To post the letter was the work of a minute or two, for there was a
pillar-box a little way down the road. This done, I returned eagerly
and with some trepidation to the lodgings, and knocked at Mr Smith's
door.
He made no answer, so I entered without leave.
He was sitting on a chair by the tireless hearth with his head on his
hands, either asleep or buried in thought.
It was not till I touched him that he became aware of my presence, and
then he did so with a start, as if I had been a ghost.
"Ah, Batchelor," said he, recovering himself and leaning back in his
chair.
"Are you ill, Mr Smith?" I asked.
"No, my boy, no," said he; "not ill."
"I thought you were--upstairs just now."
"Did you? Ah! you saw me jump; I had a twinge. But don't let's talk of
that. Sit down and let's talk of something else."
I sat down, very perplexed and uneasy, and more convinced than ever that
Mr Smith was not himself.
"How do you think he'll get on in his examination?" asked he, after a
pause.
"Jack? Oh, I have very little doubts about it," said I.
"No more have I; he's well and carefully prepared."
"Thanks a great deal to you," said I. "Well, I did get him on a little
with the Greek, I believe," said Mr Smith.
Another pause ensued, during which Mr Smith sat looking hard into the
empty grate. Then he asked, "You have known him a long time,
Batchelor?"
"Yes; we were at school together."
"Do you know his parents at all?"
"No," I replied, feeling uncomfortable to be once more on this dangerous
ground, although on my guard, and prepared to bite my tongue off rather
than play my friend false again.
Mr Smith assumed as complete an air of unconcern as he could as he
asked, "It's a strange question, but do you know anything about them?"
I would have given a good deal to be out of that room. There was
something in Mr Smith's voice and manner and frightened eyes which made
the question, coming from him, very different from the same inquiry
flippantly thrown out by one of my old comrades. And yet I would not--I
could not--answer it.
"I can't say," I replied, as shortly as possible, and rising at the same
time to leave the room.
He prevented me by a quick gesture, which almost ordered me not to go,
and I resumed my seat.
"You wonder why I ask the question?" said he, slowly.
"I think," said I, "it would be best to ask it of Jack himself."
Mr Smith said nothing, but sat brooding silently for a minute. Then he
said, in a tone which sounded as if he was asking the question of
himself rather than me, "Who is the Mrs Shield he writes to?"
He spoke so queerly and looked so strangely that I half wondered whether
he was not wandering in his mind.
"Please," said I, "do not ask me these questions. What is the matter
with you, Mr Smith?"
"Matter, my boy!" said he, with a bitter laugh; "it's a big question you
ask. But I'll tell you if you'll listen."
I repented of having asked the question, he looked so haggard and
excited. However, there was nothing for it but to sit still while he,
pacing to and fro in the room, told me his story in his own way.
"This is not the first time you have been curious about me, Batchelor.
You have suspected I was or had been something different from the poor
literary hack you see me, and you have been right, my boy."
He stopped short in his walk as he said this, and his eyes flashed, just
as I had sometimes seen Jack's eyes flash in the old days.
"Sixteen--no, seventeen--years ago I was the happiest man alive. I can
see the little cottage where we lived, my wife and child and I, with its
ivy-covered porch and tiny balcony, and the garden which she so prided
in behind. It seemed as if nothing could come and disturb our little
paradise. I was not rich, but I had all I wanted, and some to spare. I
used to walk daily across the field to--where the bank of which I was
manager was situated, and they--she and the boy--came to meet me every
evening on my return. I felt as if my life was set fair. I could
picture no happiness greater than our quiet evenings, and no hope
brighter than a future like the present."
Here Mr Smith paused. This picture of a happy home he had drawn with a
dreamy voice, as one would describe a fancy rather than a reality.
After a pause he went on:
"The thing I thought impossible happened suddenly, fearfully, while I
was even hugging myself in my prosperity and happiness. She died. A
week before she had given me a sister for my boy. Our cup of joy seemed
full to overflowing. The mother and child throve as well as any one
could expect. She was to get up next day, and I was to carry her down
stairs, and set her for a little amongst her flowers in the little
drawing-room. I wished her good-bye gaily that morning as I went off to
my work, and bade her be ready for me when I returned.
"Ah! what a return that was! At mid-day a messenger rushed into the
bank and called to me to come at once to my wife. I flew to her on the
wings of terror, and found her--dead!"
Here the speaker paused again. His voice had trembled at the last word,
but his face was almost fierce as he turned his eyes to me.
I said nothing, but my heart bled for him. "The hope had gone from my
life. I had no ballast, nothing to steady me in the tempest. My hope
had been all in the present, and it perished with her. I cared for
nothing, my little children were a misery to me, the old home was
unendurable. I got leave of absence from my employers, and came up
here--desperate. I dashed into every sort of dissipation and
extravagance; I tried one excitement after another, if only I could
drown every memory I had. I abandoned myself to so-called `friends' of
the worst sort, who degraded me to their own level, then forsook me.
Still I plunged deeper--I was mad. My one dread was to have a moment to
myself--a moment to think of my home, my children, my wife. How I lived
through it all I cannot think--and I did not care.
"At last a letter reached me from my employers, requiring my presence at
business. My money had long gone, my creditors pressed me on every
hand, my friends one and all mocked at my destitution. I returned to
---, hiding before my employers the traces of my madness, and letting
them wonder how grief had changed me. My home I could not go near--the
sight of it and of the children would have driven me utterly mad. I
lived in the town. For a week or so I tried hard to keep up
appearances--but the evil spirit was on me, and I could not withstand
him. I had not then learnt to look to a Greater for strength. I must
fly once more from one misery to another tenfold worse.
"But I had no money. My savings were exhausted. My salary was not due.
I dared not beg it in advance. I was manager of the bank, and had
control over all that was in it. The devil within me tempted me, and I
yielded. I falsified the accounts, and tampered with the books of the
bank. My very desperation made me ingenious, and it was not till I had
been away a month with my ill-gotten booty that the frauds were
discovered."
Again he stopped, and I waited with strangely perturbed feelings till he
resumed.
"At first I tried to hide myself, and spent some weeks abroad. But
though I escaped justice, my misery followed me. During those weeks, I,
who till then had been upright and honest, knew not a moment's peace.
At night I never slept an hour together, by day I trembled at every face
I met. The new torture was worse than the old, and at last in sheer
despair I returned to London and courted detection. It seemed as if
they would never find me. The less I hid myself, the more secure I
seemed. At last, however, they found me--it was a relief when they did.
"I acknowledged all, and was sentenced to penal servitude for fourteen
years."
"What!" I exclaimed, springing from my seat. "You are--"
"Hush!" said Mr Smith, pointing up to the ceiling, "you'll wake him.
Yes, I am, or I was, a convict. Listen to the little more I have to
say."