JOHN ON HIS TRIAL.
Both the partners were together in Mr. William’s room. They had been
having some sort of a consultation, it was evident, and both looked very
grave. When John walked in at his ease, though a little anxious, they
both turned round upon him with very serious faces--the younger man with
a grieved air, the elder one rigid and solemn, like a judge before whom
a criminal has appeared, whose conviction has been pre-accomplished, and
who has come up for judgment. Mr. William Barrett had the air of hoping
that some more evidence might be discovered which would possibly
exonerate the accused, but his father’s face showed no such hope. On the
contrary, something of the ‘I always knew how it would be’ was in his
look, as he turned sharply round at the opening of the door.
John was greatly surprised: but still more indignant at this reception
of him. He walked up to the table at which Mr. Barrett sat. Mr. William
stood with his back to the dusty fireplace close by. Neither of them
spoke, but looked at him with that overwhelming effect of silent
observation which makes the steadiest footstep falter, and conveys
embarrassment and awkwardness into the most self-controlled being. John
said ‘Good-morning,’ and they both acknowledged it: Mr. William by an
abrupt nod, his father by the most solemn inclination of his head. The
young man did not know what to say. He stood and looked at them,
wondering, indignant, taking his little packet of papers out of his
pocket. What had he done to be so regarded?--or had he perhaps come into
the midst of some consultation about other matters with which they were
pre-occupied? He said,
‘Is there anything the matter?’ at last, saying to himself that it was
impossible he could be the cause of such concentrated solemnity, and
looking at the younger partner with a half smile.
‘There is a great deal the matter,’ said Mr. Barrett.
‘Yes,’ said his son; ‘it’s rather a grave business, Sandford. I don’t
see it in quite the same light as my father. Still, it’s at least a
great want of confidence, a strange slur upon us, who, so far as I know,
have nothing to reproach ourselves with in respect to you.’
‘Certainly not, sir,’ said John: ‘you have always been very kind and
given me every opportunity; but I hope on my part I have not done
anything to make you suppose I am ungrateful, or have not appreciated my
advantages.’
‘We have nothing to complain of so far as the works are concerned. I
think, sir, I may say that?’
‘It is a point on which I should not like to commit myself,’ said the
senior partner. ‘These works at Hampstead, so far as I hear----’
‘They went wrong when he was away. He can’t be blamed for that: he came
back before his time and went over at once, and made every thing
shipshape again. He can’t be blamed for that. Whatever went wrong was
after his leave began.’
‘An engineer,’ said the elder gentleman, in his rigid way, ‘who means
to do justice to his profession, doesn’t want leave. The works are his
first interest--he has no occasion to go away to amuse himself.’
‘Oh, come, father! you’re making that a fault which is no fault--and we
have a ground of offence which is real enough. Sandford, you came here
the other day and told me of a scheme you had for draining the Thames
valley. You may say I was disposed to pooh-pooh it a bit; but I didn’t
say more than one does naturally with a young fellow’s first ideas,
which are always so magnificent. Do you think there was a reason in
anything I said for transferring the papers as you’ve done to another
firm?’
‘I transfer them to another firm?’ cried John, ‘you must be dreaming. I
have them here.’
‘You have them there? Then what do Spender and Diggs mean by spreading
it abroad that they have had such a scheme sent to them by one of the
pupils in our office, but which we had not enterprise to take up?’
‘Spender and Diggs!’ John was so well acquainted with the name of the
rival firm that it raised no sense of humour in his mind: but something
quite different, that sense of rivalry which is so strong between the
pupils and partisans of different schools. He made a little pause,
staring at his younger employer. And then he said, ‘I don’t know the
least in the world what you mean.’
‘There is no ambiguity at all about my meaning. I say that Spender and
Diggs are putting it about everywhere that a great scheme, worked out by
one of our pupils, for the draining of the Thames valley, has been
offered to them.’
John’s countenance grew pale with horror and dismay. He cried out,
sharply,
‘Good heavens! Why, it cannot be Horrocks or Green?’
‘Don’t add slander to your other sins,’ said Mr. Barrett, severely, ‘or
endeavour to take away the character of young men who are quite
incapable----’
‘So they are,’ said John, in all good faith, ‘quite incapable. That is
true, sir; but I could not help thinking for a moment that I might have
left some of my papers about, and that they might have picked them
up--but you’re right, sir; they couldn’t do it--that is a great relief
to my mind.’
The young man was so undisguisedly relieved and so perfectly
straightforward in the whole matter, that William Barrett began to
doubt. He cast a glance at his father, who, however, sat rigid and
showed no relenting.
‘Sandford,’ said the younger man, ‘you seem to speak very fair; but
there’s this fact against you--no one supposed it was anyone’s scheme
but yours; you are the only man in our office capable of anything of the
sort; we all know that. And it’s no crime; but it is a horrid thing all
the same--a caddish, currish sort of thing--to abandon the people who
have trained you and done you every justice, and carry what I have no
doubt you believe would be profitable work to another house.’
‘I--carry work to another house! It is quite impossible that you should
believe that of me. I might have thought it if you had said I had killed
somebody,’ said John, with a faint smile of ridicule, ‘for that’s a
thing that might be done in a moment’s passion--but carry work to
another house! You cannot believe that of me.’
‘What has believing to do with it,’ said Mr. Barrett, ‘when there are
the facts that can be proved? Don’t lose time bandying words, Will.
Sandford must see that after this there can be no further connection
between us. He knows, of course, that his place at Spender and Diggs’ is
safe enough. Let him have what is owing to him and let him go. I took
him without a premium for his mother’s sake, and for the same
reason--for Mrs. Sandford is a very worthy woman--I’ve given him every
advantage, although I expected something of this sort all along.’
‘Why should something of this sort have been expected from me? What have
I done? I have done no wrong--I have all my papers in my pocket. You
said you would rather have the rough notes. Here they are, every one,’
cried John, taking out the papers from the envelope and throwing them
done on the table; ‘here are all the calculations, diagrams, and
drawings, and all. And now, Mr. Barrett, there is the question to
settle which you’ve just mentioned, which you raised long ago,’ said the
young man, with a flush of pride and anger. ‘That wretched premium! It
shall be paid before the banks close to-day. That, at all events, I can
settle at once. You have flung it in my teeth more than once when I was
powerless. Now I have it in my own hands. Your premium, of which you
have thought so much, shall be paid to-day.’
‘Stop there, Sandford,’ said the younger partner. ‘Father, I beg don’t
say anything more--let us understand the more important matter first.
You say you have brought us all your papers here. And yet I am informed
from Spender and Diggs that they have your scheme, all carefully written
out and elaborated----’
‘Ah!’ cried John, with a keen and quick sensation as if he had been
startled and could not draw his breath.
‘Of course the information doesn’t come direct from them. They wouldn’t
be likely to do anything so friendly. Prince heard all about it from one
of their men. We can have him in, and you can ask him any questions you
like. Even if I hadn’t known by what you told me, I should have felt
sure it was you who had done it,’ said William Barrett, secure in his
own command of the situation. Then he added to the man who answered his
bell, ‘Ask Mr. Prince to step this way.’
Mr. Prince had stepped that way; he had walked up to Mr. Barrett’s
table, in his precise little manner, smiling ingratiatingly when he met
his master’s eye, and had told his story before John said anything more.
He stood a little behind Prince, so startled that he could scarcely
understand what was being said, though he heard it all--recalling his
recollections and making it plain to himself what had happened. He had
not been in the habit of doing rash things, nor was he one who gave his
confidence and trust easily; but as he stood in the office, hearing the
clerk’s glib story--and feeling himself like the spectator of the
strangest little scene on the stage, instead of standing, so to speak,
on his trial, and listening to the evidence of the principal witness
against him--a rush of suggestions was going through John’s head.
The extraordinary fact which never had seemed at all strange to him
before, that he had taken into his house and into his confidence a man
of whom he knew nothing, except that he was a returned convict, showed
itself all at once to him in the clearest light. Even in his suddenly
awakened consciousness of what had happened, he felt that to call the
man whom he had thus trusted a returned convict, hurt himself as if it
had been a stab. It was on this ground he had made acquaintance with
him, because he was a man who had been punished for crime, and might
fall into crime again if he were not bolstered up by friendly help and
saved from temptation. This was what John had attempted to do, and, lo,
here was the result. He came gradually to himself through the hot and
painful confusion of this critical moment, and put a few questions to
the clerk which left no doubt on the subject. When Mr. Prince’s
examination was over, William Barrett turned to the young man, his
natural good nature and friendliness modified by the triumph of having
gained a complete victory.
‘Sandford,’ he said, ‘I don’t pretend to understand your conduct one way
or another. You came back from your holiday before your time, to tell
me of this scheme of yours. I neither said nor did anything to
discourage you, more than one does naturally to a young man. You were
engaged in our work, and bred up in our office: that should have been
reason enough against going to any other firm.’
‘It is a thing which never entered into my mind.’
‘But it did into your actions, apparently,’ said the junior partner,
with a not unnatural sneer.
‘It is what I have expected all along,’ said Mr. Barrett, piously
folding his hands. ‘It is what his mother expected, an excellent,
much-tried woman, for whose sake----’
‘Prince, you may go,’ said William Barrett, ‘and, for heaven’s sake,
father, stick to the question. Don’t bring in other things which have
nothing to do with it.’
John had a great struggle with himself. The foregone conclusion against
him with which he had so often been confronted was the one thing which
overcame his good sense and self-control. Ever since his grandfather’s
death it had been intolerable to him, and it was all he could do to
suppress the boiling-over of passionate resistance to this systematic
injustice; but with a great effort he restrained himself. He stopped the
departing witness with a wave of his hand.
‘Let Prince stay,’ he said, in a choked voice. ‘I think I perceive how
all this has occurred. Look here, did your informant say who took the
papers to Spender and Diggs? Did he say it was I?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Prince, ‘that he knew you.’
‘I have not the least doubt that you asked him who it was. If he did not
know me, he must at least have known something about me. Did he say it
was I?’
‘Well,’ said the witness, somewhat unwillingly, ‘he didn’t know who it
was. He said he thought it was an elderly man: but there are many people
always coming and going about the office, and he couldn’t be sure.’
‘Do you think it likely,’ said John, ‘that I could have gone to Spender
and Diggs’ office without being recognised?’
‘Sandford, this is all quite unnecessary,’ said William Barrett. ‘I did
not accuse you of going to Spender and Diggs’ office. You might have
employed any agent; such a thing is not necessarily--indeed, it’s not at
all likely to be done by the principal himself.’
‘Then this is what I’m accused of,’ said John. ‘I came and told you of
my scheme, for as much as it’s worth. You did discourage me, Mr.
William, but good naturedly, telling me to go to Hampstead in the first
place. I obeyed you, and finished that work last night. This morning I
come to you with my papers in my pocket, ready to submit them to you
according to your own instructions; and I am met with accusations like a
criminal. Is it likely that between hands I should have gone to Spender
and Diggs? Why should I come here now with my original papers if I had
in the meanwhile sent a copy elsewhere? Do Spender and Diggs say they
refused them? What are they supposed to have said? Why am I supposed to
have come, the first moment I was free, back here----?’
‘Were you told they were refused?’
‘No, sir,’ said Prince. ‘On the contrary, they were taken into
consideration, and thought to have something in them. That was what was
reported to me.’
‘Why, then,’ said John, ‘should I come back here?’
There was a momentary pause; and then William Barrett broke forth again.
‘What’s the use of talking of motives and reasons and why you did it?
Evidently you did do it, and there’s an end of the matter.’
‘And of our connection,’ said his father. ‘A young man that’s so false
to his employers can have no more to do in our works or our office.’
‘As you please, sir,’ said John. He had made a pause of indignation,
staring at his accusers, dumb with the passion of a thousand things he
had to say--but what was the use? He shut his lips close, growing
crimson with the strong effort of self-restraint. ‘I am sorry this
should be the end,’ he said, controlling himself desperately, ‘but, of
course, if that is your opinion, I have nothing to say. Good-bye, sir,’
the young man cried, unable to keep back that Parthian arrow, ‘it must
be a pleasure to you that I have justified your certainty, and gone to
the bad at the end.’
‘Sandford!’ said William Barrett, as John hurried out; but the young man
was too much excited to pay any attention. The junior partner followed
him to the door of the office calling after him, ‘Sandford--I say
Sandford--Sandford!’
But John paid no attention. He rushed downstairs two or three steps at a
time, and over the threshold which he had crossed so often with the
familiarity of every day life. His feet spurned it now. He seemed to be
shaking the dust from him as the rejected messengers were to do in the
Gospel. No better servant had ever been, no more dutiful pupil, and he
was conscious of this. He had never been without a thought indeed of
advancement in his own person, of carrying out a work of his own: but
all his knowledge, the knowledge acquired out of their limits in the
privacy of his own self-denying and studious youth, had been at the
service of his masters and teachers unreservedly at all times. He had
never thought of sparing himself, of doing as little as was possible,
which was the way of many of his fellow-pupils. He had done always as
much as was in him, freely and with devotion. And as the climax of so
many faithful years, he had brought to them this first fruits of his
maturing thought, this plan so long cogitated, which had been to him
what a poem is to a poet--the work in which all his faculties, not only
of calculation and practical reason, but of thought and imagination had
been concentrated. It was to be the climax, and now it was the end.
Instead of sharing his honours with them and bringing them substantial
profit, as he intended, he was sent forth with shame as a traitor, a
false servant, a disloyal man. John’s heart burned within him as,
holding his head high, and spurning the very ground, he marched out of
that familiar place.
The sting of injustice was sharp in his soul. He said to himself that he
would offer no further defence, that he would not attempt to prove the
deception that had been put upon him, or how it was that he had been
robbed at once of his scheme and honour. If it could be believed for a
moment by people who had known him for years that he was so guilty, he
would make no attempt to explain. If ever an accusation was unlikely,
unreasonable, inconsistent with every law, it was this.