Young Mr. Barters Repentance | Page 2

bottomless gulf of insolvency. Now he was on the very verge of it, and to-morrow he would be in it. It lent a feeble sting to his sufferings to know how surprised people would be, and how completely men would find him out.
He had not very profoundly involved other people in his own ruin, but he had gone a little farther than a man altogether brave, and honourable, and clearsighted would have ventured, and he knew that some would suffer with him. He might have made arrangements to go a little farther still if he had been courageous, clear-sighted, and dishonest, and might have held his head up for another matter too, perhaps. But he had lacked the nerve for that, and had never consciously been a rogue. He felt even now a pride of honesty. He had been unfortunate, and his creditors would have everything--everything.
He thanked God that Phil's mother had tied her money on her only son, and that the boy at least had enough to begin the world with. How should he face Phil when he came home again? How should he send the news to him? The lad was away enjoying himself, travelling all round the world with a wandering Baronet, who owned a yacht and had an unappeasable taste for the destruction of big game. He would have to surrender his fashionable and titled acquaintance now, poor fellow, and begin the world with a disgraced and broken frame to be a drag and hindrance to him. The more Mr. Bommaney thought of these things, the more unrestrainedly he cried; and the more he cried, the less he felt able or inclined to control his tears.
He wept almost silently, only an occasional sniff betraying his emotion to his ear. He had always held his head so high, and had been so believed in. It was very bitter.
Whilst he was in the midst of this childish abandonment to his grief a set of knuckles softly and hesitatingly tapped the door from without, and directly afterwards a hand made a tentative respectful sort of attempt upon the handle.
'Who's there?' cried Mr. Bommaney, steadying his voice as best he could.
'A gentleman to see you, sir,' answered a smooth voice outside.
Mr. Bommaney pushed back his chair, rose to his feet, and retiring to a smaller room consulted a little square looking-glass which hung upon the wall above his washing-stand. His blue eyes were very tearful and a little swollen, his cheeks and nose looked as if they had been scalded.
'Wait a moment,' he said aloud, and his voice betrayed him by a break. He blushed and trembled, thinking that Mr. Hornett, his confidential clerk, would know how he was breaking down, and would speak of his want of courage and self-command hereafter. The reflection nerved him somewhat, and he sluiced his face with water, making a little unnecessary noise of splashing to tell the listener how he was engaged. He polished his face with the towel, and, consulting the mirror again, thought he looked a little better.
Then he re-entered his business room, and turning the key in the lock opened the door slightly, a mere inch or two.
'Who is it?'
'A Mr. Brown, sir,' said the smooth voice outside. The clerk insinuated a card through the space between the door and door-jamb, and Mr. Bommaney took it from his fingers without revealing himself. He had some difficulty in making out its inscription, for his eyes were newly tearful, and, whilst he peered at it, a reflex of his late emotions brought a sniffling sob again. He was freshly ashamed at this, and said hastily,
'Five minutes' time. I will ring when I am ready. Ask the gentleman to wait.'
Mr. James Hornett softly closed the door, and stood on the landing with long lean fingers scraping at his lantern jaws. He was a little man, short of stature, and sparely built. His skin was vealy in complexion, and he had wiry hair of a russet-red. Even when he was clean shaven his fingers rasped upon his hollow cheeks with a faint sound. His nose and chin were long and pointed, and his manner was meek and self-effacing even when he was alone. There was a tinge of wonder in his face, at war with an habitual smile, in which his eyes had no part.
'Something wrong?' he said, under his breath. He went creeping softly down the stairs. 'Something wrong? Mr. Bommaney in tears? Mr. Bommaney!'
Could anything have happened to Mr. Phil? That was the only thing Mr. Hornett could think of as being likely to affect his employer in that way.
Now Mr. Hornett had been in his present employ for thirty years, man and boy, and he was human. Therefore, when at the expiration of a little more than five minutes' time Mr.