SNOWY ENGLAND.
Oscar sat alone in the office. It was Saturday afternoon, and the
other clerks had already taken their departure. He had undertaken
to finish what work still remained; and a pile of letters lay upon
the desk before him. Outside the snow was lazily falling, and he had
no disposition for the football match in the town ground, which had
attracted his comrades. He scarcely felt inclined to leave the hot
little fire, and face the cold walk to River Street.
Oscar was not looking well just now, and he was feeling a little
depressed. The winter had been rather a dreary season for him. He
missed Sheila and the pleasant Sundays spent with her at Cossart Place.
The monotony of his present work oppressed him more than it had done
at first. He had braced himself at the outset to bear their reverse of
fortune bravely, and he knew that they were lucky in having relations
who had come forward to help them at that crisis in their affairs. He
had resolved not to disappoint them, and had thrown himself with as
much interest and energy as possible into his new tasks.
But we all know that it is easier to bring enthusiasm and energy to the
commencement of a new routine than to maintain it day after day and
week after week. Oscar had never liked the routine work of the office,
and latterly he had had a good deal of it. The senior clerk had died
rather suddenly in September, and his place had not been filled. Oscar
had been given a part of his work, and North had lent his energies to
filling the gap. It had made the office work heavier than had been
the case at first, though Oscar had been glad to help his uncle in
the emergency, and even Cyril had sometimes come down and offered his
services.
Gradually Oscar had come to be looked upon as head of the office under
North. The other clerks, if not younger, were less responsible, and
looked to him as being a relative of Mr. Cossart’s. This was pleasant
in a way, but it kept Oscar more to his desk than he had expected, and
the contrast to his old life of freedom was sometimes keenly felt.
He was not very robust, and the cold damp winter tried him. There had
been little severe frost, but a wet, dank fog had hung about, with
drizzling rain or sleety snow. He had to turn out in all weathers, and
had not time or energy for exercise of a more exhilarating character
than the daily walk to the office. So that he drooped somewhat as the
winter wore away, and felt little spring for anything beyond his daily
round.
However, the week’s work was now finished, and he was just
contemplating closing the office when his uncle came quickly in, a look
of vexation upon his face.
He had some papers in his hand, and one of these he threw down upon the
desk before the young man, saying in a vexed tone—
“Look there, Oscar! What does this mean? Here is that bill come in a
second time from Jones and Wright, and I gave you the money to pay it
with in October. They are a small firm, and I never keep them waiting
for payment. What does it mean?”
Oscar looked at the bill, pondered a moment, for many bills went
through his hands now, and his memory was not very strong for detail;
then a flash of enlightenment seemed to come upon him, and he exclaimed—
“Oh, I remember now. You gave me the money in cash. But, uncle, the
bill was paid, and I have the receipt, and it’s all checked off in the
books. I will show you.”
Oscar got down the file and ledger, found the place in the latter,
where the entry had been made, and produced the former bill duly
receipted.
Mr. Tom looked at it, and compared it with the paper on the desk.
“A singular mistake for Jones and Wright to make,” he observed.
“However, I will see them myself. It is close by, and I daresay they
will not have closed already.”
He went off, and Oscar, without thinking more of the matter, shut up
the desks and such places as were under his care, gave out the letters
for the post, and went home.
He wished there had been something else to do than to go to the River
Street house. Had Sheila only been there, he would have spent the
Sunday at Cossart Place, for he was a favourite in that house, Effie
having taken one of her rather capricious fancies to him. But it was no
use thinking of that now; and he went home in the snow, glad to find
himself under shelter, although there was nobody to give him a welcome.
The Bensons were always “at home” on Saturday afternoons, and it was
the fashion now for the Cossarts to be there pretty regularly. The
two families had always been intimate, now they were almost like one.
Raby’s marriage was being talked of for the coming summer. Her mind was
already very full of the trousseau and wedding finery.
Oscar established himself in the library and commenced his weekly
journal letter to Sheila. He had posted one for the mail yesterday, but
he had not been able to tell her of several small items of interest
which had occurred during the past week. He was still writing when his
uncle came in with a very grave look upon his face.
Oscar felt at once that something must be amiss, but it did not occur
to him that the matter would affect him personally. He looked up with a
question in his eyes, and was perplexed at the grave unbending glance
that met his.
“I have been to Jones and Wright about that bill, Oscar,” he said, in
very measured tones, and then came to a full stop.
“Yes, uncle?” said Oscar, with a note of interrogation in his voice,
and then came to a deadlock himself, feeling uncomfortable without
knowing why.
“Just that, Oscar. I have been to them. They tell me that bill was
never paid. That receipt was not made by any of their people. They
invariably use their stamp; they do not write across the postage stamp
with a pen. I verified this by going back to the office and looking
up former receipts. See here, I have brought the bills to show you.
No, Oscar, do not speak yet, I do not wish you to do so. Take time.
I will leave the papers here with you now. Later on I will come for
your explanation. Remember, my boy, that all I look for is a free and
candid explanation and confession, whatever the fault may be. You are
my sister’s son, and I shall not forget that.”
And Mr. Tom walked rather hastily from the room, leaving Oscar sitting
with the bills before him, and a dazed expression upon his face.
It took him a little time to collect himself and gather all the
significance of this thing. Bit by bit it came to him that a deed had
been done by some person which was nothing more or less than the theft
of forty pounds; for that was the amount of the bill. The money had
been given to him in cash—he remembered that. Usually debts were paid
by cheque, but now and then, when there was a good deal of cash in
the office, payments were made in this way; but when this method was
employed, it was always North or himself who was entrusted with the
money.
A burning flush rose to Oscar’s cheek. He strove to recall what he
had done with that forty odd pounds. He had no recollection of going
to that place himself with the money. He must have entrusted it to
somebody else, in that easy-going way of which North had warned him
more than once.
Oscar thrust his hands through his hair, and racked his brains
desperately. He saw at once what a terrible temptation he had put in
somebody’s way. It had hardly occurred to him as yet that he might fall
under suspicion himself; but he realised that through his easy-going
carelessness—his way of trusting the other clerks with business given
him to do, and doing theirs in exchange—he had been the cause of
a serious monetary loss to his uncle, and had enabled somebody to
embezzle money and perhaps lay the foundation of a career of crime.
It was a terrible thought. But who—who was the culprit? Careless as
Oscar knew himself to be, it did not yet seem to him that he would
readily have put so large a sum of cash into the hands of a young
clerk, and yet he had never suspected one of them of the smallest
deflection from rectitude, and certainly he had given it to somebody.
He looked at the date of the false receipt. It was just after the death
of Curtis, when the office was in some confusion and the pressure
of work heavy. He might well have overlooked the memory of the
transaction. And yet he did seem to have some floating impression of
a talk with somebody about the payment of the bill, and he distinctly
remembered filing the receipt and making the entry in the ledger.
But to whom had he given the money?
He pulled out the tiny pocket diary he carried, where he just dotted
down notes of things to be told to Sheila. He found the day in
question, and noted the initial C. in one corner.
That meant that Cyril had been helping them. He remembered he had told
Sheila of the condescension of the great ’Varsity man! And then with a
start it came over him. Could it have been Cyril who had paid the bill?
Or at least who had taken the money to do so, and brought back the
supposed receipt?
Oscar’s heart beat thick and fast. He buried his face in his hands and
thought. Slowly there seemed to come to him some such recollection,
but was it only imagination? He remembered the pressure of that day.
He remembered his uncle coming in and out with various orders. He
remembered the money being given him with instructions to pay the bill
at once; but there absolute memory failed him. Yet Oscar thought he
would remember had he entrusted another with the task, though had Cyril
offered in his easy way to go and pay the bill, most likely he would
have agreed without a second thought. As he pondered the matter over
and over, it seemed to grow clearer in his mind that Cyril had taken
the matter into his own hands; but the very thought of this struck
him with a sort of terror. Cyril was a son of the house. He was still
the favourite of his parents. They would never, never believe such a
thing of him. It would be almost impossible even to suggest it. And
then Oscar could not be certain that he remembered the circumstance,
only fleeting visions passed before his mind’s eye, together with the
conviction that he would not have so easily forgotten the matter had
not Cyril or North been his substitute. If he had made over the money
to a brother clerk, he felt certain he would have recollected the
matter.
And whilst he was in the midst of these troubled cogitations, who
should come in but Cyril himself.
Oscar looked up eagerly.
“You are the very person I was wanting,” he said, not pausing to
consider whether or not open speech were the most diplomatic way of
treating this problem. “Cyril, do you remember those days after Curtis
died when you came and helped in the office?”
Suddenly Cyril’s eyes narrowed slightly; if Oscar had not been so
absorbed himself, he might have noticed the indefinable change that
passed over Cyril’s face, but his voice was quite gay and easy.
“I remember coming and writing a lot of very dry letters, but I
hope you don’t expect me to quote you their contents after three
months!”—and he laughed.
“Do you remember your father bringing in some money and giving it to me
to pay a bill of Jones and Wright?”
Cyril turned to poke the fire, and seemed to be pausing to refresh his
memory.
“I think I have a vague recollection of something of the sort, though
what firm it was I should be sorry to say. I remember his putting some
money on your desk, and I think I advised you to lock it up.”
Oscar gave a little start; those words brought back a fresh wave of
recollection, but his heart beat heavily and seemed to fall within him.
He had not a very high opinion of Cyril’s moral courage. If indeed he
had been guilty—but Oscar would not pursue the thought farther lest he
should lose his self-control.
“Cyril, didn’t you take the money to pay the bill? Don’t you remember
saying you had written enough, and would like a breath of fresh air? We
thought it would get rid of the money lying about. Didn’t you take it
and bring back the receipt?”
“I?” questioned Cyril lightly, leaning forward and making another
vigorous onslaught at the fire. “I don’t recollect ever paying a firm’s
bill in my life! But suppose I did, what then?”
“Well, there has been a mistake about this bill,” said Oscar. “Either
it was not paid, and the person who had the money receipted it; or
else it was paid to some unauthorised person in Jones and Wright’s who
pocketed the money and receipted the bill without using the firm’s
stamp. Anyway the money has never got into the right hands, and I am
very uneasy about it, because I can’t be sure who it was that took the
money from me. And it is such a dreadful thing to think of anybody’s
being a thief. I wondered if you had given it afterwards to some other
person. I can’t help having a vague impression that you had something
to do with it, Cyril.”
Oscar looked up appealingly. Stronger and more strong was the notion
coming to him that Cyril was the responsible person. But how would it
be possible to bring it home to him if he denied? Oscar did not think
either of the younger clerks had been present when the talk between
them passed. He seemed to remember Cyril’s saying it had better be
paid, and his taking the money away before the lads came back from
their dinner. Yes, he felt more and more certain every minute. But
Cyril lay back in his chair and laughed.
“My dear fellow, you are quite making a mare’s nest for yourself. I
had nothing whatever to do with the matter. I recollect my father’s
bringing you the money and telling you to pay, and I recommended you
to lock it up out of sight. That is all I know of the matter, and I’m
afraid I can’t help you out of your difficulty——”
And there Cyril suddenly stopped short for North had entered the room,
and it was plain from his face that he knew the story and had come to
talk the matter over with Oscar.
“I’ll leave you to have it out together,” said Cyril rather hastily,
rising and walking away. “I wish I could help you to a better memory,
Oscar; but, perhaps, if you and North talk it over together you’ll get
some light on the subject.”
He walked off whistling, closing the door behind him. North looked
after him with the same rather stern expression on his face that it had
worn on entering.
“Oscar,” he said slowly, “do you mean that Cyril is in any way mixed up
in this wretched business?”
Oscar dropped his eyes and spoke in a very low tone.
“I don’t know, North.”
(_To be continued._)
THE COURTSHIP OF CATHERINE WEST.