CHAPTER XV.
SNOWY ENGLAND.
Oscar sat alone in the office. It was Saturday afternoon, and the other clerks had already taken their departure. He had undertaken to finish what work still remained; and a pile of letters lay upon the desk before him. Outside the snow was lazily falling, and he had no disposition for the football match in the town ground, which had attracted his comrades. He scarcely felt inclined to leave the hot little fire, and face the cold walk to River Street.
Oscar was not looking well just now, and he was feeling a little depressed. The winter had been rather a dreary season for him. He missed Sheila and the pleasant Sundays spent with her at Cossart Place. The monotony of his present work oppressed him more than it had done at first. He had braced himself at the outset to bear their reverse of fortune bravely, and he knew that they were lucky in having relations who had come forward to help them at that crisis in their affairs. He had resolved not to disappoint them, and had thrown himself with as much interest and energy as possible into his new tasks.
But we all know that it is easier to bring enthusiasm and energy to the commencement of a new routine than to maintain it day after day and week after week. Oscar had never liked the routine work of the office, and latterly he had had a good deal of it. The senior clerk had died rather suddenly in September, and his place had not been filled. Oscar had been given a part of his work, and North had lent his energies to filling the gap. It had made the office work heavier than had been the case at first, though Oscar had been glad to help his uncle in the emergency, and even Cyril had sometimes come down and offered his services.
Gradually Oscar had come to be looked upon as head of the office under North. The other clerks, if not younger, were less responsible, and looked to him as being a relative of Mr. Cossart’s. This was pleasant in a way, but it kept Oscar more to his desk than he had expected, and the contrast to his old life of freedom was sometimes keenly felt.
He was not very robust, and the cold damp winter tried him. There had been little severe frost, but a wet, dank fog had hung about, with drizzling rain or sleety snow. He had to turn out in all weathers, and had not time or energy for exercise of a more exhilarating character than the daily walk to the office. So that he drooped somewhat as the winter wore away, and felt little spring for anything beyond his daily round.
However, the week’s work was now finished, and he was just contemplating closing the office when his uncle came quickly in, a look of vexation upon his face.
He had some papers in his hand, and one of these he threw down upon the desk before the young man, saying in a vexed tone—
“Look there, Oscar! What does this mean? Here is that bill come in a second time from Jones and Wright, and I gave you the money to pay it with in October. They are a small firm, and I never keep them waiting for payment. What does it mean?”
Oscar looked at the bill, pondered a moment, for many bills went through his hands now, and his memory was not very strong for detail; then a flash of enlightenment seemed to come upon him, and he exclaimed—
“Oh, I remember now. You gave me the money in cash. But, uncle, the bill was paid, and I have the receipt, and it’s all checked off in the books. I will show you.”
Oscar got down the file and ledger, found the place in the latter, where the entry had been made, and produced the former bill duly receipted.
Mr. Tom looked at it, and compared it with the paper on the desk.
“A singular mistake for Jones and Wright to make,” he observed. “However, I will see them myself. It is close by, and I daresay they will not have closed already.”
He went off, and Oscar, without thinking more of the matter, shut up the desks and such places as were under his care, gave out the letters for the post, and went home.
He wished there had been something else to do than to go to the River Street house. Had Sheila only been there, he would have spent the Sunday at Cossart Place, for he was a favourite in that house, Effie having taken one of her rather capricious fancies to him. But it was no use thinking of that now; and he went home in the snow, glad to find himself under shelter, although there was nobody to give him a welcome.
The Bensons were always “at home” on Saturday afternoons, and it was the fashion now for the Cossarts to be there pretty regularly. The two families had always been intimate, now they were almost like one. Raby’s marriage was being talked of for the coming summer. Her mind was already very full of the trousseau and wedding finery.
Oscar established himself in the library and commenced his weekly journal letter to Sheila. He had posted one for the mail yesterday, but he had not been able to tell her of several small items of interest which had occurred during the past week. He was still writing when his uncle came in with a very grave look upon his face.
Oscar felt at once that something must be amiss, but it did not occur to him that the matter would affect him personally. He looked up with a question in his eyes, and was perplexed at the grave unbending glance that met his.
“I have been to Jones and Wright about that bill, Oscar,” he said, in very measured tones, and then came to a full stop.
“Yes, uncle?” said Oscar, with a note of interrogation in his voice, and then came to a deadlock himself, feeling uncomfortable without knowing why.
“Just that, Oscar. I have been to them. They tell me that bill was never paid. That receipt was not made by any of their people. They invariably use their stamp; they do not write across the postage stamp with a pen. I verified this by going back to the office and looking up former receipts. See here, I have brought the bills to show you. No, Oscar, do not speak yet, I do not wish you to do so. Take time. I will leave the papers here with you now. Later on I will come for your explanation. Remember, my boy, that all I look for is a free and candid explanation and confession, whatever the fault may be. You are my sister’s son, and I shall not forget that.”
And Mr. Tom walked rather hastily from the room, leaving Oscar sitting with the bills before him, and a dazed expression upon his face.
It took him a little time to collect himself and gather all the significance of this thing. Bit by bit it came to him that a deed had been done by some person which was nothing more or less than the theft of forty pounds; for that was the amount of the bill. The money had been given to him in cash—he remembered that. Usually debts were paid by cheque, but now and then, when there was a good deal of cash in the office, payments were made in this way; but when this method was employed, it was always North or himself who was entrusted with the money.
A burning flush rose to Oscar’s cheek. He strove to recall what he had done with that forty odd pounds. He had no recollection of going to that place himself with the money. He must have entrusted it to somebody else, in that easy-going way of which North had warned him more than once.
Oscar thrust his hands through his hair, and racked his brains desperately. He saw at once what a terrible temptation he had put in somebody’s way. It had hardly occurred to him as yet that he might fall under suspicion himself; but he realised that through his easy-going carelessness—his way of trusting the other clerks with business given him to do, and doing theirs in exchange—he had been the cause of a serious monetary loss to his uncle, and had enabled somebody to embezzle money and perhaps lay the foundation of a career of crime.
It was a terrible thought. But who—who was the culprit? Careless as Oscar knew himself to be, it did not yet seem to him that he would readily have put so large a sum of cash into the hands of a young clerk, and yet he had never suspected one of them of the smallest deflection from rectitude, and certainly he had given it to somebody.
He looked at the date of the false receipt. It was just after the death of Curtis, when the office was in some confusion and the pressure of work heavy. He might well have overlooked the memory of the transaction. And yet he did seem to have some floating impression of a talk with somebody about the payment of the bill, and he distinctly remembered filing the receipt and making the entry in the ledger.
But to whom had he given the money?
He pulled out the tiny pocket diary he carried, where he just dotted down notes of things to be told to Sheila. He found the day in question, and noted the initial C. in one corner.
That meant that Cyril had been helping them. He remembered he had told Sheila of the condescension of the great ’Varsity man! And then with a start it came over him. Could it have been Cyril who had paid the bill? Or at least who had taken the money to do so, and brought back the supposed receipt?
Oscar’s heart beat thick and fast. He buried his face in his hands and thought. Slowly there seemed to come to him some such recollection, but was it only imagination? He remembered the pressure of that day. He remembered his uncle coming in and out with various orders. He remembered the money being given him with instructions to pay the bill at once; but there absolute memory failed him. Yet Oscar thought he would remember had he entrusted another with the task, though had Cyril offered in his easy way to go and pay the bill, most likely he would have agreed without a second thought. As he pondered the matter over and over, it seemed to grow clearer in his mind that Cyril had taken the matter into his own hands; but the very thought of this struck him with a sort of terror. Cyril was a son of the house. He was still the favourite of his parents. They would never, never believe such a thing of him. It would be almost impossible even to suggest it. And then Oscar could not be certain that he remembered the circumstance, only fleeting visions passed before his mind’s eye, together with the conviction that he would not have so easily forgotten the matter had not Cyril or North been his substitute. If he had made over the money to a brother clerk, he felt certain he would have recollected the matter.
And whilst he was in the midst of these troubled cogitations, who should come in but Cyril himself.
Oscar looked up eagerly.
“You are the very person I was wanting,” he said, not pausing to consider whether or not open speech were the most diplomatic way of treating this problem. “Cyril, do you remember those days after Curtis died when you came and helped in the office?”
Suddenly Cyril’s eyes narrowed slightly; if Oscar had not been so absorbed himself, he might have noticed the indefinable change that passed over Cyril’s face, but his voice was quite gay and easy.
“I remember coming and writing a lot of very dry letters, but I hope you don’t expect me to quote you their contents after three months!”—and he laughed.
“Do you remember your father bringing in some money and giving it to me to pay a bill of Jones and Wright?”
Cyril turned to poke the fire, and seemed to be pausing to refresh his memory.
“I think I have a vague recollection of something of the sort, though what firm it was I should be sorry to say. I remember his putting some money on your desk, and I think I advised you to lock it up.”
Oscar gave a little start; those words brought back a fresh wave of recollection, but his heart beat heavily and seemed to fall within him. He had not a very high opinion of Cyril’s moral courage. If indeed he had been guilty—but Oscar would not pursue the thought farther lest he should lose his self-control.
“Cyril, didn’t you take the money to pay the bill? Don’t you remember saying you had written enough, and would like a breath of fresh air? We thought it would get rid of the money lying about. Didn’t you take it and bring back the receipt?”
“I?” questioned Cyril lightly, leaning forward and making another vigorous onslaught at the fire. “I don’t recollect ever paying a firm’s bill in my life! But suppose I did, what then?”
“Well, there has been a mistake about this bill,” said Oscar. “Either it was not paid, and the person who had the money receipted it; or else it was paid to some unauthorised person in Jones and Wright’s who pocketed the money and receipted the bill without using the firm’s stamp. Anyway the money has never got into the right hands, and I am very uneasy about it, because I can’t be sure who it was that took the money from me. And it is such a dreadful thing to think of anybody’s being a thief. I wondered if you had given it afterwards to some other person. I can’t help having a vague impression that you had something to do with it, Cyril.”
Oscar looked up appealingly. Stronger and more strong was the notion coming to him that Cyril was the responsible person. But how would it be possible to bring it home to him if he denied? Oscar did not think either of the younger clerks had been present when the talk between them passed. He seemed to remember Cyril’s saying it had better be paid, and his taking the money away before the lads came back from their dinner. Yes, he felt more and more certain every minute. But Cyril lay back in his chair and laughed.
“My dear fellow, you are quite making a mare’s nest for yourself. I had nothing whatever to do with the matter. I recollect my father’s bringing you the money and telling you to pay, and I recommended you to lock it up out of sight. That is all I know of the matter, and I’m afraid I can’t help you out of your difficulty——”
And there Cyril suddenly stopped short for North had entered the room, and it was plain from his face that he knew the story and had come to talk the matter over with Oscar.
“I’ll leave you to have it out together,” said Cyril rather hastily, rising and walking away. “I wish I could help you to a better memory, Oscar; but, perhaps, if you and North talk it over together you’ll get some light on the subject.”
He walked off whistling, closing the door behind him. North looked after him with the same rather stern expression on his face that it had worn on entering.
“Oscar,” he said slowly, “do you mean that Cyril is in any way mixed up in this wretched business?”
Oscar dropped his eyes and spoke in a very low tone.
“I don’t know, North.”
(To be continued.)