by Ellen Wood
“You are right there,” laughed William; “there’s not one half so handsome. Admire the contrast of the purple and green plaid and the scarlet collar.”
“No, not another like it,” emphatically repeated the Quaker. “I tell thee, William Halliburton, in the teeth of thy denial, that I saw thee, or a figure precisely similar to thee, parading the field-path last night, and stealthily watching my windows.”
“It’s a clear case of ghost,” returned William, with an amused look at Cyril Dare. “How much longer am I to make a walking Guy of myself, for your pleasure and Cyril’s astonishment?”
“Thee can take it off,” replied the Quaker, his curt tone betraying dissatisfaction. Until that moment he had believed William Halliburton to be the very quintessence of truth. His belief was now shaken.
In the small passage between Mr. Ashley’s room and Samuel Lynn’s, William hung up the cloak and cap. The Quaker turned to Cyril Dare, who was taking off his great-coat, stern displeasure in his tone.
“Dost thee know the time?”
“Just gone half-past nine,” replied Cyril.
Mr. Lynn held out his watch to Cyril. It wanted seventeen minutes to ten. “Nine o’clock is thy hour. I am tired of telling thee to be more punctual. And thee did not come before breakfast.”
“I overslept myself,” said Cyril.
“As thee dost pretty often, it seems. If thee can do no better than thee did yesterday, as well oversleep thyself for good. Look at these gloves.”
“Well!” cried Cyril, who was a good-looking young man, in stature not far short of William. At least he would have been good-looking, but for his eyes; there was a look in them, almost amounting to a squint; and they did not gaze openly and honestly into another’s eyes. His face was thin, and his features were well-formed. “Well!” cried he.
“It is well,” repeated the Quaker; “well that I looked at them, for they must be done again. Firsts are mixed with seconds, thirds with firsts; I do not know that I ever saw gloves so ill made up. What have I told thee?”
“Lots of things,” responded Cyril, who liked to set the manager at defiance, as far as he dared.
“I have desired thee never to attempt to make up the gloves. I now forbid thee again; and thee will do well not to forget it. Begin and band these gloves that William Halliburton is making ready.”
Cyril jerked open the drawer where the paper bands were kept, took some out of it, and carried them to the counter, where William stood. Mr. Lynn interposed with another order.
“Thee will please put thy apron on.”
Now, having to wear this apron was the very bugbear of Cyril Dare’s life. “There’s no need of an apron to paper gloves,” he responded.
“Thee will put on thy apron, friend,” calmly repeated Samuel Lynn.
“I hate the apron,” fumed Cyril, jerking open another drawer, and jerking out his apron; for he might not openly disobey the authority of Samuel Lynn. “I should think I am the first gentleman that ever was made to wear one.”
“If thee are practically engaged in a glove manufactory, thee must wear an apron, gentleman or no gentleman,” equably returned the Quaker. “As we all do.”
“All don’t!” retorted Cyril. “The master does not.”
“Thee are not in the master’s position yet, Cyril Dare. And I would advise thee to exercise thy discretion more and thy tongue less.”
The discussion was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Ashley, and the room dropped into silence. There might be no presuming in the presence of the master. He sat down to his desk, and opened his morning letters. Presently a young man put his head in and addressed Samuel Lynn.
“Noaks, the stainer, has come in, sir. He says the skins given out to him yesterday would be better for coloured than blacks.”
“Desire James Meeking to attend to him,” said Mr. Lynn.
“James Meeking isn’t here, sir. He’s up in the cutters’ room, or somewhere.”
Samuel Lynn, upon this, went out himself. Cyril Dare followed him. Cyril was rather fond of taking short trips about the manufactory, as interludes to his work. Soon after, the master lifted his head.
“Step here, William.”
William put down the gloves he was examining and approached the desk. “What sort of a French scholar are you?” inquired Mr. Ashley.
“A very good one, sir,” he replied, after a pause given to surprise. “I know it thoroughly. I can read and write it as readily as I can English.”
“But I mean as to speaking. Could you make yourself understood, for instance, if you were suddenly dropped down into a French town, where the natives spoke nothing but their own language?”
William smiled. “I don’t think I should have much difficulty over it. I have been so much with Monsieur Colin that I talk as fast as he does. He stops me occasionally to grumble at what he calls l’accent anglais.”
“I am not sure that I shall not send you on a mission to France,” resumed Mr. Ashley. “You can be better spared than Samuel Lynn; and it must be one of you. Will you undertake it?”
“I will undertake anything that you wish me to do, sir, that I could accomplish,” replied William, lifting his clear earnest eyes to those of his master.
“You are an exceedingly good judge of skins: even Samuel Lynn admits that. I want some intelligent, trustworthy person to go over to France, look about the markets there, and pick up what will suit us. The demand for skins is great at the present time, and the markets must be watched to select suitable bales before other bidders step in and pounce upon them. By these means we may secure some good bargains and good skins: we have succeeded lately in doing neither.”
“At Annonay, I presume you mean, sir.”
“Annonay and its neighbourhood; that’s the chief market for dressed skins. The undressed pelts are to be met with best, as you are aware, in the neighbourhood of Lyons. You would have to look after both. I have talked the matter over with Mr. Lynn, and he thinks you may be trusted both as to ability and conduct.”
“I will do my best if I am sent,” replied William.
“Your stay might extend over two or three months. We can do with a great deal; both of pelts and dressed skins. The dressers at Annonay —— Cyril, what are you doing there?”
Cyril could scarcely have told. He had come into the counting-house unnoticed, and his ears had picked up somewhat of the conversation. In his anger and annoyance, Cyril had remained, his face turned towards the speakers, listening for more.
For it had oozed out at Pomeranian Knoll, through a word dropped by Henry Ashley, that Mr. Ashley had it in contemplation to despatch some one from the manufactory on this mission to France, and that the some one would not be Samuel Lynn. Cyril received the information with avidity, never doubting that he would be the one fixed upon. To give him his due, he was really a good judge of skins — not better than William; but somehow Cyril had never given a thought to William in the matter. Greatly had he anticipated the journey to the land of pleasure, where he would be under no one’s control but his own. In that moment, when he heard Mr. Ashley speaking to William upon the subject, not to him, Cyril felt at war with every one and everything; with the master, with William, and especially with the business, which he hated as much as he had ever done.
But Mr. Ashley was not one to do things in a hurry, and he had only broached the subject.
CHAPTER XV.
“NOTHING RISK, NOTHING WIN.”
It was Saturday night, the Saturday after the above conversation, and Mr. Lynn was making ready to pay the men. James Meeking was payer in a general way; but James Meeking was also packer; that is, he packed, with assistance, the goods destined for London. A parcel was being sent off this evening, so that it fell to Mr. Lynn’s lot to pay the workmen. He stood before the desk in the serving-room, counting out the money in readiness. There was a quantity of silver in a bag, and a great many brown paper packets of halfpence; each packet containing five shillings. But they all had to be c
ounted, for sometimes a packet would run a penny or twopence short.
The door at the foot of the stairs was heard to open, and a man’s step came up. It proved to be a workman from a neighbouring manufactory.
“If you please, Mr. Lynn, could you oblige our people with twelve or fourteen pounds’ worth of change?” he asked. “We couldn’t get in enough to-day, try as we would. The halfpence seem as scarce as the silver.”
Now it happened that the Ashley manufactory was that evening abundantly supplied. Samuel Lynn went into the counting-house to the master, who was seated at the desk. “The Dunns have sent in to know if we can oblige them with twelve or fourteen pounds’ worth of change,” said he. “We have plenty to-night; but to send away so much may run us very short. Dost thee happen to have any gold that thee can spare?”
Mr. Ashley looked at his own cash drawer. “Here are six, seven sovereigns.”
“That will be sufficient,” replied Samuel Lynn, taking them from his hand, and going back to the applicant in the serving-room. “How much has thee need of?” asked he.
“Fourteen pounds, please, sir. I have the cheque here, made out for it. Silver or copper, it doesn’t matter which; or a little gold. I have brought a basket along with me.”
Mr. Lynn gave the money, and took the cheque. The man departed, and the Quaker carried the cheque to Mr. Ashley.
Mr. Ashley put the cheque into one of the pigeon-holes of his desk. He had the account in duplicate before him, of the goods going off, and was casting it up. William and Cyril were both in the counting-house, but not engaged with Mr. Ashley. William was marking small figures on certain banded gloves; Cyril was looking on, an employment that suited Cyril amazingly. His want of occupation caught the Quaker’s eye.
“If thee has nothing to do, thee can come and help me count the papers of coppers.”
Cyril dared not say “No,” before Mr. Ashley. He might have hesitated to say it to Samuel Lynn; nevertheless, it was a work he especially disliked. It is not pleasant to soil the fingers counting innumerable five-shilling brown-paper packets of copper money; to part them into stacks of twelve pence, or twenty-four halfpence. In point of fact, it was James Meeking’s work; but there were times when Samuel Lynn, William, and Cyril had each to take his turn at it. Perhaps the two former liked it no better than did Cyril Dare.
Cyril ungraciously followed to the serving-room. In a few minutes James Meeking looked in at the counting-house. “Is the master ready?”
Mr. Ashley rose and went into the next room, carrying one of the duplicate lists. The men were waiting to pack — James Meeking and the other packer, a young man named Dance. The several papers of boxes were ready on a side counter; and Mr. Ashley stood with the list in his hand, ready to verify them. Had Samuel Lynn not been occupied with serving, he would have done this.
“Three dozen best men’s outsizes, coloured,” called out James Meeking, reading the marks on the first parcel he took up.
“Right,” responded Mr. Ashley.
James Meeking laid it upon the packing-table — clear, except for an enormous sheet of brown paper as thick as card-board — turned to the side counter and took up another of the parcels.
“Three dozen best men’s outsizes, coloured,” repeated he.
“Right,” replied Mr. Ashley.
And so on, till all the parcels were told through and were found to tally with the invoice. Then began the packing. It made a large parcel, about four feet square. Mr. Ashley remained, looking on.
“You will not have enough string there,” he observed, as the men were placing the string round it in squares.
“I told you we shouldn’t, Meeking,” said George Dance.
“There’s no more downstairs,” was Meeking’s answer, “I thought it might be enough.”
Neither of the men could leave the parcel. They were mounted on steps on either side of it. Mr. Ashley called to William. “Light the lantern, and go upstairs to the string-closet. Bring down a ball.”
Candles were not allowed to be carried about the premises. William came forth, lighted the lantern, and went upstairs. At the same moment, Cyril Dare, who had finished his disagreeable copper counting, strolled into the counting-house. Finding it empty, he thought he could not do better than take a survey of Mr. Ashley’s desk, the lid of which was propped open. He had no particular motive in doing this, except that that receptacle might present some food or other to gratify his curiosity, which the glove-laden counters could not be supposed to do. Amidst other things his eyes fell on the Messrs. Dunns’ cheque, which lay in one of the pigeon-holes.
“It would set me up for a fortnight, that fourteen pounds!” ejaculated he. “No one would find it out, either. Ashley would suspect any one in the manufactory before he’d suspect me!”
He stood for a moment in indecision, his hand stretched out. Should it be drawn back, and the temptation resisted; or, should he yield to it? “Here goes!” cried Cyril. “Nothing risk, nothing win!”
He transferred the cheque to his own pocket, and stole out of the counting-house into the small narrow passage which intervened between it and Mr. Lynn’s room, where the parcel was being made up. Passing stealthily through the room, at the back of the huge parcel, which hid him from the eyes of the men and of Mr. Ashley, he emerged in safety into the serving-room, took up his position close to Samuel Lynn, and began assiduously to count over some shilling stacks which he had already verified. Samuel Lynn, his face turned to the crowd of men who were on the other side the counter receiving their wages, had not noticed the absence of Cyril Dare. Upon this probable fact Cyril had reckoned.
“Any more to count?” asked Cyril.
Samuel Lynn turned his head round. “Not if thee has finished all the packets.” Had he seen what had just taken place, he might have entrusted packets of coppers to Mr. Cyril less confidently.
Cyril jumped upon the edge of the desk, and remained perched there. William Halliburton came back with the twine, which he handed to George Dance. Blowing out the lantern, he returned to the counting-house.
The parcel was completed, and James Meeking directed it in his plain, clerk-like hand— “Messrs. James Morrison, Dillon, and Co., Fore Street, London.” It was then conveyed to a truck in waiting, to be wheeled to the parcels office. Mr. Ashley returned to his desk and sat down. Presently Cyril Dare came in.
“Halliburton, don’t you want to be paid to-night? Every one’s paid but you. Mr. Lynn’s waiting to close the desk.”
“Here is a letter for the post, William,” called out Mr. Ashley.
“I am coming back, sir. I have not set the counter straight yet.”
He received his money — thirty shillings a week now. He then put things straight in the counting-house, to do which was as much Cyril’s work as his, and took a letter from the hands of Mr. Ashley. It contained one of the duplicate lists, and was addressed as the parcel had been. William generally had charge of the outward-bound letters now; he did not forget them as he had done in his first unlucky essay. He threw on the elegant cloak of which you have heard, took his hat, and went through the town, as far as the post-office, Cyril Dare walking with him. There they parted; Cyril continuing his way homewards, William retracing his steps.
All had left the manufactory except Mr. Ashley and Samuel Lynn. James Meeking had gone down. On a late night, as the present, when all had done except the master and Samuel Lynn, the latter would sometimes say to the foreman, “Thee can go on to thy supper; I will lock up, and bring thee the keys.” Mr. Ashley was setting his desk straight — putting sundry papers in their places; tearing up others. He unlocked his cash drawer, and put his hand into the pigeon-hole for the cheque. It was not there. Neither there nor anywhere, that he could see.
“Why, where’s that cheque?” he exclaimed.
It caused Samuel Lynn to turn. “Cheque?” he repeated.
“Dunns’ cheque, that you brought me an hour ago.”
“I saw thee put it in the second pigeon-ho
le,” said the Quaker, advancing to the desk, and standing by Mr. Ashley.
“I know I did. But it is gone.”
“Thee must have moved it. Perhaps it is in thy private drawer?”
Mr. Ashley shook his head: he was deep in consideration. “I have not touched it since I placed it there,” he presently said. “Unless — surely I cannot have torn it up by mistake?”
He and Samuel Lynn both stooped over the waste-paper basket. They could detect nothing of the sort amidst its contents. Mr. Ashley was nonplussed. “This is a curious thing, Samuel,” said he. “No one was in the room during my absence except William Halliburton.”
“He would not meddle with thy desk,” observed the Quaker.
“No: nor suffer any one else to meddle with it. I should like to see William. He may possibly throw some light upon the subject. The cheque could not vanish into thin air.”
Samuel Lynn went down to James Meeking’s, whom he disturbed at supper. He bade him watch at the entrance-gate for the return of William from the post-office, and request him to walk into the manufactory. William was not very long in making his appearance. He received the message — that the master and Mr. Lynn wanted him — and in he went with alacrity, having jumped to the conclusion that some conference was about to be held touching the French journey.
Considerably surprised was he to learn what the matter really was. He quite laughed at the idea of the cheque’s being gone, and believed that Mr. Ashley must have torn it up. Very minutely went he over the contents of the paper-basket. Its relics were not there.
“It’s like magic!” exclaimed William. “No one entered the counting-house; not even Mr. Lynn or Cyril Dare.”
“Cyril Dare was with me,” said the Quaker. “Verily it seems to savour of the marvellous.”
It certainly did; and no conclusion could be come to. Neither could anything be done that night.
It was late when William reached home — a quarter past ten. Frank was sitting over the fire, waiting for him. Gar had gone to bed tired; Mrs. Halliburton with headache; Dobbs, because there was nothing more to do.