"Harris is such a short-tempered fellow," he went on, not noticing my
manner, "but I never thought he would go as far as he did. I assure
you, Batchelor, when I heard it, I felt quite as sorry as you did."
"I should like to know who told Harris about it," I said. "I didn't."
"Didn't you? Wasn't he there that evening you told all the rest of us?
To be sure he wasn't. He must have heard the others speaking about it."
"They all promised--that is, I begged them all--not to tell any one," I
said, with a groan.
"Yes, I remember your asking me that evening. It's a great shame if the
fellows have told Harris. But he may have heard some other way."
"How could he?" said I.
"Well, I suppose it was all in the papers at the time," said Hawkesbury.
"Harris would hardly be in the habit of reading newspapers thirteen or
fourteen years old," I said, bitterly.
"Was it so long ago as that?" said Hawkesbury. "No, it hardly does seem
likely. Somebody must have told him."
"It was a blackguard thing of him to do," I said, "and I'll take good
care never to speak to him again."
"Well, you'd be quite justified in cutting him dead," replied
Hawkesbury. "I'd do the same if he'd done as much to a friend of mine."
I did not reply to this. After all, had Harris been much more to blame
than I had been in the first instance?
"Well," said Hawkesbury, "I hope it will soon blow over. One never
likes unpleasant things like this coming up. You must tell Smith how
angry I am with Harris."
"I don't suppose Smith will ever speak to me again," I said.
"Really? Oh, I hope it's not so bad as that. After all, you know,"
said Hawkesbury, "it would have been much more straightforward of him to
tell the fellows what he was at first. They don't like being taken by
surprise in a matter like this. I really don't see that _he_ has so
much to complain of."
"But it was so low of Harris to fling it in his teeth like that," I
said.
"Well, yes, it was," said Hawkesbury; "but it was not as bad as if he
had said something about him that wasn't true. Well, good-night,
Batchelor. I hope it will be all right in time."
I was not much comforted by this conversation; and yet I was not
altogether displeased to find that Hawkesbury agreed with me in
condemning Harris's conduct, and his last argument, though it took away
nothing from my unkindness, certainly did strike me. However unpleasant
and cruel Jack's treatment had been, one must remember that the story
told about him was true. Yes, it was a great consolation to feel that,
whatever else had happened, no one had told a lie!
As I passed the top of Style Street, meditating on these things, I
became aware that Billy was striding across my path with a face full of
grimy concern.
"I say, master," he cried, "where's t'other bloke?"
"I don't know," I said, walking on.
"What, ain't you saw him?" he demanded, trotting along, blacking-brush
in hand, by my side.
"Yes--go away, do you hear? I don't want you walking beside me."
"That there clock," said Billy, pointing up to a clock just over his
usual place of business--"that there clock's been gone seving a lump,
and he ain't been."
"It's nothing to do with me," I cried angrily. "Come, get away, unless
you want your ears boxed."
"Won't he's boots be in a muck, though," continued the boy, wholly
regardless of my wrath, "without no shine."
"Do you hear what I say?" cried I, stopping short threateningly.
Billy slunk off more disconsolately than I had ever seen him, leaving me
to pursue my way unmolested.
I do not know where I wandered to that evening, or what I thought of as
I walked. My mind was too confused and miserable to take in anything
clearly, except that I had lost my friend.
Fellows passed me arm-in-arm, in earnest talk or with beaming faces, and
only reminded me of what I had lost. Memories of the past crowded in
upon me--of Stonebridge House, where his friendship had been my one
comfort and hope; of our early days in London, when it seemed as if,
with one another for company, nothing could come amiss, and no hardship
could be quite intolerable; of his illness and absence, and my gradual
yielding to frivolity and extravagance; then of his return and
confidence in me. Would that he had never told me that wretched secret!
If he had only known to whom he was telling it, to what a pitiful,
weak, vain nature he was confiding it, he would have bitten his tongue
off before he did it, and I should have yet been comparatively happy!
But the evil was done now, and what power on earth could undo it?
I slunk home to Beadle Square when I imagined every one else would be in
bed.
Mrs Nash met me at the door.
"Your friend Smith's gone," she said.
"Gone!" I exclaimed. "Where?"
"How should I know? He paid his bill and took off his traps two hours
ago, and says he's not coming back!"
You may guess, reader, whether I slept that night.