"Dear Mr. Parrott,"I shall not be at the office to-day, probably not all the week, owing to an unfortunate accident last night, the shock of which has upset me. But for the timely assistance of Mr. Early, I should probably not be alive to write this note. You are doubtless aware that Mr. Early has of late shown a thorough knowledge of the affairs of the firm; and I wish you, therefore, to make it known that during my absence he is to take my place. He will consult me on business matters when he considers it necessary."Yours faithfully,"Ellen Fairbrother."
"Dear Mr. Parrott,
"I shall not be at the office to-day, probably not all the week, owing to an unfortunate accident last night, the shock of which has upset me. But for the timely assistance of Mr. Early, I should probably not be alive to write this note. You are doubtless aware that Mr. Early has of late shown a thorough knowledge of the affairs of the firm; and I wish you, therefore, to make it known that during my absence he is to take my place. He will consult me on business matters when he considers it necessary.
"Yours faithfully,
"Ellen Fairbrother."
During the perusal of this letter, George pulled forth a huge cigar, carefully nipped the end and lit it. From the depth of his comfortable seat he surveyed with a masterful eye the three men who now stood undecidedly by the table.
"Now, my men," he said presently, directing a glance at Gray and Busby; "you have heard the views of your superior on duty and obedience. I don't want you to crush your chances under your own heels. Get to work, there's good fellows; follow a good example while you have one. I don't want Mr. Parrott to have to hold a conference with me about you."
Busby sidled towards the door with a snigger, and went out with his hand over his mouth. Gray assumed an insolent swagger. Hesitating a moment, he looked down upon George Early with an intention of throwing off a scathing epigram on his exit. Not finding anything to the point, he swore softly, and banged the door. George got up leisurely, and prepared to follow.
"I shall be upstairs, Parrott," he said with a drawl. "Be sure to knock before you come in."
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Onarriving in his office upstairs, George seated himself comfortably, and read Miss Fairbrother's note for the sixth or seventh time. He was not one of those men who are prostrated by a sudden change of fortune, but there were materials in this epistle with which even the most unimaginative man might build castles in the air. Taking it word for word, it was at the least most soothing to the heart of George. The note was as follows:—
"Dear Mr. Early,"How can I thank you for your prompt and brave assistance last evening? You saved my life. I shudder to think of what might have happened to me had you not been there. I am sure I should have been killed. I am too much upset to come to the office to-day. Please come to Brunswick Terrace this afternoon, that I may thank you personally for the great service you did me."The enclosed note for Mr. Parrott directs him to consult you on all affairs of the firm while I am away. You must take my place until I am quite well; you know everything about the business, as I am well aware by the valuable assistance you have so often given me."Please do not fail to come this afternoon."Always yours gratefully,"Ellen Fairbrother."
"Dear Mr. Early,
"How can I thank you for your prompt and brave assistance last evening? You saved my life. I shudder to think of what might have happened to me had you not been there. I am sure I should have been killed. I am too much upset to come to the office to-day. Please come to Brunswick Terrace this afternoon, that I may thank you personally for the great service you did me.
"The enclosed note for Mr. Parrott directs him to consult you on all affairs of the firm while I am away. You must take my place until I am quite well; you know everything about the business, as I am well aware by the valuable assistance you have so often given me.
"Please do not fail to come this afternoon.
"Always yours gratefully,
"Ellen Fairbrother."
George lunched that day at the Carlton, and from there proceeded in a hansom cab to Brunswick Terrace.
Miss Fairbrother had elected to remove her aunt for the time being, so that the interview was quite private.
The ordeal of being thanked by a rich young lady whose life you have saved must be a most embarrassing one to most men; to George it did not prove so. He found himself much more at ease than he had expected to be. The embarrassment was all on Miss Fairbrother's side.
She was not sparing in her praise of what she called "his noble action," but, though her voice had the ring of honesty, and her words were sincere, she found it easier to look at the pictures and the furniture than at George Early. Whenever she caught his eye, the pink glow in her cheeks deepened, and her fingers toyed nervously with the lace on her gown. Any young man with a proper regard for the delicate sensibilities of the fair sex would, on finding a young lady so prettily confused, make a valiant effort to put her at her ease. This George did by assuming a very modest demeanour and concentrating his gaze on the hearthrug. It was effectual, for it gave Miss Fairbrother confidence, and led her to speak of the valuable help George had given to the firm since he had accepted the office of junior clerk, facts which surprised George, and were a testimonial to Miss Fairbrother's skill as an inventor.
"I feel sure," she said impulsively, "that some day you will be a partner in the firm."
"No," said George, modestly; "I shouldn't think so."
"Oh, but I am sure you will! You are so—you know so many things. Doesn't it surprise the others to find how much you know?"
George valiantly suppressed a sudden fit of coughing.
"Now you come to mention it," he said, "I think it does."
"I'm sure it must do," said Miss Fairbrother, warmly. "I think courage and cleverness are things that people cannot help noticing. And unselfishness; think how noble it is to do things for others!"
"Splendid!" said George. "But you can't help it if it's born in you."
"It isn't always that," said Miss Fairbrother. "Some men are very brave. They give their lives up to benefiting their fellow-creatures, and watching over them as if they were helpless little children."
"Yes," said George, turning his imagination to the past; "my old father used to say, 'Never mind yourself, George; others first—others first, m' lad.'"
"I knew it," cried Miss Fairbrother, with a brightening of the eye that George didn't fail to notice. "You've been following that good advice in spite of all obstacles. Oh, if only everybody would fight and overcome difficulties like that!"
"It's been a bit hard," said George, reminiscently.
"But think of the victory," cried Miss Fairbrother, "when you look back on what you have done."
"Ah! If people only knew."
"Yes," a little doubtfully; "but of course you don't exactly want people to know."
"That's just it; they mustn't know a word about it."
"If they did?" she breathed.
"It wouldn't do," said George; "they wouldn't all be so grateful as you."
Miss Fairbrother's fingers grew nervous again, and the point of one tiny little shoe attracted all her attention. George, looking out of the corner of one eye, felt that matters were progressing most satisfactorily.
"I suppose," said Miss Fairbrother, softly, without turning her head, "you've—you've saved other people before?"
George at once became so modest and so concerned about the inside lining of his hat, that Miss Fairbrother looked up, and added quickly—
"You have; I'm sure you have. Do tell me about it! Oh, I should like to know!"
George took out his handkerchief and rubbed his nose very hard, a performance that may have been actuated by emotion or equivocation.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said, with a suspicion of huskiness in his throat.
"Perhaps they were very ungrateful," Miss Fairbrother observed sympathetically.
"That's it," said George; "some people don't deserve to be saved."
"I'm afraid I haven't given you much but my thanks."
"Don't mention it. It's a pleasure to save any one like you. I'd like to do it every day."
Miss Fairbrother suddenly became so interested in something she saw outside the window that only one pink ear was visible to her rescuer.
"When I think of yesterday," continued George, leaning forward and speaking slowly, "I can't understand why I called up that cab so soon and put you in it, and why I didn't stand there holding you."
He paused a moment, but Miss Fairbrother never moved. The pink ear seemed to be growing pinker. George went on daringly—
"That ride home in the cab was a ride I shall always think about. I don't think I took my eyes off you once all the way. How could I, when——"
Here the conversation, which threatened to take an alarming turn, was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a maid with tea.
That interval of a few minutes so destroyed the continuity of George Early's argument that he decided to abandon it. Miss Fairbrother, having satisfied her curiosity through the window pane, immediately on the entrance of the tea affected to forget what he had been talking of, and invited him with an uncommon lightness of spirits to draw nearer to the small tea-table.
Whatever George Early may have thought of the lady's charms on the previous evening, he was now convinced that they were many and various. In the office she was usually bored and a little bewildered, and at times inclined to be cross about business problems. Her speech was frequently plaintive, and her hair out of curl. Here, with all the worries of business left behind, she was demure, pretty, and altogether charming. Her eyes sparkled, and the little frowns that were apt to pucker her fair brow gave place to smiling lines around the mouth. In that big office she looked out of place, a frail and worried little body; in this drawing-room she was in perfect harmony with her surroundings, while George seemed out of place there. He felt out of place too, at first; but being of a nature that easily adapts itself to circumstances, he was soon chattering as pleasantly as if he'd been used to drawing-rooms all his life. It was evident that Miss Fairbrother approved of him, and felt satisfied that her rescuer was a young man of noble ideas and a true hero. She was probably not unaware that he was also a good-looking young man, with well-brushed hair, and a smile that was not without charm. These things she had doubtless overlooked before in the worries of business.
George was not a man to miss opportunities, in spite of the adverse criticism of his fellow-workers in the firm of Fairbrother. Having created a good impression, he knew that the next thing to do was to make it lasting. Afternoon tea and pleasant conversation with a girl you have rescued from an untimely death are not among the unsweetened things of this world, but George saw fit to bring his visit to an early close by evincing an earnest desire to return to Fairbrothers' on business which could not be neglected.
Miss Fairbrother approved of his close application to the firm's affairs, but was not sure that she had thanked him sufficiently for what he had done for her. George assured her that by supplying him with a final cup of tea the debt would be fully paid.
Whereat Miss Fairbrother laughed—a sweet, tinkling, little darling of a laugh.
Whereat George laughed—a polite, hearty, good-humoured laugh.
What more natural than that George's big manly hand should press Miss Fairbrother's little finger in taking that cup of tea, and that Miss Fairbrother should blush and hurriedly pour out an extra cup for herself? What more natural than that George should look at her out of the corner of his eye, and find her looking at him out of the corner of her eye; and that they should both be ashamed at having caught each other in the very act? Nothing more natural, surely.
But George knew what a good many men would not have known—that this was the very moment to go. And go he did.
"Good-bye," said Miss Fairbrother, smiling and holding out a very pretty white hand; "I'm very grateful to you."
"Good-bye," said George, taking the pretty hand in his; "I'm glad I was there."
George walked away in a most satisfied frame of mind. He halted half-way up the terrace and looked back at the great portico and massive windows of the Fairbrother mansion.
"Nice house that," he said; "nice girl too—devilish nice girl!"
Then he called a hansom and drove to Liverpool Street, for, urgent as the firm's business happened to be, his own at the moment was of more consequence.
That night when Gray got home his lodger's room was vacant; George Early had moved into West End lodgings.
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Upper ThamesStreet is not what it used to be in the days when Fairbrothers' was young. One by one the low, grimy warehouses are disappearing, to give place to noble edifices with elaborate office room and electric light. Bit by bit the narrow roadway becomes widened, and the blocking of traffic less frequent.
The language there is not what it used to be. Ancient carmen, who have become locally notorious over victories on the question of choking the narrowest thoroughfare, and who have displayed powers of flowery repartee that no cabman dare challenge, now ride sorrowfully along in silence. Not many of them are left; the newness is killing them off and placing smart young uniformed men in their places.
The public-houses are disappearing, too; at least, the old ones are, for new ones rise rapidly on the same ground, and "business is carried on as usual during alterations." The beer there is not what it used to be; so say the old hands, and they ought to know, for they've taken it regularly enough, and can speak from experience.
Everything in Upper Thames Street is affected by the march of progress; and nothing more noticeably than the City man's caterer.
Forty years ago you had no choice but to pick a midday meal at the nearest tavern or a cook-shop. In the one you met red-faced men who swore, took snuff, and whipped off a pint of ale like winking; in the other melancholy clerks, with family cares and whiskers, consumed boiled beef and carrots in a "dem'd demp," warm atmosphere, and finished up with light snacks of plum-roll, as greasy and melancholy as themselves. The young man with the clean collar was not catered for then as he is to-day. There were young men then, of course—though not many with clean collars—but they couldn't afford boiled beef, and were not so educated to beer. Where they lunched is a mystery. I suspect that the theory of a venerable dock porter, that "they took a bit o' grub in a handkercher, and ate it by the water-side," is very nearly correct. I suppose the office-boys of those days did the same thing.
Now the midday lunch is one great, wonderful and far-spreading meal. It is as various as it is important; the one touch of interest to midday London. No class of the London worker is neglected; none so obscure, strange, or eccentric as to be forgotten. Boiled beef and carrots have fallen into disuse, except among a few obstinate grey-haired clerks, who would sooner give up clerking than change their habits; tavern lunches are popular enough, among bucolic book-keepers; but the great man, the star luncher in the eye of the up-to-date caterer is the young man with the clean collar.
For him and his kin we have the tea-shop, the dining-rooms, the restaurant, the café, Lyons', the A.B.C., the Mecca, and others. Snacks of fish, vegetarian dinners, quick lunches; smart waitresses to serve him and smile upon him. He sits upon a cushioned seat, looks at himself in a mirror placed obsequiously before him, hangs his hat on a servile, gilded knob, and is requested to acquaint the manager with any uncivil behaviour on the part of the menials of the establishment. When my lord has finished his meal, which may cost anything from twopence upwards, a gorgeous smoking-room yawns for his presence, at no extra cost. Here again the seats are cushioned and the mirrors opposite. Here are draughts, dominoes, and chess, kept specially for him. All for the young man with the clean collar, whose pence are worth fawning for—the best customer of the City caterer.
Upper Thames Street, with its noisy vans and riverside associations, has not been neglected by the caterer. It has its sprinkling of smart tea-rooms and restaurants within easy reach. To various of these the office youths of Fairbrothers' betake themselves daily, and to one in particular go two members whom we will follow.
Henry Cacklin is a junior clerk of three months' service, a connoisseur of cigarettes, smart beyond his sixteen years, and a devil with the girls. His companion, William Budd, is a mere office-boy, sixteen also, but with less business ability; due no doubt to his excessive interest in affairs that don't concern him. Cacklin has a strong partiality for sausage-and-mashed, when he can afford it, which is seldom. When he cannot it is his habit to look over the menu and inquire as to the quality of the present batch of sausages, finally deciding that as the last were so disgustingly bad, he must try a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee.
Billy Budd, who makes no secret of his desire to have plenty for money, favours lemonade and the largest penny buns; a selection that arouses the scorn of Cacklin, who wonders how any "feller" can expect to be chummy with the waitress on "buns"!
"Rotten tack that!" he says, contemptuously, toying delicately with his sandwich. "If you had brain work to do, old chap, you'd soon notice the want of a bit of meat."
"No fear," said Billy. "What about old Busby? I saw him 'aving a bun and milk yesterday."
"Busby," said Cacklin, with a sneer; "a lot he hurts himself. I'd like his job at half the price, and keep my grandmother out of the money."
Depreciation of other people's abilities was a sad failing with Cacklin. He had at various times expressed his willingness to take over the work of many of his superiors and do it with "one hand tied behind him," besides showing them "a thing or two" about office work, if they so desired it.
"Here, what do y' think!" said Billy, suddenly, stuffing his mouth full of bun, "Saw old Polly last night and his girl. Nice little daisy, too, she was. Called him 'Thomas'—'Oh, Thomas!'"
Billy was convulsed for a few minutes at his own vulgar wit; much to the disgust of his companion, whose attitude towards the fair sex was distinctlyblasé.
"She's no catch," said Cacklin; "I'd like him to see the little bit of goods I met up at Richmond last Sunday. Great Scott! old man, she was rippin'; and quite a kid—only seventeen. She was fair gone, too; I had a regular howling job to get away from her. Promised to meet her on Thursday, just to get away!"
Cacklin laughed at the recollection of his own subterfuge, and tipped a wink to the waitress, who replied with a haughty stare.
"I say," said Billy, turning in his usual way to other people's affairs; "Early's fairly got it, ain't he?"
"What do you mean by 'fairly got it'?" said Cacklin, annoyed at the indifference of the waitress.
"Why, got it with her—the missis. They went off together this morning in a hansom, as chummy as you like. Handed her in, he did, and put it on like winking when he spoke to the cabman; laughin' and talkin' like blazes, they were."
Cacklin winked again, but this time at Billy Budd.
"If you want to know anything, my boy," he said, "you put your money on Early. He knows his book, you take my tip. I've watched the game from the beginning, and I know a thing or two about it. The others may think they're fly, and he may bamboozle them; but he'd have to get up before six to get over me on that lay."
He paused to light a cigarette, and then leant back in his seat.
"Now I'll tell you a bit more," he said, with a knowing squint. "Mr. George Early's playing up to hook her, and he'll do it, too. Put that in your cigarette-holder, my son. She'll be Mrs. George Early soon, if you want to know anything."
"No fear," said Billy.
"Oh?" said Cacklin. "Well, if you like to bet on it I'll lay you a quid that it comes off. I'll lay you a level quid that he marries her. And it's a certainty, too, you'd lose the money."
"She wouldn't marry him," said Billy, stolidly.
"Wouldn't she?" said Cacklin. "You don't know anything about women, my boy. I suppose she hasn't had him up at her 'ouse much the last three weeks, eh? Only about four times a week. They haven't been up in the office together much, have they? They ain't been out and about much, either? I didn't meet 'em at Earl's Court, did I, and Watkins didn't see 'em go to the Trocadero together, did he? You've had your eyes shut. Why, he's been following her about, and she's been running after him when he didn't, ever since the first day he did the bossing up in her office."
"What about saving her life? Matthews said she was chased by a mad horse, and Early saved her just as she was going to be trampled to death."
"Matthews is a silly fool. I know all about his saving her: I've heard the true story. She's cracked on him over that, and thinks him a hero. All women are the same. There was a fine gel cracked on me once through helping her over the road on a wet day. If Early takes my tip, he'll keep the game up for all it's worth."
"What sort of boss d' you think he'd be?" said Billy.
"Thunderin' good!" said Cacklin, briefly.
"He ought to give us all a rise if he marries her," said William Budd, ruminating.
"So he will, you can bet," said the junior clerk. "Early's the right sort of chap to boss the show; he's been putting the other chaps in their places a bit in the last few weeks. About time, too. He's made Polly sit up, and Gray's been nearly off his crumpet. A lot of lazy 'ounds, they are; rousing up the other chaps when they sleep all day themselves."
With this summary verdict on his superiors, Cacklin produced a draught-board and prepared to give a scientific display of his powers, in a friendly game with Billy. This game was a regular feature in Mr. Cacklin's lunch-hour, and usually resulted in his making all the scientific moves while his opponent won the game; whereupon he would enter into a lengthy explanation of his slight error in not huffing at the right time, by which action he would have taken four kings and literally "romped home."
The present game came to an end in the usual way, Cacklin ascribing his defeat to his own generosity in giving his opponent "a chance" at a critical moment.
"Now I'll have a cheque if youdon'tmind," he said, in sweetly insinuating tones to the waitress. "I must get back and start the men at work, and see my lady secretary about her holidays."
"Get back and sweep out the passage, you mean," said the girl, pertly.
Cacklin ignored this rude remark, and lit a fresh cigarette.
"Who was that young feller I saw you with last night?" he said, winking at Billy.
"Keeper of the monkey-house, of course. Lucky thing he didn't see you."
"Don't be saucy now," said the junior clerk, pleasantly, "or I sha'n't take you up the river on Sunday. Give him my love this evening, and mind you're home by ten."
"Take him off," said the girl to Billy; "the coffee's got in his head."
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Master Cacklin'sobservations on the friendship existing between George Early and his employer were not without a great deal of truth, strange as it may appear. George Early and Miss Fairbrother were on friendly terms—very friendly terms, in fact.
That first interview at Brunswick Terrace had been followed by many others; interviews that ostensibly had a business purpose, but that drifted off into cold lunch and a flower show; or afternoon tea and small-talk. Occasionally the conversation would take a turn that left Miss Fairbrother somewhat embarrassed, and George Early saying things that had nothing to do with the iron trade at all. It was obvious, too, that these interviews were by no means disagreeable to either George or his employer; but that both were in a high state of excitement afterwards when alone.
Miss Fairbrother had returned to the firm after a week's absence, and resumed her accustomed seat in the big private office. But George no longer assumed the modest demeanour of the private secretary; his desk was placed in the big room, and the clerks who drifted in and out on affairs of business invariably found the pair chatting in a most unbusiness-like manner. Moreover, Miss Fairbrother declined to enter into most of the hardware problems submitted to her, but begged that "Mr. Early" might be consulted instead. "Mr. Early" became a person of importance, from whom a hint was as good as an order; to whom the general office staff said "sir," and the three legatees adopted an attitude of sullen respect.
The firm's members drew their own conclusions on the question of the friendship. It was clear that George had rendered his employer a great service, and that she was duly grateful to him, perhaps something more. It was clear, too, that George did not intend to miss any opportunities, either in the way of friendship or his own advancement; for on the first score he was clearly in favour, and on the second he was already drawing a bigger salary. Whether or not he was scheming for a nearer and dearer position than that of mereemployéto Miss Fairbrother, it was not for anybody to say; but the fact remained that he appeared daily in gorgeous raiment, visited frequently at Brunswick Terrace, travelled with his employer in hansoms, and had been escorting the lady to places of amusement. These things clearly indicated that Miss Fairbrother "approved" of George in no ordinary sense.
Just how matters really stood between them was known to nobody but George and Miss Fairbrother, and perhaps Miss Fairbrother's aunt. It was not for the young lady, even in her position of employer, to unbend any more than any other of her sex, supposing she had matrimonial designs. Queens may propose, but even they dislike the job; for they are only women after all, and it is quite natural for a woman to wish to be wooed and asked for. And however strong George Early may have considered his chances to be, it is certain that he was not the sort of young man to spoil them by prematurely placing his heart upon his sleeve.
It may have been the extreme brightness of the sun that persuaded Miss Fairbrother one morning to express a strong disinclination for work. It was the day after Cacklin's confidence to William Budd, and even in Upper Thames Street the weather was as fair as summer weather can be.
"How lovely the river looks!" said the young lady, fixing a pair of bright eyes on a dilapidated steamer that ploughed its way gracefully towards Westminster.
"Just the sort of day for a trip to Hampton Court," said George. "Pity we can't shift the office up there, isn't it?"
"I don't know; I've never been there."
"Ah"—bestowing an affectionate glance upon a curl on her left shoulder—"you've missed one of the best sights on the river."
"Don't!" said Miss Fairbrother; "you'll make me want to go. And you know"—slowly—"how busy we are."
If the papers on Miss Fairbrother's desk were any criterion, it did not take much to make the firm busy.
"Of course," said George, proceeding with caution, "if you wish to go, I can look after everything. It's a shame not to take advantage of a bright day; it may rain to-morrow."
"I've heard that Hampton Court is very pretty."
"It's a sight that nobody should miss on a day like this."
Miss Fairbrother laughed.
"The grass there is greener than anywhere else on the river, the water's clearer, and the swans are whiter," said George.
"How do you get there?"
The secretary laid down his pen and paused to consider.
"There's Waterloo," he said—"trains rather stuffy and porters grumpy. Then there's a waggonette from Piccadilly—horses bony and seats rickety. Then there's——"
"I don't think I'll go," said Miss Fairbrother.
"I should," said George. "The boat from Westminster is very comfortable. You can get lunch on board, and it's really a most delightful trip."
Miss Fairbrother was silent for a moment. "No," she said slowly; "I don't think I'll go."
George turned round and winked at a bookcase, then rose slowly and walked to the window, where Miss Fairbrother stood watching the sunlit surface of the river.
"There's a sudden slackness of orders to-day," he said. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to take a day off myself and go on the river."
Miss Fairbrother smiled, and George went on—
"I shouldn't think of asking if it were not quite possible to leave things; but, of course, if you think it inadvisable, I'll willingly——"
"Certainly not," said Miss Fairbrother. "Take the day by all means."
"Thank you," said George, politely. "Then in that case, as I know the river well, I'm sure you'll allow me to——"
Miss Fairbrother blushed and looked away.
"It's a comfortable boat," urged George, "and the trip is really splendid. My old landlady's son was the purser last year, and he used to say that they've cured more invalids on that trip than half the hospitals in London."
A smile broke out on Miss Fairbrother's face, and George immediately reached for his hat.
"Hansom?" he said.
"Please"—softly.
As they bowled along towards Westminster George Early sat upright in his seat, and replied to Miss Fairbrother's sallies with a brightness that surprised even himself. Something inside him seemed to be whispering that this was going to be a day of days—one of those bright periods when everything goes with a comfortable rattle, and you don'tthink, butknow, there is going to be fireworks in the evening, although you haven't seen the programme. Poverty, crime, trouble, hardship, and everything ugly is deadened; you hear only the voice of your companion, see only the glint of the sunshine, the white frocks and clean collars, new houses and green trees. You start off with your machinery going at a gentle, thump-thump pace, like the steamer, and you keep it up while the day lasts.
George enjoyed that trip, and Miss Fairbrother enjoyed it too. It's astonishing how it improves a young woman's looks and a young man's temper to ride on a steamboat, even when both were agreeable before. There were many things to see, most of which George had to explain. What he didn't know he invented, which didn't make much difference, as it is probable Miss Fairbrother was listening more to George's voice than to what he said. There were many occasions when George had to take Miss Fairbrother's arm, and once when the boat lurched he was obliged to catch her round the waist; none of which incidents upset the good feeling existing between them, but rather increased it.
At Hampton Court they did the usual round through the Palace, and were for the first time that day a little bored. Like a good many other people, they found that the faded relics of dead-and-gone monarchs are not only uninteresting, but very depressing, so much so that the sight of a new windsor chair that King George never sat upon becomes an object of unusual interest and a welcome relief.
"I never thought," said Miss Fairbrother, "that kings and their furniture could be so uninteresting. I think I enjoyed seeing the soldiers on guard more than the royal furniture."
"Yes," said George; "and I think I enjoy being out here, sitting by the river, more than either the furniture or the soldiers."
"It's delightfully quiet and soothing."
"It's grand. I've never seen much of the country in my life, but I do enjoy it when I get a glimpse."
"In Australia," said Miss Fairbrother, "I saw very little of town life. We lived in the country most of the time."
"And you were sorry to leave it?"
"At first. Since I've been here I think I like England quite as well—especially London. There's no place like London, I'm sure."
"Perhaps not," said George, absently.
"No place in Australia," said Miss Fairbrother, confidently.
"I'd like to go there," said George; "I believe it's a fine country."
"Oh, it's very nice"—casually.
"The colonials are fine fellows."
Miss Fairbrother picked a blade of grass and examined it critically. George looked at a launch coming down the river. It was a crowded launch, and the antics of the men on board attracted his attention. As he continued to look he observed that Miss Fairbrother shifted her glance from the blade of grass to his own features. She looked at the launch as he turned round.
"Lucky fellows!" said George. "A steam launch is one of the things I covet."
"Really?" said Miss Fairbrother, quickly.
"Not exactly covet," said George; "but it's a nice way of seeing the country."
"I think I prefer a quiet spot like—like——"
"Like this"—softly.
A faint blush caused Miss Fairbrother to turn her attention to some boats coming up the river.
"It's very nice here, isn't it?" she said.
"At present it is," said George.
Miss Fairbrother wilfully misunderstood. "In the winter, of course, it's very cold and damp."
"So it is in the summer."
"How can that be?" She looked up smiling.
"When one is alone," said George, "the greenest field might be uninteresting and the warmest day cold."
Miss Fairbrother blushed and laughed. She made no secret now of the fact that she understood the compliment.
"You think I am not in earnest," said George, boldly, placing one hand upon hers, as it plucked the grass blade by blade. "I am quite serious; I should never have enjoyed the trip alone—you know I shouldn't."
Her eyes were upon the grass, where she managed to wriggle one finger of the imprisoned hand and press the soft earth with its pink nail.
"Don't do that," said George; "you'll make your fingers dirty."
He lifted the hand and examined the small pink finger.
"It's a pretty name," he said irrelevantly.
Their eyes met for a second, then hers were covered by the long lashes.
"Ellen, I mean," said George. "I always liked that name, but I suppose it wouldn't do to call you by it."
Her breath came faster.
"I suppose it wouldn't do?" said George.
He looked at her cheek, now crimson, and leant nearer.
"Ellen," he whispered softly.
A launch on the river hooted shrilly in the distance, and a boisterous laugh from the opposite bank echoed faintly over the water. George leant nearer till his shoulder touched hers. His arm that had rested idly behind slid round her waist with gentle pressure.
"It wouldn't do, would it?"
The launch hooted again, and a boatman on the water yelled something undistinguishable to another boatman.
"Ellen!"
Miss Fairbrother's tongue was evidently incapable of utterance, for there was still no response. Then George Early's arm tightened about the slim form of his employer and drew it into a closer embrace. His head bent until her breath came softly on his cheek. And then—
Then George Early kissed her.
A venerable angler looking for worms five minutes later stopped, suddenly transfixed, to see a young man and young woman with arms so lovingly entwined and lips pressed together.
There was a bright moon that evening as the Hampton Court boat bumped against the pier at Westminster. The people streamed up into the roadway, and one couple popped into a hansom.
"Trocadero? Right you are, sir," said the cabman.
Two hours later another cab took the couple to Brunswick Terrace. The lady was helped out by the gentleman, with whom she conversed for five minutes in the shadow of the porch. As they parted, the gentleman said—
"Good night, my darling."
"Good night, George dear," said the lady.
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Itwould be difficult to say exactly how Fairbrothers' took the news of George Early's engagement to its chief, for it did not burst upon the staff in an official proclamation, but leaked out, and was generally credited as a mere rumour. That Miss Fairbrother should be absent from the office for ten days was not considered an extraordinary circumstance in the light of recent events, nor was it anything extraordinary for George Early to assume a tone of importance in affairs of the firm; but among the bright youths who copied the Fairbrother letters and handled the Fairbrother ledgers there were some detective spirits that did not fail to notice certain irregularities in the speech of the new manager.
More than one pair of eyebrows in the counting-house were lifted noticeably when the unusual "I" supplanted the usual "we," and certain dark and prophetic allusions by the manager as to what he would do about some particular affair "in a few weeks," brought the heads of the staff together at times when business was of more importance than desultory conversation.
In spite of rumours, the staff would probably have remained in the dark until the official announcement, had Miss Fairbrother not paid a flying visit to Upper Thames Street and come under the eagle eye of William Budd. That precocious youth singled out the engagement ring in a twinkling, and by lunch-time the whole office knew that Miss Fairbrother had found a husband. With one accord they fixed upon George Early as the lucky man. The office enjoyed its secret for one whole day; on the next Parrott was summoned to Brunswick Terrace, and instructed to take over the affairs of the firm while Miss Fairbrother changed her name to Early, and took a fortnight's holiday for the purpose of getting used to it.
It was only fitting that her Aunt Phœbe should hold a formal conversation with the prospective husband, and to this interview George Early went with the confident feeling that it would end amicably. It was not exactly the sort of interview that he expected, yet he could not say that he was any the less pleased at the prospect before him.
Aunt Phœbe shook hands, and intimated that her niece had gone out for the afternoon.
"You have had my congratulations," she said, "and I have only to repeat to begin with that you are a very lucky man."
George beamed and murmured his thanks.
"I don't hold with any of her nonsense about you being a hero, you know," she went on; "it's time enough to praise you when I've found that you're a good husband. And for my part I'm inclined to hope that you're a much more ordinary man, for I've no faith in heroes as husbands."
George coughed, and put his hat on the table.
"Before you marry," said Aunt Phœbe, practically, "it's just as well that you should know your prospects. If you have any idea of taking the Fairbrother fortune in your own hands, you'll be disappointed, for that is to remain entirely at the disposal of my niece, who is guided by me in her business affairs. I may as well say that I have some control over her and the property that will not be affected by her marriage. You need not fear that she will not be generous to you. Your position will be formally that of head of the firm; and, so far as income is concerned, nobody will guess that you are not the owner entirely."
"If it's all the same to you," said George, "I'd rather not hear any more on the subject."
"Indeed?" said Aunt Phœbe, coldly.
"I've got to call on a tailor at four o'clock, and it's now half-past three."
"This is a time to be serious," said Aunt Phœbe, severely.
"It isn't," said George; "it's a time to be married. That's quite enough for me just at present."
"I want you to understand about the property."
"I don't want to know. Do what you like with it. I'll leave it to you."
Aunt Phœbe promptly vacated her seat, and impatiently rang the bell and ordered tea. George thereupon, for the twenty-fifth time that day, consulted a note-book in which a confused mass of scribble spread itself over many pages. He was obliged to confess to himself that for the first time within his remembrance his brain was in a chaotic state. On confiding this intelligence to Aunt Phœbe, her ruffled feelings became smooth, for the most unintelligent person would have seen at once that this simple fact had revealed in George the common failing of the ordinary man.
George Early and Miss Fairbrother were married, and it is sufficient for our purpose to say that they went on the Continent for a fortnight, and met with the usual discomforts familiar to other travellers, and faced them with the heroic fortitude common in other honeymoon couples. If George was in any way different from another man in a similar position, it lay in the fact of his not waking up and wondering if his good fortune were a dream. George Early always met windfalls with a familiar nod, and took them as a matter of course; which is, after all, not a bad idea, if you can bring yourself to it, and if you happen to be one who runs in the way of good fortune. He did not, as may be supposed, allow his thoughts to run immediately on the prospect before him, nor form any notions of having "a high old time when he got his hands on the cash." You can never tell how marriage and good fortune will affect a man, and I don't suppose there was a person in Upper Thames Street who could give a near guess as to how it would affect George Early. Nobody, not even George himself, could have told you, though he could probably have guessed nearer than other people. But that it changed his fortunes and those of other members of the firm, will be seen as the history progresses. Some evidences of change in Upper Thames Street were already apparent, even before Mr. and Mrs. Early had returned from the honeymoon.
Three men had watched the growing friendship of the two with absorbing interest, and read the marriage announcement with some approval. They did so from motives of selfishness. In this change of affairs they saw relief from irritation that had tried their tempers and touched their pockets.
Parrott watched his increasing hoard with miserly satisfaction, and had already begun to weigh the merits of Streatham and Upper Tooting as suburban retreats, where, in company with the economical wife of his choice, he might enjoy the fruits of married life, and be free from the harassing demands of the blackmailer. George Early single was a source of increasing danger, but George Early married to a rich wife might be put out of his reckoning.
Upon reflection, a man might well assume at this stage that Old Fairbrother's legacies bid fair to effect the purpose for which they were instituted. Here were three men who might have been led away from faults that were eating into the soul of each, had not an impudent blackmailer stepped in at the beginning and torn from their clutches the healing medicine. Who knows but that they now might be well on the way to reform; that Parrott might be cheerfully handing crisp bank-notes to needy friends, Busby speaking the clarion voice of truth, and Gray quaffing copious draughts of bright sparkling water in place of the noxious intoxicant of his habit?
At the time of George Early's marriage, it must be admitted no evidence of reform had appeared, although nearly a month had elapsed since the hush-money had been asked for and paid. Parrott had successfully resisted the appeals of those who sought to relieve him of sundry half-crowns and pieces of gold; and Busby, as of yore, deceived all who came in his way, with a tongue that had lost none of its cunning. If the truth must be told, the head clerk had grown closer than ever, and had gone so far as to turn a deaf ear to an urgent request for a shilling.
Mrs. Gray noticed with regret that her husband's fondness for whisky had suddenly revived, and sighed deeply as she thought of the splendid lodger she had lost.
"So fond he was of you, too, Jimmy," she said.
"Who's fond of me?" asked Gray.
"Why, Mr. Early. You didn't drink so much of that horrid stuff when he was here. He had such a good influence over you."
"I know he had," said Gray, filling his glass. "Now he's got somebody who'll have an influence over him. Poor old George!"
"Oh, Jimmy! Do you think she'll be cruel to him? Why ever did he marry her?"
"Couldn't help it, I suppose," said her husband. "Perhaps he's going to reform her. Poor old George!"
"Jimmy," said Mrs. Gray, severely, "it's a shame for you to laugh. You ought to have prevented the marriage, if she's a horrid creature who'll worry his life out. You know he's been a good friend to you."
"Has he?" said Gray. "I'd forgotten that. Then I'll be a good friend to him. I'll go and be his lodger. No, I won't; I'll go and tell Mrs. Early that he's one of the best."
Gray helped himself to a further supply and toasted the new governor as "one of the best," in which Mrs. Gray, although a temperate little body, joined.
"When do you go to the club again, Jimmy?" said Mrs. Gray.
"Club? What club?" said Gray, who was arriving at that state when the truth begins to leak out unawares.
"Why, your club, of course; you're the secretary."
"Am I? Hooray! Hooray for the secretary!"
"You are the secretary, aren't you, Jimmy?" said Mrs. Gray.
"Course I am. You just said so. Hooray for——"
"Jimmy!" Mrs. Gray clutched his arm and took the glass from his hand. "Have you been deceiving me? Tell me if you belong to the club or not, and if you're really the secretary? Oh, Jimmy!"
Mrs. Gray sat down and burst into tears.
If anything was calculated to bring Gray into a sober state, it was the tears of his wife. He was not a model husband, but he had some affection for the little woman who adored and cared for him, and the sight of her weeping awoke him to the error he had made.
Gray had put his arm about her and lifted her up.
"I'm the secretary, little woman. Now don't cry any more. It's all right. I'm the secretary."
"You're not," sobbed Mrs. Gray; "I know you're not. You've been deceiving me, you wicked thing, and I—I won't forgive you. You don't belong to the club at all—you know you don't."
"I tell you I'm the secretary, don't I?" persisted Gray.
"I don't—don't believe you. You've been tel—telling me stories, Jimmy. It's a sha—shame to tell me stories. You oughtn't to do it."
"Look here," said Gray, taking her in his arms; "do you want me to prove what I say? Do you?"
"Ye—yes," she sobbed.
"Then ask George. If you won't believe me, ask him."
Mrs. Gray's sobs ceased and she began to dry her eyes. Gray reached over and helped himself to a little more whisky. "Ask him," he said, taking a drink.
In a little while Mrs. Gray, very much ashamed of herself, put her arms about her husband's neck and kissed him.
"I'm very sorry, Jimmy," she said, "I do believe you."
Mrs. Gray didn't ask George, and her husband continued in his dangerous career of intemperance. It was a pity that he did so, for with the good start as a teetotaler he had got during George Early's residence, he might have reformed and prevented the trouble that came, as trouble always does when you look for it.