Archie's Mistake, Page 3

left alone after dinner.

  "Who's the caretaker at night now, father?" he asked, as he peeled anapple.

  "Timothy Lingard," was the answer. "Why do you want to know?"

  "Oh, only because he isn't there to-night; so I thought he might havebeen dismissed."

  "Not there to-night! What do you mean, Archie?"

  "Why, I saw him come away this evening, just before I came back here,and Stephen Bennett went in instead. I can't say he looks quite thesort of fellow to be in charge of a big place like that all night--afellow of his habits, too."

  "What do you know about his habits?"

  "Oh, nothing particular. But, of course, one can't help suspectingthere's something wrong about a chap who draws the pay he does, andgoes staggering about the streets with his arms full of children'sclothes, and his own things looking like a beggar's."

  "Do you mean you think the lad drinks, or is dishonest? Speak out,Archie, like a man, and don't throw stones in the dark."

  "I don't want to do the fellow any harm," responded Archie, who feltthat, in spite of his watching, he knew far too little to speakdefinitely; "but what I have seen of him I don't like, and that's afact. I can't help thinking there's something behind. What businesshas he to be at the mill to-night, when the regular man's away?"

  "None at all, of course. Most likely Lingard has gone off on someerrand of his own, and paid Bennett to take his place. But it is notregular or right, by any means; I don't like the idea of it at all....I think I shall go round myself presently, and find out all about it."

  By the time Stephen got back from his round it was nearly nineo'clock. He sank into a chair, and leaning his elbows on the table,rested his head in his hands.

  "I'm a deal weaker than I was last week," he murmured; "but I musttry and last out till father's back. I'll write to him now, and tellhim how fast I'm going. If there was any one a bit friendly, I'd tell'em about it all, and ask 'em to look after the little 'uns if I goquicker; but there isn't. They all seem against me and my rags. Ithought Mr. Archie looked so kind at first, but I can see now hethinks worse of me than any."

  He got out some sheets of paper he had in his pocket, and pulled thepens and ink on the table towards him.

  He did not write very fast, and as he had a good deal to say, he wassome time over his letter. About twenty minutes had passed, when theroom seemed to get very misty. The pen dropped out of Stephen's hand,and he fell back, with his eyes shut, and his head against the rail ofthe chair.

  He had remained thus, asleep from very weakness, for about an hour,when he was suddenly aroused by a rough voice in his ear.

  "Wake up, skulker! your time's come at last."

  He opened his eyes, his heart throbbing violently, and there stood theburly form of Simon Bond. He looked bigger than ever in thedimly-lighted room; and as his great grimy face came nearer, and hisstrong hands grasped Stephen's ear and collar, he felt that his lastmoment had come, and even sooner than he had expected.

  "Get up!" said his enemy, giving him a kick, and dragging him roughlyfrom the chair. "Now," he went on, "I think you refused to answer myquestions last time I asked 'em. You'll please to alter your ways fromto-night, or you'll get more o' _these_ than you'll quite like."

  As he spoke he let go of the lad's collar with his right hand, andbrought it swinging down with all his force on the side of Stephen'shead.

  Instantly the boy dropped like one dead at his feet.

  At the same moment the office-door opened, and the appalling sightappeared of Mr. Fairfax's tall form, followed closely by his sonArchie.

  Not a second did Simon lose. He turned to the door, and was off like aflash of lightning.

  Archie made a rush, as though to follow him.

  "Cowardly lout!" he cried.

  "No; stop, Archie," said his father. "You couldn't catch him; and ifyou did, you couldn't keep him. We'll examine him to-morrow--we bothsaw who it was. Now let us look after this poor lad."

  "See, father, he was writing a letter," said Archie.

  Mr. Fairfax took up the paper. This is what it said:--

  "DEAR FATHER,--The little 'uns is all well, and I've got money now tolast 'em till you are out, if I'm took before, which I'm that bad andlow I can't hardly creep along. I've give Polly the money to use whenwanted. She's been a good girl all along. Come to the above address assoon as you are out. I done my best, father, as you told me. And nowgood-bye, if I'm gone.--Your loving son,

  "STEPHEN BENNETT.

  "_P.S._--I never believed as you did it, father, and I don't now. Godwill make it right, so don't fret."

  The envelope lay by the letter. It was directed to--

  _Ambrose Bennett, No. 357,_ _Eastwood Jail._

  Mr. Fairfax gave them both to his son. "There, Archie," he said;"read these, and see if you still think you were right."

  Then he went to Stephen, and did what he could to restore him toconsciousness. But he was in such a weak state that nothing seemed ofany use.

  "Father, I've been a suspicious _brute_," cried Archie, flinging downthe letter. "But for my cold looks and constant spying, which Idaresay he's noticed, he might have told me all this, and I might havehelped him. Now he's starving and friendless. But I'll try to make upnow, if it isn't too late. Do let me carry him home, father--may I?"

  "No," said Mr. Fairfax; "I'll go back and order some brandy, and sendfor the doctor. You stay here and take care of him and the mill."

  He went away, and very long did the time seem to Archie before thedoctor arrived. Now he had time to think over his own unkind--nay,cruel--suspicions, founded on nothing but Stephen's shabby appearance.

  "It's my way, I know, to make up my mind too quickly, and by afellow's outside," he thought. Then, somehow, the words of the lastSunday's epistle came into his mind--"Charity thinketh no evil." Heknew that charity means love.

  "No," he said to himself, "I shouldn't have thought evil of him, and Icertainly had no right to say what I did to father and Mr. Munster.Poor fellow! how lonely and miserable he must have been; and I mighthave stood his friend, if I'd only given him the chance of speakingabout his troubles, instead of glaring at him as I did. Is it too latenow to make up?"

  Just then the doctor came in; but for a long, long time he could notrestore Stephen to consciousness.

  He was trying still when three o'clock struck.

  "Now he is really coming to--look, Dr. Grey," cried Archie, who hadwatched all the doctor's efforts with breathless anxiety.

  Just then Stephen gave a great sigh, and opened his eyes.

  "Where am I?" he asked feebly.

  "All among friends," said Archie, "and going to have a jolly time, andbe nursed up, and made as strong as a horse.--Now, Dr. Grey, let's geta cab. I'll go and call one," and he bustled off.

  Outside he met a disgusting sight. It was Timothy Lingard, staggeringtowards the mill, very much the worse for what he had been drinking.

  "You can't go there; go home at once," said Archie.

  "Night-watch--caretaker--said I'd be here," mumbled Timothy, tryingto brush past him; and then finding Archie still stood as a hindrancein front of him, he tried to strike him--of course not knowing who itwas--only he missed his aim, and fell down into the gutter.

  There Archie left him, to seek a cab, which is not an easy thing tofind at three o'clock in the morning. However, before long he didsucceed in procuring one, and in it Stephen was conveyed to thenearest hospital.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Fairfax was just starting for his office the next morning when hewas accosted by a respectable-looking working-man.

  "Do I speak to Mr. Fairfax, sir?" he asked, touching his hat.

  "Yes, that is my name. Can I do anything for you?"

  "Would you be good enough, sir, to tell me where my son, StephenBennett, is? I hear he was taken ill last night."

  "He's in the hospital. I'll take you--I was just going there myself,"said Archie, who was with his father.
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  "Your son has had a hard life, I fear, in your absence," said Mr.Fairfax, glancing curiously at the stranger, who did not look at alllike a man capable of crime.

  "Yes, sir," he answered somewhat bitterly; "it has pleased theAlmighty to send me a heavy trial. First, I lost my wife; then I wasaccused, along with my fellow-workers in a brick-yard, of stealingfagots. I was sentenced to three months' imprisonment, and my timewould have been out next week. My boy, which he's one