The Three Clerks I

THE THREE CLERKS

‘Well, then, try to go to sleep at once’ — and Linda carefully tucked the clothes around her sister.

‘I think it shall be a purse,’ said Katie.

‘A purse will certainly be the best; that is, if you don’t like the slippers,’ and Linda rolled herself up comfortably in the bed.

‘No — I don’t like the slippers at all. It shall be a purse. I can do that the quickest, you know. It’s so stupid to give a thing when everything about it is forgotten, isn’t it?’

‘Very stupid,’ said Linda, nearly asleep.

‘And when it’s worn out I can make another, can’t I?’ ‘H’m’m’m,’ said Linda, quite asleep.

And then Katie went asleep also, in her sister’s arms. Early in the morning — that is to say, not very early, per-

haps between seven and eight — Mrs. Woodward came into their room, and having inspected her charges, desired that Katie should not get up for morning church, but lie in bed till the middle of the day.

‘Oh, mamma, it will be so stupid not going to church after tumbling into the river; people will say that all my clothes are wet.’

‘People will about tell the truth as to some of them,’ said Mrs. Woodward; ‘but don’t you mind about people, but lie still and go to sleep if you can. Linda, do you come and dress in my room.’

‘And is Charley to lie in bed too?’ said Katie. ‘He was in the river longer than I was.’

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‘It’s too late to keep Charley in bed,’ said Linda, ‘for I see him coming along the road now with a towel; he’s been bathing.’

‘Oh, I do so wish I could go and bathe,’ said Katie.

Poor Katie was kept in bed till the afternoon. Charley and Harry, however, were allowed to come up to her bedroom door, and hear her pronounce herself quite well.

‘How d’ye do, Mr. Macassar?’ said she.

‘And how d’ye do, my Lady Crinoline?’ said Harry. After that Katie never called Charley Mr. Macassar again.

They all went to church, and Katie was left to sleep or read, or think of the new purse that she was to make, as best she might.

And then they dined, and then they walked out; but still without Katie. She was to get up and dress while they were out, so as to receive them in state in the drawing-room on their return. Four of them walked together; for Uncle Bat now usually took himself off to his friend at Hampton Court on Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Woodward walked with Charley, and Harry and Linda paired together.

‘Now,’ said Charley to himself, ‘now would have been the time to have told Mrs. Woodward everything, but for that accident of yesterday. Now I can tell her nothing; to do so now would be to demand her sympathy and to ask for assistance;’ and so he determined to tell her nothing.

But the very cause which made Charley dumb on the subject of his own distresses made Mrs. Woodward inquisitive about them. She knew that his life was not like that of Harry — steady, sober, and discreet; but she felt that she did not

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like him, or even love him the less on this account. Nay, it was not clear to her that these failings of his did not give him additional claims on her sympathies. What could she do for him? how could she relieve him? how could she bring him back to the right way? She spoke to him of his London life, praised his talents, encouraged him to exertion, besought him to have some solicitude, and, above all, some respect for himself. And then, with that delicacy which such a woman, and none but such a woman, can use in such a matter, she asked him whether he was still in debt.

Charley, with shame we must own it, had on this subject been false to all his friends. He had been false to his father and his mother, and had never owned to them the half of what he owed; he had been false to Alaric, and false to Harry; but now, now, at such a moment as this, he would not allow himself to be false to Mrs. Woodward.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he was in debt — rather.’

Mrs. Woodward pressed him to say whether his debts were heavy — whether he owed much.

‘It’s no use thinking of it, Mrs. Woodward,’ said he; ‘not the least. I know I ought not to come down here; and I don’t think I will any more.’

‘Not come down here!’ said Mrs. Woodward. ‘Why not? There’s very little expense in that. I dare say you’d spend quite as much in London.’

‘Oh — of course — three times as much, perhaps; that is, if I had it — but I don’t mean that.’

‘What do you mean?’ said she.

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Charley walked on in silence, with melancholy look, very crestfallen, his thumbs stuck into his waistcoat pockets.

‘Upon my word I don’t know what you mean,’ said Mrs. Woodward. ‘I should have thought coming to Hampton might perhaps — perhaps have kept you — I don’t exactly mean out of mischief.’ That, however, in spite of her denial, was exactly what Mrs. Woodward did mean.

‘So it does — but —’ said Charley, now thoroughly ashamed of himself.

‘But what?’ said she.

‘I am not fit to be here,’ said Charley; and as he spoke his manly self-control all gave way, and big tears rolled down his cheeks.

Mrs. Woodward, in her woman’s heart, resolved, that if it might in any way be possible, she would make him fit, fit not only to be there, but to hold his head up with the best in any company in which he might find himself.

She questioned him no further then. Her wish now was not to torment him further, but to comfort him. She determined that she would consult with Harry and with her uncle, and take counsel from them as to what steps might be taken to save the brand from the burning. She talked to him as a mother might have done, leaning on his arm, as she returned; leaning on him as a woman never leans on a man whom she deems unfit for her society. All this Charley’s heart and instinct fully understood, and he was not ungrateful.

But yet he had but little to comfort him. He must return to town on Monday; return to Mr. Snape and the lock entries, to Mr. M’Ruen and the three Seasons — to Mrs. Davis, Norah

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