I don’t know what I did. Perhaps I sobbed and cried, but the first words I could get out were, ‘Does he know? Oh! it may be too late. He may be gone off to sea!’ I cried, breaking out with my chief fear. Mr. Castleford looked astounded, then said, ‘I trust not. I sent off a special messenger last night, as soon as I saw my way—’
Then I breathed a little more freely, and could understand what he was telling me, namely, that Tooke had accused Clarence of abstracting £20 from the sum in his charge. The fellow accounted for it by explaining that young Winslow had been paying extravagant bills at a tavern, where the barmaid showed his presents, and boasted of her conquest. All this had been written to Mr. Castleford by his partner, and he was told that it was out of deference to himself that his protégé was not in custody, nor had received notice of dismissal; but, no doubt, he would give his sanction to immediate measures, and communicate with the family.
The effect had been to make the good man hurry at once from the Giant’s Causeway to Bristol, where he had arrived on Sunday, to investigate the books and examine the underlings. In the midst Tooke attempted to abscond, but he was brought back as he was embarking in an American vessel; and he then confessed the whole,—how speculation had led to dishonesty, and following evil customs not uncommon in other firms. Then, when the fugitive found that young Winslow was too acute to be blinded, and that it had been a still greater mistake to try to overcome his integrity, self-defence required his ruin, or at any rate his expulsion, before he could gain Mr. Castleford’s ear.
Tooke really believed that the discreditable bills were the young man’s own, and proofs of concealed habits of dissipation; but this excellent man had gone into the matter, repaired to the tradesfolk, learnt the date, and whose the accounts really were, and had even hunted up the barmaid, who was not married after all, and had no hesitation in avowing that her beau had been the handsome young Yeomanry lieutenant. Mr. Castleford had spent the greater part of Monday in this painful task, but had not been clear enough till quite late in the evening to despatch an express to his partner, and to Clarence, whom he desired to meet him here.
‘He has acted nobly,’ said our kind friend. ‘His only error seems to have been in being too good a brother.’
This made me implore that nothing should be said about Griffith’s bills, showing those injunctions of Clarence’s which had so puzzled me, and explaining the circumstances.
Mr. Castleford hummed and hawed, and perhaps wished he had seen my father before me; but I prevailed at last, and when the others came in from their drive, there was nothing to alloy the intelligence that Clarence had shown rare discernment, as well as great uprightness, steadfastness, and moral courage.
My mother, when she had taken in the fact, actually shed tears of joy. Emily stood by me, holding my hand. My father said, ‘It is all owing to you, Castleford, and the helping hand you gave the poor boy.’
‘Nay,’ was the answer, ‘it seems to me that it was owing to his having the root of the matter in him to overcome his natural failings.’
Still, in all the rejoicing, my heart failed me lest the express should have come too late, and Clarence should be already on the high seas, for there had been no letter from him on Sunday morning. It was doubtful whether Mr. Castleford’s messenger could reach London in time for tidings to come down by the coach—far less did we expect Clarence—and we had nearly finished the first course at dinner, when we heard the front door open, and a voice speaking to the butler. Emily screamed ‘It’s he! Oh mamma, may I?’ and flew out into the hall, dragging in a pale, worn and weary wight, all dust and heat, having travelled down outside the coach on a broiling day, and walked the rest of the way. He looked quite bewildered at the rush at him; my father’s ‘Well done, Clarence,’ and strong clasp; and my mother’s fervent kiss, and muttered something about washing his hands.