THE OLD CLERK.
WHAT Matthew had feared, actually came to pass one morning not very
long afterwards, when he had gone as usual to take back his papers.
"Reardon," said his employer, sharply.
"I am afraid you are getting careless. Your writing is not nearly so
good as it used to be."
"I know it, sir. I can't help it."
"But you must help it," interrupted Mr. Heighington, "or I must find
some one else to do the work. You can write well enough when you
please."
"I'll try what I can do," said Matthew, "but my hand shakes sometimes."
"Oh! Your hand shakes, does it?" repeated his young employer, with a
light laugh. "That's a bad sign, is it not, Mr. Reardon?"
"Perhaps, sir, you think that I drink too much?" said Matthew,
interrogatively.
"I did not say so."
"But you looked it, sir."
"Did I! Well, anyhow, I have heard that it is a bad sign when a man
like you in the prime of life complains of his hand shaking."
"It would be a hard matter," said Matthew, bitterly, "to get too much
to drink out of the wages I receive, if I were ever so inclined."
"If you are not satisfied," replied Mr. Heighington, "all you have to
do is to say so. There are dozens to be found any day who would gladly
do the work for less."
"Hundreds! Sir," added Matthew, gloomily; "the more's the pity. But I
did not mean to complain; a man cannot afford to complain who has a
wife and two little children depending upon him—any more than he can
afford to drink!"
"Very well," answered Mr. Heighington, with a keen glance. "Give him
the papers, Marshall," added he, turning to the head clerk. "And—I say,
Reardon—take care and not let your hand shake next time."
Matthew turned away in silence, and they heard him coughing as he went
out into the cold air.
"I have a great mind to get rid of that fellow!" said Mr. Heighington.
"I wouldn't, Master Frank, if I were you," replied the old clerk. "He
has been here a good many years now, on and off."
"The sooner he is off the better. I never liked the look of him."
"I can't say that poor Reardon has looked very well lately, sir,"
replied Marshall. "It's my belief that he's half-starved, and ill
besides."
"Then you do not think he drinks?" asked Mr. Heighington.
"Not he, sir. I think that perhaps he would be all the better for a
glass Of beer occasionally."
"Why does he not get it, then?"
"After all," said the good old clerk, "the wages, as he says, sir,
ain't much to keep four of them. Suppose you were to raise them a
little, Mr. Frank?"
"And yet Reardon himself confessed that hundreds would be glad to do
the work for less money."
"God help them, poor things! But Mr. Reardon is a man who has seen
better days. It's hard to come down in the world, harder even than it
is to get up. I don't think he is long for this life, poor fellow, and
can only hope that he may be ready for the life to come—that's the
great thing, Mr. Frank."
"Do as you please," said Mr. Heighington, carelessly. "I have no
objection to raising his wages, if you think that he is worth it."
"I can't say anything about his being worth it, Mr. Frank," replied the
conscientious old man. "He does not write nearly so well nor so quickly
as he used to do. But I am sure that he needs it, and that you will
never regret having done him this kindness."
"You would have made a capital beggar, Marshall," said Mr. Heighington,
laughing. "Only you never ask anything for yourself."
"I want nothing, sir," was the reply, "the Lord be praised. He has
given me all that I need."
The greater part of Peter Marshall's life had been spent in the small
dark office where he then sat. Coming and going at all hours, and in
all weathers; ever the first to come and the last to go, and devoting
his best energies to the cause of his employer—"not with eye-service,
as men-pleasers, but in singleness of heart, fearing God." And even in
this world the Lord rewarded him by putting it into the mind of old
Mr. Heighington to leave him at his decease, which took place about a
twelvemonth before our story commences, a small annuity in appreciation
of his long and faithful services.
Peter Marshall was an old man himself now, and might have retired
and lived comfortably enough in his humble way; but somehow he had
grown used to the place, and had, besides, an old man's fancy, that
"Master Frank," whom he had known from a child, would never be able to
get on without him—a fancy which his young master was only too glad
to encourage, and thus continue to avail himself of his advice and
assistance, treating him rather as a friend than a servant.
It was believed by his fellow-clerks that Marshall had saved up a good
round sum during his many years of service; the more especially as he
was known to be a man of frugal habits, and without either kith or kin.
And so he had, but it was in a savings bank with which they had, for
the most part, very few dealings. The following inscription was written
in shining characters over the door:
"He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which
he hath given will He pay him again."
Every time Marshall went to put in a deposit, a heavenly voice might be
heard by the ear of faith saying—
"Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my
brethren, ye have done it unto me."
And the aged disciple looked for no better acknowledgment.
Many would have thought it a weary life, plodding through the streets
early and late, winter and summer, and sitting at his desk from morning
till evening, bounded and hemmed in, as it were, by the gloomy walls of
the surrounding buildings, which shut out alike both air and sunshine.
But it never seemed weary to Peter Marshall. He was always happy—always
busy in the service of his earthly employer, but never forgetting that
he had also a Master in heaven.
Many an earnest and believing prayer went up from that dark narrow
office, to the celestial city, and many a loving answer came quickly
down. Many a warning word was uttered there which it pleased the Lord
to bless. And many a good seed sown which, although apparently lost for
a season, bore fruit in after years to the glory of God.
There it was that a young clerk—he was only a youth then—with no
mother, and no friend, save Marshall, to lead him in the right way,
first found Christ. And there it was that the same boy, grown up to be
a Christian man, came years afterwards from a distant land to tell him,
with tears of thankfulness, all that the Lord had done for his soul
since then. It was no wonder that the dull city office seemed so bright
to Peter Marshall.
Let us listen to him for a moment as he sits with clasped hands and
bowed head where Mr. Heighington had left him when he went out just
now, after having given him the desired permission to increase Matthew
Reardon's wages. He is sending up one of his telegrams to the heavenly
city:
"Dear Lord Jesus, Thou knowest how I love him. Oh, do Thou love him
also, and draw him to Thyself, in Thine own good time, as Thou alone
canst be merciful; also to that poor man, Matthew Reardon, and put it
into my heart what I shall say when I go and see him to-night, as I am
minded to do. I am getting an old man now, Lord, as Thou well knowest,
and the words don't come as readily as they ought, and as they did
once."