Shortly before five o’clock on the afternoon of the next day, Mr.
Bracknel, who had still several hours work before him, was shut up in
his private office with two other persons, one of whom was John Brooke.
The other was a small, meagre, middle-aged man, turning grey, of
unhealthy and unprepossessing appearance, called Davis. Davis was a
despatch-clerk. He was neatly dressed in dark clothes, but his hands and
nails were dirty. A straw-coloured beard, whiskers, and moustache, grew
strugglingly and as if reluctantly on his wax-pale face; and his mouth
twitched nervously as he watched every movement made by the other two
with large, round, protuberant eyes--eyes of a uniform yellow-blue tint,
without any visible iris, and of a curious opaque, glaucous appearance
which almost suggested the eyes of a dead thing. There was something
cringing, obsequious and uncertain about Davis, with a hint of a latent
malignance that might flash out at any moment, though at present his
state of mind was obviously that of a person very much frightened.
John Brooke, his young, fresh-coloured face calm and inscrutable, stood
slightly to one side, with an air of holding himself more or less aloof
from the other two. This highly conscientious young man, whom Mr.
Bracknel thought so well of, was extremely serious and hard-working, and
without a glimmer of imagination or humour. By his fellow-employees he
was treated with due respect, because he was known to be very much in
favour, but he had the misfortune to be secretly disliked, especially by
apprentices and young persons, who detested the alarming closeness with
which he stuck to business, and the disfavour with which he regarded
even the mildest forms of relaxation. John Brooke looked young--looked
only a boy in fact--but he had never really been young. From his cradle
he had been impressed by the seriousness of life, and at twenty-two
there was hardly anybody or anything on the face of the earth that he
would not have undertaken to improve. He had an extraordinary sense of
responsibility, and two excellent qualities--he was perfectly honest and
perfectly innocent.
“Remember, Davis, you will go to jail for this,” Mr. Bracknel was
saying. “There need be no remorse, no sentiment about your wife and
children at the last moment. You’ve only confessed because you couldn’t
help yourself: I give you no credit for it whatever.”
After this encouraging speech he turned to Brooke. “Did you suspect
anything of this sort was going on?” he asked.
“I can’t quite say that,” John answered, cautiously. He spoke with
extreme deliberation, as if determined that no matter what happened he
would never be guilty either of over- or of under-statement. His
sobriety and exactitude--they were reflected even in his clothes, even
in his necktie--contrasted somewhat comically with Mr. Bracknel’s
eagerness.
“Nobody knows anything about it but me and Mr. Alfred,” the clerk
interrupted in a whining voice.
“Keep quiet,” said Mr. Bracknel savagely. “You did suspect it, in other
words?” He had turned again to John.
“I suspected this much,” said John, slowly, “that I knew there must have
been a big slackness somewhere, and I warned Davis about it.”
“And why didn’t you come to me?”
John was silent, till Mr. Bracknel had repeated his question more
peremptorily.
“I wasn’t sure.”
“But you had a suspicion. It was your duty to inform me at once. Why
didn’t you do so?”
“I had an idea that Davis wasn’t primarily to blame. He could have done
nothing by himself.” He spoke perfectly quietly and without looking at
the despatch-clerk, who had begun to edge a little nearer the door.
“You mean that you thought he had been acting with Mr. Alfred?”
“I thought so.”
Mr. Bracknel began to pace up and down the room. Presently he paused
once more in front of Brooke. “I don’t see that that could make it any
less proper for you to tell me.”
John hesitated. “It seemed to me that it was fairer to give Davis a
chance.”
“A chance! A chance to do what?” asked Mr. Bracknel irritably. “A chance
to rob me, do you mean?”
“A chance to give in his notice and leave in the ordinary way. As I
say, I didn’t think he could be primarily responsible for whatever might
have taken place.”
Mr. Bracknel grunted. “Well, I’ll have the man arrested now at all
events.” He took a step toward the door, but John laid his hand on his
arm. John was always right; John was never excited.
“Remember Mr. Alfred, sir,” he said in a low voice. “You can’t very well
make the thing public.”
Mr. Bracknel hesitated. Then he turned to the despatch-clerk who was
standing in the corner watching them furtively, yet viciously. “Who is
it that got these goods?” he asked roughly.
Davis gave him a name and address.
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Have you a note of what he got?”
Davis took a paper from his pocket and handed it over.
Mr. Bracknel just glanced at it. “You can go,” he then said abruptly,
and the despatch-clerk glided away.
There was a short pause after the door had closed behind him with a
gentle snap. Mr. Bracknel was now studying the paper Davis had given
him. “You kept very quiet about all this, John,” he said at last,
looking up, and speaking in his ordinary tone.
“I kept quiet because I didn’t know about it. I hadn’t inquired into it.
I wasn’t sure.”
“Would you ever have told me?”
“I don’t know, sir. I don’t think I would have told you if Davis hadn’t
been a fool.”
“You mean if he had given in his notice. But if you don’t tell me how am
I ever to get to know things? It was by a mere chance that Irwin found
out what was going on.”
“I should have kept a better watch in future,” said John.
Mr. Bracknel shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what are we to do now?” he
asked in a melancholy voice.
“I don’t see that there is very much that you _can_ do,” John made
answer. “Possibly you may be able to get back some of the goods, but
that is all.”
“We can get back the money that was paid for them,” said Mr. Bracknel
gloomily, though at the moment he was thinking much more of the lack of
sympathy in the young man’s manner than of any pecuniary loss he had
suffered.
“I very much doubt it,” said John with horrible impassiveness. “People
don’t do that sort of thing to put the money in the bank.”
“You mean that he will have spent it? This is very unfortunate, very
painful to me.” There was something vaguely appealing in his voice.
“I can quite understand that,” was all John replied.
“What do you advise? Tell me what you think?” Mr. Bracknel went on in
the same tone.
John was silent. His grave, stolid face was extremely unresponsive. He
turned away and seemed to be trying hard to stare through the wall in
front of him. He was the very image of scientific impartiality. “I’m
afraid I can’t advise you, sir,” he said at length, rather coldly,
though he did not intend to be cold. “I know nothing about Mr. Alfred’s
affairs. I suppose his salary isn’t big enough.”
The, to Mr. Bracknel, atrocious cynicism of this remark was really
shocking; it was like a slap in the face, administered by an unexpected
hand. He started angrily. “Not big enough! Are you asking me to raise
it? I may tell you that from to-day he ceases to be a member of the
firm.”
John Brooke shrugged his shoulders. “He’ll have to live somehow, I
suppose,” he replied. “Especially as he is married. Of course it is
extremely unlikely that anything of this sort will occur again.”
“Occur again! I should rather think it won’t!” cried Mr. Bracknel.
“I suppose he had debts,” John went on calmly. “He may have thought
himself justified.”
“Justified! Good heavens! What kind of talk is that? Do you _approve_ of
what he has done?” His eyes rested indignantly on the young man facing
him, and he had a bitter sense of failure and disappointment. He
appeared to be on the point of saying something stronger, but the
moments passed and he still kept silence. Then: “That will do,” he
announced curtly, turning away. “Send Mr. Alfred to me when he comes in.
I suppose he is not in now.”
“He may be. I will see.” And John went from the room.
He did not appear to be successful in finding Alfred, however, for that
young man did not make his appearance, and Mr. Bracknel was left alone
with his thoughts, which were more numerous than cheerful. This
revelation of Alfred’s behaviour threw into the background even Amy’s
extraordinary conduct in regard to Rusk. Mr. Bracknel had long been
conscious of a smouldering bitterness against his son, for whom at no
time had he felt any particular affection; and he now decided that he
had had enough of him. There was no use giving him any more chances.
John Brooke’s scheme for bribing him into good behaviour was
particularly odious to him, and of course had only been suggested on
account of Rhoda. Doubtless, if he had a sufficient quantity of money to
squander, Alfred _would_ cease to trouble him directly, so long as the
money lasted, but there were other ways of meeting the difficulty than
that. The simplest would be to wash his hands of him once and for all.
It would have to be done some day, and it might as well be done to-day.
Why should he be bothered with him? He was a fool, a liar, a profligate,
and now a thief.
He had reached this point in his summing up when Alfred himself slouched
in. “They say you want me,” he grunted.
“Sit down there,” said his father shortly, pointing to a particular
chair.
Alfred took another, which appeared to him to be more comfortable. With
his hands in his pockets he did not show signs of any great
perturbation.
“So you have turned thief?” Mr. Bracknel began darkly.
Alfred shrugged his shoulders. “Did Davis tell you?” he asked callously.
“It doesn’t matter who told me.”
“All right.”
“What have you to say for yourself?” his father went on sternly.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing that you would admit.”
“Oh!... You could defend yourself if you wanted to?”
“If you had behaved decently to me I would have behaved decently to you.
That’s all. I don’t believe in making a lot of jaw about things. As you
preferred to be mean, I had to get the money some way. I told you at the
time that I was in need of it. I don’t profess to be a saint, but so far
as this affair goes I can’t see that there is much to choose between us.
At any rate you left nothing else open to me.”
“I see. Well, I’ll leave something else open for you now: I’ll leave the
door for you. You will get very little more out of me, either honestly
or dishonestly; can you understand that? You’ve counted once too often
on my softness. There’s an end to all things, and you’ve reached the end
of that.... And now we can get to business. I’m not going to waste much
time on you, so you’d better attend to what I am saying. If you consent
to emigrate, I will give you a thousand pounds. If not, you will get
nothing. I suppose you are sober enough to follow me? I need not tell
you that I no longer look upon you as a son of mine, and that this
thousand pounds is the last money you will ever get--during my lifetime
at all events--and I’ll probably last another fifteen years. The
question for you to decide is whether you want the money or not. Will
you, or will you not, leave the country?”
Alfred looked up malevolently, his small eyes gleaming: yet he had
almost expected something of the kind. “I don’t want your dirty money,”
he said, rising to his feet.
“Remember,” answered Mr. Bracknel grimly, “to-morrow it will be too
late. You need not count upon any relenting on my part. I fancy I will
be able to control my affection. From the time you leave this office I
have nothing more to do with you. It is not a matter of very much
importance to me whether you accept or refuse; only I am weak enough,
for the sake of your mother and sisters, to give you this last chance.”
“You were always very indulgent,” Alfred sneered heavily. He hesitated,
looking sullenly down at the carpet. “Make it five thousand and I will
go.”
His father gave a little, dry, unpleasant laugh. “You are an interesting
case,” he remarked bitterly. “It is a pity your field is so limited! If
you had had your fair share of brains you might have made a quite
passable criminal. However, I take what you say as a refusal. And now
you had better leave my office. I have more important things than this
to attend to.”
Alfred hesitated. Then: “Give it me,” he said sullenly.
“Give you what?”
“The thousand.”
“You consent to the conditions, then?”
“Yes ... damn you,” he added under his breath.
Mr. Bracknel wrote a cheque and handed it to him. Alfred was walking to
the door again, but as he did so he examined the strip of paper he held.
“This is only for a hundred,” he snarled, turning round.
“You don’t imagine that I’m going to give it all to you at once,” said
his father contemptuously, “and before you actually go! You must
remember that yours is hardly a word to be trusted implicitly. You will
get the balance paid to you in instalments when you reach your
destination, which we will settle later.”
Alfred still did not move. “It will take a good deal more than this to
get me away,” he said in a low thick voice.
“You must do what you can with it, I’m afraid. If you refer your
creditors to me, I can settle with them, deducting the amount from the
nine hundred pounds I still hold for you.”
He turned back to his desk, and Alfred walked out of the office. In the
distance he saw John Brooke, and a sudden idea of vengeance flashed
through his mind. He would tell Brooke who his father was: he would tell
them all. Then he thought he had better not risk the rest of the money.
The revelation of John’s birth would keep. Besides, he didn’t believe
the old man would care a straw if everybody knew, and under his breath
he called him by various filthy names as he stepped into the street.