His return had released a couple more clerks for their holiday; it
was a slack time of year, with less business in hand than usual, and
the place looked empty. Mr. Frith worked on as usual, but preserved
an ungracious attitude, as though he were either still incredulous
or, if convinced against his will, resolved that 'that prig of a
Winslow' should not presume upon his services. Altogether the poor
fellow was quite unhinged, and wrote such dismal bills of mortality,
and meek, resigned forebodings that my father was almost angry,
declaring that he would frighten himself into the sickness; yet I
suppressed a good deal, and never told them of the last will and
testament in which he distributed his possessions amongst us. Griff
said he had a great mind to go and shake old Bill up and row him
well, but he never did.
More than a week passed by, two of Clarence's regular days for
writing, but no letter came. My mother grew uneasy, and talked of
writing to Mrs. Robson, or, as we still called her, Gooch; but it
was doubtful whether the answer would contain much information, and
it was quite certain that any ill tidings would be sent to us.
At last we did hear, and found, as we had foreboded, that the letter
had not been written for fear of alarming us, or carrying infection,
though Clarence underlined the words 'I am perfectly well.
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