University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE BOOK-KEEPER.

The spring business had begun, and Harry was
more than ever confined to the shop. He became
pale, and every day paler and thinner. He
dreamed of country breezes, swelling buds, early
flowers, and the full spring chorus of birds; but,
instead of all this, he was waked by the harsh
sound of the first wheel rolling over the pavement.
He hurried to the shop, not to leave it, at night,
till he could scarcely drag his weary limbs home.
His kind hostesses became anxious about him. Miss
Peace advised a blue pill taken twice a week, as
“rulable in the spring;” and Plenty, when Harry
shook his head at this, suggested that camomile tea,
three times a day, would strengthen him. But Harry

insisted that nothing would do this, if not the good
bread and meat of their table. How and when he
should pay for this bread and meat, now wore upon
him more than his work and confinement. When
his quarter's salary became due, Holson had put him
off; and, when Harry repeated his request for his
dues, and urged the necessity of paying his board,
Holson told him that if he did not wait till it was
convenient to pay him, he might whistle for his
money; that he could get clerks enough without
wages. Unfortunately, Harry had no written contract;
and Mrs. Dawson, the only person whose testimony
could aid him, had suddenly gone to the West Indies
for health. No word or sign from the good sisters
intimated that Harry was behindhand; but he was
too honest, too manly, to continue to be a charge to
them, and he resolved, if Holson did not pay him at
the end of the six months, which would now be in two
days, he would leave his employment, and get another,
even if it were domestic service, that would enable
him to pay his debt. His painful impatience was
increased by hearing old Mrs. Bland say to Mary
Hale, “I never saw your aunts wear their old bonnets
out on Easter Sunday before. What is the
reason?” “Why,” said Mary, “I am sure, Mrs.
Bland, aunts' bonnets look very decent.” “Yes,
decent; but, in twenty years, I have never known
them go to church, on Easter Sunday, with their old
bonnets.” “The reason is, grandmother,” said blind
Nannie Bland — “Hush, Nannie!” said Mary; but
the little girl either did not hear or did not heed.
“Aunty Peace says that they have not any money
till Harry pays them.” “O Nannie!” said Mary,
deprecatingly. Her eyes met Harry's. He smiled,
but it was a smile of the deepest mortification.
Mary understood it, and felt tears of sympathy
coming, and she left the room. Harry followed her,
and explained his embarrassment; and Mary begged
him not to be troubled, and said, in their kind spirit,
that her aunts would rather never have new bonnets
than he should leave them. This was quite true,
and this might have been the consequence to them,
for they had scarcely an unappropriated shilling.
Their income was one thousand dollars. With this
they maintained in independence their comfortable
little establishment. They boarded their old friend,
widow Bland, for just enough to cover the expense,
“throwing in,” as they termed it, “blind Nannie; she
being such an interesting child, it was only a pleasure;
and she ate like a Canary.” They supported
their three orphan nieces; many an old friend was
welcomed to their hospitable table. They rented a
pew in the church their parents attended before them,
took a weekly paper, a religious magazine, and subscribed
to two charitable societies. Had they not
more enjoyment from money with their one thousand
dollars, than some rich men with their millions?

Truly, contentment with godliness is great gain.

Harry's affairs were approaching a crisis. Till
this should be past, he had resolved to make no
mention of his anxieties to his mother.

There was one person in Holson's shop, a far
greater sufferer than Harry. This was Carey, the
book-keeper. He was an amiable man, rather inefficient
from protracted ill health, and timid from continued
misfortunes. His wife was a feeble woman,

and his children sickly. His whole life had been
under a dreary, leaden sky. He had ceased to hope,
but always looked for something worse.

At a period of uncommon pressure to poor Carey,
and of elated prosperity to Holson, he had lent his
book-keeper a few hundred dollars; and, from that
time, he had kept him under the harrow. Whenever
he had any purpose to gain, he would threaten
to withhold his salary, or to seize his furniture to
satisfy the debt. For two or three weeks, Harry
had observed that Carey was unusually dejected; that
he was every evening behindhand with his books;
and, one evening, after watching him going over and
over the same column of figures, and then leaning
dejectedly on his elbow, he said, modestly, to Carey,
“You do not seem quite well, sir. I am a pretty
good accountant; perhaps I can assist you.”

“You are very kind,” replied Carey; “perhaps
you can. I have made some mistake here. I cannot
detect it. I believe I am losing my head.”

“O, no,” said Harry, cheerfully; “go and sit on
that old sofa at the end of the shop, and rest your

head. Rest is all it wants, and that it wants enough.”
Poor Carey went, stiff and languid, and with but
half a man's life in him. Harry soon detected the
error, and rectified the figures.

“It is all right, Mr. Carey,” he said. “Can I
do any thing else?”

“O, thank you, yes. If you will look at the two
last pages of last week's accounts, you will see they
are not footed. But it will keep you too late; you
too are tired.”

“Not sick-tired, as you are; not at all too tired
to do this. You take a little doze, and I will wake
you when it's done.”

So Harry went to work with a clear head and
willing heart; and, in an hour's time, the accounts,
that were the despair of the poor old book-keeper,
were adjusted, and he went behind the screen to
wake Carey. He was not sleeping; he was too care-worn
and anxious to sleep. The tears came in his
eyes when he thanked Harry. “I do not know your
match,” he said; “you are one by yourself, Harry
Davis.” But there seemed no sense of relief; the

spring of his mind was broken. After a minute, he
rose, walked slowly to the desk, locked it, and left
the shop in complete absence of mind, without even
bidding Harry good night.

The next day, Harry's salary fell due, and he took
an opportunity of reminding Holson of it. Holson
said it was not convenient to pay it, and he must
wait. Harry said, manfully, he could not wait. Holson
replied, he should “wait and do nothing else.”

Harry then said, calmly, “I shall leave your service
this evening, Mr. Holson.” Holson stared.

“And a pretty box you'll be in,” he said.
“There's no other such fool as I, to engage to give
a raw boy wages. I'll give you no character.”

Harry, though a modest young man, was not to be
bullied out of his rights, or his self-possession.

“No character that you could give would be of
service to me, Mr. Holson,” he said, calmly; “but I
have friends.”

“Who, who, who?” cried Holson, angrily interrupting
him.

“The good, honest people I live with.”

“He! he! he! the old maids!”

“And,” resumed Harry, “Mr. Nevis, — Eugene
Nevis's father.”

“What, Mr. Russel Nevis?”

“The same — father of the clerk who left you
after I came. Perhaps you have forgotten him.”

Holson bit his lips with vexation. “You know
Mr. Russel Nevis! I don't believe a word of it.”

“I have dined with him every Sunday for the last
month, and he has invited me to continue to do so,
till he goes to the country.”

“A pretty figure you must cut at Mr. Nevis's
table,” said Holson, his eyes reconnoitring Harry's
dress insultingly. Harry stood his ground unflinchingly.
Holson's temper was boiling; but, with all
his blustering, his passion, and his love of tyranny,
he was wary and cautious. He was conscious that
Mr. Nevis was a powerful friend, and that he had no
good opinion of him. He was certain Harry spoke
pure truth, for he had never been able, by menace
or persuasion, to induce him to deviate from it;
and, more than all, he was aware that Harry was the

best clerk in his shop, the most solicitous to perform
his duty to him, and most acceptable to his customers;
and therefore, when Harry said again, decidedly, “If
you do not pay me my salary to-day, you have violated
your contract, and I am released from mine,
and shall leave you.” Holson, without saying another
word, gave him a draft for the fifty dollars. A knave
is no match for an honest man, if he be capable.

“Mr. Holson,” said Harry, in the same firm voice
he had sustained through the interview, “I consider
myself released from my engagement with you, by
your failure to perform your part of the contract.
You have subjected me to mortification, and my
friends to inconvenience, by failing to pay me when
my money was due. I shall consult my friend, Mr.
Nevis, and shall be governed by his advice, either to
remain with you the remaining six months, or to leave
you on Monday.”

Holson stared at Harry as if he were something he
did not comprehend. His anger rose, but he felt that,
if he gave way to it, it would be like the wave beating
against a rock, and, muttering a curse, he turned away.

What gave such power to a poor country boy?
High and right aims. Not an aim at riches or external
distinctions of any sort, but an aim to be true
in all the relations of life; to act up to the convictions
of his due; to resist temptations, small and
great; and to develop his faculties by all the means
allotted to him. Thus fortified with the true spirit
of a man, a knave could not oppress, nor a flashy
clerk look him out of countenance.

It was Saturday, bad weather, and a dull day in
the shop. Holson was more irritable than usual,
abusing some of the clerks, and fretting at all.
Harry observed him repeatedly speaking earnestly
to Carey, and that Carey made no reply, and looked
even more wretched, more ill, more dejected, than
ever before.

“Poor deacon!” said one of the clerks, jogging
Harry's elbow; “do look at him, rubbing his forehead,
and his eye wandering about as if he saw nothing;
I should not wonder if he were to cut his throat.”

“Nor should I,” said Harry, with a sigh of deep
compassion. He turned, and saw Holson at his elbow,

and was sure, from a certain conscious look, that he
had heard him.

Saturday evening was busier than any other evening
of the week. Harry had got every thing in
order, and waited an hour for Carey to be done.
He then asked him if he could assist him. “No,”
said Carey, “nobody can help me. My poor wife!
My poor children!” He laid his head down on his
desk, and gave way to a flood of tears.

“O Mr. Carey,” said Harry, “you are tired out —
you are used up.”

Carey shook his head. “It is not that,” he said.

“Tell me what it is, then,” said Harry; “or tell
some other friend. My mother always says there is
no burden that can't be lightened by a friend's helping
you bear it.”

“You are kind.” Carey raised his head, and wiped
away his tears. “I have got to be a mere child.
There's no use in struggling any longer.”

“Do go home now, Mr. Carey, and let me come
and see you to-morrow.”

“No, I cannot go home yet; but you must go.

Leave the key, and come to-morrow to my house and
get it. It always does poor Johnny good to see you.
It is too late to do me good.” Harry saw he was
not to be persuaded, and he took his hat and bade
him good night.

Soon after, there was a knock at the door. Carey
opened it, and Holson came in; and, as soon as
Carey resumed his seat, he said, as if continuing a
previous conversation, “It's all before you now —
choose! Break with me, and see who will employ
you Go round and ask for a place with your bent
body, and blue lips, and hands shaking like the
palsy.”

“It's serving you, and serving you faithfully, Mr.
Holson, that's bent my body and made my hands
shake.”

“Have not I paid you for it? — lent you money
too?”

“Yes,” replied Carey, speaking with a little more
spirit; “and that's been the chain that bound me
down to this desk, and you knew it. It may be as
well broken now as ever.”

“And you, and your wife, and your children, starving
in a bunch — hey, Carey?” Holson spoke in a
softer and more persuasive tone, as he added, “Don't
be a fool. I say again, do what I want of you;
there is no risk to you, — no risk, and great gain.
I will give you up your note to me, and a check
for two hundred dollars!” There was no answer from
Carey but a deep-drawn sigh; and Holson went on
to particularize exactly what he wanted done, which
was an alteration of certain entries in the accounts,
in order to cover a fraudulent transaction of his, which
was on the eve of detection. The change could only
be made by the hand that had kept the accounts.
“Let it be well done, and soon done, Carey,” he
concluded. “Promise me, only promise me, that you
will come here to-morrow and do it. I will trust to
your word, and give you up, on the spot, your note
and the check. Yes, I'll make the check three
hundred, and trust entirely to your truth, if you give
me the promise.”

“To my truth, Mr. Holson! Then there's something
left, thank God! I have not worked and suffered

like a dog for nothing!” He laughed loud
and unnaturally, and then, recovering himself, he stood
up, and speaking courageously, and with fresh life, he
said, “I'll not do it — never! If all else is gone,
truth and honesty are left. We may starve. God's
will be done. I have decided, Mr. Holson.”

“Holson walked up and down the shop hurriedly.
He then returned to the desk, and said, in a determined
voice, “I have decided, too. I did not come
here, to-night, till I had fully revolved this subject,
and made up my mind what to do. I knew you
were a fool, and I thought you might be obstinate.
I prepared two strings to my bow. One was put into
my head by overhearing something that passed between
John Bell and that cursed fellow Davis. They both
thought your mind shaken, and that you were on the
point of committing suicide. If you are found dead
at this desk to-morrow morning, I shall summon these
boys before the inquest, and the verdict will surely be,
`Throat cut by his own hand!' Here is a knife, and
I swear I'll finish you, unless you promise me instantly
— not one breath's delay — yes, or no?”

Holson was a desperate man. Ruin — utter disgrace
— stared him in the face, and disappointment,
rage, and vengeance, hurried him on. Carey's knees
knocked together. “Yes, or no?” reiterated Holson.

Carey's tongue was parched with fear and horror.
He tried to utter “no;” he could not move his
lips.

“Speak!” cried Holson, holding up the knife.

God gave his servant strength; he said, audibly
and clearly, “No!”

Holson seized Carey by the throat. He gasped;
he could not make a sound. At that moment,
Harry Davis sprang on Holson, grasped him by the
collar, and released Carey, who sank, fainting, to the
floor. Holson staggered back to the wall, stunned
with the horror of detection, powerless and silent.
There was a glass of water on the desk; Harry
dashed it in Carey's face, and reanimated him with a
voice of encouragement. “Fear nothing,” he said;
“the danger is past. Come with me; lean on me. I
will see you safe home.” After some effort; Carey
rallied and left the shop with Harry.

It was probable that Holson had expected to intimidate
Carey into compliance, and had not deliberately
planned his murder; but to what extremity
he might have been urged by his savage and roused
passion, if Harry had not interposed, it is impossible
to say.

It may be remembered that Harry, after offering
his assistance to Carey in settling his accounts, bade
him good night. He was so struck with the expression
of despair on the poor man's countenance, that,
instead of going away, he turned, unperceived, and
stole back to a sofa, screened from observation by a
curtain, so arranged that Holson might take his lunch
there when detained at the shop by a pressure of
business. There Providence stationed Harry as a
guardian angel to poor Carey.