INGRATITUDE

A year or more passed away, and then there came a cablegram from New York to Jacob Crossley, Esquire, from Captain Stride.  The old gentleman was at breakfast when he received it, and his housekeeper, Mrs Bland, was in the act of setting before him a dish of buttered toast when he opened the envelope.  At the first glance he started up, overturned his cup of coffee, without paying the least attention to the fact, and exclaimed with emphasis ­“As I expected.  It is lost!”

“’Ow could you expect it, sir, to be anythink else, w’en you’ve sent it all over the table-cloth?” said Mrs Bland, in some surprise.

“It is not that, Mrs Bland,” said Mr Crossley, in a hurried manner; “it is my ship the Walrus.  Of course I knew long ago that it must have been lost,” continued the old gentleman, speaking his thoughts more to himself than to the housekeeper, who was carefully spooning up the spilt coffee, “but the best of it is that the Captain has escaped.”

“Well, I’m sure, sir,” said Mrs Bland, condescending to be interested, and to ignore, if not to forget, the coffee, “I’m very glad to ’ear it, sir, for Captain Stride is a pleasant cheery sort of man, and would be agreeable company if ’e didn’t use so much sea-langwidge, and speak so much of ‘is missis.  An’ I’m glad to ‘ear it too, sir, on account o’ that fine young man that sailed with ’im ­Mr Book, I think, was ­”

“No, Mrs Bland, it was Brooke; but that’s the worst of the business,” said the old gentleman; “I’m not quite sure whether young Brooke is among the saved.  Here is what the telegram says: ­

“`From Captain Stride to Jacob Crossley.  Just arrived, (that’s in New York, Mrs Bland); Walrus lost.  All hands left her in three boats.

“`Our boat made uninhabited island, and knocked to pieces.  Eight months on the island.  Rescued by American barque.  Fate of other boats unknown.  Will be home within a couple of weeks.’”

“Why, it sounds like Robinson Crusoe, sir, don’t it? which I read when I was quite a gurl, but I don’t believe it myself though they do say it’s all true.  Young Mr Leather will be glad to ’ear the good noos of ’is friend ­”

“But this is not good news of his friend; it is only uncertain news,” interrupted the old gentleman quickly.  “Now I think of it, Mrs Bland, Mr Leather is to call here by appointment this very morning, so you must be particularly careful not to say a word to him about this telegram, or Captain Stride, or anything I have told you about the lost ship ­you understand, Mrs Bland?”

“Certainly, sir,” said the housekeeper, somewhat hurt by the doubt thus implied as to the capacity of her understanding.  “Shall I bring you some more toast, sir?” she added, with the virtuous feeling that by this question she was returning good for evil.

“No, thank you.  Now, Mrs Bland, don’t forget.  Not a word about this to any one.”

“‘Ooks an’ red-’ot pincers wouldn’t draw a syllable out of me, sir,” returned the good woman, departing with an offended air, and leaving her master to understand that, in her opinion, such instruments might have a very different effect upon him.

“Ass that I was to speak of it to her at all,” muttered Mr Crossley, walking up and down the room with spectacles on forehead, and with both hands in his trousers-pockets creating disturbance among the keys and coppers.  “I might have known that she could not hold her tongue.  It would never do to let Mrs Brooke remain on the tenter-hooks till Stride comes home to clear the matter up.  Poor Mrs Brooke!  No wonder she is almost broken down.  This hoping against hope is so wearing.  And she’s so lonely.  To be sure, sweet May Leather runs out and in like a beam of sunshine; but it must be hard, very hard, to lose an only son in this way.  It would be almost better to know that he was dead.  H’m! and there’s that good-for-nothing Shank.  The rascal! and yet he’s not absolutely good for nothing ­if he would only give up drink.  Well, while there’s life there’s hope, thank God!  I’ll give him another trial.”

The old man’s brow was severely wrinkled while he indulged in these mutterings, but it cleared, and a kindly look beamed on his countenance as he gave vent to the last expression.

Just then the door bell rang.  Mr Crossley resumed the grave look that was habitual to hint and next minute Shank Leather was ushered into the room.

The youth was considerably changed since we last met him.  The year which had passed had developed him into a man, and clothed his upper lip with something visible to the naked eye.  It had also lengthened his limbs, deepened his chest, and broadened his shoulders.  But here the change for the better ended.  In that space of time there had come over him a decided air of dissipation, and the freshness suitable to youth had disappeared.

With a look that was somewhat defiant he entered the room and looked boldly at his employer.

“Be seated, Mr Leather,” said the old gentleman in a voice so soft that the young man evidently felt abashed, but he as evidently steeled himself against better feelings, for he replied ­

“Thank you, Mr Crossley, I’d rather stand.”

“As you please,” returned the other, restraining himself.  “I sent for you, Mr Leather, to tell you that I have heard with sincere regret of your last outbreak, and ­”

“Yes, sir,” said Shank, rudely interrupting, “and I came here not so much to hear what you have to say about my outbreak ­as you are pleased to style a little jollification ­as to tell you that you had better provide yourself with another clerk, for I don’t intend to return to your office.  I’ve got a better situation.”

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Crossley in surprise.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Shank insolently.

It was evident that the youth was, even at that moment, under the influence of his great enemy, else his better feelings would have prevented him from speaking so rudely to a man who had never shown him anything but kindness.  But he was nettled by some of his bad companions having taunted him with his slavery to his besetting sin, and had responded to Mr Crossley’s summons under the impression that he was going to get what he styled a “wigging.”  He was therefore taken somewhat aback when the old gentleman replied to his last remark gently.

“I congratulate you, Mr Leather, on getting a better situation (if it really should turn out to be better), and I sincerely hope it may ­for your mother’s sake as well as your own.  This therefore disposes of part of my object in asking you to call ­which was to say that I meant to pass over this offence and retain you in my employment.  But it does not supersede the necessity of my urging you earnestly to give up drink, not so much on the ground that it will surely lead you to destruction as on the consideration that it grieves the loving Father who has bestowed on you the very powers of enjoyment which you are now prostituting, and who is at this moment holding out His hands to you and waiting to be gracious.”

The old man stopped abruptly, and Shank stood with eyes fixed on the floor and frowning brow.

“Have you anything more to say to me?” asked Mr Crossley.

“Nothing.”

“Then good-morning.  As I can do nothing else to serve you, I will pray for you.”

Shank found himself in the street with feelings of surprise strong upon him.

“Pray for me!” he muttered, as he walked slowly along.  “It never occurred to me before that he prayed at all!  The old humbug has more need to pray for himself!”