"Good-bye, Tom. I'm sorry: but it's your fault."
Tom Chandler went into the office where he had used to sit, opened his
desk, and began putting up what things belonged to him. They made a
tolerable-sized parcel. Valentine, left in his chair of state, sat on in
a brown study. All the inconvenience that Tom's leaving him would be
productive of was flashing into his mind. Tom had been, under old Jacob,
the prop and stay of the business; knew about everything, and had a
clear head for details. He himself was different--and Valentine was
never more sure of the fact than at this moment. There are lawyers and
lawyers. Tom was one, Valentine was another. He, Valentine, had never
much cared for business; he liked pleasure a great deal better. Indulged
always by both father and mother, he had grown up self-indulgent. It was
all very fine to perch himself in that chair and play the master; but he
knew that, without Tom to direct things, for some time to come he should
be three-parts lost. But, as to making him a partner and giving him a
share? "No," concluded Valentine emphatically, "I won't do it."
Tom, carrying his paper parcel, left the house and crossed the road to
the post-office, which was higher up the street, to post a letter he
had hastily written. It was addressed to a lawyer at Worcester. A week
or two before, Tom, being at Worcester, was asked by this gentleman if
he would take the place of head clerk and manager in his office. The
question was put jokingly, for the lawyer supposed Tom to be a fixture
at Islip: but Tom saw that he would have been glad for him to take
the berth. He hoped it might still be vacant. What with one thing and
another, beginning with the injustice done him at the old place and
his anxiety to get into another without delay, Tom felt more bothered
than he had ever felt in his life. The tempting notion of setting-up
somewhere for himself came into his mind. But it went out of it again:
he could not afford to risk any waste of time, with his mother's home
to keep up, and especially with this threat of Valentine's to stop her
hundred and fifty pounds a-year income.
"How do you do, Mr. Chandler?"
At the sound of the pretty voice, Tom turned short round from the
post-office window, which was a stationer's, to see a charming girl all
ribbons and muslins, with sky-blue eyes and bright hair. Tom took the
hand only half held out to him.
"I beg your pardon, Emma: I was reading this concert bill. The idea of
Islip's getting up a concert!"
She was the only child of John Paul the lawyer, and had as fair a face
as you'd wish to see, and a habit of blushing at nothing. To watch her
as she stood there, the roses coming and going, the dimples deepening,
and the small white teeth peeping, did Tom good. He was reddening
himself, for that matter.
"Yes, it is to be given in the large club-room at the Bell to-night,"
she answered. "Shall you come over for it?"
"Are you going to it, Emma?"
"Oh yes. Papa has taken twelve tickets. A great many people are coming
in to go with us."
"I shall go also," said Tom decidedly. And at that the roses came again.
"What a large parcel you are carrying!"
Tom held the brown-paper parcel further out at the remark.
"They are my goods and chattels," said he. "Things that I had at the
office. I have left it, Emma."
"Left the office!" she repeated, looking as though she did not
understand. "You don't mean _really_ left it?--left it for good?"
"I have left it for good, Emma. Valentine----"
"Here's papa," interrupted Emma, as a stout, elderly gentleman with
iron-grey hair turned out of the stationer's; neither of them having the
least idea he was there.
"Is it you, Tom Chandler?" cried Mr. Paul.
"Yes, it is, sir."
"And fine to be you, I should say! Spending your time in gossip at the
busiest part of the day."
"Unfortunately I have to-day no business to do," returned Tom, smiling
in the old lawyer's face. "And I was just telling Miss Paul why. I have
left the office, sir, and am looking out for another situation."