MRS. PAMFLETT RECOMMENDS A NEW CLERK TO THE MISER.
Long before this, Tom Barley had grown to manhood's estate: the only
estate of which he was owner and was ever likely to possess. But,
although he had no landed property of his own to look after, he had an
object in life. He conceived it to be his particular privilege to
protect Phoebe, to run of her errands, and to be in a general way her
willing and cheerful slave. Had he been able to intelligently and
logically express himself upon the point in the early years of his
connection with Miser Farebrother, it would have been ascertained that
he founded his position upon the facts that he had held Phoebe in his
arms upon her first introduction to Parksides, that he had been smiled
upon by her mother, that he had attended the poor lady's funeral as an
important and very genuine mourner, and that, besides, he was in the
service of Miser Farebrother, who had promised to make his fortune.
Later on, these unexpressed motives were merged into an absorbing
devotion for the young girl, for whom he grew to entertain a kind of
worship which removed her from his estimate of the ordinary mortal. A
rough-and-ready knight he, ready to sacrifice himself at any moment for
the queen of his idolatry. She, it must be confessed, received his
homage very willingly, and as though it were rightly her due, and,
unconsciously to herself, she richly repaid him for his services: by
allowing him to initiate her into woodland wonders with which he had
made himself familiar, by constant smiles and bright looks, by
accepting the assistance of his hands when she crossed tumble-down
stiles, and in a hundred other general ways of faith and belief in him
which were a finer reward to Tom Barley than money could have been. Of
this latter commodity he had little enough. The twopence a week which
Miser Farebrother paid him was all he ever received from his employer,
in addition to scraps of food from the kitchen upon which he managed to
subsist. But, living in civilized society, clothing was a prescribed
necessity, and was not to be obtained upon eight-and-eightpence a year.
Tom dropped a hint or two, but Miser Farebrother was oblivious, and
callous to the peeping of flesh through tatters.
"You extravagant dog," he said, "I did not undertake to clothe you.
Look at me: _I_ can't afford fine new clothes! Go and hang about the
village, when you've nothing to do here, and look for an odd job.
That's the way to earn honest pennies. Many a millionaire began with
less. And, Tom," he added, "when you've saved a few shillings, I dare
say I can find an old pair of trousers that I'll sell you cheap."
Tom profited by the suggestion, and in a little while found the way to
earn a good many honest pennies. Miser Farebrother fished out of his
scanty wardrobe some tattered garments, which he disposed of to Tom,
and it was then that the lad exhibited himself in a new character,
which drove the miser to desperation. He bargained with his master and
beat him down to the last penny; Tom was not devoid of shrewdness, and
he was beginning to understand the miser.
"If every man was as generous as I am," grumbled Miser Farebrother, at
the conclusion of their first barter, "he'd soon be on the road to
ruin."
"They're full of holes," said Tom, turning the clothes over and
examining them ruefully. The miser would not allow him to handle them
until the bargain was completed and the money safe in his pocket: "look
here, and here!"
"Look here, and here, you dog!" retorted Miser Farebrother. "Do I
charge you anything for their being too big for you? Can't you cut off
the bottoms of the trousers, and patch the knees with the extra bits?
You ought to give the pieces back to me; but I make you a present of
them."
Tom was quick enough at taking a hint. Being thrown upon his own
resources, and imbued with the cheerfulest of spirits, he soon became
proficient with the needle, and, by patching here and darning there,
managed to maintain a tolerably decent appearance. He might have done
better, had he not been afflicted by an insatiable hungering for
brandy-balls, which, at three a penny, was a temptation not to be
resisted whenever he had a copper to spare. To see him rolling one in
his mouth was a picture of unalloyed bliss.
Mrs. Pamflett and he were not good friends, and an incident which will
be presently related did not dispose them more favourably to each
other. He was more fortunate with Mrs. Lethbridge. This good-hearted
woman had noticed his unselfish devotion to Phoebe, and he won her
favour thereby. Many a small silver bit found its way from her pocket
to his; and more than once she bore with her to Parksides a little
parcel containing a waistcoat, or an undershirt, or a couple of pairs
of socks, which had served their time at home, but which were not so
utterly worn out as not to be useful to Tom. He was very grateful for
these gifts, and showed his appreciation of them by forcing a
brandy-ball upon her now and then. She went further. Impressed by
Phoebe's constant praise of the young fellow, and recognizing that the
girl had near her, when she was absent, a stanch and faithful champion,
ever ready to protect and defend her, she took Tom Barley into her
confidence.
"Can you read, Tom?" she asked.
"Yes, lady," he replied. "Square letters--not round uns. And I can
write 'em."
Thereupon Mrs. Lethbridge wrote her name and address in Camden Town on
a piece of paper, in square letters; and Tom spelt them aloud.
"Keep this by you," said Mrs. Lethbridge; "and if ever anything happens
to Miss Farebrother, and you don't know what to do, come for me at
once. Here's a two-shilling piece. You must not spend it; you must put
it carefully away, in case you need it for this special purpose. The
railway fare to London and back is eighteenpence; an omnibus will bring
you very near to my house for threepence. You understand?"
"I understand, lady. But trust me for taking care of Miss Phoebe."
"I do, Tom; but something we don't think of just now might happen, and
Miss Phoebe might want you to come for me. Or you might think, 'I wish
Miss Phoebe had somebody with her who feels like a mother to her, and
who loves her very tenderly.'"
"So do I, lady," said Tom, in an earnest tone. "I'll do as you tell me.
You can trust me."
"I know it, Tom, and so does Miss Phoebe. She says she doesn't know
what she should do without you."
"_I_ shouldn't know what to do without _her_," said Tom, feeling very
proud. That he was trusted, and that his young mistress valued his
services, gave him a feeling of self-respect.
From that day he became more than ever Phoebe's faithful knight, and it
was when Phoebe was twelve years of age that the incident occurred,
springing out of his championship of the little maid, which increased
Mrs. Pamflett's aversion to him. Tom at that time was twenty-four, and
had grown into a long lean man, looking two or three inches taller than
he really was because of his extreme lankiness. His coats and trousers
were now always too short for his arms and legs, and he was remarkable
for a lavish protuberance and exhibition of bone. He was very strong,
and was noted as a fleet runner; he could start off at a rapid swinging
gait, and keep his wind and pace for hours. This accomplishment had
brought grist to his mill on several occasions, when he was backed by a
sporting publican against men who had an opinion of themselves as fast
runners. "Five shillings if you win, Tom," said the sporting publican,
"and nothing if you lose." This was a sufficient incentive, and Tom
invariably won, to the satisfaction of most of the on-lookers, for he
was a favourite with all who knew him. He had weaknesses, but no vices;
his taste for brandy-balls rather increased than diminished with his
years, and though temptations to drink were frequently thrown out to
him, he was never known to touch a glass of liquor. Not at all a bad
sort of fellow, this Tom Barley, and a very handy man to look after our
little heroine.
One of his weaknesses was a fondness for all kinds of street shows,
most especially for "Punch and Judy," at which he would stand and gaze
and laugh with the heartiness of a boy. A capital ladder was he for
small children, whom he would hoist to his shoulders in order that they
might have a good view of the show, and his kindly nature would always
gravitate to the weakest and smallest of the eager throng. It was
during a representation of this immortal tragical comedy that a new
acquaintance was made by Tom Barley and his young mistress. The meeting
became historical, by force of exciting detail and vivid colour, and
one small boy was covered with glory. It is opportunity that creates
heroes.
To commence at the commencement, it was on this day revealed to Phoebe
and Tom that Mrs. Pamflett had a son. She had never spoken of him to
them, and when he made his first appearance at Parksides they were
absent in the village. His mission at Parksides was the opening of a
career.
Miser Farebrother had an office in London, in which he transacted the
greater portion of his business. It was his habit to go to London every
morning and return every evening. He had a third-class annual ticket,
every fresh renewal of which drove daggers into his heart. A clerk who
had starved in his employment had suddenly taken courage and left him,
impressed by the idea that he could starve more agreeably in another
situation; for Miser Farebrother not only paid the smallest of wages,
but he was a bully and a tyrant to those who were dependent upon him.
On the evening before the day on which the historical events about to
be recorded took place a violent altercation had occurred between Miser
Farebrother and his slave of a clerk, and the man, suddenly jumping
from his stool, flung down his pen, took his hat from the peg, damned
Miser Farebrother, and left the office, to which he swore he would
never return. Miser Farebrother was very much astonished; the man had
been useful and had grown into his ways, and he had so browbeaten and
oppressed him that he did not think a particle of spirit was left in
the drudge. And all at once, here he was in a state of rebellion!
"You'll die in a ditch!" he called after the man.
There were crumbs of comfort, however, in the act which caused Miser
Farebrother to rub his hands with satisfaction. His clerk had left on a
Thursday: four days' wages saved.
There were confidences between the miser and Mrs. Pamflett, and when he
returned to Parksides he related to her what had occurred.
"You will want a new clerk," she said. "Take Jeremiah."
Miser Farebrother put his right hand up to his chin, and repeated,
musingly, "Take Jeremiah."
"You couldn't do better," said Mrs. Pamflett, "and you are almost
certain to do worse."
She spoke in a hard tone; there was no pleading in her voice and
manner: had there been, the probability is that she would not have
succeeded.
"How old is he now?" asked Miser Farebrother.
"Seventeen last birthday."
"Decent looking?"
"Yes."
"A good writer?"
"Here is his last letter to me," said Mrs. Pamflett, handing it to the
miser.
He examined it carefully; the writing was excellent. He returned it to
his housekeeper.
"How about his figures?"
"He is splendid at them. That is what he was distinguished for at
school."
"Was he distinguished for anything else? For instance, for keeping his
own counsel?"
"He can do that."
"Is he fond of pleasure?"
"He wants to get along in the world."
"Willing to work hard?"
"Try him."
"I will think of it," said Miser Farebrother, going to his room. It was
not his habit to do things in a hurry.
He passed the night as usual writing in his account-books, and making
calculations of money and dates, and reckoning up compound interest at
different rates of percentage per month. He never lent money at
interest per annum, but always at compound interest per month, a system
which swelled his profits enormously. A ledger slipped from the table
to the ground, and stooping to reach it, he found himself unable to
rise. He beat the floor with his hands, and called out for his
housekeeper; but it was many minutes before she heard him and came to
his help. She assisted him to his feet, and into his chair, where he
sat, twisting and groaning.
"Rub my back, rub my back! Lower, lower! A little more to the left! No;
that's not the place! Ah, now you're right. Keep rubbing--harder,
harder. Oh! oh!"
"I told you the other night," said Mrs. Pamflett, composedly, as she
carried out his instructions, "when you walked home from the station in
the sopping rain, that you'd catch lumbago; and now you've got it."
"Oh! oh!" cried Miser Farebrother. "You're a witch, you're a witch! You
laid a spell upon me. What did you do it for? Do you think I shall put
you down in my will, and that my death will make you rich? You're
mistaken; I've no money to leave and if I had, _you_ shouldn't have it.
No one should have it--no one. 'Walk home in the rain!'--what else
could I do? Can I afford carriages to ride in? You know I can't; you
know it, you know it! Rub away--harder--harder! Have you got no life in
you?"
He lay back in his chair, gasping, his pains somewhat relieved.
"You won't be able to move to-morrow," said Mrs. Pamflett; "and now
you've begun to have lumbago, it will never leave you."
"What! You're putting more spells on me, are you? Witches ought to be
burnt. It's a good job there's nothing particular to do at the office
to-morrow; only it isn't safe to leave it alone day or night."
"No, it isn't," said Mrs. Pamflett. "Somebody ought to sleep there. I
always thought that. Jeremiah could. You'd best get to bed now; I'll
help you. Then I'll get some turpentine and flannel; it will do you
good, perhaps. Yes, some person in whom you have confidence, should
sleep in the office."
"There's no such person," he snarled. "Everybody tries to rob
me--everybody--everybody!"
"How will it be," said Mrs. Pamflett, not in the slightest way ruffled,
"when you're laid up a week at a time, and can't go to London to attend
your customers? It will happen; I know what lumbago is. Once get it
into your bones, there's no driving it out."
"It isn't in my bones; it's only a slight attack. I can walk now if I
please. See; I can stand up straight, and--Oh! oh!"
Down he fell again, and when Mrs. Pamflett attempted to assist him he
screamed out, "Let me be! let me be! You're twisting me wrong! You want
to kill me!"
Presently, when there was less need for his comical physical
contortions, which did not elicit from Mrs. Pamflett either a smile or
the slightest expression of sympathy, she returned to the attack.
"Jeremiah is the very person you want. If you don't have him, I shall
obtain another situation for him, and then you will lose a treasure."
"A treasure!" he retorted, scornfully. "Of course: every cock crows on
its own dunghill. Jeremiah's a precious stone, eh? A very precious
stone!"
"He is. He's the brightest, cleverest lad you've ever come across."
"Ah," he said, with a cunning cock of his head; "but we don't want'm
too clever; do we?"
"He will do everything you want done in the way you wish," said Mrs.
Pamflett, calmly; "and if that doesn't content you, nothing will. He
writes well, as you have seen; he knows all about book-keeping; and
he's as sharp as a needle."
"Takes after his mother?" observed Miser Farebrother, with a sardonic
leer.
"No; I was never very clever, I've missed things. He won't, being a
man. I'm glad I didn't have a girl. As a rule, I hate them."
"How about Phoebe?"
"She's well enough, but there's not much love lost between us. She
don't take to me, and I don't take to her. It's on her side, mostly,
not mine. She has nothing to complain of, any more than you have."
"Oh, I don't complain," he said, his wary eyes on her.
"Perhaps it's as well you don't. You must have somebody here, and you
would most likely get some one in my place who'd eat you out of house
and home. Female servants are a nice set! Shall I send for Jeremiah?
Will you see him here to-morrow?"
"Yes," said Miser Farebrother; he was now in bed, and Mrs. Pamflett was
tucking him in; "you may send for him. I will see him to-morrow."