With the heartfelt expressions of gratitude from the orphanage staff still echoing in his ears, Lawrence buried his anxiety deep within the his troubled heart and, carefully maintained a composed and polite smile, while walking through the gates of the orphanage.
'What would the young master say—what would his reaction be—when he found out about this?'
Gazing solemnly at the dreary world now stained black by the heavy rain, Lawrence was very worried. 'Would the young master demand all the donations be immediately returned if he still had some hatred toward his father?'
But he quickly reassured himself with carefully thought logic: this sum of money hadn't been squeezed from the Watson family's increasingly limited assets or dwindling accounts—it was completely his personal donation and technically had absolutely nothing to do with the Watson family's finances.
If the young master really came storming back in indignation demanding that every penny of the money be immediately returned, he could patiently explain it in quite this manner and perhaps resolve the situation.
"Mr. Lawrence, sir, please hurry and get in the car—"
The chauffeur, Hanks, struggled against the howling wind to politely hold up a Black umbrella for Lawrence. Despite his efforts, the rainwater splashing up from the wet ground still thoroughly soaked the cuffs of Lawrence's trousers. The icy cold rainwater seeped through the increasingly damp clothes and invaded his previously dry socks, making Lawrence feel uncomfortable as the unpleasant sensation crept up his ankles.
The diligent driver swiftly opened the door of a deep blue Rolls-Royce Phantom parked at the roadside, bowing slightly as he respectfully invited Lawrence to enter.
To the driver's astonishment, Lawrence did not immediately step into the vehicle as expected. Instead, he turned around and stood motionless looking absorbed in the showering rain, gazing pensively at the orphanage they had just left.
"I believe I'd like to walk for a while alone with my thoughts, Hanks—"
Under Hanks' slightly surprised and increasingly concerned gaze, Lawrence decisively took the umbrella from his hand. Without providing any further explanation for this unusual behavior, he firmly held up the umbrella against the assault of the storm, turned around and began walking slowly along the rain-soaked path they had crossed just moments before.
"Mr. Lawrence, sir? Are you quite certain that's wise in this dreadful weather?" Hanks asked, visibly perplexed and at a complete loss as to how to handle this.
"You go on ahead without me, Hanks—"
Lawrence's old, deep voice carried through the curtain of rain with surprising strength, though it was tinged with a hint of melancholy that had not been present earlier.
"I need some quality time alone with my thoughts. Surely you don't believe I've become so old and senile that I can't find my way back on my own?"
A hint of pride appeared in his tone, the pride of a man who had spent decades being competent and necessary towards his master.
Hanks's protesting words expressing concern for his wellbeing were drowned by the thunderous sound of falling rain pounding against the pavement, and thus, Lawrence didn't hear them at all as he continued his journey.
Perhaps it was because of the pressure of the heavy downpour hammering against the umbrella, Lawrence was gripping the umbrella handle with intensity. His straight back was no longer held as gentlemanly straight as it had been in the orphanage before; now it seemed to curve slightly, as if bearing an invisible burden of accumulated years and unfulfilled responsibilities.
He walked slowly through the rain, but after crossing just a few hesitant steps along the rain-soaked pavement, he suddenly stood motionless as a statue, staring with unfocused eyes at the collection of old-looking, somewhat dilapidated shops on both sides of the rain-washed street.
His mind was so deeply lost in painful memories that he didn't even notice the moment when Hanks reluctantly started the engine of the car and gradually drove away, casting frequent worried glances at his fading figure from the driver's seat.
In his nostalgic daze, Lawrence seemed to visualize the young master Watson as a small, vulnerable child poorly dressed in hand-me-downs on his thin body, going enthusiastically in and out of these very same shops, perhaps running errands for the orphanage or simply exploring his limited world.
The vivid mental image was so powerful that Lawrence's eyes grew increasingly misty with unshed tears that tried to spill over and mingle with the raindrops on his face.
A bicycle suddenly appeared at the far end of the deserted street, passing the corner with difficulty. The specially designed reinforced rear rack unsteadily carried a collection of heavy packages wrapped in water-resistant material, and judging by the style and official coloring of the raincoat the cyclist wore, this was undoubtedly a postal worker from the local post office making his rounds despite the bad weather.
The combination of heavy, awkwardly balanced packages, slippery ground, and fierce, unpredictable wind accompanied by blinding rain made riding the bicycle an extraordinarily challenging work. Even from a long distance, Lawrence could clearly hear the unfortunate postal worker loudly cursing his misfortune in bad language.
Lawrence decisively started walking again.
His personal contact with the young master had been brief to just about two hours in total during that meeting, but judging by the young master's absolutely adamant and firm refusal to accept even a single penny of the large Watson family property rightfully due to him, the young master and his father were cut from the same stubborn cloth and had similar personality traits: proud, stubborn, and uncompromisingly principled.
Having grown up in the conditions of an underfunded orphanage and still being relatively young in terms of establishing a career, the young master couldn't possibly be in good financial circumstances, especially considering his continued support of the orphanage that had raised him.
Yet despite what must be large personal financial constraints, he still firmly refused a substantial inheritance that would have resolved all his financial concerns instantly. Master Watson had obviously deeply loved the young master's mother, but he couldn't accept her knowing deception...
Lawrence sighed heavily, his cloudy eyes revealing bewilderment mingled with regret for a situation that had spiraled beyond anyone's control decades ago.
He had spent his entire life loyally serving multiple generations of the Watson family, diligently caring for the young master's father, attentively caring for his grandfather before him, personally witnessing the family's rise to prosperity and enviable social standing and then, like a magnificent night-blooming cereus that flowers spectacularly but briefly, its rapid decline.
No, not just a decline—the once-mighty Watson family had collapsed like a house of cards after the current master fell ill with no legitimate heir to continue the bloodline.
Now in his old age, the reality that the Watson family had basically vanished from the society seemed to cruelly mean that his lifetime of devoted service had ultimately been meaningless.
Perhaps the late master had finally found some measure of peace before his death after years of bitter regret, but Lawrence, he had to honestly admit to himself, felt deeply dissatisfied with this ending to the Watson family. He simply couldn't bear to passively witness the Watson family disappear into the mists of history without making one final attempt to preserve its legacy.
There was only one practical way to prevent the Watson family from vanishing completely: somehow convince the young master to return within the family.
This wasn't to say that the young master had any exceptional business insight or political connections that would restore the family's former glory.
In his investigation, Lawrence could only absolutely discover that the young master had indeed come from this orphanage, but after leaving it at adulthood, where precisely he went and what specific career he pursued—Lawrence couldn't unearth any concrete information of any kind about those crucial details.
But as long as the young master could eventually be persuaded to come home to the ancestral estate, the Watson family name would continue to exist in some form even through his bloodline.
CRASH!
A violent, unexpected gust of wind viciously swept in from behind with the force of an invisible battering ram, making the fragile glass windows of shops on both sides of the narrow street rattle in their frames as if in an earthquake.
"Oh!"
Lawrence let out a startled, soft cry of genuine surprise and shock. In this violent, unpredictable gust that seemed to target him specifically, his mind distant with troubling thoughts, lost his grip on the umbrella.
Simultaneously, his hat tumbled through the turbulent air, blowing across the street and, as bad luck would have it, went directly into a narrow, gap between two close dilapidated buildings!
The large umbrella, now free from his grasp, rolled chaotically across the wet ground, tumbling dozens of feet in the blink of an eye before violently colliding with the postal worker who was struggling with all his might to maintain his bicycle's unstable balance against the wind.
CRASH—
The unfortunate postal worker was struck temporarily blind for a moment by the unexpected missile umbrella and lost all control and fell heavily to the ground. The heavy packages balanced on the bicycle's rear rack immediately snapped their binding ropes and tumbled everywhere. One large parcel even hit the low guardrail separating the pedestrian sidewalk from the vehicular road, causing one corner of the box to bump in from the force of impact.
The umbrella had been swept high into the turbulent sky by the wild wind, beyond any hope of recovery, but his cherished hat—perhaps there was still a chance to save it. It was, after all, a gift from the late Master Watson.
After a moment's hesitation, Lawrence hurried toward the postal worker with as fast as his legs could muster. After all, it was his umbrella that had directly caused the unfortunate man's fall and the subsequent chaos of scattered parcels.
"Oh, thank you most kindly for your assistance, sir—"
The thoroughly drenched post man was cursing his bad luck as he desperately struggled to free his painfully trapped foot from the tangled metal frame of the overturned bicycle when suddenly an elegantly dressed, distinguished-looking elderly gentleman unexpectedly appeared beside him, and kindly helped to pull his pinned ankle.
"There is no need for expressions of gratitude, my good sir—" Lawrence smiled apologetically, "It was my umbrella that collided with you—"
The post man's lips visibly tightened into a disapproving line, his expression clearly conveying displeasure at the entire situation, but he couldn't bring himself to voice much disapproval aloud. After all, this well-intentioned old gentleman was clearly not a young man, and controlling such a large umbrella in that ferocious gust of wind would certainly not have been an easy task for someone of his age.
Muttering indistinctly under his breath about the various injustices of his profession, the post man focused his attention on the challenge of freeing his increasingly painful foot from the bicycle frame that imprisoned it.
Fortunately for both parties concerned, it wasn't a complicated extraction task requiring specific tools. Lawrence firmly lifted the metal frame pressing down on the trapped ankle, and with a couple of kicks, the postal worker successfully freed himself.
After helping the postal worker unsteadily to his feet with a supportive grip on his elbow, Lawrence quickly walked to the nearby roadside and carefully picked up the large, somewhat soaking cardboard box with the dented corner.
Bang, bang, bang—
The fall seemed to have disturbed whatever was inside the damaged box. Immediately after Lawrence cautiously picked it up from the puddle where it had landed, the apparently frightened contents suddenly became active and agitated, forcefully bumping against sides of the box in all directions.
"Oh my, what could this possibly be?"
Taking a quick glance at the partially obscured shipping label, Lawrence noticed that the intended delivery address on the box was that of the Hurst Orphanage he had just visited. So, he asked curiously.
"Who truly knows what it contains—"
The postal worker already knew where the box was supposed to be delivered; indeed, all the numerous packages on his bicycle were specifically destined for the Hurst Orphanage. Observing attentively that the distinguished old gentleman seemed to struggle somewhat with carrying the heavy box, he quickly and professionally took it from his trembling hands with ease.
"Perhaps it contains some pets donated by well-meaning supporters to prevent the orphaned children from experiencing excessive boredom during upcoming dreary rainy months. In my humble personal opinion, it's simply creating additional unnecessary trouble and responsibility for the overworked Mrs. Reagan and her staff. Well, sir—"
The postal worker secured the slightly damaged box firmly on the reconfigured rear rack of his now-standing bicycle, then addressed the thoroughly soaked Lawrence who stood shivering slightly in the continuous rain.
"It was just an unfortunate accident caused by this atrocious weather, you genuinely don't need to concern yourself further about it. I will deal with the remaining scattered packages myself. Perhaps you should see if you can successfully recover your expensive-looking hat, assuming it hasn't fallen too deep into that dark crevice between these buildings—"
The post man shrugged as he spoke. He too had witnessed what happened earlier.
"I sincerely hope so—"
Lawrence gave a bitter smile, not insisting on helping the post man catching the remaining up. After all, for a man of his age, getting drenched in the rain was not just unpleasant but also potentially dangerous for his health. If he could successfully retrieve his hat from, it would at least provide some minimal shield against the worst of the howling wind and rain until he could find a shop selling umbrellas.
Fortunately, when Lawrence cautiously crossed the low guardrail and approached the narrow gap between dilapidated buildings that had trapped his hat, he peered carefully into the dim, flickering street light and breathed a sigh of heartfelt relief at what he discovered.
The hat hadn't fallen too deeply into the crevice; he would only need to uncomfortably squeeze in a couple of steps to successfully retrieve it. And because of the shelter luckily provided by the buildings on both side of the narrow passage, the hat hadn't been completely soaked by the rain that continued to fall everywhere else.
With some effort, Lawrence squeezed into the alley, but he was pinned by the walls on either side and couldn't bend down. He could only use his foot to flick the hat back within reach. For someone elderly and frail like him, this was as difficult as performing acrobatics. Gasping for breath, his hand finally grasped the hat.
Bang, bang—
Lawrence sighed with immense relief, catching his breath in gulps. Just as he was preparing to squeeze back out, two sharp sounds suddenly came from across the street.
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