Life in London Part 12

When the morning dawned, it found George still writing. As the clock struck seven, he packed up what few things he had with him, paid his hotel bill, and drove off to Falcon-court. He was there by eight o'clock, before any of the clerks had arrived.

"Have the letters come?" he asked the housekeeper.

"Yes, sir, they are in Mr. Compton's room," was the answer.

George hastened into the room, looked through the packet, and alighting upon a letter with a foreign post-mark addressed to Mr. Sanders in Mr.

Compton's handwriting, he broke the seal. The note was short, merely saying that he had arrived in Paris, on his way home, and expected to be back in a day or two; therefore any communications must be forwarded at once, or he would have left Paris.

George went direct to the Electric Telegraph Office. A form was handed to him, on which the message he desired to send must be written, and he filled it up thus:--

"_From Mr. Sanders to Mr. Compton_.

"Come back at once. A cheque has been forged in your name for _100._ George Weston is the forger. It is a clear and aggravated case. Shall he be arrested? Will you prosecute? Answer at once."

In an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time an answer was returned. George was at the Telegraph Office to receive it.

"_From Mr. Compton to Mr. Sanders._

"I will return to-morrow. Take no steps in the matter; let it be kept silent, I am deeply grieved, but I will not prosecute under any circ.u.mstances."

"Well, Mr. Weston," said Mr. Sanders, when George entered the office,"

I expected you would have been here before; but I suppose you have had some difficulty in your investigations?"

"I have had difficulty," George answered. "I have been endeavouring to borrow a hundred pounds to pay the deficiency, and then I would have screened the forger; but my plan has failed, and it is better that it should, because the innocent would have been sure to have suffered for the guilty. I am now bound to tell you the name of the criminal upon his own confession."

"Who is it? who is it?" asked Mr. Sanders, eagerly.

"I--George Weston," he answered. "No matter how I did it, or why; I alone am guilty."

Mr. Sanders caught hold of the back of a chair for support. His hands trembled, and his voice failed him.

"It is a shock to you, sir," said George; "and it will be a shock to Mr.

Compton. Give him this letter when he comes home, it will explain the circ.u.mstances to him. I deeply regret that I should have caused you so much anxiety as I have during the past week, while this inquiry has been pending. I knew the truth must come out sooner or later--but I would rather you should know it from me; crushed and ruined as I am, I have no hope that you will look with any other feelings than those of abhorrence on me, but you do not know the heavy punishment I have already suffered, or you would feel for me."

"Are you aware, George Weston, that there is a yet heavier punishment, and that, as Mr. Compton's representative, I shall feel it my painful duty to--"

"No, sir; here is Mr. Compton's opinion upon the case," said George, handing the telegraphic message to Mr. Sanders, who listened with astonishment as he explained the circ.u.mstances. "But should Mr. Compton, upon a careful examination into the case, wish to prosecute," he continued, "I will appear whenever and wherever he pleases. And now, Mr.

Sanders, I leave this office, ruined and disgraced, the result of my own folly and sin."

George spoke hoa.r.s.ely, and his face was pale as Death. Mr. Sanders was moved; and put out his hand to shake hands with him, and say good-bye, but George held his back.

"Remember, sir, you are an honest man; you cannot shake hands with me,"

said George.

"Weston, I am not your judge; there is One who will judge not only this act, but all the acts that have led to it," said Mr. Sanders, solemnly.

"I have had more interest and greater hopes in you than in any young man who ever came into this office; and I feel more sorrow now, on your account, than I can put into words. Do not let this great and disastrous fall sink you into lower depths of sin. If you have forfeited man's respect and esteem, there is a G.o.d with whom there is mercy and forgiveness. Seek Him, and may He bless you! Good-bye, George Weston,"

and the manager, with tears in his eyes, wrung the cold, trembling hand that was stretched out to his.

George took up his carpet-bag, which he had brought from the hotel, and was about to leave, but he paused a moment.

"Will you send Hardy in here?" he asked Mr. Sanders. "I must have a word with him before I go."

Hardy had been expecting all the morning to have some explanation from George, and had been uneasy at his absence. When he went into Mr.

Compton's room he was surprised to see George, with his bag in his hand, ready to make a departure.

"Hardy," said George, "I told you last night I should soon have to bid you good-bye, and now the time has arrived. I am going away from the office, and perhaps from England, but I cannot tell you where I am going. I leave in disgrace; my once good name is now blighted and withered; my old friends will look upon me with abhorrence."

"No, George, I am one of your old friends; I never shall," interrupted Hardy. "I do not know what you have done, nor do I wish to know, but I cannot believe your heart and disposition are changed, or will ever change so much as to make me regard you in any other light than that of a dear and valued friend. But where are you going, George? Do tell me that."

"No, Hardy, I cannot. I am going away, G.o.d only knows where; it may be abroad, it may not. I am going somewhere where I shall not be known, and where I can try to work back for myself a character and a good name, which I can never redeem in London. Some day I may let you know where I am."

"But, George, does your mother know where you are going?"

"No," said George, and his voice was tremulous as he spoke. "No; I have no mother now. I am too fallen to claim relationship with one so good and n.o.ble and holy as my mother is."

"Oh, George, give up this wild scheme! Have you thought that you are going the most direct way to break your mother's heart, and to make her life, as well as your own, blank, solitary, and miserable? Whatever wrong you have done, do not add to it by breaking that commandment which bids us honour our parents. Your mother has claims upon you which you have no right to disregard in this way."

"I have thought it all well over, Hardy. I believe it is for her good as well as for mine that our paths should run differently, but I cannot explain all now. I am in dread lest my uncle should call here before I get away. Hardy, good-bye, old fellow."

"No, I cannot say good-bye yet. George, give me your address; promise to let me see you again, and I will promise to keep your secret sacredly."

"I do not know where I am going; I have no fixed plan; but I do promise to write to you, Hardy."

"And now, George, make me one other promise. If you are in difficulties, and I can a.s.sist you, or do anything for you in any way, at any time, you will let me know--remember I shall always be Charles Hardy to you, and you will always be George Weston to me. Do you agree?"

"Yes, Hardy, I agree. I cannot thank you. I cannot say what I would, or tell you what I feel. May you be blessed and be happy, and never know what it is to have a heavy, broken heart like mine. And now one promise from you. Go and see my mother; try and comfort her; tell her how I grieve to part from her."

George could not continue; the nervous twitching of his face showed the struggle within, and it was a relief when the hot tears broke through and coursed down his cheek. Hardy was greatly affected. He loved George with an intensity of love like that which knit together the soul of Jonathan and David; he had been to him more than a brother ever since they had been acquainted; in hours of business and recreation, in joys and sorrows, in plans and aims, they had been one; and now the tie was to be severed, and severed under such sad circ.u.mstances.

There is a solemnity about sorrow which speech desecrates. Not another word was spoken by either--both hearts were too full for that; but as the tears ran thickly down their cheeks, they grasped each other's hand, and then, fairly sobbing, George hurried from the office.

CHAPTER IX.

IN EXILE.

George went direct from the office to the railway station, and took a ticket to Plymouth. He had but a short time to wait before the train left, and bore him away. The green fields and smiling country were nothing to him; he felt no pleasure in seeing the merry, happy children playing in the lanes, as the train whizzed past. The greetings of friends on the platforms at the different stations only made him sigh.

Who would greet him on his journeys? Tired and worn out with sleepless nights and anxious days, he tried to doze, but the attempt was vain. He feared lest some one might have tracked his steps to the station, and have telegraphed for him to be stopped at the terminus. Then, when he had thought and pondered over such probabilities as these, and endeavoured to dismiss them, he tried to form some plans for the future; but all the future was dark--no ray of light, however faint or distant, could be seen, and every plan he would make must be left to circ.u.mstances. When the pa.s.sengers alighted at one of the stations to take refreshments, George got out too, for the purpose of breaking his long fast. He tried to eat a biscuit, but he could not get it down,--all appet.i.te was gone; so, drinking a gla.s.s of ale, he wandered to the book stall, and purchased a newspaper to read during the remainder of the journey. The train started off again, and George settled himself to read. The first thing that met his eye was an account of the a.s.sizes, and the first case was headed, "Forgery by a Banker's Clerk." This brought back to remembrance, more vividly than ever, the sad scenes of the past few days; he threw the paper out of the window, and abandoned himself to thought.

At last the train arrived at Plymouth. George hastened on to the platform, and walked rapidly into the town, fearing lest any one should recognize him, or lest any official should wish to detain him. With his bag in hand, he wandered through the streets, uncertain what to do or where to go. Presently he came to a small house, in an obscure street, with a placard in the window stating that apartments were to let. He knocked, and was answered by the landlady, a respectable looking woman, who told him that she had a bedroom and sitting-room to let, and would accommodate him on reasonable terms. George said he should not require the room more than a few days, or a week, as he was about to leave by one of the vessels in the port. The terms were arranged, and he at once took possession. As it was very late, he thought he would go to bed without delay.

"Will you not have some supper first?" asked the landlady.

"No, thank you," said George: "I am tired with my journey, and shall be glad to get to sleep as soon as I can."

"But, sir, you really look ill," persisted the landlady, who was a kind, motherly woman; "will you let me make you a little spirits and water?"