CHAPTER III.
JOHN ON HIS TRIAL.
BOTH the partners were together in Mr. William’s room. They had been having some sort of a consultation, it was evident, and both looked very grave. When John walked in at his ease, though a little anxious, they both turned round upon him with very serious faces—the younger man with a grieved air, the elder one rigid and solemn, like a judge before whom a criminal has appeared, whose conviction has been pre-accomplished, and who has come up for judgment. Mr. William Barrett had the air of hoping that some more evidence might be discovered which would possibly exonerate the accused, but his father’s face showed no such hope. On the contrary, something of the ‘I always knew how it would be’ was in his look, as he turned sharply round at the opening of the door.
John was greatly surprised: but still more indignant at this reception of him. He walked up to the table at which Mr. Barrett sat. Mr. William stood with his back to the dusty fireplace close by. Neither of them spoke, but looked at him with that overwhelming effect of silent observation which makes the steadiest footstep falter, and conveys embarrassment and awkwardness into the most self-controlled being. John said ‘Good-morning,’ and they both acknowledged it: Mr. William by an abrupt nod, his father by the most solemn inclination of his head. The young man did not know what to say. He stood and looked at them, wondering, indignant, taking his little packet of papers out of his pocket. What had he done to be so regarded?—or had he perhaps come into the midst of some consultation about other matters with which they were pre-occupied? He said,
‘Is there anything the matter?’ at last, saying to himself that it was impossible he could be the cause of such concentrated solemnity, and looking at the younger partner with a half smile.
‘There is a great deal the matter,’ said Mr. Barrett.
‘Yes,’ said his son; ‘it’s rather a grave business, Sandford. I don’t see it in quite the same light as my father. Still, it’s at least a great want of confidence, a strange slur upon us, who, so far as I know, have nothing to reproach ourselves with in respect to you.’
‘Certainly not, sir,’ said John: ‘you have always been very kind and given me every opportunity; but I hope on my part I have not done anything to make you suppose I am ungrateful, or have not appreciated my advantages.’
‘We have nothing to complain of so far as the works are concerned. I think, sir, I may say that?’
‘It is a point on which I should not like to commit myself,’ said the senior partner. ‘These works at Hampstead, so far as I hear——’
‘They went wrong when he was away. He can’t be blamed for that: he came back before his time and went over at once, and made every thing shipshape again. He can’t be blamed for that. Whatever went wrong was after his leave began.’
‘An engineer,’ said the elder gentleman, in his rigid way, ‘who means to do justice to his profession, doesn’t want leave. The works are his first interest—he has no occasion to go away to amuse himself.’
‘Oh, come, father! you’re making that a fault which is no fault—and we have a ground of offence which is real enough. Sandford, you came here the other day and told me of a scheme you had for draining the Thames valley. You may say I was disposed to pooh-pooh it a bit; but I didn’t say more than one does naturally with a young fellow’s first ideas, which are always so magnificent. Do you think there was a reason in anything I said for transferring the papers as you’ve done to another firm?’
‘I transfer them to another firm?’ cried John, ‘you must be dreaming. I have them here.’
‘You have them there? Then what do Spender and Diggs mean by spreading it abroad that they have had such a scheme sent to them by one of the pupils in our office, but which we had not enterprise to take up?’
‘Spender and Diggs!’ John was so well acquainted with the name of the rival firm that it raised no sense of humour in his mind: but something quite different, that sense of rivalry which is so strong between the pupils and partisans of different schools. He made a little pause, staring at his younger employer. And then he said, ‘I don’t know the least in the world what you mean.’
‘There is no ambiguity at all about my meaning. I say that Spender and Diggs are putting it about everywhere that a great scheme, worked out by one of our pupils, for the draining of the Thames valley, has been offered to them.’
John’s countenance grew pale with horror and dismay. He cried out, sharply,
‘Good heavens! Why, it cannot be Horrocks or Green?’
‘Don’t add slander to your other sins,’ said Mr. Barrett, severely, ‘or endeavour to take away the character of young men who are quite incapable——’
‘So they are,’ said John, in all good faith, ‘quite incapable. That is true, sir; but I could not help thinking for a moment that I might have left some of my papers about, and that they might have picked them up—but you’re right, sir; they couldn’t do it—that is a great relief to my mind.’
The young man was so undisguisedly relieved and so perfectly straightforward in the whole matter, that William Barrett began to doubt. He cast a glance at his father, who, however, sat rigid and showed no relenting.
‘Sandford,’ said the younger man, ‘you seem to speak very fair; but there’s this fact against you—no one supposed it was anyone’s scheme but yours; you are the only man in our office capable of anything of the sort; we all know that. And it’s no crime; but it is a horrid thing all the same—a caddish, currish sort of thing—to abandon the people who have trained you and done you every justice, and carry what I have no doubt you believe would be profitable work to another house.’
‘I—carry work to another house! It is quite impossible that you should believe that of me. I might have thought it if you had said I had killed somebody,’ said John, with a faint smile of ridicule, ‘for that’s a thing that might be done in a moment’s passion—but carry work to another house! You cannot believe that of me.’
‘What has believing to do with it,’ said Mr. Barrett, ‘when there are the facts that can be proved? Don’t lose time bandying words, Will. Sandford must see that after this there can be no further connection between us. He knows, of course, that his place at Spender and Diggs’ is safe enough. Let him have what is owing to him and let him go. I took him without a premium for his mother’s sake, and for the same reason—for Mrs. Sandford is a very worthy woman—I’ve given him every advantage, although I expected something of this sort all along.’
‘Why should something of this sort have been expected from me? What have I done? I have done no wrong—I have all my papers in my pocket. You said you would rather have the rough notes. Here they are, every one,’ cried John, taking out the papers from the envelope and throwing them done on the table; ‘here are all the calculations, diagrams, and drawings, and all. And now, Mr. Barrett, there is the question to settle which you’ve just mentioned, which you raised long ago,’ said the young man, with a flush of pride and anger. ‘That wretched premium! It shall be paid before the banks close to-day. That, at all events, I can settle at once. You have flung it in my teeth more than once when I was powerless. Now I have it in my own hands. Your premium, of which you have thought so much, shall be paid to-day.’
‘Stop there, Sandford,’ said the younger partner. ‘Father, I beg don’t say anything more—let us understand the more important matter first. You say you have brought us all your papers here. And yet I am informed from Spender and Diggs that they have your scheme, all carefully written out and elaborated——’
‘Ah!’ cried John, with a keen and quick sensation as if he had been startled and could not draw his breath.
‘Of course the information doesn’t come direct from them. They wouldn’t be likely to do anything so friendly. Prince heard all about it from one of their men. We can have him in, and you can ask him any questions you like. Even if I hadn’t known by what you told me, I should have felt sure it was you who had done it,’ said William Barrett, secure in his own command of the situation. Then he added to the man who answered his bell, ‘Ask Mr. Prince to step this way.’
Mr. Prince had stepped that way; he had walked up to Mr. Barrett’s table, in his precise little manner, smiling ingratiatingly when he met his master’s eye, and had told his story before John said anything more. He stood a little behind Prince, so startled that he could scarcely understand what was being said, though he heard it all—recalling his recollections and making it plain to himself what had happened. He had not been in the habit of doing rash things, nor was he one who gave his confidence and trust easily; but as he stood in the office, hearing the clerk’s glib story—and feeling himself like the spectator of the strangest little scene on the stage, instead of standing, so to speak, on his trial, and listening to the evidence of the principal witness against him—a rush of suggestions was going through John’s head.
The extraordinary fact which never had seemed at all strange to him before, that he had taken into his house and into his confidence a man of whom he knew nothing, except that he was a returned convict, showed itself all at once to him in the clearest light. Even in his suddenly awakened consciousness of what had happened, he felt that to call the man whom he had thus trusted a returned convict, hurt himself as if it had been a stab. It was on this ground he had made acquaintance with him, because he was a man who had been punished for crime, and might fall into crime again if he were not bolstered up by friendly help and saved from temptation. This was what John had attempted to do, and, lo, here was the result. He came gradually to himself through the hot and painful confusion of this critical moment, and put a few questions to the clerk which left no doubt on the subject. When Mr. Prince’s examination was over, William Barrett turned to the young man, his natural good nature and friendliness modified by the triumph of having gained a complete victory.
‘Sandford,’ he said, ‘I don’t pretend to understand your conduct one way or another. You came back from your holiday before your time, to tell me of this scheme of yours. I neither said nor did anything to discourage you, more than one does naturally to a young man. You were engaged in our work, and bred up in our office: that should have been reason enough against going to any other firm.’
‘It is a thing which never entered into my mind.’
‘But it did into your actions, apparently,’ said the junior partner, with a not unnatural sneer.
‘It is what I have expected all along,’ said Mr. Barrett, piously folding his hands. ‘It is what his mother expected, an excellent, much-tried woman, for whose sake——’
‘Prince, you may go,’ said William Barrett, ‘and, for heaven’s sake, father, stick to the question. Don’t bring in other things which have nothing to do with it.’
John had a great struggle with himself. The foregone conclusion against him with which he had so often been confronted was the one thing which overcame his good sense and self-control. Ever since his grandfather’s death it had been intolerable to him, and it was all he could do to suppress the boiling-over of passionate resistance to this systematic injustice; but with a great effort he restrained himself. He stopped the departing witness with a wave of his hand.
‘Let Prince stay,’ he said, in a choked voice. ‘I think I perceive how all this has occurred. Look here, did your informant say who took the papers to Spender and Diggs? Did he say it was I?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Prince, ‘that he knew you.’
‘I have not the least doubt that you asked him who it was. If he did not know me, he must at least have known something about me. Did he say it was I?’
‘Well,’ said the witness, somewhat unwillingly, ‘he didn’t know who it was. He said he thought it was an elderly man: but there are many people always coming and going about the office, and he couldn’t be sure.’
‘Do you think it likely,’ said John, ‘that I could have gone to Spender and Diggs’ office without being recognised?’
‘Sandford, this is all quite unnecessary,’ said William Barrett. ‘I did not accuse you of going to Spender and Diggs’ office. You might have employed any agent; such a thing is not necessarily—indeed, it’s not at all likely to be done by the principal himself.’
‘Then this is what I’m accused of,’ said John. ‘I came and told you of my scheme, for as much as it’s worth. You did discourage me, Mr. William, but good naturedly, telling me to go to Hampstead in the first place. I obeyed you, and finished that work last night. This morning I come to you with my papers in my pocket, ready to submit them to you according to your own instructions; and I am met with accusations like a criminal. Is it likely that between hands I should have gone to Spender and Diggs? Why should I come here now with my original papers if I had in the meanwhile sent a copy elsewhere? Do Spender and Diggs say they refused them? What are they supposed to have said? Why am I supposed to have come, the first moment I was free, back here——?’
‘Were you told they were refused?’
‘No, sir,’ said Prince. ‘On the contrary, they were taken into consideration, and thought to have something in them. That was what was reported to me.’
‘Why, then,’ said John, ‘should I come back here?’
There was a momentary pause; and then William Barrett broke forth again.
‘What’s the use of talking of motives and reasons and why you did it? Evidently you did do it, and there’s an end of the matter.’
‘And of our connection,’ said his father. ‘A young man that’s so false to his employers can have no more to do in our works or our office.’
‘As you please, sir,’ said John. He had made a pause of indignation, staring at his accusers, dumb with the passion of a thousand things he had to say—but what was the use? He shut his lips close, growing crimson with the strong effort of self-restraint. ‘I am sorry this should be the end,’ he said, controlling himself desperately, ‘but, of course, if that is your opinion, I have nothing to say. Good-bye, sir,’ the young man cried, unable to keep back that Parthian arrow, ‘it must be a pleasure to you that I have justified your certainty, and gone to the bad at the end.’
‘Sandford!’ said William Barrett, as John hurried out; but the young man was too much excited to pay any attention. The junior partner followed him to the door of the office calling after him, ‘Sandford—I say Sandford—Sandford!’
But John paid no attention. He rushed downstairs two or three steps at a time, and over the threshold which he had crossed so often with the familiarity of every day life. His feet spurned it now. He seemed to be shaking the dust from him as the rejected messengers were to do in the Gospel. No better servant had ever been, no more dutiful pupil, and he was conscious of this. He had never been without a thought indeed of advancement in his own person, of carrying out a work of his own: but all his knowledge, the knowledge acquired out of their limits in the privacy of his own self-denying and studious youth, had been at the service of his masters and teachers unreservedly at all times. He had never thought of sparing himself, of doing as little as was possible, which was the way of many of his fellow-pupils. He had done always as much as was in him, freely and with devotion. And as the climax of so many faithful years, he had brought to them this first fruits of his maturing thought, this plan so long cogitated, which had been to him what a poem is to a poet—the work in which all his faculties, not only of calculation and practical reason, but of thought and imagination had been concentrated. It was to be the climax, and now it was the end. Instead of sharing his honours with them and bringing them substantial profit, as he intended, he was sent forth with shame as a traitor, a false servant, a disloyal man. John’s heart burned within him as, holding his head high, and spurning the very ground, he marched out of that familiar place.
The sting of injustice was sharp in his soul. He said to himself that he would offer no further defence, that he would not attempt to prove the deception that had been put upon him, or how it was that he had been robbed at once of his scheme and honour. If it could be believed for a moment by people who had known him for years that he was so guilty, he would make no attempt to explain. If ever an accusation was unlikely, unreasonable, inconsistent with every law, it was this.