"An unknown admirer thinks it may interest Mary Smith to know that her
father is a common thief and swindler, who has just come back from
fourteen years' penal servitude among the convicts. He is now living in
London with his son, Mary's brother, who, Mary may as well know, is
following close in his dear father's footsteps, however pious he may
seem to others. This is the truth, or the writer would not have taken
the trouble to send it. The best thing, if Mary wants to prevent the
whole affair being made public, is to make her brother leave his place
in London at once, and go somewhere in the country where he will be a
nuisance to nobody."
My first feeling on reading this was one of devout thankfulness for the
Providence which had kept it from falling into the hands for which it
was designed. But my wrath soon drove out every other feeling--wrath
ten times the more fierce because it was helpless.
I could do nothing. I might go and attempt to thrash Masham, or I might
thrash Hawkesbury, who was equally to blame, if not more. But what good
would it do? It would only make bad worse. Jack's secret, instead of
being the private property of a few, would become common talk. I should
be unable to bring positive proof of my charges, and even if I could, I
should only be putting myself in the wrong by using force to redress my
wrongs. No, after all, the only punishment was to take no notice of the
affair, to let the two blackguards flatter themselves their plot had
succeeded, and to leave them to find out as best they could that they
had failed.
So I kept my hands resolutely in my pockets when next I met Hawkesbury,
and consoled myself by picturing what his feelings would have been, had
he known that that letter of his and his friend's was in my pocket all
the time.
However, my resolution to have nothing to do with him was upset very
shortly, and in an unexpected manner.
Since the eventful morning when Jack and I had had that unlucky
conversation at Hawk Street, I had not again put in an appearance there
before the stated time. Now, however, that I was all by myself in town,
with very few attractions towards a solitary walk, and a constant sense
of work to catch up at Hawk Street, it occurred to me one fine morning--
I should say one wet morning--when the streets were very uninviting, to
seek shelter at the unearthly hour of half-past eight in Messrs.
Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's premises.
The housekeeper, greatly to my satisfaction, was engaged in clearing out
the offices below ours, so that I was able to ascend without challenge
and establish myself at my desk. I had not been there five minutes when
another footstep sounded on the stairs and Hawkesbury entered.
I had thought it quite possible he might be there when I arrived, and
was therefore not nearly so surprised to see him as he appeared to see
me.
"What, Batchelor!" he exclaimed, "are you here?"
"Yes," I replied, "are you?"
Why should he express such surprise, I wondered, at my doing just what
he was doing?
"What brings you here at this hour?" he demanded, dropping for a moment
the coaxing tone with which I had become so familiar the last day or
two.
"What brings you here, for the matter of that?" I retorted.
If he thought I was going to clear out to please him, he was mistaken.
"Don't address me like that," he replied, with as great a tone of
authority as he could assume. "I have a right to be here. You have
none."
"Until I am told so by some one better than yourself I sha'n't believe
it," I replied.
I was losing my temper fast. Masham's letter burned in my pocket, and
the sight of this fellow giving himself airs to me was as much as I
could stand.
Fortunately for us both, however, he did not prolong the discussion, but
went to his desk.
It was evident, despite his assumed displeasure, he was very much put
out about something. That something, I could not help thinking, must be
my presence. He fidgeted about uneasily, looking now at the clock, now
at me, now opening his desk, now shutting it, now scribbling on the
paper before him, now tearing it up.
All this I saw as I tried to proceed steadily with my work. At last he
brought me an envelope he had just addressed, and said in a rather more
persuasive manner than he had yet assumed--
"Batchelor, would you kindly take this note round to Hodge and
Company's? It is very important; they should have had it yesterday."
"Hodge's are never open till ten," I said.
"Oh yes, indeed they are. At least they expect this letter by nine
o'clock. It's a bill of lading for their goods."
"If that's so," replied I, "the mail went out yesterday--you know that--
and there's not another till Monday."
"Oh, but there's a letter with it that has to be attended to
immediately."
"It's not been copied," said I, who had charge of the letter-book, and
was responsible for copying everything that went out.
"I've kept a copy. I'll see to that. It's only to ask them to call
round," he said, with evident confusion.
I did not believe a word he said. And more than that, I strongly
suspected all this was a device to get me out of the office--and that
was what I had no intention of submitting to.
"If it's to ask them to call round," I said, "it will do when the
commissionaire comes at half-past nine."
"But I tell you it must be there at _nine_," he exclaimed.
"Then," said I, "you had better take it yourself."
I had ceased to be afraid of Hawkesbury, or the look with which he
returned to his desk might have made me uneasy.