CHAPTER LXI.

GONE TO PROTEST.

There was an unnatural silence and order in the store of Boniface Newt, Son, & Co.  The long linen covers were left upon the goods.  The cases were closed.  The boys sat listlessly and wonderingly about.  The porter lay upon a bale reading a newspaper.  There was a sombre regularity and repose, like that of a house in which a corpse lies, upon the morning of the funeral.

Boniface Newt sat in his office haggard and gray.  His face, like his daughter Fanny’s, had grown sharp, and almost fierce.  The blinds were closed, and the room was darkened.  His port-folio lay before him upon the desk, open.  The paper was smooth and white, and the newly-mended pens lay carefully by the inkstand.  But the merchant did not write.  He had not written that day.  His white, bony hand rested upon the port-folio, and the long fingers drummed upon it at intervals, while his eyes half-vacantly wandered out into the store and saw the long shrouds drawn over the goods.  Occasionally a slight sigh of weariness escaped him.  But he did not seem to care to distract his mind from its gloomy intentness; for the morning paper lay beside him unopened, although it was afternoon.

In the outer office the book-keeper was still at work.  He looked from book to book, holding the leaves and letting them fall carefully—­comparing, computing, writing in the huge volumes, and filing various papers away.  Sometimes, while he yet held the leaves in his hands and the pen in his mouth, with the appearance of the utmost abstraction in his task, his eyes wandered in to the inner office, and dimly saw his employer sitting silent and listless at his desk.  For many years he had been Boniface Newt’s clerk; for many years he had been a still, faithful, hard-worked servant.  He had two holidays, besides the Sundays—­New Year’s Day and the Fourth of July.  The rest of the year he was in the office by nine in the morning, and did not leave before six at night.  During the time he had been quietly writing in those great red books he had married a wife and seen the roses fade in her cheeks—­he had had children grow-up around him—­fill his evening home and his Sunday hours with light—­marry, one after another, until his home had become as it was before a child was born to him, and then gradually grow bright and musical again with the eyes and voices of another generation.  Glad to earn his little salary, which was only enough for decency of living, free from envy and ambition, he was bound by a kind of feudal tenure to his employer.

As he looked at the merchant and observed his hopeless listlessness, he thought of his age, his family, and of the frightful secrets hidden in the huge books that were every night locked carefully into the iron safe, as if they were written all over with beautiful romances instead of terrible truths—­and the eyes of the patient plodder were so blurred that he could not see, and turning his head that no one might observe him, he winked until he could see again.