GONE TO PROTEST.
There was an unnatural silence and order in the store of Boniface Newt,
Son, & Co. The long linen covers were left upon the goods. The cases were
closed. The boys sat listlessly and wonderingly about. The porter lay
upon a bale reading a newspaper. There was a sombre regularity and
repose, like that of a house in which a corpse lies, upon the morning
of the funeral.
Boniface Newt sat in his office haggard and gray. His face, like his
daughter Fanny's, had grown sharp, and almost fierce. The blinds were
closed, and the room was darkened. His port-folio lay before him upon
the desk, open. The paper was smooth and white, and the newly-mended
pens lay carefully by the inkstand. But the merchant did not write.
He had not written that day. His white, bony hand rested upon the
port-folio, and the long fingers drummed upon it at intervals, while
his eyes half-vacantly wandered out into the store and saw the long
shrouds drawn over the goods. Occasionally a slight sigh of weariness
escaped him. But he did not seem to care to distract his mind from its
gloomy intentness; for the morning paper lay beside him unopened,
although it was afternoon.
In the outer office the book-keeper was still at work. He looked
from book to book, holding the leaves and letting them fall
carefully--comparing, computing, writing in the huge volumes, and filing
various papers away. Sometimes, while he yet held the leaves in his hands
and the pen in his mouth, with the appearance of the utmost abstraction
in his task, his eyes wandered in to the inner office, and dimly saw his
employer sitting silent and listless at his desk. For many years he had
been Boniface Newt's clerk; for many years he had been a still, faithful,
hard-worked servant. He had two holidays, besides the Sundays--New Year's
Day and the Fourth of July. The rest of the year he was in the office by
nine in the morning, and did not leave before six at night. During the
time he had been quietly writing in those great red books he had married
a wife and seen the roses fade in her cheeks--he had had children grow-up
around him--fill his evening home and his Sunday hours with light--marry,
one after another, until his home had become as it was before a child was
born to him, and then gradually grow bright and musical again with the
eyes and voices of another generation. Glad to earn his little salary,
which was only enough for decency of living, free from envy and ambition,
he was bound by a kind of feudal tenure to his employer.
As he looked at the merchant and observed his hopeless listlessness, he
thought of his age, his family, and of the frightful secrets hidden in
the huge books that were every night locked carefully into the iron safe,
as if they were written all over with beautiful romances instead of
terrible truths--and the eyes of the patient plodder were so blurred that
he could not see, and turning his head that no one might observe him,
he winked until he could see again.
A young man entered the store hastily. The porter dropped the paper
and sprang up; the boys came expectantly forward. Even the book-keeper
stopped to watch the new-comer as he came rapidly toward the office. Only
the head of the house sat unconcernedly at his desk--his long, pale, bony
fingers drumming on the port-folio--his hard eyes looking out at the
messenger.
"This way," said the book-keeper, suddenly, as he saw that he was going
toward Mr. Newt's room.
"I want Mr. Newt."
"Which one?"
"The young one, Mr. Abel Newt."
"He is not here."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
Before the book-keeper was aware the young man had opened the door that
communicated with Mr. Newt's room. The haggard face under the gray hair
turned slowly toward the messenger. There was something in the sitting
figure that made the youth lift his hand and remove his cap, and say,
in a low, respectful voice,
"Can you tell me, Sir, where to find Mr. Abel Newt?"
The long, pale, bony fingers still listlessly drummed. The hard eyes
rested upon the questioner for a few moments; then, without any evidence
of interest, the old man answered simply, "No," and looked away as if he
had forgotten the stranger's presence.
"Here's a note for him from General Belch."
The gray head beckoned mechanically toward the other room, as if all
business were to be transacted there; and the young man bowing again,
with a vague sense of awe, went in to the outer office and handed the
note to the book-keeper.
It was very short and simple, as Abel found when he read it:
"MY DEAR SIR,--I have just heard of your misfortunes. Don't be dismayed.
In the shindy of life every body must have his head broken two or three
times, and in our country 'tis a man's duty to fall on his feet. Such men
as Abel Newt are not made to fail. I want to see you immediately.
"Yours very truly,
"ARCULARIUS BELCH."