clearing of which he was entirely dependent on the good faith of a man who had, not a week ago, played him one of the meanest tricks imaginable.
What was he to make of it—what else could he make of it except that he was a miserable dupe, with ruin staring him in the face?
His one grain of comfort was in the names of some of the directors. Unless that list were fictitious, they would not be likely to allow a concern with which they were identified to collapse in discredit. Was it genuine or not?
His doubts on this question were very speedily resolved by a letter which arrived that very afternoon.
It was dated London, and ran as follows:—
“Cruden Reginald, Esquire.
“Sir,—The attention of the Bishop of S— having been called to the unauthorised, and, as it would appear, fraudulent use of his name in connection with a company styled the Select Agency Corporation, of which you are secretary, I am instructed, before his lordship enters on legal proceedings, to request you to furnish me with your authority for using his lordship’s name in the manner stated. Awaiting your reply by return, I am, sir, yours, etcetera,—
“A. Turner, Secretary.”
This was a finishing stroke to the disillusion. In all his troubles and perplexities the good Bishop of S— had been a rock to lean on for the poor secretary.
But now even that prop was snatched away, and he was left alone in the ruins of his own hopes.
He could see it all at last. As he went back over the whole history of his connection with the Corporation he was able to recognise how at every step he had been duped and fooled; how his very honesty had been turned to account; how his intelligence had been the one thing disliked and discouraged.
And what was to become of him now?
Anything but desert the sinking ship—that question never cost Reginald two thoughts. He would right himself if he could. He would protest his innocence of all fraud or connivance at fraud. He would even do what he could to bring the real offenders to justice; but as long as the Corporation had a creditor left he would be there to face him and suffer the consequence of his own folly and stupidity.
Young Love got little sympathy that day in his reading. Indeed, he could not but notice that something unusual had happened to the “gov’nor,” and that being so, not even the adventures of Christian or the unexplored marvels of Robinson Crusoe could satisfy him. He polished up the furniture half a dozen times, and watched Reginald’s eye like a dog, ready to catch the first sign of a want or a question. Presently he could stand it no longer, and said,—“Say, gov’nor, what’s up? ’taint nothing along of me, are it?”
“No, my boy,” said Reginald. “Is it along of that there Medlock?” Reginald nodded.
It was well for Mr Medlock that he was not in the room at that moment.
“I’ll top ’im, see if I don’t,” muttered the boy; “I owes ’im one for carting me down ’ere, and I owes ’im four or five now; and you’ll see if I don’t go for ’im, gov’nor.”
“You’d better go back to your home,” said Reginald, with a kindly tremor in his voice; “I’m afraid you’ll get into trouble by staying with me.”
It was fine to see the flash of scorn in the boy’s face as he said,—
“Oh yus, me go ’ome and leave yer! Walker—I stays ’ere.”
“Very well, then,” said Reginald, with a sigh. “We may as well go on with the book. Suppose you read me about Giant Despair.”