"So you had that fine gentleman, Mr.
Algernon--What-d'ye-call-it--Errington, here last evening?" said
Jonathan Maxfield to his daughter, on his return from Duckwell.
"Yes, father; he had been before in the afternoon. He was very anxious
to see you; but Aunt Betty told him you wouldn't be back until to-day."
"Very anxious to see me, was he? I have my own opinion about that. But,
no doubt, he wants me to believe that he's anxious."
"He seems in a good deal of distress of mind, father."
"I daresay. And what about the minds of the folks as hold his promises
to pay? Just so much waste paper, those are, I take it; I'd as lief have
his word of honour myself. And most people in Whitford know what that's
worth."
"I think he has been very unfortunate, father."
"H'm! What worldly folks calls misfortin' is generally the Lord's
dealing according to deserts. It's set forth in Scripture that the
righteous man shall prosper, and the unrighteous be brought to naught."
"But--father, even good people are sometimes chastened by afflictions,"
said Rhoda timidly.
Old Max knitted his brows.
"There's nothing," said he, "more dangerous than for the young and
inexperienced to wrest texts; it leads 'em far astray. When that kind o'
chastening is spoken of, it don't mean the sort of trouble as has fallen
on young Errington. The Almighty has given every man reason enough to
understand that, if he spends thirteenpence out of every shilling, he'll
be beggared before the year's end. I don't believe in men being ruined
without fault or foolishness of their own."
"He asked me if I--if you--if I thought----he asked me to ask you to
have a little patience with him about some bills. I didn't know that he
had any bill here; but he said you would understand."
"Aye, aye! I understand. It isn't bills for tea, and flour, and bacon,
and such like. It's a different kind o' bills the young gentleman's been
meddling with; and a fine hand he's made of it."
"Couldn't you help him, father?"
Rhoda spoke pleadingly, but with the timidity which always attended her
requests to her father, whose recent indulgence had never reached a
point of weakness, and who clearly showed, in all his dealings with his
daughter, that he was not carried away by his affection for her, but
acted with the consciousness of a will unfettered by precedents, and
perfectly able to choose its course without regard to what other people
might expect of him.
For herself, in pleading for Algernon, she was not moved by
self-conscious sentimentality, neither did she suppose herself to be
doing anything heroic. The peculiar tenderness she still felt for him
was made up of pity and memory. The Algy she had loved was gone--had
melted into thin air, like a dream under the morning sunlight. Mr.
Errington, the postmaster of Whitford, and the husband of the Honourable
Castalia Kilfinane, was a very different personage. Still he was
inextricably connected in her mind with that bright idol of her
childhood and her youth. His marriage had put all possibility of
love-making between him and herself as much out of the question, to her
mind, as if he had been proved to be her brother. Rhoda had read no
romances, and she was neither of an innovating spirit nor a passionate
temperament, and it is surprising what power a sincere conviction of the
irrevocable and inevitable has to control the "natural feelings" we hear
so much of! But she clung tenaciously to a better opinion of Algernon
than his actions warranted--as has been the case with many another
woman--chiefly to justify herself for ever having loved him.
"Couldn't you help him, father?" she repeated, seeing that her father
did not at once reply, but was sitting meditating, with a not altogether
ill-pleased expression of face.
"Help him!" cried old Max. "Why should I help him? A reprobate,
unregenerate, vain, ungrateful worldling! I did help him once, and
earned much gratitude for my pains. And what a sneaking, poor, mean,
pitiful fellow he must be to come here and whine to you! A poor, pitiful
fellow! Talk of a gentleman! Yah!"
Old Max derived so much grim satisfaction from the contemplation of
Algernon's pitiful behaviour that it seemed almost to soften him towards
the culprit, in whom any glimpse of nobility would not have been very
welcome to his enemy. When you hate a man on excellent private grounds,
it is certainly unpleasant to see him displaying qualities in public
which win a fallacious admiration. And this aggravation was one which
old Max had been suffering for some time at the hands of the popular
Algernon. His present money difficulties, combined with his unworthy
methods of meeting them, at once gratified and justified Jonathan
Maxfield's vindictiveness.
He gave forth the queer grunting noise that served him for a laugh, as
he said, "And a lot o' good his fine marriage has done him! And his
grand relations! I told him long ago that if he wanted help from such as
them, he must ask it with a pocket full of money. Then he might ha' been
uplifted into high places. And it wasn't only my own wisdom neither,
though that might ha' been enough for such a half-fledged young cockerel
as he was in them days, seeing it has been enough for his betters before
now. I had the warrant of Scripture; for what says Solomon? 'Wealth
maketh many friends; but the poor is separated from his neighbour.'"
Still Rhoda did not altogether despair of inducing her father to do
something for Algernon. What that something might be, or how far it was
possible for her father to assist young Errington, except by simply
giving or lending him money, Rhoda was ignorant. Algernon in talking to
her had spoken very glibly, but, to her, very unintelligibly, of bills
which were in her father's hands; and had pointed out, with an air of
candour and conviction, that it would be imprudent on Mr. Maxfield's
part to drive matters to extremity. It had all sounded very convincing,
simply from the tone in which it was said. Many of us are astonishingly
uncritical as to the coherence and cogency of words if they be but set
to a good tune.
Algernon himself was rather hopeful since that interview with Rhoda. It
could not be, after all, that Jonathan Maxfield would actually cause
him, Algernon Errington, any personal inconvenience for the sake of a
sum which was really a mere trifle to Maxfield, and which appeared very
trifling to Algernon under every aspect except that of being called upon
to pay it.
He had learned not long previously that certain bills he had given,
backed by the name of that solid capitalist, the Honourable Jack Price,
had found their way into old Max's hands. This startled him
considerably, for he had no reason to count on the old man's
forbearance. The time was drawing nigh when the bills would become due.
About a month ago some other bills had fallen due, and had been duly
honoured. They had been given to a London wine merchant, who would
certainly not have scrupled to take any strong measure for getting his
money. And even the name of Jack Price was no talisman to charm away
this grasping tradesman's determination to be paid for goods delivered;
the wine merchant in question doing a large City business, and feeling
no anxiety as to the opinion entertained by the Honourable Mr. Price's
fashionable connection about himself or his wares. Under the pressure of
this disagreeable conviction, the money had been found to honour the
bills held by the wine merchant.
For the discharge of the liabilities represented by the bills now in
Maxfield's hands, Algernon had reckoned on Castalia's extracting some
money from her uncle. Algernon did not abandon the hope that she might
yet succeed in doing so. Castalia must be urged to make new and stronger
representations of their necessities to Lord Seely. But it could not be
denied that my lord's last letter had been a very heavy blow; and that,
moreover, a number of slight embarrassments, which Algernon had hitherto
looked on as mere gossamer threads, to be broken when he pleased, had
recently exhibited a disconcerting toughness and power of constraining
his actions and destroying his comfort.
The thought not infrequently occurred to him that, if he were alone in
the world, unhampered by a wife who had no flexibility of character, and
who had recently displayed a stubborn kind of obtuseness, showing itself
in such remarks as that if they had not money to pay for luxuries, they
must do without luxuries, and that if they were poor, it would be better
to seem poor, and the like dull commonplaces, which were peculiarly
distasteful to Algernon's vivacious intelligence--if, he thought, he had
no wife, or a different wife, things would undoubtedly go better with
him. He was too quick not to perceive that his marriage, far from
improving his social position, had been eminently unpopular amongst his
friends and acquaintances. To be sure he had never intended to return to
Whitford after allying himself with the family of Lord Seely. He had
meant to shake the dust of the sleepy little town from his feet for
ever. He reckoned up the advantages he had expected to gain by marrying
Castalia, and set the real result against each one in his mind.
He had expected to get into the diplomatic service. He was a provincial
postmaster!
He had expected to live in some splendid metropolis. He found himself in
the obscure town which, of all others, he wished to avoid!
He had expected to be courted and caressed by wealthy, noble, and
distinguished persons. He was looked coldly or shyly upon by even the
insignificant middle-class society of a county town!
All this seemed peculiarly hard and unjust, because Algernon had always
intended to bear his honours gracefully, without stiffness or arrogance.
He would cut nobody; he would turn the cold shoulder to nobody. He had
pictured himself sometimes making a meteoric reappearance in Whitford
some day; flashing with brief brilliancy across the horizon of that
remote neighbourhood, affably shaking hands with old acquaintance,
occupying the best rooms in the "Blue Bell," and scattering largesse
among the servants, rattling through the streets side by side with some
county magnate, whose companionship should by no means chill his
recognition of such local stars of the second or third magnitude as the
Pawkinses of Pudcombe Hall. He was inclined by taste and temperament to
be thoroughly "_bon prince_."
Such fancies may seem childish, but it was a fact that Algernon had
indulged in them. With all his tact, he had a considerable strain of his
mother's Ancramism in his blood. And the contrast between those former
day-dreams and the present reality was so terrible, so mortifying, so
ridiculous (direst and most soul-chilling word of all to Algernon!) that
he was unable to face it. Some way out must be found. It was impossible,
on any tenable theory of society, that he should be permanently
consigned to oblivion and the daily round of inglorious duties.
As to what Lord Seely said about meriting advancement by diligence, and
working for ten or fifteen years, it seemed to Algernon pretty much like
exhorting a convict to step his daily round of treadmill in so
painstaking a manner as to win the approbation of the gaol authorities.
What would he care for their approbation? It was impossible to take
either pride or pleasure in working out one's penal sentence.
Algernon felt very bitter against Lord Seely as he pondered these
things, and not a little bitter against Castalia, who had, as it were,
bound him to this wheel, and had latterly added the sting of her
intolerable temper to his other vexations. Fate had used him
despitefully. He seemed to consider that some gratitude was due to him
on the part of the supernal powers for his excellent intentions--he
would have borne prosperity so well! A feeling grew upon him, which
would have been desperation but for his ever-present, instinctive
efforts not to hurt himself.
On the morning after the visit to Maxfield's house--of which Castalia
had been an unseen witness--Algernon went to the post-office somewhat
earlier than usual. As he reached it a man was coming out, who scowled
upon him with so sullen and hostile a countenance, that it affected him
like a blow.
He was, on the whole, in better spirits on this special morning than he
had been for some time past. Not that he was habitually depressed by his
troubles, but there was a certain apprehension and anxiety in his daily
life which flavoured it all unpleasantly. But on this morning he was,
for various reasons, feeling hopeful of at least a reprieve from care,
and the man's angry frown not only hurt but startled him.
"Who is that fellow who has just gone out?" he asked of Gibbs, entering
the office by the public door instead of his own private one, in order
to put the question.
"That is Roger Heath, the man who has lost his money-letter."
"An uncommonly ill-looking rascal, I take leave to think."
"Ahem! He is a decent, God-fearing man, sir, I believe; but at present
he is wrath, and not without some excuse, either. He tells me he has
written to the head office----"
"And what then?"
"And has been told that due inquiries will be made, of course."
"And what then?"
"Why then--I suppose that's the last he'll hear of it."
Algernon lightly flicked a white handkerchief over his face and bright
curling hair, filling the close little office with a delicate perfume as
he said, "So there's an end of that!"
"An end of it, I suppose, so far as Heath is concerned. But I doubt we
shall hear more of the matter in the office."
Algernon paused with his hand on the lock of the door leading to his
private room. He kept his hand there, and scarcely turned his head as he
asked, "How so?"
Mr. Gibbs shook his head, and began to expatiate on the singular
misfortunes which had been accumulated on the Whitford Post-office, and
to hint that when two or three suspicious cases had followed each other
in that way, an office was marked by the superior authorities, and means
were taken to discover the culprit.
"Means! What means?" said Algernon, carelessly. "You said yourself that
it was next to impossible to trace a stolen letter. And, really, if
people will be such idiots as to send money by post without precaution,
in spite of all the warnings that are given to them, they deserve to
lose it."
"That may be, sir. Still, of course, it is no light matter to steal a
letter. And as to the means of tracing it, why I have heard of
trap-letters being sent, containing marked money."
The handle clicked, the door was opened and sharply shut again, and the
Whitford postmaster disappeared into his private room.
It was more than an hour before Algernon reappeared in the outer office.
He advanced towards Gibbs, and leaning on his shoulder with great
affability, said to him in a low voice, "You've no suspicion of any one
about this place, eh? The old woman that cleans the office, that boy
Jem, no suspicion of anybody, eh? Oh! well I'm excessively glad of that!
One hates to be distrustful of the people about one."
Gibbs shook his head emphatically and decisively. "No one has access to
the office unless in my presence, sir; not a creature."
"The fact is," said Algernon, slowly, "that I have missed one or two
papers of my own lately; matters of no consequence. God knows why anyone
should have thought it worth while to take them! But they're gone."
Gibbs looked up with serious alarm in his face.
"Dear me, sir!" he exclaimed; "dear me, Mr. Errington! I wish you had
mentioned this before."
"Oh well, you know, I thought I might be mistaken. I hate being on the
watch about trifles. But latterly I am quite sure that papers have
disappeared from my secretaire."
"From that little cabinet with drawers in it, that stands in your room?"
"Exactly."
"But--I was under the impression that you kept that carefully locked!"
Algernon laughed outright. "What a fellow you are, Gibbs! Fancy my
keeping anything carefully locked! The fact is, it is as often open as
shut. Only a few days ago, for instance, Mrs. Errington mentioned to me
that she found it unlocked when she was here----" He stopped as if
struck by a sudden thought, and turned his eyes away from Gibbs, who was
looking up at him with the same uneasy expression on his face.
"By-the-way, Mrs. Errington did not stay very long here, did she?" asked
Algernon, with a degree of marked embarrassment very unusual in him. It
was an embarrassment so ingeniously displayed that one might almost have
suspected he wished it to be observed.
"When do you mean, sir? Mrs. Errington comes very often; very often
indeed."
"Does she?--I mean--I mean the last time she was here. Did she stay long
then?"
"N--no," answered Gibbs, removing his eyes from Algernon's face, and
biting the feather of his pen thoughtfully. "At least, I think not, sir.
I cannot be sure. She very often does not pass out through my office,
but goes away by the private door in the passage."
There was a pause.
"I really am very glad that you don't suspect any of the people about
the place, Gibbs," said Algernon at length, rousing himself with some
apparent effort from a reverie. "As long as I have any authority here,
no innocent person shall be made unhappy for one moment by watchfulness
and suspicion."
"That's a very kind feeling, Mr. Errington. But I shouldn't think an
innocent person would mind being watched in such a case. For my own
part, I hope we shall trace the matter out. It shan't be my fault if we
don't."
"You are wonderfully energetic, Gibbs. An invaluable public servant.
But, Gibbs, it will not, I think, be any part of your duty to mention to
any one at present the losses I have spoken of from my secretaire. There
is no reason, as yet, to connect them with the missing letters. I did
not duly consider what I was saying. The papers, after all, were only
private letters of my own, Gibbs. They concern no one but myself. One
was a mere note--an invitation from a lady. They could have had no value
for a thief, you know. I--I daresay I mislaid it, and never put it into
the secretaire at all."
Algernon went away with downcast eyes and hurried step, and Mr. Gibbs
stared after him with a bewildered gaze. Then slowly the expression of
his face changed to one of consternation and pity. "Poor young man!" he
exclaimed, half aloud. "That woman has been making free with his papers
beyond a doubt. And he does his best to shield her. A worldly-minded,
vain woman she is, that looks at us as if we were made of a different
kind of clay from her. And they say she is furiously jealous of her
husband. But this--this is serious! This is very serious, indeed. I am
sorry for the young man with all my heart!"