What was he to do? There was no chance, alas! of money from James, and even if Reginald accepted the chaplaincy, and was willing at once to come to his father’s aid, there was no hope that he would have anything for some time—for chaplains’ incomes are not, any more than other people’s, generally paid in advance. He leaned back in his chair and went over again, for the hundredth time, the list of all the people he could borrow from, or who would “back” a bill for him, and he was still employed in this melancholy and hopeless enumeration, when a low knock came to the door, and a maid-of-all-work, pushing it open, thrust in a homely little man in a dusty-brown coat, who put up a hand to his forehead as he came in with a salutation which was half charity schoolboy, half awkward recruit. Beyond this there was no ceremony about his entrance, no leave asked or question made. Betsy knew very well that he was to come in when he pleased, and that her master did not deny himself to Cotsdean. Mr. May received him with a familiar nod, and pointed hastily to a chair. He did not even take the trouble to put away those blue papers, which he would have done if any other individual, even if one of his children had come into the room.
“Good evening, Cotsdean,” he said, in a friendly tone. “Well, what news?”
“Nothing as is pleasant, sir,” said the man, sitting down on a corner of his chair. “I’ve been to the bank, and it’s no use my explaining, or begging ever so hard. They won’t hear of it. ‘We’ve done it times and times,’ they says to me, ‘and we won’t do it no more. That’s flat,’ and so indeed it is flat, sir, as you may say downright Dunstable; but that ain’t no advantage to you and me.”
“Yes, it is, Cotsdean,” said the clergyman, “it is a decided advantage, for it shows there is nothing to be hoped from that quarter, and that is always good—even though it’s bad bad, as bad as can be—”
“You may say so, sir,” said Cotsdean. “I don’t know what’s to be done no more than the babe unborn, and it’s wearing me to death, that’s what it’s doing. When I looks round on my small family, it’s all I can do not to cry out loud. What’s to become of my children, Mr. May? Yours, sir, they’ll never want friends, and a hundred or so here or there, that don’t ruin gentlefolks; but without selling up the business, how am I ever to get a hundred pounds? It ain’t equal, sir, I swear it ain’t. You gets the money, and you takes it easy, and don’t hold your head not a bit lower; but me as has no good of it (except in the way o’ a bit of custom that is a deal more in looks than anything else), and has to go round to all the folks, to Mr. Brownlow, at the bank, and I don’t know who, as if it was for me! I suffers in my credit, sir, and I suffers in my spirits, and I suffers in my health; and when the smash comes, what’s to become of my poor children? It’s enough to put a man beside himself, that’s what it is.”
Here the poor man’s eyes grew bloodshot, partly with rubbing them, partly with tears. He rubbed them with the sleeve of his rough coat, and the tears were very real, though few in number. Cotsdean’s despair was indeed tragical enough, but its outside had in it a dash of comedy, which, though he was in no mirthful mood, caught the quick eye of Mr. May. He was himself very painfully affected, to tell the truth, but yet it cost him an effort not to smile.
“Cotsdean,” he said, “have I ever failed you yet? You have done a good deal for me, I don’t deny it—you have had all the trouble, but beyond that what have you suffered except in imagination? If you choose to exaggerate dangers, it is not my fault. Your children are as safe as—as safe as the Bank of England. Now, have I ever failed you? answer me that.”
“I can’t say as you have, sir,” said Cotsdean, “but it’s dreadful work playing with a man’s ruin, off and on like this, and nobody knowing what might happen, or what a day or an hour might bring forth.”
“That is very true,” said Mr. May. “I might die, that is what you mean; very true, though not quite so kind as I might have expected from an old friend—a very old friend.”
“I am sure, Sir, I beg your pardon,” cried the poor man, “it wasn’t that; but only just as I’m driven out o’ my seven senses with thinking and thinking.”
“My dear Cotsdean, don’t think; there could not be a more unnecessary exercise; what good does your thinking do, but to make you unhappy? leave that to me. We have been driven into a corner before now, but nothing has ever happened to us. You will see something will turn up this time. I ask you again, have I ever failed you? you know best.”
“No, sir,” said Cotsdean, somewhat doubtfully. “No, I didn’t say as you had. It’s only—I suppose I ain’t so young as I once was—and a man’s feelin’s, sir, ain’t always in his own control.”
“You
