CHAPTER V.

THE OLD CLERK.

WHAT Matthew had feared, actually came to pass one morning not very long afterwards, when he had gone as usual to take back his papers.

"Reardon," said his employer, sharply.

"I am afraid you are getting careless. Your writing is not nearly so good as it used to be."

"I know it, sir. I can't help it."

"But you must help it," interrupted Mr. Heighington, "or I must find some one else to do the work. You can write well enough when you please."

"I'll try what I can do," said Matthew, "but my hand shakes sometimes."

"Oh! Your hand shakes, does it?" repeated his young employer, with a light laugh. "That's a bad sign, is it not, Mr. Reardon?"

"Perhaps, sir, you think that I drink too much?" said Matthew, interrogatively.

"I did not say so."

"But you looked it, sir."

"Did I! Well, anyhow, I have heard that it is a bad sign when a man like you in the prime of life complains of his hand shaking."

"It would be a hard matter," said Matthew, bitterly, "to get too much to drink out of the wages I receive, if I were ever so inclined."

"If you are not satisfied," replied Mr. Heighington, "all you have to do is to say so. There are dozens to be found any day who would gladly do the work for less."

"Hundreds! Sir," added Matthew, gloomily; "the more's the pity. But I did not mean to complain; a man cannot afford to complain who has a wife and two little children depending upon him—any more than he can afford to drink!"

"Very well," answered Mr. Heighington, with a keen glance. "Give him the papers, Marshall," added he, turning to the head clerk. "And—I say, Reardon—take care and not let your hand shake next time."

Matthew turned away in silence, and they heard him coughing as he went out into the cold air.

"I have a great mind to get rid of that fellow!" said Mr. Heighington.

"I wouldn't, Master Frank, if I were you," replied the old clerk. "He has been here a good many years now, on and off."

"The sooner he is off the better. I never liked the look of him."

"I can't say that poor Reardon has looked very well lately, sir," replied Marshall. "It's my belief that he's half-starved, and ill besides."

"Then you do not think he drinks?" asked Mr. Heighington.

"Not he, sir. I think that perhaps he would be all the better for a glass Of beer occasionally."

"Why does he not get it, then?"

"After all," said the good old clerk, "the wages, as he says, sir, ain't much to keep four of them. Suppose you were to raise them a little, Mr. Frank?"

"And yet Reardon himself confessed that hundreds would be glad to do the work for less money."

"God help them, poor things! But Mr. Reardon is a man who has seen better days. It's hard to come down in the world, harder even than it is to get up. I don't think he is long for this life, poor fellow, and can only hope that he may be ready for the life to come—that's the great thing, Mr. Frank."

"Do as you please," said Mr. Heighington, carelessly. "I have no objection to raising his wages, if you think that he is worth it."

"I can't say anything about his being worth it, Mr. Frank," replied the conscientious old man. "He does not write nearly so well nor so quickly as he used to do. But I am sure that he needs it, and that you will never regret having done him this kindness."

"You would have made a capital beggar, Marshall," said Mr. Heighington, laughing. "Only you never ask anything for yourself."

"I want nothing, sir," was the reply, "the Lord be praised. He has given me all that I need."

The greater part of Peter Marshall's life had been spent in the small dark office where he then sat. Coming and going at all hours, and in all weathers; ever the first to come and the last to go, and devoting his best energies to the cause of his employer—"not with eye-service, as men-pleasers, but in singleness of heart, fearing God." And even in this world the Lord rewarded him by putting it into the mind of old Mr. Heighington to leave him at his decease, which took place about a twelvemonth before our story commences, a small annuity in appreciation of his long and faithful services.

Peter Marshall was an old man himself now, and might have retired and lived comfortably enough in his humble way; but somehow he had grown used to the place, and had, besides, an old man's fancy, that "Master Frank," whom he had known from a child, would never be able to get on without him—a fancy which his young master was only too glad to encourage, and thus continue to avail himself of his advice and assistance, treating him rather as a friend than a servant.

It was believed by his fellow-clerks that Marshall had saved up a good round sum during his many years of service; the more especially as he was known to be a man of frugal habits, and without either kith or kin. And so he had, but it was in a savings bank with which they had, for the most part, very few dealings. The following inscription was written in shining characters over the door:

"He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again."

Every time Marshall went to put in a deposit, a heavenly voice might be heard by the ear of faith saying—

"Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

And the aged disciple looked for no better acknowledgment.

Many would have thought it a weary life, plodding through the streets early and late, winter and summer, and sitting at his desk from morning till evening, bounded and hemmed in, as it were, by the gloomy walls of the surrounding buildings, which shut out alike both air and sunshine. But it never seemed weary to Peter Marshall. He was always happy—always busy in the service of his earthly employer, but never forgetting that he had also a Master in heaven.

Many an earnest and believing prayer went up from that dark narrow office, to the celestial city, and many a loving answer came quickly down. Many a warning word was uttered there which it pleased the Lord to bless. And many a good seed sown which, although apparently lost for a season, bore fruit in after years to the glory of God.

There it was that a young clerk—he was only a youth then—with no mother, and no friend, save Marshall, to lead him in the right way, first found Christ. And there it was that the same boy, grown up to be a Christian man, came years afterwards from a distant land to tell him, with tears of thankfulness, all that the Lord had done for his soul since then. It was no wonder that the dull city office seemed so bright to Peter Marshall.

Let us listen to him for a moment as he sits with clasped hands and bowed head where Mr. Heighington had left him when he went out just now, after having given him the desired permission to increase Matthew Reardon's wages. He is sending up one of his telegrams to the heavenly city:

"Dear Lord Jesus, Thou knowest how I love him. Oh, do Thou love him also, and draw him to Thyself, in Thine own good time, as Thou alone canst be merciful; also to that poor man, Matthew Reardon, and put it into my heart what I shall say when I go and see him to-night, as I am minded to do. I am getting an old man now, Lord, as Thou well knowest, and the words don't come as readily as they ought, and as they did once."