SILAS MONK.
A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
That day in the city seemed to Walter as if it would never end. This mystery about Silas Monk was now a matter to him of real interest. Hitherto, the eccentricities of the old man had given him little or no concern; for it had been so long the custom among the clerks to crack their jokes about ‘Silas,’ that nothing which he might do, however queer, could appear otherwise than perfectly consistent with his character. For so many years had Silas Monk been a clerk in the House, that his columns of pounds, shillings, and pence could be traced in the oldest ledgers, it was said, even when books more than a hundred years old were examined. There was no record extant which satisfactorily settled the date of his engagement as a clerk by Armytage and Company. The oldest partners and the oldest clerks, with this one exception of Silas, were dead and buried many years ago.
It was a very old-looking place, this ancient counting-house; it seemed older even than the firm of Armytage, which had seen two centuries. There were railings in front, broken in places, but still presenting some iron spikes among them, standing up with an air of protection before the windows, like sentinels on guard. The stone steps leading up to the entrance were worn by the tread of busy men who had in their time hurried in and out in their race for wealth, and who were now doubtless lying in some old city churchyard hard by.
Walter Tiltcroft having at last finished his ‘rounds,’ as he called his various errands, came back to the old counting-house. The clerks’ office was on the ground-floor. It was a dark and dusty room, with men of various ages seated at long desks, all deeply engaged, with pens in hand and heads bent low, over the business of the firm. No one looked up when Walter entered; every one went on working, as though each individual clerk was a wheel in the great machine which had been going for nearly two hundred years.
Within an inner room, smaller, darker, and more dusty, was seated alone at his desk Silas Monk. The old clerk had several large ledgers before him; he was turning over the leaves with energy, and making entries in these books with a rapidity which seemed surprising in one who had an appearance of such great age. With his white hair falling on his shoulders, his long lean trembling fingers playing among the fluttering pages, and his keen eyes darting among the columns of pounds, shillings, and pence, he seemed, even by daylight, like an embodied spirit appointed by the dead partners and clerks of Armytage and Company to audit the accounts of that old mercantile House in Crutched Friars. So at least thought Walter Tiltcroft as he sat at his own desk watching Silas Monk, and revolving in his mind how he could best solve the mystery which surrounded Rachel’s grandfather.
It was growing dusk when the old city clocks in the church towers began to strike six, and the clerks in the office of Armytage and Company began to show signs of dispersing. Silas Monk alone remained at his post. Wishing to say a few words to the old man before taking his leave, Walter Tiltcroft lingered behind; and when the last clerk had gone, he went to the door of the ‘strong-room,’ as Silas Monk’s office was called, and said in his usual cheerful tone: ‘Good-night, Mr Monk. You’ll see, I suppose, that everything is safe and sound, as usual? Won’t you?’
‘Ay, ay! safe and sound, Walter.—Good-night.’
But the young man lingered with his eyes curiously fixed on Silas. ‘The evenings are getting short,’ continued he. ‘Can you see to work by this light?’
‘Why, no—not well,’ Silas owned, with his eyes raised towards the window; ‘and what makes it still more difficult is that scaffolding the workmen have put up outside—that’s what makes it so dark. Ay, ay!’ he added, ‘they’re repairing the old walls. Dear me, dear me!’
The old walls outside, which surrounded a courtyard, were black with dust and age, and they had also in many parts a tumble-down aspect, which appeared to plainly indicate that repairs were needed badly. Upon the scaffolding, some half-dozen labourers were gathering together their tools and preparing to go home, as the clerks had done already. Silas was lighting an oil-lamp. ‘Give me a hand, Walter,’ said he, ‘to close these shutters and put up the iron bar.’
‘All right, Mr Monk,’ said the young man, unfolding the old-fashioned shutters in the walls and clasping the iron bar across them with a loud clink. ‘All right and tight!—Shall you remain long at the office?’ he added, moving towards the door.
‘Not long; half an hour, perhaps—not more.’
Still the young man lingered. ‘Mr Monk,’ said he, walking a step back into the strong-room, ‘I saw your grand-daughter Miss Rachel this morning.’
Silas, who had reseated himself at his desk before the large ledgers, looked round keenly at Walter, with the light from the shaded lamp thrown upon his wrinkled face. ‘You see my grand-daughter Rachel pretty often; don’t you, Walter?’
‘Pretty often, Mr Monk, I confess.’
Silas shook his long thin forefinger at the young man. ‘Walter,’ cried he, ‘that’s not business!’
‘No; that’s true. But you see, Mr Monk, it’s not much out of my way. And,’ he added, ‘besides, I thought you would like to know that she’s well. You’re so busy here, that perhaps you don’t see so much of her as you would like, and so I thought that news of her at any time would be welcome.’
‘So it is, Walter!’ said the old man, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke—‘so it is. She’s a good girl, and I love her dearly. But you don’t pass that way, Walter, simply to bring me a word about my grand-daughter. You’re not going to try and make me believe that, surely?’
‘Not entirely, Mr Monk,’ said the young man, smiling. ‘I won’t deny that it’s a very great pleasure to me to see Rachel at any time; indeed, no one could admire her more than I do.’
The old man held out his hand. ‘Come, come! That’s more candid, my boy,’ said he, as Walter took the hand in his and pressed it affectionately. ‘So you admire Rachel, do you?’
‘Mr Monk,’ said the young clerk, ‘I more than admire her—I love her!’
The deep lines in Silas Monk’s face grew deeper at these words. ‘Well, well,’ said the old man presently, with a heavy sigh; ‘it was to be. Better now, perhaps, than later—better now. But you won’t take her from me yet, Walter—not yet?’
‘Why, no, Mr Monk; I’d no thought of taking her away from you.’
‘That’s right!’ cried Silas—‘that’s right! You’re a good lad. Take care of her, Walter; take care of her when I am dead.’ As Silas pronounced the last word, the sound of footsteps, which seemed strangely near, changed the expression on his face. ‘What’s that?’ asked he in a tone of alarm.
Walter listened. ‘Some one on the scaffolding above your window.’
‘If it’s a workman,’ said the old man, ‘he’s rather late. Will you see that every one has left the premises; and then shut the front-door as you go out?’
‘I’ll not forget.—Good-night!’
It was just sufficiently light in the passage for Walter to find his way about the old house. Having promised Silas Monk to make sure that every one had left the premises, he ran up the dark oaken staircase to ascertain whether the partners, who occupied the floor above the office, had gone. He found the doors to their rooms locked. The young man threw a glance around him, and then descended the way he had come, walking out into the court, behind the clerks’ offices, where the scaffolding was erected. It was not a large court, and on every side were high brick walls. The scaffolding reached from the ground almost to the eaves.
‘Any one there?’ Walter shouted.
Not a sound came back except a muttering echo of his own voice.
Walter Tiltcroft then turned to leave the house. But at this moment his conversation with Rachel occurred to him, and he thought that he might do something to clear up the mystery of her grandfather’s frequent absence from home at all hours of the night. ‘Why not,’ thought Walter, ‘watch the old man’s movements? Some clue might be found to the strange affair.’ He formed his plan of action without further delay. No moment could have been more opportune. He closed the front-door with a slam which shook the old house; then he crept back along the passage softly, and, seating himself in a dark corner on the staircase, watched for the figure of Silas Monk.
The first thing he heard, very shortly after he had taken up his position, was a step in the passage leading from the courtyard. He sprang up with a quick beating heart, and reached the foot of the stairs just in time to confront a tall, powerful man dressed like a mason, and carrying in his hand a large basket of tools.
‘Why, Joe Grimrood,’ said Walter, ‘is that you?’
The man, who had a hangdog, defiant air, answered gruffly, as he scratched a mangy-looking skin-cap, pulled down to his eyebrows: ‘That’s me, sir; asking your pardon.’
‘Are you the last, Joe?’
‘There ain’t no more men on the scaffold, if that’s what you mean.’
Walter nodded. ‘Didn’t you hear me call?’ he asked.
‘Not me. When?’
‘Not five minutes ago.’
‘How could I? I was among the chimneys.’
‘Repairing the roof, Joe?’
‘Fixing the tiles,’ was the reply.
Having thus accounted for his tardiness, Joe Grimrood again scratched his cap, in his manner of saluting, and moved along the hall, in the semi-darkness, towards the front-door. ‘I wish you a very good-night,’ said the man, as Walter accompanied him to the entrance—‘a very good-night, sir; asking your pardon.’
Walter Tiltcroft closed the door, when the workman had gone out, with as little noise as possible; for he feared that if any sound reached Silas Monk in the strong-room, his suspicions might be aroused, and the chance of solving this mystery might be lost.
Again retiring to his retreat upon the staircase, Walter waited and watched; but nothing happened. The twilight faded; the night became so dark that the lad could not see his hand before him. The hours appeared long; at endless intervals he heard the city clocks striking in the dead silence. He filled up the time with thoughts containing a hundred conjectures. What could Silas Monk be doing all this while? A dozen times Walter descended to the door of the office to listen; but never a sound! A dozen times his fingers touched the handle to turn it; yet each time he drew back, fearing to destroy the object he had seriously in view—the solution of this strange affair.
Ten o’clock had struck, and the young clerk was growing weary of waiting for the clocks to strike eleven. He began to imagine that something must have happened to Silas Monk. Had he fallen asleep? Was he dead, or—what?
Presently, the notion entered his brain that perhaps a grain of reassurance might be had by regarding the window of the strong-room from the courtyard. Possibly, thought he, a ray of light might find its way there through the shutters. He stepped out silently, but with eagerness. When he reached the yard, there, sure enough, was a streak of light piercing through a small aperture. Walter was drawn towards it irresistibly. He mounted the scaffolding by the ladder at his feet, and crept along the boarding on his hands; for the darkness, except within the limits of this ray of light, was intense. He reached at length the spot immediately above the window. The ray of light fell below the scaffold, slanting to the ground. Grasping the board, upon which he lay full length, he bent his head until his eye was almost on a level with the hole in the shutter. To his surprise, the interior of the strong-room was distinctly revealed. But what he saw surprised him still more. Silas Monk was seated there at his desk, under the shaded lamp. But he was no longer examining the ledgers; these books were thrown aside; and, in their place, before his greedy eyes, was to be seen a heap of bright sovereigns.
The change which had taken place in the face of Silas Monk since the young man had left him, was startling; and the manner in which he appeared to be feasting his eyes upon the coins was repulsive. He handled the sovereigns with his lean fingers caressingly; he counted them over and over again; then he arranged them in piles on one side, and began to empty other bags in their place. His look suggested a ravenous madman; his attitude resembled that of a beast of prey.
Walter was so fascinated by this unexpected scene in the strong-room, that he found it impossible, for some minutes, to remove his gaze. The mystery about Silas Monk had been solved. Rachel’s grandfather was a wretched miser!
Walter descended from the scaffolding, and went out quietly into Crutched Friars. His lodgings were in the Minories, hard by. But he could not have slept had he gone home without passing under Rachel’s window. He hurried along through the dark and silent streets. What he had witnessed, haunted him; he could not banish the scene of the old man and his bright sovereigns. When he entered the street, and was approaching Silas Monk’s house, he was astonished, though not displeased, to see Rachel standing on the door-step.
‘Why, Walter,’ cried she, ‘is that you? I thought it was grandfather.’
‘I wish, Rachel, for your sake that it was. But I’m afraid, late as it is, that he won’t be back quite yet.’
The girl placed her hand quickly on Walter’s hand and looked up appealingly. ‘Has anything happened? You have a troubled face. Don’t hide it from me, if anything has happened to grandfather.’
The young man hastened to reassure her. ‘Nothing has happened. Silas Monk is at the office still. I have just come away, Rachel. I left him there deeply occupied.’
The girl threw a quick glance into Walter’s face. ‘Then grandfather does work for Armytage and Company after six o’clock?’
‘I doubt that, Rachel, very much.’
‘Then why does he stay so late at Crutched Friars?’
‘To dabble in a little business of his own.’
‘What business is that, Walter?’
‘Well, something in the bullion line of business, to judge from appearances.’
‘Explain yourself, Walter! I am puzzled.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t; I’m puzzled too,’ said the young man. ‘This bullion business,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘is a strange affair.’
Rachel clasped her hands with an impatient gesture. ‘Walter, tell me what you have seen!’
‘I’ve seen,’ said the young man reluctantly—‘I’ve seen, through a hole in the shutter, an old man at a desk, under the light of a shaded lamp, seated over handfuls of gold. The desk was Silas Monk’s, in the counting-house of Armytage and Company. But the face of the man was not the face of your grandfather; or if it was his, it was greatly changed.’
‘In what way changed, Walter?’
‘It was a face expressing dreadful greed. It was the face of a miser, Rachel—nothing less!’
The girl, standing under the dim street-lamp above the doorway, looked with wondering eyes into Walter’s face. ‘Does not all the money at the counting-house belong to the firm?’
‘So I have always thought, Rachel.’
‘Then grandfather was balancing the cash?’
‘Not the hard cash of Armytage and Company. That is taken every day, before the closing hour, to the bank.’
Looking still into the young man’s face, the girl said: ‘Then the money must be his own.’
‘He certainly seemed to eye it, Rachel, as if every sovereign belonged to him.’
The girl became pensive. ‘He must be rich,’ said she.
‘Very rich, if all those sovereigns are his.’
‘And he loves gold more than he loves his grand-daughter!’ Rachel complained, in a tone of deep disappointment, while tears started into her eyes.
Not being able to deny that there appeared some truth in the girl’s words, Walter could answer nothing. He remained silent and thoughtful. Suddenly the clocks of the old city began striking midnight.
‘Your grandfather will soon be coming now, Rachel,’ said the young man, ‘so I had better be off. It would never do to let him find me here at this late hour.’ Taking leave of the girl tenderly, he quickly disappeared into the darkness.
Rachel re-entered the house, and threw herself into the old armchair, stricken with surprise and grief at what she had learned. Since she was a child, she had been taught to believe that she was struggling, beside her grandfather, against poverty. She had been happy in the thought that, although they were needy, nothing divided their affections. She believed that her grandfather was slaving day and night for their sake—slaving to keep the old house over their heads. But what was he slaving for, after all? For gold, it was true; but for gold which he hoarded up in secret places, hiding all from her, as though it were, like a crime, something of a nature to be shunned.
Meanwhile the clocks are striking the small-hours. But Silas Monk does not come home. The candle on the table beside Rachel burns low. The girl grows alarmed, and listens for the footsteps of her old grandfather. She goes out and looks about into the dark night. No one is to be seen, no one is to be heard. Four o’clock—five. Still no footsteps—not even a shadow of the man.
The dawn begins to break in a clear gray light above the sombre houses; the roar of traffic in the streets hard by falls upon the girl’s ear. Another busy day has commenced in the old city. ‘Is it possible,’ thinks Rachel, ‘that her grandfather can still be at his desk, counting and recounting his gold?’