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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f17747 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #56176 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56176) diff --git a/old/56176-8.txt b/old/56176-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ae626b2..0000000 --- a/old/56176-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,18111 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Guild Court, by George MacDonald - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Guild Court - A London Story - -Author: George MacDonald - -Release Date: December 13, 2017 [EBook #56176] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GUILD COURT *** - - - - -Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, MFR, University of North -Carolina at Chapel Hill,Graeme Mackreth and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - -GEORGE MACDONALD'S WRITINGS. - -WITH ILLUSTRATIONS ON WOOD AND STEEL. - - -"_A mine of original and quaint similitudes. Their deep perceptions of -human nature are certainly remarkable._"--The Century Magazine. - - Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood. - - The Seaboard Parish. A Sequel to Annals of a Quiet - Neighborhood. - - Guild Court. A London Story. - - Alec Forbes of Howglen. - - Robert Falconer. - - The Vicar's Daughter. An Autobiographical Story. - - Paul Faber. Surgeon. - - Thomas Wingfold, Curate. - - Wilfrid Cumbermede. An Autobiographical Story. - - Sir Gibbie. - - St. George and St. Michael. A Novel. - - { The Portent. A Story. - { Phantastes. A Faerie Romance for Men and Women. - - David Elginbrod. - - Adela Cathcart. - - Malcolm. - - The Marquis of Lossie. - - Warlock O' Glenwarlock. A Homely Romance. - - Mary Marston. - - SOLD SEPARATELY. - - - 18 Volumes, 12mo, Cloth (in box), per set, $27.00. - Cloth, per volume, $1.50. - - - _May be obtained of all Booksellers or will be sent, pre-paid, on - receipt of price by the Publishers._ - - GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, - 9 LAFAYETTE PLACE, NEW YORK. - -[Illustration: - - p. 351. "SHE FELL INTO A DREAMY STUDY OF THE FIRE."] - - - - - GUILD COURT - A LONDON STORY - - _By GEORGE MACDONALD_ - - Author of "ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD," "THE SEABOARD - PARISH," Etc., Etc., Etc. - - NEW YORK: - GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, - 9 Lafayette Place. - 1883. - - - - -GUILD COURT. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE WALK TO THE COUNTING-HOUSE. - - -[Illustration] - -In the month of November, not many years ago, a young man was walking -from Highbury to the City. It was one of those grand mornings that dawn -only twice or thrice in the course of the year, and are so independent -of times and seasons that November even comes in for its share. And -it seemed as if young Thomas Worboise had at his toilet felt the -influences of the weather, for he was dressed a trifle more gayly -than was altogether suitable for the old age of the year. Neither, -however, did he appear in harmony with the tone of the morning, which -was something as much beyond the significance of his costume as the -great arches of a cathedral upheaving a weight of prayer from its -shadowed heart toward the shadowless heavens are beyond the petty -gorgeousness of the needlework that adorns the vain garments of its -priesthood. It was a lofty blue sky, with multitudes of great clouds -half way between it and the earth, among which, as well as along the -streets, a glad west wind was reveling. There was nothing much for -it to do in the woods now, and it took to making merry in the clouds -and the streets. And so the whole heaven was full of church windows. -Every now and then a great bore in the cloudy mass would shoot a sloped -cylinder of sun-rays earthward, like an eye that saw in virtue of the -light it shed itself upon the object of its regard. Gray billows of -vapor with sunny heads tossed about in the air, an ocean for angelic -sport, only that the angels could not like sport in which there was -positively no danger. Where the sky shone through it looked awfully -sweet and profoundly high. But although Thomas enjoyed the wind on his -right cheek as he passed the streets that opened into High Street, and -although certain half sensations, half sentiments awoke in him at its -touch, his look was oftenest down at his light trowsers or his enameled -boots, and never rose higher than the shop windows. - -As he turned into the church-yard to go eastward, he was joined by an -acquaintance a few years older than himself, whose path lay in the same -direction. - -"Jolly morning, ain't it, Tom?" said he. - -"Ye-es," answered Thomas, with something of a fashionable drawl, and in -the doubtful tone of one who will be careful how he either praises or -condemns anything. "Ye-es. It almost makes one feel young again." - -"Ha, ha, ha! How long is it since you enjoyed the pleasing sensation -last?" - -"None of your chaff, now, Charles." - -"Well, upon my word, if you don't like chaff, you put yourself at the -wrong end of the winnower." - -"I never read the Georgics." - -"Yes, I know I was born in the country--a clod-hopper, no doubt; but I -can afford to stand your chaff, for I feel as young as the day I was -born. If you were a fast fellow, now, I shouldn't wonder; but for one -like you, that teaches in the Sunday-school and all that, I am ashamed -of you, talking like that. Confess now, you don't believe a word of -what you cram the goslings with." - -"Charles, you may make game of me as you like, but I won't let you -say a word against religion in my presence. You may despise me if you -like, and think it very spoony of me to teach in the Sunday-school, -but--well, you know well enough what I mean." - -"I can guess at it, old fellow. Come, come, don't think to humbug me. -You know as well as I do that you don't believe a word of it. I don't -mean you want to cheat me or any one else. I believe you're above that. -But you do cheat yourself. What's the good of it all when you don't -feel half as merry as I do on a bright morning like this? I never -trouble my head about that rubbish. Here am I as happy as I care to -be--for to-day, at least, and 'sufficient unto the day,' you know." - -Thomas might have replied, had he been capable of so replying, that -although the evil is sufficient for the day, the good may not be. But -he said something very different, although with a solemnity fit for an -archbishop. - -"There's a day coming, Charles, when the evil will be more than -sufficient. I want to save my soul. You have a soul to save, too." - -"Possibly," answered Charles, with more carelessness than he felt; for -he could not help being struck with the sententiousness of Thomas's -reply, if not with the meaning contained in it. As he was not devoid -of reverence, however, and had been spurred on to say what he had -said more from the sense of an undefined incongruity between Thomas's -habits, talk included, and the impression his general individuality -made upon him, than from any wish to cry down the creed in which he -took no practical interest, he went no farther in the direction in -which the conversation was leading. He doubled. - -"If your soul be safe, Tom, why should you be so gloomy?" - -"Are there no souls to save but mine? There's yours now." - -"Is that why you put on your shiny trot-boxes and your lavender -trousers, old fellow? Come, don't be stuck up. I can't stand it." - -"As you please, Charles: I love you too much to mind your making game -of me." - -"Come, now," said Charles Wither, "speak right out as I am doing to -you. You seem to know something I don't. If you would only speak right -out, who knows if you mightn't convert me, and save my soul, too, that -you make such a fuss about. For my part, I haven't found out that I -have a soul yet. What am I to do with it before I know I've got it? But -that's not the point. It's the trousers. When I feel miserable about -myself--" - -"Nonsense, Charles! you never do." - -"But I do, though. I want something I haven't got often enough; and, -for the life of me, I don't know what it is. Sometimes I think it's a -wife. Sometimes I think it's freedom to do whatever I please. Sometimes -I think it's a bottle of claret and a jolly good laugh. But to return -to the trousers." - -"Now leave my trousers alone. It's quite disgusting to treat serious -things after such a fashion." - -"I didn't know trousers were serious things--except to old grandfather -Adam. But it's not about your trousers I was talking. It was about my -own." - -"I see nothing particular about yours." - -"That's because I'm neither glad nor sorry." - -"What _do_ you mean?" - -"Now you come to the point. That's just what I wanted to come to -myself, only you wouldn't let me. You kept shying like a half-broke -filly." - -"Come now, Charles, you know nothing about horses, I am very sure." - -Charles Wither smiled, and took no other notice of the asseveration. - -"What I mean is this," he said, "that when I am in a serious, -dull-gray, foggy mood, you know--not like this sky--" - -But when he looked up, the sky was indeed one mass of leaden gray. -The glory of the unconditioned had yielded to the bonds of November, -and--_Ichabod_. - -"Well," Charles resumed, looking down again, "I mean just like this -same sky over St. Luke's Work-house here. Lord! I wonder if St. Luke -ever knew what kind of thing he'd give his medical name to! When I feel -like that, I never dream of putting on lavender trousers, you know, -Tom, my boy. So I can't understand you, you know. I only put on such -like--I never had such a stunning pair as those--when I go to Richmond, -or--" - -"Of a Sunday, I believe," said Worboise, settled. - -"Of a Sunday. Just so. The better day, the better deed, you know, as -people say; though, I dare say, you don't think it." - -"When the deed is good, the day makes it better. When the deed is bad, -the day makes it worse," said Tom, with a mixture of reproof and "high -sentence," which was just pure nonsense. - -How much of Thomas's depression was real, and how much was put on--I -do not mean outwardly put on without being inwardly assumed--in order -that he might flatter himself with being in close sympathy and harmony -with Lord Byron, a volume of whose poems was at the time affecting the -symmetry of his handsome blue frock-coat, by pulling down one tail -more than the other, and bumping against his leg every step he took--I -cannot exactly tell. At all events, the young man was--like most men, -young and old--under conflicting influences; and these influences he -had not yet begun to harmonize in any definite result. - -By the time they reached Bunhill Fields, they were in a gray fog; and -before they got to the counting-house, it had grown very thick. Through -its reddish mass the gaslights shone with the cold brilliance of pale -gold. - -The scene of their daily labor was not one of those grand rooms with -plate-glass windows which now seem to be considered, if not absolutely -necessary to commercial respectability, yet a not altogether despicable -means of arriving at such. It was a rather long, rather narrow, rather -low, but this morning not so dark room as usual--for the whole force -of gas-burners was in active operation. In general it was dark, for it -was situated in a narrow street, opening off one of the principal city -thoroughfares. - -As the young men entered, they were greeted with a low growl from -the principal clerk, a black-browed, long-nosed man. This was the -sole recognition he gave them. Two other clerks looked up with a -_good-morning_ and a queer expression in their eyes. Some remarks had -been made about them before they entered. And now a voice came from the -_penetralia_: - -"Tom, I want you." - -Tom was disposing of his hat and gloves with some care. - -"You hear the governor, Mr. Worboise, I suppose?" said Mr. Stopper, the -head clerk, in the same growling voice, only articulated now. - -"Yes, I hear him," answered Thomas, with some real and some assumed -nonchalance. "I do hear him, Mr. Stopper." - -Through a glass partition, which crossed the whole of the room, Mr. -Boxall, "the governor," might be seen at a writing-table, with his face -toward the exoteric department. All that a spectator from without could -see, as he went on writing, was a high forehead, occupying more than -its due share of a countenance which, foreshortened, of course, from -his position at the table, appeared otherwise commonplace and rather -insignificant, and a head which had been as finely _tonsured_ by the -scythe of Time as if the highest ecclesiastical dignity had depended -upon the breadth and perfection of the vacancy. The corona which -resulted was iron-gray. - -When Thomas was quite ready he walked into the inner room. - -"Tom, my boy, you are late," said Mr. Boxall, lifting a face whose full -view considerably modified the impression I have just given. There was -great brilliance in the deep-set eyes, and a certain something, almost -merriment, about the mouth, hovering lightly over a strong upper lip, -which overhung and almost hid a disproportionately small under one. -His chin was large, and between it and the forehead there was little -space left for any farther development of countenance. - -"Not very late, I believe, sir," answered Thomas. "My watch must have -misled me." - -"Pull out your watch, my boy, and let us see." - -Thomas obeyed. - -"By your own watch, it is a quarter past," said Mr. Boxall. - -"I have been here five minutes." - -"I will not do you the discredit of granting you have spent that time -in taking off your hat and gloves. Your watch is five minutes slower -than mine," continued Mr. Boxall, pulling out a saucepan of silver, -"and mine is five minutes slower than the Exchange. You are nearly half -an hour late. You will never get on if you are not punctual. It's an -old-fashioned virtue, I know. But first at the office is first at the -winning-post, I can tell you. You'll never make money if you're late." - -"I have no particular wish--I don't want to make money," said Thomas. - -"But I do," rejoined Mr. Boxall, good-naturedly; "and you are my -servant, and must do your part." - -Thereat Thomas bridled visibly. - -"Ah! I see," resumed the merchant; "you don't like the word. I will -change it. There's no masters or servants nowadays; they are all -governors and _employees_. What they gain by the alteration, I am sure -I don't know." - -I spell the italicized word thus, because Mr. Boxall pronounced -_employés_ exactly as if it were an English word ending in _ees_. - -Mr. Worboise's lip curled. He could afford to be contemptuous. He had -been to Boulogne, and believed he could make a Frenchman understand -him. He certainly did know two of the conjugations out of--I really -don't know how many. His master did not see what the curl indicated, -but possibly his look made Thomas feel that he had been rude. He sought -to cover it by saying-- - -"Mr. Wither was as late as I was, sir. I think it's very hard I should -be always pulled up, and nobody else." - -"Mr. Wither is very seldom late, and you are often late, my boy. -Besides, your father is a friend of mine, and I want to do my duty by -him. I want you to get on." - -"My father is very much obliged to you, sir." - -"So he tells me," returned Mr. Boxall, with remarkable good humor. "We -expect you to dine with us to-morrow, mind." - -"Thank you, I have another engagement," answered Thomas, with dignity, -as he thought. - -Now at length Mr. Boxall's brow fell. But he looked more disappointed -than angry. - -"I am sorry for that, Tom. I wished you could have dined with us. I -won't detain you longer. Mind you don't ink your trousers." - -Was Thomas never to hear the last of those trousers? He began to wish -he had not put them on. He made his bow, and withdrew in chagrin, -considering himself disgraced before his fellows, to whom he would -gladly have been a model, if he could have occupied that position -without too much trouble. But his heart smote him--gently, it must be -confessed--for having refused the kindness of Mr. Boxall, and shown so -much resentment in a matter wherein the governor was quite right. - -Mr. Boxall was a man who had made his money without losing his money's -worth. Nobody could accuse him of having ever done a mean, not to say -a dishonest thing. This would not have been remarkable, had he not -been so well recognized as a sharp man of business. The more knowing -any jobber about the Exchange, the better he knew that it was useless -to dream of getting an advantage over Mr. Boxall. But it was indeed -remarkable that he should be able to steer so exactly in the middle -course that, while he was keen as an eagle on his own side, he should -yet be thoroughly just on the other. And, seeing both sides of a -question with such marvelous clearness, in order to keep his own hands -clean he was not driven from uncertainty to give the other man anything -more than his right. Yet Mr Boxall knew how to be generous upon -occasion, both in time and money: the ordinary sharp man of business -is stingy of both. The chief fault he had was a too great respect for -success. He had risen himself by honest diligence, and he thought -when a man could not rise it must be either from a want of diligence -or of honesty. Hence he was _a priori_ ready to trust the successful -man, and in some instances to trust him too much. That he had a family -of three daughters only--one of them quite a child--who had never -as yet come into collision with any project or favorite opinion of -his, might probably be one negative cause of the continuance of his -openheartedness and justice of regard. - -Thomas Worboise's father had been a friend of his for many years--at -least so far as that relation could be called friendship which -consisted in playing as much into each other's hands in the way of -business as they could, dining together two or three times in the -course of the year, and keeping an open door to each other's family. -Thomas was an only son, with one sister. His father would gladly have -brought him up to his own profession, that of the law, but Thomas -showing considerable disinclination to the necessary studies, he had -placed him in his friend's counting-house with the hope that that might -suit him better. Without a word having been said on the subject, both -the fathers would have gladly seen the son of the one engaged to any -daughter of the other. They were both men of considerable property, -and thought that this would be a pleasant way of determining the -future of part of their possessions. At the same time Mr. Boxall was -not quite satisfied with what he had as yet seen of Tom's business -character. However, there had been no signs of approximation between -him and either of the girls, and therefore there was no cause to be -particularly anxious about the matter. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -THE INVALID MOTHER. - - -To account in some measure for the condition in which we find Tom at -the commencement of my story, it will be better to say a word here -about his mother. She was a woman of weak health and intellect, but -strong character; was very religious, and had a great influence over -her son, who was far more attached to her than he was to his father. -The daughter, on the other hand, leaned to her father, an arrangement -not uncommon in families. - -On the evening of the day on which my story commences, office hours -were long over before Tom appeared at home. He went into his mother's -room, and found her, as usual, reclining on a couch, supported by -pillows. She was a woman who never complained of her sufferings, and -her face, perhaps in consequence of her never desiring sympathy, was -hard and unnaturally still. Nor were her features merely still--they -looked immobile, and her constant pain was indicated only by the -absence of all curve in her upper lip. When her son entered, a gentle -shimmer of love shone out of her eyes of troubled blue, but the words -in which she addressed him did not correspond to this shine. She was -one of those who think the Deity jealous of the amount of love bestowed -upon other human beings, even by their own parents, and therefore -struggle to keep down their deepest and holiest emotions, regarding -them not merely as weakness but as positive sin, and likely to be most -hurtful to the object on which they are permitted to expend themselves. - -"Well, Thomas," said his mother, "what has kept you so late?" - -"Oh! I don't know, mother," answered Tom, in whose attempted -carelessness there yet appeared a touch of anxiety, which caught her -eye. - -"You do know, Tom; and I want to know." - -"I waited and walked home with Charles Wither." - -He did not say, "I waited to walk home." - -"How was he so late? You must have left the office hours ago." - -"He had some extra business to finish." - -It was business of his own, not office business; and Tom finding out -that he would be walking home a couple of hours later, had arranged to -join him that he might have this account to give of himself. - -"You know I do not like you to be too much with that young man. He is -not religious. In fact, I believe him to be quite worldly. Does he ever -go to church?" - -"I don't know, mother. He's not a bad sort of fellow." - -"He is a bad sort of fellow, and the less you are with him the better." - -"I can't help being with him in the office, you know, mother." - -"You need not be with him after office hours." - -"Well, no; perhaps not. But it would look strange to avoid him." - -"I thought you had more strength of character, Thomas." - -"I--I--I spoke very seriously to him this morning, mother." - -"Ah! That alters the case, if you have courage to speak the truth to -him." - -At that moment the door opened, and the curate of St. Solomon's was -announced. Mrs. Worboise was always at home to him, and he called -frequently, both because she was too great an invalid to go to church, -and because they supposed, on the ground of their employing the same -religious phrases in their conversation, that they understood each -other. He was a gentle, abstracted youth, with a face that looked as -if its informing idea had been for a considerable period sat upon by -something ungenial. With him the profession had become everything, -and humanity never had been anything, if not something bad. He walked -through the crowded streets in the neighborhood with hurried step -and eyes fixed on the ground, his pale face rarely brightening with -recognition, for he seldom saw any passing acquaintance. When he did, -he greeted him with a voice that seemed to come from far-off shores, -but came really from a bloodless, nerveless chest, that had nothing to -do with life, save to yield up the ghost in eternal security, and send -it safe out of it. He seemed to recognize none of those human relations -which make the blood mount to the face at meeting, and give strength to -the grasp of the hand. He would not have hurt a fly; he would have died -to save a malefactor from the gallows, that he might give him another -chance of repentance. But mere human aid he had none to bestow; no -warmth, no heartening, no hope. - -Mr. Simon bowed solemnly, and shook hands with Mrs. Worboise. - -"How are you to-night, Mrs. Worboise?" he said, glancing round the -room, however. For the only sign of humanity about him was a certain -weak admiration of Amy Worboise, who, if tried by his own tests, was -dreadfully unworthy even of that. For she was a merry girl, who made -great sport of the little church-mouse, as she called him. - -Mrs. Worboise did not reply to this question, which she always treated -as irrelevant. Mr. Simon then shook hands with Thomas, who looked on -him with a respect inherited from his mother. - -"Any signs of good in your class, Mr. Thomas?" he asked. - -The question half irritated Tom. Why, he could not have explained even -to himself. The fact was that he had begun to enter upon another phase -of experience since he saw the curate last, and the Sunday-school was -just a little distasteful to him at the moment. - -"No," he answered, with a certain slightest motion of the head that -might have been interpreted either as of weariness or of indifference. - -The clergyman interpreted it as of the latter, and proceeded to justify -his question, addressing his words to the mother. - -"Your son thinks me too anxious about the fruits of his labor, Mrs. -Worboise. But when we think of the briefness of life, and how soon the -night comes when no man can work, I do not think we can be too earnest -to win souls for our crown of rejoicing when He comes with the holy -angels. First our own souls, Mr. Thomas, and then the souls of others." - -Thomas, believing every word that the curate said, made notwithstanding -no reply, and the curate went on. - -"There are so many souls that might be saved, if one were only in -earnest, and so few years to do it in. We do not strive with God in -prayer, Mrs. Worboise. We faint and cease from our prayers and our -endeavors together." - -"That is too true," responded the lady. - -"I try to do my best," said Thomas, in a tone of apology, and with a -lingering doubt in his mind whether he was really speaking the absolute -truth. But he comforted himself with saying to himself, "I only said 'I -try to do my best;' I did not say, 'I try my best to do my best.'" - -"I have no reason to doubt it, my young friend," returned the curate, -who was not ten years older than his young friend. "I only fancied--no -doubt it was but the foolish fancy of my own anxiety--that you did not -respond quite so heartily as usual to my remark." - -The mother's eyes were anxiously fixed on her son during the -conversation, for her instincts told her that he was not quite at -his ease. She had never given him any scope, never trusted him, or -trained him to freedom; but, herself a prisoner to her drawing-room and -bed-room, sought with all her energy and contrivance, for which she had -plenty of leisure, to keep, strengthen, and repair the invisible cable -by which she seemed to herself to hold, and in fact did hold, him, even -when he was out of her sight, and himself least aware of the fact. - -As yet again Thomas made no reply, Mr. Simon changed the subject. - -"Have you much pain to-night, Mrs. Worboise?" he asked. - -"I can bear it," she answered. "It will not last forever." - -"You find comfort in looking to the rest that remaineth," responded -Mr. Simon. "It is the truest comfort. Still, your friends would gladly -see you enjoy a little more of the present--" _world_, Mr. Simon was -going to say, but the word was unsuitable; so he changed it--"of the -present--ah! dispensation," he said. - -"The love of this world bringeth a snare," suggested Mrs. Worboise, -believing that she quoted Scripture. - -Thomas rose and left the room. He did not return till the curate had -taken his leave. It was then almost time for his mother to retire. As -soon as he entered he felt her anxious pale-blue eyes fixed upon him. - -"Why did you go, Thomas?" she asked, moving on her couch, and revealing -by her face a twinge of sharper pain than ordinary. "You used to listen -with interest to the conversation of Mr. Simon. He is a man whose -conversation is in Heaven." - -"I thought you would like to have a little private talk with him, -mamma. You generally do have a talk with him alone." - -"Don't call it talk, Thomas. That is not the proper word to use." - -"Communion then, mother," answered Thomas, with the feeling of aversion -a little stronger and more recognizable than before, but at the same -time annoyed with himself that he thus felt. And, afraid that he had -shown the feeling which he did recognize, he hastened to change the -subject and speak of one which he had at heart. - -"But, mother, dear, I wanted to speak to you about something. You -mustn't mind my being late once or twice a week now, for I am going -in for German. There is a very good master lives a few doors from the -counting-house; and if you take lessons in the evening at his own -lodgings, he charges so much less for it. And, you know, it is such an -advantage nowadays for any one who wants to get on in business to know -German!" - -"Does Mr. Wither join you, Thomas?" asked his mother, in a tone of -knowing reproof. - -"No, indeed, mother," answered Thomas; and a gleam of satisfaction shot -through his brain as his mother seemed satisfied. Either, however, he -managed to keep it off his face, or his mother did not perceive or -understand it, for the satisfaction remained on her countenance. - -"I will speak to your father about it," she answered. - -This was quite as much as Thomas could have hoped for: he had no -fear of his father making any objection. He kissed his mother on the -cheek--it was a part of her system of mortifying the flesh with its -affections and lusts that she never kissed him with any fervor, and -rarely allowed those straight lips to meet his--and they parted for the -night. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -EXPOSTULATION. - - -Thomas descended to breakfast, feeling fresh and hopeful. The weather -had changed during the night, and it was a clear, frosty morning, cold -blue cloudless sky and cold gray leafless earth reflecting each other's -winter attributes. The sun was there, watching from afar how they could -get on without him; but, as if they knew he had not forsaken them, they -were both merry. Thomas stood up with his back to the blazing fire, and -through the window saw his father walking bareheaded in the garden. -He had not returned home till late the night before, and Thomas had -gone to bed without seeing him. Still he had been up the first in the -house, and had been at work for a couple of hours upon the papers he -had brought home in his blue bag. Thomas walked to the window to show -himself, as a hint to his father that breakfast was ready. Mr. Worboise -saw him, and came in. Father and son did not shake hands or wish each -other good-morning, but they nodded and smiled, and took their seats -at the table. As Mr. Worboise sat down, he smoothed, first with one -hand, then with the other, two long side-tresses of thin hair, trained -like creepers over the top of his head, which was perfectly bald. Their -arrangement added to the resemblance his forehead naturally possessed -to the bottom of a flat-iron, set up on the base of its triangle. His -eyebrows were very dark, straight, and bushy, his eyes a keen hazel; -his nose straight on the ridge, but forming an obtuse angle at the -point; his mouth curved upward, and drawn upward by the corners when he -smiled, which gave him the appearance of laughing down at everything; -his chin now is remarkable. And there, reader, I hope you have him. I -ought to have mentioned that no one ever saw his teeth, though to judge -from his performances at the table, they were in serviceable condition. -He was considerably above the middle hight, shapeless rather than -stout, and wore black clothes. - -"You're going to dine at the Boxall's to-night, I believe, Tom? Mr. -Boxall asked me, but I can't go. I am so busy with that case of Spender -& Spoon." - -"No, father. I don't mean to go," said Tom. - -"Why not?" asked Mr. Worboise, with some surprise, and more than a -hint of dissatisfaction. "Your mother hasn't been objecting, has she?" - -"I am not aware that my mother knows of the invitation," answered Tom, -trying to hide his discomfort in formality of speech. - -"Well, _I_ said nothing about it, I believe. But I accepted for you at -the same time that I declined for myself. You saw the letter--I left it -for you." - -"Yes, sir, I did." - -"Well, in the name of Heaven, what do you mean? You answer as if you -were in the witness-box. I am not going to take any advantage of you. -Speak out, man. Why won't you go to Boxall's?" - -"Well, sir, to tell the truth, I didn't think he behaved quite well to -me yesterday. I happened to be a few minutes late, and--" - -"And Boxall blew you up; and that's the way you take to show your -dignified resentment! Bah!" - -"He ought to behave to me like a gentleman." - -"But how is he, if he isn't a gentleman? He hasn't had the bringing up -you've had. But he's a good, honest fellow, and says what he means." - -"That is just what I did, sir. And you have always told me that honesty -is the best policy." - -"Yes, I confess. But that is not exactly the kind of honesty I mean," -returned Mr. Worboise with a fishy smile, for his mouth was exactly of -the fish type. "The law scarcely refers to the conduct of a gentleman -as a gentleman." - -This was obscure to his son, as it may be to the reader. - -"Then you don't want me to behave like a gentleman?" said Tom. - -"Keep your diploma in your pocket till it's asked for," answered his -father. "If you are constantly obtruding it on other people, they -will say you bought it and paid for it. A gentleman can afford to put -an affront in beside it, when he knows it's there. But the idea of -good old Boxall insulting a son of mine is too absurd, Tom. You must -remember you are his servant." - -"So he told me," said Tom, with reviving indignation. - -"And that, I suppose, is what you call an insult, eh?" - -"Well, to say the least, it is not a pleasant word to use." - -"Especially as it expresses a disagreeable fact. Come, come, my boy. -Better men then you will ever be have had to sweep their master's -office before now. But no reference is made to the fact after they -call the office their own. You go and tell Mr. Boxall that you will be -happy to dine with him to-night if he will allow you to change your -mind." - -"But I told him I was engaged." - -"Tell him the engagement is put off, and you are at his service." - -"But--" began Tom, and stopped. He was going to say the engagement was -not put off. - -"But what?" said his father. - -"I don't like to do it," answered Tom. "He will take it for giving in -and wanting to make up." - -"Leave it to me, then, my boy," returned his father, kindly. "I will -manage it. My business is not so very pressing but that I can go if I -choose. I will write and say that a change in my plans has put it in my -power to be his guest, after all, and that I have persuaded you to put -off your engagement and come with me." - -"But that would be--would not be true," hesitated Tom. - -"Pooh! pooh! I'll take the responsibility of that. Besides, it _is_ -true. Your mother will make a perfect spoon of you--with the help of -good little Master Simon. Can't I change my plans if I like? We must -_not_ offend Boxall. He is a man of mark--and warm. I say nothing about -figures--I never tell secrets. I don't even say how many figures. But -I know all about it, and venture to say, between father and son, that -he is warm, decidedly warm--possibly hot," concluded Mr. Worboise, -laughing. - -"I don't exactly understand you, sir," said Tom, meditatively. - -"You would understand me well enough if you had a mind to business," -answered his father. - -But what he really meant in his heart was that Mr. Boxall had two -daughters, to one of whom it was possible that his son might take a -fancy, or rather--to express it in the result, which was all that he -looked to--a marriage might be brought about between Tom and Jane or -Mary Boxall; in desiring which he thought he knew what he was about, -for he was Mr. Boxall's man of business. - -"I won't have you offend Mr. Boxall, anyhow," he concluded. "He is your -governor." - -The father had tact enough to substitute the clerk's pseudonym for the -obnoxious term. - -"Very well, sir; I suppose I must leave it to you," answered Tom; and -they finished their breakfast without returning to the subject. - -When he reached the counting-house, Tom went at once to Mr. Boxall's -room, and made his apologies for being late again, on the ground that -his father had detained him while he wrote the letter he now handed to -him. Mr. Boxall glanced at the note. - -"I am very glad, Tom, that both your father and you have thought better -of it. Be punctual at seven." - -"Wife must put another leaf yet in the table," he said to himself, as -Thomas retired to his desk. "Thirteen's not lucky, though; but one is -sure to be absent." - -No one was absent, however, and number thirteen was the standing -subject of the jokes of the evening, especially as the thirteenth was -late, in the person of Mr. Wither, whom Mr. Boxall had invited out of -mere good nature; for he did not care much about introducing him to his -family, although his conduct in the counting-house was irreproachable. -Miss Worboise had been invited with her father and brother, but whether -she stayed at home to nurse her mother or to tease the curate, is of no -great importance to my history. - -The dinner was a good, well-contrived, rather antiquated dinner, -within the compass of the house itself; for Mrs. Boxall only pleased -her husband as often as she said that they were and would remain -old-fashioned people, and would have their own maids to prepare and -serve a dinner--"none of those men-cooks and undertakers to turn up -their noses at everything in the house!" But Tom abused the whole -affair within himself as nothing but a shop-dinner; for there was Mr. -Stopper, the head-clerk, looking as sour as a summons; and there was -Mr. Wither, a good enough fellow and gentleman-like, but still of the -shop; besides young Weston, of whom nobody could predicate any thing -in particular, save that he stood in such awe of Mr. Stopper, that he -missed the way to his mouth in taking stolen stares at him across the -table. Mr. Worboise sat at the hostess's left hand, and Mr. Stopper at -her right; Tom a little way from his father, with Mary Boxall, whom he -had taken down, beside him; and many were the underbrowed glances which -the head-clerk shot across the dishes at the couple. - -Mary was a very pretty, brown-haired, white-skinned, blue-eyed damsel, -whose charms lay in harmony of color, general roundness, the smallness -of her extremities, and her simple kind-heartedness. She was dressed in -white muslin, with ribbons precisely the color of her eyes. Tom could -not help being pleased at having her beside him. She was not difficult -to entertain, for she was willing to be interested in anything; and -while Tom was telling her a story about a young lad in his class at -the Sunday-school, whom he had gone to see at his wretched home, those -sweet eyes filled with tears, and Mr. Stopper saw it, and choked in -his glass of sherry. Tom saw it too, and would have been more overcome -thereby, had it not been for reasons. - -Charles Wither, on the opposite side of the table, was neglecting his -own lady for the one at his other elbow, who was Jane Boxall--a fine, -regular-featured, dark-skinned young woman. They were watched with -stolen glances of some anxiety from both ends of the table, for neither -father nor mother cared much about Charles Wither, although the former -was too kind to omit inviting him to his house occasionally. - -After the ladies retired, the talk was about politics, the -money-market, and other subjects quite uninteresting to Tom, who, as I -have already said, was at this period of his history a reader of Byron, -and had therefore little sympathy with human pursuits except they took -some abnormal form--such as piracy, atheism, or the like--in the person -of one endowed with splendid faculties and gifts in general. So he -stole away from the table, and joined the ladies some time before the -others rose from their wine; not, however, before he had himself drunk -more than his gravity of demeanor was quite sufficient to ballast. He -found Mary turning over some music, and as he drew near he saw her -laying aside, in its turn, Byron's song, "She walks in beauty." - -"Oh! do you sing that song, Miss Mary?" he asked with _empressement_. - -"I have sung it several times," she answered; "but I am afraid I cannot -sing it well enough to please you. Are you fond of the song?" - -"I only know the words of it, and should so much like to hear you sing -it. I never heard it sung. _Do_, Miss Mary." - -"You will be indulgent, then?" - -"I shall have no chance of exercising that virtue, I know. There." - -He put the music on the piano as he spoke, and Mary, adjusting her -white skirts and her white shoulders, began to sing the song with -taste, and, what was more, with simplicity. Her voice was very pleasant -to the ears of Thomas, warbling one of the songs of the man whom, -against his conscience, he could not help regarding as the greatest he -knew. So much moved was he, that the signs of his emotion would have -been plainly seen had not the rest of the company, while listening -more or less to the song, been employing their eyes at the same time -with Jane's portfolio of drawings. All the time he had his eyes upon -her white shoulder: stooping to turn the last leaf from behind her, he -kissed it lightly. At the same moment the door opened, and Mr. Stopper -entered. Mary stopped singing, and rose with a face of crimson and the -timidest, slightest glance at Tom, whose face flushed up in response. - -It was a foolish action, possibly repented almost as soon as done. -Certainly, for the rest of the evening, Thomas sought no opportunity -of again approaching Mary. I do not doubt it was with some feeling of -relief that he heard his father say it was time for them to be going -home. - -None of the parents would have been displeased had they seen the little -passage between the young people. Neither was Mary offended at what had -occurred. While she sat singing, she knew that the face bending over -her was one of the handsomest--a face rather long and pale, of almost -pure Greek outline, with a high forehead, and dark eyes with a yet -darker fringe. Nor, although the reader must see that Tom had nothing -yet that could be called character, was his face therefore devoid of -expression; for he had plenty of feeling, and that will sometimes shine -out the more from the very absence of a _characteristic_ meaning in -the countenance. Hence, when Mary felt the kiss, and glanced at the -face whence it had fallen, she read more in the face than there was -in it to read, and the touch of his lips went deeper than her white -shoulder. They were both young, and as yet mere electric jars charged -with emotions. Had they both continued such as they were now, there -could have been no story to tell about them; none such, at least, as -I should care to tell. They belonged to the common class of mortals -who, although they are weaving a history, are not aware of it, and in -whom the process goes on so slowly that the eye of the artist can find -in them no substance sufficient to be woven into a human creation in -tale or poem. How dull that life looks to him, with its ambitions, -its love-making, its dinners, its sermons, its tailors' bills, its -weariness over all--without end or goal save that toward which it is -driven purposeless! Not till a hope is born such that its fullfilment -depends upon the will of him who cherishes it, does a man begin to -develop the stuff out of which a tale can be wrought. For then he -begins to have a story of his own--it may be for good, it may be for -evil--but a story. Thomas's religion was no sign of this yet; for a man -can no more be saved by the mere reflex of parental influences than he -will be condemned by his inheritance of parental sins. I do not say -that there is no interest in the emotions of such young people; but I -say there is not reality enough in them to do anything with. They are -neither consistent nor persistent enough to be wrought into form. Such -are in the condition over which, in the miracle-play, Adam laments to -Eve after their expulsion from Paradise-- - - "Oure hap was hard, _oure wytt was nesche_ (_soft, tender_) To paradys - whan we were brought." - -Mr. Boxall lived in an old-fashioned house in Hackney, with great rooms -and a large garden. Through the latter he went with Mr. Worboise and -Tom to let them out at a door in the wall, which would save them a few -hundred yards in going to the North London Railway. There were some -old trees in the garden, and much shrubbery. As he returned he heard -a rustle among the lilacs that crowded about a side-walk, and thought -he saw the shimmer of a white dress. When he entered the drawing-room, -his daughter Jane entered from the opposite door. He glanced round -the room: Mr. Wither was gone. This made Mr. Boxall suspicious and -restless; for, as I have said, he had not confidence in Mr. Wither. -Though punctual and attentive to business, he was convinced that he -was inclined to be a fast man; and he strongly suspected him of being -concerned in betting transactions of different sorts, which are an -abomination to the man of true business associations and habits. - -Mr. Worboise left the house in comfortable spirits, for Providence had -been propitious to him for some months past, and it mattered nothing -to him whether or how the wind blew. But it blew from the damp west -cold and grateful upon Thomas's brow. The immediate influence of the -wine he had drunk had gone off, and its effects remained in discomfort -and doubt. Had he got himself into a scrape with Mary Boxall? He had -said nothing to her. He had not committed himself to anything. And the -wind blew cooler and more refreshing upon his forehead. And then came -a glow of pleasure as he recalled her blush and the glance she had -so timidly lifted toward his lordly face. That was something to be -proud of! Certainly he was one whom women--I suppose he said _girls_ -to himself--were ready to--yes--to fall in love with. Proud position! -Enviable destiny! Before he reached home the wind had blown away every -atom of remorse with the sickly fumes of the wine; and although he -resolved to be careful how he behaved to Mary Boxall in future, he -hugged his own handsome idea in the thought that she felt his presence, -and was--just a little--not dangerously--but really a little in love -with him. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -GUILD COURT. - - -The office was closed, the shutters were up in the old-fashioned way on -the outside, the lights extinguished, and Mr. Stopper, who was always -the last to leave, was gone. The narrow street looked very dreary, -for most of its windows were similarly covered. The shutters, the -pavements, the kennels, everything shone and darkened by fits. For it -was a blowing night, with intermittent showers, and everything was wet, -and reflected the gaslights in turn, which the wind teased into all -angles of relation with neighboring objects, tossing them about like -flowers ready at any moment to be blown from their stems. Great masses -of gray went sweeping over the narrow section of the sky that could be -seen from the pavement. - -Now and then the moon gleamed out for one moment and no more, swallowed -the next by a mile of floating rain, dusky and shapeless. Fighting now -with a fierce gust, and now limping along in comparative quiet, with a -cotton umbrella for a staff, an old woman passed the office, glanced up -at the shuttered windows, and, after walking a short distance, turned -into a paved archway, and then going along a narrow passage, reached a -small paved square, called Guild Court. Here she took from her pocket -a latch-key, and opening a door much in want of paint, but otherwise -in good condition, entered, and ascended a broad, dusky stair-case, -with great landings, whence each ascent rose at right angles to the -preceding. The dim light of the tallow candle, which she had left in -a corner of the stair-case as she descended, and now took up with -her again, was sufficient to show that the balusters were turned and -carved, and the hand-rail on the top of them broad and channeled. When -she reached the first floor, she went along a passage, and at the end -of it opened a door. A cheerful fire burned at the other end of a large -room, and by the side of the fire sat a girl, gazing so intently into -the glowing coals, that she seemed unaware of the old woman's entrance. -When she spoke to her, she started and rose. - -"So you're come home, Lucy, and searching the fire for a wishing-cap, -as usual!" said the old lady, cheerily. - -The girl did not reply, and she resumed, with a little change of tone-- - -"I do declare, child, I'll never let him cross the door again, if it -drives you into the dumps that way. Take heart of grace, my girl; -you're good enough for him any day, though he be a fine gentleman. He's -no better gentleman than my son, anyhow, though he's more of a buck." - -Lucy moved about a little uneasily; turned to the high mantel-piece, -took up some trifle and played with it nervously, set it down with a -light sigh, the lightness of which was probably affected; went across -the room to a chest of drawers, in doing which she turned her back on -the old woman; and then only replied, in a low pleasant voice, which -wavered a little, as if a good cry were not far off-- - -"I'm sure, grannie, you're always kind to him when he comes." - -"I'm civil to him, child. Who could help it? Such a fine, handsome -fellow! And has got very winning ways with him, too! That's the -mischief of it! I always had a soft heart to a frank face. A body would -think I wasn't a bit wiser than the day I was born." - -And she laughed a toothless old laugh which must once have been very -pleasant to her husband to hear, and indeed was pleasant to hear now. -By this time she had got her black bonnet off, revealing a widow's -cap, with gray hair neatly arranged down the sides of a very wrinkled -old face. Indeed the wrinkles were innumerable, so that her cheeks -and forehead looked as if they had been crimped with a penknife, like -a piece of fine cambric frill. But there was not one deep rut in her -forehead or cheek. Care seemed to have had nothing at all to do with -this condition of them. - -"Well, grannie, why should you be so cross with me for liking him, when -you like him just as much yourself?" said Lucy, archly. - -"Cross with you, child! I'm not cross with you, and you know that quite -well. You know I never could be cross with you even if I ought to be. -And I didn't ought now, I'm sure. But I _am_ cross with him; for he -can't be behaving right to you when your sweet face looks like that." - -"Now don't, grannie, else I shall have to be cross with you. Don't -say a word against him. Don't now, dear grannie, or you and I shall -quarrel, and that would break my heart." - -"Bless the child! I'm not saying a word for or against him. I'm afraid -you're a great deal too fond of him, Lucy. What hold have you on him -now?" - -"What hold, granny!" exclaimed Lucy, indignantly. "Do you think if -I were going to be married to him to-morrow, and he never came to -the church--do you think I would lift that bonnet to hold him to it? -Indeed, then, I wouldn't." - -And Lucy did not cry, but she turned her back on her grandmother as if -she would rather her face should not be seen. - -"What makes you out of sorts, to-night, then, lovey?" - -Lucy made no reply, but moved hastily to the window, made the smallest -possible chink between the blind and the window-frame, and peeped out -into the court. She had heard a footstep which she knew; and now she -glided, quiet and swift as a ghost, out of the room, closing the door -behind her. - -"I wonder when it will come to an end. Always the same thing over -again, I suppose, to the last of the world. It's no use telling them -what _we_ know. It won't make one of them young things the wiser. -The first man that looks at them turns the head of them. And I must -confess, if I was young again myself, and hearkening for my John's foot -in the court, I might hobble--no, not hobble then, but run down the -stairs like Lucy there, to open the door for him. But then John was a -good one; and there's few o' them like him now, I doubt." - -Something like this, I venture to imagine, was passing through the -old woman's mind when the room door opened again, and Lucy entered -with Thomas Worboise. Her face was shining like a summer now, and a -conscious pride sat on the forehead of the young man which made him -look far nobler than he has yet shown himself to my reader. The last of -a sentence came into the room with him. - -"So you see, Lucy, I could not help it. My father--How do you do you -do, Mrs. Boxall? What a blowing night it is! But you have a kind of -swallow's nest here, for hardly a breath gets into the court when our -windows down below in the counting-house are shaking themselves to -bits." - -It was hardly a room to compare to a swallow's nest. It was a -very large room indeed. The floor, which was dark with age, was -uncarpeted, save just before the fire, which blazed brilliantly in -a small kitchen-range, curiously contrasting with the tall, carved -chimney-piece above it. The ceiling corresponded in style, for it was -covered with ornaments-- - - All made out of the carver's brain. - -And the room was strangely furnished. The high oak settle of a -farm-house stood back against the wall not far from the fire, and a -few feet from it a tall, old-fashioned piano, which bore the name -of Broadwood under the cover. At the side of the room farthest from -the fire stood one of those chests of drawers, on which the sloping -lid at the top left just room for a glass-doored book-case to stand, -rivaling the piano in hight. Then there was a sofa, covered with chintz -plentifully besprinkled with rose-buds; and in the middle of the room -a square mahogany table, called by upholsterers a _pembroke_, I think, -the color of which was all but black with age and manipulation, only -it could not be seen now because it was covered with a check of red -and blue. A few mahogany chairs, seated with horse hair, a fire-screen -in faded red silk, a wooden footstool and a tall backed easy-chair, -covered with striped stuff, almost completed the furniture of the -nondescript apartment. - -Thomas Worboise carried a chair to the fire, and put his feet on the -broad-barred bright kitchen fender in front of it. - -"Are your feet wet, Thomas?" asked Lucy with some gentle anxiety, and a -tremor upon his name, as if she had not yet got quite used to saying it -without a _Mr._ before it. - -"Oh no, thank you. I don't mind a little wet. Hark how the wind blows -in the old chimney up there! It'll be an awkward night on the west -coast, this. I wonder what it feels like to be driving right on the -rocks at the Land's End, or some such place." - -"Don't talk of such things in that cool way, Mr. Thomas. You make my -blood run cold," said Mrs. Boxall. - -"He doesn't mean it, you know, grannie," said Lucy meditating. - -"But I do mean it. I should like to know how it feels," persisted -Thomas--"with the very shrouds, as taut as steel bars, blowing out in -the hiss of the nor'wester." - -"Yes, I dare say!" returned the old lady, with some indignation. "You -would like to know how it felt so long as your muddy boots was on my -clean fender!" - -Thomas did not know that the old lady had lost one son at sea, and had -another the captain of a sailing-vessel, or he would not have spoken -as he did. But he was always wanting to know how things felt. Had not -his education rendered it impossible for him to see into the state of -his own mind, he might, questioned as to what he considered the ideal -of life, have replied, "A continuous succession of delicate and poetic -sensations." Hence he had made many a frantic effort after religious -sensations. But the necessity of these was now somewhat superseded by -his growing attachment to Lucy, and the sensations consequent upon that. - -Up to this moment, in his carriage and speech, he had been remarkably -different from himself, as already shown in my history. For he was, or -thought himself, somebody here; and there was a freedom and ease about -his manner, amounting, in fact, to a slight though not disagreeable -swagger, which presented him to far more advantage than he had in -the presence of his father and mother, or even of Mr. Boxall and -Mr. Stopper. But he never could bear any one to be displeased with -him except he were angry himself. So when Mrs. Boxall spoke as she -did, his countenance fell. He instantly removed his feet from the -fender, glanced up at her face, saw that she was really indignant, -and, missing the real reason of course, supposed that it was because -he had been indiscreet in being disrespectful to a cherished article -of housewifely. It was quite characteristic of Tom that he instantly -pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and began therewith to restore -the brightness of the desecrated iron. This went at once to the old -lady's heart. She snatched the handkerchief out of his hand. - -"Come, come, Mr. Thomas. Don't ye mind an old woman like that. To think -of using your handkerchief that way! And cambric too!" - -Thomas looked up in surprise, and straightway recovered his behavior. - -"I didn't think of your fender," he said. - -"Oh, drat the fender!" exclaimed Mrs. Boxall, with more energy than -refinement. - -And so the matter dropped, and all sat silent for a few moments, Mrs. -Boxall with her knitting, and Tom and Lucy beside each other with their -thoughts. Lucy presently returned to their talk on the stair-case. - -"So you were out at dinner on Wednesday, Thomas?" - -"Yes. It was a great bore, but I had to go.--Boxall's, you know. I beg -your pardon, Mrs. Boxall; but that's how fellows like me talk, you -know. I should have said Mr. Boxall. And I didn't mean that he was a -bore. That he is not, though he is a little particular--of course. I -only meant it was a bore to go there when I wanted to come here." - -"Is my cousin Mary _very_ pretty?" asked Lucy, with a meaning in her -tone which Thomas easily enough understood. - -He could not help blushing, for he remembered, as well he might. And -she could not help seeing, for she had eyes, very large ones, and at -least as loving as they were large. - -"Yes, she is very pretty," answered Thomas; "but not nearly so pretty -as you, Lucy." - -Thomas, then, was not stupid, although my reader will see that he was -weak enough. And Lucy was more than half satisfied, though she did not -half like that blush. But Thomas himself did not like either the blush -or its cause. And poor Lucy knew nothing of either, only meditated upon -another blush, quite like this as far as appearance went, but with a -different heart to it. - -Thomas did not stop more than half an hour. When he left, instead -of walking straight out of Guild Court by the narrow paved passage, -he crossed to the opposite side of the court, opened the door of a -more ancient-looking house, and entered. Reappearing--that is, to the -watchful eyes of Lucy manoeuvring with the window-blind--after about -two minutes, he walked home to Highbury, and told his mother that he -had come straight from his German master, who gave him hopes of being -able, before many months should have passed, to write a business letter -in intelligible German. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -MORE ABOUT GUILD COURT. - - -Mrs. Boxall was the mother of Richard Boxall, the "governor" of -Thomas Worboise. Her John had been the possessor of a small landed -property, which he farmed himself, and upon which they brought up a -family of three sons and one daughter, of whom Richard was the eldest, -and the daughter Lucy the youngest. None of the sons showed the least -inclination to follow the plow or take any relation more or less -dignified toward the cultivation of the ancestral acres. This aversion, -when manifested by Richard, occasioned his father considerable -annoyance, but he did not oppose his desire to go into business instead -of farming; for he had found out by this time that he had perpetuated -in his sons a certain family doggedness which he had inherited from one -ancestor at least--an obstinacy which had never yet been overcome by -any argument, however good. He yielded to the inevitable, and placed -him in a merchant's office in London, where Richard soon made himself -of importance. When his second son showed the same dislike to draw -his livelihood directly from the bosom of the earth, and revealed a -distinct preference for the rival element, with which he had made some -acquaintance when at school at a sea-port at no great distance from his -home, old John Boxall was still more troubled, but gave his consent--a -consent which was, however, merely a gloomy negation of resistance. The -cheerfulness of his wife was a great support to him under what he felt -as a slight to himself and the whole race of Boxalls; but he began, -notwithstanding, to look upon his beloved fields with a jaundiced eye, -and the older he grew the more they reminded him of the degenerate -tastes and heartlessness of his boys. When he discovered, a few years -after, that his daughter had pledged herself, still in his eyes a mere -child, to a music-master who visited her professionally from the next -town, he flew at last into a terrible rage, which was not appeased by -the girl's elopement and marriage. He never saw her again. Her mother, -however, was not long in opening a communication with her, and it was -to her that Edward, the youngest son, fled upon occasion of a quarrel -with his father, whose temper had now become violent as well as morose. -He followed his second brother's example, and went to sea. Still the -mother's cheerfulness was little abated; for, as she said to herself, -she had no reason to be ashamed of her children. None of them had done -any thing they had to be ashamed of, and why should she be vexed? She -had no idea Lucy had so much spirit in her. And if it were not for the -old man, who was surely over-fond of those fields of his, she could -hold up her head with the best of them; for there was Dick--such a -gentleman to be sure! and John, third mate already! and Cecil Burton -sought after in London, to give his lessons, as if he were one of the -old masters! The only thing was that the wind blew harder at night -since Ned went to sea; and a boy was in more danger than a grown man -and a third mate like John. - -And so it proved; for one night when the wind blew a new hay-rick of -his father's across three parishes, it blew Edward's body ashore on the -west coast. - -Soon after this a neighboring earl, who had the year before paid off -a mortgage on his lands, proceeded in natural process to enlarge his -borders; and while there was plenty that had formerly belonged to the -family to repurchase, somehow or another took it into his head to begin -with what might seem more difficult of attainment. But John Boxall -was willing enough to part with his small patrimony--for he was sick -of it--provided he had a good sum of ready money, and the house with -its garden and a paddock, by way of luck-penny, secured to him for his -own life and that of his wife. This was easily arranged. But the late -yeoman moped more than ever, and died within a twelvemonth, leaving his -money to his wife. As soon as he was laid in his natural inheritance -of land cubical, his wife went up to London to her son Richard, who -was by this time the chief manager of the business of Messrs. Blunt & -Baker. To him she handed over her money to use for the advantage of -both. Paying her a handsome percentage, he invested it in a partnership -in the firm, and with this fresh excitement to his energies, soon -became, influentially, the principal man in the company. The two other -partners were both old men, and neither had a son or near relative -whom he might have trained to fill his place. So in the course of a -few years, they, speaking commercially, fell asleep, and in the course -of a few more, departed this life, commercially and otherwise. It was -somewhat strange, however, that all this time Richard Boxall had given -his mother no written acknowledgment of the money she had lent him, -and which had been the foundation of his fortune. A man's faults are -sometimes the simple reverses of his virtues, and not the results of -his vices. - -When his mother came first to London, he had of course taken her -home to his house and introduced her to his wife, who was a kind -and even warm-hearted woman. But partly from prudence, partly from -habit, Mrs. Boxall, senior, would not consent to become the permanent -guest of Mrs. Boxall, junior, and insisted on taking a lodging in the -neighborhood. It was not long, however, before she left the first, -and betook herself to a second; nor long again before she left the -second, and betook herself to a third. For her nature was like a -fresh, bracing wind, which, when admitted within the precincts of a -hot-house, where everything save the fire is neglected, proves a most -unwelcome presence, yea, a dire dismay. Indeed, admirably as she had -managed and borne with her own family, Mrs. Boxall was quite unfit to -come into such habitual contact with another household as followed from -her occupying a part of the same dwelling. Her faith in what she had -tried with success herself, and her repugnance to whatever she had not -been accustomed to, were such that her troublesomeness when she became -familiar, was equal to the good nature which at first so strongly -recommended her. Hence her changes of residence were frequent. - -Up to the time when he became a sleeping partner, Mr. Blunt had -resided in Guild Court--that is, the house door was in the court, -while the lower part of the house, forming the offices of the firm, -was entered from what was properly a lane, though it was called Bagot -Street. As soon as mother and son heard that Mr. Blunt had at length -bought a house in the country, the same thought arose in the mind of -each--might not Mrs. Boxall go and live there? The house belonged to -the firm, and they could not well let it, for there was more than -one available connection between the two portions of the building, -although only one had lately been in use, a door, namely, by which Mr. -Blunt used to pass immediately from the glass-partitioned part of the -counting-house to the foot of the oak stair-case already described; -while they used two of the rooms in the house as places of deposit for -old books and papers, for which there was no possible accommodation -in the part devoted to active business. Hence nothing better could be -devised than that Mrs. Boxall, senior, should take up her abode in the -habitable region. This she made haste to do, accompanied by a young -servant. With her she soon quarreled, however, and thereafter relied -upon the ministrations of a charwoman. The door between the house and -the counting-house was now locked, and the key of it so seldom taken -from the drawer of Mr. Boxall, that it came to be regarded almost as a -portion of the wall. So much for the inner connection of Guild Court -and Bagot Street. - -Some years after Mrs. Boxall removed to London, Mr. Burton, the -music-master, died. They had lived from hand to mouth, as so many -families of uncertain income are compelled to do, and his unexpected -death left his wife and child without the means of procuring immediate -necessities. Inheriting the narrowness and prejudices of his descent -and of his social position to a considerable degree, Mr. Boxall -had never come to regard his sister's match with a music-master as -other than a degradation to the family, and had, in his best humors, -never got further in the humanities of the kingdom of heaven, than -to patronize his brother-in-law; though if size and quality go for -anything in existence itself, as they do in all its accidents, Richard -Boxall was scarcely comparable, honest and just man as he was, to Cecil -Burton; who, however, except that he was the father of Lucy, and so -in some measure accounts for her, is below the western horizon of our -story, and therefore need scarcely be alluded to again. This behavior -of her brother was more galling to Mrs. Burton than to her husband, who -smiled down any allusion to it; and when she was compelled to accept -Richard's kindness in the shape of money, upon the death of Mr. Burton, -it was with a bitterness of feeling which showed itself plainly enough -to wound the self-love of the consciously benevolent man of business. -But from the first there had been the friendliest relations between the -mother and daughter, and as it was only from her determination to avoid -all ground of misunderstanding, that Mrs. Boxall had not consented -to take up her abode with the Burtons. Consequently, after the death -of Mr. Burton, the mother drew yet closer to the daughter, while the -breach between brother and sister was widened. - -Two years after the death of her husband, Mrs. Burton followed him. -Then Mrs. Boxall took her grandchild Lucy home to Guild Court, and -between the two there never arose the question of which should be -the greater. It often happens that even a severe mother becomes -an indulgent grandmother, partly from the softening and mellowing -influences of time, partly from increase of confidence in child-nature -generally, and perhaps also, in part, from a diminished sense or -responsibility in regard to a child not immediately her own. Hence -grandparents who have brought up their own children well are in danger -of spoiling severely those of their sons and daughters. And such might -have been the case with Mrs. Boxall and Lucy, had Lucy been of a more -spoilable nature. But she had no idea of how much she had her own way, -nor would it have made any difference to her if she had known it. -There was a certain wonderful delicacy of moral touch about her in the -discrimination of what was becoming, as well as of what was right, -which resulted in a freedom the legalist of society would have called -boldness, and a restraint which the same judge would have designated -particularity; for Lucy's ways were not, and could not be, her ways, -the one fearing and obeying, as she best could, existing laws hard -to interpret, the other being a law unto herself. The harmonies of -the music by which, from her earliest childhood, her growing brain -had been interpenetrated, had, by her sweet will, been transformed -into harmonies of thought, feeling, and action. She was not clever, -but then she did not think she was clever, and therefore it was of no -consequence; for she was not dependent upon her intellect for those -judgments which alone are of importance in the reality of things, and -in which clever people are just as likely to go wrong as any other -body. She had a great gift in music--a gift which Thomas Worboise _had -never yet discovered_, and which, at this period of his history, he -was incapable of discovering, for he had not got beyond the toffee -of the drawing-room sentiment--the song which must be sent forth to -the universe from the pedestal of ivory shoulders. But two lines of -a ballad from Lucy Barton were worth all the music, "She walks in -beauty," included, that Mary Boxall could sing or play. - -Lucy had not seen her cousins for years. Her uncle Richard, though -incapable of being other than satisfied that the orphan should be -an inmate of the house in Guild Court, could not, or at least did -not, forget the mildly defiant look with which she retreated from -his outstretched hand, and took her place beside her mother, on the -sole occasion on which he called upon his sister after her husband's -death. She had heard remarks--and being her mother's, she could not -question the justice of them. Hence she had not once, since she had -taken up her abode with her grandmother, been invited to visit her -cousins; and there was no affectation, but in truth a little anxiety, -in the question she asked Thomas Worboise about Mary Boxall's beauty. -But, indeed, had she given her uncle no such offense, I have every -reason to believe that her society would not have been much courted by -his family. When the good among rich relations can be loving without -condescension, and the good among poor relations can make sufficient -allowance for the rich, then the kingdom of heaven will be nigh at -hand. Mr. Boxall shook hands with his niece when he met her, asked her -after his mother, and passed on. - -But Lucy was not dependent on her uncle, scarcely on her grandmother, -even. Before her mother's death, almost child as she still was, she had -begun to give lessons in music to a younger child than herself, the -daughter of one of her father's favorite pupils, who had married a rich -merchant; and these lessons she continued. She was a favorite with the -family, who were Jews, living in one of the older quarters of the west -end of London; and they paid her handsomely, her age and experience -taken into account. Every morning, except Saturday, she went by the -underground railway to give an hour's lesson to Miriam Morgenstern, a -gorgeous little eastern, whom her parents had no right to dress in such -foggy colors as she wore. - -Now a long farewell to preliminaries. - -Lucy was just leaving her home one morning to go to her pupil, and had -turned into the flagged passage which led from the archway into the -court, when she met a little girl of her acquaintance, whom, with her -help, I shall now present to my readers. She was a child of eight, -but very small for her age. Her hair was neatly parted and brushed -on each side of a large, smooth forehead, projecting over quiet eyes -of blue, made yet quieter by the shadow of those brows. The rest of -her face was very diminutive. A soberness as of complete womanhood, -tried and chastened, lay upon her. She looked as if she had pondered -upon life and its goal, and had made up her little mind to meet its -troubles with patience. She was dressed in a cotton frock printed with -blue rose-buds, faded by many waters and much soap. When she spoke, -she used only one side of her mouth for the purpose, and then the -old-fashionedness of her look rose almost to the antique, so that you -could have fancied her one of the time-belated _good people_ that, -leaving the green forest-rings, had wandered into the city and become a -Christian at a hundred years of age. - -"Well, Mattie," said Lucy, "how are you this morning?" - -"I am quite well, I thank you, miss," answered Mattie. "I don't call -this morning. The church clock struck eleven five minutes ago." - -This was uttered with a smile from the half of her mouth which seemed -to say, "I know you want to have a little fun with me by using wrong -names for things because I am a little girl, and little girls can be -taken in; but it is of no use with me, though I can enjoy the joke of -it." - -Lucy smiled too, but not much, for she knew the child. - -"What do you call the morning, then, Mattie?" she asked. - -"Well,"--she almost always began her sentences with a _Well_--"I call -it morning before the sun is up." - -"But how do you know when the sun is up? London is so foggy, you know, -Mattie." - -"Is it? I didn't know. Are there places without fog, miss?" - -"Oh, yes; many." - -"Well, about the sun. I always know what _he's_ about, miss. I've got a -almanac." - -"But you don't understand the almanac, do you?" - -"Well, I don't mean to say I understand all about it, but I always know -what time the sun rises and goes to bed, you know." - -Lucy had found she was rather early for the train, and from where she -stood she could see the clock of St. Jacob's, which happened to be a -reliable one. Therefore she went on to amuse herself with the child. - -"But how is it that we don't see him, if he gets up when the almanac -says, Mattie?" - -"Well, you see, miss, he sleeps in a crib. And the sides of it are -houses and churches, and St. Paulses, and the likes of that." - -"Yes, yes; but some days we see him, and others we don't. We don't see -him to-day, now." - -"Well, miss, I dare say he's cross some mornings, and keeps the -blankets about him after he's got his head up." - -Lucy could not help thinking of Milton's line--for of the few poems she -knew, one was the "Ode on the Nativity"-- - - So, when the Sun in bed, - Curtain'd with cloudy red, - _Pillows his chin upon an orient wave_. - -But the child laughed so queerly, that it was impossible to tell -whether or how much those were her real ideas about the sunrise. - -"How is your father?" Lucy asked. - -"Do you mean my father or my mother?" - -"I mean your father, of course, when I say so." - -"Yes, but I have a mother, too." - -Lucy let her have her way, for she did not quite understand her. Only -she knew that the child's mother had died two or three years ago. - -"Well," resumed the child, "my father is quite well, thank God; and so -is my mother. There he is, looking down at us." - -"Who do you mean, Mattie?" asked Lucy, now bewildered. - -"Well, my mother," answered the child, with a still odder half smile. - -Lucy looked up, and saw--but a little description is necessary. -They were standing, as I have said already, in the flagged passage -which led to, and post-officially considered, formed part of Guild -Court. The archway from Bagot Street into this passage was as it were -tunneled through a house facing the street, and from this house a -wall, stretching inward to the first house in the court proper, formed -one side of the passage. About the middle, this wall broke into two -workshops, the smallest and strangest ever seen out of the east. There -was no roof visible--that lay behind the curtain-wall; but from top -to bottom of the wall, a hight of about nine feet, there was glass, -divided in the middle so as to form two windows, one above the other. -So likewise on the right-hand side of the glass were two doors, or -hatches, one above the other. The tenement looked as if the smallest -of rooms had been divided into two horizontally by a floor in the -middle, thus forming two cells, which could not have been more than -five feet by four, and four feet in hight. In the lower, however, a -little hight had been gained by sinking the floor, to which a single -step led down. In this under cell a cobbler sat, hammering away at his -lap-stone--a little man, else he could hardly have sat there, or even -got in without discomfort. Every now and then he glanced up at the girl -and the child, but never omitted a blow in consequence. Over his head, -on the thin floor between, sat a still smaller man, cross-legged like a -Turk, busily "plying his needle and thread." His hair, which standing -straight up gave a look of terror to his thin, pale countenance, almost -touched the roof. It was the only luxuriance about him. As plants run -to seed, he seemed to have run to hair. A calm, keen eye underneath -its towering forest, revealed observation and peacefulness. He, too, -occasionally looked from his work, but only in the act of drawing the -horizontal thread, when his eyes had momentary furlough, moving in -alternate oscillation with his hand. At the moment when the child said -so, he was looking down in a pause in which he seemed for the moment to -have forgotten his work in his interest in the pair below. He might be -forty, or fifty or sixty--no one could tell which. - -Lucy looked up, and said, "That is Mr. Spelt; that is not your mother." - -"Well, but I call him my mother. I can't have two fathers, you know. So -I call Mr. Spelt my mother; and so he is." - -Here she looked up and smiled knowingly to the little tailor, who, -leaning forward to the window, through which, reaching from roof to -floor of his cage, his whole form was visible, nodded friendlily to the -little girl in acknowledgment of her greeting. But it was now time for -Lucy to go. - -As soon as she had disappeared beyond the archway, Mattie turned toward -the workshops. Mr. Spelt saw her coming, and before she had reached -them, the upper half of the door was open, and he was stretching down -his arms to lift her across the shoemaking region, into his own more -celestial realm of tailoring. In a moment she was sitting in the -farthest and snuggest corner, not cross-legged, but with her feet -invisible in a heap of cuttings, from which she was choosing what she -would--always with a reference to Mr. Spelt--for the dressing of a -boy-doll which he had given her. - -This was a very usual proceeding--so much so that Mattie and the tailor -sat for nearly an hour without a word passing between them beyond what -sprung from the constructive exigencies of the child. Neither of them -was given to much utterance, though each had something of the peculiar -gift of the Ancient Mariner, namely, "strange power of speech." They -would sit together sometimes for half a day without saying a word; and -then again there would be an oasis of the strangest conversation in -the desert of their silence--a bad simile, for their silence must have -been a thoughtful one to blossom into such speech. But the first words -Mattie uttered on this occasion, were of a somewhat mundane character. -She heard a footstep pass below. She was too far back in the cell to -see who it was, and she did not lift her eyes from her work. - -"When the cat's away, the mice will play," she said. - -"What are you thinking about, Mattie?" asked the tailor. - -"Well, wasn't that Mr. Worboise that passed? Mr. Boxall must be out. -But he needn't go there, for somebody's always out this time o' day." - -"What do you mean, Mattie?" again asked the tailor. - -"Well, perhaps you don't understand such things, Mr. Spelt, not being a -married man." - -Poor Mr. Spelt had had a wife who had killed herself by drinking all -his earnings; but perhaps Mattie knew nothing about that. - -"No more I am. You must explain it to me." - -"Well, you see, young people will be young people." - -"Who told you that?" - -"Old Mrs. Boxall says so. And that's why Mr. Worboise goes to see Miss -Burton, _I_ know. I told you so," she added, as she heard his step -returning. But Thomas bore a huge ledger under his arm, for which Mr. -Stopper had sent him round to the court. Very likely, however, had Lucy -been at home, he might have laid a few minutes more to the account of -the errand. - -"So, so!" said the tailor. "That's it, is it, Mattie?" - -"Yes; but we don't _say_ anything about such things, you know." - -"Oh, of course not," answered Mr. Spelt; and the conversation ceased. - -After a long pause, the child spoke again. - -"Is God good to you to-day, mother?" - -"Yes, Mattie. God is always good to us." - -"But he's better some days than others, isn't he?" - -To this question the tailor did not know what to reply, and therefore, -like a wise man, did not make the attempt. He asked her instead, as he -had often occasion to do with Mattie, what she meant. - -"Don't you know what I mean, mother? Don't you know God's better to us -some days than others? Yes; and he's better to some people than he is -to others." - -"I am sure he's always good to you and me, Mattie." - -"Well, yes; generally." - -"Why don't you say _always_?" - -"Because I'm not sure about it. Now to-day it's all very well. But -yesterday the sun shone in the window a whole hour." - -"And I drew down the blind to shut it out," said Mr. Spelt, -thoughtfully. - -"Well," Mattie went on, without heeding her friend's remark, "he -_could_ make the sun shine every day, if he liked.--I _suppose_ he -could," she added, doubtfully. - -"I don't think we should like it, if he did," returned Mr. Spelt, "for -the drain down below smells bad in the hot weather." - -"But the rain might come--at night, I mean, not in the day-time, and -wash them all out. Mightn't it, mother?" - -"Yes; but the heat makes people ill. And if you had such hot weather as -they have in some parts, as I am told, you would be glad enough of a -day like this." - -"Well, why haven't they a day like this, when they want it?" - -"God knows," said Mr. Spelt, whose magazine was nearly exhausted, and -the enemy pressing on vigorously. - -"Well, that's what I say. God knows, and why doesn't he help it?" - -And Mr. Spelt surrendered, if silence was surrender. Mattie did not -press her advantage, however, and the besieged plucked up heart a -little. - -"I fancy perhaps, Mattie, he leaves something for us to do. You know -they cut out the slop-work at the shop, and I can't do much more with -that but put the pieces together. But when a repairing job comes in, I -can contrive a bit then, and I like that better." - -Mr. Spelt's meaning was not very clear, either to himself or to Mattie. -But it involved the shadow of a great truth--that all the discords -we hear in the universe around us, are God's trumpets sounding a -_réveillé_ to the sleeping human will, which once working harmoniously -with his, will soon bring all things into a pure and healthy rectitude -of operation. Till a man has learned to be happy without the sunshine, -and therein becomes capable of enjoying it perfectly, it is well that -the shine and the shadow should be mingled, so as God only knows how to -mingle them. To effect the blessedness for which God made him, man must -become a fellow-worker with God. - -After a little while Mattie resumed operations. - -"But you can't say, mother, that God isn't better to some people than -to other people. He's surely gooder to you and me than he is to Poppie." - -"Who's Poppie?" asked Mr. Spelt, sending out a flag of negotiation. - -"Well, there she is--down in the gutter, I suppose, as usual," answered -Mattie, without lifting her eyes. - -The tailor peeped out of his house-front, and saw a barefooted child in -the court below. What she was like I shall take a better opportunity -of informing my reader. For at this moment the sound of strong nails -tapping sharply reached the ear of Mr. Spelt and his friend. The sound -came from a window just over the archway, hence at right angles to Mr. -Spelt's workshop. It was very dingy with dust and smoke, allowing only -the outline of a man's figure to be seen from the court. This much -Poppie saw, and taking the tapping to be intended for her, fled from -the court on soundless feet. But Mattie rose at once from her corner, -and, laying aside cuttings and doll, stuck her needle and thread -carefully in the bosom of her frock, saying: - -"That's my father a-wanting of me. I wonder what he wants now. I'm sure -I don't know how he would get on without _me_. And that _is_ a comfort. -Poor man! he misses my mother more than I do, I believe. He's always -after me. Well, I'll see you again in the afternoon if I can. And, if -not, you may expect me about the same hour to-morrow." - -While she thus spoke she was let down from the not very airy hight -of the workshop on to the firm pavement below; the tailor stretching -his arms with her from above, like a bird of prey with a lamb in his -talons. The last words she spoke from the ground, her head thrown back -between her shoulders that she might look the tailor in the face, who -was stooping over her like an angel from a cloud in the family Bible. - -"Very well, Mattie," returned Mr. Spelt; "you know your own corner well -enough by this time, I should think." - -So saying, he drew himself carefully into his shell, for the place -was hardly more, except that he could just work without having to get -outside of it first. A soft half smile glimmered on his face; for -although he was so used to Mattie's old-fashioned ways, that they -scarcely appeared strange to him now, the questions that she raised -were food for the little tailor's meditation--all day long, upon -occasion. For some tailors are given to thinking, and when they are -they have good opportunity of indulging their inclinations. And it is -wonderful what a tailor's thinking may come to, especially if he reads -his New Testament. Now, strange perhaps to tell, though Mr. Spelt never -went to church, he did read his New Testament. And the little tailor -was a living soul. He was one of those few who seem to be born with -a certain law of order in themselves, a certain tidiness of mind, as -it were, which would gladly see all the rooms or regions of thought -swept and arranged; and not only makes them orderly, but prompts them -to search after the order of the universe. They would gladly believe -in the harmony of things; and although the questions they feel the -necessity of answering take the crudest forms and the most limited -and individual application, they yet are sure to have something to do -with the laws that govern the world. Hence it was that the partial -misfit of a pair of moleskin or fustian trowsers--for seldom did his -originality find nobler material to exercise itself upon--would make -him quite miserable, even though the navvy or dock-laborer might be -perfectly satisfied with the result, and ready to pay the money for -them willingly. But it was seldom, too, that he had even such a chance -of indulging in the creative element of the tailor's calling, though -he might have done something of the sort, if he would, in the way of -altering. Of that branch of the trade, however, he was shy, knowing -that it was most frequently in request with garment unrighteously come -by; and Mr. Spelt's thin hands were clean. - -He had not sat long after Mattie left him, before she reappeared from -under the archway. - -"No, no, mother," she said, "I ain't going to perch this time. But -father sends his compliments, and will you come and take a dish of tea -with him and me this afternoon?" - -"Yes, Mattie; if you will come and fetch me when the tea's ready." - -"Well, you had better not depend on me; for I shall have a herring to -cook, and a muffin to toast, besides the tea to make and set on the -hob, and the best china to get out of the black cupboard, and no end o' -things to see to." - -"But you needn't get out the best china for me, you know." - -"Well, I like to do what's proper. And you just keep your eye on St. -Jacob's, Mr. Spelt, and at five o'clock, when it has struck two of -them, you get down and come in, and you'll find your tea a-waiting of -you. There!" - -With which conclusive form of speech, Mattie turned and walked back -through the archway. She never ran, still less skipped as most children -do, but held feet and head alike steadily progressive, save for the -slightest occasional toss of the latter, which, as well as her mode -of speech, revealed the element of conceit which had its share in the -oddity of the little damsel. - -When two strokes of the five had sounded in the ears of Mr. Spelt, he -laid his work aside, took his tall hat from one of the comers where -it hung on a peg, leaped lightly from his perch into the court, shut -his half of the door, told the shoemaker below that he was going to -Mr. Kitely's to tea, and would be obliged if he would fetch him should -anyone want him, and went through the archway. There was a door to -Mr. Kitely's house under the archway, but the tailor preferred going -round the corner to the shop door in Bagot Street. By this he entered -Jacob Kitely's domain, an old book-shop, of which it required some -previous knowledge to find the way to the back premises. For the whole -cubical space of the shop was divided and subdivided into a labyrinth -of book-shelves, those in front filled with decently if not elegantly -bound books, and those behind with a multitude innumerable of books -in all conditions of dinginess, mustiness, and general shabbiness. -Among these Jacob Kitely spent his time patching and mending them, and -drawing up catalogues. He was not one of those booksellers who are -so fond of their books that they cannot bear to part with them, and -therefore when they are fortunate enough to lay their hands upon a rare -volume, the highest pleasure they know in life, justify themselves in -keeping it by laying a manuscript price upon it, and considering it -so much actual property. Such men, perhaps, know something about the -contents of their wares; but while few surpassed Jacob in a knowledge -of the outside of books, from the proper treatment of covers in the -varying stages of dilapidation, and of leaves when water-stained or -mildewed or dry-rotted to the different values of better and best -editions, cut and uncut leaves, tall copies, and folios shortened -by the plow into doubtful quartos, he never advanced beyond the -title-page, except when one edition differed from another, and some -examination was necessary to determine to which the copy belonged. -And not only did he lay no _fancy prices_ upon his books, but he was -proud of selling them under the market value--which he understood well -enough, though he used the knowledge only to regulate his buying. -The rate at which he sold was determined entirely by the rate at -which he bought. Do not think, my reader, that I have the thinnest -ghost of a political economy theory under this: I am simply and only -describing character. Hence he sold his books cheaper than any other -bookseller in London, contenting himself with a profit proportioned to -his expenditure, and taking his pleasure in the rapidity with which -the stream of books flowed through his shop. I have known him take -threepence off the price he had first affixed to a book, because he -found that he had not advertised it, and therefore it had not to bear -its share of the expense of the catalogue. - -Mr. Spelt made his way through the maze of books into the back shop, -no one confronting him, and there found Mr. Kitely busy over his next -catalogue, which he was making out in a school-boy's hand. - -"How are you, Spelt?" he said, in an alto voice, in which rung a -certain healthy vigor, amounting to determination. "Just in time, I -believe. My little woman has been busy in the parlor for the last hour, -and I can depend upon her to the minute. Step in." - -"Don't let me interrupt you," suggested Mr. Spelt, meekly, and -reverentially even, for he thought Mr. Kitely must be a very learned -man indeed to write so much about books, and had at home a collection -of his catalogues complete from the year when he first occupied the -nest in the passage. I had forgot to say that Mr. Kitely was Mr. -Spelt's landlord, and found him a regular tenant, else he certainly -would not have invited him to tea. - -"Don't let me interrupt you," said Mr. Spelt. - -"Not at all," returned Mr. Kitely. "I'm very happy to see you, Spelt. -You're very kind to my Mattie, and it pleases both of us to have you to -tea in our humble way." - -His humble way was a very grand way indeed to poor Spelt--and Mr. -Kitely knew that. Spelt could only rub his nervous, delicate hands in -token that he would like to say something in reply if he could but find -the right thing to say. What hands those were, instinct with life and -expression to the finger nails! No hands like them for fine-drawing. -He would make the worst rent look as if there never had been a rough -contact with the nappy surface. - -The tailor stepped into the parlor, which opened out of the back shop -sideways, and found himself in an enchanted region. A fire--we always -see the fire first, and the remark will mean more to some people than -to others--a most respectable fire burned in the grate, and if the room -was full of the odor of red herrings, possibly objectionable _per se_, -where was the harm when they were going to partake of the bloaters? A -consequential cat lay on the hearth-rug. A great black oak cabinet, -carved to repletion of surface, for which a pre-Raphaelite painter -would have given half the price of one of his best pictures, stood at -the end of the room. This was an accident, for Mr. Kitely could not -appreciate it. But neither would he sell it when asked to do so. He -was not going to mix trades, for that was against his creed; the fact -being that he had tried so many things in his life that he now felt -quite respectable from having settled to one for the rest of his days. -But the chief peculiarity of the room was the number of birds that hung -around it in cages of all sizes and shapes, most of them covered up now -that they might go to sleep. - -After Mattie had bestowed her approbation upon Mr. Spelt for coming -exactly to the hour, she took the brown tea-pot from the hob, the -muffin from before the fire, and three herrings from the top of it, -and put them all one after another upon the table. Then she would have -placed chairs for them all, but was prevented by the gallantry of Mr. -Spelt, and only succeeded in carrying to the head of the table her own -high chair, on which she climbed up, and sat enthroned to pour out the -tea. It was a noteworthy triad. On opposite sides of the table sat the -meek tailor and the hawk-expressioned bookseller. The latter had a -broad forehead and large, clear, light eyes. His nose--I never think a -face described when the nose is forgotten: Chaucer never omits it--rose -from between his eyes as if intending to make the true Roman arch, but -having reached the keystone, held on upon the same high level, and did -not descend, but ceased. He wore no beard, and bore his face in front -of him like a banner. A strong pediment of chin and a long, thin-lipped -mouth completed an expression of truculent good nature. Plenty of -clear-voiced speech, a breezy defiance of nonsense in every tone, -bore in it a certain cold but fierce friendliness, which would show -no mercy to any weakness you might vaunt, but would drag none to the -light you abstained from forcing into notice. Opposite to him sat the -thoughtful, thin-visaged, small man, with his hair on end; and between -them the staid, old-maidenly child, with her hair in bands on each side -of the smooth solemnity of her face, the conceit of her gentle nature -expressed only in the turn-up of her diminutive nose. The bookseller -behaved to her as if she had been a grown lady. - -"Now, Miss Kitely," he said, "we shall have tea of the right sort, -shan't we?" - -"I hope so," answered Mattie, demurely. "Help Mr. Spelt to a herring, -father." - -"That I will, my princess. There, Mr. Spelt! There's a herring with a -roe worth millions. To think, now, that every one of those eggs would -be a fish like that, if it was only let alone!" - -"It's a great waste of eggs, ain't it, father?" said Mattie. - -"Mr. Spelt won't say so, my princess," returned Mr. Kitely, laughing. -"He likes 'em." - -"I do like them," said the tailor. - -"Well, I dare say they're good for him, and it don't hurt them much," -resumed Mattie, reflectively. - -"They'll go to his brains, and make him clever," said Kitely. "And you -wouldn't call that a waste, would you, Mattie?" - -"Well, I don't know. I think Mr. Spelt's clever enough already. He's -too much for me sometimes. I confess I can't always follow him." - -The father burst into a loud roar of laughter, and laughed till the -tears were running down his face. Spelt would have joined him but for -the reverence he had for Mattie, who sat unmoved on her throne at the -head of the table, looking down with calm benignity on her father's -passion, as if laughter were a weakness belonging to grown-up men, -in which they were to be condescendingly indulged by princesses, and -little girls in general. - -"Well, how's the world behaving to you, Spelt?" asked the bookseller, -after various ineffectual attempts to stop his laughter by the wiping -of his eyes. - -"The world has never behaved ill to me, thank God," answered the tailor. - -"Now, don't you trouble yourself to say that. You've got nobody to -thank but yourself." - -"But I like to thank God," said Mr. Spelt, apologetically. "I forgot -that you wouldn't like it." - -"Pshaw! pshaw! I don't mind it from you, for I believe you're fool -enough to mean what you say. But, tell me this, Spelt--did you thank -God when your wife died?" - -"I tried hard not. I'm afraid I did, though," answered Spelt, and sat -staring like one who has confessed, and awaits his penance. - -The bookseller burst into another loud laugh, and slapped his hand on -his leg. - -"You have me there, I grant, Spelt." - -But his face grew sober as he added, in a lower but still loud voice-- - -"I was thinking of my wife, not of yours. Folk say she was a rum un." - -"She was a splendid woman," said the tailor. "She weighed twice as much -as I do, and her fist--" Here he doubled up his own slender hand, laid -it on the table, and stared at it, with his mouth full of muffin. Then, -with a sigh, he added, "She was rather too much for me, sometimes. She -was a splendid woman, though, when she was sober." - -"And what was she when she was drunk?" - -This grated a little on the tailor's feelings, and he answered with -spirit--- - -"A match for you or any other man, Mr. Kitely." - -The bookseller said, "Bravo, Spelt!" and said no more. - -They went on with their tea for some moments in silence. - -"Well, princess!" said Mr. Kitely at last, giving an aimless poke to -the conversation. - -"Well, father," returned Mattie. - -Whereupon her father turned to Spelt and said, as if resuming what had -passed before-- - -"Now tell me honestly, Spelt, do you believe there is a God?" - -"I don't doubt it." - -"And I do. Will you tell me that, if there was a God, he would have a -fool like that in the church over the way there, to do nothing but read -the service, and a sermon he bought for eighteenpence, and--" - -"From you?" asked Spelt, with an access of interest. - -"No, no. I was too near the church for that. But he bought it of -Spelman, in Holywell Street. Well, what was I saying?" - -"You was telling us what Mr. Potter did for his money." - -"Yes, yes. I don't know anything else he does but stroke his Piccadilly -weepers, and draw his salary. Only I suppose they have some grand name -for salary nowadays, out of the Latin Grammar or the Roman Antiquities, -or some such, to make it respectable. Don't tell me there's a God, when -he puts a man like that in the pulpit. To hear him haw-haw!" - -The bookseller's logic was, to say the least of it, queer. But Spelt -was no logician. He was something better, though in a feeble way. He -could jump over the dry-stone fences and the cross-ditches of the -logician. He was not one of those who stop to answer arguments against -going home, instead of making haste to kiss their wives and children. - -"I have read somewhere--in a book I dare say you mayn't have in your -collection, Mr. Kitely--they call it the New Testament--" - -There was not an atom of conscious humor in the tailor as he said this. -He really thought Mr. Kitely might have conscientious scruples as to -favoring the sale of the New Testament. Kitely smiled, but said nothing. - -"I've read"--the tailor went on--"that God winked at some people's -ignorance. I dare say he may wink at Mr. Potter's." - -"Anyhow, I wouldn't like to be Mr. Potter," said the bookseller. - -"No, nor I," returned Spelt. "But just as I let that poor creature, -Dolman, cobble away in my ground-floor--though he has never paid me -more than half his rent since ever he took it--" - -"Is that the way of it? Whew!" said Mr. Kitely. - -"About and about it," answered the tailor. "But that's not the point." - -"What a fool you are then, Spelt, to--" - -"Mr. Kitely," interposed the tailor with dignity, "do I pay your rent?" - -"You've got my receipts, I believe," answered the bookseller, offended -in his turn. - -"Then I may make a fool of myself, if I please," returned Spelt, with -a smile which took all offense out of the remark. "I only wanted to -say that perhaps God lets Mr. Potter hold the living of St. Jacob's -in something of the same way that I let poor Dolman cobble in my -ground-floor. No offense, I hope." - -"None whatever. You're a good-natured, honest fellow, Spelt; and don't -distress yourself, you know, for a week or so. Have half a herring -more? I fear this is a soft roe." - -"No more, I thank you, Mr. Kitely. But all the clergy ain't like Mr. -Potter. Perhaps he talks such nonsense because there's nobody there to -hear it." - -"There's plenty not there to do something for his money," said Kitely. - -"That's true," returned the tailor. "But seeing I don't go to church -myself, I don't see I've any right to complain. Do you go to church, -Mr. Kitely?" - -"I should think _not_," answered the bookseller. "But there's some one -in the shop." - -So saying, he started up and disappeared. Presently voices were heard, -if not in dispute, yet in difference. - -"You won't oblige me so far as that, Mr. Kitely?" - -"No, I won't. I never pledge myself. I've been too often taken in. No -offense. A man goes away and forgets. Send or bring the money, and the -book is yours; or come to-morrow. I dare say it won't be gone. But I -won't promise to keep it. There!" - -"Very well, I won't trouble you again in a hurry." - -"That is as you please, sir," said the bookseller, and no reply -followed. - -"That's Mr. Worboise," said Mattie, "I wish father wouldn't be so hard -upon him." - -"I don't like that young man," said Kitely, reëntering. "My opinion is -that he's a humbug." - -"Miss Burton does not think so," said Mattie, quietly. - -"Eh, what, princess?" said her father. "Eh! ah! well! well!" - -"You don't give credit, Mr. Kitely?" said the tailor. - -"No, not to my own father. I don't know, though, if I had the old -boy back again, now he's dead. I didn't behave over well to him, I'm -afraid. I wonder if he's in the moon, or where he is, Mr. Spelt, eh? -I should like to believe in God now, if it were only for the chance -of saying to my father, 'I'm sorry I said so-and-so to you, old man.' -Do you think he'll have got over it by this time, Spelt? You know all -about those things. But I won't have a book engaged and left and not -paid for. I'd rather give credit and lose it, and have done with it. If -young Worboise wants the book he may come for it to-morrow." - -"He always pays me--and pleasantly," said Spelt. - -"Of course," said Mattie. - -"I don't doubt it," said her father; "but I like things neat and clean. -And I don't like him. He thinks a deal of himself." - -"Surely he's neat and clean enough," said Spelt. - -"Now, you don't know what I mean. A man ought always to know what -another man means before he makes his remarks. I mean, I like a book -to go out of my sight, and the price of it to go into my pocket, right -slick off. But here's Dolman come to fetch you, Spelt," said the -bookseller, as the cobbler made his appearance at the half-open door of -the parlor. - -"No, I ain't," said Dolman. "I only come to let the guv'nor know as I'm -a going home." - -"Where's that?" asked Kitely. - -"Leastways, I mean going home with a pair o' boots," answered Dolman, -evasively, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. - -"Ah!" said the bookseller. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -THE MORNING OF CHRISTMAS DAY. - - -It is but justice to Thomas Worboise to mention that he made no -opportunities of going to his "governor's" house after this. But the -relations of the families rendered it impossible for him to avoid -seeing Mary Boxall sometimes. Nor did he make any great effort to -evade each meetings: and it must be confessed that it was not without -a glow of inward satisfaction that he saw her confusion and the rosy -tinge that spread over her face and deepened the color of her eyes -when they thus happened to meet. For Mary was a soft-hearted and too -impressible girl. "I never said anything to her," were the words with -which he would now and then apply an unction to his soul, compounded -of self-justification and self-flattery. But he could not keep an -outward appearance of coolness correspondent to the real coldness of -his selfish heart, and the confusion which was only a dim reflection of -her own was sufficient to make poor Mary suppose that feelings similar -to her own were at work in the mind of the handsome youth. Why he did -not _say_ anything to her had not yet begun to trouble her, and her -love was as yet satisfied with the ethereal luxuries of dreaming and -castle-building. - -It had been arranged between Amy Worboise and the Boxall girls, that if -Christmas Day were fine, they would persuade their fathers to go with -them to Hampstead Heath in the morning. How much of this arrangement -was owing to sly suggestion on the part of Mary in the hope of seeing -Tom, I do not know. I believe Jane contrived that Charles Wither should -have a hint of the possibility. It is enough that the plan was accepted -by the parents, and that the two families, with the exception of Mrs. -Boxall, who could not commit the care of the Christmas dinner to the -servants, and the invalid Mrs. Worboise, who, indeed, would always -have preferred the chance of a visit from Mr. Simon to the certainty -of sunshine and extended prospect, found themselves, after morning -service, on the platform of the Highbury railway station, whence they -soon reached Hampstead. - -The walk from the station, up the hill to the top of the heath, was -delightful. It was a clear day, the sun shining overhead, and the -ground sparkling with frost under their feet. The keen, healthy air -brought color to the cheeks and light to the eyes of all the party, -possibly with the sole exception of Mr. Worboise, who, able to walk -uncovered in the keenest weather, was equally impervious to all the -gentler influences of Nature. He could not be said to be a disbeliever -in Nature, for he had not the smallest idea that she had any existence -beyond an allegorical one. What he did believe in was the law, meaning -by that neither the Mosaic nor the Christian, neither the law of love -nor the law of right, but the law of England as practiced in her courts -of justice. Therefore he was not a very interesting person to spend -a Christmas morning with, and he and Mr. Boxall, who was equally a -believer in commerce, were left to entertain each other. - -Mary Boxall was especially merry; Amy Worboise roguish as usual; Jane -Boxall rather silent, but still bright-eyed, for who could tell whom -she might meet upon the heath? And with three such girls Tom could not -be other than gay, if not brilliant. True, Lucy was alone with her old -grandmother in dingy Guild Court; but if she loved him, was not that -enough to make her or any other woman happy? And he could not help it, -besides. And why should he not improve the shining hour because Lucy -had no flowers to gather honey from? Besides, was he not going to meet -her the very next day, after much contrivance for concealment? So he -was resolved to be merry and "freuen sich des Lebens." - -They reached the flag-staff. The sun was getting low, and clouds -were gathering behind him. Harrow-on-the-Hill was invisible, but the -reservoir gleamed coldly far across the heath. A wind was blowing from -the northwest; all London lay south and east in clearness wonderful, -for two or three minutes. Then a vapor slowly melted away the dome of -St. Paul's, and, like a spirit of sorrow, gathered and gathered till -that which was full of life to those who were in it, was but a gray -cloud to those that looked on from the distant hight. Already the young -people felt their spirits affected, and as if by a common impulse, -set off to walk briskly to the pines above the "Spaniards." They had -not gone far, before they met Charles Wither sauntering carelessly -along--at least he seemed much surprised to see them. He turned and -walked between Jane and Amy, and Mary and Tom were compelled to drop -behind, so as not to extend their line unreasonably and occupy the -whole path. Quite unintentionally on Tom's part, the distance between -the two divisions increased, and when he and Mary reached the pines, -the rest of the party had vanished. They had in fact gone down into the -Vale of Health, to be out of the wind, and return by the hollow, at the -suggestion of Charles Wither, who wished thus to avoid the chance of -being seen by Mr. Boxall. When he had taken his leave of them, just as -they came in sight of the flag-staff, where Mr. Worboise and Mr. Boxall -had appointed to meet them on their return from the pines, Jane begged -Amy to say nothing about having met him. - -"Oh," said Amy, with sudden and painful illumination, "I am _so_ sorry -to have been in the way." - -"On the contrary, dear Amy, I should not have known what to say to -papa, except you had been with me. I am so much obliged to you." - -Thus there was clearly trouble in store for Mr. Boxall, who had never -yet known what it was not to have his own way--in matters which he -would consider of importance at least. - -The two gentlemen had gone into Jack Straw's to have a glass of wine -together, in honor of Christmas Day; and while they were seated -together before a good fire, it seemed to Mr. Boxall a suitable -opportunity for entering on a matter of business. - -"What will you say to me, Worboise, when I tell you that I have never -yet made a will?" - -"I needn't tell you what I think, Boxall. You know well enough. Very -foolish of you. Very imprudent, indeed. And I confess I should not have -expected it of you, although I had a shrewd suspicion that such was the -case. - -"How came you to suspect it?" - -"To tell the truth; I could not help thinking that as our friendship -was not of yesterday, you would hardly have asked any one else to draw -up your will but your old friend. So you see it was by no mysterious -exercise of intelligence that I came to the conclusion that, not being -an unkind or suspicious man, you must be a dilatory, and, excuse me, in -this sole point, a foolish man." - -"I grant the worst you can say, but you shall say it only till -to-morrow--that is, if you will draw up the will, and have it ready for -me to sign at any hour you may be at leisure for a call from me." - -"I can't undertake it by to-morrow; but it shall be ready by the next -day at twelve o'clock." - -"That will do perfectly. I must remain 'a foolish man' for twenty-four -hours longer--that is all." - -"You won't be much the worse for that, except you have an attack of -apoplexy to fix you there. But, joking apart, give me my instructions. -May I ask how much you have to leave?" - -"Oh; somewhere, off and on, about thirty thousand. It isn't much, but I -hope to double it in the course of a few years, if things go on as they -are doing." - -Mr. Worboise had not known so much about his friend's affairs as he had -pretended to his son. When he heard the amount, he uttered a slight -"Whew!" But whether it meant that the sum fell below or exceeded his -expectations, he gave Mr. Boxall no time to inquire. - -"And how do you want the sum divided?" he asked. - -"I don't want it divided at all. There's no occasion whatever to -mention the sum. The books will show my property. I want my wife, in -the case of her surviving me, to have the whole of it." - -"And failing her?" - -"My daughters, of course--equally divided. If my wife lives, there is -no occasion to mention them. I want them to be dependent upon her as -long as she lives, and so hold the family together as long as possible. -She knows my wishes about them in everything. I have no secrets from -her." - -"I have only to carry out instructions. I have no right to offer any -suggestions." - -"That means that you would suggest something. Speak out, man." - -"Suppose your daughters wished to marry?" - -"I leave all that to their mother, as I said. They must be their own -mistresses some day." - -"Well, call on me the day after to-morrow, and I shall have the draught -at least ready." - -When the two girls reached the flag-staff, their parents were not -there. Jane was glad of this, for it precluded questioning as to the -point whence they had arrived. As they stood waiting, large snow-flakes -began to fall, and the wind was rising. But they had not to wait long -before the gentlemen made their appearance, busily conversing, so -busily, indeed, that when they had joined the girls, they walked away -toward the railway station without concerning themselves to ask what -had become of Mary and Thomas. - -When they reached the railway station, Mr. Boxall became suddenly aware -that two of their party were missing. - -"Why, Jane, where's Mary? And where's Tom? Where did you leave them?" - -"Somewhere about the pines. I thought they would have been back long -ago." - -The two fathers looked at each other, and each seeing that the other -looked knowing, then first consented, as he thought, to look knowing -himself. - -"Well," said Mr. Worboise, "they're old enough to take care of -themselves, I suppose. I vote we don't wait for them." - -"Serve them right," said Mr. Boxall. - -"Oh, don't, papa," interposed Jane. - -"Well, Jane, will you stop for them?" said her father. - -But a sudden light that flashed into Jane's eyes made him change his -tone. He did not know why, but the idea of Charles Wither rose in his -mind, and he made haste to prevent Jane from taking advantage of the -proposal. - -"Come along," he said. "Let them take care of themselves. Come along." - -The suspicion had crossed him more than once, that Mr. Wither and Jane -possibly contrived to meet without his knowledge, and the thought made -him writhe with jealousy; for it lay in his nature to be jealous of -everyone of whom his wife or his daughters spoke well--that is, until -he began to like him himself, when the jealousy, or what was akin to -it, vanished. But it was not jealousy alone that distressed him, but -the anxiety of real love as well. - -By the time they reached Camden Road station, the ground was covered -with snow. - -When Tom and Mary arrived at the pines, I have said they found that the -rest of their party had gone. - -"Oh, never mind," said Mary, merrily; "let us run down into the hollow, -and wait till they come back. I dare say they are not far off. They -will never go without us." - -Partly from false gallantry, partly from inclination, Thomas agreed. -They descended the bank of sand in a quite opposite direction from that -taken by Jane and her companions, and wandered along down the heath. -By this time the sky was all gray and white. Long masses of vapor were -driving overhead with jagged upper edges. They looked like lines of -fierce warriors stooping in their eager rush to the battle. But down in -the hollows of the heath all was still, and they wandered on for some -time without paying any heed to the signs of the coming storm. Does my -reader ask what they talked about? Nothing worthy of record, I answer; -although every word that Thomas uttered seemed to Mary worth looking -into for some occult application of the sort she would gladly have -heard more openly expressed. At length, something cold fell upon her -face, and Thomas glancing that moment at her countenance, saw it lying -there, and took it for a tear. She looked up: the sky was one mass of -heavy vapor, and a multitude of great downy snow-flakes was settling -slowly on the earth. In a moment they were clasped hand in hand. -The pleasure of the snow, the excitement of being shut out from the -visible, or rather the seeing world, wrapped in the skirts of a storm -with a pretty girl for his sole companion, so wrought upon Thomas, who -loved to be moved and hated to will, that he forgot Lucy, and stood in -delight gazing certainly at the falling snow, and not at Mary Boxall, -but holding her hand tight in his own. She crept closer to him, for a -little gentle fear added to her pleasure, and in a moment more his arm -was about her--to protect her, I dare say, he said to himself. - -Now, be it understood that Thomas was too much in love with himself -to be capable of loving any woman under the sun after a noble and -true fashion. He did not love Lucy a great deal better than he loved -Mary. Only Mary was an ordinary pretty blonde, and Lucy was dark, -with great black eyes, and far more distinguished in appearance than -Mary. Besides, she was poor, and that added greatly to the romance of -the thing; for it made it quite noble in him to love her, and must -make her look up to him with such deserved admiration, that--without -reckoning the fact that the one was offered him, and the other only -not forbidden because there was as yet no suspicion of his visits in -Guild Court--there was positively no room to hesitate in choice between -them. Still the preference was not strong enough to keep his heart from -beating fast when he found the snow-storm had closed him in with Mary. -He had sense enough, however, to turn at once in order to lead her back -toward the road. But this was already a matter of difficulty, for there -was no path where the storm found them, and with the gathering darkness -the snow already hid the high road across the heath; so that the first -question was in what direction to go to find it. They kept moving, -however, Mary leaning a good deal on Tom's arm, and getting more and -more frightened as no path came in view. Even Tom began to be anxious -about what was to come of it, and although he did his best to comfort -Mary, he soon found that, before the least suspicion of actual danger, -the whole romance had vanished. And now the snow not only fell rapidly, -but the wind blew it sharply in their faces, and blinded them yet more -than merely with its darkness--not that this mattered much as to the -finding the way, for that was all hap-hazard long ago. - -After wandering, probably in a circuitous fashion, for more than -an hour, Mary burst out crying, and said she could not walk a step -farther. She would have thrown herself down had not Tom prevented her. -With the kindest encouragement--though he was really down-hearted -himself--he persuaded her to climb a little hight near them, which with -great difficulty she managed to do. From the top they saw a light, and -descending the opposite side of the hill, found themselves in a road, -where an empty cab stood by the door of a public-house. After trying to -persuade Mary to have some refreshment, to which she refused to listen, -insisting on being taken to her mother, Thomas succeeded in getting -the cabman to drive them to the station. In the railway carriage, Mary -lay like one dead, and although he took off both his coats to wrap -about her, she seemed quite unconscious of the attention. It was with -great difficulty that she reached her home; for there was no cab at the -hackney station, and the streets were by this time nearly a foot deep -in snow. - -Thomas was not sorry to give her up to her mother. She immediately -began to scold him. Then Mary spoke for the first time, saying, with -great effort: - -"Don't, mother. If it had not been for Thomas, I should have been dead -long ago. He could not help it. Good-night, Tom." - -And she feebly held up her face to kiss him. Tom stooped to meet it, -and went away feeling tolerably miserable. He was wet and cold. The -momentary fancy for Mary was quite gone out of him, and he could not -help seeing that now he had kissed her before her mother he had got -himself into a scrape. - -Before morning Mary was in a raging fever. - -That night Charles Wither spent at a billiard-table in London, playing, -not high but long, sipping brandy and water all the time, and thinking -what a splendid girl Jane Boxall was. But in the morning he looked all -right. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -POPPIE. - - -Thomas woke the next morning with a well-deserved sense of something -troubling him. This too was a holiday, but he did not feel in a holiday -mood. It was not from any fear that Mary might be the worse for her -exposure, neither was it from regret for his conduct toward her. What -made him uncomfortable was the feeling rather than thought that now -Mrs. Boxall, Mary's mother, had a window that overlooked his premises, -a window over which he had no legal hold, but which, on the contrary, -gave her a hold over him. It was a window, also, of which she was not -likely, as he thought, to neglect the advantage. Nor did it console -him to imagine what Lucy would think, or--which was of more weight -with Thomas--say or do, if she should happen to hear of the affair of -yesterday. This, however, was very unlikely to happen; for she had not -one friend in common with her cousins, except just her lover. To-day -being likewise a holiday, he had arranged to meet her at the Marble -Arch, and take her to that frightful source of amusement, Madame -Tussaud's. Her morning engagement led her to that neighborhood, and -it was a safe place to meet in--far from Highbury, Hackney, and Bagot -Street. - -The snow was very deep. Mrs. Boxall tried to persuade Lucy not to go. -But where birds can pass, lovers can pass, and she was just finishing -her lesson to resplendent little Miriam as Thomas got out of an omnibus -at Park Street, that he might saunter up on foot to the Marble Arch. - -The vision of Hyde Park was such as rarely meets the eye of a Londoner. -It was almost grotesquely beautiful. Even while waiting for a lovely -girl, Thomas could not help taking notice of the trees. Every bough, -branch, twig, and shoot supported a ghost of itself, or rather a white -shadow of itself upon the opposite side from where the black shadow -fell. The whole tree looked like a huge growth of that kind of coral -they call brain-coral, and the whole park a forest of such coralline -growths. But against the sky, which was one canopy of unfallen snow, -bright with the sun behind it, the brilliant trees looked more like -coral still, gray namely, and dull. - -Thomas had not sauntered and gazed for more than a few minutes before -he saw Lucy coming down Great Cumberland Street toward him. Instead of -crossing the street to meet her, he stood and watched her approach. -There was even some excuse for his coolness, she looked so picturesque -flitting over the spotless white in her violet dress, her red cloak, -her grebe muff. I do not know what her bonnet was; for if a bonnet be -suitable, it allows the face to show as it ought, and who can think of -a bonnet then! But I know that they were a pair of very dainty morocco -boots that made little holes in the snow across Oxford Street toward -the Marble Arch where Thomas stood, filled, I fear, with more pride in -the lovely figure that was coming to _him_ than love of her. - -"Have I kept you waiting long, Thomas?" said Lucy, with the sweetest of -smiles, her teeth white as snow in the summer flush of her face. - -"Oh! about ten minutes," said Thomas. It wasn't five. "What a cold -morning it is!" - -"I don't feel it much," answered Lucy. "I came away the first moment I -could. I am sorry I kept you waiting." - -"Don't mention it, Lucy. I should be only too happy to wait for you as -long every morning," said Thomas, gallantly, not tenderly. - -Lucy did not relish the tone. But what could she do? A tone is one of -the most difficult things to fix a complaint upon. Besides, she was not -in a humor to complain of any thing if she could help it. And, to tell -the truth, she was a little afraid of offending Thomas, for she looked -up to him ten times more than he deserved. - -"How lovely your red cloak looked--quite a splendor--crossing the -snow!" he continued. - -And Lucy received this as a compliment to herself, and smiled again. -She took his arm--for lovers will do that sometimes after it is quite -out of fashion. But, will it be believed? Thomas did not altogether -like her doing so, just because it was out of fashion. - -"What a delightful morning it is," she said. "Oh! do look at the bars -of the railing." - -"Yes, I see. The snow has stuck to them. But how can you look at such -vulgar things as iron stanchions when you have such a fairy forest as -that before you?" said the reader of Byron, who was not seldom crossed -by a feeling of dismay at finding Lucy, as he thought, decidedly -unpoetical. He wanted to train her in poetry, as, with shame let it -flow from my pen, in religion. - -"But just look here," insisted Lucy, drawing him closer to the fence. -"You are short-sighted, surely, Thomas. Just look there." - -"Well, I see nothing but snow on both sides of the paling-bars," -returned Thomas. - -"Now I am sure you are short-sighted. It is snow on the one side, but -not on the other. Look at the lovely crystals." - -On the eastern quarter of each upright bar the snow had accumulated and -stuck fast to the depth of an inch: the wind had been easterly. The -fall had ceased some hours before morning, and a strong frost had set -in. That the moisture in the air should have settled frozen upon the -iron would not have been surprising; what Lucy wondered at was, that -there should be a growth, half an inch long, of slender crystals, like -the fungous growth commonly called mold, only closer, standing out -from the bar horizontally, as if they had grown through it, out of the -soil of the snow exactly opposite to it on the other side. On the one -side was a beaten mass of snow, on the other a fantastic little forest -of ice. - -"I do not care about such microscopic beauties," said Thomas, a little -annoyed that she whom he thought unpoetical could find out something -lovely sooner than he could; for he was of those in whom a phantasm -of self-culture is one of the forms taken by their selfishness. They -regard this culture in relation to others with an eye to superiority, -and do not desire it purely for its own sake. "Those trees are much -more to my mind, now." - -"Ah, but I do not love the trees less. Come into the park, and then we -can see them from all sides." - -"The snow is too deep. There is no path there." - -"I don't mind it. My boots are very thick." - -"No, no; come along. We shall get to Madame Tussaud's before there are -many people there. It will be so much nicer." - -"I should like much better to stay here awhile," said Lucy, half vexed -and a little offended. - -But Thomas did not heed her. He led the way up Oxford Street. She had -dropped his arm, and now walked by his side. - -"A nice lover to have!" I think I hear some of my girl readers say. But -he was not so bad as this always, or even gentle-tempered Lucy would -have quarreled with him, if it had been only for the sake of getting -rid of him. The weight of yesterday was upon him. And while they were -walking up the street, as handsome and fresh a couple as you would find -in all London, Mary was lying in her bed talking wildly about Thomas. - -Alas for the loving thoughts of youth and maidens, that go out like the -dove from the ark, and find no room on the face of the desired world to -fold their wings and alight! Olive-leaves they will gather in plenty, -even when they are destined never to build a nest in the branches of -the olive tree. Let such be strong notwithstanding, even when there are -no more olive-leaves to gather, for God will have mercy upon his youths -and maidens, and they shall grow men and women. Let who can understand -me. - -Having thus left the beauties of nature behind them for the horrible -mockery of art at Madame Tussaud's, Thomas became aware from Lucy's -silence that he had not been behaving well to her. He therefore set -about being more agreeable, and before they reached Baker Street she -had his arm again, and they were talking and laughing gayly enough. -Behind them, at some distance, trotted a small apparition which I must -now describe. - -It was a little girl, perhaps ten years old, looking as wild as any -savage in Canadian forest. Her face was pretty, as far as could be -judged through the dirt that variegated its surface. Her eyes were -black and restless. Her dress was a frock, of what stuff it would -have been impossible to determine, scarcely reaching below her knees, -and rent upward into an irregular fringe of ribbons that frostily -fanned her little legs as she followed the happy couple, in a pair of -shoes much too large for her, and already worn into such holes as to -afford more refuge for the snow than for her feet. Her little knees -were very black, and oh! those poor legs, caked and streaked with -dirt, and the delicate skin of them thickened and cracked with frost -and east winds and neglect! They could carry her through the snow -satisfactorily, however--with considerable suffering to themselves, no -doubt. But Poppie was not bound to be miserable because Poppie's legs -were anything but comfortable; there is no selfishness in not being -sorry for one's own legs. Her hair, which might have been expected to -be quite black, was mingled with a reddish tinge from exposure to the -hot sun of the preceding summer. It hung in tangled locks about her, -without protection of any sort. How strange the snow must have looked -upon it! No doubt she had been out in the storm. Her face peeped out -from among it with the wild innocence of a gentle and shy but brave -little animal of the forest. Purposely she followed Lucy's red cloak. -But this was not the first time she had followed her; like a lost pup, -she would go after this one and that one--generally a lady--for a whole -day from place to place, obedient to some hidden drawing of the heart. -She had often seen Lucy start from Guild Court, and had followed her -to the railway; and, at length, by watching first one station and then -another, had found out where she went every morning. Knowing then that -she could find her when she pleased, she did not follow her more than -twice a week or so, sometimes not once--just as the appetite woke in -her for a little of her society. But my reader must see more of her -before he or she will be interested enough in her either to please me -or to care to hear more about the habits of this little wild animal of -the stone forest of London. She had never seen Lucy with a gentleman -before. I wonder if she had ever in her little life walked side by side -with anybody herself; she was always trotting behind. This was the -little girl whom Miss Matilda Kitely, her father's princess, called -Poppie, and patronized, although she was at least two years older than -herself, as near as could be guessed. Nor had she any other name; for -no one knew where she had come from, or who were her parents, and she -herself cared as little about the matter as anybody. - -The lovers were some distance ahead of Poppie, as they had been all -the way, when they entered the passage leading to the wax works. The -instant she lost sight of them so suddenly, Poppie started in pursuit, -lost one of her great shoes, and, instead of turning to pick it up, -kicked the other after it--no great loss--and scampered at full -barefooted speed over the snow, which was here well trodden. They could -hardly have more than disappeared at the further end when she arrived -at the entrance. - -Poppie never thought about _might_ or _might_ not, but only about -_could_ or _could not_. So the way being open, and she happening to -have no mind that morning to part with her company before she was -compelled, she darted in to see whether she could not get another peep -of the couple. Not only was the red cloak a fountain of warmth to -Poppie's imagination, but the two seemed so happy together that she -felt in most desirable society. - -Thomas was in the act of paying for admission at the turnstile, when -she caught sight of them again. The same moment that he admitted them, -the man turned away from his post. In an instant Poppie had crept -through underneath, dodged the man, and followed them, taking care, -however, not to let them see her, for she had not the smallest desire -to come to speech with them. - -The gorgeousness about her did not produce much effect upon Poppie's -imagination. What it might have produced was counteracted by a -strange fancy that rose at once under the matted covering of that -sunburnt hair. She had seen more than one dead man carried home upon -a stretcher. She had seen the miserable funerals of the poor, and the -desolate coffin put in the earth. But she knew that of human beings -there were at least two very different breeds, of one of which she -knew something of the habits and customs, while of the other she knew -nothing, except that they lived in great houses, from which they were -carried away in splendid black carriages, drawn by ever so many horses, -with great black feathers growing out of their heads. What became of -them after that she had not the smallest idea, for no doubt they would -be disposed of in a manner very different from the funerals she had -been allowed to be present at. When she entered the wax-work exhibition -the question was solved. This was one of the places to which they -carried the grand people after they were dead. Here they set them up, -dressed in their very best, to stand there till--ah, till when, Poppie? -That question she made no attempt to answer. She did not like the look -of the dead people. She thought it a better way to put them in the -earth and have done with them, for they had a queer look, as if they -did not altogether like the affair themselves. And when one of them -stared at her, she dodged its eyes, and had enough to do between them -all and the showman; for though Poppie was not afraid of anybody, she -had an instinctive knowledge that it was better to keep out of some -people's way. She followed the sight of her friend, however, till the -couple went into the "chamber of horrors," as if there was not horror -enough in seeing humanity imitated so abominably in the outer room. - -Yes, I am sorry to say it, Lucy went into that place, but she did -not know what she was doing, and it was weeks before she recovered -her self-respect after it. However, as Thomas seemed interested, she -contrived to endure it for a little while--to endure, I do not mean -the horror, for that was not very great--but the vulgarity of it all. -Poppie lingered, not daring to follow them, and at length, seeing a -large party arrive, began to look about for some place of refuge. In -the art of vanishing she was an adept, with an extraordinary proclivity -toward holes and comers. In fact, she could hardly see a hole big -enough to admit her without darting into it at once to see if it would -do--for what, she could not have specified--but for general purposes of -refuge. She considered all such places handy, and she found one handy -now. - -Close to the entrance, in a recess, was a couch, and on this couch -lay a man. He did not look like the rest of the dead people, for his -eyes were closed. Then the dead people went to bed sometimes, and to -sleep. Happy dead people--in a bed like this! For there was a black -velvet cover thrown over the sleeping dead man, so that nothing but his -face was visible; and to the eyes of Poppie this pall looked so soft, -so comfortable, so enticing! It was a place to dream in. And could -there be any better hiding-place than this? If the man was both dead -and sleeping, he would hardly object to having her for a companion. -But as she sent one parting peep round the corner of William Pitt or -Dick Turpin, after her friends, ere she forsook them to lie down with -the dead, one of the attendants caught sight of her, and advanced to -expel the dangerous intruder. Poppie turned and fled, sprang into the -recess, crept under the cover, like a hunted mouse, and lay still, -the bed-fellow of no less illustrious a personage than the Duke of -Wellington, and cold as he must have been, Poppie found him warmer than -her own legs. The man never thought of following her in that direction, -and supposed that she had escaped as she had managed to intrude. - -Poppie found the place so comfortable that she had no inclination -to change her quarters in haste. True, it was not nice to feel the -dead man when she put out foot or hand; but then she need not put out -foot or hand. And Poppie was not used to feeling warm. It was a rare -sensation, and she found it delightful. Every now and then she peeped -from under the _mortcloth_--for the duke was supposed to be lying in -state--to see whether Thomas and Lucy were coming. But at length, what -with the mental and physical effects of warmth and comfort combined, -she fell fast asleep, and dreamed she was in a place she had been in -once before, though she had forgotten all about it. From the indefinite -account she gave of it, I can only conjecture that it was the -embodiment of the vaguest memory of a motherly bosom; that it was her -own mother's bosom she recalled even thus faintly, I much doubt. But -from this undefined bliss she was suddenly aroused by a rough hand and -a rough voice loaded with a curse. Poppie was used to curses, and did -not mind them a bit--somehow they never hurt her--but she was a little -frightened at the face of indignant surprise and wrath which she saw -bending over her when she awoke. It was that of one of the attendants, -with a policeman beside him, for whom he had sent before he awoke the -child, allowing her thus a few moments of unconscious blessedness, with -the future hanging heavy in the near distance. But the duke had slept -none the less soundly that she was by his side, and had lost none of -the warmth that she had gained. It was well for Ruth that there were -no police when she slept in Boaz's barn; still better that some of the -clergymen, who serve God by reading her story on the Sunday, were not -the magistrates before whom the police carried her. With a tight grasp -on her arm, Poppie was walked away in a manner uncomfortable certainly -to one who was accustomed to trot along at her own sweet will--and a -sweet will it was, that for happiness was content to follow and keep -within sight of some one that drew her, without longing for even a -word of grace--to what she had learned to call _the jug_, namely, the -police prison; but my reader must not spend too much of his stock of -sympathy upon Poppie; for she did not mind it much. To be sure in such -weather the jug was very cold, but she had the memories of the past to -comfort her, the near past, spent in the society of the dead duke, warm -and consoling. When she fell asleep on the hard floor of the _lock-up_, -she dreamed that she was dead and buried, and trying to be warm and -comfortable, as she ought to be in her grave, only somehow or another -she could not get things to come right; the wind would blow through the -chinks of her pauper's coffin; and she wished she had been a duke or -a great person generally, to be so grandly buried as they were in the -cemetery in Baker Street. But Poppie was far less to be pitied for the -time, cold as she was, than Mary Boxall, lying half asleep and half -awake and all dreaming in that comfortable room, with a blazing fire, -and her own mother sitting beside it. True, likewise, Poppie heard a -good many bad words and horrid speeches in the jug, but she did not -heed them much. Indeed, they did not even distress her, she was so -used to them; nor, upon occasion, was her own language the very pink -of propriety. How could it be? The vocabulary in use in the houses -she knew had ten vulgar words in it to one that Mattie, for instance, -would hear. But whether Poppie, when speaking the worst language that -ever crossed her lips, was lower, morally and spiritually considered, -than the young lord in the nursery, who, speaking with articulation -clear cut as his features, and in language every word of which is to be -found in Johnson; refuses his brother a share of his tart and gobbles -it up himself, there is to me, knowing that if Poppie could swear she -could share, no question whatever. God looks after his children in the -cellars as well as in the nurseries of London. - -Of course she was liberated in the morning, for the police magistrates -of London are not so cruel as some of those country clergymen who, not -content with preaching about the justice of God from the pulpit, must -seat themselves on the magistrate's bench to dispense the injustice of -men. If she had been brought before some of them for sleeping under -a hay-stack, and having no money in her pocket, as if the night sky, -besides being a cold tester to lie under, were something wicked as -well, she would have been sent to prison; for, instead of believing in -the blessedness of the poor, they are of Miss Kilmansegg's opinion, -"that people with nought are naughty." The poor little thing was only -reprimanded for being where she had no business to be, and sent away. -But it was no wonder if, after this adventure, she should know Thomas -again when she saw him; nay, that she should sometimes trot after him -for the length of a street or so. But he never noticed her. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -MR. SIMON'S ATTEMPT. - - -The next day the sun shone brilliantly upon the snow as Thomas walked -to the counting-house. He was full of pleasant thoughts, crossed and -shadowed by a few of a different kind. He was not naturally deceitful, -and the sense of having a secret which must get him into trouble if it -were discovered, and discovered it must be some day, could not fail to -give him uneasiness notwithstanding the satisfaction which the romance -of the secrecy of a love affair afforded him. Nothing, however, as it -seemed to him, could be done, for he was never ready to do anything to -which he was neither led nor driven. He could not generate action, or, -rather, he had never yet begun to generate action. - -As soon as he reached Bagot Street, he tapped at the glass door, and -was admitted to Mr. Boxall's room. He found him with a look of anxiety -upon a face not used to express that emotion. - -"I hope Miss Mary--" Thomas began, with a little hesitation. - -"She's very ill," said her father, "very ill, indeed. It was enough to -be the death of her. Excessively imprudent." - -Now Mary had been as much to blame, if there was any blame at all, for -the present results of the Christmas morning, as Thomas; but he had -still generosity enough left not to say so to her father. - -"I am very sorry," he said. "We were caught in the snow, and lost our -way." - -"Yes, yes, I know. I oughtn't to be too hard upon young people," -returned Mr. Boxall, remembering, perhaps, that he had his share of the -blame in leaving them so much to themselves. - -"I only hope she may get through it. But she's in a bad way. She was -quite delirious last night." - -Thomas was really concerned for a moment, and looked so. Mr. Boxall saw -it, and spoke more kindly. - -"I trust, however, that there is not any immediate danger. It's no use -you coming to see her. She can't see anybody but the doctor." - -This was a relief to Thomas. But it was rather alarming to find that -Mr. Boxall clearly expected him to want to go to see her. - -"I am very sorry," he said again; and that was all he could find to say. - -"Well, well," returned his master, accepting the words as if they had -been an apology. "We must do our work, anyhow. Business is the first -thing, you know." - -Thomas took this as a dismissal, and retired to the outer office, in a -mood considerably different from that which Mr. Boxall attributed to -him. - -A clerk's duty is a hard one, and this ought to be acknowledged. -Neither has he any personal interest in the result of the special labor -to which he is for the time devoted, nor can this labor have much -interest of its own beyond what comes of getting things square, and the -sense of satisfaction which springs from activity, and the success of -completion. And it is not often that a young man is fortunate enough -to have a master who will not only appreciate his endeavors, but will -let him know that he does appreciate them. There are reasons for the -latter fact beyond disposition and temperament. The genial employer has -so often found that a strange process comes into operation in young and -old, which turns the honey of praise into the poison of self-conceit, -rendering those to whom it is given disagreeable, and ere long -insufferable, that he learns to be very chary in the administration of -the said honey, lest subordinates think themselves indispensable, and -even neglect the very virtues which earned them the praise. A man must -do his duty, if he would be a free man, whether he likes it or not, -and whether it is appreciated or not. But if he can regard it as the -will of God, the work not fallen upon him by chance, but _given_ him to -do, understanding that every thing well done belongs to His kingdom, -and every thing ill done to the kingdom of darkness, surely even the -irksomeness of his work will be no longer insuperable. But Thomas -had never been taught this. He did not know that his day's work had -anything to do with the saving of his soul. Poor Mr. Simon gave him -of what he had, like his namesake at the gate of the temple, but all -he had served only to make a man creep; it could not make him stand up -and walk. "A servant with this clause,"--that is the clause, "_for thy -sake_,"--wrote George Herbert: - - "A servant with this clause - Makes drudgery divine; - Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, - Makes that and the action fine." - -But Mr. Simon could not understand the half of this, and nothing at -all of the essential sacredness of the work which God would not give -a man to do if it were not sacred. Hence Thomas regarded his work -only as drudgery; considered it beneath him; judged himself fitter -for the army, and had hankerings after gold lace. He dabbled with the -fancy that there was a mistake somewhere in the arrangement of mundane -affairs, a serious one, for was he not fitted by nature to move in some -showy orbit, instead of being doomed to rise in Highbury, shine in -Bagot Street, and set yet again in Highbury? And so, although he did -not absolutely neglect his work, for he hated to be found fault with, -he just did it, not entering into it with any spirit; and as he was -clever enough, things went on with tolerable smoothness. - -That same evening, when he went home from his German lesson of a -quarter of an hour, and his interview with Lucy of an hour and a -quarter, he found Mr. Simon with his mother. Thomas would have left -the room; for his conscience now made him wish to avoid Mr. Simon--who -had pressed him so hard, with the stamp of religion that the place was -painful, although the impression was fast disappearing. - -"Thomas," said his mother, with even more than her usual solemnity, -"Thomas, come here. We want to have some conversation with you." - -"I have not had my tea yet, mother." - -"You can have your tea afterward. I wish you to come here now." - -Thomas obeyed, and threw himself with some attempt at nonchalance into -a chair. - -"Thomas, my friend," began Mr. Simon, with a tone--how am I to describe -it? I could easily, if I chose to use a contemptuous word, but I do not -wish to intrude on the region of the comic satirist, and must therefore -use a periphrase--with the tone which corresponds to the long face -some religions people assume the moment the conversation turns toward -sacred things, and in which a certain element of the ludicrous, because -affected, goes far to destroy the solemnity, "I am uneasy about you. -Do not think me interfering, for I watch for your soul as one that -must give an account. I have to give an account of you, for at one -time you were the most promising seal of my ministry. But your zeal -has grown cold; you are unfaithful to your first love; and when the -Lord cometh as a thief in the night, you will be to him as one of -the lukewarm, neither cold nor hot, my poor friend. He will spue you -out of his mouth. And I may be to blame for this, though at present -I know not how. Ah, Thomas! Thomas! Do not let me have shame of you -at his appearing. The years are fleeting fast, and although he delay -his coming, yet he _will_ come; and he will slay his enemies with the -two-edged sword that proceedeth out of his mouth." - -Foolish as Mr. Simon was, he was better than Mr. Potter, if Mr. -Kitely's account of him was correct; for he was in earnest, and acted -upon his belief. But he knew nothing of human nature, and as Thomas -grew older, days, even hours, had widened the gulf between them, till -his poor feeble influences could no longer reach across it, save as -unpleasant reminders of something that had been. Happy is the youth of -whom a sensible, good clergyman has a firm hold--a firm human hold, I -mean--not a priestly one, such as Mr. Simon's. But if the clergyman be -feeble and foolish, the worst of it is, that the youth will transfer -his growing contempt for the clergyman to the religion of which he -is such a poor representative. I know another clergyman--perhaps my -readers may know him too--who, instead of lecturing Thomas through the -medium of a long string of Scripture phrases, which he would have had -far too much reverence to use after such a fashion, would have taken -him by the shoulder, and said, "Tom, my boy, you've got something on -your mind. I hope it's nothing wrong. But whatever it is, mind you come -to me if I can be of any use to you." - -To such a man there would have been a chance of Tom's making a clean -breast of it--not yet, though--not before he got into deep water. But -Mr. Simon had not the shadow of a chance of making him confess. How -could Thomas tell such a man that he was in love with one beautiful -girl, and had foolishly got himself into a scrape with another? - -By this direct attack upon him in the presence of his mother, the man -had lost the last remnant of his influence over him, and, in fact, made -him feel as if he should like to punch his head, if it were not that -he could not bear to hurt the meek little sheep. He did not know that -Mr. Simon had been rather a bruiser at college--small and meek as he -was--only that was before his conversion. If he had cared to defend -himself from such an attack, which I am certain he would not have -doubled fist to do, Thomas could not have stood one minute before him. - -"Why do you not speak, Thomas?" said his mother, gently. - -"What do you want me to say, mother?" asked Thomas in return, with -rising anger. He never could resist except his temper came to his aid. - -"Say what you ought to say," returned Mrs. Worboise, more severely. - -"What ought I to say, Mr. Simon?" said Thomas, with a tone of mock -submission, not so marked, however, that Mr. Simon, who was not -sensitive, detected it. - -"Say, my young friend, that you will carry the matter to the throne of -grace, and ask the aid--" - -But I would rather not record sacred words which, whatever they might -mean in Mr. Simon's use of them, mean so little in relation to my story. - -Thomas, however, was not yet so much of a hypocrite as his training had -hitherto tended to make him, and again he sat silent for a few moments, -during which his mother and her friend sat silent likewise, giving him -time for reflection. Then he spoke, anxious to get rid of the whole -unpleasant affair. - -"I will promise to think of what you have said, Mr. Simon." - -"Yes, Thomas, but _how_ will you think of it?" said his mother. - -Mr. Simon, however, glad to have gained so much of a concession, spoke -more genially. He would not drive the matter further at present. - -"Do, dear friend; and may He guide you into the truth. Remember, -Thomas, the world and the things of this world are passing away. You -are a child no longer, and are herewith called upon to take your part, -for God or against him--" - -And so on, till Thomas grew weary as well as annoyed. - -"Will you tell me what fault you have to find with me?" he said at -last. "I am regular at the Sunday-school, I am sure." - -"Yes, that we must allow, and heartily," answered Mr. Simon, turning -to Mrs. Worboise as if to give her the initiative, for he thought -her rather hard with her son; "only I would just suggest to you, -Mr. Thomas--I don't ask you the question, but I would have you ask -yourself--whether your energy is equal to what it has been? Take care -lest, while you teach others, you yourself should be a castaway. -Remember that nothing but faith in the merits--" - -Thus started again, he went on, till Thomas was forced loose from all -sympathy with things so unmercifully driven upon him, and vowed in his -heart that he would stand it no longer. - -Still speaking, Mr. Simon rose to take his leave. Thomas, naturally -polite, and anxious to get out of the scrutiny of those cold blue eyes -of his mother, went to open the door for him, and closed it behind him -with a sigh of satisfaction. Then he had his tea and went to his own -room, feeling wrong, and yet knowing quite well that he was going on to -be and to do wrong. Saintship like his mother's and Mr. Simon's was out -of his reach. - -Perhaps it was. But there were other things essential to saintship -that were within his reach--and equally essential to the manliness of -a gentleman, which he would have been considerably annoyed to be told -that he was in much danger of falling short of, if he did not in some -way or other mend his ways, and take heed to his goings. - -The next morning mother and pastor held a long and, my reader will -believe, a dreary consultation over the state of Thomas. I will not -afflict him with a recital of what was said and resaid a dozen times -before they parted. If Mr. Worboise had overheard it, he would have -laughed, not heartily, but with a perfection of contempt, for he -despised all these things, and would have despised better things, too, -if he had known them. - -The sole result was that his mother watched Thomas with yet greater -assiduity; and Thomas began to feel that her eyes were never off him, -and to dislike them because he feared them. He felt them behind his -back. They haunted him in Bagot Street. Happy with Lucy, even there -those eyes followed him, as if searching to find out his secret; and a -vague fear kept growing upon him that the discovery was at hand. Hence -he became more and more cunning to conceal his visits. He dreaded what -questions those questioning eyes might set the tongue asking. For he -had not yet learned to lie. He prevaricated, no doubt; but lying may be -a step yet further on the downward road. - -One good thing only came out of it all: he grew more and more in love -with Lucy. He almost loved her. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -BUSINESS. - - -For some days Mr. Boxall was so uneasy about Mary that he forgot his -appointment with Mr. Worboise. At length, however, when a thaw had set -in, and she had began to improve, he went to call upon his old friend. - -"Ah, Boxall! glad to see you. What a man you are to make an appointment -with! Are you aware, sir, of the value of time in London, not to say in -this life generally? Are you aware that bills are due at certain dates, -and that the man who has not money at his banker's to meet them is -dishonored--euphemistically shifted to the bill?" - -Thus jocosely did Mr. Worboise play upon the well-known business habits -of his friend, who would rather, or at least believed he would rather, -go to the scaffold than allow a bill of his to be dishonored. But Mr. -Boxall was in a good humor, too, this morning. - -"At least, Worboise," he answered, "I trust when the said bill is -dishonored, you may not be the holder." - -"Thank you. I hope not. I don't like losing money." - -"Oh, don't mistake me! I meant for my sake, not yours." - -"Why?" - -"Because you would skin the place before you took the pound of flesh. I -know you!" - -Mr. Worboise winced. Mr. Boxall thought he had gone too far, that is, -had been rude. But Mr. Worboise laughed aloud. - -"You flatter me, Boxall," he said. "I had no idea I was such a sharp -practitioner. But you ought to know best. We'll take care, at all -events, to have this will of yours right." - -So saying, he went to a drawer to get it out. But Mr. Boxall still -feared that his friend had thought him rude. - -"The fact is," he said, "I have been so uneasy about Mary." - -"Why? What's the matter?" interrupted Mr. Worboise, stopping on his way -across the room. - -"Don't you know?" returned Mr. Boxall, in some surprise. "She's never -got over that Hampstead Heath affair. She's been in bed ever since." - -"God bless me!" exclaimed the other. "I never heard a word of it. What -was it?" - -So Mr. Boxall told as much as he knew of the story, and any way there -was not much to tell. - -"Never heard a word of it!" repeated the lawyer. - -The statement made Mr. Boxall more uneasy than he cared to show. - -"But I must be going," he said; "so let's have this troublesome will -signed and done with." - -"Not in the least a troublesome one, I assure you. Rather too simple, I -think. Here it is." - -And Mr. Worboise began to read it over point by point to his client. - -"All right," said the latter. "Mrs. Boxall to have everything to do -with it as she pleases. It is the least I can say, for she has been a -good wife to me." - -"And will be for many years to come, I hope," said Mr. Worboise. - -"I hope so. Well, go on." - -Mr. Worboise went on. - -"All right," said his client again. "Failing my wife, my daughters to -have everything, as indeed they will whether my wife fails or not--at -last, I mean, for she would leave it to them, of course." - -"Well," said the lawyer, "and who comes next?" - -"Nobody. Who do you think?" - -"It's rather a short--doesn't read quite business-like. Put in any -body, just for the chance--a poor one, ha! ha! with such a fine family -as yours." - -"Stick yourself in then, old fellow; and though it won't do you any -good, it will be an expression of my long esteem and friendship for -you." - -"What a capital stroke!" thought Mr. Boxall. "I've surely got that -nonsense out of his head now. He'll never think of it more. I _was_ -country-bred." - -"Thank you, old friend," said Mr. Worboise, quietly, and entered his -own name in succession. - -The will was soon finished, signed, and witnessed by two of Mr. -Worboise's clerks. - -"Now what is to be done with it?" asked Mr. Worboise. - -"Oh, you take care of it for me. You have more storage--for that kind -of thing, I mean, than I have. I should never know where to find it." - -"If you want to make any alteration in it, there's your box, you know." - -"Why, what alteration could I want to make in it?" - -"That's not for me to suppose. You might quarrel with me though, and -want to strike out my name." - -"True. I _might_ quarrel with my wife too, mightn't I, and strike her -name out?" - -"It might happen." - -"Yes; anything might happen. Meantime I am content with sufficient -probabilities." - -"By the way, how is that son of mine getting on?" - -"Oh, pretty well. He's regular enough, and I hear no complaints of him -from Stopper; and _he's_ sharp enough, I assure you." - -"But you're not over-satisfied with him yourself, eh?" - -"Well, to speak the truth, between you and me, I don't think he's cut -out for our business." - -"That's much the same as saying he's of no use for business of any -sort." - -"I don't know. He does his work fairly well, as I say, but he don't -seem to have any heart in it." - -"Well, what do you think he is fit for now?" - -"I'm sure I don't know. You could easily make a fine gentleman of him." - -Mr. Boxall spoke rather bitterly, for he had already had flitting -doubts in his mind whether Tom had been behaving well to Mary. It had -become very evident since her illness that she was very much in love -with Tom, and that he should be a hair's-breadth less in love with her -was offense enough to rouse the indignation of a man like Mr. Boxall, -good-natured as he was; and that he had never thought it worth while -even to mention the fact of her illness to his father, was strange to a -degree. - -"But I can't afford to make a fine gentleman of him. I've got his -sister to provide for as well as my fine gentleman. I don't mean to say -that I could not leave him as much, perhaps more than you can to _each_ -of your daughters; but girls are so different from boys. Girls can live -upon anything; fine gentlemen can't." And here Mr. Worboise swore. - -"Well, it's no business of mine," said Mr. Boxall. "If there's anything -I can do for him, of course, for your sake, Worboise--" - -"The rascal has offended him somehow," said Mr. Worboise to himself. -"It's that Hampstead business. Have patience with the young dog," he -said, aloud. "That's all I ask you to do for him. Who knows what may -come out of him yet?" - -"That's easy to do. As I tell you, there's no fault to find with him," -answered Mr. Boxall, afraid that he had exposed some feeling that had -better have been hidden. "Only one must speak the truth." - -With these words Mr. Boxall took his leave. - -Mr. Worboise sat and cogitated. - -"There's something in that rascal's head, now," he said to himself. -"His mother and that Simon will make a spoon of him. I want to get some -sense out of him before he's translated to kingdom-come. But how the -deuce to get any sense out when there's so precious little in! I found -seventeen volumes of Byron on his book-shelves last night. I'll have a -talk to his mother about him. Not that that's of much use!" - -To her husband Mrs. Worboise always wore a resigned air, believing -herself unequally yoked to an unbeliever with a bond which she was -not at liberty to break, because it was enjoined upon her to win her -husband by her chaste conversation coupled with fear. Therefore when -he went into her room that evening, she received him as usual with a -look which might easily be mistaken, and not much mistaken either, as -expressive of a sense of injury. - -"Well, my dear," her husband began, in a conciliatory, indeed jocose, -while yet complaining tone, "do you know what this precious son of ours -has been about? Killing Mary Boxall in a snow-storm, and never telling -me a word about it. I suppose you know the whole story, though? You -_might_ have told me." - -"Indeed, Mr. Worboise, I am sorry to say I know nothing about Thomas -nowadays. I can't understand him. He's quite changed. But if I were not -laid on a couch of suffering--not that I complain of that--I should not -come to _you_ to ask what he was about. I should find out for myself." - -"I wish to goodness you were able." - -"Do not set your wish against _His_ will," returned Mrs. Worboise, with -a hopeless reproof in her tone, implying that it was of no use to say -so, but she must bear her testimony notwithstanding. - -"Oh! no, no," returned her husband; "nothing of the sort. Nothing -further from my intention. But what is to be done about this affair? -You know it would please you as well as me to see him married to Mary -Boxall. She's a good girl, that you know." - -"If I were sure that she was a changed character, there is nothing I -should like better, I confess--that is, of worldly interest." - -"Come, come, Mrs. Worboise. I don't think you're quite fair to the -girl." - -"What _do_ you mean, Mr. Worboise?" - -"I mean that just now you seemed in considerable doubt whether or not -your son was a changed character, as you call it. And yet you say that -if Mary Boxall were a changed character, you would not wish anything -more--that is, of worldly interest--than to see him married to Mary -Boxall. Is that fair to Mary Boxall? I put the question merely." - -"There would be the more hope for him; for the Scripture says that the -believing wife may save her husband." - -Mr. Worboise winked inwardly to himself. Because his wife's religion -was selfish, and therefore irreligious, therefore, religion was a -humbug, and _therefore_ his conduct might be as selfish as ever he -chose to make it. - -"But how about Mary? Why should you wish her, if she was a changed -character, to lose her advantage by marrying one who is not so?" - -"She might change him, Mr. Worboise, as I have said already," returned -the lady, decisively; "for she might speak with authority to one who -knew nothing about these things." - -"Yes. But if Thomas were changed, and Mary not--what then?" - -Mrs. Worboise murmured something not quite audible about "I and the -children whom God hath given me." - -"At the expense of the children he hasn't given you!" said Mr. -Worboise, at a venture; and chuckled now, for he saw his victory in her -face. - -But Mr. Worboise's chuckle always made Mrs. Worboise _shut up_, and -not another word could he get out of her that evening. She never took -refuge in her illness, but in an absolute dogged silence, which she -persuaded herself that she was suffering for the truth's sake. - -Her husband's communication made her still more anxious about Thomas, -and certain suspicions she had begun to entertain about the German -master became more decided. In her last interview with Mr. Simon, she -had hinted to him that Thomas ought to be watched, that they might -know whether he really went to his German lesson or went somewhere -else. But Mr. Simon was too much of a gentleman not to recoil from the -idea, and Mrs. Worboise did not venture to press it. When she saw him -again, however, she suggested--I think I had better give the substance -of the conversation, for it would not in itself be interesting to -my readers--she suggested her fears that his German master had been -mingling German theology, with his lessons, and so corrupting the -soundness of his faith. This seemed to Mr. Simon very possible indeed, -for he knew how insidious the teachers of such doctrines are, and, -glad to do something definite for his suffering friend, he offered to -call upon the man and see what sort of person he was. This offer Mrs. -Worboise gladly accepted, without thinking that of all men to find -out any insidious person, Mr. Simon, in his simplicity, was the least -likely. - -But now the difficulty arose that they knew neither his name nor -where he lived, and they could not ask Thomas about him. So Mr. Simon -undertook the task of finding the man by inquiry in the neighborhood of -Bagot Street. - -"My friend, he said, stepping the next morning into Mr. Kitely's -shop,--he had a way of calling everybody his friend, thinking so to -recommend the Gospel. - -"At your service, sir," returned Mr. Kitely, brusquely, as he stepped -from behind one of the partitions in the shop, and saw the little -clerical apparition which had not even waited to see the form of the -human being to whom he applied the sacred epithet. - -"I only wanted to ask you," drawled Mr. Simon, in a drawl both of -earnestness and unconscious affectation, "whether you happen to know of -a German master somewhere in this neighborhood." - -"Well, I don't know," returned Mr. Kitely, in a tone that indicated a -balancing rather than pondering operation of the mind. For although -he was far enough from being a Scotchman, he always liked to know why -one asked a question, before he cared to answer it. "I don't know as I -could recommend one over another." - -"I am not in want of a master. I only wish to find out one that lives -in this neighborhood." - -"I know at least six of them within a radius of one-half mile, -taking my shop here for the center of the circle," said Mr. Kitely, -consequentially. "What's the man's name you want?" - -"That is what I cannot tell you." - -"Then how am I to tell you, sir?" - -"If you will oblige me with the names and addresses of those six you -mention, one of them will very likely be the man I want." - -"I dare say the clergyman wants Mr. Moloch, father," said a voice from -somewhere in the neighborhood of the floor, "the foreign gentleman that -Mr. Worboise goes to see, up the court." - -"That's the very man, my child," responded Mr. Simon. "Thank you very -much. Where shall I find him?" - -"I'll show you," returned Mattie. - -"Why couldn't he have said so before?" remarked Mr. Kitely to himself -with indignation. "But it's just like them." - -By _them_ he meant clergymen in general. - -"What a fearful name--_Moloch_!" reflected Mr. Simon, as he followed -Mattie up the court. He would have judged it a name of bad omen, had -he not thought _omen_ rather a wicked word. The fact was, the German's -name was Molken, a very innocent one, far too innocent for its owner, -for it means only _whey_. - -Herr Molken was a _ne'er-do-weel_ student of Heidelberg, a clever -fellow, if not a scholar, whose bad habits came to be too well known -at home for his being able to indulge them there any longer, and who -had taken refuge in London from certain disagreeable consequences -which not unfrequently follow aberrant efforts to procure the means of -gambling and general dissipation. Thomas had as yet spent so little -time in his company, never giving more than a quarter of an hour or -so to his lesson, that Molken had had no opportunity of influencing -him in any way. But he was one of those who, the moment they make a -new acquaintance, begin examining him for the sake of discovering his -weak points, that they may get some hold of him. He measured his own -strength or weakness by the number of persons of whom at any given -time he had a hold capable of being turned to advantage in some way or -other in the course of events. Of all dupes, one with some intellect -and no principle, weakened by the trammels of a religious system with -which he is at strife, and which therefore hangs like a millstone about -his neck, impedes his every motion, and gives him up to the mercy of -his enemy, is the most thorough prey to the pigeon-plucker; for such a -one has no recuperative power, and the misery of his conscience makes -him abject. Molken saw that Tom was clever, and he seemed to have some -money--if he could get this hold of him in any way, it might be "to the -welfare of his advantage." - -The next lesson fell on the evening after Mr. Simon's visit in Guild -Court, and Mr. Molken gave Thomas a full account of the "beseek" he had -had from "one soft ghostly," who wanted to find out something about -Thomas, and how he had told him that Mr. Worboise was a most excellent -and religious young man; that he worked very hard at his German, and -that he never spent less (here Mr. Molken winked at Thomas) than -an hour and a half over Krummacher or some other religious writer. -All this Mr. Simon had faithfully reported to Mrs. Worboise, never -questioning what Mr. Molken told him, though how any one could have -looked at him without finding cause to doubt whatever he might say, I -can hardly imagine. For Mr. Molken was a small, wiry man, about thirty, -with brows overhanging his eyes like the eaves of a Swiss cottage, and -rendering those black and wicked luminaries blacker and more wicked -still. His hair was black, his beard was black, his skin was swarthy, -his forehead was large; his nose looked as if it had been made of -putty and dabbed on after the rest of his face was finished; his mouth -was sensual; and, in short, one was inclined to put the question in -the gospel--Whether hath sinned, this man or his parents? He could, -notwithstanding, make himself so agreeable, had such a winning carriage -and dignified deference, that he soon disarmed the suspicion caused by -his appearance. He had, besides, many accomplishments, and seemed to -know everything--at least to a lad like Thomas, who could not detect -the assumption which not unfrequently took the place of knowledge. He -manifested, also, a genuine appreciation of his country's poetry, and -even the short lessons to which Thomas submitted had been enlivened by -Herr Molken's enthusiasm for Goethe. If those of his poems which he -read and explained to Thomas were not of the best, they were none the -worse for his purposes. - -Now he believed he had got, by Mr. Simon's aid, the hold that he -wanted. His one wink, parenthetically introduced above, revealed to -Thomas that he was master of his secret, and Thomas felt that he was, -to a considerable degree, in his hands. This, however, caused him no -apprehension. - -His mother, although in a measure relieved, still cherished suspicions -of German theology which the mention of Krummacher had failed to -remove. She would give her son a direct warning on the subject. So, -when he came into her room that evening, she said: - -"Mr. Simon has been making some friendly inquiries about you, -Thomas. He was in the neighborhood, and thought he might call on Mr. -Moloch--what a dreadful name! Why have you nothing to say to me about -your studies? Mr. Simon says you are getting quite a scholar in German. -But it is a dangerous language, Thomas, and full of errors. Beware of -yielding too ready an ear to the seductions of human philosophy and the -undermining attacks of will-worship." - -Mrs. Worboise went on in this strain, intelligible neither to herself -nor her son, seeing she had not more than the vaguest notion of what -she meant by German theology, for at least five minutes, during which -Thomas did not interrupt her once. By allowing the lies of his German -master to pass thus uncontradicted, he took another long stride down -the inclined plane of deceit. - -After this he became naturally more familiar with Mr. Molken. The -German abandoned books, and began to teach him fencing, in which he was -an adept, talking to him in German all the while, and thus certainly -increasing his knowledge of the language, though not in a direction -that was likely within fifty years to lead him to the mastery of -commercial correspondence in that tongue. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. - - -Mr. Boxall, with some difficulty, arising from reluctance, made his -wife acquainted with the annoyance occasioned him by the discovery of -the fact that Tom Worboise had not even told his father that Mary was -ill. - -"I'm convinced," he said, "that the young rascal has only been amusing -himself--flirting, I believe, you women call it." - -"I'm none so sure of that, Richard," answered his wife. "You leave him -to me." - -"Now, my dear, I won't have you throwing our Mary in any fool's face. -It's bad enough as it is. But I declare I would rather see her in her -grave than scorned by any man." - -"You may see her there without before long," answered his wife, with a -sigh. - -"Eh! What! She's not worse, is she?" - -"No; but she hasn't much life left in her. I'm afraid it's settling on -her lungs. Her cough is something dreadful to hear, and tears her to -pieces." - -"It's milder weather, though, now, and that will make a difference -before long. Now, I know what you're thinking of, my dear, and I won't -have it. I told the fellow she wasn't fit to see anybody." - -"Were you always ready to talk about me to everyone that came in your -way, Richard?" asked his wife, with a good-humored smile. - -"I don't call a lad's father and mother any one that comes in the -way--though, I dare say, fathers and mothers are in the way sometimes," -he added, with a slight sigh. - -"Would you have talked about me to your own father, Richard?" - -"Well, you see, I wasn't in his neighborhood. But my father was -a--a--stiff kind of man to deal with." - -"Not worse than Mr. Worboise, depend upon it, my dear." - -"But Worboise would like well enough to have our Mary for a -daughter-in-law." - -"I dare say. But that mightn't make it easier to talk to him about -her--for Tom, I mean. For my part, I never did see two such parents -as poor Tom has got. I declare it's quite a shame to sit upon that -handsome young lad--and amiable--as they do. He can hardly call his -nose his own. I wouldn't trust that Mr. Worboise, for my part, no, not -if I was drowning." - -"Why, wife!" exclaimed Mr. Boxall, both surprised and annoyed, "this -_is_ something new. How long--" - -But his wife went on, regardless. - -"And that mother of his! It's a queer kind of religion that freezes the -life out of you the moment you come near her. How ever a young fellow -could talk about his sweetheart to either of them is more than I can -understand--or you either, my dear. So don't look so righteous over it." - -Mrs. Boxall's good-natured audacity generally carried everything before -it, even with more dangerous persons than her own husband. He could not -help--I do not say smiling, but trying to smile; and though the smile -was rather a failure, Mrs. Boxall chose to take it for one. Indeed, -she generally put her husband into good humor by treating him as if he -were in a far better humor than he really was in. It never does any -good to tell a man that he is cross. If he is, it makes him no better, -even though it should make him vexed with himself; and if he isn't -cross, nothing is more certain to make him cross, without giving him a -moment's time to consult the better part of him. - -Within the next eight days, Mrs. Boxall wrote to Tom as follows: - - "My Dear Mr. Thomas--Mary is much better, and you need not be at all - uneasy about the consequences of your expedition to the North Pole on - Christmas Day. I am very sorry I was so cross when you brought her - home. Indeed, I believe I ought to beg your pardon. If you don't come - and see us soon, I shall fancy that I have seriously offended you. But - I knew she never could stand exposure to the weather, and I suppose - that was what upset my temper. Mary will be pleased to see you.--I am, - ever yours sincerely, - - Jane Boxall." - -Tom received this letter before he left for town in the morning. What -was he to do? Of course he must go and _call_ there, as he styled -it, but he pronounced it a great bore. He was glad the poor girl was -better; but he couldn't help it, and he had no fancy for being hunted -up after that fashion. What made him yet more savage was, that Mr. -Boxall was absolutely surly--he had never seen him so before--when he -went into his room upon some message from Mr. Stopper. He did not go -that day nor the next. - -On the third evening he went;--but the embarrassment of feeling that -he ought to have gone before was added to the dislike of going at all, -and he was in no enviable condition of mind when he got off the Clapton -omnibus. Add to this that an unrelenting east wind was blowing, and my -reader will believe that Tom Worboise was more like a man going to the -scaffold than one going to visit a convalescent girl. - -There was something soothing, however, in the glow of warmth and -comfort which the opening door revealed. The large hall, carpeted -throughout, the stove burning in it most benevolently, the brightness -of the thick stair-rods, like veins of gold in the broad crimson -carpeting of the generously wide stair-case--all was consoling -to Thomas, whose home was one of the new straight-up-and-down, -stucco-faced abominations which can never be home-like except to -those who have been born in them--and no thanks to them, for in that -case a rabbit-hutch will be home-like. Mrs. Boxall was one of those -nice, stout, kindly, middle-aged women who have a positive genius -for comfort. Now there is no genius in liking to be comfortable; but -there is some genius in making yourself comfortable, and a great deal -more in making other people comfortable. This Mrs. Boxall possessed -in perfection; and you felt it the moment you entered her house, -which, like her person, summer and winter, was full of a certain -autumnal richness--the bloom of peaches and winter apples. And what was -remarkable was, that all this was gained without a breath of scolding -to the maids. She would ring the bell ten times an hour for the same -maid, if necessary. She would ring at once, no matter how slight the -fault--a scrap of paper, a cornerful of dust, a roll of flue upon that -same stair-carpet--but not even what might make an indulgent mistress -savage--a used lucifer match--would upset the temper of Mrs. Boxall. -Why do I linger on these trifles, do you ask, reader? Because I shall -have to part with Mrs. Boxall soon; and--shall I confess it?--because -it gives me a chance of reading a sly lecture to certain ladies whom -I know, but who cannot complain when I weave it into a history. My -only trouble about Mrs. Boxall is, to think in what condition she must -have found herself when she was no longer in the midst of any of the -circumstances of life--had neither house nor clothes, nor even the body -she had been used to dress with such matronly taste, to look after. - -It was with a certain tremor that Tom approached the door of Mary -Boxall's room. But he had not time to indulge it, as I fear he might -have done if he had had time, for, as I have said, he prized feelings, -and had not begun even to think about actions. - -What a change from the Mary of the snow-storm! She lay on a couch near -the fire, pale and delicate, with thin white hands, and altogether an -altered expression of being. But her appearance of health had always -bees somewhat boastful. Thomas felt that she was far lovelier than -before, and approached her with some emotion. But Mary's illness had -sharpened her perceptions. There was no light in the room but that -of the fire, and it lightened and gloomed over her still face, as -the clouds and the sun do over a landscape. As the waters shine out -and darken again in the hollows, so her eyes gleamed and vanished, -and in the shadow Thomas could not tell whether she was looking at -him or not. But then Mary was reading his face like a book in a hard -language, which yet she understood enough to read it. Very little was -said between them, for Mary was sad and weak, and Thomas was sorrowful -and perplexed. She had been reckoning on this first visit from Thomas -ever since she had recovered enough to choose what she would think -about; and now it was turning out all so different from what she had -pictured to herself. Her poor heart sank away somewhere, and left a -hollow place where it had used to be. Thomas sat there, but there was -a chasm between them, not such as she any longer sought to cross, -but which she would have wider still. She wished he would go. A few -more commonplaces across the glimmering fire, and it sank, as if -sympathetic, into a sullen gloom, and the face of neither was visible -to the other. Then Thomas rose with the effort of one in a nightmare -dream. Mary held out her hand to him. He took it in his, cold to the -heart. The fire gave out one flame which flickered and died. In that -light she looked at him--was it reproachfully? He thought so, and felt -that her eyes were like those of one trying to see something at a great -distance. One pressure of her hand, and he left her. He would gladly -have shrunk into a nutshell. "Good-by, Thomas," "Good-by, Mary," were -the last words that passed between them. - -Outside the room he found Mrs. Boxall. - -"Are you going already, Mr. Thomas?" she said, in an uncertain kind of -tone. - -"Yes, Mrs. Boxall," was all Tom had to reply with. - -Mrs. Boxall went into her daughter's room, and shut the door. Thomas -let himself out, and walked away. - -She found Mary lying staring at the fire, with great dry eyes, lips -pressed close together, and face even whiter than before. - -"My darling child!" said the mother. - -"It's no matter, mother. It's all my own foolish fault. Only bed again -will be so dreary now." - -The mother made some gesture, which the daughter understood. - -"No, mother; don't say a word. I won't hear a word of that kind. I'm -a good deal wiser already than I used to be. If I get better, I shall -live for you and papa." - -A dreadful fit of coughing interrupted her. - -"Don't fancy I'm going to die for love," she said, with a faint attempt -at a smile. "I'm not one of that sort. If I die, it'll be of a good -honest cough, that's all. Dear mother, it's nothing, I declare." - -Thomas never more crossed that threshold. And ever after, Mr. Boxall -spoke to him as a paid clerk, and nothing more. So he had to carry -some humiliation about with him. Mr. Stopper either knew something of -the matter, or followed the tone of his principal. Even Charles Wither -was short with him after awhile. I suppose Jane told him that he had -behaved very badly to Mary. So Tom had no friend left but Lucy, and was -driven nearer to Mr. Molken. He still contrived to keep his visits at -Guild Court, except those to Mr. Molken, a secret at home. But I think -Mr. Stopper had begun to suspect, if not to find him out. - -I have not done with the Boxalls yet, though there is hence--forth an -impassable gulf between Tom and them. - -As the spring drew on, Mary grew a little better. With the first -roses, Uncle John Boxall came home from the Chinese Sea, and took up -his residence for six weeks or so with his brother. Mary was fond of -Uncle John, and his appearance at this time was very opportune. A more -rapid improvement was visible within a few days of his arrival. He gave -himself up almost to the invalid; and as she was already getting over -her fancy for Tom, her love for her uncle came in to aid her recovery. - -"It's the smell of the salt water," said he, when they remarked how -much good he had done her; "and more of it would do her more good yet." - -They thought it better not to tell him anything about Tom. But one day -after dinner, in a gush of old feelings, brought on by a succession of -reminiscences of their childhood, Richard told John all about it, which -was not much. John swore, and kept pondering the matter over. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -MATTIE FOR POPPIE. - - -One bright morning, when the flags in the passage were hot to her feet, -and the shoes she had lost in the snow-storm had not the smallest -chance of recurring to the memory of Poppie, in this life at least, -Mattie was seated with Mr. Spelt in his workshop, which seemed to the -passer-by to be supported, like the roof of a chapter-house, upon -the single pillar of Mr. Dolman, with his head for a capital--which -did not, however, branch out in a great many directions. She was not -dressing a doll now, for Lucy had set her to work upon some garments -for the poor, Lucy's relation with whom I will explain by and by. - -"I've been thinking, mother," she said--to Mr. Spelt, of course--"that -I wonder how ever God made me. Did he cut me out of something else, and -join me up, do you think? If he did, where did he get the stuff? And if -he didn't, how did he do it?" - -"Well, my dear, it would puzzle a wiser head than mine to answer that -question," said Mr. Spelt, who plainly judged ignorance a safer refuge -from Mattie than any knowledge he possessed upon the subject. Her -question, however, occasioned the return, somehow or other, of an old -suspicion which he had not by any means cherished, but which would -force itself upon him now and then, that the splendid woman, Mrs. -Spelt, "had once ought" to have had a baby, and, somehow, he never knew -what had come of it. She got all right again, and the baby was nowhere. - -"I wish I had thought to watch while God was a-making of me, and then -I should have remembered how he did it," Mattie resumed. "Ah! but I -couldn't," she added, checking herself, "for I wasn't made till I was -finished, and so I couldn't remember." - -This was rather too profound for Mr. Spelt to respond to in any way. -Not that he had not a glimmering of Mattie's meaning, but that is a -very different thing from knowing what to answer. So he said nothing, -except what something might be comprised in a bare assent. Mattie, -however, seemed bent on forcing conversation, and, finding him silent, -presently tried another vein. - -"Do you remember a conversation we had, in this very place"--that was -not wonderful, anyhow--"some time ago--before my last birthday--about -God being kinder to some people than to other people?" she asked. - -"Yes, I do," answered Mr. Spelt, who had been thinking about the matter -a good deal since. "Are you of the same mind still, Mattie?" - -"Well, yes, and no," answered Mattie. "I think now there may be -something in it I can't quite get at the bottom of. Do you know, -mother, I remembered all at once, the other day, that when I was a -little girl, I used to envy Poppie. Now, where ever was there a child -that had more of the blessings of childhood than me?" - -"What made you envy Poppie, then, Mattie?" - -"Well, you see, my father's shop was rather an awful place, sometimes. -I never told you, mother, what gained me the pleasure of your -acquaintance. Ever since I can remember--and that is a very long time -ago now--I used now and then to grow frightened at father's books. -Sometimes, you know, they were all quiet enough. You would generally -expect books to be quiet, now wouldn't you? But other times--well, they -wouldn't be quiet. At least, they kept thinking all about me, till my -poor head couldn't bear it any longer. That always was my weak point, -you know." - -Mr. Spelt looked with some anxiety at the pale face and great forehead -of the old little woman, and said: - -"Yes, yes, Mattie. But we've got over all that, I think, pretty well by -now." - -"Well, do you know, Mr. Spelt, I have not even yet got over my fancies -about the books. Very often, as I am falling asleep, I hear them all -thinking;--they can hardly help it, you know, with so much to think -about inside them. I don't hear them exactly, you know, for the one -thinks into the other's thinks--somehow, I can't tell--and they blot -each other out like, and there is nothing but a confused kind of a -jumble in my head till I fall asleep. Well, it was one day, very like -this day--it was a hot summer forenoon, wasn't it, mother?--I was -standing at that window over there. And Poppie was playing down in the -court. And I thought what a happy little girl she was, to go where -she pleased in the sunshine, and not need to put on any shoes. Father -wouldn't let me go where I liked. And there was nothing but books -everywhere. That was my nursery then. It was all round with books. And -some of them had dreadful pictures in them. All at once the books began -talking so loud as I had never heard them talk before. And I thought -with myself--'I won't stand this any longer. I will go away with -Poppie.' - -"So I ran down stairs, but because I couldn't open the door into the -court, I had to watch and dodge father among the book-shelves. And when -I got out, Poppie was gone--and then, what next, mother?" - -"Then my thread knotted, and that always puts me out of temper, because -it stops my work. And I always look down into the court when I stop. -Somehow that's the way my eyes do of themselves. And there I saw a tiny -little maiden staring all about her as if she had lost somebody, and -her face looked as if she was just going to cry. And I knew who she -was, for I had seen her in the shop before. And so I called to her and -she came. And I asked her what was the matter." - -"Well, and I said, 'It's the books that will keep talking:' didn't I?" - -"Yes. And I took you up beside me. But you was very ill after that, and -it was long before you came back again after that first time." - -This story had been gone over and over again between the pair; but -every time that Mattie wanted to rehearse the one adventure of her -life, she treated it as a memory that had just returned upon her. How -much of it was an original impression and how much a rewriting by the -tailor upon the blotted tablets of her memory, I cannot tell. - -"Well, where was I?" said Mattie, after a pause, laying her hands on -her lap and looking up at the tailor with eyes of inquiry. - -"I'm sure I don't know, Mattie," answered Mr. Spelt. - -"I was thinking, you know, that perhaps Poppie has her share of what's -going on, after all." - -"And don't you think," suggested her friend, "that perhaps God doesn't -want to keep all the good-doing to himself, but leaves room for us to -have a share in it? It's very nice work that you're at now--isn't it -Mattie?" - -"Well, it is." - -"As good as dressing dolls?" - -"Well, it's no end of better." - -"Why?" - -"Because the dolls don't feel a bit better for it, you know." - -"And them that'll wear that flannel petticoat will feel better for it, -won't they?" - -"That they will, _I_ know." - -"But suppose everybody in the world was as well off as you and me, -Mattie--you with your good father, and--" - -"Well, my father ain't none so good, just. He swears sometimes." - -"He's good to you, though, ain't he?" - -"I don't know that either, mother: he spoils me," answered Mattie, who -seemed to be in a more than usually contradictory humor this morning. - -"Supposing, though, that everybody had a father that spoiled them, you -wouldn't have any such clothes to make, you know." - -"But they wouldn't want them." - -"And you would be forced to go back to your dolls as have no father or -mother and come across the sea in boxes." - -"I see, I see, mother. Well, I suppose I must allow that it is good of -God to give us a share in making people comfortable. You see he could -do it himself, only he likes to give us a share. That's it, ain't, it -mother?" - -"That's what I mean, Mattie." - -"Well, but you'll allow it does seem rather hard that I should have -this to do now, and there's Poppie hasn't either the clothes to wear or -to make." - -"Can't you do something for Poppie, then?" - -"Well, I'll think about it, and see what I can do." - -Here Mattie laid aside her work, crept on all fours to the door, and -peeped over into the passage below. - -"Well, Poppie," she began, in the intellectually condescending tone -which most grown people use to children, irritating some of them by it -considerably,--"Well, Poppie, and how do _you_ do?" - -Poppie heard the voice, and looked all round, but not seeing where it -came from, turned and scudded away under the arch. Though Mattie knew -Poppie, Poppie did not know Mattie, did not know her voice at least. -It was not that Poppie was frightened exactly--she hardly ever was -frightened at anything, not even at a policeman, but she was given to -scudding; and when anything happened she did not precisely know what to -do with, she scudded: at least if there was no open drain or damaged -hoarding at hand. But she did not run far this time. As soon as she got -under the shelter of the arch, she turned behind a sort of buttress -that leaned against the bookseller's house, and peeped back toward the -court. - -At that moment Lucy came out of the house. She came down the passage, -and as Mattie was still leaning over the door, or the threshold, -rather, of the workshop, she saw her, and stopped. Thereupon Poppie -came out of her "coign of vantage," and slowly approached, just like -a bird or a tame rabbit--only she was not by any means so tame as the -latter. - -"Are you getting on with that petticoat, Mattie?" said Lucy. - -"Yes, miss, I am. Only not being used to anything but boys' clothes, I -am afraid you won't like the tailor's stitch, miss." - -"Never mind that. It will be a curiosity, that's all. But what do you -think, Mattie? The kind lady who gives us this work to do for the poor -people, has invited all of us to go and spend a day with her." - -Mattie did not answer. Lucy thought she did not care to go. But she was -such an oddity that she wanted very much to take her. - -"She has such a beautiful garden, Mattie! And she's _so_ kind." - -Still Mattie made no reply. Lucy would try again. - -"And it's such a beautiful house, too, Mattie! I'm sure you would like -to see it. And," she added, almost reduced to her last resource, "she -would give us such a nice dinner, _I_ know!" - -This at length burst the silence, but not as Lucy had expected. - -"Now that's just what I'm determined I will not stand," said the little -maid. - -"What _do_ you mean, Mattie?" exclaimed Lucy, surprised and bewildered. - -"I'll tell you what I mean, and that soon enough," said Mattie. -"It's all very kind of Mrs. Morgingturn to ask you and me, what are -well-to-do people, and in comfortable circumstances, as people say, -to go and spend this day or that with her. And do you know, Mr. -Spelt"--here Mattie drew herself in and turned her face right round -from Lucy to the tailor, for the side of her mouth which she used for -speech was the left, and the furthest from Spelt--"it just comes into -my head that this kind lady who gives me petticoats to make instead of -doll's trousers, is doing the very thing you read about last night out -of the New Testament before I went into bed. It's so nice now there's -light enough to read a little before we part for the night! ain't it, -mother?" - -"I know, I know," said the tailor in a low voice, not wishing to -intrude himself into the conversation. - -"What did Mr. Spelt read to you, Mattie?" asked Lucy. - -"He read about _somebody_--" - -It was very remarkable how Mattie would use the name of God, never -certainly with irreverence, but with a freedom that seemed to indicate -that to her he was chiefly if not solely an object of metaphysical -speculation or, possibly, of investigation; while she hardly ever -uttered the name of the Saviour, but spoke of him as _Somebody_. And -I find that I must yet further interrupt the child herself to tell an -anecdote about her which will perhaps help my reader to account for the -fact I am about to finish telling. She was not three years old when -she asked her mother, a sweet, thoughtful woman, in many ways superior -to her husband, though not intellectually his equal--who made the tree -in Wood Street? Her mother answered, of course, "God made it, my pet;" -for by instinct, she never spoke of her God without using some term -of endearment to her child. Mattie answered--"I would like it better -if a man made it"--a cry after the humanity of God--a longing in the -heart of the three years' child for the Messiah of God. Her mother -did not know well enough to tell her that a man, yes, _the_ man did -make them--"for by Him all things were made;"--but Mattie may have had -some undefined glimmering of the fact, for, as I have said, she always -substituted _Somebody_ for any name of the Lord. I cannot help wishing -that certain religious people of my acquaintance would, I do not say -follow queer little Mattie's example, but take a lesson from queer -little Mattie. - -"He read about _somebody_ saying you shouldn't ask your friends and -neighbors who could do the same for you again, but you should ask them -that couldn't, because they hadn't a house to ask you to, like Poppie -there." - -Lucy looked round and saw the most tattered little scarecrow--useless -even as such in the streets of London, where there are only dusty -little sparrows and an occasional raven--staring at--I cannot call -it a group--well, it was a group vertically, if not laterally--and -not knowing or caring what to make of it, only to look at Lucy, and -satisfy her undefined and undefinable love by the beholding of its -object. She loved what was lovely without in the least knowing that -it was lovely, or what lovely meant. And while Lucy gazed at Poppie, -with a vague impression that she had seen the child before, she could -not help thinking of the contrast between the magnificent abode of the -Morgensterns--for magnificent it was, even in London--and the lip of -the nest from which the strange child preached down into the world the -words "friends and neighbors." - -But she could say nothing more to Mattie till she had told, word -for word, the whole story to Mrs. Morgenstern, who, she knew, would -heartily enjoy the humor of it. Nor was Lucy, who loved her Lord very -truly, even more than she knew, though she was no theologian like -Thomas, in the least deterred from speaking of _Somebody_, by the fact -that Mrs. Morgenstern did not receive him as the Messiah of her nation. -If he did not hesitate to show himself where he knew he would not be -accepted, why should she hesitate to speak his name? And why should -his name not be mentioned to those who, although they had often been -persecuted in his name by those who did not understand his mind, might -well be proud that the man who was conquering the world by his strong, -beautiful will, was a Jew. - -But from the rather severe indisposition of her grandmother, she was -unable to tell the story to Mrs. Morgenstern till the very morning of -the gathering. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -A COMPARISON. - - -Can I hope to move my readers to any pitiful sympathy with Mrs. -Worboise, the whole fabric of whose desires was thus sliding into an -abyss? That she is not an interesting woman, I admit; but, at the -same time, I venture to express a doubt whether our use of the word -_uninteresting_ really expresses anything more than our own ignorance. -If we could look into the movements of any heart, I doubt very much -whether that heart would be any longer uninteresting to us. Come with -me, reader, while I endeavor, with some misgiving, I confess, to open -a peep into the heart of this mother, which I have tried hard, though -with scarcely satisfactory success, to understand. - -Her chief faculty lay in negations. Her whole life was a kind of -negation--a negation of warmth, a negation of impulse, a negation -of beauty, a negation of health. When Thomas was a child, her chief -communication with him was in negatives. "_You must not_; _you are -not_; _do not_;" and so on. Her theory of the world was humanity -deprived of God. Because of something awful in the past, something -awful lay in the future. To escape from the consequences of a condition -which you could not help, you must believe certain things after a -certain fashion--hold, in fact, certain theories with regard to -the most difficult questions, on which, too, you were incapable of -thinking correctly. Him who held these theories you must regard as -a fellow-favorite of heaven; who held them not you would do well to -regard as a publican and a sinner, even if he should be the husband in -your bosom. All the present had value only of reference to the future. -All your strife must be to become something you are not at all now, -to feel what you do not feel, to judge against your nature, to regard -everything in you as opposed to your salvation, and God, who is far -away from you, and whose ear is not always ready to hear, as your only -deliverer from the consequences he has decreed; and this in virtue of -no immediate relation to you, but from regard to another whose innocent -suffering is to our guilt the only counterpoise weighty enough to -satisfy his justice. All her anxiety for her son turned upon his final -escape from punishment. She did not torment her soul, her nights were -not sleepless with the fear that her boy should be unlike Christ, -that he might do that which was mean, selfish, dishonest, cowardly, -vile, but with the fear that he was or might be doomed to an eternal -suffering. - -Now, in so far as this idea had laid hold of the boy, it had aroused -the instinct of self-preservation mingled with a repellent feeling -in regard to God. All that was poor and common and selfish in him -was stirred up on the side of religion; all that was noble (and of -that there was far more than my reader will yet fancy) was stirred up -against it. The latter, however, was put down by degrees, leaving the -whole region, when the far outlook of selfishness should be dimmed -by the near urgings of impulse, open to the inroads of the enemy, -enfeebled and ungarrisoned. Ah! if she could have told the boy, every -time his soul was lifted up within him by anything beautiful, or -great, or true, "That, my boy, is God--God telling you that you must -be beautiful, and great, and true, else you cannot be His child!" If, -every time he uttered his delight in flower or bird, she had, instead -of speaking of sin and shortcoming, spoken of love and aspiration -toward the Father of Light, the God of Beauty! If she had been able to -show him that what he admired in Byron's heroes, even, was the truth, -courage, and honesty, hideously mingled, as it might be, with cruelty -and conceit and lies! But almost everything except the Epistles seemed -to her of the devil and not of God. She was even jealous of the Gospel -of God, lest it should lead him astray from the interpretation she put -upon it. She did not understand that nothing can convince of sin--but -the vision of holiness; that to draw near to the Father is to leave -self behind; that the Son of God appeared that by the sight of himself -he might convince the world of sin. But then hers was a life that had -never broken the shell, while through the shell the worm of suffering -had eaten, and was boring into her soul. Have pity and not contempt, -reader, who would not be like her. She did not believe in her own love, -even, as from God, and therefore she restrained it before the lad. So -he had no idea of how she loved him. If she had only thrown her arms -about him, and let her heart out toward him, which surely it is right -to do sometimes at least, how differently would he have listened to -what she had to say! His heart was being withered on the side next his -mother for lack of nourishment: there are many lives ruined because -they have not had tenderness enough. Kindness is not tenderness. -She could not represent God to the lad. If, instead of constantly -referring to the hell that lies in the future, she had reminded him of -the beginnings of that hell in his own bosom, appealing to himself -whether there was not a faintness there that indicated something wrong, -a dull pain that might grow to a burning agony, a consciousness of -wrong-doing, thinking, and feeling, a sense of a fearful pit and a -miry clay within his own being from which he would gladly escape, a -failing even from the greatness of such grotesque ideals as he loved in -poetry, a meanness, paltriness, and at best insignificance of motive -and action,--and then told him that out of this was God stretching -forth the hand to take and lift him, that he was waiting to exalt him -to a higher ideal of manhood than anything which it had entered into -his heart to conceive, that he would make him clean from the defilement -which he was afraid to confess to himself because it lowered him in his -own esteem,--then perhaps the words of his mother, convincing him that -God was not against him but for him, on the side of his best feelings -and against his worst, might have sunk into the heart of the weak -youth, and he would straightway have put forth what strength he had, -and so begun to be strong. For he who acts has strength, is strong, and -will be stronger. But she could not tell him this: she did not know it -herself. Her religion was something there, then; not here, now. She -would give Mr. Simon a five-pound note for his Scripture-reading among -the poor, and the moment after refuse the request of her needle-woman -from the same district who begged her to raise her wages from eighteen -pence to two shillings a day. Religion--the bond between man and -God--had nothing to do with the earnings of a sister, whose pale face -told of "penury and pine" a sadder story even than that written upon -the countenance of the invalid, for to labor in weakness, longing -for rest, is harder than to endure a good deal of pain upon a sofa. -Until we begin to learn that the only way to _serve_ God in any real -sense of the word is to serve our neighbor, we may have knocked at the -wicket-gate, but I doubt if we have got one foot across the threshold -of the kingdom. - -Add to this condition of mind a certain uncomfortable effect produced -upon the mother by the son's constantly reminding her of the father -whom she had quite given up trying to love, and I think my reader -will be a little nearer to the understanding of the relation, if such -it could well be called, between the two. The eyes of both were yet -unopened to the poverty of their own condition. The mother especially -said that she was "rich, and had need of nothing," when she was -"wretched, and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked." But she had -a hard nature to begin with, and her pain occupied her all the more -that she neither sought nor accepted sympathy. And although she was -none the less a time-server and a worldly-minded woman that she decried -worldliness, and popery, and gave herself to the saving of her soul, -yet the God who makes them loves even such people and knows all about -them; and it is well for them that he is their judge and not we. - -Let us now turn to another woman--Mrs. Morgenstern. I will tell you -what she was like. She was a Jewess and like a Jewess. But there is as -much difference between Jewesses as there is between Englishwomen. Is -there any justice in fixing upon the lowest as _the type_? How does -the Scotchman like to have his nation represented: by the man outside -the tobacco-shop, or by the cantankerous logician and theologian so -well known to some of us? There is a Jewess that flaunts in gorgeous -raiment and unclean linen; and there is a Jewess noble as a queen, and -pure as a daisy--fit to belong to that nation of which Mary the mother -was born. Mrs. Morgenstern was of the latter class--tall, graceful, -even majestic in the fashion of her form and carriage. Every feature -was Jewish, and yet she might have been English, or Spanish, or German, -just as well. Her eyes were dark--black, I would say, if I had ever -seen black eyes--and proud, yet with a dove-like veil over their fire. -Sometimes there was even a trouble to be seen in them, as of a rainy -mist amid the glow of a southern sky. I never could be quite sure what -this trouble meant. She was rich, therefore she had no necessity; she -was not avaricious, and therefore she had no fear of dying in the -work-house. She had but one child, therefore she was neither wearied -with motherhood, nor a sufferer from suppressed maternity, moved by -which divine impulse so many women take to poodles instead of orphans. -Her child was healthy and active, and gave her no anxiety. That she -loved her husband, no one who saw those eastern eyes rest upon him for -a moment could doubt. What, then, could be the cause of that slight -restlessness, that gauzy change, that pensive shadow? I think that -there was more love in her yet than knew how to get out of her. She -would look round sometimes--it was a peculiar movement--just as if some -child had been pulling at her skirts. She had lost a child, but I do -not think that was the cause. And however this may be, I do believe -that nothing but the love of God will satisfy the power of love in any -woman's bosom. But did not Rebecca--they loved their old Jewish names, -that family--did not Rebecca Morgenstern love God? Truly I think she -did--but not enough to satisfy herself. And I venture to say more: I -do not believe she could love him to the degree necessary for her own -peace till she recognized the humanity in him. But she was more under -the influences emanating from that story of the humanity of God than -she knew herself. At all events she was a most human and lovely lady, -full of grace and truth, like Mary before she was a Christian; and -it took a good while, namely all her son's life and longer, to make -_her_ one. Rebecca Morgenstern never became a Christian. But she loved -children, whether they were Christians or not. And she loved the poor, -whether they were Christians or not; and, like Dorcas, made and caused -to be made, coats and garments for them. And, for my part, I know, if I -had the choice, whether I would appear before the Master in the train -of the _unbelieving_ Mrs. Morgenstern or that of the _believing_ Mrs. -Worboise. And as to self-righteousness, I think there is far less of -that among those who regard the works of righteousness as the means -of salvation, than among those by whom faith itself is degraded into -a work of merit--a condition by fulfilling which they become fit for -God's mercy; for such is the trick which the old Adam and the Enemy -together are ready enough to play the most orthodox, in despite of the -purity of their creed. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -MATTIE'S MICROCOSM. - - -Although Mrs. Boxall, senior, was still far from well, yet when the -morning of Mrs. Morgenstern's gathering dawned, lovely even in the -midst of London, and the first sun-rays, with green tinges and rosy -odors hanging about their golden edges, stole into her room, reminding -her of the old paddock and the feeding cows at Bucks Horton, in -Buckingham, she resolved that Lucy should go to Mrs. Morgenstern's. So -the good old lady set herself to feel better, in order that she might -be better, and by the time Lucy, who had slept in the same room with -her grandmother since her illness, awoke, she was prepared to persuade -her that she was quite well enough to let her have a holiday. - -"But how am I to leave you, grannie, all alone?" objected Lucy. - -"Oh! I dare say that queer little Mattie of yours will come in and keep -me company. Make haste and get your clothes on, and go and see." - -Now Lucy had had hopes of inducing Mattie to go with her; as I -indicated in a previous chapter; but she could not press the child -after the reason she gave for not going. And now she might as well -ask her to stay with her grandmother. So she went round the corner to -Mr. Kitely's shop, glancing up at Mr. Spelt's nest in the wall as she -passed, to see whether she was not there. - -When she entered the wilderness of books she saw no one; but peeping -round one of the many screens, she spied Mattie sitting with her back -toward her and her head bent downward. Looking over her shoulder, -she saw that she had a large folding plate of the funeral of Lord -Nelson open before her, the black shapes of which, with their infernal -horror of plumes--the hateful flowers that the buried seeds of ancient -paganism still shoot up into the pleasant Christian fields--she was -studying with an unaccountable absorption of interest. - -"What _have_ you got there Mattie?" asked Lucy. - -"Well, I don't ezackly know, miss," answered the child, looking up, -very white-faced and serious. - -"Put the book away and come and see grannie. She wants you to take care -of her to-day, while I go out." - -"Well, miss, I would with pleasure; but you see father is gone out, and -has left me to take care of the shop till he comes back." - -"But he won't be gone a great while, will he?" - -"No, miss. He knows I don't like to be left too long with the books. -He'll be back before St. Jacob's strikes nine--that I know." - -"Well, then, I'll go and get grannie made comfortable; and if you don't -come to me by half-past nine, I'll come after you again." - -"Do, miss, if you please; for if father ain't come by that time--my -poor head--" - -"You must put that ugly book away," said Lucy, "and take a better one." - -"Well, miss, I know I oughtn't to have taken this book, for there's no -summer in it; and it talks like the wind at night." - -"Why did you take it, then?" - -"Because Syne told me to take it. But that's just why I oughtn't to ha' -taken it." - -And she rose and put the book in one of the shelves over her head, -moving her stool when she had done so, and turning her face toward the -spot where the book now stood. Lucy watched her uneasily. - -"What do you mean by saying that Syne told you?" she asked. "Who is -Syne?" - -"Don't you know Syne, miss? Syne is--you know 'Lord Syne was a miserly -churl'--don't you?" - -Then, before Lucy could reply, she looked up in her face, with a smile -hovering about the one side of her mouth, and said: - -"But it's all nonsense, miss, when you're standing there. There isn't -no such person as Syne, when you're there. I don't believe there is any -such person. But," she added with a sigh, "when you're gone away--I -don't know. But I think he's up stairs in the nursery now," she said, -putting her hand to her big forehead. "No, no; there's no such person." - -And Mattie tried to laugh outright, but failed in the attempt, and the -tears rose in her eyes. - -"You've got a headache, dear," said Lucy. - -"Well, no," answered Mattie. "I cannot say that I have just a headache, -you know. But it does buzz a little. I hope Mr. Kitely won't be long -now." - -"I don't like leaving you, Mattie; but I must go to my grandmother," -said Lucy, with reluctance. - -"Never mind me, miss. I'm used to it. I used to be afraid of Lord Syne, -for he watched me, ready to pounce out upon me with all his men at his -back, and he laughed so loud to see me run. But I know better now. I -never run from him now. I always frown at him, and take my own time and -do as I like. I don't want him to see that I'm afraid, you know. And I -do think I have taught him a lesson. Besides, if he's very troublesome, -you know, miss, I can run to Mr. Spelt. But I never talk to him about -Syne, because when I do he always looks so mournful. Perhaps he thinks -it is wicked. He is so good himself, he has no idea how wicked a body -can be." - -Lucy thought it best to hurry away, that she might return the sooner; -for she could not bear the child to be left alone in such a mood. And -she was sure that the best thing for her would be to spend the day with -her cheery old grandmother. But as she was leaving the shop, Mr. Kitely -came in, his large, bold, sharp face fresh as a north wind without a -touch of east in it. Lucy preferred her request about Mattie, and he -granted it cordially. - -"I'm afraid, Mr. Kitely," said Lucy, "the darling is not well. She has -such strange fancies." - -"Oh, I don't know," returned the bookseller, with mingled concern -at the suggestion and refusal to entertain it. "She's always been a -curious child. Her mother was like that, you see, and she takes after -her. Perhaps she does want a little more change. I don't think she's -been out of this street, now, all her life. But she'll shake it off as -she gets older, I have no doubt." - -So saying, he turned into his shop, and Lucy went home. In half an -hour she went back for Mattie, and leaving the two together, of whom -the child, in all her words and ways, seemed the older, set out for -the West End, where Mrs. Morgenstern was anxiously hoping for her -appearance, seeing she depended much upon her assistance, in the -treat she was giving to certain poor people of her acquaintance. By -any person but Mattie, Mrs. Morgenstern would have been supposed to -be literally fulfilling the will of our Lord in asking only those who -could not return her invitation. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -THE JEWESS AND HER NEIGHBORS. - - -Mrs. Morgenstern looked splendid as she moved about among the -hot-house plants, arranging them in the hall, on the stairs, and in -the drawing-rooms. She judged, and judged rightly, that one ought to -be more anxious to show honor to poor neighbors by putting on her best -attire, than to ordinary guests of her own rank. Therefore, although -it was the morning, she had put on a dress of green silk, trimmed -with brown silk and rows of garnet buttons, which set off her dark -complexion and her rich black hair, plainly braided down her face, -and loosely gathered behind. She was half a head taller than Lucy, -who was by no means short. The two formed a beautiful contrast. Lucy -was dark-haired and dark-eyed as well as Mrs. Morgenstern, but had -a smaller face and features, regular to a rare degree. Her high, -close-fitting dress of black silk, with a plain linen collar and -cuffs, left her loveliness all to itself. Lucy was neither strikingly -beautiful nor remarkably intellectual: when one came to understand what -it was that attracted him so much, he found that it was the wonderful -harmony in her. As Wordsworth prophesied for his Lucy that "beauty born -of murmuring sound 'should' pass into her face," so it seemed as if the -harmonies which flowed from her father's fingers had molded her form -and face, her motions and thoughts, after their own fashion, even to -a harmony which soothed before one knew that he was receiving it, and -when he had discovered its source, made him ready to quote the words of -Sir Philip Sidney-- - - Just accord all music makes: - In thee just accord excelleth. - Where each part in such peace dwelleth, - Each of other beauty takes. - -I have often wondered how it was that Lucy was capable of so much; how -it was, for instance, that, in the dispensing of Mrs. Morgenstern's -bounty, she dared to make her way into places where no one but herself -thought it could be safe for her to go, but where not even a rude word -was ever directed against her or used with regard to her. If she had -been as religious as she afterward became, I should not have wondered -thus; for some who do not believe that God is anywhere in these dens -of what looks to them all misery, will dare everything to rescue their -fellow-creatures from impending fate. But Lucy had no theories to spur -or to support her. She never taught them any religion; she was only, -without knowing it, a religion to their eyes. I conclude, therefore, -that at this time it was just the harmony of which I have spoken that -led her, protected her, and, combined with a dim consciousness that she -must be doing right in following out the loving impulses of her nature, -supported her in the disagreeable circumstances into which she was -sometimes brought. - -While they were thus busy with the flowers, Miriam joined them. She -had cast her neutral tints, and appeared in a frock of dark red, -with a band of gold in her dusky hair, somberly rich. She was a -strange-looking child, one of those whose coming beauty promises all -the more that it has as yet reached only the stage of interesting -ugliness. Splendid eyes, olive complexion, rounded cheeks, were -accompanied by a very unfinished nose, and a large mouth, with thick -though finely-modeled lips. She would be a glory some day. She flitted -into the room, and flew from flower to flower like one of those black -and red butterflies that Scotch children call witches. The sight of her -brought to Lucy's mind by contrast the pale face and troubled brow of -Mattie, and she told Mrs. Morgenstern about her endeavor to persuade -the child to come, and how and why she had failed. Mrs. Morgenstern did -not laugh much at the story, but she very nearly did something else. - -"Oh! do go and bring little Mattie," said Miriam. "I will be very kind -to her. I will give her my doll's house; for I shall be too big for it -next year." - -"But I left her taking care of my grandmother," said Lucy, to the truth -of whose character it belonged to make no concealment of the simplicity -of the household conditions of herself and her grandmother. "And," she -added, "if she were to come I must stay, and she could not come without -me." - -"But I'll tell you what--couldn't you bring the other--the little -Poppie she talks about? I should like to show Mattie that we're not -quite so bad as she thinks us. Do you know this Poppie?" said Mrs. -Morgenstern. - -Then Lucy told her what she knew about Poppie. She had been making -inquiries in the neighborhood, and though she had not traced the child -to head-quarters anywhere, everybody in the poor places in which she -had sought information knew something about her, though all they knew -put together did not come to much. She slept at the top of a stair -here, in the bottom of a cupboard there, coiling herself up in spaces -of incredible smallness; but no one could say where her home was, or, -indeed, if she had any home. Nor, if she wanted to find her, was it -of much consequence whether she knew her home or not, for that would -certainly be the last place where Poppie would be found. - -"But," she concluded, "if you would really like to have her, I will go -and try if I can find her. I could be back in an hour and half or so." - -"You shall have the brougham." - -"No, no," interrupted Lucy. "To go in a brougham to look for Poppie -would be like putting salt on a bird's tail. Besides, I should not like -the probable consequences of seating her in your carriage. But I should -like to see how that wild little savage would do in such a place as -this." - -"Oh, do go," cried Miriam, clapping her hands. "It will be _such_ fun!" - -Lucy ran for her bonnet, with great doubts of success, yet willing -to do her best to find the child. She did not know that Poppie had -followed her almost to Mrs. Morgenstern's door that very morning. - -Now what made Lucy sufficiently hopeful of finding Poppie to start in -pursuit of her, was the fact that she had of late seen the child so -often between Guild Court and a certain other court in the neighborhood -of Shoreditch. But Lucy did not know that it was because she was there -that Poppie was there. She had not for some time, as I have said, paid -her usual visits at Mrs. Morgenstern's because of her grandmother's -illness; and when she did go out she had gone only to the place I have -just mentioned, where the chief part of her work among the poor lay. -Poppie haunting her as she did, where Lucy was there she saw Poppie. -And, indeed, if Poppie had any ties to one place more than a hundred -others, that place happened to be Staines Court. - -When Lucy came out of Mrs. Morgenstern's, if she had only gone the -other way, she would have met Poppie coming round the next corner. -After Lucy had vanished, Poppie had found a penny in the gutter, -had bought a fresh roll with it and given the half of it to a child -younger than herself, whom she met at the back of the Marylebone police -station, and after contemplating the neighboring church-yard through -the railings while they ate their roll together, and comparing this -resting-place of the dead with the grand Baker Street Cemetery, she -had judged it time to scamper back to the neighborhood of Wyvil Place, -that she might have a chance of seeing the beautiful lady as she came -out again. As she turned the corner she saw her walking away toward -the station, and after following her till she entered it, scudded off -for the city, and arrived in the neighborhood of Guild Court before -the third train reached Farringdon Street, to which point only was the -railway then available. - -Lucy walked straight to Staines Court, where she was glad of the -opportunity of doing some business of loving kindness at the same -time that she sought Poppie. The first house she entered was in a -dreadful condition of neglect. There were hardly more balusters in -the stairs than served to keep the filthy hand-rail in its place; and -doubtless, they would by and by follow the fate of the rest, and vanish -as fire-wood. One or two of the stairs, even, were torn to pieces for -the same purpose, and the cupboard doors of the room into which Lucy -entered had vanished, with half the skirting board and some of the -flooring, revealing the joists, and the ceiling, of the room below. -All this dilapidation did not matter much in summer weather, but how -would it be in the winter--except the police condemned the building -before then, and because the wretched people who lived in it could get -no better, decreed that so far they should have no shelter at all? -Well, when the winter came, they would just go on making larger and -larger holes to let in the wind, and fight the cold by burning their -protection against it. - -In this room there was nobody. Something shining in a dingy sunbeam -that fell upon one of the holes in the floor, caught Lucy's eye. She -stooped, and putting in her hand, drew out a bottle. At the same moment -she let it fall back into the hole, and started with a sense of theft. - -"Don't touch Mrs. Flanaghan's gin bottle, lady. She's a good 'un to -swear, as you'd be frightened to hear her. She gives me the creepers -sometimes, and I'm used to her. She says it's all she's got in the -world, and she's ready to die for the 'ould bottle."' - -It was Poppie's pretty, dirty face and wild, black eyes that looked -round the door-post. - -Lucy felt considerably relieved. She replaced the bottle carefully, -saying as she rose: - -"I didn't mean to steal it, Poppie. I only saw it shining, and wanted -to know what it was. Suppose I push it a little further in, that the -sun mayn't be able to see it?" - -Poppie thought this was fun, and showed her white teeth. - -"But it was you I was looking for--not in that hole, you know," added -Lucy, laughing. - -"I think I could get into it, if I was to put my clothes off," said -Poppie. - -Lucy thought it would be a tight fit indeed, if her clothes made any -difference. - -"Will you come with me?" she said. "I want you." - -"Yes, lady," answered Poppie, looking, though, as if she would bolt in -a moment. - -"Come, then," said Lucy, approaching her where she stood still in the -doorway. - -But before she reached her, Poppie scudded, and was at the bottom of -the stair before Lucy recovered from the surprise of her sudden flight. -She saw at once that it would not do to make persistent advances, or -show the least desire to get a hold of her. - -When she got to the last landing-place on the way down, there was -Poppie's face waiting for her in the door below. Careful as one -who fears to startle a half-tamed creature with wings, Lucy again -approached her; but she vanished again, and she saw no more of her -till she was at the mouth of the court. There was Poppie once more, to -vanish yet again. In some unaccountable way she seemed to divine where -Lucy was going, and with endless evanishments still reappeared in front -of her, till she reached the railway station. And there was no Poppie. - -For a moment Lucy was dreadfully disappointed. She had not yet had a -chance of trying her powers of persuasion upon the child; she had not -been within arm's length of her. And she stood at the station door, -hot, tired, and disappointed--with all the holiday feeling gone out of -her. - -Poppie had left her, because she had no magic word by which to gain -access to the subterranean regions of the guarded railway. She thought -Lucy was going back to the great house in Wyvil Place; but whether -Poppie left her to perform the same journey on foot, I do not know. She -had scarcely lost sight of Lucy, however, before she caught sight of -Thomas Worboise, turning the corner of a street a hundred yards off. -She darted after him, and caught him by the tail of his coat. He turned -on her angrily, and shook her off. - -"The lady," gasped Poppie; but Thomas would not listen, and went on his -way. Poppie in her turn was disappointed, and stood "like one forbid." -But at that very moment her eye fell on something in the kennel. She -was always finding things, though they were generally the veriest -trifles. The penny of that morning was something almost awful in its -importance. This time it was a bit of red glass. Now Poppie had quite -as much delight in colored glass as Lord Bacon had, who advised that -hedges in great gardens should be adorned on the top here and there -"with broad plates of round, colored glass, gilt, for the sun to play -upon," only as she had less of the ways and means of procuring what she -valued, she valued what she could lay her hands upon so much the more. -She darted at the red shine, wiped it on her frock, sucked it clean in -her mouth, as clean as her bright ivories, and polished it up with her -hands, scudding all the time, in the hope that Lucy might be at the -station still. Poppie did not seek to analyze her feelings in doing -as she did; but what she wanted was to give Lucy her treasure-trove. -She never doubted that what was valuable to her would be valuable to a -beautiful lady. As little did she imagine how much value, as the gift -of a ragged little personage like herself, that which was all but -worthless would acquire in the eyes of a lady beautiful as Lucy was -beautiful, with the beauty of a tender human heart. - -Lucy was sitting in the open waiting-room, so weary and disappointed -that little would have made her cry. She had let one train go on the -vague chance that the erratic little maiden might yet show herself, but -her last hope was almost gone when, to her great delight, once more -she spied the odd creature peeping round the side of the door. She had -presence of mind enough not to rise, lest she should startle the human -lapwing, and made her a sign instead to come to her. This being just -what Poppie wished at the moment, she obeyed. She darted up to Lucy, -put the piece of red glass into her hand, and would have been off again -like a low-flying swallow, had not Lucy caught her by the arm. Once -caught, Poppie never attempted to struggle. On this occasion she only -showed her teeth in a rather constrained smile, and stood still. Lucy, -however, did not take her hand from her arm, for she felt that the -little phenomenon would disappear at once if she did. - -"Poppie," she said, "I want you to come with me." - -Poppie only grinned again. So Lucy rose, still holding her by the arm, -and went to the ticket-window and got two second-class tickets. Poppie -went on grinning, and accompanied her down the stairs without one -obstructive motion. - -When they were fairly seated in the carriage, and there was no longer -any danger of her prisoner attempting to escape, Lucy thought of the -something Poppie had given her, at which she had not even looked, so -anxious was she to secure her bird. When she saw it, she comprehended -it at once--the sign of love, the appeal of a half-savage sister to -one of her own kind, in whom she dimly recognized her far-off ideal; -even then not seeking love from the higher, only tendering the richest -human gift, simple love, unsought, unbought. Thus a fragment dropped by -some glazier as he went to mend the glass door leading into a garden, -and picked out of the gutter by a beggar girl, who had never yet -thought whether she had had a father or a mother, became in that same -girl's hands a something which the Lord himself, however some of his -interpreters might be shocked at the statement, would have recognized -as partaking of the character of his own eucharist. And as such, though -without thinking of it after that fashion, it was received by the -beautiful lady. The tears came into her eyes. Poppie thought she half -offended or disappointed her, and looked very grave. Lucy saw she had -misunderstood her. There was no one in the carriage with them. She -stooped and kissed her. Then the same tears came, almost for the first -time since she had been an infant, into Poppie's eyes. But just then -the train moved off, and although the child by no remark and no motion -evinced astonishment any more than fear, she watched everything with -the intensity of an animal which in new circumstances cannot afford -to lose one moment of circumspection, seeing a true knowledge of the -whole may be indispensable to the retention of its liberty; and before -they reached King's Cross, her eyes were clear, and only a channel on -each cheek, ending in a little mud-bank, showed that just two tears -had flowed half way down her cheeks and dried there undisturbed in the -absorption of her interest. - -Before they reached Baker Street station, Lucy had begun to be anxious -as to how she should get her charge through the streets. But no sooner -were they upon the stairs, than Lucy perceived by the way in which -Poppie walked, and the way in which she now and then looked up at her, -that there was no longer any likelihood that she would run away from -her. When they reached the top, she took her by the hand, and, without -showing the slightest inclination to bolt, Poppie trotted alongside -of her to Mrs. Morgenstern's door. Having gained her purpose, Lucy's -weariness had quite left her, and her eyes shone with triumph. They -made a strange couple, that graceful lady and that ragged, bizarre -child, who would, however, have shown herself lovely to any eyes keen -enough to see through the dirt which came and went according to laws as -unknown to Poppie as if it had been a London fog. - -Lucy knocked at the door. It was opened by a huge porter in a rich -livery, and shoulder-knots like the cords of a coffin, as if he were -about to be lowered into his grave standing. He started at sight of -the little city Bedouin, but stood aside to let them enter, with all -the respect which, like the rest of his class, he ever condescended to -show to those who, like Miss Burton, came to instruct Miss Morgenstern, -and gave him, so much their superior, the trouble of opening the door -to them. The pride of the proudest nobleman or parvenu-millionaire is -entirely cast in the shade by the pride of his servants, justifying the -representation of Spenser, that although Orgoglio is the son of Terra -by Æolus, he cannot be raised to his full giantship without the aid of -his foster-father Ignaro. Lucy, however, cared as little for this form -of contempt as impervious little Poppie by her side, who trotted as -unconcerned over the black and white lozenges of the marble floor as -over the ordinary slabs of Guild Court, or the round stones of Staines -Court, and looked up the splendid stair-case which rose from the -middle of the round hall till it reached its side, and then branched -into two that ran circling and ascending the wall to the floor above, -its hand-rails and balusters shining with gold, and its steps covered -with a carpet two yards wide, in which the foot sank as if in grass, -with as much indifference as if it were the break-neck stair-case I -have already described as leading to the abode of Mistress Flanaghan. -But little bare feet were not destined to press such a luxurious -support; better things awaited them, namely, the grass itself; for the -resplendent creature whose head and legs were equally indebted to the -skill of the cunning workman, strode on before them, and through a -glass door at the back, to a lawn behind, such as few London dwellings -have to show. They might have thought that they had been transported by -enchantment to some country palace, so skillfully were the neighboring -houses hidden by the trees that encircled the garden. Mrs. Morgenstern, -with a little company of her friends, was standing in the middle of the -lawn, while many of her poorer _neighbors_ were wandering about the -place enjoying the flowers, and what to them was indeed fresh air, when -Lucy came out with the dirty, bare-legged child in her hand. All eyes -turned upon her, and a lovelier girl doing lovelier deed would have -taken more than that summer morning to discover. - -But Lucy had the bit of red glass in her mind, and, without heeding -hostess or friends for the moment, led Poppie straight toward a lovely -rose-tree that stood in full blossom on one side of the lawn. How cool -that kindly humble grass must have felt to the hot feet of the darling! -But she had no time to think about it. For as she drew near the -rose-tree, her gaze became more and more fixed upon it; when at length -she stood before it, and beheld it in all its glory, she burst into a -very passion of weeping. The eyes of the daughter of man became rivers, -and her head a fountain of waters, filled and glorified by the presence -of a rose-tree. All that were near gathered about, till Lucy, Poppie, -and the rose-tree were the center of a group. Lucy made no attempt to -stay the flow of Poppie's tears, for her own heart swelled and swelled -at the sight of the child's feelings. Surely it was the presence of God -that so moved her: if ever bush burned with fire and was not consumed, -that rose-bush burned with the presence of God. Poppie had no -handkerchief; nor was there continuity of space enough in her garments -to hold a pocket: she generally carried things in her mouth when they -were small enough to go in. And she did not even put her hands to -her face to hide her emotion. She let her tears run down her stained -cheeks, and let sob follow sob unchecked, gazing ever through the storm -of her little world at the marvel in front of her. She had seen a rose -before, but had never seen a rose-tree full of roses. At last Lucy drew -her handkerchief from her pocket, and for the first time in her life -Poppie had tears wiped from her face by a loving hand. - -There was one man, and only one, in the company--Mr. Sargent, a young -barrister. He was the first to speak. He drew near to Lucy and said, in -a half whisper: - -"Where did you find the little creature, Miss Burton?" - -"That would be hard to say," answered Lucy, with a smile. "Isn't she a -darling?" - -"You are a darling, anyhow," said Mr. Sargent, but neither to Lucy nor -to any one but himself. He had been like one of the family for many -years, for his father and Mr. Morgenstern had been intimate, and he had -admired Lucy ever since she went first to the house; but he had never -seen her look so lovely as she looked that morning. - -Certain harmonious circumstances are always necessary to bring out -the peculiar beauty both of persons and things--a truth recognized -by Emerson in his lovely poem called "Each and All," but recognized -imperfectly, inasmuch as he seems to represent the beauty of each as -dependent on the all not merely for its full manifestation, but for its -actual being; a truth likewise recognized by Shakespeare, but by him -with absolute truth of vision-- - - The nightingale, if she should sing by day, - When every goose is cackling, would be thought - No better a musician than the wren. - _How many things by season seasoned are - To their right praise and true perfection!_ - -It was to the praise of Lucy's beauty, that in this group she should -thus look more beautiful. The rose-tree and the splendor of Mrs. -Morgenstern did not eclipse her, because her beauty was of another -sort, which made a lovely harmony of difference with theirs. Or -perhaps, after all, it was the ragged child in her hand that gave a -tender glow to her presence unseen before. - -Little Miriam pulled at her mamma's skirt. She stooped to the child. - -"Somebody has lost that one," said Miriam, pointing shyly to Poppie. -"She looks like it." - -"Perhaps," said her mother. But the answer did not satisfy Miriam. - -"You told me you had lost a little girl once," she said. - -Mrs. Morgenstern had never yet uttered the word _death_ in her hearing. -As to the little dead daughter, she had to the sister said only that -she had lost her. Miriam had to interpret the phrase for herself. - -"Yes, dear child," answered her mother, not yet seeing what she was -driving at. - -"Don't you think, mamma," pursued Miriam, with the tears rising in her -great black eyes, "that that's her? I do. I am sure it is my little -sister." - -Mrs. Morgenstern had the tenderest memories of her lost darling, and -turned away to hide her feelings. Meantime a little conversation had -arisen in the group. Lucy had let go her hold of Poppie, whose tears -had now ceased. Miriam drew near, shyly, and possessed herself of the -hand of the vagrant. Her mother turned and saw her, and motherhood -spoke aloud in her heart. How did it manifest itself? In drawing her -child away from the dirt that divided their hands? That might have -proved her a dam, but would have gone far to disprove her motherhood. - -"What shall we do with her, Miriam?" she said. - -"Ask nurse to wash her in the bath, and put one of my frocks on her." - -Poppie snatched her hand from Miriam's, and began to look about her -with wild-eyed search after a hole to run into. Mrs. Morgenstern saw -that she was frightened, and turned away to Lucy, who was on the other -side of the rose-tree, talking to Mr. Sargent. - -"Couldn't we do something to make the child tidy, Lucy?" she said. - -Lucy gave her shoulders a little shrug, as much as to say she feared it -would not be of much use. She was wrong there, for if the child should -never be clean again in her life, no one could tell how the growth of -moral feeling might be aided in her by her once knowing what it was -to have a clean skin and clean garments. It might serve hereafter, in -her consciousness, as a type of something better still than personal -cleanliness, might work in aid of her consciousness as a vague -reminder of ideal parity--not altogether pleasant to her ignorant -fancy, and yet to be--faintly and fearingly--desired. But although Lucy -did not see much use in washing her, she could not help wondering what -she would look like if she were clean. And she proceeded to carry out -her friend's wishes. - -Poppie was getting bored already with the unrealized world of grandeur -around her. The magic of the roses was all gone, and she was only -looking out for a chance of scudding. Yet when Lucy spoke to her she -willingly yielded her hand, perhaps in the hope that she was, like -Peter's angel, about to open the prison-doors, and lead her out of her -prison. - -Lucy gave an amusing account of how Poppie looked askance, with a -mingling of terror and repugnance, at the great bath, half full of -water, into which she was about to be plunged. But the door was shut, -and there was not even a chimney for her to run up, and she submitted. -She looked even pleased when she was at length in the midst of the -water. But Lucy found that she had undertaken a far more difficult -task than she had expected--especially when she came to her hair. It -was nearly two hours, notwithstanding repeated messages from Mrs. -Morgenstern and tappings at the door of the bath-room by Miriam, before -she was able to reproduce the little savage on whom she had been -bestowing this baptism of love. - -When she came down at last, the company, consisting of some of Mrs. -Morgenstern's more intimate friends, and a goodly number of _clients_ -if not exactly dependents, was seated at luncheon in the large -dining-room. Poppie attracted all eyes once more. She was dressed -in a last year's summer frock of Miriam's, and her hair was reduced -to order; but she had begun to cry so piteously when Lucy began to -put stockings upon her, that she gave it up at once, and her legs -were still bare. I presume she saw the last remnants of her freedom -vanishing in those gyves and fetters. But nice and clean as she looked, -she certainly had lost something by her decent garments. Poppie must -have been made for rags and rags for Poppie--they went so admirably -together. And there is nothing wicked in rags or in poverty. It is -possible to go in rags and keep the Ten Commandments, and it is -possible to ride in purple and fine linen and break every one of them. -Nothing, however, could spoil the wildness of those honestly furtive -eyes. - -Seated beside Lucy at the table, she did nothing but first stare, -then dart her eyes from one to another of the company with the scared -expression of a creature caught in a trap, and then stare again. She -was evidently anything but comfortable. When Lucy spoke to her she did -not reply, but gazed appealingly, and on the point of crying, into her -eyes, as if to say, "What _have_ I done to be punished in this dreadful -manner?" Lucy tried hard to make her eat, but she sat and stared and -would touch nothing. Her plate, with the wing of a chicken on it, stood -before her unregarded. But all at once she darted out her hand like -the paw of a wild beast, caught something, slipped from her chair, -and disappeared under the table. Peeping down after her, Lucy saw her -seated on the floor, devouring the roll which had been put by the side -of her plate. Judging it best not to disturb her, she took no more -notice of her for some time, during which Poppie, having discovered a -long row of resplendent buttons down the front of her dress, twisted -them all off with a purpose manifested as soon as the luncheon was -over. When the company rose from their seats, she crawled out from -under the table and ran to Miriam, holding out both her hands. Miriam -held out her hands to meet Poppie's, and received them full of the -buttons off her own old frock. - -"Oh! you naughty Poppie," said Lucy, who had watched her. "Why did you -cut off the buttons? Don't you like them?" - -"Oh! golly! don't I just? And so does _she_. Tuck me up if she don't!" - -Poppie had no idea that she had done anything improper. It was not as -buttons, but _per se_, as pretty things, that she admired the knobs, -and therefore she gave them to Miriam. Having said thus, she caught at -another _tommy_, as she would have called it, dived under the table -again, and devoured it at her ease, keeping, however, a sharp eye upon -her opportunity. Finding one when Lucy, who had remained in the room to -look after her, was paying more attention to the party in the garden, -she crawled out at the door, left open during the process of _taking -away_, and with her hand on the ponderous lock of the street door, -found herself seized from behind by the porter. She had been too long -a pupil of the London streets not to know the real position of the -liveried in the social scale, and for them she had as little respect as -any of her tribe. She therefore assailed him with such a torrent of bad -language, scarcely understanding a word that she used, that he declared -it made his "'air stand on hend," although he was tolerably familiar -with such at the Spotted Dog round the corner. Finding, however, -that this discharge of cuttle-fish ink had no effect upon the enemy, -she tried another mode--and, with a yell of pain, the man fell back, -shaking his hand, which bore the marks of four sharp incisors. In one -moment Poppie was free, and scudding. Thus ended her introduction to -civilized life. - -Poppie did not find it nice. She preferred all London to the biggest -house and garden in it. True, there was that marvelous rose-tree. But -free-born creatures cannot live upon the contemplation of roses. After -all, the thing she had been brought up to--the streets, the kennels -with their occasional crusts, pennies, and bits of glass, the holes -to creep into, and the endless room for scudding--was better. And her -unsuitable dress, which did attract the eyes of the passers--being such -as was seldom seen in connection with bare hair and legs--would soon -accommodate itself to circumstances, taking the form of rags before a -week was over, to which change of condition no care of Poppie's would -interpose an obstacle. For, like the birds of the air and the lilies -of the field, she had no care. She did not know what it meant. And -possibly the great One who made her may have different ideas about -respectability from those of dining aldermen and members of Parliament -from certain boroughs that might be named. - -At the porter's cry Lucy started, and found to her dismay that her -charge was gone. She could not, however, help a certain somewhat -malicious pleasure at the man's discomfiture and the baby-like way in -which he lamented over his bitten finger. He forgot himself so far as -to call her "the little devil"--which was quite in accordance with his -respectable way of thinking. Both Mrs. Morgenstern and Lucy, after -the first disappointment and vexation were over, laughed heartily at -the affair, and even Miriam was worked up to a smile at last. But she -continued very mournful, notwithstanding, over the loss of her sister, -as she would call her. - -Mr. Sargent did his best to enliven the party. He was a man of good -feeling, and of more than ordinary love for the right. This, however, -from a dread of what he would have called _sentimentality_, he -persisted in regarding as a mere peculiarity, possibly a weakness. -If he made up his mind to help any one who was wronged, for which -it must be confessed he had more time than he would have cared to -acknowledge, he would say that he had "taken an _interest_ in such or -such a case;" or that the case involved "points of _interest_," which -he was "willing to see settled." He never said that he wanted to see -right done: that would have been enthusiastic, and unworthy of the -cold dignity of a lawyer. So he was one of those false men, alas too -few! who always represent themselves as inferior to what they are. -Many and various were the jokes he made upon Poppie and Jeames, ever, -it must be confessed, with an eye to the approbation of Miss Burton. -He declared, for instance, that the Armageddon of class-legislature -would be fought between those of whom the porter and Poppie were the -representatives, and rejoiced that, as in the case of the small quarrel -between Fitz James and Roderick Dhu, Poppie had drawn the first blood, -and gained thereby a good omen. And Lucy was pleased with him, it must -be confessed. She never thought of comparing him with Thomas, which was -well for Thomas. But she did think he was a very clever, gentlemanly -fellow, and knew how to make himself agreeable. - -He offered to see her home, which she declined, not even permitting him -to walk with her to the railway. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -THE TWO OLD WOMEN. - - -She found the two old women, of whom Mattie still seemed the older, -seated together at their tea. Not a ray of the afternoon sun could find -its way into the room. It was dusky and sultry, with a smell of roses. -This, and its strange mingling of furniture, made it like a room over a -broker's in some country town. - -"Well, Miss Burton, here you are at last!" said Mattie, with a half -smile on the half of her mouth. - -"Yes, Mattie, here I am. Has grandmother been good to you?" - -"Of course she has--very good. Everybody is good to _me_. I am a very -fortunate child, as my father says, though he never seems to mean it." - -"And how do you think your patient is?" asked Lucy, while Mrs. Boxall -sat silent, careful not to obstruct the amusement which the child's -answers must give them. - -"Well, I do not think Mrs. Boxall is worse. She has been very good, -and has done everything I found myself obliged to recommend. I would -not let her get up so soon as she wanted to." - -"And what did you do to keep her in bed?" asked Lucy. - -"Well, I could not think of a story to tell her just then, so I got the -big Bible out of the book-case, and began to show her the pictures. But -she did not care about that. I think it was my fault, though, because I -was not able to hold the book so that she could see them properly. So I -read a story to her, but I do not think I chose a very nice one." - -Mrs. Boxall made a deprecating motion with her head and hands, -accompanied by the words-- - -"She _will_ say what she thinks--Bible or Prayer-book." - -"Well, and where's the harm, when I mean none? Who's to be angry at -that? I _will_ say," Mattie went on, "that it was an ugly trick of that -woman to serve a person that never did _her_ any harm; and I wonder at -two sensible women like Mrs. Boxall and Deborah sticking up for her." - -"Is it Jael she means, grannie?" asked Lucy, very softly. - -"Yes, it is Jael she means," answered Mattie for herself, with some -defiance in her tone. - -"For my part," she continued, "I think it was just like one of Syne's -tricks." - -"Have you seen Mr. Spelt to-day, Mattie?" asked Lucy, desirous of -changing the subject, because of the direction the child's thoughts had -taken. - -"Well, I haven't," answered Mattie, "and I will go and see now whether -he's gone or not. But don't you fancy that I don't see through it -for all that, Miss Burton," she continued. "I shouldn't have been in -the way, though--not much, for I like to see young people enjoying -themselves." - -"What _do_ you mean, Mattie?" asked Lucy with a bewilderment occasioned -rather by the quarter whence the words proceeded than by the words -themselves; for she did expect to see Thomas that evening. - -Mattie vouchsafed no reply to the question, but bade them good-night, -the one and the other, with an evident expression of _hauteur_, and -marched solemnly down the stairs, holding carefully by the balusters, -for she was too small to use the hand-rail comfortably. - -Mr. Spelt's roost was shut up for the night: he had gone to take some -work home. Mattie therefore turned toward her father's shop. - -In the archway she ran against Thomas, or, more properly, Thomas ran -against her, for Mattie never ran at all, so that he had to clasp her -to prevent her from falling. - -"Well, you needn't be in such a hurry, Mr. Thomas, though she is -a-waiting for you. She won't go till you come, _I_ know." - -"You're a cheeky little monkey," said Thomas, good naturedly. But the -words were altogether out of tune with the idea of Mattie, who again -felt her dignity invaded, and walked into the shop with her chin -projecting more than usual. - -"Come, my princess," said her father, seating himself in an old chair, -and taking the child on his knee. "I haven't seen my princess all -day.--How's your royal highness this night?" - -Mattie laid her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears. - -"What's the matter with my pet?" said her father, fondling and soothing -her with much concern. "Has anybody been unkind to you?" - -"No, Mr. Kitely," said the child, "but I feel that lonely! I wish you -would read to me a bit, for Mr. Spelt ain't there, and I read something -in the Bible this morning that ain't done me no good." - -"You shouldn't read such things, Mattie," said the bookseller. "They -ain't no good. I'll go and get a candle. Sit you there till I come -back." - -"No, no, father. Don't leave me here. I don't like the books to-night. -Take me with you. Carry me." - -The father obeyed at once, took his child on his arm, got a candle from -the back room, for the place was very dusky--he did not care to light -the gas this time of the year--and sat down with Mattie in a part of -the shop which was screened from the door, where he could yet hear -every footstep that passed. - -"What shall I read now, my precious?" he asked. - -"Well, I don't think I care for anything but the New Testament -to-night, father." - -"Why, you've just been saying it disagreed with you this very morning," -objected Mr. Kitely. - -"No, father. It wasn't the New Testament at all. It was the very old -Testament, I believe; for it was near the beginning of it, and told all -about a horrid murder. I do believe," she added, reflectively, "that -that book grows better as it gets older--younger, I mean." - -The poor child wanted some one to help her out of her Bible -difficulties, and her father certainly was not the man to do so, for -he believed nothing about or in it. Like many other children far -more carefully taught of man, she was laboring under the misery of -the fancy that everything related in the Old Testament without remark -of disapprobation is sanctioned by the divine will. If parents do not -encourage their children to speak their minds about what they read -generally, and especially in the Bible, they will one day be dismayed -to find that they have not merely the strangest but the most deadly -notions of what is contained in that book--as, for instance, besides -the one in hand, that God approved of all the sly tricks of Jacob--for -was not he the religious one of the brothers, and did not all his -tricks succeed? They are not able without help to regard the history -broadly, and see that just because of this bad that was in him, he had -to pass through a life of varied and severe suffering, punished in the -vices which his children inherited from himself, in order that the -noble part of his nature might be burned clean of the filth that clung -to it. - -Such was Mr. Kitely's tenderness over his daughter, increased by some -signs he had begun to see of the return of an affection of the brain -from which he had been on the point of losing her some years before, -that he made no further opposition, but, rising again, brought an old -"breeches Bible" from a shelf, and, taking her once more on his knee, -supported her with one hand and held the book with the other. - -"Well, I don't know one chapter from another," reflected Mr. Kitely -aloud. "I wonder where the child would like me to read. I'm sure I -can't tell what to read." - -"Read about _Somebody_," said Mattie. - -From the peculiar expression she gave to the word, her father guessed -at her meaning, and opening the gospel part of the book at random, -began to read. - -He read, from the Gospel by St. Matthew, the story of the -Transfiguration, to which Mattie listened without word or motion. He -then went on to the following story of the lunatic and apparently -epileptic, boy. As soon as he began to read the account of how the -child was vexed, Mattie said conclusively: - -"That was Syne. _I_ know him. He's been at it for a long time." - -"'And Jesus rebuked the devil; and he departed out of him; and the -child was cured from that very hour,'" the bookseller went on reading -in a subdued voice, partly because he sat in his shop with the door -open, partly because not even he could read "the ancient story, ever -new" without feeling a something he could not have quite accounted for -if he had thought of trying. But the moment he had read those words, -Mattie cried: - -"There, I knew it!" - -It must be remembered that Mattie had not read much of the New -Testament. Mr. Spelt alone had led her to read any. Everything came new -to her, therefore; every word was like the rod of Moses that drew the -waters of response. - -"What did you know, princess?" asked her father. - -"I knew that Somebody would make him mind what he was about--I did. -I wonder if he let a flash of that light out on him that he shut up -inside him again. I shouldn't wonder if that was it. I know Syne -couldn't stand that--no, not for a moment. I think I'll go to bed, Mr. -Kitely." - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -ON THE RIVER. - - -Notwithstanding the good-humored answer Thomas had made to Mattie, her -words stuck to him and occasioned him a little discomfort. For if the -bookseller's daughter, whose shop lay between the counting-house and -the court, knew so well of his visits to Lucy, how could he hope that -they would long remain concealed from other and far more dangerous -eyes. This thought oppressed him so much, that instead of paying his -usual visit to Mr. Molken, he went to Mrs. Boxall's at once. There, -after greetings, he threw himself on the cushions of the old settle, -and was gloomy. Lucy looked at him with some concern. Mrs. Boxall -murmured something about his being in the doldrums--a phrase she had -learned from her son John. - -"Let's go out, Lucy," said Thomas; "it is so sultry." - -Lucy was quite ready in herself to comply. For one reason, she had -something upon her mind about which she wanted to talk to him. But she -objected. - -"My grandmother is not fit to be left alone, Thomas," she said, -regretfully. - -"Oh! ah!" said Thomas. - -"Never mind me, child," interposed the old woman. "You'll make me wish -myself in my grave, if you make me come between young people. You go, -my dear, and never mind me. You needn't be gone a great while, you -know." - -"Oh, no, grannie; I'll be back in an hour, or less, if you like," said -Lucy, hastening to put on her bonnet. - -"No, no, my dear. An hour's in reason. Anything in reason, you know." - -So Lucy made the old lady comfortable in her arm-chair, and went out -with Thomas. - -The roar of the city had relaxed. There would be no more blocks in -Gracechurch Street that night. There was little smoke in the air, only -enough to clothe the dome of St. Paul's in a faintly rosy garment, -tinged from the west, where the sun was under a cloud. The huge mass -looked ethereal, melted away as to a shell of thicker air against a -background of slate-color, where a wind was gathering to flow at sunset -through the streets and lanes, cooling them from the heat of the day, -of the friction of iron and granite, of human effort, and the thousand -fires that prepared the food of the city-dining population. Crossing -the chief thoroughfares, they went down the lanes leading to the river. -Here they passed through a sultry region of aromatic fragrance, where -the very hooks that hung from cranes in doorways high above the ground, -seemed to retain something of the odor of the bales they had lifted -from the wagons below during the hot sunshine that drew out their -imprisoned essences. By yet closer ways they went toward the river, -descending still, and at length, by a short wooden stair, and a long -wooden way, they came on a floating pier. There the wind blew sweet -and cooling and very grateful, for the summer was early and fervid. -Down into the east the river swept away, somber and sullen, to gurgle -blindly through the jungle of masts that lay below the bridge and -crossed the horizontal lines of the sky with their delicate spars, and -yet more delicate cordage. Little did Thomas think that one of those -masts rose from a vessel laden, one might say, with his near, though -not his final fate--a fate that truth might have averted, but which -the very absence of truth made needful and salutary. A boat was just -starting up the river toward the light. - -"Let's have a blow," said Thomas. - -"That will be delightful," answered Lucy, and they went on board. First -one wheel, then the other, then both together, dashed the Stygian -waters of the Thames into a white fury, and they were moving up the -stream. They went forward into the bows of the boat to get clear of -the smoke, and sat down. There were so few on board that they could -talk without being overheard. But they sat silent for some time; the -stillness of the sky seemed to have sunk into their hearts. For that -was as pure over their heads as if there had been no filthy Thames -beneath their feet; and its light and color illuminated the surface -of the river, which was not yet so vile that it could not reflect the -glory that fell upon its face. The tide was against them, and with all -the struggles of the little steamer they made but slow way up the dark, -hurrying water. Lucy sat gazing at the banks of the river, where the -mighty city on either hand has declined into sordid meanness, skeleton -exposure; where the struggles of manufacture and commerce are content -to abjure their own decencies for the sake of the greater gain. Save -where the long line of Somerset House, and the garden of the Temple -asserted the ancient dignity of order and cleanliness, the whole -looked like a mean, tattered, draggled fringe upon a rich garment. -Then she turned her gaze down on the river, which, as if ashamed of -the condition into which it had fallen from its first estate, crawled -fiercely away to hide itself in the sea. - -"How different," she said, looking up at Thomas, who had been sitting -gazing at her all the time that she contemplated the shore and the -river--"How different things would be if they were only clean!" - -"Yes, indeed," returned Thomas. "Think what it would be to see the -fishes--the salmon, say--shooting about in clear water under us, like -so many silver fishes in a crystal globe! If people were as fond of -the cleanliness you want as they are of money, things would look very -different indeed!" - -I have said that Thomas loved Lucy more and more. Partly a cause, -partly a consequence of this, he had begun to find out that there -was a poetic element in her, and he flattered himself that he had -developed it. No doubt he had had a share in its development, but it -was of a deeper, truer, simpler kind than his own, and would never -have been what it was, in rapport always with the facts of nature and -life, if it had been only a feminine response to his. Men like women -to reflect them, no doubt; but the woman who can only reflect a man, -and is nothing in herself, will never be of much service to him. The -woman who cannot stand alone is not likely to make either a good wife -or mother. She may be a pleasant companion so far as the intercourse -of love-making goes, no doubt--scarcely more; save, indeed, the trials -that ensue upon marriage bring out the power latent in her. But the -remark with which Thomas responded to Lucy was quite beyond his usual -strain. He had a far finer nature underneath than his _education_ had -allowed to manifest itself, and the circumstances in which he was at -the moment were especially favorable to his best. Casca, on his first -appearance in _Julius Cæsar_, talks blunt and snarling prose: in the -very next scene, which is a fearfully magnificent thunder-storm, he -speaks poetry. "He was quick mettle when he went to school," and the -circumstances brought it out. - -"I wish the world was clean, Thomas, all through," said Lucy. - -Thomas did not reply. His heart smote him. Those few words went deeper -than all Mr. Simon's sermons, public and private. For a long time he -had not spoken a word about religion to Lucy. Nor had what he said ever -taken any hold upon her intellect, although it had upon her conscience; -for, not having been brought up to his vocabulary, and what might be -called the technical phrases if not _slang_ of his religion, it had -been to her but a vague sound, which yet she received as a reminder of -duty. Some healthy religious teaching would be of the greatest value to -her now. But Mr. Potter provided no food beyond the established fare; -and whatever may be said about the sufficiency of the church-service, -and the uselessness of preaching, I for one believe that a dumb ass, if -the Lord only opens his mouth, may rebuke much madness of prophets, and -priests too. But where there is neither honesty nor earnestness, as in -the case of Mr. Potter, the man is too much of an ass for even the Lord -to open his mouth to any useful purpose. His heart has to be opened -first, and that takes time and trouble. - -Finding that Thomas remained silent, Lucy looked into his face, and -saw that he was troubled. This brought to the point of speech the -dissatisfaction with himself which had long been moving restlessly and -painfully in his heart, and of which the quiet about him, the peace of -the sky, and that sense of decline and coming repose, which invades -even the heart of London with the sinking sun, had made him more -conscious than he had yet been. - -"Oh, Lucy," he said, "I wish you would help me to be good." - -To no other could he have said so. Mr. Simon, for instance, aroused all -that was most contrarious in him. But Lucy at this moment seemed so -near to him that before her he could be humble without humiliation, and -could even enjoy the confession of weakness implied in his appeal to -her for aid. - -She looked at him with a wise kind of wonder in her look. For a moment -she was silent. - -"I do not know how I can help you, Thomas, for you know better about -all such things than I do. But there is one thing I want very much to -speak to you about, because it makes me unhappy--rather--not _very_, -you know." - -She laid his hand upon his. He looked at her lovingly. She was -encouraged, and continued: - -"I don't like this way of going on, Thomas. I never quite liked it, but -I've been thinking more about it, lately. I thought you must know best, -but I am not satisfied with myself at all about it." - -"What do you mean, Lucy?" asked Thomas, his heart beginning already to -harden at the approach of definite blame. It was all very well for him -to speak as if he might be improved--it was another thing for Lucy to -do so. - -"Do not be vexed with me, Thomas. You must know what I mean. I wish -your mother knew all about it," she added, hastily, after a pause. And -then her face flushed red as a sunset. - -"She'll know all about it in good time," returned Thomas, testily; -adding, in an undertone, as if he did not mean to press the remark, -although he wanted her to hear it: "You do not know my mother, or you -would not be so anxious for her to know all about it." - -"Couldn't you get your father to tell her, then, and make it easier for -you?" - -"My father," answered Thomas, coolly, "would turn me out of the house -if I didn't give you up; and as I don't mean to do that, and don't want -to be turned out of the house just at present, when I have nowhere else -to go, I don't want to tell him." - -"I _can't_ go on in this way, then. Besides, they are sure to hear of -it, somehow." - -"Oh, no, they won't. Who's to tell them?" - -"Don't suppose I've been listening, Tom, because I heard your last -words," said a voice behind them--that of Mr. Wither. "I haven't been -watching you, but I have been watching for an opportunity of telling -you that Stopper is keeping far too sharp a lookout on you to mean you -any good by it. I beg your pardon, Miss Boxall," he resumed, taking off -his hat. "I fear I have been rude; but, as I say, I was anxious to tell -Mr. Worboise to be cautious. I don't see why a fellow should get into a -scrape for want of a hint." - -The manner with which Wither spoke to her made poor Lucy feel -that there was not merely something unfitting, but something even -disreputable, in the way her relation to Thomas was kept up. She grew -as pale as death, rose, and turned to the side of the vessel, and drew -her veil nervously over her face. - -"It's no business of mine, of course, Tom. But what I tell you is true. -Though if you take my advice," said Wither, and here he dropped his -voice to a whisper, "this connection is quite as fit a one to cut as -the last; and the sooner you do it the better, for it'll make a devil -of a row with old Boxall. You ought to think of the girl, you know. -Your own governor's your own lookout. There's none of it any business -of mine, you know." - -He turned with a nod and went aft; for the steamer was just drawing in -to the Hungerford pier, where he had to go ashore. - -For a few minutes not a word passed between Thomas and Lucy. A sudden -cloud had fallen upon them. They must not go on this way, but what -other way were they to take? They stood side by side, looking into the -water, Thomas humiliated and Lucy disgraced. There was no comfort to -be got out of that rushing blackness, and the mud banks grew wider and -wider. - -Lucy was the first to speak, for she was far more capable than Tom. - -"We must go ashore at the next pier," she said. - -"Very well," said Tom, as if he had been stunned into sullenness. "If -you want to get rid of me because of what that fellow said--" - -"Oh, Tom!" said Lucy, and burst out crying. - -"Well, what _do_ you want, Lucy?" - -"We _must_ part, Tom," sobbed Lucy. - -"Nonsense!" said Tom, nearly crying himself, for a great, painful lump -had risen in his throat. - -"We can love each other all the same," said Lucy, still sobbing; "only -you must not come to see me any more--that is--I do not mean--never any -more at all--but till you have told them--all about it. I don't mean -now, but some time, you know. When will you be of age, Tom?" - -"Oh, that makes no difference. As long's I'm dependent, it's all the -same. I wish I was my own master. I should soon let them see I didn't -care what they said." - -Silence again followed, during which Lucy tried in vain to stop her -tears by wiping them away. A wretched feeling awoke in her that Thomas -was not manly, could not resolve--or rather, could not help her when -she would do the right thing. She would have borne anything rather than -that. It put her heart in a vise. - -The boat stopped at the Westminster pier. They went on shore. The sun -was down, and the fresh breeze that blew, while it pleasantly cooled -the hot faces that moved westward from their day's work, made Lucy -almost shiver with cold. For loss had laid hold of her heart. They -walked up Parliament Street. Thomas felt that he must say something, -but what he should say he could not think. He always thought what he -should say--never what he should do. - -"Lucy, dear," he said at last, "we won't make up our minds to-night. -Wait till I see you next. I shall have time to think about it before -then. I will be a match for that sneaking rascal, Stopper, yet." - -Lucy felt inclined to say that to sneak was no way to give sneaking its -own. But she said neither that nor anything else. - -They got into an omnibus at Charing Cross, and returned--deafened, -stupefied, and despondent--into the city. They parted at Lucy's door, -and Thomas went home, already much later than usual. - -What should he do? He resolved upon nothing, and did the worst thing he -could have done. He lied. - -"You are very late to-night, Thomas," said his mother. "Have you been -all this time with Mr. Moloch?" - -"Yes, mother," answered Thomas. - -And when he was in bed he comforted himself by saying there was no such -person as Mr. Moloch. - -When Lucy went to bed, she prayed to God in sobs and cries of pain. -Hitherto she had believed in Thomas without a question crossing the -disk of her faith; but now she had begun to doubt, and the very fact -that she could doubt was enough to make her miserable, even if there -had been no ground for the doubt. My readers must remember that no one -had attempted to let her into the secrets of his character as I have -done with them. His beautiful face, pleasant manners, self-confidence, -and, above all, her love, had blinded her to his faults. For, although -I do not in the least believe that Love is blind, yet I must confess -that, like kittens and some other animals, he has his blindness nine -days or more, as it may be, from his birth. But once she had begun -to suspect, she found ground for suspicion enough. She had never -known grief before--not even when her mother died--for death has not -anything despicable, and Thomas had. - -What Charles Wither had told Thomas was true enough. Mr. Stopper was -after him. Ever since that dinner-party at Mr. Boxall's he had hated -him, and bided his time. - -Mr. Stopper was a man of forty, in whose pine-apple whiskers and -bristly hair the first white streaks of autumn had begun to show -themselves. He had entered the service of Messrs. Blunt & Baker some -five-and-twenty years before, and had gradually risen through all the -intervening positions to his present post. Within the last year, moved -by prudential considerations, he had begun to regard the daughters of -his principal against the background of possible marriage; and as he -had hitherto, from motives of the same class, resisted all inclinations -in that direction, with so much the more force did his nature rush -into the channel which the consent of his selfishness opened for the -indulgence of his affections. For the moment he saw Mary Boxall with -this object in view, he fell in love with her after the fashion of such -a man, beginning instantly to build, not castles, but square houses -in the air in the dining-rooms especially of which her form appeared -in gorgeous and somewhat matronly garments amid ponderous mahogany, -seated behind the obscuration of tropical plants at a table set out -_à la Russe_. His indignation, when he entered the drawing-room after -Mr. Boxall's dinner, and saw Thomas in the act of committing the -indiscretion recorded in that part of my story, passed into silent -hatred when he found that while his attentions were slighted, those -of Thomas, in his eyes a mere upstart--for he judged everything in -relation to the horizon of Messrs. Blunt & Baker, and every man in -relation to himself, seated upon the loftiest summit within the circle -of that horizon--not even offered, but only dropped at her feet in -passing, were yet accepted. - -Among men Mr. Stopper was of the bull-dog breed, sagacious, -keen-scented, vulgar, and inexorable; capable of much within the range -of things illuminated by his own interests, capable of nothing beyond -it. And now one of his main objects was to catch some scent--for the -bull-dog has an excellent nose--of Thomas's faults or failings, and -follow such up the wind of his prosperity, till he should have a -chance of pulling him down at last. His first inclination toward this -revenge was strengthened and elevated into an imagined execution of -justice when Mary fell ill, and it oozed out that her illness had not a -little to do with some behavior of Thomas's. Hence it came that, both -consciously and unconsciously, Mr. Stopper was watching the unfortunate -youth, though so cautious was Thomas that he had not yet discovered -anything of which he could make a definite use. Nor did he want to -interrupt Thomas's projects before he found that they put him in his -power. - -So here was a weak and conceited youth of fine faculties and fine -impulses, between the malign aspects of two opposite stars--watched, -that is, and speculated upon by two able and unprincipled men; the one, -Mr. Molken, searching him and ingratiating himself with him, "to the -end to know how to worke him, or winde him, or governe him," which, -Lord Bacon goes on to say, "proceedeth from a heart that is double and -cloven, and not entyre and ingenuous;" the other, Mr. Stopper, watching -his conduct, not for the sake of procuring advantage to himself, but -injury to Thomas. The one sought to lead him astray, that he might rob -him in the dark; the other sought a chance of knocking him down, that -he might leave him lying in the ditch. And they soon began to play into -each other's hands. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -CAPTAIN BOXALL'S PROPOSAL. - - -About three weeks before the occurrences last recorded, the following -conversation took place between Richard and John Boxall over their wine: - -"I tell you what, brother," said the captain, "you're addling good -brains with overwork. You won't make half so much money if you're too -greedy after it. You don't look the same fellow you used to." - -"I hope I'm not too greedy after money, John. But it's my business, as -your's is to sail your ship." - -"Yes, yes. I can't sail my ship too well, nor you attend to your -business too well. But if I was to sail two ships instead of one, or -if I was to be on deck instead of down at my dinner when she was going -before the wind in the middle of the Atlantic, I shouldn't do my best -when it came on to blow hard in the night." - -"That's all very true. But I don't think it applies to me. I never miss -my dinner, by any chance." - -"Don't you turn your blind eye on my signal, Dick. You know what I mean -well enough. I've got a proposal to make--the jolliest thing in the -world." - -"Go on. I'm listening." - -"Mary ain't quite so well again--is she now?" - -"Well, I don't think she's been getting on so fast. I suppose it's the -spring weather." - -"Why, you may call it summer now. But she ain't as I should like to see -her, the darling." - -"Well, no. I must confess I'm sometimes rather uneasy about her." - -"And there's Jane. She don't look at home, somehow." - -For some time Richard had been growing more and more uneasy as the -evidence of his daughter's attachment to Charles Wither became plainer. -Both he and his wife did the best they could to prevent their meeting, -but having learned a little wisdom from the history of his father's -family, and knowing well the hastiness of his own temper, he had as yet -managed to avoid any open conflict with his daughter, who he knew had -inherited his own stubbornness. He had told his brother nothing of this -second and now principal source of family apprehension; and the fact -that John saw that all was not right with Jane, greatly increased his -feeling of how much things were going wrong. He made no reply, however, -but sat waiting what was to follow. Accumulating his arguments the -captain went on. - -"And there's your wife; she's had a headache almost every day since I -came to the house." - -"Well, what are you driving at, John?" said his brother, with the more -impatience that he knew all John said was true. - -"What I'm driving at is this," answered the captain, _bringing-to_ -suddenly. "You must all make this next voyage in my clipper. It'll do -you all a world o' good, and me too." - -"Nonsense, John," said Richard, feeling however that a faint light -dawned through the proposal. - -"Don't call it nonsense till you've slept upon it, Dick. The ship's -part mine, and I can make it easy for you. You'll have to pay a little -passage-money, just to keep me right with the rest of the owners; but -that won't be much, and you're no screw, though I did say you were too -greedy after the money. I believe it's not the money so much as the -making of it that fills your head." - -"Still, you wouldn't have me let the business go to the dogs?" - -"No fear of that, with Stopper at the head of affairs. I'll tell you -what you must do. You must take him in." - -"Into partnership, do you mean?" said Richard, his tone expressing no -surprise, for he had thought of this before. - -"Yes, I do. You'll have to do it some day, and the sooner the better. -If you don't, you'll lose him, and that you'll find won't be a mere -loss. That man'll make a dangerous enemy. Where he bites he'll hold. -And now's a good time to serve yourself and him too." - -"Perhaps you're right, brother," answered the merchant, emptying his -glass of claret and filling it again instantly, an action indicating a -certain perturbed hesitation not in the least common to him. "I'll turn -it over in my mind. I certainly should not be sorry to have a short -holiday. I haven't had one to speak of for nearly twenty years, I do -believe." - -John judged it better not to press him. He believed from what he knew -of himself and his brother too that good advice was best let alone -to work its own effects. He turned the conversation to something -indifferent. - -But after this many talks followed. Mrs. Boxall, of course, was -consulted. Although she shrunk from the thought of a sea voyage, she -yet saw in the proposal a way out of many difficulties, especially -as giving room for time to work one of his especial works--that of -effacement. So between the three the whole was arranged before either -of the young people was spoken to on the subject. Jane heard it with -a rush of blood to her heart that left her dark face almost livid. -Mary received the news gladly, even merrily, though a slight paleness -followed and just indicated that she regarded the journey as the symbol -and sign of severed bonds. Julia, a plump child of six, upon whose -condition no argument for the voyage could be founded, danced with -joy at the idea of going in Uncle John's ship. Mr. Stopper threw no -difficulty in the way of accepting a partnership in the concern, and -thus matters were arranged. - -John Boxall had repeatedly visited his mother during the six weeks he -spent at his brother's house. He seldom saw Lucy, however, because of -her engagement at the Morgensterns', until her grandmother's sickness -kept her more at home. Then, whether it was that Lucy expected -her uncle to be prejudiced against her, or that he really was so -prejudiced, I do not know, but the two did not take much to each -other. Lucy considered her uncle a common and rough-looking sailor; -John Boxall called his niece a fine lady. And so they parted. - -On the same day on which Thomas and Lucy _had their blow_ on the river, -the _Ningpo_ had cleared out of St. Katharine's Dock, and was lying -in the Upper Pool, all but ready to drop down with the next tide to -Gravesend, where she was to take her passengers on board. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -_THE TEMPTER_. - - -The next day, Thomas had made up his mind not to go near Guild Court; -but in the afternoon Mr. Stopper himself sent him to bring an old -ledger from the floor above Mrs. Boxall's. As he got down from his -perch, and proceeded to get his hat-- - -"There's no use in going round such a way," said Mr. Stopper. "Mr. -Boxall's not in; you can go through his room. Here's the key of the -door. Only mind you lock it when you come back." - -The key used to lie in Mr. Boxall's drawer, but now Mr. Stopper took -it from his own. Thomas was not altogether pleased at the change of -approach, though why, he would hardly have been able to tell. Probably -he felt something as a miser would feel, into whose treasure-cave -the new gallery of a neighboring mine threatened to break. He was, -as it were, exposed upon the flank. Annoyance instantly clouded the -expression of eagerness which he had not been able to conceal; and -neither the light nor the following cloud escaped Mr. Stopper, who, -although the region of other men's thoughts was dark as pitch to him -in the usual relation he bore to them, yet the moment his interests -or--rare case--his feelings brought him into the contact of opposition -with any man, all the man's pregnable points lay bare before him. - -Thomas had nothing to do but take the key and go. He had now no -opportunity of spending more than one moment with Lucy. When the -distance was of some length, he could cut both ways, and pocket the -time gained; now there was nothing to save upon. Nevertheless, he sped -up the stairs as if he would overtake old Time himself. - -Rendered prudent, or cunning, by his affections, he secured the ordered -chaos of vellum before he knocked at Mrs. Boxall's door, which he then -opened without waiting for the response to his appeal. - -"Lucy! Lucy!" he said; "I have but one half minute, and hardly that." - -Lucy appeared with the rim of a rainy sunset about her eyes. The rest -of her face was still as a day that belonged to not one of the four -seasons--that had nothing to do. - -"If you have forgotten yesterday, Thomas, I have not," she said. - -"Oh! never mind yesterday," he said. "I'm coming in to-night; and I can -stay as long as I please. My father and mother are gone to Folkestone, -and there's nobody to know when I go home. Isn't it jolly?" - -And without waiting for an answer, he scudded like Poppie. But what in -Poppie might be graceful, was not dignified in Thomas; and I fear Lucy -felt this, when he turned the corner to the stair-case with the huge -ledger under his arm, and his coat flying out behind him. But she would -not have felt it had she not had on the preceding evening, for the -first time, a peep into his character. - -As he reëntered the counting-house he was aware of the keen glance cast -at him by Stopper, and felt that he reddened. But he laid the ledger on -the desk before him, and perched again with as much indifference as he -could assume. - -Wearily the hours passed. How could they otherwise pass with figures, -figures everywhere, Stopper right before him at the double desk, and -Lucy one story removed and inaccessible? Some men would work all the -better for knowing their treasure so near, but Thomas had not yet -reached such a repose. Indeed, he did not yet love Lucy well enough for -that. People talk about loving too much; for my part, I think all the -mischief comes of loving too little. - -The dinner-hour at length arrived. Thomas, however, was not in the way -of attempting to see Lucy at that time. He would have said that there -was too much coming and going of the clerks about that hour: I venture -to imagine that a quiet enjoyment of his dinner had something to do -with it. Now, although I can well enough understand a young fellow in -love being as hungry as a hawk, I cannot quite understand his spending -an hour over his dinner when the quarter of it would be enough, and -the rest might give him if but one chance of one peep at the lady. -On the present occasion, however, seeing he had the whole evening in -prospect, Thomas may have been quite right to devote himself to his -dinner, the newspaper, and anticipation. At all events, he betook -himself to one of the courts off Cornhill, and ascended to one of those -eating-houses which abound in London city, where a man may generally -dine well, and always at moderate expense. - -Now this was one of the days on which Thomas usually visited Mr. -Molken. But as he had missed two lessons, the spider had become a -little anxious about his fly, and knowing that Thomas went to dine at -this hour, and knowing also where he went, he was there before him, and -on the outlook for his entrance. This was not the sort of place the -German generally frequented. He was more likely to go prowling about -Thames Street for his dinner; but when Thomas entered, there he was, -signaling to him to take his place beside him. - -Thomas did not see that in the dark corner of an opposite box sat Mr. -Stopper. He obeyed the signal, and a steak was presently broiling for -him upon the gridiron at the other end of the room. - -"You vas not come fore your lesson de letst time, Mistare Verbose," -said Molken. - -"No," answered Thomas, who had not yet made a confidant of Mr. Molken. -"I was otherwise engaged." - -He spoke quite carelessly. - -"Ah! I yes. Oddervise," said Molken, and said no more. - -Presently he broke into a suppressed laugh, which caused Thomas, who -was very sensitive as to his personal dignity, to choke over his -tankard of bitter ale, with which he was consoling himself for the -delay of his steak. - -"What is it you find so amusing, Mr. Molken?" he asked. - -"I beg your pardon," returned Molken. "It was very rude; but I could -not help it. I will tell you one story I did see last night. I am a man -of de vorld, as you know, Mr. Verbose." - -My reader must excuse me if I do not keep to the representation of the -fellow's German-English. It is hardly worth doing, and I am doubtful, -besides, whether I can do it well. - -"I am a man of the world," said Molken, "and I was last night in -one of those shops, what you call them--paradise; no, the other -thing--hell--where they have the spinning thing--the Roulette--and the -Rouge et Noir, and _cætera_. I do not mean to say that I was gambling. -Oh, no! I was at the bar having a glass of Judenlip, when lo! and -behold! down through the green door, with a burst, comes a young man I -knew. He was like yourself, Mr. Worboise, a clerk in a counting-house." - -Thomas winced, but said nothing. He regarded his business as he ought -to have regarded himself, namely, as something to be ashamed of. - -"Well, he comes up to me, and he says, 'Herr Molken, we are old -friends; will you lend me a sovereign?' 'No,' I said, 'Mr.--,'--I -forget the young man's name, but I did know him--' I never lend money -for gambling purposes. Get the man who won your last sovereign to -lend you another. For my own part, I've had enough of that sort of -thing,' For you see, Mr. Thomas, I _have_ gambled in my time--yes, -and made money by it, though I spent it as foolishly as I got it. You -don't think I would spend my time in teaching _Ich habe, Du hast_, if -I hadn't given up gambling. But university men, you know, learn bad -habits." - -"What did he say to that?" asked Thomas. - -"He swore and turned away as if he was choking. But the fact was, Mr. -Verbose, I hadn't a sovereign in my possession. I wasn't going to tell -him that. But if I had had one, he should have had it; for I can't -forget the glorious excitement it used to be to see the gold lying like -a yellow mole-hill on the table, and to think that one fortunate turn -might send it all into your own pockets." - -"But he didn't choke, did he?" said Thomas, weakly trying to be clever. - -"No. And I will tell you how it was that he didn't. 'By Jove!' he -cried. Now I had seen him fumbling about his waistcoat as if he would -tear his heart out, and all at once dive his two forefingers into a -little pocket that was meant to hold a watch, only the watch had gone -up the spout long ago. 'By Jove!' he said--that's the right swear, -isn't it, Mr. Verbose?--and then he rushed through the green door -again. I followed him, for I wanted to see what he was after. In half -an hour he had broken the bank. He had found a sovereign in that little -pocket. How it got there the devil only knew. He swept his money into -his pockets and turned to go. I saw the people of the house getting -between him and the door, and I saw one of the fellows--I knew him--who -had lost money all the evening, going to pick a quarrel with him. For -those gamblers have no honor in them. So I opened the door as if to -leave the room, and pretending to hesitate as if I had left something, -kept it open, and made a sign to him to bolt, which he understood at -once, and was down-stairs in a moment, and I after him. Now let me tell -you a secret," continued Molken, leaning across the table, and speaking -very low and impressively--"that young man confessed to me that same -evening, that when I refused him the sovereign, he had just lost the -last of two hundred pounds of his master's money. To-day I hope he has -replaced it honestly, as he ought; for his winnings that night came to -more than seven hundred." - -"But he was a thief," said Thomas, bluntly. - -"Well, so he was; but no more a thief than many a respectable man who -secures his own and goes on risking other people's money. It's the way -of the world. However, as I told you, _I_ gave it up long ago. There -_was_ a time in my life when I used to live by it." - -"How did you manage that?" - -"There are certain rules to be observed, that's all. Only you must -stick to them. For one thing, you must make up your mind never to lose -more than a certain fixed sum any night you play. If you stick to that, -you will find your winnings always in excess of your losses." - -"How can that be?" - -"Oh, I don't pretend to account for it. Gaming has its laws as well as -the universe generally. Everything goes by laws, you know-laws that -cannot be round out except by experiment; and that, as I say, is one of -the laws of gambling." - -All this time Mr. Stopper had been reading Mr. Molken's face. Suddenly -Tom caught sight of his superior; the warning of Wither rushed back -on his mind, and he grew pale as death. Molken perceiving the change, -sought for its cause, but saw nothing save a stony gentleman in the -opposite box sipping sherry, and picking the ripest pieces out of a -Stilton. - -"Don't look that way, Molken," said Tom, in an undertone. "That's our -Mr. Stopper." - -"Well, haven't we as good a right to be here as Mr. Stopper?" returned -Molken, in a voice equally inaudible beyond the table, but taking -piercing eyeshots at the cause of Tom's discomposure. - -The two men very soon had something like each other's measure. They -could each understand his neighbor's rascality, while his own seemed to -each only a law of nature. - -"You generally pay, don't you?" added Molken. - -Tom laughed. - -"Yes, I do generally, and a penny to the cook besides, which, I will -be bound, he does not. But that's nothing to the point. He hates me, -though why, I'm sure I don't--I can only guess." - -"Some girl, I suppose," said Molken, coolly. - -Thomas felt too much flattered to endeavor even to dilute the -insinuation; and Molken went on: - -"Well, but how can the fellow bear malice? Of course, he must have -seen from the first that he had no chance with you. I'll tell you -what, Worboise; I have had a good deal of experience, and it is my -conviction, from what I have seen of you, that you are one of the lucky -ones--one of the elect, you know-born to it, and can't help yourself." - -Tom pulled out his watch. - -"Half an hour to spare yet," he said. "Come up to the smoking-room." - -Having ordered a bottle of Rhine wine, Tom turned to Molken, and said: - -"What did you mean by saying that I was one of the lucky ones?" - -"Oh, don't you know there are some men born under a lucky star--as they -would have said in old times? What the cause is, of course I don't -know, except it be that Heaven must have some favorites, if only for -the sake of variety. At all events, there is no denying that some men -are born to luck. They are lucky in everything they put their hands to. -Did you ever try your luck in a lottery, now?" - -"I did in a raffle, once." - -"Well?" - -"I won a picture." - -"I told you so! And it would be just the same whatever you tried. You -are cut out for it. You have the luck-mark on you. I was sure of it." - -"How can you tell that?" asked Tom, lingering like a fly over the sweet -poison, and ready to swallow almost any absurdity that represented him -as something different from the ran of ordinary mortals, of whom he -was, as yet at least, a very ordinary specimen. - -"Never you mind how I can tell. But I will tell you this much, that I -have experience; and your own Bacon says that the laws of everything -are to be found out by observation and experiment. I have observed, and -I have experimented, and I tell you you are a lucky one." - -Tom stroked the faintest neutrality of a coming mustache, ponderingly -and pleasedly, and said nothing. - -"By the by, are you coming to me to-night?" asked Molken. - -"No--o," answered Tom, still stroking his upper lip with the thumb -and forefinger of his left hand, "I think not. I believe I have an -engagement to-night, somewhere or other." - -He took out his pocket-book, and pretended to look. - -"Yes. I can't have my lesson to-night." - -"Then I needn't stop at home for you. By the way, have you a sovereign -about you? I wouldn't trouble you, you know, only, as I told you, I -haven't got one. I believe your quarter is out to-night." - -"Oh, I beg your pardon; I ought to have thought of that. I have two -half-sovereigns in my pocket, and no more, I am sorry to say. Will one -of them do for to-night? You shall have more to-morrow." - -"Oh, thank you; it's of no consequence. Well, I don't know--I think I -_will_ take the ten shillings, for I want to go out this evening. Yes. -Thank you. Never mind to-morrow, _except_ it be convenient." - -Tom settled the bill, and put the change of the other half-sovereign in -his pocket. Molken left him at the door of the tavern, and he went back -to the counting-house. - -"Who was that with you at the Golden Fleece, Tom?" asked Mr. Stopper, -as he entered; for he took advantage of his position to be as rude as -he found convenient. - -Taken by surprise, Tom answered at once: - -"Mr. Molken." - -"And who is he?" asked Stopper, again. - -"My German master," answered Tom. - -The next moment he could have knocked his head against the wall with -indignation at himself. For, always behindhand when left to himself, he -was ready enough when played upon by another to respond and repent. - -"He's got a hangdog phiz of his own," said Mr. Stopper, as he plunged -again into the business before him, writing away as deliberately as if -it had been on parchment instead of foolscap; for Stopper was never in -a hurry, and never behind. - -Tom's face flushed red with wrath. - -"I'll thank you to be civil in your remarks on my friends, Mr. Stopper." - -Mr. Stopper answered with a small puff of windy breath from distended -lips. He blew, in short. Tom felt his eyes waver. He grew almost blind -with rage. If he had followed his inclination, he would have brought -the ruler beside him down, with a terrible crack, on the head, before -him. "Why didn't he?" does my reader inquire? Just because of his -incapacity for action of any sort. He did not refrain in the pity that -disarms some men in the midst of their wrath, nor yet from the sense -that vengeance is God's business, and will be carried out in a mode -rather different from that in which man would prosecute his. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -HOW TOM SPENT THE EVENING. - - -When Tom left the office he walked into Mr. Kitely's shop, for he was -afraid lest Mr. Stopper should see him turn up to Guild Court. He had -almost forgotten Mr. Kitely's behavior about the book he would not keep -for him, and his resentment was gone quite. There was nobody in the -shop but Mattie. - -"Well, chick," said Thomas, kindly, but more condescendingly than -suited Miss Matilda's tastes. - -"Neither chick nor child," she answered promptly; though where she got -the phrase is a mystery, as indeed is the case with almost all the -sayings of such children. - -"What are you, then? A fairy?" - -"If I was, I know what I would do. Oh, wouldn't I just! I should think -I would!" - -"Well, what would you do, little Miss What's-your-name?" - -"My name is Miss Kitely; but that's neither here nor there. Oh, no! -it's not me! Wouldn't I just!" - -"Well, Miss Kitely, I want to know what you would do if you were a -fairy?" - -"I would turn your eyes into gooseberries, and your tongue into a bit -of leather a foot long; and every time you tried to speak your long -tongue would slap your blind eyes and make you cry." - -"What a terrible doom!" returned Thomas, offended at the child's -dislike to him, but willing to carry it off. "Why?" - -"Because you've made Miss Burton's eyes red, you naughty man! _I_ know -you. It must be you. Nobody else could make her eyes red but you, and -you go and do it." - -Thomas's first movement was of anger; for he felt, as all who have -concealments are ready to feel, that he was being uncomfortably -exposed. He turned his back on the child, and proceeded to examine the -books on a level with his face. While he was thus engaged, Mr. Kitely -entered. - -"How do you do, Mr. Worboise?" he said. "I've got another copy of that -book you and I fell out about some time ago. I can let you have this -one at half the price." - -It was evident that the bookseller wanted to be conciliatory. Thomas, -in his present mood was inclined to repel his advances, but he shrank -from contention, and said: - -"Thank you. I shall be glad to have it. How much is it?" - -Mr. Kitely named the amount, and, ashamed to appear again unable, -even at the reduced price, to pay for it, Thomas pulled out the last -farthing of the money in his pocket, which came to the exact sum -required, and pocketed the volume. - -"If you would excuse a man who has seen something of the world--more -than was good for him at one time of his life--Mr. Worboise," said Mr. -Kitely, as he pocketed the money, "I would give you a hint about that -German up the court. He's a clever fellow enough, I dare say--perhaps -too clever. Don't you have anything to do with him beyond the German. -Take my advice. I don't sit here all day at the mouth of the court for -nothing. I can see what comes in my way as well as another man." - -"What is there to say against him, Mr. Kitely? I haven't seen any harm -in him." - -"I'm not going to commit myself in warning you, Mr. Worboise. But I do -warn you. Look out, and don't let him lead you into mischief." - -"I hope I am able to take care of myself, Mr. Kitely," said Thomas, -with a touch of offense. - -"I hope you are, Mr. Worboise," returned the bookseller, dryly; "but -there's no offense meant in giving you the hint." - -At this moment Mr. Stopper passed the window. Thomas listened for the -echo of his steps up the archway, and as none came, he knew that he -had gone along the street. He waited, therefore, till he thought he -must be out of sight, and then sped uneasily from the shop, round the -corner, and up to Mrs. Boxall's door, which the old lady herself opened -for him, not looking so pleased as usual to see him. Mr. Molken was -watching from the opposite ground-floor window. A few minutes after, -Mr. Stopper re-passed the window of Mr. Kitely's shop, and went into -the counting-house with a pass-key. - -Thomas left Mrs. Boxall to shut the door, and rushed eagerly up the -stairs, and into the sitting-room. There he found the red eyes of which -Mattie had spoken. Lucy rose and held out her hand, but her manner was -constrained, and her lips trembled as if she were going to cry. Thomas -would have put his arm round her and drawn her to him, but she gently -pushed his arm away, and he felt as many a man has felt, and every man, -perhaps, ought to feel, that in the gentlest repulse of the woman he -loves there is something terribly imperative and absolute. - -"Why, Lucy!" he said, in a tone of hurt; "what have I done?" - -"If you can forget so soon, Thomas," answered Lucy, "I cannot. Since -yesterday I see things in a different light altogether. I cannot, for -your sake any more than my own, allow things to go on in this doubtful -way." - -"Oh I but, Lucy, I was taken unawares yesterday; and to-day, now I have -slept upon it, I don't see there is any such danger. I ought to be a -match for that brute Stopper, anyhow." - -Yet the brute Stopper had outreached him, or, at least, "served -him out," three or four times that very day, and he had refused to -acknowledge it to himself, which was all his defense, poor wretch. - -"But that is not all the question, Thomas. It is not right. At least, -it seems to me that it is not right to go on like this. People's -friends ought to know. I would not have done it if grannie hadn't been -to know. But then I ought to have thought of your friends as well as my -own." - -"But there would be no difficulty if I had only a grandmother," urged -Thomas, "and one as good as yours. I shouldn't have thought of not -telling." - -"I don't think the difficulty of doing right makes it unnecessary to do -it," said Lucy. - -"I think you might trust that to me, Lucy," said Thomas, falling back -upon his old attempted relation of religious instructor to his friend. - -Lucy was silent for a moment; but after what she had gone through in -the night, she knew that the time had come for altering their relative -position if not the relation itself. - -"No, Thomas," said she; "I must take my own duty into my own hands. I -_will_ not go on this way." - -"Do you think then, Lucy, that in affairs of this kind a fellow ought -to do just what his parents want?" - -"No, Thomas. But I do think he ought not to keep such things secret -from them." - -"Not even if they are unreasonable and tyrannical?" - -"No. A man who will not take the consequences of loving cannot be much -of a lover." - -"Lucy!" cried Thomas, now stung to the heart. - -"I can't help it, Thomas," said Lucy, bursting into tears; "I _must_ -speak the truth, and if you cannot bear it, the worse for me--and for -you, too, Thomas." - -"Then you mean to give me up?" said Thomas, pathetically, without, -however, any real fear of such an unthinkable catastrophe. - -"If it be giving you up to say I will not marry a man who is too much -afraid of his father and mother to let them know what he is about, then -I do give you up. But it will be you who give me up if you refuse to -acknowledge me as you ought." - -Lucy could not have talked like this ever before in her life. She had -gone through an eternity of suffering in the night. She was a woman -now. She had been but a girl before. Now she stood high above Thomas. -He was but a boy still, and not beautiful as such. She was all at once -old enough to be his mother. There was no escape from the course she -took; no _dodging_ was possible. This must be. But she was and would be -gentle with poor Thomas. - -"You do not love me, Lucy," he cried. - -"My poor Thomas, I do love you; love you so dearly that I trust and -pray you may be worthy of my love. Go and do as you ought, and come -back to me--like one of the old knights you talk about," she added, -with the glimmer of a hopeful smile, "bringing victory to his lady." - -"I will, I will," said Thomas, overcome by her solemn beauty and -dignified words. It was as if she had cast the husk of the girl, and -had come out a saving angel. But the perception of this was little more -to him yet than a poetic sense of painful pleasure. - -"I will, I will," he said. "But I cannot to-night, for my father and -mother are both at Folkestone. But I will write to them--that will be -best." - -"Any way you like, Thomas. I don't care how you do it, so it is done." - -All this time the old lady, having seen that something was wrong, -had discreetly kept out of the way, for she knew that the quarrels of -lovers at least are most easily settled between themselves. Thomas -now considered it all over and done with, and Lucy, overjoyed at her -victory, leaned into his arms, and let him kiss her ten times. Such -a man, she ought not, perhaps--only she did not know better--to have -allowed to touch her till he had done what he had promised. To some -people the promise is the difficult part, to others the performance. To -Thomas, unhappily, the promising was easy. - -They did not hear the door open. It was now getting dark, but the two -were full in the light of the window, and visible enough to the person -who entered. He stood still for one moment, during which the lovers -unwound their arms. Only when parting, they became aware that a man was -in the room. He came forward with hasty step. It was Richard Boxall. -Thomas looked about for his hat. Lucy stood firm and quiet, waiting. - -"Lucy, where is your grandmother?" - -"Up stairs, uncle, I believe." - -"Is she aware of that fellow's presence?" - -"You are not very polite, uncle," said Lucy, with dignity. "This is -my friend, Mr. Worboise, whom I believe you know. Of course I do not -receive visitors without my grandmother's knowledge." - -Mr. Boxall choked an oath in his throat, or rather the oath nearly -choked him. He turned and went down the stair again; but neither of -them heard the outer door close. Thomas and Lucy stared at each other -in dismay. - -The facts of the case were these, as near as I can guess. The _Ningpo_ -had dropped down to Gravesend, and the Boxalls had joined her there. -But some delay had arisen, and she was not to sail till the next -morning. Mr. Boxall had resolved to make use of the time thus gained or -lost, and had come up to town. I cannot help believing that it was by -contrivance of Mr. Stopper, who had watched Tom and seen him go up the -court, that he went through the door from his private room, instead of -going round, which would have given warning to the lovers. Possibly he -returned intending to see his mother; but after the discovery he made, -avoided her, partly because he was angry and would not quarrel with her -the last thing before his voyage. Upon maturer consideration, he must -have seen that he had no ground for quarreling with her at all, for she -could have known nothing about Tom in relation to Mary, except Tom -had told her, which was not at all likely. But before he had had time -to see this, he was on his way to Gravesend again. He was so touchy as -well as obstinate about everything wherein his family was concerned, -that the sight of Tom with his Mary's cousin was enough to drive all -reflection out of him for an hour at least. - -Thomas and Lucy stood and stared at each other. Thomas stared from -consternation; Lucy only stared at Tom. - -"Well, Thomas," she said at last, with a sweet, watery smile; for -she had her lover, and she had lost her idol. She had got behind -the scenes, and could worship no more; but Dagon was a fine idea, -notwithstanding his fall, and if she could not set him up on his -pedestal again, she would at least try to give him an arm-chair. -Fish-tailed Dagon is an unfortunate choice for the simile, I know, -critical reader; but let it pass, and the idea that it illustrates -being by no means original, let the figure at least have some claim to -the distinction. - -"Now he'll go and tell my father," said Tom; "and I wish you knew what -a row my mother and he will make between them." - -"But why, Tom? Have they any prejudice against me? Do they know there -is such a person?" - -"I don't know. They may have heard of you at your uncle's." - -"My father because you have no money, and my mother because you have no -grace." - -"No grace, Tom? Am I so very clumsy?" - -Thomas burst out laughing. - -"I forgot," he said. "You were not brought up to my mother's slang. She -and her set use Bible words till they make you hate them." - -"But you shouldn't hate them. They are good in themselves, though they -be wrong used." - -"That's all very well. Only if you had been tried with them as I have -been, I am afraid you would have had to give in to hating them, as well -as me, Lucy. I never did like that kind of slang. But what am I to do -with old Boxall--I beg your pardon--with your uncle Richard? He'll be -sure to write to my father before he sails. They're friends, you know." - -"Well, but you will be beforehand with him, and then it won't matter. -You were going to do it at any rate, and the thing now is to have the -start of him," said Lucy, perhaps not sorry to have in the occurrence -an additional spur to prick the sides of Thomas's intent. - -"Yes, yes; that's all very well," returned Thomas, dubiously, as if -there was a whole world behind it. - -"Now, dear Tom, do go home at once, and write. You will save the last -post if you do," said Lucy, decidedly; for she saw more and more the -necessity, for Thomas's own sake, of urging him to action. - -"So, instead of giving me a happy evening, you are going to send me -home to an empty house!" - -"You see the thing must be done, or my uncle will be before you," said -Lucy, beginning to be vexed with him for his utter want of decision, -and with herself for pushing him toward such an act. Indeed, she felt -all at once that perhaps she had been unmaidenly. But there was no -choice except to do it, or break off the engagement. - -Now, whether it was that her irritation influenced her tone and -infected Tom with like irritation, or that he could not bear being thus -driven to do what he so much disliked, while on the whole he would have -preferred that Mr. Boxall should tell his father and so save him from -the immediate difficulty, the evil spirit in him arose once more in -rebellion, and, like the mule that he was, he made an effort to unseat -the gentle power that would have urged him along the only safe path on -the mountain-side. - -"Lucy, I will not be badgered in this way. If you can't trust me, you -won't get anything that way." - -Lucy drew back a step and looked at him for one moment; then turned and -left the room. Thomas waited for a minute; then, choosing to arouse a -great sense of injury in his bosom, took his hat, and went out, banging -the door behind him. - -Just as he banged Lucy's door, out came Mr. Molken from his. It was as -if the devil had told a hawk to wait, and he would fetch him a pigeon. - -"Coming to have your lesson after all?" he asked, as Thomas, from very -indecision, made a step or two toward him. - -"No; I don't feel inclined for a lesson to-night." - -"Where are you going, then?" - -"Oh, I don't know," answered Tom; trying to look nohow in particular. - -"Come along with me, then. I'll show you something of life after dark." - -"But where are you going?" - -"You'll see that when we get there. You're not afraid, are you?" - -"Not I," answered Tom; "only a fellow likes to know where he's going. -That's all." - -"Well, where would you like to go? A young fellow like you really ought -to know something of the world he lives in. You are clever enough, in -all conscience, if you only knew a little more." - -"Go on, then. I don't care. It's nothing to me where I go. Only," Tom -added, "I have no money in my pocket. I spent my last shilling on this -copy of Goethe's poems." - -"Ah, you never spent your money better! There was a man, now, that -never contented himself with hearsay! He would know all the ways of -life for himself--else how was he to judge of them all? He would taste -of everything, that he might know the taste of it. Why should a man be -ignorant of anything that can be known. Come along. I will take care of -you. See if I don't!" - -"But you can't be going anywhere in London for nothing. And I tell you -I haven't got a farthing in my purse." - -"Never mind that. It shan't cost you anything. Now I am going to make a -clean breast of it, as you English call it; though why there should be -anything dirty in keeping your own secrets I don't know. I want to make -an experiment with you." - -"Give me chloroform, and cut me up?" said Tom, reviving as his quarrel -with Lucy withdrew a little into the background. - -"Not quite that. You shall neither take chloroform, nor have your eyes -bandaged, nor be tied to the table. You can go the moment you have -had enough of it. It is merely for the sake of my theory. Entirely an -experiment." - -"Perhaps, if you told me your theory, I might judge of the nature of -the experiment." - -"I told you all about it the other day. You are one of those fortunate -mortals doomed to be lucky. Why, I knew one--not a gambler, I don't -mean that--whose friends at last would have nothing to do with him -where any chance was concerned. If it was only sixpenny points, they -wouldn't play a single rubber of whist with him except he was their -partner. In fact, the poor wretch was reduced to play only with -strangers,--comparative strangers I mean, of course. He won everything." - -"Then what do you want with me? Out with it." - -"I only want to back you. You don't understand the thing. You shan't -spend a farthing. I have plenty." Here Molken pulled a few sovereigns -from his pocket as he went on, and it never occurred to Tom to ask how -he had them, seeing he was so hard-up at dinner-time. "It's all for my -theory of luck, I assure you. I have given up practical gambling, as -I told you, long ago. It's not right. I _have_ known enough about it, -I confess to you--you know _we_ understand each other; but I confess -too--my theory--I _am_ anxious about that." - -All this time they had been walking along, Thomas paying no heed to the -way they went. He would have known little about it, however, well as he -thought he knew London, for they had entered a region entirely unknown -to him. - -"But you haven't told me, after all," he said, "where you are going." - -"Here," answered Molken, pushing open the swing-door of a public-house. - - * * * * * - -The next morning Thomas made his appearance in the office at the usual -hour, but his face was pale and his eyes were red. His shirt-front was -tumbled and dirty, and he had nearly forty shillings in his pocket. He -never looked up from his work, and now and then pressed his hand to his -head. This Mr. Stopper saw and enjoyed. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -HOW LUCY SPENT THE NIGHT. - - -When Lucy left the room, with her lover--if lover he could be -called--alone in it, her throat felt as if it would burst with the -swelling of something like bodily grief. She did not know what it was, -for she had never felt anything like it before. She thought she was -going to die. Her grandmother could have told her that she would be a -happy woman if she did not have such a swelling in her throat a good -many times without dying of it; but Lucy strove desperately to hide it -from her. She went to her own room and threw herself on her bed, but -started up again when she heard the door bang, flew to the window, and -saw all that passed between Molken and Thomas till they left the court -together. She had never seen Molken so full in the face before; and -whether it was from this full view, or that his face wore more of the -spider expression upon this occasion, I do not know--I incline to the -latter, for I think that an on-looker can read the expression of two -countenances better, sometimes, than those engaged in conversation can -read each other's--however it was, she felt a dreadful repugnance to -Molken from that moment, and became certain that he was trying in some -way or other to make his own out of Thomas. With this new distress was -mingled the kind but mistaken self-reproach that she had driven him to -it. Why should she not have borne with the poor boy, who was worried -to death between his father and mother and Mr. Stopper and that demon -down there? He would be all right if they would only leave him alone. -He was but a poor boy, and, alas! she had driven him away from his only -friend--for such she was sure she was. She threw herself on her bed, -but she could not rest. All the things in the room seemed pressing upon -her, as if they had staring eyes in their heads; and there was no heart -anywhere. - -Her grandmother heard the door bang, and came in search of her. - -"What's the matter, my pet?" she asked, as she entered the room and -found her lying on the bed. - -"Oh, nothing, grannie," answered Lucy, hardly knowing what she said. - -"You've quarrelled with that shilly-shally beau of yours, I suppose. -Well, let him go--_he's_ not much." - -Lucy made no reply, but turned her face toward the wall, as mourners -did ages before the birth of King Hezekiah. Grannie had learned a -little wisdom in her long life, and left her. She would get a cup of -tea ready, for she had great faith in bodily cures for mental aches. -But before the tea was well in the tea-pot Lucy came down in her bonnet -and shawl. - -She could not rest. She tossed and turned. What could Thomas be about -with that man? What mischief might he not take him into? Good women, -in their supposed ignorance of men's wickedness, are not unfrequently -like the angels, in that they understand it perfectly, without the -knowledge soiling one feather of their wings. They see it clearly--even -from afar. Now, although Lucy could not know so much of it as many are -compelled to know, she had some acquaintance with the lowest castes of -humanity, and the vice of the highest is much the same as the vice of -the lowest, only in general worse--more refined, and more detestable. -So, by a natural process, without knowing how, she understood something -of the kind of gulf into which a man like Molken might lead Thomas, and -she could not bear the thoughts that sprung out of this understanding. -Hardly knowing what she did, she got up and put on her bonnet and -shawl, and went down stairs. - -"Where on earth are you going, Lucy?" asked her grandmother, in some -alarm. - -Lucy did not know in the least what she meant to do. She had had a -vague notion of setting out to find Thomas somewhere, and rescue him -from the grasp of Moloch, but, save for the restlessness with which -her misery filled her, she could never have entertained the fancy. -The moment her grandmother asked her the question, she saw how absurd -it would be. Still she could not rest. So she invented an answer, and -ordered her way according to her word. - -"I'm going to see little Mattie," she said. "The child is lonely, and -so am I. I will take her out for a walk." - -"Do then, my dear. It will do you both good," said the grandmother. -"Only you must have a cup of tea first." - -Lucy drank her cup of tea, then rose, and went to the book-shop. Mr. -Kitely was there alone. - -"How's Mattie to-night, Mr. Kitely? Is she any better, do you think?" -she asked. - -"She's in the back room there. I'll call her," said the bookseller, -without answering either of Lucy's questions. - -"Oh! I'll just go in to her. You wouldn't mind me taking her out for a -little walk, would you?" - -"Much obliged to you, miss," returned the bookseller, heartily. "It's -not much amusement the poor child has. I'm always meaning to do better -for her, but I'm so tied with the shop that--_I_ don't know hardly how -it is, but somehow we go on the same old way. She'll be delighted." - -Lucy went into the back parlor, and there sat Mattie, with her legs -curled up beneath her on the window-sill, reading a little book, -thumbed and worn at the edges, and brown with dust and use. - -"Well, Miss Burton," she cried, before Lucy had time to speak, "I've -found something here. I think it's what people call poetry. I'm not -sure; but I'm sure it's good, whatever it is. Only I can't read it very -well. Will you read it to me, please, miss? I do like to be read to." - -"I want you to come out for a walk with me, Mattie," said Lucy, who was -in no humor for reading. - -Wise Mattie glanced up in her face. She had recognized the sadness in -her tone. - -"Read this first, please, Miss Burton," she said. "I think it will do -you good. Things _will_ go wrong. I'm sure it's very sad. And I don't -know what's to be done with the world. It's always going wrong. It's -just like father's watch. He's always saying there's something out of -order in its inside, and he's always a-taking of it to the doctor, as -he calls the watchmaker to amuse me. Only I'm not very easy to amuse," -reflected Mattie, with a sigh. "But," she resumed, "I wish I knew the -doctor to set the world right. The clock o' St. Jacob's goes all right, -but I'm sure Mr. Potter ain't the doctor to set the world right, any -more than Mr. Deny is for Mr. Kitely's watch." - -The associations in Mattie's mind were not always very clear either to -herself or other people; they were generally just, notwithstanding. - -"But you have never been to Mr. Potter's church to know, Mattie." - -"Oh! haven't I, just? Times and times. Mr. Spelt has been a-taking of -me. I do believe mother thinks I am going to die, and wants to get me -ready. I wonder what it all means?" - -"Nonsense, Mattie!" said Lucy, already tamed a little aside from her -own sorrow by the words of the child. "You must put on your hat and -come out with me." - -"My bonnet, miss. Hats are only fit for very little girls. And I won't -go till you read this poetry to me--if it be poetry." - -Lucy took the book, and read. The verses were as follows: - - As Christ went into Jericho town, - 'Twas darkness all, from toe to crown, - About blind Bartimeus. - He said, Our eyes are more than dim, - And so, of course, we don't see Him, - But David's Son can see us. - - Cry out, cry out, blind brother, cry; - Let not salvation dear go by; - Have mercy, Son of David. - Though they were blind, they both could hear-- - They heard, and cried, and he drew near; - And so the blind were saved. - - O Jesus Christ! I'm deaf and blind, - Nothing comes through into my mind, - I only am not dumb. - Although I see thee not, nor hear, - I cry because thou may'st be near; - O Son of David, come. - - A finger comes into my ear; - A voice comes through the deafness drear; - Poor eyes, no more be dim. - A hand is laid upon mine eyes; - I hear, I feel, I see, I rise-- - 'Tis He, I follow Him. - -Before Lucy had finished reading the not very poetic lines, they had -somehow or other reached her heart. For they had one quality belonging -to most good poetry--that of directness or simplicity; and never does a -mind like hers--like hers, I mean, in truthfulness--turn more readily -toward the unseen, the region out of which even that which is seen -comes, than when a rain-cloud enwraps and hides the world around it, -leaving thus, as it were, only the passage upward open. She closed the -little book gently, laid it down, got Mattie's bonnet, and, heedless of -the remarks of the child upon the poem, put it on her, and led her out. -Her heart was too full to speak. As they went through the shop-- - -"A pleasant walk to you, ladies," said the bookseller. - -"Thank you, Mr. Kitely," returned his daughter, for Lucy could not yet -speak. - -They had left Bagot Street, and were in one of the principal -thoroughfares, before Lucy had got the lump in her throat sufficiently -swallowed to be able to speak. She had not yet begun to consider where -they should go. When they came out into the wider street, the sun, -now near the going down, was shining golden through a rosy fog. Long -shadows lay or flitted about over the level street. Lucy had never -before taken any notice of the long shadows of evening. Although she -was a town girl, and had therefore had comparatively few chances, -yet in such wide streets as she had sometimes to traverse they were -not a rare sight. In the city, to be sure, they are much rarer. But -the reason she saw them now was that her sorrowful heart saw the -sorrowfulness of the long shadows out of the rosy mist, and made her -mind observe them. The sight brought the tears again into her eyes, and -yet soothed her. They looked so strange upon that wood-paved street, -that they seemed to have wandered from some heathy moor and lost -themselves in the labyrinth of the city. Even more than the scent of -the hay in the early morning, floating into the silent streets from the -fields round London, are these long shadows to the lover of nature, -convincing him that what seems the unnatural Babylon of artifice and -untruth, is yet at least within the region of nature, contained in her -bosom and subjected to her lovely laws; is on the earth as truly as the -grassy field upon which the child sees with delighted awe his very own -shadow stretch out to such important, yea, portentous, length. Even -hither come the marvels of Nature's magic. Not all the commonplaces of -ugly dwellings, and cheating shops that look churches in the face and -are not ashamed, can shut out that which gives mystery to the glen far -withdrawn, and loveliness to the mountain-side. From this moment Lucy -began to see and feel things as she had never seen or felt them before. -Her weeping had made way for a deeper spring in her nature to flow--a -gain far more than sufficient to repay the loss of such a lover as -Thomas, if indeed she must lose him. - -But Mattie saw the shadows too. - -"Well, miss, who'd have thought of such a place as this! I declare it -bewilders my poor head. I feel every time a horse puts his foot on my -shadow as if I must cry out. Isn't it silly? It's all my big head--it's -not me; you know, miss." - -Lucy could not yet make the remark, and therefore I make it for -her--how often we cry out when something steps on our shadow, passing -yards away from ourselves! There is not a phenomenon of disease--not -even of insanity--that has not its counterpart in our moral miseries, -all springing from want of faith in God. At least, so it seems to me. -That will account for it all, or looks as if it would; and nothing else -does. - -It seems to me, too, that in thinking of the miseries and wretchedness -in the world we seldom think of the other side. We hear of an event in -association with some certain individual, and we say--"How dreadful! -How miserable!" And perhaps we say--"Is there--can there be a God in -the earth when such a thing can take place?" But we do not see into -the region of actual suffering or conflict. We do not see the heart -where the shock falls. We neither see the proud bracing of energies -to meet the ruin that threatens, nor the gracious faint in which the -weak escape from writhing. We do not see the abatement of pain which -is Paradise to the tortured; we do not see the gentle upholding in -sorrow that comes even from the ministrations of nature--not to speak -of human nature--to delicate souls. In a word, we do not see, and the -sufferer himself does not understand, how God is present every moment, -comforting, upholding, heeding that the pain shall not be more than can -be borne, making the thing possible and not hideous. I say nothing of -the peaceable fruits that are to spring therefrom; and who shall dare -to say where they shall not follow upon such tearing up of the soil? -Even those long shadows gave Lucy some unknown comfort, flowing from -Nature's recognition of the loss of her lover; and she clasped the -little hand more tenderly, as if she would thus return her thanks to -Nature for the kindness received. - -To get out of the crowd on the pavement Lucy turned aside into a -lane. She had got half way down it before she discovered that it was -one of those through which she had passed the night before, when she -went with Thomas to the river. She turned at once to leave it. As she -turned, right before her stood an open church door. It was one of those -sepulchral city churches, where the voice of the clergyman sounds -ghostly, and it seems as if the dead below were more real in their -presence than the half dozen worshipers scattered among the pews. - -On this occasion, however, there were seven present when Lucy and -Mattie entered and changed the mystical number to the magical. - -It was a church named outlandishly after a Scandinavian saint. Some -worthy had endowed a week-evening sermon there after better fashion -than another had endowed the poor of the parish. The name of the latter -was recorded in golden letters upon a black tablet in the vestibule, as -the donor of £200, with the addition in letters equally golden, _None -of which was ever paid by his trustees_. - -I will tell you who the worshipers were. There was the housekeeper in -a neighboring warehouse, who had been in a tumult all the day, and at -night-fall thought of the kine-browsed fields of her childhood, and -went to church. There was an old man who had once been manager of a -bank, and had managed it ill both for himself and his company; and -having been dismissed in consequence, had first got weak in the brain, -and then begun to lay up treasure in heaven. Then came a brother and -two sisters, none of them under seventy. The former kept shifting his -brown wig and taking snuff the whole of the service, and the latter -two wiping, with yellow silk handkerchiefs, brown faces inlaid with -coal-dust. They could not agree well enough to live together, for -their fathers will was the subject of constant quarrel. They therefore -lived in three lodgings at considerable distances apart. But every -night in the week they met at this or that church similarly endowed, -sat or knelt or stood in holy silence or sacred speech for an hour and -a half, walked together to the end of the lane discussing the sermon, -and then separated till the following evening. Thus the better parts -in them made a refuge of the house of God, where they came near to -each other, and the destroyer kept a little aloof for the season. -These, with the beadle and his wife, and Lucy and Mattie, made up the -congregation. - -Now, when they left the lane there was no sun to be seen; but when they -entered the church, there he was--his last rays pouring in through a -richly stained window, the only beauty of the building. This window--a -memorial one--was placed in the northern side of the chancel, whence -a passage through houses, chimneys, and churches led straight to the -sunset, down which the last rays I speak of came speeding for one brief -moment ere all was gone, and the memorial as faded and gray as the -memory of the man to whom it was dedicated. - -This change from the dark lane to the sun-lighted church laid hold of -Lucy's feelings. She did not know what it made her feel, but it aroused -her with some vague sense of that sphere of glory which enwraps all -our lower spheres, and she bowed her knees and her head, and her being -worshiped, if her thoughts were too troubled to go upward. The prayers -had commenced, and she kneeled, the words "He pardoneth and absolveth," -were the first that found luminous entrance into her soul; and with -them came the picture of Thomas as he left the court with the man of -the bad countenance. Of him, and what he might be about, her mind was -full; but every now and then a flash of light, in the shape of words, -broke through the mist of her troubled thoughts, and testified of the -glory-sphere beyond; till at length her mind was so far calmed that she -became capable of listening a little to the discourse of the preacher. - -He was not a man of the type of Mr. Potter of St. Jacob's, who -considered himself possessed of worldly privileges in virtue of a -heavenly office not one of whose duties he fulfilled in a heavenly -fashion. Some people considered Mr. Fuller very silly for believing -that he might do good in a church like this, with a congregation like -this, by speaking that which he knew, and testifying that which he -had seen. But he did actually believe it. Somehow or other--I think -because he was so much in the habit of looking up to the Father--the -prayers took a hold of him once more every time he read them; and he so -delighted in the truths he saw that he rejoiced to set them forth--was -actually glad to _talk_ about them to any one who would listen. When he -confessed his feeling about congregations, he said that he preferred -twelve people to a thousand. This he considered a weakness, however; -except that he could more easily let his heart out to the twelve. - -He took for his text the words of our Lord, "Come unto me, all ye that -labor and are heavy laden." He could not see the strangers, for they -sat behind a pillar, and therefore he had no means for discovering that -each of them had a heavy-laden heart; Lucy was not alone in trouble, -for Syne had been hard upon Mattie that day. He addressed himself -especially to the two old women before him, of whose story he knew -nothing, though their faces were as well known to him as the pillars of -the church. But the basin into which the fountain of his speech flowed -was the heart of those girls. - -No doubt presented itself as to the truth of what the preacher was -saying; nor could either of them have given a single argument from -history or criticism for the reality of the message upon which the -preacher founded his exhortation. The truth is not dependent upon proof -for its working. Its relation to the human being is essential, is in -the nature of things; so that if it be but received in faith--that -is, acted upon--it works its own work, and needs the buttressing of -no arguments any more than the true operation of a healing plant -is dependent upon a knowledge of Dioscorides. My reader must not, -therefore, suppose that I consider doubt an unholy thing; on the -contrary, I consider spiritual doubt a far more precious thing than -intellectual conviction, for it springs from the awaking of a deeper -necessity than any that can be satisfied from the region of logic. But -when the truth has begun to work its own influence in any heart, that -heart has begun to rise out of the region of doubt. - -When they came from the church, Lucy and Mattie walked hand in hand -after the sisters and brother, and heard them talk. - -"He's a young one, that!" said the old man. "He'll know a little better -by the time he's as old as I am." - -"Well, I did think he went a little too far when he said a body might -be as happy in the work'us as with thousands of pounds in the Bank of -England." - -"I don't know," interposed the other sister. "He said it depended on -what you'd got inside you. Now, if you've got a bad temper inside you, -all you've got won't make you happy." - -"Thank you, sister. You're very polite, _as usual_. But, after all, -where should we have been but for the trifle we've got in the bank?" - -"You two might ha' been living together like sisters, instead of -quarreling like two cats, if the money had gone as it ought to," said -the old man, who considered that the whole property belonged of right -to him. - -By this time they had reached the end of the lane, and, without a word -to each other, they separated. - -"Syne," said Mattie, significantly. Syne was evidently her evil -incarnation. Lucy did not reply, but hastened home with her, anxious to -be alone. She did not leave the child, however, before she had put her -to bed, and read again the hymn that had taken her fancy before they -went out. - -I will now show my reader how much of the sermon remained upon Lucy's -mind. She sat a few minutes with her grandmother, and then told her -that she felt better, but would like to go to bed. So she took her -candle and went. As soon as she had closed the door, she knelt down by -her bedside, and said something like this--more broken, and with long -pauses between--but like this: - -"O Jesus Christ, I come. I don't know any other way to come. I speak to -thee. Oh, hear me. I am weary and heavy laden. Give me rest. Help me to -put on the yoke of thy meekness and thy lowliness of heart, which thou -sayest will give rest to our souls. I cannot do it without thy help. -Thou couldst do it without help. I cannot. Teach me. Give me thy rest. -How am I to begin? How am I to take thy yoke on me? I must be meek. I -am very troubled and vexed. Am I angry? Am I unforgiving? Poor Thomas! -Lord Jesus, have mercy upon Thomas. He does not know what he is doing. -I will be very patient. I will sit with my hands folded, and bear all -my sorrow, and not vex Grannie with it; and I won't say an angry word -to Thomas. But, O Lord, have mercy upon him, and make him meek and -lowly of heart. I have not been sitting at thy feet and learning of -thee. Thou canst take all my trouble away by making Thomas good. I -ought to have tried hard to keep him in the way his mother taught him, -and I have been idle and self-indulgent, and taken up with my music and -dresses. I have not looked to my heart to see whether it was meek and -lowly like thine. O Lord, thou hast given me everything, and I have -not thought about thee. I thank thee that thou hast made me miserable, -for now I shall be thy child. Thou canst bring Thomas home again to -thee. Thou canst make him meek and lowly of heart, and give rest to his -soul. Amen." - -Is it any wonder that she should have risen from her knees comforted? -I think not. She was already--gentle and good as she had always -been--more meek and lowly. She had begun to regard this meekness as the -yoke of Jesus, and therefore to will it. Already, in a measure, she was -a partaker of his peace. - -Worn out by her suffering, and soothed by her prayer, she fell asleep -the moment she laid her head upon the pillow. And thus Lucy passed the -night. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -MORE SHUFFLING. - - -Tom went home the next night with a racking headache. Gladly would he -have gone to Lucy to comfort him, but he was too much ashamed of his -behavior to her the night before, and too uneasy in his conscience. He -was, indeed, in an abject condition of body, intellect, and morals. -He went at once to his own room and to bed; fell asleep; woke in the -middle of the night miserably gnawed by "Don Worm, the conscience;" -tried to pray, and found it did him no good; turned his thoughts to -Lucy, and burst into tears at the recollection of how he had treated -her, imagining over and over twenty scenes in which he begged her -forgiveness, till he fell asleep at last, dreamed that she turned her -back upon him, and refused to hear him, and woke in the morning with -the resolution of going to see her that night and confessing everything. - -His father had come home after he went to bed, and it was with great -trepidation that he went down to breakfast, almost expecting to find -that he knew already of his relation to Lucy. But Richard Boxall was -above that kind of thing, and Mr. Worboise was evidently free from any -suspicion of the case. - -He greeted his son kindly, or rather frankly, and seemed to be in good -spirits. - -"Our friends are well down the Channel by this time, with such a fair -wind," he said. "Boxall's a lucky man to be able to get away from -business like that. I wish you had taken a fancy to Mary, Tom. She's -sure to get engaged before she comes back. Shipboard's a great place -for getting engaged. Some hungry fellow, with a red coat and an empty -breeches-pocket, is sure to pick her up. You might have had her if you -had liked. However, you may do as well yet; and you needn't be in a -hurry now. It's not enough that there's as good fish in the sea: they -must come to your net, you know." - -Tom laughed it off, went to his office, worked the weary day through, -and ran round to Guild Court the moment he left business. - -Lucy had waked in the night as well as Tom; but she had waked to the -hope that there was a power somewhere--a power working good, and -upholding them that love it; to the hope that a thought lived all -through the dark, and would one day make the darkness light about -her; to the hope that a heart of love and help was at the heart of -things, and would show itself for her need. When, therefore, Tom -knocked--timidly almost--at the door, and opened it inquiringly, she -met him with a strange light in her pale face, and a smile flickering -about a lip that trembled in sympathy with her rain-clouded eyes. -She held out her hand to him cordially, but neither offered to -embrace--Thomas from shame, and Lucy from a feeling of something -between that had to be removed before things could be as they were-or -rather before their outward behavior to each other could be the same, -for things could not to all eternity be the same again: they must be -infinitely better and more beautiful, or cease altogether. - -Thomas gave a look for one moment full in Lucy's eyes, and then dropped -his own, holding her still by the consenting hand. - -"Will you forgive me, Lucy?" he said, in a voice partly choked by -feeling, and partly by the presence of Mrs. Boxall, who, however, could -not hear what passed between them, for she sat knitting at the other -end of the large room. - -"Oh, Tom!" answered Lucy, with a gentle pressure of his hand. - -Now, as all that Tom wanted was to be reinstated in her favor, he -took the words as the seal of the desired reconciliation, and went no -further with any confession. The words, however, meaning simply that -she loved him and wanted to love him, ought to have made Tom the more -anxious to confess all--not merely the rudeness of which he had been -guilty and which had driven her from the room, but the wrong he had -done her in spending the evening in such company; for surely it was -a grievous wrong to a pure girl like Lucy to spend the space between -the last and the next pressure of her hand in an atmosphere of vice. -But the cloud cleared from his brow, and, with a sudden reaction of -spirits, he began to be merry. To this change, however, Lucy did -not respond. The cloud seemed rather to fall more heavily over her -countenance. She turned from him, and went to a chair opposite her -grandmother. Tom followed, and sat down beside her. He was sympathetic -enough to see that things were not right between them after all. But -he referred it entirely to her uneasiness at his parents' ignorance of -their engagement. - -Some of my readers may think that Lucy, too, was to blame for want of -decision; that she ought to have refused to see Thomas even once again, -till he had made his parents aware of their relation to each other. -But knowing how little sympathy and help he had from those parents, -she felt that to be severe upon him thus would be like turning him -out into a snow-storm to find his way home across a desolate moor; -and her success by persuasion would be a better thing for Thomas than -her success by compulsion. No doubt, if her rights alone had to be -considered, and not the necessities of Thomas's moral nature, the -plan she did not adopt would have been the best. But no one liveth to -himself--not even a woman whose dignity is in danger--and Lucy did -not think of herself alone. Yet, for the sake of both, she remained -perfectly firm in her purpose that Thomas should do something. - -"Your uncle has said nothing about that unfortunate rencontre, Lucy," -said Tom, hoping that what had relieved him would relieve her. "My -father came home last night, and the paternal brow is all serene." - -"Then I suppose you said something about it, Tom?" said Lucy, with a -faint hope dawning in her heart. - -"Oh! there's time enough for that. I've been thinking about it, you -see, and I'll soon convince you," he added, hurriedly, seeing the cloud -grow deeper on Lucy's face. "I must tell you something which I would -rather not have mentioned." - -"Don't tell me, if you ought not to tell me, Tom," said Lucy, whose -conscience had grown more delicate than ever, both from the turning of -her own face toward the light, and from the growing feeling that Tom -was not to be trusted as a guide. - -"There's no reason why I shouldn't," returned Tom. "It's only -this--that my father is vexed with me because I wouldn't make love -to your cousin Mary, and that I have let her slip out of my reach -now; for, as he says, somebody will be sure to snap her up before she -comes back. So it's just the worst time possible to tell him anything -unpleasant, you know. I really had far better wait till the poor girl -is well out to sea, and off my father's mind; for I assure you, Lucy, -it will be no joke when he does know. He's not in any mood for the news -just now, I can tell you. And then my mother's away, too, and there's -nobody to stand between me and him." - -Lucy made no reply to his speech, uttered in the eagerness with which -a man, seeking to defend a bad position, sends one weak word after -another, as if the accumulation of poor arguments would make up for -the lack of a good one. She sat for a long minute looking down on a -spot in the carpet--the sight of which ever after was the signal for a -pain-throb; then, in a hopeless tone, said, with a great sigh: - -"I've done all I can." - -The indefiniteness of the words frightened Thomas, and he began again -to make his position good. - -"I tell you what, Lucy," he said; "I give you my promise that before -another month is over--that is to give my father time to get over his -vexation--I will tell him all about it, and take the consequences." - -Lucy sighed once more, and looked dissatisfied. But again it passed -through her mind that if she were to insist further, and refuse to -see Thomas until he had complied with her just desire, she would most -likely so far weaken, if not break, the bond between them, as to take -from him the only influence that might yet work on him for good, and -expose him entirely to such influences as she most feared. Therefore -she said no more. But she could not throw the weight off her, or -behave to Thomas as she had behaved hitherto. They sat silent for some -time--Thomas troubled before Lucy, Lucy troubled about Thomas. Then, -with another sigh, Lucy rose and went to the piano. She had never done -so before when Thomas was with her, for he did not care much about her -music. Now she thought of it as the only way of breaking the silence. -But what should she play? - -Then came into her memory a stately, sweet song her father used to -sing. She did not know where he got either the words or the music of -it. I know that the words are from Petrarch. Probably her father had -translated them, for he had been much in Italy, and was a delicately -gifted man. But whose was the music, except it was his own, I do not -know. And as she sang the words, Lucy perceived for the first time how -much they meant, and how they belonged to her; for in singing them she -prayed both for herself and for Thomas. - - I am so weary with the burden old - Of foregone faults, and power of custom base, - That much I fear to perish from the ways, - And fall into my enemy's grim hold. - A mighty friend, to free me, though self-sold - Came, of his own ineffable high grace, - Then went, and from my vision took his face. - Him now in vain I weary to behold. - But still his voice comes echoing below: - O ye that labor! see, here is the gate! - Come unto me--the way all open lies! - What heavenly grace will--what love--or what fate-- - The glad wings of a dove on me bestow, - That I may rest, and from the earth arise?[1] - -[Footnote 1: Petrarch's sixtieth Sonnet.] - -Her sweet tones, the earnest music, and the few phrases he could catch -here and there, all had their influence upon Tom. They made him feel. -And with that, as usual, he was content. Lucy herself had felt as she -had never felt before, and, therefore, sung as she had never sung -before. And Tom was astonished to find that her voice had such power -over him, and began to wonder how it was that he had not found it out -before. He went home more solemn and thoughtful than he had ever been. - -Still he did nothing. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -A COMING EVENT. - - -Thus things went on for the space of about three weeks. Tom went to see -Lucy almost every night, and sometimes stayed late; for his mother was -still from home, and his father was careless about his hours so long -as they were decent. Lucy's face continued grave, but lost a little -of its trouble; for Tom often asked her to sing to him now, and she -thought she was gaining more of the influence over him which she so -honestly wished to possess. As the month drew toward a close, however, -the look of anxiety began to deepen upon her countenance. - -One evening, still and sultry, they were together as usual. Lucy was -sitting at the piano, where she had just been singing, and Tom stood -beside her. The evening, as the Italian poets would say, had grown -brown, and Mrs. Boxall was just going to light the candles, when Tom -interposed a request for continued twilight. - -"Please, grannie," he said--for he too called her grannie--"do not -light the candles yet. It is so sweet and dusky--just like Lucy here." - -"All very well for you," said Mrs. Boxall; "but what is to become of -me? My love-making was over long ago, and I want to see what I'm about -now. Ah! young people, your time will come next. Make hay while the sun -shines." - -"While the candle's out, you mean, grannie," said Tom, stealing a kiss -from Lucy. - -"I hear more than you think for," said the cheery old woman. "I'll give -you just five minutes' grace, and then I mean to have my own way. I am -not so fond of darkness, I can tell you." - -"How close it is!" said Lucy. "Will you open the window a little wider, -Tom. Mind the flowers." - -She came near the window, which looked down on the little stony desert -of Guild Court, and sank into a high-backed chair that stood beside it. - -"I can hardly drag one foot after another," she said, "I feel so -oppressed and weary." - -"And I," said Tom, who had taken his place behind her, leaning on the -back of her chair, "am as happy as if I were in Paradise." - -"There must be thunder in the air," said Lucy. "I fancy I smell the -lightning already. Oh, dear!" - -"Are you afraid of lightning, then?" asked Thomas. - -"I do not think I am exactly; but it shakes me so! I can't explain what -I mean. It affects me like a false tone on the violin. No, that's not -it. I can't tell what it is like." - -A fierce flash broke in upon her words. Mrs. Boxall gave a scream. - -"The Lord be about us from harm!" she cried. - -Lucy sat trembling. - -Thomas did not know how much she had to make her tremble. It is -wonderful what can be seen in a single moment under an intense light. -In that one flash Lucy had seen Mr. Molken and another man seated at -a table, casting dice, with the eagerness of hungry fiends upon both -their faces. - -A few moments after the first flash, the wind began to rise, and as -flash followed flash, with less and less of an interval, the wind -rose till it blew a hurricane, roaring in the chimney and through the -archway as if it were a wild beast caged in Guild Court, and wanting to -get out. - -When the second flash came, Lucy saw that the blind of Mr. Molken's -window was drawn down. - -All night long the storm raved about London. Chimney-pots clashed on -the opposite pavements. One crazy old house, and one yet more crazy -new one, were blown down. Even the thieves and burglars retreated to -their dens. But before it had reached its worst Thomas had gone home. -He lay awake for some time listening to the tumult and rejoicing in it, -for it roused his imagination and the delight that comes of beholding -danger from a far-removed safety--a selfish pleasure, and ready to pass -from a sense of our own comfort into a complacent satisfaction in the -suffering of others. - -Lucy lay awake for hours. There was no more lightning, but the howling -of the wind tortured her--that is, drew discords from the slackened -strings of the human instrument--her nerves; made "broken music in -her sides." She reaped this benefit, however, that such winds always -drove her to her prayers. On the wings of the wind itself, she hastened -her escape "from the windy storm and tempest." When at last she fell -asleep, it was to dream that another flash of lightning--when or where -appearing she did not know--revealed Thomas casting dice with Molken, -and then left them lapt in the darkness of a godless world. She woke -weeping, fell asleep again, and dreamed that she stood in the darkness -once more, and that somewhere near Thomas was casting dice with the -devil for his soul, but she could neither see him nor cry to him, for -the darkness choked both voice and eyes. Then a hand was laid upon her -head, and she heard the words--not in her ears, but in her heart--"Be -of good cheer, my daughter." It was only a dream; but I doubt if -even--I must not name names, lest I should be interpreted widely from -my meaning--the greatest positivist alive could have helped waking with -some comfort from that dream, nay, could have helped deriving a faint -satisfaction from it, if it happened to return upon him during the day. -"But in no such man would such a dream arise," my reader may object. -"Ah, well," I answer, because I have nothing more to say. And perhaps -even in what I have written I may have been doing or hinting some wrong -to some of the class. It is dreadfully difficult to be just. It is far -easier to be kind than to be fair. - -It was not in London or the Empire only that that storm raged that -night. From all points of the compass came reports of its havoc. -Whether it was the same storm, however, or another on the same night, I -cannot tell; but on the next morning save one, a vessel passing one of -the rocky islets belonging to the Cape Verde group, found the fragments -of a wreck floating on the water. The bark had parted amidships, for, -on sending a boat to the island, they found her stem lying on a reef, -round which little innocent waves were talking like human children. And -on her stem they read her name, _Ningpo, London_. On the narrow strand -they found three bodies: one, that of a young woman, vestureless and -broken. They buried them as they could. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -MATTIE'S ILLNESS. - - -The storm of that night beat furiously against poor Mattie's window, -and made a dreadful tumult in her big head. When her father went into -her little room, as was his custom every morning when she did not first -appear in his, he found her lying awake, with wide eyes, seemingly -unaware of what was before them. Her head and her hand were both hot; -and when her father at length succeeded in gaining some notice from -her, the words she spoke, although in themselves intelligible enough, -had reference to what she had been going through in the night, in -regions far withdrawn, and conveyed to him no understanding of her -condition further than that she was wandering. In great alarm he sent -the charwoman (whose morning visits were Mattie's sole assistance -in the house, for they always had their dinner from a neighboring -cook-shop) to fetch the doctor, while he went up the court to ask Lucy -to come and see her. - -Lucy was tossing in a troubled dream when she woke to hear the knock at -the door. Possibly the whole dream passed between the first and second -summons of the bookseller, who was too anxious and eager to shrink -from rousing the little household. She thought she was one of the ten -virgins; but whether one of the wise or foolish she did not know. She -had knocked at a door, and as it opened, her lamp went out in the wind -it made. But a hand laid hold of hers in the dark, and would have drawn -her into the house. Then she knew that she was holding another hand, -which at first she took to be that of one of her sisters, but found to -be Thomas's. She clung to it, and would have drawn him into the house -with her, but she could not move him. And still the other hand kept -drawing her in. She woke in an agony just as she was losing her hold of -Thomas, and heard Mr. Kitely's knock. She was out of bed in a moment, -put on her dressing-gown and her shoes, and ran down stairs. - -On learning what was the matter she made haste to dress, and in a few -minutes stood by Mattie's bedside. But the child did not know her. -When the doctor came, he shook his head, though he was one of the most -undemonstrative of his profession; and after prescribing for her, -said she must be watched with the greatest care, and gave Lucy urgent -directions about her treatment. Lucy resolved that she would not leave -her, and began at once to make what preparations were necessary for -carrying out the doctor's instructions. Mattie took the medicine he -sent; and in a little while the big eyes began to close, sunk and -opened again, half closed and then started wide open, to settle their -long lashes at last, after many slow flutterings, upon the pale cheek -below them. Then Lucy wrote a note to Mrs. Morgenstern, and left her -patient to run across to her grandmother to consult with her how she -should send it. But when she opened the door into the court, there was -Poppie, who of course flitted the moment she saw her, but only a little -way off, like a bold bird. - -"Poppie, dear Poppie!" cried Lucy, earnestly, "do come here. I want -you." - -"Blowed if I go there again, lady!" said Poppie, without moving in -either direction. - -"Come here, Poppie. I won't touch you--I promise you. I wouldn't tell -you a lie, Poppie," she added, seeing that she made no impression on -the child. - -To judge by the way Poppie came a yard nearer, she did not seem at all -satisfied by the assurance. - -"Look here, Poppie. There's a little girl--you know her--Mattie--she's -lying very ill here, and I can't leave her. Will you take this letter -for me--to that big house in Wyvil Place--to tell them I can't come -to-day?" - -"They'll wash me," said Poppie, decisively. - -"Oh, no, they won't again, Poppie. They know now that you don't like -it." - -"They'll be giving me something I don't want, then. I know the sort of -them." - -"You needn't go into the house at all. Just ring the bell, and give the -letter to the servant." - -Poppie came close up to Lucy. - -"I'll tell you what, lady: I'm not afraid of _him_. _He_ won't touch me -again. If he do, I'll bite worser next time. But I won't run errands -for nothink. Nobody does, miss. You ain't forgotten what you guv me -last time? Do it again, and I'm off." - -"A good wash, Poppie--that's what I gave you last time." - -"No, miss," returned the child, looking up in her face beseechingly. -"You know as well as me." And she held up her pretty grimy mouth, so -that her meaning could not be mistaken. "Old Mother Flanaghan gave me -a kiss once. You remember her gin-bottle, don't you, miss?" she added, -still holding up her mouth. - -For a moment Lucy did hesitate, but from no yielding to the repugnance -she naturally felt at dirt. She hesitated, thinking to make a -stipulation on her side, for the child's good. - -"I tell you what, Poppie," she said; "I will kiss you every time you -come to me with a clean face, as often as you like." - -Poppie's dirty face fell. She put out her hand, took the letter, -turned, and went away slowly. - -Lucy could not bear it. She darted after her, caught her, and kissed -her. The child, without looking round, instantly scudded. - -Lucy could hardly believe her eyes, when, going down at Mr. Kitely's -call, some time after, she found Poppie in the shop. - -"She says she wants to see you, miss," said Kitely. "I don't know what -she wants. Begging, I suppose." - -And so she was. But all her begging lay in the cleanness and brightness -of her countenance. She might have been a little saint but for the -fact that her aureole was all in her face, and around it lay a border -of darkness that might be felt. - -"Back already!" said Lucy, in astonishment. - -"Yes, lady. I didn't bite him. I throwed the letter at him, and he -throwed it out again; and says I, pickin' of it up, 'You'll hear -o' this to-morrow, Plush.' And says he, 'Give me that letter, you -wagabones.' And I throwed it at him again, and he took it up and looked -at it, and took it in. And here I am, lady," added Poppie, making a -display of her clean face. - -Lucy kissed her once more, and she was gone in a moment. - -While Mattie was asleep Lucy did all she could to change the aspect of -the place. - -"She shan't think of Syne the first thing when she comes to herself," -she said. - -With the bookseller's concurrence, who saw the reason for it the moment -she uttered it, she removed all the old black volumes within sight of -her bed, and replaced them with the brightest bindings to be found in -the shop. She would rather have got rid of the books altogether; but -there was no time for that now. Then she ventured, finding her sleep -still endure, to take down the dingy old chintz curtains from her tent -bed, and replace them with her own white dimity. These she then drew -close round the bed, and set about cleaning the window, inside and -out. Her fair hands were perfectly fit for such work, or any other -labor that love chose to require of them. "Entire affection hateth -nicer hands," is one of the profoundest lines in all Spenser's profound -allegory. But she soon found that the light would be far too much for -her little patient, especially as she had now only white curtains to -screen her. So the next thing was to get a green blind for the window. -Not before that was up did Mattie awake, and then only to stare about -her, take her medicine, and fall asleep again; or, at least, into some -state resembling sleep. - -She was suffering from congestion of the brain. For a week she -continued in nearly the same condition, during which time Lucy scarcely -left her bedside. And it was a great help to her in her own trouble to -have such a charge to fulfill. - -At length one morning, when the sun was shining clear and dewy through -a gap between the houses of the court, and Lucy was rising early -according to her custom--she lay on a sofa in Mattie's room--the child -opened her eyes and saw. Then she closed them again, and Lucy heard her -murmuring to herself: - -"Yes, I thought so. I'm dead. And it is so nice; I've got white clouds -to my bed. And there's Syne cutting away with all his men--just like a -black cloud--away out of the world. Ah! I see you, Syne; you ought to -be ashamed of yourself for worrying me as you've been doing all this -time. You see it's no use. You ought really to give it up. He's too -much for you, anyhow." - -This she said brokenly and at intervals. The whole week had been -filled with visions of conflict with the enemy, and the Son of Man -had been with her in those visions. The spiritual struggles of them -that are whole are the same in kind as those of this brain-sick child. -They are tempted and driven to faithlessness, to self-indulgence, to -denial of God and of his Christ, to give in--for the sake of peace, -as they think. And I, believing that the very hairs of our heads are -all numbered, and that not a sparrow can fall to the ground without -our Father, believe that the Lord Christ--I know not how, because such -knowledge is too wonderful for me--is present in the soul of such a -child, as certainly as in his Church, or in the spirit of a saint -who, in his name, stands against the whole world. There are two ways -in which He can be present in the Church, one in the ordering of the -confluence and working of men's deeds, the other in judgment: but he -can be present in the weakest child's heart, in the heart of any of his -disciples, in an infinitely deeper way than those, and without this -deeper presence, he would not care for the outside presence of the -other modes. It is in the individual soul that the Spirit works, and -out of which he sends forth fresh influences. And I believe that the -good fight may be fought amid the wildest visions of a St. Anthony, -or even in the hardest confinement of Bedlam. It was such a fight, -perhaps, that brought the maniacs of old time to the feet of the -Saviour, who gave them back their right mind. Let those be thankful -who have it to fight amid their brothers and sisters, who can return -look for look and word for word, and not among the awful visions of a -tormented brain. - - "As thick and numberless - As the gay motes that people the sunbeams." - -Lucy did not venture to show herself for a little while, but at length -she peeped within the curtain, and saw the child praying with folded -hands. Ere she could withdraw, she opened her eyes and saw her. - -"I thought I was in heaven!" she said; "but I don't mind, if you're -there, miss. I've been seeing you all through it. But it's all over -now," she added, with a sigh of relief. - -"You must be very still, dear Mattie," said Lucy. "You are not well -enough to talk yet." - -"I am quite well, miss; only sleepy, I think." And before Lucy could -answer, she was indeed asleep once more. - -It was quite another fortnight before Lucy ventured to give up her -place to her grandmother. During this time, she saw very little of -Thomas--only for a few minutes every evening as he left the place--and -somehow she found it a relief not to see more of him. - -All the time of Mattie's illness, Mr. Spelt kept coming to inquire -after her. He was in great concern about her, but he never asked to -see her. He had a great gift in waiting, the little man. Possibly he -fared the better, like Zaccheus, who wanted only to see, and _was -seen_. But perhaps his quietness might be partly attributed to another -cause--namely, that since Mattie's illness he had brooded more upon -the suspicion that his wife had had a child. I cannot in the least -determine whether this suspicion was a mere fancy or not; but I know -that the tailor thought he had good grounds for it; and it does not -require a very lawless imagination to presume the thing possible. - -Every day of those three weeks, most days more than once or twice even, -Poppie was to be seen at one hour or other in Guild Court, prowling -about--with a clean face, the only part of her, I am all but certain, -that was clean--for the chance of seeing Lucy. From what I know of -Poppie, I cannot think that it was anxiety about Mattie that brought -her there. I do not doubt that she was selfish--prowling about after a -kiss from Lucy. And as often as Lucy saw her she had what she wanted. - -But if Lucy did not see her sometimes, at least there was one who -always did see her from his nest in the--rock, I was going to say, -but it was only the wall. I mean, of course, Mr. Spelt. He saw her, -and watched her, until at length, as he plied his needle, the fancy -which already occupied his brain began to develop itself, and he -wondered whether that Poppie might not be his very lost child. Nor had -the supposition lasted more than five minutes before he passionately -believed, or at least passionately desired to believe it, and began to -devise how to prove it, or at least to act upon it. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -FISHING FOR A DAUGHTER. - - -Mr. Spelt sat in his watch-tower, over the head of patiently cobbling -Mr. Dolman, reflecting. He too was trying to cobble--things in general, -in that active head of his beneath its covering of heathery hair. -But he did not confine his efforts to things in general--one very -particular thing had its share in the motions of his spirit--how to -prove that Poppie was indeed his own child. He had missed his little -Mattie much, and his child-like spirit was longing greatly after some -child-like companionship. This, in Mattie's case, he had found did him -good, cleared his inward sight, helped him to cobble things even when -her questions showed him the need of fresh patching in many a place -where he had not before perceived the rent or the thin-worn threads of -the common argument or belief. And the thought had come to him that -perhaps Mattie was taken away from him to teach him that he ought -not, as Mattie had said with regard to Mrs. Morgenstern, to cultivate -friendship only where he got good from it. The very possibility that he -had a child somewhere in London seemed at length to make it his first -duty to rescue some child or other from the abyss around him, and they -were not a few swimming in the vast vortex. - -Having found out that Mrs. Flanaghan knew more about Poppie than anyone -else, and that she crept oftener into the bottom of an empty cupboard -in her room than anywhere else, he went one morning to see whether he -could not learn something from the old Irishwoman. The place looked -very different then from the appearance it presented to Lucy the day -she found it inhabited by nobody, and furnished with nothing but the -gin-bottle. - -When the tailor opened the door, he found the room swarming with -children. Though it was hot summer weather, a brisk fire burned in -the grate; and the place smelt strongly of _reesty_ bacon. There were -three different groups of children in three of the corners: one of them -laying out the dead body of a terribly mutilated doll; another, the -tangle-haired members of which had certainly had no share in the bacon -but the smell of it, sitting listlessly on the floor, leaning their -backs against the wall, apparently without hope and without God in the -world; one of the third group searching for possible crumbs where she -had just had her breakfast, the other two lying ill of the measles on -a heap of rags. Mrs. Flanaghan was in the act of pouring a little gin -into her tea. The tailor was quick-eyed, and took in the most of this -at a glance. But he thought he saw something more, namely, the sharp -eyes of Poppie peeping through the crack of the cupboard. He therefore -thought of nothing more but a hasty retreat, for Poppie must not know -he came after her. - -"Good-morning to you, Mrs. Flanaghan," he said, with almost Irish -politeness. Then, at a loss for anything more, he ventured to -add--"Don't you think, ma'am, you'll have too much on your hands if -all them children takes after the two in the corner? They've got the -measles, ain't they, ma'am?" - -"True for you, sir," returned Mrs. Flanaghan, whom the gin had soothed -after the night's abstinence. "But we'll soon get rid o' the varmint," -she said, rising from her seat. "Praise God the Father! we'll soon -get rid o' them. Get out wid ye!" she went on, stamping with her -foot on the broken floor. "Get out! What are ye doin' i' the house -when ye ought to be enjoyin' yerselves in the fresh air? Glory be to -God!--there they go, as I tould you. And now what'll I do for yerself -this blessed marnin'?" - -By this time the tailor had made up his mind to inquire after a certain -Irishman, for whom he had made a garment of fustian, but who had -never appeared to claim it. He did not expect her to know anything -of the man, for he was considerably above Mrs. Flanaghan's level, -but it afforded a decent pretext. Mrs. Flanaghan, however, claimed -acquaintance with him, and begged that the garment in question might -be delivered into her hands in order to reach him, which the tailor, -having respect both to his word and his work, took care not to promise. - -But as he went to his workshop, he thought what a gulf he had escaped. -For suppose that Mrs. Flanaghan had been communicative, and had proved -to his dissatisfaction that the girl was none of his! Why, the whole -remaining romance of his life would have been gone. It was far better -to think that she was or might be his child, than to know that she -was not. And, after all, what did it matter whether she was or was -not?--thus the process of thinking went on in the tailor's brain--was -she not a child? What matter whether his own or someone else's? God -must have made her all the same. And if he were to find his own child -at last, neglected and ignorant and vicious, could he not pray better -for her if he had helped the one he could help? Might he not then say, -"O Lord, they took her from me, and I had no chance with _her_, but I -did what I could--I caught a wild thing, and I tried to make something -of her, and she's none the worse for it--do Thou help my poor child, -for I could not, and Thou canst. I give thee back thine, help mine." -Before he had reached his perch, he had resolved that he would make no -further inquiry whatever about Poppie, but try to get a hold of her, -and do for her what he could. For whether he was her father or not, -neither case could alter the facts, that she was worth helping, and -that it would be very hard to get a hold of her. All that Poppie could -know of fathers would only make her more unwilling to be caught if she -had a suspicion that Mr. Spelt laid such a claim to her; and he would -therefore scheme as if their nearest common relations were "the grand -old gardener and his wife," and with the care which the shy _startling_ -nature of Poppie, to use a Chaucerian word, rendered necessary. -Tailors have time to think about things; and no circumstances are more -favorable to true thought than those of any work which, employing the -hands, leaves the head free. Before another day had passed Mr. Spelt -had devised his bait. - -The next morning came--a lovely morning for such fishing as he -contemplated. Poppie appeared in the court, prowling as usual in the -hope of seeing Lucy. But the tailor appeared to take no notice of her. -Poppie's keen eyes went roving about as usual, wide awake to the chance -of finding something. Suddenly she darted at a small object lying near -the gutter, picked it up, put it in her mouth, and sucked it with -evident pleasure. The tailor was as one who seeing sees not. Only he -plied his needle and thread more busily, casting down sidelong glances -in the drawing of the same. And there was no little triumph, for it was -the triumph of confidence for the future, as well as of success for the -present, in each of those glances. Suddenly Poppie ran away. - -The morning after she was there again. Half involuntarily, I suppose, -her eyes returned to the spot where she had found the bull's-eye. -There, to the astonishment even of Poppie, who was very seldom -astonished at anything, lay another--a larger one, as she saw at a -glance, than the one she had found yesterday. It was in her mouth in -a moment. But she gave a hurried glance round the court, and scudded -at once. Like the cherub that sat aloft and saw what was going to come -of it all, the little tailor drew his shortening thread, and smiled -somewhere inside his impassive face, as he watched the little human -butterfly, with its torn wings, lighting and flitting as in one and the -same motion. - -The next morning there again sat Mr. Spelt at his work--working and -watching. With the queerest look of inquiry and doubtful expectation, -Poppie appeared from under the archway, with her head already turned -toward El Dorado--namely, the flag-stone upon which the gifts of -Providence had been set forth on other mornings. There--could she, -might she, believe her eyes?--lay a splendid polyhedral lump of -rock; white as snow, and veined with lovely red. It was not quartz -and porphyry, reader, but the most melting compound of sugar and -lemon-juice that the sweet inventing Genius--why should she not have -the name of a tenth muse? Polyhedia, let us call her--had ever hatched -in her brooding brain, as she bent over melting sugar or dark treacle, -"in linked sweetness long drawn out." This time Poppie hesitated a -little, and glanced up and around. She saw nobody but the tailor, and -he was too cunning even for her. Busy as a bee, he toiled away lightly -and earnestly. Then, as if the sweetmeat had been a bird for which she -was laying snares, as her would-be father was laying them for her, -she took two steps nearer on tiptoe, then stopped and gazed again. -It was not that she thought of stealing, any more than the birds who -take what they find in the fields and on the hedges; it was only from -a sort of fear that it was too good fortune for her, and that there -must be something evanescent about it--wings somewhere. Or perhaps she -vaguely fancied there must be some unfathomable design in it, awful and -inscrutable, and therefore glanced around her once more--this time all -but surprising the tailor, with uplifted head and the eager eyes of a -fowler. But the temptation soon overcame any suspicion she might have. -She made one bound upon the prize, and scudded as she had never scudded -before. Mr. Spelt ran his needle in under the nail of his left thumb, -and so overcame his delight in time to save his senses. - -And now came a part of the design which Mr. Spelt regarded as a very -triumph of cunning invention. That evening he drove two tiny staples -of wire--one into Mr. Dolman's door-post close to the ground; the -other into his own. The next morning, as soon as he arrived, he chose -a thread as near the color of the flag-stones that paved the passage -as he could find, fastened one end with a plug of toffee into a hole -he bored with his scissors in another splendor of rock, laid the bait -in the usual place, drew the long thread through the two eyes of the -staples, and sat down in his lair with the end attached to the little -finger of his left hand. - -The time arrived about which Poppie usually appeared. Mr. Spelt got -anxious--nervously anxious. She was later than usual, and he almost -despaired; but at length, there she was, peeping cautiously round the -corner toward the trap. She saw the bait--was now so accustomed to it -that she saw it almost without surprise. She had begun to regard it -as most people regard the operations of nature--namely, as that which -always was so and always will be so, and therefore has no reason in -it at all. But this time a variety in the phenomenon shook the couch -of habitude upon which her mind was settling itself in regard to the -saccharine bowlders; for, just as she stooped to snatch it to herself -and make it her own, away it went as if in terror of her approaching -fingers--but only to the distance of half a yard or so. Eager as the -tailor was--far more eager to catch Poppie than Poppie was to catch -the lollypop--he could scarcely keep his countenance when he saw the -blank astonishment that came over Poppie's pretty brown face. Certainly -she had never seen a living lollypop, yet motion is a chief sign of -life, and the lollypop certainly moved. Perhaps it would have been -wiser to doubt her senses first, but Poppie had never yet found her -senses in the wrong, and therefore had not learned to doubt them. Had -she been a child of weak nerves, she might have recoiled for a moment -from a second attempt, but instead of that she pounced upon it again -so suddenly that the Archimago of the plot was unprepared. He gave his -string a tug only just as she seized it, and, fortunately, the string -came out of the plugged hole. Poppie held the bait, and the fisherman -drew in his line as fast as possible, that his fish might not see it. - -The motions of Poppie's mind were as impossible to analyze as those of -a field-mouse or hedge-sparrow. This time she began at once to gnaw the -sugar, staring about her as she did so, and apparently in no hurry to -go. Possibly she was mentally stunned by the marvel of the phenomenon, -but I do not think so. Poppie never could be much surprised at -anything. Why should anything be surprising? To such a child everything -was interesting--nothing overwhelming. She seemed constantly shielded -by the divine buckler of her own exposure and helplessness. You could -have thought that God had said to her, as to his people of old, "Fear -not thou, O Poppie," and therefore Poppie did not fear, and found it -answer. It is a terrible doctrine that would confine the tender care -of the Father to those that know and acknowledge it. He carries the -lambs in his bosom, and who shall say when they cease to be innocent -lambs and become naughty sheep? Even then he goes into the mountains, -and searches till he finds. - -Not yet would the father aspirant show his craft. When he saw her stand -there gnawing his innocent bait, he was sorely tempted to call, in the -gentlest voice, "Poppie, dear;" but, like a fearful and wise lover, who -dreads startling the maiden he loves, he must yet dig his parallels -and approach with guile. He would even refine upon his own cunning. -The next morning his bait had only a moral hook inside, that is, there -was no string attached. But now that happened which he had all along -feared. A child of the court--in which there were not more than two, I -think--whom Mr. Spelt regarded, of course, as a stray interloper, for -had she not enough of the good things already?--spied the sweetmeat, -and following the impulses of her depraved humanity, gobbled it up -without ever saying, like heathen Cassius, "By your leave, gods." -Presently after Poppie appeared, looked, stared--actually astonished -now--and, with fallen face, turned and went away. Whether she or her -cunning enemy overhead was the more disappointed, I will not venture -to determine, but Mr. Spelt could almost have cried. Four-and-twenty -long tedious hours of needle and thread must pass before another chance -would arrive--and the water so favorable, with the wind from the right -quarter just clouding its surface, and the fly so taking!--it was hard -to bear. He comforted himself, however, by falling back upon a kind -of divine fatalism with which God had endowed him, saying to himself, -"Well, it's all for the best,"--a phrase not by any means uncommon -among people devoutly inclined; only there was this difference between -most of us and Mr. Spelt, that we follow the special aphorism with -a sigh, while he invariably smiled and brightened up for the next -thing he had to do. To say things are all right and yet gloom does -seem rather illogical in you and me, reader, does it not? Logical or -illogical, it was not Spelt's way anyhow. He began to whistle, which he -never did save upon such occasions when the faithful part of him set -itself to conquer the faithless. - -But he would try the bait without the line once more. Am I wearying my -reader with the process? I would not willingly do so, of course. But I -fancy he would listen to this much about a salmon any day, so I will -go on with my child. Poppie came the next morning, notwithstanding -her last disappointment, found the bull's-eye, for such I think it -was this time, took it, and sucked it to nothing upon the spot--did -it leisurely, and kept looking about--let us hope for Lucy, and that -Poppie considered a kiss a lovelier thing still than a lollypop. - -The next morning Mr. Spelt tried the string again, watched it better, -and by a succession of jerks, not slow movements, lest, notwithstanding -the cunning of the color, she should see the string, drew her step by -step in the eagerness of wonder; as well as of that appetite which is -neither hunger nor thirst, and yet concerned with the same organs, but -for which we have, so far as I am aware, no word, I mean the love of -sweets, to the very foot of his eyrie. When she laid hold of the object -desired at the door-post, he released it by a final tug against the eye -of the staple. Before she could look up from securing it, another lump -of rock fell at her feet. Then she did look up, and saw the smiling -face of the tailor looking out (once more like an angel over a cloudy -beam) over the threshold, if threshold it could properly be called, of -his elevated and stairless door. She gave back a genuine whole-faced -smile, and turned and scudded. The tailor's right hand shuttled with -increased vigor all the rest of that day. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -MR. FULLER. - - -One evening Lucy was sitting as usual with Mattie, for the child had -no friends but her and grannie; her only near relative was a widowed -sister of her father, whom she did not like. She was scarcely so well -as she had been for the last few days, and had therefore gone early -to bed, and Lucy sat beside her to comfort her. By this time she had -got the room quite transformed in appearance--all the books out of -it, a nice clean paper up on the walls, a few colored prints from the -_Illustrated London News_ here and there, and, in fact, the whole made -fit for the abode of a delicate and sensitive child. - -"What shall I read to-night, Mattie?" she asked. For Mattie must always -have something read to her out of the New Testament before she went to -sleep; Mr. Spelt had inaugurated the custom. - -"Oh, read about the man that sat in his Sunday clothes," said Mattie. - -"I don't know that story," returned Lucy. - -"I wish dear mother was here," said Mattie, with the pettishness of an -invalid. "He would know what story I mean--that he would." - -"Would you like to see Mr. Spelt?" suggested Lucy. "He was asking about -you not an hour ago." - -"Why didn't he come up, then? I wonder he never comes to see me." - -"I was afraid you weren't strong enough for it, Mattie. But I will run -and fetch him now, if he's not gone." - -"Oh, yes; do, please. I know he's not gone, for I have not heard his -step yet. I always watch him out of the court when I'm in bed. He goes -right under me." - -Lucy went, and Mr. Spelt came gladly. - -"Well, mother," said Mattie, holding out a worn little cloud of a hand, -"how do you do?" - -Mr. Spelt could hardly answer for emotion. He took the little hand in -his, and it seemed to melt away in his grasp, till he could hardly feel -it. - -"Don't cry, mother. I am very happy. I do believe I've seen the last -of old Syne. I feel just like the man that had got his Sunday clothes -on, you know. You see what a pretty room Miss Burton has made, instead -of all those ugly books that Syne was so fond of: well, my poor head -feels just like this room, and I'm ready to listen to anything about -Somebody. Read about the man in his Sunday clothes." - -But Mr. Spelt, no less than Lucy, was puzzled as to what the child -meant. - -"I wish that good clergyman that talked about Somebody's burden being -easy to carry, would come and see me," she said. "I know he would tell -me the story. He knows all about Somebody." - -"Shall I ask Mr. Potter to come and see you?" said Spelt, who had never -heard of Mr. Fuller by name, or indeed anything about him, but what -Mattie had told him before she was taken ill. - -"I don't mean Mr. Potter--you know well enough. He's always pottering," -said the child, with a laugh. - -She had not yet learned to give honor where honor is not due; or, -rather, she had never been young enough to take seeming for being, -or place for character. The consequence was that her manners and her -modesty had suffered--not her reverence or her heart. - -[Illustration: "THE LITTLE TAILOR WAS VERY SHY OF READING BEFORE LUCY."] - -"I want to see the gentleman that really thinks it's all about -something," she resumed. "Do you know where he lives, Miss Burton?" - -"No," answered Lucy, "but I will find out to-morrow, and ask him to -come and see you." - -"Well, that will be nice," returned Mattie. "Read to me, Mr. -Spelt--anything you like." - -The little tailor was very shy of reading before Lucy, but Mattie would -hear of nothing else, for she would neither allow Lucy to read, nor yet -to go away. - -"Don't mind me, Mr. Spelt," said Lucy, beseechingly. "We are all -friends, you know. If we belong to the Somebody Mattie speaks about we -needn't be shy of each other." - -Thus encouraged, Mr. Spelt could refuse no longer. He read about the -daughter of Jairus being made alive again. - -"Oh, dear me!" said Mattie. "And if I had gone dead when Syne was -tormenting of me, He could have come into the room, and taken me by -the hand and said, 'Daughter, get up.' How strange it would be if He -said, 'Daughter' to me, for then He would be my father, you know. -And they say He's a king. I wonder if that's why Mr. Kitely calls me -_princess_. To have Mr. Kitely and Somebody," she went on musingly, -"both for fathers is more than I can understand. There's something -about godfathers and godmothers in the Catechism, ain't there, Miss -Burton?" Then, without, waiting for a reply, she went on, "I wish my -father would go and hear what that nice gentleman--not Mr. Potter--has -got to say about it. Miss Burton, read the hymn about blind Bartimeus, -and that'll do mother good, and then I'll go to sleep." - -The next day, after she came from the Morgensterns', Lucy went to -find Mr. Fuller. She had been to the week-evening service twice since -Mattie began to recover, but she had no idea where Mr. Fuller lived, -and the only way she could think of for finding him was to ask at the -warehouses about the church. She tried one after another, but nobody -even knew that there was any service there--not to say where the -evening preacher lived. With its closed, tomb-like doors, and the utter -ignorance of its concerns manifested by the people of the neighborhood, -the great ugly building stood like some mausoleum built in honor of a -custom buried beneath it, a monument of the time when men could buy and -sell and worship God. So Lucy put off further inquiry till the next -week-evening service, for she had found already that Mr. Fuller had -nothing to do with the Sunday services in that church. - -How she wished that she could take Thomas with her the next time she -went to receive Mr. Fuller's teaching! She had seen very little of -Thomas, as I have said, and had been so much occupied with Mattie, -that she did not even know whether he had fulfilled his promise about -telling his father. I suspect, however, that she had been afraid to ask -him, foreboding the truth that he had in fact let his promise lapse in -time, and was yet no nearer toward its half redemption in act, which -was all that remained possible now. And, alas! what likelihood was -there of the good seed taking good root in a heart where there was so -little earth? - -Finding Mr. Kitely in his shop door, Lucy stopped to ask after Mattie, -for she had not seen her that morning. And then she told him what she -had been about, and her want of success. - -"What does the child want a clergyman for?" asked Mr. Kitely, with some -tone of dissatisfaction. "I'm sure you're better than the whole lot of -them, miss. Now I could listen to you--" - -"How do you know that?" retorted Lucy, smiling; for she wanted to stop -the eulogium upon herself. - -"Because I've listened to you outside the door, Miss Burton, when you -was a-talking to Mattie inside." - -"That wasn't fair, Mr. Kitely." - -"No more it wasn't, but it's done me no harm, nor you neither. But for -them parsons!--they're neither men nor women. I beg their pardons--they -_are_ old wives." - -"But are you sure that you know quite what you are talking about? I -think there must be all sorts of them as well as of other people. I -wish you would come and hear Mr. Fuller some evening with Mattie and me -when she's better. You would allow that he talks sense, anyhow." - -"I ain't over hopeful, miss. And to tell the truth, I don't much care. -I don't think there can be much in it. It's all an affair of the -priests. To get the upper hand of people they work on their fears and -their superstitions. But I don't doubt some of them may succeed in -taking themselves in, and so go on like the fox that had lost his tail, -trying to make others cut off theirs too." - -Lucy, did not reply, because she had nothing at hand to say. The -bookseller feared he had hurt her. - -"And so you couldn't find this Mr. Fuller? Well, you leave it to me. -I'll find him, and let you know in the afternoon." - -"Thank you, Mr. Kitely. Just tell Mattie, will you? I must run home -now, but I'll come in in the afternoon to hear how you have succeeded." - -About six o'clock, Lucy reëntered Mr. Kitely's shop, received the -necessary directions to find the "parson," ran up to tell Mattie that -she was going, for the child had not come down stairs, and then set out. - -To succeed she had to attend to Mr. Kitely's rather minute -instructions; for although the parsonage lay upon the bank of one of -the main torrents of city traffic, it was withdrawn and hidden behind -shops and among offices, taverns, and warehouses. After missing the -most direct way, she arrived at last, through lanes and courts, much -to her surprise, at the border of a green lawn on the opposite side of -which rose a tree that spread fair branches across a blue sky filled -with pearly light, and blotted here and there with spongy clouds that -had filled themselves as full of light as they could hold. The other -half of the branches of the same tree spread themselves across the -inside of a gable, all that remained of a tavern that was being pulled -down. The gable was variegated with the incongruous papers of many -small rooms, and marked with the courses of stairs and the holes for -the joints of the floors; and this dreariness was the background for -the leaves of the solitary tree. On the same side was the parsonage, -a long, rather low, and country-looking house, from the door of which -Lucy would not have been surprised to see a troop of children burst -with shouts and laughter, to tumble each other about upon the lawn, as -smooth, at least, if not as green, as any of the most velvety of its -kind. One side of the square was formed by a vague, commonplace mass of -dirty and expressionless London houses--what they might be used for no -one could tell--one of them, probably, an eating-house--mere walls with -holes to let in the little light that was to be had. The other side was -of much the same character, only a little better; and the remaining -side was formed by the long barn-like wall of the church, broken at -regular intervals by the ugly windows, with their straight sides -filled with parallelograms, and their half-circle heads filled with -trapeziums--the ugliest window that can be made, except it be redeemed -with stained glass, the window that makes the whole grand stretch of -St. Paul's absolutely a pain. The church was built of brick, nearly -black below, but retaining in the upper part of the square tower -something of its original red. All this Lucy took in at a glance as she -went up to the door of the parsonage. - -She was shown into a small study, where Mr. Fuller sat. She told him -her name, that she had been to his week-evening service with Mattie, -and that the child was ill and wanted to see him. - -"Thank you very much," said Mr. Fuller. "Some of the city clergymen -have so little opportunity of being useful! I am truly grateful to you -for coming to me. A child in my parish is quite a godsend to me--I do -not use the word irreverently--I mean it. You lighten my labor by the -news. Perhaps I ought to say I am sorry she is ill. I dare say I shall -be sorry when I see her. But meantime, I am very glad to be useful." - -He promised to call the next day; and, after a little more talk, Lucy -took her leave. - -Mr. Fuller was a middle-aged man, who all his conscious years had been -trying to get nearer to his brethren, moved thereto by the love he bore -to the Father. The more anxious he was to come near to God, the more -he felt that the high-road to God lay through the forest of humanity. -And he had learned that love is not a feeling to be called up at will -in the heart, but the reward as the result of an active exercise of the -privileges of a neighbor. - -Like the poor parson loved of Chaucer, "he waited after no pomp ne -reverence;" and there was no chance of preferment coming in search of -him. He was only a curate still. But the incumbent of St. Amos, an -old man, with a grown-up family, almost unfit for duty, and greatly -preferring his little estate in Kent to the city parsonage, left -everything to him, with much the same confidence he would have had -if Mr. Fuller had been exactly the opposite of what he was, paying -him enough to live upon--indeed, paying him well for a curate. It was -not enough to marry upon, as the phrase is, but Mr. Fuller did not -mind that, for the only lady he had loved, or ever would love in that -way, was dead; and all his thoughts for this life were bent upon such -realizing of divine theory about human beings, and their relation to -God and to each other, as might make life a truth and a gladness. -It was therefore painful to him to think that he was but a _city_ -curate, a being whose thirst after the relations of his calling among -his fellows reminded himself of that of the becalmed mariner, with -"water, water everywhere, but water none to drink." He seemed to have -nothing to do with them, nor they with him. Perhaps not one individual -of the crowds that passed his church every hour in the week would be -within miles of it on the Sunday; for even of those few who resided -near it, most forsook the place on the day of rest, especially in the -summer; and few indeed were the souls to whom he could offer the bread -of life. He seemed to himself to be greatly overpaid for the work he -had it in his power to do--in his own parish, that is. He had not even -any poor to minister to. He made up for this by doing his best to help -the clergyman of a neighboring parish, who had none but poor; but his -heart at times burned within him to speak the words he loved best to -speak to such as he could hope had the ears to hear them; for among -the twelve people--a congregation he did not always have--that he said -he preferred to the thousand, he could sometimes hardly believe that -there was one who heard and understood. More of his reflections and -resolutions, in regard to this state of affairs, we shall fall in with -by and by. Meantime, my reader will believe that this visit of Lucy -gave him pleasure and hope of usefulness. The next morning he was in -Mr. Kitely's shop as early as he thought the little invalid would be -able to see him. - -"Good-morning, sir," said Mr. Kitely, brusquely. "What can I do for you -this morning?" - -If Mr. Fuller had begun looking at his books, Kitely would have taken -no notice of him. He might have stayed hours, and the bookseller would -never have even put a book in his way; but he looked as if he wanted -something in particular, and therefore Mr. Kitely spoke. - -"You have a little girl that's not well, haven't you?" returned Mr. -Fuller. - -"Oh! you're the gentleman she wanted to see. She's been asking ever so -often whether you wasn't come yet. She's quite impatient to see you, -poor lamb!" - -While he spoke, Kitely had drawn nearer to the curate, regarding him -with projecting and slightly flushed face, and eyes that had even -something of eagerness in them. - -"I would have come earlier, only I thought it would be better not," -said Mr. Fuller. - -Mr. Kitely drew yet a step nearer, with the same expression on his face. - -"You won't put any nonsense into her head, will you, sir?" he said, -almost pleadingly. - -"Not if I know it," answered Mr. Fuller, with a smile of kind humor. "I -would rather take some out of it." - -"For you see," Kitely went on, "that child never committed a sin in her -life. It's all nonsense; and I won't have her talked to as if she was a -little hell-cat." - -"But you see we must go partly by what she thinks herself; and I -suspect she won't say she never did anything wrong. I don't think I -ever knew a child that would. But, after all, suppose you are right, -and she never did anything, wrong--" - -"I don't exactly say that, you know," interposed Mr. Kitely, in a tone -of mingled candor and defense. "I only said she hadn't committed any -sins." - -"And where's the difference?" asked Mr. Fuller, quietly. - -"Oh! you know quite well. Doing wrong, you know--why, we all do wrong -sometimes. But to commit a sin, you know--I suppose that's something -serious. That comes in the way of the Ten Commandments." - -"I don't think your little girl would know the difference." - -"But what's the use of referring to her always?" - -"Just because I think she's very likely to know best. Children are wise -in the affairs of their own kingdom." - -"Well, I believe you're right; for she is the strangest child I ever -saw. She knows more than any one would think for. Walk this way, sir. -You'll find her in the back room." - -"Won't you come, too, and see that I don't put any nonsense into her -head?" - -"I must mind the shop, sir," objected Kitely, seeming a little ashamed -of what he had said. - -Mr. Fuller nodded content, and was passing on, when he bethought -himself, and stopped. - -"Oh, Mr. Kitely," he said, "there was just one thing I was going to -say, but omitted. It was only this: that suppose you were right about -your little girl, or suppose even that she had never done anything -wrong at all, she would want God all the same. And we must help each -other to find Him." - -If Mr. Kitely had any reply ready for this remark, which I doubt, Mr. -Fuller did not give him time to make it, for he walked at once into -the room, and found Mattie sitting alone in a half twilight, for the -day was cloudy. Even the birds were oppressed, for not one of them was -singing. A thrush hopped drearily about under his load of speckles, and -a rose-ringed paroquet, with a very red nose, looked ashamed of the -quantity of port-wine he had drunk. The child was reading the same -little old book mentioned before. She laid it down, and rose from the -window-sill to meet Mr. Fuller. - -"Well, how do you do, sir?" she said. "I am glad you are come." - -Any other child of her age Mr. Fuller would have kissed, but there was -something about Mattie that made him feel it an unfit proceeding. He -shook hands with her and offered her a white camellia. - -"Thank you, sir," said Mattie, and laid the little transfiguration upon -the table. - -"Don't you like flowers?" asked Mr. Fuller, somewhat disappointed. -"Isn't it beautiful now?" - -"Well, where's the good?" answered and asked Mattie, as if she had been -a Scotchwoman. "It will be ugly before to-morrow." - -"Oh, no; not if you put it in water directly." - -"Will it live forever, then?" asked Mattie. - -"No, only a few days." - -"Well, where's the odds, then? To-morrow or next week--where's the -difference? It _looks_ dead now when you know it's dying." - -"Ah!" thought Mr. Fuller, "I've got something here worth looking into." -What he said was, "You dear child!" - -"You don't know me yet," returned Mattie. "I'm not dear at all. I'm -cross and ill-natured. And I won't be petted." - -"You like the birds, though, don't you?" said Mr. Fuller. - -"Well, yes. Mr. Kitely likes them, and I always like what he likes. But -they are not quite comfortable, you know. They won't last forever, you -know. One of them is dead since I was taken ill. And father meant it -for Miss Burton." - -"Do you like Miss Burton, then?" - -"Yes, I _do_. But she'll live forever, you know. I'll tell you -something else I like." - -"What is that, my child?" - -"Oh, I'm no such a child! But I'll tell you what I like. There." - -And she held out the aged little volume, open at the hymn about blind -Bartimeus. - -"Will this live forever, then?" he asked, turning the volume over in -his hand, so that its withered condition suggested itself at once to -Mattie. - -"Now you puzzle me," answered Mattie. "But let me think. You know it's -not the book I mean; it's the poem. Now I have it. If I know that poem -by heart, and I live forever, then the poem will live forever. There!" - -"Then the book's the body, and the poem the soul," said Mr. Fuller. - -"One of the souls; for some things have many souls. I have two, at -least." - -Mr. Fuller felt instinctively, with the big forehead and the tiny body -of the child before him, that they were getting on rather dangerous -ground. But he must answer. - -"Two souls! That must be something like what King David felt, when he -asked God to join his heart into one. But do you like this poem?" he -hastened to add. "May I read it to you?" - -"Oh, yes; please do. I am never tired of hearing it. It will sound -quite new if you read it." - -So Mr. Fuller read slowly--"As Jesus went into Jericho town." And from -the way Mattie listened, he knew what he must bring her next--not a -camellia, but a poem. Still, how sad it was that a little child should -not love flowers! - -"When were you in the country last, Miss Kitely?" - -"I never was in the country that I know of. My name is Mattie." - -"Wouldn't you like to go, Mattie?" - -"No I shouldn't--not at all." - -"Why?" - -"Well, because--because it's not in my way, you see." - -"But surely you have some reason for not liking the country." - -"Well, now, I will tell you. The country, by all I can hear, is full -of things that die, and I don't like that. And I think people can't be -nice that like the country." - -Mr. Fuller resolved in his heart that he would make Mattie like the -country before he had done with her. But he would say no more now, -because he was not sure whether Mattie as yet regarded him with a -friendly eye; and he must be a friend before he could speak about -religion. He rose, therefore, and held out his hand. - -Mattie looked at him with dismay. - -"But I wanted you to tell me about the man that sat at Somebody's feet -in his Sunday clothes." - -Happily for his further influence with her, Mr. Fuller guessed at once -whom she meant, and taking a New Testament from his pocket, read to her -about the demoniac, who sat at the feet of Jesus, clothed, and in his -right mind. He had not known her long before he discovered that all -these stories of possession had an especial attraction for Mattie--she -evidently associated them with her own visions of Syne and his men. - -"Well, I was wrong. It wasn't his Sunday clothes," she said. "Or, -perhaps, it was, and he had torn the rest all to pieces." - -"Yes; I think that's very likely," responded Mr. Fuller. - -"I know--it was Syne that told him, and he did it. But he wouldn't do -it any more, would he, after he saw Somebody?" - -"I don't think he would," answered Mr. Fuller, understanding her just -enough to know the right answer to make. "But I will come and see you -again to-morrow," he added, "and try whether I can't bring something -with me that you will like." - -"Thank you," answered the old-fashioned creature. "But don't be putting -yourself to any expense about it, for I am not easy to please." And -she lifted her hand to her head and gave a deep sigh, as if it was a -very sad fact indeed. "I wish I was easier to please," she added, to -herself; but Mr. Fuller heard her as he left the room. - -"She's a very remarkable child that, Mr. Kitely--too much so, I fear," -he said, reëntering the shop. - -"I know that," returned the bookseller, curtly, almost angrily. "I wish -she wasn't." - -"I beg your pardon. I only wanted--" - -"No occasion at all," interrupted Mr. Kitely. - -"I only wanted," Mr. Fuller persisted, "to ask you whether you do not -think she had better go out of town for a while." - -"I dare say. But how am I to send her? The child has not a relation but -me--and an aunt that she can't a-bear; and that wouldn't do--would it, -sir? She would fret herself to death without someone she cared about." - -"Certainly it wouldn't do. But mightn't Miss--I forget her name--" - -"Miss Burton, I dare say you mean." - -"I mean Miss Burton. Couldn't she help you? Is she any relation of -yours?" - -"None whatever. Nor she's not like it. I believe she's a stray, myself." - -"What _do_ you mean, Mr. Kitely?" asked Mr. Fuller, quite bewildered -now. - -"Well, sir, I mean that she's a stray angel," answered Mr. Kitely, -smiling; "for she ain't like anyone else I know of but that child's -mother, and she's gone back to where she came from--many's the long -year." - -"I don't wonder at your thinking that of her if she's as good as she -looks," returned Mr. Fuller. And bidding the bookseller good-morning, -he left the shop and walked home, cogitating how the child could be got -into the country. - -Next morning he called--earlier, and saw Lucy leaving the court just as -he was going into the shop. He turned and spoke to her. - -"Fancy a child, Miss Burton," he said, "that does not care about -flowers--and her heart full of religion too! How is she to consider the -lilies of the field? She knows only birds in cages; she has no idea of -the birds of the air. The poor child has to lift everything out of that -deep soul of hers, and the buckets of her brain can't stand such hard -work." - -"I know, I know," answered Lucy. "But what can I do?" - -"Besides," Mr. Fuller continued, "what notion of the simple grandeur of -God can she have when she never had more than a peep of the sky from -between these wretched houses? How can the heavens declare the glory -of God to her? You don't suppose David understood astronomy, and that -it was from a scientific point of view that he spoke, when he said -that the firmament showed his handiwork? That was all he could say -about it, for the Jewish nation was not yet able to produce a Ruskin. -But it was, nevertheless, the spiritual power of the sky upon his -soul--not the stars in their courses, but the stars up there in their -reposeful depth of blue, their 'shining nest'--which, whatever theory -of their construction he might have, yet impressed him with an awe, an -infinitude, a shrinking and yet aspiring--made his heart swell within -him, and sent him down on his knees. This little darling knows nothing -of such an experience. We must get her into the open. She must love -the wind that bloweth where it listeth, and the clouds that change and -pass. She can't even like anything that does not last forever; and the -mind needs a perishing bread sometimes as well as the body--though it -never perishes when once made use of, as Mattie told me yesterday. But -I beg your pardon; I am preaching a sermon, I think. What a thing it is -to have the faults of a profession in addition to those of humanity! It -all comes to this--you must get that child, with her big head and her -big conscience, out of London, and give her heart a chance." - -"Indeed, I wish I could," answered Lucy. "I will do what I can, and -let you know. Are you going to see her now, Mr. Fuller?" - -"Yes, I am. I took her a flower yesterday, but I have brought her a -poem to-day. I am afraid, however, that it is not quite the thing for -her. I thought I could easily find her one till I began to try, and -then I found it very difficult indeed." - -They parted--Lucy to Mrs. Morgenstern's, Mr. Fuller to Mattie. - -I will give the hymn--for the sake, in part, of what Mattie said, and -then I will close the chapter. - - "Come unto me," the Master says. - But how? I am not good; - No thankful song my heart will raise, - Nor even wish it could. - - I am not sorry for the past, - Nor able not to sin; - The weary strife would ever last - If once I should begin. - - Hast thou no burden then to bear? - No action to repent? - Is all around so very fair? - Is thy heart quite content? - - Hast thou no sickness in thy soul? - No labor to endure? - Then go in peace, for thou art whole, - Thou needest not His cure. - - Ah! mock me not. Sometimes I sigh; - I have a nameless grief, - A faint, sad pain--but such that I - Can look for no relief. - - Come then to Him who made thy heart; - Come in thyself distrest; - To come to Jesus is thy part, - His part to give thee rest. - - New grief, new hope He will bestow, - Thy grief and pain to quell; - Into thy heart Himself will go, - And that will make thee well. - -When Mr. Fuller had finished the hymn, he closed the book and looked -toward Mattie. She responded--with a sigh-- - -"Well, I think I know what it means. You see I have such a big head, -and so many things come and go just as they please, that if it weren't -for Somebody I don't know what I should do with them all. But as soon -as I think about Him, they grow quieter and behave better. But I don't -know all that it means. Will you lend me the book, Mr. Fuller?" - -All the child's thoughts took shapes, and so she talked like a lunatic. -Still, as all the forms to which she gave an objective existence were -the embodiments of spiritual realities, she could not be said to have -yet passed the narrow line that divides the poet from the maniac. But -it was high time that the subjects of her thoughts should be supplied -from without, and that the generating power should lie dormant for a -while. And the opportunity for this arrived sooner than her friends had -expected. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -THE NINGPO IS LOST. - - -Lucy was so full of Mattie and what Mr. Fuller had said that she told -Mrs. Morgenstern all about it before Miriam had her lesson. After the -lesson was over, Mrs. Morgenstern, who had, contrary to her custom, -remained in the room all the time, said: - -"Well, Lucy, I have been thinking about it, and I think I have arranged -it all very nicely. It's clear to me that the child will go out of her -mind if she goes on as she's doing. Now, I don't think Miriam has been -quite so well as usual, and she has not been out of London since last -August. Couldn't you take her down to St. Leonard's--or I dare say you -would like Hastings better? You can go on with your lessons there all -the same, and take little Mattie with you." - -"But what will become of my grandmother?" said Lucy. - -"She can go with you, can't she? I could ask her to go and take care -of you. It would be much better for you to have her, and it makes very -little difference to me, you know." - -"Thank you very much," returned Lucy, "but I fear my grandmother will -not consent to it. I will try her, however, and see what can be done. -Thank you a thousand times, dear Mrs. Morgenstern. Wouldn't you like -to go to Hastings, Miriam?" - -Miriam was delighted at the thought of it, and Lucy was not without -hopes that if her grandmother would not consent to go herself, she -would at least wish her to go. Leaving Mattie out of view, she would -be glad to be away from Thomas for a while, for, until he had done -as he ought, she could not feel happy in his presence; and she made -up her mind that she would write to him very plainly when she was -away--perhaps tell him positively that if he would not end it, she -must. I say _perhaps_, for ever as she approached the resolution, -the idea of the poor lad's helpless desertion arose before her, and -she recoiled from abandoning him. Nothing more could be determined, -however, until she saw her grandmother. - -But as she was going out she met Mr. Sargent in the hall. He had come -to see her. - -This very morning the last breath of the crew and passengers of the -_Ningpo_ had bubbled up in the newspapers; and all the world who -cared to know it knew the fact, that the vessel had been dashed to -pieces upon a rock of the Cape Verde Islands; all hands and passengers -supposed to be lost. This the underwriters knew but a few hours -before. Now it was known to Mr. Stopper and Mr. Worboise, both of whom -it concerned even more than the underwriters. Mr. Stopper's first -feeling was one of dismay, for the articles of partnership had not -been completed before Mr. Boxall sailed. Still, as he was the only -person who understood the business, he trusted in any case to make his -position good, especially if he was right in imagining that old Mrs. -Boxall must now be heir-at-law--a supposition which he scarcely allowed -himself to doubt. Here, however, occurred the thought of Thomas. He had -influence there, and that influence would be against him, for had he -not insulted him? This he could not help yet. He would wait for what -might turn up. - -What Mr. Worboise's feelings were when first he read the paragraph in -the paper I do not know, nor whether he had not an emotion of justice, -and an inclination to share the property with Mrs. Boxall. But I doubt -whether he very clearly recognized the existence of his friend's -mother. In his mind, probably, her subjective being was thinned by age, -little regard, and dependence, into a thing of no account--a shadow -of the non-Elysian sort, living only in the waste places of human -disregard. He certainly knew nothing of her right to any property in -the possession of her son. Of one of his feelings only am I sure: he -became more ambitious for his son, in whom he had a considerable amount -of the pride of paternity. - -Mrs. Boxall was the last to hear anything of the matter. She did not -read the newspapers, and, accustomed to have sons at sea, had not even -begun to look for news of the _Ningpo_. - -"Ah, Miss Burton," said Mr. Sargent, "I am just in time. I thought -perhaps you would not be gone yet. Will you come into the garden with -me for a few minutes? I won't keep you long." - -Lucy hesitated. Mr. Sargent had of late, on several occasions, been -more confidential in his manner than was quite pleasant to her, -because, with the keenest dislike to raise appearances, she yet could -not take his attentions for granted, and tell him she was engaged to -Thomas. He saw her hesitation, and hastened to remove it. - -"I only want to ask you about a matter of business," he said. "I assure -you I won't detain you." - -Mr. Sargent knew something of Mr. Wither, who had very "good -connections," and was indeed a favorite in several professional -circles; and from him he had learned all about Lucy's relations, -without even alluding to Lucy herself, and that her uncle and whole -family had sailed in the _Ningpo_. Anxious to do what he could for -her, and fearful lest, in their unprotected condition, some advantage -should be taken of the two women, he had made haste to offer his -services to Lucy, not without a vague feeling that he ran great risk -of putting himself in the false position of a fortune-hunter by doing -so, and heartily abusing himself for not having made more definite -advances before there was any danger of her becoming an heiress; -for although a fortune was a most desirable thing in Mr. Sargent's -position, especially if he wished to marry, he was above marrying for -money alone, and, in the case of Lucy, with whom he had fallen in -love--just within his depth, it must be confessed--while she was as -poor as himself, he was especially jealous of being unjustly supposed -to be in pursuit of her prospects. Possibly the consciousness of what -a help the fortune would be to him made him even more sensitive than -he would otherwise have been. Still he would not omit the opportunity -of being useful to the girl, trusting that his honesty would, despite -of appearances, manifest itself sufficiently to be believed in by so -honest a nature as Lucy Burton. - -"Have you heard the sad news?" he said, as soon as they were in the -garden. - -"No," answered Lucy, without much concern; for she did not expect to -hear anything about Thomas. - -"I thought not. It is very sad. The _Ningpo_ is lost." - -Lucy was perplexed. She knew the name of her uncle's vessel; but for a -moment she did not associate the thing. In a moment, however, something -of the horror of the fact reached her. She did not cry, for her -affections had no great part in anyone on board of the vessel, but she -turned very pale. And not a thought of the possible interest she might -have in the matter crossed her mind. She had never associated good to -herself with her uncle or any of his family. - -"How dreadful!" she murmured. "My poor cousins! What they must all have -gone through! Are they come home?" - -"They are gone home," said Mr. Sargent, significantly. "There can be -but little doubt of that, I fear." - -"You don't mean they're drowned?" she said, turning her white face on -him, and opening her eyes wide. - -"It is not absolutely certain; but there can be little doubt about it." - -He did not show her the paragraph in the _Times_, though the paper was -in his pocket: the particulars were too dreadful. - -"Are there any other relations but your grandmother and yourself?" he -asked, for Lucy remained silent. - -"I don't know of any," she answered. - -"Then you must come in for the property." - -"Oh, no. He would never leave it to us. He didn't like me, for one -thing. But that was my fault, perhaps. He was not over-kind to my -mother, and so I never liked him." - -And here at length she burst into tears. She wept very quietly, -however, and Mr. Sargent went on. - -"But you must be his heirs-at-law. Will you allow me to make -inquiry--to do anything that may be necessary, for you? Don't -misunderstand me," he added, pleadingly. "It is only as a friend--what -I have been for a long time now, Lucy." - -Lucy scarcely hesitated before she answered, with a restraint that -appeared like coldness: - -"Thank you, Mr. Sargent. The business cannot in any case be mine. It is -my grandmother's, and I can, and will, take no hand in it." - -"Will you say to your grandmother that I am at her service?" - -"If it were a business matter, there is no one I would more -willingly--ask to help us; but as you say it is a matter of friendship, -I must refuse your kindness." - -Mr. Sargent was vexed with himself, and disappointed with her. He -supposed that she misinterpreted his motives. Between the two, he was -driven to a sudden, unresolved action of appeal. - -"Miss Burton," he said, "for God's sake, do not misunderstand me, and -attribute to mercenary motives the offer I make only in the confidence -that you will not do me such an injustice." - -Lucy was greatly distressed. Her color went and came for a few moments, -and then she spoke. - -"Mr. Sargent, I am just as anxious that you should understand me; but I -am in a great difficulty and have to throw myself on your generosity." - -She paused again, astonished to find herself making a speech. But she -did not pause long. - -"I refuse your kindness," she said, "only because I am not free to lay -myself under such obligation to you. Do not ask me to say more," she -added, finding that he made no reply. - -But if she had looked in his face, she would have seen that he -understood her perfectly. Honest disappointment and manly suffering -were visible enough on his countenance. But he did not grow ashy pale, -as some lovers would at such an utterance. He would never have made, -under any circumstances, a passionate lover, though an honest and true -one; for he was one of those balanced natures which are never all in -one thing at once. Hence the very moment he received a shock, was the -moment in which he began to struggle for victory. Something called to -him, as Una to the Red-Cross Knight when face to face with the serpent -Error: - - "Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee." - -Before Lucy's eyes and his met, he had mastered his countenance at last. - -"I understand you, Miss Burton," he said, in a calm voice, which -only trembled a little--and it was then that Lucy ventured to look -at him--"and I thank you. Please to remember that if ever you need a -friend, I am at your service." - -Without another word, he lifted his hat and went away. - -Lucy hastened home full of distress at the thought of her grandmother's -grief, and thinking all the way how she could convey the news with -least of a shock; but when she entered the room, she found her already -in tears, and Mr. Stopper seated by her side comforting her with -commonplaces. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -OF USEFUL ODDS AND ENDS. - - -During all this time, when his visits to Lucy were so much interrupted -by her attendance upon Mattie, Thomas had not been doing well. In fact, -he had been doing gradually worse. His mother had, of course, been at -home for a long time now, and Mr. Simon's visits had been resumed. But -neither of these circumstances tended to draw him homeward. - -Mrs. Worboise's health was so much improved by her sojourn at -Folkestone, that she now meditated more energetic measures for the -conversion of her son. What these measures should be, however, she -could not for some time determine. At length she resolved that, as -he had been a good scholar when at school--proved in her eyes by his -having brought home prizes every year--she would ask him to bring his -Greek Testament to her room, and help her to read through St. Paul's -Epistle to the Romans with the fresh light which his scholarship would -cast upon the page. It was not that she was in the least difficulty -about the Apostle's meaning. She knew that as well at least as the -Apostle himself; but she would invent an innocent trap to catch a soul -with, and, if so it might be, put it in a safe cage, whose strong wires -of exclusion should be wadded with the pleasant cotton of safety. Alas -for St. Paul, his mighty soul, and his laboring speech, in the hands of -two such! The very idea of such to read him, might have scared him from -his epistle--if such readers there could have been in a time when the -wild beasts of the amphitheatre kept the Christianity pure. - -"Thomas," she said, one evening, "I want you to bring your Greek -Testament, and help me out with something." - -"O, mother, I can't. I have forgotten all about Greek. What is it you -want to know?" - -"I want you to read the Romans with me." - -"Oh! really, mother, I can't. It's such bad Greek, you know." - -"Thomas!" said his mother, sepulchrally, as if his hasty assertion with -regard to St. Paul's scholarship had been a sin against the truth St. -Paul spoke. - -"Well, really, mother, you must excuse me. I can't. Why don't you ask -Mr. Simon? He's an Oxford man." - -To this Mrs. Worboise had no answer immediately at hand. From the way -in which Thomas met her request my reader will see that he was breaking -loose from her authority--whether for the better or the worse does not -at this point seem doubtful, and yet perhaps it was doubtful. Still he -was not prepared to brave her and his father with a confession, for -such it appeared to him to be, of his attachment to Lucy. - -Since he could see so little of her, he had spent almost all the time -that used to be devoted to her with Molken. In consequence, he seldom -reached home in anything like what he had been accustomed to consider -decent time. When his mother spoke to him on the subject he shoved it -aside with an "Ah! you were in bed, mother," prefacing some story, part -true, part false, arranged for the occasion. So long as his father took -no notice of the matter he did not much mind. He was afraid of him -still; but so long as he was out of bed early enough in the morning, -his father did not much care at what hour he went to it: he had had -his own wild oats to sow in his time. The purity of his boy's mind and -body did not trouble him much, provided that, when he came to take his -position in the machine of things, he turned out a steady, respectable -pinion, whose cogs did not miss, but held--the one till the other -caught. He had, however, grown ambitious for him within the last few -days--more of which by and by. - -In the vacancy of mind occasioned by the loss of his visits to -Lucy--for he had never entered heartily into any healthy pursuits in -literature, art, or even amusement--Thomas had, as it were, gradually -sauntered more and more into the power of Mr. Molken; and although -he had vowed to himself, after his first experience, that he would, -never play again, himself not being to himself a very awe-inspiring -authority, he had easily broken that vow. It was not that he had any -very strong inclination to play--the demon of play had not quite -entered into him: it was only that whatever lord asserted dominion -over Thomas, to him Thomas was ready to yield that which he claimed. -Molken said, "Come along," and Thomas went along. Nor was it always to -the gambling-house that he followed Molken; but although there was -one most degrading species of vice from which his love to Lucy--for he -loved Lucy with a real though not great love--did preserve him, there -were several places to which his _friend_ took him from which he could -scarcely emerge as pure as he entered them. I suspect--thanks to what -influence Lucy had with him, to what conscience he had left in him, to -what good his mother and Mr. Simon had taught him, in a word, to the -care of God over him--Mr. Molken found him rather harder to corrupt -than, from his shilly-shally ways, he had expected. Above all, the love -of woman, next to the love of God, is the power of God to a young man's -salvation; for all is of God, everything, from first to last--nature, -providence, and grace--it is all of our Father in Heaven; and what God -hath joined let not man put asunder. - -His gambling was a very trifle as far as money went: an affair of all -but life and death as far as principle was concerned. There is nothing -like the amount of in-door gambling that there used to be; but there is -no great improvement in taking it to the downs and the open air, and -making it librate on the muscles of horses instead of on the spinning -power of a top or the turning up of cards. And whoever gambles, whether -at _rouge-et-noir_ or at Fly-away _versus_ Staywell, will find that the -laws of gambling are, like those of the universe, unalterable. The laws -of gambling are discontent, confusion, and loss upon everyone who seeks -to make money without giving moneys worth. It will matter little to the -grumbler whether the retribution comes in this world, he thinking, like -Macbeth, to "skip the life to come," or in the next. He will find that -one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as -one day. - -But for Thomas, the worst thing in the gambling, besides the bad -company it led him into, was that the whole affair fell in so with his -natural weakness. Gambling is the employment fitted for the man without -principles and without will, for his whole being is but, as far as he -is concerned, the roulette-ball of chance. The wise, on the contrary, -do not believe in Fortune, yield nothing to her sway, go on their own -fixed path regardless "of her that turneth as a ball," as Chaucer -says. They at least will be steady, come to them what may. Thomas got -gradually weaker and weaker, and, had it not been for Lucy, would soon -have fallen utterly. But she, like the lady of an absent lord, still -kept one fortress for him in a yielded and devastated country. - -There was no newspaper taken in at Mr. Worboise's, for he always left -home for his office as soon as possible. So, when Thomas reached the -counting-house, he had heard nothing of the sad news about his late -master and his family. But the moment he entered the place he felt that -the atmosphere was clouded. Mr. Wither, whose face was pale as death, -rose from the desk where he had been sitting, caught up his hat, and -went out. Thomas could not help suspecting that his entrance was the -cause of Mr. Wither's departure, and his thoughts went back to last -night, and he wondered whether his fellow-clerks would cut him because -of the company he had been in. His conscience could be more easily -pricked by the apprehension of overt disapprobation than by any other -goad. None of them took any particular notice of him; only a gloom as -of a funeral hung about all their faces, and radiated from them so as -to make the whole place look sepulchral. Mr. Stopper was sitting within -the glass partition, whence he called for Mr. Worboise, who obeyed with -a bad grace, as anticipating something disagreeable. - -"There!" said Mr. Stopper, handing him the newspaper, and watching him -as he read. - -Thomas read, returned the paper, murmured something, and went back with -scared face to the outer room. There a conversation arose in a low -voice, as if it had been in the presence of the dead. Various questions -were asked and conjectures hazarded, but nobody knew anything. Thomas's -place was opposite the glass, and before he had been long seated he saw -Mr. Stopper rake the key of the door of communication from a drawer, -unlock the door, and with the _Times_ in his hand walk into Mrs. -Boxall's house, closing the door behind him. This movement was easy to -understand, and set Thomas thinking. Then first the thought struck him -that Lucy and her grandmother would come in for all the property. This -sent a glow of pleasure through him, and he had enough ado to keep the -funeral look which belonged to the occasion. Now he need not fear to -tell his father the fact of his engagement--indeed, he might delay the -news as long as he liked, sure that it would be welcome when it came. -If his father were pleased, he did not care so much for his mother. -But had he known how much she loved him, he could not have got so far -away from her as he was now. If, on the other hand, he had fallen in -with her way of things, she would have poured out upon him so much -repressed affection that he would have known it. But till he saw as she -saw, felt as she felt, and could talk as she talked, her motherhood -saw an impervious barrier between her and him--a barrier she labored -hard to remove, but with tools that could make no passage through an -ever-closing mist. - -I cannot help thinking that if he had told all now, the knowledge of -his relation to Lucy would have been welcomed by his father, and would -have set everything right. I cannot but believe that Mr. Worboise's -mind was troubled about the property. With perfect law on his side, -there was yet that against him which all his worldliness did not quite -enable him to meet with coolness. But the longer the idea of the -property rested upon his mind, the more, as if it had been the red-hot -coin of the devil's gift, it burned and burrowed out a nest for itself, -till it lay there stone-cold and immovably fixed, and not to be got rid -of. Before many weeks had passed he not only knew that it was his by -law, but felt that it was his by right--his own by right of possession, -and the clinging of his heart-strings around it--his own because it -was so good that he could not part with it. Still it was possible that -something adverse might turn up, and there was no good in incurring -odium until he was absolutely sure that the fortune as well as the -odium would be his; therefore he was in no haste to propound the will. - -But, as I have said, he began to be more ambitious for his son, -and the more he thought about the property, the more he desired to -increase it by the advantageous alliance which he had now no doubt -he could command. This persuasion was increased by the satisfaction -which his son's handsome person and pleasing manners afforded him; -and a confidence of manner which had of late shown itself, chiefly, -it must be confessed, from the experience of the world he had had in -the company he of late frequented, had raised in his father's mind a -certain regard for him which he had not felt before. Therefore he began -to look about him and speculate. He had not the slightest suspicion of -Thomas being in love; and, indeed, there was nothing in his conduct or -appearance that could have aroused such a suspicion in his mind. Mr. -Worboise believed, on the contrary, that his son was leading a rather -wild life. - -It may seem strange that Thomas should not by this time have sunk far -deeper into the abyss of misery; but Molken had been careful in not -trying to hook him while he was only nibbling; and, besides, until he -happened to be able to lose something worth winning, he rather avoided -running him into any scrape that might disgust him without bringing -any considerable advantage to himself. - -There was one adverse intelligence, of whom Mr. Worboise knew nothing, -and who knew nothing of Mr. Worboise, ready to pounce upon him the -moment he showed his game. This was Mr. Sargent. Smarting, not under -Lucy's refusal so much as from the lingering suspicion that she had -altogether misinterpreted his motives, he watched for an opportunity -of proving his disinterestedness; this was his only hope; for he saw -that Lucy was lost to him. He well knew that in the position of her and -her grandmother, it would not be surprising if something with a forked -tongue or a cloven foot should put its head out of a hole before very -long, and begin to creep toward them; and therefore, as I say, he kept -an indefinite but wide watch, in the hope which I have mentioned. He -had no great difficulty in discovering that Mr. Worboise had been Mr. -Boxall's man of business, but he had no right to communicate with him -on the subject. This indeed Mr. Stopper, who had taken the place of -adviser in general to Mrs. Boxall, had already done, asking him whether -Mr. Boxall had left no will, to which he had received a reply only -to the effect that it was early days, that there was no proof of his -death, and that he was prepared to give what evidence he possessed at -the proper time--an answer Mrs. Boxall naturally enough, with her fiery -disposition, considered less than courteous. Of this Mr. Sargent of -course was not aware, but, as the only thing he could do at present, he -entered a _caveat_ in the Court of Probate. - -Mr. Stopper did his best for the business in the hope of one day -having not only the entire management as now, but an unquestionable as -unquestioned right to the same. If he ever thought of anything further -since he had now a free entrance to Mrs. Boxall's region, he could not -think an inch in that direction without encountering the idea of Thomas. - -It was very disagreeable to Thomas that Mr. Stopper, whom he detested, -should have this free admission to what he had been accustomed to -regard as his _peculium_. He felt as if the place were defiled by -his presence, and to sit as he had sometimes to sit, knowing that -Mr. Stopper was overhead, was absolutely hateful. But, as I shall -have to set forth in the next chapter, Lucy was not at home; and that -mitigated the matter very considerably. For the rest, Mr. Stopper -was on the whole more civil to Thomas than he had hitherto been, and -appeared even to put a little more confidence in him than formerly. -The fact was, that the insecurity of his position made him conscious of -vulnerability, and he wished to be friendly on all sides, with a vague -general feeling of strengthening his outworks. - -Mr. Wither never opened his mouth to Thomas upon any occasion or -necessity, and from several symptoms it appeared that his grief, or -rather perhaps the antidotes to it, were dragging him down hill. - -Amy Worboise was not at home. The mother had seen symptoms; and much -as she valued Mr. Simon's ghostly ministrations, the old Adam in her -rebelled too strongly against having a curate for her son-in-law. So -Amy disappeared for a season, upon a convenient invitation. But if she -had been at home, she could have influenced events in nothing; for, -as often happens in families, there was no real communication between -mother and sister. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -MATTIE IN THE COUNTRY. - - -I now return to resume the regular thread of my story. - -I do not know if my reader is half as much interested in Mattie as -I am. I doubt it very much. He will, most probably, like Poppie -better. But big-headed, strange, and conceited as Mattie was, she -was altogether a higher being than Poppie. She thought; Poppie only -received impressions. If she had more serious faults than Poppie, they -were faults that belonged to a more advanced stage of growth; diseased, -my reader may say, but diseased with a disease that fell in with, -almost belonged to, the untimely development. All Poppie's thoughts, to -speak roughly, came from without; all Mattie's from within. To complete -Mattie, she had to go back a little, and learn to receive impressions -too; to complete Poppie; she had to work upon the impressions she -received, and, so to speak, generate thoughts of her own. Mattie led -the life of a human being; Poppie of a human animal. Mattie lived; -Poppie was there. Poppie was the type of most people; Mattie of the -elect. - -Lucy did not intend, in the sad circumstances in which she now was, to -say a word to her grandmother about Mrs. Morgenstern's proposal. But -it was brought about very naturally. As she entered the court she met -Mattie. The child had been once more to visit Mr. Spelt, but had found -the little nest so oppressive that she had begged to be put down again, -that she might go to her own room. Mr. Spelt was leaning over his door -and his crossed legs, for he could not stand up, looking anxiously -after her; and the child's face was so pale and sad, and she held her -little hand so pitifully to her big head, that Lucy could not help -feeling that the first necessity among her duties was to get Mattie -away. - -After the fresh burst of her grandmother's grief at sight of her was -over, after Mr. Stopper had gone back to the counting-house, and she -had fallen into a silent rocking to and fro, Lucy ventured to speak. - -"They're gone home, dear grannie," she said. - -"And I shan't stay long behind them, my dear," grannie moaned. - -"That's some comfort, isn't it, grannie?" said Lucy, for her own heart -was heavy, not for the dead, but for the living; heavy for her own -troubles, heavy for Thomas, about whom she felt very despondent, almost -despairing. - -"Ah! you young people would be glad enough to have the old ones out -of the way," returned Mrs. Boxall, in the petulance of grief. "Have -patience, Lucy, have patience, child; it won't be long, and then you -can do as you like." - -"Oh, grannie, grannie!" cried Lucy, bursting into tears. "I do -everything I like now. I only wanted to comfort you," she sobbed. "I -thought you would like to go too. _I_ wish I was dead." - -"_You_, child!" exclaimed Mrs. Boxall; "why should you wish you was -dead? You don't know enough of life to wish for death." Then, as Lucy -went on sobbing, her tone changed--for she began to be concerned at her -distress. "What _is_ the matter with my darling?" she said. "Are you -ill, Lucy?" - -Then Lucy went to her and kissed her, and knelt down, and laid her head -in the old woman's lap. And her grannie stroked her hair, and spoke -to her as if she had been one of her own babies, and, in seeking to -comfort her, forgot her own troubles for the moment. - -"You've been doing too much for other people, Lucy," she said. "We must -think of you now. You must go to the sea-side for awhile. You shan't go -about giving lessons any more, my lamb. There is no need for that any -more, for they say all the money will be ours now." - -And the old woman wept again at the thought of the source of their -coming prosperity. - -"I should like to go to the country very much, if you would go too, -grannie." - -"No, no, child, I don't want to go. I don't want any doing good to." - -"But I don't like to leave you, grannie," objected Lucy. - -"Never mind me, my dear. I shall be better alone for awhile. And I dare -say there will be some business to attend to." - -And so they went on talking, till Lucy told her all about Mrs. -Morgenstern's plan, and how ill poor Mattie looked, and that she would -be glad to go away for a little while herself. Mrs. Boxall would -not consent to go, but she even urged Lucy to accept the proposed -arrangement, and proceeded at once to inquire into her wardrobe, and -talk about mourning. - -Two days after, Lucy and Mattie met Mrs. Morgenstern and Miriam at -the London Bridge railway station. Mattie looked quite dazed, almost -stupid, with the noise and bustle; but when they were once in motion, -she heaved a deep sigh, and looked comforted. She said nothing, -however, for some time, and her countenance revealed no surprise. -Whatever was out of the usual way always oppressed Mattie--not excited -her; and, therefore, the more surprising anything was, the less did -it occasion any outward shape of surprise. But as they flashed into -the first tunnel, Lucy saw her start and shudder ere they vanished -from each other in the darkness. She put out her hand and took hold of -the child's. It was cold and trembling; but as she held it gently and -warmly in her own, it grew quite still. By the time the light began to -grow again, her face was peaceful, and when they emerged in the cutting -beyond, she was calm enough to speak the thought that had come to her -in the dark. With another sigh-- - -"I knew the country wasn't nice," she said. - -"But you don't know what the country is yet," answered Lucy. - -"I know quite enough of it," returned Mattie. "I like London best. I -wish I could see some shops." - -Lucy did not proceed to argue the matter with her. She did not tell -her how unfair she was to judge the country by what lay between her -and it. As well might she have argued with Thomas that the bitterness -of the repentance from which he shrank was not the religion to which -she wanted to lead him; that religion itself was to him inconceivable; -and could but be known when he was in it. She had tried this plan with -him in their last interview before she left. She had herself, under the -earnest teaching of Mr. Fuller, and in the illumination of that Spirit -for which she prayed, learned many a spiritual lesson, had sought -eagerly, and therefore gained rapidly. For hers was one of the good -soils, well prepared beforehand for the seed of the redeeming truth of -God's love, and the Sonship of Christ, and his present power in the -human soul. And she had tried, I say, to make Thomas believe in the -blessedness of the man whoso iniquities are pardoned, whose sins are -covered, to whom the Lord imputeth not his transgressions; but Thomas -had replied only with some of the stock phrases of assent. A nature -such as his could not think of law and obedience save as restraint. -While he would be glad enough to have the weight of conscious -wrong-doing lifted off him, he could not see that in yielding his own -way and taking God's lay the only _freedom_ of which the human being, -made in the image of God, is capable. - -Presently Mattie found another argument upon her side, that is, the -town-side of the question. She had been sitting for half an hour -watching the breath of the snorting engine, as it rushed out for a -stormy flight over the meek fields, faltered, lingered, faded, melted, -was gone. - -"I told you so," said Mattie: "nothing lasts in the country." - -"What are you looking at now?" asked Lucy, bending forward to see. - -"Those white clouds," answered Mattie. "I've been expecting them to do -something for ever so long. And they never do anything, though they -begin in such a hurry. The green gets the better of them somehow. They -melt away into it, and are all gone." - -"But they do the grass some good, I dare say," returned Lucy--"in hot -weather like this especially." - -"Well, that's not what they set out for, anyhow," said Mattie. "They -look always as if they were just going to take grand shapes, and make -themselves up into an army, and go out and conquer the world." - -"And then," suggested Lucy, yielding to the fancy of the child, "they -think better of it, and give themselves up, and die into the world to -do it good, instead of trampling it under their feet and hurting it." - -"But how do they come to change their minds so soon?" asked Mattie, -beginning to smile; for this was the sort of intellectual duel in which -her little soul delighted. - -"Oh, I don't think they do change their minds. I don't think they -ever meant to trample down the world. That was your notion, you know, -Mattie." - -"Well, what do you think they set out for? Why do they rush out so -fiercely all at once?" - -"I will tell you what I think," answered Lucy, without perceiving more -than the faintest glimmering of the human reality of what she said, "I -think they rush out of the hot place in which they are got ready to do -the fields good, in so much pain, that they toss themselves about in -strange ways, and people think they are fierce and angry when they are -only suffering--shot out into the air from a boiling kettle, you know, -Mattie." - -"Ah! yes; I see," answered Mattie. "That's it, is it? Yes, I dare say. -Out of a kettle?" - -Miriam had drawn near, and was listening, but she could make little of -all this, for her hour was not yet come to ask, or to understand such -questions. - -"Yes, that great round thing in front of us is just a great kettle," -said Lucy. - -"Well, I will look at it when we get out. I thought there wasn't much -in the country. I suppose we shall get out again, though. This isn't -all the country, is it?" - -Before they reached Hastings, Mattie was fast asleep. It was the -evening. She scarcely woke when they stopped for the last time. Lucy -carried her from the carriage to a cab, and when they arrived at the -lodgings where they were expected, made all haste to get her to bed and -asleep. - -But she woke the earlier in the morning, and the first thing she was -aware of was the crowing of a very clear-throated cock, such a cock as -Henry Vaughan must have listened to in the morning of the day when he -wrote - - "Father of lights! what sunnie seed, - What glance of day hast thou confined - Into this bird? To all the breed - This busie Ray thou hast assigned; - Their magnetisme works all night, - And dreams of Paradise and light." - -She could not collect her thoughts for some time. She was aware that -a change had taken place, but what was it? Was she somebody else? -What did they use to call her? Then she remembered Mr. Spelt's shop, -and knew that she was Mattie Kitely. What then had happened to her? -Something certainly had happened, else how could the cock crow like -that? She was now aware that her eyes were open, but she did not know -that Lucy was in another bed in the same room watching her--whence -afterward, when she put Mattie's words and actions together, she -was able to give this interpretation of her thoughts. The room was -so different from anything she had been used to, that she could not -understand it. She crept out of bed and went to the window. There was -no blind to it, only curtains drawn close in front. - -Now my reader must remember that when Mattie went to the window of -her own room at home she saw into Guild Court. The house in which -they now were was half way up one of the hills on the sides of which -great part of Hastings is built. The sun was not shining upon the -window at this hour of the morning, and therefore did not obstruct -the view. Hence when Mattie went between the curtains she saw nothing -but that loveliest of English seas--the Hastings sea--lying away out -into the sky, or rather, as it appeared to her unaccustomed gaze, -piled up like a hill against the sky, which domed it over, vast and -blue, and triumphant in sunlight--just a few white sails below and a -few white clouds above, to show how blue the sea and sky were in this -glory of an autumn morning. She saw nothing of the earth on which she -was upheld; only the sea and the sky. She started back with a feeling -that she could never describe; there was terror, and loneliness, and -helplessness in it. She turned and flew to her bed, but instead of -getting into it, fell down on her knees by the side of it, clutched -the bed-clothes, and sobbed and wept aloud. Lucy was by her side in -a moment, took her in her arms, carried her into her own bed, and -comforted her in her bosom. - -Mattie had been all her life sitting in the camera-obscura of her own -microcosm, watching the shadows that went and came, and now first she -looked up and out upon the world beyond and above her. All her doings -had gone on in the world of her own imaginings; and although that -big brain of hers contained--no, I cannot say _contained_, but what -else am I to say?--a being greater than all that is seen, heard, or -handled, yet the outward show of divine imagination which now met her -eyes might well overpower that world within her. I fancy that, like -the blind to whom sight is given, she did not at first recognize the -difference between herself and it, but felt as if it was all inside -her and she did not know what to do with it. She would not have cried -at the sight of a rose, as Poppie did. I doubt whether Mattie's was -altogether such a refined nature as Poppie's--to begin with: she would -have rather patronized the rose-tree, and looked down upon it as a -presuming and rather unpleasant thing because it bore dying children; -and she needed, some time or other, and that was now, just such a sight -as this to take the conceit out of her. Less of a vision of the eternal -would not have been sufficient. Was it worth while? Yes. The whole -show of the universe was well spent to take an atom of the self out of -a child. God is at much trouble with us, but he never weighs material -expense against spiritual gain to one of his creatures. The whole -universe existed for Mattie. There is more than that that the Father -has not spared. And no human fault, the smallest, is overcome, save -by the bringing in of true, grand things. A sense of the infinite and -the near, the far yet impending, rebuked the conceit of Mattie to the -very core, and without her knowing why or how. She clung to Lucy as a -child would cling, and as, all through her illness, she had never clung -before. - -"What is the matter with you, Mattie, dear?" asked Lucy, but asked in -vain. Mattie only clung to her the closer, and began a fresh utterance -of sobs. Lucy therefore held her peace for some time and waited. And in -the silence of that waiting she became aware that a lark was singing -somewhere out in the great blue vault. - -"Listen to the lark singing so sweetly," she said at length. And Mattie -moved her head enough to show that she would listen, and lay still a -long while listening. At length she said, with a sob: - -"What is a lark? I never saw one, Miss Burton." - -"A bird like a sparrow. You know what a sparrow is, don't you, dear?" - -"Yes. I have seen sparrows often in the court. They pick up dirt." - -"Well, a lark is like a sparrow; only it doesn't pick up dirt, and -sings as you hear it. And it flies so far up into the sky that you -can't see it--you can only hear the song it scatters down upon the -earth." - -"Oh, how dreadful!" said Mattie, burying her head again as if she would -shut out hearing and sight and all. - -"What is it that is dreadful? I don't understand you, Mattie." - -"To fly up into that awful place up there. Shall we have to do that -when we die?" - -"It is not an awful place, dear. God is there, you know." - -"But I am frightened. And if God is up there, I shall be frightened -at him too. It is so dreadful! I used to think that God could see me -when I was in London. But how he is to see me in this great place, with -so many things about, cocks and larks, and all, I can't think. I'm so -little! I'm hardly worth taking care of." - -"But you remember, Mattie, what Somebody says--that God takes care of -every sparrow." - -"Yes, but that's the sparrows, and they're in the town, you know," said -Mattie, with an access of her old fantastic perversity, flying for -succor, as it always does, to false logic. - -Lucy saw that it was time to stop. The child's fear was gone for the -present, or she could not have talked such nonsense. It was just as -good, however, as the logic of most of those who worship the letter and -call it the word. - -"Why don't you speak, Miss Burton?" asked Mattie at length, no doubt -conscience-stricken by her silence. - -"Because you are talking nonsense now, Mattie." - -"I thought that was it. But why should that make you not speak? for I -need the more to hear sense." - -"No, Mattie. Mr. Fuller says that when people begin to talk falsely, it -is better to be quite silent, and let them say what they please, till -the sound of their own nonsense makes them ashamed." - -"As it did me, Miss Burton, as soon as you wouldn't speak any more." - -"He says it does no good to contradict them then, for they are not only -unworthy to hear the truth--that's not it--if they would hear it--but -they are not fit to hear it. They are not in a mood to get any good -from it; for they are holding the door open for the devil to come in, -and truth can't get in at the same door with the devil." - -"Oh, how dreadful! To think of me talking like Syne!" said Mattie. "I -won't do it again, Miss Burton. Do tell me what Somebody said about -God and the sparrows. Didn't he say something about counting their -feathers? I think I remember Mr. Spelt reading that to me one night." - -"He said something about counting your hairs, Mattie." - -"_Mine?_" - -"Well, he said it to all the people that would listen to him. I dare -say there were some that could not believe it because they did not care -to be told it." - -"That's me, Miss Burton. But I won't do it again. Well--what more?" - -"Only this, Mattie: that if God knows how many hairs you have got on -your head--" - -"My big head," interrupted Mattie. "Well?" - -"Yes, on your big head--if God knows that, you can't think you're too -small for him to look after you." - -"I will try not to be frightened at the big sky any more, dear Miss -Burton; I will try." - -In a few minutes she was fast asleep again. - -Lucy's heart was none the less trustful that she had tried to increase -Mattie's faith. He who cared for the sparrows would surely hear her cry -for Thomas, nay, would surely look after Thomas himself. The father -did not forget the prodigal son all the time that he was away; did -not think of him only when he came back again, worn and sorrowful. In -teaching Mattie she had taught herself. She had been awake long before -her, turning over and over her troubled thoughts till they were all in -a raveled sleeve of care. Now she too fell fast asleep in her hope, and -when she awoke, her thoughts were all knit up again in an even resolve -to go on and do her duty, casting her care upon Him that cared for her. - -And now Mattie's childhood commenced. She had had none as yet. Her -disputatiousness began to vanish. She could not indulge it in the -presence of the great sky, which grew upon her till she felt, as many -children and some conscience-stricken men have felt--that it was the -great eye of God looking at her; and although this feeling was chiefly -associated with awe at first, she soon began to love the sky, and to be -sorry and oppressed upon cloudy days when she could no longer look up -into it. - -The next day they went down to the beach, in a quiet place, among -great stones, under the east cliff. Lucy sat down on one of them, and -began to read a book Mr. Fuller had lent her. Miriam was at a little -distance, picking up shells, and Mattie on another stone nearer the -sea. The tide was rising. Suddenly Mattie came scrambling in great -haste over all that lay between her and Lucy. Her face was pale, -scared, and eager. - -"I'm so frightened again!" she said; "and I can't help it. The sea! -What does it mean?" - -"What do you mean, Mattie?" returned Lucy, smiling. - -"Well, it's roaring at me, and coming nearer and nearer, as if it -wanted to swallow me up. I don't like it." - -"You must not be afraid of it. God made it, you know." - -"Why does he let it roar at me, then?" - -"I don't know. Perhaps to teach you not to be afraid." - -Mattie said no more, stood a little while by Lucy, and then scrambled -back to her former place. - -The next day, they managed with some difficulty to get up on the East -Hill; Mattie was very easily worn out, especially with climbing. She -gazed at the sea below her, the sky over her head, the smooth grass -under her feet, and gave one of her great sighs. Then she looked -troubled. - -"I feel as if I hadn't any clothes on," she said. - -"How is that, Mattie?" - -"Well, I don't know. I feel as if I couldn't stand steady--as if I -hadn't anything to keep me up. In London, you know, the houses were -always beside to hold a body up, and keep them steady. But here, if it -weren't for Somebody, I should be so frightened for falling down--I -don't know where!" - -Lucy smiled. She did not see then how exactly the child symbolized -those who think they have faith in God, and yet when one of the -swaddling bands of system or dogma to which they have been accustomed -is removed, or even only slackened, immediately feel as if there were -no God, as if the earth under their feet were a cloud, and the sky over -them a color, and nothing to trust in anywhere. They rest in their -swaddling bands, not in God. The loosening of these is God's gift to -them that they may grow. But first they are much afraid. - -Still Mattie looked contemptuously on the flowers. Wandering along -the cliff, they came to a patch that was full of daisies. Miriam's -familiarity with the gorgeous productions of green-house and hot-house -had not injured her capacity for enjoying these peasants of flowers. -She rushed among them with a cry of pleasure, and began gathering them -eagerly. Mattie stood by with a look of condescending contempt upon her -pale face. - -"Wouldn't you like to gather some daisies too, Mattie?" suggested Lucy. - -"Where's the use?" said Mattie. "The poor things'll be withered in no -time. It's almost a shame to gather them, I do think." - -"Well, you needn't gather them if you don't want to have them," -returned Lucy. "But I wonder you don't like them, they are so pretty." - -"But they don't last. I don't like things that die. I had a little talk -with Mr. Fuller about that." - -Now Mr. Fuller had told Lucy what the child had said, and this had -resulted in a good deal of talk. Mr. Fuller was a great lover of -Wordsworth, and the book Lucy was now reading, the one he had lent her, -was Wordsworth's Poems. She had not found what she now answered, either -in Wordsworth's poems or in Mr. Fuller's conversation, but it came from -them both, mingling with her love to God, and her knowledge of the -Saviour's words, with the question of the child to set her mind working -with them all at once. She thought for a moment, and then said: - -"Listen, Mattie. You don't dislike to hear me talk, do you?" - -"No, indeed," answered Mattie. - -"You like the words I say to you, then?" - -"Yes, indeed," said Mattie, wondering what would come next. - -"But my words die as soon as they are out of my mouth." - -Mattie began to see a glimmering of something coming, and held her -peace and listened. Lucy went on. - -"Well, the flowers are some of God's words, and they last longer than -mine." - -"But I understand your words. I know what you want to say to me. And I -don't know the meaning of _them_." - -"That's because you haven't looked at them long enough. You must -suppose them words in God's book, and try to read them and understand -them." - -"I will try," said Mattie, and walked soberly toward Miriam. - -But she did not begin to gather the daisies as Miriam was doing. She -lay down in the grass just as Chaucer tells us he used to do in the -mornings of May for the same purpose--to look at the daisy--"leaning on -my elbow and my side"; and thus she continued for some time. Then she -rose and came slowly back to Lucy. - -"I can't tell what they mean," she said. "I have been trying very hard, -too." - -"I don't know whether I understand them or not, myself. But I fancy we -get some good from what God shows us even when we don't understand it -much." - -"They are such little things!" said Mattie. "I can hardly fancy them -worth making." - -"God thinks them worth making, though, or he would not make them. He -wouldn't do anything that he did not care about doing. There's the lark -again. Listen to him, how glad he is. He is so happy that he can't -bear it without singing. If he couldn't sing it would break his heart, -I fancy. Do you think God would have made his heart so glad if he did -not care for his gladness, or given him such a song to sing--for he -must have made the song and taught it to the lark--the song is just -the lark's heart coming out in sounds--would he have made all the lark -if he did not care for it? And he would not have made the daisies so -pretty if their prettiness was not worth something in his eyes. And if -God cares for them, surely it is worth our while to care for them too." - -Mattie listened very earnestly, went back to the daisies, and lay down -again beside a group of them. Miriam kept running about from one spot -to another, gathering them. What Mattie said, or what Miriam replied, -I do not know, but in a little while Mattie came to Lucy with a red -face--a rare show in her. - -"I don't like Miss Miriam," she said. "She's not nice at all." - -"Why, what's the matter?" asked Lucy, in some surprise, for the -children had got on very well together as yet. "What has she been -doing?" - -"She doesn't care a bit for Somebody. I don't like her." - -"But Somebody likes her." - -To this Mattie returned no answer, but stood thoughtful. The blood -withdrew from her face to its fountain, and she went back to the -daisies once more. - -The following day she began to gather flowers as other children do, -even to search for them as for hidden treasures. And if she did not -learn their meaning with her understanding, she must have learned it -with her heart, for she would gaze at some of them in a way that showed -plainly enough that she felt their beauty; and in the beauty, the -individual loveliness of such things, lies the dim lesson with which -they faintly tincture our being. No man can be quite the same he was -after having _loved_ a new flower. - -Thus, by degrees, Mattie's thought and feeling were drawn outward. Her -health improved. Body and mind reacted on each other. She grew younger -and humbler. Every day her eyes were opened to some fresh beauty on -the earth, some new shadowing of the sea, some passing loveliness in -the heavens. She had hitherto refused the world as a thing she had not -proved; now she began to find herself at home in it, that is, to find -that it was not a strange world to which she had come, but a home; -not, indeed, the innermost, sacredest room of the house where the -Father sat, but still a home, full of his presence, his thoughts, his -designs. Is it any wonder that a child should prosper better in such a -world than in a catacomb filled with the coffined remains of thinking -men? I mean her father's book-shop. Here, God was ever before her in -the living forms of his thought, a power and a blessing. Every wind -that blew was his breath, and the type of his inner breathing upon the -human soul. Every morning was filled with his light, and the type of -the growing of that light which lighteth every man that cometh into the -world. And there are no natural types that do not dimly work their own -spiritual reality upon the open heart of a human being. - -Before she left Hastings, Mattie was almost a child. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -POPPIE IN TOWN. - - -Between Mr. Spelt's roost and the house called No. 1 of Guild Court -there stood a narrow house, as tall as the rest, which showed by the -several bell-pulls, ranged along the side of the door, that it was -occupied by different households. Mr. Spelt had for some time had his -eye upon it, in the hope of a vacancy occurring in its top chambers, -occupying which he would be nearer his work, and have a more convenient -home in case he should some day succeed in taming and capturing Poppie. -Things had been going well in every way with the little tailor. He had -had a good many more private customers for the last few months, began -in consequence to look down from a growing hight upon slop-work, though -he was too prudent to drop it all at once, and had three or four pounds -in the post-office savings-bank. Likewise his fishing had prospered. -Poppie came for her sweets as regularly as a robin for his crumbs in -winter. Spelt, however, did not now confine his bait to sweets; a fresh -roll, a currant bun, sometimes--when his longing for his daughter had -been especially strong the night before, even a Bath bun--would hang -suspended by a string from the aerial threshold, so that Poppie could -easily reach it, and yet it should be under the protection of the -tailor from chance marauders. And every morning as she took it, she -sent a sweet smile of thanks to the upper regions whence came her -aid. Though not very capable of conversation, she would occasionally -answer a few questions about facts--as, for instance, where she had -slept the last night, to which the answer would commonly be, "Mother -Flanaghan's;" but once, to the tailor's no small discomposure, was -"The Jug." She did not seem to know exactly, however, how it was that -she got incarcerated: there had been a crowd, and somebody had prigged -something, and there was a scurry and a running, and she scudded as -usual, and got took up. Mr. Spelt was more anxious than ever to take -her home after this. But sometimes, the moment he began to talk to her -she would run away, without the smallest appearance of rudeness, only -of inexplicable oddity; and Mr. Spelt thought sometimes that he was not -a single step nearer to the desired result than when he first baited -his hook. He regarded it as a good omen, however, when, by the death -of an old woman and the removal of her daughter, the topmost floor of -the house, consisting of two small rooms, became vacant; and he secured -them at a weekly rental quite within the reach of his improved means. -He did not imagine how soon he would be able to put them to the use he -most desired. - -One evening, just as the light was fading and he proceeded to light a -candle to enable him to go on with his work, he heard the patter of -her bare feet on the slabs, for his ear was very keen for this most -pleasant of sounds, and looking down, saw the child coming toward him, -holding the bottom of her ragged frock up to her head. He had scarcely -time to be alarmed before she stopped at the foot of his shop, looked -up pale as death, with a dark streak of blood running through the -paleness, and burst into a wail. The little man was down in a moment, -but before his feet reached the ground Poppie had fallen upon it in a -faint. He lifted the child in his arms with a strange mixture of pity -and horror in his big heart, and sped up the three stairs to his own -dwelling. There he laid her on his bed, struck a light, and proceeded -to examine her. He found a large and deep cut in her head, from which -the blood was still flowing. He rushed down again, and fortunately -found Dolman on the point of leaving. Him he sent for the doctor, and -returned like an arrow to his treasure. Having done all he could, with -the aid of his best Sunday shirt, to stop the bleeding, he waited -impatiently for the doctor's arrival, which seemed long delayed. Before -he came the child began to revive; and, taught by the motion of her -lips, he got some water and held to them. Poppie drank and opened -her eyes. When she saw who was bending over her, the faintest ghost -of a smile glimmered about her mouth, and she closed her eyes again, -murmuring something about Mother Flanaghan. - -As far as he could gather from piecing together what the child said -afterward, Mr. Spelt came to the conclusion that Mrs. Flanaghan had -come home a little the worse for "cream of the valley," and wanted -more. Poppie happened to be alone in her room when she came, for we -have seen that she sometimes forgot to lock the door, if, indeed, -there was a lock on it. She had nothing to care for, however, but her -gin-bottle; and that she thought she hid safely enough. Whether she -had left it empty or not, I do not know, but she found it empty when -she neither desired nor expected to find it so; and coming to the -hasty and stupid conclusion that poor Poppie was the thief--just as -an ill-trained child expends the rage of a hurt upon the first person -within his reach--she broke the vile vessel upon Poppie's head with the -result we have seen. But the child had forgotten everything between -that and her waking upon Mr. Spelt's bed. - -The doctor came and dressed her wound, and gave directions for her -treatment. - -And now Mr. Spelt was in the seventh heaven of delight--he had a little -woman of his own to take care of. He was thirty-nine years of age; -and now, for the first time in his life, saw a prospect of happiness -opening before him. No--once before, when he led the splendid Mrs. -Spelt home from church, he had looked into a rosy future; but the next -morning the prospect closed, and had never opened again till now. He -did not lie down all that night, but hovered about her bed, as if she -had been a creature that might any moment spread out great wings and -fly away from him forever. Sometimes he had to soothe her with kind -words, for she wandered a good deal, and would occasionally start up -with wild looks, as if to fly once more from Mother Flanaghan with the -gin-bottle bludgeon uplifted in her hand; then the sound of Mr. Spelt's -voice would instantly soothe her, and she would lie down again and -sleep. But she scarcely spoke; for at no time was Poppie given to much -speech. - -When the light came, he hurried down-stairs to his shop, got his work -and all his implements out, carried them up, and sat with them on the -floor where he could see Poppie's face. There he worked away busily -at a pair of cords for a groom, every now and then lifting his eyes -from his seam to look down into the court, and finding them always met -by the floor. Then his look would go up to the bed, seeking Poppie's -pale face. He found he could not get on so fast as usual. Still he made -progress; and it was a comfort to think that by working thus early he -was saving time for nursing his little white Poppie. - -When at length she woke, she seemed a little better; but she soon grew -more feverish, and soon he found that he must constantly watch her, for -she was ready to spring out of bed any moment. The father-heart grew -dreadfully anxious before the doctor came; and all that day and the -next he got very little work done, for the poor child was really in -danger. Indeed it was more than a week before he began to feel a little -easy about her; and ten days yet passed before she was at all able to -leave her bed. - -And herein lay the greatest blessing both for Spelt and Poppie. I -doubt if anything else could have given him a reasonable chance, as we -say, of taming the wild animal. Her illness compelled her into such a -continuance of dependent association with him, that the idea of him -had time to grow into her heart; while all her scudding propensities, -which prevented her from making a quiet and thorough acquaintance -with anybody, were not merely thwarted, but utterly gone, while she -remained weak. The humanity of the child had therefore an opportunity -of developing itself; obstructions removed, the well of love belonging -to her nature began to pulse and to flow, and she was, as it were, -compelled to love Mr. Spelt; so that, by the time old impulses returned -with returning health, he had a chance against them. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - -MR. FULLER IN HIS CHURCH. - - -Mr. Fuller's main bent of practical thought was how to make his -position in the church as far as possible from a sinecure. If the -church was a reality at all, if it represented a vital body, every -portion of it ought to be instinct with life. Yet here was one of its -cells, to speak physiologically, all but inactive--a huge building of -no use all the week, and on Sundays filled with organ sounds, a few -responses from a sprinkling of most indifferent worshipers, and his -own voice reading prayers and crying "with sick assay" sometimes--to -move those few to be better men and women than they were. Now, so far -it was a center of life, and as such well worthy of any amount of -outlay of mere money. But even money itself is a holy thing; and from -the money point alone, low as that is, it might well be argued that -this church was making no adequate return for the amount expended upon -it. Not that one thought of honest comfort to a human soul is to be -measured against millions of expense; but that what the money did might -well be measured against what the money might do. To the commercial -mind such a church suggests immense futility, a judgment correct in so -far as it falls short of its possibilities. To tell the truth, and a -good truth it is to tell, Mr. Fuller was ashamed of St. Amos's, and was -thinking day and night how to retrieve the character of his church. - -And he reasoned thus with himself, in the way mostly of question and -answer: - -"What is a Sunday?" he asked, answering himself--"A quiet hollow -scooped out of the windy hill of the week." "Must a man then go for -six days shelterless ere he comes to the repose of the seventh? Are -there to be no great rocks to shadow him between?--no hiding-places -from the wind to let him take breath and heart for the next struggle? -And if there ought to be, where are they to be found if not in our -churches?--scattered like little hollows of sacred silence scooped -out of the roar and bustle of our cities, dumb to the questions--What -shall we eat? what shall we drink? and wherewithal shall we be -clothed?--but, alas! equally dumb to the question--Where shall I find -rest, for I am weary and heavy-laden? These churches stand absolute -caverns of silence amid the thunder of the busy city--with a silence -which does not remind men of the eternal silence of truth, but of -the carelessness of heart wherewith men regard that silence. Their -work is nowhere till Sunday comes, and nowhere after that till the -next Sunday or the next saint's day. How is this? Why should they not -lift up the voice of silence against the tumult of care? against the -dissonance of Comus and his crew? How is it that they do not--standing -with their glittering, silent cocks and their golden, unopening keys -high uplifted in sunny air? Why is it that their cocks do not crow, -and their keys do not open? Because their cocks are busy about how -the wind blows, and their keys do not fit their own doors. They may -be caverns of peace, but they are caverns without entrance--sealed -fountains--a mockery of the thirst and confusion of men." "But men -do not want entrance. What is the use of opening the doors of our -churches so long as men do not care to go in? Times are changed now." -"But does not the very word Revelation imply a something coming from -heaven--not certainly before men were ready for it, for God cannot be -precipitate--but before they had begun to pray for it?" Mr. Fuller -remembered how his own father used always to compel his children to eat -one mouthful of any dish he heard them say at table that they did not -like--whereupon they generally chose to go on with it. "But they won't -come in." "How can you tell till you try, till you fulfill the part of -the _minister_ (good old beautiful Christian word), and be 'the life -o' the building?'" "Presumption! Are not the prayers everything?" "At -least not till you get people to pray them." "You make too much of the -priest." "Leave him for God, and the true priest has all the seal of -his priesthood that he wants." At least so thought Mr. Fuller. "What is -the priest?" he asked, going on with the same catechism. "Just a man -to be among men what the Sunday is among the work-days of the week--a -man to remind you that there is a life within this life, or beyond -and about it, if you like that mode better--for extremes meet in the -truest figures--that care is not of God, that faith and confidence -are truer, simpler, more of common sense than balances at bankers' -or preference shares. He is a protest against the money-heaping -tendencies of men, against the desire of rank or estimation or any kind -of social distinction. With him all men are equal, as in the Church -all have equal rights, and rank ceases on the threshold of the same, -overpowered by the presence of the Son of Mary, who was married to a -carpenter--overpowered by the presence of the God of the whole earth, -who wrote the music for the great organ of the spheres, after he had -created them to play the same." Such was the calling of the clergyman, -as Mr. Fuller saw it. Rather a lofty one, and simply a true one. If -the clergyman cannot rouse men to seek his God and their God, if he -can only rest in his office, which becomes false the moment he rests -in it, being itself for a higher end; if he has no message from the -infinite to quicken the thoughts that cleave to the dust, the sooner he -takes to grave-digging or any other honest labor, the sooner will he -get into the kingdom of heaven, and the higher will he stand in it. But -now came the question--from the confluence of all these considerations, -"Why should the church be for Sundays only? And of all places in the -world, what place wanted a week-day reminder of truth, of honesty, -of the kingdom of heaven, more than London? Why should the churches -be closed all the week, to the exclusion of the passers-by, and open -on the Sunday to the weariness of those who entered? Might there not -be too much of a good thing on the Sunday, and too little of it on a -week-day?" Again Mr. Fuller said to himself, "What is a parson?" and -once more he answered himself, that he was a man to keep the windows of -heaven clean, that its light might shine through upon men below. What -use, then, once more, could he make of the church of St. Amos? - -And again, why should the use of any church be limited to the Sunday? -Men needed religious help a great deal more on the week-day than on -the Sunday. On the Sunday, surrounded by his family, his flowers, his -tame animals, his friends, a man necessarily, to say the least of it, -thinks less of making great gains, is more inclined to the family -view of things generally; whereas, upon the week-day, he is in the -midst of the struggle and fight; it is catch who can, then, through -all the holes and corners, highways and lanes of the busy city: what -would it not be then if he could strike a five minutes'--yea, even -a one minute's--silence into the heart of the uproar? if he could -entice one vessel to sail from the troubled sea of the streets, -shops, counting-houses, into the quiet haven of the church, the doors -of whose harbor stood ever open? There the wind of the world would -be quiet behind them. His heart swelled within him as he thought of -sitting there keeping open door of refuge for the storm-tossed, the -noise-deafened, the crushed, the hopeless. He would not trouble them -with many words. There should be no long prayers. "But," thought he, -"as often as one came in, I would read the collect for the day; I would -soothe him with comfort out of Handel or Mendelssohn, I would speak -words of healing for the space of three minutes. I would sit at the -receipt of such custom. I would fish for men--not to make churchmen -of them--not to get them under my thumb"--(for Mr. Fuller used such -homely phrases sometimes that certain fledgling divines feared he was -vulgar)--"not to get them under the Church's thumb, but to get them out -of the hold of the devil, to lead them into the presence of Him who is -the Truth, and so can make them free." - -Therefore he said to himself that his church, instead of accumulating a -weary length of service on one day, should be open every day, and that -there he would be ready for any soul upon which a flask of silence had -burst through the clouds that ever rise from the city life and envelop -those that have their walk therein. - -It was not long before his cogitations came to the point of action; -for with men of Mr. Fuller's kind all their meditations have action -for their result: he opened his church--set the door to the wall, and -got a youth to whom he had been of service, and who was an enthusiast -in music, to play about one o'clock, when those who dined in the city -began to go in search of their food, such music as might possibly -waken the desire to see what was going on in the church. For he said -to himself that the bell was of no use now, for no one would heed it; -but that the organ might fulfill the spirit of the direction that "the -curate that ministereth in every parish church shall say the morning -and evening prayer--where he ministereth, and shall cause a bell to be -tolled thereunto a convenient time before he begins, that the people -may come to hear God's word and to pray with him." - -Over the crowded street, over the roar of omnibuses, carts, wagons, -cabs, and all kinds of noises, rose the ordered sounds of consort. -Day after day, day after day, arose the sounds of hope and prayer; -and not a soul in the streets around took notice of the same. Why -should they? The clergy had lost their hold of them. They believed -that the clergy were given to gain and pleasure just as much as they -were themselves. Those even of the passers-by who were ready to -acknowledge worth where they saw it, were yet not ready to acknowledge -the probability of finding it in the priesthood; for their experience, -and possibly some of their prejudices, were against it. They were -wrong; but who was to blame for it? The clergy of the eighteenth -century, because so many of them were neither Christians nor gentlemen; -and the clergy of the present century, because so many of them are -nothing but gentlemen--men ignorant of life, ignorant of human needs, -ignorant of human temptations, yea, ignorant of human aspirations; -because in the city pulpits their voice is not uplifted against city -vices--against speculation, against falsehood, against money-loving, -against dishonesty, against selfishness; because elsewhere their voices -are not uplifted against the worship of money and rank and equipage; -against false shows in dress and economy; against buying and not -paying; against envy and emulation; against effeminacy and mannishness; -against a morality which consists in discretion. Oh! for the voice of -a St. Paul or a St. John! But it would be of little use: such men -would have small chance of being heard. They would find the one-half of -Christendom so intent upon saving souls instead of doing its duty, that -the other half thought it all humbug. The organ sounded on from day to -day, and no one heeded. - -But Mr. Fuller had the support of knowing that there were clergymen -east and west who felt with him; men who, however much he might differ -from them in the details of belief, yet worshiped the Lord Christ, and -believed him to be the King of men, and the Saviour of men whose sins -were of the same sort as their own, though they had learned them in the -slums, and not at Oxford or Cambridge. He knew that there were greater -men, and better workers than himself, among the London clergy; and he -knew that he must work like them, after his own measure and fashion, -and not follow the multitude. And the organ went on playing--I had -written _praying_--for I was thinking of what our Lord said, that men -ought always to pray, and not to faint. - -At last one day, about a quarter past one o'clock, a man came into the -church. Mr. Fuller, who sat in the reading-desk, listening to the music -and praying to God, lifted up his eyes and saw Mr. Kitely. - -The bookseller had been passing, and, having heard the organ, thought -he would just look in and see what was doing in the church. For this -church was a sort of link between him and his daughter now that she was -away. - -The moment he entered Mr. Fuller rose, and knelt, and began to read the -collect for the day, in order that Mr. Kitely might pray with him. As -soon as his voice arose the organ, which was then playing very softly, -ceased; Mr. Kitely knelt, partly, it must be allowed, out of regard for -Mr. Fuller; the organist came down and knelt beside him; and Mr. Fuller -went on with the second and third collects. After this he read the -Epistle and the Gospel for the foregoing Sunday, and then he opened his -mouth and spoke--for not more than three minutes, and only to enforce -the lesson. Then he kneeled and let his _congregation_ depart with a -blessing. Mr. Kitely rose and left the chapel, and the organist went -back to his organ. - -Now all this was out of order. But was it as much out of order as -the omission of prayer altogether, which the Church enjoins shall be -daily? Times had changed: with them the order of prayer might possibly -be changed without offense. At least Mr. Fuller was not such a slave -to the letter as to believe that not to pray at all was better than -to alter the form by choice of parts. And although in the use of -prayers the Church had made great changes upon what had been first -instituted, he did not care to leave present custom for the sake -merely of reverting to that which was older. He had no hope of getting -business men to join in a full morning service--even such as it was at -first--upon any week-day. - -Mr. Kitely dropped in again before long, and again Mr. Fuller read the -collect and went through the same form of worship. Thus he did every -time any one appeared in the church, which was very seldom for the -first month or so. But he had some friends scattered about the city, -and when they knew of his custom they would think of it as they passed -his church, until at length there were very few days indeed upon which -two or three persons did not drop in and join in the collects, Epistle, -and Gospel. To these he always spoke for a few minutes, and then -dismissed them with the blessing. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -A DREARY ONE. - - -"Couldn't you get a holiday on Saturday, Tom?" said Mr. Worboise. "I -mean to have one, and I should like to take you with me." - -"I don't know, father," answered Tom, who did not regard the proposal -as involving any great probability of enjoyment; "my holiday is coming -so soon that I should not like to ask for it, especially as Mr. -Stopper--" - -"What about Mr. Stopper? Not over friendly, eh? He is not a bad fellow, -though, is Stopper. I'll ask for you, if you like that better." - -"I would much rather you wouldn't, father." - -"Pooh, pooh! nonsense, man! It's quite a different thing if I ask for -it, you know." - -Thomas made no further objection, for he had nothing at hand upon which -to ground a fresh one; nor, indeed, could he well have persisted in -opposing what seemed a kind wish of his father. It was not, however, -merely because they had little to talk about, and that Thomas always -felt a considerable restraint in his father's presence--a feeling not -very uncommon to young men--but he lived in constant dread of something -coming to light about Lucy. He feared his father much more than he -loved him; not that he had ever been hardly treated by him; not that -he had ever even seen him in a passion, for Mr. Worboise had a very -fair command of his temper; it was the hardness and inflexibility read -upon his face from earliest childhood, that caused fear thus to overlay -love. If a father finds that from any cause such is the case, he ought -at once to change his system, and to require very little of any sort -from his child till a new crop has begun to appear on the ill-farmed -ground of that child's heart. - -Now the meaning of the holiday was this: Mr. Worboise had a -city-client--a carpet-knight--by name Sir Jonathan Hubbard, a decent -man, as the Scotch would say; jolly, companionable, with a husky -laugh, and friendly unfinished countenance in which the color was of -more weight than the drawing--for, to quote Chaucer of the Franklin, -"a better envined man," either in regard of body or cellar, "was -nowhere none;" upon Sir Jonathan's sociability Mr. Worboise had -founded the scheme of the holiday. Not that he intended to risk any -intrusion--Mr. Worboise was far too knowing a man for that. The fact -was that he had appointed to wait upon his client at his house near -Bickley on that day--at such an hour, however, as would afford cover -to his pretense of having brought his son out with him for a holiday -in the country. It was most probable that Sir Jonathan would invite -them to stay to dinner, and so to spend their holiday with him. There -was no Lady Hubbard alive, but there was a Miss Hubbard at the head -of the house; and hence Mr. Worboise's strategy. Nor had he reckoned -without his host, for if Sir Jonathan was anything he was hospitable; -things fell out as the lawyer had forehoped, if not foreseen. Sir -Jonathan was pleased with the young fellow, would not allow him to wait -companionless in the drawing-room till business was over--sent, on the -contrary, for his daughter, and insisted on the two staying to dinner. -He was one of those eaters and drinkers who have the redeeming merit of -enjoying good things a great deal more in good company. Sir Jonathan's -best port would seem to him to have something the matter with it if he -had no one to share it. If, however, it had come to the question of a -half-bottle or no companion, I would not answer for Sir Jonathan. But -his cellar would stand a heavy siege. - -Thomas was seated in the drawing-room, which looked cold and rather -cheerless; for no company was expected, and I presume Miss Hubbard did -not care for color, save as reflected from her guests, seeing she had -all her furniture in pinafores. How little some rich people know how to -inherit the earth! The good things of it they only uncover when they -can _make_, not _receive_, a show. - -My dear reader--No, I will not take a liberty to which I have no right; -for perhaps were he to see me he would not like me, and possibly were -I to meet him I should not like him: I will rather say _My Reader_, -without the impertinence or the pledge of an adjective--have a little -patience while I paint Miss Hubbard just with the feather-end of my -pen. I shall not be long about it. - -Thomas sat in the drawing-room, I say, feeling vacant, for he was only -waiting, not expecting, when the door opened, and in came a fashionable -girl--rather tall, handsome, bright-eyed, well-dressed, and yet--What -was it that Thomas did not like about her? Was it that she was dressed -in the extreme of the fashion? I will not go on to say what the fashion -was, for before I had finished writing it, it would have ceased to be -the fashion; and I will not paint my picture _knowingly_ with colors -that must fade the moment they are laid on. To be sure she had ridden -the fashion till it was only fit for the knacker's yard; but she soon -made him forget that, for she was clever, pleasant, fast--which means -affectedly unrefined, only her affectation did no violence to fact--and -altogether amusing. I believe what Thomas did not like about her at -first was just all wherein she differed from Lucy. Yet he could not -help being taken with her; and when his father and Sir Jonathan came -into the room, the two were talking like a sewing-machine. - -"Laura, my dear," said the knight, "I have prevailed on Mr. Worboise to -spend the day with us. You have no engagement, I believe?" - -"Fortunately, I have not, papa." - -"Well, I'll just give orders about dinner, and then I'll take our -friends about the place. I want to show them my new stable. You had -better come with us." - -[Illustration: "SHE WAS CLEVER, PLEASANT, FAST--"] - -Sir Jonathan always ordered the dinner himself. He thought no woman was -capable of that department of the household economy. Laura put on her -hat--beautiful with a whole king-fisher--and they went out into the -grounds to the stable--trim as her drawing-room--where her favorite -horse ate apples out of her pocket; from the stable to the hothouses -and kitchen-garden; then out at a back door into the lane--shadowy with -trees--in which other colors than green were now very near carrying -the vote of the leaves. Sweet scents of decay filled the air, waved -about, swelling and sinking, on the flow of a west wind, gentle and -soft, as if it had been fanned from the wings of spring when nearest -to summer. Great white clouds in a brilliant sky tempered the heat of -the sun. What with the pure air, the fine light, and the handsome girl -by his side, Thomas was in a gayer mood than had been his for many a -long day. Miss Hubbard talked plenteously--about balls and theatres and -Mansion House dinners, about Rotten Row, and St. James's; and although -of all these Thomas knew very little, yet being quick and sympathetic, -he was able to satisfy the lady sufficiently to keep her going. He was -fortunate enough, besides, to say one or two clever things with which -she was pleased, and to make an excellent point once in a criticism -upon a girl they both knew, which, slighting her, conveyed, by no -very occult implication, a compliment to Miss Hubbard. By the time -they had reached this stage of acquaintanceship, they had left stout -Sir Jonathan and Mr. Worboise far behind; but Miss Hubbard was not in -the least danger of being made uncomfortable by any squeamish notions -of propriety; and, having nothing more amusing to do, and being out -already, she proposed that they should go home by a rather longer road, -which would lead them over a hill whence they would get a good view of -the country. - -"Do you like living in the country, Miss Hubbard?" - -"Oh! dear no. London for me. I can't tell what made papa come to this -dull place." - -"The scenery is very lovely, though." - -"People say so. I'm sure I don't know. Scenery wasn't taught where I -went to school." - -"Were you taught horses there?" asked Thomas, slyly. - -"No. That comes by nature. Do you know I won this bracelet in a -handicap last Derby?" she said, showing a very fine arm as well as -bracelet, though it was only the morning, so-called. - -Miss Hubbard had no design upon Thomas. How could she have? She knew -nothing about him. She would have done the same with any gentleman she -liked well enough to chatter to. And if Thomas felt it and thought that -Laura Hubbard was more entertaining than sober Lucy Burton, he made -up to Lucy for it in his own idea by asserting to himself that, after -all, she was far handsomer than Miss Hubbard, handsome as she was. Yet -I should never think of calling Lucy handsome. She was lovely--almost -beautiful, too. _Handsome_ always indicates more or less vulgarity--no, -I mean commonness--in my ears. And certainly, whatever she might be -capable of, had she been blessed with poverty, Miss Hubbard was as -common as she was handsome. Thomas was fool enough to revert to Byron -to try his luck with that. She soon made him ashamed of showing any -liking for such a silly thing as poetry. That piqued him as well, -however. - -"You sing, I suppose?" he said. - -"Oh, yes, when I can't help it--after dinner, sometimes." - -"Well, you sing poetry, don't you?" - -"I don't know. One must have some words or other just to make her open -her mouth. I never know what they're about. Why should I? Nobody ever -pays the least attention to them--or to the music either, except it be -somebody that wants to marry you." - -But why should I go further with the record of such talk? It is not -interesting to me, and, therefore, can hardly be so to my reader. Even -if I had the art to set it forth aright, I hope I should yet hold to my -present belief, that nothing in which the art is uppermost is worth the -art expended upon it. - -Thomas was a little shocked at her coolness, certainly; but at the same -time that very coolness seemed a challenge. Before they had reached the -house again, he was vexed to find he had made no impression upon Miss -Hubbard. - -Farewell to such fencing. By the time he had heard her sing, and his -father and he were on their way home again, I am glad to say that -Thomas had had nearly enough of her. He thought her voice loud and -harsh in speech, showy and distressing in song, and her whole being -_bravura_. The contrasts in Lucy had come back upon him with a gush of -memorial loveliness; for, as I have said, she still held the fortress -of his heart, and held it for its lawful owner. - -Scarcely were they seated in the railway carriage, of which they were -the sole occupants, when the elder Worboise threw a shot across the -bows of the younger. - -"Well, Tom, my boy," he said, rubbing his lawyer palms, "how do you -like Miss Hubbard?" - -"Oh, very well, father," answered Thomas, indifferently. "She's a very -jolly sort of girl." - -"She's worth a hundred thousand," said his father, in a tone that -would have been dry but for a touch of slight resentment at the -indifference, possibly in the father's view irreverence, with which he -spoke of her. - -"Girls?" asked Thomas. - -"Pounds," answered his father, clenchingly. - -Tom was now convinced of his father's design in taking him out for a -holiday. But even now he shrunk from confession. And how did he justify -his sneaking now? By saying to himself, "Lucy can't have anything like -that money; it won't do. I must wait a more fitting opportunity." But -he thought he was very brave indeed, and actually seizing the bull of -his father's will by the horns when he ventured to take his meaning for -granted, and replied: - -"Why, father, a fellow has no chance with a girl like that, except -he could ride like Assheton Smith, and knew all the slang of the -hunting-field as well as the race-course." - -"A few children will cure her of that," said his father. - -"What I say is," persisted Thomas, "that she would never look at a -clerk." - -"If I thought you had any chance, I would buy you a commission in the -Blues." - -"It wants blue blood for that," said Thomas, whose heart, -notwithstanding, danced in his bosom at the sound of _commission_. -Then, afraid lest he should lose the least feather of such a chance, he -added hastily, "But any regiment would do." - -"I dare say," returned his father, at right angles. "When you have made -a little progress it will be time enough. She knows nothing about what -you are now. Her father asked me, and I said I had not made up my mind -yet what to do with you." - -"But, as I said before," resumed Thomas, fighting somewhat feebly, -"I haven't a chance with her. She likes better to talk about horses -than anything else, and I never had my leg across a horse's back in my -life--as you know, father," he added in a tone of reproach. - -"You mean, Tom, that I have neglected your education. Well, it shall -be so no longer. You shall go to the riding-school on Monday night. It -won't be open to-morrow, I suppose." - -I hope my reader is not so tired of this chapter as I am. It is bad -enough to have to read such uninteresting things--but to have to write -them! The history that is undertaken must be written, however, whether -the writer weary sometimes of his task, or the interest of his labor -carry him lightly through to the close. - -Thomas, wretched creature, dallied with his father's proposal. He -did not intend accepting it, but the very idea of marrying a rich, -fashionable girl like that, with a knight for a father, flattered -him. Still more was he excited at the notion, the very possibility of -wearing a uniform. And what might he not do with so much money? Then, -when the thought of Lucy came, he soothed his conscience by saying to -himself, "See, how much I must love her when I am giving up all this -for her sake!" Still his thoughts hovered about what he said he was -giving up. He went to bed on Sunday night, after a very pathetic sermon -from Mr. Simon, with one resolution, and one only, namely, to go to the -riding-school in Finsbury on Monday night. - -But something very different was waiting him. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -AN EXPLOSION. - - -The whole ground under Thomas's feet was honey-combed and filled with -combustible matter. A spark dropped from any, even a loving hand, might -send everything in the air. It needed not an enemy to do it. - -Lucy Burton had been enjoying a delightful season of repose by the -sea-side. She had just enough to do with and for the two children to -gain healthy distraction to her thinking. But her thinking as well as -her bodily condition grew healthier every day that she breathed the -sea air. She saw more and more clearly than ever that things must not -go on between her and Thomas as they were now going on. The very scent -of the sea that came in at her bed-room window when she opened it in -the morning, protested against it; the wind said it was no longer -endurable; and the clear, blue autumn sky said it was a shame for his -sake, if not for her own. She must not do evil that good might come; -she must not allow Thomas to go on thus for the sake even of keeping -a hold of him for his good. She would give him one chance more, an -if he did not accept it, she would not see him again, let come of it -what would. In better mood still, she would say, "Let God take care of -that for him and me." She had not written to him since she came: that -was one thing she could avoid. Now, she resolved that she would write -to him just before her return, and tell him that the first thing she -would say to him when she saw him would be--had he told his father? and -upon his answer depended their future. But then the question arose, -what address she was to put upon the letter; for she was not willing -to write either to his home or to the counting-house for evident -reasons. Nor had she come to any conclusion, and had indeed resolved -to encounter him once more without having written, when from something -rather incoherently expressed in her grandmother's last letter, which -indeed referred to an expected absence of Mr. Stopper, who was now the -old lady's main support, she concluded, hastily, I allow, that Mr. -Worboise was from home, and that she might without danger direct a -letter to Highbury. - -Through some official at the Court of Probate, I fancy that Mr. -Worboise had heard of a caveat having been entered with reference to -the will of Mr. Richard Boxall, deceased. I do not know that this was -the case, but I think something must have occurred to irritate him -against those whom he, with the law on his side, was so sorely tempted -to wrong. I know that the very contemplation of wrong is sufficient -to irritate, and that very grievously, against one thus contemplated; -but Lucy would have been a very good match, though not equal to Miss -Hubbard, even in Mr. Worboise's eyes. On the other hand, however, if he -could but make up, not his mind, but his conscience, to take Boxall's -money, he would be so much the more likely to secure Miss Hubbard's; -which, together with what he could leave him, would make a fortune over -two hundred thousand--sufficient to make his son somebody. If Thomas -had only spoken in time, that is, while his father's conscience still -spoke, and before he had cast eyes of ambition toward Sir Jonathan's -bankers! All that was wanted on the devil's side now was some personal -quarrel with the rightful heirs; and if Mr. Worboise did not secure -that by means of Mr. Sargent's caveat, he must have got it from -what had happened on the Monday morning. Before Thomas came down to -breakfast, the postman had delivered a letter addressed to him, with -the Hastings postmark upon it. - -When Thomas entered, and had taken his seat, on the heels of the usual -cool _Good-morning_, his father tossed the letter to him across the -table, saying, more carelessly than he felt: - -"Who's your Hastings correspondent, Tom?" - -The question, coming with the sight of Lucy's handwriting, made the -eloquent blood surge into Tom's face. His father was not in the way of -missing anything that there was to see, and he saw Tom's face. - -"A friend of mine," stammered Tom. "Gone down for a holiday." - -"One of your fellow-clerks?" asked his father, with a dry significance -that indicated the possible neighborhood of annoyance, or worse. "I -thought the writing of doubtful gender." - -For Lucy's writing was not in the style of a field of corn in a -hurricane: it had a few mistakable curves about it, though to the -experienced eye it was nothing the less feminine that it did not affect -feminity. - -"No," faltered Tom, "he's not a clerk; he's a--well, he's a--teacher of -music." - -"Hm!" remarked Mr. Worboise. "How did you come to make his -acquaintance, Tom?" And he looked at his son with awful eyes, lighted -from behind with growing suspicion. - -Tom felt his jaws growing paralyzed. His mouth was as dry as his hand, -and it seemed as if his tongue would rattle in it like the clapper of a -cracked bell if he tried to speak. But he had nothing to say. A strange -tremor went through him from top to toe, making him conscious of every -inch of his body at the very moment when his embarrassment might have -been expected to make him forget it altogether. His father kept his -eyes fixed on him, and Tom's perturbation increased every moment. - -"I think, Tom, the best way out of your evident confusion will be to -hand me over that letter," said his father, in a cool, determined tone, -at the same time holding out his hand to receive it. - -Tom had strength to obey only because he had not strength to resist. -But he rose from his seat, and would have left the room. - -"Sit down, sir," said Mr. Worboise, in a voice that revealed growing -anger, though he could not yet have turned over the leaf to see the -signature. In fact, he was more annoyed at his son's pusillanimity than -at his attempted deception. "You make a soldier!" he added, in a tone -of contempt that stung Tom--not to the heart, but to the backbone. When -he had turned the leaf and saw the signature, he rose slowly from his -chair and walked to the window, folding the letter as he went. After -communing with the garden for awhile, he turned again to the table and -sat down. It was not Mr. Worboise's way to go into a passion when he -had anything like reasonable warning that his temper was in danger. - -"Tom, you have been behaving like a fool. Thank heaven, it's not -too late! How could you be such a fool? Believe me, it's not a safe -amusement to go trifling with girls this way." - -With a great effort, a little encouraged by the quietness of his -father's manner, Tom managed to say, "I wasn't trifling." - -"Do you mean to tell me," said his father, with more sternness than Tom -had ever known him assume--"do you mean to tell me," he repeated, "that -you have come under any obligation to this girl?" - -"Yes, I have, father." - -"You fool! A dress-maker is no fit match for you." - -"She's not a dress-maker," said Tom, with some energy, for he was -beginning to grow angry, and that alone could give a nature like his -courage in such circumstances; "she's a lady, if ever there was one." - -"Stuff and nonsense!" said his father. "Don't get on your high horse -with me. She's a beggar, if ever there was one." - -Tom smiled unbelievingly, or tried to smile; for now his tremor, under -the influence of his wholesome anger, had abated, and his breath began -to come and go more naturally. A little more, and he would feel himself -a hero, stoutly defending his lady-love, fearless of consequences to -himself. But he said nothing more just yet. - -"You know better than I do, you think, you puppy! I tell you she's not -worth a penny--no, nor her old witch of a grandmother, either. A pretty -mess you've made of it! You just sit down and tell the poor girl--it's -really too bad of you, Tom!--that you're sorry you've been such a -confounded fool, but there's no help for it." - -"Why should I say that?" - -"Because it's true. By all that's sacred!" said Mr. Worboise, with -solemn fierceness, "you give up that girl, or you give up me. Not that -your father is anything to you: but I swear, if you carry on with that -girl, you shall not cross my door as long as you do; and not a penny -you shall have out of my pocket. You'll have to live on your salary, my -fine fellow, and perhaps that'll bring down your proud stomach a bit. -By Jove! You may starve for me. Come, my boy," he added with sudden -gentleness, "don't be a fool." - -Whether Mr. Worboise meant all he said, I cannot tell, but at least -he meant Thomas to believe that he did. And Thomas did believe it. -All the terrible contrast between a miserable clerkship, with lodging -as well as food to be provided, and a commission in the army with -unlimited pocket-money, and the very name of business forgotten, rose -before him. A conflict began within him which sent all the blood to the -surface of his body, and made him as hot now as he had been cold just -before. He again rose from his seat, and this time his father, who saw -that he had aimed well, did not prevent him from leaving the room. He -only added as his son reached the door, "Mark what I say, Tom: _I mean -it_; and when I mean a thing, it's not my fault if it's not done. You -can go to the riding-school to-night, or you can look out for a lodging -suitable to your means. I should recommend Wapping." - -Thomas stood on the heel of one foot and the toes of the other, holding -the handle of the door in his hand till his father had done speaking. -He then left the room, without reply, closed the door behind him, took -his hat and went out. He was half way to London before he remembered -that he had left Lucy's letter in his father's hands and had not even -read it. This crowned his misery. He dared not go back for it; but the -thought of Lucy's words to him being at the mercy of his hard-hearted -father moved him so, that he almost made up his mind never to enter -the house again. And then how Lucy must love him when he had given up -everything for her sake, knowing quite well, too, that she was not -going to have any fortune after all? But he did not make up his mind; -he never had made up his mind yet; or, if he had, he unmade it again -upon meeting with the least difficulty. And now his whole "state of -man" was in confusion. He went into the counting-house as if he had -been walking in a dream, sat down to his desk mechanically, droned -through the forenoon, had actually only a small appetite for his -dinner, and when six o'clock arrived, and the place was closed, knew no -more what he was going to do than when he started out in the morning. - -But he neither went to the riding-school in Finsbury, nor to look for a -lodging in Wapping. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -DOWN AT LAST. - - -In the very absence of purpose, he strolled up Guild Court to call upon -Molken, who was always at home at that hour. - -Molken welcomed him even more heartily than usual. After a few minutes' -conversation they went out together: having no plan of his own, Thomas -was in the hands of any one who had a plan of which he formed a part. -They betook themselves to one of their usual haunts. It was too early -yet for play, so they called for some refreshment, and Thomas drank -more than he had ever drunk before, not with any definite idea of -drowning the trouble in his mind, but sipping and sipping from mere -restlessness and the fluttering motion of a will unable to act. - -It was a cold evening. An autumn wind which had dropped in its way all -the now mournful memories of nature, and was itself the more dreary -therefore, tumbled a stray billow now and then through the eddies of -its chimney-rocks and housetop-shoals upon the dirty window of the -little dreary den in which they sat, drinking their gin and water at a -degraded card-table whose inlaid borders were not yet quite obscured by -the filth caked upon it from greasy fingers and dusters dirtier than -the smoke they would remove. They talked--not about gaming--no: they -talked about politics and poetry; about Goethe and Heine; and Molken -exerted all his wit and sympathy to make himself agreeable to his -dejected friend, urging him to rise above his dejection by an effort -of the will; using, in fact, much the same arguments as Lady Macbeth -when she tried to persuade her husband that the whole significance of -things depended on how he chose to regard them: "These things must not -be thought after these ways." Thomas, however, had not made a confidant -of Molken. He had only dropped many words that a man like him would not -fail to piece together into some theory regarding the condition and -circumstances of one of whom he meant to make gain. - -At length, what between Molken's talk and the gin, a flame of -excitement began to appear in Thomas's weary existence; and almost -at the same instant a sound of voices and footsteps was heard below; -they came up the stair; the door of the room opened; and several -fellows entered, all eager for the excitement of play as a drunkard -for his drink, all talking, laughing, chaffing. A blast of wind laden -with rain from a laboring cloud which had crept up from the west -and darkened the place, smote on the windows, and soft yet keen the -drops pattered on the glass. All outside was a chaos of windy mist -and falling rain. They called for lights, and each man ordered his -favorite drink; the face of Nature, who was doing her best to befriend -them, was shut out by a blind of green and black stripes stained with -yellow; two dirty packs of cards were produced--not from the pocket of -any of the company, for none of the others would have trusted such a -derivation, but from the archives of the house; and, drawing round the -table, they began to offer their sacrifice to the dreary excitement for -whose presence their souls had been thirsting all the day. Two of them -besides Molken were foreigners, one of them apparently a German, a very -quiet and rather a gentlemanly man, between whom and Molken, however, -if Thomas had been on the outlook, he might, I fancy, have seen certain -looks of no good omen interchanged. - -They began playing very gently--and fairly no doubt; and Thomas for -some time went on winning. - -There was not even the pretense of much money among them. Probably a -few gold pieces was the most any of them had. When one of them had -made something at this sort of small private game, he would try his -luck at one of the more public tables, I presume. As the game went -on and they grew more excited, they increased their stakes a little. -Still they seemed content to go on for a little. Thomas and Molken were -partners, and still they won. Gradually the points were increased, and -betting began. Thomas began to lose and lose, of course, more rapidly -than he had won. He had had two or three pounds in his pocket when he -began, but all went now--the last of it in a bet on the odd trick. He -borrowed of Molken--lost; borrowed and lost, still sipping his gin and -water, till Molken declared he had himself lost everything. Thomas laid -his watch on the table, for himself and Molken--it was not of great -value--a gift of his mother only. He lost it. What was to be done? -He had one thing left--a ring of some value which Lucy had given him -to wear for her. It had belonged to her mother. He pulled it off his -finger, showed that it was a rose diamond, and laid it on the table. -It followed the rest. He rose, caught up his hat, and, as so many -thousands of gamblers have done before, rushed out into the rain and -the darkness. - -Through all the fumes of the gin which had begun to render "the -receipt of reason a limbeck only," the thought gleamed upon his cloudy -mind that he ought to have received his quarter's salary that very day. -If he had had that, what might he not have done? It was his, and yet -he could not have it. His mind was all in a confused despair, ready -to grasp at anything that offered him a chance of winning back what -he had lost. If he had gone home and told his father--but he was not -capable of reasoning out anything. Lucy's ring was his chief misery: -so much must be said for him. Something--he did not know what--drove -him toward Guild Court. I believe, though in his after reflections he -could not identify the impulse, that it was the same which he obeyed at -last. Before he knew where he was going, he was at Mrs. Boxall's door. -He found it ajar, and walked up the stair to the sitting-room. That -door too was open, and there was no one there. But he saw at a glance, -from the box on the floor and the shawl on the table, that Lucy had -returned, and he supposed that her grandmother had gone up stairs with -her. The same moment his eyes sought the wall, and there hung two keys. -They were the keys of the door of communication and of the safe. - -Mr. Stopper, wise in his generation, sought, as we have seen, to stand -as well as possible with the next of kin and supposed heir to Mr. -Boxall, namely, his mother. He had, therefore, by degrees, made himself -necessary to her, in her fancy at least, by giving her good advice till -she thought she could not do without his wisdom. Nor that alone; he -had pleased her by a hundred little acknowledgments of her suzerainty, -especially grateful to one who loved power as Mrs. Boxall did. Among -the rest, one evening, after locking up the counting-house, he went to -her with those two keys in his hand, and kept playing with them till he -was taking his leave--then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, said: - -"But I don't see the use of troubling myself with these keys. I may as -well hang them up somewhere," he added, looking about for a place. - -"I don't know that it's wise to leave them here," objected Mrs. Boxall. - -"Oh! don't be uneasy, ma'am," returned Mr. Stopper. "You mustn't -suppose we leave a mint of money in the house at night. If we -did, _you_ wouldn't be safe either. It's only what comes in after -banking-hours--a matter of ten pounds, or thereabouts, sometimes more, -sometimes less. The safe's more for the books--in case of fire, you -know." - -"I hope there's no danger of that, Mr. Stopper." - -"Not as long as the neighbors don't take fire. I see every spark out -when we have a fire before I turn my back on the premises. Indeed, I'm -rather more careful over the fire than the cash-box." - -In the meantime Mr. Stopper had discovered a brass-headed nail in the -wall, and thereupon he had hung the keys, and there he had hung them -every evening since, and there they hung at this moment when Thomas's -eyes went in search of them. - -When he considered the whole affair afterward, Thomas thought he must -have been driven by a demon. He hardly knew whether he was thinking -over or doing the thing that was present to him. No thought of -resisting it as a temptation arose to meet it. He knew that there was -eleven pounds odd shillings in the cash box, for he had seen one of -the other clerks count it; he knew that the cash-box was in the safe; -he knew that that was the key of it; he knew that the firm owed him -twenty-five pounds; he could replace it again before the morning; and -while thinking all this he was "doing the effect of his thinking," -almost without knowing it: he found himself standing before the safe -with the key already in the lock, and the cold handle of the door in -his hand. But it was dark all around and within him. In there alone lay -light and hope. In another moment the door was open, and the contents -of the cash-box--gold, silver, copper--in his pocket. It is possible -that even then he might have restored the money if he had not heard the -step of the policeman at the street-door. He left the safe open as it -was, with the key in it, and sped from the house. - -Nothing more marked itself on his memory till he reached the room where -he had left his _friends_. It was dark. There was no one there. They -had gone to try their luck in a more venturous manner, where rogue -met rogue, and fortune was umpire rather than cunning. He knew their -haunts, followed and found them. But his watch and ring were gone. -They told him, however, where they were. He would go and seek them -to-morrow. Meantime he would play. He staked and lost--lost, won, won -again; doubled his stakes, won still; and when he left the house it was -with a hundred pounds in his pocket and a gray dawn of wretchedness in -his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - -MRS. BOXALL AND MR. STOPPER. - - -Lucy was not up stairs with her grandmother when Thomas went into the -room. She had arrived some time before, and had ran across to the -bookseller's to put Mattie to bed, according to promise, leaving the -door just ajar that she might not trouble her grandmother to come -down and open it for her. She had come home hoping against hope that -Thomas must by this time have complied, in some way or other, with her -request--must have written to his father, or, at least, so positively -made up his mind to tell him on his return, that he would be at the -station to meet her with the assurance, or would appear in Guild Court -some time during the evening with a response to her earnest appeal. -When she had put the child to bed, she lingered a few moments with the -bookseller in his back parlor, for the shop was shut up, telling him -about Mattie, and listening to what little bits of news the worthy man -had to impart in return. Their little chat ran something in this way: - -"And how have you been, Mr. Kitely?" - -"Oh, among the middlins, miss, thank you. How's yourself been?" - -"Quite well, and no wonder." - -"I don't know that, miss, with two young things a pullin' of you all -ways at once. I hope Mattie wasn't over and above troublesome to you." - -"She was no trouble at all. You must have missed her, though." - -"I couldn't ha' believed how I'd miss her. Do you know the want of her -to talk to made me do what I ain't done for twenty year?" - -"What's that, Mr. Kitely? Go to church of a Sunday?" - -"More than that, miss," answered the bookseller, laughing--a little -sheepishly. "Would you believe it of me? I've been to church of a -week-day more than once. Ha! ha! But then it wasn't a long rigmarole, -like--" - -"You mustn't talk about it like that--to me, you know, Mr. Kitely." - -"I beg your pardon, miss. I only meant he didn't give us a Sundayful -of it, you know. I never could ha' stood that. We had just a little -prayer, and a little chapter, and a little sermon--good sense, too, -upon my word. I know I altered a price or two in my catalogue when I -come home again. I don't know as I was right, but I did it, just to -relieve my mind and make believe I was doin' as the minister told me. -If they was all like Mr. Fuller, I don't know as I should ha' the heart -to say much agen them." - -"So it's Mr. Fuller's church you've been going to? I'm so glad! How -often has he service, then?" - -"Every day, miss. Think o' that. It don't take long, though, as I tell -you. But why should it? If there is any good in talking at all, it -comes more of being the right thing than the muchness of it, as my old -father used to say--for he was in the business afore me, miss, though I -saw a great deal more o' the world than ever he did afore I took to it -myself--says he, 'It strikes me, Jacob, there's more for your money in -some o' those eighteen mos, if you could only read 'em, than in some o' -them elephants. I ha' been a watchin',' says he, 'the sort o' man that -buys the one and that buys the tother. When a little man with a shabby -coat brings in off the stall one o' them sixpenny books in Latin, that -looks so barbarious to me, and pops it pleased like into the tail of -his coat--as if he meant to have it out again the minute he was out -of the shop--then I thinks there's something in that little book--and -something in that little man,' says father, miss. And so I stick up for -the sermons and the little prayers, miss. I've been thinking about it -since; and I think Mr. Fuller's right about the short prayers. They're -much more after the manner of the Lord's Prayer anyhow. I never heard -of anybody getting tired before _that_ was over. As you are fond of -church, miss, you'd better drop into Mr. Fuller's to-morrow mornin'. If -you go once, you'll go again." - -Long after, Lucy told Mr. Fuller what the bookseller had said, and it -made him think yet again whether our long prayers--_services_, as we -call them, forsooth--are not all a mistake, and closely allied to the -worship of the Pagans, who think they shall be heard for their much -speaking. - -She went out by the side-door into the archway. As she opened it, a -figure sped past her, fleet and silent. She started back. Why should it -remind her of Thomas? She had scarcely seen more in the darkness than a -deeper darkness in motion, for she came straight from the light. - -She found the door not as she left it. - -"Has Thomas been here, grannie?" she asked, with an alarm she could not -account for. - -"No, indeed. He has favored us with little of his company this many -a day," answered grannie, speaking out of the feelings which had -gradually grown from the seeds sown by Stopper. "The sooner you're -off with him, my dear, the better, for you!" she continued. "He's no -good, I doubt." With a terrible sinking at the heart, Lucy heard her -grandmother's words. But she would fight Thomas's battles to the last. - -"If ever that man dares to say a word against Thomas in my hearing," -she said, "I'll--I'll--I'll leave the room." - -O most lame and impotent conclusion! But Lucy carried it farther than -her words; for when Mr. Stopper entered the next morning, with a face -scared into the ludicrous, she, without even waiting to hear what he -had to say, though she foreboded evil, rose at once and left the room. -Mr. Stopper stood and looked after her in dismayed admiration; for -Lucy was one of those few whose anger even is of such an unselfish and -unspiteful nature, that it gives a sort of piquancy to their beauty. - -"I hope I haven't offended the young lady," said Mr. Stopper, with some -concern. - -"Never you mind, Mr. Stopper. I've been giving her a hint about Thomas, -and she's not got over it yet. Never you mind her. It's me you've got -to do with, and I ain't got no fancies." - -"It's just as well, perhaps, that she did walk herself away," said Mr. -Stopper. - -"You've got some news, Mr. Stopper. Sit ye down. Will you have a cup o' -tea?" - -"No, thank you. Where's the keys, Mrs. Boxall?" - -The old lady looked up at the wall, then back at Mr. Stopper. - -"Why, go along! There they are in your own hand." - -"Yes; but where do you think I found them?--Hanging in the door of the -safe, and all the money gone from the cash-box. I haven't got over the -shock of it yet." - -"Why, good heavens! Mr. Stopper," said the old lady, who was rather -out of temper with both herself and Lucy, "you don't think _I've_ been -a-robbing of your cash-box, do you?" - -Mr. Stopper laughed aloud. - -"Well, ma'am, that would be a roundabout way of coming by your own. I -don't think we could make out a case against you if you had. Not quite. -But, seriously, who came into the house after I left? I hung the keys -on that wall with my own hands." - -"And I saw them there when I went to bed," said Mrs. Boxall, making a -general impression ground for an individual assertion. - -"Then somebody must have come in after you had gone to bed--some one -that knew the place. Did you find the street door had been tampered -with?" - -"Lucy opened it this morning." - -Mrs. Boxall went to the door and called her grand-daughter. Lucy came, -thinking Mr. Stopper must be gone. When she saw him there, she would -have left the room again, but her grandmother interfered. - -"Come here, child," she said, peremptorily. "Was the house-door open -when you went down this morning?" - -Lucy felt her face grow pale with the vaguest foreboding--associated -with the figure which had run through the archway and her finding the -door open. But she kept her self-command. - -"No, grannie. The door was shut as usual." - -"Did nobody call last night?" asked Mr. Stopper, who had his -suspicions, and longed to have them confirmed in order to pay off old -scores at once. - -"Nobody; that I'll give my word for," answered Mrs. Boxall. - -"A most unaccountable thing, ladies," said Stopper, rubbing his -forehead as if he would fain rouse an idea in his baffled brain. - -"Have you lost much money?" asked the old lady. - -"Oh, it's not the money; that's a flea-bite. But justice, you -know--that's the point," said Mr. Stopper, with his face full of -meaning. - -"Do you suspect any one, Mr. Stopper?" - -"I do. I found something on the floor. If Mr. Worboise were come," he -continued, looking hard at Lucy, "he might be able to help us out with -it. Sharp fellow that. But it's an hour past his time, and he's not -made his appearance yet. I fear he's been taking to fast ways lately. -I'll just go across the court to Mr. Molken, and see if he knows -anything about him." - -"You'll oblige _me_," said Lucy, who was cold to the very heart, but -determined to keep up, "by doing nothing of the sort. I will not have -his name mentioned in the matter. Does any one but yourself know of -the--the robbery, Mr. Stopper?" - -"Not a soul, miss. I wouldn't do anything till I had been to you. I was -here first, as I generally am." - -"Then, if I am to have anything to say at all," she returned with -dignity, "let the matter rest in the mean time--at least till you -have some certainty. If you don't you will make suspicion fall on the -innocent. It might have been grannie or myself, for anything you can -tell yet." - -"Highty-tighty, lass!" said her grandmother. "We're on our high horse, -I believe." - -Before she could say more, however, Lucy had left the room. She just -managed to reach her bed, and fell fainting upon it. - -Money had evidently, even in the shadow it cast before it, wrought -no good effect upon old Mrs. Boxall. The bond between her and her -grand-daughter was already weakened. She had never spoken thus to her -till now. - -"Never you mind what the wench says," she went on to Stopper. "The -money's none of hers, and shan't be except I please. You just do as you -think proper, Mr. Stopper. If that young vagabond has taken the money, -why you take him, and see what the law will say to it. The sooner our -Lucy is shut of him the better for her--and may be for you too, Mr. -Stopper," added the old lady, looking insinuatingly at him. - -But whether the head clerk had any design upon Lucy or not, he seemed -to think that her favor was of as much consequence as that of her -grandmother. He might have reasoned in this way--that he could not -expose Thomas without making Lucy his enemy, both from her regard to -him and because of the disgrace that would come upon her by having -her name associated with his; and Mrs. Boxall was old, and Lucy might -take her place any day in the course of nature. Whereas, so long as -he kept the secret and strengthened the conclusions against Thomas -without divulging them, he had a hold over Lucy, even a claim upon her -gratitude, he would say, which he might employ as he saw occasion, -and as prudence should direct, holding his revenge still ready in his -hands in case there should be nothing to be gained by foregoing it. -Therefore, when the clerk in whose charge the money-box was, opened it, -he found in it only a ticket with Mr. Stopper's initials, and the sum -abstracted in figures, by which it was implied that Mr. Stopper had -taken the contents for his own use. So, although it seemed queer that -he should have emptied it of the whole sum, even to the few coppers, -there was nothing to be said, and hardly anything to be conjectured -even. - -As Thomas did not make his appearance all day, not a doubt remained -upon Mr. Stopper's mind that he had committed the robbery. But he was -so well acquainted with the minutest details of the business that he -knew very well that the firm was the gainer by Thomas's absconding as -nearly as possible to the same amount that he had taken. This small -alleviation of Thomas's crime, however, Mr. Stopper took no pains -to communicate to Lucy, chuckling only over his own good fortune in -getting rid of him so opportunely; for he would no longer stand in his -way, even if he were to venture on making advances to Lucy; she could -never have anything more to do with a fellow who could be tried for -burglary if he chose to apply for a warrant for his apprehension. - -Intending that his forbearance should have the full weight of -obedience to her wishes, Mr. Stopper went up in the evening after the -counting-house was closed. Lucy was not there. She had not left her -room since the morning, and the old woman's tenderness had revived a -little. - -"Perhaps you'd better not hang them keys up there, Mr. Stopper. I don't -care about the blame of them. I've had enough of it. There's Lucy, -poor dear, lying on her bed like a dead thing; and neither bit nor sup -passed her lips all day. Take your keys away with you, Mr. Stopper. -I'll have nothing more to do wi' them, I can tell you. And don't you go -and take away that young man's character, Mr. Stopper." - -"Indeed I should be very sorry, Mrs. Boxall. He hasn't been here all -day, but I haven't even made a remark on his absence to any one about -the place." - -"That's very right, Mr. Stopper. The young gentleman may be at home -with a headache." - -"Very likely," answered Mr. Stopper, dryly. "Good-night, Mrs. Boxall. -And as the keys must have an unpleasant look after what has happened, -I'll just put them in my pocket and take them home with me." - -"Do ye that, Mr. Stopper. And good-night to you. And if the young man -comes back to-morrow, don't 'ee take no notice of what's come and gone. -If you're sure he took it, you can keep it off his salary, with a wink -for a warning, you know." - -"All right, ma'am," said Mr. Stopper, taking his departure in less good -humor than he showed. - -I will not say much about Lucy's feelings. For some time she was so -stunned by the blow as to be past conscious suffering. Then commenced -a slow oscillation of feeling: for one half hour, unknown to her as -time, she would be declaring him unworthy of occasioning her trouble; -for the next she would be accusing his attachment to her, and her own -want of decision in not absolutely refusing to occupy the questionable -position in which she found herself, as the combined causes of his -ruin: for as ruin she could not but regard such a fall as his. She -had no answer to her letter--heard nothing of him all day, and in -the evening her grandmother brought her the statement of Mr. Stopper -that Thomas had not been there. She turned her face away toward the -wall, and her grandmother left her, grumbling at girls generally, and -girls in love especially. Meantime a cherub was on its way toward her, -bearing a little bottle of comfort under its wing. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - -MATTIE FALLS AND RISES AGAIN. - - -Mattie had expected Lucy to call for her in the forenoon and take her -out to Wyvil Place to see Miriam. Spending the morning with her father -in the shop, amidst much talk, conducted with the most respectful -docility on the part of the father, and a good deal of condescending -assertion on the part of the child, she had run out twenty times to -look at the clock at St. Jacob's; and at length, finding that Lucy -did not come, had run up and knocked at her door, giving Mr. Spelt -a promissory nod as she passed. Hearing from Mrs. Boxall, however, -that Miss Burton was too tired to go out with her, she turned in some -disappointment, and sought Mr. Spelt. - -"Well, mother, how do _you_ do?" she asked, perking up her little gray -face, over which there was now a slight wash of rose-color, toward the -watch-tower of the tailor. - -"Quite well, Mattie. And you look well," answered Mr. Spelt. - -"And I am well, I assure you; better than I ever expected to be in this -world, mother. I mean to come up beside you a bit. I want to tell you -something." - -"I don't know, Mattie," answered Mr. Spelt, with some embarrassment. -"Is it anything in particular?" - -"In particular! Well, I should think so," returned Mattie, with a -triumph just dashed with displeasure, for she had not been accustomed -to any hesitation in accepting her advances on the part of Mr. Spelt. -"I should think so." Then, lowering her voice to a keen whisper, she -added, "I've been to see God in his own house." - -"Been to church, have you?" said Mr. Spelt. - -Now I am sorry to say that Spelt was behaving dishonestly--not from -choice, but from embarrassment and fear springing from a false -conscientiousness. And Mattie felt at once that Mr. Spelt was not -behaving like himself. - -"No, Mr. Spelt," she answered with dignity--bridling indeed; "I've -not been to church. You don't call that God's house, do you? _Them!_ -They're nothing but little shops like your own, Mr. Spelt. But God's -house!--Take me up, I say. Don't make me shout such things in the open -street." - -Thus adjured, Mr. Spelt could stand out no longer. He stooped over his -threshold and lifted Mattie toward him. But the moment her head reached -the level of his floor, she understood it all. In _her_ old place in -the corner sat the little demoniac Poppie, clothed and in her right -mind. A true observer, however, would have seen from her pale, thin -face that possibly her quietude was owing more to weakness than to any -revolution in her nature. - -"Well!" said Mattie, with hauteur. "Will you set me down again, if you -please, Mr. Spelt." - -"I think, perhaps," said the tailor, meekly, holding the child still -suspended in the air, "I could find room for you both. The corner -opposite the door there, Mattie," he added, looking round suggestively -in the direction of the spot signified. - -"Put me down," insisted Mattie, in such a tone that Mr. Spelt dared not -keep her in suspense any longer, but lowered her gently to the ground. -All the time Poppie had been staring with great black eyes, which -seemed to have grown much larger during her illness, and, of course, -saying nothing. - -As soon as the soles of Mattie's feet touched the ground, she seemed to -gather strength like Antæus; for instead of turning and walking away, -with her head as high, morally considered, as that of any giant, she -began to parley with the offending Mr. Spelt. - -"I have heard, mother--Mr. Spelt--that you should be off with the old -love before you're on with the new. You never told me what you were -about." - -"But you was away from home, Mattie." - -"You could have written. It would only have cost a penny. I shouldn't -have minded paying it." - -"Well, Mattie, shall I turn Poppie out?" - -"Oh! _I_ don't want you to turn her out. You would say I drove her to -the streets again." - -"Do you remember, Mattie, that you wouldn't go to that good lady's -house because she didn't ask Poppie, too. Do you?" - -A moment's delay in the child's answer revealed shame. But she was -ready in a moment. - -"Hers is a big house. That's my own very corner." - -"Don't you see how ill Poppie is?" - -"Well!" said the hard little thing, with a side nod of her head over -the speaking corner of her mouth. - -Mr. Spelt began to be a little vexed. He took the upper hand now and -came home to her. She was turning to go away, when he spoke in a tone -that stopped her. But she stood with her back half turned toward him. - -"Mattie, do you remember the story Somebody told us about the ragged -boy that came home again, and how his brother, with the good clothes -on, was offended, and wouldn't go in because he thought he was taking -his place? You're behaving just the same as the brother with the good -clothes." - -"I don't know that. There's some difference, I'm sure. I don't think -you're telling the story right. I don't think there's anything about -taking his place. I'll just go and look. I can read it for myself, Mr. -Spelt." - -So saying, Mattie walked away to the house, with various backward -tosses of the head. Mr. Spelt drew his head into his shell, troubled at -Mattie's naughtiness. Poppie stared at him, but said nothing, for she -had nothing to say. - -When Mattie entered the shop, her father saw that something was amiss -with her. - -"What's the matter with my princess?" he asked. - -"Oh, nothing much," answered Mattie, with tears in her eyes. "I shall -get over it, I dare say. Mr. Spelt has been very naughty," she added; -in a somewhat defiant tone; and before her father could say anything -more she had reached the stairs, and went to her own room. - -My reader must imagine her now taking down a huge family Bible her -father him given her for the sake of the large print. She lugs it along -and heaves it upon her bed; then, by a process known only to herself, -finds the place, and begins to spell out the story once more, to -discover whether the tailor has not garbled it to her condemnation. -But, as she reads, the story itself lays hold upon her little heart, -and she finds a far greater condemnation there than she had found in -her friend's reproof. About half an hour after, she ran--Mattie seldom -ran--past Mr. Spelt and Poppie, not venturing to look up, though, ere -she came too near, the tailor could see the red eyes in the white face, -and knocked at Mrs. Boxall's door. - -Lucy was still lying on her bed when she heard little knuckles at her -door, and having answered without looking round, felt, a moment after, -a tiny hand steal into hers. She opened her eyes, and saw Mattie by her -bedside. Nor was she too much absorbed in her own griefs to note that -the child had hers, too. - -"What is the matter with you, Mattie, my dear?" she asked, in a faint -voice. - -Mattie burst into tears--a rare proceeding with the princess. It was -some moments before she could sob out: - -"I've been _so_ naughty, Miss Burton--so _very_ naughty!" - -Lucy raised herself, sat on the side of the bed, and took the child's -hand. Mattie could not look up. - -"I'm sorry to hear that, Mattie. What have you done?" - -"Such a shame. Poppie! Far country. Elder brother." - -These were almost the only words Lucy could hear for the sobs of the -poor child. Hence she could only guess at the cause of her grief, and -her advice must be general. - -"If you have done wrong to Poppie, or any one, you must go and tell her -so, and try to make up for it." - -"Yes, I will, for I can't bear it," answered Mattie, beginning to -recover herself. "Think of doing the very same as the one I was so -angry with when mother read the story! I couldn't bear to see Poppie -in my place in mother's shop, and I was angry, and wouldn't go in. But -I'll go now, as soon as I get my poor eyes dried." - -Lucy was not able to say much to her, and Mattie was so taken up with -her own repentance that she did not see that Lucy was in trouble, too. -In a few minutes the child announced her intention of going to Mr. -Spelt at once, and left Lucy to her own thoughts. I will first tell how -Mattie finished her repentance, and then return to Lucy. - -She walked right under Mr. Spelt's door, and called aloud, but with a -wavering voice: - -"Mother, take me up directly. I'm very sorry." - -Over the threshold came a pair of arms, and Mattie was hoisted into the -heaven of her repentant desire. As soon as she was in it she crawled -on her hands and knees--even she could scarcely have stood in the -place--toward Poppie. - -"How do you do, prodigal?" she said, putting her arms round the -bewildered Poppie, who had no more idea of what she meant than a child -born in heaven would have had. "I'm very glad to see you home again. -Put on this ring, and we'll both be good children to mother there." - -So saying, she took a penny ring, with a bit of red and two bits of -green glass in it, from her finger, and put it upon Poppie's, who -submitted speechless, but was pleased with the glitter of the toy. She -did not kiss in return, though: Poppie liked to be kissed, but she had -not learned to kiss yet. - -"Mother," Mattie went on, "I was behaving like--like--like--a wicked -Pharisee and Sadducee. I beg your pardon, mother. I will be good. May I -sit in the corner by the door?" "I think," answered the little tailor, -greatly moved, and believing in the wind that bloweth where it listeth -more than ever he had believed before--"I think if I were to move a -little, you could sit in the corner by the window, and then you would -see into the court better. Only," he said, as he drew his work about -his new position, "you must not lean much against the sash, for it is -not very sound, and you might tumble in the court, you know." - -So Mattie and Poppie sat side by side, and the heart of the tailor had -a foretaste of heaven. - -Presently Mattie began to talk to Poppie. She could scarcely, -however, draw a single response from her, for she had nothing to say. -Interchange of thought was unknown to the elder child, and Mattie's -words were considerably less intelligible to Poppie than the autumn -wind that blew round their nest. Mattie was annoyed. The romance of the -reconciliation was dimmed. Instinctively she felt that the only way to -restore it was to teach Poppie, and she took her in hand at once. - -There was more hope for Poppie, and Spelt, too, now that Mattie was -in the work, for there is no teacher of a child like a child. All the -tutors of Oxford and Cambridge will not bring on a baby as a baby a -year older will. The child-like is as essential an element in the -teacher as in the scholar. And the train of my story is not going so -fast but that I may pull up at this siding for a moment to say that -those who believe they have found a higher truth, with its higher -mode of conveyance, are very apt to err in undervaluing, even to the -degree of wishing to remove the lower forms in which truth, if not -embodied exactly, is at least wrapt up. Truth may be presented in -the grandeur of a marble statue, or in a brown-paper parcel. I choose -the sculpture; my last son prefers the parcel. The only question is -whether there is truth--not in the abstract, but as assimilable by the -recipient--present in the form. I cannot, however, resume without a -word on the other side. To the man who sees and feels the higher and -nobler form, it is given to teach _that_. Let those to whom the lower -represents the sum of things, teach it with their whole hearts. _He_ -has nothing to do with it, for he cannot teach it without being false. -The snare of the devil holds men who, capable of teaching the higher, -talk of the people not being ready to receive it, and therefore teach -them in forms which are to their own souls an obstruction. There is -cowardice and desertion in it. They leave their own harder and higher -work to do the easier and clumsier work of their neighbor. It is -wasteful of time, truth, and energy. The man who is most careful over -the truth that lies in forms not his own, will be the man most careful -to let no time-serving drag him down--not to the level of the lower -teachers, for they are honest--but to the level of Job's friends, who -lied for God; nay, lower still; for this will soon cease to be lying -even for God, and become lying for himself. - -When Mattie left her, Lucy again threw herself down, and turned her -face to the wall, and the story of which Mattie had been talking -straightway began to mingle with all that filled her troubled mind. -For who was a prodigal son but her lost Thomas? Lost indeed! But there -was another word in the parable to balance that--there was _found_ as -well. Thomas might be found again. And if the angels in heaven rejoiced -over the finding of such a lost wanderer, why should she cut the cable -of Love, and let him go adrift from her heart? Might she not love him -still? Ought she not to love him still? Was he not more likely to come -back some day if she went on loving him? The recent awaking of Lucy's -spiritual nature--what would be called by some, her conversion--had -been so interpenetrated with the image, the feeling, the subjective -presence of Thomas--she had thought so much of him while stooping her -own shoulders to the easy yoke, that she could not leave him out now, -and it seemed as if, were she to give him up, she would lose half the -incentive to press forward herself. The fibres of her growth had so -twined around him, that if the idea of his regeneration departed from -her, the hope of her own would sicken, at least, if not die. True, -Pride hinted at the disgrace of being allied to such a man--a man -who had stolen; but Faith replied, that if there were joy in heaven -over him, she too might rejoice over him when he came back; and if the -Father received the prodigal with all his heart, she too might receive -him with all hers. But she would have no right to receive him thus if -she did nothing to restore Him; nor would she have any right to put -forth in full her reclaiming influence except she meant thus to receive -him. Her conscience began to reproach her that she had not before done -all that she could to reclaim him, and, if she only knew the way, she -was now at least prepared to spend and be spent for him. But she had -already done all that she was, at this juncture of his history, to be -allowed to do for the wretched trifler. God had taken the affair out of -her hands, and had put it into those of somewhat harder teachers. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - -BUSINESS. - - -When Mr. Worboise found that Thomas did not return that night, he -concluded at once that he had made up his mind to thwart him in his now -cherished plan, to refuse the daughter of Sir Jonathan Hubbard, and -marry the girl whom his father disliked. He determined at once, even -supposing he might be premature as regarded the property, to have the -satisfaction of causing the Boxalls sharp uneasiness at least. His son -would not have dared to go against his wishes but for the enticements -of "that minx," in the confidence that her uncle's property was about -to be hers. He would teach her, and him too, a lesson. Either her -uncle or some one or more of his family were not drowned, or they were -all drowned: in neither case was the property hers. If one of the -family was alive, the property remained where it was; if they were all -gone, the property was his. He thought himself into a rage over her -interference with his plans, judged himself an injured person, and -thereby freed of any trifling obligation that a fastidious conscience -might have fancied to exist to the prejudice of his claims upon the -property of his friend, supposed to be deceased. He was now ready to -push his rights to the uttermost--to exact the pound of flesh that -the law awarded him. He went the next morning but one after Thomas's -disappearance and propounded the will. - -In due time this came to the knowledge of Mr. Sargent. He wrote to Mrs. -Boxall a stiff business letter acquainting her with the fact, and then -called upon Mr. Worboise to see whether some arrangement could not be -come to; for, having learned the nature of the will, he saw that almost -any decent division of the property, for which he could only appeal to -the justice of the man, would be better than a contest. Mr. Worboise -received him with a graciousness reaching almost to kindness, talked -lightly of the whole as a mere matter of business about which there -was no room for disputing, smiled aside at every attempt made by Mr. -Sargent to approach the subject from another quarter, and made him -understand, without saying a word to that effect, that he was prepared -to push matters to the extreme of extremity. He even allowed him to see -that he had reasons beyond the value of the money for setting about the -matter in the coolest, most legal fashion in the world. Mr. Sargent -went away baffled--to devise upon what ground he could oppose the grant -of probate. - -While Mr. Sargent was having his interview, Mr. Stopper was awaiting -his departure in the clerk's room. It must be remembered that Mr. -Stopper was now between two stools; and while he came to plead the -cause of the widow and fatherless, he must be especially careful for -his own sake not to give offense. Him, too, Mr. Worboise received with -the greatest good humor; assured him that there was no mistake in the -matter, and he believed no flaw in the will; informed him that he had -drawn it up himself, and had, at his friend's request, entered his own -name as contingent reversioner. His friend might have done it in joke; -he did not know; but he had not any intention of foregoing his rights, -or turning out of Luck's way when she met him in the teeth. On the -contrary, he meant to have the money and to use it; for, at all events, -it could not have been in joke that his friend had omitted his mother -and his niece. He must have had some good reason for so doing; and -he was not one to treat a dead friend's feeling with disrespect--and -so on, all in pleasant words, and with smiling delivery, ended by a -hearty, easy "good-morning." For, ere he had finished, Mr. Stopper, -coming to the conclusion that nothing was to be done, rose to take his -leave. At the door he turned, and said: - -"I hope nothing is amiss with your son, Mr. Worboise. I hope he is not -ill." - -"Why do you ask?" returned Mr. Worboise, just a little staggered; for -he was not prepared to hear that Thomas was missing from Bagot Street -as well as from home. When he heard the fact, however, he merely nodded -his head, saying: - -"Well, Mr. Stopper, he's too old for me to horsewhip him. I don't know -what the young rascal is after. I leave him in your hands. That kind of -thing won't do, of course. I don't know that it wouldn't be the best -thing to discharge him. It's of no consequence to me, you know, and it -would be a lesson to him, the young scapegrace! That's really going too -far, though you and I can make allowances, eh, Stopper?" - -Mr. Stopper was wise enough not to incur the odium of a Job's -messenger, by telling what even Mr. Worboise would have considered bad -news; for he had a reverence for locks and money, and regarded any -actionable tampering with either as disgraceful. "Besides," thought -Stopper, "if it was only to spite the young jackanapes, I could almost -marry that girl without a farthing. But I shouldn't have a chance if I -were to leak about Tom." - -Mr. Worboise was uneasy, though. He told his wife the sum of what had -passed between Tom and himself, but I fear enjoyed her discomfiture at -the relation; for he said spitefully, as he left her room: - -"Shall I call on Mr. Simon as I go to town, and send him up, Mrs. -Worboise?" - -His wife buried her face in her pillow, and made no reply. Perhaps the -husband's heart smote him; but I doubt it, though he did call on Mr. -Simon and send him to her. - -All the result of Mr. Simon's inquiries was the discovery that Thomas -had vanished from the counting-house, too. Thereupon a more real grief -than she had ever known seized the mother's heart; her conscience -reproached her as often as Mr. Simon hinted that it was a judgment upon -her for having been worldly in her views concerning her son's marriage; -and she sent for Amy home, and allowed things to take their way. - -All the comfort Mr. Worboise took was to say to himself over and over, -"The young rascal's old enough to take care of himself. He knows what -he's about, too. He thinks to force me to a surrender by starving me of -his precious self. We'll see. I've no doubt he's harbored in that old -woman's house. Stay a bit, and if I don't fire him out--by Jove! She'll -find I'm not one to take liberties with, the old hag!" - -The best that Mr. Sargent could do at present was to resist probate on -the ground of the uncertainty of the testator's death, delaying thus -the execution of the will. He had little hope, however, of any ultimate -success--except such as he might achieve by shaming Mr. Worboise into -an arrangement. - -Mrs. Boxall sent for him, and with many acknowledgments begged him -to do his best for them, saying that, if he were successful, she -would gladly pay him whatever he demanded. He repudiated all idea of -payment, however, and indeed considered himself only too fortunate to -be permitted to call as often as he pleased, for then he generally saw -Lucy. But he never made the smallest attempt to renew even the slight -intimacy which had formerly existed between them. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - -MR. SARGENT LABORS. - - -That large room in Guild Court, once so full of aged cheerfulness -and youthful hope, was now filled with an atmosphere of both moral -and spiritual perturbation. The first effect of her son's will upon -Mrs. Boxall was rage and indignation against Mr. Worboise, who, she -declared, must have falsified it. She would not believe that Richard -could have omitted her name, and put in that of his attorney. The -moment she heard the evil tidings, she rose and went for her bonnet, -with the full intention of giving "the rascal a bit of her mind." It -was all that her grand-daughter and Mr. Stopper could do to prevent -her. For some time she would yield no ear to their representations of -the bad consequences of such a proceeding. She did not care. If there -was justice to be had on the earth she would have it, if she went to -the Queen herself to get it. I half suspect that, though she gave in at -last, she did carry out her intention afterward without giving any one -the chance of preventing her. However that may be, the paroxysm of her -present rage passed off in tears, followed by gloomy fits, which were -diversified by outbreaks of temper against Lucy, although she spoke -of her as a poor dear orphan reduced to beggary by the wickedness and -greed of lawyers in general, who lived like cannibals upon the flesh -and blood of innocents. In vain would Lucy try to persuade her that -they were no worse now than they had been, reminding her that they were -even happier together before the expectation of more than plenty came -in to trouble them; beside her late imagination of wealth, her present -feeling was that of poverty, and to feel poor is surely the larger half -of being poor. - -On Lucy my reader will easily believe that this change of prospect had -little effect. Her heart was too much occupied with a far more serious -affair to be moved about money. Had everything been right with Thomas, -I have no doubt she would have built many a castle of the things she -would do; but till Thomas was restored to her, by being brought to his -right mind, no one thing seemed more worth doing than another. Sadness -settled upon her face, her walk, her speech, her whole expression. But -she went about her work as before, and did what she could to keep her -sorrow from hurting others. The reality of the late growth of religious -feeling in her was severely tested; but it stood the test; for she -sought comfort in holding up her care to God; and what surer answer to -such prayer could there be, than that she had strength to do her work? -We are saved by hope, and Lucy's hope never died; or if it did wither -away under the dry blasts of her human judgment, the prayers that went -up for submission to His will soon returned in such dews as caused the -little flower once more to lift its head in the sun and wind. And often -as she could--not every day, because of her engagements with Miriam -Morgenstern--she went to Mr. Fuller's church, and I think I may say -that she never returned without what was worth going for. I do not say -that she could always tell what she had learned, but she came away with -fresh strength, and fresh resolution to do what might show itself to be -right. And the strength came chiefly from this, that she believed more -and more what the apostle Peter came to be so sure of before he died, -that "He careth for us." She believed that the power that made her a -living soul was not, could not be, indifferent to her sorrows, however -much she might have deserved them, still less indifferent because they -were for her good--a ready excuse for indifference with men--and if -only he cared that she suffered, if he knew that it was sad and hard -to bear, she could bear it without a word, almost without a thought of -restlessness. And then, why should she not hope for Thomas as well as -for herself? If we are to love our neighbor as ourself, surely we must -hope and pray for him as for ourself; and if Lucy found that she could -love Thomas at least as herself, for him she was in that very love -bound to pray and to hope as for herself. - -Mr. Sargent was soon thoroughly acquainted with all Mrs. Boxall's -affairs. And he had so little hope of success in regard to the will, -that, when he found that she had no vouchers to produce for her own -little property placed in her son's hands, he resolved, before going -any further in a course which must irritate Mr. Worboise, to see -whether he could not secure that first. Indeed he was prepared, seeing -how ill matters looked for his clients, to offer to withdraw from the -contest, provided the old lady's rights were acknowledged. With this -view he called once more upon Mr. Worboise, who received him just as -graciously as before. A conversation something like this followed: - -"Mrs. Boxall informs me, Mr. Worboise, that her son, at the time of his -death, was, and had been for many years, in possession of some property -of hers, amounting to somewhere between two and three thousand pounds. -The old lady is a very simple woman--" - -"Is she?" interjected, rather than interrupted, Mr. Worboise, in a cold -parenthesis. Mr. Sargent went on. - -"Indeed she does not know the amount exactly, but that could be easily -calculated from the interest he was in the habit of paying her." - -"But whatever acknowledgment she holds for the money will render the -trouble unnecessary," said Mr. Worboise, who saw well enough to what -Mr. Sargent was coming. - -"Unfortunately--it was very wrong of a man of business, or anybody, -indeed--her son never gave her any acknowledgment in writing." - -"Oh!" said Mr. Worboise, with a smile, "then I don't exactly see what -can be done. It is very awkward." - -"You can be easily satisfied of the truth of the statement." - -"I am afraid not, Mr. Sargent." - -"She is a straightforward old lady, and--" - -"I have reason to doubt it. At all events, seeing that she considers -the whole of the property hers by right, an opinion in which you -sympathize with her--as her legal adviser, I mean--it will not be very -surprising if, from my point of view, I should be jealous of her making -a statement for the sake of securing a part of those _rights_. With -such temptation, and such an excuse, it is just possible--I've heard -of such a thing as evil that good might come, eh, Mr. Sargent?--even -if she were as straightforward as you think her. Let her produce her -vouchers, I say." - -"I have no fear--at least I hope Mr. Stopper will be able to prove it. -There will be evidence enough of the interest paid." - -"As interest, Mr. Sargent? I suspect it will turn out to be only an -annuity that the good fellow allowed her, notwithstanding the reasons -he must have had for omitting her name from his will." - -"I confess this much to you, Mr. Worboise--that our cause is so far -from promising that I should advise Mrs. Boxall to be content with her -own, and push the case no further." - -"Quite right, Mr. Sargent. The most prudent advice you can give her." - -"You will then admit the debt, and let the good woman have her own?" - -"Admit the debt by no means; but certainly let her have her own as soon -as she proves what is her own," answered Mr. Worboise, smiling. - -"But I give you my word, Mr. Worboise," said Mr. Sargent, doing his -best to keep his temper, "that I believe the woman's statement to be -perfectly true." - -"I believe you, Mr. Sargent, but I do not believe the woman," returned -Mr. Worboise, again smiling. - -"But you know it will not matter much, because, coming into this -property as you do, you can hardly avoid making some provision for -those so nearly related to the testator, and who were dependent upon -him during his lifetime. You cannot leave the old lady to starve." - -"It will be time enough to talk about that when my rights are -acknowledged. Till then I decline to entertain the question." - -There was a something in Mr. Worboise's manner, and an irrepressible -flash of his eye, that all but convinced Mr. Sargent that there was -nothing not in the bond to be got from him. He therefore left him, and -started a new objection in opposing the probate of the will. He argued -the probability of all or one or other of the daughters surviving the -father--that is, not of their being yet alive, but of their having -outlived him. Now this question, though plain as the alphabet to those -who are acquainted with law, requires some explanation to those who are -not, numbering possibly the greater part of my readers. - -The property would come to Mr. Worboise only in the case of all -those mentioned in the will dying before Mr. Boxall. A man can only -will that which is his own at the time of his death. If he died -before any of his family, Mr. Worboise had nothing to do with it. It -went after the survivor's death to _her_ heirs. Hence if either of -the daughters survived father and mother, if only for one provable -moment, the property would be hers, and would go to her heir, namely, -her grandmother. So it would in any case, had not Mr. Worboise been -mentioned, except Mrs. Richard Boxall had survived her husband and -family, in which case the money would have gone to her nearest of -kin. This alternative, however, was not started, for both sides had -an equal interest in opposing it--and indeed the probable decision -upon probabilities would have been that the wife would die first. The -whole affair then turned upon the question: whether it was more likely -that Richard Boxall or every one of his daughters died first; in which -question it must be remembered that there was nothing cumulative in the -three daughters. He was as likely to die before or to survive all three -as any one of them, except individual reasons could be shown in regard -to one daughter which did not exist in regard to another. - -One more word is necessary. Mr. Sargent was not in good practice and -would scarcely have been able--I do not use the word _afforded_ because -I do not know what it means--to meet the various expenses of the plea. -But the very day he had become acquainted with the contents of the -will, he told Mr. Morgenstern of the peculiar position in which his -governess and her grandmother found themselves. Now Mr. Morgenstern was -not only rich--that is common; nor was he only aware that he was rich; -if that is not so common, it is not yet very uncommon; but he felt that -he had something to spare. Lucy was a great favorite with him; so was -Sargent. He could not but see that Sargent was fond of Lucy, and that -he was suffering from some measure of repulse. He therefore hoped, -if not to be of any material assistance to Lucy--for from Sargent's -own representation he could not see that the matter was a promising -one--at least to give the son of his old friend a chance of commending -himself to the lady by putting it in his power to plead her cause. -And conducted as Mr. Sargent conducted the affair, it did not put Mr. -Morgenstern to an amount of expense that cost him two thoughts; while -even if it had been serious, the pleasure with which his wife regarded -his generosity would have been to him reward enough. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - -HOW THOMAS DID AND FARED. - - -I flatter myself that my reader is not very much interested in Thomas; -I never meant he should be yet. I confess, however, that I am now -girding up my loins with the express intention of beginning to interest -him if I can. For I have now almost reached the point of his history -which I myself feel to verge on the interesting. When a worthless -fellow begins to meet with his deserts, then we begin to be aware that -after all he is our own flesh and blood. Our human heart begins to feel -just the least possible yearning toward him. We hope he will be well -trounced, but we become capable of hoping that it may not be lost upon -him. At least we are content to hear something more about him. - -When Thomas left the gambling-house that dreary morning, he must have -felt very much as the devil must feel. For he had plenty of money -and no home. He had actually on this raw morning, when nature seemed -to be nothing but a drizzle diluted with gray fog, nowhere to go to. -More, indeed; he had a good many places, including the principal -thoroughfares of London, where he must not go. There was one other -place which he did all he could to keep out of, and that was the -place where the little thinking that was considered necessary in his -establishment was carried on. He could not help peeping in at the -window, however, and now and then putting his ear to the keyhole. And -what did he hear? That he, Thomas Worboise, gentlemen, was a thief, a -coward, a sneak. Now, when Thomas heard this, for the first time in -his life, his satisfaction with himself gave way utterly; nor could -all his admiration for Lara or the Corsair--I really forget whether -they are not one and the same phantom--reconcile him to become one -of the fraternity. The Corsair at least would not have sold Medora's -ring to save his life. Up to this point, he had never seen himself -contemptible. Nor even now could he feel it much, for, weary and sick, -all he wanted was some place to lay down his head and go to sleep in. -After he had slept, he would begin to see things as they were, and, -once admitted possible that he could do an ungentlemanly action, fresh -accusations from quarters altogether unsuspected of unfriendliness -would be lodged in that court of which I have already spoken. But for -a time mere animal self-preservation would keep the upper hand. He -was conscious of an inclination to dive into every court that he came -near--of a proclivity toward the darkness. This was the same Thomas -Worboise that used to face the sunshine in gay attire, but never let -the sun farther in than his brain; so the darkness within him had come -at last to the outside, and swathed all in its funereal folds. Till -a man's indwelling darkness is destroyed by the deep-going light of -truth, he walks in darkness, and the sooner this darkness comes out in -action and shows itself to be darkness, the better for the man. The -presence of this darkness, however, is sooner recognized by one man -than by another. To one the darkness within him is made manifest by a -false compliment he has just paid to a pretty girl; to Thomas it could -only be revealed by theft and the actual parting for money with the -jewel given him by a girl whom he loved as much as he could love, which -was not much--yet; to a third--not murder, perjury, hypocrisy, hanging, -will reveal it; he will go into the other world from the end of a rope, -not mistaking darkness for light, but knowing that it is what it is, -and that it is his, and yet denying the possession of the one, and -asserting the possession of the other. - -Thomas forgot all about where he was, till suddenly he found himself -far west in the Strand. The light of the world was coming nearer; no -policeman was in sight: and the archway leading down under the Adelphi -yawned like the mouth of hell at his side. He darted into it. But -no sooner was he under the arches than he wished himself out again. -Strange forms of misery and vice were coming to life here and there in -the darkness where they had slept away the night. He was of their sort, -yet he did not like his own kin. Nay, some of them might be worthy -compared to him, yet he shrunk from them. He rushed out. Heaven was -full of lights and hell was full of horrors; where was his own place? -He hurried back toward the city. - -But as the light grew his terror increased. There was no ground for -immediate alarm, for no one yet knew what he had done; but with the -light discovery drew nearer. When he reached Farringdon Street he -turned down toward Blackfriars Bridge, then eastward again by Earl -Street into Thames Street. He felt safer where the streets were narrow, -and the houses rose high to shut out the dayspring, which the Lord says -to Job he had "caused to know his place, that it might take hold of the -ends of the earth," like a napkin, "that the wicked might be shaken -out of it." He hurried on, not yet knowing what he was, only seeing -revelation at hand clothed in terror. And the end of it was, that he -buried his head in the public-house where the mischief of the preceding -night had begun, and was glad to lie down in a filthy bed. The ways of -transgressors are always hard in the end. Happy they who find them hard -in the beginning. - -Ill at ease as he was, both in body and mind, he was yet so worn -out that he fell fast asleep; and still on the stream of sleep went -drifting toward the vengeance that awaited him--the vengeance of seeing -himself as he was. - -When he woke, it was afternoon. He had to make several efforts before -his recollection combined with his observation to tell him where he -was. He felt, however, that a horror was coming, and when it came his -whole being was crushed before it. It must be confessed, however, that -it was the disgrace, and not the sin, that troubled him. But honor, -although a poor substitute for honesty or religion, is yet something; -and the fear of disgrace is a good sword to hang over the heads of -those who need such attendance. Thomas's heart burned like a hot coal -with shame. In vain he tried to persuade himself, in vain he partially -succeeded in persuading himself, that he was not himself when he took -the money. Allowing whatever excuse might lie in the state to which he -had first brought himself, he knew that no defense of that sort would -have any influence in restoring to him the place he had lost. He was an -outcast. He lay in moveless torture. He knew himself, and he knew his -crime; and he knew that himself had committed that crime. Wide awake, -he did not think of rising; for the whole world of activity lay beyond -the impassable barrier of his shame. There was nothing for him to do, -nowhere for him to go. At length he heard voices in the room below -him: they were voices he knew; and he was lying over the scene of last -night's temptation. He sprung from the bed, hurried on his clothes, -crept down the stairs, paid for his lodging at the bar, and went out -into the street. He felt sick at the thought of joining them; he had -had a surfeit of wickedness. - -But he was too near his former haunts; and the officers of justice -must be after him. He turned from one narrow street into another, and -wandered on till he came where the bow-sprit of a vessel projected over -a wall across a narrow lane, and he knew by this that he must be near -the Thames. The sun was going down, and the friendly darkness was at -hand. But he could not rest. He knew nothing of the other side, and -it seemed to him therefore that he would be safer there. He would -take a boat and be put across. A passage between two houses led toward -the river. Probably there were stairs at the end. He turned into the -passage. Half a dozen bills were up on the walls. He stopped to look. -They all described bodies found in the river. He turned away, and -started at the sight of a policeman regarding him from a door three or -four yards off. It was a police station. He had all but put his head -into the lion's mouth. He had just presence of mind enough to prevent -him from running, but not enough to keep his legs steady under him. -His very calves seemed to feel the eyes of the policeman burning upon -them, and shrank away with a sense of unprotected misery. He passed -several stairs before he ventured to look round. Then finding no reason -to suppose he was watched, he turned down the next opening, found a -boat, and telling the waterman to put him across to Rotherhithe, of -which district he just knew the name, sat down in the stern. The man -rowed up the river. The sun was going down behind the dome of St. -Paul's, which looked like the round shoulder of a little hill; and -all the brown masts and spars of the vessels shone like a forest of -gold-barked trees in winter. The dark river caught the light, and threw -it shimmering up on the great black hulls, which shone again in the -water below; and the Thames, with all its dirt and all its dead, looked -radiant. But Thomas felt nothing of its beauty. If Nature had ever had -a right of way in his heart, she was now shut out. What was it to him, -despised in his own eyes, that the sun shone? He looked up at the sky -only to wish for the night. What was it to him that the world was for -a moment gay, even into the heart of London? Its smile could not reach -his heart: it needs an atmosphere as well as a sun to make light. The -sun was in the heavens, yea, the central sun of truth shone upon the -universe; but there was no atmosphere of truth in Thomas's world to -be lighted up by it; or if there was, it was so filled with smoke and -vapor that for the time the sun could not make it smile. As they passed -under a towering hull, he envied a monkey that went scrambling out of -one of the port-holes and in at another. And yet the scene around was -as strange as it was beautiful. The wide river, the many vessels, the -multitudinous wilderness of gray houses on every side, all disorder to -the eye, yet blended by the air and the light and the thin fog into a -marvelous whole; the occasional vista of bridge-arches; the line of -London Bridge lying parallel with the lines of green and gray and gold -in the sky--its people, its horses, its carriages creeping like insects -athwart the sunset--one of the arches cut across near the top by the -line of a new railway-bridge, and the segment filled with a moving -train; all this light and life to the eye, while, save for the splash -of the oars, and the general hum like an aroma of sound that filled the -air, all was still to the ear--none of it reached the heart of outcast -Thomas. - -Soon, as if by magic, the scene changed. The boatman had been rowing -up the river, keeping in the quiet water as the tide hurried out. -Now he was crossing toward Cherry Garden Stairs. As they drew near -the Surrey-side, all at once Thomas found himself in the midst of a -multitude of boats, flitting about like water-flies on the surface of -a quiet pool. What they were about he could not see. Now they would -gather in dense masses, in every imaginable position to each other, the -air filled with shouting, objurgation, expostulation, and good-humored -chaff, varied with abuse. Again they would part asunder and vanish over -the wide space. Guns were firing, flags were flying, Thames liveries -gleaming here and there. The boats were full of men, women, and -children; some in holiday garments, most of them dark with the darkness -of an English mob. It was an aquatic crowd--a people exclusively living -on and by the river--assembled to see a rowing-match between two of -their own class for a boat, probably given by the publicans of the -neighborhood--who would reap ten times the advantage. But although -there were thousands assembled, the uproar troubled such a small -proportion of the river's surface, that one might have rowed up and -down in the middle space between Rotherhithe and Wapping for hours and -know nothing about it. - -But Thomas did not see the race, not because he was in haste to get -ashore, but because something happened. His waterman, anxious to see -the sport, lingered in the crowd lining the whole of that side of the -river. In a boat a little way farther up was a large family party, and -in it a woman who was more taken up with the baby in her arms than with -all that was going on around her. In consequence of her absorption in -the merry child, which was springing with all the newly-discovered -delight of feet and legs, she was so dreadfully startled when the bows -of another boat struck the gunwale just at her back, that she sprung -half up from her seat, and the baby, jerking itself forward, dropped -from her arms into the river. Thomas was gazing listlessly at the -water when he saw the child sweep past him a foot or so below the -surface. His next remembered consciousness was in the water. He was a -fair swimmer, though no rider. He caught the child, and let himself -drift with the tide, till he came upon the cable of a vessel that lay -a hundred yards below. Boats came rushing about him; in a moment the -child was taken from him and handed across half a dozen of them to his -mother; and in another moment he, too, was in a boat. When he came to -himself a gin-faced, elderly woman, in a small threadbare tartan shawl, -was wiping his face with a pocket-handkerchief, and murmuring some -feminine words over him, while a coarse-looking, dough-faced man was -holding a broken cup with some spirit in it to his mouth. - -"Go ashore with the gentleman, Jim," said the woman. "There's the India -Arms. That's a respectable place. You must go to bed, my dear, till you -gets your clo'es dried." - -"I haven't paid my man," said Tom, feebly. He was now shivering with -cold; for, after the night and day he had spent, he was in no condition -to resist the effects of the water. - -"Oh, we'll pay him. Here, Fluke," cried two or three--they seemed all -to know each other. - -"Come along, sir," cried twenty shrill voices over his head. He looked -up and saw that they were alongside of a great barge which was crowded -with little dirty creatures, row above row. "Come this way--solid -barges, sir, all the way. Ketch hold of the gen'lm'n's hand, Sammy. -There. Now, Bill." - -They hauled and lifted Thomas on to the barge, then led him along -the side and across to the next yawning wooden gulf, and so over -about seven barges to a plank, which led from the last on to a ladder -ascending to the first floor of a public-house, the second floor of -which, supported upon piles, projected over high water. There his -conductors, two ragged little mudlarks, left him. - -Through an empty kind of bar-room, he went into the bar, which -communicated with the street. Here first he found that he had been -followed by the same man who had given him the gin. He now passed -before him to the counter, and said to the woman who was pumping a pot -of beer: - -"This gen'leman, Mrs. Cook, 's been and just took a child out o' the -water ma'am. He 'ain't got a change in his wescut-pocket, so if you'll -do what ye can for 'im, there's many on us'll be obliged to ye, ma'am." - -"Lor', whose child was it, Jim?" - -"I don't know as you know her, ma'am. The man's name's Potts. He keeps -a public down about Limehouse, someveres." - -Thomas stood shivering--glad, however, that the man should represent -his case for him. - -"The gentleman had better go to bed till we get his clo'es dried for -him," said the landlady. "I think that's the best we can do for him." - -"Take a drop o' summat, sir," said the man, turning to Thomas. "They -keeps good licker here. Put a name upon it, sir." - -"Well, I'll have a small glass of pale brandy," said Thomas--"neat, if -you please. And what'll you have yourself? I'm much obliged to you for -introducing me here, for I must look rather a queer customer." - -"It's what _you'll_ have, not what I'll have, sir, if you'll excuse -_me_," returned the man. - -"I beg your pardon," said Thomas, who had just received his brandy. He -drank it, and proceeded to put his hand in his pocket--no easy matter -in the state of his garments. - -"_I'm_, a goin' to pay for this," interposed the man, in a determined -tone, and Thomas was hardly in a condition to dispute it. - -At the same moment the landlady, who had left the bar after she had -helped Thomas, returned, saying, "Will you walk this way, sir?" Thomas -followed, and found himself in a neat enough little room, where he was -only too glad to undress and go to bed. As he pulled off his coat, it -occurred to him to see that his money was safe. He had put it, mostly -in sovereigns, into a pocket-book of elaborate construction, which -he generally carried in the breast-pocket of what the tailors call a -lounging-coat. It was gone. His first conclusion was, that the man -had taken it. He rushed back into the bar, but he was not there. It -must be confessed that, in the midst of his despair, a fresh pang at -the loss of his money shot through Thomas's soul. But he soon came to -the conclusion that the man had not taken it. It was far more likely -that, as he went overboard, the book slipped from his pocket into the -water, and in this loss an immediate reward of almost his first act -of self-forgetfulness had followed. The best thing that can happen -to a man, sometimes, is to lose his money; and, while people are -compassionate over the loss, God may regard it as the first step of the -stair by which the man shall rise above it and many things besides with -which not only his feet, but his hands and his head, are defiled. Then -first he began to feel that he had no ground under his feet--the one -necessity before such a man could find a true foundation. Until he lost -it, he did not know how much, even in his misery, the paltry hundred -pounds had been to him. Now it was gone, things looked black indeed. He -emptied his pockets of two or three sovereigns and some silver, put his -clothes out at the door, and got into bed. There he fell a thinking. -Instead of telling what he thought, however, I will now turn to what my -reader may be, and I have been, thinking about his act of rescue. - -What made him, who has been shown all but incapable of originating a -single action, thus at the one right moment do the one right thing? -Here arises another question: Does a man _always_ originate his own -actions? Is it not possible, to say the least of it, that, just to give -him a taste of what well-doing means, some moment, when selfishness is -sick and faint, may be chosen by the power in whom we live and move -and have our being to inspire the man with a true impulse? We must -think what an unspeakable comfort it must have been to Thomas, in these -moments of hopeless degradation of which he felt all the bitterness, -suddenly to find around him, as the result of a noble deed into which -he had been unaccountably driven, a sympathetic, yes, admiring public. -No matter that they were not of his class, nor yet that Thomas was not -the man to do the human brotherhood justice; he could not help feeling -the present power of humanity, the healing medicine of approbation, in -the faces of the _common_ people who had witnessed and applauded his -deed. I say _medicine_ of approbation; for what would have been to him -in ordinary, a poison, was now a medicine. There was no fear of his -thinking himself too much of a hero at present. - -It may be objected that the deed originated only in a carelessness -of life resulting from self-contempt. I answer, that no doubt that -had its share in making the deed possible, because it removed for the -time all that was adverse to such a deed; but self-despite, however -true and well-grounded, cannot inspirit to true and noble action. I -think it was the divine, the real self, aroused at the moment by the -breath of that wind which bloweth where it listeth, that sprung thus -into life and deed, shadowing, I say _shadowing_ only, that wonderful -saying of our Lord that he that loseth his life shall find it. It had -come--been given to him--that a touch of light might streak the dark -cloud of his fate, that he might not despise himself utterly, and act -as unredeemable--kill himself or plunge into wickedness to drown his -conscience. It was absolutely necessary that he should be brought to -want; but here was just one little opening--not out of want, but into -the light of a higher region altogether, the region of well-being--by -which a glimmer of the strength of light could enter the chaos of his -being. Any good deed partakes of the life whence it comes, and is a -good to him who has done it. And this act might be a beginning. - -Poor weak Thomas, when he got his head down on the pillow, began -to cry. He pitied himself for the helplessness to which he was now -reduced, and a new phase of despair filled his soul. He even said in -his thoughts that his ill-gotten gain had, like all the devil's money, -turned to rubbish in his hands. What he was to do he could not tell. He -was tolerably safe, however, for the night, and, worn and weary, soon -fell into a sleep which not even a dream disturbed. - -When he woke all was dark, and he welcomed the darkness as a friend. -It soothed and comforted him a little. If it were only always dark! If -he could find some cave to creep into where he might revel in--feed -upon the friendly gloom! If he could get among the snowy people of -the north, blessed with half a year of gentle sunlessness! Thomas had -plenty of fancy. He leaned on his elbow and looked out. His clothes -had been placed by him while he slept. He rose and put them on, opened -the door of his room, saw light somewhere, approached it softly, and -found himself in a small room, like a large oriel window. The day had -changed from gold to silver; the wide expanse of the great river lay -before him, and up, and down, and across, it gleamed in the thoughtful -radiance of the moon. Never was a picture of lovelier peace. It was -like the reflex of the great city in the mind of a saint--all its -vice, its crime, its oppression, money-loving, and ambition, all its -fearfulness, grief, revenge, and remorse, gently covered with the -silver mantle of faith and hope. But Thomas could not feel this. -Its very repose was a reproach to him. There was no repose for him -henceforth forever. He was degraded to all eternity. And herewith the -thought of Lucy, which had been hovering about his mind all day, like a -bird looking for an open window that it might enter, but which he had -not dared to admit, darted into its own place, and he groaned aloud. -For in her eyes, as well as in his own, he was utterly degraded. Not -a thousand good actions, not the applause of a thousand crowds, could -destroy the fact that he had done as he had done. The dingy, applauding -multitude, with its many voices, its kind faces, its outstretched -hands, had vanished, as if the moon had melted it away from off the -water. Never to all eternity would that praising people, his little -consoling populace, exist again, again be gathered from the four -corners whither they had vanished, to take his part, to speak for him -that he was not all lost in badness, that they at least considered him -fit company for them and their children. - -Thoughts like these went to and fro in his mind as he looked out upon -the scene before him. Then it struck him that all was strangely still. -Not only was there no motion on the river, but there was no sound--only -an occasional outcry in the streets behind. The houses across in -Wapping showed rare lights, and looked sepulchral in the killing stare -of the moon, which, high above, had not only the whole heavens but the -earth as well to herself, and seemed to be taking her own way with it -in the consciousness of irresistible power. What that way was, who can -tell? The troubled brain of the maniac and the troubled conscience of -the malefactor know something about it; but neither can tell the way of -the moon with the earth. Fear laid hold upon Thomas. He found himself -all alone with that white thing in the sky; and he turned from the -glorious window to go down to the bar. But all the house was dark, the -household in bed, and he alone awake and wandering "in the dead waste -and middle of the night." A horror seized him when he found that he was -alone. Why should he fear? The night covered him. But there was God. -I do not mean for a moment that he had a conscious fear of the Being -he had been taught to call God. Never had that representation produced -in him yet any sense of the reality, any the least consciousness of -presence--anything like the feeling of the child who placed two chairs -behind the window-curtain, told God that that one was for him, and -sat down to have a talk with him. It was fear of the unknown God, -manifested in the face of a nature which was strange and unfriendly to -the evil-doer. It is to God alone that a man can flee from such terror -of the unknown in the fierceness of the sea, in the ghastly eye of the -moon, in the abysses of the glaciers, in the misty slopes of the awful -mountain-side; but to God Thomas dared not or could not flee. Full of -the horror of wakefulness in the midst of sleeping London, he felt his -way back into the room he had just left, threw himself on a bench, and -closed his eyes to shut out everything. His own room at Highbury, even -that of his mother with Mr. Simon talking in it, rose before him like -a haven of refuge. But between him and that haven lay an impassable -gulf. No more returning thither. He must leave the country. And Lucy? -He must vanish from her eyes, that she might forget him and marry -some one else. Was not that the only justice left him to do her? But -would Lucy forget him? Why should she not? Women could forget honorable -men whom they had loved, let them only be out of their sight long -enough; and why should not Lucy forget a --? He dared not even think -the word that belonged to him now. A fresh billow of shame rushed over -him. In the person of Lucy he condemned himself afresh to utter and -ineffaceable shame, confusion, and hissing. Involuntarily he opened his -eyes. A ghostly whiteness, the sails of a vessel hanging loose from -their yards, gleamed upon him. The whole of the pale region of the -moon, the spectral masts, the dead houses on the opposite shore, the -glitter of the river as from eyes that would close no more, gleamed -in upon him, and a fresh terror of loneliness in the presence of the -incomprehensible and the unsympathetic overcame him. He fell on his -knees, and sought to pray; and doubtless in the ear that is keen with -mercy it sounded as prayer, though to him that prayed it seemed that -no winged thought arose to the infinite from a "heart as dry as dust." -Mechanically, at length, all feeling gone, both of fear and of hope, he -went back to his room and his bed. - -When he woke in the morning his landlady's voice was in his ears. - -"Well, how do we find ourselves to-day, sir? None the worse, I hope?" - -He opened his eyes. She stood by his bedside, with her short arms set -like the handles of an urn. It was a common face that rose from between -them, red, and with eyes that stood out with fatness. Yet Thomas was -glad to see them looking at him, for there was kindness in them. - -"I am all right, thank you," he said. - -"Where will you have your breakfast?" she asked. - -"Where you please," answered Thomas. - -"Will you come down to the bar-parlor, then?" - -"I shall be down in a few minutes." - -"Jim Salter's inquirin' after ye." - -"Who?" said Thomas, starting. - -"Only Jim Salter, the man that brought you in last night, sir. I told -him to wait till I came up." - -"I shall be down in one minute," said Thomas, a hope of his money -darting into his mind. - -He had to pass through the bar to the little room at the back. Against -the counter leaned Jim, smoking a short pipe, with his hand upon a pot -of beer. When Thomas entered, he touched his cap to him, saying: - -"Glad to see you lookin' middlin', guvnor. Is there anything I can do -for you to-day?" - -"Come into the room here," said Thomas, "and have something. I'm rather -late, you see. I haven't had my breakfast yet." - -Salter followed him with his pewter in his hand. Thomas disliked his -appearance less than on the preceding evening. What was unpleasant in -his face was chiefly owing to the small-pox. He was dirty and looked -_beery_, but there seemed to be no harm in him. He sat down near the -door which led to the ladder already mentioned, and put his pot on the -window-sill. Thomas asked him if he would have a cup of coffee, but he -preferred his beer and his pipe. - -"You wanted to see me?" said Thomas, opening a conversation. - -"Oh! nothin' perticlar, guvnor. I only wanted to see if I could do -anything for you," said Jim. - -"I was in hopes you had heard of something I lost, but I suppose it's -at the bottom of the river," said Thomas. - -"Not your watch?" asked Salter, with some appearance of anxious -interest. - -"A great deal worse," answered Thomas; "a pocket-book." - -"Much in it?" asked Jim, with a genuine look of sympathetic -discomfiture. - -"More than I like to think of. Look," said Thomas, turning out the -contents of his pocket, "that is all I have in the world." - -"More than ever I had," returned Salter; "keep me a month." - -Thomas relapsed into thought. This man was the only resemblance of a -friend he had left. He did not like to let him go loose in the wilds -of London, without the possibility of finding him again. If this man -vanished, the only link Thomas felt between him and the world of men -would be broken. I do not say Thomas _thought_ this. He only felt that -he would be absolutely alone when this man left him. Why should he not -go away somewhere with him? - -"Where do you live?" he asked. - -"Stepney way," answered Jim. - -"I want to see that part of London. What do you do now? I mean, what do -you work at?" - -"Oh! nothin' perticlar, guvnor. Take a day at the docks now and then. -Any job that turns up. I'm not perticlar. Only I never could stick to -one thing. I like to be moving. I had a month in Bermondsey last--in a -tan-yard, you know. I knows a bit of everthing." - -"Well, where are you going now?" - -"Nowheres--anywhere you like, guvnor. If you want to see them parts, as -you say, there's nobody knows 'em better than I do--Tiger-bay and all." - -"Come, then," said Thomas. But here a thought struck him. "Wouldn't it -be better, though," he added--"they're queer places, some of those, -ain't they?--to put on a workman's clothes?" - -Jim looked at him. Thomas felt himself wince under his gaze. But he was -relieved when he said, with a laugh: - -"You won't look much like a workman, guvnor, put on what you like." - -"I can't wear these clothes, anyhow," said Thomas; "they look so -wretchedly shabby after their ducking. Couldn't you take me somewhere -where they'd change them for a suit of fustian? I should like to try -how they feel for a few days. We're about the same size--I could give -them to you when I had done with them." - -Jim had been observing him, and had associated this wish of Thomas's -with the pocket-book, and his furtive, troubled looks. But Jim was as -little particular about his company as about anything else, and it was -of no consequence to him whether Thomas had or had not deeper reasons -than curiosity for seeking to disguise himself. - -"I tell you what," he said, "if you want to keep quiet for a day or -two, I'm your man. But if you put on a new suit of fustian you'll be -more looked at than in your own clo'es." - -Thomas had by this time finished his breakfast; it was not much he -could eat. - -"Well," he said, rising, "if you've nothing particular to do, I'll give -you a day's wages to go with me. Only let's go into Stepney, or away -somewhere in that direction, as soon as possible." - -He called the landlady, settled his very moderate bill, and then found -that his hat must be somewhere about the Nore by this time. Jim ran to -a neighboring shop, and returned with a cloth cap. They then went out -into a long, narrow street, Rotherhithe Street, I think, very different -in aspect from any he had seen in London before. Indeed it is more -like a street in Cologne. Here we must leave him with his misery and -Jim Salter, both better companions than Molken. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - -POPPIE CHOOSES A PROFESSION. - - -When their native red began to bloom again upon the cheeks of Poppie, -she began to grow restless, and the heart of the tailor to grow -anxious. It was very hard for a wild thing to be kept in a cage against -her will, he thought. He did not mind sitting in a cage, but then he -was used to it, and frequented it of his own free will; whereas his -child Poppie took after her grandfather--her mother's father, who was a -sailor, and never set his foot on shore but he wanted to be off again -within the week. - -He therefore began to reason with himself as to what ought to be done -with her. So soon as she was quite strong again all her wandering -habits would return, and he must make some provision for them. It -would not only be cruel to try to break her of them all at once, but -assuredly fruitless. Poppie would give him the slip some day, return to -her Arab life, and render all sealing of the bond between father and -daughter impossible. The streets were her home. She was used to them. -They made life pleasant to her. And yet it would not do to let her run -idle about the streets. He thought and thought what would be best. - -Meantime the influence of Mattie had grown upon Poppie. Although -there was as yet very little sign of anything like thought in her, -the way she deferred to the superior intelligence in their common -pursuits proved that she belonged to the body of humanity, and not to -unassociated animality. Her love of bright colors now afforded the -first hold by which to commence her education. Remembering her own -childhood, Mattie sought to interest her pupil in dolls, proceeding to -dress one, which she called Poppie, in a gorgeous scarlet cloth which -the tailor procured for the purpose. And Poppie was interested. The -color drew her to the process. By degrees, she took a part; first only -in waiting on Mattie, then in sewing on a button or string, at which -she was awkward enough, as Mattie took more than necessary pains to -convince her, learning, however, by slow degrees, to use her needle -a little. But what was most interesting to find was, that a certain -amount of self-consciousness began to dawn during and apparently from -the doll-dressing. Her causative association with the outer being of -the doll, led to her turning an eye upon her own outer being; and -Poppie's redemption--I do not say regeneration--first showed itself in -a desire to be dressed. Consciousness begins with regard to the body -first. A baby's first lesson of consciousness lies in his blue shoes. -But one may object, "You do not call it a sign of redemption in a baby -that, when you ask where baby's shoes are, he holds up his little -feet with a smile of triumph." I answer, it must be remembered that -Poppie had long passed the age when such interest indicates natural -development, and therefore she was out of the natural track of the -human being, and a return to that track, indicating an awakening of -the nature that was in her, may well be called a sign of redemption. -And with a delicate instinct of his own, nourished to this particular -manifestation by his trade, the tailor detected the interest shown in -the doll by Poppie, as a most hopeful sign, and set himself in the -midst of his work to get a dress ready for her, such as she would like. -Accustomed, however, only to work in cloth, and upon male subjects, the -result was, to say the least of it, remarkable--altogether admirable in -Poppie's eyes, though somewhat strange in those of others. She appeared -one day in a scarlet jacket, of fine cloth, trimmed with black, which -fitted her like her skin, and, to complete the dress, in a black skirt, -likewise of cloth, which, however picturesque and accordant with the -style of Poppie's odd beauty, was at least somewhat peculiar and -undesirable in a city like London, which persecutes men's tastes if it -leaves their convictions free. - -This dress Mr. Spelt had got ready in view of a contemplated walk with -Poppie. He was going to take her to Highgate on a Sunday morning, with -his Bible in his pocket. I have already said that he was an apparent -anomaly, this Mr. Spelt, loving his New Testament, and having no fancy -for going to church. How this should come about I hardly understand. -Not that I do not know several instances of it in most excellent men, -but not in his stratum. Yet what was his stratum? The Spirit of God -teaches men in a thousand ways, and Mr. Spelt knew some of the highest -truths better than nine out of ten clergymen, I venture to say. Yet Mr. -Spelt was inwardly reproached that he did not go to church, and made -the attempt several times, with the result that he doubted the truth of -the whole thing for half the week after. Some church-going reader must -not condemn him at least for preferring Highgate to the church-yard -gate. - -It was a bright frosty morning, full of life and spirit, when the -father and daughter--for thus we accept the willful conviction of the -tailor, and say no more about it--set out for Highgate. Poppie was full -of spirits, too full for her father's comfort, for, every time she drew -her hand from his, and danced away sideways or in front, he feared lest -he had seen the last of her, and she would never more return to lay her -hand in his. On one of these occasions, it was to dart a hundred yards -in advance upon another little girl, who was listlessly standing at a -crossing, take the broom from her hand, and begin to sweep vigorously. -Nor did she cease sweeping till she had made the crossing clean, by -which time her father had come up. She held out her hand to him, -received in it a ready penny, and tossed it to the girl. Then she put -her hand in his again, and trotted along with him, excited and sedate -both at once. - -"Would you like to sweep a crossing, Poppie?" asked he. - -"Wouldn't I just, daddie? I should get no end o' ha'pence." - -"What would you do with them when you got them?" - -"Give them to poor girls. I don't want them, you see, now I'm a lady." - -"What makes a lady of you, then?" - -"I've got a father of my own, all to myself--that makes a lady of me, I -suppose. Anyhow I know I am a lady now. Look at my jacket." - -I do not know that Mr. Spelt thought that her contempt of money, or -rather want of faith in it, went a good way to make her a very peculiar -lady indeed; but he did think that he would buy her a broom the first -day he saw the attraction of the streets grow too strong for Guild -Court. - -This day, things did not go quite to the tailor's mind. He took Poppie -to a little public-house which he had known for many years, for it -was kept by a cousin of his. There he ordered his half-pint of beer, -carried it with him to a little arbor in the garden, now getting very -bare of its sheltering leaves, sat down with Poppie, pulled out big -Bible, and began to read to her. But he could not get her to mind him. -Every other moment she was up and out of the arbor, now after one -thing, now after another; now it was a spider busily rolling up a fly -in his gluey weft; now it was a chicken escaped from the hen-house, and -scratching about as if it preferred finding its own living even in an -irregular fashion; and now a bird of the air that sowed not nor reaped, -and yet was taken care of. - -"Come along, Poppie," said her father; "I want you to listen." - -"Yes, daddie," Poppie would answer, returning instantly; but in a -moment, ere a sentence was finished, she would be half across the -garden. He gave it up in despair. - -"Why ain't you reading, daddie?" she said, after one of these -excursions. - -"Because you won't listen to a word of it, Poppie." - -"Oh! yes; here I am," she said. - -"Come, then; I will teach you to read." - -"Yes," said Poppie, and was off after another sparrow. - -"Do you know that God sees you, Poppie?" asked Mr. Spelt. - -"I don't mind," answered Poppie. - -He sighed and closed his book, drank the last of his half-pint of beer, -and rose to go. Poppie seemed to feel that she had displeased him, for -she followed without a word. They went across the fields to Hampstead, -and then across more fields to the Finchley Road. In passing the old -church, the deeper notes of the organ reached their ears. - -"There," said Poppie; "I suppose that's God making his thunder. Ain't -it, daddie?" - -"No. It's not that," answered Spelt. - -"It's there he keeps it, anyhow," said Poppie. "I've heard it coming -out many a time." - -"Was you never in one o' them churches?" asked her father. - -"No," answered Poppie. - -"Would you like to go?" he asked again, with the hope that something -might take hold of her. - -"If you went with me," she said. - -Now Mr. Spelt had heard of Mr. Fuller from Mr. Kitely, and had been -once to hear him preach. He resolved to take Poppie to his church that -evening. - -My reader will see that the child had already made some progress. She -talked at least. How this began I cannot explain. No fresh sign of -thought or of conscience in a child comes into my notice but I feel -it like a miracle--a something that cannot be accounted for save in -attributing it to a great Thought that can account for it. - -They got upon an omnibus, to Poppie's great delight, and rode back -into the city. After they had had some tea they went to the evening -service, where they saw Lucy, and Mattie with her father. Mattie was -very devout, and listened even when she could not understand; Poppie -only stared, and showed by her restlessness that she wanted to be out -again. When they were again in the street she asked just one question: -"Why did Jesus Christ put on that ugly black thing?" - -"That wasn't Jesus Christ," said Mattie, with a little pharisaical -horror. - -"Oh! wasn't it?" said Poppie, in a tone of disappointment. "I thought -it was." - -"Oh, Poppie, Poppie!" said poor Mr. Spelt; "haven't I told you twenty -times that Jesus Christ was the Son of God?" - -But he might have told her a thousand times. Poppie could not recall -what she had no apprehension of when she heard it. What was Mr. Spelt -to do? He had tried and tried, but he had got no idea into her yet. But -Poppie had no objection either to religion in general, or to any dogma -whatever in particular. It was simply that she stood in no relation -of consciousness toward it or any part or phrase of it. Even Mattie's -attempts resulted in the most grotesque conceptions and fancies. But -that she was willing to be taught, an instance which soon followed will -show. - -Her restlessness increasing, and her father dreading lest she should -be carried away by some sudden impulse of lawlessness, he bought her -a broom one day--the best he could find, of course--and told her she -might, if she pleased, go and sweep a crossing. Poppie caught at the -broom, and vanished without a word. Not till she was gone beyond -recall did her father bethink himself that the style of her dress was -scarcely accordant with the profession she was about to assume. She was -more like a child belonging to a traveling theater than any other. He -remembered, too, that crossing-sweepers are exceedingly tenacious of -their rights, and she might get into trouble. He could not keep quiet; -his work made no progress; and at last he yielded to his anxiety and -went out to look for her. But he wandered without success, lost half -his day, and returned disconsolate. - -At their dinner-hour Poppie came home; but, alas! with her brilliant -jacket nearly as dirty as her broom, the appearance of which certainly -indicated work. Spelt stooped, as usual, but hesitated to lift her to -his nest. - -"Oh, Poppie," he expostulated, "what a mess you've made of yourself!" - -"'Tain't me, daddie," she answered. "It's them nasty boys would throw -dirt at me. 'Twasn't their crossing I took--they hadn't no call to -chivy me. But I give it them." - -"What did you do, Poppie?" asked her father, a little anxiously. - -"I looks up at St. Pauls's, and I says, 'Please, Jesus Christ, help me -to give it 'em.' And then I flies at 'em with my broom, and I knocks -one o' them down, and a cart went over his leg, and he's took to the -'ospittle. I believe his leg's broke." - -"Oh, Poppie! And didn't they say anything to you? I wonder they didn't -take you up." - -"They couldn't find me. I thought Jesus Christ would help me. He did." - -What was Mr. Spelt to say? He did not know; and, therefore, unlike -some, who would teach others even when they have nothing to impart, he -held his peace. But he took good care not to let her go out in that -dress any more. - -"Didn't you get any ha'pence?" he asked. - -"Yes. I gave 'em all to the boy. I wouldn't if the cart hadn't gone -over him, though. Catch me!" - -"Why did you give them to him?" - -"Oh, I don't know. I wanted to." - -"Did he take them?" - -"Course he did. Why shouldn't he? I'd ha' tookt 'em." - -Mr. Spelt resolved at last to consult Mr. Fuller about the child. -He went to see him, and told him all he knew concerning her. To his -surprise, however, when he came to her onset with the broom, Mr. Fuller -burst into a fit of the heartiest laughter. Spelt stood with his mouth -open, staring at the sacred man. Mr. Fuller saw his amazement. - -"You don't think it was very wicked of your poor child to pray to God -and shoulder her broom, do you?" he said, still laughing. - -"We're told to forgive our enemies, sir. And Poppie prayed against -hers." - -"Yes, yes. You and I have heard that, and, I hope, learned it. But -Poppie, if she has heard it, certainly does not understand it yet. Do -you ever read the Psalms?" - -"Yes, sometimes. Some of them pretty often, sir." - -"You will remember, then, how David prays against his enemies?" - -"Yes, sir. It's rather awful, sometimes." - -"What do you make of it? Was it wicked in David to do so?" - -"I daren't say that, sir." - -"Then why should you think it was in Poppie?" - -"I think perhaps David didn't know better." - -"And you think Poppie ought to know better than David?" - -"Why, you see, sir, if I'm right, as I fancy, David lived before our -Saviour came into the world to teach us better." - -"And so you think Poppie more responsible than a man like David, who -loved God as not one Christian in a million, notwithstanding that the -Saviour is come, has learned to love him yet? A man may love God, and -pray against his enemies. Mind you, I'm not sure that David hated them. -I know he did not love them, but I am not sure that he hated them. And -I am sure Poppie did not hate hers, for she gave the little rascal her -coppers, you know." - -"Thank you, sir," said Spelt, grateful to the heart's core that Mr. -Fuller stood up for Poppie. - -"Do you think God heard David's prayers, against his enemies?" resumed -Mr. Fuller. - -"He gave him victory over them, anyhow." - -"And God gave Poppie the victory, too. I think God heard Poppie's -prayer. And Poppie will be the better for it. She'll pray for a -different sort of thing before she's done praying. It is a good thing -to pray to God for anything. It is a grand thing to begin to pray." - -"I wish you would try and teach her something, sir. I have tried and -tried, and I don't know what to do more. I don't seem to get anything -into her." - -"You're quite wrong, Mr. Spelt. You have taught her. She prayed to God -before she fell upon her enemies with her broom." - -"But I do want her to believe. I confess to you, sir, I've never been -much of a church-goer, but I do believe in Christ." - -"It doesn't much matter whether you go to church or not if you believe -in him. Tell me how you came to hear or know about him without going to -church." - -"My wife was a splendid woman, sir--Poppie's mother, but--you see, -sir--she wasn't--she didn't--she was a bit of a disappointment to me." - -"Yes. And what then?" - -"I took to reading the Bible, sir." - -"Why did you do that?" - -"I don't know, sir. But somehow, bein' unhappy, and knowin' no way out -of it, I took to the Bible, sir. I don't know why or wherefore, but -that's the fact. And when I began to read, I began to think about it. -And from then I began to think about everything that came in my way--a -tryin' to get things all square in my own head, you know, sir." - -Mr. Fuller was delighted with the man, and having promised to think -what he could do for Poppie, they parted. And here I may mention that -Spelt rarely missed a Sunday morning at Mr. Fuller's church after this. -For he had found a fellow-man who could teach him, and that the Bible -was not the sole means used by God to make his children grow: their -brothers and sisters must have a share in it too. - -Mr. Fuller set about making Poppie's acquaintance. And first he applied -to Mattie, in order to find out what kind of thing Poppie liked. Mattie -told him _lollipops_. But Mr. Fuller preferred attacking the town of -Mansoul at the gate of one of the nobler senses, if possible.--He tried -Lucy, who told him about the bit of red glass and the buttons. So Mr. -Fuller presented his friendship's offering to Poppie in the shape of -the finest kaleidoscope he could purchase. It was some time before she -could be taught to shut one eye and look with the other; but when at -length she succeeded in getting a true vision of the wonders in the -inside of the thing, she danced and shouted for joy. This confirmed -Mr. Fuller's opinion that it was through her eyes, and not through -her ears, that he must approach Poppie's heart. She had never been -accustomed to receive secondary impressions: all her impressions, -hitherto, had come immediately through the senses. Mr. Fuller therefore -concluded that he could reach her mind more readily through the seeing -of her eyes than such hearing of the ears as had to be converted by the -imagination into visual forms before it could make any impression. He -must get her to ask questions by showing her eyes what might suggest -them. And Protestantism having deprived the Church of almost all means -of thus appealing to the eye as an inlet of truth, he was compelled -to supply the deficiency as he best could. I do not say that Mr. -Fuller would have filled his church with gorgeous paintings as things -in general, and artists in especial, are. He shrunk in particular -from the more modern representations of our Lord given upon canvas, -simply because he felt them to be so unlike him, showing him either -as effeminately soft, or as pompously condescending; but if he could -have filled his church with pictures in which the strength exalted -the tenderness, and the majesty was glorified by the homeliness, he -would have said that he did not see why painted windows should be more -consistent with Protestantism than painted walls. Lacking such aids, he -must yet provide as he could that kind of instruction which the early -Church judged needful for those of its members who were in a somewhat -similar condition to that of Poppie. He therefore began searching the -print-shops, till he got together about a dozen of such engravings, -mostly from the old masters, as he thought would represent our Lord in -a lovable aspect, and make the child want to have them explained. For -Poppie had had no big family Bible with pictures, to pore over in her -homeless childhood; and now she had to go back to such a beginning. - -By this time he had so far ingratiated himself with her that she was -pleased to accompany Mattie to tea with him, and then the pictures made -their appearance. This took place again and again, till the pictures -came to be looked for as part of the entertainment--Mr. Fuller adding -one now and then, as he was fortunate in his search, for he never -passed a fresh print-shop without making inquiry after such engravings. - -Meantime Poppie went out crossing-sweeping by fits and starts. Her -father neither encouraged nor prevented her. - -One afternoon of a cold day, when the wind from the east was blowing -the darkness over the city, and driving all who had homes and could go -to them home for comfort, they were walking hand in hand in Farringdon -Street--a very bleak, open place. Poppie did not feel the cold nearly -so much as her father, but she did blow upon the fingers of her -disengaged hand now and then notwithstanding. - -"Have a potato to warm you, Poppie," said her father, as they came up -to one of those little steam-engines for cooking potatoes, which stand -here and there on the edges of the pavements about London, blowing a -fierce cloud of steam from their little funnels, so consoling to the -half-frozen imagination. - -"Jolly!" cried Poppie, running up to the man, and laying her hand on -the greasy sleeve of his velveteen coat. - -"I say, Jim, give us a ha'porth," she said. - -"Why, 'tain't never you, Poppie?" returned the man. - -"Why ain't it?" said Poppie. "Here's my father. I've found one, and a -good 'un, Jim." - -The man looked at Poppie's dress, then at Mr. Spelt, touched the front -of his cloth cap, and said: - -"Good evenin', guvnor." Then in an undertone he added, - -"I say, guvnor, you never did better in your life than takin' that 'ere -pretty creetur off the streets. You look well arter her. She's a right -good un, _I_ know. Bless you, she ain't no knowledge what wickedness -means." - -In the warmth of his heart, Mr. Spelt seized the man's hand, and gave -it a squeeze of gratitude. - -"Come, Jim, ain't your taters done yet?" said Poppie. - -"Bustin' o' mealiness," answered Jim, throwing back the lid, and -taking out a potato, which he laid in the hollow of his left hand. -Then he caught up an old and I fear dirty knife, and split the potato -lengthways. Then, with the same knife, he took a piece of butter from -somewhere about the apparatus--though how it was not oil instead of -butter I cannot think--laid it into the cleft as if it had been a -trowelful of mortar, gave it a top-dressing of salt and a shake of the -pepper-box, and handed it to Poppie. - -"Same for you, sir?" he asked. - -"Well, I don't mind if I do have one," answered Spelt. "Are they good?" - -"The best _and_ the biggest at the price in all London," said Jim. -"Taste one," he went on, as he prepared another, "and if you like to -part with it then, I'll take it back and eat it myself." - -Spelt paid for the potatoes--the sum of three ha'pence--and Poppie, -bidding Jim good-night, trotted away by his side, requiring both her -hands now for the management of her potato, at which she was more -expert than her father, for he, being nice in his ways, found the -butter and the peel together troublesome. - -"I say, ain't it jolly?" remarked Poppie. "I call that a good trade -now." - -"Would you like to have one o' them things and sell hot potatoes?" -asked her father. - -"Just wouldn't I?" - -"As well as sweeping a crossing?" - -"A deal better," answered Poppie. "You see, daddie, it's more -respectable--a deal. It takes money to buy a thing like that. And I -could wear my red jacket then. Nobody could say anything then, for the -thing would be my own, and a crossing belongs to everybody." - -Mr. Spelt turned the matter over and over in his mind, and thought it -might be a good plan for giving Poppie some liberty, and yet keeping -her from roving about everywhere without object or end. So he began at -once to work for a potato-steamer for Poppie, and, in the course of a -fortnight, managed to buy her one. Great was Poppie's delight. - -She went out regularly in the dusk to the corner of Bagot Street. Her -father carried the machine for her, and leaving her there with it, -returned to his work. In following her new occupation, the child met -with little annoyance, for this was a respectable part of the city, -and the police knew her, and were inclined to protect her. One of her -chief customers was Mr. Spelt himself, who would always once, sometimes -twice, of an evening, lay down his work, scramble from his perch, and, -running to the corner of the street, order a potato, ask her how she -was getting on, pay his ha'penny or penny, and hurry back with the hot -handful to console him for the absence of his darling. Having eaten it, -chuckling and rejoicing, he would attack his work with vigor so renewed -as soon to make up for the loss of time involved in procuring it. But -keeping out of view the paternal consumption, Poppie was in a fair way -of paying all the expense of the cooking apparatus. Mr. and Miss Kitely -were good customers, too, and everything looked well for father and -daughter. - -Every night, at half-past nine, her father was by her side to carry -the "murphy-buster"--that was Jim's name for it--home. There was no -room for it in the shop, of course. He took it up the three flights -of stairs to Poppie's own room; and there, with three-quarters of a -pint of beer to wash them down, they finished the remaining potatoes, -"_with_ butter, _with_ pepper, and _with_ salt," as Poppie would -exclaim, in the undisguised delight of her sumptuous fare. Sometimes -there were none left, but that gave only a variety to their pleasures; -for as soon as the engine, as Mr. Spelt called it, was deposited -in safety, they set out to buy their supper. And great were the -consultations to which, in Mr. Spelt's desire to draw out the choice -and judgment of his daughter, this proceeding gave rise. At one time it -was a slice of beef or ham that was resolved upon, at another a bit of -pudding, sometimes a couple of mutton-pies or sausages, with bread _ad -libitum_. There was a cook-shop in the neighborhood, whose window was -all beclouded with jets of steam, issuing as from a volcanic soil, and -where all kinds of hot dainties were ready for the fortunate purchaser: -thither the two would generally repair, and hold their consultation -outside the window. Then, the desirable thing once agreed upon, came -the delight of buying it, always left to Poppie; of carrying it home, -still left to Poppie; of eating it, not left to Poppie, but heightened -by the sympathetic participation of her father. Followed upon all, -the chapter in the Bible, the Lord's Prayer, bed, and dreams of Mrs. -Flanaghan and her gin-bottle, or, perhaps, of Lucy and her first kiss. - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - -THOMAS'S MOTHER. - - -Meantime Mrs. Worboise had taken to her bed, and not even Mr. Simon -could comfort her. The mother's heart now spoke louder than her -theology. - -She and her priest belonged to a class more numerous than many of my -readers would easily believe, a great part of whose religion consists -in arrogating to themselves exclusive privileges, and another great -part in defending their supposed rights from the intrusion of others. -The thing does not look such to them, of course, but the repulsiveness -of their behavior to those who cannot use the same religious phrases, -indicating the non-adoption of their particular creed, compels others -so to conclude concerning their religion. Doubtless they would say -for themselves, "We do but as God has taught us; we believe but as -he has told us; we exclude whom he has excluded, and admit whom he -has admitted." But, alas for that people! the god of whose worship is -altogether such a one as themselves, or worse; whose god is paltry, -shallow-minded and full of party spirit; who sticks to a thing -_because_ he has said it, accepts a man because of his assent, and -condemns him because of his opinions; who looks no deeper than a man's -words to find his thoughts, and no deeper than his thoughts to find his -will! True, they are in the hands of another God than that of their -making, and such offenses must come; yet, alas for them! for they are -of the hardest to redeem into the childhood of the kingdom. - -I do not say that Mrs. Worboise began to see her sin as such, when the -desolation of Thomas's disappearance fell upon her, but the atmosphere -of her mind began to change, and a spring-season of mother's feelings -to set in. How it came about I cannot explain. I as well as any of -my readers might have felt as if Mrs. Worboise were almost beyond -redemption; but it was not so. _Her_ redemption came in the revival -of a long suppressed motherhood. Her husband's hardness and want of -sympathy with her sufferings had driven her into the arms of a party -of exclusive _Christians_, whose brotherhood consisted chiefly, as -I have already described it, in denying the great brotherhood, and -refusing the hand of those who followed not with them. They were led -by one or two persons of some social position, whose condescending -assumption of superiority over those that were without was as offensive -as absurd, and whose weak brains were their only excuse. The worst -thing of this company was that it was a company. In many holding -precisely the same opinions with them, those opinions are comparatively -harmless, because they are more directly counteracted by the sacred -influences of God's world and the necessities of things, which are very -needful to prevent, if possible, self-righteous Christians from sending -themselves to a deeper hell than any they denounce against their -neighbors. But when such combine themselves into an esoteric school, -they foster, as in an oven or a forcing-pit, all the worst distinctions -for the sake of which they separate themselves from others. All that -was worst in poor Mrs. Worboise was cherished by the companionship of -those whose chief anxiety was to save their souls, and who thus ran the -great risk set forth by the Saviour of losing them. They treated the -words of the Bible like talismans or spells, the virtue of which lay in -the words, and in the assent given to them, or at most, the feelings -that could be conjured up by them, not in the doing of the things they -presupposed or commanded. But there was one thing that did something -to keep her fresh and prevent her from withering into a dry tree of -supposed orthodoxy, the worst dryness of all, because it is the least -likely to yield to any fresh burst of living sap from the forgotten -root--that was her anxiety to get her son within the "garden walled -around," and the continual disappointment of her efforts to that end. - -But now that the shock of his flight had aggravated all the symptoms -of her complaint, which was a serious one though slow in the movement -of its progressive cycles, now that she was confined to her bed and -deprived of the small affairs that constituted the dull excitements -of her joyless life, her imagination, roused by a reaction from the -first grief, continually presented to her the form of her darling in -the guise of the prodigal, his handsome face worn with hunger and -wretchedness, or still worse, with dissipation and disease; and she -began to accuse herself bitterly for having alienated his affections -from herself by too assiduously forcing upon his attention that which -was distasteful to him. She said to herself that it was easy for an old -woman like her, who had been disappointed in everything, and whose -life and health were a wreck, to turn from the vanities of the world; -but how could her young Thomas, in the glory of youth, be expected to -see things as she saw them? How could he flee from the wrath to come -when he had as yet felt no breath of that wrath on his cheek? She ought -to have loved him, and borne with him, and smiled upon him, and never -let him fancy that his presence was a pain to her because he could not -take her ways for his. Add to this certain suspicions that arose in -her mind from what she considered unfriendly neglect on the part of -the chief man of their chosen brotherhood, and from the fact that her -daughter Amy had already wrought a questionable change on Mr. Simon, -having persuaded him to accompany her--not to the theatre at all--only -to the Gallery of Illustration, and it will be seen that everything -tended to turn the waters of her heart back into the old channel with -the flow of a spring-tide toward her son. She wept and prayed--better -tears and better prayers because her love was stronger. She humbled her -heart, proud of its acceptance with God, before a higher idea of that -God. She began to doubt whether she was more acceptable in his sight -than other people. There must be some who were, but she could not be -one of them. Instead of striving after assurance, as they called it, -she began to shrink from every feeling that lessened her humility; -for she found that when she was most humble then she could best pray -for her son. Not that had her assurance rested in the love of God it -would ever have quenched her prayer; but her assurance had been taught -to rest upon her consciousness of faith, which, unrealized, tended to -madness--realized, to spiritual pride. She lay thus praying for him, -and dreaming about him, and hoping that he would return before she -died, when she would receive him as son had never before been welcomed -to his mother's bosom. - -But Mr. Worboise's dry, sand-locked bay was open to the irruption of no -such waters from the great deep of the eternal love. Narrow and poor -as it was, Mrs. Worboise's religion had yet been as a little wedge to -keep her door open to better things, when they should arrive and claim -an entrance, as they had now done. But her husband's heart was full -of money and the love of it. How to get money, how not to spend it, -how to make it grow--these were the chief cares that filled his heart. -His was not the natural anxiety the objects of which, though not the -anxiety, were justified by the Lord when he said, "Your Father knoweth -that ye have need of these things." It was not what he needed that -filled his mind with care, but what he did not need, and never would -need; nay, what other people needed, and what was not his to take--not -his in God's sight, whatever the law might say. And to God's decision -everything must come at last, for that is the only human verdict of -things, the only verdict which at last will satisfy the whole jury of -humanity. But I am wrong; this was not all that filled his heart. One -demon generally opens the door to another--they are not jealous of -exclusive possession of the human thrall. The heart occupied by the -love of money will be only too ready to fall a prey to other evils; for -selfishness soon branches out in hatred and injustice. The continued -absence of his son, which he attributed still to the Boxalls, irritated -more than alarmed him; but if sometimes a natural feeling of dismay -broke in upon him, it only roused yet more the worst feelings of his -heart against Lucy and her grandmother. Every day to which Thomas's -absence extended itself, his indignation sank deeper rather than rose -higher. Every day he vowed that, if favored by fortune, he would make -them feel in bitterness how deeply they had injured him. To the same -account he entered all the annoyance given him by the well-meaning -Mr. Sargent, who had only as yet succeeded in irritating him without -gaining the least advantage over him. His every effort in resistance -of probate failed. The decision of the court was that Mr. Boxall, -a strong, healthy, well-seasoned, middle-aged man, was far more -likely to have outlived all his daughters, than any one of them have -outlived him; therefore Mr. Worboise obtained probate and entered into -possession. - -Although Mr. Sargent could not but have at least more than doubted the -result, he felt greatly discomfited at it. He went straight to Mr. -Morgenstern's office to communicate his failure and the foiling of the -liberality which had made the attempt possible. Mr. Morgenstern only -smiled, and wrote him a check for the costs. Of course, being a Jew, he -did not enjoy parting with his money for nothing--no Christian would -have minded it in the least. Seriously, Mr. Morgenstern did throw half -his cigar into the fire from annoyance. But his first words were: - -"What's to be done for those good people, then, Sargent?" - -"We must wait till we see. I think I told you that the old lady has a -claim upon the estate, which, most unfortunately, she cannot establish. -Now, however, that this cormorant has had his own way, he will perhaps -be inclined to be _generous_; for justice must be allowed in this case -to put on the garb of generosity, else she will not appear in public, -I can tell you. I mean to make this one attempt more. I confess to -considerable misgiving, however. To-morrow, before his satisfaction has -evaporated, I will make it, and let you know the result." - -By this time Mr. Morgenstern had lighted another cigar. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - -LUCY'S NEW TROUBLE. - - -Mr. Sargent's next application to Mr. Worboise, made on the morning -after the decision of the court in his favor, shared the fate of -all his preceding attempts. Mr. Worboise smiled it off. There was -more inexorableness expressed in his smile than in another's sullen -imprecation. The very next morning Mrs. Boxall was served with notice -to quit at the approaching quarter-day; for she had no agreement, and -paid no rent, consequently she was tenant only on sufferance. And now -Mr. Stopper's behavior toward them underwent a considerable change; not -that he was in the smallest degree rude to them; but, of course, there -was now no room for that assumption of the confidential by which he had -sought to establish the most friendly relations between himself and the -probable proprietors of the business in which he hoped to secure his -position, not merely as head-clerk, but as partner. The door between -the house and the office was once more carefully locked, and the key -put in his drawer, and having found how hostile his new master was to -the inhabitants of the house, he took care to avoid every suspicion of -intimacy with them. - -Mrs. Boxall's paroxysm of indignant rage when she received the notice -to quit was of course as impotent as the bursting of a shell in a -mountain of mud. From the first, however, her anger had had this -effect, that everybody in the court, down to lowly and lonely Mr. -Dolman, the cobbler, knew all the phases of her oppression and injury. -Lucy never said a word about it, save to Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern, -whose offer of shelter for herself and her grandmother till they could -see what was to be done, she gratefully declined, knowing that her -grandmother would die rather than accept such a position. - -"There's nothing left for me in my old age but the work-house," said -Mrs. Boxall, exhausted by one of her outbursts of fierce vindictive -passion against the author of her misfortunes, which, as usual, ended -in the few bitter tears that are left to the aged to shed. - -"Grannie, grannie," said Lucy, "don't talk like that. You have been a -mother to me. See if I cannot be a daughter to you. I am quite able to -keep you and myself too as comfortable as ever. See if I can't." - -"Nonsense, child. It will be all that you can do to keep yourself; and -I'm not a-going to sit on the neck of a young thing like you, just like -a nightmare, and have you wishing me gone from morning to night." - -"I don't deserve that you should say that of me, grannie. But I'm -sure you don't think as you say. And as to being able, with Mrs. -Morgenstern's recommendation I can get as much teaching as I can -undertake. I am pretty sure of that, and you know it will only be -paying you back a very little of your own, grannie." - -Before Mrs. Boxall could reply, for she felt reproached for having -spoken so to her grand-daughter, there was a tap at the door, and Mr. -Kitely entered. - -"Begging your pardon, ladies, and taking the liberty of a neighbor, I -made bold not to trouble you by ringing the bell I've got something to -speak about in the way of business." - -So saying, the worthy bookseller, who had no way of doing anything but -going at it like a bull, drew a chair near the fire. - -"With your leave, ma'am, it's as easy to speak sitting as standing. So, -if you don't object, I'll sit down." - -"Do sit down, Mr. Kitely," said Lucy. "We're glad to see you--though -you know we're in a little trouble just at present." - -"I know all about that, and I don't believe there's a creature in the -court, down to Mrs. Cook's cat, that isn't ready to fly at that devil's -limb of a lawyer. But you see, ma'am, if we was to murder him it -wouldn't be no better for you. And what I come to say to you is this: -I've got a deal more room on my premises than I want, and it would be -a wonderful accommodation to me, not to speak of the honor of it, if -you would take charge of my little woman for me. I can't interfere with -her, you know, so as to say she's not to take care of me, you know, for -that would go nigh to break her little heart; but if you would come -and live there as long as convenient to you, you could get things -for yourselves all the same as you does here, only you wouldn't have -nothing to be out of pocket for house-room, you know. It would be the -making of my poor motherless Mattie." - -"Oh! we're not going to be so very poor as grannie thinks, Mr. Kitely," -said Lucy, trying to laugh, while the old lady sat rocking herself -to and fro and wiping her eyes. "But I should like to move into your -house, for there's nowhere I should be so much at home." - -"Lucy!" said her grandmother, warningly. - -"Stop a bit, grannie. Mr. Kitely's a real friend in need; and if I had -not such a regard for him as I have, I would take it as it's meant. -I'll tell you what, Mr. Kitely; it only comes to this, that I have got -to work a little harder, and not lead such an idle life with my grannie -here." - -"You idle, miss!" interrupted the bookseller. "I never see any one more -like the busy bee than yourself, only that you was always a-wastin' -of your honey on other people; and that they say ain't the way of the -bees." - -"But you won't hear me out, Mr. Kitely. It would be a shame of me to go -and live in anybody's house for nothing, seeing I am quite able to pay -for it. Now, if you have room in your house--" - -"Miles of it," cried the bookseller. - -"I don't know where it can be, then; for it's as full of books from -the ground to the garret as--as--as my darling old grannie here is of -independence." - -"Don't you purtend to know more about my house, miss, than I does -myself. Just you say the word, and before quarter-day you'll find two -rooms fit for your use and at your service. What I owe to you, miss, in -regard of my little one, nothing I can do can ever repay. They're a bad -lot them Worboises--son _and_ father! and that I saw--leastways in the -young one." - -This went with a sting to poor Lucy's heart. She kept hoping and -hoping, and praying to God: but her little patch of blue sky was so -easily overclouded! But she kept to the matter before her. - -"Very well, Mr. Kitely; you ought to know best. Now for my side of the -bargain. I told you already that I would rather be in your house than -anywhere else, if I must leave this dear old place. And if you will let -me pay a reasonable sum, as lodgings go in this court, we'll regard the -matter as settled. And then I can teach Mattie a little, you know." - -Mrs. Boxall did not put in a word. The poor old lady was beginning -to weary of everything, and for the first time in her life began to -allow her affairs to be meddled with--as she would no doubt even now -consider it. And the sound of paying for it was very satisfactory. I -suspect part of Lucy's desire to move no farther than the entrance of -the court, came from the hope that Thomas would some day or other turn -up in that neighborhood, and perhaps this emboldened her to make the -experiment of taking the matter so much into her own hands. Mr. Kitely -scratched his head, and looked a little annoyed. - -"Well, miss," he said, pausing between every few words, a most unusual -thing with him, "that's not a bit of what I meant when I came up the -court here. But that's better than nothing--for Mattie and me, I mean. -So if you'll be reasonable about the rent, we'll easily manage all the -rest. Mind you, miss, it'll be all clear profit to me." - -"It'll cost you a good deal to get the rooms put in order as you say, -you know, Mr. Kitely." - -"Not much, miss. I know how to set about things better than most -people. Bless you, I can buy wall-papers for half what you'd pay for -them now. I know the trade. I've been a-most everything in my day. Why, -miss, I lived at one time such a close shave with dying of hunger, -that, after I was married, I used to make picture frames and then pawn -my tools to get glass to put into them, and then carry them about to -sell, and when I had sold 'em I bought more gold-beading and redeemed -my tools, and did it all over again. Bless you! I know what it is to be -hard up, if anybody ever did. I once walked from Bristol to Newcastle -upon fourpence. It won't cost me much to make them rooms decent. And -then there's the back parlor at your service. I shan't plague you much, -only to take a look at my princess now and then." - -After another interview or two between Lucy and Mr. Kitely, the matter -was arranged, and the bookseller proceeded to get his rooms ready, -which involved chiefly a little closer packing, and the getting rid of -a good deal of almost unsalable rubbish, which had accumulated from the -purchase of lots. - -Meantime another trial was gathering for poor Lucy. Mr. Sargent had -met Mr. Wither, and had learned from him all he knew about Thomas. Mr. -Wither was certain that everything was broken off between Lucy and him. -It was not only known to all at the office that Thomas had disappeared, -but it was perfectly known as well that for some time he had been -getting into bad ways, and his disappearance was necessarily connected -with this fact, though no one but Mr. Stopper knew the precise occasion -of his evanishment, and this he was, if possible, more careful than -ever to conceal. Not even to the lad's father did he communicate what -he knew: he kept this as a power over his new principal. From what -he heard, Mr. Sargent resolved to see if he could get anything out -of Molken, and called upon him for that purpose. But the German soon -convinced him that, although he had been intimate with Thomas, he knew -nothing about him now. The last information he could give him was -that he had staked and lost his watch and a lady's ring that he wore; -that he had gone away and returned with money; and, having gained -considerably, had disappeared and never been heard of again. It was -easy for Mr. Sargent to persuade himself that a noble-minded creature -like Lucy, having come to know the worthlessness of her lover, had -dismissed him forever; and to believe that she would very soon become -indifferent to a person so altogether unworthy of her affection. -Probably he was urged yet the more to a fresh essay from the desire -of convincing her that his motives in the first case had not been so -selfish as accident had made them appear; nor that his feelings toward -her remained unaltered notwithstanding the change in her prospects. He -therefore kept up his visits, and paid them even more frequently now -that there was no possible excuse on the score of business. For some -time, however, so absorbed were Lucy's thoughts that his attentions -gave her no uneasiness. She considered the matter so entirely settled, -that no suspicion of the revival of any farther hope in the mind of -Mr. Sargent arose to add a fresh trouble to the distress which she was -doing all she could to bear patiently. But one day she was suddenly -undeceived. Mrs. Boxall had just left the room. - -"Miss Burton," said Mr. Sargent, "I venture to think circumstances -may be sufficiently altered to justify me in once more expressing a -hope that I may be permitted to regard a nearer friendship as possible -between us." - -Lucy started as if she had been hurt. The occurrence was so strange -and foreign to all that was in her thoughts, that she had to look all -around her, as it were, like a person suddenly awaking in a strange -place. Before she could speak, her grandmother reëntered. Mr. Sargent -went away without any conviction that Lucy's behavior indicated -repugnance to his proposal. - -Often it happens that things work together without any concerted -scheme. Mrs. Morgenstern had easily divined Mr. Sargent's feelings, and -the very next day began to talk about him to Lucy. But she listened -without interest, until Mrs. Morgenstern touched a chord which awoke -a very painful one. For at last her friend had got rather piqued at -Lucy's coldness and indifference. - -"I think at least, Lucy, you might take a little interest in the poor -fellow, if only from gratitude. A girl may acknowledge that feeling -without compromising herself. There has Mr. Sargent been wearing -himself out for you, lying awake at night, and running about all day, -without hope of reward; and, you are so taken up with your own troubles -that you haven't a thought for the man who has done all that lay in -human being's power to turn them aside." - -Could Lucy help comparing this conduct with that of Thomas? And while -she compared it, she could as little help the sudden inroad of the -suspicion that Thomas had forsaken her that he might keep well with -his father--the man who was driving them, as far as lay in his power, -into the abysses of poverty; and that this disappearance was the only -plan he dared to adopt for freeing himself--for doubtless his cowardice -would be at least as great in doing her wrong as it had been in -refusing to do her right. And she did feel that there was some justice -in Mrs. Morgenstern's reproach. For if poor Mr. Sargent was really in -love with her, she ought to pity him and feel for him some peculiar -tenderness, for the very reason that she could not grant him what he -desired. Her strength having been much undermined of late, she could -not hear Mrs. Morgenstern's reproaches without bursting into tears. And -then her friend began to comfort her; but all the time supposing that -her troubles were only those connected with her reverse of fortune. As -Lucy went home, however, a very different and terrible thought darted -into her mind: "What if it was her duty to listen to Mr. Sargent!" -There seemed no hope for her any more. Thomas had forsaken her utterly. -If she could never be happy, ought she not to be the more anxious to -make another happy? Was there any limit to the sacrifice that ought to -be made for another--that is of one's self? for, alas! it would be to -sacrifice no one besides. The thought was indeed a terrible one. - -All the rest of the day her soul was like a drowning creature--now -getting one breath of hope, now with all the billows and waves of -despair going over it. The evening passed in constant terror, lest -Mr. Sargent should appear, and a poor paltry little hope grew as the -hands of the clock went round, and every moment rendered it less likely -that he would come. At length she might go to bed without annoying her -grandmother, who, by various little hints she dropped, gave her clearly -to understand that she expected her to make a good match before long, -and so relieve her mind about her at least. - -She went to bed, and fell asleep from very weariness of emotion. But -presently she started awake again; and, strange to say, it seemed to be -a resolution she had formed in her sleep that brought her awake. It was -that she would go to Mr. Fuller, and consult him on the subject that -distressed her. After that she slept till the morning. - -She had no lesson to give that day, so as soon as Mr. Fuller's -church-bell began to ring, she put on her bonnet. Her grandmother asked -where she was going. She told her she was going to church. - -"I don't like this papist way of going to church of a week-day--at -least in the middle of the day, when people ought to be at their work." - -Lucy made no reply; for, without being one of those half of whose -religion consists in abusing the papists, Mrs. Boxall was one of those -who would turn from any good thing of which she heard first as done by -those whose opinions differed from her own. Nor would it have mitigated -her dislike to know that Lucy was going for the purpose of asking -advice from Mr. Fuller. She would have denounced that as _confession_, -and asked whether it was not more becoming in a young girl to consult -her grandmother than go to a priest. Therefore, I say, Lucy kept her -own counsel. - -There were twenty or thirty people present when she entered St. -Amos's; a grand assembly, if we consider how time and place were -haunted--swarming with the dirty little demons of money-making and -all its attendant beggarly cares and chicaneries--one o'clock in the -City of London! It was a curious psalm they were singing, so quaint -and old-fashioned, and so altogether unlike London in the nineteenth -century!--the last in the common version of Tate and Brady. They were -beginning the fifth verse when she entered: - - "Let them who joyful hymns compose - To cymbals set their songs of praise; - Cymbals of common use, and those - That loudly sound on solemn days." - -Lucy did not feel at all in sympathy with cymbals. But she knew that -Mr. Fuller did, else he could not have chosen that psalm to sing. And -an unconscious operation of divine logic took place in her heart, with -result such as might be represented in the following process: "Mr. -Fuller is glad in God--not because he thinks himself a favorite with -God, but because God is what he is, a faithful God. He is not one thing -to Mr. Fuller and another to me. He is the same though I am sorrowful, -I will praise him too. He will help me to be and do right, and that can -never be anything unworthy of me." So, with a trembling voice, Lucy -joined in the end of the song of praise. And when Mr. Fuller's voice -arose in the prayer--"O God, whose nature and property is ever to have -mercy and to forgive, receive our humble petitions, and though we be -tied and bound with the chain of our sins, yet let the pitifulness of -thy great mercy loose us: for the honor of Jesus Christ, our Mediator -and Advocate. Amen"--she joined in it with all her heart, both for -herself and Thomas. Then, without the formality of a text, Mr. Fuller -addressed his little congregation something as follows: - -"My friends, is it not strange that with all the old church-yards -lying about in London, unbusinesslike spots in the midst of shops and -warehouses, 'and all the numberless goings on of life,' we should -yet feel so constantly as if the business of the city were an end in -itself? How seldom we see that it is only a means to an end! I will -tell you in a few words one cause of this feeling as if it were an -end; and then to what end it really is a means. With all the reminders -of death that we have about us, not one of us feels as if he were -going to die. We think of other people--even those much younger than -ourselves--dying, and it always seems as if we were going to be alive -when they die: and why? Just because we are not going to die. This -thinking part in us feels no symptom of ceasing to be. We think on and -on, and death seems far from us, for it belongs only to our bodies--not -to us. So the soul forgets it. It is no part of religion to think about -death. It is the part of religion, when the fact and thought of death -come in, to remind us that we live forever, and that God, who sent his -Son to die, will help us safe through that somewhat fearful strait -that lies before us, and which often grows so terrible to those who -fix their gaze upon it that they see nothing beyond it, and talk with -poor Byron of the day of death as 'the first dark day of nothingness.' -But this fact that _we_ do not die, that only our bodies die, adds -immeasurably to the folly of making what is commonly called the -business of life an end instead of a means. It is not the business of -life. The business of life is that which has to do with the life--with -the living _us_, not with the dying part of us. How can the business of -life have to do with the part that is always dying? Yet, certainly, as -you will say, it must be done--only, mark this, not as an end, but as a -means. As an end it has to do only with the perishing body; as a means -it has infinite relations with the never-ceasing life. Then comes the -question, To what end is it a means? It is a means, a great, I might -say the great, means to the end for which God sends us individually -into a world of sin; for that he does so, whatever the perplexities the -admission may involve, who can deny, without denying that God makes us? -If we were sent without any sinful tendencies into a sinless world, -we should be good, I dare say; but with a very poor kind of goodness, -knowing nothing of evil, consequently never choosing good, but being -good in a stupid way because we could not help it. But how is it with -us? We live in a world of constant strife--a strife, as the old writers -call it, following St. Paul, between the flesh and the spirit; the -things belonging to the outer life, the life of the senses, the things -which our Saviour sums up in the words, 'what we shall eat, and what we -shall drink, and wherewithal we shall be clothed,' forcing themselves -constantly on our attention, and crowding away the thought and the -care that belong to the real life--the life that consists in purity of -heart, in love, in goodness of all kinds--that embraces all life, using -our own life only as the standpoint from which to stretch out arms of -embracing toward God and toward all men. For the feeding and growth of -this life, London city affords endless opportunity. Business is too -often regarded as the hindrance to the spiritual life. I regard it as -among the finest means the world affords for strengthening and causing -to grow this inner real life. For every deed may be done according to -the fashion of the outward perishing life, as an end; or it may be done -after the fashion of the inward endless life--done righteously, done -nobly, done, upon occasion, magnificently--ever regarded as a something -to be put under the feet of the spiritual man to lift him to the height -of his high calling. Making business a mean to such end, it will help -us to remember that this world and the fashion of it passeth away, but -that every deed done, as Jesus would have done it if he had been born -to begin his life as a merchant instead of a carpenter, lifts the man -who so does it up toward the bosom of Him who created business and all -its complications, as well as our brains and hands that have to deal -with them. If you were to come and ask me, 'How shall I do in this or -that particular case?' very possibly I might be unable to answer you. -Very often no man can decide but the man himself. And it is part of -every man's training that he should thus decide. Even if he should go -wrong, by going wrong he may be taught the higher principle that would -have kept him right, and which he has not yet learned. One thing is -certain, that the man who wants to go right will be guided right; that -not only in regard to the mission of the Saviour, but in regard to -everything, he that is willing to do the will of the Father shall know -of the doctrine.--Now to God the Father," etc. - -The worship over, and the congregation having retired, Lucy bent her -trembling steps toward the vestry, and there being none of those -generally repellent ministers, pew-openers, about, she knocked at -the door. By the way, I wish clergymen were more acquainted with the -nature and habits of those who in this _lowly_--alas, how far from -humble--office represent the gospel of welcome. They ought to have at -least one sermon a year preached to them upon their duties before the -whole congregation. The reception the servants of any house afford has -no little share in the odor of hospitality which that house enjoys, and -hospitality is no small Christian virtue. Lucy's troubled heart beat -very fast as she opened the door in answer to Mr. Fuller's cheerful -"Come in." But the moment she saw Mr. Fuller she felt as if she had -been guilty of an act of impropriety, and ought to have waited in the -church till he came out. She drew back with a murmured "I beg your -pardon," but Mr. Fuller at once reassured her. He came forward; holding -out his hand. - -"How do you do, Miss Burton? I am delighted to see you. By your coming -to the vestry, like a brave woman, I suppose there is something I can -do for you. Let me hear all about it. Sit down." - -So saying, he gave her a chair, and seated himself on the only -remaining one. And as soon as she saw that Mr. Fuller was not shocked -at her forwardness, such was Lucy's faith in him, that her courage -returned, and with due regard to his time and her own dignity, she -proceeded at once to explain to him the difficulty in which she found -herself. It was a lovely boldness in the maiden, springing from faith -and earnestness and need, that enabled her to set forth in a few plain -words the main points of her case--that she had been engaged for many -months to a youth who seemed to have forsaken her, but whom she did -not know to have done so, though his conduct had been worse than -doubtful, seeing he had fallen into bad company. She would never have -troubled Mr. Fuller about it for that, for it was not sympathy she -wanted; but there was a gentleman--and here she faltered more--to whom -she was under very great obligation, and who said he loved her; and she -wanted much to know whether it was her duty to yield to his entreaties. - -My reader must remember that Lucy was not one of those clear-brained as -well as large-hearted women who see the _rights_ of a thing at once. -Many of the best women may be terribly puzzled, especially when an -opportunity of self-sacrifice occurs. They are always ready to think -that the most painful way is the right one. This indicates a noble -disposition. And the most painful way _may_ be the right one; but it -is not the right one _because_ it is the most painful. It is the right -way because it is the right way, whether it be painful or delightful; -and the notion of self-sacrifice may be rooted in spiritual pride. -Whether it be so or not, the fact that the wrong way is the least -self-indulgent, is the most painful, will not prevent it from bringing -with it all the consequences that belong to it: wrong-doing cannot set -things right, however noble the motive may be. Of course the personal -condemnation and the individual degradation are infinitely less than -if the easiest and pleasantest way is chosen only because it is the -easiest and pleasantest. But God will not make of law a child's toy, to -indulge the vagaries of his best children. - -When Lucy had finished setting forth her case, which the trembling -of her voice, and the swelling of her tears, hardly interrupted, Mr. -Fuller said: - -"Now you must allow me, Miss Burton, to ask you one or two plain -questions." - -"Certainly, sir. Ask me whatever you please. I will answer honestly." - -"That I have no doubt about. Do you love this man to whom you say you -are obliged?" - -"Indeed I do not. I hope I am grateful to him, and I would do anything -in return, except--" - -"I understand you. It seems to me, though this kind of thing involves -many questions too delicate to be easily talked about, that, whatever -he may desire at the time, it is doing any man a grievous wrong to -marry him without loving him. Blinded by his love, he may desire it -none the less even if you tell him that you do not love him; but the -kindest thing, even to him, is to refuse. This is what seems to me the -truth." - -While Mr. Fuller spoke, Lucy heaved such a deep sigh of relief, that if -any corroboration of what she represented as the state of her feelings -had been necessary, Mr. Fuller had it. After a little pause, he went on: - -"Now, one question more: Do you love the other still?" - -"I do," said Lucy, bursting at last into a passion of tears. "But, -perhaps," she sobbed, "I ought to give him up altogether. I am afraid -he has not behaved well at all." - -"To you?" - -"I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking about myself just then." - -"Has he let you understand that he has forsaken you?" - -"No, no. He hasn't said a word. Only I haven't seen him for so long." - -"There is, then, some room for hope. If you were to resolve upon -anything now, you would be doing so without knowing what you were -doing, because you do not know what he is doing. It is just possible it -may be a healthy shame that is keeping him away from you. It may become -your duty to give him up, but I think when it is so, it will be clearly -so. God gives us all time: we should give each other time, too. I wish -I could see him." - -"I wish, indeed, you could, sir. It seems to me that he has not been -well brought up. His father is a dreadfully hard and worldly man, as my -poor grandmother knows too well; and his mother is very religious, but -her religion seems to me to have done my poor Thomas more harm than his -father's worldliness." - -"That is quite possible. When you do see him again, try to get him to -come and see me. Or I will go and see him. I shall not overwhelm him -with a torrent of religion which he cannot understand, and which would -only harden him." - -"There is nothing I should wish more. But tell me one thing, Mr. -Fuller: would it be right to marry him? I want to understand. Nothing -looks farther off; but I want to know what is right." - -"I think," returned Mr. Fuller, "that every willing heart will be -taught what is right by the time that action is necessary. One thing -seems clear, that while you love him--" - -"I shall always love him," interrupted Lucy. - -[Illustration: "LUCY NEVER LIFTED HER EYES."] - -"I must speak generally," said Mr. Fuller; "and there have been a -few instances," he added, with the glimmer of a smile through the -seriousness of his countenance, "of young maidens, and young men no -less, changing their minds about such matters. I do not say you will. -But while you love him it is clear to me, that you must not accept the -attentions of any one else. I could put a very hard and dreadful name -upon that. There is another thing equally clear to me--that while he -is unrepentant, that is, so long as he does not change his ways--turn -from evil toward good--think better of it, that is--you would be doing -very wrong to marry him. I do not say when, or that ever you are bound -to stop loving him; but that is a very different thing from consenting -to marry him. Any influence for good that a woman has over such a man, -she may exercise as much before marriage as after it. Indeed, if the -man is of a poor and selfish nature, she is almost certain, as far as -my observation goes, to lose her influence after her marriage. Many -a woman, I fear, has married a man with the hope of reforming him, -and has found that she only afforded him opportunity for growth in -wickedness. I do not say that no good at all comes of it, so long as -she is good, but it is the wrong way, and evil comes of it." - -"I am sure you are right, Mr. Fuller. It would be dreadful to marry a -bad man--or a man who had not strength, even for love of a wife, to -turn from bad ways. But you won't think the hardest of my poor Thomas -yet? He has been led astray, and has too much good in him to be easily -made all bad." - -"I too will hope so, for your sake as well as his own." - -Lucy rose. - -"Good-morning, Mr. Fuller. I do not know how to thank you. I only -wanted leave to go on loving him. Thank you a thousand times." - -"Do not thank me as if I could give you leave to do this or that. I -only tell you what seems to me the truth of the matter." - -"But is not that the best thing to give or to receive?" - -"Yes, it is," answered Mr. Fuller, as Lucy left the vestry. - -It was with a heart wonderfully lightened that she went home to her -grandmother. This new cloud of terror had almost passed away; it only -lightened a little on the horizon when she thought of having again to -hear what Mr. Sargent wanted to say. - -That same evening he came. Lucy never lifted her eyes to his face, even -when she held out her hand to him. He misinterpreted her embarrassment; -and he found argument to strengthen his first impression; for a moment -after, summoning all her courage, and remembering very conveniently a -message she had had for him, Lacy said to her grandmother: - -"Mr. Kitely said he would like to see you, grannie, about the papers -for our rooms. He has got some patterns." - -"I have done with this world, child, and all its vanities," said Mrs. -Boxall, with a touch of asperity. - -"It would only be polite, though, grannie, as he is taking so much -trouble about it, to go and see them. He is so kind!" - -"We're going to pay him for his kindness," said the old dame, soured -out of her better judgment, and jealous of Mr. Sargent supposing that -they were accepting charity. - -"No, grannie. That nobody ever could do. Kindness is just what can't be -paid for, do what you will." - -"I see you want to get rid of me," she said, rising; "so I suppose -I had better go. Things are changed. Old people must learn to do as -they're bid. You'll be teaching me my catechism next, I suppose." - -Mrs. Boxall walked out of the room with as stiff a back as she had ever -assumed in the days of her prosperity. The moment the door closed, Mr. -Sargent approached Lucy, who had remained standing, and would have -taken her hand, but she drew it away, and took the lead. - -"I am very sorry if I have led you into any mistake, Mr. Sargent. I -was so distressed at what you said the other evening, that I made this -opportunity for the sake of removing at once any misapprehension. I -wish to remind you, that I considered the subject you resumed then as -quite settled." - -"But excuse me, Miss Burton. I too considered it settled; but -circumstances having altered so entirely--" - -"Could you suppose for a moment, that because I had lost the phantom -of a fortune which I never possessed, I would accept the man--whose -kindness I was always grateful for, but whose love I had refused before -because I could not give him any in return?" - -"No. I did not suppose so. You gave me a reason for refusing my -attentions then, which I have the best ground for believing no longer -exists." - -"What was the reason I gave you then?" - -"That you loved another." - -"And what ground have I given you for supposing that such has ceased to -be the case?" - -"You have not given me any. He has." - -Lucy started. The blood rushed to her forehead, and then back to her -heart. - -"Where is he?" she cried, clasping her hands. "For God's sake, tell me." - -"That at least is answer enough to my presumptuous hope," returned Mr. -Sargent, with some bitterness. - -"Mr. Sargent," said Lucy, who, though trembling greatly, had now -recovered her self-command, "I beg your pardon for any pain I may have -occasioned you. But, by surprising the truth, you have saved me the -repetition of what I told you before. Tell me what you know of Mr. -Worboise." - -But Mr. Sargent's feelings--those especially occupied with himself--got -the better of him now, bitterly as he regretted it afterward. He felt -it a wrong that such a woman should pass him by for the sake of such a -man; and he answered in the heat of injury: - -"All I care to know about him is, that for the sake of his game among a -low set of gamblers, he staked and lost a diamond ring--a rose-diamond, -which one of his companions seemed to know as the gift of a lady. That -is the man for whom Lucy Burton is proud to express her devotion!" - -Lucy had grown very pale; but she would hold out till Mr. Sargent was -gone. She had an answer on her lips; but if she spoke he would stay. -Still she _would_ say one word for Thomas. - -"Your evidence is hardly of the most trustworthy kind, Mr. Sargent. -Good-evening." - -"It is of _his_ kind, anyhow, whatever that may be," he retorted, and -left the room. Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, he despised -himself most heartily, and rushed up again to attempt an apology. -Opening the room door, he saw Lucy lying on the floor. He thought she -had fainted. But the same moment, Mrs. Boxall, who had only gone up -stairs, came down behind him, and he thought it best to leave and write -a letter. But Lucy had not fainted. She had only thrown herself on the -floor in that agony which would gladly creep into the grave to forget -itself. In all grief unmingled with anger there is the impulse to lie -down. Lucy had not heard Mr. Sargent return or her grandmother reënter, -for she had been pressing her ears with her hands, as if the last -sounds that had entered had wounded them grievously. - -"Well, I'm sure! what next?" remarked Mrs. Boxall. "I dare say fashions -_have_ come to that at last!" - -What she meant was not very clear; but the moment she spoke, Lucy -started from the floor and left the room. She had not been long in -her chamber, however, before, with the ingenuity of a lover, she had -contrived to draw a little weak comfort even out of what Mr. Sargent -had told her. She believed that he had done worse than part with her -ring; but when the thought struck her that it must have been for the -sake of redeeming that ring that he had robbed his employer, which was -indeed the case, somehow or other, strange as it may seem, the offenses -appeared mutually to mitigate each other. And when she thought the -whole matter over in the relief of knowing that she was free of Mr. -Sargent, she quite believed that she had discovered fresh grounds for -taking courage. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - -MRS. BOXALL FINDS A COMPANION IN MISFORTUNE. - - -At last the day arrived that Lucy and her grandmother had fixed for -removing into the bookseller's house. The furniture was all Mrs. -Boxall's own, though, if Mr. Worboise had thought proper to dispute -the fact, there was nobody left who could have home witness against -it. Mr. Kitely shut shop a little earlier; Mr. Spelt descended from -his perch: and Mr. Dolman crept out of his hole--all to bear a hand in -the moving of it. It was dusk when they began, but the darkness did -not hinder their diligence, and, in the course of a couple of hours, -all the heavier articles were in their new places. When everything was -got into something like order, it did not appear that, save for the -diminution of space, they had had such a terrible downcome. Lucy was -heartily satisfied with their quarters, and the feeling that she had -now to protect and work for her grandmother gave a little cheerfulness -to her behavior, notwithstanding the weight on her heart. Mattie was -important, with an importance which not even the delight of having Miss -Burton to live with them could assuage; for she had to preside at a -little supper which Mr. Kitely had procured, in honor of the occasion, -from the cook-shop which supplied the feasts of Spelt and Poppie. But -when things were partially arranged for the night, Mrs. Boxall, who was -in a very despondent condition, declared her intention of going to bed. -Lucy would gladly have done the same, but she could not think of doing -dishonor to the hospitality of their kind friend. - -"Well, I am sorry the old lady can't be prevailed upon," said Mr. -Kitely. "Them sassages I know to be genuine--none of your cats or cats' -meat either. I know the very tree they grew upon--eh, princess? And now -we shan't be able to eat 'em up." - -"Why don't you ask Mr. Spelt to come in and help us?" said Mattie. - -"Bless you! he's gone to fetch his kid; and before they'll come home -they'll have bought their supper. They always do. I know their ways. -But I do believe that's them gone up the court this minute. I'll run -and see." - -Mr. Kitely hurried out, and returned with Mr. Spelt, Poppie, and the -steam-engine, which was set down in the middle of the room. - -"Ain't I been fort'nate?" said the bookseller. "Poppie ain't sold all -her potatoes. They was a-going to eat 'em up by the way of savin'. So -we've agreed to club, and go share and share. Ain't that it, Poppie?" - -Poppie grinned and gave no other answer. But her father took up the -word. - -"It's very kind of you to put it so, Mr. Kitely. But it seems to me -we're hardly fit company for a lady like Miss Burton." - -"Surely, Mr. Spelt, we haven't been neighbors so long without being fit -to have our supper together?" said Lucy. - -"That's very neighborly of you, miss. Let me assist you to a potato," -said Spelt, going toward the steamer. "It's my belief there ain't no -better taters in London, though I says it as buys 'em," he added, -throwing back the lid. - -"But we ain't going to begin on the taters, Spelt. You come and sit -down here, and we'll have the taters put on a plate. That's the right -way, ain't it, princess?" - -"Well, I should say so, Mr. Kitely," answered Mattie, who had hitherto -been too full of her own importance even to talk. But Mr. Spelt -interfered. - -"Them taters," said he, with decision, "ought to be eaten fresh out of -the steamer. If you turn 'em out on to a plate, I don't answer for the -consequences. We'll put 'em nearer the table, and I'll sit by 'em, with -your leave, Miss Burton, and help everybody as wants one." - -It was remarkable with how much more decision than had belonged to -him formerly, Mr. Spelt now spoke. Mr. Kitely, after a half hour's -meditation, next day, as to whether the cause of it was Poppie or the -potatoes, came to the wise conclusion that between them they had made a -man of him. - -By this time they were all seated round the table. - -"Mr. Spelt, you be parson, and say grace," said Kitely, in his usual -peremptory tone. - -"Why should you ask me, Mr. Kitely?" said the tailor, humbly. - -"Because you know more about that sort o' thing than I do--and you know -it." - -Mr. Spelt said grace so devoutly that nobody could hear him. - -"Why do you say grace as if you was ashamed of it, Spelt? If I was to -say grace, now, I would let you hear me." - -"I didn't know you cared about such things," returned Spelt, evasively. - -"Well," said Mr. Kitely, "no more I do--or did, rather; for I'm afraid -that Mr. Fuller will get me into bad habits before he has done with me. -He's a good man, Mr. Fuller, and that's more than I'd say for every one -of the cloth. They're nothing but cloth--meaning no offense, Mr. Spelt, -to a honest trade." - -"Perhaps there are more good ones among 'em than you think, Mr. -Kitely," said Lucy. - -"There ud need to be, miss. But I declare that man has almost made me -hold my tongue against the whole sect of them. It seems a shame, with -him in St. Amos's, to say a word against Mr. Potter in St. Jacob's. I -never thought I should take to the church in my old age." - -"Old age, Mr. Kitely!" Mattie broke in. "If you talk in that way, think -what you make of me!" - -A general laugh greeted this remark. But Mattie was serious, and did -not even smile. - -Poppie never opened her lips, except to smile. But she behaved with -perfect propriety. Mr. Spelt had civilized her so far, and that without -much trouble. He never told any one, however, that it was with anxiety -that he set out every night at half-past nine to bring her home; for -more than once he had found her potato-steamer standing alone on -the pavement, while she was off somewhere, looking at something, or -following a crowd. He had stood nearly half an hour before she came -back upon one of those occasions. All she said when she returned was, -"I thought I should find you here, daddy." - -But I must not linger with the company assembled in the bookseller's -back-parlor; for their conversation will not help my reader on with my -story. - -A very little man, with very short, bandy legs, was trudging along a -wide and rather crowded thoroughfare, with a pair of workman's boots in -his hand. It was Mr. Spelt's _sub_, Mr. Dolman, the cobbler. - -"Well, Dolly, how do?" said a man in a long velveteen coat, with a -short pipe in his mouth and a greasy cloth cap on his head. "You're -late to-night, ain't you, Dolly?" - -"Them lawyers; them lawyers, Jim!" returned Dolman, enigmatically. - -"What the blazes have you got to do with lawyers?" exclaimed Jim -Salter, staring at the cobbler, who for the sake of balance had now got -one boot in each hand, and stood weighing the one against the other. - -"Not much for my own part," returned Dolman, who was feeling very -important from having assisted at his neighbors' _flitting_. "But -there's good people in our court could tell you another story." - -I have said that Mrs. Boxall did anything but hold her tongue about her -affairs, and Dolman had heard Mr. Worboise's behavior so thoroughly -canvassed between Mr. Kitely and Mr. Spelt, that he was familiar with -the main points of the case. - -"Come and have a drop of beer," said Jim, "and tell us all about it." - -No greater temptation could have been held out to Dolman. But he had a -certain sense of duty that must first be satisfied. - -"No, Jim. I never touch a drop till I've taken my work home." - -"Where's that?" asked Jim. - -"Down by the Minories," answered the cobbler. - -"Come along, then. I'll help you carry it." - -"'Taint heavy. I'll carry it myself," answered Dolman, who, having once -been robbed on a similar occasion, seemed, in regard to boots, to have -lost his faith in humanity. - -"I can't think, Dolly, why you roost so far from your work. Now it's -different with me. My work's here and there and everywhere; but yours -is allus in the same place." - -"It gives me a walk, Jim. Besides it's respectable. It's having two -places of one's own. My landlady, Mrs. Dobbs, knows that my shop's -in a fashionable part, and she's rather proud of me for a lodger -in consekence. And my landlord, that's Mr. Spelt, a tailor, and -well-to-do--how's he to know that I ain't got a house in the suburbs?" -answered Dolman, laughing. - -The moment he had got his money, and delivered the boots--for that -was the order of business between Dolman and his customers--they -betook themselves to a public-house in the neighborhood, where Dolman -conveyed to Jim, with very tolerable correctness, the whole story of -Mrs. Boxall's misfortunes. Before he reached the end of it, however, -Jim, who had already "put a name upon something" with two of his -acquaintances that night, got rather misty, and took his leave of -Dolman with the idea that Lucy and her grandmother had been turned out, -furniture and all, into the street, without a place to go to. - -Much as she had dreaded leaving her own house, as she had always -considered it, Mrs. Boxall had a better night in her new abode than -she had had for months, and rose in the morning with a surprising -sense of freshness. Wonderful things come to us in sleep--none perhaps -more wonderful than this reviving of the colors of the faded soul from -being laid for a few hours in the dark--in _God's ebony box_, as George -Herbert calls the night. It is as if the wakeful angels had been busy -all the night preening the draggled and ruffled wings of their sleeping -brothers and sisters. Finding that Lucy was not yet dressed, she went -down alone to the back parlor, and, having nothing else to do, began -to look at the birds, of which, I have already informed my reader, -Mr. Kitely kept a great many, feeding and cleaning them himself, and -teaching the more gifted, starlings and parrots, and such like birds of -genius, to speak. If he did anything in the way of selling as well as -buying them, it was quite in a private way--as a gentleman may do with -his horses. - -"Good-morning, sir," screamed a huge gray parrot the moment she -entered, regardless of the sex of his visitor. It was one the -bookseller had bought of a sailor somewhere about the docks, a day or -two before, and its fame had not yet spread through the neighborhood, -consequently Mrs. Boxall was considerably startled by the salutation. -"Have you spliced the main-brace this morning, sir?" continued the -parrot, and, without waiting for a reply, like the great ladies who -inquire after an inferior's family and then look out of the window, -burst into the song, "There's a sweet little cherub," and, stopping -as suddenly at the word, followed it with the inquiry, "How's your -mother?" upon which point Mrs. Boxall may, without any irreverence, -be presumed to have been a little in the dark. The next moment the -unprincipled animal poured forth his innocent soul in a torrent of -imprecations which, growing as furious as fast, reached the ears of -Mr. Kitely. He entered in a moment and silenced the animal with prompt -rebuke, and the descent of an artificial night in the shape of a green -cloth over his cage--the vengeance of the lower Jove. The creature -exploded worse than ever for a while, and then subsided. Meantime the -bookseller turned to Mrs. Boxall to apologize. - -"I haven't had him long, ma'am--only a day or two. He's been ill -brought up, as you see, poor bird! I shall have a world of trouble to -cure him of his bad language. If I can't cure him I'll wring his neck." - -"The poor creature doesn't know better," said Mrs. Boxall. "Wouldn't it -be rather hard to kill him for it?" - -"Well, but what am I to do? I can't have such words running out and in -of my princess's ears all day." - -"But you could sell him, or give him away, you know, Mr. Kitely." - -"A pretty present he would be, the rascal! And for selling him, it -would be wickedness to put the money in my pocket. There was a time, -ma'am, when I would have taught him such words myself, and thought no -harm of it; but now, if I were to sell that bird, ma'am--how should I -look Mr. Fuller in the face next Sunday? No; if I can't cure him, I -must twist his neck. We'll eat him, ma'am; I dare say he's nice." - -He added, in a whisper: "I wanted him to hear me. There's no telling -how much them creatures understand." - -But before Mr. Kitely had done talking, Mrs. Boxall's attention was -entirely taken up with another bird, of the paroquet species. It was -the most awfully grotesque, the most pitiably comic animal in creation. -It had a green head, with a band of red round the back of it; while -white feathers came down on each side of its huge beak, like the gray -whiskers of a retired military man. This head looked enormous for the -rest of the body, for from the nape of the neck to the tail, except a -few long feathers on the shoulders of its wings, blue like those of a -jay, there was not another feather on its body: it was as bare as if -it had been plucked for roasting. A more desolate, poverty-stricken, -wretched object, can hardly be conceived. The immense importance of -his head and beak and gray whiskers, with the abject nakedness--more -than nakedness, _pluckedness_--of his body was quite beyond laughing -at. It was far fitter to make one cry. But the creature was so -absolutely, perfectly self-satisfied, without a notion of shame, or -even discomfort, that it appeared impossible he could ever have seen -himself behind. He must sorely have fancied himself as glorious as in -his palmiest days. And his body was so thin, and his skin so old and -wrinkled--I wish I could set him in the margin for my younger readers -to see him. He hopped from place to place, and turned himself round -before the spectators with such an absence of discomposure, that one -could not help admiring his utter _sang-froid_, almost envying his -perfect self-possession. Observing that his guest was absorbed in the -contemplation of the phenomenon, Mr. Kitely said: - -"You're a-wondering at poor Widdles. Widdles was an old friend of mine -I named the bird after before he lost his greatcoat all but the collar. -Widdles! Widdles!" - -The bird came close up to the end of his perch, and, setting his head -on one side, looked at his master with one round yellow eye. - -"He's the strangest bird I ever saw," said Mrs. Boxall. "If you talked -of wringing _his_ neck, now, I shouldn't wonder, knowing you for a -kind-hearted man, Mr. Kitely." - -"Wring Widdles' neck!" exclaimed the bookseller. "His is the last -neck I would think of wringing. See how bravely he bears misfortune. -Nobody could well lose more than Widdles, and nobody could well take it -lighter. He's a sermon, is that bird. His whole worldly wealth consists -in his wig. They was a fine pair once, only he was always henpecked. -His mate used to peck him because he wasn't able to peck her, for he -was the smaller of the two. They always reminded me of Spelt and his -wife. But when they were took ill, both of them, she gave in, and he -wouldn't. Death took his feathers, and left him jolly without them. -Bless him, old Widdles." - -"Well, it's a curious taste of yours, I must say, Mr. Kitely. But some -people, no more than some birds, ain't to be accounted for." - -Mr. Kitely chose to consider this a good sally of wit, and laughed -loud and long. Mrs. Boxall laughed a little too, and was pleased with -herself. And from that moment she began to take to the bird. - -"Try him with a bit of sugar," said Mr. Kitely, going to the carved -cabinet to get a piece, which he then handed to Mrs. Boxall. - -The bird was friendly and accepted it. Mrs. Boxall was pleased with -him now as well as with herself, and before long a firm friendship -was established between the two, which went so far that Widdles -would, when she put her hand into his cage, perch upon her bony old -finger, and allow himself to be lifted out. There was no fear of his -even attempting to fly away, for he was perfectly aware of his utter -incapacity in that direction of bird-like use and custom. Before many -days had passed she had become so much attached to the bird that his -company did not a little to shield her from the inroads of recurrent -regret, mortification, and resentment. - -One evening when she came home from her now rather numerous -engagements, Lucy found her grandmother seated at the table, with the -bird in her hand, rubbing him all over very gently for fear of hurting -him, with something she took with her finger from a little pot on the -table. - -"What _are_ you doing with Widdles, grannie?" she said. - -"Trying a little bear's grease, child. Why shouldn't I?" she added, -angrily, when Lucy laughed. - -"No reason in the world why you shouldn't, grannie. You mustn't mind my -laughing." - -"I don't see why anybody should laugh at misfortune," returned Mrs. -Boxall, severely. "How would you like to be in the condition of this -bird yourself?"--without a feather, she was going to say, but just -pulled up in time. She could not help laughing herself now, but she -went on, nevertheless, with her work of charity. "Who knows," she said, -"but they may grow again?" - -"Grow again!" shrieked the gray parrot, in the tone of a violin in -unskillful hands. - -"Yes, grow again, you witch!" said Mrs. Boxall. "I don't see why the -devil shouldn't be in you as well as in your betters. Why shouldn't -they grow again?" - -"Grow again!" reiterated the gray parrot. "Grow again! Widdles! -Widdles! Widdles! Ha! ha! ha!" - -"It shall grow again," retorted the old lady. "If bear's grease won't -do, I'll spend my last penny on a bottle of Macassar; and if it doesn't -grow then I'll pluck your back and stick them into his." - -Mrs. Boxall had got into a habit of talking thus with the bird, which -the bookseller had already nearly cured of his wicked words by instant -punishment following each offense. - -"Stick them into his!" cried the bird like an echo, and refused to -speak again. - -Sometimes, however, he would say a naughty word evidently for the sake -of testing his master, or as if he wondered what punishment he would -have this time--for the punishments were various. On such occasions he -would shriek out the word, "Duck his head," and dart to the opposite -side of the cage, keeping one eye full on his master, with such an -expression that his profile looked like a whole face with a Cyclopean -one eye in it. - -Whether Mrs. Boxall was at last successful in her benevolent exertions -I am unable to say, for her experiments were still going on when the -period arrived with which my story must close. She often asserted that -she saw them beginning to sprout; and to see her with spectacles on -nose, examining the poor withered bluish back of Widdles, was ludicrous -or touching, according to the humor of the beholder. Widdles seemed to -like the pains she took with him, however; and there is no doubt of -one thing, that she was rewarded for her trouble tenfold in being thus -withdrawn from the contemplation of her own wrongs and misfortunes. -Widdles thus gave her many a peaceful hour she would not in all -probability have otherwise enjoyed. Nor were her attentions confined to -him; through him, she was introduced to the whole regiment of birds, -which she soon began assisting Mr. Kitely to wait upon. Mattie had -never taken to them. While grannie, as she, too, called her, was busy -with them, Mattie would sit beside at her needlework, scarcely looking -up even when she addressed an occasional remark to grannie. It was a -curious household, and fell into many singular groups. - -But here I must leave Mrs. Boxall with her bird-companions, which, save -for the comfort they afforded her in taking her mind off herself, have -no active part in the story. Through Mrs. Morgenstern's influence and -exertions, Lucy soon had as much to do in the way of teaching as she -could compass, and her grandmother knew no difference in her way of -living from what she had been accustomed to. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - -WHAT THOMAS WAS ABOUT. - - -When Thomas left Rotherhithe with Jim Salter, he had no idea in his -head but to get away somewhere. Like the ostrich, he wanted some sand -to stick his head into. But wherever he went there were people, even -policemen, about, and not one of the places they went through looked -more likely to afford him shelter than another. Had he given Jim any -clearer information concerning the necessity he was in of _keeping -dark_, perhaps he would have done differently with him. As it was, he -contented himself with piloting him about the lower docks and all that -maritime part of London. They walked about the whole day till Thomas -was quite weary. Nor did refuge seem nearer than before. All this time -the police might be on his track, coming nearer and nearer like the -bloodhounds that they were. They had some dinner at an eating-house, -where Thomas's fastidiousness made yet a farther acquaintance with dirt -and disorder, and he felt that he had fallen from his own sphere into -a lower order of things, and could never more climb into the heaven -from whence he had fallen. But the fear of yet a lower fall into a -prison and the criminal's dock kept him from dwelling yet upon what he -had lost. At night Jim led him into Ratcliff Highway, the Paradise of -sailors at sea--the hell of sailors on shore. Thomas shrunk from the -light that filled the street from end to end, blazing from innumerable -public-houses, through the open doors of which he looked across into -back parlors, where sailors and women sat drinking and gambling, or -down long passages to great rooms with curtained doorways, whence -came the sounds of music and dancing, and through which passed and -re-passed seafaring figures and gaily bedizened vulgar girls, many of -whom, had the weather been warmer, would have been hanging about the -street-doors, laughing and _chaffing_ the passers-by, or getting up a -dance on the pavement to the sound of the music within. It was a whole -streetful of low revelry. Poor Jack! Such is his coveted reward on -shore for braving Death, and defying him to his face. He escapes from -the embrace of the bony phantom to hasten to the arms of his far more -fearful companion--the nightmare Life-in-Death--"who thicks man's blood -with cold." Well may that pair casting their dice on the skeleton ship -symbolize the fate of the sailor, for to the one or the other he falls -a victim. - -Opposite an open door Jim stopped to speak to an acquaintance. The door -opened directly upon a room ascending a few steps from the street. -Round a table sat several men--sailors, of course--apparently masters -of coasting vessels. A lithe lascar was standing with one hand on the -table, leaning over it, and talking swiftly, with snaky gestures of the -other hand. He was in a rage. The others burst out laughing. Thomas saw -something glitter in the hand of the Hindoo. One of the sailors gave a -cry, and started up, but staggered and fell. - -Before he fell the lascar was at the door, down the steps with a bound, -and out into the street. Two men were after him at full speed, but they -had no chance with the light-built Indian. - -"The villain has murdered a man, Jim," said Thomas--"in there--look!" - -"Oh, I dare say he ain't much the worse," returned Jim. "They're always -a outing with their knives here." - -For all his indifference, however, Jim started after the Hindoo, but he -was out of sight in another moment. - -Jim returned. - -"He's crowding all sail for Tiger Bay," said he. "I shouldn't care to -follow him there. Here's a Peeler." - -"Come along, Jim," said Thomas. "Don't stand here all the night." - -"Why _you_ ain't afraid o' the place, are you, guv'nor?" - -Thomas tried to laugh, but he did not enjoy the allusion--in the -presence of a third person especially. - -"Well, good-night," said Jim to his acquaintance. - -"By the way," he resumed, "do you know the figure of Potts's ken?" - -"What Potts? I don't know any Potts." - -"Yes you do. Down somewhere about Lime 'us, you know. We saw him that -night--" - -Here Jim whispered his companion, who answered aloud: - -"Oh, yes, I know. Let me see. It's the Marmaid, I think. You ain't -a-going there, are you?" - -"Don't know. Mayhap. I'm only taking this gen'leman a sight-seeing. -He's from the country." - -"Good-night, then." And so they parted. - -It was a sudden idea of Jim's to turn in the direction of the man whose -child Thomas had saved. But Thomas did not know where he was taking him. - -"Where will you sleep to-night, guv'nor?" asked Jim, as they walked -along. - -"I don't know," answered Thomas. "I must leave you to find me a place. -But I say, Jim, can you think of anything I could turn to? for my money -won't last me long." - -"Turn to!" echoed Jim. "Why a man had need be able to turn to -everything by turns to make a livin' nowadays. You ain't been used to -hard work, by your hands. Do you know yer Bible well?" - -"Pretty well," answered Thomas; "but I don't know what that can have to -do with making a living." - -"Oh, don't you, guv'nor? Perhaps you don't know what yer Bible means. -It means pips and pictures." - -"You mean the cards. No, no, I've had enough of that. I don't mean ever -to touch them again." - -"Hum! Bitten," said Jim to himself, but so that Thomas heard him. - -"Not very badly, Jim. In the pocket-book I told you I lost I had a -hundred pounds, won at cards the night before last." - -"My eye!" exclaimed Jim. "What a devil of a pity! But why don't you try -your luck again?" he asked, after a few moments of melancholy devoted -to the memory of the money. - -"Look here, Jim. I don't know where to go to sleep. I have a -comfortable room that I dare not go near; a father--a rich man, I -believe--who would turn me out; and, in short, I've ruined myself -forever with card-playing. The sight of a pack would turn me sick, I do -believe." - -"Sorry for you, guv'nor. I know a fellow, though, that makes a good -thing of the thimble." - -"I've no turn for tailoring, I'm afraid." - -"Beggin' your pardon, guv'nor, but you are a muff! You never thought -I meant a gen'leman like you to take to a beastly trade like that. I -meant the thimble and peas, you know, at fairs, and such like. It's all -fair, you know. You tell 'em they don't know where the pea is and they -don't. I know a friend o' mine'll put you up to it for five or six bob. -Bless you! there's room for free trade and money made." - -Thomas could hardly be indignant with Jim for speaking according to his -kind. But when he looked into it, it stung him to the heart to think -that every magistrate would regard him as capable of taking to the -profession of thimble-rigging after what he had been already guilty -of. Yet in all his dealings with cards Thomas had been scrupulously -honorable. He said no more to Jim about finding something to do. - -They had gone a good way, and Thomas's strength was beginning to fail -him quite. Several times Jim had inquired after the _Marmaid_, always -in public-houses, where he paid for the information or none, as the -case might be, by putting a name upon something at Thomas's expense; so -that he began to be rather uplifted. - -At length he called out joyfully: - -"Here's a fishy one, guv'nor, _at last_! Come along." - -So saying, he pushed the swing door, to which was attached a leather -strap to keep it from swinging outward, and entered. It admitted them -to a bar served by a big fat man with an apron whose substratum was -white at the depth of several strata of dirt, and a nose much more -remarkable for color than drawing, being in both more like a half-ripe -mulberry than anything else in nature. He had little round, watery -eyes, and a face indicative of nothing in particular, for it had left -its original conformation years behind. As soon as they entered, Jim -went straight up to the landlord, and stared at him for a few moments -across the counter. "You don't appear to know me, guv'nor?" he said, -for the many things he had drank to find the way had made him _barky_. -His vocabulary of address, it will be remarked, was decidedly defective. - -"Well, I can't take upon me to say as I do," answered the man, putting -his thumbs in the strings of his apron, and looking at Jim with a -mixture of effort and suspicion on his puffy face. "And I'll be bound -to say," remarked Jim, turning toward Thomas, "that you don't know this -gen'leman either. Do 'ee now guv'nor? On yer honor, right as a trivet? -No, ye don't." - -"Can't say I do." - -"Look at him, then. Ain't he fit to remember? Don't he look -respectable?" - -"Come, none o' your chaff! Say what you've got to say. What do you -want?" - -"Cut it short, Jim," said Thomas. - -"How's your young marmaid as took to the water so nat'ral at the -Horsleydown tother day, Mr. Potts?" asked Jim, leaning on his elbows on -the counter. - -"Jolly," answered the landlord. "Was you by?" - -"Wasn't I, then! And there's a guv'nor was nearer than I was. Mr. -Potts, that's the very gen'leman as went a header into the water and -saved her, Mr. Potts. Hold up yer head, guv'nor." - -"You're a chaffin of me, I know," said Potts. - -"Come, come, Jim, don't make a fool of me," said Thomas. - -"I wish I had known you were bringing me here. Come along. I won't -stand it." - -But Jim was leaning over the counter, speaking in a whisper to the -down-bent landlord. - -"You don't mean it?" said the latter. - -"Ask the mis'ess, then," said Jim. - -"You don't mean it!" repeated the landlord, in a husky voice, and with -increase of energy. Then looking toward Thomas, "What will he take?" -and with the words turned his back upon Jim, and his face toward -a shelf on which stood his choicest bottles between two cask-like -protuberances. He got down one of brandy, but Thomas, who was vexed at -being brought there as if he wanted some acknowledgment of the good -deed he had been fortunate enough to perform, refused to take anything. - -"What _will_ you take then?" said the man, whose whole stock of ideas -seemed to turn upon _taking_. - -But at the moment a woman entered from behind the shop. - -"There, mis'ess," said her husband, "can _you_ tell who that gentleman -is?" - -She looked at him for a moment, and exclaimed: - -"Bless my soul! It's the gentleman that took our Bessie out of the -water. How do you do, sir?" she continued, with mingled pleasure and -respect, as she advanced from behind the counter, and curtsied to -Thomas. - -"None the worse for my ducking, thank you," said Thomas, holding out -his hand in the delight a word of real friendship always gives. - -She shook it warmly, and would hardly let it go. - -"Oh! isn't he, then?" muttered Jim, mysteriously, but loud enough for -Potts to hear. - -"Won't you come in, sir?" said the woman, turning to lead the way. - -"Thank you," answered Thomas. "I have been walking about all day, and -am very tired. If you would let me sit down awhile--and--perhaps it -wouldn't be giving you too much trouble to ask for a cup of tea, for my -head aches rather." - -"Come in, sir," she said, in a tone of truest hospitality. "That I -will, with pleasure, I'm sure." - -Thomas followed her into a dingy back room, where she made him lie -down on a sofa from which he would have recoiled three days ago, but -for which he was very grateful now. She then bustled about to get him -some tea, and various little delicacies besides, in the shape of ham, -and shrimps, etc., etc. It was pretty clear from her look, and the way -she pressed her offerings of gratitude, that she had a true regard for -inward comforts, if not for those outward luxuries of neatness and -cleanliness. - -The moment Thomas was out of the shop, Jim Salter began to be more -communicative with Mr. Potts. - -"None the worse!" said he, reflectively. "Oh, no. That's the way your -quality talk about a few bank-notes. Nothing but a hundred pounds the -worst. Oh, no." - -"You don't mean it?" said Mr. Potts, making his eyes as round as two -sixpences. - -"Well, to be sure," said Salter, "I can't take my davy on it; 'cause as -how I've only his word for it. But he don't look like a cony-catcher, -do he? He's a deal too green for that, I can tell you. Well, he is -green!" repeated Jim, bursting into a quiet chuckle. - -"I don't mean he's a fool, neither. There's a vasty heap o' difference -betwixt a leek in yer eye and a turnip in yer brain-box. Ain't there -now, guv'nor?" - -"You don't mean it?" said Mr. Potts, staring more than ever. - -"What don't I mean, Mr. Potts?" - -"You don't mean that that 'ere chap? What _do_ you mean about them -hundred pounds?" - -"Now I'll tell 'ee, guv'nor. It's a great pleasure to me to find I can -tell a story so well." - -"There you are--off again, no mortal man can tell to where. You ain't -told me no story yet." - -"Ain't I? How came it then, guv'nor, that I ha' made you forget your -usual 'ospitable manners? If I hadn't ha' been telling you a story, -you'd ha'--I know you'd ha' asked me to put a name upon something long -ago." - -Mr. Potts laughed, and saying, "I beg yer pardon, Mr. Salter, though -I'm sure I don't remember ever meetin' of you afore, only that's no -consequence; the best o' friends must meet some time for the first -time," turned his face to the shelf as he had done before, and, after -a little hesitation, seemed to conclude that it would be politic to -take down the same bottle. Jim tossed off the half of his glassful, -and, setting the rest on the counter, began his story. Whether he -wished to represent himself as Thomas's confidant, or, having come to -his conclusions to the best of his ability, believed himself justified -in representing them as the facts of the case, it is not necessary to -inquire; the account he gave of Thomas's position was this: That when -Thomas went overboard after little Bessie, he had in the breast of his -coat a pocket-book, with a hundred pounds of his master's in it; that -he dared not go home without it; that the police were after him; and, -in short, that he was in a terrible fix. Mr. Potts listened with a -general stare, and made no reply. - -"You'll give him a bed to-night, won't you, guv'nor? I'll come back in -the morning and see what can be done." - -Jim finished his glass of brandy as if it had been only the last drops, -and set it on the counter with a world of suggestion in the motion, to -which Mr. Potts mechanically replied by filling it again, saying as he -did so, in a voice a little huskier than usual, "All right." Jim tossed -off the brandy, smacked his lips, said "Thank you, and good-night," and -went out of the beer-shop. Mr. Potts stood for five minutes motionless, -then went slowly to the door of the back parlor, and called his wife. -Leaving Thomas to finish his meal by himself, Mrs. Potts joined her -husband and they had a talk together. He told her what Jim had just -communicated to him, and they held a consultation, the first result of -which was that Mrs. Potts proceeded to get a room--the best she could -offer--ready for Thomas. He accepted her hospitality with gratitude, -and was glad to go to bed. - -Meantime, leaving his wife to attend to the thirst of the public, Mr. -Potts set out to find his brother-in-law, the captain of a collier -trading between Newcastle and London, who was at the moment in the -neighborhood, but whose vessel was taking in ballast somewhere down the -river. He came upon him where he had expected to find him, and told him -the whole story. - -The next morning, when Thomas, more miserable than ever, after rather a -sleepless night, came down stairs early, he found his breakfast waiting -for him, but not his breakfast only: a huge seafaring man, with short -neck and square shoulders, dressed in a blue pilot-coat, was seated in -the room. He rose when Thomas entered, and greeted him with a bow made -up of kindness and patronage. Mrs. Potts came in the same moment. - -"This is my brother, Captain Smith, of the _Raven_," she said, "come to -thank you, sir, for what you did for his little pet, Bessie." - -"Well, I donnow," said the captain, with a gruff breeziness of manner. -"I came to ask the gentleman if, bein' on the loose, he wouldn't like a -trip to Newcastle, and share my little cabin with me." - -It was the first glimmer of gladness that had lightened Thomas's -horizon for what seemed to him an age. - -"Thank you, thank you!" he said; "it is the very thing for me." - -And, as he spoke, the awful London wilderness vanished, and open sea -and sky filled the world of his imaginings. - -"When do you sail?" he asked. - -"To-night, I hope, with the ebb," said the captain; "but you had better -come with me as soon as you've had your breakfast, and we'll go on -board at once. You needn't mind about your chest. You can rough it a -little, I dare say. I can lend you a jersey that'll do better than your -'longshore togs." - -Thomas applied himself to his breakfast with vigor. Hope even made him -hungry. How true it is that we live by hope! Before he had swallowed -his last mouthful, he started from his seat. - -"You needn't be in such a hurry," said the captain. "There's plenty of -time. Stow your prog." - -"I have quite done. But I must see Mr. Potts for a minute." - -He went to the bar, and, finding that Jim had not yet made his -appearance, asked the landlord to change him a sovereign, and give half -to Jim. - -"It's too much," said Mr. Potts. - -"I promised him a day's wages." - -"Five shillings is over enough, besides the brandy I gave him last -night. He don't make five shillings every day." - -Thomas, however, to the list of whose faults stinginess could not be -added, insisted on Jim having the half sovereign, for he felt that he -owed him far more than that. - -In pulling out the small remains of his money, wondering if he could -manage to buy a jersey for himself before starting, he brought out with -it two bits of pasteboard, the sight of which shot a pang to his heart: -they were the pawn-tickets for his watch and Lucy's ring, which he had -bought back from the holder on that same terrible night on which he had -lost almost everything worth having. It was well he had only thrust -them into the pocket of his trousers, instead of putting them into his -pocket-book. They had stuck to the pocket, and been dried with it, had -got loose during the next day, and now came to light, reminding him of -his utter meanness, not to say dishonesty, in parting with the girl's -ring that he might follow his cursed play. The gleam of gladness which -the hope of escaping from London gave him had awaked his conscience -more fully; and he felt the despicableness of his conduct as he had -never felt it before. How could he have done it? The ring, to wear -which he had been proud because it was not his own, but Lucy's, he had -actually exposed to the contamination of vile hands--had actually sent -from her pure, lovely person into the pocket of a foul talker, and -thence to a pawnbroker's shop. He could have torn himself to pieces at -the thought. And now that she was lost to him forever, was he to rob -her of her mother's jewel as well? He _must_ get it again. But if he -went after it now, even if he had the money to redeem it, he might run -into the arms of the searching Law, and he and it too would be gone. -But he had not the money. The cold dew broke out on his face, as he -stood beside the pump-handles of the beer-shop. But Mr. Potts had been -watching him for some time. He knew the look of those tickets, and dull -as his brain was, with a dullness that was cousin to his red nose, he -divined at once that Thomas's painful contemplation had to do with some -effects of which those tickets were the representatives. He laid his -hand on Thomas's shoulder from behind. Thomas gave a great start. - -"I beg your pardon for frightening of you, sir," said Mr. Potts; "but I -believe a long experience in them things makes me able to give you good -advice." - -"What things?" asked Thomas. - -"Them things," repeated Potts, putting a fat forefinger first on the -one and then on the other pawn-ticket. "'Twasn't me, nor yet Bessie. -'Tis long since I was in my uncle's. All I had to do there was -a-getting of 'em down the spout. I never sent much up it; my first -wife, Joan--not Bessie, bless her! Now I ain't no witch, but I can -see with 'alf a heye that you've got summat at your uncle's you don't -like to leave there, when you're a-goin' a voyagin' to the ends o' the -earth. Have you got the money as well as the tickets?" - -"Oh dear, no!" answered Thomas, almost crying. - -"Come now," said Potts, kindly, "sweep out the chimley. It's no use -missing the crooks and corners, and having to send a boy up after all. -Sweep it out. Tell me all about it, and I'll see what I can do--or -can't do, it may be." - -Thomas told him that the tickets were for a watch--a gold watch, with -a compensation balance--and a diamond ring. He didn't care about the -watch; but he would give his life to get the ring again. - -"Let me look at the tickets. How much did you get on 'em separate?" - -Thomas said he did not know, but gave him the tickets to examine. - -Potts looked at them. "You don't care so much for the watch?" he said. - -"No, I don't," answered Thomas; "though my mother did give it to me," -he added, ruefully. - -"Why don't you offer 'em both of the tickets for the ring, then?" said -Potts. - -"What?" said Thomas. "I don't see--" - -"You give 'em to me," returned Potts. "Here, Bess! you go in and have -a chat with the captain--I'm going out, Bessie, for an hour. Tell the -captain not to go till I come back." - -So saying, Potts removed his white apron, put on a black frock coat and -hat, and went out, taking the tickets with him. - -Mrs. Potts brought a tumbler of grog for her brother, and he sat -sipping it. Thomas refused to join him; for he reaped this good from -his sensitive organization, that since the night on which it had helped -to ruin him, he could scarcely endure even the smell of strong drink. -It was rather more than an hour before Mr. Potts returned, during which -time Thomas had been very restless and anxious. But at last his host -walked into the back room, laid a small screw of paper before him, and -said: - -"There's your ring, sir. You won't want your watch this voyage. I've -got it, though; but I'm forced to keep it, in case I should be behind -with my rent. Any time you look in, I shall have it, or know where it -is." - -Thomas did what he could to express his gratitude, and took the ring -with a wonderful feeling of relief. It seemed like a pledge of farther -deliverance. He begged Mr. Potts to do what he pleased with the watch; -he didn't care if he never saw it again; and hoped it would be worth -more to him than what it had cost him to redeem them both. Then, after -many kind farewells, he took his leave with the captain of the _Raven_. -As they walked along, he could not help looking round every few yards; -but after his new friend had taken him to a shop where he bought a blue -jersey and a glazed hat, and tied his coat up in a handkerchief--his -sole bundle of luggage--he felt more comfortable. In a couple of hours -he was on board of the _Raven_, a collier brig of a couple of hundred -tons. They set sail the same evening, but not till they reached the -Nore did Thomas begin to feel safe from pursuit. - -The captain seemed a good deal occupied with his own thoughts, and -there were few things they understood in common, so that Thomas was -left mostly to his own company; which, though far from agreeable, was -no doubt the very best for him under the circumstances. For it was -his real self that he looked in the face--the self that told him what -he was, showed him whence he had fallen, what he had lost, how he had -hitherto been wasting his life, and how his carelessness had at length -thrown him over a precipice up which he could not climb--there was no -foothold upon it. But this was not all: he began to see not only his -faults, but the weakness of his character, the refusal to combat which -had brought him to this pass. His behavior to Lucy was the bitterest -thought of all. She looked ten times more lovely to him now that he -had lost her. That she should despise him was terrible--even more -terrible the likelihood that she would turn the rich love of her strong -heart upon some one else. How she had entreated him to do her justice! -and he saw now that she had done so even more for his sake than for -her own. He had not yet any true idea of what Lucy was worth. He did -not know how she had grown since the time when, with all a girl's -inexperience, she had first listened to his protestations. While he -had been going down the hill, she had been going up. Long before they -had been thus parted, he would not have had a chance of winning her -affections had he had then to make the attempt. But he did see that -she was infinitely beyond him, infinitely better than--to use a common -phrase--he could have deserved if he had been as worthy as he fancied -himself. I say _a common phrase_, because no man can ever _deserve_ -a woman. Gradually--by what gradations he could not have told--the -truth, working along with his self-despising, showed him something of -all this; and it was the first necessity of a nature like his to be -taught to look down on himself. As long as he thought himself more than -somebody, no good was to be expected of him. Therefore, it was well -for him that the worthlessness of his character should break out and -show itself in some plainly worthless deed, that he might no longer be -able to hide himself from the conviction and condemnation of his own -conscience. Hell had come at last; and he burned in its fire. - -He was very weary, and went to bed in a berth in the cabin. But he was -awaked while it was yet quite dark by the violent rolling and pitching -of the vessel, and the running to and fro overhead. He got up at once, -dressed in haste, and clambered up the companion-ladder. It was a -wild scene. It had come on to blow hard. The brig was under reefed -topsails and jib: but Thomas knew nothing of sea affairs. She was a -good boat, and rode the seas well. There was just light enough for him -to see the water by the white rents in its darkness. Fortunately, he -was one of those few favored individuals in whose nerves the motion of -a vessel finds no response--I mean he did not know what sea-sickness -was. And that storm came to him a wonderful gift from the Father who -had not forgotten his erring child--so strangely did it harmonize -with his troubled mind. New strength, even hope, invaded his weary -heart from the hiss of the wind through the cordage as it bellied out -from the masts; his soul rejoiced in the heave of the wave under the -bows and its swift rush astern; and though he had to hold hard by the -weather shrouds, not a shadow of fear crossed his mind. This may have -partly come from life being to him now a worthless thing, save as he -had some chance of--he did not know what; for although he saw no way -of recovering his lost honor, and therefore considered that eternal -disgrace was his, even if God and man forgave him, there was yet a -genuine ray of an unknown hope borne into him, as I say, from the -crests of those broken waves. But I think it was natural to Thomas to -fear nothing that merely involved danger to himself. In this respect he -possessed a fine physical courage. It was in moral courage--the power -of looking human anger and contempt in the face, and holding on his own -way--that he was deficient. I believe that this came in a great measure -from a delicate, sensitive organization. He could look a storm in the -face; but a storm in a face he could not endure; he quailed before -it. He would sail over a smooth human sea, if he might; when a wind -rose there, he would be under bare poles in a moment. Of course this -sensitiveness was not in itself an evil, being closely associated with -his poetic tendencies, which ought to have been the center from which -all the manlier qualities were influenced for culture and development; -but he had been spoiled in every way, not least by the utterly -conflicting discords of nature, objects, and character in his father -and mother. But although a man may be physically brave and morally a -coward--a fact too well known to be insisted upon--a facing of physical -danger will help the better courage in the man whose will is at all -awake to cherish it; for the highest moral courage is born of the will, -and not of the organization. The storm wrought thus along with all that -was best in him. In the fiercest of it that night, he found himself -often kissing Lucy's ring, which, as soon as he began to know that they -were in some danger, and not till then, he had, though with a strong -feeling of the sacrilege of the act, ventured to draw once more upon -his unworthy hand. - -The wind increased as the sun rose. If he could only have helped the -men staggering to and fro, as they did on the great sea in the days of -old! But he did not know one rope from another. Two men were at the -tiller. One was called away on some emergency aloft. Thomas sprang to -his place. - -"I will do whatever you tell me," he said to the steersman; "only let -me set a man free." - -Then he saw it was the captain himself. He gave a nod, and a squirt -of tobacco-juice, as cool as if he had been steering with a light -gale over a rippling sea. Thomas did his best, and in five minutes -had learned to obey the word the captain gave him as he watched the -binnacle. About an hour after the sun rose the wind began to moderate; -and before long the captain gave up the helm to the mate, saying to -Thomas: - -"We'll go and have some breakfast. You've earned your rations, anyhow. -Your father ought to have sent you to sea. It would have made a man of -you." - -This was not very complimentary. But Thomas had only a suppressed sigh -to return for answer. He did not feel himself worth defending any more. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - -THOMAS RETURNS TO LONDON. - - -After this Thomas made rapid progress in the favor of Captain Smith. -He had looked upon him as a landlubber before, with the contempt of -his profession; but when he saw that, clerk as he was, he was yet -capable at sea, he began to respect him. And as Thomas wakened up more -and more to an interest in what was going on around him, he did not -indulge in giving him fool's answers to the questions he asked, as so -many sea-farers would have been ready to do; and he soon found that -Thomas's education, though it was by no means a first-rate one, enabled -him to ask more questions with regard to the laws of wind and water and -the combination of forces than he was quite able to solve. Before they -reached the end of the voyage, Thomas knew the rigging pretty well, and -could make himself useful on board. Anxious to ingratiate himself with -the captain--longing almost unconsciously for the support of some human -approbation, the more that he had none to give himself--he laid himself -out to please him. Having a tolerably steady head, he soon found -himself able to bear a hand in taking in a reef in the foretop-sail, -and he could steer by the course with tolerable steadiness. The sailors -were a not unsociable set of men, and as he presumed upon nothing, -they too gave him what help they could, not without letting off a few -jokes at his expense, in the laughter following on which he did his -best to join. The captain soon began to order him about like the rest, -which was the best kindness he could have shown him; and Thomas's -obedience was more than prompt--it was as pleasant as possible. He had -on his part some information to give the captain; and their meals in -the cabin together were often merry enough. - -"Do you think you could ever make a sailor of me?" asked Tom, one day. - -"Not a doubt of it, my boy," the captain answered. "A few voyages more, -and you'll go aloft like a monkey." - -"Where do you think of making your next voyage, sir?" asked Tom. - -"Well, I'm part owner of the brig, and can do pretty much as I like. I -did think of Dundee." - -"I should have thought they have coal enough of their own thereabouts." - -"A cargo of English coal never comes amiss. It's better than theirs by -a long way." - -"Would you take me with you?" - -"To be sure, if you can't do better." - -"I can't. I don't want anything but my rations, you know." - -"You'll soon be worth your wages. I can't say you are yet, you know." - -"Of course not. You must have your full crew besides." - -"We're one hand short this voyage; and you've done something to fill -the gap." - -"I'm very glad, I'm sure. But what would you advise me to do when we -reach Newcastle? It will be some time before you get off again." - -"Not long. If you like to take your share in getting the cargo on -board, you can make wages by that." - -"With all my heart," said Thomas, whom this announcement greatly -relieved. - -"It's dirty work," said the captain. - -"There's plenty of water about," answered Thomas. - -When they came to Newcastle, Thomas worked as hard as any of them, -getting the ballast out and the new cargo in. He had never known what -it was to work before; and though it tired him dreadfully at first, it -did him good. - -[Illustration: "THOMAS WORKED AS HARD AS ANY OF THEM."] - -Among the men was one whom he liked more than the rest. He had been in -the merchant service, and had sailed to India and other places. He -knew more than his shipmates, and had only taken to the coasting for a -time for family reasons. With him Thomas chiefly consorted when their -day's work was over. With a growing hope that by some means he might -rise at last into another kind of company, he made the best he could -of what he had, knowing well that it was far better than he deserved, -and far better than what of late he had been voluntarily choosing. His -hope, however, alternated with such fits of misery and despair, that if -it had not been for the bodily work he had to do, he thought he would -have lost his reason. I believe not a few keep hold of their senses in -virtue of doing hard work. I knew an earl's son, an heir, who did so. -And I think that not a few, especially women, lose their senses just -from having nothing to do. Many more, who are not in danger of this, -lose their health, and more still lose their purity and rectitude. In -other words, health--physical, mental, moral, and spiritual--requires, -for its existence and continuance, work, often hard and bodily labor. - -This man lived in Newcastle, and got Thomas a decent room near his own -dwelling, where he slept. One evening they had been walking together -about the place till they were tired. It was growing late, and as they -were some distance from home, they went into a little public house -which Robins knew, to get a bit of bread and cheese and some ale. -Robins was a very sober man, and Thomas felt no scruple in accompanying -him thus, although one of the best things to be said for Thomas was, -that ever since he went on board the _Raven_ he had steadily refused to -touch spirits. Perhaps, as I have hinted before, there was less merit -in this than may appear, for the very smell was associated with such -painful memories of misery that it made him shudder. Sometimes a man's -physical nature comes in to help him to be good. For such a dislike may -grow into a principle which will last after the dislike has vanished. - -They sat down in a little room with colored prints of ships in full -sail upon the walls, a sanded floor, in the once new fashion which -superseded rushes, and an ostrich egg hanging from the ceiling. The -landlady was a friend of Robins, and showed them this attention. On -the other side of a thin partition was the ordinary room, where the -ordinary run of customers sat and drank their grog. There were only -two or three in there when our party entered. Presently, while Thomas -and Robins were sitting at their supper, they heard two or three more -come in. A hearty recognition took place, and fresh orders were given. -Thomas started and listened. He thought he heard the name _Ningpo_. - -Now, from Thomas's having so suddenly broken off all connection with -his friends, he knew nothing of what had been going on with regard to -the property Mr. Boxall had left behind him. He thought, of course, -that Mrs. Boxall would inherit it. It would not be fair to suppose, -however, that this added to his regret at having lost Lucy, for he was -humbled enough to be past that. The man who is turned out of Paradise -does not grieve over the loss of its tulips, or, if he does, how came -he ever to be within its gates? But the very fact that the name of -Boxall was painful to him, made the name of that vessel attract and -startle him at once. - -"What's the matter?" said Robins. - -"Didn't you hear some one in the next room mention the _Ningpo_?" -returned Thomas. - -"Yes. She was a bark in the China trade." - -"Lost last summer on the Cape Verdes. I knew the captain--at least, I -didn't know him, but I knew his brother and his family. They were all -on board and all lost." - -"Ah!" said Robins, "that's the way of it, you see. People oughtn't to -go to sea but them as has business there. Did you say the crew was lost -as well?" - -"So the papers said." - -Robins rose, and went into the next room. He had a suspicion that he -knew the voice. Almost the same moment a rough burst of greeting came -to Thomas's ears: and a few minutes after, Robins entered, bringing -with him a sailor so rough, so hairy, so brown, that he looked as if he -must be proof against any attack of the elements--case-hardened against -wind and water. - -"Here's the gentleman," said Robins, "as knew your captain, Jack." - -"Do, sir?" said Jack, touching an imaginary sou'wester. - -"What'll you have?" asked Tom. - -This important point settled, they had a talk together, in which Jack -opened up more freely in the presence of Robins than he would have felt -interest enough to do with a stranger alone who was only a would-be -sailor at best--a fact which could not be kept a secret from an eye -used to read all sorts of signals. I will not attempt to give the story -in Jack's lingo. But the certainty was that he had been on board the -_Ningpo_ when she went to pieces--that he had got ashore on a spar, -after sitting through the night on the stern, and seeing every soul -lost, as far as he believed, but himself. He had no great power of -description, and did not volunteer much; but he returned very direct -answers to all the questions Thomas put to him. Had Thomas only read -some of the proceedings in the Court of Probate during the last few -months, he would have known better what sort of questions to put to -him. Almost the only remark Jack volunteered was: - -"Poor little July! how she did stick to me, to be sure! But she was as -dead as a marlin-spike long afore the starn broke up." - -"Were you long on the island?" asked Tom. - -"No, not long," answered the sailor. "I always was one of the lucky -ones. I was picked up the same day by a brigantine bound from -Portingale to the Sambusy." - -Little did Tom think how much might be involved in what Jack said. They -parted, and the friends went home together. They made a good voyage, -notwithstanding some rough weather, to Dundee, failed in getting a -return cargo, and went back to Newcastle in ballast. From Newcastle -their next voyage was to London again. - -"If you would rather not go to London," said the master to Tom, -"there's a friend of mine here who is just ready to start for Aberdeen. -I dare say if I were to speak to him he would take you on board." - -But Tom's heart was burning to see Lucy once more--if only to see her -and restore her ring. If, he thought, he might but once humble himself -to the dust before her--if he might but let her see that, worthless -as he was, he worshiped her, his heart would be easier. He thought, -likewise, that what with razoring and tanning, and the change of his -clothes, he was not likely to be recognized. And besides, by this time -the power must be out of Mr. Stopper's hands; at least Lucy must have -come to exert her influence over the affairs of the business, and she -would not allow them to drive things to extremity with him, worthless -as he was. He would venture, come of it what might. So he told the -captain that he would much prefer to work his passage to London again. -It was a long passage this time, and very rough weather. - -It was with strange feelings that Thomas saw once more the turrets of -the Tower of London. Danger--exposure, it might be--lay before him, but -he thought only of Lucy, not of the shame now. It was yet early morning -when Captain Smith and he went on shore at Shadwell. The captain was -going to see an old friend in the neighborhood, and after that to -Limehouse, to the Mermaid, to see his sister. Thomas wanted to be -alone, for he had not yet succeeded in making up his mind what he was -going to do. So he sent a grateful message by the captain, with the -addition that he would look in upon them in the evening. - -Left alone, without immediate end or aim, he wandered on, not caring -whither he went, but, notwithstanding his heavy thoughts, with -something of the enjoyment the sailor feels in getting on shore even -after only a fortnight at sea. It was a bright, cold, frosty morning, -in the month of March. Without knowing his course, Thomas was wandering -northward; and after he had gone into a coffee-shop and had some -breakfast, he carelessly resumed his course in the same direction. He -found that he was in the Cambridge Road, but whither that led he had -no idea. Nor did he know, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts, even -after he came into a region he knew, till, lifting up his head, he saw -the gray, time-worn tower, that looks so strong and is so shaky, of the -old church of Hackney, now solitary, its ancient nave and chancel and -all having vanished, leaving it to follow at its leisure, wearied out -with disgust at the church which has taken its place, and is probably -the ugliest building in Christendom, except the parish-church of a -certain little town in the north of Aberdeenshire. This sent a strange -pang to his heart, for close by, that family used to live whose bones -were now whitening among those rocky islands of the Atlantic. He went -into the church-yard, sat down on a grave-stone, and thought. Now -that the fiction of his own worth had vanished like an image in the -clouds of yesterday, he was able to see clearly into his past life and -conduct; and he could not conceal from himself that his behavior to -Mary Boxall might have had something to do with the loss of the whole -family. He saw more and more the mischief that had come of his own -weakness, lack of courage, and principle. If he could but have defended -his own conduct where it was blameless, or at least allowed it to be -open to the daylight and the anger of those whom it might not please, -he would thus have furnished his own steps with a strong barrier -against sliding down that slope down which he had first slidden before -falling headlong from the precipice at its foot. In self-abasement he -rose from the grave-stone, and walked slowly past the house. Merry -faces of children looked from upper windows, who knew nothing of those -who had been there before them. Then he went away westward toward -Highbury. He would just pass his father's door. There was no fear of -his father seeing him at this time of the day, for he would be at his -office, and his mother could not leave her room. Ah, his mother! How -had he behaved to her? A new torrent of self-reproach rushed over his -soul as he walked along the downs toward Islington. Some day, if he -could only do something first to distinguish himself in any way, he -would go and beg her forgiveness. But what chance was there of his ever -doing any thing now? He had cut all the ground of action from under his -own feet. Not yet did Thomas see that his duty was to confess his sin, -waiting for no means of covering its enormity. He walked on. He passed -the door, casting but a cursory glance across the windows. There was -no one to be seen. He went down the long walk with the lime-trees on -one side, which he knew so well, and just as he reached the gates there -were his sister Amy and Mr. Simon coming from the other side. They -were talking and laughing merrily, and looking in each others face. He -had never seen Mr. Simon look so pleasant before. He almost felt as -if he could speak to him. But no sooner did Mr. Simon see that this -sailor-looking fellow was regarding them, than the clerical mask was on -his face, and Thomas turned away with involuntary dislike. - -"It is clear," he said to himself, "that they don't care much what is -become of me." He turned then, westward again, toward Highgate, and -then went over to Hampstead, paused at the pines, and looked along -the valley beneath; then descended into it, and went across the heath -till he came out on the road by Wildwood. This was nearly the way he -had wandered on that stormy Christmas Day with Mary Boxall. He had -this day, almost without conscious choice, traversed the scenes of his -former folly. Had he not been brooding repentantly over his faults, -I doubt if he could have done so, even unconsciously. He turned into -the Bull and Bush, and had some dinner; then, as night was falling, -started for London, having made up his mind at last what he would do. -At the Bull and Bush he wrote a note to Lucy, to the following effect. -He did not dare to call her by her name, still less to use any term of -endearment. - -"I am not worthy to speak or write your name," he said; "but my heart -is dying to see you once more. I have likewise to return you your -mother's ring, which, though it has comforted me often in my despair, I -have no longer any right to retain. But I should just like to tell you -that I am working honestly for my bread. I am a sailor now. I am quite -clear of all my bad companions, and hope to remain so. Dare I ask you -to meet me once--to-morrow night, say, or any night soon, for I am -not safe in London? I will tell you all when I see you. Send me one -line by the bearer of this to say where you will meet me. Do not, for -the sake of your love to me once, refuse me this. I want to beg your -forgiveness, that I may go away less miserable than I am. Then I will -go to Australia, or somewhere out of the country, and you will never -hear of me more. God bless you." - -He cried a good deal over this note. Then came the question how he was -to send it. He could, no doubt, find a messenger at the Mermaid, but -he was very unwilling to make any line of communication between that -part of London and Guild Court, or, more properly, to connect himself, -whose story was there known, with Lucy's name. He would go to the -neighborhood of Guild Court and there look out for a messenger, whom he -could then watch. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - -THOMAS IS CAPTURED. - - -As soon as he had resolved upon this he set out. There was plenty of -time. He would walk. Tired as he was beginning to be, motion was his -only solace. He walked through Hampstead, and by Haverstock Hill, -Tottenham Court Road, and Holborn to the City. By this time the moon -was up. Going by Ludgate Hill, he saw her shining over St. Paul's right -through the spire of St. Martin's, where the little circle of pillars -lays it open to the sky and the wind; she seemed to have melted the -spire in two. Then he turned off to the left, now looking out for a -messenger. In his mind he chose and rejected several, dallying with -his own eagerness, and yielding to one doubt after another about each -in succession. At last he reached the farther end of Bagot Street. -There stood Poppie with her "murphy-buster." Had it been daylight, when -her dress and growth would have had due effect upon her appearance, -probably Thomas would not have known her; but seeing her face only by -the street-lamp, he just recollected that he had seen the girl about -Guild Court. He had no suspicion that she would know him. But Poppie -was as sharp as a needle; she did know him. - -"Do you know Guild Court, my girl?" he asked. - -"I believe you," answered Poppie. - -"Would you take this letter for me, and give it to Miss Burton, who -lives there, and wait for an answer? If she's not at home, bring it -back to me. I will take care of your potatoes, and give you a shilling -when you come back." - -Whether Poppie would have accepted the office if she had not recognized -Thomas, I do not know. She might, for she had so often forsaken her -machine and found it all right when she returned that I think the -promise of the shilling would have enabled her to run the risk. As -it was, she scudded. While she was gone he sold three or four of her -potatoes. He knew how to deliver them; but he didn't know the price, -and just took what they gave him. He stood trembling with hope. - -Suddenly he was seized by the arm from behind, and a gruff voice he -thought he knew, said: - -"Here he is. Come along, Mr. Worboise. You're wanted." - -Thomas had turned in great alarm. There were four men, he saw, but they -were not policemen. That was a comfort. Two of them were little men. -None of them spoke but the one who seized him. He twisted his arm from -the man's grasp, and was just throwing his fist at his head, when he -was pinioned by two arms thrown round him from behind. - -"Don't strike," said the first man, "or it'll be the worse for you. -I'll call the police. Come along, and I swear nothing but good will -come of it--to you as well as to other people. I'm not the man to get -you into trouble, I can tell you. Don't you know me?--Kitely, the -bookseller. Come along. I've been in a fix myself before now." - -Thomas yielded, and they led him away. - -"But there's that child's potatoes!" he said. "The whole affair will be -stolen. Just wait till she comes back." - -"Oh! she's all right," said Kitely. "There she is, buttering a -ha'p'orth. Come along." - -They led him through streets and lanes, every one of which Thomas knew -better than his catechism a good deal. All at once they hustled him -in at a church door. In the vestibule Thomas saw that there were but -two with him--Mr. Kitely, whom he now recognized, and a little man -with his hair standing erect over his pale face, like corn on the top -of a chalk-cliff. Him too he recognized, for Mr. Spelt had done many -repairs for him. The other two had disappeared. Neither Mr. Salter nor -Mr. Dolman cared to tempt Providence by coming farther. It was Jim who -had secured his arms, and saved Kitely's head. Mr. Kitely made way for -Thomas to enter first. Fearful of any commotion, he yielded still, and -went into a pew near the door. The two men followed him. It is time I -should account for the whole of this strange proceeding. - -Jim Salter did not fail to revisit the Mermaid on the day of Tom's -departure, but he was rather late, and Tom was gone. As to what -had become of him, Mr. Potts thought it more prudent to profess -ignorance. He likewise took another procedure upon him, which, although -well-meant, was not honest. Regardless of Thomas's desire that Jim -should have a half-sovereign for the trouble of the preceding day, -Mr. Potts, weighing the value of Jim's time, and the obligation he -was himself under to Tom, resolved to take Tom's interests in his own -hands, and therefore very solemnly handed a half-crown and a florin, as -what Thomas had left for him, across the counter to Jim. Jim took the -amount in severe dudgeon. The odd sixpence was especially obnoxious. It -was grievous to his soul. - -"Four and sixpence! Four bob and one tanner," said Jim, in a tone of -injury, in which there certainly was no pretense--"after a-riskin' -of my life, not to mention a-wastin' of my precious time for the -ungrateful young snob. Four and sixpence!" - -Mr. Potts told him with equal solemnity, a righteous indignation -looking over the top of his red nose, to hold his jaw, or go out of his -tavern. Whereupon Jim gave a final snuff, and was silent, for where -there was so much liquor on the premises it was prudent not to anger -the Mermaid's master. Thereupon the said master, probably to ease his -own conscience Jim-ward, handed him a glass of old Tom, which Jim, not -without suspicion of false play, emptied and deposited. From that day, -although he continued to call occasionally at the Mermaid, he lost all -interest in his late client, never referred to him, and always talked -of Bessy Potts as if he himself had taken her out of the water. - -The acquaintance between Dolman and him began about this time to grow -a little more intimate; and after the meeting which I have described -above, they met pretty frequently, when Mr. Dolman communicated to -him such little facts as transpired about "them lawyers," namely, Mr. -Worboise's proceedings. Among the rest was the suspicious disappearance -of the son, whom Mr. Dolman knew, not to speak to, but by sight, as -well as his own lap-stone. Mr. Salter, already suspicious of his man, -requested a description of the missing youth, and concluded that it -was the same in whom he had been so grievously disappointed, for the -odd sixpence represented any conceivable amount of meanness, not to -say wickedness. This increased intimacy with Jim did Dolman no good, -and although he would not yet forsake his work during work-hours, he -would occasionally permit Jim to fetch a jug of beer from a neighboring -tavern, and consume it with him in his shop. On these occasions they -had to use great circumspection with regard to Dolly's landlord, who -sat over his head. But in the winter nights, Mr. Spelt would put up the -outside shutter over his window to keep the cold out, only occasionally -opening his door to let a little air in. This made it possible to get -the beer introduced below without discovery, when Dolman, snail-like, -closed the mouth of his shell also, in which there was barely room for -two, and stitched away while Jim did the chief part of the drinking and -talking--in an undertone--for him--not so low, however, but that Spelt -could hear not a little that set him thinking. It was pretty clear that -young Worboise was afraid to show himself, and this and other points he -communicated to his friend Kitely. This same evening they were together -thus when they heard a hurried step come up and stop before the window, -and the voice of Mr. Kitely, well known to Dolman, call to the tailor -overhead. - -"Spelt, I say. Spelt!" - -Mr. Spelt looked out at his door. - -"Yes, Mr. Kitely. What's the matter?" - -"Here's that young devil's lamb, Worboise, been and sent a letter to -Miss Burton by your Poppie, and he's a-waitin' an answer. Come along, -and we'll take him alive." - -"But what do you want to do with him?" asked Spelt. - -"Take him to Mr. Fuller." - -"But what if he won't come?" - -"We can threaten him with the police, as if we knew all about it. Come -along, there's no time to be lost." - -"But what would you take him to Mr. Fuller for?" - -My reader may well be inclined to ask the same question. I will -explain. Mr. Kitely was an original man in thinking, and a rarely -practical man in following it up, for he had confidence in his own -conclusions. Ever since he had made the acquaintance of Mr. Fuller, -through Mattie's illness, he had been feeling his influence more and -more, and was gradually reforming his ways in many little things that -no one knew of but himself. No one in London knew him as any thing -but an honest man, but I presume there are few men so honest that if -they were to set about it seriously, they could not be honester still. -I suspect that the most honest man of my acquaintance will be the -readiest to acknowledge this; for honesty has wonderful offshoots from -its great tap-root. Having this experience in himself, he had faith in -the moral power of Mr. Fuller. Again, since Lucy had come to live in -the house, he had grown to admire her yet more, and the attention and -kindness she continued to show to his princess, caused an equal growth -in his gratitude. Hence it became more and more monstrous in his eyes -that she should be deprived of her rights in such a villainous manner -by the wickedness of "them Worboises." For the elder, he was afraid -that he was beyond redemption; but if he could get hold of the younger, -and put him under Mr. Fuller's pump, for that was how he represented -the possible process of cleansing to himself, something might come of -it. He did not know that Thomas was entirely ignorant of his father's -relation to the property of the late Richard Boxall, and that no -man in London would have less influence with Worboise, senior, than -Worboise, junior. He had had several communications with Mr. Fuller -on the subject, and had told him all he knew. Mr. Fuller likewise had -made out that this must be the same young man of whom Lucy had spoken -in such trouble. But as he had disappeared, nothing could be done--even -if he had had the same hope of good results from the interview as Mr. -Kitely, whose simplicity and eagerness amused as well as pleased him. -When Mr. Kitely, therefore, received from Poppie Thomas's letter to -give to Lucy, who happened to be out, he sped at once, with his natural -promptitude, to secure Mr. Spelt's assistance in carrying out his -conspiracy against Thomas. - -As soon as the two below heard Mr. Spelt scramble down and depart -with Mr. Kitely, they issued from their station; Mr. Dolman anxious -to assist in the capture, Mr. Salter wishing to enjoy his disgrace, -for the odd sixpence rankled. As soon as they saw him within the -inner door of the church they turned and departed. They knew nothing -about churches, and were unwilling to enter. They did not know what -they might be in for, if they went in. Neither had they any idea for -what object Thomas was taken there. Dolman went away with some vague -notion about the Ecclesiastical Court; for he tried to read the papers -sometimes. This notion he imparted with equal vagueness to the brain -of Jim Salter, already muddled with the beer he had drunk. Dolman -went back to his work, hoping to hear about it when Spelt came home. -Jim wandered eastward to convey a somewhat incorrect idea of what had -happened to the inhabitants of the Mermaid. Having his usual design on -the Mermaid's resources, his story lost nothing in the telling, and, in -great perplexity, and greater uneasiness, Captain Smith and Mr. Potts -started to find out the truth of the matter. Jim conducted them to the -church door, which was still open, and retired round the corner. - -Meantime the captors and the culprit waited till the service was over. -As soon as Mr. Fuller had retired to the vestry, and the congregation -had dispersed, Mr. Kitely intimated to Thomas that he must follow him, -and led the way up the church. With the fear of the police still before -his eyes, Thomas did follow, and the little tailor brought up the rear. -Hardly waiting, in his impatience, to knock at the door, Mr. Kitely -popped his head in as Mr. Fuller was standing in his shirt-sleeves, and -said with ill-suppressed triumph: - -"Here he is, sir! I've got him!" - -"Whom do you mean?" said Mr. Fuller, arrested by surprise with one arm -in his coat and the other hand searching for the other sleeve. - -"Young Worboise. The lawyer-chap, you know sir," he added, seeing that -the name conveyed no idea. - -"Oh!" said Mr. Fuller, prolongedly. "Show him in, then." And on went -his coat. - -Thomas entered, staring in bewilderment. Nor was Mr. Fuller quite at -his ease at first, when the handsome, brown sailor-lad stepped into the -vestry. But he shook hands with him, and asked him to take a chair. -Thomas obeyed. Seeing his conductors lingered, Mr. Fuller then said: - -"You must leave us alone now, Mr. Kitely. How do you do, Mr. Spelt?" - -They retired, and, after a short consultation together in the church, -agreed that they had done their part and could do no more, and went -home. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - -THE CONFESSION. - - -As soon as the door closed behind them, Mr. Fuller turned to Tom, -saying, as he took a chair near him, "I'm very glad to see you, Mr. -Worboise. I have long wanted to have a little talk with you." - -"Will you tell me," said Tom, with considerable uneasiness, -notwithstanding the pacific appearance of everything about him, "why -those people have made me come to you? I was afraid of making a row in -the street, and so I thought it better to give in. But I have not an -idea why I am here." - -Mr. Fuller thought there must be some farther reason, else a young man -of Thomas's appearance would not have so quietly yielded to the will of -two men like Kitely and Spelt. But he kept this conclusion to himself. - -"It certainly was a most unwarrantable proceeding if they used any -compulsion. But I have no intention of using any--nor should I have -much chance," he added, laughing, "if it came to a tussle with a young -fellow like you, Mr. Worboise." - -This answer restored Tom to his equanimity a little. - -"Perhaps you know my father," he said, finding that Mr. Fuller was -silent. In fact, Mr. Fuller was quite puzzled how to proceed. He cared -little for the business part, and for the other, he must not compromise -Lucy. Clearly the lawyer-business was the only beginning. Ana this -question of Tom's helped him to it. - -"I have not the pleasure of knowing your father. I wish I had. But, -after all, it is better I should have a chat with you first." - -"Most willingly," said Tom, with courtesy. - -"It is a very unconventional thing I am about to do. But very likely -you will give me such information as will enable me to set the minds -of some of my friends at rest. I am perfectly aware what a lame -introduction this is, and I must make a foolish figure indeed, except -you will kindly understand that sometimes a clergyman is compelled to -meddle with matters which he would gladly leave alone." - -"I have too much need of forbearance myself not to grant it, -sir--although I do not believe any will be necessary in your case. Pray -make me understand you." - -Mr. Fuller was greatly pleased with this answer, and proceeded to -business at once. - -"I am told by a man who is greatly interested in one of the parties -concerned, that a certain near relative of yours is in possession of -a large property which ought by right, if not by law, to belong to an -old lady who is otherwise destitute. I wish to employ your mediation to -procure a settlement upon her of such small portion of the property at -least as will make her independent. I am certainly explicit enough, -now," concluded Mr. Fuller, with a considerable feeling of relief in -having discharged himself, if not of his duty, yet of so creditable a -beginning of it. - -"I am as much in the dark as ever, sir," returned Thomas. "I know -nothing of what you refer to. If you mean my father, I am the last one -to know anything of his affairs. I have not seen him or heard of him -for months." - -"But you cannot surely be ignorant of the case. It has been reported in -the public prints from time to time. It seems that your father has come -in for the contingent reversion--I think that is the phrase, I'm not -sure--of all the property of the late Richard Boxall--" - -"By Jove!" cried Thomas, starting to his feet in a rage, then sinking -back on his chair in conscious helplessness. "He did make his will," he -muttered. - -"Leaving," Mr. Fuller went on, "the testator's mother and his niece -utterly unprovided for." - -"But she had money of her own in the business. I have heard her say so -a thousand times." - -"She has nothing now." - -"My father is a villain!" cried Thomas, starting once more to his feet, -and pacing up and down in the little vestry like a wild beast in a -cage. "And what am _I_?" he added, after a pause. "I have brought all -this upon her." He could say no more. He sat down, hid his face in his -hands, and sobbed. - -Thomas was so far mistaken in this, that his father, after things had -gone so far as they had, would have done as he had done, whatever had -been Thomas's relations to the lady. But certainly, if he had behaved -as he ought, things could not have gone thus far. He was the cause of -all the trouble. - -Nothing could have been more to Mr. Fuller's mind. - -"As to Miss Burton," he said, "I happen to know that she has another -grief, much too great to allow her to think about money. A clergyman, -you know, comes to hear of many things. She never told me who he was," -said Mr. Fuller, with hesitation; "but she confessed to me that she was -in great trouble." - -"Oh, sir, what _shall_ I do?" cried Thomas; "I love her with all my -heart, but I can never, never dare to think of her more. I came up to -London at the risk of--of--I came up to London only to see her and give -her back this ring, and beg her to forgive me, and go away forever. And -now I have not only given her pain--" - -"Pain!" said Mr. Puller. "If she weren't so good, her heart would have -broken before now." - -Thomas burst out sobbing again. He turned his face away from Mr. Puller -and stood by the wall, shaken with misery. Mr. Puller left him alone -for a minute or two. Then, going up to him, he put his hand on his -shoulder, kindly, and said: - -"My dear boy, I suspect you have got into some terrible scrape, or you -would not have disappeared as they tell me. And your behavior seems to -confirm the suspicion. Tell me all about it, and I have very little -doubt that I can help you out of it. But you must tell me _everything_." - -"I will, sir; I will," Tom sobbed. - -"Mind, no half-confessions. I have no right to ask you to confess but -on the ground of helping you. But if I am to help you, I must know all. -Can I trust you that you will be quite straightforward and make a clean -breast of it?" - -Tom turned round, and looked Mr. Fuller calmly in the face. The light -of hope shone in his eyes: the very offer of hearing all his sin and -misery gave him hope. To tell it, would be to get rid of some of the -wretchedness. - -"I hate myself so, sir," he said, "that I do not feel it worth while to -hide anything. I will speak the truth. When you wish to know more than -I tell, ask me any questions you please, and I will answer them." - -At this moment a tap was heard at the vestry door, and it opened, -revealing two strange figures with scared, interrogating faces on the -top--the burly form of Captain Smith, and the almost as bulky, though -differently arranged, form of Mr. Potts. - -"Don't'ee be too hard on the young gentleman, sir," said Mr. Potts, -in the soothing tone of one who would patch up a family quarrel. "He -won't do it again, I'll go bail. You don't know, sir, what a good sort -he is. Don't'ee get him into no trouble. He lost his life--all but--a -reskewing of my Bessie. He did now. True as the Bible, sir," added Mr. -Potts, with conciliatory flattery to the clergyman's profession, whom -they both took for the father or uncle of Thomas. - -"You just let me take him off again, sir," put in Captain Smith, while -the face of Mr. Potts, having recovered its usual complexion, looked on -approvingly like a comic but benevolent moon. - -Mr. Fuller had a wise way of never interrupting till he saw in what -direction the sense lay. So he let them talk, and the seaman went on: - -"Everybody knows the sea's the place for curing the likes o' them fine -fellows that carries too much sail ashore. They soon learns their -reef-points there. Why, parson, sir, he's been but three or four -voyages, and I'll take him for an able-bodied seaman to-morrow. He's a -right good sort, though he may ha' been a little frolicsome on shore. -We was all young once, sir." - -"Are these men friends of yours, Mr. Worboise?" asked Mr. Fuller. - -"Indeed they are," answered Thomas. "I think I must have killed myself -before now, if it hadn't been for those two." - -So saying, he shook hands with Mr. Potts, and, turning to the captain, -said: - -"Thank you, thank you, captain, but I am quite safe with this -gentleman. I will come and see you to-morrow." - -"He shall sleep at my house to-night," said Mr. Fuller; "and no harm -shall happen to him, I promise you." - -"Thank you, sir;" and "Good-night, gentlemen," said both, and went -through the silent, wide church with a kind of awe that rarely visited -either of them. - -Without further preface than just the words, "Now, I will tell you all -about it, sir," Thomas began his story. When he had finished it, having -answered the few questions he put to him in its course, Mr. Fuller was -satisfied that he did know all about it, and that if ever there was a -case in which he ought to give all the help he could, here was one. He -did not utter a word of reproof. Thomas's condition of mind was such -that it was not only unnecessary, but might have done harm. He had now -only to be met with the same simplicity which he had himself shown. The -help must match the confession. - -"Well, we must get you out of this scrape, somehow," he said, heartily. - -"I don't see how you can, sir." - -"It rests with yourself chiefly. Another can only help. The feet that -walked into the mire must turn and walk out of it again. I don't mean -to reproach you--only to encourage you to effort." - -"What effort?" said Tom. "I have scarcely heart for anything. I have -disgraced myself forever. Suppose all the consequences of my--doing as -I did"--he could not yet call the deed by its name--"were to disappear, -I have a blot upon me to all eternity, that nothing can wash out. For -there is the fact. I almost think it is not worth while to do anything." - -"You are altogether wrong about that," returned Mr. Fuller. "It is -true that the deed is done, and that that cannot be obliterated. But a -living soul may outgrow all stain and all reproach--I do not mean in -the judgment of men merely, but in the judgment of God, which is always -founded on the actual fact, and always calls things by their right -names, and covers no man's sin, although he forgives it and takes it -away. A man may abjure his sin so, cast it away from him so utterly, -with pure heart and full intent, that, although he did it, it is his no -longer. But, Thomas Worboise, if the stain of it were to cleave to you -to all eternity, that would be infinitely better than that you should -have continued capable of doing the thing. You are more honorable -now than you were before. Then you were capable of the crime; now, I -trust, you are not. It was far better that, seeing your character was -such that you could do it, you should thus be humbled by disgracing -yourself, than that you should have gone on holding up a proud head in -the world, with such a deceitful hollow of weakness in your heart. It -is the kindest thing God can do for his children, sometimes, to let -them fall in the mire. You would not hold by your Father's hand; you -struggled to pull it away; he let it go, and there you lay. Now that -you stretch forth the hand to him again, he will take you, and clean, -not your garments only, but your heart, and soul, and consciousness. -Pray to your Father, my boy. He will change your humiliation into -humility, your shame into purity." - -"Oh, if he were called anything else than _Father_! I am afraid I hate -my father." - -"I don't wonder. But that is your own fault, too." - -"How is that, sir? Surely you are making even me out worse than I am." - -"No. You are afraid of him. As soon as you have ceased to be afraid of -him, you will no longer be in danger of hating him." - -"I can't help being afraid of him." - -"You must break the bonds of that slavery. No slave can be God's -servant. His servants are all free men. But we will come to that -presently. You must not try to call God your Father, till _father_ -means something very different to you from what it seems to mean now. -Think of the grandest human being you can imagine--the tenderest, the -most gracious whose severity is boundless, but hurts himself most--all -against, evil, all for the evil-doer. God is all that and infinitely -more. You need not call him by any name till the name bursts from -your heart. God our Saviour means all the names in the world, and -infinitely more! One thing I can assure you of, that even I, if you -will but do your duty in regard to this thing, will not only love--yes, -I will say that word--will not only love, but honor you far more than -if I had known you only as a respectable youth. It is harder to turn -back than to keep at home. I doubt if there could be such joy in heaven -over the repenting sinner if he was never to be free of his disgrace. -But I like you the better for having the feeling of eternal disgrace -now." - -"I will think God is like you, sir. Tell me what I am to do." - -"I am going to set you the hardest of tasks, one after the other. They -will be like the pinch of death. But they _must_ be done. And after -that--peace. Who is at the head of the late Mr. Boxall's business now?" - -"I suppose Mr. Stopper. He was head-clerk." - -"You must go to him and take him the money you stole." - -Thomas turned ashy pale. - -"I haven't got it, sir." - -"How much was it, did you say?" - -"Eleven pounds--nearly twelve." - -"I will find you the money. I will lend it to you." - -"Thank you, thank you, sir. I will not spend a penny I can help till I -repay you. But--" - -"Yes, now come the _buts_," said Mr. Fuller, with a smile of kindness. -"What is the first _but_?" - -"Stopper is a hard man, and never liked me. He will give me up to the -law." - -"I can't help it. It must be done. But I do not believe he will do -that. I will help you so far as to promise you to do all that lies in -my power in every way to prevent it. And there is your father; his word -will be law with him now." - -"So much the worse, sir. He is ten times as hard as Stopper." - -"He will not be willing to disgrace his own family, though." - -"I know what he will do. He will make it a condition that I shall give -up Lucy. But I will go to prison before I will do that. Not that it -will make any difference in the end, for Lucy won't have a word to say -to me now. She bore all that woman could bear. But she shall give me -up--she has given me up, of course; but I will never give her up that -way." - -"That's right, my boy. Well, what do you say to it?" - -Tom was struggling with himself. With a sudden resolve, the source of -which he could not tell, he said, "I will, sir." With a new light in -his face he added, "What next?" - -"Then you must go to your father." - -"That is far worse. I am afraid I can't." - -"You must--if you should not find a word to say when you go--if you -should fall in a faint on the floor when you try." - -"I will, sir. Am I to tell him everything?" - -"I am not prepared to say that. If he had been a true father to you, -I should have said 'Of course.' But there is no denying the fact that -such he has not been, or rather, that such he is not. The point lies -there. I think that alters the affair. It is one thing to confess to -God and another to the devil. Excuse me, I only put the extremes." - -"What ought I to tell him, then?" - -"I think you will know that best when you see him. We cannot tell how -much he knows." - -"Yes," said Thomas, thoughtfully; "I will tell him that I am sorry I -went away as I did, and ask him to forgive me. Will that do?" - -"I must leave all that to your own conscience, heart, and honesty. Of -course, if he receives you at all, you must try what you can do for -Mrs. Boxall." - -"Alas! I know too well how useless that will be. It will only enrage -him the more at them. He may offer to put it all right, though, if I -promise to give Lucy up. _Must_ I do that, sir?" - -Knowing more about Lucy's feelings than Thomas, Mr. Fuller answered at -once--though if he had hesitated, he might have discovered ground for -hesitating-- - -"On no account whatever." - -"And what must I do next?" he asked, more cheerfully. - -"There's your mother." - -"Ah! you needn't remind me of her." - -"Then you must not forget Miss Burton. You have some apology to make to -her too, I suppose." - -"I had just sent her a note, asking her to meet me once more, and was -waiting for her answer, when the bookseller laid hold of me. I was so -afraid of making a row, lest the police should come, that I gave in to -him. I owe him more than ever I can repay." - -"You will when you have done all you have undertaken." - -"But how am I to see Lucy now? She will not know where I am. But -perhaps she will not want to see me." - -Here Tom looked very miserable again. Anxious to give him courage, Mr. -Fuller said: - -"Come home with me now. In the morning, after you have seen Mr. -Stopper, and your father and mother, come back to my house. I am sure -she will see you." - -With more thanks in his heart than on his tongue, Tom followed Mr. -Fuller from the church. When they stepped into the street, they found -the bookseller, the seaman, and the publican, talking together on the -pavement. - -"It's all right," said Mr. Fuller, as he passed them. "Good-night." -Then, turning again to Mr. Kitely, he added, in a low voice, "He knows -nothing of his father's behavior, Kitely. You'll be glad to hear that." - -"I ought to be glad to hear it for his own sake, I suppose," returned -the bookseller. "But I don't know as I am, for all that." - -"Have patience, have patience," said the parson, and walked on, taking -Thomas by the arm. - -For the rest of the evening Mr. Fuller avoided much talk with the -penitent, and sent him to bed early. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII. - -THOMAS AND MR. STOPPER. - - -Thomas did not sleep much that night, and was up betimes in the -morning. Mr. Fuller had risen before him, however, and when Thomas -went down stairs, after an invigorating cold bath which his host had -taken special care should be provided for him, along with clean linen, -he found him in his study reading. He received him very heartily, -looking him, with some anxiety, in the face, as if to see whether he -could read action there. Apparently he was encouraged, for his own -face brightened up, and they were soon talking together earnestly. -But knowing Mr. Stopper's habit of being first at the counting-house, -Thomas was anxious about the time, and Mr. Fuller hastened breakfast. -That and prayers over, he put twelve pounds into Thomas's hand, which -he had been out that morning already to borrow from a friend. Then, -with a quaking heart, but determined will, Thomas set out and walked -straight to Bagot Street. Finding no one there but the man sweeping -out the place, he went a little farther, and there was the bookseller -arranging his stall outside the window. Mr. Kitely regarded him with -doubtful eyes, vouchsafing him a "good-morning" of the gruffest. - -"Mr. Kitely," said Thomas, "I am more obliged to you than I can tell, -for what you did last night." - -"Perhaps you ought to be; but it wasn't for your sake, Mr. Worboise, -that I did it." - -"I am quite aware of that. Still, if you will allow me to say so, I am -as much obliged to you as if it had been." - -Mr. Kitely grumbled something, for he was not prepared to be friendly. - -"Will you let me wait in your shop till Mr. Stopper comes?" - -"There he is." - -Thomas's heart beat fast; but he delayed only to give Mr. Stopper time -to enter the more retired part of the counting-house. Then he hurried -to the door and went in. - -Mr. Stopper was standing with his back to the glass partition, and took -the entrance for that of one of his clerks. Thomas tapped at the glass -door, but not till he had opened it and said "Mr. Stopper," did he take -any notice. He started then, and turned; but, having regarded him for a -moment, gave a rather constrained smile, and, to his surprise, held out -his hand. - -"It is very good of you to speak to me at all, Mr. Stopper," said -Thomas, touched with gratitude already. "I don't deserve it." - -"Well, I must say you behaved rather strangely, to say the least, of -it. It might have been a serious thing for you, Mr. Thomas, if I hadn't -been more friendly than you would have given me credit for. Look here." - -And he showed him the sum of eleven pounds thirteen shillings and -eightpence halfpenny put down to Mr. Stopper's debit in the petty -cash-book. - -"You understand that, I presume, Mr. Thomas. You ran the risk of -transportation there." - -"I know I did, Mr. Stopper. But just listen to me a moment, and you -will be able to forgive me, I think. I had been drinking, and gambling, -and losing all night; and I believe I was really drunk when I did that. -Not that I didn't know I was doing wrong. I can't say that. And I know -it doesn't clear me at all, but I want to tell you the truth of it. -I've been wretched ever since, and daren't show myself. I have been -bitterly punished. I haven't touched cards or dice since. Here's the -money," he concluded, offering the notes and gold. - -Mr. Stopper did not heed the action at first. He was regarding Thomas -rather curiously. Thomas perceived it. - -"Yes," Thomas said, "I am a sailor. It's an honest way of living, and I -like it." - -"But you'll come back now, won't you?" - -"That depends," answered Thomas. "Would you take me, now, Mr. Stopper?" -he added, with a feeble experimental smile. "But there's the money. Do -take it out of my hands." - -"It lies with your father now, Mr. Thomas. Have you been to Highbury? -Of course, I took care not to let him know." - -"Thank you heartily. I'm just going there. Do take the horrid money, -and let me feel as if I weren't a thief after all." - -"As for the money, eleven pound, odd," said Mr. Stopper, without -looking at it, "that's neither here nor there. It was a burglary, there -can be no doubt, under the circumstances. But I owe you a quarter's -salary, though I should not be bound to pay it, seeing you left as you -did. Still, I want to be friendly, and you worked very fairly for it. I -will hand you over the difference." - -"No, never mind that, I don't care about the money. It was all that -damned play," said Thomas. - -"Don't swear, Mr. Thomas," returned Stopper, taking out the check-book, -and proceeding to write a check for thirteen pounds six shillings and -fourpence. - -"If you had suffered as much from it as I have, Mr. Stopper, you would -see no harm in damning it." - -Mr. Stopper made no reply, but handed him the check, with the words: - -"Now we're clear, Mr. Thomas. But don't do it again. It won't pass -twice. I've saved you this time." - -"Do it again!" cried Thomas, seizing Mr. Stopper's hand; "I would -sooner cut my own throat. Thank you, thank you a thousand times, Mr. -Stopper," he added, his heart brimful at this beginning of his day of -horror. - -Mr. Stopper very coolly withdrew his hand, turned round on his stool, -replaced his check-book in the drawer, and proceeded to arrange his -writing materials, as if nobody were there but himself. He knew well -enough that it was not for Thomas's sake that he had done it; but -he had no particular objection to take the credit of it. There was -something rudely imposing in the way in which he behaved to Thomas, -and Thomas felt it and did not resent it: for he had no right to be -indignant: he was glad of any terms he could make. Let us hope that Mr. -Stopper had a glimmering of how it might feel to have been kind, and -that he was a little more ready in consequence to do a friendly deed in -time to come, even when he could reap no benefit from it. Though Mr. -Stopper's assumption of faithful friendship could only do him harm, yet -perhaps Thomas's ready acknowledgment of it might do him good; for not -unfrequently to behave to a man as good rouses his conscience and makes -him wish that he were as good as he is taken for. It gives him almost -a taste of what goodness is like--certainly a very faint and far-off -taste--yet a something. - -Thomas left the counting-house a free man. He bounded back to Mr. -Fuller, returned the money, showed him the check, and told him all. - -"There's a beginning for you, my boy!" said Mr. Fuller, as delighted -almost as Thomas himself. "Now for the next." - -There came the rub. Thomas's countenance fell. He was afraid, and Mr. -Fuller saw it. - -"You daren't go near Lucy till you have been to your father. It would -be to insult her, Thomas." - -Tom caught up his cap from the table and left the house, once more -resolved. It would be useless to go to Highbury at this hour; he would -find his father at his office in the city. And he had not far to go to -find him--unfortunately, thought Tom. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - -THOMAS AND HIS FATHER. - - -When he was shown into his father's room he was writing a letter. -Looking up and seeing Tom he gave a grin--that is, a laugh without the -smile in it--handed him a few of his fingers, pointed to a chair, and -went on with his letter. This reception irritated Tom, and perhaps so -far did him good that it took off the edge of his sheepishness--or -rather, I should have said, put an edge upon it. Before his father he -did not feel that he appeared exactly as a culprit. He had told him -either to give up Lucy, or not to show his face at home again. He -had lost Lucy, it might be--though hope had revived greatly since his -interview with Mr. Stopper; but, in any case, even if she refused to -see him, he would not give her up. So he sat, more composed than he -had expected to be, waiting for what should follow. In a few minutes -his father looked up again, as he methodically folded his letter, and -casting a sneering glance at his son's garb, said: - -"What's the meaning of this masquerading, Tom?" - -"It means that I am dressed like my work," answered Tom, surprised at -his own coolness, now that the ice was broken. - -"What's your work, then, pray?" - -"I'm a sailor." - -"You a sailor! A horse-marine, I suppose! Ha, ha!" - -"I've made five coasting voyages since you turned me out," said Tom. - -"I turned you out! You turned yourself out. Why the devil did you come -back, then? Why don't you stick to your new trade?" - -"You told me either to give up Lucy Burton, or take lodgings in -Wapping. I won't give up Lucy Burton." - -"Take her to hell, if you like. What do you come back here for with -your cursed impudence? There's nobody I want less." - -This was far from true. He had been very uneasy about his son. Yet -now that he saw him--a prey to the vile demon that ever stirred up -his avarice till the disease, which was as the rust spoken of by the -prophet St. James, was eating his flesh as it were fire--his tyrannical -disposition, maddened by the resistance of his son, and the consequent -frustration of his money-making plans, broke out in this fierce, cold, -blasting wrath. - -"I come here," said Thomas--and he said it merely to discharge -himself of a duty, for he had not the thinnest shadow of a hope that -it would be of service--"I come here to protest against the extreme -to which you are driving your legal _rights_--which I have only just -learned--against Mrs. Boxall." - -"And her daughter. But I am not aware that I am driving my _rights_, as -you emphasize the word," said Mr. Worboise, relapsing into his former -manner, so cold that it stung; "for I believe I _have_ driven them -already almost as far as my knowledge of affairs allows me to consider -prudent. I have turned those people out of the house." - -"You have!" cried Thomas, starting to his feet. "Father! father! you -are worse than even I thought you. It is cruel; it is wicked." - -"Don't discompose yourself about it. It is all your own fault, my son." - -"I am no son of yours. From this moment I renounce you, and call you -_father_ no more," cried Thomas, in mingled wrath and horror and -consternation at the atrocity of his father's conduct. - -"By what name, then, will you be pleased to be known in future, that I -may say when I hear it that you are none of mine?" - -"Oh, the devil!" burst out Tom, beside himself with his father's -behavior and treatment. - -"Very well. Then I beg again to inform you, Mr. Devil, that it is your -own fault. Give up that girl, and I will provide for the lovely siren -and her harridan of a grandam for life; and take you home to wealth and -a career which you shall choose for yourself." - -"No, father. I will not." - -"Then take yourself off, and be--" It is needless to print the close of -the sentence. - -Thomas rose and left the room. As he went down the stairs, his father -shouted after him, in a tone of fury: - -"You're not to go near your mother, mind." - -"I'm going straight to her," answered Tom, as quietly as he could. - -"If you do, I'll murder her." - -Tom came up the stairs again to the door next his father's where the -clerks sat. He opened this and said aloud: - -"Gentlemen, you hear what my father has just said. There may be -occasion to refer to it again." Then returning to his father's door, he -said, in a low tone which only he could hear: "My mother may die any -moment, as you very well know, sir. It may be awkward after what has -just passed." - -Having said this, he left his father a little abashed. As his wrath -ebbed, he began to admire his son's presence of mind, and even to take -some credit for it: "A chip of the old block!" he muttered to himself. -"Who would have thought there was so much in the rascal? Seafaring must -agree with the young beggar!" - -Thomas hailed the first hansom, jumped in, and drove straight to -Highbury. Was it strange that notwithstanding the dreadful interview he -had just had--notwithstanding, too, that he feared he had not behaved -properly to his father, for his conscience had already begun to speak -about comparatively little things, having been at last hearkened to in -regard to great things--that notwithstanding this, he should feel such -a gladness in his being as he had never known before? The second and -more awful load of duty was now lifted from his mind. True, if he had -loved his father much, as it was simply impossible that he should, that -load would have been replaced by another--misery about his father's -wretched condition and the loss of his love. But although something -of this would come later, the thought of it did not intrude now to -destroy any of the enjoyment of the glad reaction from months--he would -have said years--yea, a whole past life of misery--for the whole of -his past life had been such a poor thing, that it seemed now as if the -misery of the last few months had been only the misery of all his life -coming to a head. And this indeed was truer than his judgment would yet -have allowed: it was absolute fact, although he attributed it to an -overwrought fancy. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIX. - -THOMAS AND HIS MOTHER. - - -When the maid opened the door to him she stared like an idiot, yet she -was in truth a woman of sense; for, before Thomas had reached the foot -of the stairs, she ran after him, saying: - -"Mr. Thomas! Mr. Thomas! you mustn't go up to mis'ess all of a sudden. -You'll kill her if you do." - -Thomas paused at once. - -"Run up and tell her, then. Make haste." - -She sped up the stairs, and Thomas followed, waiting outside his -mother's door. He had to wait a little while, for the maid was -imparting the news with circumspection. He heard the low tone of his -mother's voice, but could not hear what she said. At last came a little -cry, and then he could hear her sob. A minute or two more passed, which -seemed endless to Thomas, and then the maid came to the door, and asked -him to go in. He obeyed. - -His mother lay in bed, propped up as she used to be on the sofa. She -looked much worse than before. She stretched out her arms to him, -kissed him, and held his head to her bosom. He had never before had -such an embrace from her. - -"My boy! my boy!" she cried, weeping. "Thank God! I have you again. -You'll tell me all about it, won't you?" - -She went on weeping and murmuring words of endearment and gratitude for -some time. Then she released him, holding one of his hands only. - -"There's a chair there. Sit down and tell me about it. I am afraid your -poor father has been hard upon you." - -"We won't talk about my father," said Thomas. "I have faults enough of -my own to confess, mother. But I won't tell you all about them now. I -have been very wicked--gambling and worse; but I will never do so any -more. I am ashamed and sorry; and I think God will forgive me. Will you -forgive me, mother?" - -"With all my heart, my boy. And you know that God forgives every one -that believes in Jesus. I hope you have given your heart to him, at -last. Then I shall die happy." - -"I don't know, mother, whether I have or not; but I want to do what's -right." - -"That won't save you, my poor child. You'll have a talk with Mr. Simon -about it, won't you? I'm not able to argue anything now." - -It would have been easiest for Thomas to say nothing, and leave his -mother to hope, at least; but he had begun to be honest, therefore -he would not deceive her. But in his new anxiety to be honest, he -was in great danger of speaking roughly, if not rudely. Those who -find it difficult to oppose are in more danger than others of falling -into that error when they make opposition a point of conscience. The -unpleasantness of the duty irritates them. - -"Mother, I will listen to anything you choose to say; but I won't see -that--" _fool_ he was going to say, but he changed the epithet--"I -won't talk about such things to a man for whom I have no respect." - -Mrs. Worboise gave a sigh; but, perhaps partly because her own respect -for Mr. Simon had been a little shaken of late, she said nothing more. -Thomas resumed. - -"If I hadn't been taken by the hand by a very different man from him, -mother, I shouldn't have been here to-day. Thank God! Mr. Fuller is -something like a clergyman!" - -"Who is he, Thomas? I think I have heard the name." - -"He is the clergyman of St. Amos's in the city." - -"Ah! I thought so. A Ritualist, I am afraid, Thomas. They lay snares -for young people." - -"Nonsense, mother!" said Thomas, irreverently. "I don't know what you -mean. Mr. Fuller, I think, would not feel flattered to be told that he -belonged to any party whatever but that of Jesus Christ himself. But I -should say, if he belonged to any, it would be the Broad Church." - -"I don't know which is worse. The one believes all the lying idolatry -of the Papists; the other believes nothing at all. I'm sadly afraid, -Thomas, you've been reading Bishop Colenso." - -Mrs. Worboise believed, of course, in no distinctions but those she -saw; and if she had heard the best men of the Broad Church party -repudiate Bishop Colenso, she would only have set it down to Jesuitism. - -"A sailor hasn't much time for reading, mother." - -"A sailor, Thomas! What do you mean? Where have you been all this -time?" she asked, examining his appearance anxiously. - -"At sea, mother." - -"My boy! my boy! that is a godless calling. However--" - -Thomas interrupted her. - -"They that go down to the sea in ships were supposed once to see the -wonders of the Lord, mother." - -"Yes. But when will you be reasonable? That was in David's time." - -"The sea is much the same, and man's heart is much the same. Anyhow, -I'm a sailor, and a sailor I must be. I have nothing else to do." - -"Mr. Boxall's business is all your father's now, I hear; though I'm -sure I cannot understand it. Whatever you've done, you can go back to -the counting-house, you know." - -"I can't, mother. My father and I have parted forever." - -"Tom!" - -"It's true, mother." - -"Why is that? What have you been doing?" - -"Refusing to give up Lucy Burton." - -"Oh, Tom, Tom! Why do you set yourself against your father?" - -"Well, mother, I don't want to be impertinent; but it seems to me it's -no more than you have been doing all your life." - -"For conscience' sake, Tom. But in matters indifferent we ought to -yield, you know." - -"Is it an indifferent matter to keep one's engagements, mother? To be -true to one's word?" - -"But you had no right to make them." - -"They are made, anyhow, and I must bear the consequences of keeping -them." - -Mrs. Worboise, poor woman, was nearly worn out. Tom saw it, and rose to -go. - -"Am I never to see you again, Tom?" she asked, despairingly. - -"Every time I come to London--so long as my father doesn't make you -shut the door against me, mother." - -"That shall never be, my boy. And you really are going on that sea -again?" - -"Yes, mother. It's an honest calling. And believe me, mother, it's -often easier to pray to God on shipboard than it is sitting at a desk." - -"Well, well, my boy!" said his mother, with a great sigh of weariness. -"If I only knew that you were possessed of saving faith, I could bear -even to hear that you had been drowned. It may happen any day, you -know, Thomas." - -"Not till God please. I shan't be drowned before that." - -"God has given no pledge to protect any but those that put faith in the -merits of his Son." - -"Mother, mother, I can't tell a bit what you mean." - -"The way of salvation is so plain that he that runneth may read." - -"So you say, mother; but I don't see it so. Now I'll tell you what: I -want to be good." - -"My dear boy!" - -"And I pray, and will pray to God to teach me whatever he wants me to -learn. So if your way is the right one, God will teach me that. Will -that satisfy you, mother?" - -"My dear, it is of no use mincing matters. God has told us plainly in -his holy Word that he that puts his trust in the merits of Christ shall -be saved; and he that does not shall be sent to the place of misery for -ever and ever." - -The good woman believed that she was giving a true representation of -the words of Scripture when she said so, and that they were an end of -all controversy. - -"But, mother, what if a man can't believe?" - -"Then he must take the consequences. There's no provision made for that -in the Word." - -"But if he wants to believe, mother?" said. Tom, in a small agony at -his mother's hardness. - -"There's no man that can't believe, if he's only willing. I used to -think otherwise. But Mr. Simon thinks so, and he has brought me to see -that he is right." - -"Well, mother, I'm glad Mr. Simon is not at the head of the universe, -for then it would be a paltry affair. But it ill becomes me to make -remarks upon anybody. Mr. Simon hasn't disgraced himself like me after -all, though I'm pretty sure if I had had such teaching as Mr. Fuller's, -instead of his, I should never have fallen as I have done." - -Thomas said this with some bitterness as he rose to take his leave. He -had no right to say so. Men as good as he, with teaching as good as -Mr. Fuller's, have yet fallen. He forgot that he had had the schooling -of sin and misery to prepare the soil of his heart before Mr. Fuller's -words were sown in it. Even Mr. Simon could have done a little for him -in that condition, if he had only been capable of showing him a little -pure human sympathy. - -His mother gave him another tearful embrace. Thomas's heart was -miserable at leaving her thus fearful, almost hopeless about him. How -terrible it would be for her in the windy nights, when she could not -sleep, to think that if he went to the bottom, it must be to go deeper -still! He searched his mind eagerly for something that might comfort -her. It flashed upon him at last. - -"Mother dear," he said, "Jesus said, 'Come unto me, all ye that are -weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.' I will go to him. I -will promise you that if you like. That is all I can say, and I think -that ought to be enough. If he gives me rest, shall I not be safe? And -whoever says that he will not if I go to him--" - -"In the appointed way, my dear." - -"He says nothing more than _go to him_. I say I will go to him, the -only way that a man can when he is in heaven and I am on the earth. And -if Mr. Simon or anybody says that he will not give me rest, he is a -liar. If that doesn't satisfy you, mother, I don't believe you have any -faith in him yourself." - -With this outburst, Thomas again kissed his mother, and then left the -room. Nor did his last words displease her. I do not by any means set -him up as a pattern of filial respect even toward his mother; nor can I -approve altogether of the form his confession of faith took, for there -was in it a mixture of that graceless material--the wrath of man; but -it was good, notwithstanding; and such a blunt utterance was far more -calculated to carry some hope into his mother's mind than any amount -of arguing upon the points of difference between them. - -As he reached the landing, his sister Amy came rushing up the stairs -from the dining-room, with her hair in disorder, and a blushing face. - -"Why Tom!" she said, starting back. - -Tom took her in his arms. - -"How handsome you have grown, Tom!" said Amy; and breaking from him, -ran up to her mother's room. - -Passing the dining-room door, Tom saw Mr. Simon looking into the fire. -The fact was he had just made Amy an offer of marriage. Tom let him -stand, and hurried back on foot to his friend, his heart full, and his -thoughts in confusion. - -He found him in his study, where he had made a point of staying all day -that Tom might find him at any moment when he might want him. He rose -eagerly to meet him. - -"'Now I see by thine eyes that this is done,'" he said, quoting King -Arthur. - -They sat down, and Tom told him all. - -"I wish you had managed a little better with your father," he said. - -"I wish I had, sir. But it's done, and there's no help for it." - -"No; I suppose not--at present, at least." - -"As far as Lucy is concerned, it would have made no difference, if you -had been in my place--I am confident of that." - -"I dare say you are right. But you have earned your dinner anyhow; and -here comes my housekeeper to say it is ready. Come along." - -Thomas's face fell. - -"I thought I should have gone to see Lucy, now, sir." - -"I believe she will not be at home." - -"She was always home from Mrs. Morgenstern's before now." - -"Yes. But she has to work much harder now. You see her grandmother is -dependent on her now." - -"And where are they? My father told me himself he had turned them out -of the house in Guild Court." - -"Yes. But they are no farther off for that; they have lodgings at Mr. -Kitely's. I think you had better go and see your friends the sailor -and publican after dinner, and by the time you come back, I shall -have arranged for your seeing her. You would hardly like to take your -chance, and find her with her grandmother and Mattie." - -"Who is Mattie? Oh! I know--that dreadful little imp of Kitely's." - -"I dare say she can make herself unpleasant enough," said Mr. Fuller, -laughing; "but she is a most remarkable and very interesting child. I -could hardly have believed in such a child if I had not known her. She -was in great danger, I allow, of turning out a little prig, if that -word can be used of the feminine gender, but your friend Lucy has saved -her from that." - -"God bless her!" said Thomas, fervently. "She has saved me too, even if -she refuses to have anything more to do with me. How _shall_ I tell her -everything? Since I have had it over with my father and Stopper, I feel -as if I were whitewashed, and to have to tell her what a sepulchre I am -is dreadful--and she so white outside and in!" - -"Yes, it's hard to do, my boy, but it must be done." - -"I would do it--I would insist upon it, even if she begged me not, Mr. -Fuller. If she were to say that she would love me all the same, and I -needn't say a word about the past, for it was all over now, I would -yet beg her to endure the ugly story for my sake, that I might hear my -final absolution from her lips." - -"That's right," said Mr. Fuller. - -They were now seated at dinner, and nothing more of importance to our -history was said until that was over. Then they returned to the study, -and, as soon as he had closed the door, Mr. Fuller said: - -"But now, Worboise, it is time that I should talk to you a little more -about yourself. There is only One that can absolve you in the grand -sense of the word. If God himself were to say to you, 'Let by-gones be -by-gones, nothing more shall be said about them'--if he only said that, -it would be a poor thing to meet our human need. But he is infinitely -kinder than that. He says, 'I, even I am he that taketh away thine -iniquities.' He alone can make us clean--put our heart so right that -nothing of this kind will happen again--make us simple God-loving, -man-loving creatures, as much afraid of harboring an unjust thought -of our neighbors as of stealing that which is his; as much afraid of -pride and self-confidence as of saying with the fool, 'There is no -God;' as far from distrusting God for the morrow, as from committing -suicide. We cannot serve God and Mammon. Hence the constant struggle -and discomfort in the minds of even good men. They would, without -knowing what they are doing, combine a little Mammon-worship with the -service of the God they love. But that cannot be. The Spirit of God -will ever and always be at strife with Mammon, and in proportion as -that spirit is victorious, is peace growing in the man. You must give -yourself up to the obedience of his Son entirely and utterly, leaving -your salvation to him, troubling yourself nothing about that, but ever -seeking to see things as he sees them, and to do things as he would -have them done. And for this purpose you must study your New Testament -in particular, that you see the glory of God in the face of Christ -Jesus; that receiving him as your master, your teacher, your saviour, -you may open your heart to the entrance of his spirit, the mind that -was in him, that so he may save you. Every word of his, if you will but -try to obey it, you will find precious beyond words to say. And he has -promised without reserve the Holy Spirit of God to them that ask it. -The only salvation is in being filled with the Spirit of God, the mind -of Christ." - -"I believe you, sir, though I cannot quite see into all you say. All I -can say is, that I want to be good henceforth. Pray for me, sir, if you -think there is any good in one man praying for another." - -"I do, indeed--just in proportion to the love that is in it. I cannot -exactly tell how this should be; but if we believe that the figure St. -Paul uses about our all being members of one body has any true, deep -meaning in it, we shall have just a glimmering of how it can be so. -Come, then, we will kneel together, and I will pray with you." - -Thomas felt more solemn by far than he had ever felt in his life when -he rose from that prayer. - -"Now," said Mr. Fuller, "go and see your friends. When you think of it, -my boy," he added, after a pause, during which he held Tom's hand in a -warm grasp, "you will see how God has been looking after you, giving -you friend after friend of such different sorts to make up for the want -of a father, and so driving you home at last, home to himself. He had -to drive you; but he will lead you now. You will be home by half-past -six or seven?" - -Thomas assented. He could not speak. He could only return the grasp of -Mr. Fuller's hand. Then he took his cap and went. - -It is needless to give any detailed account of Thomas's meeting with -the Pottses. He did not see the captain, who had gone down to his brig. -Mrs. Potts (and Bessie too, after a fashion) welcomed him heartily; but -Mr. Potts was a little aggrieved that he would drink nothing but a -glass of bitter ale. He had the watch safe, and brought it out gladly -when Thomas produced his check. - -Jim Salter dropped in at the last moment. He had heard the night before -that Thomas was restored to society and was expected to call at the -Mermaid some time that day. So he had been in or looking in a dozen -times since the morning. When he saw Tom, who was just taking his -leave, he came up to him, holding out his hand, but speaking as with a -sense of wrong. - -"How de do, guv'nor? Who'd ha' thought to see you here! Ain't you got -ne'er another sixpence to put a name upon it? You're fond o' sixpences, -_you_ are, guv'nor." - -"What do you mean, Jim?" asked Thomas, in much bewilderment. - -"To think o' treatin' a man and a brother as you've treated me, after -I'd been and devoted my life, leastways a good part of it, to save you -from the police! Four _and_ sixpence!" - -Still bewildered, Thomas appealed to Mr. Potts, whose face looked as -like a caricature of the moon as ever, although he had just worked out -a very neat little problem in diplomacy. - -"It's my fault, Mr. Worboise," he responded in his usual voice, which -seemed to come from a throat lined with the insides of dates. "I forgot -to tell you, sir, that, that--Don't you see, Jim, you fool!" he said, -changing the object of his address abruptly--"you wouldn't have liked -to rob a gentleman like that by takin' of half a suvering for loafin' -about for a day with him when he was hard up. But as he's come by his -own again, why there's no use in keeping it from you any longer. So -there's your five and sixpence. But it's a devil of a shame. Go out of -my house." - -"Whew!" whistled; Jim Salter. "Two words to that, guv'nor o' the -Marmaid. You've been and kep' me all this many a day out of my -inheritance, as they say at the Britanuary. What do you say to that, -sir? What do you think o' yerself, sir? I wait a reply, as the butcher -said to the pig." - -While he spoke, Jim pocketed the money. Receiving no reply except a -sniff of Mr. Potts's red nose, he broke out again, more briefly: - -"I tell 'ee what, guv'nor _of_ the Marmaid, I _don't_ go out o' your -house till I've put a name upon it." - -Quite defeated and rather dejected, Mr. Potts took down his best -brandy, and poured out a bumper. - -Jim tossed it off, and set down the glass. Then, and not till then, he -turned to Thomas, who had been looking on, half vexed with Mr. Potts, -and half amused with Jim. - -"Well, I _am_ glad, Mr. Wurbus, as you've turned out a honest man arter -all. I assure you, sir, at one time, and that not much farther off than -that 'ere glass o' rum--" - -"Brandy, you loafing rascal! the more's the pity," said Mr. Potts. - -"Than that 'ere glass o' rum," repeated Jim, "I had my doubts. I wasn't -so sure of it, as the fox was o' the goose when he had his neck atwixt -his teeth." - -So saying, and without another word, Jim Salter turned and left the -Mermaid. Jim was one of those who seem to have an especial organ for -the sense of wrong, from which organ no amount or kind of explanation -can ever remove an impression. They prefer to cherish it. Their very -acknowledgments of error are uttered in a tone that proves they -consider the necessity of making them only in the light of accumulated -injury. - - - - -CHAPTER L. - -THOMAS AND LUCY. - - -When Lucy came home the night before, she found her grandmother sitting -by the fire, gazing reproachfully at the coals. The poor woman had -not yet reconciled herself to her altered position. Widdles was in -vain attempting to attract her attention; but, not being gifted with -speech like his gray brother in the next cage to his--whose morals, by -the way, were considerably reformed, thanks to his master's judicious -treatment of him--he had but few modes of bringing his wishes to bear -at a distance. He could only rattle his beak on the bars of his cage, -and give a rending shriek. - -The immediate occasion of her present mood was Thomas's note, which -was over her head on the mantel-piece. Notes had occasionally passed -between him and Lucy, and she knew the handwriting. She regarded him -with the same feelings with which she regarded his father, but she knew -that Lucy did not share in these feelings. And forgetting that she -was now under Lucy's protection, she was actually vowing with herself -at the moment Lucy entered that if she had one word of other than -repudiation to say to Thomas, she would turn her out of the house. -_She_ was not going to encourage such lack of principle. She gave her -no greeting, therefore, when she entered; but Lucy, whose quick eye -caught sight of the note at once, did not miss it. She took the note -with a trembling hand, and hurried from the room. Then Mrs. Boxall -burst into a blaze. - -"Where are you off to now, you minx?" she said. - -"I am going to put my bonnet off, grannie," answered Lucy, -understanding well enough, and waiting no farther parley. - -She could hardly open the note, which was fastened with a wafer, her -hands trembled so much. Before she had read it through she fell on -her knees, and thus, like Hezekiah, "spread it before the Lord," and -finished it so. - -And now, indeed, was her captivity turned. She had nothing to say but. -"Thank God!" she had nothing to do but weep. True, she was a little -troubled that she could not reply: but when she made inquiry about -the messenger, to see if she could learn anything of where Tom was -to be found, Mr. Kitely, who, I have said, returned home immediately -after Mr. Fuller dismissed him (though in his anxiety he went back -and loitered about the church door), told her that young Worboise was -at that moment with Mr. Fuller in his vestry. He did not tell her how -he came to be there. Nothing, therefore, remained for her but to be -patient, and wait for what would come next. And the next thing was a -note from Mr. Fuller, telling her that Thomas was at his house, bidding -her be of good cheer, and saying that she should hear from him again -to-morrow. She did not sleep much that night. - -But she had a good deal to bear from her grandmother before she reached -the haven of bed. First of all, she insisted on knowing what the young -villain had written to _her_ about. How _dared_ he?--and so on. Lucy -tried to pacify her, and said she would tell her about it afterward. -Then she broke out upon herself, saying she knew it was nothing to -Lucy what became of her. No doubt she would be glad enough to make her -own terms, marry her grandmother's money, and turn her out of doors. -But if she dared to say one word to the rascal after the way he had -behaved to her, one house should not hold them both, and that she told -her. But it is ungracious work recording the spiteful utterances of an -ill-used woman. They did not go very deep into Lucy, for she knew her -grandmother by this time. Also her hope for herself was large enough to -include her grandmother. - -And soon as Thomas left him in the morning, Mr. Fuller wrote -again--only to say that he would call upon her in the evening. He did -not think it necessary to ask her to be at home; nor did he tell her -anything of Tom's story. He thought it best to leave that to himself. -Lucy was strongly tempted to send excuses to her pupils that morning -and remain at home, in case Thomas might come. But she concluded that -she ought to do her work, and leave possibilities where alone they -were determined. So she went and gave her lessons with as much care as -usual, and more energy. - -When she got home she found that Mr. Fuller had been there, but had -left a message that he would call again. He was so delighted with -the result of his efforts with Tom, that he could not wait till the -evening. Still, he had no intention of taking the office of a mediator -between them. That, he felt, would be to intrude for the sake of making -himself of importance; and he had learned that one of the virtues of -holy and true service is to get out of the way as soon as possible. - -About six o'clock he went again, and was shown into the bookseller's -back parlor, where he found both Lucy and her grandmother. - -"Will you come out with me, Miss Burton, for an hour or so?" he said. - -"I wonder at you, Mr. Fuller," interposed Mrs. Boxall--"a clergyman, -too!" - -It is a great pity that people should so little restrain themselves -when they are most capable of doing so, that when they are old, -excitement should make them act like the fools that they are not. - -Mr. Fuller was considerably astonished, but did not lose his -self-possession. - -"Surely you are not afraid to trust her with me, Mrs. Boxall?" he said, -half merrily. - -"I don't know that, sir. I hear of very strange goings-on at your -church. Service every day, the church always open, and all that! As if -folks had nothing to do but say their prayers." - -"I don't think you would talk like that, Mrs. Boxall," said Mr. Fuller, -with no less point that he said it pleasantly, "if you had been saying -your prayers lately." - -"You have nothing to do with my prayers, sir." - -"Nor you with my church, Mrs. Boxall. But come--don't let us quarrel, I -don't wonder at your being put out sometimes, I'm sure; you've had so -much to vex you. But it hasn't been Lucy's fault; and I'm sure I would -gladly give you your rights if I could." - -"I don't doubt it, sir," said the old lady, mollified. "Don't be long, -Lucy. And don't let that young limb of Satan talk you over. Mind what I -say to you." - -Not knowing how to answer, without offending her grandmother, Lucy only -made haste to get her bonnet and cloak. Mr. Fuller took her straight to -his own house. The grimy, unlovely streets were, to Lucy's enlightened -eyes, full of a strange, beautiful mystery, as she walked along leaning -on her friend's arm. She asked him no questions, content to be led -toward what was awaiting her. It was a dark and cloudy night, but a -cool west wind, that to her feelings was full of spring, came down -Bagot Street, blowing away the winter and all its miseries. A new time -of hope was at hand. Away with it went all thought of Thomas's past -behavior. He was repentant. The prodigal had turned to go home, and -she would walk with him and help his homeward steps. She loved him, -and would love him more than ever. If there was more joy in heaven -over one such than over ninety-and-nine who were not such, why not -more joy in her soul? Her heart beat so violently as she crossed Mr. -Fuller's threshold, that she could hardly breathe. He took her into the -sitting-room, where a most friendly fire was blazing, and left her. - -Still she had asked no questions. She knew that she was going to see -Thomas. Whether he was in the house or not, she did not know. She -hardly cared. She could sit there, she thought, for years waiting for -him; but every ring of the door-bell made her start and tremble. There -were so many rings that her heart had hardly time to quiet itself a -little from one before another set it beating again worse than ever. At -length there came a longer pause, and she fell into a dreamy study of -the fire. The door opened at length, and she thought it was Mr. Fuller, -and, not wishing to show any disquietude, sat still. A moment more, and -Thomas was kneeling at her feet. He had good cause to kneel. He did not -offer to touch her. He only said, in a choked voice, "Lucy," and bowed -his head before her. She put her hands on the bowed head before her, -drew it softly on her knees, gave one long, gentle, but irrepressible -wail like a child, and burst into a quiet passion of tears. Thomas -drew his head from her hands, sank on the floor, and lay sobbing, and -kissing her feet. She could not move to make him cease. But when she -recovered herself a little, after a measureless time to both of them, -she stopped, put her hands round upon his face, and drew him upward. He -rose, but only to his knees. - -"Lucy, Lucy," he sobbed, "will you forgive me?" - -He could not say more yet. She bent forward and kissed his forehead. - -"I have been very wicked. I will tell you all about it--everything." - -"No, no, Thomas. Only love me." - -"I love you--oh! I love you with all my heart and soul. I don't deserve -to be allowed to love one of your hands; but if you will only let me -love you I will be your slave forever. I don't even ask you to love me -one little bit. If you will only let me love you!" - -"Thomas," said Lucy, slowly, and struggling with her sobs, "my heart is -so full of love and gladness that it is like to break. I can't speak." - -By degrees they grew calmer, but Thomas could not rest till she knew -all. - -"Lucy," he said, "I can't be sure that all you give me is really mine -till I've told you everything. Perhaps you won't love me--not so -much--when you know all. So I must tell you." - -"I don't care what it is, Thomas, for I am sure you won't again." - -"_I will not_," said Thomas, solemnly. "But please, Lucy darling, -listen to me--for my sake, not for your own, for it will hurt you so." - -"If it will make you easier, Thomas, tell me everything." - -"I will--I will. I will hide nothing." - -And Thomas did tell her everything. But Lucy cried so much, that when -he came to the part describing his adventures in London after he took -the money, he felt greatly tempted, and yielded to the temptation, to -try to give her the comical side as well. And at the very first hint -of fun in the description he gave of Jim Salter, Lucy burst into such -a fit of laughter, that Thomas was quite frightened, for it seemed -as if she would never stop. So that between the laughing and crying -Thomas felt like Christian between the quagmire and the pitfalls, and -was afraid to say anything. But at length the story was told; and -how Lucy did, besides laughing and crying, at every new turn of the -story--to show my reader my confidence in him I leave all that to his -imagination, assuring him only that it was all right between them. My -women readers will not require even this amount of information, for -they have the gift of understanding without being told. - -When he came to the point of his father offering to provide for them if -he would give up Lucy, he hesitated, and said: - -"Ought I to have done it, Lucy, for your sake?" - -"For my sake, Tom! If you had said for granny's--But I know her well -enough to be absolutely certain that she would starve rather than -accept a penny from him, except as her right. Besides, I can make more -money in a year than he would give her, I am pretty sure. So if you -will keep me, Tom, I will keep her." - -Here Lucy discovered that she had said something very improper, and hid -her face in her hands. But a knock came at the door, and then both felt -so shy that neither dared to say, _Come in_. Therefore Mr. Fuller put -his head in without being told, and said: - -"Have you two young people made it up yet?" - -"Have we, Tom?" said Lucy. - -"I don't know," said Tom. "What was it, sir?" - -Mr. Fuller laughed heartily, came near, put a hand on the head of each, -and said: - -"God bless you. I too am glad at my very heart. Now you must come to -supper." - -But at supper, which the good man had actually cleared his table to -have in the study that he might not disturb them so soon, Thomas had -a good many questions to ask. And he kept on asking, for he wanted to -understand the state of the case between Mrs. Boxall and his father. -All at once, at one reply, he jumped from his seat, looking very -strange. - -"I must be off, Lucy. You won't hear from me for a day or two. -Good-bye, Mr. Fuller. I haven't time for a word," he said, pulling out -his watch. "Something may be done yet. It may all come to nothing. -Don't ask me any questions, I may save months." - -He rushed from the room, and left Mr. Fuller and Lucy staring at each -other. Mr. Fuller started up a moment after and ran to the door, but -only to hear the outer door bang, and Thomas shout--"Cab ahoy!" in the -street. So there was nothing for it but to take Lucy home again. He -left her at Mr Kitely's door. - -"Well, miss, what have you been about?" said her grandmother. - -"Having a long talk with Thomas, grannie," answered Lucy. - -"You have!" exclaimed Mrs. Boxall, who had expected nothing else, -rising slowly from her seat with the air of one about to pronounce a -solemn malediction. - -"Yes, grannie; but he knew nothing till this very night of the way his -father has behaved to us." - -"He made you believe that, did he?" - -"Yes, grannie." - -"Then you're a fool. He didn't know, did he? Then you'll never see him -again. He comes of a breed bad enough to believe anything of. You give -him up or I give you up." - -"No, I won't, grannie," said Lucy, smiling in her face. - -"You or I leave this house, then." - -"_I_ won't, grannie." - -"Then _I will_." - -"Very well, grannie," answered Lucy, putting her arms round her, and -kissing her. "Shall I fetch your bonnet?" - -Grannie vouchsafed no reply, but took her candle and went--up to bed. - - - - -CHAPTER LI. - -JACK OF THE NINGPO. - - -My reader will know better than Lucy or Mr. Fuller what Thomas was -after. Having only a hope, he did not like to say much, and therefore, -as well as that he might not lose the chance of a night train, he -hurried away. The first thing he did was to drive to a certain -watchmaker's, to raise money if he could, once more on his watch and -on Lucy's ring, which I need not say remained in his possession. But -the shop was shut. Then he drove to the Mermaid, and came upon Captain -Smith as he was emptying his tumbler of grog preparatory to going to -bed. - -"I say, captain, you must let Robins off this voyage. I want him to go -to Newcastle with me." - -"What's up now? Ain't he going to Newcastle? And you can go with him if -you like." - -"I want him at once. It's of the greatest importance." - -"You won't find him to-night, I can tell you. You'd better sit down and -have something, and tell us all about it." - -When Thomas thought, he saw that nothing could be done till next day. -Without money, without Robins, without a train in all probability, he -was helpless. Therefore he sat down and told the captain what he was -after, namely, to find Robins's friend Jack, whose surname he did not -know, and see what evidence he could give upon the question of the -order of decease in the family of Richard Boxall. He explained the -point to the captain, who saw at once that Robins's services must be -dispensed with for this voyage--except, indeed, he returned before they -weighed anchor again, which was possible enough. When Tom told him what -he had heard Jack say about little Julia, the captain, pondering it -over, gave it as his judgment that Jack, being the only one saved, and -the child being with him till she died, there was a probability almost -of his being able to prove that she outlived the rest. At all events, -he said, no time must be lost in finding this Jack. - -Mr. Potts having joined them, they sat talking it over a long time. At -last Tom said: - -"There's one thing, I shall be more easy when I've told you: that -lawyer is my father." - -"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Potts, while Captain Smith said something -decidedly different. "So you'll oblige me," Tom went on, "if you'll -say nothing very hard of him, for I hope he will live to be horribly -ashamed of himself." - -"Here's long life to him!" said Captain Smith. - -"And no success this bout!" added Mr. Potts. - -"Amen to both, and thank you," said Tom. - -Mrs. Potts would have got the same bed ready for him that he had had -before, but as the captain was staying all night, Tom insisted on -sleeping on the sofa. He wanted to be off to find Robins the first -thing in the morning. It was, however, agreed that the captain should -go and send Robins, while Thomas went to get his money. In a few hours -Robins and he were off for Newcastle. - - - - -CHAPTER LII. - -LUCY, AND MATTIE, AND POPPIE. - - -The Saturday following Tom's departure Lucy had a whole holiday, and -she resolved to enjoy it. Not much resolution was necessary for that; -for everything now was beautiful, and not even her grannie's fits -of ill-humor could destroy her serenity. The old woman had, however, -her better moments, in which she would blame her other self for her -unkindness to her darling; only that repentance was forgotten the -moment the fit came again. The saddest thing in the whole affair was -to see how the prospect of wealth, and the loss of that prospect, -worked for the temperamental ruin of the otherwise worthy old woman. -Her goodness had had little foundation in principle; therefore, when -the floods came and the winds blew, it could not stand against them. -Of course prosperity must be better for some people, so far as we can -see, for they have it; and adversity for others, for they have it; -but I suspect that each must have a fitting share of both; and no -disposition, however good, can be regarded as tempered, and tried, and -weather-proof, till it has had a trial of some proportion of both. I am -not sure that both are absolutely necessary to all; I only say that we -cannot be certain of the character till we have seen it outstand both. -The last thing Mrs. Boxall said to Lucy as she went out that morning, -rousing herself from a dark-hued reverie over the fire, was: - -"Lucy, if you marry that man I'll go to the work-house." - -"But they won't take you in, grannie, when you've got a grand-daughter -to work for you." - -"I won't take a farthing of my own properly but as my own right." - -"Thomas won't have a farthing of it to offer you, grannie, I'm afraid. -He quarreled with his father just about that, and he's turned him out." - -"Then I _must_ go to the work-house." - -"And I'll bring you packets of tea and snuff, as they do for the old -goodies in the dusters, grannie," said Lucy, merrily. - -"Go along with you. You never had any heart but for your beaux." - -"There's a little left for you yet, dear grannie. And for beaux, you -know as well as I do that I never had but one." - -So saying, she ran away, and up the court to Mr. Spelt's shop. - -"Where's Poppie, Mr. Spelt?" she asked. - -"In the house, I believe, miss." - -"Will you let her come with me to the Zoölogical Gardens to-day?" - -"With all my heart, miss. Shall I get down, and run up and tell her?" - -"No, thank you; on no account. I'll go up myself." - -She found Poppie actually washing cups and saucers, with her sleeves -tucked up, and looking not merely a very lovely, but a very orderly -maiden. No doubt she was very odd still, and would be to the end of -her days. What she would do when she was too old (which would not -be till she was too frail) to scud, was inconceivable. But with all -such good influences around her--her father, Mattie, Mr. Fuller, Lucy -Burton--it was no wonder that the real woman in her should have begun -to grow, and, having begun, should promise well for what was yet -to be. There is scarcely anything more marvelous in the appearance -of simple womanliness under such circumstances in the child of the -streets, than there is in its existence in the lady who has outgrown -the ordinarily evil influences of the nursery, the school-room, and the -boarding-schools. Still, I must confess that anything like other people -might well be a little startling to one who had known Poppie a year -before and had not seen her since. Lucy had had a great deal to do with -the change; for she had been giving her regular lessons with Mattie -for the last few months. The difficulty was, to get Poppie to open her -mental eyes to any information that did not come by the sight of her -bodily eyes. The conveyance of facts to her, not to say of thoughts or -feelings, by words, except in regard to things she was quite used to, -was almost an impossibility. For a long time she only stared and looked -around her now and then, as if she would be so glad to scud, if she -dared. But she loved Lucy, who watched long and anxiously for some sign -of dawning interest. It came at last. Nor let my reader suspect the -smallest atom of satire in her most innocent remark: "Was Jesus a man? -I s'posed he wor a clergyman!" But having once got a glimpse of light, -her eyes, if they opened slowly, strengthened rapidly. Her acquisition -was not great, that is, but she learned to think with an amount of -reality which showed that, while she retained many of the defects of -childhood, she retained also some of its most valuable characteristics. - -The contrast with Mattie was very remarkable. Poppie was older than -Mattie, I have said; but while Mattie talked like an old woman, Poppie -talked like a baby. The remarks of each formed a strange opposition, -both in manner and form, to her appearance, as far as bodily growth was -concerned. But the faces were consistent with the words. There was, -however, a very perceptible process of what may be called a double -endosmose and exosmose going on between them. Poppie was getting wiser, -and Mattie was getting merrier. Sometimes, to the delight of Mr. -Kitely, they would be heard frolicking about his house like kittens. -Such a burst, however, would seldom last long; for Mrs. Boxall resented -it as unfeeling toward her misfortunes, and generally put a stop to it. -This did not please Mr. Kitely at all. It was, in fact, the only thing -that he found annoying in the presence of Mrs. Boxall in his house. But -he felt such a kindly pity for the old woman that he took no notice of -it, and intimated to Mattie that it was better to give up to her. - -"The old lady is cranky to-day. She don't feel comfortable in her -inside," he would say; and Mattie would repeat the remark to Poppie, -as if it were her own. There was one word in it, however, which, among -others of her vocabulary, making the antique formality of her speech so -much the more ludicrous, she could not pronounce. - -"The old lady don't feel over comfibittle in her inside to-day. We must -drop it, or she'll be worse," Mattie would gravely remark to Poppie, -and the tumult would be heard no more that day, or at least for an -hour, when, if they were so long together, it might break out again. - -Every now and then some strange explosion of Arab habits or ways of -thinking would shock Mattie: but from seeing that it did not shock Miss -Burton so much, she became, by degrees, considerably less of a little -prig. Childhood revived in her more and more. - -"Will you come with me to-day, Poppie, to see the wild beasts?" said -Lucy. - -"But they'll eat us, won't they?" - -"Oh, no, child. What put that into your head?" - -"I thought they always did." - -"They always would if they could. But they can't." - -"Do they pull their teeth out, then?" - -"You come and see. I'll take care of you." - -"Is Mattie going?" - -"Yes." - -"Then I'll come." - -She threw down the saucer she was washing, dried her hands in her -apron, and stood ready to follow. - -"No, no, Poppie; that won't do. You must finish washing up and drying -your breakfast things. Then you must put on your cloak and hat, and -make yourself look nice and tidy, before I can take you." - -"If it's only the beasts, miss! They ain't very particular, I guess." - -Was this the old word of Chaucer indigenous, or a slip from the -American slip? - -"It's not for the beasts, but because you ought always to be tidy. -There will be people there, of course, and it's disrespectful to other -people to be untidy." - -"I didn't know, miss. Would they give I to the bears?" - -"Poppie, you're a goose. Come along. Make haste." - -The children had never seen any but domestic animals before, and their -wonder and pleasure in these strange new forms of life were boundless. -Mattie caught the explosive affection from Poppie, and Lucy had her -reward in the outbursts of interest, as varied in kind as the animals -themselves, that rose on each side of her. The differences, too, -between the children were very notable. Poppie shrieked with laughter -at the monkeys; Mattie turned away, pale with dislike. Lucy overcame -her own feelings in the matter for Poppie's sake, but found that Mattie -had disappeared. She was standing outside the door, waiting for them. - -"I can't make it out," she said, putting her hand into Lucy's. - -"What can't you make out, Mattie?" - -"I can't make out why God made monkeys." Now, this was a question -that might well puzzle Mattie. Indeed, Lucy had no answer to give -her. I dare say Mr. Fuller might have had something to say on the -subject, but Lucy could only reply, "I don't know, my dear;" for she -did not fancy it a part of a teacher's duty to tell lies, pretending -acquaintance with what she did not know anything about. Poppie had no -difficulty about the monkeys; but the lions and tigers, and all the -tearing creatures were a horror to her; and if she did not put the -same question as Mattie had put about the monkeys, it was only because -she had not yet felt any need for understanding the creation of God in -relation to him. In other words, she had not yet begun to construct -her little individual scheme of the universe, which, sooner or later, -must, I presume, be felt by every one as an indispensable necessity. -Mr. Fuller would have acknowledged the monkeys as to him a far more -important difficulty than the ferocious animals, and would probably -have accepted the swine as a greater perplexity than either. Perhaps -the readiest answer--I say _readiest_ only, but I would not use the -word answer at all, except it involved the elements of solution--for -Lucy to give would have been: - -"They disgust you, you say, Mattie? Then that is what God made them -for." - -A most incomplete, but most true and important reply--and the -_readiest_. - -Poppie shouted with delight to see the seals tumble into the water, -dive deep, then turn on their backs and look up at her. But their -large, round, yet pathetic, dog-like eyes, fixed upon her, made the -tears come in Mattie's eyes, as they dreamed up and down and athwart -the water-deeps with such a gentle power as destroyed all notion of -force to be met or force to overcome. - -Another instance or two, to show the difference between the children, -and we shall return to the business of my story. There are, or were -then, two or three little animals in a cage--I forget the name of them: -they believe in somersaults--that the main object of life is to run -round and round, doing the same thing with decency and order--that is, -turning heels over head every time they arrive at a certain spot. - -With these pretty enough, and more than comical enough creatures, -Poppie was exquisitely delighted. She laughed and clapped her hands and -shouted: - -"Now, now! Do it again. There you are! Heels over head. All right, -little one! Round you go. Now, now! There you are!" and so on. - -Mattie turned away, saying only to Lucy: - -"They don't make anything of it. They're no farther on at night than -they were in the morning. I hate roundabouts. Poor little things!" - -They came to the camel's house, and, with other children, they got upon -his back. After a short and not over comfortable ride, they got down -again. Poppie took hold of Lucy's sleeve, and, with solemn face, asked: - -"Is it alive, miss?" - -"How can you ask such a question, Poppie?" - -"I only wanted to know if it was alive." - -She was not sure that he did not go by machinery. Mattie gazed at her -with compassionate superiority, and said: - -"Poppie, I should like to hear what you tell Mr. Spelt when you get -home. You _are_ ignorant." - -At this Poppie only grinned. She was not in the least offended. She -even, I dare say, felt some of the same admiration for herself that one -feels for an odd plaything. - -Lucy's private share of the day's enjoyment lay outside the gardens. -There the buds were bursting everywhere. Out of the black bark, all -begrimed with London smoke and London dirt, flowed the purest green. -Verily there is One that can bring a clean thing out of an unclean. -Reviving nature was all in harmony with Lucy's feelings this day. It -was the most simply happy day she had ever had. The gentle wind with -its cold and its soft streaks fading and reviving, the blue sky with -its few flying undefined masses of whiteness, the shadow of green all -around--for when she looked through the trees, it was like looking -through a thin green cloud or shadow--the gay songs of the birds, each -of which, unlike the mocking-bird within, was content to sing his own -song--a poor thing, it might be, but his own--his notion of the secret -of things, of the well-being of the universe--all combined in one -harmony with her own world inside, and made her more happy than she had -ever been before, even in a dream. - -She was walking southward through the Park, for she wanted to take the -two children to see Mrs. Morgenstern. They were frolicking about her, -running hither and thither, returning at frequent intervals to claim -each one of her hands, when she saw Mr. Sargent coming toward her. She -would not have avoided him if she could, for her heart was so gay that -it was strong as well. He lifted his hat. She offered her hand. He took -it, saying: - -"This is more than I deserve, Miss Burton, after the abominable way I -behaved to you last time I saw you. I see you have forgiven me. But I -dare hardly accept your forgiveness. It is so much more than I deserve." - -"I know what it is to suffer, Mr. Sargent, and there is no excuse I -could not make for you. Perhaps the best proof I can give that I wish -to forget all that passed on that dreadful evening is to be quite open -with you still. I have seen Mr. Worboise since then," she went on, -regardless of her own blushes. "He had been led astray, but not so much -as you thought. He brought me back the ring you mentioned." - -If Mr. Sargent did not place much confidence in the reformation Lucy -hinted at, it is not very surprising. No doubt the fact would destroy -any possibly lingering hope he yet cherished, but this was not all; he -was quite justified in regarding with great distrust any such change -as her words implied. He had known, even in his own comparatively -limited experience, so many cases of a man's having, to all appearance, -entirely abjured his wicked ways for the sake of a woman, only to -return, after marriage, like the sow that was washed, to his wallowing -in the mire, that his whole soul shrunk from the idea of such an -innocent creature falling a prey to her confidence in such a man as -Worboise most probably was. There was nothing to be said at present on -the subject, however, and after a few more words they parted--Lucy, to -pursue her dream of delight--Mr. Sargent, lawyer-like, to make further -inquiry. - - - - -CHAPTER LIII. - -MOLKEN ON THE SCENT. - - -Now it had so happened that Mr. Molken had caught sight of Tom as -he returned from his visit to his mother, and had seen him go into -Mr. Fuller's house. His sailor's dress piqued the curiosity which he -naturally felt with regard to him; and as, besides, the rascal fed -upon secrets, gave him hope of still making something out of him if he -could but get him again in his power. Therefore he watched the house -with much patience, saw Mr. Fuller go out and return again with Lucy, -whom he knew by sight, and gave to the phenomenon what interpretation -his vile nature was capable of, concluding that Tom was in want of -money--as he himself generally was--and would get something out of -Lucy before they parted: he had stored the fact of the ring in his -usual receptacle for such facts. Besides, he had been in communication -with a lawyer, for he could see well enough that Mr. Sargent belonged -to that profession, concerning this very Thomas Worboise: perhaps he -_was wanted_, and if so, why should not he reap what benefit might be -reaped from aiding in his capture? With all these grounds for hope, he -was able to persevere in watching the house till Thomas came out alone -evidently in great haste and excitement. He accosted him then as he -hurried past, but Tom, to whom the sight of him recalled no cherished -memories, and who did not feel that he owed him any gratitude for -favors received, felt that it would be the readiest and surest mode of -procedure to cut him at once, and did so, although he could not prevent -Molken from seeing that he knew him, and did not choose to know him. -This added immeasurably to Molken's determination, for now his feelings -as a _gentleman_ were enlisted on the same side. He was too prudent, if -not too cowardly, to ask him what he meant; nor would that mode have -served his turn; it fitted his nature and character better to lurk and -watch. When Tom got into a cab, Molten therefore got into another, -and gave the driver directions to keep Tom's in sight, but not to -follow so closely as to occasion suspicion. He ran him to earth at the -Mermaid. There he peeped in at the door, and finding that he must have -gone into the house, became more and more satisfied that he was after -something or other which he wanted to keep dark--something fitted, in -fact, for Molken to do himself, or to turn to his advantage if done by -another. He entered the bar, called for a glass of hot gin and water, -and got into conversation with Mr. Potts. The landlord of the Mermaid, -however, although a man of slow mental processes, had instinct enough, -and experience more than enough, to dislike the look of Molken. He gave -him, therefore, such short answers as especially suited his own style, -refused to be drawn into conversation, and persisted in regarding him -merely as the purchaser of a glass of gin and water, hot with. On such -an occasion Mr. Potts's surly grandeur could be surpassed by no other -bar-keeper in England. But this caution completed Molken's conviction -that Thomas was about something dark, and that the landlord of the -Mermaid was in it, too; the more conclusively when, having, by way of -experiment, mentioned Thomas's name as known to Mr. Potts, the latter -cunningly repudiated all knowledge of "the party." Molken therefore -left the house, and after doubling a little, betook himself to a -coffee-shop opposite, whence he could see the door of the Mermaid from -the window, and by a proper use of shillings, obtained leave to pass as -much of the night there as he pleased. He thought he saw Thomas, with -a light in his hand, draw down the dingy blind of an upper window; and -concluding that he had gone to bed, Molken threw himself on one of the -seats, and slept till daylight, when he resumed his watch. At length -he saw him come out with another man in the dress of a sailor like -himself, but part with him at the door, and walk off in the direction -of the city. He then followed him, saw him go into the watchmaker's, -and come out putting something in his trousers' pocket, followed him -again, and observed that the ring, which he knew, and which he had seen -on his hand as he came behind him from Limehouse, was gone, as well as -his watch, which he had seen him use the night before, while now he -looked up at every clock he passed. Nor did he leave his track till -he saw him get into a train at King's Cross, accompanied by another -sailor, not the one he had seen in the morning, whom he met evidently -by appointment at the station. Here the condition of his own funds -brought Molten to a pause, or he would very likely have followed his -wild-goose chase to Newcastle at least. As it was, he could only find -out where they were going, and remain behind with the hope of being -one day called upon to give evidence that would help to hang him. Nor -had he long to wait before something seemed likely to come of all -his painstaking. For after a few days he had a second visit from Mr. -Sargent, to whom, however, he was chary of his information till bribed -by a couple of sovereigns. Then he told him all. The only point Mr. -Sargent could at once lay hold of was the ring. He concluded that he -had recovered the ring merely to show it to her, and again make away -with it, which must even in her eyes look bad enough to justify any -amount of jealousy as to the truth of his reformation. Acting on this -fresh discovery, he went to the watchmaker's--a respectable man who -did business in a quiet way and had accommodated Tom only for old -acquaintance' sake, not, however, knowing much about him. Mr. Sargent -told him who he was, gave him his card, and easily prevailed on him -to show the watch and the ring. The latter especially Mr. Sargent -examined, and finding quite peculiarity enough about it to enable him -to identify it by description, took his leave. - -Now, had it not been for Thomas's foolish, half-romantic way of doing -things, no evil could have come of this. If, when he found that he had -still a little time, he had returned and fully explained to his friends -what his object was when he left them so suddenly, all would have been -accounted for. He liked importance, and surprises, and secrecy. But -this was self-indulgence, when it involved the possibility of so much -anxiety as a lengthened absence must occasion Lucy, and Mr. Fuller -too. They had a right, besides, to know everything that he was about, -after all that they had done for him, and still more from the fact that -they were both so unselfishly devoted to his best good, and must keep -thinking about him. Regarding his behavior in its true light, however, -and coming to the obvious conclusion between themselves that Tom had -a clew to some evidence, they remained at ease on the matter--which -ease was a little troubled when Lucy received the following note from -Mr. Sargent. Without the least intention of being unjust, he gave, as -people almost always do, that coloring to his representation which -belonged only to the colored medium of prejudication through which he -viewed the object: - - "Dear Madam,--Perfectly aware that I am building an insurmountable - barrier between myself and my own peace, I am yet sufficiently - disinterested to have some regard for yours. If you will only regard - the fact as I have now stated it--that I have no hope for myself, - that, on the contrary, I take the position, with all its obloquy, of - the bringer of unwelcome tidings--you will, however you may regard - me, be a little more ready to listen to what I have to communicate. - From one of a certain gentleman's companions, of such unquestionable - character that he refused information until I bribed him with the - paltry sum of two pounds--(I at least am open, you see)--I learned - that he had again parted with the ring, the possession of which he had - apparently recovered only for the sake of producing it upon occasion - of his late interview with you. You will say such testimony is no - proof; but I will describe the ring which I found in the possession - of the man to whom I was directed, leaving you to judge whether it - is yours or not: A good-sized rose-diamond, of a pale straw color, - with the figures of two serpents carved on the ring, the head of each - meeting the body of the other round opposite sides of the diamond. Do - not take the trouble to answer this letter, except I can be of service - to you. All that it remains possible for me to request of you now is, - that you will believe it is for your sake, and not for my own, that I - write this letter. In God's name I beg that you will not give yourself - into the power of a man whose behavior after marriage has not the - benefit of even a doubt when regarded in the light of his behavior - before it. If you will not grant me the justice of believing in my - true reasons for acting as I do, I yet prefer to bear the consequences - of so doing to the worse suffering of knowing that there was one - effort I might have made and did not make for your rescue from the - worst fate that can befall the innocent." - - "Your obedient servant, - "J. Sargent." - -Lucy gave a little laugh to herself when she read the letter. There -was no doubt about the ring being hers; but if Thomas had set out on -the supposed errand it was easy to see that the poor fellow, having -no money, must have parted with the ring for the sake of procuring -the means of doing her justice. But if this was so plain, why was it -that Lucy sat still and pale for an hour after, with the letter in her -hand, and that when she rose it was to go to Mr. Fuller with it? It was -the source alone of Mr. Sargent's information that occasioned her the -anxiety. If he had been as explicit about that as he was about the -ring, telling how Molken had watched and followed Thomas, she would -not have been thus troubled. And had Mr. Sargent been as desirous of -being just to Thomas as of protecting Lucy, perhaps he would have told -her more. But there are a thousand ways in which a just man may do -injustice. - -My reader must not suppose, however, that Lucy really distrusted -Thomas. The worst that she feared was that he had not quite broken with -his bad companions; and the very thought of Molken, returning upon her -as she had seen him that night in the thunder-storm, and coming along -with the thought of Thomas, was a distress to her. To be made thus -unhappy it is not in the least necessary that one should really doubt, -but that forms, ideas of doubt, should present themselves to the mind. -They cannot always be answered in a quiet, triumphant fashion, for -women have been false and men have been hypocrites in all ages; and the -mind keeps seeking the triumphant answer and cannot find it. - -In something of this mood, and yet more vexed that such disquietude -should have any place in her mind, regarding it as vile unfaithfulness -on her part, she rose, and for the sake of hearing Mr. Fuller's answer -justify her own confidence, took him the letter. - -Having read it, the first words Mr. Fuller spoke, were: - -"The writer of this is honest." - -"Then you think it is all true!" said Lucy, in some dismay. - -"What he tells as fact, no doubt is fact," answered. Mr. Fuller. -"It does not follow, however, that his conclusions are in the least -correct. The most honest man is, if not as liable, yet as certainly -liable to mistake as the most dishonest. It is indubitable out of -regard for your welfare that he has written the letter; but you know -all the other side of which he knows nothing. You don't believe it -yourself, Lucy--the inference of Thomas's hypocrisy, I mean?" - -"No, no," cried Lucy. "I do not." - -"Facts are certainly stubborn things, as people say. But it is equally -certain that they are the most slippery things to get a hold of. And -even when you have got a hold of them, they can be used with such -different designs--after such varying fashions, that no more unlike -buildings can be constructed of the same bricks or hewn stones, than -conclusions arrived at from precisely the same facts. And this because -all the facts round about the known facts, and which keep those -facts in their places, compelling them to combine after a certain -fashion, are not known, or perhaps are all unknown. For instance, -your correspondent does not know--at least he does not give you to -understand that he knows--how his informant arrived at the knowledge -of the facts upon which he lays such stress. When I recall Thomas's -whole bearing and conduct I cannot for a moment accept the conclusions -arrived at by him, whatever may be the present appearance of the facts -he goes upon. Facts are like faces--capable of a thousand expressions -and meanings. Were you satisfied entirely with Thomas's behavior in the -talk you had with him?" - -"Entirely. It left nothing to wish more, or different." - -"Then you have far deeper ground to build upon than any of those facts. -They can no more overturn your foundation than the thickest fog can -remove the sun from the heavens. You cannot _prove_ that the sun is -there. But neither can you have the smallest real doubt that he is -there. You must wait with patience, believing all things, hoping all -things." - -"That is just what I have been saying to myself. Only I wanted to hear -you say it too. I wanted it to come in at my ears as well as out of my -heart." - -When a month had passed away, however, bringing no news of Thomas; when -another month had passed, and still he neither came nor wrote, hope -deferred began to work its own work and make Lucy's heart sick. But -she kept up bravely, through the help of her daily labor. Those that -think it hard to have to work hard as well as endure other sore trials, -little know how much those other trials are rendered endurable by the -work that accompanies them. They regard the work as an additional -burden, instead of as the prop which keeps their burdens from crushing -them to the earth. The same is true of pain--sometimes of grief, -sometimes of fear. And all of these are of the supports that keep the -weight of evil within us, of selfishness, and the worship of false -gods, from sinking us into Tophet. They keep us in some measure from -putting our trust in that which is weak and bad, even when they do but -little to make us trust in God. - -Nor did this season of trial to Lucy pass by without bringing some -little measure of good to the poor, disappointed, fretful soul of -her grandmother. How much Widdles had to do with it--and my reader -must not despise Widdles; many a poor captive has been comforted by -a mouse, a spider, a rat even; and I know a lady who, leading a hard -life while yet a child, but possessing one little garret-room as her -own, with a window that opened on the leads, cultivated green things -there enough to feed a few pet snails, to each of which she gave -the name of one of her best friends, great names, too, and living -names, so that I will not, as she most innocently and lovingly did, -associate them with snails, though even thus they were comforters -to her brave heart;--how much Widdles had to do with it, I say, and -how much the divine help of time, and a sacred deprivation of that -hope in chance which keeps man sometimes from hoping in God, I cannot -tell; it was the work of the all-working Spirit, operating in and on -her mind mediately or immediately. She grew calmer, and began to turn -her thoughts a little away from what she fancied might have been if -things had not gone wrong so perversely, and to reflect on the fact, -which she had often expressed in words, but never really thought about -before--that it would be all the same a hundred years after--a saying -which, however far from true--although, in fact, taken logically as -it stands, absolutely false--yet has, wrapt up in it, after a clumsy -fashion, a very great and important truth. By slow degrees her former -cheerfulness began to show a little light over her hitherto gloomy -horizon; her eyes became less turbid; she would smile occasionally, -and her communications with Widdles grew more airy. I do most potently -believe that Widdles was, not only in the _similarity_, but in -the _infinitesimality_ (I am sorry to have to coin a word) of his -influence, homeopathically operative in working a degree of cure in the -troubled nature of the old woman. - -"Ah, Widdles, Widdles!" she would say, as she rubbed the unavailing -Balm of Columbia on his blue back, "you and I know what trouble is! -Don't we, old bird?" - -She began to have a respect for her own misfortunes, which indicated -that they had begun to recede a little from the point of her vision. To -have had misfortunes is the only distinction some can claim. How much -that can distinguish one man from another, judge, oh Humanity. But the -heart that knows its own bitterness, too often forgets that there is -more bitterness in the world than that. - -Widdles would cock his magnificent head and whiskers on one side, and -wink with one eye, as much as to say, "I believe you, old girl." Then -he would turn his denuded, featherless back upon her, as much as to -add, with more solemnity: "Contemplate my condition, madam. Behold me. -Imagine what I once was, that you may understand the spite of fortune -which has reduced me to my present bareness. Am I not a spectacle to -men and angels? And am I not therefore distinguished above my fellows?" -Perhaps, however, I am all wrong in giving this interpretation to -the actions of the bird. Perhaps the influence that flowed from him -into the heart of Mrs. Boxall was really such as, put in words, would -amount to this: "Here I am without a feather to hide my somewhat skinny -proportions; but what the worse am I? Who cares? So long as you don't, -I don't. Let's turn about once more. My dancing days are over; but life -is life, even without feathers." - -If Mrs. Boxall had had her way with Widdles, he would have turned out -a resplendent bird in spite of fate. But if you had told her not to be -distressed at his nakedness, for God cared for Widdles, not as much, -but as well as for her, she would have judged you guilty of something -like blasphemy. Was it because the bird was comical, as even she -admitted, that you must not speak of God's care in relation to him? -Certainly, however, he sowed not neither did he reap; and as for a barn -to store his winter-grain in--poor Widdles! Yet, was he forgotten? Mrs. -Boxall was the last person who could say so, with her sugar, her nuts, -her unguents of price--though the latter, clearly a striving against -Providence, were not of so much account in the eyes of the bird. I dare -say he found them soothing, though. - -However all these things may have been, one thing is certain, that -Mrs. Boxall began to recover her equanimity, and at length even her -benevolence toward men in general--with one class exception, that of -lawyers, and two individual exceptions, those of old Worboise and -young Worboise. I believe she had a vague conviction that it was one -of the malignant class above mentioned that had plucked Widdles. "Ah, -my poor Widdles! Them lawyers!" she would say. "You would have been a -very different person indeed, Widdles, if it hadn't been for them. But -it'll be all the same in a hundred years, Widdles. Keep up heart, old -bird. It'll all be over soon. If you die before me, I'll put you on a -winding-sheet that'll be a deal more comfortable than dead feathers, -and I'll bury you with my own hands. But what'll you do for me, if I -die first, you little scarecrow? You'll look about for me, won't you? -That's about all you can do. And you'll miss the bits of sugar. Mattie, -my dear, mind that Widdles has his sugar, and everything regular after -I'm dead and gone." - -She began to take to Mattie again, and even to make her read to her of -a Sunday. But this, as of old, gave rise to much difference of opinion -between them, which, however, resulted in the old woman's learning -something from the child, if not in the immediate case, yet in the next -similar case. For it often happens that a man who has opposed another's -opinion bitterly in regard to the individual case that occasioned the -difference, will act entirely according to that others judgment in the -next precisely similar case that occurs; although if you were to return -to the former, he would take up his former position with an access of -obstinacy in the reaction from having yielded to argument. Something -like this took place between Grannie and Mattie. It was amusing to -hear now the former would attribute all the oddities of the latter to -the fact that she belonged to the rising generation, never seeming -to suspect that Mattie was an exception to children in general, as -peculiar as Widdles in relation to birds. - - - - -CHAPTER LIV. - -GRANNIE APPEALS TO WIDDLES. - - -One sultry evening in summer, Lucy was seated at her piano, which had -its place in Mr. Kitely's back parlor, near the black oak cabinet, but -she was not playing. She had just been singing a little song from some -unknown pen, which she had found with music of her father's in the -manuscripts he had left her. This was the song: - - -1. - - Sunshine fair, - In the air, - On the earth! - Everywhere - Waking mirth! - Stay not there. - I sit apart - By the hearth - Of my heart - In the dark. - Dost thou mark - How I sit - In the dark, - With my grief, - Nursing it? - Bring relief, - Sunny gold! - Look, I set - Open door - Thee before, - And the fold - Of my curtain draw aside. - Enter, enter, golden tide. - - -2. - - Summer Wind, - Nature's laughter! - Of sweet smiling - Waker, wafter! - Care beguiling, - Toying, wiling, - Never glance - Throw behind. - In the dance - Still advance, - To the past - Deaf and blind, - Follow after, - Fleet and fast, - Newer gladness, - Careless wind! - See the sadness - Of my mind. - Over river. - Hill and hollow, - Resting never, - Thou dost follow - Other graces, - Lovelier places, - Newer flowers, - Leafier bowers: - I still sit - Nursing it-- - My old sorrow-- - Night and morrow. - All my mind - Looks behind, - And I fret. - Look, I set - A wide door - Thee before, - And my casement open lay: - Come, and blow my cares away. - - -3. - - Sunshine fair! - Of the saint - Gild the hair; - Wake the child, - With his mirth - Send him wild. - To the faint - Give new breath; - From the earth - Take the death, - Take the dearth. - 'Tis in vain - To complain, - And implore - Thee to glide, - Thee to glow, - In my mind; - For my care - Will nevermore - Rise and go. - Open door, - Windows wide, - I do find - Yield no way - To the mind. - Glow and play, - Come and go, - Glance and glow, - To and fro, - Through the air! - Thou would'st say, - As ye use, - Thou and Wind, - _Forget_; - But not yet - I would choose - That way: - Shine and glitter, come and go; - Pass me by, and leave me so. - - -4. - - And I whisper - To the wind, - Evening lisper - In the curl - Of the girl, - Who, all kind, - Waits her lover-- - Waft and hover, - Linger over - Her bright color, - Waft her dolor - O'er the ocean, - With a faint, - Reviving motion. - Blow her plaint - From the maiden - Sorrow-laden; - Take all grief, - Which to lose - Were relief. - Leave me, leave me, for I choose - Still to clasp my grief. - - -5. - - Sunshine fair! - Windy air! - Come and go, - Glance and glow, - Shine and show, - Waft and blow! - Neither choosing - Nor refusing, - Neither fretting - Nor forgetting - I will set - Open yet - Door and pane. - You may come, - Or the rain: - I will set, - Indifferent, - Open yet - Door and pane. - Sun and wind, - Rain-cloud blind, - Parted, blent, - There is room, - Go and come. - Loving only - To be lonely, - To be sad. - I repent, - Sun and wind, - That I went - You to find: - I was rent - In my mind. - Sun and wind, do what ye will; - I sit looking backward still. - -Lucy, I say, had finished this song, and was sitting silent before the -instrument, with her hands laid on the keys, which had just ceased the -long-drawn sound, and again sunk into stillness. Two arms came round -her from behind. She did not start. She was taken by but not with -surprise. She was always with him in mood, if not in thought, and his -bodily presence therefore overcame her only as a summer cloud. She -leaned back into his embrace, and burst into tears. Then she would rise -to look at him, and he let her go. She saw him rather ragged, rather -dirty, quite of a doubtful exterior to the eye of the man who lives to -be respectable, but her eye saw deeper. She looked into his face--the -window of his being--and was satisfied. Truth shone there from the true -light and fire within. He did not fall at her feet as once before. The -redeemed soul stood and looked her in the face. He put out his arms -once more, and she did not draw back. She knew that he was a man, that -he was true, and she was his. And he knew, in the testimony thus given -him, that the last low-brooding rims of the cloud of his shame had -vanished from his heaven, and that a man may have sinned and yet be -glad. He could give God thanks for the shame, whose oppression had led -him to understand and hate the sin. For sin gives birth to shame, and -in this child-bearing is cleansed. Verily there is One, I repeat, who -bringeth light out of darkness, good out of evil. It comes not of the -evil, but out of the evil, because He is stronger than the evil; and -He, not evil, is at the heart of the universe. Often and often yet in -the course of life, would Thomas have to be humbled and disappointed. -But not the less true was the glow of strength that now pervaded his -consciousness. It was that this strength, along with a thousand other -virtues, might be perfected, that the farther trials were to come. It -was true, so true that it was worth making fact. - -But my young reader, who delights in the emotion rather than in the -being of love, will grumble at these meditations, and say, "Why don't -you go on? why don't you tell us something more of their meeting?" -I answer, "Because I don't choose to tell you more. There are many -things, human things too, so sacred that they are better left alone. -If you cannot imagine them, you don't deserve to have them described. -We want a little more reticence as well as a great deal more openness -in the world--the pulpit included. But against stupidity the gods -themselves are powerless." Ah no! that is a heathen utterance. Let -the stupid rage, and when they imagine, let it be vain things. The -stupid, too, have a God that will slay their stupidity by the sword -of his light. The time will come when even they will repent, not of -their stupidity, for that they could not help, but of the arrogance -of fancied knowledge that increased instead of diminishing it, and -made them a thorn in the flesh of them that saw and would have opened -their eyes. No doubt many of them that suppose they see, fancy it only -in virtue of this same stupidity; but the end will show all. Meantime -the tares and the wheat must grow together, and there are plenty of -intellectual tares that spring from the root of the moral tares, and -will be separated with them. - -After awhile, when their feelings were a little composed, Thomas began -to tell Lucy all his adventures. In the middle, however, Mrs. Boxall -returned. She had most opportunely been calling on a neighbor, and if -Thomas had not learned this from Mr. Kitely, he would have sent for -Lucy instead of going in as he did. They heard her voice in the shop. - -"Don't tell grannie anything about it yet," said Lucy. "She's much -quieter in her mind now, and if we were to set her off again it would -only do her harm. Any thing certain she has a right to know, but I -don't think she has a right to know all that you are trying to do for -her. That is your business. But you mustn't mind how she behaves to -you, Tom dear. She thinks you and your father all one in the affair." - -When the old lady entered she saw at a glance how things were going; -but she merely gave a very marked sniff, and retreated to her chair -by the window. She first seated herself, and then proceeded to take -off her bonnet and shawl. But she could not keep silent long, and the -beginning of speech as well as of strife is like the letting out of -water. - -"Thomas," she said--for people of her degree of education became more -familiar in their address when they are angry--"is this room mine or -yours?" - -"Grannie," said Lucy, "Thomas has nothing to do with it. He was away -from home, I assure you, when--when--things went wrong." - -"Very convenient, no doubt, for both of you! It's nothing to you, so -long as you marry him, of course. But you might have waited. The money -would have been yours. But you'll have it all the sooner for marrying -the man that turned your grandmother into the street. Well, well! Only -I won't sit here and see that scoundrel in my room." - -She rose as she spoke, though what she would or could have done she -did not know herself. It was on Lucy's lips to say to her--"The room's -mine, grannie, if you come to that, and I won't have my friend turned -out of it." But she thought better of it, and taking Thomas's hand, -led him into the shop. Thereupon grannie turned to Widdles for refuge, -not from the pain of Thomas's presence, but from the shame of her own -behavior, took him out of his cage, and handled him so roughly that one -of the three wing feathers left on one side came off in her hand. The -half of our ill-temper is often occasioned by annoyance at the other -half. - -Thomas and Lucy finished their talk in a low voice, hidden in the leafy -forest of books. Thomas told her all about it now; how he wanted to -find the man Jack Stevens, and how Robins and he had followed him to -Lisbon, and found him there and brought him home; how he had had to -part with her ring as well as his own watch for money to start them in -their search, and how even then they had had to work their passage to -Lisbon and back. But if the representation she and Mr. Fuller had given -him of the state of the case was correct, he said, there could be no -doubt but Jack's testimony would reverse the previous decision, and -grannie would have her own. - -"I can't help being rather sorry for it," concluded Tom; "for it'll -come to you then, Lucy, I suppose, and you will hardly be able to -believe that it was not for my own sake that I went after Jack Stevens. -I've got him safe, and Robins too, at the Mermaid. But I can't be grand -and give you up. If you were as rich as Miss Coutts, I couldn't give -you up--though I should like to, almost, when I think of the money and -my father." - -"Don't give me up, Tom, or I'll give you up, and that would be a bad -job for me." - -Then they made it clear to each other that nothing was further from the -intention of either of them. - -"But what am I to do next, Lucy? You must tell me the lawyers that -conducted your side of the case." - -"I am afraid I can't ask _him_ to do anything more." - -"Who's _him_, Lucy?" - -"Mr. Sargent." - -"Sargent--Sargent--I think I have heard the name. He's a barrister. If -you are not satisfied with him, the firm you employed will speak to -another." - -"He did everything, Thomas. But--" - -Lucy hesitated. Thomas saw that she was blushing. Perhaps it was the -consciousness of his own unworthiness that made him jealous. - -"Oh, very well, Lucy! If you don't want to tell me, of course--" - -"Thomas! Thomas! Can't you trust me yet? I have trusted you, Thomas." - -He had the grace to feel ashamed of himself at once. - -"Forgive me, Lucy," he said. "I was wrong. Only I love you so!" - -"I will tell you all about it, Tom, dear." - -"You shan't tell me a word about it. I can guess. But what are we to -do?" - -"I will go and consult Mr. Morgenstern." - -"There is no time to lose." - -"Come with me to his office, then, at once. It is not far to Old Broad -Street." - -They set out instantly, found Mr. Morgenstern, and put him in -possession of the discovered evidence. He was delighted with the news. - -"We must find Sargent at once," he said. - -Lucy began to stammer out some objection. - -"Oh! I know all about that, Lucy," said he. "But this is no time for -nonsense. In fact you would be doing the honest fellow a great wrong if -you deprived him of the pleasure of gaining his case after all. Indeed, -he would feel that far more than your refusal of him. And quite right, -too. Sargent will be delighted. It will go far to console him, poor -fellow." - -"But will it be right of me to consent to it?" asked Thomas, with -hesitation. - -"It is a mere act of justice to him," said Mr. Morgenstern; "and, -excuse me, I don't see that you have any right to bring your feelings -into the matter. Besides, it will give Mrs. Boxall the opportunity -of making him what return she ought. It will be a great thing for -him--give him quite a start in his profession, of which he is not a -little in want. I will go to him at once," concluded Mr. Morgenstern, -taking his hat. - - - - -CHAPTER LV. - -GUILD COURT AGAIN. - - -I will not linger over the last of my story. Mr. Sargent was delighted -at the turn affairs had taken--from a business point of view, I mean. -The delight was greatly tempered by other considerations. Still he went -into the matter mind and soul, if not heart and soul, and moved for a -fresh trial on the ground of fresh evidence. Mr. Worboise tried the -plan of throwing discredit on the witness; but the testimony of Robins -and Thomas was sufficient to remove any influence that course might -have had. The former judgment was rescinded, and the property was Mrs. -Boxall's. - -Mr. Worboise and Mr. Sargent met in the lobby. The latter, in very -unlawyer-like fashion, could not help saying: - -"You would have done better to listen to reason, Mr. Worboise." - -"I've fought fair, and lost, Mr. Sargent: and there's an end of it." - -The chief consolation Mr. Worboise now had was that his son had come -out so much more of a man than he expected, having, indeed, foiled him -at his own game, though not with his own weapons. To this was added the -expectation of the property, after all, reverting to his son; while, to -tell the truth, his mind was a little easier after he was rid of it, -although he did not part with it one moment before he was compelled -to do so. He made no advances however, toward a reconciliation with -Thomas. Probably he thought that lay with Thomas, or at least would -wait to give him an opportunity of taking the first step. My reader -would doubtless have expected, as I should myself, that he would vow -endless alienation from the son who had thus defeated his dearest -plans, first in one direction, then in another; but somehow, as I have -shown, his heart took a turn short of that North Pole of bitterness. - -There is nothing to wonder at in the fact that Mrs. Boxall should know -nothing yet of her happy reverse of fortune. They had, as I have said -already, judged it better to keep the fresh attempt from her, so that -if by any chance it should fail, she might not suffer by it, and, in -any case, might be protected from the wearing of anxiety and suspense. - -"Let's give grannie a surprise, Lucy," said Thomas, having hurried to -her with the good news. - -"How do you mean, Tom? We must be careful how we break it to her. Poor -dear! she can't stand much now." - -"Well, my plan will just do for that. Get Mrs. Whatshername, over the -way--her old crony, you know--to ask her to tea this evening. While -she's away, Kitely, Spelt, and I will get all the things back into the -old place. There's nobody there, is there?" - -"No, I believe not. I don't see why we shouldn't. I'll run across to -the old lady, and tell her we want grannie out of the way for an hour -or two." - -She took care, however, not to mention the reason, or their surprise -would have been a failure. - -There were no carpets to fit, for the floor had been but partially -covered, showing the dark boards in the newest fashion. Before Mrs. -Boxall's visit was over, the whole of her household property had been -replaced--each piece in the exact position it used to occupy when they -had not yet dreamed of fortune or misfortune. Just as they were getting -anxious lest she should come upon the last of it, Lucy, bethinking -herself, said to the bookseller: - -"Mr. Kitely, you must lend us Widdles. Grannie can't exist without -Widdles." - -"I wish you hadn't proposed it, miss; for I did mean to have all the -credit of that one stroke myself. But Widdles is yours, or hers rather, -for you won't care much about the old scaramouch." - -"Not care about him! He's the noblest bird in creation--that I know, -Mr. Kitely. He does not mind being bald, even, and that's the highest -summit of disregard for appearances that I know of. I'm afraid I -shouldn't take it so quietly." - -"It don't much matter nowadays," said Mr. Kitely. "They make such -wonderful wigs." - -"But that's ten times worse," said Lucy. - -"You don't mean to say you'd go with a bare poll, miss, so be that -Providence was to serve you the same as Widdles?--which Heaven forbid!" - -"I wouldn't bear a wig anyhow." - -"What would you do, then, miss? Black and polish it?" - -"What nonsense we are talking!" said Lucy, after a good laugh. "But -I'm so happy I don't know what to do. Let's make a wig for Widdles, -and grannie will think her bears' grease has made hair grow instead of -feathers." - -Whether this proposal was ever carried out, I do not know. But Widdles -followed the furniture; and when grannie came home she found that all -her things were gone. She stared. Nobody was to be seen. But all were -watching from behind the defences of Mr. Kitely's book-shelves. - -"Mr. Kitely," she called at last, in a voice that revealed -consternation. - -The bookseller obeyed the summons. - -"I didn't expect it of you, Mr. Kitely," she said, and burst into tears. - -This quite upset the conspirators. But Mr. Kitely kept them back as -they were hurrying forward. - -"We thought we could do a little better for you, you see, ma'am. It was -a confined place this for the likes of you. So Miss Lucy and I made -bold to move your things up to a place in the court where you'll have -more room." - -She said nothing but went up stairs. In both rooms she found utter -emptiness. Mr. Kitely followed her. - -"There's not a stick left, you see, ma'am. Come and I'll take you home." - -"I didn't think you'd have turned me out in my old age, Mr. Kitely. But -I suppose I must go." - -It was with considerable exercise of self-denial that the bookseller -refrained from telling her the truth, but he could not spoil the young -people's sport. He led her up to the door of her own house. - -"No, Mr. Kitely. I'll never set foot in that place again. I won't -accept it from no one--not even rent-free." - -"But it's your own," said Kitely, almost despairing of persuasion, and -carried beyond his intent. - -"That's just why I won't go in. It is mine, I know, but I won't have my -own in charity." - -"Thomas," whispered Lucy, for they were following behind, "_you_ must -tell her the good news. It will help her over her prejudice against -you. Old people are hard to change, you know." - -"Mrs. Boxall," said Thomas, going up to her, "this house is your own." - -"Go away," returned Mrs. Boxall, energetically. "Isn't it enough that -you have robbed me? Will you offer me my own in charity." - -"Do listen to me, grannie," pleaded Thomas. - -"I will not listen to you. Call a cab, Lucy. We'll drive to the nearest -work-house." - -Lucy saw it was time to interfere. - -"What Thomas says is true, grannie, if you would only listen so him. -Every thing's changed. Thomas has been over the seas to find a man who -was in uncle's ship when it went down. He has given such evidence that -the property is yours now." - -"I don't care; it's all a trick. I don't believe he went over the seas. -I won't take any thing from the villain's hand." - -"Villains don't usually plot to give away what they've got," said Lucy. - -"But it's Thomas Worboise you mean?" - -"Yes; but he had nothing to do with it, as I've told you a hundred -times, grannie. He's gone and slaved for you, and that's all the thanks -you give him--to stand there on the stones, refusing to take what's -your very own." - -The light was slowly dawning on grannie's confused mind. - -"Then you mean," she said, "that all my son Richard's money--" - -"Is yours, grannie," said Lucy and Thomas in a breath. - -"Only," added Lucy, "you've spoiled all our bit of fun by being so -obstinate, grannie." - -For sole answer the old woman gave a hand to each of them, and led them -into the house, up the wide oak stair-case, and along the passage into -the old room, where a fire was burning cheerfully just as in the old -time, and every article of furniture, book-case, piano, settle, and -all, stood each in its old place, as if it had never been moved. - -Mrs. Boxall sat down in her own chair, "like one that hath been -stunned," and for some moments gave no sign of being conscious of what -was going on around her. At length a little noise at her ear attracted -her attention. She looked around. On the edge of the little table -which had always been beside her easy-chair, stood Widdles, the long -feathers of whose wings looked like arms that he had tucked under his -coat-tails, only there was no coat. - -"Poor Widdles!" said the old woman, and burst into tears. - - - - -CHAPTER LVI. - -WOUND UP OR RUN DOWN. - - -Thomas resumed his place in the office, occupying his old stool, and -drawing his old salary, upon which he now supported himself in comfort -and decency. He took a simple lodging in the neighborhood, and went -twice a week in the evening to see his mother. In doing so, he did -not run much risk of meeting his father, whom he neither sought nor -avoided, for he was seldom home before midnight. His mother now lived -on these visits and the expectation of them. And she began not only to -love her son more and more for himself, but to respect him. Indeed, -it was chiefly the respect that increased her love. If he was not -converted, there must be something besides conversion that was yet -good, if not so good. And she thought she might be excused if she found -some pleasure even in that. It might be a weakness--it might be wrong, -she thought, seeing that nothing short of absolute conversion was in -the smallest degree pleasing in the sight of God; but as he was her -own son, perhaps she would be excused, though certainly not justified. -As Thomas's perception of truth grew, however, the conversations he -had with her insensibly modified her judgment through her feelings, -although she never yielded one point of her creed as far as words were -concerned. - -The chief aid which Thomas had in this spiritual growth, next to an -honest endeavor to do the work of the day and hour, and his love to -Lucy, was the instruction of Mr. Fuller. Never, when he could help it, -did he fail to be present at daily prayers in St. Amos's Church. Nor -did he draw upon his office hours for this purpose. The prayers fell in -his dinner hour. Surely no one will judge that a quarter of an hour, -though in the middle of the day, spent in seeking the presence of that -Spirit whereby all actions are fitted to the just measure of their true -end, was disproportioned by excess to the time spent in those outward -actions of life, the whole true value of which depends upon the degree -to which they are performed after the mind of that Spirit. What gave -these prayers and exhortations a yet more complete fitness to his was -their shortness. No mind could be wearied by them. I believe it very -often happens that the length of the services, as they are called, -is such that they actually disable the worshiper in no small degree -from acting so after them as alone can make them of real worth to his -being: they are a weakness and not a strength, exhausting the worshiper -in saying "Lord, Lord," instead of sending him forth to do his will. -The more he feels, the less fit is he, and the less fitting it is, -to prolong the expression of his devotion. I believe this is greatly -mistaken in all public services that I know anything about, which -involve, in their length, an entire departure from good old custom, -not good because old, but so good that it ought to have been older, -and needs now to be raised from the dead that it may be custom once -more. Thomas did not enjoy his dinner less, and did his work far more -thoroughly and happily because of this daily worship and doctrine--a -word which, I think, is never used by St. Paul except as meaning -instruction in duty, in that which it is right to do and that which it -is right not to do, including all mental action as well as all outward -behavior. - -It was impossible under the influence of such instruction that Tom -should ever forget the friends who had upheld him in the time of his -trouble. He often saw Captain Smith, and on one occasion, when he had a -fortnight's holiday--the only one before his marriage--he went a voyage -to Jersey in his brig, working his passage as before, but with a very -different heart inside his blue jacket. The Pottses, too, he called on -now and then; and even the unamiable Jim Salter came round to confess -his respect for him, when he found that he never forgot his old mates. - -As soon as Thomas resumed his stool in the counting-house Mr. Wither -resigned his, and went abroad. - -Mrs. Boxall of course recovered her cheerfulness, but her whole -character was more subdued. A certain tenderness toward Lucy appeared, -which, notwithstanding all her former kindness was entirely new. -A great part of her time was spent in offices of good-will toward -Widdles. She always kept her behavior to Mr. Stopper somewhat stately -and distant. But he did his best for the business--for it was the best -for himself. - -My story leaves Mr. Spelt and Mr. Kitely each happy in a daughter, and -Mattie and Poppie growing away at their own history. - -One evening when Tom was seated with his mother, who had again -recovered so far as to resume her place on the couch, his father came -into the room. Tom rose. His father, without any greeting, said: - -"Keep a lookout on that Stopper, Tom. Don't let him have too much of -his own way." - -"But I have no authority over him, father." - -"Then the sooner you marry and take the business into your own hands -the better." - -"I'm going to be married next week." - -"That's right. Make Stopper junior partner, and don't give him too -large a share. Come to me to draw up the articles for you." - -"Thank you, father. I will. I believe Mrs. Boxall does mean to make the -business over to me." - -"Of course. Good-night," returned Mr. Worboise, and left the room -without speaking to his wife. - -From this time Tom and his father met much as before their quarrel. Tom -returned to the house for the week before his marriage, and his father -made him a present of an outfit for the occasion. - -"Oh, Tom! I can hardly believe it," said Lucy, when they came home from -church. - -"I don't deserve it," was all Tom's answer in words. - -After their wedding-journey they went back to the old house in Guild -Court, in which they had had one or two more rooms fitted up. Their -grandmother, however, is now urging them to move to some suburb, saying -she is quite willing to go with them. "And I don't believe you will -have any objection either--will, you, old Widdles?" she generally adds. - - -THE END. - -Transcribers Note -Original spelling and dialect has been retained. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Guild Court, by George MacDonald - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GUILD COURT *** - -***** This file should be named 56176-8.txt or 56176-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/1/7/56176/ - -Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, MFR, University of North -Carolina at Chapel Hill,Graeme Mackreth and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Guild Court - A London Story - -Author: George MacDonald - -Release Date: December 13, 2017 [EBook #56176] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GUILD COURT *** - - - - -Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, MFR, University of North -Carolina at Chapel Hill,Graeme Mackreth and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="hidehand"> -<p class="center" style="margin-bottom: 10em;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" /> -</p></div> - - - - - - -<div class="bbox"> - -<p class="center">GEORGE MACDONALD'S WRITINGS.<br /> -<small> -WITH ILLUSTRATIONS ON WOOD AND STEEL.<br /> - -"<i>A mine of original and quaint similitudes. Their deep perceptions of -human nature are certainly remarkable.</i>"—<span class="smcap">The Century Magazine.</span> -</small> -</p> -<p style="margin-left:5%;"> -<small> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Seaboard Parish. A Sequel to Annals of a Quiet -Neighborhood.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Guild Court. A London Story.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Alec Forbes of Howglen.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Robert Falconer.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Vicar's Daughter. An Autobiographical Story.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Paul Faber. Surgeon.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thomas Wingfold, Curate.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wilfrid Cumbermede. An Autobiographical Story.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sir Gibbie.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">St. George and St. Michael. A Novel.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">{ The Portent. A Story.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">{ Phantastes. A Faerie Romance for Men and Women.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">David Elginbrod.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adela Cathcart.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Malcolm.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Marquis of Lossie.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Warlock O' Glenwarlock. A Homely Romance.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mary Marston.</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">SOLD SEPARATELY.</span><br /> - -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">18 Volumes, 12mo, Cloth (in box), per set, $27.00.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cloth, per volume, $1.50.</span><br /> -</small> -</p> - -<p class="center"> -<small> - -<i>May be obtained of all Booksellers or will be sent, pre-paid, on -receipt of price by the Publishers.</i> -</small> -</p> -<p class="center"> -<small> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><span class="smcap">9 Lafayette Place, New York</span>.</span><br /> -</small> -</p> - -</div> -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus02.jpg" alt="fire" /> -</p> - - - -<p class="caption"> -p. 351. "SHE FELL INTO A DREAMY STUDY OF THE FIRE." -</p> - - - - - -<p class="ph1" style="margin-top: 10em;"> -GUILD COURT</p> -<p class="ph3">A LONDON STORY</p> - -<p class="ph4"><i><span class="smcap">By</span> GEORGE MACDONALD</i></p> - -<p class="ph5"><span class="smcap">Author of "ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD," "THE SEABOARD -PARISH," Etc., Etc., Etc.</span></p> - -<p class="ph4" style="margin-top: 10em;">NEW YORK:</p> -<p class="ph4">GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS,</p> -<p class="ph5"><span class="smcap">9 Lafayette Place</span>.</p> -<p class="ph6">1883. -</p> - - - - - - - - - - -<p class="ph2" style="margin-top: 10em;"><span class="smcap">Guild Court.</span></p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER I.</p> - -<p class="center">THE WALK TO THE COUNTING-HOUSE.</p> - - - - -<p><span class="figleft"> <img src="images/illus03.jpg" alt="building" /></span>In the month of November, not many years ago, a young man was walking -from Highbury to the City. It was one of those grand mornings that dawn -only twice or thrice in the course of the year, and are so independent - -of times and seasons that November even comes in for its share. And -it seemed as if young Thomas Worboise had at his toilet felt the -influences of the weather, for he was dressed a trifle more gayly -than was altogether suitable for the old age of the year. Neither, -however, did he appear in harmony with the tone of the morning, which -was something as much beyond the significance of his costume as the -great arches of a cathedral upheaving a weight of prayer from its -shadowed heart toward the shadowless heavens are beyond the petty -gorgeousness of the needlework that adorns the vain garments of its -priesthood. It was a lofty blue sky, with multitudes of great clouds -half way between it and the earth, among which, as well as along the -streets, a glad west wind was reveling. There was nothing much for -it to do in the woods now, and it took to making merry in the clouds -and the streets. And so the whole heaven was full of church<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> windows. -Every now and then a great bore in the cloudy mass would shoot a sloped -cylinder of sun-rays earthward, like an eye that saw in virtue of the -light it shed itself upon the object of its regard. Gray billows of -vapor with sunny heads tossed about in the air, an ocean for angelic -sport, only that the angels could not like sport in which there was -positively no danger. Where the sky shone through it looked awfully -sweet and profoundly high. But although Thomas enjoyed the wind on his -right cheek as he passed the streets that opened into High Street, and -although certain half sensations, half sentiments awoke in him at its -touch, his look was oftenest down at his light trowsers or his enameled -boots, and never rose higher than the shop windows.</p> - -<p>As he turned into the church-yard to go eastward, he was joined by an -acquaintance a few years older than himself, whose path lay in the same -direction.</p> - -<p>"Jolly morning, ain't it, Tom?" said he.</p> - -<p>"Ye-es," answered Thomas, with something of a fashionable drawl, and in -the doubtful tone of one who will be careful how he either praises or -condemns anything. "Ye-es. It almost makes one feel young again."</p> - -<p>"Ha, ha, ha! How long is it since you enjoyed the pleasing sensation -last?"</p> - -<p>"None of your chaff, now, Charles."</p> - -<p>"Well, upon my word, if you don't like chaff, you put yourself at the -wrong end of the winnower."</p> - -<p>"I never read the Georgics."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I know I was born in the country—a clod-hopper, no doubt; but I -can afford to stand your chaff, for I feel as young as the day I was -born. If you were a fast fellow, now, I shouldn't wonder; but for one -like you, that teaches in the Sunday-school and all that, I am ashamed -of you, talking like that. Confess now, you don't believe a word of -what you cram the goslings with."</p> - -<p>"Charles, you may make game of me as you like, but I won't let you -say a word against religion in my presence. You may despise me if you -like, and think it very spoony of me to teach in the Sunday-school, -but—well, you know well enough what I mean."</p> - -<p>"I can guess at it, old fellow. Come, come, don't think to humbug me. -You know as well as I do that you don't believe a word of it. I don't -mean you want to cheat me or any one else. I believe you're above that. -But you do cheat yourself. What's the good of it all when you don't -feel half as merry as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> I do on a bright morning like this? I never -trouble my head about that rubbish. Here am I as happy as I care to -be—for to-day, at least, and 'sufficient unto the day,' you know."</p> - -<p>Thomas might have replied, had he been capable of so replying, that -although the evil is sufficient for the day, the good may not be. But -he said something very different, although with a solemnity fit for an -archbishop.</p> - -<p>"There's a day coming, Charles, when the evil will be more than -sufficient. I want to save my soul. You have a soul to save, too."</p> - -<p>"Possibly," answered Charles, with more carelessness than he felt; for -he could not help being struck with the sententiousness of Thomas's -reply, if not with the meaning contained in it. As he was not devoid -of reverence, however, and had been spurred on to say what he had -said more from the sense of an undefined incongruity between Thomas's -habits, talk included, and the impression his general individuality -made upon him, than from any wish to cry down the creed in which he -took no practical interest, he went no farther in the direction in -which the conversation was leading. He doubled.</p> - -<p>"If your soul be safe, Tom, why should you be so gloomy?"</p> - -<p>"Are there no souls to save but mine? There's yours now."</p> - -<p>"Is that why you put on your shiny trot-boxes and your lavender -trousers, old fellow? Come, don't be stuck up. I can't stand it."</p> - -<p>"As you please, Charles: I love you too much to mind your making game -of me."</p> - -<p>"Come, now," said Charles Wither, "speak right out as I am doing to -you. You seem to know something I don't. If you would only speak right -out, who knows if you mightn't convert me, and save my soul, too, that -you make such a fuss about. For my part, I haven't found out that I -have a soul yet. What am I to do with it before I know I've got it? But -that's not the point. It's the trousers. When I feel miserable about -myself—"</p> - -<p>"Nonsense, Charles! you never do."</p> - -<p>"But I do, though. I want something I haven't got often enough; and, -for the life of me, I don't know what it is. Sometimes I think it's a -wife. Sometimes I think it's freedom to do whatever I please. Sometimes -I think it's a bottle of claret and a jolly good laugh. But to return -to the trousers."</p> - -<p>"Now leave my trousers alone. It's quite disgusting to treat serious -things after such a fashion."</p> - -<p>"I didn't know trousers were serious things—except to old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> grandfather -Adam. But it's not about your trousers I was talking. It was about my -own."</p> - -<p>"I see nothing particular about yours."</p> - -<p>"That's because I'm neither glad nor sorry."</p> - -<p>"What <i>do</i> you mean?"</p> - -<p>"Now you come to the point. That's just what I wanted to come to -myself, only you wouldn't let me. You kept shying like a half-broke -filly."</p> - -<p>"Come now, Charles, you know nothing about horses, I am very sure."</p> - -<p>Charles Wither smiled, and took no other notice of the asseveration.</p> - -<p>"What I mean is this," he said, "that when I am in a serious, -dull-gray, foggy mood, you know—not like this sky—"</p> - -<p>But when he looked up, the sky was indeed one mass of leaden gray. -The glory of the unconditioned had yielded to the bonds of November, -and—<i>Ichabod</i>.</p> - -<p>"Well," Charles resumed, looking down again, "I mean just like this -same sky over St. Luke's Work-house here. Lord! I wonder if St. Luke -ever knew what kind of thing he'd give his medical name to! When I feel -like that, I never dream of putting on lavender trousers, you know, -Tom, my boy. So I can't understand you, you know. I only put on such -like—I never had such a stunning pair as those—when I go to Richmond, -or—"</p> - -<p>"Of a Sunday, I believe," said Worboise, settled.</p> - -<p>"Of a Sunday. Just so. The better day, the better deed, you know, as -people say; though, I dare say, you don't think it."</p> - -<p>"When the deed is good, the day makes it better. When the deed is bad, -the day makes it worse," said Tom, with a mixture of reproof and "high -sentence," which was just pure nonsense.</p> - -<p>How much of Thomas's depression was real, and how much was put on—I -do not mean outwardly put on without being inwardly assumed—in order -that he might flatter himself with being in close sympathy and harmony -with Lord Byron, a volume of whose poems was at the time affecting the -symmetry of his handsome blue frock-coat, by pulling down one tail -more than the other, and bumping against his leg every step he took—I -cannot exactly tell. At all events, the young man was—like most men, -young and old—under conflicting influences; and these influences he -had not yet begun to harmonize in any definite result.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> - -<p>By the time they reached Bunhill Fields, they were in a gray fog; and -before they got to the counting-house, it had grown very thick. Through -its reddish mass the gaslights shone with the cold brilliance of pale -gold.</p> - -<p>The scene of their daily labor was not one of those grand rooms with -plate-glass windows which now seem to be considered, if not absolutely -necessary to commercial respectability, yet a not altogether despicable -means of arriving at such. It was a rather long, rather narrow, rather -low, but this morning not so dark room as usual—for the whole force -of gas-burners was in active operation. In general it was dark, for it -was situated in a narrow street, opening off one of the principal city -thoroughfares.</p> - -<p>As the young men entered, they were greeted with a low growl from -the principal clerk, a black-browed, long-nosed man. This was the -sole recognition he gave them. Two other clerks looked up with a -<i>good-morning</i> and a queer expression in their eyes. Some remarks had -been made about them before they entered. And now a voice came from the -<i>penetralia</i>:</p> - -<p>"Tom, I want you."</p> - -<p>Tom was disposing of his hat and gloves with some care.</p> - -<p>"You hear the governor, Mr. Worboise, I suppose?" said Mr. Stopper, the -head clerk, in the same growling voice, only articulated now.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I hear him," answered Thomas, with some real and some assumed -nonchalance. "I do hear him, Mr. Stopper."</p> - -<p>Through a glass partition, which crossed the whole of the room, Mr. -Boxall, "the governor," might be seen at a writing-table, with his face -toward the exoteric department. All that a spectator from without could -see, as he went on writing, was a high forehead, occupying more than -its due share of a countenance which, foreshortened, of course, from -his position at the table, appeared otherwise commonplace and rather -insignificant, and a head which had been as finely <i>tonsured</i> by the -scythe of Time as if the highest ecclesiastical dignity had depended -upon the breadth and perfection of the vacancy. The corona which -resulted was iron-gray.</p> - -<p>When Thomas was quite ready he walked into the inner room.</p> - -<p>"Tom, my boy, you are late," said Mr. Boxall, lifting a face whose full -view considerably modified the impression I have just given. There was -great brilliance in the deep-set eyes, and a certain something, almost -merriment, about the mouth, hovering lightly over a strong upper lip, -which overhung and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> almost hid a disproportionately small under one. -His chin was large, and between it and the forehead there was little -space left for any farther development of countenance.</p> - -<p>"Not very late, I believe, sir," answered Thomas. "My watch must have -misled me."</p> - -<p>"Pull out your watch, my boy, and let us see."</p> - -<p>Thomas obeyed.</p> - -<p>"By your own watch, it is a quarter past," said Mr. Boxall.</p> - -<p>"I have been here five minutes."</p> - -<p>"I will not do you the discredit of granting you have spent that time -in taking off your hat and gloves. Your watch is five minutes slower -than mine," continued Mr. Boxall, pulling out a saucepan of silver, -"and mine is five minutes slower than the Exchange. You are nearly half -an hour late. You will never get on if you are not punctual. It's an -old-fashioned virtue, I know. But first at the office is first at the -winning-post, I can tell you. You'll never make money if you're late."</p> - -<p>"I have no particular wish—I don't want to make money," said Thomas.</p> - -<p>"But I do," rejoined Mr. Boxall, good-naturedly; "and you are my -servant, and must do your part."</p> - -<p>Thereat Thomas bridled visibly.</p> - -<p>"Ah! I see," resumed the merchant; "you don't like the word. I will -change it. There's no masters or servants nowadays; they are all -governors and <i>employees</i>. What they gain by the alteration, I am sure -I don't know."</p> - -<p>I spell the italicized word thus, because Mr. Boxall pronounced -<i>employés</i> exactly as if it were an English word ending in <i>ees</i>.</p> - -<p>Mr. Worboise's lip curled. He could afford to be contemptuous. He had -been to Boulogne, and believed he could make a Frenchman understand -him. He certainly did know two of the conjugations out of—I really -don't know how many. His master did not see what the curl indicated, -but possibly his look made Thomas feel that he had been rude. He sought -to cover it by saying—</p> - -<p>"Mr. Wither was as late as I was, sir. I think it's very hard I should -be always pulled up, and nobody else."</p> - -<p>"Mr. Wither is very seldom late, and you are often late, my boy. -Besides, your father is a friend of mine, and I want to do my duty by -him. I want you to get on."</p> - -<p>"My father is very much obliged to you, sir."</p> - -<p>"So he tells me," returned Mr. Boxall, with remarkable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> good humor. "We -expect you to dine with us to-morrow, mind."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, I have another engagement," answered Thomas, with dignity, -as he thought.</p> - -<p>Now at length Mr. Boxall's brow fell. But he looked more disappointed -than angry.</p> - -<p>"I am sorry for that, Tom. I wished you could have dined with us. I -won't detain you longer. Mind you don't ink your trousers."</p> - -<p>Was Thomas never to hear the last of those trousers? He began to wish -he had not put them on. He made his bow, and withdrew in chagrin, -considering himself disgraced before his fellows, to whom he would -gladly have been a model, if he could have occupied that position -without too much trouble. But his heart smote him—gently, it must be -confessed—for having refused the kindness of Mr. Boxall, and shown so -much resentment in a matter wherein the governor was quite right.</p> - -<p>Mr. Boxall was a man who had made his money without losing his money's -worth. Nobody could accuse him of having ever done a mean, not to say -a dishonest thing. This would not have been remarkable, had he not -been so well recognized as a sharp man of business. The more knowing -any jobber about the Exchange, the better he knew that it was useless -to dream of getting an advantage over Mr. Boxall. But it was indeed -remarkable that he should be able to steer so exactly in the middle -course that, while he was keen as an eagle on his own side, he should -yet be thoroughly just on the other. And, seeing both sides of a -question with such marvelous clearness, in order to keep his own hands -clean he was not driven from uncertainty to give the other man anything -more than his right. Yet Mr Boxall knew how to be generous upon -occasion, both in time and money: the ordinary sharp man of business -is stingy of both. The chief fault he had was a too great respect for -success. He had risen himself by honest diligence, and he thought -when a man could not rise it must be either from a want of diligence -or of honesty. Hence he was <i>a priori</i> ready to trust the successful -man, and in some instances to trust him too much. That he had a family -of three daughters only—one of them quite a child—who had never -as yet come into collision with any project or favorite opinion of -his, might probably be one negative cause of the continuance of his -openheartedness and justice of regard.</p> - -<p>Thomas Worboise's father had been a friend of his for many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> years—at -least so far as that relation could be called friendship which -consisted in playing as much into each other's hands in the way of -business as they could, dining together two or three times in the -course of the year, and keeping an open door to each other's family. -Thomas was an only son, with one sister. His father would gladly have -brought him up to his own profession, that of the law, but Thomas -showing considerable disinclination to the necessary studies, he had -placed him in his friend's counting-house with the hope that that might -suit him better. Without a word having been said on the subject, both -the fathers would have gladly seen the son of the one engaged to any -daughter of the other. They were both men of considerable property, -and thought that this would be a pleasant way of determining the -future of part of their possessions. At the same time Mr. Boxall was -not quite satisfied with what he had as yet seen of Tom's business -character. However, there had been no signs of approximation between -him and either of the girls, and therefore there was no cause to be -particularly anxious about the matter.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER II.</p> - -<p class="center">THE INVALID MOTHER.</p> - - -<p>To account in some measure for the condition in which we find Tom at -the commencement of my story, it will be better to say a word here -about his mother. She was a woman of weak health and intellect, but -strong character; was very religious, and had a great influence over -her son, who was far more attached to her than he was to his father. -The daughter, on the other hand, leaned to her father, an arrangement -not uncommon in families.</p> - -<p>On the evening of the day on which my story commences, office hours -were long over before Tom appeared at home. He went into his mother's -room, and found her, as usual, reclining on a couch, supported by -pillows. She was a woman who never complained of her sufferings, and -her face, perhaps in consequence of her never desiring sympathy, was -hard and unnaturally still. Nor were her features merely still—they -looked immobile, and her constant pain was indicated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> only by the -absence of all curve in her upper lip. When her son entered, a gentle -shimmer of love shone out of her eyes of troubled blue, but the words -in which she addressed him did not correspond to this shine. She was -one of those who think the Deity jealous of the amount of love bestowed -upon other human beings, even by their own parents, and therefore -struggle to keep down their deepest and holiest emotions, regarding -them not merely as weakness but as positive sin, and likely to be most -hurtful to the object on which they are permitted to expend themselves.</p> - -<p>"Well, Thomas," said his mother, "what has kept you so late?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! I don't know, mother," answered Tom, in whose attempted -carelessness there yet appeared a touch of anxiety, which caught her -eye.</p> - -<p>"You do know, Tom; and I want to know."</p> - -<p>"I waited and walked home with Charles Wither."</p> - -<p>He did not say, "I waited to walk home."</p> - -<p>"How was he so late? You must have left the office hours ago."</p> - -<p>"He had some extra business to finish."</p> - -<p>It was business of his own, not office business; and Tom finding out -that he would be walking home a couple of hours later, had arranged to -join him that he might have this account to give of himself.</p> - -<p>"You know I do not like you to be too much with that young man. He is -not religious. In fact, I believe him to be quite worldly. Does he ever -go to church?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know, mother. He's not a bad sort of fellow."</p> - -<p>"He is a bad sort of fellow, and the less you are with him the better."</p> - -<p>"I can't help being with him in the office, you know, mother."</p> - -<p>"You need not be with him after office hours."</p> - -<p>"Well, no; perhaps not. But it would look strange to avoid him."</p> - -<p>"I thought you had more strength of character, Thomas."</p> - -<p>"I—I—I spoke very seriously to him this morning, mother."</p> - -<p>"Ah! That alters the case, if you have courage to speak the truth to -him."</p> - -<p>At that moment the door opened, and the curate of St. Solomon's was -announced. Mrs. Worboise was always at home to him, and he called -frequently, both because she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> too great an invalid to go to church, -and because they supposed, on the ground of their employing the same -religious phrases in their conversation, that they understood each -other. He was a gentle, abstracted youth, with a face that looked as -if its informing idea had been for a considerable period sat upon by -something ungenial. With him the profession had become everything, -and humanity never had been anything, if not something bad. He walked -through the crowded streets in the neighborhood with hurried step -and eyes fixed on the ground, his pale face rarely brightening with -recognition, for he seldom saw any passing acquaintance. When he did, -he greeted him with a voice that seemed to come from far-off shores, -but came really from a bloodless, nerveless chest, that had nothing to -do with life, save to yield up the ghost in eternal security, and send -it safe out of it. He seemed to recognize none of those human relations -which make the blood mount to the face at meeting, and give strength to -the grasp of the hand. He would not have hurt a fly; he would have died -to save a malefactor from the gallows, that he might give him another -chance of repentance. But mere human aid he had none to bestow; no -warmth, no heartening, no hope.</p> - -<p>Mr. Simon bowed solemnly, and shook hands with Mrs. Worboise.</p> - -<p>"How are you to-night, Mrs. Worboise?" he said, glancing round the -room, however. For the only sign of humanity about him was a certain -weak admiration of Amy Worboise, who, if tried by his own tests, was -dreadfully unworthy even of that. For she was a merry girl, who made -great sport of the little church-mouse, as she called him.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Worboise did not reply to this question, which she always treated -as irrelevant. Mr. Simon then shook hands with Thomas, who looked on -him with a respect inherited from his mother.</p> - -<p>"Any signs of good in your class, Mr. Thomas?" he asked.</p> - -<p>The question half irritated Tom. Why, he could not have explained even -to himself. The fact was that he had begun to enter upon another phase -of experience since he saw the curate last, and the Sunday-school was -just a little distasteful to him at the moment.</p> - -<p>"No," he answered, with a certain slightest motion of the head that -might have been interpreted either as of weariness or of indifference.</p> - -<p>The clergyman interpreted it as of the latter, and proceeded to justify -his question, addressing his words to the mother.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Your son thinks me too anxious about the fruits of his labor, Mrs. -Worboise. But when we think of the briefness of life, and how soon the -night comes when no man can work, I do not think we can be too earnest -to win souls for our crown of rejoicing when He comes with the holy -angels. First our own souls, Mr. Thomas, and then the souls of others."</p> - -<p>Thomas, believing every word that the curate said, made notwithstanding -no reply, and the curate went on.</p> - -<p>"There are so many souls that might be saved, if one were only in -earnest, and so few years to do it in. We do not strive with God in -prayer, Mrs. Worboise. We faint and cease from our prayers and our -endeavors together."</p> - -<p>"That is too true," responded the lady.</p> - -<p>"I try to do my best," said Thomas, in a tone of apology, and with a -lingering doubt in his mind whether he was really speaking the absolute -truth. But he comforted himself with saying to himself, "I only said 'I -try to do my best;' I did not say, 'I try my best to do my best.'"</p> - -<p>"I have no reason to doubt it, my young friend," returned the curate, -who was not ten years older than his young friend. "I only fancied—no -doubt it was but the foolish fancy of my own anxiety—that you did not -respond quite so heartily as usual to my remark."</p> - -<p>The mother's eyes were anxiously fixed on her son during the -conversation, for her instincts told her that he was not quite at -his ease. She had never given him any scope, never trusted him, or -trained him to freedom; but, herself a prisoner to her drawing-room and -bed-room, sought with all her energy and contrivance, for which she had -plenty of leisure, to keep, strengthen, and repair the invisible cable -by which she seemed to herself to hold, and in fact did hold, him, even -when he was out of her sight, and himself least aware of the fact.</p> - -<p>As yet again Thomas made no reply, Mr. Simon changed the subject.</p> - -<p>"Have you much pain to-night, Mrs. Worboise?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I can bear it," she answered. "It will not last forever."</p> - -<p>"You find comfort in looking to the rest that remaineth," responded -Mr. Simon. "It is the truest comfort. Still, your friends would gladly -see you enjoy a little more of the present—" <i>world</i>, Mr. Simon was -going to say, but the word was unsuitable; so he changed it—"of the -present—ah! dispensation," he said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> - -<p>"The love of this world bringeth a snare," suggested Mrs. Worboise, -believing that she quoted Scripture.</p> - -<p>Thomas rose and left the room. He did not return till the curate had -taken his leave. It was then almost time for his mother to retire. As -soon as he entered he felt her anxious pale-blue eyes fixed upon him.</p> - -<p>"Why did you go, Thomas?" she asked, moving on her couch, and revealing -by her face a twinge of sharper pain than ordinary. "You used to listen -with interest to the conversation of Mr. Simon. He is a man whose -conversation is in Heaven."</p> - -<p>"I thought you would like to have a little private talk with him, -mamma. You generally do have a talk with him alone."</p> - -<p>"Don't call it talk, Thomas. That is not the proper word to use."</p> - -<p>"Communion then, mother," answered Thomas, with the feeling of aversion -a little stronger and more recognizable than before, but at the same -time annoyed with himself that he thus felt. And, afraid that he had -shown the feeling which he did recognize, he hastened to change the -subject and speak of one which he had at heart.</p> - -<p>"But, mother, dear, I wanted to speak to you about something. You -mustn't mind my being late once or twice a week now, for I am going -in for German. There is a very good master lives a few doors from the -counting-house; and if you take lessons in the evening at his own -lodgings, he charges so much less for it. And, you know, it is such an -advantage nowadays for any one who wants to get on in business to know -German!"</p> - -<p>"Does Mr. Wither join you, Thomas?" asked his mother, in a tone of -knowing reproof.</p> - -<p>"No, indeed, mother," answered Thomas; and a gleam of satisfaction shot -through his brain as his mother seemed satisfied. Either, however, he -managed to keep it off his face, or his mother did not perceive or -understand it, for the satisfaction remained on her countenance.</p> - -<p>"I will speak to your father about it," she answered.</p> - -<p>This was quite as much as Thomas could have hoped for: he had no -fear of his father making any objection. He kissed his mother on the -cheek—it was a part of her system of mortifying the flesh with its -affections and lusts that she never kissed him with any fervor, and -rarely allowed those straight lips to meet his—and they parted for the -night.</p> - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p> - - - - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER III.</p> - -<p class="center">EXPOSTULATION.</p> - - -<p>Thomas descended to breakfast, feeling fresh and hopeful. The weather -had changed during the night, and it was a clear, frosty morning, cold -blue cloudless sky and cold gray leafless earth reflecting each other's -winter attributes. The sun was there, watching from afar how they could -get on without him; but, as if they knew he had not forsaken them, they -were both merry. Thomas stood up with his back to the blazing fire, and -through the window saw his father walking bareheaded in the garden. -He had not returned home till late the night before, and Thomas had -gone to bed without seeing him. Still he had been up the first in the -house, and had been at work for a couple of hours upon the papers he -had brought home in his blue bag. Thomas walked to the window to show -himself, as a hint to his father that breakfast was ready. Mr. Worboise -saw him, and came in. Father and son did not shake hands or wish each -other good-morning, but they nodded and smiled, and took their seats -at the table. As Mr. Worboise sat down, he smoothed, first with one -hand, then with the other, two long side-tresses of thin hair, trained -like creepers over the top of his head, which was perfectly bald. Their -arrangement added to the resemblance his forehead naturally possessed -to the bottom of a flat-iron, set up on the base of its triangle. His -eyebrows were very dark, straight, and bushy, his eyes a keen hazel; -his nose straight on the ridge, but forming an obtuse angle at the -point; his mouth curved upward, and drawn upward by the corners when he -smiled, which gave him the appearance of laughing down at everything; -his chin now is remarkable. And there, reader, I hope you have him. I -ought to have mentioned that no one ever saw his teeth, though to judge -from his performances at the table, they were in serviceable condition. -He was considerably above the middle hight, shapeless rather than -stout, and wore black clothes.</p> - -<p>"You're going to dine at the Boxall's to-night, I believe, Tom? Mr. -Boxall asked me, but I can't go. I am so busy with that case of Spender -& Spoon."</p> - -<p>"No, father. I don't mean to go," said Tom.</p> - -<p>"Why not?" asked Mr. Worboise, with some surprise, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> more than a -hint of dissatisfaction. "Your mother hasn't been objecting, has she?"</p> - -<p>"I am not aware that my mother knows of the invitation," answered Tom, -trying to hide his discomfort in formality of speech.</p> - -<p>"Well, <i>I</i> said nothing about it, I believe. But I accepted for you at -the same time that I declined for myself. You saw the letter—I left it -for you."</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir, I did."</p> - -<p>"Well, in the name of Heaven, what do you mean? You answer as if you -were in the witness-box. I am not going to take any advantage of you. -Speak out, man. Why won't you go to Boxall's?"</p> - -<p>"Well, sir, to tell the truth, I didn't think he behaved quite well to -me yesterday. I happened to be a few minutes late, and—"</p> - -<p>"And Boxall blew you up; and that's the way you take to show your -dignified resentment! Bah!"</p> - -<p>"He ought to behave to me like a gentleman."</p> - -<p>"But how is he, if he isn't a gentleman? He hasn't had the bringing up -you've had. But he's a good, honest fellow, and says what he means."</p> - -<p>"That is just what I did, sir. And you have always told me that honesty -is the best policy."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I confess. But that is not exactly the kind of honesty I mean," -returned Mr. Worboise with a fishy smile, for his mouth was exactly of -the fish type. "The law scarcely refers to the conduct of a gentleman -as a gentleman."</p> - -<p>This was obscure to his son, as it may be to the reader.</p> - -<p>"Then you don't want me to behave like a gentleman?" said Tom.</p> - -<p>"Keep your diploma in your pocket till it's asked for," answered his -father. "If you are constantly obtruding it on other people, they -will say you bought it and paid for it. A gentleman can afford to put -an affront in beside it, when he knows it's there. But the idea of -good old Boxall insulting a son of mine is too absurd, Tom. You must -remember you are his servant."</p> - -<p>"So he told me," said Tom, with reviving indignation.</p> - -<p>"And that, I suppose, is what you call an insult, eh?"</p> - -<p>"Well, to say the least, it is not a pleasant word to use."</p> - -<p>"Especially as it expresses a disagreeable fact. Come, come, my boy. -Better men then you will ever be have had to sweep their master's -office before now. But no reference is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> made to the fact after they -call the office their own. You go and tell Mr. Boxall that you will be -happy to dine with him to-night if he will allow you to change your -mind."</p> - -<p>"But I told him I was engaged."</p> - -<p>"Tell him the engagement is put off, and you are at his service."</p> - -<p>"But—" began Tom, and stopped. He was going to say the engagement was -not put off.</p> - -<p>"But what?" said his father.</p> - -<p>"I don't like to do it," answered Tom. "He will take it for giving in -and wanting to make up."</p> - -<p>"Leave it to me, then, my boy," returned his father, kindly. "I will -manage it. My business is not so very pressing but that I can go if I -choose. I will write and say that a change in my plans has put it in my -power to be his guest, after all, and that I have persuaded you to put -off your engagement and come with me."</p> - -<p>"But that would be—would not be true," hesitated Tom.</p> - -<p>"Pooh! pooh! I'll take the responsibility of that. Besides, it <i>is</i> -true. Your mother will make a perfect spoon of you—with the help of -good little Master Simon. Can't I change my plans if I like? We must -<i>not</i> offend Boxall. He is a man of mark—and warm. I say nothing about -figures—I never tell secrets. I don't even say how many figures. But -I know all about it, and venture to say, between father and son, that -he is warm, decidedly warm—possibly hot," concluded Mr. Worboise, -laughing.</p> - -<p>"I don't exactly understand you, sir," said Tom, meditatively.</p> - -<p>"You would understand me well enough if you had a mind to business," -answered his father.</p> - -<p>But what he really meant in his heart was that Mr. Boxall had two -daughters, to one of whom it was possible that his son might take a -fancy, or rather—to express it in the result, which was all that he -looked to—a marriage might be brought about between Tom and Jane or -Mary Boxall; in desiring which he thought he knew what he was about, -for he was Mr. Boxall's man of business.</p> - -<p>"I won't have you offend Mr. Boxall, anyhow," he concluded. "He is your -governor."</p> - -<p>The father had tact enough to substitute the clerk's pseudonym for the -obnoxious term.</p> - -<p>"Very well, sir; I suppose I must leave it to you," an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>swered Tom; and -they finished their breakfast without returning to the subject.</p> - -<p>When he reached the counting-house, Tom went at once to Mr. Boxall's -room, and made his apologies for being late again, on the ground that -his father had detained him while he wrote the letter he now handed to -him. Mr. Boxall glanced at the note.</p> - -<p>"I am very glad, Tom, that both your father and you have thought better -of it. Be punctual at seven."</p> - -<p>"Wife must put another leaf yet in the table," he said to himself, as -Thomas retired to his desk. "Thirteen's not lucky, though; but one is -sure to be absent."</p> - -<p>No one was absent, however, and number thirteen was the standing -subject of the jokes of the evening, especially as the thirteenth was -late, in the person of Mr. Wither, whom Mr. Boxall had invited out of -mere good nature; for he did not care much about introducing him to his -family, although his conduct in the counting-house was irreproachable. -Miss Worboise had been invited with her father and brother, but whether -she stayed at home to nurse her mother or to tease the curate, is of no -great importance to my history.</p> - -<p>The dinner was a good, well-contrived, rather antiquated dinner, -within the compass of the house itself; for Mrs. Boxall only pleased -her husband as often as she said that they were and would remain -old-fashioned people, and would have their own maids to prepare and -serve a dinner—"none of those men-cooks and undertakers to turn up -their noses at everything in the house!" But Tom abused the whole -affair within himself as nothing but a shop-dinner; for there was Mr. -Stopper, the head-clerk, looking as sour as a summons; and there was -Mr. Wither, a good enough fellow and gentleman-like, but still of the -shop; besides young Weston, of whom nobody could predicate any thing -in particular, save that he stood in such awe of Mr. Stopper, that he -missed the way to his mouth in taking stolen stares at him across the -table. Mr. Worboise sat at the hostess's left hand, and Mr. Stopper at -her right; Tom a little way from his father, with Mary Boxall, whom he -had taken down, beside him; and many were the underbrowed glances which -the head-clerk shot across the dishes at the couple.</p> - -<p>Mary was a very pretty, brown-haired, white-skinned, blue-eyed damsel, -whose charms lay in harmony of color, general roundness, the smallness -of her extremities, and her simple kind-heartedness. She was dressed in -white muslin, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> ribbons precisely the color of her eyes. Tom could -not help being pleased at having her beside him. She was not difficult -to entertain, for she was willing to be interested in anything; and -while Tom was telling her a story about a young lad in his class at -the Sunday-school, whom he had gone to see at his wretched home, those -sweet eyes filled with tears, and Mr. Stopper saw it, and choked in -his glass of sherry. Tom saw it too, and would have been more overcome -thereby, had it not been for reasons.</p> - -<p>Charles Wither, on the opposite side of the table, was neglecting his -own lady for the one at his other elbow, who was Jane Boxall—a fine, -regular-featured, dark-skinned young woman. They were watched with -stolen glances of some anxiety from both ends of the table, for neither -father nor mother cared much about Charles Wither, although the former -was too kind to omit inviting him to his house occasionally.</p> - -<p>After the ladies retired, the talk was about politics, the -money-market, and other subjects quite uninteresting to Tom, who, as I -have already said, was at this period of his history a reader of Byron, -and had therefore little sympathy with human pursuits except they took -some abnormal form—such as piracy, atheism, or the like—in the person -of one endowed with splendid faculties and gifts in general. So he -stole away from the table, and joined the ladies some time before the -others rose from their wine; not, however, before he had himself drunk -more than his gravity of demeanor was quite sufficient to ballast. He -found Mary turning over some music, and as he drew near he saw her -laying aside, in its turn, Byron's song, "She walks in beauty."</p> - -<p>"Oh! do you sing that song, Miss Mary?" he asked with <i>empressement</i>.</p> - -<p>"I have sung it several times," she answered; "but I am afraid I cannot -sing it well enough to please you. Are you fond of the song?"</p> - -<p>"I only know the words of it, and should so much like to hear you sing -it. I never heard it sung. <i>Do</i>, Miss Mary."</p> - -<p>"You will be indulgent, then?"</p> - -<p>"I shall have no chance of exercising that virtue, I know. There."</p> - -<p>He put the music on the piano as he spoke, and Mary, adjusting her -white skirts and her white shoulders, began to sing the song with -taste, and, what was more, with simplicity. Her voice was very pleasant -to the ears of Thomas, warbling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> one of the songs of the man whom, -against his conscience, he could not help regarding as the greatest he -knew. So much moved was he, that the signs of his emotion would have -been plainly seen had not the rest of the company, while listening -more or less to the song, been employing their eyes at the same time -with Jane's portfolio of drawings. All the time he had his eyes upon -her white shoulder: stooping to turn the last leaf from behind her, he -kissed it lightly. At the same moment the door opened, and Mr. Stopper -entered. Mary stopped singing, and rose with a face of crimson and the -timidest, slightest glance at Tom, whose face flushed up in response.</p> - -<p>It was a foolish action, possibly repented almost as soon as done. -Certainly, for the rest of the evening, Thomas sought no opportunity -of again approaching Mary. I do not doubt it was with some feeling of -relief that he heard his father say it was time for them to be going -home.</p> - -<p>None of the parents would have been displeased had they seen the little -passage between the young people. Neither was Mary offended at what had -occurred. While she sat singing, she knew that the face bending over -her was one of the handsomest—a face rather long and pale, of almost -pure Greek outline, with a high forehead, and dark eyes with a yet -darker fringe. Nor, although the reader must see that Tom had nothing -yet that could be called character, was his face therefore devoid of -expression; for he had plenty of feeling, and that will sometimes shine -out the more from the very absence of a <i>characteristic</i> meaning in -the countenance. Hence, when Mary felt the kiss, and glanced at the -face whence it had fallen, she read more in the face than there was -in it to read, and the touch of his lips went deeper than her white -shoulder. They were both young, and as yet mere electric jars charged -with emotions. Had they both continued such as they were now, there -could have been no story to tell about them; none such, at least, as -I should care to tell. They belonged to the common class of mortals -who, although they are weaving a history, are not aware of it, and in -whom the process goes on so slowly that the eye of the artist can find -in them no substance sufficient to be woven into a human creation in -tale or poem. How dull that life looks to him, with its ambitions, -its love-making, its dinners, its sermons, its tailors' bills, its -weariness over all—without end or goal save that toward which it is -driven purposeless! Not till a hope is born such that its fullfilment -depends upon the will of him who cherishes it, does a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> man begin to -develop the stuff out of which a tale can be wrought. For then he -begins to have a story of his own—it may be for good, it may be for -evil—but a story. Thomas's religion was no sign of this yet; for a man -can no more be saved by the mere reflex of parental influences than he -will be condemned by his inheritance of parental sins. I do not say -that there is no interest in the emotions of such young people; but I -say there is not reality enough in them to do anything with. They are -neither consistent nor persistent enough to be wrought into form. Such -are in the condition over which, in the miracle-play, Adam laments to -Eve after their expulsion from Paradise—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Oure hap was hard, <i>oure wytt was nesche</i> (<i>soft, tender</i>) To paradys -whan we were brought."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Mr. Boxall lived in an old-fashioned house in Hackney, with great rooms -and a large garden. Through the latter he went with Mr. Worboise and -Tom to let them out at a door in the wall, which would save them a few -hundred yards in going to the North London Railway. There were some -old trees in the garden, and much shrubbery. As he returned he heard -a rustle among the lilacs that crowded about a side-walk, and thought -he saw the shimmer of a white dress. When he entered the drawing-room, -his daughter Jane entered from the opposite door. He glanced round -the room: Mr. Wither was gone. This made Mr. Boxall suspicious and -restless; for, as I have said, he had not confidence in Mr. Wither. -Though punctual and attentive to business, he was convinced that he -was inclined to be a fast man; and he strongly suspected him of being -concerned in betting transactions of different sorts, which are an -abomination to the man of true business associations and habits.</p> - -<p>Mr. Worboise left the house in comfortable spirits, for Providence had -been propitious to him for some months past, and it mattered nothing -to him whether or how the wind blew. But it blew from the damp west -cold and grateful upon Thomas's brow. The immediate influence of the -wine he had drunk had gone off, and its effects remained in discomfort -and doubt. Had he got himself into a scrape with Mary Boxall? He had -said nothing to her. He had not committed himself to anything. And the -wind blew cooler and more refreshing upon his forehead. And then came -a glow of pleasure as he recalled her blush and the glance she had -so timidly lifted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> toward his lordly face. That was something to be -proud of! Certainly he was one whom women—I suppose he said <i>girls</i> -to himself—were ready to—yes—to fall in love with. Proud position! -Enviable destiny! Before he reached home the wind had blown away every -atom of remorse with the sickly fumes of the wine; and although he -resolved to be careful how he behaved to Mary Boxall in future, he -hugged his own handsome idea in the thought that she felt his presence, -and was—just a little—not dangerously—but really a little in love -with him.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER IV.</p> - -<p class="center">GUILD COURT.</p> - - -<p>The office was closed, the shutters were up in the old-fashioned way on -the outside, the lights extinguished, and Mr. Stopper, who was always -the last to leave, was gone. The narrow street looked very dreary, -for most of its windows were similarly covered. The shutters, the -pavements, the kennels, everything shone and darkened by fits. For it -was a blowing night, with intermittent showers, and everything was wet, -and reflected the gaslights in turn, which the wind teased into all -angles of relation with neighboring objects, tossing them about like -flowers ready at any moment to be blown from their stems. Great masses -of gray went sweeping over the narrow section of the sky that could be -seen from the pavement.</p> - -<p>Now and then the moon gleamed out for one moment and no more, swallowed -the next by a mile of floating rain, dusky and shapeless. Fighting now -with a fierce gust, and now limping along in comparative quiet, with a -cotton umbrella for a staff, an old woman passed the office, glanced up -at the shuttered windows, and, after walking a short distance, turned -into a paved archway, and then going along a narrow passage, reached a -small paved square, called Guild Court. Here she took from her pocket -a latch-key, and opening a door much in want of paint, but otherwise -in good condition, entered, and ascended a broad, dusky stair-case, -with great landings, whence each ascent rose at right angles to the -preceding. The dim light of the tallow candle, which she had left in -a corner of the stair-case as she descended, and now took up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> with -her again, was sufficient to show that the balusters were turned and -carved, and the hand-rail on the top of them broad and channeled. When -she reached the first floor, she went along a passage, and at the end -of it opened a door. A cheerful fire burned at the other end of a large -room, and by the side of the fire sat a girl, gazing so intently into -the glowing coals, that she seemed unaware of the old woman's entrance. -When she spoke to her, she started and rose.</p> - -<p>"So you're come home, Lucy, and searching the fire for a wishing-cap, -as usual!" said the old lady, cheerily.</p> - -<p>The girl did not reply, and she resumed, with a little change of tone—</p> - -<p>"I do declare, child, I'll never let him cross the door again, if it -drives you into the dumps that way. Take heart of grace, my girl; -you're good enough for him any day, though he be a fine gentleman. He's -no better gentleman than my son, anyhow, though he's more of a buck."</p> - -<p>Lucy moved about a little uneasily; turned to the high mantel-piece, -took up some trifle and played with it nervously, set it down with a -light sigh, the lightness of which was probably affected; went across -the room to a chest of drawers, in doing which she turned her back on -the old woman; and then only replied, in a low pleasant voice, which -wavered a little, as if a good cry were not far off—</p> - -<p>"I'm sure, grannie, you're always kind to him when he comes."</p> - -<p>"I'm civil to him, child. Who could help it? Such a fine, handsome -fellow! And has got very winning ways with him, too! That's the -mischief of it! I always had a soft heart to a frank face. A body would -think I wasn't a bit wiser than the day I was born."</p> - -<p>And she laughed a toothless old laugh which must once have been very -pleasant to her husband to hear, and indeed was pleasant to hear now. -By this time she had got her black bonnet off, revealing a widow's -cap, with gray hair neatly arranged down the sides of a very wrinkled -old face. Indeed the wrinkles were innumerable, so that her cheeks -and forehead looked as if they had been crimped with a penknife, like -a piece of fine cambric frill. But there was not one deep rut in her -forehead or cheek. Care seemed to have had nothing at all to do with -this condition of them.</p> - -<p>"Well, grannie, why should you be so cross with me for liking him, when -you like him just as much yourself?" said Lucy, archly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Cross with you, child! I'm not cross with you, and you know that quite -well. You know I never could be cross with you even if I ought to be. -And I didn't ought now, I'm sure. But I <i>am</i> cross with him; for he -can't be behaving right to you when your sweet face looks like that."</p> - -<p>"Now don't, grannie, else I shall have to be cross with you. Don't say a -word against him. Don't now, dear grannie, or you and I shall quarrel, -and that would break my heart."</p> - -<p>"Bless the child! I'm not saying a word for or against him. I'm afraid -you're a great deal too fond of him, Lucy. What hold have you on him -now?"</p> - -<p>"What hold, granny!" exclaimed Lucy, indignantly. "Do you think if -I were going to be married to him to-morrow, and he never came to -the church—do you think I would lift that bonnet to hold him to it? -Indeed, then, I wouldn't."</p> - -<p>And Lucy did not cry, but she turned her back on her grandmother as if -she would rather her face should not be seen.</p> - -<p>"What makes you out of sorts, to-night, then, lovey?"</p> - -<p>Lucy made no reply, but moved hastily to the window, made the smallest -possible chink between the blind and the window-frame, and peeped out -into the court. She had heard a footstep which she knew; and now she -glided, quiet and swift as a ghost, out of the room, closing the door -behind her.</p> - -<p>"I wonder when it will come to an end. Always the same thing over -again, I suppose, to the last of the world. It's no use telling them -what <i>we</i> know. It won't make one of them young things the wiser. -The first man that looks at them turns the head of them. And I must -confess, if I was young again myself, and hearkening for my John's foot -in the court, I might hobble—no, not hobble then, but run down the -stairs like Lucy there, to open the door for him. But then John was a -good one; and there's few o' them like him now, I doubt."</p> - -<p>Something like this, I venture to imagine, was passing through the -old woman's mind when the room door opened again, and Lucy entered -with Thomas Worboise. Her face was shining like a summer now, and a -conscious pride sat on the forehead of the young man which made him -look far nobler than he has yet shown himself to my reader. The last of -a sentence came into the room with him.</p> - -<p>"So you see, Lucy, I could not help it. My father—How do you do you -do, Mrs. Boxall? What a blowing night it is!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> But you have a kind of -swallow's nest here, for hardly a breath gets into the court when our -windows down below in the counting-house are shaking themselves to -bits."</p> - -<p>It was hardly a room to compare to a swallow's nest. It was a -very large room indeed. The floor, which was dark with age, was -uncarpeted, save just before the fire, which blazed brilliantly in -a small kitchen-range, curiously contrasting with the tall, carved -chimney-piece above it. The ceiling corresponded in style, for it was -covered with ornaments—</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All made out of the carver's brain.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>And the room was strangely furnished. The high oak settle of a -farm-house stood back against the wall not far from the fire, and a -few feet from it a tall, old-fashioned piano, which bore the name -of Broadwood under the cover. At the side of the room farthest from -the fire stood one of those chests of drawers, on which the sloping -lid at the top left just room for a glass-doored book-case to stand, -rivaling the piano in hight. Then there was a sofa, covered with chintz -plentifully besprinkled with rose-buds; and in the middle of the room -a square mahogany table, called by upholsterers a <i>pembroke</i>, I think, -the color of which was all but black with age and manipulation, only -it could not be seen now because it was covered with a check of red -and blue. A few mahogany chairs, seated with horse hair, a fire-screen -in faded red silk, a wooden footstool and a tall backed easy-chair, -covered with striped stuff, almost completed the furniture of the -nondescript apartment.</p> - -<p>Thomas Worboise carried a chair to the fire, and put his feet on the -broad-barred bright kitchen fender in front of it.</p> - -<p>"Are your feet wet, Thomas?" asked Lucy with some gentle anxiety, and a -tremor upon his name, as if she had not yet got quite used to saying it -without a <i>Mr.</i> before it.</p> - -<p>"Oh no, thank you. I don't mind a little wet. Hark how the wind blows -in the old chimney up there! It'll be an awkward night on the west -coast, this. I wonder what it feels like to be driving right on the -rocks at the Land's End, or some such place."</p> - -<p>"Don't talk of such things in that cool way, Mr. Thomas. You make my -blood run cold," said Mrs. Boxall.</p> - -<p>"He doesn't mean it, you know, grannie," said Lucy meditating.</p> - -<p>"But I do mean it. I should like to know how it feels,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> persisted -Thomas—"with the very shrouds, as taut as steel bars, blowing out in -the hiss of the nor'wester."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I dare say!" returned the old lady, with some indignation. "You -would like to know how it felt so long as your muddy boots was on my -clean fender!"</p> - -<p>Thomas did not know that the old lady had lost one son at sea, and had -another the captain of a sailing-vessel, or he would not have spoken -as he did. But he was always wanting to know how things felt. Had not -his education rendered it impossible for him to see into the state of -his own mind, he might, questioned as to what he considered the ideal -of life, have replied, "A continuous succession of delicate and poetic -sensations." Hence he had made many a frantic effort after religious -sensations. But the necessity of these was now somewhat superseded by -his growing attachment to Lucy, and the sensations consequent upon that.</p> - -<p>Up to this moment, in his carriage and speech, he had been remarkably -different from himself, as already shown in my history. For he was, or -thought himself, somebody here; and there was a freedom and ease about -his manner, amounting, in fact, to a slight though not disagreeable -swagger, which presented him to far more advantage than he had in -the presence of his father and mother, or even of Mr. Boxall and -Mr. Stopper. But he never could bear any one to be displeased with -him except he were angry himself. So when Mrs. Boxall spoke as she -did, his countenance fell. He instantly removed his feet from the -fender, glanced up at her face, saw that she was really indignant, -and, missing the real reason of course, supposed that it was because -he had been indiscreet in being disrespectful to a cherished article -of housewifely. It was quite characteristic of Tom that he instantly -pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, and began therewith to restore -the brightness of the desecrated iron. This went at once to the old -lady's heart. She snatched the handkerchief out of his hand.</p> - -<p>"Come, come, Mr. Thomas. Don't ye mind an old woman like that. To think -of using your handkerchief that way! And cambric too!"</p> - -<p>Thomas looked up in surprise, and straightway recovered his behavior.</p> - -<p>"I didn't think of your fender," he said.</p> - -<p>"Oh, drat the fender!" exclaimed Mrs. Boxall, with more energy than -refinement.</p> - -<p>And so the matter dropped, and all sat silent for a few mo<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>ments, Mrs. -Boxall with her knitting, and Tom and Lucy beside each other with their -thoughts. Lucy presently returned to their talk on the stair-case.</p> - -<p>"So you were out at dinner on Wednesday, Thomas?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. It was a great bore, but I had to go.—Boxall's, you know. I beg -your pardon, Mrs. Boxall; but that's how fellows like me talk, you -know. I should have said Mr. Boxall. And I didn't mean that he was a -bore. That he is not, though he is a little particular—of course. I -only meant it was a bore to go there when I wanted to come here."</p> - -<p>"Is my cousin Mary <i>very</i> pretty?" asked Lucy, with a meaning in her -tone which Thomas easily enough understood.</p> - -<p>He could not help blushing, for he remembered, as well he might. And -she could not help seeing, for she had eyes, very large ones, and at -least as loving as they were large.</p> - -<p>"Yes, she is very pretty," answered Thomas; "but not nearly so pretty -as you, Lucy."</p> - -<p>Thomas, then, was not stupid, although my reader will see that he was -weak enough. And Lucy was more than half satisfied, though she did not -half like that blush. But Thomas himself did not like either the blush -or its cause. And poor Lucy knew nothing of either, only meditated upon -another blush, quite like this as far as appearance went, but with a -different heart to it.</p> - -<p>Thomas did not stop more than half an hour. When he left, instead -of walking straight out of Guild Court by the narrow paved passage, -he crossed to the opposite side of the court, opened the door of a -more ancient-looking house, and entered. Reappearing—that is, to the -watchful eyes of Lucy man[oe]uvring with the window-blind—after about -two minutes, he walked home to Highbury, and told his mother that he -had come straight from his German master, who gave him hopes of being -able, before many months should have passed, to write a business letter -in intelligible German.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER V.</p> - -<p class="center">MORE ABOUT GUILD COURT.</p> - - -<p>Mrs. Boxall was the mother of Richard Boxall, the "governor" of -Thomas Worboise. Her John had been the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> possessor of a small landed -property, which he farmed himself, and upon which they brought up a -family of three sons and one daughter, of whom Richard was the eldest, -and the daughter Lucy the youngest. None of the sons showed the least -inclination to follow the plow or take any relation more or less -dignified toward the cultivation of the ancestral acres. This aversion, -when manifested by Richard, occasioned his father considerable -annoyance, but he did not oppose his desire to go into business instead -of farming; for he had found out by this time that he had perpetuated -in his sons a certain family doggedness which he had inherited from one -ancestor at least—an obstinacy which had never yet been overcome by -any argument, however good. He yielded to the inevitable, and placed -him in a merchant's office in London, where Richard soon made himself -of importance. When his second son showed the same dislike to draw -his livelihood directly from the bosom of the earth, and revealed a -distinct preference for the rival element, with which he had made some -acquaintance when at school at a sea-port at no great distance from his -home, old John Boxall was still more troubled, but gave his consent—a -consent which was, however, merely a gloomy negation of resistance. The -cheerfulness of his wife was a great support to him under what he felt -as a slight to himself and the whole race of Boxalls; but he began, -notwithstanding, to look upon his beloved fields with a jaundiced eye, -and the older he grew the more they reminded him of the degenerate -tastes and heartlessness of his boys. When he discovered, a few years -after, that his daughter had pledged herself, still in his eyes a mere -child, to a music-master who visited her professionally from the next -town, he flew at last into a terrible rage, which was not appeased by -the girl's elopement and marriage. He never saw her again. Her mother, -however, was not long in opening a communication with her, and it was -to her that Edward, the youngest son, fled upon occasion of a quarrel -with his father, whose temper had now become violent as well as morose. -He followed his second brother's example, and went to sea. Still the -mother's cheerfulness was little abated; for, as she said to herself, -she had no reason to be ashamed of her children. None of them had done -any thing they had to be ashamed of, and why should she be vexed? She -had no idea Lucy had so much spirit in her. And if it were not for the -old man, who was surely over-fond of those fields of his, she could -hold up her head with the best of them; for there was Dick—such a -gentleman to be sure! and John, third mate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> already! and Cecil Burton -sought after in London, to give his lessons, as if he were one of the -old masters! The only thing was that the wind blew harder at night -since Ned went to sea; and a boy was in more danger than a grown man -and a third mate like John.</p> - -<p>And so it proved; for one night when the wind blew a new hay-rick of -his father's across three parishes, it blew Edward's body ashore on the -west coast.</p> - -<p>Soon after this a neighboring earl, who had the year before paid off -a mortgage on his lands, proceeded in natural process to enlarge his -borders; and while there was plenty that had formerly belonged to the -family to repurchase, somehow or another took it into his head to begin -with what might seem more difficult of attainment. But John Boxall -was willing enough to part with his small patrimony—for he was sick -of it—provided he had a good sum of ready money, and the house with -its garden and a paddock, by way of luck-penny, secured to him for his -own life and that of his wife. This was easily arranged. But the late -yeoman moped more than ever, and died within a twelvemonth, leaving his -money to his wife. As soon as he was laid in his natural inheritance -of land cubical, his wife went up to London to her son Richard, who -was by this time the chief manager of the business of Messrs. Blunt & -Baker. To him she handed over her money to use for the advantage of -both. Paying her a handsome percentage, he invested it in a partnership -in the firm, and with this fresh excitement to his energies, soon -became, influentially, the principal man in the company. The two other -partners were both old men, and neither had a son or near relative -whom he might have trained to fill his place. So in the course of a -few years, they, speaking commercially, fell asleep, and in the course -of a few more, departed this life, commercially and otherwise. It was -somewhat strange, however, that all this time Richard Boxall had given -his mother no written acknowledgment of the money she had lent him, -and which had been the foundation of his fortune. A man's faults are -sometimes the simple reverses of his virtues, and not the results of -his vices.</p> - -<p>When his mother came first to London, he had of course taken her -home to his house and introduced her to his wife, who was a kind -and even warm-hearted woman. But partly from prudence, partly from -habit, Mrs. Boxall, senior, would not consent to become the permanent -guest of Mrs. Boxall, junior, and insisted on taking a lodging in the -neighborhood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> It was not long, however, before she left the first, -and betook herself to a second; nor long again before she left the -second, and betook herself to a third. For her nature was like a -fresh, bracing wind, which, when admitted within the precincts of a -hot-house, where everything save the fire is neglected, proves a most -unwelcome presence, yea, a dire dismay. Indeed, admirably as she had -managed and borne with her own family, Mrs. Boxall was quite unfit to -come into such habitual contact with another household as followed from -her occupying a part of the same dwelling. Her faith in what she had -tried with success herself, and her repugnance to whatever she had not -been accustomed to, were such that her troublesomeness when she became -familiar, was equal to the good nature which at first so strongly -recommended her. Hence her changes of residence were frequent.</p> - -<p>Up to the time when he became a sleeping partner, Mr. Blunt had -resided in Guild Court—that is, the house door was in the court, -while the lower part of the house, forming the offices of the firm, -was entered from what was properly a lane, though it was called Bagot -Street. As soon as mother and son heard that Mr. Blunt had at length -bought a house in the country, the same thought arose in the mind of -each—might not Mrs. Boxall go and live there? The house belonged to -the firm, and they could not well let it, for there was more than -one available connection between the two portions of the building, -although only one had lately been in use, a door, namely, by which Mr. -Blunt used to pass immediately from the glass-partitioned part of the -counting-house to the foot of the oak stair-case already described; -while they used two of the rooms in the house as places of deposit for -old books and papers, for which there was no possible accommodation -in the part devoted to active business. Hence nothing better could be -devised than that Mrs. Boxall, senior, should take up her abode in the -habitable region. This she made haste to do, accompanied by a young -servant. With her she soon quarreled, however, and thereafter relied -upon the ministrations of a charwoman. The door between the house and -the counting-house was now locked, and the key of it so seldom taken -from the drawer of Mr. Boxall, that it came to be regarded almost as a -portion of the wall. So much for the inner connection of Guild Court -and Bagot Street.</p> - -<p>Some years after Mrs. Boxall removed to London, Mr. Burton, the -music-master, died. They had lived from hand to mouth, as so many -families of uncertain income are compelled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> to do, and his unexpected -death left his wife and child without the means of procuring immediate -necessities. Inheriting the narrowness and prejudices of his descent -and of his social position to a considerable degree, Mr. Boxall -had never come to regard his sister's match with a music-master as -other than a degradation to the family, and had, in his best humors, -never got further in the humanities of the kingdom of heaven, than -to patronize his brother-in-law; though if size and quality go for -anything in existence itself, as they do in all its accidents, Richard -Boxall was scarcely comparable, honest and just man as he was, to Cecil -Burton; who, however, except that he was the father of Lucy, and so -in some measure accounts for her, is below the western horizon of our -story, and therefore need scarcely be alluded to again. This behavior -of her brother was more galling to Mrs. Burton than to her husband, who -smiled down any allusion to it; and when she was compelled to accept -Richard's kindness in the shape of money, upon the death of Mr. Burton, -it was with a bitterness of feeling which showed itself plainly enough -to wound the self-love of the consciously benevolent man of business. -But from the first there had been the friendliest relations between the -mother and daughter, and as it was only from her determination to avoid -all ground of misunderstanding, that Mrs. Boxall had not consented -to take up her abode with the Burtons. Consequently, after the death -of Mr. Burton, the mother drew yet closer to the daughter, while the -breach between brother and sister was widened.</p> - -<p>Two years after the death of her husband, Mrs. Burton followed him. -Then Mrs. Boxall took her grandchild Lucy home to Guild Court, and -between the two there never arose the question of which should be -the greater. It often happens that even a severe mother becomes -an indulgent grandmother, partly from the softening and mellowing -influences of time, partly from increase of confidence in child-nature -generally, and perhaps also, in part, from a diminished sense or -responsibility in regard to a child not immediately her own. Hence -grandparents who have brought up their own children well are in danger -of spoiling severely those of their sons and daughters. And such might -have been the case with Mrs. Boxall and Lucy, had Lucy been of a more -spoilable nature. But she had no idea of how much she had her own way, -nor would it have made any difference to her if she had known it. -There was a certain wonderful delicacy of moral touch about her in the -discrimination of what was becoming, as well<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> as of what was right, -which resulted in a freedom the legalist of society would have called -boldness, and a restraint which the same judge would have designated -particularity; for Lucy's ways were not, and could not be, her ways, -the one fearing and obeying, as she best could, existing laws hard -to interpret, the other being a law unto herself. The harmonies of -the music by which, from her earliest childhood, her growing brain -had been interpenetrated, had, by her sweet will, been transformed -into harmonies of thought, feeling, and action. She was not clever, -but then she did not think she was clever, and therefore it was of no -consequence; for she was not dependent upon her intellect for those -judgments which alone are of importance in the reality of things, and -in which clever people are just as likely to go wrong as any other -body. She had a great gift in music—a gift which Thomas Worboise <i>had -never yet discovered</i>, and which, at this period of his history, he -was incapable of discovering, for he had not got beyond the toffee -of the drawing-room sentiment—the song which must be sent forth to -the universe from the pedestal of ivory shoulders. But two lines of -a ballad from Lucy Barton were worth all the music, "She walks in -beauty," included, that Mary Boxall could sing or play.</p> - -<p>Lucy had not seen her cousins for years. Her uncle Richard, though -incapable of being other than satisfied that the orphan should be -an inmate of the house in Guild Court, could not, or at least did -not, forget the mildly defiant look with which she retreated from -his outstretched hand, and took her place beside her mother, on the -sole occasion on which he called upon his sister after her husband's -death. She had heard remarks—and being her mother's, she could not -question the justice of them. Hence she had not once, since she had -taken up her abode with her grandmother, been invited to visit her -cousins; and there was no affectation, but in truth a little anxiety, -in the question she asked Thomas Worboise about Mary Boxall's beauty. -But, indeed, had she given her uncle no such offense, I have every -reason to believe that her society would not have been much courted by -his family. When the good among rich relations can be loving without -condescension, and the good among poor relations can make sufficient -allowance for the rich, then the kingdom of heaven will be nigh at -hand. Mr. Boxall shook hands with his niece when he met her, asked her -after his mother, and passed on.</p> - -<p>But Lucy was not dependent on her uncle, scarcely on her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> grandmother, -even. Before her mother's death, almost child as she still was, she had -begun to give lessons in music to a younger child than herself, the -daughter of one of her father's favorite pupils, who had married a rich -merchant; and these lessons she continued. She was a favorite with the -family, who were Jews, living in one of the older quarters of the west -end of London; and they paid her handsomely, her age and experience -taken into account. Every morning, except Saturday, she went by the -underground railway to give an hour's lesson to Miriam Morgenstern, a -gorgeous little eastern, whom her parents had no right to dress in such -foggy colors as she wore.</p> - -<p>Now a long farewell to preliminaries.</p> - -<p>Lucy was just leaving her home one morning to go to her pupil, and had -turned into the flagged passage which led from the archway into the -court, when she met a little girl of her acquaintance, whom, with her -help, I shall now present to my readers. She was a child of eight, -but very small for her age. Her hair was neatly parted and brushed -on each side of a large, smooth forehead, projecting over quiet eyes -of blue, made yet quieter by the shadow of those brows. The rest of -her face was very diminutive. A soberness as of complete womanhood, -tried and chastened, lay upon her. She looked as if she had pondered -upon life and its goal, and had made up her little mind to meet its -troubles with patience. She was dressed in a cotton frock printed with -blue rose-buds, faded by many waters and much soap. When she spoke, -she used only one side of her mouth for the purpose, and then the -old-fashionedness of her look rose almost to the antique, so that you -could have fancied her one of the time-belated <i>good people</i> that, -leaving the green forest-rings, had wandered into the city and become a -Christian at a hundred years of age.</p> - -<p>"Well, Mattie," said Lucy, "how are you this morning?"</p> - -<p>"I am quite well, I thank you, miss," answered Mattie. "I don't call -this morning. The church clock struck eleven five minutes ago."</p> - -<p>This was uttered with a smile from the half of her mouth which seemed -to say, "I know you want to have a little fun with me by using wrong -names for things because I am a little girl, and little girls can be -taken in; but it is of no use with me, though I can enjoy the joke of -it."</p> - -<p>Lucy smiled too, but not much, for she knew the child.</p> - -<p>"What do you call the morning, then, Mattie?" she asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well,"—she almost always began her sentences with a <i>Well</i>—"I call -it morning before the sun is up."</p> - -<p>"But how do you know when the sun is up? London is so foggy, you know, -Mattie."</p> - -<p>"Is it? I didn't know. Are there places without fog, miss?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes; many."</p> - -<p>"Well, about the sun. I always know what <i>he's</i> about, miss. I've got a -almanac."</p> - -<p>"But you don't understand the almanac, do you?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't mean to say I understand all about it, but I always know -what time the sun rises and goes to bed, you know."</p> - -<p>Lucy had found she was rather early for the train, and from where she -stood she could see the clock of St. Jacob's, which happened to be a -reliable one. Therefore she went on to amuse herself with the child.</p> - -<p>"But how is it that we don't see him, if he gets up when the almanac -says, Mattie?"</p> - -<p>"Well, you see, miss, he sleeps in a crib. And the sides of it are -houses and churches, and St. Paulses, and the likes of that."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes; but some days we see him, and others we don't. We don't see -him to-day, now."</p> - -<p>"Well, miss, I dare say he's cross some mornings, and keeps the -blankets about him after he's got his head up."</p> - -<p>Lucy could not help thinking of Milton's line—for of the few poems she -knew, one was the "Ode on the Nativity"—</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">So, when the Sun in bed,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Curtain'd with cloudy red,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Pillows his chin upon an orient wave</i>.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>But the child laughed so queerly, that it was impossible to tell -whether or how much those were her real ideas about the sunrise.</p> - -<p>"How is your father?" Lucy asked.</p> - -<p>"Do you mean my father or my mother?"</p> - -<p>"I mean your father, of course, when I say so."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but I have a mother, too."</p> - -<p>Lucy let her have her way, for she did not quite understand her. Only -she knew that the child's mother had died two or three years ago.</p> - -<p>"Well," resumed the child, "my father is quite well, thank<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> God; and so -is my mother. There he is, looking down at us."</p> - -<p>"Who do you mean, Mattie?" asked Lucy, now bewildered.</p> - -<p>"Well, my mother," answered the child, with a still odder half smile.</p> - -<p>Lucy looked up, and saw—but a little description is necessary. -They were standing, as I have said already, in the flagged passage -which led to, and post-officially considered, formed part of Guild -Court. The archway from Bagot Street into this passage was as it were -tunneled through a house facing the street, and from this house a -wall, stretching inward to the first house in the court proper, formed -one side of the passage. About the middle, this wall broke into two -workshops, the smallest and strangest ever seen out of the east. There -was no roof visible—that lay behind the curtain-wall; but from top -to bottom of the wall, a hight of about nine feet, there was glass, -divided in the middle so as to form two windows, one above the other. -So likewise on the right-hand side of the glass were two doors, or -hatches, one above the other. The tenement looked as if the smallest -of rooms had been divided into two horizontally by a floor in the -middle, thus forming two cells, which could not have been more than -five feet by four, and four feet in hight. In the lower, however, a -little hight had been gained by sinking the floor, to which a single -step led down. In this under cell a cobbler sat, hammering away at his -lap-stone—a little man, else he could hardly have sat there, or even -got in without discomfort. Every now and then he glanced up at the girl -and the child, but never omitted a blow in consequence. Over his head, -on the thin floor between, sat a still smaller man, cross-legged like a -Turk, busily "plying his needle and thread." His hair, which standing -straight up gave a look of terror to his thin, pale countenance, almost -touched the roof. It was the only luxuriance about him. As plants run -to seed, he seemed to have run to hair. A calm, keen eye underneath -its towering forest, revealed observation and peacefulness. He, too, -occasionally looked from his work, but only in the act of drawing the -horizontal thread, when his eyes had momentary furlough, moving in -alternate oscillation with his hand. At the moment when the child said -so, he was looking down in a pause in which he seemed for the moment to -have forgotten his work in his interest in the pair below. He might be -forty, or fifty or sixty—no one could tell which.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> - -<p>Lucy looked up, and said, "That is Mr. Spelt; that is not your mother."</p> - -<p>"Well, but I call him my mother. I can't have two fathers, you know. So -I call Mr. Spelt my mother; and so he is."</p> - -<p>Here she looked up and smiled knowingly to the little tailor, who, -leaning forward to the window, through which, reaching from roof to -floor of his cage, his whole form was visible, nodded friendlily to the -little girl in acknowledgment of her greeting. But it was now time for -Lucy to go.</p> - -<p>As soon as she had disappeared beyond the archway, Mattie turned toward -the workshops. Mr. Spelt saw her coming, and before she had reached -them, the upper half of the door was open, and he was stretching down -his arms to lift her across the shoemaking region, into his own more -celestial realm of tailoring. In a moment she was sitting in the -farthest and snuggest corner, not cross-legged, but with her feet -invisible in a heap of cuttings, from which she was choosing what she -would—always with a reference to Mr. Spelt—for the dressing of a -boy-doll which he had given her.</p> - -<p>This was a very usual proceeding—so much so that Mattie and the tailor -sat for nearly an hour without a word passing between them beyond what -sprung from the constructive exigencies of the child. Neither of them -was given to much utterance, though each had something of the peculiar -gift of the Ancient Mariner, namely, "strange power of speech." They -would sit together sometimes for half a day without saying a word; and -then again there would be an oasis of the strangest conversation in -the desert of their silence—a bad simile, for their silence must have -been a thoughtful one to blossom into such speech. But the first words -Mattie uttered on this occasion, were of a somewhat mundane character. -She heard a footstep pass below. She was too far back in the cell to -see who it was, and she did not lift her eyes from her work.</p> - -<p>"When the cat's away, the mice will play," she said.</p> - -<p>"What are you thinking about, Mattie?" asked the tailor.</p> - -<p>"Well, wasn't that Mr. Worboise that passed? Mr. Boxall must be out. -But he needn't go there, for somebody's always out this time o' day."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean, Mattie?" again asked the tailor.</p> - -<p>"Well, perhaps you don't understand such things, Mr. Spelt, not being a -married man."</p> - -<p>Poor Mr. Spelt had had a wife who had killed herself by drinking all -his earnings; but perhaps Mattie knew nothing about that.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No more I am. You must explain it to me."</p> - -<p>"Well, you see, young people will be young people."</p> - -<p>"Who told you that?"</p> - -<p>"Old Mrs. Boxall says so. And that's why Mr. Worboise goes to see Miss -Burton, <i>I</i> know. I told you so," she added, as she heard his step -returning. But Thomas bore a huge ledger under his arm, for which Mr. -Stopper had sent him round to the court. Very likely, however, had Lucy -been at home, he might have laid a few minutes more to the account of -the errand.</p> - -<p>"So, so!" said the tailor. "That's it, is it, Mattie?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; but we don't <i>say</i> anything about such things, you know."</p> - -<p>"Oh, of course not," answered Mr. Spelt; and the conversation ceased.</p> - -<p>After a long pause, the child spoke again.</p> - -<p>"Is God good to you to-day, mother?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mattie. God is always good to us."</p> - -<p>"But he's better some days than others, isn't he?"</p> - -<p>To this question the tailor did not know what to reply, and therefore, -like a wise man, did not make the attempt. He asked her instead, as he -had often occasion to do with Mattie, what she meant.</p> - -<p>"Don't you know what I mean, mother? Don't you know God's better to us -some days than others? Yes; and he's better to some people than he is -to others."</p> - -<p>"I am sure he's always good to you and me, Mattie."</p> - -<p>"Well, yes; generally."</p> - -<p>"Why don't you say <i>always</i>?"</p> - -<p>"Because I'm not sure about it. Now to-day it's all very well. But -yesterday the sun shone in the window a whole hour."</p> - -<p>"And I drew down the blind to shut it out," said Mr. Spelt, -thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>"Well," Mattie went on, without heeding her friend's remark, "he -<i>could</i> make the sun shine every day, if he liked.—I <i>suppose</i> he -could," she added, doubtfully.</p> - -<p>"I don't think we should like it, if he did," returned Mr. Spelt, "for -the drain down below smells bad in the hot weather."</p> - -<p>"But the rain might come—at night, I mean, not in the day-time, and -wash them all out. Mightn't it, mother?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; but the heat makes people ill. And if you had such hot weather as -they have in some parts, as I am told, you would be glad enough of a -day like this."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, why haven't they a day like this, when they want it?"</p> - -<p>"God knows," said Mr. Spelt, whose magazine was nearly exhausted, and -the enemy pressing on vigorously.</p> - -<p>"Well, that's what I say. God knows, and why doesn't he help it?"</p> - -<p>And Mr. Spelt surrendered, if silence was surrender. Mattie did not -press her advantage, however, and the besieged plucked up heart a -little.</p> - -<p>"I fancy perhaps, Mattie, he leaves something for us to do. You know -they cut out the slop-work at the shop, and I can't do much more with -that but put the pieces together. But when a repairing job comes in, I -can contrive a bit then, and I like that better."</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt's meaning was not very clear, either to himself or to Mattie. -But it involved the shadow of a great truth—that all the discords -we hear in the universe around us, are God's trumpets sounding a -<i>réveillé</i> to the sleeping human will, which once working harmoniously -with his, will soon bring all things into a pure and healthy rectitude -of operation. Till a man has learned to be happy without the sunshine, -and therein becomes capable of enjoying it perfectly, it is well that -the shine and the shadow should be mingled, so as God only knows how to -mingle them. To effect the blessedness for which God made him, man must -become a fellow-worker with God.</p> - -<p>After a little while Mattie resumed operations.</p> - -<p>"But you can't say, mother, that God isn't better to some people than -to other people. He's surely gooder to you and me than he is to Poppie."</p> - -<p>"Who's Poppie?" asked Mr. Spelt, sending out a flag of negotiation.</p> - -<p>"Well, there she is—down in the gutter, I suppose, as usual," answered -Mattie, without lifting her eyes.</p> - -<p>The tailor peeped out of his house-front, and saw a barefooted child in -the court below. What she was like I shall take a better opportunity -of informing my reader. For at this moment the sound of strong nails -tapping sharply reached the ear of Mr. Spelt and his friend. The sound -came from a window just over the archway, hence at right angles to Mr. -Spelt's workshop. It was very dingy with dust and smoke, allowing only -the outline of a man's figure to be seen from the court. This much -Poppie saw, and taking the tapping to be intended for her, fled from -the court on soundless feet. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> Mattie rose at once from her corner, -and, laying aside cuttings and doll, stuck her needle and thread -carefully in the bosom of her frock, saying:</p> - -<p>"That's my father a-wanting of me. I wonder what he wants now. I'm sure -I don't know how he would get on without <i>me</i>. And that <i>is</i> a comfort. -Poor man! he misses my mother more than I do, I believe. He's always -after me. Well, I'll see you again in the afternoon if I can. And, if -not, you may expect me about the same hour to-morrow."</p> - -<p>While she thus spoke she was let down from the not very airy hight -of the workshop on to the firm pavement below; the tailor stretching -his arms with her from above, like a bird of prey with a lamb in his -talons. The last words she spoke from the ground, her head thrown back -between her shoulders that she might look the tailor in the face, who -was stooping over her like an angel from a cloud in the family Bible.</p> - -<p>"Very well, Mattie," returned Mr. Spelt; "you know your own corner well -enough by this time, I should think."</p> - -<p>So saying, he drew himself carefully into his shell, for the place -was hardly more, except that he could just work without having to get -outside of it first. A soft half smile glimmered on his face; for -although he was so used to Mattie's old-fashioned ways, that they -scarcely appeared strange to him now, the questions that she raised -were food for the little tailor's meditation—all day long, upon -occasion. For some tailors are given to thinking, and when they are -they have good opportunity of indulging their inclinations. And it is -wonderful what a tailor's thinking may come to, especially if he reads -his New Testament. Now, strange perhaps to tell, though Mr. Spelt never -went to church, he did read his New Testament. And the little tailor -was a living soul. He was one of those few who seem to be born with -a certain law of order in themselves, a certain tidiness of mind, as -it were, which would gladly see all the rooms or regions of thought -swept and arranged; and not only makes them orderly, but prompts them -to search after the order of the universe. They would gladly believe -in the harmony of things; and although the questions they feel the -necessity of answering take the crudest forms and the most limited -and individual application, they yet are sure to have something to do -with the laws that govern the world. Hence it was that the partial -misfit of a pair of moleskin or fustian trowsers—for seldom did his -originality find nobler material to exercise itself upon—would make -him quite miserable, even though the navvy or dock-laborer might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> be -perfectly satisfied with the result, and ready to pay the money for -them willingly. But it was seldom, too, that he had even such a chance -of indulging in the creative element of the tailor's calling, though -he might have done something of the sort, if he would, in the way of -altering. Of that branch of the trade, however, he was shy, knowing -that it was most frequently in request with garment unrighteously come -by; and Mr. Spelt's thin hands were clean.</p> - -<p>He had not sat long after Mattie left him, before she reappeared from -under the archway.</p> - -<p>"No, no, mother," she said, "I ain't going to perch this time. But -father sends his compliments, and will you come and take a dish of tea -with him and me this afternoon?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mattie; if you will come and fetch me when the tea's ready."</p> - -<p>"Well, you had better not depend on me; for I shall have a herring to -cook, and a muffin to toast, besides the tea to make and set on the -hob, and the best china to get out of the black cupboard, and no end o' -things to see to."</p> - -<p>"But you needn't get out the best china for me, you know."</p> - -<p>"Well, I like to do what's proper. And you just keep your eye on St. -Jacob's, Mr. Spelt, and at five o'clock, when it has struck two of -them, you get down and come in, and you'll find your tea a-waiting of -you. There!"</p> - -<p>With which conclusive form of speech, Mattie turned and walked back -through the archway. She never ran, still less skipped as most children -do, but held feet and head alike steadily progressive, save for the -slightest occasional toss of the latter, which, as well as her mode -of speech, revealed the element of conceit which had its share in the -oddity of the little damsel.</p> - -<p>When two strokes of the five had sounded in the ears of Mr. Spelt, he -laid his work aside, took his tall hat from one of the comers where -it hung on a peg, leaped lightly from his perch into the court, shut -his half of the door, told the shoemaker below that he was going to -Mr. Kitely's to tea, and would be obliged if he would fetch him should -anyone want him, and went through the archway. There was a door to -Mr. Kitely's house under the archway, but the tailor preferred going -round the corner to the shop door in Bagot Street. By this he entered -Jacob Kitely's domain, an old book-shop, of which it required some -previous knowledge to find the way to the back premises. For the whole -cubical space of the shop was divided and subdivided into a labyrinth -of book-shelves, those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> in front filled with decently if not elegantly -bound books, and those behind with a multitude innumerable of books -in all conditions of dinginess, mustiness, and general shabbiness. -Among these Jacob Kitely spent his time patching and mending them, and -drawing up catalogues. He was not one of those booksellers who are -so fond of their books that they cannot bear to part with them, and -therefore when they are fortunate enough to lay their hands upon a rare -volume, the highest pleasure they know in life, justify themselves in -keeping it by laying a manuscript price upon it, and considering it -so much actual property. Such men, perhaps, know something about the -contents of their wares; but while few surpassed Jacob in a knowledge -of the outside of books, from the proper treatment of covers in the -varying stages of dilapidation, and of leaves when water-stained or -mildewed or dry-rotted to the different values of better and best -editions, cut and uncut leaves, tall copies, and folios shortened -by the plow into doubtful quartos, he never advanced beyond the -title-page, except when one edition differed from another, and some -examination was necessary to determine to which the copy belonged. -And not only did he lay no <i>fancy prices</i> upon his books, but he was -proud of selling them under the market value—which he understood well -enough, though he used the knowledge only to regulate his buying. -The rate at which he sold was determined entirely by the rate at -which he bought. Do not think, my reader, that I have the thinnest -ghost of a political economy theory under this: I am simply and only -describing character. Hence he sold his books cheaper than any other -bookseller in London, contenting himself with a profit proportioned to -his expenditure, and taking his pleasure in the rapidity with which -the stream of books flowed through his shop. I have known him take -threepence off the price he had first affixed to a book, because he -found that he had not advertised it, and therefore it had not to bear -its share of the expense of the catalogue.</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt made his way through the maze of books into the back shop, -no one confronting him, and there found Mr. Kitely busy over his next -catalogue, which he was making out in a school-boy's hand.</p> - -<p>"How are you, Spelt?" he said, in an alto voice, in which rung a -certain healthy vigor, amounting to determination. "Just in time, I -believe. My little woman has been busy in the parlor for the last hour, -and I can depend upon her to the minute. Step in."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Don't let me interrupt you," suggested Mr. Spelt, meekly, and -reverentially even, for he thought Mr. Kitely must be a very learned -man indeed to write so much about books, and had at home a collection -of his catalogues complete from the year when he first occupied the -nest in the passage. I had forgot to say that Mr. Kitely was Mr. -Spelt's landlord, and found him a regular tenant, else he certainly -would not have invited him to tea.</p> - -<p>"Don't let me interrupt you," said Mr. Spelt.</p> - -<p>"Not at all," returned Mr. Kitely. "I'm very happy to see you, Spelt. -You're very kind to my Mattie, and it pleases both of us to have you to -tea in our humble way."</p> - -<p>His humble way was a very grand way indeed to poor Spelt—and Mr. -Kitely knew that. Spelt could only rub his nervous, delicate hands in -token that he would like to say something in reply if he could but find -the right thing to say. What hands those were, instinct with life and -expression to the finger nails! No hands like them for fine-drawing. -He would make the worst rent look as if there never had been a rough -contact with the nappy surface.</p> - -<p>The tailor stepped into the parlor, which opened out of the back shop -sideways, and found himself in an enchanted region. A fire—we always -see the fire first, and the remark will mean more to some people than -to others—a most respectable fire burned in the grate, and if the room -was full of the odor of red herrings, possibly objectionable <i>per se</i>, -where was the harm when they were going to partake of the bloaters? A -consequential cat lay on the hearth-rug. A great black oak cabinet, -carved to repletion of surface, for which a pre-Raphaelite painter -would have given half the price of one of his best pictures, stood at -the end of the room. This was an accident, for Mr. Kitely could not -appreciate it. But neither would he sell it when asked to do so. He -was not going to mix trades, for that was against his creed; the fact -being that he had tried so many things in his life that he now felt -quite respectable from having settled to one for the rest of his days. -But the chief peculiarity of the room was the number of birds that hung -around it in cages of all sizes and shapes, most of them covered up now -that they might go to sleep.</p> - -<p>After Mattie had bestowed her approbation upon Mr. Spelt for coming -exactly to the hour, she took the brown tea-pot from the hob, the -muffin from before the fire, and three herrings from the top of it, -and put them all one after another upon the table. Then she would have -placed chairs for them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> all, but was prevented by the gallantry of Mr. -Spelt, and only succeeded in carrying to the head of the table her own -high chair, on which she climbed up, and sat enthroned to pour out the -tea. It was a noteworthy triad. On opposite sides of the table sat the -meek tailor and the hawk-expressioned bookseller. The latter had a -broad forehead and large, clear, light eyes. His nose—I never think a -face described when the nose is forgotten: Chaucer never omits it—rose -from between his eyes as if intending to make the true Roman arch, but -having reached the keystone, held on upon the same high level, and did -not descend, but ceased. He wore no beard, and bore his face in front -of him like a banner. A strong pediment of chin and a long, thin-lipped -mouth completed an expression of truculent good nature. Plenty of -clear-voiced speech, a breezy defiance of nonsense in every tone, -bore in it a certain cold but fierce friendliness, which would show -no mercy to any weakness you might vaunt, but would drag none to the -light you abstained from forcing into notice. Opposite to him sat the -thoughtful, thin-visaged, small man, with his hair on end; and between -them the staid, old-maidenly child, with her hair in bands on each side -of the smooth solemnity of her face, the conceit of her gentle nature -expressed only in the turn-up of her diminutive nose. The bookseller -behaved to her as if she had been a grown lady.</p> - -<p>"Now, Miss Kitely," he said, "we shall have tea of the right sort, -shan't we?"</p> - -<p>"I hope so," answered Mattie, demurely. "Help Mr. Spelt to a herring, -father."</p> - -<p>"That I will, my princess. There, Mr. Spelt! There's a herring with a -roe worth millions. To think, now, that every one of those eggs would -be a fish like that, if it was only let alone!"</p> - -<p>"It's a great waste of eggs, ain't it, father?" said Mattie.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Spelt won't say so, my princess," returned Mr. Kitely, laughing. -"He likes 'em."</p> - -<p>"I do like them," said the tailor.</p> - -<p>"Well, I dare say they're good for him, and it don't hurt them much," -resumed Mattie, reflectively.</p> - -<p>"They'll go to his brains, and make him clever," said Kitely. "And you -wouldn't call that a waste, would you, Mattie?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know. I think Mr. Spelt's clever enough already. He's -too much for me sometimes. I confess I can't always follow him."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> - -<p>The father burst into a loud roar of laughter, and laughed till the -tears were running down his face. Spelt would have joined him but for -the reverence he had for Mattie, who sat unmoved on her throne at the -head of the table, looking down with calm benignity on her father's -passion, as if laughter were a weakness belonging to grown-up men, -in which they were to be condescendingly indulged by princesses, and -little girls in general.</p> - -<p>"Well, how's the world behaving to you, Spelt?" asked the bookseller, -after various ineffectual attempts to stop his laughter by the wiping -of his eyes.</p> - -<p>"The world has never behaved ill to me, thank God," answered the tailor.</p> - -<p>"Now, don't you trouble yourself to say that. You've got nobody to -thank but yourself."</p> - -<p>"But I like to thank God," said Mr. Spelt, apologetically. "I forgot -that you wouldn't like it."</p> - -<p>"Pshaw! pshaw! I don't mind it from you, for I believe you're fool -enough to mean what you say. But, tell me this, Spelt—did you thank -God when your wife died?"</p> - -<p>"I tried hard not. I'm afraid I did, though," answered Spelt, and sat -staring like one who has confessed, and awaits his penance.</p> - -<p>The bookseller burst into another loud laugh, and slapped his hand on -his leg.</p> - -<p>"You have me there, I grant, Spelt."</p> - -<p>But his face grew sober as he added, in a lower but still loud voice—</p> - -<p>"I was thinking of my wife, not of yours. Folk say she was a rum un."</p> - -<p>"She was a splendid woman," said the tailor. "She weighed twice as much -as I do, and her fist—" Here he doubled up his own slender hand, laid -it on the table, and stared at it, with his mouth full of muffin. Then, -with a sigh, he added, "She was rather too much for me, sometimes. She -was a splendid woman, though, when she was sober."</p> - -<p>"And what was she when she was drunk?"</p> - -<p>This grated a little on the tailor's feelings, and he answered with -spirit—-</p> - -<p>"A match for you or any other man, Mr. Kitely."</p> - -<p>The bookseller said, "Bravo, Spelt!" and said no more.</p> - -<p>They went on with their tea for some moments in silence.</p> - -<p>"Well, princess!" said Mr. Kitely at last, giving an aimless poke to -the conversation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, father," returned Mattie.</p> - -<p>Whereupon her father turned to Spelt and said, as if resuming what had -passed before—</p> - -<p>"Now tell me honestly, Spelt, do you believe there is a God?"</p> - -<p>"I don't doubt it."</p> - -<p>"And I do. Will you tell me that, if there was a God, he would have a -fool like that in the church over the way there, to do nothing but read -the service, and a sermon he bought for eighteenpence, and—"</p> - -<p>"From you?" asked Spelt, with an access of interest.</p> - -<p>"No, no. I was too near the church for that. But he bought it of -Spelman, in Holywell Street. Well, what was I saying?"</p> - -<p>"You was telling us what Mr. Potter did for his money."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes. I don't know anything else he does but stroke his Piccadilly -weepers, and draw his salary. Only I suppose they have some grand name -for salary nowadays, out of the Latin Grammar or the Roman Antiquities, -or some such, to make it respectable. Don't tell me there's a God, when -he puts a man like that in the pulpit. To hear him haw-haw!"</p> - -<p>The bookseller's logic was, to say the least of it, queer. But Spelt -was no logician. He was something better, though in a feeble way. He -could jump over the dry-stone fences and the cross-ditches of the -logician. He was not one of those who stop to answer arguments against -going home, instead of making haste to kiss their wives and children.</p> - -<p>"I have read somewhere—in a book I dare say you mayn't have in your -collection, Mr. Kitely—they call it the New Testament—"</p> - -<p>There was not an atom of conscious humor in the tailor as he said this. -He really thought Mr. Kitely might have conscientious scruples as to -favoring the sale of the New Testament. Kitely smiled, but said nothing.</p> - -<p>"I've read"—the tailor went on—"that God winked at some people's -ignorance. I dare say he may wink at Mr. Potter's."</p> - -<p>"Anyhow, I wouldn't like to be Mr. Potter," said the bookseller.</p> - -<p>"No, nor I," returned Spelt. "But just as I let that poor creature, -Dolman, cobble away in my ground-floor—though he has never paid me -more than half his rent since ever he took it—"</p> - -<p>"Is that the way of it? Whew!" said Mr. Kitely.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> - -<p>"About and about it," answered the tailor. "But that's not the point."</p> - -<p>"What a fool you are then, Spelt, to—"</p> - -<p>"Mr. Kitely," interposed the tailor with dignity, "do I pay your rent?"</p> - -<p>"You've got my receipts, I believe," answered the bookseller, offended -in his turn.</p> - -<p>"Then I may make a fool of myself, if I please," returned Spelt, with -a smile which took all offense out of the remark. "I only wanted to -say that perhaps God lets Mr. Potter hold the living of St. Jacob's -in something of the same way that I let poor Dolman cobble in my -ground-floor. No offense, I hope."</p> - -<p>"None whatever. You're a good-natured, honest fellow, Spelt; and don't -distress yourself, you know, for a week or so. Have half a herring -more? I fear this is a soft roe."</p> - -<p>"No more, I thank you, Mr. Kitely. But all the clergy ain't like Mr. -Potter. Perhaps he talks such nonsense because there's nobody there to -hear it."</p> - -<p>"There's plenty not there to do something for his money," said Kitely.</p> - -<p>"That's true," returned the tailor. "But seeing I don't go to church -myself, I don't see I've any right to complain. Do you go to church, -Mr. Kitely?"</p> - -<p>"I should think <i>not</i>," answered the bookseller. "But there's some one -in the shop."</p> - -<p>So saying, he started up and disappeared. Presently voices were heard, -if not in dispute, yet in difference.</p> - -<p>"You won't oblige me so far as that, Mr. Kitely?"</p> - -<p>"No, I won't. I never pledge myself. I've been too often taken in. No -offense. A man goes away and forgets. Send or bring the money, and the -book is yours; or come to-morrow. I dare say it won't be gone. But I -won't promise to keep it. There!"</p> - -<p>"Very well, I won't trouble you again in a hurry."</p> - -<p>"That is as you please, sir," said the bookseller, and no reply -followed.</p> - -<p>"That's Mr. Worboise," said Mattie, "I wish father wouldn't be so hard -upon him."</p> - -<p>"I don't like that young man," said Kitely, reëntering. "My opinion is -that he's a humbug."</p> - -<p>"Miss Burton does not think so," said Mattie, quietly.</p> - -<p>"Eh, what, princess?" said her father. "Eh! ah! well! well!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You don't give credit, Mr. Kitely?" said the tailor.</p> - -<p>"No, not to my own father. I don't know, though, if I had the old -boy back again, now he's dead. I didn't behave over well to him, I'm -afraid. I wonder if he's in the moon, or where he is, Mr. Spelt, eh? -I should like to believe in God now, if it were only for the chance -of saying to my father, 'I'm sorry I said so-and-so to you, old man.' -Do you think he'll have got over it by this time, Spelt? You know all -about those things. But I won't have a book engaged and left and not -paid for. I'd rather give credit and lose it, and have done with it. If -young Worboise wants the book he may come for it to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"He always pays me—and pleasantly," said Spelt.</p> - -<p>"Of course," said Mattie.</p> - -<p>"I don't doubt it," said her father; "but I like things neat and clean. -And I don't like him. He thinks a deal of himself."</p> - -<p>"Surely he's neat and clean enough," said Spelt.</p> - -<p>"Now, you don't know what I mean. A man ought always to know what -another man means before he makes his remarks. I mean, I like a book -to go out of my sight, and the price of it to go into my pocket, right -slick off. But here's Dolman come to fetch you, Spelt," said the -bookseller, as the cobbler made his appearance at the half-open door of -the parlor.</p> - -<p>"No, I ain't," said Dolman. "I only come to let the guv'nor know as I'm -a going home."</p> - -<p>"Where's that?" asked Kitely.</p> - -<p>"Leastways, I mean going home with a pair o' boots," answered Dolman, -evasively, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.</p> - -<p>"Ah!" said the bookseller.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER VI.</p> - -<p class="center">THE MORNING OF CHRISTMAS DAY.</p> - - -<p>It is but justice to Thomas Worboise to mention that he made no -opportunities of going to his "governor's" house after this. But the -relations of the families rendered it impossible for him to avoid -seeing Mary Boxall sometimes. Nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> did he make any great effort to -evade each meetings: and it must be confessed that it was not without -a glow of inward satisfaction that he saw her confusion and the rosy -tinge that spread over her face and deepened the color of her eyes -when they thus happened to meet. For Mary was a soft-hearted and too -impressible girl. "I never said anything to her," were the words with -which he would now and then apply an unction to his soul, compounded -of self-justification and self-flattery. But he could not keep an -outward appearance of coolness correspondent to the real coldness of -his selfish heart, and the confusion which was only a dim reflection of -her own was sufficient to make poor Mary suppose that feelings similar -to her own were at work in the mind of the handsome youth. Why he did -not <i>say</i> anything to her had not yet begun to trouble her, and her -love was as yet satisfied with the ethereal luxuries of dreaming and -castle-building.</p> - -<p>It had been arranged between Amy Worboise and the Boxall girls, that if -Christmas Day were fine, they would persuade their fathers to go with -them to Hampstead Heath in the morning. How much of this arrangement -was owing to sly suggestion on the part of Mary in the hope of seeing -Tom, I do not know. I believe Jane contrived that Charles Wither should -have a hint of the possibility. It is enough that the plan was accepted -by the parents, and that the two families, with the exception of Mrs. -Boxall, who could not commit the care of the Christmas dinner to the -servants, and the invalid Mrs. Worboise, who, indeed, would always -have preferred the chance of a visit from Mr. Simon to the certainty -of sunshine and extended prospect, found themselves, after morning -service, on the platform of the Highbury railway station, whence they -soon reached Hampstead.</p> - -<p>The walk from the station, up the hill to the top of the heath, was -delightful. It was a clear day, the sun shining overhead, and the -ground sparkling with frost under their feet. The keen, healthy air -brought color to the cheeks and light to the eyes of all the party, -possibly with the sole exception of Mr. Worboise, who, able to walk -uncovered in the keenest weather, was equally impervious to all the -gentler influences of Nature. He could not be said to be a disbeliever -in Nature, for he had not the smallest idea that she had any existence -beyond an allegorical one. What he did believe in was the law, meaning -by that neither the Mosaic nor the Christian, neither the law of love -nor the law of right, but the law of England as practiced in her courts -of justice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> Therefore he was not a very interesting person to spend -a Christmas morning with, and he and Mr. Boxall, who was equally a -believer in commerce, were left to entertain each other.</p> - -<p>Mary Boxall was especially merry; Amy Worboise roguish as usual; Jane -Boxall rather silent, but still bright-eyed, for who could tell whom -she might meet upon the heath? And with three such girls Tom could not -be other than gay, if not brilliant. True, Lucy was alone with her old -grandmother in dingy Guild Court; but if she loved him, was not that -enough to make her or any other woman happy? And he could not help it, -besides. And why should he not improve the shining hour because Lucy -had no flowers to gather honey from? Besides, was he not going to meet -her the very next day, after much contrivance for concealment? So he -was resolved to be merry and "freuen sich des Lebens."</p> - -<p>They reached the flag-staff. The sun was getting low, and clouds -were gathering behind him. Harrow-on-the-Hill was invisible, but the -reservoir gleamed coldly far across the heath. A wind was blowing from -the northwest; all London lay south and east in clearness wonderful, -for two or three minutes. Then a vapor slowly melted away the dome of -St. Paul's, and, like a spirit of sorrow, gathered and gathered till -that which was full of life to those who were in it, was but a gray -cloud to those that looked on from the distant hight. Already the young -people felt their spirits affected, and as if by a common impulse, -set off to walk briskly to the pines above the "Spaniards." They had -not gone far, before they met Charles Wither sauntering carelessly -along—at least he seemed much surprised to see them. He turned and -walked between Jane and Amy, and Mary and Tom were compelled to drop -behind, so as not to extend their line unreasonably and occupy the -whole path. Quite unintentionally on Tom's part, the distance between -the two divisions increased, and when he and Mary reached the pines, -the rest of the party had vanished. They had in fact gone down into the -Vale of Health, to be out of the wind, and return by the hollow, at the -suggestion of Charles Wither, who wished thus to avoid the chance of -being seen by Mr. Boxall. When he had taken his leave of them, just as -they came in sight of the flag-staff, where Mr. Worboise and Mr. Boxall -had appointed to meet them on their return from the pines, Jane begged -Amy to say nothing about having met him.</p> - -<p>"Oh," said Amy, with sudden and painful illumination, "I am <i>so</i> sorry -to have been in the way."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> - -<p>"On the contrary, dear Amy, I should not have known what to say to -papa, except you had been with me. I am so much obliged to you."</p> - -<p>Thus there was clearly trouble in store for Mr. Boxall, who had never -yet known what it was not to have his own way—in matters which he -would consider of importance at least.</p> - -<p>The two gentlemen had gone into Jack Straw's to have a glass of wine -together, in honor of Christmas Day; and while they were seated -together before a good fire, it seemed to Mr. Boxall a suitable -opportunity for entering on a matter of business.</p> - -<p>"What will you say to me, Worboise, when I tell you that I have never -yet made a will?"</p> - -<p>"I needn't tell you what I think, Boxall. You know well enough. Very -foolish of you. Very imprudent, indeed. And I confess I should not have -expected it of you, although I had a shrewd suspicion that such was the -case.</p> - -<p>"How came you to suspect it?"</p> - -<p>"To tell the truth; I could not help thinking that as our friendship -was not of yesterday, you would hardly have asked any one else to draw -up your will but your old friend. So you see it was by no mysterious -exercise of intelligence that I came to the conclusion that, not being -an unkind or suspicious man, you must be a dilatory, and, excuse me, in -this sole point, a foolish man."</p> - -<p>"I grant the worst you can say, but you shall say it only till -to-morrow—that is, if you will draw up the will, and have it ready for -me to sign at any hour you may be at leisure for a call from me."</p> - -<p>"I can't undertake it by to-morrow; but it shall be ready by the next -day at twelve o'clock."</p> - -<p>"That will do perfectly. I must remain 'a foolish man' for twenty-four -hours longer—that is all."</p> - -<p>"You won't be much the worse for that, except you have an attack of -apoplexy to fix you there. But, joking apart, give me my instructions. -May I ask how much you have to leave?"</p> - -<p>"Oh; somewhere, off and on, about thirty thousand. It isn't much, but I -hope to double it in the course of a few years, if things go on as they -are doing."</p> - -<p>Mr. Worboise had not known so much about his friend's affairs as he had -pretended to his son. When he heard the amount, he uttered a slight -"Whew!" But whether it meant that the sum fell below or exceeded his -expectations, he gave Mr. Boxall no time to inquire.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And how do you want the sum divided?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I don't want it divided at all. There's no occasion whatever to -mention the sum. The books will show my property. I want my wife, in -the case of her surviving me, to have the whole of it."</p> - -<p>"And failing her?"</p> - -<p>"My daughters, of course—equally divided. If my wife lives, there is -no occasion to mention them. I want them to be dependent upon her as -long as she lives, and so hold the family together as long as possible. -She knows my wishes about them in everything. I have no secrets from -her."</p> - -<p>"I have only to carry out instructions. I have no right to offer any -suggestions."</p> - -<p>"That means that you would suggest something. Speak out, man."</p> - -<p>"Suppose your daughters wished to marry?"</p> - -<p>"I leave all that to their mother, as I said. They must be their own -mistresses some day."</p> - -<p>"Well, call on me the day after to-morrow, and I shall have the draught -at least ready."</p> - -<p>When the two girls reached the flag-staff, their parents were not -there. Jane was glad of this, for it precluded questioning as to the -point whence they had arrived. As they stood waiting, large snow-flakes -began to fall, and the wind was rising. But they had not to wait long -before the gentlemen made their appearance, busily conversing, so -busily, indeed, that when they had joined the girls, they walked away -toward the railway station without concerning themselves to ask what -had become of Mary and Thomas.</p> - -<p>When they reached the railway station, Mr. Boxall became suddenly aware -that two of their party were missing.</p> - -<p>"Why, Jane, where's Mary? And where's Tom? Where did you leave them?"</p> - -<p>"Somewhere about the pines. I thought they would have been back long -ago."</p> - -<p>The two fathers looked at each other, and each seeing that the other -looked knowing, then first consented, as he thought, to look knowing -himself.</p> - -<p>"Well," said Mr. Worboise, "they're old enough to take care of -themselves, I suppose. I vote we don't wait for them."</p> - -<p>"Serve them right," said Mr. Boxall.</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't, papa," interposed Jane.</p> - -<p>"Well, Jane, will you stop for them?" said her father.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p> - -<p>But a sudden light that flashed into Jane's eyes made him change his -tone. He did not know why, but the idea of Charles Wither rose in his -mind, and he made haste to prevent Jane from taking advantage of the -proposal.</p> - -<p>"Come along," he said. "Let them take care of themselves. Come along."</p> - -<p>The suspicion had crossed him more than once, that Mr. Wither and Jane -possibly contrived to meet without his knowledge, and the thought made -him writhe with jealousy; for it lay in his nature to be jealous of -everyone of whom his wife or his daughters spoke well—that is, until -he began to like him himself, when the jealousy, or what was akin to -it, vanished. But it was not jealousy alone that distressed him, but -the anxiety of real love as well.</p> - -<p>By the time they reached Camden Road station, the ground was covered -with snow.</p> - -<p>When Tom and Mary arrived at the pines, I have said they found that the -rest of their party had gone.</p> - -<p>"Oh, never mind," said Mary, merrily; "let us run down into the hollow, -and wait till they come back. I dare say they are not far off. They -will never go without us."</p> - -<p>Partly from false gallantry, partly from inclination, Thomas agreed. -They descended the bank of sand in a quite opposite direction from that -taken by Jane and her companions, and wandered along down the heath. -By this time the sky was all gray and white. Long masses of vapor were -driving overhead with jagged upper edges. They looked like lines of -fierce warriors stooping in their eager rush to the battle. But down in -the hollows of the heath all was still, and they wandered on for some -time without paying any heed to the signs of the coming storm. Does my -reader ask what they talked about? Nothing worthy of record, I answer; -although every word that Thomas uttered seemed to Mary worth looking -into for some occult application of the sort she would gladly have -heard more openly expressed. At length, something cold fell upon her -face, and Thomas glancing that moment at her countenance, saw it lying -there, and took it for a tear. She looked up: the sky was one mass of -heavy vapor, and a multitude of great downy snow-flakes was settling -slowly on the earth. In a moment they were clasped hand in hand. -The pleasure of the snow, the excitement of being shut out from the -visible, or rather the seeing world, wrapped in the skirts of a storm -with a pretty girl for his sole companion, so wrought upon Thomas, who -loved to be moved and hated to will, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> he forgot Lucy, and stood in -delight gazing certainly at the falling snow, and not at Mary Boxall, -but holding her hand tight in his own. She crept closer to him, for a -little gentle fear added to her pleasure, and in a moment more his arm -was about her—to protect her, I dare say, he said to himself.</p> - -<p>Now, be it understood that Thomas was too much in love with himself -to be capable of loving any woman under the sun after a noble and -true fashion. He did not love Lucy a great deal better than he loved -Mary. Only Mary was an ordinary pretty blonde, and Lucy was dark, -with great black eyes, and far more distinguished in appearance than -Mary. Besides, she was poor, and that added greatly to the romance of -the thing; for it made it quite noble in him to love her, and must -make her look up to him with such deserved admiration, that—without -reckoning the fact that the one was offered him, and the other only -not forbidden because there was as yet no suspicion of his visits in -Guild Court—there was positively no room to hesitate in choice between -them. Still the preference was not strong enough to keep his heart from -beating fast when he found the snow-storm had closed him in with Mary. -He had sense enough, however, to turn at once in order to lead her back -toward the road. But this was already a matter of difficulty, for there -was no path where the storm found them, and with the gathering darkness -the snow already hid the high road across the heath; so that the first -question was in what direction to go to find it. They kept moving, -however, Mary leaning a good deal on Tom's arm, and getting more and -more frightened as no path came in view. Even Tom began to be anxious -about what was to come of it, and although he did his best to comfort -Mary, he soon found that, before the least suspicion of actual danger, -the whole romance had vanished. And now the snow not only fell rapidly, -but the wind blew it sharply in their faces, and blinded them yet more -than merely with its darkness—not that this mattered much as to the -finding the way, for that was all hap-hazard long ago.</p> - -<p>After wandering, probably in a circuitous fashion, for more than -an hour, Mary burst out crying, and said she could not walk a step -farther. She would have thrown herself down had not Tom prevented her. -With the kindest encouragement—though he was really down-hearted -himself—he persuaded her to climb a little hight near them, which with -great difficulty she managed to do. From the top they saw a light, and -descending the opposite side of the hill, found themselves in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> road, -where an empty cab stood by the door of a public-house. After trying to -persuade Mary to have some refreshment, to which she refused to listen, -insisting on being taken to her mother, Thomas succeeded in getting -the cabman to drive them to the station. In the railway carriage, Mary -lay like one dead, and although he took off both his coats to wrap -about her, she seemed quite unconscious of the attention. It was with -great difficulty that she reached her home; for there was no cab at the -hackney station, and the streets were by this time nearly a foot deep -in snow.</p> - -<p>Thomas was not sorry to give her up to her mother. She immediately -began to scold him. Then Mary spoke for the first time, saying, with -great effort:</p> - -<p>"Don't, mother. If it had not been for Thomas, I should have been dead -long ago. He could not help it. Good-night, Tom."</p> - -<p>And she feebly held up her face to kiss him. Tom stooped to meet it, -and went away feeling tolerably miserable. He was wet and cold. The -momentary fancy for Mary was quite gone out of him, and he could not -help seeing that now he had kissed her before her mother he had got -himself into a scrape.</p> - -<p>Before morning Mary was in a raging fever.</p> - -<p>That night Charles Wither spent at a billiard-table in London, playing, -not high but long, sipping brandy and water all the time, and thinking -what a splendid girl Jane Boxall was. But in the morning he looked all -right.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER VII.</p> - -<p class="center">POPPIE.</p> - - -<p>Thomas woke the next morning with a well-deserved sense of something -troubling him. This too was a holiday, but he did not feel in a holiday -mood. It was not from any fear that Mary might be the worse for her -exposure, neither was it from regret for his conduct toward her. What -made him uncomfortable was the feeling rather than thought that now -Mrs. Boxall, Mary's mother, had a window that overlooked his premises, -a window over which he had no legal hold, but which, on the contrary, -gave her a hold over him. It was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> window, also, of which she was not -likely, as he thought, to neglect the advantage. Nor did it console -him to imagine what Lucy would think, or—which was of more weight -with Thomas—say or do, if she should happen to hear of the affair of -yesterday. This, however, was very unlikely to happen; for she had not -one friend in common with her cousins, except just her lover. To-day -being likewise a holiday, he had arranged to meet her at the Marble -Arch, and take her to that frightful source of amusement, Madame -Tussaud's. Her morning engagement led her to that neighborhood, and -it was a safe place to meet in—far from Highbury, Hackney, and Bagot -Street.</p> - -<p>The snow was very deep. Mrs. Boxall tried to persuade Lucy not to go. -But where birds can pass, lovers can pass, and she was just finishing -her lesson to resplendent little Miriam as Thomas got out of an omnibus -at Park Street, that he might saunter up on foot to the Marble Arch.</p> - -<p>The vision of Hyde Park was such as rarely meets the eye of a Londoner. -It was almost grotesquely beautiful. Even while waiting for a lovely -girl, Thomas could not help taking notice of the trees. Every bough, -branch, twig, and shoot supported a ghost of itself, or rather a white -shadow of itself upon the opposite side from where the black shadow -fell. The whole tree looked like a huge growth of that kind of coral -they call brain-coral, and the whole park a forest of such coralline -growths. But against the sky, which was one canopy of unfallen snow, -bright with the sun behind it, the brilliant trees looked more like -coral still, gray namely, and dull.</p> - -<p>Thomas had not sauntered and gazed for more than a few minutes before -he saw Lucy coming down Great Cumberland Street toward him. Instead of -crossing the street to meet her, he stood and watched her approach. -There was even some excuse for his coolness, she looked so picturesque -flitting over the spotless white in her violet dress, her red cloak, -her grebe muff. I do not know what her bonnet was; for if a bonnet be -suitable, it allows the face to show as it ought, and who can think of -a bonnet then! But I know that they were a pair of very dainty morocco -boots that made little holes in the snow across Oxford Street toward -the Marble Arch where Thomas stood, filled, I fear, with more pride in -the lovely figure that was coming to <i>him</i> than love of her.</p> - -<p>"Have I kept you waiting long, Thomas?" said Lucy, with the sweetest of -smiles, her teeth white as snow in the summer flush of her face.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh! about ten minutes," said Thomas. It wasn't five. "What a cold -morning it is!"</p> - -<p>"I don't feel it much," answered Lucy. "I came away the first moment I -could. I am sorry I kept you waiting."</p> - -<p>"Don't mention it, Lucy. I should be only too happy to wait for you as -long every morning," said Thomas, gallantly, not tenderly.</p> - -<p>Lucy did not relish the tone. But what could she do? A tone is one of -the most difficult things to fix a complaint upon. Besides, she was not -in a humor to complain of any thing if she could help it. And, to tell -the truth, she was a little afraid of offending Thomas, for she looked -up to him ten times more than he deserved.</p> - -<p>"How lovely your red cloak looked—quite a splendor—crossing the -snow!" he continued.</p> - -<p>And Lucy received this as a compliment to herself, and smiled again. -She took his arm—for lovers will do that sometimes after it is quite -out of fashion. But, will it be believed? Thomas did not altogether -like her doing so, just because it was out of fashion.</p> - -<p>"What a delightful morning it is," she said. "Oh! do look at the bars -of the railing."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I see. The snow has stuck to them. But how can you look at such -vulgar things as iron stanchions when you have such a fairy forest as -that before you?" said the reader of Byron, who was not seldom crossed -by a feeling of dismay at finding Lucy, as he thought, decidedly -unpoetical. He wanted to train her in poetry, as, with shame let it -flow from my pen, in religion.</p> - -<p>"But just look here," insisted Lucy, drawing him closer to the fence. -"You are short-sighted, surely, Thomas. Just look there."</p> - -<p>"Well, I see nothing but snow on both sides of the paling-bars," -returned Thomas.</p> - -<p>"Now I am sure you are short-sighted. It is snow on the one side, but -not on the other. Look at the lovely crystals."</p> - -<p>On the eastern quarter of each upright bar the snow had accumulated and -stuck fast to the depth of an inch: the wind had been easterly. The -fall had ceased some hours before morning, and a strong frost had set -in. That the moisture in the air should have settled frozen upon the -iron would not have been surprising; what Lucy wondered at was, that -there should be a growth, half an inch long, of slender crystals, like -the fungous growth commonly called mold, only closer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> standing out -from the bar horizontally, as if they had grown through it, out of the -soil of the snow exactly opposite to it on the other side. On the one -side was a beaten mass of snow, on the other a fantastic little forest -of ice.</p> - -<p>"I do not care about such microscopic beauties," said Thomas, a little -annoyed that she whom he thought unpoetical could find out something -lovely sooner than he could; for he was of those in whom a phantasm -of self-culture is one of the forms taken by their selfishness. They -regard this culture in relation to others with an eye to superiority, -and do not desire it purely for its own sake. "Those trees are much -more to my mind, now."</p> - -<p>"Ah, but I do not love the trees less. Come into the park, and then we -can see them from all sides."</p> - -<p>"The snow is too deep. There is no path there."</p> - -<p>"I don't mind it. My boots are very thick."</p> - -<p>"No, no; come along. We shall get to Madame Tussaud's before there are -many people there. It will be so much nicer."</p> - -<p>"I should like much better to stay here awhile," said Lucy, half vexed -and a little offended.</p> - -<p>But Thomas did not heed her. He led the way up Oxford Street. She had -dropped his arm, and now walked by his side.</p> - -<p>"A nice lover to have!" I think I hear some of my girl readers say. But -he was not so bad as this always, or even gentle-tempered Lucy would -have quarreled with him, if it had been only for the sake of getting -rid of him. The weight of yesterday was upon him. And while they were -walking up the street, as handsome and fresh a couple as you would find -in all London, Mary was lying in her bed talking wildly about Thomas.</p> - -<p>Alas for the loving thoughts of youth and maidens, that go out like the -dove from the ark, and find no room on the face of the desired world to -fold their wings and alight! Olive-leaves they will gather in plenty, -even when they are destined never to build a nest in the branches of -the olive tree. Let such be strong notwithstanding, even when there are -no more olive-leaves to gather, for God will have mercy upon his youths -and maidens, and they shall grow men and women. Let who can understand -me.</p> - -<p>Having thus left the beauties of nature behind them for the horrible -mockery of art at Madame Tussaud's, Thomas became aware from Lucy's -silence that he had not been behaving well<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> to her. He therefore set -about being more agreeable, and before they reached Baker Street she -had his arm again, and they were talking and laughing gayly enough. -Behind them, at some distance, trotted a small apparition which I must -now describe.</p> - -<p>It was a little girl, perhaps ten years old, looking as wild as any -savage in Canadian forest. Her face was pretty, as far as could be -judged through the dirt that variegated its surface. Her eyes were -black and restless. Her dress was a frock, of what stuff it would -have been impossible to determine, scarcely reaching below her knees, -and rent upward into an irregular fringe of ribbons that frostily -fanned her little legs as she followed the happy couple, in a pair of -shoes much too large for her, and already worn into such holes as to -afford more refuge for the snow than for her feet. Her little knees -were very black, and oh! those poor legs, caked and streaked with -dirt, and the delicate skin of them thickened and cracked with frost -and east winds and neglect! They could carry her through the snow -satisfactorily, however—with considerable suffering to themselves, no -doubt. But Poppie was not bound to be miserable because Poppie's legs -were anything but comfortable; there is no selfishness in not being -sorry for one's own legs. Her hair, which might have been expected to -be quite black, was mingled with a reddish tinge from exposure to the -hot sun of the preceding summer. It hung in tangled locks about her, -without protection of any sort. How strange the snow must have looked -upon it! No doubt she had been out in the storm. Her face peeped out -from among it with the wild innocence of a gentle and shy but brave -little animal of the forest. Purposely she followed Lucy's red cloak. -But this was not the first time she had followed her; like a lost pup, -she would go after this one and that one—generally a lady—for a whole -day from place to place, obedient to some hidden drawing of the heart. -She had often seen Lucy start from Guild Court, and had followed her -to the railway; and, at length, by watching first one station and then -another, had found out where she went every morning. Knowing then that -she could find her when she pleased, she did not follow her more than -twice a week or so, sometimes not once—just as the appetite woke in -her for a little of her society. But my reader must see more of her -before he or she will be interested enough in her either to please me -or to care to hear more about the habits of this little wild animal of -the stone forest of London. She had never seen Lucy with a gen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>tleman -before. I wonder if she had ever in her little life walked side by side -with anybody herself; she was always trotting behind. This was the -little girl whom Miss Matilda Kitely, her father's princess, called -Poppie, and patronized, although she was at least two years older than -herself, as near as could be guessed. Nor had she any other name; for -no one knew where she had come from, or who were her parents, and she -herself cared as little about the matter as anybody.</p> - -<p>The lovers were some distance ahead of Poppie, as they had been all -the way, when they entered the passage leading to the wax works. The -instant she lost sight of them so suddenly, Poppie started in pursuit, -lost one of her great shoes, and, instead of turning to pick it up, -kicked the other after it—no great loss—and scampered at full -barefooted speed over the snow, which was here well trodden. They could -hardly have more than disappeared at the further end when she arrived -at the entrance.</p> - -<p>Poppie never thought about <i>might</i> or <i>might</i> not, but only about -<i>could</i> or <i>could not</i>. So the way being open, and she happening to -have no mind that morning to part with her company before she was -compelled, she darted in to see whether she could not get another peep -of the couple. Not only was the red cloak a fountain of warmth to -Poppie's imagination, but the two seemed so happy together that she -felt in most desirable society.</p> - -<p>Thomas was in the act of paying for admission at the turnstile, when -she caught sight of them again. The same moment that he admitted them, -the man turned away from his post. In an instant Poppie had crept -through underneath, dodged the man, and followed them, taking care, -however, not to let them see her, for she had not the smallest desire -to come to speech with them.</p> - -<p>The gorgeousness about her did not produce much effect upon Poppie's -imagination. What it might have produced was counteracted by a -strange fancy that rose at once under the matted covering of that -sunburnt hair. She had seen more than one dead man carried home upon -a stretcher. She had seen the miserable funerals of the poor, and the -desolate coffin put in the earth. But she knew that of human beings -there were at least two very different breeds, of one of which she -knew something of the habits and customs, while of the other she knew -nothing, except that they lived in great houses, from which they were -carried away in splendid black carriages, drawn by ever so many horses, -with great black feathers growing out of their heads. What became of -them after that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> had not the smallest idea, for no doubt they would -be disposed of in a manner very different from the funerals she had -been allowed to be present at. When she entered the wax-work exhibition -the question was solved. This was one of the places to which they -carried the grand people after they were dead. Here they set them up, -dressed in their very best, to stand there till—ah, till when, Poppie? -That question she made no attempt to answer. She did not like the look -of the dead people. She thought it a better way to put them in the -earth and have done with them, for they had a queer look, as if they -did not altogether like the affair themselves. And when one of them -stared at her, she dodged its eyes, and had enough to do between them -all and the showman; for though Poppie was not afraid of anybody, she -had an instinctive knowledge that it was better to keep out of some -people's way. She followed the sight of her friend, however, till the -couple went into the "chamber of horrors," as if there was not horror -enough in seeing humanity imitated so abominably in the outer room.</p> - -<p>Yes, I am sorry to say it, Lucy went into that place, but she did -not know what she was doing, and it was weeks before she recovered -her self-respect after it. However, as Thomas seemed interested, she -contrived to endure it for a little while—to endure, I do not mean -the horror, for that was not very great—but the vulgarity of it all. -Poppie lingered, not daring to follow them, and at length, seeing a -large party arrive, began to look about for some place of refuge. In -the art of vanishing she was an adept, with an extraordinary proclivity -toward holes and comers. In fact, she could hardly see a hole big -enough to admit her without darting into it at once to see if it would -do—for what, she could not have specified—but for general purposes of -refuge. She considered all such places handy, and she found one handy -now.</p> - -<p>Close to the entrance, in a recess, was a couch, and on this couch -lay a man. He did not look like the rest of the dead people, for his -eyes were closed. Then the dead people went to bed sometimes, and to -sleep. Happy dead people—in a bed like this! For there was a black -velvet cover thrown over the sleeping dead man, so that nothing but his -face was visible; and to the eyes of Poppie this pall looked so soft, -so comfortable, so enticing! It was a place to dream in. And could -there be any better hiding-place than this? If the man was both dead -and sleeping, he would hardly object to having her for a companion. -But as she sent one parting peep round the corner of William Pitt or -Dick Turpin, after her friends, ere<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> she forsook them to lie down with -the dead, one of the attendants caught sight of her, and advanced to -expel the dangerous intruder. Poppie turned and fled, sprang into the -recess, crept under the cover, like a hunted mouse, and lay still, -the bed-fellow of no less illustrious a personage than the Duke of -Wellington, and cold as he must have been, Poppie found him warmer than -her own legs. The man never thought of following her in that direction, -and supposed that she had escaped as she had managed to intrude.</p> - -<p>Poppie found the place so comfortable that she had no inclination -to change her quarters in haste. True, it was not nice to feel the -dead man when she put out foot or hand; but then she need not put out -foot or hand. And Poppie was not used to feeling warm. It was a rare -sensation, and she found it delightful. Every now and then she peeped -from under the <i>mortcloth</i>—for the duke was supposed to be lying in -state—to see whether Thomas and Lucy were coming. But at length, what -with the mental and physical effects of warmth and comfort combined, -she fell fast asleep, and dreamed she was in a place she had been in -once before, though she had forgotten all about it. From the indefinite -account she gave of it, I can only conjecture that it was the -embodiment of the vaguest memory of a motherly bosom; that it was her -own mother's bosom she recalled even thus faintly, I much doubt. But -from this undefined bliss she was suddenly aroused by a rough hand and -a rough voice loaded with a curse. Poppie was used to curses, and did -not mind them a bit—somehow they never hurt her—but she was a little -frightened at the face of indignant surprise and wrath which she saw -bending over her when she awoke. It was that of one of the attendants, -with a policeman beside him, for whom he had sent before he awoke the -child, allowing her thus a few moments of unconscious blessedness, with -the future hanging heavy in the near distance. But the duke had slept -none the less soundly that she was by his side, and had lost none of -the warmth that she had gained. It was well for Ruth that there were -no police when she slept in Boaz's barn; still better that some of the -clergymen, who serve God by reading her story on the Sunday, were not -the magistrates before whom the police carried her. With a tight grasp -on her arm, Poppie was walked away in a manner uncomfortable certainly -to one who was accustomed to trot along at her own sweet will—and a -sweet will it was, that for happiness was content to follow and keep -within sight of some one that drew her, without longing for even a -word of grace—to what she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> learned to call <i>the jug</i>, namely, the -police prison; but my reader must not spend too much of his stock of -sympathy upon Poppie; for she did not mind it much. To be sure in such -weather the jug was very cold, but she had the memories of the past to -comfort her, the near past, spent in the society of the dead duke, warm -and consoling. When she fell asleep on the hard floor of the <i>lock-up</i>, -she dreamed that she was dead and buried, and trying to be warm and -comfortable, as she ought to be in her grave, only somehow or another -she could not get things to come right; the wind would blow through the -chinks of her pauper's coffin; and she wished she had been a duke or -a great person generally, to be so grandly buried as they were in the -cemetery in Baker Street. But Poppie was far less to be pitied for the -time, cold as she was, than Mary Boxall, lying half asleep and half -awake and all dreaming in that comfortable room, with a blazing fire, -and her own mother sitting beside it. True, likewise, Poppie heard a -good many bad words and horrid speeches in the jug, but she did not -heed them much. Indeed, they did not even distress her, she was so -used to them; nor, upon occasion, was her own language the very pink -of propriety. How could it be? The vocabulary in use in the houses -she knew had ten vulgar words in it to one that Mattie, for instance, -would hear. But whether Poppie, when speaking the worst language that -ever crossed her lips, was lower, morally and spiritually considered, -than the young lord in the nursery, who, speaking with articulation -clear cut as his features, and in language every word of which is to be -found in Johnson; refuses his brother a share of his tart and gobbles -it up himself, there is to me, knowing that if Poppie could swear she -could share, no question whatever. God looks after his children in the -cellars as well as in the nurseries of London.</p> - -<p>Of course she was liberated in the morning, for the police magistrates -of London are not so cruel as some of those country clergymen who, not -content with preaching about the justice of God from the pulpit, must -seat themselves on the magistrate's bench to dispense the injustice of -men. If she had been brought before some of them for sleeping under -a hay-stack, and having no money in her pocket, as if the night sky, -besides being a cold tester to lie under, were something wicked as -well, she would have been sent to prison; for, instead of believing in -the blessedness of the poor, they are of Miss Kilmansegg's opinion, -"that people with nought are naughty." The poor little thing was only -reprimanded for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> being where she had no business to be, and sent away. -But it was no wonder if, after this adventure, she should know Thomas -again when she saw him; nay, that she should sometimes trot after him -for the length of a street or so. But he never noticed her.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER VIII.</p> - -<p class="center">MR. SIMON'S ATTEMPT.</p> - - -<p>The next day the sun shone brilliantly upon the snow as Thomas walked -to the counting-house. He was full of pleasant thoughts, crossed and -shadowed by a few of a different kind. He was not naturally deceitful, -and the sense of having a secret which must get him into trouble if it -were discovered, and discovered it must be some day, could not fail to -give him uneasiness notwithstanding the satisfaction which the romance -of the secrecy of a love affair afforded him. Nothing, however, as it -seemed to him, could be done, for he was never ready to do anything to -which he was neither led nor driven. He could not generate action, or, -rather, he had never yet begun to generate action.</p> - -<p>As soon as he reached Bagot Street, he tapped at the glass door, and -was admitted to Mr. Boxall's room. He found him with a look of anxiety -upon a face not used to express that emotion.</p> - -<p>"I hope Miss Mary—" Thomas began, with a little hesitation.</p> - -<p>"She's very ill," said her father, "very ill, indeed. It was enough to -be the death of her. Excessively imprudent."</p> - -<p>Now Mary had been as much to blame, if there was any blame at all, for -the present results of the Christmas morning, as Thomas; but he had -still generosity enough left not to say so to her father.</p> - -<p>"I am very sorry," he said. "We were caught in the snow, and lost our -way."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, I know. I oughtn't to be too hard upon young people," -returned Mr. Boxall, remembering, perhaps, that he had his share of the -blame in leaving them so much to themselves.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I only hope she may get through it. But she's in a bad way. She was -quite delirious last night."</p> - -<p>Thomas was really concerned for a moment, and looked so. Mr. Boxall saw -it, and spoke more kindly.</p> - -<p>"I trust, however, that there is not any immediate danger. It's no use -you coming to see her. She can't see anybody but the doctor."</p> - -<p>This was a relief to Thomas. But it was rather alarming to find that -Mr. Boxall clearly expected him to want to go to see her.</p> - -<p>"I am very sorry," he said again; and that was all he could find to say.</p> - -<p>"Well, well," returned his master, accepting the words as if they had -been an apology. "We must do our work, anyhow. Business is the first -thing, you know."</p> - -<p>Thomas took this as a dismissal, and retired to the outer office, in a -mood considerably different from that which Mr. Boxall attributed to -him.</p> - -<p>A clerk's duty is a hard one, and this ought to be acknowledged. -Neither has he any personal interest in the result of the special labor -to which he is for the time devoted, nor can this labor have much -interest of its own beyond what comes of getting things square, and the -sense of satisfaction which springs from activity, and the success of -completion. And it is not often that a young man is fortunate enough -to have a master who will not only appreciate his endeavors, but will -let him know that he does appreciate them. There are reasons for the -latter fact beyond disposition and temperament. The genial employer has -so often found that a strange process comes into operation in young and -old, which turns the honey of praise into the poison of self-conceit, -rendering those to whom it is given disagreeable, and ere long -insufferable, that he learns to be very chary in the administration of -the said honey, lest subordinates think themselves indispensable, and -even neglect the very virtues which earned them the praise. A man must -do his duty, if he would be a free man, whether he likes it or not, -and whether it is appreciated or not. But if he can regard it as the -will of God, the work not fallen upon him by chance, but <i>given</i> him to -do, understanding that every thing well done belongs to His kingdom, -and every thing ill done to the kingdom of darkness, surely even the -irksomeness of his work will be no longer insuperable. But Thomas -had never been taught this. He did not know that his day's work had -anything to do with the saving of his soul. Poor Mr. Simon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> gave him -of what he had, like his namesake at the gate of the temple, but all -he had served only to make a man creep; it could not make him stand up -and walk. "A servant with this clause,"—that is the clause, "<i>for thy -sake</i>,"—wrote George Herbert:</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"A servant with this clause</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Makes drudgery divine;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Makes that and the action fine."</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>But Mr. Simon could not understand the half of this, and nothing at -all of the essential sacredness of the work which God would not give -a man to do if it were not sacred. Hence Thomas regarded his work -only as drudgery; considered it beneath him; judged himself fitter -for the army, and had hankerings after gold lace. He dabbled with the -fancy that there was a mistake somewhere in the arrangement of mundane -affairs, a serious one, for was he not fitted by nature to move in some -showy orbit, instead of being doomed to rise in Highbury, shine in -Bagot Street, and set yet again in Highbury? And so, although he did -not absolutely neglect his work, for he hated to be found fault with, -he just did it, not entering into it with any spirit; and as he was -clever enough, things went on with tolerable smoothness.</p> - -<p>That same evening, when he went home from his German lesson of a -quarter of an hour, and his interview with Lucy of an hour and a -quarter, he found Mr. Simon with his mother. Thomas would have left -the room; for his conscience now made him wish to avoid Mr. Simon—who -had pressed him so hard, with the stamp of religion that the place was -painful, although the impression was fast disappearing.</p> - -<p>"Thomas," said his mother, with even more than her usual solemnity, -"Thomas, come here. We want to have some conversation with you."</p> - -<p>"I have not had my tea yet, mother."</p> - -<p>"You can have your tea afterward. I wish you to come here now."</p> - -<p>Thomas obeyed, and threw himself with some attempt at nonchalance into -a chair.</p> - -<p>"Thomas, my friend," began Mr. Simon, with a tone—how am I to describe -it? I could easily, if I chose to use a contemptuous word, but I do not -wish to intrude on the region of the comic satirist, and must therefore -use a periphrase—with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> the tone which corresponds to the long face -some religions people assume the moment the conversation turns toward -sacred things, and in which a certain element of the ludicrous, because -affected, goes far to destroy the solemnity, "I am uneasy about you. -Do not think me interfering, for I watch for your soul as one that -must give an account. I have to give an account of you, for at one -time you were the most promising seal of my ministry. But your zeal -has grown cold; you are unfaithful to your first love; and when the -Lord cometh as a thief in the night, you will be to him as one of -the lukewarm, neither cold nor hot, my poor friend. He will spue you -out of his mouth. And I may be to blame for this, though at present -I know not how. Ah, Thomas! Thomas! Do not let me have shame of you -at his appearing. The years are fleeting fast, and although he delay -his coming, yet he <i>will</i> come; and he will slay his enemies with the -two-edged sword that proceedeth out of his mouth."</p> - -<p>Foolish as Mr. Simon was, he was better than Mr. Potter, if Mr. -Kitely's account of him was correct; for he was in earnest, and acted -upon his belief. But he knew nothing of human nature, and as Thomas -grew older, days, even hours, had widened the gulf between them, till -his poor feeble influences could no longer reach across it, save as -unpleasant reminders of something that had been. Happy is the youth of -whom a sensible, good clergyman has a firm hold—a firm human hold, I -mean—not a priestly one, such as Mr. Simon's. But if the clergyman be -feeble and foolish, the worst of it is, that the youth will transfer -his growing contempt for the clergyman to the religion of which he -is such a poor representative. I know another clergyman—perhaps my -readers may know him too—who, instead of lecturing Thomas through the -medium of a long string of Scripture phrases, which he would have had -far too much reverence to use after such a fashion, would have taken -him by the shoulder, and said, "Tom, my boy, you've got something on -your mind. I hope it's nothing wrong. But whatever it is, mind you come -to me if I can be of any use to you."</p> - -<p>To such a man there would have been a chance of Tom's making a clean -breast of it—not yet, though—not before he got into deep water. But -Mr. Simon had not the shadow of a chance of making him confess. How -could Thomas tell such a man that he was in love with one beautiful -girl, and had foolishly got himself into a scrape with another?</p> - -<p>By this direct attack upon him in the presence of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> mother, the man -had lost the last remnant of his influence over him, and, in fact, made -him feel as if he should like to punch his head, if it were not that -he could not bear to hurt the meek little sheep. He did not know that -Mr. Simon had been rather a bruiser at college—small and meek as he -was—only that was before his conversion. If he had cared to defend -himself from such an attack, which I am certain he would not have -doubled fist to do, Thomas could not have stood one minute before him.</p> - -<p>"Why do you not speak, Thomas?" said his mother, gently.</p> - -<p>"What do you want me to say, mother?" asked Thomas in return, with -rising anger. He never could resist except his temper came to his aid.</p> - -<p>"Say what you ought to say," returned Mrs. Worboise, more severely.</p> - -<p>"What ought I to say, Mr. Simon?" said Thomas, with a tone of mock -submission, not so marked, however, that Mr. Simon, who was not -sensitive, detected it.</p> - -<p>"Say, my young friend, that you will carry the matter to the throne of -grace, and ask the aid—"</p> - -<p>But I would rather not record sacred words which, whatever they might -mean in Mr. Simon's use of them, mean so little in relation to my story.</p> - -<p>Thomas, however, was not yet so much of a hypocrite as his training had -hitherto tended to make him, and again he sat silent for a few moments, -during which his mother and her friend sat silent likewise, giving him -time for reflection. Then he spoke, anxious to get rid of the whole -unpleasant affair.</p> - -<p>"I will promise to think of what you have said, Mr. Simon."</p> - -<p>"Yes, Thomas, but <i>how</i> will you think of it?" said his mother.</p> - -<p>Mr. Simon, however, glad to have gained so much of a concession, spoke -more genially. He would not drive the matter further at present.</p> - -<p>"Do, dear friend; and may He guide you into the truth. Remember, -Thomas, the world and the things of this world are passing away. You -are a child no longer, and are herewith called upon to take your part, -for God or against him—"</p> - -<p>And so on, till Thomas grew weary as well as annoyed.</p> - -<p>"Will you tell me what fault you have to find with me?" he said at -last. "I am regular at the Sunday-school, I am sure."</p> - -<p>"Yes, that we must allow, and heartily," answered Mr. Simon, turning -to Mrs. Worboise as if to give her the initiative, for he thought -her rather hard with her son; "only I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> would just suggest to you, -Mr. Thomas—I don't ask you the question, but I would have you ask -yourself—whether your energy is equal to what it has been? Take care -lest, while you teach others, you yourself should be a castaway. -Remember that nothing but faith in the merits—"</p> - -<p>Thus started again, he went on, till Thomas was forced loose from all -sympathy with things so unmercifully driven upon him, and vowed in his -heart that he would stand it no longer.</p> - -<p>Still speaking, Mr. Simon rose to take his leave. Thomas, naturally -polite, and anxious to get out of the scrutiny of those cold blue eyes -of his mother, went to open the door for him, and closed it behind him -with a sigh of satisfaction. Then he had his tea and went to his own -room, feeling wrong, and yet knowing quite well that he was going on to -be and to do wrong. Saintship like his mother's and Mr. Simon's was out -of his reach.</p> - -<p>Perhaps it was. But there were other things essential to saintship -that were within his reach—and equally essential to the manliness of -a gentleman, which he would have been considerably annoyed to be told -that he was in much danger of falling short of, if he did not in some -way or other mend his ways, and take heed to his goings.</p> - -<p>The next morning mother and pastor held a long and, my reader will -believe, a dreary consultation over the state of Thomas. I will not -afflict him with a recital of what was said and resaid a dozen times -before they parted. If Mr. Worboise had overheard it, he would have -laughed, not heartily, but with a perfection of contempt, for he -despised all these things, and would have despised better things, too, -if he had known them.</p> - -<p>The sole result was that his mother watched Thomas with yet greater -assiduity; and Thomas began to feel that her eyes were never off him, -and to dislike them because he feared them. He felt them behind his -back. They haunted him in Bagot Street. Happy with Lucy, even there -those eyes followed him, as if searching to find out his secret; and a -vague fear kept growing upon him that the discovery was at hand. Hence -he became more and more cunning to conceal his visits. He dreaded what -questions those questioning eyes might set the tongue asking. For he -had not yet learned to lie. He prevaricated, no doubt; but lying may be -a step yet further on the downward road.</p> - -<p>One good thing only came out of it all: he grew more and more in love -with Lucy. He almost loved her.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> - - - - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER IX.</p> - -<p class="center">BUSINESS.</p> - - -<p>For some days Mr. Boxall was so uneasy about Mary that he forgot his -appointment with Mr. Worboise. At length, however, when a thaw had set -in, and she had began to improve, he went to call upon his old friend.</p> - -<p>"Ah, Boxall! glad to see you. What a man you are to make an appointment -with! Are you aware, sir, of the value of time in London, not to say in -this life generally? Are you aware that bills are due at certain dates, -and that the man who has not money at his banker's to meet them is -dishonored—euphemistically shifted to the bill?"</p> - -<p>Thus jocosely did Mr. Worboise play upon the well-known business habits -of his friend, who would rather, or at least believed he would rather, -go to the scaffold than allow a bill of his to be dishonored. But Mr. -Boxall was in a good humor, too, this morning.</p> - -<p>"At least, Worboise," he answered, "I trust when the said bill is -dishonored, you may not be the holder."</p> - -<p>"Thank you. I hope not. I don't like losing money."</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't mistake me! I meant for my sake, not yours."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Because you would skin the place before you took the pound of flesh. I -know you!"</p> - -<p>Mr. Worboise winced. Mr. Boxall thought he had gone too far, that is, -had been rude. But Mr. Worboise laughed aloud.</p> - -<p>"You flatter me, Boxall," he said. "I had no idea I was such a sharp -practitioner. But you ought to know best. We'll take care, at all -events, to have this will of yours right."</p> - -<p>So saying, he went to a drawer to get it out. But Mr. Boxall still -feared that his friend had thought him rude.</p> - -<p>"The fact is," he said, "I have been so uneasy about Mary."</p> - -<p>"Why? What's the matter?" interrupted Mr. Worboise, stopping on his way -across the room.</p> - -<p>"Don't you know?" returned Mr. Boxall, in some surprise. "She's never -got over that Hampstead Heath affair. She's been in bed ever since."</p> - -<p>"God bless me!" exclaimed the other. "I never heard a word of it. What -was it?"</p> - -<p>So Mr. Boxall told as much as he knew of the story, and any way there -was not much to tell.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Never heard a word of it!" repeated the lawyer.</p> - -<p>The statement made Mr. Boxall more uneasy than he cared to show.</p> - -<p>"But I must be going," he said; "so let's have this troublesome will -signed and done with."</p> - -<p>"Not in the least a troublesome one, I assure you. Rather too simple, I -think. Here it is."</p> - -<p>And Mr. Worboise began to read it over point by point to his client.</p> - -<p>"All right," said the latter. "Mrs. Boxall to have everything to do -with it as she pleases. It is the least I can say, for she has been a -good wife to me."</p> - -<p>"And will be for many years to come, I hope," said Mr. Worboise.</p> - -<p>"I hope so. Well, go on."</p> - -<p>Mr. Worboise went on.</p> - -<p>"All right," said his client again. "Failing my wife, my daughters to -have everything, as indeed they will whether my wife fails or not—at -last, I mean, for she would leave it to them, of course."</p> - -<p>"Well," said the lawyer, "and who comes next?"</p> - -<p>"Nobody. Who do you think?"</p> - -<p>"It's rather a short—doesn't read quite business-like. Put in any -body, just for the chance—a poor one, ha! ha! with such a fine family -as yours."</p> - -<p>"Stick yourself in then, old fellow; and though it won't do you any -good, it will be an expression of my long esteem and friendship for -you."</p> - -<p>"What a capital stroke!" thought Mr. Boxall. "I've surely got that -nonsense out of his head now. He'll never think of it more. I <i>was</i> -country-bred."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, old friend," said Mr. Worboise, quietly, and entered his -own name in succession.</p> - -<p>The will was soon finished, signed, and witnessed by two of Mr. -Worboise's clerks.</p> - -<p>"Now what is to be done with it?" asked Mr. Worboise.</p> - -<p>"Oh, you take care of it for me. You have more storage—for that kind -of thing, I mean, than I have. I should never know where to find it."</p> - -<p>"If you want to make any alteration in it, there's your box, you know."</p> - -<p>"Why, what alteration could I want to make in it?"</p> - -<p>"That's not for me to suppose. You might quarrel with me though, and -want to strike out my name."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> - -<p>"True. I <i>might</i> quarrel with my wife too, mightn't I, and strike her -name out?"</p> - -<p>"It might happen."</p> - -<p>"Yes; anything might happen. Meantime I am content with sufficient -probabilities."</p> - -<p>"By the way, how is that son of mine getting on?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, pretty well. He's regular enough, and I hear no complaints of him -from Stopper; and <i>he's</i> sharp enough, I assure you."</p> - -<p>"But you're not over-satisfied with him yourself, eh?"</p> - -<p>"Well, to speak the truth, between you and me, I don't think he's cut -out for our business."</p> - -<p>"That's much the same as saying he's of no use for business of any -sort."</p> - -<p>"I don't know. He does his work fairly well, as I say, but he don't -seem to have any heart in it."</p> - -<p>"Well, what do you think he is fit for now?"</p> - -<p>"I'm sure I don't know. You could easily make a fine gentleman of him."</p> - -<p>Mr. Boxall spoke rather bitterly, for he had already had flitting -doubts in his mind whether Tom had been behaving well to Mary. It had -become very evident since her illness that she was very much in love -with Tom, and that he should be a hair's-breadth less in love with her -was offense enough to rouse the indignation of a man like Mr. Boxall, -good-natured as he was; and that he had never thought it worth while -even to mention the fact of her illness to his father, was strange to a -degree.</p> - -<p>"But I can't afford to make a fine gentleman of him. I've got his -sister to provide for as well as my fine gentleman. I don't mean to say -that I could not leave him as much, perhaps more than you can to <i>each</i> -of your daughters; but girls are so different from boys. Girls can live -upon anything; fine gentlemen can't." And here Mr. Worboise swore.</p> - -<p>"Well, it's no business of mine," said Mr. Boxall. "If there's anything -I can do for him, of course, for your sake, Worboise—"</p> - -<p>"The rascal has offended him somehow," said Mr. Worboise to himself. -"It's that Hampstead business. Have patience with the young dog," he -said, aloud. "That's all I ask you to do for him. Who knows what may -come out of him yet?"</p> - -<p>"That's easy to do. As I tell you, there's no fault to find with him," -answered Mr. Boxall, afraid that he had exposed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> some feeling that had -better have been hidden. "Only one must speak the truth."</p> - -<p>With these words Mr. Boxall took his leave.</p> - -<p>Mr. Worboise sat and cogitated.</p> - -<p>"There's something in that rascal's head, now," he said to himself. -"His mother and that Simon will make a spoon of him. I want to get some -sense out of him before he's translated to kingdom-come. But how the -deuce to get any sense out when there's so precious little in! I found -seventeen volumes of Byron on his book-shelves last night. I'll have a -talk to his mother about him. Not that that's of much use!"</p> - -<p>To her husband Mrs. Worboise always wore a resigned air, believing -herself unequally yoked to an unbeliever with a bond which she was -not at liberty to break, because it was enjoined upon her to win her -husband by her chaste conversation coupled with fear. Therefore when -he went into her room that evening, she received him as usual with a -look which might easily be mistaken, and not much mistaken either, as -expressive of a sense of injury.</p> - -<p>"Well, my dear," her husband began, in a conciliatory, indeed jocose, -while yet complaining tone, "do you know what this precious son of ours -has been about? Killing Mary Boxall in a snow-storm, and never telling -me a word about it. I suppose you know the whole story, though? You -<i>might</i> have told me."</p> - -<p>"Indeed, Mr. Worboise, I am sorry to say I know nothing about Thomas -nowadays. I can't understand him. He's quite changed. But if I were not -laid on a couch of suffering—not that I complain of that—I should not -come to <i>you</i> to ask what he was about. I should find out for myself."</p> - -<p>"I wish to goodness you were able."</p> - -<p>"Do not set your wish against <i>His</i> will," returned Mrs. Worboise, with -a hopeless reproof in her tone, implying that it was of no use to say -so, but she must bear her testimony notwithstanding.</p> - -<p>"Oh! no, no," returned her husband; "nothing of the sort. Nothing -further from my intention. But what is to be done about this affair? -You know it would please you as well as me to see him married to Mary -Boxall. She's a good girl, that you know."</p> - -<p>"If I were sure that she was a changed character, there is nothing I -should like better, I confess—that is, of worldly interest."</p> - -<p>"Come, come, Mrs. Worboise. I don't think you're quite fair to the -girl."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What <i>do</i> you mean, Mr. Worboise?"</p> - -<p>"I mean that just now you seemed in considerable doubt whether or not -your son was a changed character, as you call it. And yet you say that -if Mary Boxall were a changed character, you would not wish anything -more—that is, of worldly interest—than to see him married to Mary -Boxall. Is that fair to Mary Boxall? I put the question merely."</p> - -<p>"There would be the more hope for him; for the Scripture says that the -believing wife may save her husband."</p> - -<p>Mr. Worboise winked inwardly to himself. Because his wife's religion -was selfish, and therefore irreligious, therefore, religion was a -humbug, and <i>therefore</i> his conduct might be as selfish as ever he -chose to make it.</p> - -<p>"But how about Mary? Why should you wish her, if she was a changed -character, to lose her advantage by marrying one who is not so?"</p> - -<p>"She might change him, Mr. Worboise, as I have said already," returned -the lady, decisively; "for she might speak with authority to one who -knew nothing about these things."</p> - -<p>"Yes. But if Thomas were changed, and Mary not—what then?"</p> - -<p>Mrs. Worboise murmured something not quite audible about "I and the -children whom God hath given me."</p> - -<p>"At the expense of the children he hasn't given you!" said Mr. -Worboise, at a venture; and chuckled now, for he saw his victory in her -face.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Worboise's chuckle always made Mrs. Worboise <i>shut up</i>, and -not another word could he get out of her that evening. She never took -refuge in her illness, but in an absolute dogged silence, which she -persuaded herself that she was suffering for the truth's sake.</p> - -<p>Her husband's communication made her still more anxious about Thomas, -and certain suspicions she had begun to entertain about the German -master became more decided. In her last interview with Mr. Simon, she -had hinted to him that Thomas ought to be watched, that they might -know whether he really went to his German lesson or went somewhere -else. But Mr. Simon was too much of a gentleman not to recoil from the -idea, and Mrs. Worboise did not venture to press it. When she saw him -again, however, she suggested—I think I had better give the substance -of the conversation, for it would not in itself be interesting to -my readers—she suggested her fears that his German master had been -mingling German<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> theology, with his lessons, and so corrupting the -soundness of his faith. This seemed to Mr. Simon very possible indeed, -for he knew how insidious the teachers of such doctrines are, and, -glad to do something definite for his suffering friend, he offered to -call upon the man and see what sort of person he was. This offer Mrs. -Worboise gladly accepted, without thinking that of all men to find -out any insidious person, Mr. Simon, in his simplicity, was the least -likely.</p> - -<p>But now the difficulty arose that they knew neither his name nor -where he lived, and they could not ask Thomas about him. So Mr. Simon -undertook the task of finding the man by inquiry in the neighborhood of -Bagot Street.</p> - -<p>"My friend, he said, stepping the next morning into Mr. Kitely's -shop,—he had a way of calling everybody his friend, thinking so to -recommend the Gospel.</p> - -<p>"At your service, sir," returned Mr. Kitely, brusquely, as he stepped -from behind one of the partitions in the shop, and saw the little -clerical apparition which had not even waited to see the form of the -human being to whom he applied the sacred epithet.</p> - -<p>"I only wanted to ask you," drawled Mr. Simon, in a drawl both of -earnestness and unconscious affectation, "whether you happen to know of -a German master somewhere in this neighborhood."</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know," returned Mr. Kitely, in a tone that indicated a -balancing rather than pondering operation of the mind. For although -he was far enough from being a Scotchman, he always liked to know why -one asked a question, before he cared to answer it. "I don't know as I -could recommend one over another."</p> - -<p>"I am not in want of a master. I only wish to find out one that lives -in this neighborhood."</p> - -<p>"I know at least six of them within a radius of one-half mile, -taking my shop here for the center of the circle," said Mr. Kitely, -consequentially. "What's the man's name you want?"</p> - -<p>"That is what I cannot tell you."</p> - -<p>"Then how am I to tell you, sir?"</p> - -<p>"If you will oblige me with the names and addresses of those six you -mention, one of them will very likely be the man I want."</p> - -<p>"I dare say the clergyman wants Mr. Moloch, father," said a voice from -somewhere in the neighborhood of the floor, "the foreign gentleman that -Mr. Worboise goes to see, up the court."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> - -<p>"That's the very man, my child," responded Mr. Simon. "Thank you very -much. Where shall I find him?"</p> - -<p>"I'll show you," returned Mattie.</p> - -<p>"Why couldn't he have said so before?" remarked Mr. Kitely to himself -with indignation. "But it's just like them."</p> - -<p>By <i>them</i> he meant clergymen in general.</p> - -<p>"What a fearful name—<i>Moloch</i>!" reflected Mr. Simon, as he followed -Mattie up the court. He would have judged it a name of bad omen, had -he not thought <i>omen</i> rather a wicked word. The fact was, the German's -name was Molken, a very innocent one, far too innocent for its owner, -for it means only <i>whey</i>.</p> - -<p>Herr Molken was a <i>ne'er-do-weel</i> student of Heidelberg, a clever -fellow, if not a scholar, whose bad habits came to be too well known -at home for his being able to indulge them there any longer, and who -had taken refuge in London from certain disagreeable consequences -which not unfrequently follow aberrant efforts to procure the means of -gambling and general dissipation. Thomas had as yet spent so little -time in his company, never giving more than a quarter of an hour or -so to his lesson, that Molken had had no opportunity of influencing -him in any way. But he was one of those who, the moment they make a -new acquaintance, begin examining him for the sake of discovering his -weak points, that they may get some hold of him. He measured his own -strength or weakness by the number of persons of whom at any given -time he had a hold capable of being turned to advantage in some way or -other in the course of events. Of all dupes, one with some intellect -and no principle, weakened by the trammels of a religious system with -which he is at strife, and which therefore hangs like a millstone about -his neck, impedes his every motion, and gives him up to the mercy of -his enemy, is the most thorough prey to the pigeon-plucker; for such a -one has no recuperative power, and the misery of his conscience makes -him abject. Molken saw that Tom was clever, and he seemed to have some -money—if he could get this hold of him in any way, it might be "to the -welfare of his advantage."</p> - -<p>The next lesson fell on the evening after Mr. Simon's visit in Guild -Court, and Mr. Molken gave Thomas a full account of the "beseek" he had -had from "one soft ghostly," who wanted to find out something about -Thomas, and how he had told him that Mr. Worboise was a most excellent -and religious young man; that he worked very hard at his German, and -that he never spent less (here Mr. Molken winked at Thomas)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> than -an hour and a half over Krummacher or some other religious writer. -All this Mr. Simon had faithfully reported to Mrs. Worboise, never -questioning what Mr. Molken told him, though how any one could have -looked at him without finding cause to doubt whatever he might say, I -can hardly imagine. For Mr. Molken was a small, wiry man, about thirty, -with brows overhanging his eyes like the eaves of a Swiss cottage, and -rendering those black and wicked luminaries blacker and more wicked -still. His hair was black, his beard was black, his skin was swarthy, -his forehead was large; his nose looked as if it had been made of -putty and dabbed on after the rest of his face was finished; his mouth -was sensual; and, in short, one was inclined to put the question in -the gospel—Whether hath sinned, this man or his parents? He could, -notwithstanding, make himself so agreeable, had such a winning carriage -and dignified deference, that he soon disarmed the suspicion caused by -his appearance. He had, besides, many accomplishments, and seemed to -know everything—at least to a lad like Thomas, who could not detect -the assumption which not unfrequently took the place of knowledge. He -manifested, also, a genuine appreciation of his country's poetry, and -even the short lessons to which Thomas submitted had been enlivened by -Herr Molken's enthusiasm for Goethe. If those of his poems which he -read and explained to Thomas were not of the best, they were none the -worse for his purposes.</p> - -<p>Now he believed he had got, by Mr. Simon's aid, the hold that he -wanted. His one wink, parenthetically introduced above, revealed to -Thomas that he was master of his secret, and Thomas felt that he was, -to a considerable degree, in his hands. This, however, caused him no -apprehension.</p> - -<p>His mother, although in a measure relieved, still cherished suspicions -of German theology which the mention of Krummacher had failed to -remove. She would give her son a direct warning on the subject. So, -when he came into her room that evening, she said:</p> - -<p>"Mr. Simon has been making some friendly inquiries about you, -Thomas. He was in the neighborhood, and thought he might call on Mr. -Moloch—what a dreadful name! Why have you nothing to say to me about -your studies? Mr. Simon says you are getting quite a scholar in German. -But it is a dangerous language, Thomas, and full of errors. Beware of -yielding too ready an ear to the seductions of human philosophy and the -undermining attacks of will-worship."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Worboise went on in this strain, intelligible neither to herself -nor her son, seeing she had not more than the vaguest notion of what -she meant by German theology, for at least five minutes, during which -Thomas did not interrupt her once. By allowing the lies of his German -master to pass thus uncontradicted, he took another long stride down -the inclined plane of deceit.</p> - -<p>After this he became naturally more familiar with Mr. Molken. The -German abandoned books, and began to teach him fencing, in which he was -an adept, talking to him in German all the while, and thus certainly -increasing his knowledge of the language, though not in a direction -that was likely within fifty years to lead him to the mastery of -commercial correspondence in that tongue.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER X.</p> - -<p class="center">MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.</p> - - -<p>Mr. Boxall, with some difficulty, arising from reluctance, made his -wife acquainted with the annoyance occasioned him by the discovery of -the fact that Tom Worboise had not even told his father that Mary was -ill.</p> - -<p>"I'm convinced," he said, "that the young rascal has only been amusing -himself—flirting, I believe, you women call it."</p> - -<p>"I'm none so sure of that, Richard," answered his wife. "You leave him -to me."</p> - -<p>"Now, my dear, I won't have you throwing our Mary in any fool's face. -It's bad enough as it is. But I declare I would rather see her in her -grave than scorned by any man."</p> - -<p>"You may see her there without before long," answered his wife, with a -sigh.</p> - -<p>"Eh! What! She's not worse, is she?"</p> - -<p>"No; but she hasn't much life left in her. I'm afraid it's settling on -her lungs. Her cough is something dreadful to hear, and tears her to -pieces."</p> - -<p>"It's milder weather, though, now, and that will make a difference -before long. Now, I know what you're thinking of, my dear, and I won't -have it. I told the fellow she wasn't fit to see anybody."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Were you always ready to talk about me to everyone that came in your -way, Richard?" asked his wife, with a good-humored smile.</p> - -<p>"I don't call a lad's father and mother any one that comes in the -way—though, I dare say, fathers and mothers are in the way sometimes," -he added, with a slight sigh.</p> - -<p>"Would you have talked about me to your own father, Richard?"</p> - -<p>"Well, you see, I wasn't in his neighborhood. But my father was -a—a—stiff kind of man to deal with."</p> - -<p>"Not worse than Mr. Worboise, depend upon it, my dear."</p> - -<p>"But Worboise would like well enough to have our Mary for a -daughter-in-law."</p> - -<p>"I dare say. But that mightn't make it easier to talk to him about -her—for Tom, I mean. For my part, I never did see two such parents -as poor Tom has got. I declare it's quite a shame to sit upon that -handsome young lad—and amiable—as they do. He can hardly call his -nose his own. I wouldn't trust that Mr. Worboise, for my part, no, not -if I was drowning."</p> - -<p>"Why, wife!" exclaimed Mr. Boxall, both surprised and annoyed, "this -<i>is</i> something new. How long—"</p> - -<p>But his wife went on, regardless.</p> - -<p>"And that mother of his! It's a queer kind of religion that freezes the -life out of you the moment you come near her. How ever a young fellow -could talk about his sweetheart to either of them is more than I can -understand—or you either, my dear. So don't look so righteous over it."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall's good-natured audacity generally carried everything before -it, even with more dangerous persons than her own husband. He could not -help—I do not say smiling, but trying to smile; and though the smile -was rather a failure, Mrs. Boxall chose to take it for one. Indeed, -she generally put her husband into good humor by treating him as if he -were in a far better humor than he really was in. It never does any -good to tell a man that he is cross. If he is, it makes him no better, -even though it should make him vexed with himself; and if he isn't -cross, nothing is more certain to make him cross, without giving him a -moment's time to consult the better part of him.</p> - -<p>Within the next eight days, Mrs. Boxall wrote to Tom as follows:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p><blockquote> - -<p>"<span class="smcap">My Dear Mr. Thomas</span>—Mary is much better, and you need not -be at all uneasy about the consequences of your expedition to the -North Pole on Christmas Day. I am very sorry I was so cross when you -brought her home. Indeed, I believe I ought to beg your pardon. If -you don't come and see us soon, I shall fancy that I have seriously -offended you. But I knew she never could stand exposure to the -weather, and I suppose that was what upset my temper. Mary will be -pleased to see you.—I am, ever yours sincerely,</p> - -<p> -<span class="smcap">Jane Boxall</span>."<br /> -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Tom received this letter before he left for town in the morning. What -was he to do? Of course he must go and <i>call</i> there, as he styled -it, but he pronounced it a great bore. He was glad the poor girl was -better; but he couldn't help it, and he had no fancy for being hunted -up after that fashion. What made him yet more savage was, that Mr. -Boxall was absolutely surly—he had never seen him so before—when he -went into his room upon some message from Mr. Stopper. He did not go -that day nor the next.</p> - -<p>On the third evening he went;—but the embarrassment of feeling that -he ought to have gone before was added to the dislike of going at all, -and he was in no enviable condition of mind when he got off the Clapton -omnibus. Add to this that an unrelenting east wind was blowing, and my -reader will believe that Tom Worboise was more like a man going to the -scaffold than one going to visit a convalescent girl.</p> - -<p>There was something soothing, however, in the glow of warmth and -comfort which the opening door revealed. The large hall, carpeted -throughout, the stove burning in it most benevolently, the brightness -of the thick stair-rods, like veins of gold in the broad crimson -carpeting of the generously wide stair-case—all was consoling -to Thomas, whose home was one of the new straight-up-and-down, -stucco-faced abominations which can never be home-like except to -those who have been born in them—and no thanks to them, for in that -case a rabbit-hutch will be home-like. Mrs. Boxall was one of those -nice, stout, kindly, middle-aged women who have a positive genius -for comfort. Now there is no genius in liking to be comfortable; but -there is some genius in making yourself comfortable, and a great deal -more in making other people comfortable. This Mrs. Boxall possessed -in perfection; and you felt it the moment you entered her house, -which, like her person, summer and winter, was full of a certain -autumnal richness—the bloom of peaches and winter apples. And what was -remarkable was, that all this was gained without a breath of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> scolding -to the maids. She would ring the bell ten times an hour for the same -maid, if necessary. She would ring at once, no matter how slight the -fault—a scrap of paper, a cornerful of dust, a roll of flue upon that -same stair-carpet—but not even what might make an indulgent mistress -savage—a used lucifer match—would upset the temper of Mrs. Boxall. -Why do I linger on these trifles, do you ask, reader? Because I shall -have to part with Mrs. Boxall soon; and—shall I confess it?—because -it gives me a chance of reading a sly lecture to certain ladies whom -I know, but who cannot complain when I weave it into a history. My -only trouble about Mrs. Boxall is, to think in what condition she must -have found herself when she was no longer in the midst of any of the -circumstances of life—had neither house nor clothes, nor even the body -she had been used to dress with such matronly taste, to look after.</p> - -<p>It was with a certain tremor that Tom approached the door of Mary -Boxall's room. But he had not time to indulge it, as I fear he might -have done if he had had time, for, as I have said, he prized feelings, -and had not begun even to think about actions.</p> - -<p>What a change from the Mary of the snow-storm! She lay on a couch near -the fire, pale and delicate, with thin white hands, and altogether an -altered expression of being. But her appearance of health had always -bees somewhat boastful. Thomas felt that she was far lovelier than -before, and approached her with some emotion. But Mary's illness had -sharpened her perceptions. There was no light in the room but that -of the fire, and it lightened and gloomed over her still face, as -the clouds and the sun do over a landscape. As the waters shine out -and darken again in the hollows, so her eyes gleamed and vanished, -and in the shadow Thomas could not tell whether she was looking at -him or not. But then Mary was reading his face like a book in a hard -language, which yet she understood enough to read it. Very little was -said between them, for Mary was sad and weak, and Thomas was sorrowful -and perplexed. She had been reckoning on this first visit from Thomas -ever since she had recovered enough to choose what she would think -about; and now it was turning out all so different from what she had -pictured to herself. Her poor heart sank away somewhere, and left a -hollow place where it had used to be. Thomas sat there, but there was -a chasm between them, not such as she any longer sought to cross, -but which she would have wider still. She wished he would go.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> A few -more commonplaces across the glimmering fire, and it sank, as if -sympathetic, into a sullen gloom, and the face of neither was visible -to the other. Then Thomas rose with the effort of one in a nightmare -dream. Mary held out her hand to him. He took it in his, cold to the -heart. The fire gave out one flame which flickered and died. In that -light she looked at him—was it reproachfully? He thought so, and felt -that her eyes were like those of one trying to see something at a great -distance. One pressure of her hand, and he left her. He would gladly -have shrunk into a nutshell. "Good-by, Thomas," "Good-by, Mary," were -the last words that passed between them.</p> - -<p>Outside the room he found Mrs. Boxall.</p> - -<p>"Are you going already, Mr. Thomas?" she said, in an uncertain kind of -tone.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mrs. Boxall," was all Tom had to reply with.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall went into her daughter's room, and shut the door. Thomas -let himself out, and walked away.</p> - -<p>She found Mary lying staring at the fire, with great dry eyes, lips -pressed close together, and face even whiter than before.</p> - -<p>"My darling child!" said the mother.</p> - -<p>"It's no matter, mother. It's all my own foolish fault. Only bed again -will be so dreary now."</p> - -<p>The mother made some gesture, which the daughter understood.</p> - -<p>"No, mother; don't say a word. I won't hear a word of that kind. I'm -a good deal wiser already than I used to be. If I get better, I shall -live for you and papa."</p> - -<p>A dreadful fit of coughing interrupted her.</p> - -<p>"Don't fancy I'm going to die for love," she said, with a faint attempt -at a smile. "I'm not one of that sort. If I die, it'll be of a good -honest cough, that's all. Dear mother, it's nothing, I declare."</p> - -<p>Thomas never more crossed that threshold. And ever after, Mr. Boxall -spoke to him as a paid clerk, and nothing more. So he had to carry -some humiliation about with him. Mr. Stopper either knew something of -the matter, or followed the tone of his principal. Even Charles Wither -was short with him after awhile. I suppose Jane told him that he had -behaved very badly to Mary. So Tom had no friend left but Lucy, and was -driven nearer to Mr. Molken. He still contrived to keep his visits at -Guild Court, except those to Mr. Molken, a secret at home. But I think -Mr. Stopper had begun to suspect, if not to find him out.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> - -<p>I have not done with the Boxalls yet, though there is hence—forth an -impassable gulf between Tom and them.</p> - -<p>As the spring drew on, Mary grew a little better. With the first -roses, Uncle John Boxall came home from the Chinese Sea, and took up -his residence for six weeks or so with his brother. Mary was fond of -Uncle John, and his appearance at this time was very opportune. A more -rapid improvement was visible within a few days of his arrival. He gave -himself up almost to the invalid; and as she was already getting over -her fancy for Tom, her love for her uncle came in to aid her recovery.</p> - -<p>"It's the smell of the salt water," said he, when they remarked how -much good he had done her; "and more of it would do her more good yet."</p> - -<p>They thought it better not to tell him anything about Tom. But one day -after dinner, in a gush of old feelings, brought on by a succession of -reminiscences of their childhood, Richard told John all about it, which -was not much. John swore, and kept pondering the matter over.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XI.</p> - -<p class="center">MATTIE FOR POPPIE.</p> - - -<p>One bright morning, when the flags in the passage were hot to her feet, -and the shoes she had lost in the snow-storm had not the smallest -chance of recurring to the memory of Poppie, in this life at least, -Mattie was seated with Mr. Spelt in his workshop, which seemed to the -passer-by to be supported, like the roof of a chapter-house, upon -the single pillar of Mr. Dolman, with his head for a capital—which -did not, however, branch out in a great many directions. She was not -dressing a doll now, for Lucy had set her to work upon some garments -for the poor, Lucy's relation with whom I will explain by and by.</p> - -<p>"I've been thinking, mother," she said—to Mr. Spelt, of course—"that -I wonder how ever God made me. Did he cut me out of something else, and -join me up, do you think? If he did, where did he get the stuff? And if -he didn't, how did he do it?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, my dear, it would puzzle a wiser head than mine to answer that -question," said Mr. Spelt, who plainly judged ignorance a safer refuge -from Mattie than any knowledge he possessed upon the subject. Her -question, however, occasioned the return, somehow or other, of an old -suspicion which he had not by any means cherished, but which would -force itself upon him now and then, that the splendid woman, Mrs. -Spelt, "had once ought" to have had a baby, and, somehow, he never knew -what had come of it. She got all right again, and the baby was nowhere.</p> - -<p>"I wish I had thought to watch while God was a-making of me, and then -I should have remembered how he did it," Mattie resumed. "Ah! but I -couldn't," she added, checking herself, "for I wasn't made till I was -finished, and so I couldn't remember."</p> - -<p>This was rather too profound for Mr. Spelt to respond to in any way. -Not that he had not a glimmering of Mattie's meaning, but that is a -very different thing from knowing what to answer. So he said nothing, -except what something might be comprised in a bare assent. Mattie, -however, seemed bent on forcing conversation, and, finding him silent, -presently tried another vein.</p> - -<p>"Do you remember a conversation we had, in this very place"—that was -not wonderful, anyhow—"some time ago—before my last birthday—about -God being kinder to some people than to other people?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I do," answered Mr. Spelt, who had been thinking about the matter -a good deal since. "Are you of the same mind still, Mattie?"</p> - -<p>"Well, yes, and no," answered Mattie. "I think now there may be -something in it I can't quite get at the bottom of. Do you know, -mother, I remembered all at once, the other day, that when I was a -little girl, I used to envy Poppie. Now, where ever was there a child -that had more of the blessings of childhood than me?"</p> - -<p>"What made you envy Poppie, then, Mattie?"</p> - -<p>"Well, you see, my father's shop was rather an awful place, sometimes. -I never told you, mother, what gained me the pleasure of your -acquaintance. Ever since I can remember—and that is a very long time -ago now—I used now and then to grow frightened at father's books. -Sometimes, you know, they were all quiet enough. You would generally -expect books to be quiet, now wouldn't you? But other times—well, they -wouldn't be quiet. At least, they kept thinking all about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> me, till my -poor head couldn't bear it any longer. That always was my weak point, -you know."</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt looked with some anxiety at the pale face and great forehead -of the old little woman, and said:</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, Mattie. But we've got over all that, I think, pretty well by -now."</p> - -<p>"Well, do you know, Mr. Spelt, I have not even yet got over my fancies -about the books. Very often, as I am falling asleep, I hear them all -thinking;—they can hardly help it, you know, with so much to think -about inside them. I don't hear them exactly, you know, for the one -thinks into the other's thinks—somehow, I can't tell—and they blot -each other out like, and there is nothing but a confused kind of a -jumble in my head till I fall asleep. Well, it was one day, very like -this day—it was a hot summer forenoon, wasn't it, mother?—I was -standing at that window over there. And Poppie was playing down in the -court. And I thought what a happy little girl she was, to go where -she pleased in the sunshine, and not need to put on any shoes. Father -wouldn't let me go where I liked. And there was nothing but books -everywhere. That was my nursery then. It was all round with books. And -some of them had dreadful pictures in them. All at once the books began -talking so loud as I had never heard them talk before. And I thought -with myself—'I won't stand this any longer. I will go away with -Poppie.'</p> - -<p>"So I ran down stairs, but because I couldn't open the door into the -court, I had to watch and dodge father among the book-shelves. And when -I got out, Poppie was gone—and then, what next, mother?"</p> - -<p>"Then my thread knotted, and that always puts me out of temper, because -it stops my work. And I always look down into the court when I stop. -Somehow that's the way my eyes do of themselves. And there I saw a tiny -little maiden staring all about her as if she had lost somebody, and -her face looked as if she was just going to cry. And I knew who she -was, for I had seen her in the shop before. And so I called to her and -she came. And I asked her what was the matter."</p> - -<p>"Well, and I said, 'It's the books that will keep talking:' didn't I?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. And I took you up beside me. But you was very ill after that, and -it was long before you came back again after that first time."</p> - -<p>This story had been gone over and over again between the pair; but -every time that Mattie wanted to rehearse the one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> adventure of her -life, she treated it as a memory that had just returned upon her. How -much of it was an original impression and how much a rewriting by the -tailor upon the blotted tablets of her memory, I cannot tell.</p> - -<p>"Well, where was I?" said Mattie, after a pause, laying her hands on -her lap and looking up at the tailor with eyes of inquiry.</p> - -<p>"I'm sure I don't know, Mattie," answered Mr. Spelt.</p> - -<p>"I was thinking, you know, that perhaps Poppie has her share of what's -going on, after all."</p> - -<p>"And don't you think," suggested her friend, "that perhaps God doesn't -want to keep all the good-doing to himself, but leaves room for us to -have a share in it? It's very nice work that you're at now—isn't it -Mattie?"</p> - -<p>"Well, it is."</p> - -<p>"As good as dressing dolls?"</p> - -<p>"Well, it's no end of better."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Because the dolls don't feel a bit better for it, you know."</p> - -<p>"And them that'll wear that flannel petticoat will feel better for it, -won't they?"</p> - -<p>"That they will, <i>I</i> know."</p> - -<p>"But suppose everybody in the world was as well off as you and me, -Mattie—you with your good father, and—"</p> - -<p>"Well, my father ain't none so good, just. He swears sometimes."</p> - -<p>"He's good to you, though, ain't he?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know that either, mother: he spoils me," answered Mattie, who -seemed to be in a more than usually contradictory humor this morning.</p> - -<p>"Supposing, though, that everybody had a father that spoiled them, you -wouldn't have any such clothes to make, you know."</p> - -<p>"But they wouldn't want them."</p> - -<p>"And you would be forced to go back to your dolls as have no father or -mother and come across the sea in boxes."</p> - -<p>"I see, I see, mother. Well, I suppose I must allow that it is good of -God to give us a share in making people comfortable. You see he could -do it himself, only he likes to give us a share. That's it, ain't, it -mother?"</p> - -<p>"That's what I mean, Mattie."</p> - -<p>"Well, but you'll allow it does seem rather hard that I should have -this to do now, and there's Poppie hasn't either the clothes to wear or -to make."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Can't you do something for Poppie, then?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I'll think about it, and see what I can do."</p> - -<p>Here Mattie laid aside her work, crept on all fours to the door, and -peeped over into the passage below.</p> - -<p>"Well, Poppie," she began, in the intellectually condescending tone -which most grown people use to children, irritating some of them by it -considerably,—"Well, Poppie, and how do <i>you</i> do?"</p> - -<p>Poppie heard the voice, and looked all round, but not seeing where it -came from, turned and scudded away under the arch. Though Mattie knew -Poppie, Poppie did not know Mattie, did not know her voice at least. -It was not that Poppie was frightened exactly—she hardly ever was -frightened at anything, not even at a policeman, but she was given to -scudding; and when anything happened she did not precisely know what to -do with, she scudded: at least if there was no open drain or damaged -hoarding at hand. But she did not run far this time. As soon as she got -under the shelter of the arch, she turned behind a sort of buttress -that leaned against the bookseller's house, and peeped back toward the -court.</p> - -<p>At that moment Lucy came out of the house. She came down the passage, -and as Mattie was still leaning over the door, or the threshold, -rather, of the workshop, she saw her, and stopped. Thereupon Poppie -came out of her "coign of vantage," and slowly approached, just like -a bird or a tame rabbit—only she was not by any means so tame as the -latter.</p> - -<p>"Are you getting on with that petticoat, Mattie?" said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"Yes, miss, I am. Only not being used to anything but boys' clothes, I -am afraid you won't like the tailor's stitch, miss."</p> - -<p>"Never mind that. It will be a curiosity, that's all. But what do you -think, Mattie? The kind lady who gives us this work to do for the poor -people, has invited all of us to go and spend a day with her."</p> - -<p>Mattie did not answer. Lucy thought she did not care to go. But she was -such an oddity that she wanted very much to take her.</p> - -<p>"She has such a beautiful garden, Mattie! And she's <i>so</i> kind."</p> - -<p>Still Mattie made no reply. Lucy would try again.</p> - -<p>"And it's such a beautiful house, too, Mattie! I'm sure you would like -to see it. And," she added, almost reduced to her last resource, "she -would give us such a nice dinner, <i>I</i> know!"</p> - -<p>This at length burst the silence, but not as Lucy had expected.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Now that's just what I'm determined I will not stand," said the little -maid.</p> - -<p>"What <i>do</i> you mean, Mattie?" exclaimed Lucy, surprised and bewildered.</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you what I mean, and that soon enough," said Mattie. -"It's all very kind of Mrs. Morgingturn to ask you and me, what are -well-to-do people, and in comfortable circumstances, as people say, -to go and spend this day or that with her. And do you know, Mr. -Spelt"—here Mattie drew herself in and turned her face right round -from Lucy to the tailor, for the side of her mouth which she used for -speech was the left, and the furthest from Spelt—"it just comes into -my head that this kind lady who gives me petticoats to make instead of -doll's trousers, is doing the very thing you read about last night out -of the New Testament before I went into bed. It's so nice now there's -light enough to read a little before we part for the night! ain't it, -mother?"</p> - -<p>"I know, I know," said the tailor in a low voice, not wishing to -intrude himself into the conversation.</p> - -<p>"What did Mr. Spelt read to you, Mattie?" asked Lucy.</p> - -<p>"He read about <i>somebody</i>—"</p> - -<p>It was very remarkable how Mattie would use the name of God, never -certainly with irreverence, but with a freedom that seemed to indicate -that to her he was chiefly if not solely an object of metaphysical -speculation or, possibly, of investigation; while she hardly ever -uttered the name of the Saviour, but spoke of him as <i>Somebody</i>. And -I find that I must yet further interrupt the child herself to tell an -anecdote about her which will perhaps help my reader to account for the -fact I am about to finish telling. She was not three years old when -she asked her mother, a sweet, thoughtful woman, in many ways superior -to her husband, though not intellectually his equal—who made the tree -in Wood Street? Her mother answered, of course, "God made it, my pet;" -for by instinct, she never spoke of her God without using some term -of endearment to her child. Mattie answered—"I would like it better -if a man made it"—a cry after the humanity of God—a longing in the -heart of the three years' child for the Messiah of God. Her mother -did not know well enough to tell her that a man, yes, <i>the</i> man did -make them—"for by Him all things were made;"—but Mattie may have had -some undefined glimmering of the fact, for, as I have said, she always -substituted <i>Somebody</i> for any name of the Lord. I cannot help wishing -that certain religious people of my acquaintance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> would, I do not say -follow queer little Mattie's example, but take a lesson from queer -little Mattie.</p> - -<p>"He read about <i>somebody</i> saying you shouldn't ask your friends and -neighbors who could do the same for you again, but you should ask them -that couldn't, because they hadn't a house to ask you to, like Poppie -there."</p> - -<p>Lucy looked round and saw the most tattered little scarecrow—useless -even as such in the streets of London, where there are only dusty -little sparrows and an occasional raven—staring at—I cannot call -it a group—well, it was a group vertically, if not laterally—and -not knowing or caring what to make of it, only to look at Lucy, and -satisfy her undefined and undefinable love by the beholding of its -object. She loved what was lovely without in the least knowing that -it was lovely, or what lovely meant. And while Lucy gazed at Poppie, -with a vague impression that she had seen the child before, she could -not help thinking of the contrast between the magnificent abode of the -Morgensterns—for magnificent it was, even in London—and the lip of -the nest from which the strange child preached down into the world the -words "friends and neighbors."</p> - -<p>But she could say nothing more to Mattie till she had told, word -for word, the whole story to Mrs. Morgenstern, who, she knew, would -heartily enjoy the humor of it. Nor was Lucy, who loved her Lord very -truly, even more than she knew, though she was no theologian like -Thomas, in the least deterred from speaking of <i>Somebody</i>, by the fact -that Mrs. Morgenstern did not receive him as the Messiah of her nation. -If he did not hesitate to show himself where he knew he would not be -accepted, why should she hesitate to speak his name? And why should -his name not be mentioned to those who, although they had often been -persecuted in his name by those who did not understand his mind, might -well be proud that the man who was conquering the world by his strong, -beautiful will, was a Jew.</p> - -<p>But from the rather severe indisposition of her grandmother, she was -unable to tell the story to Mrs. Morgenstern till the very morning of -the gathering.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> - - - - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XII.</p> - -<p class="center">A COMPARISON.</p> - - -<p>Can I hope to move my readers to any pitiful sympathy with Mrs. -Worboise, the whole fabric of whose desires was thus sliding into an -abyss? That she is not an interesting woman, I admit; but, at the -same time, I venture to express a doubt whether our use of the word -<i>uninteresting</i> really expresses anything more than our own ignorance. -If we could look into the movements of any heart, I doubt very much -whether that heart would be any longer uninteresting to us. Come with -me, reader, while I endeavor, with some misgiving, I confess, to open -a peep into the heart of this mother, which I have tried hard, though -with scarcely satisfactory success, to understand.</p> - -<p>Her chief faculty lay in negations. Her whole life was a kind of -negation—a negation of warmth, a negation of impulse, a negation -of beauty, a negation of health. When Thomas was a child, her chief -communication with him was in negatives. "<i>You must not</i>; <i>you are -not</i>; <i>do not</i>;" and so on. Her theory of the world was humanity -deprived of God. Because of something awful in the past, something -awful lay in the future. To escape from the consequences of a condition -which you could not help, you must believe certain things after a -certain fashion—hold, in fact, certain theories with regard to -the most difficult questions, on which, too, you were incapable of -thinking correctly. Him who held these theories you must regard as -a fellow-favorite of heaven; who held them not you would do well to -regard as a publican and a sinner, even if he should be the husband in -your bosom. All the present had value only of reference to the future. -All your strife must be to become something you are not at all now, -to feel what you do not feel, to judge against your nature, to regard -everything in you as opposed to your salvation, and God, who is far -away from you, and whose ear is not always ready to hear, as your only -deliverer from the consequences he has decreed; and this in virtue of -no immediate relation to you, but from regard to another whose innocent -suffering is to our guilt the only counterpoise weighty enough to -satisfy his justice. All her anxiety for her son turned upon his final -escape from punishment. She did not torment her soul, her nights were -not sleepless with the fear that her boy should be unlike Christ,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> -that he might do that which was mean, selfish, dishonest, cowardly, -vile, but with the fear that he was or might be doomed to an eternal -suffering.</p> - -<p>Now, in so far as this idea had laid hold of the boy, it had aroused -the instinct of self-preservation mingled with a repellent feeling -in regard to God. All that was poor and common and selfish in him -was stirred up on the side of religion; all that was noble (and of -that there was far more than my reader will yet fancy) was stirred up -against it. The latter, however, was put down by degrees, leaving the -whole region, when the far outlook of selfishness should be dimmed -by the near urgings of impulse, open to the inroads of the enemy, -enfeebled and ungarrisoned. Ah! if she could have told the boy, every -time his soul was lifted up within him by anything beautiful, or -great, or true, "That, my boy, is God—God telling you that you must -be beautiful, and great, and true, else you cannot be His child!" If, -every time he uttered his delight in flower or bird, she had, instead -of speaking of sin and shortcoming, spoken of love and aspiration -toward the Father of Light, the God of Beauty! If she had been able to -show him that what he admired in Byron's heroes, even, was the truth, -courage, and honesty, hideously mingled, as it might be, with cruelty -and conceit and lies! But almost everything except the Epistles seemed -to her of the devil and not of God. She was even jealous of the Gospel -of God, lest it should lead him astray from the interpretation she put -upon it. She did not understand that nothing can convince of sin—but -the vision of holiness; that to draw near to the Father is to leave -self behind; that the Son of God appeared that by the sight of himself -he might convince the world of sin. But then hers was a life that had -never broken the shell, while through the shell the worm of suffering -had eaten, and was boring into her soul. Have pity and not contempt, -reader, who would not be like her. She did not believe in her own love, -even, as from God, and therefore she restrained it before the lad. So -he had no idea of how she loved him. If she had only thrown her arms -about him, and let her heart out toward him, which surely it is right -to do sometimes at least, how differently would he have listened to -what she had to say! His heart was being withered on the side next his -mother for lack of nourishment: there are many lives ruined because -they have not had tenderness enough. Kindness is not tenderness. -She could not represent God to the lad. If, instead of constantly -referring to the hell that lies in the future, she had reminded him of -the begin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>nings of that hell in his own bosom, appealing to himself -whether there was not a faintness there that indicated something wrong, -a dull pain that might grow to a burning agony, a consciousness of -wrong-doing, thinking, and feeling, a sense of a fearful pit and a -miry clay within his own being from which he would gladly escape, a -failing even from the greatness of such grotesque ideals as he loved in -poetry, a meanness, paltriness, and at best insignificance of motive -and action,—and then told him that out of this was God stretching -forth the hand to take and lift him, that he was waiting to exalt him -to a higher ideal of manhood than anything which it had entered into -his heart to conceive, that he would make him clean from the defilement -which he was afraid to confess to himself because it lowered him in his -own esteem,—then perhaps the words of his mother, convincing him that -God was not against him but for him, on the side of his best feelings -and against his worst, might have sunk into the heart of the weak -youth, and he would straightway have put forth what strength he had, -and so begun to be strong. For he who acts has strength, is strong, and -will be stronger. But she could not tell him this: she did not know it -herself. Her religion was something there, then; not here, now. She -would give Mr. Simon a five-pound note for his Scripture-reading among -the poor, and the moment after refuse the request of her needle-woman -from the same district who begged her to raise her wages from eighteen -pence to two shillings a day. Religion—the bond between man and -God—had nothing to do with the earnings of a sister, whose pale face -told of "penury and pine" a sadder story even than that written upon -the countenance of the invalid, for to labor in weakness, longing -for rest, is harder than to endure a good deal of pain upon a sofa. -Until we begin to learn that the only way to <i>serve</i> God in any real -sense of the word is to serve our neighbor, we may have knocked at the -wicket-gate, but I doubt if we have got one foot across the threshold -of the kingdom.</p> - -<p>Add to this condition of mind a certain uncomfortable effect produced -upon the mother by the son's constantly reminding her of the father -whom she had quite given up trying to love, and I think my reader -will be a little nearer to the understanding of the relation, if such -it could well be called, between the two. The eyes of both were yet -unopened to the poverty of their own condition. The mother especially -said that she was "rich, and had need of nothing," when she was -"wretched, and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked." But she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> had -a hard nature to begin with, and her pain occupied her all the more -that she neither sought nor accepted sympathy. And although she was -none the less a time-server and a worldly-minded woman that she decried -worldliness, and popery, and gave herself to the saving of her soul, -yet the God who makes them loves even such people and knows all about -them; and it is well for them that he is their judge and not we.</p> - -<p>Let us now turn to another woman—Mrs. Morgenstern. I will tell you -what she was like. She was a Jewess and like a Jewess. But there is as -much difference between Jewesses as there is between Englishwomen. Is -there any justice in fixing upon the lowest as <i>the type</i>? How does -the Scotchman like to have his nation represented: by the man outside -the tobacco-shop, or by the cantankerous logician and theologian so -well known to some of us? There is a Jewess that flaunts in gorgeous -raiment and unclean linen; and there is a Jewess noble as a queen, and -pure as a daisy—fit to belong to that nation of which Mary the mother -was born. Mrs. Morgenstern was of the latter class—tall, graceful, -even majestic in the fashion of her form and carriage. Every feature -was Jewish, and yet she might have been English, or Spanish, or German, -just as well. Her eyes were dark—black, I would say, if I had ever -seen black eyes—and proud, yet with a dove-like veil over their fire. -Sometimes there was even a trouble to be seen in them, as of a rainy -mist amid the glow of a southern sky. I never could be quite sure what -this trouble meant. She was rich, therefore she had no necessity; she -was not avaricious, and therefore she had no fear of dying in the -work-house. She had but one child, therefore she was neither wearied -with motherhood, nor a sufferer from suppressed maternity, moved by -which divine impulse so many women take to poodles instead of orphans. -Her child was healthy and active, and gave her no anxiety. That she -loved her husband, no one who saw those eastern eyes rest upon him for -a moment could doubt. What, then, could be the cause of that slight -restlessness, that gauzy change, that pensive shadow? I think that -there was more love in her yet than knew how to get out of her. She -would look round sometimes—it was a peculiar movement—just as if some -child had been pulling at her skirts. She had lost a child, but I do -not think that was the cause. And however this may be, I do believe -that nothing but the love of God will satisfy the power of love in any -woman's bosom. But did not Rebecca—they loved their old Jewish names, -that family—did not Rebecca Morgenstern<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> love God? Truly I think she -did—but not enough to satisfy herself. And I venture to say more: I -do not believe she could love him to the degree necessary for her own -peace till she recognized the humanity in him. But she was more under -the influences emanating from that story of the humanity of God than -she knew herself. At all events she was a most human and lovely lady, -full of grace and truth, like Mary before she was a Christian; and -it took a good while, namely all her son's life and longer, to make -<i>her</i> one. Rebecca Morgenstern never became a Christian. But she loved -children, whether they were Christians or not. And she loved the poor, -whether they were Christians or not; and, like Dorcas, made and caused -to be made, coats and garments for them. And, for my part, I know, if I -had the choice, whether I would appear before the Master in the train -of the <i>unbelieving</i> Mrs. Morgenstern or that of the <i>believing</i> Mrs. -Worboise. And as to self-righteousness, I think there is far less of -that among those who regard the works of righteousness as the means -of salvation, than among those by whom faith itself is degraded into -a work of merit—a condition by fulfilling which they become fit for -God's mercy; for such is the trick which the old Adam and the Enemy -together are ready enough to play the most orthodox, in despite of the -purity of their creed.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XIII.</p> - -<p class="center">MATTIE'S MICROCOSM.</p> - - -<p>Although Mrs. Boxall, senior, was still far from well, yet when the -morning of Mrs. Morgenstern's gathering dawned, lovely even in the -midst of London, and the first sun-rays, with green tinges and rosy -odors hanging about their golden edges, stole into her room, reminding -her of the old paddock and the feeding cows at Bucks Horton, in -Buckingham, she resolved that Lucy should go to Mrs. Morgenstern's. So -the good old lady set herself to feel better, in order that she might -be better, and by the time Lucy, who had slept in the same room with -her grandmother since her illness, awoke, she was prepared to persuade -her that she was quite well enough to let her have a holiday.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> - -<p>"But how am I to leave you, grannie, all alone?" objected Lucy.</p> - -<p>"Oh! I dare say that queer little Mattie of yours will come in and keep -me company. Make haste and get your clothes on, and go and see."</p> - -<p>Now Lucy had had hopes of inducing Mattie to go with her; as I -indicated in a previous chapter; but she could not press the child -after the reason she gave for not going. And now she might as well -ask her to stay with her grandmother. So she went round the corner to -Mr. Kitely's shop, glancing up at Mr. Spelt's nest in the wall as she -passed, to see whether she was not there.</p> - -<p>When she entered the wilderness of books she saw no one; but peeping -round one of the many screens, she spied Mattie sitting with her back -toward her and her head bent downward. Looking over her shoulder, -she saw that she had a large folding plate of the funeral of Lord -Nelson open before her, the black shapes of which, with their infernal -horror of plumes—the hateful flowers that the buried seeds of ancient -paganism still shoot up into the pleasant Christian fields—she was -studying with an unaccountable absorption of interest.</p> - -<p>"What <i>have</i> you got there Mattie?" asked Lucy.</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't ezackly know, miss," answered the child, looking up, -very white-faced and serious.</p> - -<p>"Put the book away and come and see grannie. She wants you to take care -of her to-day, while I go out."</p> - -<p>"Well, miss, I would with pleasure; but you see father is gone out, and -has left me to take care of the shop till he comes back."</p> - -<p>"But he won't be gone a great while, will he?"</p> - -<p>"No, miss. He knows I don't like to be left too long with the books. -He'll be back before St. Jacob's strikes nine—that I know."</p> - -<p>"Well, then, I'll go and get grannie made comfortable; and if you don't -come to me by half-past nine, I'll come after you again."</p> - -<p>"Do, miss, if you please; for if father ain't come by that time—my -poor head—"</p> - -<p>"You must put that ugly book away," said Lucy, "and take a better one."</p> - -<p>"Well, miss, I know I oughtn't to have taken this book, for there's no -summer in it; and it talks like the wind at night."</p> - -<p>"Why did you take it, then?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Because Syne told me to take it. But that's just why I oughtn't to ha' -taken it."</p> - -<p>And she rose and put the book in one of the shelves over her head, -moving her stool when she had done so, and turning her face toward the -spot where the book now stood. Lucy watched her uneasily.</p> - -<p>"What do you mean by saying that Syne told you?" she asked. "Who is -Syne?"</p> - -<p>"Don't you know Syne, miss? Syne is—you know 'Lord Syne was a miserly -churl'—don't you?"</p> - -<p>Then, before Lucy could reply, she looked up in her face, with a smile -hovering about the one side of her mouth, and said:</p> - -<p>"But it's all nonsense, miss, when you're standing there. There isn't -no such person as Syne, when you're there. I don't believe there is any -such person. But," she added with a sigh, "when you're gone away—I -don't know. But I think he's up stairs in the nursery now," she said, -putting her hand to her big forehead. "No, no; there's no such person."</p> - -<p>And Mattie tried to laugh outright, but failed in the attempt, and the -tears rose in her eyes.</p> - -<p>"You've got a headache, dear," said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"Well, no," answered Mattie. "I cannot say that I have just a headache, -you know. But it does buzz a little. I hope Mr. Kitely won't be long -now."</p> - -<p>"I don't like leaving you, Mattie; but I must go to my grandmother," -said Lucy, with reluctance.</p> - -<p>"Never mind me, miss. I'm used to it. I used to be afraid of Lord Syne, -for he watched me, ready to pounce out upon me with all his men at his -back, and he laughed so loud to see me run. But I know better now. I -never run from him now. I always frown at him, and take my own time and -do as I like. I don't want him to see that I'm afraid, you know. And I -do think I have taught him a lesson. Besides, if he's very troublesome, -you know, miss, I can run to Mr. Spelt. But I never talk to him about -Syne, because when I do he always looks so mournful. Perhaps he thinks -it is wicked. He is so good himself, he has no idea how wicked a body -can be."</p> - -<p>Lucy thought it best to hurry away, that she might return the sooner; -for she could not bear the child to be left alone in such a mood. And -she was sure that the best thing for her would be to spend the day with -her cheery old grandmother. But as she was leaving the shop, Mr. Kitely -came in, his large, bold, sharp face fresh as a north wind without a -touch of east<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> in it. Lucy preferred her request about Mattie, and he -granted it cordially.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid, Mr. Kitely," said Lucy, "the darling is not well. She has -such strange fancies."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know," returned the bookseller, with mingled concern -at the suggestion and refusal to entertain it. "She's always been a -curious child. Her mother was like that, you see, and she takes after -her. Perhaps she does want a little more change. I don't think she's -been out of this street, now, all her life. But she'll shake it off as -she gets older, I have no doubt."</p> - -<p>So saying, he turned into his shop, and Lucy went home. In half an -hour she went back for Mattie, and leaving the two together, of whom -the child, in all her words and ways, seemed the older, set out for -the West End, where Mrs. Morgenstern was anxiously hoping for her -appearance, seeing she depended much upon her assistance, in the -treat she was giving to certain poor people of her acquaintance. By -any person but Mattie, Mrs. Morgenstern would have been supposed to -be literally fulfilling the will of our Lord in asking only those who -could not return her invitation.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XIV.</p> - -<p class="center">THE JEWESS AND HER NEIGHBORS.</p> - - -<p>Mrs. Morgenstern looked splendid as she moved about among the -hot-house plants, arranging them in the hall, on the stairs, and in -the drawing-rooms. She judged, and judged rightly, that one ought to -be more anxious to show honor to poor neighbors by putting on her best -attire, than to ordinary guests of her own rank. Therefore, although -it was the morning, she had put on a dress of green silk, trimmed -with brown silk and rows of garnet buttons, which set off her dark -complexion and her rich black hair, plainly braided down her face, -and loosely gathered behind. She was half a head taller than Lucy, -who was by no means short. The two formed a beautiful contrast. Lucy -was dark-haired and dark-eyed as well as Mrs. Morgenstern, but had -a smaller face and features, regular to a rare degree. Her high, -close-fitting dress of black<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> silk, with a plain linen collar and -cuffs, left her loveliness all to itself. Lucy was neither strikingly -beautiful nor remarkably intellectual: when one came to understand what -it was that attracted him so much, he found that it was the wonderful -harmony in her. As Wordsworth prophesied for his Lucy that "beauty born -of murmuring sound 'should' pass into her face," so it seemed as if the -harmonies which flowed from her father's fingers had molded her form -and face, her motions and thoughts, after their own fashion, even to -a harmony which soothed before one knew that he was receiving it, and -when he had discovered its source, made him ready to quote the words of -Sir Philip Sidney—</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Just accord all music makes:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In thee just accord excelleth.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where each part in such peace dwelleth,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Each of other beauty takes.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>I have often wondered how it was that Lucy was capable of so much; how -it was, for instance, that, in the dispensing of Mrs. Morgenstern's -bounty, she dared to make her way into places where no one but herself -thought it could be safe for her to go, but where not even a rude word -was ever directed against her or used with regard to her. If she had -been as religious as she afterward became, I should not have wondered -thus; for some who do not believe that God is anywhere in these dens -of what looks to them all misery, will dare everything to rescue their -fellow-creatures from impending fate. But Lucy had no theories to spur -or to support her. She never taught them any religion; she was only, -without knowing it, a religion to their eyes. I conclude, therefore, -that at this time it was just the harmony of which I have spoken that -led her, protected her, and, combined with a dim consciousness that she -must be doing right in following out the loving impulses of her nature, -supported her in the disagreeable circumstances into which she was -sometimes brought.</p> - -<p>While they were thus busy with the flowers, Miriam joined them. She -had cast her neutral tints, and appeared in a frock of dark red, -with a band of gold in her dusky hair, somberly rich. She was a -strange-looking child, one of those whose coming beauty promises all -the more that it has as yet reached only the stage of interesting -ugliness. Splendid eyes, olive complexion, rounded cheeks, were -accompanied by a very unfinished nose, and a large mouth, with thick -though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> finely-modeled lips. She would be a glory some day. She flitted -into the room, and flew from flower to flower like one of those black -and red butterflies that Scotch children call witches. The sight of her -brought to Lucy's mind by contrast the pale face and troubled brow of -Mattie, and she told Mrs. Morgenstern about her endeavor to persuade -the child to come, and how and why she had failed. Mrs. Morgenstern did -not laugh much at the story, but she very nearly did something else.</p> - -<p>"Oh! do go and bring little Mattie," said Miriam. "I will be very kind -to her. I will give her my doll's house; for I shall be too big for it -next year."</p> - -<p>"But I left her taking care of my grandmother," said Lucy, to the truth -of whose character it belonged to make no concealment of the simplicity -of the household conditions of herself and her grandmother. "And," she -added, "if she were to come I must stay, and she could not come without -me."</p> - -<p>"But I'll tell you what—couldn't you bring the other—the little -Poppie she talks about? I should like to show Mattie that we're not -quite so bad as she thinks us. Do you know this Poppie?" said Mrs. -Morgenstern.</p> - -<p>Then Lucy told her what she knew about Poppie. She had been making -inquiries in the neighborhood, and though she had not traced the child -to head-quarters anywhere, everybody in the poor places in which she -had sought information knew something about her, though all they knew -put together did not come to much. She slept at the top of a stair -here, in the bottom of a cupboard there, coiling herself up in spaces -of incredible smallness; but no one could say where her home was, or, -indeed, if she had any home. Nor, if she wanted to find her, was it -of much consequence whether she knew her home or not, for that would -certainly be the last place where Poppie would be found.</p> - -<p>"But," she concluded, "if you would really like to have her, I will go -and try if I can find her. I could be back in an hour and half or so."</p> - -<p>"You shall have the brougham."</p> - -<p>"No, no," interrupted Lucy. "To go in a brougham to look for Poppie -would be like putting salt on a bird's tail. Besides, I should not like -the probable consequences of seating her in your carriage. But I should -like to see how that wild little savage would do in such a place as -this."</p> - -<p>"Oh, do go," cried Miriam, clapping her hands. "It will be <i>such</i> fun!"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> - -<p>Lucy ran for her bonnet, with great doubts of success, yet willing -to do her best to find the child. She did not know that Poppie had -followed her almost to Mrs. Morgenstern's door that very morning.</p> - -<p>Now what made Lucy sufficiently hopeful of finding Poppie to start in -pursuit of her, was the fact that she had of late seen the child so -often between Guild Court and a certain other court in the neighborhood -of Shoreditch. But Lucy did not know that it was because she was there -that Poppie was there. She had not for some time, as I have said, paid -her usual visits at Mrs. Morgenstern's because of her grandmother's -illness; and when she did go out she had gone only to the place I have -just mentioned, where the chief part of her work among the poor lay. -Poppie haunting her as she did, where Lucy was there she saw Poppie. -And, indeed, if Poppie had any ties to one place more than a hundred -others, that place happened to be Staines Court.</p> - -<p>When Lucy came out of Mrs. Morgenstern's, if she had only gone the -other way, she would have met Poppie coming round the next corner. -After Lucy had vanished, Poppie had found a penny in the gutter, -had bought a fresh roll with it and given the half of it to a child -younger than herself, whom she met at the back of the Marylebone police -station, and after contemplating the neighboring church-yard through -the railings while they ate their roll together, and comparing this -resting-place of the dead with the grand Baker Street Cemetery, she -had judged it time to scamper back to the neighborhood of Wyvil Place, -that she might have a chance of seeing the beautiful lady as she came -out again. As she turned the corner she saw her walking away toward -the station, and after following her till she entered it, scudded off -for the city, and arrived in the neighborhood of Guild Court before -the third train reached Farringdon Street, to which point only was the -railway then available.</p> - -<p>Lucy walked straight to Staines Court, where she was glad of the -opportunity of doing some business of loving kindness at the same -time that she sought Poppie. The first house she entered was in a -dreadful condition of neglect. There were hardly more balusters in -the stairs than served to keep the filthy hand-rail in its place; and -doubtless, they would by and by follow the fate of the rest, and vanish -as fire-wood. One or two of the stairs, even, were torn to pieces for -the same purpose, and the cupboard doors of the room into which Lucy -entered had vanished, with half the skirting board and some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> of the -flooring, revealing the joists, and the ceiling, of the room below. -All this dilapidation did not matter much in summer weather, but how -would it be in the winter—except the police condemned the building -before then, and because the wretched people who lived in it could get -no better, decreed that so far they should have no shelter at all? -Well, when the winter came, they would just go on making larger and -larger holes to let in the wind, and fight the cold by burning their -protection against it.</p> - -<p>In this room there was nobody. Something shining in a dingy sunbeam -that fell upon one of the holes in the floor, caught Lucy's eye. She -stooped, and putting in her hand, drew out a bottle. At the same moment -she let it fall back into the hole, and started with a sense of theft.</p> - -<p>"Don't touch Mrs. Flanaghan's gin bottle, lady. She's a good 'un to -swear, as you'd be frightened to hear her. She gives me the creepers -sometimes, and I'm used to her. She says it's all she's got in the -world, and she's ready to die for the 'ould bottle."'</p> - -<p>It was Poppie's pretty, dirty face and wild, black eyes that looked -round the door-post.</p> - -<p>Lucy felt considerably relieved. She replaced the bottle carefully, -saying as she rose:</p> - -<p>"I didn't mean to steal it, Poppie. I only saw it shining, and wanted -to know what it was. Suppose I push it a little further in, that the -sun mayn't be able to see it?"</p> - -<p>Poppie thought this was fun, and showed her white teeth.</p> - -<p>"But it was you I was looking for—not in that hole, you know," added -Lucy, laughing.</p> - -<p>"I think I could get into it, if I was to put my clothes off," said -Poppie.</p> - -<p>Lucy thought it would be a tight fit indeed, if her clothes made any -difference.</p> - -<p>"Will you come with me?" she said. "I want you."</p> - -<p>"Yes, lady," answered Poppie, looking, though, as if she would bolt in -a moment.</p> - -<p>"Come, then," said Lucy, approaching her where she stood still in the -doorway.</p> - -<p>But before she reached her, Poppie scudded, and was at the bottom of -the stair before Lucy recovered from the surprise of her sudden flight. -She saw at once that it would not do to make persistent advances, or -show the least desire to get a hold of her.</p> - -<p>When she got to the last landing-place on the way down,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> there was -Poppie's face waiting for her in the door below. Careful as one -who fears to startle a half-tamed creature with wings, Lucy again -approached her; but she vanished again, and she saw no more of her -till she was at the mouth of the court. There was Poppie once more, to -vanish yet again. In some unaccountable way she seemed to divine where -Lucy was going, and with endless evanishments still reappeared in front -of her, till she reached the railway station. And there was no Poppie.</p> - -<p>For a moment Lucy was dreadfully disappointed. She had not yet had a -chance of trying her powers of persuasion upon the child; she had not -been within arm's length of her. And she stood at the station door, -hot, tired, and disappointed—with all the holiday feeling gone out of -her.</p> - -<p>Poppie had left her, because she had no magic word by which to gain -access to the subterranean regions of the guarded railway. She thought -Lucy was going back to the great house in Wyvil Place; but whether -Poppie left her to perform the same journey on foot, I do not know. She -had scarcely lost sight of Lucy, however, before she caught sight of -Thomas Worboise, turning the corner of a street a hundred yards off. -She darted after him, and caught him by the tail of his coat. He turned -on her angrily, and shook her off.</p> - -<p>"The lady," gasped Poppie; but Thomas would not listen, and went on his -way. Poppie in her turn was disappointed, and stood "like one forbid." -But at that very moment her eye fell on something in the kennel. She -was always finding things, though they were generally the veriest -trifles. The penny of that morning was something almost awful in its -importance. This time it was a bit of red glass. Now Poppie had quite -as much delight in colored glass as Lord Bacon had, who advised that -hedges in great gardens should be adorned on the top here and there -"with broad plates of round, colored glass, gilt, for the sun to play -upon," only as she had less of the ways and means of procuring what she -valued, she valued what she could lay her hands upon so much the more. -She darted at the red shine, wiped it on her frock, sucked it clean in -her mouth, as clean as her bright ivories, and polished it up with her -hands, scudding all the time, in the hope that Lucy might be at the -station still. Poppie did not seek to analyze her feelings in doing -as she did; but what she wanted was to give Lucy her treasure-trove. -She never doubted that what was valuable to her would be valuable to a -beautiful lady. As little did she imagine how much value, as the gift -of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> ragged little personage like herself, that which was all but -worthless would acquire in the eyes of a lady beautiful as Lucy was -beautiful, with the beauty of a tender human heart.</p> - -<p>Lucy was sitting in the open waiting-room, so weary and disappointed -that little would have made her cry. She had let one train go on the -vague chance that the erratic little maiden might yet show herself, but -her last hope was almost gone when, to her great delight, once more -she spied the odd creature peeping round the side of the door. She had -presence of mind enough not to rise, lest she should startle the human -lapwing, and made her a sign instead to come to her. This being just -what Poppie wished at the moment, she obeyed. She darted up to Lucy, -put the piece of red glass into her hand, and would have been off again -like a low-flying swallow, had not Lucy caught her by the arm. Once -caught, Poppie never attempted to struggle. On this occasion she only -showed her teeth in a rather constrained smile, and stood still. Lucy, -however, did not take her hand from her arm, for she felt that the -little phenomenon would disappear at once if she did.</p> - -<p>"Poppie," she said, "I want you to come with me."</p> - -<p>Poppie only grinned again. So Lucy rose, still holding her by the arm, -and went to the ticket-window and got two second-class tickets. Poppie -went on grinning, and accompanied her down the stairs without one -obstructive motion.</p> - -<p>When they were fairly seated in the carriage, and there was no longer -any danger of her prisoner attempting to escape, Lucy thought of the -something Poppie had given her, at which she had not even looked, so -anxious was she to secure her bird. When she saw it, she comprehended -it at once—the sign of love, the appeal of a half-savage sister to -one of her own kind, in whom she dimly recognized her far-off ideal; -even then not seeking love from the higher, only tendering the richest -human gift, simple love, unsought, unbought. Thus a fragment dropped by -some glazier as he went to mend the glass door leading into a garden, -and picked out of the gutter by a beggar girl, who had never yet -thought whether she had had a father or a mother, became in that same -girl's hands a something which the Lord himself, however some of his -interpreters might be shocked at the statement, would have recognized -as partaking of the character of his own eucharist. And as such, though -without thinking of it after that fashion, it was received by the -beautiful lady. The tears came into her eyes. Poppie thought she half -offended or disappointed her, and looked very grave. Lucy saw she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> -misunderstood her. There was no one in the carriage with them. She -stooped and kissed her. Then the same tears came, almost for the first -time since she had been an infant, into Poppie's eyes. But just then -the train moved off, and although the child by no remark and no motion -evinced astonishment any more than fear, she watched everything with -the intensity of an animal which in new circumstances cannot afford -to lose one moment of circumspection, seeing a true knowledge of the -whole may be indispensable to the retention of its liberty; and before -they reached King's Cross, her eyes were clear, and only a channel on -each cheek, ending in a little mud-bank, showed that just two tears -had flowed half way down her cheeks and dried there undisturbed in the -absorption of her interest.</p> - -<p>Before they reached Baker Street station, Lucy had begun to be anxious -as to how she should get her charge through the streets. But no sooner -were they upon the stairs, than Lucy perceived by the way in which -Poppie walked, and the way in which she now and then looked up at her, -that there was no longer any likelihood that she would run away from -her. When they reached the top, she took her by the hand, and, without -showing the slightest inclination to bolt, Poppie trotted alongside -of her to Mrs. Morgenstern's door. Having gained her purpose, Lucy's -weariness had quite left her, and her eyes shone with triumph. They -made a strange couple, that graceful lady and that ragged, bizarre -child, who would, however, have shown herself lovely to any eyes keen -enough to see through the dirt which came and went according to laws as -unknown to Poppie as if it had been a London fog.</p> - -<p>Lucy knocked at the door. It was opened by a huge porter in a rich -livery, and shoulder-knots like the cords of a coffin, as if he were -about to be lowered into his grave standing. He started at sight of -the little city Bedouin, but stood aside to let them enter, with all -the respect which, like the rest of his class, he ever condescended to -show to those who, like Miss Burton, came to instruct Miss Morgenstern, -and gave him, so much their superior, the trouble of opening the door -to them. The pride of the proudest nobleman or parvenu-millionaire is -entirely cast in the shade by the pride of his servants, justifying the -representation of Spenser, that although Orgoglio is the son of Terra -by Æolus, he cannot be raised to his full giantship without the aid of -his foster-father Ignaro. Lucy, however, cared as little for this form -of contempt as impervious little Poppie by her side, who trotted as -unconcerned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> over the black and white lozenges of the marble floor as -over the ordinary slabs of Guild Court, or the round stones of Staines -Court, and looked up the splendid stair-case which rose from the -middle of the round hall till it reached its side, and then branched -into two that ran circling and ascending the wall to the floor above, -its hand-rails and balusters shining with gold, and its steps covered -with a carpet two yards wide, in which the foot sank as if in grass, -with as much indifference as if it were the break-neck stair-case I -have already described as leading to the abode of Mistress Flanaghan. -But little bare feet were not destined to press such a luxurious -support; better things awaited them, namely, the grass itself; for the -resplendent creature whose head and legs were equally indebted to the -skill of the cunning workman, strode on before them, and through a -glass door at the back, to a lawn behind, such as few London dwellings -have to show. They might have thought that they had been transported by -enchantment to some country palace, so skillfully were the neighboring -houses hidden by the trees that encircled the garden. Mrs. Morgenstern, -with a little company of her friends, was standing in the middle of the -lawn, while many of her poorer <i>neighbors</i> were wandering about the -place enjoying the flowers, and what to them was indeed fresh air, when -Lucy came out with the dirty, bare-legged child in her hand. All eyes -turned upon her, and a lovelier girl doing lovelier deed would have -taken more than that summer morning to discover.</p> - -<p>But Lucy had the bit of red glass in her mind, and, without heeding -hostess or friends for the moment, led Poppie straight toward a lovely -rose-tree that stood in full blossom on one side of the lawn. How cool -that kindly humble grass must have felt to the hot feet of the darling! -But she had no time to think about it. For as she drew near the -rose-tree, her gaze became more and more fixed upon it; when at length -she stood before it, and beheld it in all its glory, she burst into a -very passion of weeping. The eyes of the daughter of man became rivers, -and her head a fountain of waters, filled and glorified by the presence -of a rose-tree. All that were near gathered about, till Lucy, Poppie, -and the rose-tree were the center of a group. Lucy made no attempt to -stay the flow of Poppie's tears, for her own heart swelled and swelled -at the sight of the child's feelings. Surely it was the presence of God -that so moved her: if ever bush burned with fire and was not consumed, -that rose-bush burned with the pres<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>ence of God. Poppie had no -handkerchief; nor was there continuity of space enough in her garments -to hold a pocket: she generally carried things in her mouth when they -were small enough to go in. And she did not even put her hands to -her face to hide her emotion. She let her tears run down her stained -cheeks, and let sob follow sob unchecked, gazing ever through the storm -of her little world at the marvel in front of her. She had seen a rose -before, but had never seen a rose-tree full of roses. At last Lucy drew -her handkerchief from her pocket, and for the first time in her life -Poppie had tears wiped from her face by a loving hand.</p> - -<p>There was one man, and only one, in the company—Mr. Sargent, a young -barrister. He was the first to speak. He drew near to Lucy and said, in -a half whisper:</p> - -<p>"Where did you find the little creature, Miss Burton?"</p> - -<p>"That would be hard to say," answered Lucy, with a smile. "Isn't she a -darling?"</p> - -<p>"You are a darling, anyhow," said Mr. Sargent, but neither to Lucy nor -to any one but himself. He had been like one of the family for many -years, for his father and Mr. Morgenstern had been intimate, and he had -admired Lucy ever since she went first to the house; but he had never -seen her look so lovely as she looked that morning.</p> - -<p>Certain harmonious circumstances are always necessary to bring out -the peculiar beauty both of persons and things—a truth recognized -by Emerson in his lovely poem called "Each and All," but recognized -imperfectly, inasmuch as he seems to represent the beauty of each as -dependent on the all not merely for its full manifestation, but for its -actual being; a truth likewise recognized by Shakespeare, but by him -with absolute truth of vision—</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The nightingale, if she should sing by day,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When every goose is cackling, would be thought</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No better a musician than the wren.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>How many things by season seasoned are</i></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>To their right praise and true perfection!</i></span><br /> -</p> - -<p>It was to the praise of Lucy's beauty, that in this group she should -thus look more beautiful. The rose-tree and the splendor of Mrs. -Morgenstern did not eclipse her, because her beauty was of another -sort, which made a lovely harmony of difference with theirs. Or -perhaps, after all, it was the ragged child in her hand that gave a -tender glow to her presence unseen before.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> - -<p>Little Miriam pulled at her mamma's skirt. She stooped to the child.</p> - -<p>"Somebody has lost that one," said Miriam, pointing shyly to Poppie. -"She looks like it."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps," said her mother. But the answer did not satisfy Miriam.</p> - -<p>"You told me you had lost a little girl once," she said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Morgenstern had never yet uttered the word <i>death</i> in her hearing. -As to the little dead daughter, she had to the sister said only that -she had lost her. Miriam had to interpret the phrase for herself.</p> - -<p>"Yes, dear child," answered her mother, not yet seeing what she was -driving at.</p> - -<p>"Don't you think, mamma," pursued Miriam, with the tears rising in her -great black eyes, "that that's her? I do. I am sure it is my little -sister."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Morgenstern had the tenderest memories of her lost darling, and -turned away to hide her feelings. Meantime a little conversation had -arisen in the group. Lucy had let go her hold of Poppie, whose tears -had now ceased. Miriam drew near, shyly, and possessed herself of the -hand of the vagrant. Her mother turned and saw her, and motherhood -spoke aloud in her heart. How did it manifest itself? In drawing her -child away from the dirt that divided their hands? That might have -proved her a dam, but would have gone far to disprove her motherhood.</p> - -<p>"What shall we do with her, Miriam?" she said.</p> - -<p>"Ask nurse to wash her in the bath, and put one of my frocks on her."</p> - -<p>Poppie snatched her hand from Miriam's, and began to look about her -with wild-eyed search after a hole to run into. Mrs. Morgenstern saw -that she was frightened, and turned away to Lucy, who was on the other -side of the rose-tree, talking to Mr. Sargent.</p> - -<p>"Couldn't we do something to make the child tidy, Lucy?" she said.</p> - -<p>Lucy gave her shoulders a little shrug, as much as to say she feared it -would not be of much use. She was wrong there, for if the child should -never be clean again in her life, no one could tell how the growth of -moral feeling might be aided in her by her once knowing what it was -to have a clean skin and clean garments. It might serve hereafter, in -her consciousness, as a type of something better still than personal -cleanliness, might work in aid of her consciousness as a vague -re<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>minder of ideal parity—not altogether pleasant to her ignorant -fancy, and yet to be—faintly and fearingly—desired. But although Lucy -did not see much use in washing her, she could not help wondering what -she would look like if she were clean. And she proceeded to carry out -her friend's wishes.</p> - -<p>Poppie was getting bored already with the unrealized world of grandeur -around her. The magic of the roses was all gone, and she was only -looking out for a chance of scudding. Yet when Lucy spoke to her she -willingly yielded her hand, perhaps in the hope that she was, like -Peter's angel, about to open the prison-doors, and lead her out of her -prison.</p> - -<p>Lucy gave an amusing account of how Poppie looked askance, with a -mingling of terror and repugnance, at the great bath, half full of -water, into which she was about to be plunged. But the door was shut, -and there was not even a chimney for her to run up, and she submitted. -She looked even pleased when she was at length in the midst of the -water. But Lucy found that she had undertaken a far more difficult -task than she had expected—especially when she came to her hair. It -was nearly two hours, notwithstanding repeated messages from Mrs. -Morgenstern and tappings at the door of the bath-room by Miriam, before -she was able to reproduce the little savage on whom she had been -bestowing this baptism of love.</p> - -<p>When she came down at last, the company, consisting of some of Mrs. -Morgenstern's more intimate friends, and a goodly number of <i>clients</i> -if not exactly dependents, was seated at luncheon in the large -dining-room. Poppie attracted all eyes once more. She was dressed -in a last year's summer frock of Miriam's, and her hair was reduced -to order; but she had begun to cry so piteously when Lucy began to -put stockings upon her, that she gave it up at once, and her legs -were still bare. I presume she saw the last remnants of her freedom -vanishing in those gyves and fetters. But nice and clean as she looked, -she certainly had lost something by her decent garments. Poppie must -have been made for rags and rags for Poppie—they went so admirably -together. And there is nothing wicked in rags or in poverty. It is -possible to go in rags and keep the Ten Commandments, and it is -possible to ride in purple and fine linen and break every one of them. -Nothing, however, could spoil the wildness of those honestly furtive -eyes.</p> - -<p>Seated beside Lucy at the table, she did nothing but first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> stare, -then dart her eyes from one to another of the company with the scared -expression of a creature caught in a trap, and then stare again. She -was evidently anything but comfortable. When Lucy spoke to her she did -not reply, but gazed appealingly, and on the point of crying, into her -eyes, as if to say, "What <i>have</i> I done to be punished in this dreadful -manner?" Lucy tried hard to make her eat, but she sat and stared and -would touch nothing. Her plate, with the wing of a chicken on it, stood -before her unregarded. But all at once she darted out her hand like -the paw of a wild beast, caught something, slipped from her chair, -and disappeared under the table. Peeping down after her, Lucy saw her -seated on the floor, devouring the roll which had been put by the side -of her plate. Judging it best not to disturb her, she took no more -notice of her for some time, during which Poppie, having discovered a -long row of resplendent buttons down the front of her dress, twisted -them all off with a purpose manifested as soon as the luncheon was -over. When the company rose from their seats, she crawled out from -under the table and ran to Miriam, holding out both her hands. Miriam -held out her hands to meet Poppie's, and received them full of the -buttons off her own old frock.</p> - -<p>"Oh! you naughty Poppie," said Lucy, who had watched her. "Why did you -cut off the buttons? Don't you like them?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! golly! don't I just? And so does <i>she</i>. Tuck me up if she don't!"</p> - -<p>Poppie had no idea that she had done anything improper. It was not as -buttons, but <i>per se</i>, as pretty things, that she admired the knobs, -and therefore she gave them to Miriam. Having said thus, she caught at -another <i>tommy</i>, as she would have called it, dived under the table -again, and devoured it at her ease, keeping, however, a sharp eye upon -her opportunity. Finding one when Lucy, who had remained in the room to -look after her, was paying more attention to the party in the garden, -she crawled out at the door, left open during the process of <i>taking -away</i>, and with her hand on the ponderous lock of the street door, -found herself seized from behind by the porter. She had been too long -a pupil of the London streets not to know the real position of the -liveried in the social scale, and for them she had as little respect as -any of her tribe. She therefore assailed him with such a torrent of bad -language, scarcely understanding a word that she used, that he declared -it made his "'air stand on hend," although he was tolerably<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> familiar -with such at the Spotted Dog round the corner. Finding, however, -that this discharge of cuttle-fish ink had no effect upon the enemy, -she tried another mode—and, with a yell of pain, the man fell back, -shaking his hand, which bore the marks of four sharp incisors. In one -moment Poppie was free, and scudding. Thus ended her introduction to -civilized life.</p> - -<p>Poppie did not find it nice. She preferred all London to the biggest -house and garden in it. True, there was that marvelous rose-tree. But -free-born creatures cannot live upon the contemplation of roses. After -all, the thing she had been brought up to—the streets, the kennels -with their occasional crusts, pennies, and bits of glass, the holes -to creep into, and the endless room for scudding—was better. And her -unsuitable dress, which did attract the eyes of the passers—being such -as was seldom seen in connection with bare hair and legs—would soon -accommodate itself to circumstances, taking the form of rags before a -week was over, to which change of condition no care of Poppie's would -interpose an obstacle. For, like the birds of the air and the lilies -of the field, she had no care. She did not know what it meant. And -possibly the great One who made her may have different ideas about -respectability from those of dining aldermen and members of Parliament -from certain boroughs that might be named.</p> - -<p>At the porter's cry Lucy started, and found to her dismay that her -charge was gone. She could not, however, help a certain somewhat -malicious pleasure at the man's discomfiture and the baby-like way in -which he lamented over his bitten finger. He forgot himself so far as -to call her "the little devil"—which was quite in accordance with his -respectable way of thinking. Both Mrs. Morgenstern and Lucy, after -the first disappointment and vexation were over, laughed heartily at -the affair, and even Miriam was worked up to a smile at last. But she -continued very mournful, notwithstanding, over the loss of her sister, -as she would call her.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sargent did his best to enliven the party. He was a man of good -feeling, and of more than ordinary love for the right. This, however, -from a dread of what he would have called <i>sentimentality</i>, he -persisted in regarding as a mere peculiarity, possibly a weakness. -If he made up his mind to help any one who was wronged, for which -it must be confessed he had more time than he would have cared to -acknowledge, he would say that he had "taken an <i>interest</i> in such or -such a case;" or that the case involved "points of <i>interest</i>," which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> -he was "willing to see settled." He never said that he wanted to see -right done: that would have been enthusiastic, and unworthy of the -cold dignity of a lawyer. So he was one of those false men, alas too -few! who always represent themselves as inferior to what they are. -Many and various were the jokes he made upon Poppie and Jeames, ever, -it must be confessed, with an eye to the approbation of Miss Burton. -He declared, for instance, that the Armageddon of class-legislature -would be fought between those of whom the porter and Poppie were the -representatives, and rejoiced that, as in the case of the small quarrel -between Fitz James and Roderick Dhu, Poppie had drawn the first blood, -and gained thereby a good omen. And Lucy was pleased with him, it must -be confessed. She never thought of comparing him with Thomas, which was -well for Thomas. But she did think he was a very clever, gentlemanly -fellow, and knew how to make himself agreeable.</p> - -<p>He offered to see her home, which she declined, not even permitting him -to walk with her to the railway.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XV.</p> - -<p class="center">THE TWO OLD WOMEN.</p> - - -<p>She found the two old women, of whom Mattie still seemed the older, -seated together at their tea. Not a ray of the afternoon sun could find -its way into the room. It was dusky and sultry, with a smell of roses. -This, and its strange mingling of furniture, made it like a room over a -broker's in some country town.</p> - -<p>"Well, Miss Burton, here you are at last!" said Mattie, with a half -smile on the half of her mouth.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mattie, here I am. Has grandmother been good to you?"</p> - -<p>"Of course she has—very good. Everybody is good to <i>me</i>. I am a very -fortunate child, as my father says, though he never seems to mean it."</p> - -<p>"And how do you think your patient is?" asked Lucy, while Mrs. Boxall -sat silent, careful not to obstruct the amusement which the child's -answers must give them.</p> - -<p>"Well, I do not think Mrs. Boxall is worse. She has been very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> good, -and has done everything I found myself obliged to recommend. I would -not let her get up so soon as she wanted to."</p> - -<p>"And what did you do to keep her in bed?" asked Lucy.</p> - -<p>"Well, I could not think of a story to tell her just then, so I got the -big Bible out of the book-case, and began to show her the pictures. But -she did not care about that. I think it was my fault, though, because I -was not able to hold the book so that she could see them properly. So I -read a story to her, but I do not think I chose a very nice one."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall made a deprecating motion with her head and hands, -accompanied by the words—</p> - -<p>"She <i>will</i> say what she thinks—Bible or Prayer-book."</p> - -<p>"Well, and where's the harm, when I mean none? Who's to be angry at -that? I <i>will</i> say," Mattie went on, "that it was an ugly trick of that -woman to serve a person that never did <i>her</i> any harm; and I wonder at -two sensible women like Mrs. Boxall and Deborah sticking up for her."</p> - -<p>"Is it Jael she means, grannie?" asked Lucy, very softly.</p> - -<p>"Yes, it is Jael she means," answered Mattie for herself, with some -defiance in her tone.</p> - -<p>"For my part," she continued, "I think it was just like one of Syne's -tricks."</p> - -<p>"Have you seen Mr. Spelt to-day, Mattie?" asked Lucy, desirous of -changing the subject, because of the direction the child's thoughts had -taken.</p> - -<p>"Well, I haven't," answered Mattie, "and I will go and see now whether -he's gone or not. But don't you fancy that I don't see through it -for all that, Miss Burton," she continued. "I shouldn't have been in -the way, though—not much, for I like to see young people enjoying -themselves."</p> - -<p>"What <i>do</i> you mean, Mattie?" asked Lucy with a bewilderment occasioned -rather by the quarter whence the words proceeded than by the words -themselves; for she did expect to see Thomas that evening.</p> - -<p>Mattie vouchsafed no reply to the question, but bade them good-night, -the one and the other, with an evident expression of <i>hauteur</i>, and -marched solemnly down the stairs, holding carefully by the balusters, -for she was too small to use the hand-rail comfortably.</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt's roost was shut up for the night: he had gone to take some -work home. Mattie therefore turned toward her father's shop.</p> - -<p>In the archway she ran against Thomas, or, more properly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> Thomas ran -against her, for Mattie never ran at all, so that he had to clasp her -to prevent her from falling.</p> - -<p>"Well, you needn't be in such a hurry, Mr. Thomas, though she is -a-waiting for you. She won't go till you come, <i>I</i> know."</p> - -<p>"You're a cheeky little monkey," said Thomas, good naturedly. But the -words were altogether out of tune with the idea of Mattie, who again -felt her dignity invaded, and walked into the shop with her chin -projecting more than usual.</p> - -<p>"Come, my princess," said her father, seating himself in an old chair, -and taking the child on his knee. "I haven't seen my princess all -day.—How's your royal highness this night?"</p> - -<p>Mattie laid her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter with my pet?" said her father, fondling and soothing -her with much concern. "Has anybody been unkind to you?"</p> - -<p>"No, Mr. Kitely," said the child, "but I feel that lonely! I wish you -would read to me a bit, for Mr. Spelt ain't there, and I read something -in the Bible this morning that ain't done me no good."</p> - -<p>"You shouldn't read such things, Mattie," said the bookseller. "They -ain't no good. I'll go and get a candle. Sit you there till I come -back."</p> - -<p>"No, no, father. Don't leave me here. I don't like the books to-night. -Take me with you. Carry me."</p> - -<p>The father obeyed at once, took his child on his arm, got a candle from -the back room, for the place was very dusky—he did not care to light -the gas this time of the year—and sat down with Mattie in a part of -the shop which was screened from the door, where he could yet hear -every footstep that passed.</p> - -<p>"What shall I read now, my precious?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't think I care for anything but the New Testament -to-night, father."</p> - -<p>"Why, you've just been saying it disagreed with you this very morning," -objected Mr. Kitely.</p> - -<p>"No, father. It wasn't the New Testament at all. It was the very old -Testament, I believe; for it was near the beginning of it, and told all -about a horrid murder. I do believe," she added, reflectively, "that -that book grows better as it gets older—younger, I mean."</p> - -<p>The poor child wanted some one to help her out of her Bible -difficulties, and her father certainly was not the man to do so, for -he believed nothing about or in it. Like many other chil<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>dren far -more carefully taught of man, she was laboring under the misery of -the fancy that everything related in the Old Testament without remark -of disapprobation is sanctioned by the divine will. If parents do not -encourage their children to speak their minds about what they read -generally, and especially in the Bible, they will one day be dismayed -to find that they have not merely the strangest but the most deadly -notions of what is contained in that book—as, for instance, besides -the one in hand, that God approved of all the sly tricks of Jacob—for -was not he the religious one of the brothers, and did not all his -tricks succeed? They are not able without help to regard the history -broadly, and see that just because of this bad that was in him, he had -to pass through a life of varied and severe suffering, punished in the -vices which his children inherited from himself, in order that the -noble part of his nature might be burned clean of the filth that clung -to it.</p> - -<p>Such was Mr. Kitely's tenderness over his daughter, increased by some -signs he had begun to see of the return of an affection of the brain -from which he had been on the point of losing her some years before, -that he made no further opposition, but, rising again, brought an old -"breeches Bible" from a shelf, and, taking her once more on his knee, -supported her with one hand and held the book with the other.</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know one chapter from another," reflected Mr. Kitely -aloud. "I wonder where the child would like me to read. I'm sure I -can't tell what to read."</p> - -<p>"Read about <i>Somebody</i>," said Mattie.</p> - -<p>From the peculiar expression she gave to the word, her father guessed -at her meaning, and opening the gospel part of the book at random, -began to read.</p> - -<p>He read, from the Gospel by St. Matthew, the story of the -Transfiguration, to which Mattie listened without word or motion. He -then went on to the following story of the lunatic and apparently -epileptic, boy. As soon as he began to read the account of how the -child was vexed, Mattie said conclusively:</p> - -<p>"That was Syne. <i>I</i> know him. He's been at it for a long time."</p> - -<p>"'And Jesus rebuked the devil; and he departed out of him; and the -child was cured from that very hour,'" the bookseller went on reading -in a subdued voice, partly because he sat in his shop with the door -open, partly because not even he could read "the ancient story, ever -new" without feeling a something he could not have quite accounted for -if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> he had thought of trying. But the moment he had read those words, -Mattie cried:</p> - -<p>"There, I knew it!"</p> - -<p>It must be remembered that Mattie had not read much of the New -Testament. Mr. Spelt alone had led her to read any. Everything came new -to her, therefore; every word was like the rod of Moses that drew the -waters of response.</p> - -<p>"What did you know, princess?" asked her father.</p> - -<p>"I knew that Somebody would make him mind what he was about—I did. -I wonder if he let a flash of that light out on him that he shut up -inside him again. I shouldn't wonder if that was it. I know Syne -couldn't stand that—no, not for a moment. I think I'll go to bed, Mr. -Kitely."</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XVI.</p> - -<p class="center">ON THE RIVER.</p> - - -<p>Notwithstanding the good-humored answer Thomas had made to Mattie, her -words stuck to him and occasioned him a little discomfort. For if the -bookseller's daughter, whose shop lay between the counting-house and -the court, knew so well of his visits to Lucy, how could he hope that -they would long remain concealed from other and far more dangerous -eyes. This thought oppressed him so much, that instead of paying his -usual visit to Mr. Molken, he went to Mrs. Boxall's at once. There, -after greetings, he threw himself on the cushions of the old settle, -and was gloomy. Lucy looked at him with some concern. Mrs. Boxall -murmured something about his being in the doldrums—a phrase she had -learned from her son John.</p> - -<p>"Let's go out, Lucy," said Thomas; "it is so sultry."</p> - -<p>Lucy was quite ready in herself to comply. For one reason, she had -something upon her mind about which she wanted to talk to him. But she -objected.</p> - -<p>"My grandmother is not fit to be left alone, Thomas," she said, -regretfully.</p> - -<p>"Oh! ah!" said Thomas.</p> - -<p>"Never mind me, child," interposed the old woman. "You'll make me wish -myself in my grave, if you make me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> come between young people. You go, -my dear, and never mind me. You needn't be gone a great while, you -know."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, grannie; I'll be back in an hour, or less, if you like," said -Lucy, hastening to put on her bonnet.</p> - -<p>"No, no, my dear. An hour's in reason. Anything in reason, you know."</p> - -<p>So Lucy made the old lady comfortable in her arm-chair, and went out -with Thomas.</p> - -<p>The roar of the city had relaxed. There would be no more blocks in -Gracechurch Street that night. There was little smoke in the air, only -enough to clothe the dome of St. Paul's in a faintly rosy garment, -tinged from the west, where the sun was under a cloud. The huge mass -looked ethereal, melted away as to a shell of thicker air against a -background of slate-color, where a wind was gathering to flow at sunset -through the streets and lanes, cooling them from the heat of the day, -of the friction of iron and granite, of human effort, and the thousand -fires that prepared the food of the city-dining population. Crossing -the chief thoroughfares, they went down the lanes leading to the river. -Here they passed through a sultry region of aromatic fragrance, where -the very hooks that hung from cranes in doorways high above the ground, -seemed to retain something of the odor of the bales they had lifted -from the wagons below during the hot sunshine that drew out their -imprisoned essences. By yet closer ways they went toward the river, -descending still, and at length, by a short wooden stair, and a long -wooden way, they came on a floating pier. There the wind blew sweet -and cooling and very grateful, for the summer was early and fervid. -Down into the east the river swept away, somber and sullen, to gurgle -blindly through the jungle of masts that lay below the bridge and -crossed the horizontal lines of the sky with their delicate spars, and -yet more delicate cordage. Little did Thomas think that one of those -masts rose from a vessel laden, one might say, with his near, though -not his final fate—a fate that truth might have averted, but which -the very absence of truth made needful and salutary. A boat was just -starting up the river toward the light.</p> - -<p>"Let's have a blow," said Thomas.</p> - -<p>"That will be delightful," answered Lucy, and they went on board. First -one wheel, then the other, then both together, dashed the Stygian -waters of the Thames into a white fury, and they were moving up the -stream. They went forward into the bows of the boat to get clear of -the smoke, and sat down. There were so few on board that they could -talk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> without being overheard. But they sat silent for some time; the -stillness of the sky seemed to have sunk into their hearts. For that -was as pure over their heads as if there had been no filthy Thames -beneath their feet; and its light and color illuminated the surface -of the river, which was not yet so vile that it could not reflect the -glory that fell upon its face. The tide was against them, and with all -the struggles of the little steamer they made but slow way up the dark, -hurrying water. Lucy sat gazing at the banks of the river, where the -mighty city on either hand has declined into sordid meanness, skeleton -exposure; where the struggles of manufacture and commerce are content -to abjure their own decencies for the sake of the greater gain. Save -where the long line of Somerset House, and the garden of the Temple -asserted the ancient dignity of order and cleanliness, the whole -looked like a mean, tattered, draggled fringe upon a rich garment. -Then she turned her gaze down on the river, which, as if ashamed of -the condition into which it had fallen from its first estate, crawled -fiercely away to hide itself in the sea.</p> - -<p>"How different," she said, looking up at Thomas, who had been sitting -gazing at her all the time that she contemplated the shore and the -river—"How different things would be if they were only clean!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, indeed," returned Thomas. "Think what it would be to see the -fishes—the salmon, say—shooting about in clear water under us, like -so many silver fishes in a crystal globe! If people were as fond of -the cleanliness you want as they are of money, things would look very -different indeed!"</p> - -<p>I have said that Thomas loved Lucy more and more. Partly a cause, -partly a consequence of this, he had begun to find out that there -was a poetic element in her, and he flattered himself that he had -developed it. No doubt he had had a share in its development, but it -was of a deeper, truer, simpler kind than his own, and would never -have been what it was, in rapport always with the facts of nature and -life, if it had been only a feminine response to his. Men like women -to reflect them, no doubt; but the woman who can only reflect a man, -and is nothing in herself, will never be of much service to him. The -woman who cannot stand alone is not likely to make either a good wife -or mother. She may be a pleasant companion so far as the intercourse -of love-making goes, no doubt—scarcely more; save, indeed, the trials -that ensue upon marriage bring out the power latent in her. But the -remark with which Thomas responded to Lucy was quite beyond his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> usual -strain. He had a far finer nature underneath than his <i>education</i> had -allowed to manifest itself, and the circumstances in which he was at -the moment were especially favorable to his best. Casca, on his first -appearance in <i>Julius Cæsar</i>, talks blunt and snarling prose: in the -very next scene, which is a fearfully magnificent thunder-storm, he -speaks poetry. "He was quick mettle when he went to school," and the -circumstances brought it out.</p> - -<p>"I wish the world was clean, Thomas, all through," said Lucy.</p> - -<p>Thomas did not reply. His heart smote him. Those few words went deeper -than all Mr. Simon's sermons, public and private. For a long time he -had not spoken a word about religion to Lucy. Nor had what he said ever -taken any hold upon her intellect, although it had upon her conscience; -for, not having been brought up to his vocabulary, and what might be -called the technical phrases if not <i>slang</i> of his religion, it had -been to her but a vague sound, which yet she received as a reminder of -duty. Some healthy religious teaching would be of the greatest value to -her now. But Mr. Potter provided no food beyond the established fare; -and whatever may be said about the sufficiency of the church-service, -and the uselessness of preaching, I for one believe that a dumb ass, if -the Lord only opens his mouth, may rebuke much madness of prophets, and -priests too. But where there is neither honesty nor earnestness, as in -the case of Mr. Potter, the man is too much of an ass for even the Lord -to open his mouth to any useful purpose. His heart has to be opened -first, and that takes time and trouble.</p> - -<p>Finding that Thomas remained silent, Lucy looked into his face, and -saw that he was troubled. This brought to the point of speech the -dissatisfaction with himself which had long been moving restlessly and -painfully in his heart, and of which the quiet about him, the peace of -the sky, and that sense of decline and coming repose, which invades -even the heart of London with the sinking sun, had made him more -conscious than he had yet been.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Lucy," he said, "I wish you would help me to be good."</p> - -<p>To no other could he have said so. Mr. Simon, for instance, aroused all -that was most contrarious in him. But Lucy at this moment seemed so -near to him that before her he could be humble without humiliation, and -could even enjoy the confession of weakness implied in his appeal to -her for aid.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> - -<p>She looked at him with a wise kind of wonder in her look. For a moment -she was silent.</p> - -<p>"I do not know how I can help you, Thomas, for you know better about -all such things than I do. But there is one thing I want very much to -speak to you about, because it makes me unhappy—rather—not <i>very</i>, -you know."</p> - -<p>She laid his hand upon his. He looked at her lovingly. She was -encouraged, and continued:</p> - -<p>"I don't like this way of going on, Thomas. I never quite liked it, but -I've been thinking more about it, lately. I thought you must know best, -but I am not satisfied with myself at all about it."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean, Lucy?" asked Thomas, his heart beginning already to -harden at the approach of definite blame. It was all very well for him -to speak as if he might be improved—it was another thing for Lucy to -do so.</p> - -<p>"Do not be vexed with me, Thomas. You must know what I mean. I wish -your mother knew all about it," she added, hastily, after a pause. And -then her face flushed red as a sunset.</p> - -<p>"She'll know all about it in good time," returned Thomas, testily; -adding, in an undertone, as if he did not mean to press the remark, -although he wanted her to hear it: "You do not know my mother, or you -would not be so anxious for her to know all about it."</p> - -<p>"Couldn't you get your father to tell her, then, and make it easier for -you?"</p> - -<p>"My father," answered Thomas, coolly, "would turn me out of the house -if I didn't give you up; and as I don't mean to do that, and don't want -to be turned out of the house just at present, when I have nowhere else -to go, I don't want to tell him."</p> - -<p>"I <i>can't</i> go on in this way, then. Besides, they are sure to hear of -it, somehow."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, they won't. Who's to tell them?"</p> - -<p>"Don't suppose I've been listening, Tom, because I heard your last -words," said a voice behind them—that of Mr. Wither. "I haven't been -watching you, but I have been watching for an opportunity of telling -you that Stopper is keeping far too sharp a lookout on you to mean you -any good by it. I beg your pardon, Miss Boxall," he resumed, taking off -his hat. "I fear I have been rude; but, as I say, I was anxious to tell -Mr. Worboise to be cautious. I don't see why a fellow should get into a -scrape for want of a hint."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> - -<p>The manner with which Wither spoke to her made poor Lucy feel -that there was not merely something unfitting, but something even -disreputable, in the way her relation to Thomas was kept up. She grew -as pale as death, rose, and turned to the side of the vessel, and drew -her veil nervously over her face.</p> - -<p>"It's no business of mine, of course, Tom. But what I tell you is true. -Though if you take my advice," said Wither, and here he dropped his -voice to a whisper, "this connection is quite as fit a one to cut as -the last; and the sooner you do it the better, for it'll make a devil -of a row with old Boxall. You ought to think of the girl, you know. -Your own governor's your own lookout. There's none of it any business -of mine, you know."</p> - -<p>He turned with a nod and went aft; for the steamer was just drawing in -to the Hungerford pier, where he had to go ashore.</p> - -<p>For a few minutes not a word passed between Thomas and Lucy. A sudden -cloud had fallen upon them. They must not go on this way, but what -other way were they to take? They stood side by side, looking into the -water, Thomas humiliated and Lucy disgraced. There was no comfort to -be got out of that rushing blackness, and the mud banks grew wider and -wider.</p> - -<p>Lucy was the first to speak, for she was far more capable than Tom.</p> - -<p>"We must go ashore at the next pier," she said.</p> - -<p>"Very well," said Tom, as if he had been stunned into sullenness. "If -you want to get rid of me because of what that fellow said—"</p> - -<p>"Oh, Tom!" said Lucy, and burst out crying.</p> - -<p>"Well, what <i>do</i> you want, Lucy?"</p> - -<p>"We <i>must</i> part, Tom," sobbed Lucy.</p> - -<p>"Nonsense!" said Tom, nearly crying himself, for a great, painful lump -had risen in his throat.</p> - -<p>"We can love each other all the same," said Lucy, still sobbing; "only -you must not come to see me any more—that is—I do not mean—never any -more at all—but till you have told them—all about it. I don't mean -now, but some time, you know. When will you be of age, Tom?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, that makes no difference. As long's I'm dependent, it's all the -same. I wish I was my own master. I should soon let them see I didn't -care what they said."</p> - -<p>Silence again followed, during which Lucy tried in vain to stop her -tears by wiping them away. A wretched feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> awoke in her that Thomas -was not manly, could not resolve—or rather, could not help her when -she would do the right thing. She would have borne anything rather than -that. It put her heart in a vise.</p> - -<p>The boat stopped at the Westminster pier. They went on shore. The sun -was down, and the fresh breeze that blew, while it pleasantly cooled -the hot faces that moved westward from their day's work, made Lucy -almost shiver with cold. For loss had laid hold of her heart. They -walked up Parliament Street. Thomas felt that he must say something, -but what he should say he could not think. He always thought what he -should say—never what he should do.</p> - -<p>"Lucy, dear," he said at last, "we won't make up our minds to-night. -Wait till I see you next. I shall have time to think about it before -then. I will be a match for that sneaking rascal, Stopper, yet."</p> - -<p>Lucy felt inclined to say that to sneak was no way to give sneaking its -own. But she said neither that nor anything else.</p> - -<p>They got into an omnibus at Charing Cross, and returned—deafened, -stupefied, and despondent—into the city. They parted at Lucy's door, -and Thomas went home, already much later than usual.</p> - -<p>What should he do? He resolved upon nothing, and did the worst thing he -could have done. He lied.</p> - -<p>"You are very late to-night, Thomas," said his mother. "Have you been -all this time with Mr. Moloch?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, mother," answered Thomas.</p> - -<p>And when he was in bed he comforted himself by saying there was no such -person as Mr. Moloch.</p> - -<p>When Lucy went to bed, she prayed to God in sobs and cries of pain. -Hitherto she had believed in Thomas without a question crossing the -disk of her faith; but now she had begun to doubt, and the very fact -that she could doubt was enough to make her miserable, even if there -had been no ground for the doubt. My readers must remember that no one -had attempted to let her into the secrets of his character as I have -done with them. His beautiful face, pleasant manners, self-confidence, -and, above all, her love, had blinded her to his faults. For, although -I do not in the least believe that Love is blind, yet I must confess -that, like kittens and some other animals, he has his blindness nine -days or more, as it may be, from his birth. But once she had begun -to suspect, she found ground for suspicion enough. She had never -known grief before—not even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> when her mother died—for death has not -anything despicable, and Thomas had.</p> - -<p>What Charles Wither had told Thomas was true enough. Mr. Stopper was -after him. Ever since that dinner-party at Mr. Boxall's he had hated -him, and bided his time.</p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper was a man of forty, in whose pine-apple whiskers and -bristly hair the first white streaks of autumn had begun to show -themselves. He had entered the service of Messrs. Blunt & Baker some -five-and-twenty years before, and had gradually risen through all the -intervening positions to his present post. Within the last year, moved -by prudential considerations, he had begun to regard the daughters of -his principal against the background of possible marriage; and as he -had hitherto, from motives of the same class, resisted all inclinations -in that direction, with so much the more force did his nature rush -into the channel which the consent of his selfishness opened for the -indulgence of his affections. For the moment he saw Mary Boxall with -this object in view, he fell in love with her after the fashion of such -a man, beginning instantly to build, not castles, but square houses -in the air in the dining-rooms especially of which her form appeared -in gorgeous and somewhat matronly garments amid ponderous mahogany, -seated behind the obscuration of tropical plants at a table set out -<i>à la Russe</i>. His indignation, when he entered the drawing-room after -Mr. Boxall's dinner, and saw Thomas in the act of committing the -indiscretion recorded in that part of my story, passed into silent -hatred when he found that while his attentions were slighted, those -of Thomas, in his eyes a mere upstart—for he judged everything in -relation to the horizon of Messrs. Blunt & Baker, and every man in -relation to himself, seated upon the loftiest summit within the circle -of that horizon—not even offered, but only dropped at her feet in -passing, were yet accepted.</p> - -<p>Among men Mr. Stopper was of the bull-dog breed, sagacious, -keen-scented, vulgar, and inexorable; capable of much within the range -of things illuminated by his own interests, capable of nothing beyond -it. And now one of his main objects was to catch some scent—for the -bull-dog has an excellent nose—of Thomas's faults or failings, and -follow such up the wind of his prosperity, till he should have a -chance of pulling him down at last. His first inclination toward this -revenge was strengthened and elevated into an imagined execution of -justice when Mary fell ill, and it oozed out that her illness had not a -little to do with some behavior of Thomas's.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> Hence it came that, both -consciously and unconsciously, Mr. Stopper was watching the unfortunate -youth, though so cautious was Thomas that he had not yet discovered -anything of which he could make a definite use. Nor did he want to -interrupt Thomas's projects before he found that they put him in his -power.</p> - -<p>So here was a weak and conceited youth of fine faculties and fine -impulses, between the malign aspects of two opposite stars—watched, -that is, and speculated upon by two able and unprincipled men; the one, -Mr. Molken, searching him and ingratiating himself with him, "to the -end to know how to worke him, or winde him, or governe him," which, -Lord Bacon goes on to say, "proceedeth from a heart that is double and -cloven, and not entyre and ingenuous;" the other, Mr. Stopper, watching -his conduct, not for the sake of procuring advantage to himself, but -injury to Thomas. The one sought to lead him astray, that he might rob -him in the dark; the other sought a chance of knocking him down, that -he might leave him lying in the ditch. And they soon began to play into -each other's hands.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XVII.</p> - -<p class="center">CAPTAIN BOXALL'S PROPOSAL.</p> - - -<p>About three weeks before the occurrences last recorded, the following -conversation took place between Richard and John Boxall over their wine:</p> - -<p>"I tell you what, brother," said the captain, "you're addling good -brains with overwork. You won't make half so much money if you're too -greedy after it. You don't look the same fellow you used to."</p> - -<p>"I hope I'm not too greedy after money, John. But it's my business, as -your's is to sail your ship."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes. I can't sail my ship too well, nor you attend to your -business too well. But if I was to sail two ships instead of one, or -if I was to be on deck instead of down at my dinner when she was going -before the wind in the middle of the Atlantic, I shouldn't do my best -when it came on to blow hard in the night."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> - -<p>"That's all very true. But I don't think it applies to me. I never miss -my dinner, by any chance."</p> - -<p>"Don't you turn your blind eye on my signal, Dick. You know what I mean -well enough. I've got a proposal to make—the jolliest thing in the -world."</p> - -<p>"Go on. I'm listening."</p> - -<p>"Mary ain't quite so well again—is she now?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't think she's been getting on so fast. I suppose it's the -spring weather."</p> - -<p>"Why, you may call it summer now. But she ain't as I should like to see -her, the darling."</p> - -<p>"Well, no. I must confess I'm sometimes rather uneasy about her."</p> - -<p>"And there's Jane. She don't look at home, somehow."</p> - -<p>For some time Richard had been growing more and more uneasy as the -evidence of his daughter's attachment to Charles Wither became plainer. -Both he and his wife did the best they could to prevent their meeting, -but having learned a little wisdom from the history of his father's -family, and knowing well the hastiness of his own temper, he had as yet -managed to avoid any open conflict with his daughter, who he knew had -inherited his own stubbornness. He had told his brother nothing of this -second and now principal source of family apprehension; and the fact -that John saw that all was not right with Jane, greatly increased his -feeling of how much things were going wrong. He made no reply, however, -but sat waiting what was to follow. Accumulating his arguments the -captain went on.</p> - -<p>"And there's your wife; she's had a headache almost every day since I -came to the house."</p> - -<p>"Well, what are you driving at, John?" said his brother, with the more -impatience that he knew all John said was true.</p> - -<p>"What I'm driving at is this," answered the captain, <i>bringing-to</i> -suddenly. "You must all make this next voyage in my clipper. It'll do -you all a world o' good, and me too."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense, John," said Richard, feeling however that a faint light -dawned through the proposal.</p> - -<p>"Don't call it nonsense till you've slept upon it, Dick. The ship's -part mine, and I can make it easy for you. You'll have to pay a little -passage-money, just to keep me right with the rest of the owners; but -that won't be much, and you're no screw, though I did say you were too -greedy after the money. I believe it's not the money so much as the -making of it that fills your head."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Still, you wouldn't have me let the business go to the dogs?"</p> - -<p>"No fear of that, with Stopper at the head of affairs. I'll tell you -what you must do. You must take him in."</p> - -<p>"Into partnership, do you mean?" said Richard, his tone expressing no -surprise, for he had thought of this before.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I do. You'll have to do it some day, and the sooner the better. -If you don't, you'll lose him, and that you'll find won't be a mere -loss. That man'll make a dangerous enemy. Where he bites he'll hold. -And now's a good time to serve yourself and him too."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you're right, brother," answered the merchant, emptying his -glass of claret and filling it again instantly, an action indicating a -certain perturbed hesitation not in the least common to him. "I'll turn -it over in my mind. I certainly should not be sorry to have a short -holiday. I haven't had one to speak of for nearly twenty years, I do -believe."</p> - -<p>John judged it better not to press him. He believed from what he knew -of himself and his brother too that good advice was best let alone -to work its own effects. He turned the conversation to something -indifferent.</p> - -<p>But after this many talks followed. Mrs. Boxall, of course, was -consulted. Although she shrunk from the thought of a sea voyage, she -yet saw in the proposal a way out of many difficulties, especially -as giving room for time to work one of his especial works—that of -effacement. So between the three the whole was arranged before either -of the young people was spoken to on the subject. Jane heard it with -a rush of blood to her heart that left her dark face almost livid. -Mary received the news gladly, even merrily, though a slight paleness -followed and just indicated that she regarded the journey as the symbol -and sign of severed bonds. Julia, a plump child of six, upon whose -condition no argument for the voyage could be founded, danced with -joy at the idea of going in Uncle John's ship. Mr. Stopper threw no -difficulty in the way of accepting a partnership in the concern, and -thus matters were arranged.</p> - -<p>John Boxall had repeatedly visited his mother during the six weeks he -spent at his brother's house. He seldom saw Lucy, however, because of -her engagement at the Morgensterns', until her grandmother's sickness -kept her more at home. Then, whether it was that Lucy expected -her uncle to be prejudiced against her, or that he really was so -prejudiced, I do not know, but the two did not take much to each<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> -other. Lucy considered her uncle a common and rough-looking sailor; -John Boxall called his niece a fine lady. And so they parted.</p> - -<p>On the same day on which Thomas and Lucy <i>had their blow</i> on the river, -the <i>Ningpo</i> had cleared out of St. Katharine's Dock, and was lying -in the Upper Pool, all but ready to drop down with the next tide to -Gravesend, where she was to take her passengers on board.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XVIII.</p> - -<p class="center"><i>THE TEMPTER</i>.</p> - - -<p>The next day, Thomas had made up his mind not to go near Guild Court; -but in the afternoon Mr. Stopper himself sent him to bring an old -ledger from the floor above Mrs. Boxall's. As he got down from his -perch, and proceeded to get his hat—</p> - -<p>"There's no use in going round such a way," said Mr. Stopper. "Mr. -Boxall's not in; you can go through his room. Here's the key of the -door. Only mind you lock it when you come back."</p> - -<p>The key used to lie in Mr. Boxall's drawer, but now Mr. Stopper took -it from his own. Thomas was not altogether pleased at the change of -approach, though why, he would hardly have been able to tell. Probably -he felt something as a miser would feel, into whose treasure-cave -the new gallery of a neighboring mine threatened to break. He was, -as it were, exposed upon the flank. Annoyance instantly clouded the -expression of eagerness which he had not been able to conceal; and -neither the light nor the following cloud escaped Mr. Stopper, who, -although the region of other men's thoughts was dark as pitch to him -in the usual relation he bore to them, yet the moment his interests -or—rare case—his feelings brought him into the contact of opposition -with any man, all the man's pregnable points lay bare before him.</p> - -<p>Thomas had nothing to do but take the key and go. He had now no -opportunity of spending more than one moment with Lucy. When the -distance was of some length, he could cut both ways, and pocket the -time gained; now there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> nothing to save upon. Nevertheless, he sped -up the stairs as if he would overtake old Time himself.</p> - -<p>Rendered prudent, or cunning, by his affections, he secured the ordered -chaos of vellum before he knocked at Mrs. Boxall's door, which he then -opened without waiting for the response to his appeal.</p> - -<p>"Lucy! Lucy!" he said; "I have but one half minute, and hardly that."</p> - -<p>Lucy appeared with the rim of a rainy sunset about her eyes. The rest -of her face was still as a day that belonged to not one of the four -seasons—that had nothing to do.</p> - -<p>"If you have forgotten yesterday, Thomas, I have not," she said.</p> - -<p>"Oh! never mind yesterday," he said. "I'm coming in to-night; and I can -stay as long as I please. My father and mother are gone to Folkestone, -and there's nobody to know when I go home. Isn't it jolly?"</p> - -<p>And without waiting for an answer, he scudded like Poppie. But what in -Poppie might be graceful, was not dignified in Thomas; and I fear Lucy -felt this, when he turned the corner to the stair-case with the huge -ledger under his arm, and his coat flying out behind him. But she would -not have felt it had she not had on the preceding evening, for the -first time, a peep into his character.</p> - -<p>As he reëntered the counting-house he was aware of the keen glance cast -at him by Stopper, and felt that he reddened. But he laid the ledger on -the desk before him, and perched again with as much indifference as he -could assume.</p> - -<p>Wearily the hours passed. How could they otherwise pass with figures, -figures everywhere, Stopper right before him at the double desk, and -Lucy one story removed and inaccessible? Some men would work all the -better for knowing their treasure so near, but Thomas had not yet -reached such a repose. Indeed, he did not yet love Lucy well enough for -that. People talk about loving too much; for my part, I think all the -mischief comes of loving too little.</p> - -<p>The dinner-hour at length arrived. Thomas, however, was not in the way -of attempting to see Lucy at that time. He would have said that there -was too much coming and going of the clerks about that hour: I venture -to imagine that a quiet enjoyment of his dinner had something to do -with it. Now, although I can well enough understand a young fellow in -love being as hungry as a hawk, I cannot quite understand his spending -an hour over his dinner when the quarter of it would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> be enough, and -the rest might give him if but one chance of one peep at the lady. -On the present occasion, however, seeing he had the whole evening in -prospect, Thomas may have been quite right to devote himself to his -dinner, the newspaper, and anticipation. At all events, he betook -himself to one of the courts off Cornhill, and ascended to one of those -eating-houses which abound in London city, where a man may generally -dine well, and always at moderate expense.</p> - -<p>Now this was one of the days on which Thomas usually visited Mr. -Molken. But as he had missed two lessons, the spider had become a -little anxious about his fly, and knowing that Thomas went to dine at -this hour, and knowing also where he went, he was there before him, and -on the outlook for his entrance. This was not the sort of place the -German generally frequented. He was more likely to go prowling about -Thames Street for his dinner; but when Thomas entered, there he was, -signaling to him to take his place beside him.</p> - -<p>Thomas did not see that in the dark corner of an opposite box sat Mr. -Stopper. He obeyed the signal, and a steak was presently broiling for -him upon the gridiron at the other end of the room.</p> - -<p>"You vas not come fore your lesson de letst time, Mistare Verbose," -said Molken.</p> - -<p>"No," answered Thomas, who had not yet made a confidant of Mr. Molken. -"I was otherwise engaged."</p> - -<p>He spoke quite carelessly.</p> - -<p>"Ah! I yes. Oddervise," said Molken, and said no more.</p> - -<p>Presently he broke into a suppressed laugh, which caused Thomas, who -was very sensitive as to his personal dignity, to choke over his -tankard of bitter ale, with which he was consoling himself for the -delay of his steak.</p> - -<p>"What is it you find so amusing, Mr. Molken?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," returned Molken. "It was very rude; but I could -not help it. I will tell you one story I did see last night. I am a man -of de vorld, as you know, Mr. Verbose."</p> - -<p>My reader must excuse me if I do not keep to the representation of the -fellow's German-English. It is hardly worth doing, and I am doubtful, -besides, whether I can do it well.</p> - -<p>"I am a man of the world," said Molken, "and I was last night in -one of those shops, what you call them—paradise; no, the other -thing—hell—where they have the spinning thing—the Roulette—and the -Rouge et Noir, and <i>cætera</i>. I do not mean to say that I was gambling. -Oh, no! I was at the bar having a glass of Judenlip, when lo! and -behold!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> down through the green door, with a burst, comes a young man I -knew. He was like yourself, Mr. Worboise, a clerk in a counting-house."</p> - -<p>Thomas winced, but said nothing. He regarded his business as he ought -to have regarded himself, namely, as something to be ashamed of.</p> - -<p>"Well, he comes up to me, and he says, 'Herr Molken, we are old -friends; will you lend me a sovereign?' 'No,' I said, 'Mr.—,'—I -forget the young man's name, but I did know him—' I never lend money -for gambling purposes. Get the man who won your last sovereign to -lend you another. For my own part, I've had enough of that sort of -thing,' For you see, Mr. Thomas, I <i>have</i> gambled in my time—yes, -and made money by it, though I spent it as foolishly as I got it. You -don't think I would spend my time in teaching <i>Ich habe, Du hast</i>, if -I hadn't given up gambling. But university men, you know, learn bad -habits."</p> - -<p>"What did he say to that?" asked Thomas.</p> - -<p>"He swore and turned away as if he was choking. But the fact was, Mr. -Verbose, I hadn't a sovereign in my possession. I wasn't going to tell -him that. But if I had had one, he should have had it; for I can't -forget the glorious excitement it used to be to see the gold lying like -a yellow mole-hill on the table, and to think that one fortunate turn -might send it all into your own pockets."</p> - -<p>"But he didn't choke, did he?" said Thomas, weakly trying to be clever.</p> - -<p>"No. And I will tell you how it was that he didn't. 'By Jove!' he -cried. Now I had seen him fumbling about his waistcoat as if he would -tear his heart out, and all at once dive his two forefingers into a -little pocket that was meant to hold a watch, only the watch had gone -up the spout long ago. 'By Jove!' he said—that's the right swear, -isn't it, Mr. Verbose?—and then he rushed through the green door -again. I followed him, for I wanted to see what he was after. In half -an hour he had broken the bank. He had found a sovereign in that little -pocket. How it got there the devil only knew. He swept his money into -his pockets and turned to go. I saw the people of the house getting -between him and the door, and I saw one of the fellows—I knew him—who -had lost money all the evening, going to pick a quarrel with him. For -those gamblers have no honor in them. So I opened the door as if to -leave the room, and pretending to hesitate as if I had left something, -kept it open, and made a sign to him to bolt,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> which he understood at -once, and was down-stairs in a moment, and I after him. Now let me tell -you a secret," continued Molken, leaning across the table, and speaking -very low and impressively—"that young man confessed to me that same -evening, that when I refused him the sovereign, he had just lost the -last of two hundred pounds of his master's money. To-day I hope he has -replaced it honestly, as he ought; for his winnings that night came to -more than seven hundred."</p> - -<p>"But he was a thief," said Thomas, bluntly.</p> - -<p>"Well, so he was; but no more a thief than many a respectable man who -secures his own and goes on risking other people's money. It's the way -of the world. However, as I told you, <i>I</i> gave it up long ago. There -<i>was</i> a time in my life when I used to live by it."</p> - -<p>"How did you manage that?"</p> - -<p>"There are certain rules to be observed, that's all. Only you must -stick to them. For one thing, you must make up your mind never to lose -more than a certain fixed sum any night you play. If you stick to that, -you will find your winnings always in excess of your losses."</p> - -<p>"How can that be?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't pretend to account for it. Gaming has its laws as well as -the universe generally. Everything goes by laws, you know-laws that -cannot be round out except by experiment; and that, as I say, is one of -the laws of gambling."</p> - -<p>All this time Mr. Stopper had been reading Mr. Molken's face. Suddenly -Tom caught sight of his superior; the warning of Wither rushed back -on his mind, and he grew pale as death. Molken perceiving the change, -sought for its cause, but saw nothing save a stony gentleman in the -opposite box sipping sherry, and picking the ripest pieces out of a -Stilton.</p> - -<p>"Don't look that way, Molken," said Tom, in an undertone. "That's our -Mr. Stopper."</p> - -<p>"Well, haven't we as good a right to be here as Mr. Stopper?" returned -Molken, in a voice equally inaudible beyond the table, but taking -piercing eyeshots at the cause of Tom's discomposure.</p> - -<p>The two men very soon had something like each other's measure. They -could each understand his neighbor's rascality, while his own seemed to -each only a law of nature.</p> - -<p>"You generally pay, don't you?" added Molken.</p> - -<p>Tom laughed.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I do generally, and a penny to the cook besides,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> which, I will -be bound, he does not. But that's nothing to the point. He hates me, -though why, I'm sure I don't—I can only guess."</p> - -<p>"Some girl, I suppose," said Molken, coolly.</p> - -<p>Thomas felt too much flattered to endeavor even to dilute the -insinuation; and Molken went on:</p> - -<p>"Well, but how can the fellow bear malice? Of course, he must have -seen from the first that he had no chance with you. I'll tell you -what, Worboise; I have had a good deal of experience, and it is my -conviction, from what I have seen of you, that you are one of the lucky -ones—one of the elect, you know-born to it, and can't help yourself."</p> - -<p>Tom pulled out his watch.</p> - -<p>"Half an hour to spare yet," he said. "Come up to the smoking-room."</p> - -<p>Having ordered a bottle of Rhine wine, Tom turned to Molken, and said:</p> - -<p>"What did you mean by saying that I was one of the lucky ones?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, don't you know there are some men born under a lucky star—as they -would have said in old times? What the cause is, of course I don't -know, except it be that Heaven must have some favorites, if only for -the sake of variety. At all events, there is no denying that some men -are born to luck. They are lucky in everything they put their hands to. -Did you ever try your luck in a lottery, now?"</p> - -<p>"I did in a raffle, once."</p> - -<p>"Well?"</p> - -<p>"I won a picture."</p> - -<p>"I told you so! And it would be just the same whatever you tried. You -are cut out for it. You have the luck-mark on you. I was sure of it."</p> - -<p>"How can you tell that?" asked Tom, lingering like a fly over the sweet -poison, and ready to swallow almost any absurdity that represented him -as something different from the ran of ordinary mortals, of whom he -was, as yet at least, a very ordinary specimen.</p> - -<p>"Never you mind how I can tell. But I will tell you this much, that I -have experience; and your own Bacon says that the laws of everything -are to be found out by observation and experiment. I have observed, and -I have experimented, and I tell you you are a lucky one."</p> - -<p>Tom stroked the faintest neutrality of a coming mustache, ponderingly -and pleasedly, and said nothing.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> - -<p>"By the by, are you coming to me to-night?" asked Molken.</p> - -<p>"No—o," answered Tom, still stroking his upper lip with the thumb -and forefinger of his left hand, "I think not. I believe I have an -engagement to-night, somewhere or other."</p> - -<p>He took out his pocket-book, and pretended to look.</p> - -<p>"Yes. I can't have my lesson to-night."</p> - -<p>"Then I needn't stop at home for you. By the way, have you a sovereign -about you? I wouldn't trouble you, you know, only, as I told you, I -haven't got one. I believe your quarter is out to-night."</p> - -<p>"Oh, I beg your pardon; I ought to have thought of that. I have two -half-sovereigns in my pocket, and no more, I am sorry to say. Will one -of them do for to-night? You shall have more to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"Oh, thank you; it's of no consequence. Well, I don't know—I think I -<i>will</i> take the ten shillings, for I want to go out this evening. Yes. -Thank you. Never mind to-morrow, <i>except</i> it be convenient."</p> - -<p>Tom settled the bill, and put the change of the other half-sovereign in -his pocket. Molken left him at the door of the tavern, and he went back -to the counting-house.</p> - -<p>"Who was that with you at the Golden Fleece, Tom?" asked Mr. Stopper, -as he entered; for he took advantage of his position to be as rude as -he found convenient.</p> - -<p>Taken by surprise, Tom answered at once:</p> - -<p>"Mr. Molken."</p> - -<p>"And who is he?" asked Stopper, again.</p> - -<p>"My German master," answered Tom.</p> - -<p>The next moment he could have knocked his head against the wall with -indignation at himself. For, always behindhand when left to himself, he -was ready enough when played upon by another to respond and repent.</p> - -<p>"He's got a hangdog phiz of his own," said Mr. Stopper, as he plunged -again into the business before him, writing away as deliberately as if -it had been on parchment instead of foolscap; for Stopper was never in -a hurry, and never behind.</p> - -<p>Tom's face flushed red with wrath.</p> - -<p>"I'll thank you to be civil in your remarks on my friends, Mr. Stopper."</p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper answered with a small puff of windy breath from distended -lips. He blew, in short. Tom felt his eyes waver. He grew almost blind -with rage. If he had followed his inclination, he would have brought -the ruler beside him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> down, with a terrible crack, on the head, before -him. "Why didn't he?" does my reader inquire? Just because of his -incapacity for action of any sort. He did not refrain in the pity that -disarms some men in the midst of their wrath, nor yet from the sense -that vengeance is God's business, and will be carried out in a mode -rather different from that in which man would prosecute his.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XIX.</p> - -<p class="center">HOW TOM SPENT THE EVENING.</p> - - -<p>When Tom left the office he walked into Mr. Kitely's shop, for he was -afraid lest Mr. Stopper should see him turn up to Guild Court. He had -almost forgotten Mr. Kitely's behavior about the book he would not keep -for him, and his resentment was gone quite. There was nobody in the -shop but Mattie.</p> - -<p>"Well, chick," said Thomas, kindly, but more condescendingly than -suited Miss Matilda's tastes.</p> - -<p>"Neither chick nor child," she answered promptly; though where she got -the phrase is a mystery, as indeed is the case with almost all the -sayings of such children.</p> - -<p>"What are you, then? A fairy?"</p> - -<p>"If I was, I know what I would do. Oh, wouldn't I just! I should think -I would!"</p> - -<p>"Well, what would you do, little Miss What's-your-name?"</p> - -<p>"My name is Miss Kitely; but that's neither here nor there. Oh, no! -it's not me! Wouldn't I just!"</p> - -<p>"Well, Miss Kitely, I want to know what you would do if you were a -fairy?"</p> - -<p>"I would turn your eyes into gooseberries, and your tongue into a bit -of leather a foot long; and every time you tried to speak your long -tongue would slap your blind eyes and make you cry."</p> - -<p>"What a terrible doom!" returned Thomas, offended at the child's -dislike to him, but willing to carry it off. "Why?"</p> - -<p>"Because you've made Miss Burton's eyes red, you naughty man! <i>I</i> know -you. It must be you. Nobody else could make her eyes red but you, and -you go and do it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> - -<p>Thomas's first movement was of anger; for he felt, as all who have -concealments are ready to feel, that he was being uncomfortably -exposed. He turned his back on the child, and proceeded to examine the -books on a level with his face. While he was thus engaged, Mr. Kitely -entered.</p> - -<p>"How do you do, Mr. Worboise?" he said. "I've got another copy of that -book you and I fell out about some time ago. I can let you have this -one at half the price."</p> - -<p>It was evident that the bookseller wanted to be conciliatory. Thomas, -in his present mood was inclined to repel his advances, but he shrank -from contention, and said:</p> - -<p>"Thank you. I shall be glad to have it. How much is it?"</p> - -<p>Mr. Kitely named the amount, and, ashamed to appear again unable, -even at the reduced price, to pay for it, Thomas pulled out the last -farthing of the money in his pocket, which came to the exact sum -required, and pocketed the volume.</p> - -<p>"If you would excuse a man who has seen something of the world—more -than was good for him at one time of his life—Mr. Worboise," said Mr. -Kitely, as he pocketed the money, "I would give you a hint about that -German up the court. He's a clever fellow enough, I dare say—perhaps -too clever. Don't you have anything to do with him beyond the German. -Take my advice. I don't sit here all day at the mouth of the court for -nothing. I can see what comes in my way as well as another man."</p> - -<p>"What is there to say against him, Mr. Kitely? I haven't seen any harm -in him."</p> - -<p>"I'm not going to commit myself in warning you, Mr. Worboise. But I do -warn you. Look out, and don't let him lead you into mischief."</p> - -<p>"I hope I am able to take care of myself, Mr. Kitely," said Thomas, -with a touch of offense.</p> - -<p>"I hope you are, Mr. Worboise," returned the bookseller, dryly; "but -there's no offense meant in giving you the hint."</p> - -<p>At this moment Mr. Stopper passed the window. Thomas listened for the -echo of his steps up the archway, and as none came, he knew that he -had gone along the street. He waited, therefore, till he thought he -must be out of sight, and then sped uneasily from the shop, round the -corner, and up to Mrs. Boxall's door, which the old lady herself opened -for him, not looking so pleased as usual to see him. Mr. Molken was -watching from the opposite ground-floor window. A few minutes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> after, -Mr. Stopper re-passed the window of Mr. Kitely's shop, and went into -the counting-house with a pass-key.</p> - -<p>Thomas left Mrs. Boxall to shut the door, and rushed eagerly up the -stairs, and into the sitting-room. There he found the red eyes of which -Mattie had spoken. Lucy rose and held out her hand, but her manner was -constrained, and her lips trembled as if she were going to cry. Thomas -would have put his arm round her and drawn her to him, but she gently -pushed his arm away, and he felt as many a man has felt, and every man, -perhaps, ought to feel, that in the gentlest repulse of the woman he -loves there is something terribly imperative and absolute.</p> - -<p>"Why, Lucy!" he said, in a tone of hurt; "what have I done?"</p> - -<p>"If you can forget so soon, Thomas," answered Lucy, "I cannot. Since -yesterday I see things in a different light altogether. I cannot, for -your sake any more than my own, allow things to go on in this doubtful -way."</p> - -<p>"Oh I but, Lucy, I was taken unawares yesterday; and to-day, now I have -slept upon it, I don't see there is any such danger. I ought to be a -match for that brute Stopper, anyhow."</p> - -<p>Yet the brute Stopper had outreached him, or, at least, "served -him out," three or four times that very day, and he had refused to -acknowledge it to himself, which was all his defense, poor wretch.</p> - -<p>"But that is not all the question, Thomas. It is not right. At least, -it seems to me that it is not right to go on like this. People's -friends ought to know. I would not have done it if grannie hadn't been -to know. But then I ought to have thought of your friends as well as my -own."</p> - -<p>"But there would be no difficulty if I had only a grandmother," urged -Thomas, "and one as good as yours. I shouldn't have thought of not -telling."</p> - -<p>"I don't think the difficulty of doing right makes it unnecessary to do -it," said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"I think you might trust that to me, Lucy," said Thomas, falling back -upon his old attempted relation of religious instructor to his friend.</p> - -<p>Lucy was silent for a moment; but after what she had gone through in -the night, she knew that the time had come for altering their relative -position if not the relation itself.</p> - -<p>"No, Thomas," said she; "I must take my own duty into my own hands. I -<i>will</i> not go on this way."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do you think then, Lucy, that in affairs of this kind a fellow ought -to do just what his parents want?"</p> - -<p>"No, Thomas. But I do think he ought not to keep such things secret -from them."</p> - -<p>"Not even if they are unreasonable and tyrannical?"</p> - -<p>"No. A man who will not take the consequences of loving cannot be much -of a lover."</p> - -<p>"Lucy!" cried Thomas, now stung to the heart.</p> - -<p>"I can't help it, Thomas," said Lucy, bursting into tears; "I <i>must</i> -speak the truth, and if you cannot bear it, the worse for me—and for -you, too, Thomas."</p> - -<p>"Then you mean to give me up?" said Thomas, pathetically, without, -however, any real fear of such an unthinkable catastrophe.</p> - -<p>"If it be giving you up to say I will not marry a man who is too much -afraid of his father and mother to let them know what he is about, then -I do give you up. But it will be you who give me up if you refuse to -acknowledge me as you ought."</p> - -<p>Lucy could not have talked like this ever before in her life. She had -gone through an eternity of suffering in the night. She was a woman -now. She had been but a girl before. Now she stood high above Thomas. -He was but a boy still, and not beautiful as such. She was all at once -old enough to be his mother. There was no escape from the course she -took; no <i>dodging</i> was possible. This must be. But she was and would be -gentle with poor Thomas.</p> - -<p>"You do not love me, Lucy," he cried.</p> - -<p>"My poor Thomas, I do love you; love you so dearly that I trust and -pray you may be worthy of my love. Go and do as you ought, and come -back to me—like one of the old knights you talk about," she added, -with the glimmer of a hopeful smile, "bringing victory to his lady."</p> - -<p>"I will, I will," said Thomas, overcome by her solemn beauty and -dignified words. It was as if she had cast the husk of the girl, and -had come out a saving angel. But the perception of this was little more -to him yet than a poetic sense of painful pleasure.</p> - -<p>"I will, I will," he said. "But I cannot to-night, for my father and -mother are both at Folkestone. But I will write to them—that will be -best."</p> - -<p>"Any way you like, Thomas. I don't care how you do it, so it is done."</p> - -<p>All this time the old lady, having seen that something was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> wrong, -had discreetly kept out of the way, for she knew that the quarrels of -lovers at least are most easily settled between themselves. Thomas -now considered it all over and done with, and Lucy, overjoyed at her -victory, leaned into his arms, and let him kiss her ten times. Such -a man, she ought not, perhaps—only she did not know better—to have -allowed to touch her till he had done what he had promised. To some -people the promise is the difficult part, to others the performance. To -Thomas, unhappily, the promising was easy.</p> - -<p>They did not hear the door open. It was now getting dark, but the two -were full in the light of the window, and visible enough to the person -who entered. He stood still for one moment, during which the lovers -unwound their arms. Only when parting, they became aware that a man was -in the room. He came forward with hasty step. It was Richard Boxall. -Thomas looked about for his hat. Lucy stood firm and quiet, waiting.</p> - -<p>"Lucy, where is your grandmother?"</p> - -<p>"Up stairs, uncle, I believe."</p> - -<p>"Is she aware of that fellow's presence?"</p> - -<p>"You are not very polite, uncle," said Lucy, with dignity. "This is -my friend, Mr. Worboise, whom I believe you know. Of course I do not -receive visitors without my grandmother's knowledge."</p> - -<p>Mr. Boxall choked an oath in his throat, or rather the oath nearly -choked him. He turned and went down the stair again; but neither of -them heard the outer door close. Thomas and Lucy stared at each other -in dismay.</p> - -<p>The facts of the case were these, as near as I can guess. The <i>Ningpo</i> -had dropped down to Gravesend, and the Boxalls had joined her there. -But some delay had arisen, and she was not to sail till the next -morning. Mr. Boxall had resolved to make use of the time thus gained or -lost, and had come up to town. I cannot help believing that it was by -contrivance of Mr. Stopper, who had watched Tom and seen him go up the -court, that he went through the door from his private room, instead of -going round, which would have given warning to the lovers. Possibly he -returned intending to see his mother; but after the discovery he made, -avoided her, partly because he was angry and would not quarrel with her -the last thing before his voyage. Upon maturer consideration, he must -have seen that he had no ground for quarreling with her at all, for she -could have known nothing about Tom in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> relation to Mary, except Tom -had told her, which was not at all likely. But before he had had time -to see this, he was on his way to Gravesend again. He was so touchy as -well as obstinate about everything wherein his family was concerned, -that the sight of Tom with his Mary's cousin was enough to drive all -reflection out of him for an hour at least.</p> - -<p>Thomas and Lucy stood and stared at each other. Thomas stared from -consternation; Lucy only stared at Tom.</p> - -<p>"Well, Thomas," she said at last, with a sweet, watery smile; for -she had her lover, and she had lost her idol. She had got behind -the scenes, and could worship no more; but Dagon was a fine idea, -notwithstanding his fall, and if she could not set him up on his -pedestal again, she would at least try to give him an arm-chair. -Fish-tailed Dagon is an unfortunate choice for the simile, I know, -critical reader; but let it pass, and the idea that it illustrates -being by no means original, let the figure at least have some claim to -the distinction.</p> - -<p>"Now he'll go and tell my father," said Tom; "and I wish you knew what -a row my mother and he will make between them."</p> - -<p>"But why, Tom? Have they any prejudice against me? Do they know there -is such a person?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. They may have heard of you at your uncle's."</p> - -<p>"My father because you have no money, and my mother because you have no -grace."</p> - -<p>"No grace, Tom? Am I so very clumsy?"</p> - -<p>Thomas burst out laughing.</p> - -<p>"I forgot," he said. "You were not brought up to my mother's slang. She -and her set use Bible words till they make you hate them."</p> - -<p>"But you shouldn't hate them. They are good in themselves, though they -be wrong used."</p> - -<p>"That's all very well. Only if you had been tried with them as I have -been, I am afraid you would have had to give in to hating them, as well -as me, Lucy. I never did like that kind of slang. But what am I to do -with old Boxall—I beg your pardon—with your uncle Richard? He'll be -sure to write to my father before he sails. They're friends, you know."</p> - -<p>"Well, but you will be beforehand with him, and then it won't matter. -You were going to do it at any rate, and the thing now is to have the -start of him," said Lucy, perhaps not sorry to have in the occurrence -an additional spur to prick the sides of Thomas's intent.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Yes, yes; that's all very well," returned Thomas, dubiously, as if -there was a whole world behind it.</p> - -<p>"Now, dear Tom, do go home at once, and write. You will save the last -post if you do," said Lucy, decidedly; for she saw more and more the -necessity, for Thomas's own sake, of urging him to action.</p> - -<p>"So, instead of giving me a happy evening, you are going to send me -home to an empty house!"</p> - -<p>"You see the thing must be done, or my uncle will be before you," said -Lucy, beginning to be vexed with him for his utter want of decision, -and with herself for pushing him toward such an act. Indeed, she felt -all at once that perhaps she had been unmaidenly. But there was no -choice except to do it, or break off the engagement.</p> - -<p>Now, whether it was that her irritation influenced her tone and -infected Tom with like irritation, or that he could not bear being thus -driven to do what he so much disliked, while on the whole he would have -preferred that Mr. Boxall should tell his father and so save him from -the immediate difficulty, the evil spirit in him arose once more in -rebellion, and, like the mule that he was, he made an effort to unseat -the gentle power that would have urged him along the only safe path on -the mountain-side.</p> - -<p>"Lucy, I will not be badgered in this way. If you can't trust me, you -won't get anything that way."</p> - -<p>Lucy drew back a step and looked at him for one moment; then turned and -left the room. Thomas waited for a minute; then, choosing to arouse a -great sense of injury in his bosom, took his hat, and went out, banging -the door behind him.</p> - -<p>Just as he banged Lucy's door, out came Mr. Molken from his. It was as -if the devil had told a hawk to wait, and he would fetch him a pigeon.</p> - -<p>"Coming to have your lesson after all?" he asked, as Thomas, from very -indecision, made a step or two toward him.</p> - -<p>"No; I don't feel inclined for a lesson to-night."</p> - -<p>"Where are you going, then?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know," answered Tom; trying to look nohow in particular.</p> - -<p>"Come along with me, then. I'll show you something of life after dark."</p> - -<p>"But where are you going?"</p> - -<p>"You'll see that when we get there. You're not afraid, are you?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Not I," answered Tom; "only a fellow likes to know where he's going. -That's all."</p> - -<p>"Well, where would you like to go? A young fellow like you really ought -to know something of the world he lives in. You are clever enough, in -all conscience, if you only knew a little more."</p> - -<p>"Go on, then. I don't care. It's nothing to me where I go. Only," Tom -added, "I have no money in my pocket. I spent my last shilling on this -copy of Goethe's poems."</p> - -<p>"Ah, you never spent your money better! There was a man, now, that -never contented himself with hearsay! He would know all the ways of -life for himself—else how was he to judge of them all? He would taste -of everything, that he might know the taste of it. Why should a man be -ignorant of anything that can be known. Come along. I will take care of -you. See if I don't!"</p> - -<p>"But you can't be going anywhere in London for nothing. And I tell you -I haven't got a farthing in my purse."</p> - -<p>"Never mind that. It shan't cost you anything. Now I am going to make a -clean breast of it, as you English call it; though why there should be -anything dirty in keeping your own secrets I don't know. I want to make -an experiment with you."</p> - -<p>"Give me chloroform, and cut me up?" said Tom, reviving as his quarrel -with Lucy withdrew a little into the background.</p> - -<p>"Not quite that. You shall neither take chloroform, nor have your eyes -bandaged, nor be tied to the table. You can go the moment you have -had enough of it. It is merely for the sake of my theory. Entirely an -experiment."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps, if you told me your theory, I might judge of the nature of -the experiment."</p> - -<p>"I told you all about it the other day. You are one of those fortunate -mortals doomed to be lucky. Why, I knew one—not a gambler, I don't -mean that—whose friends at last would have nothing to do with him -where any chance was concerned. If it was only sixpenny points, they -wouldn't play a single rubber of whist with him except he was their -partner. In fact, the poor wretch was reduced to play only with -strangers,—comparative strangers I mean, of course. He won everything."</p> - -<p>"Then what do you want with me? Out with it."</p> - -<p>"I only want to back you. You don't understand the thing. You shan't -spend a farthing. I have plenty." Here<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> Molken pulled a few sovereigns -from his pocket as he went on, and it never occurred to Tom to ask how -he had them, seeing he was so hard-up at dinner-time. "It's all for my -theory of luck, I assure you. I have given up practical gambling, as -I told you, long ago. It's not right. I <i>have</i> known enough about it, -I confess to you—you know <i>we</i> understand each other; but I confess -too—my theory—I <i>am</i> anxious about that."</p> - -<p>All this time they had been walking along, Thomas paying no heed to the -way they went. He would have known little about it, however, well as he -thought he knew London, for they had entered a region entirely unknown -to him.</p> - -<p>"But you haven't told me, after all," he said, "where you are going."</p> - -<p>"Here," answered Molken, pushing open the swing-door of a public-house.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The next morning Thomas made his appearance in the office at the usual -hour, but his face was pale and his eyes were red. His shirt-front was -tumbled and dirty, and he had nearly forty shillings in his pocket. He -never looked up from his work, and now and then pressed his hand to his -head. This Mr. Stopper saw and enjoyed.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XX.</p> - -<p class="center">HOW LUCY SPENT THE NIGHT.</p> - - -<p>When Lucy left the room, with her lover—if lover he could be -called—alone in it, her throat felt as if it would burst with the -swelling of something like bodily grief. She did not know what it was, -for she had never felt anything like it before. She thought she was -going to die. Her grandmother could have told her that she would be a -happy woman if she did not have such a swelling in her throat a good -many times without dying of it; but Lucy strove desperately to hide it -from her. She went to her own room and threw herself on her bed, but -started up again when she heard the door bang,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> flew to the window, and -saw all that passed between Molken and Thomas till they left the court -together. She had never seen Molken so full in the face before; and -whether it was from this full view, or that his face wore more of the -spider expression upon this occasion, I do not know—I incline to the -latter, for I think that an on-looker can read the expression of two -countenances better, sometimes, than those engaged in conversation can -read each other's—however it was, she felt a dreadful repugnance to -Molken from that moment, and became certain that he was trying in some -way or other to make his own out of Thomas. With this new distress was -mingled the kind but mistaken self-reproach that she had driven him to -it. Why should she not have borne with the poor boy, who was worried -to death between his father and mother and Mr. Stopper and that demon -down there? He would be all right if they would only leave him alone. -He was but a poor boy, and, alas! she had driven him away from his only -friend—for such she was sure she was. She threw herself on her bed, -but she could not rest. All the things in the room seemed pressing upon -her, as if they had staring eyes in their heads; and there was no heart -anywhere.</p> - -<p>Her grandmother heard the door bang, and came in search of her.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, my pet?" she asked, as she entered the room and -found her lying on the bed.</p> - -<p>"Oh, nothing, grannie," answered Lucy, hardly knowing what she said.</p> - -<p>"You've quarrelled with that shilly-shally beau of yours, I suppose. -Well, let him go—<i>he's</i> not much."</p> - -<p>Lucy made no reply, but turned her face toward the wall, as mourners -did ages before the birth of King Hezekiah. Grannie had learned a -little wisdom in her long life, and left her. She would get a cup of -tea ready, for she had great faith in bodily cures for mental aches. -But before the tea was well in the tea-pot Lucy came down in her bonnet -and shawl.</p> - -<p>She could not rest. She tossed and turned. What could Thomas be about -with that man? What mischief might he not take him into? Good women, -in their supposed ignorance of men's wickedness, are not unfrequently -like the angels, in that they understand it perfectly, without the -knowledge soiling one feather of their wings. They see it clearly—even -from afar. Now, although Lucy could not know so much of it as many are -compelled to know, she had some acquaintance with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> the lowest castes of -humanity, and the vice of the highest is much the same as the vice of -the lowest, only in general worse—more refined, and more detestable. -So, by a natural process, without knowing how, she understood something -of the kind of gulf into which a man like Molken might lead Thomas, and -she could not bear the thoughts that sprung out of this understanding. -Hardly knowing what she did, she got up and put on her bonnet and -shawl, and went down stairs.</p> - -<p>"Where on earth are you going, Lucy?" asked her grandmother, in some -alarm.</p> - -<p>Lucy did not know in the least what she meant to do. She had had a -vague notion of setting out to find Thomas somewhere, and rescue him -from the grasp of Moloch, but, save for the restlessness with which -her misery filled her, she could never have entertained the fancy. -The moment her grandmother asked her the question, she saw how absurd -it would be. Still she could not rest. So she invented an answer, and -ordered her way according to her word.</p> - -<p>"I'm going to see little Mattie," she said. "The child is lonely, and -so am I. I will take her out for a walk."</p> - -<p>"Do then, my dear. It will do you both good," said the grandmother. -"Only you must have a cup of tea first."</p> - -<p>Lucy drank her cup of tea, then rose, and went to the book-shop. Mr. -Kitely was there alone.</p> - -<p>"How's Mattie to-night, Mr. Kitely? Is she any better, do you think?" -she asked.</p> - -<p>"She's in the back room there. I'll call her," said the bookseller, -without answering either of Lucy's questions.</p> - -<p>"Oh! I'll just go in to her. You wouldn't mind me taking her out for a -little walk, would you?"</p> - -<p>"Much obliged to you, miss," returned the bookseller, heartily. "It's -not much amusement the poor child has. I'm always meaning to do better -for her, but I'm so tied with the shop that—<i>I</i> don't know hardly how -it is, but somehow we go on the same old way. She'll be delighted."</p> - -<p>Lucy went into the back parlor, and there sat Mattie, with her legs -curled up beneath her on the window-sill, reading a little book, -thumbed and worn at the edges, and brown with dust and use.</p> - -<p>"Well, Miss Burton," she cried, before Lucy had time to speak, "I've -found something here. I think it's what people call poetry. I'm not -sure; but I'm sure it's good, whatever it is. Only I can't read it very -well. Will you read it to me, please, miss? I do like to be read to."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I want you to come out for a walk with me, Mattie," said Lucy, who was -in no humor for reading.</p> - -<p>Wise Mattie glanced up in her face. She had recognized the sadness in -her tone.</p> - -<p>"Read this first, please, Miss Burton," she said. "I think it will do -you good. Things <i>will</i> go wrong. I'm sure it's very sad. And I don't -know what's to be done with the world. It's always going wrong. It's -just like father's watch. He's always saying there's something out of -order in its inside, and he's always a-taking of it to the doctor, as -he calls the watchmaker to amuse me. Only I'm not very easy to amuse," -reflected Mattie, with a sigh. "But," she resumed, "I wish I knew the -doctor to set the world right. The clock o' St. Jacob's goes all right, -but I'm sure Mr. Potter ain't the doctor to set the world right, any -more than Mr. Deny is for Mr. Kitely's watch."</p> - -<p>The associations in Mattie's mind were not always very clear either to -herself or other people; they were generally just, notwithstanding.</p> - -<p>"But you have never been to Mr. Potter's church to know, Mattie."</p> - -<p>"Oh! haven't I, just? Times and times. Mr. Spelt has been a-taking of -me. I do believe mother thinks I am going to die, and wants to get me -ready. I wonder what it all means?"</p> - -<p>"Nonsense, Mattie!" said Lucy, already tamed a little aside from her -own sorrow by the words of the child. "You must put on your hat and -come out with me."</p> - -<p>"My bonnet, miss. Hats are only fit for very little girls. And I won't -go till you read this poetry to me—if it be poetry."</p> - -<p>Lucy took the book, and read. The verses were as follows:</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As Christ went into Jericho town,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Twas darkness all, from toe to crown,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">About blind Bartimeus.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He said, Our eyes are more than dim,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And so, of course, we don't see Him,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">But David's Son can see us.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cry out, cry out, blind brother, cry;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let not salvation dear go by;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Have mercy, Son of David.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though they were blind, they both could hear—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They heard, and cried, and he drew near;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And so the blind were saved.</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O Jesus Christ! I'm deaf and blind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nothing comes through into my mind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">I only am not dumb.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Although I see thee not, nor hear,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I cry because thou may'st be near;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">O Son of David, come.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A finger comes into my ear;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A voice comes through the deafness drear;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Poor eyes, no more be dim.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A hand is laid upon mine eyes;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I hear, I feel, I see, I rise—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">'Tis He, I follow Him.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>Before Lucy had finished reading the not very poetic lines, they had -somehow or other reached her heart. For they had one quality belonging -to most good poetry—that of directness or simplicity; and never does a -mind like hers—like hers, I mean, in truthfulness—turn more readily -toward the unseen, the region out of which even that which is seen -comes, than when a rain-cloud enwraps and hides the world around it, -leaving thus, as it were, only the passage upward open. She closed the -little book gently, laid it down, got Mattie's bonnet, and, heedless of -the remarks of the child upon the poem, put it on her, and led her out. -Her heart was too full to speak. As they went through the shop—</p> - -<p>"A pleasant walk to you, ladies," said the bookseller.</p> - -<p>"Thank you, Mr. Kitely," returned his daughter, for Lucy could not yet -speak.</p> - -<p>They had left Bagot Street, and were in one of the principal -thoroughfares, before Lucy had got the lump in her throat sufficiently -swallowed to be able to speak. She had not yet begun to consider where -they should go. When they came out into the wider street, the sun, -now near the going down, was shining golden through a rosy fog. Long -shadows lay or flitted about over the level street. Lucy had never -before taken any notice of the long shadows of evening. Although she -was a town girl, and had therefore had comparatively few chances, -yet in such wide streets as she had sometimes to traverse they were -not a rare sight. In the city, to be sure, they are much rarer. But -the reason she saw them now was that her sorrowful heart saw the -sorrowfulness of the long shadows out of the rosy mist, and made her -mind observe them. The sight brought the tears again into her eyes, and -yet soothed her. They looked so strange upon that wood-paved street, -that they seemed to have wandered from some heathy moor and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> lost -themselves in the labyrinth of the city. Even more than the scent of -the hay in the early morning, floating into the silent streets from the -fields round London, are these long shadows to the lover of nature, -convincing him that what seems the unnatural Babylon of artifice and -untruth, is yet at least within the region of nature, contained in her -bosom and subjected to her lovely laws; is on the earth as truly as the -grassy field upon which the child sees with delighted awe his very own -shadow stretch out to such important, yea, portentous, length. Even -hither come the marvels of Nature's magic. Not all the commonplaces of -ugly dwellings, and cheating shops that look churches in the face and -are not ashamed, can shut out that which gives mystery to the glen far -withdrawn, and loveliness to the mountain-side. From this moment Lucy -began to see and feel things as she had never seen or felt them before. -Her weeping had made way for a deeper spring in her nature to flow—a -gain far more than sufficient to repay the loss of such a lover as -Thomas, if indeed she must lose him.</p> - -<p>But Mattie saw the shadows too.</p> - -<p>"Well, miss, who'd have thought of such a place as this! I declare it -bewilders my poor head. I feel every time a horse puts his foot on my -shadow as if I must cry out. Isn't it silly? It's all my big head—it's -not me; you know, miss."</p> - -<p>Lucy could not yet make the remark, and therefore I make it for -her—how often we cry out when something steps on our shadow, passing -yards away from ourselves! There is not a phenomenon of disease—not -even of insanity—that has not its counterpart in our moral miseries, -all springing from want of faith in God. At least, so it seems to me. -That will account for it all, or looks as if it would; and nothing else -does.</p> - -<p>It seems to me, too, that in thinking of the miseries and wretchedness -in the world we seldom think of the other side. We hear of an event in -association with some certain individual, and we say—"How dreadful! -How miserable!" And perhaps we say—"Is there—can there be a God in -the earth when such a thing can take place?" But we do not see into -the region of actual suffering or conflict. We do not see the heart -where the shock falls. We neither see the proud bracing of energies -to meet the ruin that threatens, nor the gracious faint in which the -weak escape from writhing. We do not see the abatement of pain which -is Paradise to the tortured; we do not see the gentle upholding in -sorrow that comes even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> from the ministrations of nature—not to speak -of human nature—to delicate souls. In a word, we do not see, and the -sufferer himself does not understand, how God is present every moment, -comforting, upholding, heeding that the pain shall not be more than can -be borne, making the thing possible and not hideous. I say nothing of -the peaceable fruits that are to spring therefrom; and who shall dare -to say where they shall not follow upon such tearing up of the soil? -Even those long shadows gave Lucy some unknown comfort, flowing from -Nature's recognition of the loss of her lover; and she clasped the -little hand more tenderly, as if she would thus return her thanks to -Nature for the kindness received.</p> - -<p>To get out of the crowd on the pavement Lucy turned aside into a -lane. She had got half way down it before she discovered that it was -one of those through which she had passed the night before, when she -went with Thomas to the river. She turned at once to leave it. As she -turned, right before her stood an open church door. It was one of those -sepulchral city churches, where the voice of the clergyman sounds -ghostly, and it seems as if the dead below were more real in their -presence than the half dozen worshipers scattered among the pews.</p> - -<p>On this occasion, however, there were seven present when Lucy and -Mattie entered and changed the mystical number to the magical.</p> - -<p>It was a church named outlandishly after a Scandinavian saint. Some -worthy had endowed a week-evening sermon there after better fashion -than another had endowed the poor of the parish. The name of the latter -was recorded in golden letters upon a black tablet in the vestibule, as -the donor of £200, with the addition in letters equally golden, <i>None -of which was ever paid by his trustees</i>.</p> - -<p>I will tell you who the worshipers were. There was the housekeeper in -a neighboring warehouse, who had been in a tumult all the day, and at -night-fall thought of the kine-browsed fields of her childhood, and -went to church. There was an old man who had once been manager of a -bank, and had managed it ill both for himself and his company; and -having been dismissed in consequence, had first got weak in the brain, -and then begun to lay up treasure in heaven. Then came a brother and -two sisters, none of them under seventy. The former kept shifting his -brown wig and taking snuff the whole of the service, and the latter -two wiping, with yellow silk handkerchiefs, brown faces inlaid with -coal-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>dust. They could not agree well enough to live together, for -their fathers will was the subject of constant quarrel. They therefore -lived in three lodgings at considerable distances apart. But every -night in the week they met at this or that church similarly endowed, -sat or knelt or stood in holy silence or sacred speech for an hour and -a half, walked together to the end of the lane discussing the sermon, -and then separated till the following evening. Thus the better parts -in them made a refuge of the house of God, where they came near to -each other, and the destroyer kept a little aloof for the season. -These, with the beadle and his wife, and Lucy and Mattie, made up the -congregation.</p> - -<p>Now, when they left the lane there was no sun to be seen; but when they -entered the church, there he was—his last rays pouring in through a -richly stained window, the only beauty of the building. This window—a -memorial one—was placed in the northern side of the chancel, whence -a passage through houses, chimneys, and churches led straight to the -sunset, down which the last rays I speak of came speeding for one brief -moment ere all was gone, and the memorial as faded and gray as the -memory of the man to whom it was dedicated.</p> - -<p>This change from the dark lane to the sun-lighted church laid hold of -Lucy's feelings. She did not know what it made her feel, but it aroused -her with some vague sense of that sphere of glory which enwraps all -our lower spheres, and she bowed her knees and her head, and her being -worshiped, if her thoughts were too troubled to go upward. The prayers -had commenced, and she kneeled, the words "He pardoneth and absolveth," -were the first that found luminous entrance into her soul; and with -them came the picture of Thomas as he left the court with the man of -the bad countenance. Of him, and what he might be about, her mind was -full; but every now and then a flash of light, in the shape of words, -broke through the mist of her troubled thoughts, and testified of the -glory-sphere beyond; till at length her mind was so far calmed that she -became capable of listening a little to the discourse of the preacher.</p> - -<p>He was not a man of the type of Mr. Potter of St. Jacob's, who -considered himself possessed of worldly privileges in virtue of a -heavenly office not one of whose duties he fulfilled in a heavenly -fashion. Some people considered Mr. Fuller very silly for believing -that he might do good in a church like this, with a congregation like -this, by speaking that which he knew, and testifying that which he -had seen. But he did actually<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> believe it. Somehow or other—I think -because he was so much in the habit of looking up to the Father—the -prayers took a hold of him once more every time he read them; and he so -delighted in the truths he saw that he rejoiced to set them forth—was -actually glad to <i>talk</i> about them to any one who would listen. When he -confessed his feeling about congregations, he said that he preferred -twelve people to a thousand. This he considered a weakness, however; -except that he could more easily let his heart out to the twelve.</p> - -<p>He took for his text the words of our Lord, "Come unto me, all ye that -labor and are heavy laden." He could not see the strangers, for they -sat behind a pillar, and therefore he had no means for discovering that -each of them had a heavy-laden heart; Lucy was not alone in trouble, -for Syne had been hard upon Mattie that day. He addressed himself -especially to the two old women before him, of whose story he knew -nothing, though their faces were as well known to him as the pillars of -the church. But the basin into which the fountain of his speech flowed -was the heart of those girls.</p> - -<p>No doubt presented itself as to the truth of what the preacher was -saying; nor could either of them have given a single argument from -history or criticism for the reality of the message upon which the -preacher founded his exhortation. The truth is not dependent upon proof -for its working. Its relation to the human being is essential, is in -the nature of things; so that if it be but received in faith—that -is, acted upon—it works its own work, and needs the buttressing of -no arguments any more than the true operation of a healing plant -is dependent upon a knowledge of Dioscorides. My reader must not, -therefore, suppose that I consider doubt an unholy thing; on the -contrary, I consider spiritual doubt a far more precious thing than -intellectual conviction, for it springs from the awaking of a deeper -necessity than any that can be satisfied from the region of logic. But -when the truth has begun to work its own influence in any heart, that -heart has begun to rise out of the region of doubt.</p> - -<p>When they came from the church, Lucy and Mattie walked hand in hand -after the sisters and brother, and heard them talk.</p> - -<p>"He's a young one, that!" said the old man. "He'll know a little better -by the time he's as old as I am."</p> - -<p>"Well, I did think he went a little too far when he said a body might -be as happy in the work'us as with thousands of pounds in the Bank of -England."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I don't know," interposed the other sister. "He said it depended on -what you'd got inside you. Now, if you've got a bad temper inside you, -all you've got won't make you happy."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, sister. You're very polite, <i>as usual</i>. But, after all, -where should we have been but for the trifle we've got in the bank?"</p> - -<p>"You two might ha' been living together like sisters, instead of -quarreling like two cats, if the money had gone as it ought to," said -the old man, who considered that the whole property belonged of right -to him.</p> - -<p>By this time they had reached the end of the lane, and, without a word -to each other, they separated.</p> - -<p>"Syne," said Mattie, significantly. Syne was evidently her evil -incarnation. Lucy did not reply, but hastened home with her, anxious to -be alone. She did not leave the child, however, before she had put her -to bed, and read again the hymn that had taken her fancy before they -went out.</p> - -<p>I will now show my reader how much of the sermon remained upon Lucy's -mind. She sat a few minutes with her grandmother, and then told her -that she felt better, but would like to go to bed. So she took her -candle and went. As soon as she had closed the door, she knelt down by -her bedside, and said something like this—more broken, and with long -pauses between—but like this:</p> - -<p>"O Jesus Christ, I come. I don't know any other way to come. I speak to -thee. Oh, hear me. I am weary and heavy laden. Give me rest. Help me to -put on the yoke of thy meekness and thy lowliness of heart, which thou -sayest will give rest to our souls. I cannot do it without thy help. -Thou couldst do it without help. I cannot. Teach me. Give me thy rest. -How am I to begin? How am I to take thy yoke on me? I must be meek. I -am very troubled and vexed. Am I angry? Am I unforgiving? Poor Thomas! -Lord Jesus, have mercy upon Thomas. He does not know what he is doing. -I will be very patient. I will sit with my hands folded, and bear all -my sorrow, and not vex Grannie with it; and I won't say an angry word -to Thomas. But, O Lord, have mercy upon him, and make him meek and -lowly of heart. I have not been sitting at thy feet and learning of -thee. Thou canst take all my trouble away by making Thomas good. I -ought to have tried hard to keep him in the way his mother taught him, -and I have been idle and self-indulgent, and taken up with my music and -dresses. I have not looked to my heart to see whether it was meek and -lowly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> like thine. O Lord, thou hast given me everything, and I have -not thought about thee. I thank thee that thou hast made me miserable, -for now I shall be thy child. Thou canst bring Thomas home again to -thee. Thou canst make him meek and lowly of heart, and give rest to his -soul. Amen."</p> - -<p>Is it any wonder that she should have risen from her knees comforted? -I think not. She was already—gentle and good as she had always -been—more meek and lowly. She had begun to regard this meekness as the -yoke of Jesus, and therefore to will it. Already, in a measure, she was -a partaker of his peace.</p> - -<p>Worn out by her suffering, and soothed by her prayer, she fell asleep -the moment she laid her head upon the pillow. And thus Lucy passed the -night.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXI.</p> - -<p class="center">MORE SHUFFLING.</p> - - -<p>Tom went home the next night with a racking headache. Gladly would he -have gone to Lucy to comfort him, but he was too much ashamed of his -behavior to her the night before, and too uneasy in his conscience. He -was, indeed, in an abject condition of body, intellect, and morals. -He went at once to his own room and to bed; fell asleep; woke in the -middle of the night miserably gnawed by "Don Worm, the conscience;" -tried to pray, and found it did him no good; turned his thoughts to -Lucy, and burst into tears at the recollection of how he had treated -her, imagining over and over twenty scenes in which he begged her -forgiveness, till he fell asleep at last, dreamed that she turned her -back upon him, and refused to hear him, and woke in the morning with -the resolution of going to see her that night and confessing everything.</p> - -<p>His father had come home after he went to bed, and it was with great -trepidation that he went down to breakfast, almost expecting to find -that he knew already of his relation to Lucy. But Richard Boxall was -above that kind of thing, and Mr. Worboise was evidently free from any -suspicion of the case.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p> - -<p>He greeted his son kindly, or rather frankly, and seemed to be in good -spirits.</p> - -<p>"Our friends are well down the Channel by this time, with such a fair -wind," he said. "Boxall's a lucky man to be able to get away from -business like that. I wish you had taken a fancy to Mary, Tom. She's -sure to get engaged before she comes back. Shipboard's a great place -for getting engaged. Some hungry fellow, with a red coat and an empty -breeches-pocket, is sure to pick her up. You might have had her if you -had liked. However, you may do as well yet; and you needn't be in a -hurry now. It's not enough that there's as good fish in the sea: they -must come to your net, you know."</p> - -<p>Tom laughed it off, went to his office, worked the weary day through, -and ran round to Guild Court the moment he left business.</p> - -<p>Lucy had waked in the night as well as Tom; but she had waked to the -hope that there was a power somewhere—a power working good, and -upholding them that love it; to the hope that a thought lived all -through the dark, and would one day make the darkness light about -her; to the hope that a heart of love and help was at the heart of -things, and would show itself for her need. When, therefore, Tom -knocked—timidly almost—at the door, and opened it inquiringly, she -met him with a strange light in her pale face, and a smile flickering -about a lip that trembled in sympathy with her rain-clouded eyes. -She held out her hand to him cordially, but neither offered to -embrace—Thomas from shame, and Lucy from a feeling of something -between that had to be removed before things could be as they were-or -rather before their outward behavior to each other could be the same, -for things could not to all eternity be the same again: they must be -infinitely better and more beautiful, or cease altogether.</p> - -<p>Thomas gave a look for one moment full in Lucy's eyes, and then dropped -his own, holding her still by the consenting hand.</p> - -<p>"Will you forgive me, Lucy?" he said, in a voice partly choked by -feeling, and partly by the presence of Mrs. Boxall, who, however, could -not hear what passed between them, for she sat knitting at the other -end of the large room.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Tom!" answered Lucy, with a gentle pressure of his hand.</p> - -<p>Now, as all that Tom wanted was to be reinstated in her favor, he -took the words as the seal of the desired reconciliation, and went no -further with any confession. The words,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> however, meaning simply that -she loved him and wanted to love him, ought to have made Tom the more -anxious to confess all—not merely the rudeness of which he had been -guilty and which had driven her from the room, but the wrong he had -done her in spending the evening in such company; for surely it was -a grievous wrong to a pure girl like Lucy to spend the space between -the last and the next pressure of her hand in an atmosphere of vice. -But the cloud cleared from his brow, and, with a sudden reaction of -spirits, he began to be merry. To this change, however, Lucy did -not respond. The cloud seemed rather to fall more heavily over her -countenance. She turned from him, and went to a chair opposite her -grandmother. Tom followed, and sat down beside her. He was sympathetic -enough to see that things were not right between them after all. But -he referred it entirely to her uneasiness at his parents' ignorance of -their engagement.</p> - -<p>Some of my readers may think that Lucy, too, was to blame for want of -decision; that she ought to have refused to see Thomas even once again, -till he had made his parents aware of their relation to each other. -But knowing how little sympathy and help he had from those parents, -she felt that to be severe upon him thus would be like turning him -out into a snow-storm to find his way home across a desolate moor; -and her success by persuasion would be a better thing for Thomas than -her success by compulsion. No doubt, if her rights alone had to be -considered, and not the necessities of Thomas's moral nature, the -plan she did not adopt would have been the best. But no one liveth to -himself—not even a woman whose dignity is in danger—and Lucy did -not think of herself alone. Yet, for the sake of both, she remained -perfectly firm in her purpose that Thomas should do something.</p> - -<p>"Your uncle has said nothing about that unfortunate rencontre, Lucy," -said Tom, hoping that what had relieved him would relieve her. "My -father came home last night, and the paternal brow is all serene."</p> - -<p>"Then I suppose you said something about it, Tom?" said Lucy, with a -faint hope dawning in her heart.</p> - -<p>"Oh! there's time enough for that. I've been thinking about it, you -see, and I'll soon convince you," he added, hurriedly, seeing the cloud -grow deeper on Lucy's face. "I must tell you something which I would -rather not have mentioned."</p> - -<p>"Don't tell me, if you ought not to tell me, Tom," said Lucy, whose -conscience had grown more delicate than ever, both from the turning of -her own face toward the light, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> from the growing feeling that Tom -was not to be trusted as a guide.</p> - -<p>"There's no reason why I shouldn't," returned Tom. "It's only -this—that my father is vexed with me because I wouldn't make love -to your cousin Mary, and that I have let her slip out of my reach -now; for, as he says, somebody will be sure to snap her up before she -comes back. So it's just the worst time possible to tell him anything -unpleasant, you know. I really had far better wait till the poor girl -is well out to sea, and off my father's mind; for I assure you, Lucy, -it will be no joke when he does know. He's not in any mood for the news -just now, I can tell you. And then my mother's away, too, and there's -nobody to stand between me and him."</p> - -<p>Lucy made no reply to his speech, uttered in the eagerness with which -a man, seeking to defend a bad position, sends one weak word after -another, as if the accumulation of poor arguments would make up for -the lack of a good one. She sat for a long minute looking down on a -spot in the carpet—the sight of which ever after was the signal for a -pain-throb; then, in a hopeless tone, said, with a great sigh:</p> - -<p>"I've done all I can."</p> - -<p>The indefiniteness of the words frightened Thomas, and he began again -to make his position good.</p> - -<p>"I tell you what, Lucy," he said; "I give you my promise that before -another month is over—that is to give my father time to get over his -vexation—I will tell him all about it, and take the consequences."</p> - -<p>Lucy sighed once more, and looked dissatisfied. But again it passed -through her mind that if she were to insist further, and refuse to -see Thomas until he had complied with her just desire, she would most -likely so far weaken, if not break, the bond between them, as to take -from him the only influence that might yet work on him for good, and -expose him entirely to such influences as she most feared. Therefore -she said no more. But she could not throw the weight off her, or -behave to Thomas as she had behaved hitherto. They sat silent for some -time—Thomas troubled before Lucy, Lucy troubled about Thomas. Then, -with another sigh, Lucy rose and went to the piano. She had never done -so before when Thomas was with her, for he did not care much about her -music. Now she thought of it as the only way of breaking the silence. -But what should she play?</p> - -<p>Then came into her memory a stately, sweet song her father used to -sing. She did not know where he got either the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> words or the music of -it. I know that the words are from Petrarch. Probably her father had -translated them, for he had been much in Italy, and was a delicately -gifted man. But whose was the music, except it was his own, I do not -know. And as she sang the words, Lucy perceived for the first time how -much they meant, and how they belonged to her; for in singing them she -prayed both for herself and for Thomas.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I am so weary with the burden old</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of foregone faults, and power of custom base,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That much I fear to perish from the ways,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And fall into my enemy's grim hold.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A mighty friend, to free me, though self-sold</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Came, of his own ineffable high grace,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then went, and from my vision took his face.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Him now in vain I weary to behold.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But still his voice comes echoing below:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O ye that labor! see, here is the gate!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come unto me—the way all open lies!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What heavenly grace will—what love—or what fate—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The glad wings of a dove on me bestow,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That I may rest, and from the earth arise?<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></span><br /> -</p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Petrarch's sixtieth Sonnet.</p></div> - -<p>Her sweet tones, the earnest music, and the few phrases he could catch -here and there, all had their influence upon Tom. They made him feel. -And with that, as usual, he was content. Lucy herself had felt as she -had never felt before, and, therefore, sung as she had never sung -before. And Tom was astonished to find that her voice had such power -over him, and began to wonder how it was that he had not found it out -before. He went home more solemn and thoughtful than he had ever been.</p> - -<p>Still he did nothing.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXII.</p> - -<p class="center">A COMING EVENT.</p> - - -<p>Thus things went on for the space of about three weeks. Tom went to see -Lucy almost every night, and sometimes stayed late; for his mother was -still from home, and his father was careless about his hours so long -as they were decent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> Lucy's face continued grave, but lost a little -of its trouble; for Tom often asked her to sing to him now, and she -thought she was gaining more of the influence over him which she so -honestly wished to possess. As the month drew toward a close, however, -the look of anxiety began to deepen upon her countenance.</p> - -<p>One evening, still and sultry, they were together as usual. Lucy was -sitting at the piano, where she had just been singing, and Tom stood -beside her. The evening, as the Italian poets would say, had grown -brown, and Mrs. Boxall was just going to light the candles, when Tom -interposed a request for continued twilight.</p> - -<p>"Please, grannie," he said—for he too called her grannie—"do not -light the candles yet. It is so sweet and dusky—just like Lucy here."</p> - -<p>"All very well for you," said Mrs. Boxall; "but what is to become of -me? My love-making was over long ago, and I want to see what I'm about -now. Ah! young people, your time will come next. Make hay while the sun -shines."</p> - -<p>"While the candle's out, you mean, grannie," said Tom, stealing a kiss -from Lucy.</p> - -<p>"I hear more than you think for," said the cheery old woman. "I'll give -you just five minutes' grace, and then I mean to have my own way. I am -not so fond of darkness, I can tell you."</p> - -<p>"How close it is!" said Lucy. "Will you open the window a little wider, -Tom. Mind the flowers."</p> - -<p>She came near the window, which looked down on the little stony desert -of Guild Court, and sank into a high-backed chair that stood beside it.</p> - -<p>"I can hardly drag one foot after another," she said, "I feel so -oppressed and weary."</p> - -<p>"And I," said Tom, who had taken his place behind her, leaning on the -back of her chair, "am as happy as if I were in Paradise."</p> - -<p>"There must be thunder in the air," said Lucy. "I fancy I smell the -lightning already. Oh, dear!"</p> - -<p>"Are you afraid of lightning, then?" asked Thomas.</p> - -<p>"I do not think I am exactly; but it shakes me so! I can't explain what -I mean. It affects me like a false tone on the violin. No, that's not -it. I can't tell what it is like."</p> - -<p>A fierce flash broke in upon her words. Mrs. Boxall gave a scream.</p> - -<p>"The Lord be about us from harm!" she cried.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p> - -<p>Lucy sat trembling.</p> - -<p>Thomas did not know how much she had to make her tremble. It is -wonderful what can be seen in a single moment under an intense light. -In that one flash Lucy had seen Mr. Molken and another man seated at -a table, casting dice, with the eagerness of hungry fiends upon both -their faces.</p> - -<p>A few moments after the first flash, the wind began to rise, and as -flash followed flash, with less and less of an interval, the wind -rose till it blew a hurricane, roaring in the chimney and through the -archway as if it were a wild beast caged in Guild Court, and wanting to -get out.</p> - -<p>When the second flash came, Lucy saw that the blind of Mr. Molken's -window was drawn down.</p> - -<p>All night long the storm raved about London. Chimney-pots clashed on -the opposite pavements. One crazy old house, and one yet more crazy -new one, were blown down. Even the thieves and burglars retreated to -their dens. But before it had reached its worst Thomas had gone home. -He lay awake for some time listening to the tumult and rejoicing in it, -for it roused his imagination and the delight that comes of beholding -danger from a far-removed safety—a selfish pleasure, and ready to pass -from a sense of our own comfort into a complacent satisfaction in the -suffering of others.</p> - -<p>Lucy lay awake for hours. There was no more lightning, but the howling -of the wind tortured her—that is, drew discords from the slackened -strings of the human instrument—her nerves; made "broken music in -her sides." She reaped this benefit, however, that such winds always -drove her to her prayers. On the wings of the wind itself, she hastened -her escape "from the windy storm and tempest." When at last she fell -asleep, it was to dream that another flash of lightning—when or where -appearing she did not know—revealed Thomas casting dice with Molken, -and then left them lapt in the darkness of a godless world. She woke -weeping, fell asleep again, and dreamed that she stood in the darkness -once more, and that somewhere near Thomas was casting dice with the -devil for his soul, but she could neither see him nor cry to him, for -the darkness choked both voice and eyes. Then a hand was laid upon her -head, and she heard the words—not in her ears, but in her heart—"Be -of good cheer, my daughter." It was only a dream; but I doubt if -even—I must not name names, lest I should be interpreted widely from -my meaning—the greatest positivist alive could have helped waking with -some comfort from that dream, nay, could have helped deriving<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> a faint -satisfaction from it, if it happened to return upon him during the day. -"But in no such man would such a dream arise," my reader may object. -"Ah, well," I answer, because I have nothing more to say. And perhaps -even in what I have written I may have been doing or hinting some wrong -to some of the class. It is dreadfully difficult to be just. It is far -easier to be kind than to be fair.</p> - -<p>It was not in London or the Empire only that that storm raged that -night. From all points of the compass came reports of its havoc. -Whether it was the same storm, however, or another on the same night, I -cannot tell; but on the next morning save one, a vessel passing one of -the rocky islets belonging to the Cape Verde group, found the fragments -of a wreck floating on the water. The bark had parted amidships, for, -on sending a boat to the island, they found her stem lying on a reef, -round which little innocent waves were talking like human children. And -on her stem they read her name, <i>Ningpo, London</i>. On the narrow strand -they found three bodies: one, that of a young woman, vestureless and -broken. They buried them as they could.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXIII.</p> - -<p class="center">MATTIE'S ILLNESS.</p> - - -<p>The storm of that night beat furiously against poor Mattie's window, -and made a dreadful tumult in her big head. When her father went into -her little room, as was his custom every morning when she did not first -appear in his, he found her lying awake, with wide eyes, seemingly -unaware of what was before them. Her head and her hand were both hot; -and when her father at length succeeded in gaining some notice from -her, the words she spoke, although in themselves intelligible enough, -had reference to what she had been going through in the night, in -regions far withdrawn, and conveyed to him no understanding of her -condition further than that she was wandering. In great alarm he sent -the charwoman (whose morning visits were Mattie's sole assistance -in the house, for they always had their dinner from a neighboring -cook-shop)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> to fetch the doctor, while he went up the court to ask Lucy -to come and see her.</p> - -<p>Lucy was tossing in a troubled dream when she woke to hear the knock at -the door. Possibly the whole dream passed between the first and second -summons of the bookseller, who was too anxious and eager to shrink -from rousing the little household. She thought she was one of the ten -virgins; but whether one of the wise or foolish she did not know. She -had knocked at a door, and as it opened, her lamp went out in the wind -it made. But a hand laid hold of hers in the dark, and would have drawn -her into the house. Then she knew that she was holding another hand, -which at first she took to be that of one of her sisters, but found to -be Thomas's. She clung to it, and would have drawn him into the house -with her, but she could not move him. And still the other hand kept -drawing her in. She woke in an agony just as she was losing her hold of -Thomas, and heard Mr. Kitely's knock. She was out of bed in a moment, -put on her dressing-gown and her shoes, and ran down stairs.</p> - -<p>On learning what was the matter she made haste to dress, and in a few -minutes stood by Mattie's bedside. But the child did not know her. -When the doctor came, he shook his head, though he was one of the most -undemonstrative of his profession; and after prescribing for her, -said she must be watched with the greatest care, and gave Lucy urgent -directions about her treatment. Lucy resolved that she would not leave -her, and began at once to make what preparations were necessary for -carrying out the doctor's instructions. Mattie took the medicine he -sent; and in a little while the big eyes began to close, sunk and -opened again, half closed and then started wide open, to settle their -long lashes at last, after many slow flutterings, upon the pale cheek -below them. Then Lucy wrote a note to Mrs. Morgenstern, and left her -patient to run across to her grandmother to consult with her how she -should send it. But when she opened the door into the court, there was -Poppie, who of course flitted the moment she saw her, but only a little -way off, like a bold bird.</p> - -<p>"Poppie, dear Poppie!" cried Lucy, earnestly, "do come here. I want -you."</p> - -<p>"Blowed if I go there again, lady!" said Poppie, without moving in -either direction.</p> - -<p>"Come here, Poppie. I won't touch you—I promise you. I wouldn't tell -you a lie, Poppie," she added, seeing that she made no impression on -the child.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> - -<p>To judge by the way Poppie came a yard nearer, she did not seem at all -satisfied by the assurance.</p> - -<p>"Look here, Poppie. There's a little girl—you know her—Mattie—she's -lying very ill here, and I can't leave her. Will you take this letter -for me—to that big house in Wyvil Place—to tell them I can't come -to-day?"</p> - -<p>"They'll wash me," said Poppie, decisively.</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, they won't again, Poppie. They know now that you don't like -it."</p> - -<p>"They'll be giving me something I don't want, then. I know the sort of -them."</p> - -<p>"You needn't go into the house at all. Just ring the bell, and give the -letter to the servant."</p> - -<p>Poppie came close up to Lucy.</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you what, lady: I'm not afraid of <i>him</i>. <i>He</i> won't touch me -again. If he do, I'll bite worser next time. But I won't run errands -for nothink. Nobody does, miss. You ain't forgotten what you guv me -last time? Do it again, and I'm off."</p> - -<p>"A good wash, Poppie—that's what I gave you last time."</p> - -<p>"No, miss," returned the child, looking up in her face beseechingly. -"You know as well as me." And she held up her pretty grimy mouth, so -that her meaning could not be mistaken. "Old Mother Flanaghan gave me -a kiss once. You remember her gin-bottle, don't you, miss?" she added, -still holding up her mouth.</p> - -<p>For a moment Lucy did hesitate, but from no yielding to the repugnance -she naturally felt at dirt. She hesitated, thinking to make a -stipulation on her side, for the child's good.</p> - -<p>"I tell you what, Poppie," she said; "I will kiss you every time you -come to me with a clean face, as often as you like."</p> - -<p>Poppie's dirty face fell. She put out her hand, took the letter, -turned, and went away slowly.</p> - -<p>Lucy could not bear it. She darted after her, caught her, and kissed -her. The child, without looking round, instantly scudded.</p> - -<p>Lucy could hardly believe her eyes, when, going down at Mr. Kitely's -call, some time after, she found Poppie in the shop.</p> - -<p>"She says she wants to see you, miss," said Kitely. "I don't know what -she wants. Begging, I suppose."</p> - -<p>And so she was. But all her begging lay in the cleanness and brightness -of her countenance. She might have been a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> little saint but for the -fact that her aureole was all in her face, and around it lay a border -of darkness that might be felt.</p> - -<p>"Back already!" said Lucy, in astonishment.</p> - -<p>"Yes, lady. I didn't bite him. I throwed the letter at him, and he -throwed it out again; and says I, pickin' of it up, 'You'll hear -o' this to-morrow, Plush.' And says he, 'Give me that letter, you -wagabones.' And I throwed it at him again, and he took it up and looked -at it, and took it in. And here I am, lady," added Poppie, making a -display of her clean face.</p> - -<p>Lucy kissed her once more, and she was gone in a moment.</p> - -<p>While Mattie was asleep Lucy did all she could to change the aspect of -the place.</p> - -<p>"She shan't think of Syne the first thing when she comes to herself," -she said.</p> - -<p>With the bookseller's concurrence, who saw the reason for it the moment -she uttered it, she removed all the old black volumes within sight of -her bed, and replaced them with the brightest bindings to be found in -the shop. She would rather have got rid of the books altogether; but -there was no time for that now. Then she ventured, finding her sleep -still endure, to take down the dingy old chintz curtains from her tent -bed, and replace them with her own white dimity. These she then drew -close round the bed, and set about cleaning the window, inside and -out. Her fair hands were perfectly fit for such work, or any other -labor that love chose to require of them. "Entire affection hateth -nicer hands," is one of the profoundest lines in all Spenser's profound -allegory. But she soon found that the light would be far too much for -her little patient, especially as she had now only white curtains to -screen her. So the next thing was to get a green blind for the window. -Not before that was up did Mattie awake, and then only to stare about -her, take her medicine, and fall asleep again; or, at least, into some -state resembling sleep.</p> - -<p>She was suffering from congestion of the brain. For a week she -continued in nearly the same condition, during which time Lucy scarcely -left her bedside. And it was a great help to her in her own trouble to -have such a charge to fulfill.</p> - -<p>At length one morning, when the sun was shining clear and dewy through -a gap between the houses of the court, and Lucy was rising early -according to her custom—she lay on a sofa in Mattie's room—the child -opened her eyes and saw. Then she closed them again, and Lucy heard her -murmuring to herself:</p> - -<p>"Yes, I thought so. I'm dead. And it is so nice; I've<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> got white clouds -to my bed. And there's Syne cutting away with all his men—just like a -black cloud—away out of the world. Ah! I see you, Syne; you ought to -be ashamed of yourself for worrying me as you've been doing all this -time. You see it's no use. You ought really to give it up. He's too -much for you, anyhow."</p> - -<p>This she said brokenly and at intervals. The whole week had been -filled with visions of conflict with the enemy, and the Son of Man -had been with her in those visions. The spiritual struggles of them -that are whole are the same in kind as those of this brain-sick child. -They are tempted and driven to faithlessness, to self-indulgence, to -denial of God and of his Christ, to give in—for the sake of peace, -as they think. And I, believing that the very hairs of our heads are -all numbered, and that not a sparrow can fall to the ground without -our Father, believe that the Lord Christ—I know not how, because such -knowledge is too wonderful for me—is present in the soul of such a -child, as certainly as in his Church, or in the spirit of a saint -who, in his name, stands against the whole world. There are two ways -in which He can be present in the Church, one in the ordering of the -confluence and working of men's deeds, the other in judgment: but he -can be present in the weakest child's heart, in the heart of any of his -disciples, in an infinitely deeper way than those, and without this -deeper presence, he would not care for the outside presence of the -other modes. It is in the individual soul that the Spirit works, and -out of which he sends forth fresh influences. And I believe that the -good fight may be fought amid the wildest visions of a St. Anthony, -or even in the hardest confinement of Bedlam. It was such a fight, -perhaps, that brought the maniacs of old time to the feet of the -Saviour, who gave them back their right mind. Let those be thankful -who have it to fight amid their brothers and sisters, who can return -look for look and word for word, and not among the awful visions of a -tormented brain.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"As thick and numberless</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the gay motes that people the sunbeams."</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>Lucy did not venture to show herself for a little while, but at length -she peeped within the curtain, and saw the child praying with folded -hands. Ere she could withdraw, she opened her eyes and saw her.</p> - -<p>"I thought I was in heaven!" she said; "but I don't mind,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> if you're -there, miss. I've been seeing you all through it. But it's all over -now," she added, with a sigh of relief.</p> - -<p>"You must be very still, dear Mattie," said Lucy. "You are not well -enough to talk yet."</p> - -<p>"I am quite well, miss; only sleepy, I think." And before Lucy could -answer, she was indeed asleep once more.</p> - -<p>It was quite another fortnight before Lucy ventured to give up her -place to her grandmother. During this time, she saw very little of -Thomas—only for a few minutes every evening as he left the place—and -somehow she found it a relief not to see more of him.</p> - -<p>All the time of Mattie's illness, Mr. Spelt kept coming to inquire -after her. He was in great concern about her, but he never asked to -see her. He had a great gift in waiting, the little man. Possibly he -fared the better, like Zaccheus, who wanted only to see, and <i>was -seen</i>. But perhaps his quietness might be partly attributed to another -cause—namely, that since Mattie's illness he had brooded more upon -the suspicion that his wife had had a child. I cannot in the least -determine whether this suspicion was a mere fancy or not; but I know -that the tailor thought he had good grounds for it; and it does not -require a very lawless imagination to presume the thing possible.</p> - -<p>Every day of those three weeks, most days more than once or twice even, -Poppie was to be seen at one hour or other in Guild Court, prowling -about—with a clean face, the only part of her, I am all but certain, -that was clean—for the chance of seeing Lucy. From what I know of -Poppie, I cannot think that it was anxiety about Mattie that brought -her there. I do not doubt that she was selfish—prowling about after a -kiss from Lucy. And as often as Lucy saw her she had what she wanted.</p> - -<p>But if Lucy did not see her sometimes, at least there was one who -always did see her from his nest in the—rock, I was going to say, -but it was only the wall. I mean, of course, Mr. Spelt. He saw her, -and watched her, until at length, as he plied his needle, the fancy -which already occupied his brain began to develop itself, and he -wondered whether that Poppie might not be his very lost child. Nor had -the supposition lasted more than five minutes before he passionately -believed, or at least passionately desired to believe it, and began to -devise how to prove it, or at least to act upon it.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> - - - - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXIV.</p> - -<p class="center">FISHING FOR A DAUGHTER.</p> - - -<p>Mr. Spelt sat in his watch-tower, over the head of patiently cobbling -Mr. Dolman, reflecting. He too was trying to cobble—things in general, -in that active head of his beneath its covering of heathery hair. -But he did not confine his efforts to things in general—one very -particular thing had its share in the motions of his spirit—how to -prove that Poppie was indeed his own child. He had missed his little -Mattie much, and his child-like spirit was longing greatly after some -child-like companionship. This, in Mattie's case, he had found did him -good, cleared his inward sight, helped him to cobble things even when -her questions showed him the need of fresh patching in many a place -where he had not before perceived the rent or the thin-worn threads of -the common argument or belief. And the thought had come to him that -perhaps Mattie was taken away from him to teach him that he ought -not, as Mattie had said with regard to Mrs. Morgenstern, to cultivate -friendship only where he got good from it. The very possibility that he -had a child somewhere in London seemed at length to make it his first -duty to rescue some child or other from the abyss around him, and they -were not a few swimming in the vast vortex.</p> - -<p>Having found out that Mrs. Flanaghan knew more about Poppie than anyone -else, and that she crept oftener into the bottom of an empty cupboard -in her room than anywhere else, he went one morning to see whether he -could not learn something from the old Irishwoman. The place looked -very different then from the appearance it presented to Lucy the day -she found it inhabited by nobody, and furnished with nothing but the -gin-bottle.</p> - -<p>When the tailor opened the door, he found the room swarming with -children. Though it was hot summer weather, a brisk fire burned in -the grate; and the place smelt strongly of <i>reesty</i> bacon. There were -three different groups of children in three of the corners: one of them -laying out the dead body of a terribly mutilated doll; another, the -tangle-haired members of which had certainly had no share in the bacon -but the smell of it, sitting listlessly on the floor, leaning their -backs against the wall, apparently without hope and without God in the -world; one of the third group searching for possible crumbs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> where she -had just had her breakfast, the other two lying ill of the measles on -a heap of rags. Mrs. Flanaghan was in the act of pouring a little gin -into her tea. The tailor was quick-eyed, and took in the most of this -at a glance. But he thought he saw something more, namely, the sharp -eyes of Poppie peeping through the crack of the cupboard. He therefore -thought of nothing more but a hasty retreat, for Poppie must not know -he came after her.</p> - -<p>"Good-morning to you, Mrs. Flanaghan," he said, with almost Irish -politeness. Then, at a loss for anything more, he ventured to -add—"Don't you think, ma'am, you'll have too much on your hands if -all them children takes after the two in the corner? They've got the -measles, ain't they, ma'am?"</p> - -<p>"True for you, sir," returned Mrs. Flanaghan, whom the gin had soothed -after the night's abstinence. "But we'll soon get rid o' the varmint," -she said, rising from her seat. "Praise God the Father! we'll soon -get rid o' them. Get out wid ye!" she went on, stamping with her -foot on the broken floor. "Get out! What are ye doin' i' the house -when ye ought to be enjoyin' yerselves in the fresh air? Glory be to -God!—there they go, as I tould you. And now what'll I do for yerself -this blessed marnin'?"</p> - -<p>By this time the tailor had made up his mind to inquire after a certain -Irishman, for whom he had made a garment of fustian, but who had -never appeared to claim it. He did not expect her to know anything -of the man, for he was considerably above Mrs. Flanaghan's level, -but it afforded a decent pretext. Mrs. Flanaghan, however, claimed -acquaintance with him, and begged that the garment in question might -be delivered into her hands in order to reach him, which the tailor, -having respect both to his word and his work, took care not to promise.</p> - -<p>But as he went to his workshop, he thought what a gulf he had escaped. -For suppose that Mrs. Flanaghan had been communicative, and had proved -to his dissatisfaction that the girl was none of his! Why, the whole -remaining romance of his life would have been gone. It was far better -to think that she was or might be his child, than to know that she -was not. And, after all, what did it matter whether she was or was -not?—thus the process of thinking went on in the tailor's brain—was -she not a child? What matter whether his own or someone else's? God -must have made her all the same. And if he were to find his own child -at last, neglected and ignorant and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> vicious, could he not pray better -for her if he had helped the one he could help? Might he not then say, -"O Lord, they took her from me, and I had no chance with <i>her</i>, but I -did what I could—I caught a wild thing, and I tried to make something -of her, and she's none the worse for it—do Thou help my poor child, -for I could not, and Thou canst. I give thee back thine, help mine." -Before he had reached his perch, he had resolved that he would make no -further inquiry whatever about Poppie, but try to get a hold of her, -and do for her what he could. For whether he was her father or not, -neither case could alter the facts, that she was worth helping, and -that it would be very hard to get a hold of her. All that Poppie could -know of fathers would only make her more unwilling to be caught if she -had a suspicion that Mr. Spelt laid such a claim to her; and he would -therefore scheme as if their nearest common relations were "the grand -old gardener and his wife," and with the care which the shy <i>startling</i> -nature of Poppie, to use a Chaucerian word, rendered necessary. -Tailors have time to think about things; and no circumstances are more -favorable to true thought than those of any work which, employing the -hands, leaves the head free. Before another day had passed Mr. Spelt -had devised his bait.</p> - -<p>The next morning came—a lovely morning for such fishing as he -contemplated. Poppie appeared in the court, prowling as usual in the -hope of seeing Lucy. But the tailor appeared to take no notice of her. -Poppie's keen eyes went roving about as usual, wide awake to the chance -of finding something. Suddenly she darted at a small object lying near -the gutter, picked it up, put it in her mouth, and sucked it with -evident pleasure. The tailor was as one who seeing sees not. Only he -plied his needle and thread more busily, casting down sidelong glances -in the drawing of the same. And there was no little triumph, for it was -the triumph of confidence for the future, as well as of success for the -present, in each of those glances. Suddenly Poppie ran away.</p> - -<p>The morning after she was there again. Half involuntarily, I suppose, -her eyes returned to the spot where she had found the bull's-eye. -There, to the astonishment even of Poppie, who was very seldom -astonished at anything, lay another—a larger one, as she saw at a -glance, than the one she had found yesterday. It was in her mouth in -a moment. But she gave a hurried glance round the court, and scudded -at once. Like the cherub that sat aloft and saw what was going to come -of it all, the little tailor drew his shortening thread, and smiled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> -somewhere inside his impassive face, as he watched the little human -butterfly, with its torn wings, lighting and flitting as in one and the -same motion.</p> - -<p>The next morning there again sat Mr. Spelt at his work—working and -watching. With the queerest look of inquiry and doubtful expectation, -Poppie appeared from under the archway, with her head already turned -toward El Dorado—namely, the flag-stone upon which the gifts of -Providence had been set forth on other mornings. There—could she, -might she, believe her eyes?—lay a splendid polyhedral lump of -rock; white as snow, and veined with lovely red. It was not quartz -and porphyry, reader, but the most melting compound of sugar and -lemon-juice that the sweet inventing Genius—why should she not have -the name of a tenth muse? Polyhedia, let us call her—had ever hatched -in her brooding brain, as she bent over melting sugar or dark treacle, -"in linked sweetness long drawn out." This time Poppie hesitated a -little, and glanced up and around. She saw nobody but the tailor, and -he was too cunning even for her. Busy as a bee, he toiled away lightly -and earnestly. Then, as if the sweetmeat had been a bird for which she -was laying snares, as her would-be father was laying them for her, -she took two steps nearer on tiptoe, then stopped and gazed again. -It was not that she thought of stealing, any more than the birds who -take what they find in the fields and on the hedges; it was only from -a sort of fear that it was too good fortune for her, and that there -must be something evanescent about it—wings somewhere. Or perhaps she -vaguely fancied there must be some unfathomable design in it, awful and -inscrutable, and therefore glanced around her once more—this time all -but surprising the tailor, with uplifted head and the eager eyes of a -fowler. But the temptation soon overcame any suspicion she might have. -She made one bound upon the prize, and scudded as she had never scudded -before. Mr. Spelt ran his needle in under the nail of his left thumb, -and so overcame his delight in time to save his senses.</p> - -<p>And now came a part of the design which Mr. Spelt regarded as a very -triumph of cunning invention. That evening he drove two tiny staples -of wire—one into Mr. Dolman's door-post close to the ground; the -other into his own. The next morning, as soon as he arrived, he chose -a thread as near the color of the flag-stones that paved the passage -as he could find, fastened one end with a plug of toffee into a hole -he bored with his scissors in another splendor of rock, laid the bait -in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> the usual place, drew the long thread through the two eyes of the -staples, and sat down in his lair with the end attached to the little -finger of his left hand.</p> - -<p>The time arrived about which Poppie usually appeared. Mr. Spelt got -anxious—nervously anxious. She was later than usual, and he almost -despaired; but at length, there she was, peeping cautiously round the -corner toward the trap. She saw the bait—was now so accustomed to it -that she saw it almost without surprise. She had begun to regard it -as most people regard the operations of nature—namely, as that which -always was so and always will be so, and therefore has no reason in -it at all. But this time a variety in the phenomenon shook the couch -of habitude upon which her mind was settling itself in regard to the -saccharine bowlders; for, just as she stooped to snatch it to herself -and make it her own, away it went as if in terror of her approaching -fingers—but only to the distance of half a yard or so. Eager as the -tailor was—far more eager to catch Poppie than Poppie was to catch -the lollypop—he could scarcely keep his countenance when he saw the -blank astonishment that came over Poppie's pretty brown face. Certainly -she had never seen a living lollypop, yet motion is a chief sign of -life, and the lollypop certainly moved. Perhaps it would have been -wiser to doubt her senses first, but Poppie had never yet found her -senses in the wrong, and therefore had not learned to doubt them. Had -she been a child of weak nerves, she might have recoiled for a moment -from a second attempt, but instead of that she pounced upon it again -so suddenly that the Archimago of the plot was unprepared. He gave his -string a tug only just as she seized it, and, fortunately, the string -came out of the plugged hole. Poppie held the bait, and the fisherman -drew in his line as fast as possible, that his fish might not see it.</p> - -<p>The motions of Poppie's mind were as impossible to analyze as those of -a field-mouse or hedge-sparrow. This time she began at once to gnaw the -sugar, staring about her as she did so, and apparently in no hurry to -go. Possibly she was mentally stunned by the marvel of the phenomenon, -but I do not think so. Poppie never could be much surprised at -anything. Why should anything be surprising? To such a child everything -was interesting—nothing overwhelming. She seemed constantly shielded -by the divine buckler of her own exposure and helplessness. You could -have thought that God had said to her, as to his people of old, "Fear -not thou, O Poppie," and therefore Poppie did not fear, and found it -answer. It is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> terrible doctrine that would confine the tender care -of the Father to those that know and acknowledge it. He carries the -lambs in his bosom, and who shall say when they cease to be innocent -lambs and become naughty sheep? Even then he goes into the mountains, -and searches till he finds.</p> - -<p>Not yet would the father aspirant show his craft. When he saw her stand -there gnawing his innocent bait, he was sorely tempted to call, in the -gentlest voice, "Poppie, dear;" but, like a fearful and wise lover, who -dreads startling the maiden he loves, he must yet dig his parallels -and approach with guile. He would even refine upon his own cunning. -The next morning his bait had only a moral hook inside, that is, there -was no string attached. But now that happened which he had all along -feared. A child of the court—in which there were not more than two, I -think—whom Mr. Spelt regarded, of course, as a stray interloper, for -had she not enough of the good things already?—spied the sweetmeat, -and following the impulses of her depraved humanity, gobbled it up -without ever saying, like heathen Cassius, "By your leave, gods." -Presently after Poppie appeared, looked, stared—actually astonished -now—and, with fallen face, turned and went away. Whether she or her -cunning enemy overhead was the more disappointed, I will not venture -to determine, but Mr. Spelt could almost have cried. Four-and-twenty -long tedious hours of needle and thread must pass before another chance -would arrive—and the water so favorable, with the wind from the right -quarter just clouding its surface, and the fly so taking!—it was hard -to bear. He comforted himself, however, by falling back upon a kind -of divine fatalism with which God had endowed him, saying to himself, -"Well, it's all for the best,"—a phrase not by any means uncommon -among people devoutly inclined; only there was this difference between -most of us and Mr. Spelt, that we follow the special aphorism with -a sigh, while he invariably smiled and brightened up for the next -thing he had to do. To say things are all right and yet gloom does -seem rather illogical in you and me, reader, does it not? Logical or -illogical, it was not Spelt's way anyhow. He began to whistle, which he -never did save upon such occasions when the faithful part of him set -itself to conquer the faithless.</p> - -<p>But he would try the bait without the line once more. Am I wearying my -reader with the process? I would not willingly do so, of course. But I -fancy he would listen to this much about a salmon any day, so I will -go on with my child.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> Poppie came the next morning, notwithstanding -her last disappointment, found the bull's-eye, for such I think it -was this time, took it, and sucked it to nothing upon the spot—did -it leisurely, and kept looking about—let us hope for Lucy, and that -Poppie considered a kiss a lovelier thing still than a lollypop.</p> - -<p>The next morning Mr. Spelt tried the string again, watched it better, -and by a succession of jerks, not slow movements, lest, notwithstanding -the cunning of the color, she should see the string, drew her step by -step in the eagerness of wonder; as well as of that appetite which is -neither hunger nor thirst, and yet concerned with the same organs, but -for which we have, so far as I am aware, no word, I mean the love of -sweets, to the very foot of his eyrie. When she laid hold of the object -desired at the door-post, he released it by a final tug against the eye -of the staple. Before she could look up from securing it, another lump -of rock fell at her feet. Then she did look up, and saw the smiling -face of the tailor looking out (once more like an angel over a cloudy -beam) over the threshold, if threshold it could properly be called, of -his elevated and stairless door. She gave back a genuine whole-faced -smile, and turned and scudded. The tailor's right hand shuttled with -increased vigor all the rest of that day.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXV.</p> - -<p class="center">MR. FULLER.</p> - - -<p>One evening Lucy was sitting as usual with Mattie, for the child had -no friends but her and grannie; her only near relative was a widowed -sister of her father, whom she did not like. She was scarcely so well -as she had been for the last few days, and had therefore gone early -to bed, and Lucy sat beside her to comfort her. By this time she had -got the room quite transformed in appearance—all the books out of -it, a nice clean paper up on the walls, a few colored prints from the -<i>Illustrated London News</i> here and there, and, in fact, the whole made -fit for the abode of a delicate and sensitive child.</p> - -<p>"What shall I read to-night, Mattie?" she asked. For Mattie must always -have something read to her out of the New<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> Testament before she went to -sleep; Mr. Spelt had inaugurated the custom.</p> - -<p>"Oh, read about the man that sat in his Sunday clothes," said Mattie.</p> - -<p>"I don't know that story," returned Lucy.</p> - -<p>"I wish dear mother was here," said Mattie, with the pettishness of an -invalid. "He would know what story I mean—that he would."</p> - -<p>"Would you like to see Mr. Spelt?" suggested Lucy. "He was asking about -you not an hour ago."</p> - -<p>"Why didn't he come up, then? I wonder he never comes to see me."</p> - -<p>"I was afraid you weren't strong enough for it, Mattie. But I will run -and fetch him now, if he's not gone."</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes; do, please. I know he's not gone, for I have not heard his -step yet. I always watch him out of the court when I'm in bed. He goes -right under me."</p> - -<p>Lucy went, and Mr. Spelt came gladly.</p> - -<p>"Well, mother," said Mattie, holding out a worn little cloud of a hand, -"how do you do?"</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt could hardly answer for emotion. He took the little hand in -his, and it seemed to melt away in his grasp, till he could hardly feel -it.</p> - -<p>"Don't cry, mother. I am very happy. I do believe I've seen the last -of old Syne. I feel just like the man that had got his Sunday clothes -on, you know. You see what a pretty room Miss Burton has made, instead -of all those ugly books that Syne was so fond of: well, my poor head -feels just like this room, and I'm ready to listen to anything about -Somebody. Read about the man in his Sunday clothes."</p> - -<p>But Mr. Spelt, no less than Lucy, was puzzled as to what the child -meant.</p> - -<p>"I wish that good clergyman that talked about Somebody's burden being -easy to carry, would come and see me," she said. "I know he would tell -me the story. He knows all about Somebody."</p> - -<p>"Shall I ask Mr. Potter to come and see you?" said Spelt, who had never -heard of Mr. Fuller by name, or indeed anything about him, but what -Mattie had told him before she was taken ill.</p> - -<p>"I don't mean Mr. Potter—you know well enough. He's always pottering," -said the child, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>She had not yet learned to give honor where honor is not due; or, -rather, she had never been young enough to take<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> seeming for being, -or place for character. The consequence was that her manners and her -modesty had suffered—not her reverence or her heart.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus04.jpg" alt="tailor" /> -</p> - -<p class="caption"> "THE LITTLE TAILOR WAS VERY SHY OF READING BEFORE LUCY."</p> - -<p>"I want to see the gentleman that really thinks it's all about -something," she resumed. "Do you know where he lives, Miss Burton?"</p> - -<p>"No," answered Lucy, "but I will find out to-morrow, and ask him to -come and see you."</p> - -<p>"Well, that will be nice," returned Mattie. "Read to me, Mr. -Spelt—anything you like."</p> - -<p>The little tailor was very shy of reading before Lucy, but Mattie would -hear of nothing else, for she would neither allow Lucy to read, nor yet -to go away.</p> - -<p>"Don't mind me, Mr. Spelt," said Lucy, beseechingly. "We are all -friends, you know. If we belong to the Somebody Mattie speaks about we -needn't be shy of each other."</p> - -<p>Thus encouraged, Mr. Spelt could refuse no longer. He read about the -daughter of Jairus being made alive again.</p> - -<p>"Oh, dear me!" said Mattie. "And if I had gone dead when Syne was -tormenting of me, He could have come into the room, and taken me by -the hand and said, 'Daughter, get up.' How strange it would be if He -said, 'Daughter' to me, for then He would be my father, you know. -And they say He's a king. I wonder if that's why Mr. Kitely calls me -<i>princess</i>. To have Mr. Kitely and Somebody," she went on musingly, -"both for fathers is more than I can understand. There's something -about godfathers and godmothers in the Catechism, ain't there, Miss -Burton?" Then, without, waiting for a reply, she went on, "I wish my -father would go and hear what that nice gentleman—not Mr. Potter—has -got to say about it. Miss Burton, read the hymn about blind Bartimeus, -and that'll do mother good, and then I'll go to sleep."</p> - -<p>The next day, after she came from the Morgensterns', Lucy went to -find Mr. Fuller. She had been to the week-evening service twice since -Mattie began to recover, but she had no idea where Mr. Fuller lived, -and the only way she could think of for finding him was to ask at the -warehouses about the church. She tried one after another, but nobody -even knew that there was any service there—not to say where the -evening preacher lived. With its closed, tomb-like doors, and the utter -ignorance of its concerns manifested by the people of the neighborhood, -the great ugly building stood like some mausoleum built in honor of a -custom buried beneath it, a monument of the time when men could buy and -sell and worship<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> God. So Lucy put off further inquiry till the next -week-evening service, for she had found already that Mr. Fuller had -nothing to do with the Sunday services in that church.</p> - -<p>How she wished that she could take Thomas with her the next time she -went to receive Mr. Fuller's teaching! She had seen very little of -Thomas, as I have said, and had been so much occupied with Mattie, -that she did not even know whether he had fulfilled his promise about -telling his father. I suspect, however, that she had been afraid to ask -him, foreboding the truth that he had in fact let his promise lapse in -time, and was yet no nearer toward its half redemption in act, which -was all that remained possible now. And, alas! what likelihood was -there of the good seed taking good root in a heart where there was so -little earth?</p> - -<p>Finding Mr. Kitely in his shop door, Lucy stopped to ask after Mattie, -for she had not seen her that morning. And then she told him what she -had been about, and her want of success.</p> - -<p>"What does the child want a clergyman for?" asked Mr. Kitely, with some -tone of dissatisfaction. "I'm sure you're better than the whole lot of -them, miss. Now I could listen to you—"</p> - -<p>"How do you know that?" retorted Lucy, smiling; for she wanted to stop -the eulogium upon herself.</p> - -<p>"Because I've listened to you outside the door, Miss Burton, when you -was a-talking to Mattie inside."</p> - -<p>"That wasn't fair, Mr. Kitely."</p> - -<p>"No more it wasn't, but it's done me no harm, nor you neither. But for -them parsons!—they're neither men nor women. I beg their pardons—they -<i>are</i> old wives."</p> - -<p>"But are you sure that you know quite what you are talking about? I -think there must be all sorts of them as well as of other people. I -wish you would come and hear Mr. Fuller some evening with Mattie and me -when she's better. You would allow that he talks sense, anyhow."</p> - -<p>"I ain't over hopeful, miss. And to tell the truth, I don't much care. -I don't think there can be much in it. It's all an affair of the -priests. To get the upper hand of people they work on their fears and -their superstitions. But I don't doubt some of them may succeed in -taking themselves in, and so go on like the fox that had lost his tail, -trying to make others cut off theirs too."</p> - -<p>Lucy, did not reply, because she had nothing at hand to say. The -bookseller feared he had hurt her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> - -<p>"And so you couldn't find this Mr. Fuller? Well, you leave it to me. -I'll find him, and let you know in the afternoon."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, Mr. Kitely. Just tell Mattie, will you? I must run home -now, but I'll come in in the afternoon to hear how you have succeeded."</p> - -<p>About six o'clock, Lucy reëntered Mr. Kitely's shop, received the -necessary directions to find the "parson," ran up to tell Mattie that -she was going, for the child had not come down stairs, and then set out.</p> - -<p>To succeed she had to attend to Mr. Kitely's rather minute -instructions; for although the parsonage lay upon the bank of one of -the main torrents of city traffic, it was withdrawn and hidden behind -shops and among offices, taverns, and warehouses. After missing the -most direct way, she arrived at last, through lanes and courts, much -to her surprise, at the border of a green lawn on the opposite side of -which rose a tree that spread fair branches across a blue sky filled -with pearly light, and blotted here and there with spongy clouds that -had filled themselves as full of light as they could hold. The other -half of the branches of the same tree spread themselves across the -inside of a gable, all that remained of a tavern that was being pulled -down. The gable was variegated with the incongruous papers of many -small rooms, and marked with the courses of stairs and the holes for -the joints of the floors; and this dreariness was the background for -the leaves of the solitary tree. On the same side was the parsonage, -a long, rather low, and country-looking house, from the door of which -Lucy would not have been surprised to see a troop of children burst -with shouts and laughter, to tumble each other about upon the lawn, as -smooth, at least, if not as green, as any of the most velvety of its -kind. One side of the square was formed by a vague, commonplace mass of -dirty and expressionless London houses—what they might be used for no -one could tell—one of them, probably, an eating-house—mere walls with -holes to let in the little light that was to be had. The other side was -of much the same character, only a little better; and the remaining -side was formed by the long barn-like wall of the church, broken at -regular intervals by the ugly windows, with their straight sides -filled with parallelograms, and their half-circle heads filled with -trapeziums—the ugliest window that can be made, except it be redeemed -with stained glass, the window that makes the whole grand stretch of -St. Paul's absolutely a pain. The church was built of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> brick, nearly -black below, but retaining in the upper part of the square tower -something of its original red. All this Lucy took in at a glance as she -went up to the door of the parsonage.</p> - -<p>She was shown into a small study, where Mr. Fuller sat. She told him -her name, that she had been to his week-evening service with Mattie, -and that the child was ill and wanted to see him.</p> - -<p>"Thank you very much," said Mr. Fuller. "Some of the city clergymen -have so little opportunity of being useful! I am truly grateful to you -for coming to me. A child in my parish is quite a godsend to me—I do -not use the word irreverently—I mean it. You lighten my labor by the -news. Perhaps I ought to say I am sorry she is ill. I dare say I shall -be sorry when I see her. But meantime, I am very glad to be useful."</p> - -<p>He promised to call the next day; and, after a little more talk, Lucy -took her leave.</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller was a middle-aged man, who all his conscious years had been -trying to get nearer to his brethren, moved thereto by the love he bore -to the Father. The more anxious he was to come near to God, the more -he felt that the high-road to God lay through the forest of humanity. -And he had learned that love is not a feeling to be called up at will -in the heart, but the reward as the result of an active exercise of the -privileges of a neighbor.</p> - -<p>Like the poor parson loved of Chaucer, "he waited after no pomp ne -reverence;" and there was no chance of preferment coming in search of -him. He was only a curate still. But the incumbent of St. Amos, an -old man, with a grown-up family, almost unfit for duty, and greatly -preferring his little estate in Kent to the city parsonage, left -everything to him, with much the same confidence he would have had -if Mr. Fuller had been exactly the opposite of what he was, paying -him enough to live upon—indeed, paying him well for a curate. It was -not enough to marry upon, as the phrase is, but Mr. Fuller did not -mind that, for the only lady he had loved, or ever would love in that -way, was dead; and all his thoughts for this life were bent upon such -realizing of divine theory about human beings, and their relation to -God and to each other, as might make life a truth and a gladness. -It was therefore painful to him to think that he was but a <i>city</i> -curate, a being whose thirst after the relations of his calling among -his fellows reminded himself of that of the becalmed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> mariner, with -"water, water everywhere, but water none to drink." He seemed to have -nothing to do with them, nor they with him. Perhaps not one individual -of the crowds that passed his church every hour in the week would be -within miles of it on the Sunday; for even of those few who resided -near it, most forsook the place on the day of rest, especially in the -summer; and few indeed were the souls to whom he could offer the bread -of life. He seemed to himself to be greatly overpaid for the work he -had it in his power to do—in his own parish, that is. He had not even -any poor to minister to. He made up for this by doing his best to help -the clergyman of a neighboring parish, who had none but poor; but his -heart at times burned within him to speak the words he loved best to -speak to such as he could hope had the ears to hear them; for among -the twelve people—a congregation he did not always have—that he said -he preferred to the thousand, he could sometimes hardly believe that -there was one who heard and understood. More of his reflections and -resolutions, in regard to this state of affairs, we shall fall in with -by and by. Meantime, my reader will believe that this visit of Lucy -gave him pleasure and hope of usefulness. The next morning he was in -Mr. Kitely's shop as early as he thought the little invalid would be -able to see him.</p> - -<p>"Good-morning, sir," said Mr. Kitely, brusquely. "What can I do for you -this morning?"</p> - -<p>If Mr. Fuller had begun looking at his books, Kitely would have taken -no notice of him. He might have stayed hours, and the bookseller would -never have even put a book in his way; but he looked as if he wanted -something in particular, and therefore Mr. Kitely spoke.</p> - -<p>"You have a little girl that's not well, haven't you?" returned Mr. -Fuller.</p> - -<p>"Oh! you're the gentleman she wanted to see. She's been asking ever so -often whether you wasn't come yet. She's quite impatient to see you, -poor lamb!"</p> - -<p>While he spoke, Kitely had drawn nearer to the curate, regarding him -with projecting and slightly flushed face, and eyes that had even -something of eagerness in them.</p> - -<p>"I would have come earlier, only I thought it would be better not," -said Mr. Fuller.</p> - -<p>Mr. Kitely drew yet a step nearer, with the same expression on his face.</p> - -<p>"You won't put any nonsense into her head, will you, sir?" he said, -almost pleadingly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Not if I know it," answered Mr. Fuller, with a smile of kind humor. "I -would rather take some out of it."</p> - -<p>"For you see," Kitely went on, "that child never committed a sin in her -life. It's all nonsense; and I won't have her talked to as if she was a -little hell-cat."</p> - -<p>"But you see we must go partly by what she thinks herself; and I -suspect she won't say she never did anything wrong. I don't think I -ever knew a child that would. But, after all, suppose you are right, -and she never did anything, wrong—"</p> - -<p>"I don't exactly say that, you know," interposed Mr. Kitely, in a tone -of mingled candor and defense. "I only said she hadn't committed any -sins."</p> - -<p>"And where's the difference?" asked Mr. Fuller, quietly.</p> - -<p>"Oh! you know quite well. Doing wrong, you know—why, we all do wrong -sometimes. But to commit a sin, you know—I suppose that's something -serious. That comes in the way of the Ten Commandments."</p> - -<p>"I don't think your little girl would know the difference."</p> - -<p>"But what's the use of referring to her always?"</p> - -<p>"Just because I think she's very likely to know best. Children are wise -in the affairs of their own kingdom."</p> - -<p>"Well, I believe you're right; for she is the strangest child I ever -saw. She knows more than any one would think for. Walk this way, sir. -You'll find her in the back room."</p> - -<p>"Won't you come, too, and see that I don't put any nonsense into her -head?"</p> - -<p>"I must mind the shop, sir," objected Kitely, seeming a little ashamed -of what he had said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller nodded content, and was passing on, when he bethought -himself, and stopped.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Mr. Kitely," he said, "there was just one thing I was going to -say, but omitted. It was only this: that suppose you were right about -your little girl, or suppose even that she had never done anything -wrong at all, she would want God all the same. And we must help each -other to find Him."</p> - -<p>If Mr. Kitely had any reply ready for this remark, which I doubt, Mr. -Fuller did not give him time to make it, for he walked at once into -the room, and found Mattie sitting alone in a half twilight, for the -day was cloudy. Even the birds were oppressed, for not one of them was -singing. A thrush hopped drearily about under his load of speckles, and -a rose-ringed paroquet, with a very red nose, looked ashamed of the -quantity of port-wine he had drunk. The child was reading<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> the same -little old book mentioned before. She laid it down, and rose from the -window-sill to meet Mr. Fuller.</p> - -<p>"Well, how do you do, sir?" she said. "I am glad you are come."</p> - -<p>Any other child of her age Mr. Fuller would have kissed, but there was -something about Mattie that made him feel it an unfit proceeding. He -shook hands with her and offered her a white camellia.</p> - -<p>"Thank you, sir," said Mattie, and laid the little transfiguration upon -the table.</p> - -<p>"Don't you like flowers?" asked Mr. Fuller, somewhat disappointed. -"Isn't it beautiful now?"</p> - -<p>"Well, where's the good?" answered and asked Mattie, as if she had been -a Scotchwoman. "It will be ugly before to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no; not if you put it in water directly."</p> - -<p>"Will it live forever, then?" asked Mattie.</p> - -<p>"No, only a few days."</p> - -<p>"Well, where's the odds, then? To-morrow or next week—where's the -difference? It <i>looks</i> dead now when you know it's dying."</p> - -<p>"Ah!" thought Mr. Fuller, "I've got something here worth looking into." -What he said was, "You dear child!"</p> - -<p>"You don't know me yet," returned Mattie. "I'm not dear at all. I'm -cross and ill-natured. And I won't be petted."</p> - -<p>"You like the birds, though, don't you?" said Mr. Fuller.</p> - -<p>"Well, yes. Mr. Kitely likes them, and I always like what he likes. But -they are not quite comfortable, you know. They won't last forever, you -know. One of them is dead since I was taken ill. And father meant it -for Miss Burton."</p> - -<p>"Do you like Miss Burton, then?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I <i>do</i>. But she'll live forever, you know. I'll tell you -something else I like."</p> - -<p>"What is that, my child?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I'm no such a child! But I'll tell you what I like. There."</p> - -<p>And she held out the aged little volume, open at the hymn about blind -Bartimeus.</p> - -<p>"Will this live forever, then?" he asked, turning the volume over in -his hand, so that its withered condition suggested itself at once to -Mattie.</p> - -<p>"Now you puzzle me," answered Mattie. "But let me think. You know it's -not the book I mean; it's the poem.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> Now I have it. If I know that poem -by heart, and I live forever, then the poem will live forever. There!"</p> - -<p>"Then the book's the body, and the poem the soul," said Mr. Fuller.</p> - -<p>"One of the souls; for some things have many souls. I have two, at -least."</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller felt instinctively, with the big forehead and the tiny body -of the child before him, that they were getting on rather dangerous -ground. But he must answer.</p> - -<p>"Two souls! That must be something like what King David felt, when he -asked God to join his heart into one. But do you like this poem?" he -hastened to add. "May I read it to you?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes; please do. I am never tired of hearing it. It will sound -quite new if you read it."</p> - -<p>So Mr. Fuller read slowly—"As Jesus went into Jericho town." And from -the way Mattie listened, he knew what he must bring her next—not a -camellia, but a poem. Still, how sad it was that a little child should -not love flowers!</p> - -<p>"When were you in the country last, Miss Kitely?"</p> - -<p>"I never was in the country that I know of. My name is Mattie."</p> - -<p>"Wouldn't you like to go, Mattie?"</p> - -<p>"No I shouldn't—not at all."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Well, because—because it's not in my way, you see."</p> - -<p>"But surely you have some reason for not liking the country."</p> - -<p>"Well, now, I will tell you. The country, by all I can hear, is full -of things that die, and I don't like that. And I think people can't be -nice that like the country."</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller resolved in his heart that he would make Mattie like the -country before he had done with her. But he would say no more now, -because he was not sure whether Mattie as yet regarded him with a -friendly eye; and he must be a friend before he could speak about -religion. He rose, therefore, and held out his hand.</p> - -<p>Mattie looked at him with dismay.</p> - -<p>"But I wanted you to tell me about the man that sat at Somebody's feet -in his Sunday clothes."</p> - -<p>Happily for his further influence with her, Mr. Fuller guessed at once -whom she meant, and taking a New Testament from his pocket, read to her -about the demoniac, who sat at the feet of Jesus, clothed, and in his -right mind. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> had not known her long before he discovered that all -these stories of possession had an especial attraction for Mattie—she -evidently associated them with her own visions of Syne and his men.</p> - -<p>"Well, I was wrong. It wasn't his Sunday clothes," she said. "Or, -perhaps, it was, and he had torn the rest all to pieces."</p> - -<p>"Yes; I think that's very likely," responded Mr. Fuller.</p> - -<p>"I know—it was Syne that told him, and he did it. But he wouldn't do -it any more, would he, after he saw Somebody?"</p> - -<p>"I don't think he would," answered Mr. Fuller, understanding her just -enough to know the right answer to make. "But I will come and see you -again to-morrow," he added, "and try whether I can't bring something -with me that you will like."</p> - -<p>"Thank you," answered the old-fashioned creature. "But don't be putting -yourself to any expense about it, for I am not easy to please." And -she lifted her hand to her head and gave a deep sigh, as if it was a -very sad fact indeed. "I wish I was easier to please," she added, to -herself; but Mr. Fuller heard her as he left the room.</p> - -<p>"She's a very remarkable child that, Mr. Kitely—too much so, I fear," -he said, reëntering the shop.</p> - -<p>"I know that," returned the bookseller, curtly, almost angrily. "I wish -she wasn't."</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon. I only wanted—"</p> - -<p>"No occasion at all," interrupted Mr. Kitely.</p> - -<p>"I only wanted," Mr. Fuller persisted, "to ask you whether you do not -think she had better go out of town for a while."</p> - -<p>"I dare say. But how am I to send her? The child has not a relation but -me—and an aunt that she can't a-bear; and that wouldn't do—would it, -sir? She would fret herself to death without someone she cared about."</p> - -<p>"Certainly it wouldn't do. But mightn't Miss—I forget her name—"</p> - -<p>"Miss Burton, I dare say you mean."</p> - -<p>"I mean Miss Burton. Couldn't she help you? Is she any relation of -yours?"</p> - -<p>"None whatever. Nor she's not like it. I believe she's a stray, myself."</p> - -<p>"What <i>do</i> you mean, Mr. Kitely?" asked Mr. Fuller, quite bewildered -now.</p> - -<p>"Well, sir, I mean that she's a stray angel," answered Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> Kitely, -smiling; "for she ain't like anyone else I know of but that child's -mother, and she's gone back to where she came from—many's the long -year."</p> - -<p>"I don't wonder at your thinking that of her if she's as good as she -looks," returned Mr. Fuller. And bidding the bookseller good-morning, -he left the shop and walked home, cogitating how the child could be got -into the country.</p> - -<p>Next morning he called—earlier, and saw Lucy leaving the court just as -he was going into the shop. He turned and spoke to her.</p> - -<p>"Fancy a child, Miss Burton," he said, "that does not care about -flowers—and her heart full of religion too! How is she to consider the -lilies of the field? She knows only birds in cages; she has no idea of -the birds of the air. The poor child has to lift everything out of that -deep soul of hers, and the buckets of her brain can't stand such hard -work."</p> - -<p>"I know, I know," answered Lucy. "But what can I do?"</p> - -<p>"Besides," Mr. Fuller continued, "what notion of the simple grandeur of -God can she have when she never had more than a peep of the sky from -between these wretched houses? How can the heavens declare the glory -of God to her? You don't suppose David understood astronomy, and that -it was from a scientific point of view that he spoke, when he said -that the firmament showed his handiwork? That was all he could say -about it, for the Jewish nation was not yet able to produce a Ruskin. -But it was, nevertheless, the spiritual power of the sky upon his -soul—not the stars in their courses, but the stars up there in their -reposeful depth of blue, their 'shining nest'—which, whatever theory -of their construction he might have, yet impressed him with an awe, an -infinitude, a shrinking and yet aspiring—made his heart swell within -him, and sent him down on his knees. This little darling knows nothing -of such an experience. We must get her into the open. She must love -the wind that bloweth where it listeth, and the clouds that change and -pass. She can't even like anything that does not last forever; and the -mind needs a perishing bread sometimes as well as the body—though it -never perishes when once made use of, as Mattie told me yesterday. But -I beg your pardon; I am preaching a sermon, I think. What a thing it is -to have the faults of a profession in addition to those of humanity! It -all comes to this—you must get that child, with her big head and her -big conscience, out of London, and give her heart a chance."</p> - -<p>"Indeed, I wish I could," answered Lucy. "I will do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> what I can, and -let you know. Are you going to see her now, Mr. Fuller?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I am. I took her a flower yesterday, but I have brought her a -poem to-day. I am afraid, however, that it is not quite the thing for -her. I thought I could easily find her one till I began to try, and -then I found it very difficult indeed."</p> - -<p>They parted—Lucy to Mrs. Morgenstern's, Mr. Fuller to Mattie.</p> - -<p>I will give the hymn—for the sake, in part, of what Mattie said, and -then I will close the chapter.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Come unto me," the Master says.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But how? I am not good;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No thankful song my heart will raise,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nor even wish it could.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I am not sorry for the past,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nor able not to sin;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The weary strife would ever last</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">If once I should begin.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hast thou no burden then to bear?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">No action to repent?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is all around so very fair?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is thy heart quite content?</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hast thou no sickness in thy soul?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">No labor to endure?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then go in peace, for thou art whole,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou needest not His cure.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah! mock me not. Sometimes I sigh;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I have a nameless grief,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A faint, sad pain—but such that I</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Can look for no relief.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come then to Him who made thy heart;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Come in thyself distrest;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To come to Jesus is thy part,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His part to give thee rest.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">New grief, new hope He will bestow,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thy grief and pain to quell;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into thy heart Himself will go,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And that will make thee well.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>When Mr. Fuller had finished the hymn, he closed the book and looked -toward Mattie. She responded—with a sigh—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, I think I know what it means. You see I have such a big head, -and so many things come and go just as they please, that if it weren't -for Somebody I don't know what I should do with them all. But as soon -as I think about Him, they grow quieter and behave better. But I don't -know all that it means. Will you lend me the book, Mr. Fuller?"</p> - -<p>All the child's thoughts took shapes, and so she talked like a lunatic. -Still, as all the forms to which she gave an objective existence were -the embodiments of spiritual realities, she could not be said to have -yet passed the narrow line that divides the poet from the maniac. But -it was high time that the subjects of her thoughts should be supplied -from without, and that the generating power should lie dormant for a -while. And the opportunity for this arrived sooner than her friends had -expected.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXVI.</p> - -<p class="center">THE NINGPO IS LOST.</p> - - -<p>Lucy was so full of Mattie and what Mr. Fuller had said that she told -Mrs. Morgenstern all about it before Miriam had her lesson. After the -lesson was over, Mrs. Morgenstern, who had, contrary to her custom, -remained in the room all the time, said:</p> - -<p>"Well, Lucy, I have been thinking about it, and I think I have arranged -it all very nicely. It's clear to me that the child will go out of her -mind if she goes on as she's doing. Now, I don't think Miriam has been -quite so well as usual, and she has not been out of London since last -August. Couldn't you take her down to St. Leonard's—or I dare say you -would like Hastings better? You can go on with your lessons there all -the same, and take little Mattie with you."</p> - -<p>"But what will become of my grandmother?" said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"She can go with you, can't she? I could ask her to go and take care -of you. It would be much better for you to have her, and it makes very -little difference to me, you know."</p> - -<p>"Thank you very much," returned Lucy, "but I fear my grandmother will -not consent to it. I will try her, however, and see what can be done. -Thank you a thousand times, dear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> Mrs. Morgenstern. Wouldn't you like -to go to Hastings, Miriam?"</p> - -<p>Miriam was delighted at the thought of it, and Lucy was not without -hopes that if her grandmother would not consent to go herself, she -would at least wish her to go. Leaving Mattie out of view, she would -be glad to be away from Thomas for a while, for, until he had done -as he ought, she could not feel happy in his presence; and she made -up her mind that she would write to him very plainly when she was -away—perhaps tell him positively that if he would not end it, she -must. I say <i>perhaps</i>, for ever as she approached the resolution, -the idea of the poor lad's helpless desertion arose before her, and -she recoiled from abandoning him. Nothing more could be determined, -however, until she saw her grandmother.</p> - -<p>But as she was going out she met Mr. Sargent in the hall. He had come -to see her.</p> - -<p>This very morning the last breath of the crew and passengers of the -<i>Ningpo</i> had bubbled up in the newspapers; and all the world who -cared to know it knew the fact, that the vessel had been dashed to -pieces upon a rock of the Cape Verde Islands; all hands and passengers -supposed to be lost. This the underwriters knew but a few hours -before. Now it was known to Mr. Stopper and Mr. Worboise, both of whom -it concerned even more than the underwriters. Mr. Stopper's first -feeling was one of dismay, for the articles of partnership had not -been completed before Mr. Boxall sailed. Still, as he was the only -person who understood the business, he trusted in any case to make his -position good, especially if he was right in imagining that old Mrs. -Boxall must now be heir-at-law—a supposition which he scarcely allowed -himself to doubt. Here, however, occurred the thought of Thomas. He had -influence there, and that influence would be against him, for had he -not insulted him? This he could not help yet. He would wait for what -might turn up.</p> - -<p>What Mr. Worboise's feelings were when first he read the paragraph in -the paper I do not know, nor whether he had not an emotion of justice, -and an inclination to share the property with Mrs. Boxall. But I doubt -whether he very clearly recognized the existence of his friend's -mother. In his mind, probably, her subjective being was thinned by age, -little regard, and dependence, into a thing of no account—a shadow -of the non-Elysian sort, living only in the waste places of human -disregard. He certainly knew nothing of her right to any property in -the possession of her son. Of one of his feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>ings only am I sure: he -became more ambitious for his son, in whom he had a considerable amount -of the pride of paternity.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall was the last to hear anything of the matter. She did not -read the newspapers, and, accustomed to have sons at sea, had not even -begun to look for news of the <i>Ningpo</i>.</p> - -<p>"Ah, Miss Burton," said Mr. Sargent, "I am just in time. I thought -perhaps you would not be gone yet. Will you come into the garden with -me for a few minutes? I won't keep you long."</p> - -<p>Lucy hesitated. Mr. Sargent had of late, on several occasions, been -more confidential in his manner than was quite pleasant to her, -because, with the keenest dislike to raise appearances, she yet could -not take his attentions for granted, and tell him she was engaged to -Thomas. He saw her hesitation, and hastened to remove it.</p> - -<p>"I only want to ask you about a matter of business," he said. "I assure -you I won't detain you."</p> - -<p>Mr. Sargent knew something of Mr. Wither, who had very "good -connections," and was indeed a favorite in several professional -circles; and from him he had learned all about Lucy's relations, -without even alluding to Lucy herself, and that her uncle and whole -family had sailed in the <i>Ningpo</i>. Anxious to do what he could for -her, and fearful lest, in their unprotected condition, some advantage -should be taken of the two women, he had made haste to offer his -services to Lucy, not without a vague feeling that he ran great risk -of putting himself in the false position of a fortune-hunter by doing -so, and heartily abusing himself for not having made more definite -advances before there was any danger of her becoming an heiress; -for although a fortune was a most desirable thing in Mr. Sargent's -position, especially if he wished to marry, he was above marrying for -money alone, and, in the case of Lucy, with whom he had fallen in -love—just within his depth, it must be confessed—while she was as -poor as himself, he was especially jealous of being unjustly supposed -to be in pursuit of her prospects. Possibly the consciousness of what -a help the fortune would be to him made him even more sensitive than -he would otherwise have been. Still he would not omit the opportunity -of being useful to the girl, trusting that his honesty would, despite -of appearances, manifest itself sufficiently to be believed in by so -honest a nature as Lucy Burton.</p> - -<p>"Have you heard the sad news?" he said, as soon as they were in the -garden.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No," answered Lucy, without much concern; for she did not expect to -hear anything about Thomas.</p> - -<p>"I thought not. It is very sad. The <i>Ningpo</i> is lost."</p> - -<p>Lucy was perplexed. She knew the name of her uncle's vessel; but for a -moment she did not associate the thing. In a moment, however, something -of the horror of the fact reached her. She did not cry, for her -affections had no great part in anyone on board of the vessel, but she -turned very pale. And not a thought of the possible interest she might -have in the matter crossed her mind. She had never associated good to -herself with her uncle or any of his family.</p> - -<p>"How dreadful!" she murmured. "My poor cousins! What they must all have -gone through! Are they come home?"</p> - -<p>"They are gone home," said Mr. Sargent, significantly. "There can be -but little doubt of that, I fear."</p> - -<p>"You don't mean they're drowned?" she said, turning her white face on -him, and opening her eyes wide.</p> - -<p>"It is not absolutely certain; but there can be little doubt about it."</p> - -<p>He did not show her the paragraph in the <i>Times</i>, though the paper was -in his pocket: the particulars were too dreadful.</p> - -<p>"Are there any other relations but your grandmother and yourself?" he -asked, for Lucy remained silent.</p> - -<p>"I don't know of any," she answered.</p> - -<p>"Then you must come in for the property."</p> - -<p>"Oh, no. He would never leave it to us. He didn't like me, for one -thing. But that was my fault, perhaps. He was not over-kind to my -mother, and so I never liked him."</p> - -<p>And here at length she burst into tears. She wept very quietly, -however, and Mr. Sargent went on.</p> - -<p>"But you must be his heirs-at-law. Will you allow me to make -inquiry—to do anything that may be necessary, for you? Don't -misunderstand me," he added, pleadingly. "It is only as a friend—what -I have been for a long time now, Lucy."</p> - -<p>Lucy scarcely hesitated before she answered, with a restraint that -appeared like coldness:</p> - -<p>"Thank you, Mr. Sargent. The business cannot in any case be mine. It is -my grandmother's, and I can, and will, take no hand in it."</p> - -<p>"Will you say to your grandmother that I am at her service?"</p> - -<p>"If it were a business matter, there is no one I would more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> -willingly—ask to help us; but as you say it is a matter of friendship, -I must refuse your kindness."</p> - -<p>Mr. Sargent was vexed with himself, and disappointed with her. He -supposed that she misinterpreted his motives. Between the two, he was -driven to a sudden, unresolved action of appeal.</p> - -<p>"Miss Burton," he said, "for God's sake, do not misunderstand me, and -attribute to mercenary motives the offer I make only in the confidence -that you will not do me such an injustice."</p> - -<p>Lucy was greatly distressed. Her color went and came for a few moments, -and then she spoke.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Sargent, I am just as anxious that you should understand me; but I -am in a great difficulty and have to throw myself on your generosity."</p> - -<p>She paused again, astonished to find herself making a speech. But she -did not pause long.</p> - -<p>"I refuse your kindness," she said, "only because I am not free to lay -myself under such obligation to you. Do not ask me to say more," she -added, finding that he made no reply.</p> - -<p>But if she had looked in his face, she would have seen that he -understood her perfectly. Honest disappointment and manly suffering -were visible enough on his countenance. But he did not grow ashy pale, -as some lovers would at such an utterance. He would never have made, -under any circumstances, a passionate lover, though an honest and true -one; for he was one of those balanced natures which are never all in -one thing at once. Hence the very moment he received a shock, was the -moment in which he began to struggle for victory. Something called to -him, as Una to the Red-Cross Knight when face to face with the serpent -Error:</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Strangle her, else she sure will strangle thee."</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>Before Lucy's eyes and his met, he had mastered his countenance at last.</p> - -<p>"I understand you, Miss Burton," he said, in a calm voice, which -only trembled a little—and it was then that Lucy ventured to look -at him—"and I thank you. Please to remember that if ever you need a -friend, I am at your service."</p> - -<p>Without another word, he lifted his hat and went away.</p> - -<p>Lucy hastened home full of distress at the thought of her grandmother's -grief, and thinking all the way how she could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> convey the news with -least of a shock; but when she entered the room, she found her already -in tears, and Mr. Stopper seated by her side comforting her with -commonplaces.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXVII.</p> - -<p class="center">OF USEFUL ODDS AND ENDS.</p> - - -<p>During all this time, when his visits to Lucy were so much interrupted -by her attendance upon Mattie, Thomas had not been doing well. In fact, -he had been doing gradually worse. His mother had, of course, been at -home for a long time now, and Mr. Simon's visits had been resumed. But -neither of these circumstances tended to draw him homeward.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Worboise's health was so much improved by her sojourn at -Folkestone, that she now meditated more energetic measures for the -conversion of her son. What these measures should be, however, she -could not for some time determine. At length she resolved that, as -he had been a good scholar when at school—proved in her eyes by his -having brought home prizes every year—she would ask him to bring his -Greek Testament to her room, and help her to read through St. Paul's -Epistle to the Romans with the fresh light which his scholarship would -cast upon the page. It was not that she was in the least difficulty -about the Apostle's meaning. She knew that as well at least as the -Apostle himself; but she would invent an innocent trap to catch a soul -with, and, if so it might be, put it in a safe cage, whose strong wires -of exclusion should be wadded with the pleasant cotton of safety. Alas -for St. Paul, his mighty soul, and his laboring speech, in the hands of -two such! The very idea of such to read him, might have scared him from -his epistle—if such readers there could have been in a time when the -wild beasts of the amphitheatre kept the Christianity pure.</p> - -<p>"Thomas," she said, one evening, "I want you to bring your Greek -Testament, and help me out with something."</p> - -<p>"O, mother, I can't. I have forgotten all about Greek. What is it you -want to know?"</p> - -<p>"I want you to read the Romans with me."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh! really, mother, I can't. It's such bad Greek, you know."</p> - -<p>"Thomas!" said his mother, sepulchrally, as if his hasty assertion with -regard to St. Paul's scholarship had been a sin against the truth St. -Paul spoke.</p> - -<p>"Well, really, mother, you must excuse me. I can't. Why don't you ask -Mr. Simon? He's an Oxford man."</p> - -<p>To this Mrs. Worboise had no answer immediately at hand. From the way -in which Thomas met her request my reader will see that he was breaking -loose from her authority—whether for the better or the worse does not -at this point seem doubtful, and yet perhaps it was doubtful. Still he -was not prepared to brave her and his father with a confession, for -such it appeared to him to be, of his attachment to Lucy.</p> - -<p>Since he could see so little of her, he had spent almost all the time -that used to be devoted to her with Molken. In consequence, he seldom -reached home in anything like what he had been accustomed to consider -decent time. When his mother spoke to him on the subject he shoved it -aside with an "Ah! you were in bed, mother," prefacing some story, part -true, part false, arranged for the occasion. So long as his father took -no notice of the matter he did not much mind. He was afraid of him -still; but so long as he was out of bed early enough in the morning, -his father did not much care at what hour he went to it: he had had -his own wild oats to sow in his time. The purity of his boy's mind and -body did not trouble him much, provided that, when he came to take his -position in the machine of things, he turned out a steady, respectable -pinion, whose cogs did not miss, but held—the one till the other -caught. He had, however, grown ambitious for him within the last few -days—more of which by and by.</p> - -<p>In the vacancy of mind occasioned by the loss of his visits to -Lucy—for he had never entered heartily into any healthy pursuits in -literature, art, or even amusement—Thomas had, as it were, gradually -sauntered more and more into the power of Mr. Molken; and although -he had vowed to himself, after his first experience, that he would, -never play again, himself not being to himself a very awe-inspiring -authority, he had easily broken that vow. It was not that he had any -very strong inclination to play—the demon of play had not quite -entered into him: it was only that whatever lord asserted dominion -over Thomas, to him Thomas was ready to yield that which he claimed. -Molken said, "Come along," and Thomas went along. Nor was it always to -the gambling-house<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> that he followed Molken; but although there was -one most degrading species of vice from which his love to Lucy—for he -loved Lucy with a real though not great love—did preserve him, there -were several places to which his <i>friend</i> took him from which he could -scarcely emerge as pure as he entered them. I suspect—thanks to what -influence Lucy had with him, to what conscience he had left in him, to -what good his mother and Mr. Simon had taught him, in a word, to the -care of God over him—Mr. Molken found him rather harder to corrupt -than, from his shilly-shally ways, he had expected. Above all, the love -of woman, next to the love of God, is the power of God to a young man's -salvation; for all is of God, everything, from first to last—nature, -providence, and grace—it is all of our Father in Heaven; and what God -hath joined let not man put asunder.</p> - -<p>His gambling was a very trifle as far as money went: an affair of all -but life and death as far as principle was concerned. There is nothing -like the amount of in-door gambling that there used to be; but there is -no great improvement in taking it to the downs and the open air, and -making it librate on the muscles of horses instead of on the spinning -power of a top or the turning up of cards. And whoever gambles, whether -at <i>rouge-et-noir</i> or at Fly-away <i>versus</i> Staywell, will find that the -laws of gambling are, like those of the universe, unalterable. The laws -of gambling are discontent, confusion, and loss upon everyone who seeks -to make money without giving moneys worth. It will matter little to the -grumbler whether the retribution comes in this world, he thinking, like -Macbeth, to "skip the life to come," or in the next. He will find that -one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as -one day.</p> - -<p>But for Thomas, the worst thing in the gambling, besides the bad -company it led him into, was that the whole affair fell in so with his -natural weakness. Gambling is the employment fitted for the man without -principles and without will, for his whole being is but, as far as he -is concerned, the roulette-ball of chance. The wise, on the contrary, -do not believe in Fortune, yield nothing to her sway, go on their own -fixed path regardless "of her that turneth as a ball," as Chaucer -says. They at least will be steady, come to them what may. Thomas got -gradually weaker and weaker, and, had it not been for Lucy, would soon -have fallen utterly. But she, like the lady of an absent lord, still -kept one fortress for him in a yielded and devastated country.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> - -<p>There was no newspaper taken in at Mr. Worboise's, for he always left -home for his office as soon as possible. So, when Thomas reached the -counting-house, he had heard nothing of the sad news about his late -master and his family. But the moment he entered the place he felt that -the atmosphere was clouded. Mr. Wither, whose face was pale as death, -rose from the desk where he had been sitting, caught up his hat, and -went out. Thomas could not help suspecting that his entrance was the -cause of Mr. Wither's departure, and his thoughts went back to last -night, and he wondered whether his fellow-clerks would cut him because -of the company he had been in. His conscience could be more easily -pricked by the apprehension of overt disapprobation than by any other -goad. None of them took any particular notice of him; only a gloom as -of a funeral hung about all their faces, and radiated from them so as -to make the whole place look sepulchral. Mr. Stopper was sitting within -the glass partition, whence he called for Mr. Worboise, who obeyed with -a bad grace, as anticipating something disagreeable.</p> - -<p>"There!" said Mr. Stopper, handing him the newspaper, and watching him -as he read.</p> - -<p>Thomas read, returned the paper, murmured something, and went back with -scared face to the outer room. There a conversation arose in a low -voice, as if it had been in the presence of the dead. Various questions -were asked and conjectures hazarded, but nobody knew anything. Thomas's -place was opposite the glass, and before he had been long seated he saw -Mr. Stopper rake the key of the door of communication from a drawer, -unlock the door, and with the <i>Times</i> in his hand walk into Mrs. -Boxall's house, closing the door behind him. This movement was easy to -understand, and set Thomas thinking. Then first the thought struck him -that Lucy and her grandmother would come in for all the property. This -sent a glow of pleasure through him, and he had enough ado to keep the -funeral look which belonged to the occasion. Now he need not fear to -tell his father the fact of his engagement—indeed, he might delay the -news as long as he liked, sure that it would be welcome when it came. -If his father were pleased, he did not care so much for his mother. -But had he known how much she loved him, he could not have got so far -away from her as he was now. If, on the other hand, he had fallen in -with her way of things, she would have poured out upon him so much -repressed affection that he would have known it. But till he saw as she -saw, felt as she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> felt, and could talk as she talked, her motherhood -saw an impervious barrier between her and him—a barrier she labored -hard to remove, but with tools that could make no passage through an -ever-closing mist.</p> - -<p>I cannot help thinking that if he had told all now, the knowledge of -his relation to Lucy would have been welcomed by his father, and would -have set everything right. I cannot but believe that Mr. Worboise's -mind was troubled about the property. With perfect law on his side, -there was yet that against him which all his worldliness did not quite -enable him to meet with coolness. But the longer the idea of the -property rested upon his mind, the more, as if it had been the red-hot -coin of the devil's gift, it burned and burrowed out a nest for itself, -till it lay there stone-cold and immovably fixed, and not to be got rid -of. Before many weeks had passed he not only knew that it was his by -law, but felt that it was his by right—his own by right of possession, -and the clinging of his heart-strings around it—his own because it -was so good that he could not part with it. Still it was possible that -something adverse might turn up, and there was no good in incurring -odium until he was absolutely sure that the fortune as well as the -odium would be his; therefore he was in no haste to propound the will.</p> - -<p>But, as I have said, he began to be more ambitious for his son, -and the more he thought about the property, the more he desired to -increase it by the advantageous alliance which he had now no doubt -he could command. This persuasion was increased by the satisfaction -which his son's handsome person and pleasing manners afforded him; -and a confidence of manner which had of late shown itself, chiefly, -it must be confessed, from the experience of the world he had had in -the company he of late frequented, had raised in his father's mind a -certain regard for him which he had not felt before. Therefore he began -to look about him and speculate. He had not the slightest suspicion of -Thomas being in love; and, indeed, there was nothing in his conduct or -appearance that could have aroused such a suspicion in his mind. Mr. -Worboise believed, on the contrary, that his son was leading a rather -wild life.</p> - -<p>It may seem strange that Thomas should not by this time have sunk far -deeper into the abyss of misery; but Molken had been careful in not -trying to hook him while he was only nibbling; and, besides, until he -happened to be able to lose something worth winning, he rather avoided -running him into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> any scrape that might disgust him without bringing -any considerable advantage to himself.</p> - -<p>There was one adverse intelligence, of whom Mr. Worboise knew nothing, -and who knew nothing of Mr. Worboise, ready to pounce upon him the -moment he showed his game. This was Mr. Sargent. Smarting, not under -Lucy's refusal so much as from the lingering suspicion that she had -altogether misinterpreted his motives, he watched for an opportunity -of proving his disinterestedness; this was his only hope; for he saw -that Lucy was lost to him. He well knew that in the position of her and -her grandmother, it would not be surprising if something with a forked -tongue or a cloven foot should put its head out of a hole before very -long, and begin to creep toward them; and therefore, as I say, he kept -an indefinite but wide watch, in the hope which I have mentioned. He -had no great difficulty in discovering that Mr. Worboise had been Mr. -Boxall's man of business, but he had no right to communicate with him -on the subject. This indeed Mr. Stopper, who had taken the place of -adviser in general to Mrs. Boxall, had already done, asking him whether -Mr. Boxall had left no will, to which he had received a reply only -to the effect that it was early days, that there was no proof of his -death, and that he was prepared to give what evidence he possessed at -the proper time—an answer Mrs. Boxall naturally enough, with her fiery -disposition, considered less than courteous. Of this Mr. Sargent of -course was not aware, but, as the only thing he could do at present, he -entered a <i>caveat</i> in the Court of Probate.</p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper did his best for the business in the hope of one day -having not only the entire management as now, but an unquestionable as -unquestioned right to the same. If he ever thought of anything further -since he had now a free entrance to Mrs. Boxall's region, he could not -think an inch in that direction without encountering the idea of Thomas.</p> - -<p>It was very disagreeable to Thomas that Mr. Stopper, whom he detested, -should have this free admission to what he had been accustomed to -regard as his <i>peculium</i>. He felt as if the place were defiled by -his presence, and to sit as he had sometimes to sit, knowing that -Mr. Stopper was overhead, was absolutely hateful. But, as I shall -have to set forth in the next chapter, Lucy was not at home; and that -mitigated the matter very considerably. For the rest, Mr. Stopper -was on the whole more civil to Thomas than he had hitherto been, and -appeared even to put a little more confidence in him than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> formerly. -The fact was, that the insecurity of his position made him conscious of -vulnerability, and he wished to be friendly on all sides, with a vague -general feeling of strengthening his outworks.</p> - -<p>Mr. Wither never opened his mouth to Thomas upon any occasion or -necessity, and from several symptoms it appeared that his grief, or -rather perhaps the antidotes to it, were dragging him down hill.</p> - -<p>Amy Worboise was not at home. The mother had seen symptoms; and much -as she valued Mr. Simon's ghostly ministrations, the old Adam in her -rebelled too strongly against having a curate for her son-in-law. So -Amy disappeared for a season, upon a convenient invitation. But if she -had been at home, she could have influenced events in nothing; for, -as often happens in families, there was no real communication between -mother and sister.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXVIII</p> - -<p class="center">MATTIE IN THE COUNTRY.</p> - - -<p>I now return to resume the regular thread of my story.</p> - -<p>I do not know if my reader is half as much interested in Mattie as -I am. I doubt it very much. He will, most probably, like Poppie -better. But big-headed, strange, and conceited as Mattie was, she -was altogether a higher being than Poppie. She thought; Poppie only -received impressions. If she had more serious faults than Poppie, they -were faults that belonged to a more advanced stage of growth; diseased, -my reader may say, but diseased with a disease that fell in with, -almost belonged to, the untimely development. All Poppie's thoughts, to -speak roughly, came from without; all Mattie's from within. To complete -Mattie, she had to go back a little, and learn to receive impressions -too; to complete Poppie; she had to work upon the impressions she -received, and, so to speak, generate thoughts of her own. Mattie led -the life of a human being; Poppie of a human animal. Mattie lived; -Poppie was there. Poppie was the type of most people; Mattie of the -elect.</p> - -<p>Lucy did not intend, in the sad circumstances in which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> now was, to -say a word to her grandmother about Mrs. Morgenstern's proposal. But -it was brought about very naturally. As she entered the court she met -Mattie. The child had been once more to visit Mr. Spelt, but had found -the little nest so oppressive that she had begged to be put down again, -that she might go to her own room. Mr. Spelt was leaning over his door -and his crossed legs, for he could not stand up, looking anxiously -after her; and the child's face was so pale and sad, and she held her -little hand so pitifully to her big head, that Lucy could not help -feeling that the first necessity among her duties was to get Mattie -away.</p> - -<p>After the fresh burst of her grandmother's grief at sight of her was -over, after Mr. Stopper had gone back to the counting-house, and she -had fallen into a silent rocking to and fro, Lucy ventured to speak.</p> - -<p>"They're gone home, dear grannie," she said.</p> - -<p>"And I shan't stay long behind them, my dear," grannie moaned.</p> - -<p>"That's some comfort, isn't it, grannie?" said Lucy, for her own heart -was heavy, not for the dead, but for the living; heavy for her own -troubles, heavy for Thomas, about whom she felt very despondent, almost -despairing.</p> - -<p>"Ah! you young people would be glad enough to have the old ones out -of the way," returned Mrs. Boxall, in the petulance of grief. "Have -patience, Lucy, have patience, child; it won't be long, and then you -can do as you like."</p> - -<p>"Oh, grannie, grannie!" cried Lucy, bursting into tears. "I do -everything I like now. I only wanted to comfort you," she sobbed. "I -thought you would like to go too. <i>I</i> wish I was dead."</p> - -<p>"<i>You</i>, child!" exclaimed Mrs. Boxall; "why should you wish you was -dead? You don't know enough of life to wish for death." Then, as Lucy -went on sobbing, her tone changed—for she began to be concerned at her -distress. "What <i>is</i> the matter with my darling?" she said. "Are you -ill, Lucy?"</p> - -<p>Then Lucy went to her and kissed her, and knelt down, and laid her head -in the old woman's lap. And her grannie stroked her hair, and spoke -to her as if she had been one of her own babies, and, in seeking to -comfort her, forgot her own troubles for the moment.</p> - -<p>"You've been doing too much for other people, Lucy," she said. "We must -think of you now. You must go to the sea-side for awhile. You shan't go -about giving lessons any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> more, my lamb. There is no need for that any -more, for they say all the money will be ours now."</p> - -<p>And the old woman wept again at the thought of the source of their -coming prosperity.</p> - -<p>"I should like to go to the country very much, if you would go too, -grannie."</p> - -<p>"No, no, child, I don't want to go. I don't want any doing good to."</p> - -<p>"But I don't like to leave you, grannie," objected Lucy.</p> - -<p>"Never mind me, my dear. I shall be better alone for awhile. And I dare -say there will be some business to attend to."</p> - -<p>And so they went on talking, till Lucy told her all about Mrs. -Morgenstern's plan, and how ill poor Mattie looked, and that she would -be glad to go away for a little while herself. Mrs. Boxall would -not consent to go, but she even urged Lucy to accept the proposed -arrangement, and proceeded at once to inquire into her wardrobe, and -talk about mourning.</p> - -<p>Two days after, Lucy and Mattie met Mrs. Morgenstern and Miriam at -the London Bridge railway station. Mattie looked quite dazed, almost -stupid, with the noise and bustle; but when they were once in motion, -she heaved a deep sigh, and looked comforted. She said nothing, -however, for some time, and her countenance revealed no surprise. -Whatever was out of the usual way always oppressed Mattie—not excited -her; and, therefore, the more surprising anything was, the less did -it occasion any outward shape of surprise. But as they flashed into -the first tunnel, Lucy saw her start and shudder ere they vanished -from each other in the darkness. She put out her hand and took hold of -the child's. It was cold and trembling; but as she held it gently and -warmly in her own, it grew quite still. By the time the light began to -grow again, her face was peaceful, and when they emerged in the cutting -beyond, she was calm enough to speak the thought that had come to her -in the dark. With another sigh—</p> - -<p>"I knew the country wasn't nice," she said.</p> - -<p>"But you don't know what the country is yet," answered Lucy.</p> - -<p>"I know quite enough of it," returned Mattie. "I like London best. I -wish I could see some shops."</p> - -<p>Lucy did not proceed to argue the matter with her. She did not tell -her how unfair she was to judge the country by what lay between her -and it. As well might she have argued with Thomas that the bitterness -of the repentance from which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> he shrank was not the religion to which -she wanted to lead him; that religion itself was to him inconceivable; -and could but be known when he was in it. She had tried this plan with -him in their last interview before she left. She had herself, under the -earnest teaching of Mr. Fuller, and in the illumination of that Spirit -for which she prayed, learned many a spiritual lesson, had sought -eagerly, and therefore gained rapidly. For hers was one of the good -soils, well prepared beforehand for the seed of the redeeming truth of -God's love, and the Sonship of Christ, and his present power in the -human soul. And she had tried, I say, to make Thomas believe in the -blessedness of the man whoso iniquities are pardoned, whose sins are -covered, to whom the Lord imputeth not his transgressions; but Thomas -had replied only with some of the stock phrases of assent. A nature -such as his could not think of law and obedience save as restraint. -While he would be glad enough to have the weight of conscious -wrong-doing lifted off him, he could not see that in yielding his own -way and taking God's lay the only <i>freedom</i> of which the human being, -made in the image of God, is capable.</p> - -<p>Presently Mattie found another argument upon her side, that is, the -town-side of the question. She had been sitting for half an hour -watching the breath of the snorting engine, as it rushed out for a -stormy flight over the meek fields, faltered, lingered, faded, melted, -was gone.</p> - -<p>"I told you so," said Mattie: "nothing lasts in the country."</p> - -<p>"What are you looking at now?" asked Lucy, bending forward to see.</p> - -<p>"Those white clouds," answered Mattie. "I've been expecting them to do -something for ever so long. And they never do anything, though they -begin in such a hurry. The green gets the better of them somehow. They -melt away into it, and are all gone."</p> - -<p>"But they do the grass some good, I dare say," returned Lucy—"in hot -weather like this especially."</p> - -<p>"Well, that's not what they set out for, anyhow," said Mattie. "They -look always as if they were just going to take grand shapes, and make -themselves up into an army, and go out and conquer the world."</p> - -<p>"And then," suggested Lucy, yielding to the fancy of the child, "they -think better of it, and give themselves up, and die into the world to -do it good, instead of trampling it under their feet and hurting it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p> - -<p>"But how do they come to change their minds so soon?" asked Mattie, -beginning to smile; for this was the sort of intellectual duel in which -her little soul delighted.</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't think they do change their minds. I don't think they -ever meant to trample down the world. That was your notion, you know, -Mattie."</p> - -<p>"Well, what do you think they set out for? Why do they rush out so -fiercely all at once?"</p> - -<p>"I will tell you what I think," answered Lucy, without perceiving more -than the faintest glimmering of the human reality of what she said, "I -think they rush out of the hot place in which they are got ready to do -the fields good, in so much pain, that they toss themselves about in -strange ways, and people think they are fierce and angry when they are -only suffering—shot out into the air from a boiling kettle, you know, -Mattie."</p> - -<p>"Ah! yes; I see," answered Mattie. "That's it, is it? Yes, I dare say. -Out of a kettle?"</p> - -<p>Miriam had drawn near, and was listening, but she could make little of -all this, for her hour was not yet come to ask, or to understand such -questions.</p> - -<p>"Yes, that great round thing in front of us is just a great kettle," -said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"Well, I will look at it when we get out. I thought there wasn't much -in the country. I suppose we shall get out again, though. This isn't -all the country, is it?"</p> - -<p>Before they reached Hastings, Mattie was fast asleep. It was the -evening. She scarcely woke when they stopped for the last time. Lucy -carried her from the carriage to a cab, and when they arrived at the -lodgings where they were expected, made all haste to get her to bed and -asleep.</p> - -<p>But she woke the earlier in the morning, and the first thing she was -aware of was the crowing of a very clear-throated cock, such a cock as -Henry Vaughan must have listened to in the morning of the day when he -wrote</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Father of lights! what sunnie seed,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">What glance of day hast thou confined</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into this bird? To all the breed</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This busie Ray thou hast assigned;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their magnetisme works all night,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And dreams of Paradise and light."</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>She could not collect her thoughts for some time. She was aware that -a change had taken place, but what was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> it? Was she somebody else? -What did they use to call her? Then she remembered Mr. Spelt's shop, -and knew that she was Mattie Kitely. What then had happened to her? -Something certainly had happened, else how could the cock crow like -that? She was now aware that her eyes were open, but she did not know -that Lucy was in another bed in the same room watching her—whence -afterward, when she put Mattie's words and actions together, she -was able to give this interpretation of her thoughts. The room was -so different from anything she had been used to, that she could not -understand it. She crept out of bed and went to the window. There was -no blind to it, only curtains drawn close in front.</p> - -<p>Now my reader must remember that when Mattie went to the window of -her own room at home she saw into Guild Court. The house in which -they now were was half way up one of the hills on the sides of which -great part of Hastings is built. The sun was not shining upon the -window at this hour of the morning, and therefore did not obstruct -the view. Hence when Mattie went between the curtains she saw nothing -but that loveliest of English seas—the Hastings sea—lying away out -into the sky, or rather, as it appeared to her unaccustomed gaze, -piled up like a hill against the sky, which domed it over, vast and -blue, and triumphant in sunlight—just a few white sails below and a -few white clouds above, to show how blue the sea and sky were in this -glory of an autumn morning. She saw nothing of the earth on which she -was upheld; only the sea and the sky. She started back with a feeling -that she could never describe; there was terror, and loneliness, and -helplessness in it. She turned and flew to her bed, but instead of -getting into it, fell down on her knees by the side of it, clutched -the bed-clothes, and sobbed and wept aloud. Lucy was by her side in -a moment, took her in her arms, carried her into her own bed, and -comforted her in her bosom.</p> - -<p>Mattie had been all her life sitting in the camera-obscura of her own -microcosm, watching the shadows that went and came, and now first she -looked up and out upon the world beyond and above her. All her doings -had gone on in the world of her own imaginings; and although that -big brain of hers contained—no, I cannot say <i>contained</i>, but what -else am I to say?—a being greater than all that is seen, heard, or -handled, yet the outward show of divine imagination which now met her -eyes might well overpower that world within her. I fancy that, like -the blind to whom sight is given, she did not at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> first recognize the -difference between herself and it, but felt as if it was all inside -her and she did not know what to do with it. She would not have cried -at the sight of a rose, as Poppie did. I doubt whether Mattie's was -altogether such a refined nature as Poppie's—to begin with: she would -have rather patronized the rose-tree, and looked down upon it as a -presuming and rather unpleasant thing because it bore dying children; -and she needed, some time or other, and that was now, just such a sight -as this to take the conceit out of her. Less of a vision of the eternal -would not have been sufficient. Was it worth while? Yes. The whole -show of the universe was well spent to take an atom of the self out of -a child. God is at much trouble with us, but he never weighs material -expense against spiritual gain to one of his creatures. The whole -universe existed for Mattie. There is more than that that the Father -has not spared. And no human fault, the smallest, is overcome, save -by the bringing in of true, grand things. A sense of the infinite and -the near, the far yet impending, rebuked the conceit of Mattie to the -very core, and without her knowing why or how. She clung to Lucy as a -child would cling, and as, all through her illness, she had never clung -before.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter with you, Mattie, dear?" asked Lucy, but asked in -vain. Mattie only clung to her the closer, and began a fresh utterance -of sobs. Lucy therefore held her peace for some time and waited. And in -the silence of that waiting she became aware that a lark was singing -somewhere out in the great blue vault.</p> - -<p>"Listen to the lark singing so sweetly," she said at length. And Mattie -moved her head enough to show that she would listen, and lay still a -long while listening. At length she said, with a sob:</p> - -<p>"What is a lark? I never saw one, Miss Burton."</p> - -<p>"A bird like a sparrow. You know what a sparrow is, don't you, dear?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. I have seen sparrows often in the court. They pick up dirt."</p> - -<p>"Well, a lark is like a sparrow; only it doesn't pick up dirt, and -sings as you hear it. And it flies so far up into the sky that you -can't see it—you can only hear the song it scatters down upon the -earth."</p> - -<p>"Oh, how dreadful!" said Mattie, burying her head again as if she would -shut out hearing and sight and all.</p> - -<p>"What is it that is dreadful? I don't understand you, Mattie."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p> - -<p>"To fly up into that awful place up there. Shall we have to do that -when we die?"</p> - -<p>"It is not an awful place, dear. God is there, you know."</p> - -<p>"But I am frightened. And if God is up there, I shall be frightened -at him too. It is so dreadful! I used to think that God could see me -when I was in London. But how he is to see me in this great place, with -so many things about, cocks and larks, and all, I can't think. I'm so -little! I'm hardly worth taking care of."</p> - -<p>"But you remember, Mattie, what Somebody says—that God takes care of -every sparrow."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but that's the sparrows, and they're in the town, you know," said -Mattie, with an access of her old fantastic perversity, flying for -succor, as it always does, to false logic.</p> - -<p>Lucy saw that it was time to stop. The child's fear was gone for the -present, or she could not have talked such nonsense. It was just as -good, however, as the logic of most of those who worship the letter and -call it the word.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you speak, Miss Burton?" asked Mattie at length, no doubt -conscience-stricken by her silence.</p> - -<p>"Because you are talking nonsense now, Mattie."</p> - -<p>"I thought that was it. But why should that make you not speak? for I -need the more to hear sense."</p> - -<p>"No, Mattie. Mr. Fuller says that when people begin to talk falsely, it -is better to be quite silent, and let them say what they please, till -the sound of their own nonsense makes them ashamed."</p> - -<p>"As it did me, Miss Burton, as soon as you wouldn't speak any more."</p> - -<p>"He says it does no good to contradict them then, for they are not only -unworthy to hear the truth—that's not it—if they would hear it—but -they are not fit to hear it. They are not in a mood to get any good -from it; for they are holding the door open for the devil to come in, -and truth can't get in at the same door with the devil."</p> - -<p>"Oh, how dreadful! To think of me talking like Syne!" said Mattie. "I -won't do it again, Miss Burton. Do tell me what Somebody said about -God and the sparrows. Didn't he say something about counting their -feathers? I think I remember Mr. Spelt reading that to me one night."</p> - -<p>"He said something about counting your hairs, Mattie."</p> - -<p>"<i>Mine?</i>"</p> - -<p>"Well, he said it to all the people that would listen to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> I dare -say there were some that could not believe it because they did not care -to be told it."</p> - -<p>"That's me, Miss Burton. But I won't do it again. Well—what more?"</p> - -<p>"Only this, Mattie: that if God knows how many hairs you have got on -your head—"</p> - -<p>"My big head," interrupted Mattie. "Well?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, on your big head—if God knows that, you can't think you're too -small for him to look after you."</p> - -<p>"I will try not to be frightened at the big sky any more, dear Miss -Burton; I will try."</p> - -<p>In a few minutes she was fast asleep again.</p> - -<p>Lucy's heart was none the less trustful that she had tried to increase -Mattie's faith. He who cared for the sparrows would surely hear her cry -for Thomas, nay, would surely look after Thomas himself. The father -did not forget the prodigal son all the time that he was away; did -not think of him only when he came back again, worn and sorrowful. In -teaching Mattie she had taught herself. She had been awake long before -her, turning over and over her troubled thoughts till they were all in -a raveled sleeve of care. Now she too fell fast asleep in her hope, and -when she awoke, her thoughts were all knit up again in an even resolve -to go on and do her duty, casting her care upon Him that cared for her.</p> - -<p>And now Mattie's childhood commenced. She had had none as yet. Her -disputatiousness began to vanish. She could not indulge it in the -presence of the great sky, which grew upon her till she felt, as many -children and some conscience-stricken men have felt—that it was the -great eye of God looking at her; and although this feeling was chiefly -associated with awe at first, she soon began to love the sky, and to be -sorry and oppressed upon cloudy days when she could no longer look up -into it.</p> - -<p>The next day they went down to the beach, in a quiet place, among -great stones, under the east cliff. Lucy sat down on one of them, and -began to read a book Mr. Fuller had lent her. Miriam was at a little -distance, picking up shells, and Mattie on another stone nearer the -sea. The tide was rising. Suddenly Mattie came scrambling in great -haste over all that lay between her and Lucy. Her face was pale, -scared, and eager.</p> - -<p>"I'm so frightened again!" she said; "and I can't help it. The sea! -What does it mean?"</p> - -<p>"What do you mean, Mattie?" returned Lucy, smiling.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Well, it's roaring at me, and coming nearer and nearer, as if it -wanted to swallow me up. I don't like it."</p> - -<p>"You must not be afraid of it. God made it, you know."</p> - -<p>"Why does he let it roar at me, then?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. Perhaps to teach you not to be afraid."</p> - -<p>Mattie said no more, stood a little while by Lucy, and then scrambled -back to her former place.</p> - -<p>The next day, they managed with some difficulty to get up on the East -Hill; Mattie was very easily worn out, especially with climbing. She -gazed at the sea below her, the sky over her head, the smooth grass -under her feet, and gave one of her great sighs. Then she looked -troubled.</p> - -<p>"I feel as if I hadn't any clothes on," she said.</p> - -<p>"How is that, Mattie?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know. I feel as if I couldn't stand steady—as if I -hadn't anything to keep me up. In London, you know, the houses were -always beside to hold a body up, and keep them steady. But here, if it -weren't for Somebody, I should be so frightened for falling down—I -don't know where!"</p> - -<p>Lucy smiled. She did not see then how exactly the child symbolized -those who think they have faith in God, and yet when one of the -swaddling bands of system or dogma to which they have been accustomed -is removed, or even only slackened, immediately feel as if there were -no God, as if the earth under their feet were a cloud, and the sky over -them a color, and nothing to trust in anywhere. They rest in their -swaddling bands, not in God. The loosening of these is God's gift to -them that they may grow. But first they are much afraid.</p> - -<p>Still Mattie looked contemptuously on the flowers. Wandering along -the cliff, they came to a patch that was full of daisies. Miriam's -familiarity with the gorgeous productions of green-house and hot-house -had not injured her capacity for enjoying these peasants of flowers. -She rushed among them with a cry of pleasure, and began gathering them -eagerly. Mattie stood by with a look of condescending contempt upon her -pale face.</p> - -<p>"Wouldn't you like to gather some daisies too, Mattie?" suggested Lucy.</p> - -<p>"Where's the use?" said Mattie. "The poor things'll be withered in no -time. It's almost a shame to gather them, I do think."</p> - -<p>"Well, you needn't gather them if you don't want to have them," -returned Lucy. "But I wonder you don't like them, they are so pretty."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p> - -<p>"But they don't last. I don't like things that die. I had a little talk -with Mr. Fuller about that."</p> - -<p>Now Mr. Fuller had told Lucy what the child had said, and this had -resulted in a good deal of talk. Mr. Fuller was a great lover of -Wordsworth, and the book Lucy was now reading, the one he had lent her, -was Wordsworth's Poems. She had not found what she now answered, either -in Wordsworth's poems or in Mr. Fuller's conversation, but it came from -them both, mingling with her love to God, and her knowledge of the -Saviour's words, with the question of the child to set her mind working -with them all at once. She thought for a moment, and then said:</p> - -<p>"Listen, Mattie. You don't dislike to hear me talk, do you?"</p> - -<p>"No, indeed," answered Mattie.</p> - -<p>"You like the words I say to you, then?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, indeed," said Mattie, wondering what would come next.</p> - -<p>"But my words die as soon as they are out of my mouth."</p> - -<p>Mattie began to see a glimmering of something coming, and held her -peace and listened. Lucy went on.</p> - -<p>"Well, the flowers are some of God's words, and they last longer than -mine."</p> - -<p>"But I understand your words. I know what you want to say to me. And I -don't know the meaning of <i>them</i>."</p> - -<p>"That's because you haven't looked at them long enough. You must -suppose them words in God's book, and try to read them and understand -them."</p> - -<p>"I will try," said Mattie, and walked soberly toward Miriam.</p> - -<p>But she did not begin to gather the daisies as Miriam was doing. She -lay down in the grass just as Chaucer tells us he used to do in the -mornings of May for the same purpose—to look at the daisy—"leaning on -my elbow and my side"; and thus she continued for some time. Then she -rose and came slowly back to Lucy.</p> - -<p>"I can't tell what they mean," she said. "I have been trying very hard, -too."</p> - -<p>"I don't know whether I understand them or not, myself. But I fancy we -get some good from what God shows us even when we don't understand it -much."</p> - -<p>"They are such little things!" said Mattie. "I can hardly fancy them -worth making."</p> - -<p>"God thinks them worth making, though, or he would not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> make them. He -wouldn't do anything that he did not care about doing. There's the lark -again. Listen to him, how glad he is. He is so happy that he can't -bear it without singing. If he couldn't sing it would break his heart, -I fancy. Do you think God would have made his heart so glad if he did -not care for his gladness, or given him such a song to sing—for he -must have made the song and taught it to the lark—the song is just -the lark's heart coming out in sounds—would he have made all the lark -if he did not care for it? And he would not have made the daisies so -pretty if their prettiness was not worth something in his eyes. And if -God cares for them, surely it is worth our while to care for them too."</p> - -<p>Mattie listened very earnestly, went back to the daisies, and lay down -again beside a group of them. Miriam kept running about from one spot -to another, gathering them. What Mattie said, or what Miriam replied, -I do not know, but in a little while Mattie came to Lucy with a red -face—a rare show in her.</p> - -<p>"I don't like Miss Miriam," she said. "She's not nice at all."</p> - -<p>"Why, what's the matter?" asked Lucy, in some surprise, for the -children had got on very well together as yet. "What has she been -doing?"</p> - -<p>"She doesn't care a bit for Somebody. I don't like her."</p> - -<p>"But Somebody likes her."</p> - -<p>To this Mattie returned no answer, but stood thoughtful. The blood -withdrew from her face to its fountain, and she went back to the -daisies once more.</p> - -<p>The following day she began to gather flowers as other children do, -even to search for them as for hidden treasures. And if she did not -learn their meaning with her understanding, she must have learned it -with her heart, for she would gaze at some of them in a way that showed -plainly enough that she felt their beauty; and in the beauty, the -individual loveliness of such things, lies the dim lesson with which -they faintly tincture our being. No man can be quite the same he was -after having <i>loved</i> a new flower.</p> - -<p>Thus, by degrees, Mattie's thought and feeling were drawn outward. Her -health improved. Body and mind reacted on each other. She grew younger -and humbler. Every day her eyes were opened to some fresh beauty on -the earth, some new shadowing of the sea, some passing loveliness in -the heavens. She had hitherto refused the world as a thing she had not -proved; now she began to find herself at home in it, that is, to find -that it was not a strange world to which she had come, but a home; -not, indeed, the innermost, sacredest room of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> house where the -Father sat, but still a home, full of his presence, his thoughts, his -designs. Is it any wonder that a child should prosper better in such a -world than in a catacomb filled with the coffined remains of thinking -men? I mean her father's book-shop. Here, God was ever before her in -the living forms of his thought, a power and a blessing. Every wind -that blew was his breath, and the type of his inner breathing upon the -human soul. Every morning was filled with his light, and the type of -the growing of that light which lighteth every man that cometh into the -world. And there are no natural types that do not dimly work their own -spiritual reality upon the open heart of a human being.</p> - -<p>Before she left Hastings, Mattie was almost a child.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXIX.</p> - -<p class="center">POPPIE IN TOWN.</p> - - -<p>Between Mr. Spelt's roost and the house called No. 1 of Guild Court -there stood a narrow house, as tall as the rest, which showed by the -several bell-pulls, ranged along the side of the door, that it was -occupied by different households. Mr. Spelt had for some time had his -eye upon it, in the hope of a vacancy occurring in its top chambers, -occupying which he would be nearer his work, and have a more convenient -home in case he should some day succeed in taming and capturing Poppie. -Things had been going well in every way with the little tailor. He had -had a good many more private customers for the last few months, began -in consequence to look down from a growing hight upon slop-work, though -he was too prudent to drop it all at once, and had three or four pounds -in the post-office savings-bank. Likewise his fishing had prospered. -Poppie came for her sweets as regularly as a robin for his crumbs in -winter. Spelt, however, did not now confine his bait to sweets; a fresh -roll, a currant bun, sometimes—when his longing for his daughter had -been especially strong the night before, even a Bath bun—would hang -suspended by a string from the aerial threshold, so that Poppie could -easily reach it, and yet it should be under the protection of the -tailor from chance marauders. And every morning as she took it, she -sent a sweet smile<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> of thanks to the upper regions whence came her -aid. Though not very capable of conversation, she would occasionally -answer a few questions about facts—as, for instance, where she had -slept the last night, to which the answer would commonly be, "Mother -Flanaghan's;" but once, to the tailor's no small discomposure, was -"The Jug." She did not seem to know exactly, however, how it was that -she got incarcerated: there had been a crowd, and somebody had prigged -something, and there was a scurry and a running, and she scudded as -usual, and got took up. Mr. Spelt was more anxious than ever to take -her home after this. But sometimes, the moment he began to talk to her -she would run away, without the smallest appearance of rudeness, only -of inexplicable oddity; and Mr. Spelt thought sometimes that he was not -a single step nearer to the desired result than when he first baited -his hook. He regarded it as a good omen, however, when, by the death -of an old woman and the removal of her daughter, the topmost floor of -the house, consisting of two small rooms, became vacant; and he secured -them at a weekly rental quite within the reach of his improved means. -He did not imagine how soon he would be able to put them to the use he -most desired.</p> - -<p>One evening, just as the light was fading and he proceeded to light a -candle to enable him to go on with his work, he heard the patter of -her bare feet on the slabs, for his ear was very keen for this most -pleasant of sounds, and looking down, saw the child coming toward him, -holding the bottom of her ragged frock up to her head. He had scarcely -time to be alarmed before she stopped at the foot of his shop, looked -up pale as death, with a dark streak of blood running through the -paleness, and burst into a wail. The little man was down in a moment, -but before his feet reached the ground Poppie had fallen upon it in a -faint. He lifted the child in his arms with a strange mixture of pity -and horror in his big heart, and sped up the three stairs to his own -dwelling. There he laid her on his bed, struck a light, and proceeded -to examine her. He found a large and deep cut in her head, from which -the blood was still flowing. He rushed down again, and fortunately -found Dolman on the point of leaving. Him he sent for the doctor, and -returned like an arrow to his treasure. Having done all he could, with -the aid of his best Sunday shirt, to stop the bleeding, he waited -impatiently for the doctor's arrival, which seemed long delayed. Before -he came the child began to revive; and, taught by the motion of her -lips, he got some water and held to them. Poppie drank and opened -her eyes. When<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> she saw who was bending over her, the faintest ghost -of a smile glimmered about her mouth, and she closed her eyes again, -murmuring something about Mother Flanaghan.</p> - -<p>As far as he could gather from piecing together what the child said -afterward, Mr. Spelt came to the conclusion that Mrs. Flanaghan had -come home a little the worse for "cream of the valley," and wanted -more. Poppie happened to be alone in her room when she came, for we -have seen that she sometimes forgot to lock the door, if, indeed, -there was a lock on it. She had nothing to care for, however, but her -gin-bottle; and that she thought she hid safely enough. Whether she -had left it empty or not, I do not know, but she found it empty when -she neither desired nor expected to find it so; and coming to the -hasty and stupid conclusion that poor Poppie was the thief—just as -an ill-trained child expends the rage of a hurt upon the first person -within his reach—she broke the vile vessel upon Poppie's head with the -result we have seen. But the child had forgotten everything between -that and her waking upon Mr. Spelt's bed.</p> - -<p>The doctor came and dressed her wound, and gave directions for her -treatment.</p> - -<p>And now Mr. Spelt was in the seventh heaven of delight—he had a little -woman of his own to take care of. He was thirty-nine years of age; -and now, for the first time in his life, saw a prospect of happiness -opening before him. No—once before, when he led the splendid Mrs. -Spelt home from church, he had looked into a rosy future; but the next -morning the prospect closed, and had never opened again till now. He -did not lie down all that night, but hovered about her bed, as if she -had been a creature that might any moment spread out great wings and -fly away from him forever. Sometimes he had to soothe her with kind -words, for she wandered a good deal, and would occasionally start up -with wild looks, as if to fly once more from Mother Flanaghan with the -gin-bottle bludgeon uplifted in her hand; then the sound of Mr. Spelt's -voice would instantly soothe her, and she would lie down again and -sleep. But she scarcely spoke; for at no time was Poppie given to much -speech.</p> - -<p>When the light came, he hurried down-stairs to his shop, got his work -and all his implements out, carried them up, and sat with them on the -floor where he could see Poppie's face. There he worked away busily -at a pair of cords for a groom, every now and then lifting his eyes -from his seam to look down into the court, and finding them always met -by the floor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> Then his look would go up to the bed, seeking Poppie's -pale face. He found he could not get on so fast as usual. Still he made -progress; and it was a comfort to think that by working thus early he -was saving time for nursing his little white Poppie.</p> - -<p>When at length she woke, she seemed a little better; but she soon grew -more feverish, and soon he found that he must constantly watch her, for -she was ready to spring out of bed any moment. The father-heart grew -dreadfully anxious before the doctor came; and all that day and the -next he got very little work done, for the poor child was really in -danger. Indeed it was more than a week before he began to feel a little -easy about her; and ten days yet passed before she was at all able to -leave her bed.</p> - -<p>And herein lay the greatest blessing both for Spelt and Poppie. I -doubt if anything else could have given him a reasonable chance, as we -say, of taming the wild animal. Her illness compelled her into such a -continuance of dependent association with him, that the idea of him -had time to grow into her heart; while all her scudding propensities, -which prevented her from making a quiet and thorough acquaintance -with anybody, were not merely thwarted, but utterly gone, while she -remained weak. The humanity of the child had therefore an opportunity -of developing itself; obstructions removed, the well of love belonging -to her nature began to pulse and to flow, and she was, as it were, -compelled to love Mr. Spelt; so that, by the time old impulses returned -with returning health, he had a chance against them.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXX</p> - -<p class="center">MR. FULLER IN HIS CHURCH.</p> - - -<p>Mr. Fuller's main bent of practical thought was how to make his -position in the church as far as possible from a sinecure. If the -church was a reality at all, if it represented a vital body, every -portion of it ought to be instinct with life. Yet here was one of its -cells, to speak physiologically, all but inactive—a huge building of -no use all the week, and on Sundays filled with organ sounds, a few -responses from a sprink<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>ling of most indifferent worshipers, and his -own voice reading prayers and crying "with sick assay" sometimes—to -move those few to be better men and women than they were. Now, so far -it was a center of life, and as such well worthy of any amount of -outlay of mere money. But even money itself is a holy thing; and from -the money point alone, low as that is, it might well be argued that -this church was making no adequate return for the amount expended upon -it. Not that one thought of honest comfort to a human soul is to be -measured against millions of expense; but that what the money did might -well be measured against what the money might do. To the commercial -mind such a church suggests immense futility, a judgment correct in so -far as it falls short of its possibilities. To tell the truth, and a -good truth it is to tell, Mr. Fuller was ashamed of St. Amos's, and was -thinking day and night how to retrieve the character of his church.</p> - -<p>And he reasoned thus with himself, in the way mostly of question and -answer:</p> - -<p>"What is a Sunday?" he asked, answering himself—"A quiet hollow -scooped out of the windy hill of the week." "Must a man then go for -six days shelterless ere he comes to the repose of the seventh? Are -there to be no great rocks to shadow him between?—no hiding-places -from the wind to let him take breath and heart for the next struggle? -And if there ought to be, where are they to be found if not in our -churches?—scattered like little hollows of sacred silence scooped -out of the roar and bustle of our cities, dumb to the questions—What -shall we eat? what shall we drink? and wherewithal shall we be -clothed?—but, alas! equally dumb to the question—Where shall I find -rest, for I am weary and heavy-laden? These churches stand absolute -caverns of silence amid the thunder of the busy city—with a silence -which does not remind men of the eternal silence of truth, but of -the carelessness of heart wherewith men regard that silence. Their -work is nowhere till Sunday comes, and nowhere after that till the -next Sunday or the next saint's day. How is this? Why should they not -lift up the voice of silence against the tumult of care? against the -dissonance of Comus and his crew? How is it that they do not—standing -with their glittering, silent cocks and their golden, unopening keys -high uplifted in sunny air? Why is it that their cocks do not crow, -and their keys do not open? Because their cocks are busy about how -the wind blows, and their keys do not fit their own doors. They may -be caverns of peace, but they are cav<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>erns without entrance—sealed -fountains—a mockery of the thirst and confusion of men." "But men -do not want entrance. What is the use of opening the doors of our -churches so long as men do not care to go in? Times are changed now." -"But does not the very word Revelation imply a something coming from -heaven—not certainly before men were ready for it, for God cannot be -precipitate—but before they had begun to pray for it?" Mr. Fuller -remembered how his own father used always to compel his children to eat -one mouthful of any dish he heard them say at table that they did not -like—whereupon they generally chose to go on with it. "But they won't -come in." "How can you tell till you try, till you fulfill the part of -the <i>minister</i> (good old beautiful Christian word), and be 'the life -o' the building?'" "Presumption! Are not the prayers everything?" "At -least not till you get people to pray them." "You make too much of the -priest." "Leave him for God, and the true priest has all the seal of -his priesthood that he wants." At least so thought Mr. Fuller. "What is -the priest?" he asked, going on with the same catechism. "Just a man -to be among men what the Sunday is among the work-days of the week—a -man to remind you that there is a life within this life, or beyond -and about it, if you like that mode better—for extremes meet in the -truest figures—that care is not of God, that faith and confidence -are truer, simpler, more of common sense than balances at bankers' -or preference shares. He is a protest against the money-heaping -tendencies of men, against the desire of rank or estimation or any kind -of social distinction. With him all men are equal, as in the Church -all have equal rights, and rank ceases on the threshold of the same, -overpowered by the presence of the Son of Mary, who was married to a -carpenter—overpowered by the presence of the God of the whole earth, -who wrote the music for the great organ of the spheres, after he had -created them to play the same." Such was the calling of the clergyman, -as Mr. Fuller saw it. Rather a lofty one, and simply a true one. If -the clergyman cannot rouse men to seek his God and their God, if he -can only rest in his office, which becomes false the moment he rests -in it, being itself for a higher end; if he has no message from the -infinite to quicken the thoughts that cleave to the dust, the sooner he -takes to grave-digging or any other honest labor, the sooner will he -get into the kingdom of heaven, and the higher will he stand in it. But -now came the question—from the confluence of all these considerations, -"Why should the church be for Sundays only? And of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> places in the -world, what place wanted a week-day reminder of truth, of honesty, -of the kingdom of heaven, more than London? Why should the churches -be closed all the week, to the exclusion of the passers-by, and open -on the Sunday to the weariness of those who entered? Might there not -be too much of a good thing on the Sunday, and too little of it on a -week-day?" Again Mr. Fuller said to himself, "What is a parson?" and -once more he answered himself, that he was a man to keep the windows of -heaven clean, that its light might shine through upon men below. What -use, then, once more, could he make of the church of St. Amos?</p> - -<p>And again, why should the use of any church be limited to the Sunday? -Men needed religious help a great deal more on the week-day than on -the Sunday. On the Sunday, surrounded by his family, his flowers, his -tame animals, his friends, a man necessarily, to say the least of it, -thinks less of making great gains, is more inclined to the family -view of things generally; whereas, upon the week-day, he is in the -midst of the struggle and fight; it is catch who can, then, through -all the holes and corners, highways and lanes of the busy city: what -would it not be then if he could strike a five minutes'—yea, even -a one minute's—silence into the heart of the uproar? if he could -entice one vessel to sail from the troubled sea of the streets, -shops, counting-houses, into the quiet haven of the church, the doors -of whose harbor stood ever open? There the wind of the world would -be quiet behind them. His heart swelled within him as he thought of -sitting there keeping open door of refuge for the storm-tossed, the -noise-deafened, the crushed, the hopeless. He would not trouble them -with many words. There should be no long prayers. "But," thought he, -"as often as one came in, I would read the collect for the day; I would -soothe him with comfort out of Handel or Mendelssohn, I would speak -words of healing for the space of three minutes. I would sit at the -receipt of such custom. I would fish for men—not to make churchmen -of them—not to get them under my thumb"—(for Mr. Fuller used such -homely phrases sometimes that certain fledgling divines feared he was -vulgar)—"not to get them under the Church's thumb, but to get them out -of the hold of the devil, to lead them into the presence of Him who is -the Truth, and so can make them free."</p> - -<p>Therefore he said to himself that his church, instead of accumulating a -weary length of service on one day, should be open every day, and that -there he would be ready for any soul<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> upon which a flask of silence had -burst through the clouds that ever rise from the city life and envelop -those that have their walk therein.</p> - -<p>It was not long before his cogitations came to the point of action; -for with men of Mr. Fuller's kind all their meditations have action -for their result: he opened his church—set the door to the wall, and -got a youth to whom he had been of service, and who was an enthusiast -in music, to play about one o'clock, when those who dined in the city -began to go in search of their food, such music as might possibly -waken the desire to see what was going on in the church. For he said -to himself that the bell was of no use now, for no one would heed it; -but that the organ might fulfill the spirit of the direction that "the -curate that ministereth in every parish church shall say the morning -and evening prayer—where he ministereth, and shall cause a bell to be -tolled thereunto a convenient time before he begins, that the people -may come to hear God's word and to pray with him."</p> - -<p>Over the crowded street, over the roar of omnibuses, carts, wagons, -cabs, and all kinds of noises, rose the ordered sounds of consort. -Day after day, day after day, arose the sounds of hope and prayer; -and not a soul in the streets around took notice of the same. Why -should they? The clergy had lost their hold of them. They believed -that the clergy were given to gain and pleasure just as much as they -were themselves. Those even of the passers-by who were ready to -acknowledge worth where they saw it, were yet not ready to acknowledge -the probability of finding it in the priesthood; for their experience, -and possibly some of their prejudices, were against it. They were -wrong; but who was to blame for it? The clergy of the eighteenth -century, because so many of them were neither Christians nor gentlemen; -and the clergy of the present century, because so many of them are -nothing but gentlemen—men ignorant of life, ignorant of human needs, -ignorant of human temptations, yea, ignorant of human aspirations; -because in the city pulpits their voice is not uplifted against city -vices—against speculation, against falsehood, against money-loving, -against dishonesty, against selfishness; because elsewhere their voices -are not uplifted against the worship of money and rank and equipage; -against false shows in dress and economy; against buying and not -paying; against envy and emulation; against effeminacy and mannishness; -against a morality which consists in discretion. Oh! for the voice of -a St. Paul or a St. John! But it would be of little use:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> such men -would have small chance of being heard. They would find the one-half of -Christendom so intent upon saving souls instead of doing its duty, that -the other half thought it all humbug. The organ sounded on from day to -day, and no one heeded.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Fuller had the support of knowing that there were clergymen -east and west who felt with him; men who, however much he might differ -from them in the details of belief, yet worshiped the Lord Christ, and -believed him to be the King of men, and the Saviour of men whose sins -were of the same sort as their own, though they had learned them in the -slums, and not at Oxford or Cambridge. He knew that there were greater -men, and better workers than himself, among the London clergy; and he -knew that he must work like them, after his own measure and fashion, -and not follow the multitude. And the organ went on playing—I had -written <i>praying</i>—for I was thinking of what our Lord said, that men -ought always to pray, and not to faint.</p> - -<p>At last one day, about a quarter past one o'clock, a man came into the -church. Mr. Fuller, who sat in the reading-desk, listening to the music -and praying to God, lifted up his eyes and saw Mr. Kitely.</p> - -<p>The bookseller had been passing, and, having heard the organ, thought -he would just look in and see what was doing in the church. For this -church was a sort of link between him and his daughter now that she was -away.</p> - -<p>The moment he entered Mr. Fuller rose, and knelt, and began to read the -collect for the day, in order that Mr. Kitely might pray with him. As -soon as his voice arose the organ, which was then playing very softly, -ceased; Mr. Kitely knelt, partly, it must be allowed, out of regard for -Mr. Fuller; the organist came down and knelt beside him; and Mr. Fuller -went on with the second and third collects. After this he read the -Epistle and the Gospel for the foregoing Sunday, and then he opened his -mouth and spoke—for not more than three minutes, and only to enforce -the lesson. Then he kneeled and let his <i>congregation</i> depart with a -blessing. Mr. Kitely rose and left the chapel, and the organist went -back to his organ.</p> - -<p>Now all this was out of order. But was it as much out of order as -the omission of prayer altogether, which the Church enjoins shall be -daily? Times had changed: with them the order of prayer might possibly -be changed without offense. At least Mr. Fuller was not such a slave -to the letter as to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> believe that not to pray at all was better than -to alter the form by choice of parts. And although in the use of -prayers the Church had made great changes upon what had been first -instituted, he did not care to leave present custom for the sake -merely of reverting to that which was older. He had no hope of getting -business men to join in a full morning service—even such as it was at -first—upon any week-day.</p> - -<p>Mr. Kitely dropped in again before long, and again Mr. Fuller read the -collect and went through the same form of worship. Thus he did every -time any one appeared in the church, which was very seldom for the -first month or so. But he had some friends scattered about the city, -and when they knew of his custom they would think of it as they passed -his church, until at length there were very few days indeed upon which -two or three persons did not drop in and join in the collects, Epistle, -and Gospel. To these he always spoke for a few minutes, and then -dismissed them with the blessing.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXXI.</p> - -<p class="center">A DREARY ONE.</p> - - -<p>"Couldn't you get a holiday on Saturday, Tom?" said Mr. Worboise. "I -mean to have one, and I should like to take you with me."</p> - -<p>"I don't know, father," answered Tom, who did not regard the proposal -as involving any great probability of enjoyment; "my holiday is coming -so soon that I should not like to ask for it, especially as Mr. -Stopper—"</p> - -<p>"What about Mr. Stopper? Not over friendly, eh? He is not a bad fellow, -though, is Stopper. I'll ask for you, if you like that better."</p> - -<p>"I would much rather you wouldn't, father."</p> - -<p>"Pooh, pooh! nonsense, man! It's quite a different thing if I ask for -it, you know."</p> - -<p>Thomas made no further objection, for he had nothing at hand upon which -to ground a fresh one; nor, indeed, could he well have persisted in -opposing what seemed a kind wish of his father. It was not, however, -merely because they had little to talk about, and that Thomas always -felt a considerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> restraint in his father's presence—a feeling not -very uncommon to young men—but he lived in constant dread of something -coming to light about Lucy. He feared his father much more than he -loved him; not that he had ever been hardly treated by him; not that -he had ever even seen him in a passion, for Mr. Worboise had a very -fair command of his temper; it was the hardness and inflexibility read -upon his face from earliest childhood, that caused fear thus to overlay -love. If a father finds that from any cause such is the case, he ought -at once to change his system, and to require very little of any sort -from his child till a new crop has begun to appear on the ill-farmed -ground of that child's heart.</p> - -<p>Now the meaning of the holiday was this: Mr. Worboise had a -city-client—a carpet-knight—by name Sir Jonathan Hubbard, a decent -man, as the Scotch would say; jolly, companionable, with a husky -laugh, and friendly unfinished countenance in which the color was of -more weight than the drawing—for, to quote Chaucer of the Franklin, -"a better envined man," either in regard of body or cellar, "was -nowhere none;" upon Sir Jonathan's sociability Mr. Worboise had -founded the scheme of the holiday. Not that he intended to risk any -intrusion—Mr. Worboise was far too knowing a man for that. The fact -was that he had appointed to wait upon his client at his house near -Bickley on that day—at such an hour, however, as would afford cover -to his pretense of having brought his son out with him for a holiday -in the country. It was most probable that Sir Jonathan would invite -them to stay to dinner, and so to spend their holiday with him. There -was no Lady Hubbard alive, but there was a Miss Hubbard at the head -of the house; and hence Mr. Worboise's strategy. Nor had he reckoned -without his host, for if Sir Jonathan was anything he was hospitable; -things fell out as the lawyer had forehoped, if not foreseen. Sir -Jonathan was pleased with the young fellow, would not allow him to wait -companionless in the drawing-room till business was over—sent, on the -contrary, for his daughter, and insisted on the two staying to dinner. -He was one of those eaters and drinkers who have the redeeming merit of -enjoying good things a great deal more in good company. Sir Jonathan's -best port would seem to him to have something the matter with it if he -had no one to share it. If, however, it had come to the question of a -half-bottle or no companion, I would not answer for Sir Jonathan. But -his cellar would stand a heavy siege.</p> - -<p>Thomas was seated in the drawing-room, which looked cold<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> and rather -cheerless; for no company was expected, and I presume Miss Hubbard did -not care for color, save as reflected from her guests, seeing she had -all her furniture in pinafores. How little some rich people know how to -inherit the earth! The good things of it they only uncover when they -can <i>make</i>, not <i>receive</i>, a show.</p> - -<p>My dear reader—No, I will not take a liberty to which I have no right; -for perhaps were he to see me he would not like me, and possibly were -I to meet him I should not like him: I will rather say <i>My Reader</i>, -without the impertinence or the pledge of an adjective—have a little -patience while I paint Miss Hubbard just with the feather-end of my -pen. I shall not be long about it.</p> - -<p>Thomas sat in the drawing-room, I say, feeling vacant, for he was only -waiting, not expecting, when the door opened, and in came a fashionable -girl—rather tall, handsome, bright-eyed, well-dressed, and yet—What -was it that Thomas did not like about her? Was it that she was dressed -in the extreme of the fashion? I will not go on to say what the fashion -was, for before I had finished writing it, it would have ceased to be -the fashion; and I will not paint my picture <i>knowingly</i> with colors -that must fade the moment they are laid on. To be sure she had ridden -the fashion till it was only fit for the knacker's yard; but she soon -made him forget that, for she was clever, pleasant, fast—which means -affectedly unrefined, only her affectation did no violence to fact—and -altogether amusing. I believe what Thomas did not like about her at -first was just all wherein she differed from Lucy. Yet he could not -help being taken with her; and when his father and Sir Jonathan came -into the room, the two were talking like a sewing-machine.</p> - -<p>"Laura, my dear," said the knight, "I have prevailed on Mr. Worboise to -spend the day with us. You have no engagement, I believe?"</p> - -<p>"Fortunately, I have not, papa."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'll just give orders about dinner, and then I'll take our -friends about the place. I want to show them my new stable. You had -better come with us."</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus05.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="caption">"SHE WAS CLEVER, PLEASANT, FAST—"</p> - -<p>Sir Jonathan always ordered the dinner himself. He thought no woman was -capable of that department of the household economy. Laura put on her -hat—beautiful with a whole king-fisher—and they went out into the -grounds to the stable—trim as her drawing-room—where her favorite -horse ate apples out of her pocket; from the stable to the hot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>houses -and kitchen-garden; then out at a back door into the lane—shadowy with -trees—in which other colors than green were now very near carrying -the vote of the leaves. Sweet scents of decay filled the air, waved -about, swelling and sinking, on the flow of a west wind, gentle and -soft, as if it had been fanned from the wings of spring when nearest -to summer. Great white clouds in a brilliant sky tempered the heat of -the sun. What with the pure air, the fine light, and the handsome girl -by his side, Thomas was in a gayer mood than had been his for many a -long day. Miss Hubbard talked plenteously—about balls and theatres and -Mansion House dinners, about Rotten Row, and St. James's; and although -of all these Thomas knew very little, yet being quick and sympathetic, -he was able to satisfy the lady sufficiently to keep her going. He was -fortunate enough, besides, to say one or two clever things with which -she was pleased, and to make an excellent point once in a criticism -upon a girl they both knew, which, slighting her, conveyed, by no -very occult implication, a compliment to Miss Hubbard. By the time -they had reached this stage of acquaintanceship, they had left stout -Sir Jonathan and Mr. Worboise far behind; but Miss Hubbard was not in -the least danger of being made uncomfortable by any squeamish notions -of propriety; and, having nothing more amusing to do, and being out -already, she proposed that they should go home by a rather longer road, -which would lead them over a hill whence they would get a good view of -the country.</p> - -<p>"Do you like living in the country, Miss Hubbard?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! dear no. London for me. I can't tell what made papa come to this -dull place."</p> - -<p>"The scenery is very lovely, though."</p> - -<p>"People say so. I'm sure I don't know. Scenery wasn't taught where I -went to school."</p> - -<p>"Were you taught horses there?" asked Thomas, slyly.</p> - -<p>"No. That comes by nature. Do you know I won this bracelet in a -handicap last Derby?" she said, showing a very fine arm as well as -bracelet, though it was only the morning, so-called.</p> - -<p>Miss Hubbard had no design upon Thomas. How could she have? She knew -nothing about him. She would have done the same with any gentleman she -liked well enough to chatter to. And if Thomas felt it and thought that -Laura Hubbard was more entertaining than sober Lucy Burton, he made -up to Lucy for it in his own idea by asserting to himself that, after -all, she was far handsomer than Miss Hubbard, handsome as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> she was. Yet -I should never think of calling Lucy handsome. She was lovely—almost -beautiful, too. <i>Handsome</i> always indicates more or less vulgarity—no, -I mean commonness—in my ears. And certainly, whatever she might be -capable of, had she been blessed with poverty, Miss Hubbard was as -common as she was handsome. Thomas was fool enough to revert to Byron -to try his luck with that. She soon made him ashamed of showing any -liking for such a silly thing as poetry. That piqued him as well, -however.</p> - -<p>"You sing, I suppose?" he said.</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, when I can't help it—after dinner, sometimes."</p> - -<p>"Well, you sing poetry, don't you?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. One must have some words or other just to make her open -her mouth. I never know what they're about. Why should I? Nobody ever -pays the least attention to them—or to the music either, except it be -somebody that wants to marry you."</p> - -<p>But why should I go further with the record of such talk? It is not -interesting to me, and, therefore, can hardly be so to my reader. Even -if I had the art to set it forth aright, I hope I should yet hold to my -present belief, that nothing in which the art is uppermost is worth the -art expended upon it.</p> - -<p>Thomas was a little shocked at her coolness, certainly; but at the same -time that very coolness seemed a challenge. Before they had reached the -house again, he was vexed to find he had made no impression upon Miss -Hubbard.</p> - -<p>Farewell to such fencing. By the time he had heard her sing, and his -father and he were on their way home again, I am glad to say that -Thomas had had nearly enough of her. He thought her voice loud and -harsh in speech, showy and distressing in song, and her whole being -<i>bravura</i>. The contrasts in Lucy had come back upon him with a gush of -memorial loveliness; for, as I have said, she still held the fortress -of his heart, and held it for its lawful owner.</p> - -<p>Scarcely were they seated in the railway carriage, of which they were -the sole occupants, when the elder Worboise threw a shot across the -bows of the younger.</p> - -<p>"Well, Tom, my boy," he said, rubbing his lawyer palms, "how do you -like Miss Hubbard?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, very well, father," answered Thomas, indifferently. "She's a very -jolly sort of girl."</p> - -<p>"She's worth a hundred thousand," said his father, in a tone that -would have been dry but for a touch of slight resentment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> at the -indifference, possibly in the father's view irreverence, with which he -spoke of her.</p> - -<p>"Girls?" asked Thomas.</p> - -<p>"Pounds," answered his father, clenchingly.</p> - -<p>Tom was now convinced of his father's design in taking him out for a -holiday. But even now he shrunk from confession. And how did he justify -his sneaking now? By saying to himself, "Lucy can't have anything like -that money; it won't do. I must wait a more fitting opportunity." But -he thought he was very brave indeed, and actually seizing the bull of -his father's will by the horns when he ventured to take his meaning for -granted, and replied:</p> - -<p>"Why, father, a fellow has no chance with a girl like that, except -he could ride like Assheton Smith, and knew all the slang of the -hunting-field as well as the race-course."</p> - -<p>"A few children will cure her of that," said his father.</p> - -<p>"What I say is," persisted Thomas, "that she would never look at a -clerk."</p> - -<p>"If I thought you had any chance, I would buy you a commission in the -Blues."</p> - -<p>"It wants blue blood for that," said Thomas, whose heart, -notwithstanding, danced in his bosom at the sound of <i>commission</i>. -Then, afraid lest he should lose the least feather of such a chance, he -added hastily, "But any regiment would do."</p> - -<p>"I dare say," returned his father, at right angles. "When you have made -a little progress it will be time enough. She knows nothing about what -you are now. Her father asked me, and I said I had not made up my mind -yet what to do with you."</p> - -<p>"But, as I said before," resumed Thomas, fighting somewhat feebly, -"I haven't a chance with her. She likes better to talk about horses -than anything else, and I never had my leg across a horse's back in my -life—as you know, father," he added in a tone of reproach.</p> - -<p>"You mean, Tom, that I have neglected your education. Well, it shall -be so no longer. You shall go to the riding-school on Monday night. It -won't be open to-morrow, I suppose."</p> - -<p>I hope my reader is not so tired of this chapter as I am. It is bad -enough to have to read such uninteresting things—but to have to write -them! The history that is undertaken must be written, however, whether -the writer weary sometimes of his task, or the interest of his labor -carry him lightly through to the close.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p> - -<p>Thomas, wretched creature, dallied with his father's proposal. He -did not intend accepting it, but the very idea of marrying a rich, -fashionable girl like that, with a knight for a father, flattered -him. Still more was he excited at the notion, the very possibility of -wearing a uniform. And what might he not do with so much money? Then, -when the thought of Lucy came, he soothed his conscience by saying to -himself, "See, how much I must love her when I am giving up all this -for her sake!" Still his thoughts hovered about what he said he was -giving up. He went to bed on Sunday night, after a very pathetic sermon -from Mr. Simon, with one resolution, and one only, namely, to go to the -riding-school in Finsbury on Monday night.</p> - -<p>But something very different was waiting him.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXXII.</p> - -<p class="center">AN EXPLOSION.</p> - - -<p>The whole ground under Thomas's feet was honey-combed and filled with -combustible matter. A spark dropped from any, even a loving hand, might -send everything in the air. It needed not an enemy to do it.</p> - -<p>Lucy Burton had been enjoying a delightful season of repose by the -sea-side. She had just enough to do with and for the two children to -gain healthy distraction to her thinking. But her thinking as well as -her bodily condition grew healthier every day that she breathed the -sea air. She saw more and more clearly than ever that things must not -go on between her and Thomas as they were now going on. The very scent -of the sea that came in at her bed-room window when she opened it in -the morning, protested against it; the wind said it was no longer -endurable; and the clear, blue autumn sky said it was a shame for his -sake, if not for her own. She must not do evil that good might come; -she must not allow Thomas to go on thus for the sake even of keeping -a hold of him for his good. She would give him one chance more, an -if he did not accept it, she would not see him again, let come of it -what would. In better mood still, she would say, "Let God take care of -that for him and me." She had not written to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> since she came: that -was one thing she could avoid. Now, she resolved that she would write -to him just before her return, and tell him that the first thing she -would say to him when she saw him would be—had he told his father? and -upon his answer depended their future. But then the question arose, -what address she was to put upon the letter; for she was not willing -to write either to his home or to the counting-house for evident -reasons. Nor had she come to any conclusion, and had indeed resolved -to encounter him once more without having written, when from something -rather incoherently expressed in her grandmother's last letter, which -indeed referred to an expected absence of Mr. Stopper, who was now the -old lady's main support, she concluded, hastily, I allow, that Mr. -Worboise was from home, and that she might without danger direct a -letter to Highbury.</p> - -<p>Through some official at the Court of Probate, I fancy that Mr. -Worboise had heard of a caveat having been entered with reference to -the will of Mr. Richard Boxall, deceased. I do not know that this was -the case, but I think something must have occurred to irritate him -against those whom he, with the law on his side, was so sorely tempted -to wrong. I know that the very contemplation of wrong is sufficient -to irritate, and that very grievously, against one thus contemplated; -but Lucy would have been a very good match, though not equal to Miss -Hubbard, even in Mr. Worboise's eyes. On the other hand, however, if he -could but make up, not his mind, but his conscience, to take Boxall's -money, he would be so much the more likely to secure Miss Hubbard's; -which, together with what he could leave him, would make a fortune over -two hundred thousand—sufficient to make his son somebody. If Thomas -had only spoken in time, that is, while his father's conscience still -spoke, and before he had cast eyes of ambition toward Sir Jonathan's -bankers! All that was wanted on the devil's side now was some personal -quarrel with the rightful heirs; and if Mr. Worboise did not secure -that by means of Mr. Sargent's caveat, he must have got it from -what had happened on the Monday morning. Before Thomas came down to -breakfast, the postman had delivered a letter addressed to him, with -the Hastings postmark upon it.</p> - -<p>When Thomas entered, and had taken his seat, on the heels of the usual -cool <i>Good-morning</i>, his father tossed the letter to him across the -table, saying, more carelessly than he felt:</p> - -<p>"Who's your Hastings correspondent, Tom?"</p> - -<p>The question, coming with the sight of Lucy's handwriting,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> made the -eloquent blood surge into Tom's face. His father was not in the way of -missing anything that there was to see, and he saw Tom's face.</p> - -<p>"A friend of mine," stammered Tom. "Gone down for a holiday."</p> - -<p>"One of your fellow-clerks?" asked his father, with a dry significance -that indicated the possible neighborhood of annoyance, or worse. "I -thought the writing of doubtful gender."</p> - -<p>For Lucy's writing was not in the style of a field of corn in a -hurricane: it had a few mistakable curves about it, though to the -experienced eye it was nothing the less feminine that it did not affect -feminity.</p> - -<p>"No," faltered Tom, "he's not a clerk; he's a—well, he's a—teacher of -music."</p> - -<p>"Hm!" remarked Mr. Worboise. "How did you come to make his -acquaintance, Tom?" And he looked at his son with awful eyes, lighted -from behind with growing suspicion.</p> - -<p>Tom felt his jaws growing paralyzed. His mouth was as dry as his hand, -and it seemed as if his tongue would rattle in it like the clapper of a -cracked bell if he tried to speak. But he had nothing to say. A strange -tremor went through him from top to toe, making him conscious of every -inch of his body at the very moment when his embarrassment might have -been expected to make him forget it altogether. His father kept his -eyes fixed on him, and Tom's perturbation increased every moment.</p> - -<p>"I think, Tom, the best way out of your evident confusion will be to -hand me over that letter," said his father, in a cool, determined tone, -at the same time holding out his hand to receive it.</p> - -<p>Tom had strength to obey only because he had not strength to resist. -But he rose from his seat, and would have left the room.</p> - -<p>"Sit down, sir," said Mr. Worboise, in a voice that revealed growing -anger, though he could not yet have turned over the leaf to see the -signature. In fact, he was more annoyed at his son's pusillanimity than -at his attempted deception. "You make a soldier!" he added, in a tone -of contempt that stung Tom—not to the heart, but to the backbone. When -he had turned the leaf and saw the signature, he rose slowly from his -chair and walked to the window, folding the letter as he went. After -communing with the garden for awhile, he turned again to the table and -sat down. It was not Mr. Worboise's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> way to go into a passion when he -had anything like reasonable warning that his temper was in danger.</p> - -<p>"Tom, you have been behaving like a fool. Thank heaven, it's not -too late! How could you be such a fool? Believe me, it's not a safe -amusement to go trifling with girls this way."</p> - -<p>With a great effort, a little encouraged by the quietness of his -father's manner, Tom managed to say, "I wasn't trifling."</p> - -<p>"Do you mean to tell me," said his father, with more sternness than Tom -had ever known him assume—"do you mean to tell me," he repeated, "that -you have come under any obligation to this girl?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, I have, father."</p> - -<p>"You fool! A dress-maker is no fit match for you."</p> - -<p>"She's not a dress-maker," said Tom, with some energy, for he was -beginning to grow angry, and that alone could give a nature like his -courage in such circumstances; "she's a lady, if ever there was one."</p> - -<p>"Stuff and nonsense!" said his father. "Don't get on your high horse -with me. She's a beggar, if ever there was one."</p> - -<p>Tom smiled unbelievingly, or tried to smile; for now his tremor, under -the influence of his wholesome anger, had abated, and his breath began -to come and go more naturally. A little more, and he would feel himself -a hero, stoutly defending his lady-love, fearless of consequences to -himself. But he said nothing more just yet.</p> - -<p>"You know better than I do, you think, you puppy! I tell you she's not -worth a penny—no, nor her old witch of a grandmother, either. A pretty -mess you've made of it! You just sit down and tell the poor girl—it's -really too bad of you, Tom!—that you're sorry you've been such a -confounded fool, but there's no help for it."</p> - -<p>"Why should I say that?"</p> - -<p>"Because it's true. By all that's sacred!" said Mr. Worboise, with -solemn fierceness, "you give up that girl, or you give up me. Not that -your father is anything to you: but I swear, if you carry on with that -girl, you shall not cross my door as long as you do; and not a penny -you shall have out of my pocket. You'll have to live on your salary, my -fine fellow, and perhaps that'll bring down your proud stomach a bit. -By Jove! You may starve for me. Come, my boy," he added with sudden -gentleness, "don't be a fool."</p> - -<p>Whether Mr. Worboise meant all he said, I cannot tell, but at least -he meant Thomas to believe that he did. And Thomas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> did believe it. -All the terrible contrast between a miserable clerkship, with lodging -as well as food to be provided, and a commission in the army with -unlimited pocket-money, and the very name of business forgotten, rose -before him. A conflict began within him which sent all the blood to the -surface of his body, and made him as hot now as he had been cold just -before. He again rose from his seat, and this time his father, who saw -that he had aimed well, did not prevent him from leaving the room. He -only added as his son reached the door, "Mark what I say, Tom: <i>I mean -it</i>; and when I mean a thing, it's not my fault if it's not done. You -can go to the riding-school to-night, or you can look out for a lodging -suitable to your means. I should recommend Wapping."</p> - -<p>Thomas stood on the heel of one foot and the toes of the other, holding -the handle of the door in his hand till his father had done speaking. -He then left the room, without reply, closed the door behind him, took -his hat and went out. He was half way to London before he remembered -that he had left Lucy's letter in his father's hands and had not even -read it. This crowned his misery. He dared not go back for it; but the -thought of Lucy's words to him being at the mercy of his hard-hearted -father moved him so, that he almost made up his mind never to enter -the house again. And then how Lucy must love him when he had given up -everything for her sake, knowing quite well, too, that she was not -going to have any fortune after all? But he did not make up his mind; -he never had made up his mind yet; or, if he had, he unmade it again -upon meeting with the least difficulty. And now his whole "state of -man" was in confusion. He went into the counting-house as if he had -been walking in a dream, sat down to his desk mechanically, droned -through the forenoon, had actually only a small appetite for his -dinner, and when six o'clock arrived, and the place was closed, knew no -more what he was going to do than when he started out in the morning.</p> - -<p>But he neither went to the riding-school in Finsbury, nor to look for a -lodging in Wapping.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p> - - - - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXXIII.</p> - -<p class="center">DOWN AT LAST.</p> - - -<p>In the very absence of purpose, he strolled up Guild Court to call upon -Molken, who was always at home at that hour.</p> - -<p>Molken welcomed him even more heartily than usual. After a few minutes' -conversation they went out together: having no plan of his own, Thomas -was in the hands of any one who had a plan of which he formed a part. -They betook themselves to one of their usual haunts. It was too early -yet for play, so they called for some refreshment, and Thomas drank -more than he had ever drunk before, not with any definite idea of -drowning the trouble in his mind, but sipping and sipping from mere -restlessness and the fluttering motion of a will unable to act.</p> - -<p>It was a cold evening. An autumn wind which had dropped in its way all -the now mournful memories of nature, and was itself the more dreary -therefore, tumbled a stray billow now and then through the eddies of -its chimney-rocks and housetop-shoals upon the dirty window of the -little dreary den in which they sat, drinking their gin and water at a -degraded card-table whose inlaid borders were not yet quite obscured by -the filth caked upon it from greasy fingers and dusters dirtier than -the smoke they would remove. They talked—not about gaming—no: they -talked about politics and poetry; about Goethe and Heine; and Molken -exerted all his wit and sympathy to make himself agreeable to his -dejected friend, urging him to rise above his dejection by an effort -of the will; using, in fact, much the same arguments as Lady Macbeth -when she tried to persuade her husband that the whole significance of -things depended on how he chose to regard them: "These things must not -be thought after these ways." Thomas, however, had not made a confidant -of Molken. He had only dropped many words that a man like him would not -fail to piece together into some theory regarding the condition and -circumstances of one of whom he meant to make gain.</p> - -<p>At length, what between Molken's talk and the gin, a flame of -excitement began to appear in Thomas's weary existence; and almost -at the same instant a sound of voices and footsteps was heard below; -they came up the stair; the door of the room opened; and several -fellows entered, all eager for the excitement of play as a drunkard -for his drink, all talking,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> laughing, chaffing. A blast of wind laden -with rain from a laboring cloud which had crept up from the west -and darkened the place, smote on the windows, and soft yet keen the -drops pattered on the glass. All outside was a chaos of windy mist -and falling rain. They called for lights, and each man ordered his -favorite drink; the face of Nature, who was doing her best to befriend -them, was shut out by a blind of green and black stripes stained with -yellow; two dirty packs of cards were produced—not from the pocket of -any of the company, for none of the others would have trusted such a -derivation, but from the archives of the house; and, drawing round the -table, they began to offer their sacrifice to the dreary excitement for -whose presence their souls had been thirsting all the day. Two of them -besides Molken were foreigners, one of them apparently a German, a very -quiet and rather a gentlemanly man, between whom and Molken, however, -if Thomas had been on the outlook, he might, I fancy, have seen certain -looks of no good omen interchanged.</p> - -<p>They began playing very gently—and fairly no doubt; and Thomas for -some time went on winning.</p> - -<p>There was not even the pretense of much money among them. Probably a -few gold pieces was the most any of them had. When one of them had -made something at this sort of small private game, he would try his -luck at one of the more public tables, I presume. As the game went -on and they grew more excited, they increased their stakes a little. -Still they seemed content to go on for a little. Thomas and Molken were -partners, and still they won. Gradually the points were increased, and -betting began. Thomas began to lose and lose, of course, more rapidly -than he had won. He had had two or three pounds in his pocket when he -began, but all went now—the last of it in a bet on the odd trick. He -borrowed of Molken—lost; borrowed and lost, still sipping his gin and -water, till Molken declared he had himself lost everything. Thomas laid -his watch on the table, for himself and Molken—it was not of great -value—a gift of his mother only. He lost it. What was to be done? -He had one thing left—a ring of some value which Lucy had given him -to wear for her. It had belonged to her mother. He pulled it off his -finger, showed that it was a rose diamond, and laid it on the table. -It followed the rest. He rose, caught up his hat, and, as so many -thousands of gamblers have done before, rushed out into the rain and -the darkness.</p> - -<p>Through all the fumes of the gin which had begun to render<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> "the -receipt of reason a limbeck only," the thought gleamed upon his cloudy -mind that he ought to have received his quarter's salary that very day. -If he had had that, what might he not have done? It was his, and yet -he could not have it. His mind was all in a confused despair, ready -to grasp at anything that offered him a chance of winning back what -he had lost. If he had gone home and told his father—but he was not -capable of reasoning out anything. Lucy's ring was his chief misery: -so much must be said for him. Something—he did not know what—drove -him toward Guild Court. I believe, though in his after reflections he -could not identify the impulse, that it was the same which he obeyed at -last. Before he knew where he was going, he was at Mrs. Boxall's door. -He found it ajar, and walked up the stair to the sitting-room. That -door too was open, and there was no one there. But he saw at a glance, -from the box on the floor and the shawl on the table, that Lucy had -returned, and he supposed that her grandmother had gone up stairs with -her. The same moment his eyes sought the wall, and there hung two keys. -They were the keys of the door of communication and of the safe.</p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper, wise in his generation, sought, as we have seen, to stand -as well as possible with the next of kin and supposed heir to Mr. -Boxall, namely, his mother. He had, therefore, by degrees, made himself -necessary to her, in her fancy at least, by giving her good advice till -she thought she could not do without his wisdom. Nor that alone; he -had pleased her by a hundred little acknowledgments of her suzerainty, -especially grateful to one who loved power as Mrs. Boxall did. Among -the rest, one evening, after locking up the counting-house, he went to -her with those two keys in his hand, and kept playing with them till he -was taking his leave—then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, said:</p> - -<p>"But I don't see the use of troubling myself with these keys. I may as -well hang them up somewhere," he added, looking about for a place.</p> - -<p>"I don't know that it's wise to leave them here," objected Mrs. Boxall.</p> - -<p>"Oh! don't be uneasy, ma'am," returned Mr. Stopper. "You mustn't -suppose we leave a mint of money in the house at night. If we -did, <i>you</i> wouldn't be safe either. It's only what comes in after -banking-hours—a matter of ten pounds, or thereabouts, sometimes more, -sometimes less. The safe's more for the books—in case of fire, you -know."</p> - -<p>"I hope there's no danger of that, Mr. Stopper."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Not as long as the neighbors don't take fire. I see every spark out -when we have a fire before I turn my back on the premises. Indeed, I'm -rather more careful over the fire than the cash-box."</p> - -<p>In the meantime Mr. Stopper had discovered a brass-headed nail in the -wall, and thereupon he had hung the keys, and there he had hung them -every evening since, and there they hung at this moment when Thomas's -eyes went in search of them.</p> - -<p>When he considered the whole affair afterward, Thomas thought he must -have been driven by a demon. He hardly knew whether he was thinking -over or doing the thing that was present to him. No thought of -resisting it as a temptation arose to meet it. He knew that there was -eleven pounds odd shillings in the cash box, for he had seen one of -the other clerks count it; he knew that the cash-box was in the safe; -he knew that that was the key of it; he knew that the firm owed him -twenty-five pounds; he could replace it again before the morning; and -while thinking all this he was "doing the effect of his thinking," -almost without knowing it: he found himself standing before the safe -with the key already in the lock, and the cold handle of the door in -his hand. But it was dark all around and within him. In there alone lay -light and hope. In another moment the door was open, and the contents -of the cash-box—gold, silver, copper—in his pocket. It is possible -that even then he might have restored the money if he had not heard the -step of the policeman at the street-door. He left the safe open as it -was, with the key in it, and sped from the house.</p> - -<p>Nothing more marked itself on his memory till he reached the room where -he had left his <i>friends</i>. It was dark. There was no one there. They -had gone to try their luck in a more venturous manner, where rogue -met rogue, and fortune was umpire rather than cunning. He knew their -haunts, followed and found them. But his watch and ring were gone. -They told him, however, where they were. He would go and seek them -to-morrow. Meantime he would play. He staked and lost—lost, won, won -again; doubled his stakes, won still; and when he left the house it was -with a hundred pounds in his pocket and a gray dawn of wretchedness in -his heart.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p> - - - - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXXIV.</p> - -<p class="center">MRS. BOXALL AND MR. STOPPER.</p> - - -<p>Lucy was not up stairs with her grandmother when Thomas went into the -room. She had arrived some time before, and had ran across to the -bookseller's to put Mattie to bed, according to promise, leaving the -door just ajar that she might not trouble her grandmother to come -down and open it for her. She had come home hoping against hope that -Thomas must by this time have complied, in some way or other, with her -request—must have written to his father, or, at least, so positively -made up his mind to tell him on his return, that he would be at the -station to meet her with the assurance, or would appear in Guild Court -some time during the evening with a response to her earnest appeal. -When she had put the child to bed, she lingered a few moments with the -bookseller in his back parlor, for the shop was shut up, telling him -about Mattie, and listening to what little bits of news the worthy man -had to impart in return. Their little chat ran something in this way:</p> - -<p>"And how have you been, Mr. Kitely?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, among the middlins, miss, thank you. How's yourself been?"</p> - -<p>"Quite well, and no wonder."</p> - -<p>"I don't know that, miss, with two young things a pullin' of you all -ways at once. I hope Mattie wasn't over and above troublesome to you."</p> - -<p>"She was no trouble at all. You must have missed her, though."</p> - -<p>"I couldn't ha' believed how I'd miss her. Do you know the want of her -to talk to made me do what I ain't done for twenty year?"</p> - -<p>"What's that, Mr. Kitely? Go to church of a Sunday?"</p> - -<p>"More than that, miss," answered the bookseller, laughing—a little -sheepishly. "Would you believe it of me? I've been to church of a -week-day more than once. Ha! ha! But then it wasn't a long rigmarole, -like—"</p> - -<p>"You mustn't talk about it like that—to me, you know, Mr. Kitely."</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon, miss. I only meant he didn't give us a Sundayful -of it, you know. I never could ha' stood that. We had just a little -prayer, and a little chapter, and a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> sermon—good sense, too, -upon my word. I know I altered a price or two in my catalogue when I -come home again. I don't know as I was right, but I did it, just to -relieve my mind and make believe I was doin' as the minister told me. -If they was all like Mr. Fuller, I don't know as I should ha' the heart -to say much agen them."</p> - -<p>"So it's Mr. Fuller's church you've been going to? I'm so glad! How -often has he service, then?"</p> - -<p>"Every day, miss. Think o' that. It don't take long, though, as I tell -you. But why should it? If there is any good in talking at all, it -comes more of being the right thing than the muchness of it, as my old -father used to say—for he was in the business afore me, miss, though I -saw a great deal more o' the world than ever he did afore I took to it -myself—says he, 'It strikes me, Jacob, there's more for your money in -some o' those eighteen mos, if you could only read 'em, than in some o' -them elephants. I ha' been a watchin',' says he, 'the sort o' man that -buys the one and that buys the tother. When a little man with a shabby -coat brings in off the stall one o' them sixpenny books in Latin, that -looks so barbarious to me, and pops it pleased like into the tail of -his coat—as if he meant to have it out again the minute he was out -of the shop—then I thinks there's something in that little book—and -something in that little man,' says father, miss. And so I stick up for -the sermons and the little prayers, miss. I've been thinking about it -since; and I think Mr. Fuller's right about the short prayers. They're -much more after the manner of the Lord's Prayer anyhow. I never heard -of anybody getting tired before <i>that</i> was over. As you are fond of -church, miss, you'd better drop into Mr. Fuller's to-morrow mornin'. If -you go once, you'll go again."</p> - -<p>Long after, Lucy told Mr. Fuller what the bookseller had said, and it -made him think yet again whether our long prayers—<i>services</i>, as we -call them, forsooth—are not all a mistake, and closely allied to the -worship of the Pagans, who think they shall be heard for their much -speaking.</p> - -<p>She went out by the side-door into the archway. As she opened it, a -figure sped past her, fleet and silent. She started back. Why should it -remind her of Thomas? She had scarcely seen more in the darkness than a -deeper darkness in motion, for she came straight from the light.</p> - -<p>She found the door not as she left it.</p> - -<p>"Has Thomas been here, grannie?" she asked, with an alarm she could not -account for.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p> - -<p>"No, indeed. He has favored us with little of his company this many -a day," answered grannie, speaking out of the feelings which had -gradually grown from the seeds sown by Stopper. "The sooner you're -off with him, my dear, the better, for you!" she continued. "He's no -good, I doubt." With a terrible sinking at the heart, Lucy heard her -grandmother's words. But she would fight Thomas's battles to the last.</p> - -<p>"If ever that man dares to say a word against Thomas in my hearing," -she said, "I'll—I'll—I'll leave the room."</p> - -<p>O most lame and impotent conclusion! But Lucy carried it farther than -her words; for when Mr. Stopper entered the next morning, with a face -scared into the ludicrous, she, without even waiting to hear what he -had to say, though she foreboded evil, rose at once and left the room. -Mr. Stopper stood and looked after her in dismayed admiration; for -Lucy was one of those few whose anger even is of such an unselfish and -unspiteful nature, that it gives a sort of piquancy to their beauty.</p> - -<p>"I hope I haven't offended the young lady," said Mr. Stopper, with some -concern.</p> - -<p>"Never you mind, Mr. Stopper. I've been giving her a hint about Thomas, -and she's not got over it yet. Never you mind her. It's me you've got -to do with, and I ain't got no fancies."</p> - -<p>"It's just as well, perhaps, that she did walk herself away," said Mr. -Stopper.</p> - -<p>"You've got some news, Mr. Stopper. Sit ye down. Will you have a cup o' -tea?"</p> - -<p>"No, thank you. Where's the keys, Mrs. Boxall?"</p> - -<p>The old lady looked up at the wall, then back at Mr. Stopper.</p> - -<p>"Why, go along! There they are in your own hand."</p> - -<p>"Yes; but where do you think I found them?—Hanging in the door of the -safe, and all the money gone from the cash-box. I haven't got over the -shock of it yet."</p> - -<p>"Why, good heavens! Mr. Stopper," said the old lady, who was rather -out of temper with both herself and Lucy, "you don't think <i>I've</i> been -a-robbing of your cash-box, do you?"</p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper laughed aloud.</p> - -<p>"Well, ma'am, that would be a roundabout way of coming by your own. I -don't think we could make out a case against you if you had. Not quite. -But, seriously, who came into the house after I left? I hung the keys -on that wall with my own hands."</p> - -<p>"And I saw them there when I went to bed," said Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> Boxall, making a -general impression ground for an individual assertion.</p> - -<p>"Then somebody must have come in after you had gone to bed—some one -that knew the place. Did you find the street door had been tampered -with?"</p> - -<p>"Lucy opened it this morning."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall went to the door and called her grand-daughter. Lucy came, -thinking Mr. Stopper must be gone. When she saw him there, she would -have left the room again, but her grandmother interfered.</p> - -<p>"Come here, child," she said, peremptorily. "Was the house-door open -when you went down this morning?"</p> - -<p>Lucy felt her face grow pale with the vaguest foreboding—associated -with the figure which had run through the archway and her finding the -door open. But she kept her self-command.</p> - -<p>"No, grannie. The door was shut as usual."</p> - -<p>"Did nobody call last night?" asked Mr. Stopper, who had his -suspicions, and longed to have them confirmed in order to pay off old -scores at once.</p> - -<p>"Nobody; that I'll give my word for," answered Mrs. Boxall.</p> - -<p>"A most unaccountable thing, ladies," said Stopper, rubbing his -forehead as if he would fain rouse an idea in his baffled brain.</p> - -<p>"Have you lost much money?" asked the old lady.</p> - -<p>"Oh, it's not the money; that's a flea-bite. But justice, you -know—that's the point," said Mr. Stopper, with his face full of -meaning.</p> - -<p>"Do you suspect any one, Mr. Stopper?"</p> - -<p>"I do. I found something on the floor. If Mr. Worboise were come," he -continued, looking hard at Lucy, "he might be able to help us out with -it. Sharp fellow that. But it's an hour past his time, and he's not -made his appearance yet. I fear he's been taking to fast ways lately. -I'll just go across the court to Mr. Molken, and see if he knows -anything about him."</p> - -<p>"You'll oblige <i>me</i>," said Lucy, who was cold to the very heart, but -determined to keep up, "by doing nothing of the sort. I will not have -his name mentioned in the matter. Does any one but yourself know of -the—the robbery, Mr. Stopper?"</p> - -<p>"Not a soul, miss. I wouldn't do anything till I had been to you. I was -here first, as I generally am."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Then, if I am to have anything to say at all," she returned with -dignity, "let the matter rest in the mean time—at least till you -have some certainty. If you don't you will make suspicion fall on the -innocent. It might have been grannie or myself, for anything you can -tell yet."</p> - -<p>"Highty-tighty, lass!" said her grandmother. "We're on our high horse, -I believe."</p> - -<p>Before she could say more, however, Lucy had left the room. She just -managed to reach her bed, and fell fainting upon it.</p> - -<p>Money had evidently, even in the shadow it cast before it, wrought -no good effect upon old Mrs. Boxall. The bond between her and her -grand-daughter was already weakened. She had never spoken thus to her -till now.</p> - -<p>"Never you mind what the wench says," she went on to Stopper. "The -money's none of hers, and shan't be except I please. You just do as you -think proper, Mr. Stopper. If that young vagabond has taken the money, -why you take him, and see what the law will say to it. The sooner our -Lucy is shut of him the better for her—and may be for you too, Mr. -Stopper," added the old lady, looking insinuatingly at him.</p> - -<p>But whether the head clerk had any design upon Lucy or not, he seemed -to think that her favor was of as much consequence as that of her -grandmother. He might have reasoned in this way—that he could not -expose Thomas without making Lucy his enemy, both from her regard to -him and because of the disgrace that would come upon her by having -her name associated with his; and Mrs. Boxall was old, and Lucy might -take her place any day in the course of nature. Whereas, so long as -he kept the secret and strengthened the conclusions against Thomas -without divulging them, he had a hold over Lucy, even a claim upon her -gratitude, he would say, which he might employ as he saw occasion, -and as prudence should direct, holding his revenge still ready in his -hands in case there should be nothing to be gained by foregoing it. -Therefore, when the clerk in whose charge the money-box was, opened it, -he found in it only a ticket with Mr. Stopper's initials, and the sum -abstracted in figures, by which it was implied that Mr. Stopper had -taken the contents for his own use. So, although it seemed queer that -he should have emptied it of the whole sum, even to the few coppers, -there was nothing to be said, and hardly anything to be conjectured -even.</p> - -<p>As Thomas did not make his appearance all day, not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> doubt remained -upon Mr. Stopper's mind that he had committed the robbery. But he was -so well acquainted with the minutest details of the business that he -knew very well that the firm was the gainer by Thomas's absconding as -nearly as possible to the same amount that he had taken. This small -alleviation of Thomas's crime, however, Mr. Stopper took no pains -to communicate to Lucy, chuckling only over his own good fortune in -getting rid of him so opportunely; for he would no longer stand in his -way, even if he were to venture on making advances to Lucy; she could -never have anything more to do with a fellow who could be tried for -burglary if he chose to apply for a warrant for his apprehension.</p> - -<p>Intending that his forbearance should have the full weight of -obedience to her wishes, Mr. Stopper went up in the evening after the -counting-house was closed. Lucy was not there. She had not left her -room since the morning, and the old woman's tenderness had revived a -little.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you'd better not hang them keys up there, Mr. Stopper. I don't -care about the blame of them. I've had enough of it. There's Lucy, -poor dear, lying on her bed like a dead thing; and neither bit nor sup -passed her lips all day. Take your keys away with you, Mr. Stopper. -I'll have nothing more to do wi' them, I can tell you. And don't you go -and take away that young man's character, Mr. Stopper."</p> - -<p>"Indeed I should be very sorry, Mrs. Boxall. He hasn't been here all -day, but I haven't even made a remark on his absence to any one about -the place."</p> - -<p>"That's very right, Mr. Stopper. The young gentleman may be at home -with a headache."</p> - -<p>"Very likely," answered Mr. Stopper, dryly. "Good-night, Mrs. Boxall. -And as the keys must have an unpleasant look after what has happened, -I'll just put them in my pocket and take them home with me."</p> - -<p>"Do ye that, Mr. Stopper. And good-night to you. And if the young man -comes back to-morrow, don't 'ee take no notice of what's come and gone. -If you're sure he took it, you can keep it off his salary, with a wink -for a warning, you know."</p> - -<p>"All right, ma'am," said Mr. Stopper, taking his departure in less good -humor than he showed.</p> - -<p>I will not say much about Lucy's feelings. For some time she was so -stunned by the blow as to be past conscious suffering. Then commenced -a slow oscillation of feeling: for one half hour, unknown to her as -time, she would be declaring<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> him unworthy of occasioning her trouble; -for the next she would be accusing his attachment to her, and her own -want of decision in not absolutely refusing to occupy the questionable -position in which she found herself, as the combined causes of his -ruin: for as ruin she could not but regard such a fall as his. She -had no answer to her letter—heard nothing of him all day, and in -the evening her grandmother brought her the statement of Mr. Stopper -that Thomas had not been there. She turned her face away toward the -wall, and her grandmother left her, grumbling at girls generally, and -girls in love especially. Meantime a cherub was on its way toward her, -bearing a little bottle of comfort under its wing.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXXV.</p> - -<p class="center">MATTIE FALLS AND RISES AGAIN.</p> - - -<p>Mattie had expected Lucy to call for her in the forenoon and take her -out to Wyvil Place to see Miriam. Spending the morning with her father -in the shop, amidst much talk, conducted with the most respectful -docility on the part of the father, and a good deal of condescending -assertion on the part of the child, she had run out twenty times to -look at the clock at St. Jacob's; and at length, finding that Lucy -did not come, had run up and knocked at her door, giving Mr. Spelt -a promissory nod as she passed. Hearing from Mrs. Boxall, however, -that Miss Burton was too tired to go out with her, she turned in some -disappointment, and sought Mr. Spelt.</p> - -<p>"Well, mother, how do <i>you</i> do?" she asked, perking up her little gray -face, over which there was now a slight wash of rose-color, toward the -watch-tower of the tailor.</p> - -<p>"Quite well, Mattie. And you look well," answered Mr. Spelt.</p> - -<p>"And I am well, I assure you; better than I ever expected to be in this -world, mother. I mean to come up beside you a bit. I want to tell you -something."</p> - -<p>"I don't know, Mattie," answered Mr. Spelt, with some embarrassment. -"Is it anything in particular?"</p> - -<p>"In particular! Well, I should think so," returned Mattie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> with a -triumph just dashed with displeasure, for she had not been accustomed -to any hesitation in accepting her advances on the part of Mr. Spelt. -"I should think so." Then, lowering her voice to a keen whisper, she -added, "I've been to see God in his own house."</p> - -<p>"Been to church, have you?" said Mr. Spelt.</p> - -<p>Now I am sorry to say that Spelt was behaving dishonestly—not from -choice, but from embarrassment and fear springing from a false -conscientiousness. And Mattie felt at once that Mr. Spelt was not -behaving like himself.</p> - -<p>"No, Mr. Spelt," she answered with dignity—bridling indeed; "I've -not been to church. You don't call that God's house, do you? <i>Them!</i> -They're nothing but little shops like your own, Mr. Spelt. But God's -house!—Take me up, I say. Don't make me shout such things in the open -street."</p> - -<p>Thus adjured, Mr. Spelt could stand out no longer. He stooped over his -threshold and lifted Mattie toward him. But the moment her head reached -the level of his floor, she understood it all. In <i>her</i> old place in -the corner sat the little demoniac Poppie, clothed and in her right -mind. A true observer, however, would have seen from her pale, thin -face that possibly her quietude was owing more to weakness than to any -revolution in her nature.</p> - -<p>"Well!" said Mattie, with hauteur. "Will you set me down again, if you -please, Mr. Spelt."</p> - -<p>"I think, perhaps," said the tailor, meekly, holding the child still -suspended in the air, "I could find room for you both. The corner -opposite the door there, Mattie," he added, looking round suggestively -in the direction of the spot signified.</p> - -<p>"Put me down," insisted Mattie, in such a tone that Mr. Spelt dared not -keep her in suspense any longer, but lowered her gently to the ground. -All the time Poppie had been staring with great black eyes, which -seemed to have grown much larger during her illness, and, of course, -saying nothing.</p> - -<p>As soon as the soles of Mattie's feet touched the ground, she seemed to -gather strength like Antæus; for instead of turning and walking away, -with her head as high, morally considered, as that of any giant, she -began to parley with the offending Mr. Spelt.</p> - -<p>"I have heard, mother—Mr. Spelt—that you should be off with the old -love before you're on with the new. You never told me what you were -about."</p> - -<p>"But you was away from home, Mattie."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You could have written. It would only have cost a penny. I shouldn't -have minded paying it."</p> - -<p>"Well, Mattie, shall I turn Poppie out?"</p> - -<p>"Oh! <i>I</i> don't want you to turn her out. You would say I drove her to -the streets again."</p> - -<p>"Do you remember, Mattie, that you wouldn't go to that good lady's -house because she didn't ask Poppie, too. Do you?"</p> - -<p>A moment's delay in the child's answer revealed shame. But she was -ready in a moment.</p> - -<p>"Hers is a big house. That's my own very corner."</p> - -<p>"Don't you see how ill Poppie is?"</p> - -<p>"Well!" said the hard little thing, with a side nod of her head over -the speaking corner of her mouth.</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt began to be a little vexed. He took the upper hand now and -came home to her. She was turning to go away, when he spoke in a tone -that stopped her. But she stood with her back half turned toward him.</p> - -<p>"Mattie, do you remember the story Somebody told us about the ragged -boy that came home again, and how his brother, with the good clothes -on, was offended, and wouldn't go in because he thought he was taking -his place? You're behaving just the same as the brother with the good -clothes."</p> - -<p>"I don't know that. There's some difference, I'm sure. I don't think -you're telling the story right. I don't think there's anything about -taking his place. I'll just go and look. I can read it for myself, Mr. -Spelt."</p> - -<p>So saying, Mattie walked away to the house, with various backward -tosses of the head. Mr. Spelt drew his head into his shell, troubled at -Mattie's naughtiness. Poppie stared at him, but said nothing, for she -had nothing to say.</p> - -<p>When Mattie entered the shop, her father saw that something was amiss -with her.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter with my princess?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Oh, nothing much," answered Mattie, with tears in her eyes. "I shall -get over it, I dare say. Mr. Spelt has been very naughty," she added; -in a somewhat defiant tone; and before her father could say anything -more she had reached the stairs, and went to her own room.</p> - -<p>My reader must imagine her now taking down a huge family Bible her -father him given her for the sake of the large print. She lugs it along -and heaves it upon her bed; then, by a process known only to herself, -finds the place, and begins to spell out the story once more, to -discover whether the tailor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> has not garbled it to her condemnation. -But, as she reads, the story itself lays hold upon her little heart, -and she finds a far greater condemnation there than she had found in -her friend's reproof. About half an hour after, she ran—Mattie seldom -ran—past Mr. Spelt and Poppie, not venturing to look up, though, ere -she came too near, the tailor could see the red eyes in the white face, -and knocked at Mrs. Boxall's door.</p> - -<p>Lucy was still lying on her bed when she heard little knuckles at her -door, and having answered without looking round, felt, a moment after, -a tiny hand steal into hers. She opened her eyes, and saw Mattie by her -bedside. Nor was she too much absorbed in her own griefs to note that -the child had hers, too.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter with you, Mattie, my dear?" she asked, in a faint -voice.</p> - -<p>Mattie burst into tears—a rare proceeding with the princess. It was -some moments before she could sob out:</p> - -<p>"I've been <i>so</i> naughty, Miss Burton—so <i>very</i> naughty!"</p> - -<p>Lucy raised herself, sat on the side of the bed, and took the child's -hand. Mattie could not look up.</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry to hear that, Mattie. What have you done?"</p> - -<p>"Such a shame. Poppie! Far country. Elder brother."</p> - -<p>These were almost the only words Lucy could hear for the sobs of the -poor child. Hence she could only guess at the cause of her grief, and -her advice must be general.</p> - -<p>"If you have done wrong to Poppie, or any one, you must go and tell her -so, and try to make up for it."</p> - -<p>"Yes, I will, for I can't bear it," answered Mattie, beginning to -recover herself. "Think of doing the very same as the one I was so -angry with when mother read the story! I couldn't bear to see Poppie -in my place in mother's shop, and I was angry, and wouldn't go in. But -I'll go now, as soon as I get my poor eyes dried."</p> - -<p>Lucy was not able to say much to her, and Mattie was so taken up with -her own repentance that she did not see that Lucy was in trouble, too. -In a few minutes the child announced her intention of going to Mr. -Spelt at once, and left Lucy to her own thoughts. I will first tell how -Mattie finished her repentance, and then return to Lucy.</p> - -<p>She walked right under Mr. Spelt's door, and called aloud, but with a -wavering voice:</p> - -<p>"Mother, take me up directly. I'm very sorry."</p> - -<p>Over the threshold came a pair of arms, and Mattie was hoisted into the -heaven of her repentant desire. As soon as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> she was in it she crawled -on her hands and knees—even she could scarcely have stood in the -place—toward Poppie.</p> - -<p>"How do you do, prodigal?" she said, putting her arms round the -bewildered Poppie, who had no more idea of what she meant than a child -born in heaven would have had. "I'm very glad to see you home again. -Put on this ring, and we'll both be good children to mother there."</p> - -<p>So saying, she took a penny ring, with a bit of red and two bits of -green glass in it, from her finger, and put it upon Poppie's, who -submitted speechless, but was pleased with the glitter of the toy. She -did not kiss in return, though: Poppie liked to be kissed, but she had -not learned to kiss yet.</p> - -<p>"Mother," Mattie went on, "I was behaving like—like—like—a wicked -Pharisee and Sadducee. I beg your pardon, mother. I will be good. May I -sit in the corner by the door?" "I think," answered the little tailor, -greatly moved, and believing in the wind that bloweth where it listeth -more than ever he had believed before—"I think if I were to move a -little, you could sit in the corner by the window, and then you would -see into the court better. Only," he said, as he drew his work about -his new position, "you must not lean much against the sash, for it is -not very sound, and you might tumble in the court, you know."</p> - -<p>So Mattie and Poppie sat side by side, and the heart of the tailor had -a foretaste of heaven.</p> - -<p>Presently Mattie began to talk to Poppie. She could scarcely, -however, draw a single response from her, for she had nothing to say. -Interchange of thought was unknown to the elder child, and Mattie's -words were considerably less intelligible to Poppie than the autumn -wind that blew round their nest. Mattie was annoyed. The romance of the -reconciliation was dimmed. Instinctively she felt that the only way to -restore it was to teach Poppie, and she took her in hand at once.</p> - -<p>There was more hope for Poppie, and Spelt, too, now that Mattie was -in the work, for there is no teacher of a child like a child. All the -tutors of Oxford and Cambridge will not bring on a baby as a baby a -year older will. The child-like is as essential an element in the -teacher as in the scholar. And the train of my story is not going so -fast but that I may pull up at this siding for a moment to say that -those who believe they have found a higher truth, with its higher -mode of conveyance, are very apt to err in undervaluing, even to the -degree of wishing to remove the lower forms in which truth, if not -embodied exactly, is at least wrapt up. Truth may be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> presented in -the grandeur of a marble statue, or in a brown-paper parcel. I choose -the sculpture; my last son prefers the parcel. The only question is -whether there is truth—not in the abstract, but as assimilable by the -recipient—present in the form. I cannot, however, resume without a -word on the other side. To the man who sees and feels the higher and -nobler form, it is given to teach <i>that</i>. Let those to whom the lower -represents the sum of things, teach it with their whole hearts. <i>He</i> -has nothing to do with it, for he cannot teach it without being false. -The snare of the devil holds men who, capable of teaching the higher, -talk of the people not being ready to receive it, and therefore teach -them in forms which are to their own souls an obstruction. There is -cowardice and desertion in it. They leave their own harder and higher -work to do the easier and clumsier work of their neighbor. It is -wasteful of time, truth, and energy. The man who is most careful over -the truth that lies in forms not his own, will be the man most careful -to let no time-serving drag him down—not to the level of the lower -teachers, for they are honest—but to the level of Job's friends, who -lied for God; nay, lower still; for this will soon cease to be lying -even for God, and become lying for himself.</p> - -<p>When Mattie left her, Lucy again threw herself down, and turned her -face to the wall, and the story of which Mattie had been talking -straightway began to mingle with all that filled her troubled mind. -For who was a prodigal son but her lost Thomas? Lost indeed! But there -was another word in the parable to balance that—there was <i>found</i> as -well. Thomas might be found again. And if the angels in heaven rejoiced -over the finding of such a lost wanderer, why should she cut the cable -of Love, and let him go adrift from her heart? Might she not love him -still? Ought she not to love him still? Was he not more likely to come -back some day if she went on loving him? The recent awaking of Lucy's -spiritual nature—what would be called by some, her conversion—had -been so interpenetrated with the image, the feeling, the subjective -presence of Thomas—she had thought so much of him while stooping her -own shoulders to the easy yoke, that she could not leave him out now, -and it seemed as if, were she to give him up, she would lose half the -incentive to press forward herself. The fibres of her growth had so -twined around him, that if the idea of his regeneration departed from -her, the hope of her own would sicken, at least, if not die. True, -Pride hinted at the disgrace of being allied to such a man—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>a man -who had stolen; but Faith replied, that if there were joy in heaven -over him, she too might rejoice over him when he came back; and if the -Father received the prodigal with all his heart, she too might receive -him with all hers. But she would have no right to receive him thus if -she did nothing to restore Him; nor would she have any right to put -forth in full her reclaiming influence except she meant thus to receive -him. Her conscience began to reproach her that she had not before done -all that she could to reclaim him, and, if she only knew the way, she -was now at least prepared to spend and be spent for him. But she had -already done all that she was, at this juncture of his history, to be -allowed to do for the wretched trifler. God had taken the affair out of -her hands, and had put it into those of somewhat harder teachers.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXXVI.</p> - -<p class="center">BUSINESS.</p> - - -<p>When Mr. Worboise found that Thomas did not return that night, he -concluded at once that he had made up his mind to thwart him in his now -cherished plan, to refuse the daughter of Sir Jonathan Hubbard, and -marry the girl whom his father disliked. He determined at once, even -supposing he might be premature as regarded the property, to have the -satisfaction of causing the Boxalls sharp uneasiness at least. His son -would not have dared to go against his wishes but for the enticements -of "that minx," in the confidence that her uncle's property was about -to be hers. He would teach her, and him too, a lesson. Either her -uncle or some one or more of his family were not drowned, or they were -all drowned: in neither case was the property hers. If one of the -family was alive, the property remained where it was; if they were all -gone, the property was his. He thought himself into a rage over her -interference with his plans, judged himself an injured person, and -thereby freed of any trifling obligation that a fastidious conscience -might have fancied to exist to the prejudice of his claims upon the -property of his friend, supposed to be deceased. He was now ready to -push his rights to the uttermost—to exact the pound of flesh that -the law awarded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> him. He went the next morning but one after Thomas's -disappearance and propounded the will.</p> - -<p>In due time this came to the knowledge of Mr. Sargent. He wrote to Mrs. -Boxall a stiff business letter acquainting her with the fact, and then -called upon Mr. Worboise to see whether some arrangement could not be -come to; for, having learned the nature of the will, he saw that almost -any decent division of the property, for which he could only appeal to -the justice of the man, would be better than a contest. Mr. Worboise -received him with a graciousness reaching almost to kindness, talked -lightly of the whole as a mere matter of business about which there -was no room for disputing, smiled aside at every attempt made by Mr. -Sargent to approach the subject from another quarter, and made him -understand, without saying a word to that effect, that he was prepared -to push matters to the extreme of extremity. He even allowed him to see -that he had reasons beyond the value of the money for setting about the -matter in the coolest, most legal fashion in the world. Mr. Sargent -went away baffled—to devise upon what ground he could oppose the grant -of probate.</p> - -<p>While Mr. Sargent was having his interview, Mr. Stopper was awaiting -his departure in the clerk's room. It must be remembered that Mr. -Stopper was now between two stools; and while he came to plead the -cause of the widow and fatherless, he must be especially careful for -his own sake not to give offense. Him, too, Mr. Worboise received with -the greatest good humor; assured him that there was no mistake in the -matter, and he believed no flaw in the will; informed him that he had -drawn it up himself, and had, at his friend's request, entered his own -name as contingent reversioner. His friend might have done it in joke; -he did not know; but he had not any intention of foregoing his rights, -or turning out of Luck's way when she met him in the teeth. On the -contrary, he meant to have the money and to use it; for, at all events, -it could not have been in joke that his friend had omitted his mother -and his niece. He must have had some good reason for so doing; and -he was not one to treat a dead friend's feeling with disrespect—and -so on, all in pleasant words, and with smiling delivery, ended by a -hearty, easy "good-morning." For, ere he had finished, Mr. Stopper, -coming to the conclusion that nothing was to be done, rose to take his -leave. At the door he turned, and said:</p> - -<p>"I hope nothing is amiss with your son, Mr. Worboise. I hope he is not -ill."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why do you ask?" returned Mr. Worboise, just a little staggered; for -he was not prepared to hear that Thomas was missing from Bagot Street -as well as from home. When he heard the fact, however, he merely nodded -his head, saying:</p> - -<p>"Well, Mr. Stopper, he's too old for me to horsewhip him. I don't know -what the young rascal is after. I leave him in your hands. That kind of -thing won't do, of course. I don't know that it wouldn't be the best -thing to discharge him. It's of no consequence to me, you know, and it -would be a lesson to him, the young scapegrace! That's really going too -far, though you and I can make allowances, eh, Stopper?"</p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper was wise enough not to incur the odium of a Job's -messenger, by telling what even Mr. Worboise would have considered bad -news; for he had a reverence for locks and money, and regarded any -actionable tampering with either as disgraceful. "Besides," thought -Stopper, "if it was only to spite the young jackanapes, I could almost -marry that girl without a farthing. But I shouldn't have a chance if I -were to leak about Tom."</p> - -<p>Mr. Worboise was uneasy, though. He told his wife the sum of what had -passed between Tom and himself, but I fear enjoyed her discomfiture at -the relation; for he said spitefully, as he left her room:</p> - -<p>"Shall I call on Mr. Simon as I go to town, and send him up, Mrs. -Worboise?"</p> - -<p>His wife buried her face in her pillow, and made no reply. Perhaps the -husband's heart smote him; but I doubt it, though he did call on Mr. -Simon and send him to her.</p> - -<p>All the result of Mr. Simon's inquiries was the discovery that Thomas -had vanished from the counting-house, too. Thereupon a more real grief -than she had ever known seized the mother's heart; her conscience -reproached her as often as Mr. Simon hinted that it was a judgment upon -her for having been worldly in her views concerning her son's marriage; -and she sent for Amy home, and allowed things to take their way.</p> - -<p>All the comfort Mr. Worboise took was to say to himself over and over, -"The young rascal's old enough to take care of himself. He knows what -he's about, too. He thinks to force me to a surrender by starving me of -his precious self. We'll see. I've no doubt he's harbored in that old -woman's house. Stay a bit, and if I don't fire him out—by Jove! She'll -find I'm not one to take liberties with, the old hag!"</p> - -<p>The best that Mr. Sargent could do at present was to resist<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> probate on -the ground of the uncertainty of the testator's death, delaying thus -the execution of the will. He had little hope, however, of any ultimate -success—except such as he might achieve by shaming Mr. Worboise into -an arrangement.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall sent for him, and with many acknowledgments begged him -to do his best for them, saying that, if he were successful, she -would gladly pay him whatever he demanded. He repudiated all idea of -payment, however, and indeed considered himself only too fortunate to -be permitted to call as often as he pleased, for then he generally saw -Lucy. But he never made the smallest attempt to renew even the slight -intimacy which had formerly existed between them.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXXVII.</p> - -<p class="center">MR. SARGENT LABORS.</p> - - -<p>That large room in Guild Court, once so full of aged cheerfulness -and youthful hope, was now filled with an atmosphere of both moral -and spiritual perturbation. The first effect of her son's will upon -Mrs. Boxall was rage and indignation against Mr. Worboise, who, she -declared, must have falsified it. She would not believe that Richard -could have omitted her name, and put in that of his attorney. The -moment she heard the evil tidings, she rose and went for her bonnet, -with the full intention of giving "the rascal a bit of her mind." It -was all that her grand-daughter and Mr. Stopper could do to prevent -her. For some time she would yield no ear to their representations of -the bad consequences of such a proceeding. She did not care. If there -was justice to be had on the earth she would have it, if she went to -the Queen herself to get it. I half suspect that, though she gave in at -last, she did carry out her intention afterward without giving any one -the chance of preventing her. However that may be, the paroxysm of her -present rage passed off in tears, followed by gloomy fits, which were -diversified by outbreaks of temper against Lucy, although she spoke -of her as a poor dear orphan reduced to beggary by the wickedness and -greed of lawyers in general, who lived like cannibals upon the flesh -and blood of innocents. In vain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> would Lucy try to persuade her that -they were no worse now than they had been, reminding her that they were -even happier together before the expectation of more than plenty came -in to trouble them; beside her late imagination of wealth, her present -feeling was that of poverty, and to feel poor is surely the larger half -of being poor.</p> - -<p>On Lucy my reader will easily believe that this change of prospect had -little effect. Her heart was too much occupied with a far more serious -affair to be moved about money. Had everything been right with Thomas, -I have no doubt she would have built many a castle of the things she -would do; but till Thomas was restored to her, by being brought to his -right mind, no one thing seemed more worth doing than another. Sadness -settled upon her face, her walk, her speech, her whole expression. But -she went about her work as before, and did what she could to keep her -sorrow from hurting others. The reality of the late growth of religious -feeling in her was severely tested; but it stood the test; for she -sought comfort in holding up her care to God; and what surer answer to -such prayer could there be, than that she had strength to do her work? -We are saved by hope, and Lucy's hope never died; or if it did wither -away under the dry blasts of her human judgment, the prayers that went -up for submission to His will soon returned in such dews as caused the -little flower once more to lift its head in the sun and wind. And often -as she could—not every day, because of her engagements with Miriam -Morgenstern—she went to Mr. Fuller's church, and I think I may say -that she never returned without what was worth going for. I do not say -that she could always tell what she had learned, but she came away with -fresh strength, and fresh resolution to do what might show itself to be -right. And the strength came chiefly from this, that she believed more -and more what the apostle Peter came to be so sure of before he died, -that "He careth for us." She believed that the power that made her a -living soul was not, could not be, indifferent to her sorrows, however -much she might have deserved them, still less indifferent because they -were for her good—a ready excuse for indifference with men—and if -only he cared that she suffered, if he knew that it was sad and hard -to bear, she could bear it without a word, almost without a thought of -restlessness. And then, why should she not hope for Thomas as well as -for herself? If we are to love our neighbor as ourself, surely we must -hope and pray for him as for ourself; and if Lucy found that she could -love Thomas at least as herself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> for him she was in that very love -bound to pray and to hope as for herself.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sargent was soon thoroughly acquainted with all Mrs. Boxall's -affairs. And he had so little hope of success in regard to the will, -that, when he found that she had no vouchers to produce for her own -little property placed in her son's hands, he resolved, before going -any further in a course which must irritate Mr. Worboise, to see -whether he could not secure that first. Indeed he was prepared, seeing -how ill matters looked for his clients, to offer to withdraw from the -contest, provided the old lady's rights were acknowledged. With this -view he called once more upon Mr. Worboise, who received him just as -graciously as before. A conversation something like this followed:</p> - -<p>"Mrs. Boxall informs me, Mr. Worboise, that her son, at the time of his -death, was, and had been for many years, in possession of some property -of hers, amounting to somewhere between two and three thousand pounds. -The old lady is a very simple woman—"</p> - -<p>"Is she?" interjected, rather than interrupted, Mr. Worboise, in a cold -parenthesis. Mr. Sargent went on.</p> - -<p>"Indeed she does not know the amount exactly, but that could be easily -calculated from the interest he was in the habit of paying her."</p> - -<p>"But whatever acknowledgment she holds for the money will render the -trouble unnecessary," said Mr. Worboise, who saw well enough to what -Mr. Sargent was coming.</p> - -<p>"Unfortunately—it was very wrong of a man of business, or anybody, -indeed—her son never gave her any acknowledgment in writing."</p> - -<p>"Oh!" said Mr. Worboise, with a smile, "then I don't exactly see what -can be done. It is very awkward."</p> - -<p>"You can be easily satisfied of the truth of the statement."</p> - -<p>"I am afraid not, Mr. Sargent."</p> - -<p>"She is a straightforward old lady, and—"</p> - -<p>"I have reason to doubt it. At all events, seeing that she considers -the whole of the property hers by right, an opinion in which you -sympathize with her—as her legal adviser, I mean—it will not be very -surprising if, from my point of view, I should be jealous of her making -a statement for the sake of securing a part of those <i>rights</i>. With -such temptation, and such an excuse, it is just possible—I've heard -of such a thing as evil that good might come, eh, Mr. Sargent?—even -if she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> were as straightforward as you think her. Let her produce her -vouchers, I say."</p> - -<p>"I have no fear—at least I hope Mr. Stopper will be able to prove it. -There will be evidence enough of the interest paid."</p> - -<p>"As interest, Mr. Sargent? I suspect it will turn out to be only an -annuity that the good fellow allowed her, notwithstanding the reasons -he must have had for omitting her name from his will."</p> - -<p>"I confess this much to you, Mr. Worboise—that our cause is so far -from promising that I should advise Mrs. Boxall to be content with her -own, and push the case no further."</p> - -<p>"Quite right, Mr. Sargent. The most prudent advice you can give her."</p> - -<p>"You will then admit the debt, and let the good woman have her own?"</p> - -<p>"Admit the debt by no means; but certainly let her have her own as soon -as she proves what is her own," answered Mr. Worboise, smiling.</p> - -<p>"But I give you my word, Mr. Worboise," said Mr. Sargent, doing his -best to keep his temper, "that I believe the woman's statement to be -perfectly true."</p> - -<p>"I believe you, Mr. Sargent, but I do not believe the woman," returned -Mr. Worboise, again smiling.</p> - -<p>"But you know it will not matter much, because, coming into this -property as you do, you can hardly avoid making some provision for -those so nearly related to the testator, and who were dependent upon -him during his lifetime. You cannot leave the old lady to starve."</p> - -<p>"It will be time enough to talk about that when my rights are -acknowledged. Till then I decline to entertain the question."</p> - -<p>There was a something in Mr. Worboise's manner, and an irrepressible -flash of his eye, that all but convinced Mr. Sargent that there was -nothing not in the bond to be got from him. He therefore left him, and -started a new objection in opposing the probate of the will. He argued -the probability of all or one or other of the daughters surviving the -father—that is, not of their being yet alive, but of their having -outlived him. Now this question, though plain as the alphabet to those -who are acquainted with law, requires some explanation to those who are -not, numbering possibly the greater part of my readers.</p> - -<p>The property would come to Mr. Worboise only in the case<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> of all -those mentioned in the will dying before Mr. Boxall. A man can only -will that which is his own at the time of his death. If he died -before any of his family, Mr. Worboise had nothing to do with it. It -went after the survivor's death to <i>her</i> heirs. Hence if either of -the daughters survived father and mother, if only for one provable -moment, the property would be hers, and would go to her heir, namely, -her grandmother. So it would in any case, had not Mr. Worboise been -mentioned, except Mrs. Richard Boxall had survived her husband and -family, in which case the money would have gone to her nearest of -kin. This alternative, however, was not started, for both sides had -an equal interest in opposing it—and indeed the probable decision -upon probabilities would have been that the wife would die first. The -whole affair then turned upon the question: whether it was more likely -that Richard Boxall or every one of his daughters died first; in which -question it must be remembered that there was nothing cumulative in the -three daughters. He was as likely to die before or to survive all three -as any one of them, except individual reasons could be shown in regard -to one daughter which did not exist in regard to another.</p> - -<p>One more word is necessary. Mr. Sargent was not in good practice and -would scarcely have been able—I do not use the word <i>afforded</i> because -I do not know what it means—to meet the various expenses of the plea. -But the very day he had become acquainted with the contents of the -will, he told Mr. Morgenstern of the peculiar position in which his -governess and her grandmother found themselves. Now Mr. Morgenstern was -not only rich—that is common; nor was he only aware that he was rich; -if that is not so common, it is not yet very uncommon; but he felt that -he had something to spare. Lucy was a great favorite with him; so was -Sargent. He could not but see that Sargent was fond of Lucy, and that -he was suffering from some measure of repulse. He therefore hoped, -if not to be of any material assistance to Lucy—for from Sargent's -own representation he could not see that the matter was a promising -one—at least to give the son of his old friend a chance of commending -himself to the lady by putting it in his power to plead her cause. -And conducted as Mr. Sargent conducted the affair, it did not put Mr. -Morgenstern to an amount of expense that cost him two thoughts; while -even if it had been serious, the pleasure with which his wife regarded -his generosity would have been to him reward enough.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span></p> - - - - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXXVIII.</p> - -<p class="center">HOW THOMAS DID AND FARED.</p> - - -<p>I flatter myself that my reader is not very much interested in Thomas; -I never meant he should be yet. I confess, however, that I am now -girding up my loins with the express intention of beginning to interest -him if I can. For I have now almost reached the point of his history -which I myself feel to verge on the interesting. When a worthless -fellow begins to meet with his deserts, then we begin to be aware that -after all he is our own flesh and blood. Our human heart begins to feel -just the least possible yearning toward him. We hope he will be well -trounced, but we become capable of hoping that it may not be lost upon -him. At least we are content to hear something more about him.</p> - -<p>When Thomas left the gambling-house that dreary morning, he must have -felt very much as the devil must feel. For he had plenty of money -and no home. He had actually on this raw morning, when nature seemed -to be nothing but a drizzle diluted with gray fog, nowhere to go to. -More, indeed; he had a good many places, including the principal -thoroughfares of London, where he must not go. There was one other -place which he did all he could to keep out of, and that was the -place where the little thinking that was considered necessary in his -establishment was carried on. He could not help peeping in at the -window, however, and now and then putting his ear to the keyhole. And -what did he hear? That he, Thomas Worboise, gentlemen, was a thief, a -coward, a sneak. Now, when Thomas heard this, for the first time in -his life, his satisfaction with himself gave way utterly; nor could -all his admiration for Lara or the Corsair—I really forget whether -they are not one and the same phantom—reconcile him to become one -of the fraternity. The Corsair at least would not have sold Medora's -ring to save his life. Up to this point, he had never seen himself -contemptible. Nor even now could he feel it much, for, weary and sick, -all he wanted was some place to lay down his head and go to sleep in. -After he had slept, he would begin to see things as they were, and, -once admitted possible that he could do an ungentlemanly action, fresh -accusations from quarters altogether unsuspected of unfriendliness -would be lodged in that court of which I have already spoken. But for -a time mere animal self-preservation would keep the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> upper hand. He -was conscious of an inclination to dive into every court that he came -near—of a proclivity toward the darkness. This was the same Thomas -Worboise that used to face the sunshine in gay attire, but never let -the sun farther in than his brain; so the darkness within him had come -at last to the outside, and swathed all in its funereal folds. Till -a man's indwelling darkness is destroyed by the deep-going light of -truth, he walks in darkness, and the sooner this darkness comes out in -action and shows itself to be darkness, the better for the man. The -presence of this darkness, however, is sooner recognized by one man -than by another. To one the darkness within him is made manifest by a -false compliment he has just paid to a pretty girl; to Thomas it could -only be revealed by theft and the actual parting for money with the -jewel given him by a girl whom he loved as much as he could love, which -was not much—yet; to a third—not murder, perjury, hypocrisy, hanging, -will reveal it; he will go into the other world from the end of a rope, -not mistaking darkness for light, but knowing that it is what it is, -and that it is his, and yet denying the possession of the one, and -asserting the possession of the other.</p> - -<p>Thomas forgot all about where he was, till suddenly he found himself -far west in the Strand. The light of the world was coming nearer; no -policeman was in sight: and the archway leading down under the Adelphi -yawned like the mouth of hell at his side. He darted into it. But -no sooner was he under the arches than he wished himself out again. -Strange forms of misery and vice were coming to life here and there in -the darkness where they had slept away the night. He was of their sort, -yet he did not like his own kin. Nay, some of them might be worthy -compared to him, yet he shrunk from them. He rushed out. Heaven was -full of lights and hell was full of horrors; where was his own place? -He hurried back toward the city.</p> - -<p>But as the light grew his terror increased. There was no ground for -immediate alarm, for no one yet knew what he had done; but with the -light discovery drew nearer. When he reached Farringdon Street he -turned down toward Blackfriars Bridge, then eastward again by Earl -Street into Thames Street. He felt safer where the streets were narrow, -and the houses rose high to shut out the dayspring, which the Lord says -to Job he had "caused to know his place, that it might take hold of the -ends of the earth," like a napkin, "that the wicked might be shaken -out of it." He hurried on, not yet knowing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> what he was, only seeing -revelation at hand clothed in terror. And the end of it was, that he -buried his head in the public-house where the mischief of the preceding -night had begun, and was glad to lie down in a filthy bed. The ways of -transgressors are always hard in the end. Happy they who find them hard -in the beginning.</p> - -<p>Ill at ease as he was, both in body and mind, he was yet so worn -out that he fell fast asleep; and still on the stream of sleep went -drifting toward the vengeance that awaited him—the vengeance of seeing -himself as he was.</p> - -<p>When he woke, it was afternoon. He had to make several efforts before -his recollection combined with his observation to tell him where he -was. He felt, however, that a horror was coming, and when it came his -whole being was crushed before it. It must be confessed, however, that -it was the disgrace, and not the sin, that troubled him. But honor, -although a poor substitute for honesty or religion, is yet something; -and the fear of disgrace is a good sword to hang over the heads of -those who need such attendance. Thomas's heart burned like a hot coal -with shame. In vain he tried to persuade himself, in vain he partially -succeeded in persuading himself, that he was not himself when he took -the money. Allowing whatever excuse might lie in the state to which he -had first brought himself, he knew that no defense of that sort would -have any influence in restoring to him the place he had lost. He was an -outcast. He lay in moveless torture. He knew himself, and he knew his -crime; and he knew that himself had committed that crime. Wide awake, -he did not think of rising; for the whole world of activity lay beyond -the impassable barrier of his shame. There was nothing for him to do, -nowhere for him to go. At length he heard voices in the room below -him: they were voices he knew; and he was lying over the scene of last -night's temptation. He sprung from the bed, hurried on his clothes, -crept down the stairs, paid for his lodging at the bar, and went out -into the street. He felt sick at the thought of joining them; he had -had a surfeit of wickedness.</p> - -<p>But he was too near his former haunts; and the officers of justice -must be after him. He turned from one narrow street into another, and -wandered on till he came where the bow-sprit of a vessel projected over -a wall across a narrow lane, and he knew by this that he must be near -the Thames. The sun was going down, and the friendly darkness was at -hand. But he could not rest. He knew nothing of the other side, and -it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> seemed to him therefore that he would be safer there. He would -take a boat and be put across. A passage between two houses led toward -the river. Probably there were stairs at the end. He turned into the -passage. Half a dozen bills were up on the walls. He stopped to look. -They all described bodies found in the river. He turned away, and -started at the sight of a policeman regarding him from a door three or -four yards off. It was a police station. He had all but put his head -into the lion's mouth. He had just presence of mind enough to prevent -him from running, but not enough to keep his legs steady under him. -His very calves seemed to feel the eyes of the policeman burning upon -them, and shrank away with a sense of unprotected misery. He passed -several stairs before he ventured to look round. Then finding no reason -to suppose he was watched, he turned down the next opening, found a -boat, and telling the waterman to put him across to Rotherhithe, of -which district he just knew the name, sat down in the stern. The man -rowed up the river. The sun was going down behind the dome of St. -Paul's, which looked like the round shoulder of a little hill; and -all the brown masts and spars of the vessels shone like a forest of -gold-barked trees in winter. The dark river caught the light, and threw -it shimmering up on the great black hulls, which shone again in the -water below; and the Thames, with all its dirt and all its dead, looked -radiant. But Thomas felt nothing of its beauty. If Nature had ever had -a right of way in his heart, she was now shut out. What was it to him, -despised in his own eyes, that the sun shone? He looked up at the sky -only to wish for the night. What was it to him that the world was for -a moment gay, even into the heart of London? Its smile could not reach -his heart: it needs an atmosphere as well as a sun to make light. The -sun was in the heavens, yea, the central sun of truth shone upon the -universe; but there was no atmosphere of truth in Thomas's world to -be lighted up by it; or if there was, it was so filled with smoke and -vapor that for the time the sun could not make it smile. As they passed -under a towering hull, he envied a monkey that went scrambling out of -one of the port-holes and in at another. And yet the scene around was -as strange as it was beautiful. The wide river, the many vessels, the -multitudinous wilderness of gray houses on every side, all disorder to -the eye, yet blended by the air and the light and the thin fog into a -marvelous whole; the occasional vista of bridge-arches; the line of -London Bridge lying parallel with the lines of green and gray and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> gold -in the sky—its people, its horses, its carriages creeping like insects -athwart the sunset—one of the arches cut across near the top by the -line of a new railway-bridge, and the segment filled with a moving -train; all this light and life to the eye, while, save for the splash -of the oars, and the general hum like an aroma of sound that filled the -air, all was still to the ear—none of it reached the heart of outcast -Thomas.</p> - -<p>Soon, as if by magic, the scene changed. The boatman had been rowing -up the river, keeping in the quiet water as the tide hurried out. -Now he was crossing toward Cherry Garden Stairs. As they drew near -the Surrey-side, all at once Thomas found himself in the midst of a -multitude of boats, flitting about like water-flies on the surface of -a quiet pool. What they were about he could not see. Now they would -gather in dense masses, in every imaginable position to each other, the -air filled with shouting, objurgation, expostulation, and good-humored -chaff, varied with abuse. Again they would part asunder and vanish over -the wide space. Guns were firing, flags were flying, Thames liveries -gleaming here and there. The boats were full of men, women, and -children; some in holiday garments, most of them dark with the darkness -of an English mob. It was an aquatic crowd—a people exclusively living -on and by the river—assembled to see a rowing-match between two of -their own class for a boat, probably given by the publicans of the -neighborhood—who would reap ten times the advantage. But although -there were thousands assembled, the uproar troubled such a small -proportion of the river's surface, that one might have rowed up and -down in the middle space between Rotherhithe and Wapping for hours and -know nothing about it.</p> - -<p>But Thomas did not see the race, not because he was in haste to get -ashore, but because something happened. His waterman, anxious to see -the sport, lingered in the crowd lining the whole of that side of the -river. In a boat a little way farther up was a large family party, and -in it a woman who was more taken up with the baby in her arms than with -all that was going on around her. In consequence of her absorption in -the merry child, which was springing with all the newly-discovered -delight of feet and legs, she was so dreadfully startled when the bows -of another boat struck the gunwale just at her back, that she sprung -half up from her seat, and the baby, jerking itself forward, dropped -from her arms into the river. Thomas was gazing listlessly at the -water when he saw the child sweep past him a foot or so below the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> -surface. His next remembered consciousness was in the water. He was a -fair swimmer, though no rider. He caught the child, and let himself -drift with the tide, till he came upon the cable of a vessel that lay -a hundred yards below. Boats came rushing about him; in a moment the -child was taken from him and handed across half a dozen of them to his -mother; and in another moment he, too, was in a boat. When he came to -himself a gin-faced, elderly woman, in a small threadbare tartan shawl, -was wiping his face with a pocket-handkerchief, and murmuring some -feminine words over him, while a coarse-looking, dough-faced man was -holding a broken cup with some spirit in it to his mouth.</p> - -<p>"Go ashore with the gentleman, Jim," said the woman. "There's the India -Arms. That's a respectable place. You must go to bed, my dear, till you -gets your clo'es dried."</p> - -<p>"I haven't paid my man," said Tom, feebly. He was now shivering with -cold; for, after the night and day he had spent, he was in no condition -to resist the effects of the water.</p> - -<p>"Oh, we'll pay him. Here, Fluke," cried two or three—they seemed all -to know each other.</p> - -<p>"Come along, sir," cried twenty shrill voices over his head. He looked -up and saw that they were alongside of a great barge which was crowded -with little dirty creatures, row above row. "Come this way—solid -barges, sir, all the way. Ketch hold of the gen'lm'n's hand, Sammy. -There. Now, Bill."</p> - -<p>They hauled and lifted Thomas on to the barge, then led him along -the side and across to the next yawning wooden gulf, and so over -about seven barges to a plank, which led from the last on to a ladder -ascending to the first floor of a public-house, the second floor of -which, supported upon piles, projected over high water. There his -conductors, two ragged little mudlarks, left him.</p> - -<p>Through an empty kind of bar-room, he went into the bar, which -communicated with the street. Here first he found that he had been -followed by the same man who had given him the gin. He now passed -before him to the counter, and said to the woman who was pumping a pot -of beer:</p> - -<p>"This gen'leman, Mrs. Cook, 's been and just took a child out o' the -water ma'am. He 'ain't got a change in his wescut-pocket, so if you'll -do what ye can for 'im, there's many on us'll be obliged to ye, ma'am."</p> - -<p>"Lor', whose child was it, Jim?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know as you know her, ma'am. The man's name's Potts. He keeps -a public down about Limehouse, someveres."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p> - -<p>Thomas stood shivering—glad, however, that the man should represent -his case for him.</p> - -<p>"The gentleman had better go to bed till we get his clo'es dried for -him," said the landlady. "I think that's the best we can do for him."</p> - -<p>"Take a drop o' summat, sir," said the man, turning to Thomas. "They -keeps good licker here. Put a name upon it, sir."</p> - -<p>"Well, I'll have a small glass of pale brandy," said Thomas—"neat, if -you please. And what'll you have yourself? I'm much obliged to you for -introducing me here, for I must look rather a queer customer."</p> - -<p>"It's what <i>you'll</i> have, not what I'll have, sir, if you'll excuse -<i>me</i>," returned the man.</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon," said Thomas, who had just received his brandy. He -drank it, and proceeded to put his hand in his pocket—no easy matter -in the state of his garments.</p> - -<p>"<i>I'm</i>, a goin' to pay for this," interposed the man, in a determined -tone, and Thomas was hardly in a condition to dispute it.</p> - -<p>At the same moment the landlady, who had left the bar after she had -helped Thomas, returned, saying, "Will you walk this way, sir?" Thomas -followed, and found himself in a neat enough little room, where he was -only too glad to undress and go to bed. As he pulled off his coat, it -occurred to him to see that his money was safe. He had put it, mostly -in sovereigns, into a pocket-book of elaborate construction, which -he generally carried in the breast-pocket of what the tailors call a -lounging-coat. It was gone. His first conclusion was, that the man -had taken it. He rushed back into the bar, but he was not there. It -must be confessed that, in the midst of his despair, a fresh pang at -the loss of his money shot through Thomas's soul. But he soon came to -the conclusion that the man had not taken it. It was far more likely -that, as he went overboard, the book slipped from his pocket into the -water, and in this loss an immediate reward of almost his first act -of self-forgetfulness had followed. The best thing that can happen -to a man, sometimes, is to lose his money; and, while people are -compassionate over the loss, God may regard it as the first step of the -stair by which the man shall rise above it and many things besides with -which not only his feet, but his hands and his head, are defiled. Then -first he began to feel that he had no ground under his feet—the one -necessity before such a man could find a true foundation. Until he lost -it, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> did not know how much, even in his misery, the paltry hundred -pounds had been to him. Now it was gone, things looked black indeed. He -emptied his pockets of two or three sovereigns and some silver, put his -clothes out at the door, and got into bed. There he fell a thinking. -Instead of telling what he thought, however, I will now turn to what my -reader may be, and I have been, thinking about his act of rescue.</p> - -<p>What made him, who has been shown all but incapable of originating a -single action, thus at the one right moment do the one right thing? -Here arises another question: Does a man <i>always</i> originate his own -actions? Is it not possible, to say the least of it, that, just to give -him a taste of what well-doing means, some moment, when selfishness is -sick and faint, may be chosen by the power in whom we live and move -and have our being to inspire the man with a true impulse? We must -think what an unspeakable comfort it must have been to Thomas, in these -moments of hopeless degradation of which he felt all the bitterness, -suddenly to find around him, as the result of a noble deed into which -he had been unaccountably driven, a sympathetic, yes, admiring public. -No matter that they were not of his class, nor yet that Thomas was not -the man to do the human brotherhood justice; he could not help feeling -the present power of humanity, the healing medicine of approbation, in -the faces of the <i>common</i> people who had witnessed and applauded his -deed. I say <i>medicine</i> of approbation; for what would have been to him -in ordinary, a poison, was now a medicine. There was no fear of his -thinking himself too much of a hero at present.</p> - -<p>It may be objected that the deed originated only in a carelessness -of life resulting from self-contempt. I answer, that no doubt that -had its share in making the deed possible, because it removed for the -time all that was adverse to such a deed; but self-despite, however -true and well-grounded, cannot inspirit to true and noble action. I -think it was the divine, the real self, aroused at the moment by the -breath of that wind which bloweth where it listeth, that sprung thus -into life and deed, shadowing, I say <i>shadowing</i> only, that wonderful -saying of our Lord that he that loseth his life shall find it. It had -come—been given to him—that a touch of light might streak the dark -cloud of his fate, that he might not despise himself utterly, and act -as unredeemable—kill himself or plunge into wickedness to drown his -conscience. It was absolutely necessary that he should be brought to -want;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> but here was just one little opening—not out of want, but into -the light of a higher region altogether, the region of well-being—by -which a glimmer of the strength of light could enter the chaos of his -being. Any good deed partakes of the life whence it comes, and is a -good to him who has done it. And this act might be a beginning.</p> - -<p>Poor weak Thomas, when he got his head down on the pillow, began -to cry. He pitied himself for the helplessness to which he was now -reduced, and a new phase of despair filled his soul. He even said in -his thoughts that his ill-gotten gain had, like all the devil's money, -turned to rubbish in his hands. What he was to do he could not tell. He -was tolerably safe, however, for the night, and, worn and weary, soon -fell into a sleep which not even a dream disturbed.</p> - -<p>When he woke all was dark, and he welcomed the darkness as a friend. -It soothed and comforted him a little. If it were only always dark! If -he could find some cave to creep into where he might revel in—feed -upon the friendly gloom! If he could get among the snowy people of -the north, blessed with half a year of gentle sunlessness! Thomas had -plenty of fancy. He leaned on his elbow and looked out. His clothes -had been placed by him while he slept. He rose and put them on, opened -the door of his room, saw light somewhere, approached it softly, and -found himself in a small room, like a large oriel window. The day had -changed from gold to silver; the wide expanse of the great river lay -before him, and up, and down, and across, it gleamed in the thoughtful -radiance of the moon. Never was a picture of lovelier peace. It was -like the reflex of the great city in the mind of a saint—all its -vice, its crime, its oppression, money-loving, and ambition, all its -fearfulness, grief, revenge, and remorse, gently covered with the -silver mantle of faith and hope. But Thomas could not feel this. -Its very repose was a reproach to him. There was no repose for him -henceforth forever. He was degraded to all eternity. And herewith the -thought of Lucy, which had been hovering about his mind all day, like a -bird looking for an open window that it might enter, but which he had -not dared to admit, darted into its own place, and he groaned aloud. -For in her eyes, as well as in his own, he was utterly degraded. Not -a thousand good actions, not the applause of a thousand crowds, could -destroy the fact that he had done as he had done. The dingy, applauding -multitude, with its many voices, its kind faces, its outstretched -hands, had vanished, as if the moon had melted it away from off the -water.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> Never to all eternity would that praising people, his little -consoling populace, exist again, again be gathered from the four -corners whither they had vanished, to take his part, to speak for him -that he was not all lost in badness, that they at least considered him -fit company for them and their children.</p> - -<p>Thoughts like these went to and fro in his mind as he looked out upon -the scene before him. Then it struck him that all was strangely still. -Not only was there no motion on the river, but there was no sound—only -an occasional outcry in the streets behind. The houses across in -Wapping showed rare lights, and looked sepulchral in the killing stare -of the moon, which, high above, had not only the whole heavens but the -earth as well to herself, and seemed to be taking her own way with it -in the consciousness of irresistible power. What that way was, who can -tell? The troubled brain of the maniac and the troubled conscience of -the malefactor know something about it; but neither can tell the way of -the moon with the earth. Fear laid hold upon Thomas. He found himself -all alone with that white thing in the sky; and he turned from the -glorious window to go down to the bar. But all the house was dark, the -household in bed, and he alone awake and wandering "in the dead waste -and middle of the night." A horror seized him when he found that he was -alone. Why should he fear? The night covered him. But there was God. -I do not mean for a moment that he had a conscious fear of the Being -he had been taught to call God. Never had that representation produced -in him yet any sense of the reality, any the least consciousness of -presence—anything like the feeling of the child who placed two chairs -behind the window-curtain, told God that that one was for him, and -sat down to have a talk with him. It was fear of the unknown God, -manifested in the face of a nature which was strange and unfriendly to -the evil-doer. It is to God alone that a man can flee from such terror -of the unknown in the fierceness of the sea, in the ghastly eye of the -moon, in the abysses of the glaciers, in the misty slopes of the awful -mountain-side; but to God Thomas dared not or could not flee. Full of -the horror of wakefulness in the midst of sleeping London, he felt his -way back into the room he had just left, threw himself on a bench, and -closed his eyes to shut out everything. His own room at Highbury, even -that of his mother with Mr. Simon talking in it, rose before him like -a haven of refuge. But between him and that haven lay an impassable -gulf. No more returning thither. He must leave the country. And Lucy? -He must vanish from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> her eyes, that she might forget him and marry -some one else. Was not that the only justice left him to do her? But -would Lucy forget him? Why should she not? Women could forget honorable -men whom they had loved, let them only be out of their sight long -enough; and why should not Lucy forget a —? He dared not even think -the word that belonged to him now. A fresh billow of shame rushed over -him. In the person of Lucy he condemned himself afresh to utter and -ineffaceable shame, confusion, and hissing. Involuntarily he opened his -eyes. A ghostly whiteness, the sails of a vessel hanging loose from -their yards, gleamed upon him. The whole of the pale region of the -moon, the spectral masts, the dead houses on the opposite shore, the -glitter of the river as from eyes that would close no more, gleamed -in upon him, and a fresh terror of loneliness in the presence of the -incomprehensible and the unsympathetic overcame him. He fell on his -knees, and sought to pray; and doubtless in the ear that is keen with -mercy it sounded as prayer, though to him that prayed it seemed that -no winged thought arose to the infinite from a "heart as dry as dust." -Mechanically, at length, all feeling gone, both of fear and of hope, he -went back to his room and his bed.</p> - -<p>When he woke in the morning his landlady's voice was in his ears.</p> - -<p>"Well, how do we find ourselves to-day, sir? None the worse, I hope?"</p> - -<p>He opened his eyes. She stood by his bedside, with her short arms set -like the handles of an urn. It was a common face that rose from between -them, red, and with eyes that stood out with fatness. Yet Thomas was -glad to see them looking at him, for there was kindness in them.</p> - -<p>"I am all right, thank you," he said.</p> - -<p>"Where will you have your breakfast?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Where you please," answered Thomas.</p> - -<p>"Will you come down to the bar-parlor, then?"</p> - -<p>"I shall be down in a few minutes."</p> - -<p>"Jim Salter's inquirin' after ye."</p> - -<p>"Who?" said Thomas, starting.</p> - -<p>"Only Jim Salter, the man that brought you in last night, sir. I told -him to wait till I came up."</p> - -<p>"I shall be down in one minute," said Thomas, a hope of his money -darting into his mind.</p> - -<p>He had to pass through the bar to the little room at the back. Against -the counter leaned Jim, smoking a short pipe,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> with his hand upon a pot -of beer. When Thomas entered, he touched his cap to him, saying:</p> - -<p>"Glad to see you lookin' middlin', guvnor. Is there anything I can do -for you to-day?"</p> - -<p>"Come into the room here," said Thomas, "and have something. I'm rather -late, you see. I haven't had my breakfast yet."</p> - -<p>Salter followed him with his pewter in his hand. Thomas disliked his -appearance less than on the preceding evening. What was unpleasant in -his face was chiefly owing to the small-pox. He was dirty and looked -<i>beery</i>, but there seemed to be no harm in him. He sat down near the -door which led to the ladder already mentioned, and put his pot on the -window-sill. Thomas asked him if he would have a cup of coffee, but he -preferred his beer and his pipe.</p> - -<p>"You wanted to see me?" said Thomas, opening a conversation.</p> - -<p>"Oh! nothin' perticlar, guvnor. I only wanted to see if I could do -anything for you," said Jim.</p> - -<p>"I was in hopes you had heard of something I lost, but I suppose it's -at the bottom of the river," said Thomas.</p> - -<p>"Not your watch?" asked Salter, with some appearance of anxious -interest.</p> - -<p>"A great deal worse," answered Thomas; "a pocket-book."</p> - -<p>"Much in it?" asked Jim, with a genuine look of sympathetic -discomfiture.</p> - -<p>"More than I like to think of. Look," said Thomas, turning out the -contents of his pocket, "that is all I have in the world."</p> - -<p>"More than ever I had," returned Salter; "keep me a month."</p> - -<p>Thomas relapsed into thought. This man was the only resemblance of a -friend he had left. He did not like to let him go loose in the wilds -of London, without the possibility of finding him again. If this man -vanished, the only link Thomas felt between him and the world of men -would be broken. I do not say Thomas <i>thought</i> this. He only felt that -he would be absolutely alone when this man left him. Why should he not -go away somewhere with him?</p> - -<p>"Where do you live?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Stepney way," answered Jim.</p> - -<p>"I want to see that part of London. What do you do now? I mean, what do -you work at?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh! nothin' perticlar, guvnor. Take a day at the docks now and then. -Any job that turns up. I'm not perticlar. Only I never could stick to -one thing. I like to be moving. I had a month in Bermondsey last—in a -tan-yard, you know. I knows a bit of everthing."</p> - -<p>"Well, where are you going now?"</p> - -<p>"Nowheres—anywhere you like, guvnor. If you want to see them parts, as -you say, there's nobody knows 'em better than I do—Tiger-bay and all."</p> - -<p>"Come, then," said Thomas. But here a thought struck him. "Wouldn't it -be better, though," he added—"they're queer places, some of those, -ain't they?—to put on a workman's clothes?"</p> - -<p>Jim looked at him. Thomas felt himself wince under his gaze. But he was -relieved when he said, with a laugh:</p> - -<p>"You won't look much like a workman, guvnor, put on what you like."</p> - -<p>"I can't wear these clothes, anyhow," said Thomas; "they look so -wretchedly shabby after their ducking. Couldn't you take me somewhere -where they'd change them for a suit of fustian? I should like to try -how they feel for a few days. We're about the same size—I could give -them to you when I had done with them."</p> - -<p>Jim had been observing him, and had associated this wish of Thomas's -with the pocket-book, and his furtive, troubled looks. But Jim was as -little particular about his company as about anything else, and it was -of no consequence to him whether Thomas had or had not deeper reasons -than curiosity for seeking to disguise himself.</p> - -<p>"I tell you what," he said, "if you want to keep quiet for a day or -two, I'm your man. But if you put on a new suit of fustian you'll be -more looked at than in your own clo'es."</p> - -<p>Thomas had by this time finished his breakfast; it was not much he -could eat.</p> - -<p>"Well," he said, rising, "if you've nothing particular to do, I'll give -you a day's wages to go with me. Only let's go into Stepney, or away -somewhere in that direction, as soon as possible."</p> - -<p>He called the landlady, settled his very moderate bill, and then found -that his hat must be somewhere about the Nore by this time. Jim ran to -a neighboring shop, and returned with a cloth cap. They then went out -into a long, narrow street, Rotherhithe Street, I think, very different -in aspect from any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> he had seen in London before. Indeed it is more -like a street in Cologne. Here we must leave him with his misery and -Jim Salter, both better companions than Molken.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XXXIX.</p> - -<p class="center">POPPIE CHOOSES A PROFESSION.</p> - - -<p>When their native red began to bloom again upon the cheeks of Poppie, -she began to grow restless, and the heart of the tailor to grow -anxious. It was very hard for a wild thing to be kept in a cage against -her will, he thought. He did not mind sitting in a cage, but then he -was used to it, and frequented it of his own free will; whereas his -child Poppie took after her grandfather—her mother's father, who was a -sailor, and never set his foot on shore but he wanted to be off again -within the week.</p> - -<p>He therefore began to reason with himself as to what ought to be done -with her. So soon as she was quite strong again all her wandering -habits would return, and he must make some provision for them. It -would not only be cruel to try to break her of them all at once, but -assuredly fruitless. Poppie would give him the slip some day, return to -her Arab life, and render all sealing of the bond between father and -daughter impossible. The streets were her home. She was used to them. -They made life pleasant to her. And yet it would not do to let her run -idle about the streets. He thought and thought what would be best.</p> - -<p>Meantime the influence of Mattie had grown upon Poppie. Although -there was as yet very little sign of anything like thought in her, -the way she deferred to the superior intelligence in their common -pursuits proved that she belonged to the body of humanity, and not to -unassociated animality. Her love of bright colors now afforded the -first hold by which to commence her education. Remembering her own -childhood, Mattie sought to interest her pupil in dolls, proceeding to -dress one, which she called Poppie, in a gorgeous scarlet cloth which -the tailor procured for the purpose. And Poppie was interested. The -color drew her to the process. By degrees, she took a part; first only -in waiting on Mattie, then in sew<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>ing on a button or string, at which -she was awkward enough, as Mattie took more than necessary pains to -convince her, learning, however, by slow degrees, to use her needle -a little. But what was most interesting to find was, that a certain -amount of self-consciousness began to dawn during and apparently from -the doll-dressing. Her causative association with the outer being of -the doll, led to her turning an eye upon her own outer being; and -Poppie's redemption—I do not say regeneration—first showed itself in -a desire to be dressed. Consciousness begins with regard to the body -first. A baby's first lesson of consciousness lies in his blue shoes. -But one may object, "You do not call it a sign of redemption in a baby -that, when you ask where baby's shoes are, he holds up his little -feet with a smile of triumph." I answer, it must be remembered that -Poppie had long passed the age when such interest indicates natural -development, and therefore she was out of the natural track of the -human being, and a return to that track, indicating an awakening of -the nature that was in her, may well be called a sign of redemption. -And with a delicate instinct of his own, nourished to this particular -manifestation by his trade, the tailor detected the interest shown in -the doll by Poppie, as a most hopeful sign, and set himself in the -midst of his work to get a dress ready for her, such as she would like. -Accustomed, however, only to work in cloth, and upon male subjects, the -result was, to say the least of it, remarkable—altogether admirable in -Poppie's eyes, though somewhat strange in those of others. She appeared -one day in a scarlet jacket, of fine cloth, trimmed with black, which -fitted her like her skin, and, to complete the dress, in a black skirt, -likewise of cloth, which, however picturesque and accordant with the -style of Poppie's odd beauty, was at least somewhat peculiar and -undesirable in a city like London, which persecutes men's tastes if it -leaves their convictions free.</p> - -<p>This dress Mr. Spelt had got ready in view of a contemplated walk with -Poppie. He was going to take her to Highgate on a Sunday morning, with -his Bible in his pocket. I have already said that he was an apparent -anomaly, this Mr. Spelt, loving his New Testament, and having no fancy -for going to church. How this should come about I hardly understand. -Not that I do not know several instances of it in most excellent men, -but not in his stratum. Yet what was his stratum? The Spirit of God -teaches men in a thousand ways, and Mr. Spelt knew some of the highest -truths better than nine out of ten clergymen, I venture to say. Yet Mr. -Spelt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> was inwardly reproached that he did not go to church, and made -the attempt several times, with the result that he doubted the truth of -the whole thing for half the week after. Some church-going reader must -not condemn him at least for preferring Highgate to the church-yard -gate.</p> - -<p>It was a bright frosty morning, full of life and spirit, when the -father and daughter—for thus we accept the willful conviction of the -tailor, and say no more about it—set out for Highgate. Poppie was full -of spirits, too full for her father's comfort, for, every time she drew -her hand from his, and danced away sideways or in front, he feared lest -he had seen the last of her, and she would never more return to lay her -hand in his. On one of these occasions, it was to dart a hundred yards -in advance upon another little girl, who was listlessly standing at a -crossing, take the broom from her hand, and begin to sweep vigorously. -Nor did she cease sweeping till she had made the crossing clean, by -which time her father had come up. She held out her hand to him, -received in it a ready penny, and tossed it to the girl. Then she put -her hand in his again, and trotted along with him, excited and sedate -both at once.</p> - -<p>"Would you like to sweep a crossing, Poppie?" asked he.</p> - -<p>"Wouldn't I just, daddie? I should get no end o' ha'pence."</p> - -<p>"What would you do with them when you got them?"</p> - -<p>"Give them to poor girls. I don't want them, you see, now I'm a lady."</p> - -<p>"What makes a lady of you, then?"</p> - -<p>"I've got a father of my own, all to myself—that makes a lady of me, I -suppose. Anyhow I know I am a lady now. Look at my jacket."</p> - -<p>I do not know that Mr. Spelt thought that her contempt of money, or -rather want of faith in it, went a good way to make her a very peculiar -lady indeed; but he did think that he would buy her a broom the first -day he saw the attraction of the streets grow too strong for Guild -Court.</p> - -<p>This day, things did not go quite to the tailor's mind. He took Poppie -to a little public-house which he had known for many years, for it -was kept by a cousin of his. There he ordered his half-pint of beer, -carried it with him to a little arbor in the garden, now getting very -bare of its sheltering leaves, sat down with Poppie, pulled out big -Bible, and began to read to her. But he could not get her to mind him. -Every other moment she was up and out of the arbor, now after<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> one -thing, now after another; now it was a spider busily rolling up a fly -in his gluey weft; now it was a chicken escaped from the hen-house, and -scratching about as if it preferred finding its own living even in an -irregular fashion; and now a bird of the air that sowed not nor reaped, -and yet was taken care of.</p> - -<p>"Come along, Poppie," said her father; "I want you to listen."</p> - -<p>"Yes, daddie," Poppie would answer, returning instantly; but in a -moment, ere a sentence was finished, she would be half across the -garden. He gave it up in despair.</p> - -<p>"Why ain't you reading, daddie?" she said, after one of these -excursions.</p> - -<p>"Because you won't listen to a word of it, Poppie."</p> - -<p>"Oh! yes; here I am," she said.</p> - -<p>"Come, then; I will teach you to read."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Poppie, and was off after another sparrow.</p> - -<p>"Do you know that God sees you, Poppie?" asked Mr. Spelt.</p> - -<p>"I don't mind," answered Poppie.</p> - -<p>He sighed and closed his book, drank the last of his half-pint of beer, -and rose to go. Poppie seemed to feel that she had displeased him, for -she followed without a word. They went across the fields to Hampstead, -and then across more fields to the Finchley Road. In passing the old -church, the deeper notes of the organ reached their ears.</p> - -<p>"There," said Poppie; "I suppose that's God making his thunder. Ain't -it, daddie?"</p> - -<p>"No. It's not that," answered Spelt.</p> - -<p>"It's there he keeps it, anyhow," said Poppie. "I've heard it coming -out many a time."</p> - -<p>"Was you never in one o' them churches?" asked her father.</p> - -<p>"No," answered Poppie.</p> - -<p>"Would you like to go?" he asked again, with the hope that something -might take hold of her.</p> - -<p>"If you went with me," she said.</p> - -<p>Now Mr. Spelt had heard of Mr. Fuller from Mr. Kitely, and had been -once to hear him preach. He resolved to take Poppie to his church that -evening.</p> - -<p>My reader will see that the child had already made some progress. She -talked at least. How this began I cannot explain. No fresh sign of -thought or of conscience in a child comes into my notice but I feel -it like a miracle—a something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> that cannot be accounted for save in -attributing it to a great Thought that can account for it.</p> - -<p>They got upon an omnibus, to Poppie's great delight, and rode back -into the city. After they had had some tea they went to the evening -service, where they saw Lucy, and Mattie with her father. Mattie was -very devout, and listened even when she could not understand; Poppie -only stared, and showed by her restlessness that she wanted to be out -again. When they were again in the street she asked just one question: -"Why did Jesus Christ put on that ugly black thing?"</p> - -<p>"That wasn't Jesus Christ," said Mattie, with a little pharisaical -horror.</p> - -<p>"Oh! wasn't it?" said Poppie, in a tone of disappointment. "I thought -it was."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Poppie, Poppie!" said poor Mr. Spelt; "haven't I told you twenty -times that Jesus Christ was the Son of God?"</p> - -<p>But he might have told her a thousand times. Poppie could not recall -what she had no apprehension of when she heard it. What was Mr. Spelt -to do? He had tried and tried, but he had got no idea into her yet. But -Poppie had no objection either to religion in general, or to any dogma -whatever in particular. It was simply that she stood in no relation -of consciousness toward it or any part or phrase of it. Even Mattie's -attempts resulted in the most grotesque conceptions and fancies. But -that she was willing to be taught, an instance which soon followed will -show.</p> - -<p>Her restlessness increasing, and her father dreading lest she should -be carried away by some sudden impulse of lawlessness, he bought her -a broom one day—the best he could find, of course—and told her she -might, if she pleased, go and sweep a crossing. Poppie caught at the -broom, and vanished without a word. Not till she was gone beyond -recall did her father bethink himself that the style of her dress was -scarcely accordant with the profession she was about to assume. She was -more like a child belonging to a traveling theater than any other. He -remembered, too, that crossing-sweepers are exceedingly tenacious of -their rights, and she might get into trouble. He could not keep quiet; -his work made no progress; and at last he yielded to his anxiety and -went out to look for her. But he wandered without success, lost half -his day, and returned disconsolate.</p> - -<p>At their dinner-hour Poppie came home; but, alas! with her brilliant -jacket nearly as dirty as her broom, the appear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>ance of which certainly -indicated work. Spelt stooped, as usual, but hesitated to lift her to -his nest.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Poppie," he expostulated, "what a mess you've made of yourself!"</p> - -<p>"'Tain't me, daddie," she answered. "It's them nasty boys would throw -dirt at me. 'Twasn't their crossing I took—they hadn't no call to -chivy me. But I give it them."</p> - -<p>"What did you do, Poppie?" asked her father, a little anxiously.</p> - -<p>"I looks up at St. Pauls's, and I says, 'Please, Jesus Christ, help me -to give it 'em.' And then I flies at 'em with my broom, and I knocks -one o' them down, and a cart went over his leg, and he's took to the -'ospittle. I believe his leg's broke."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Poppie! And didn't they say anything to you? I wonder they didn't -take you up."</p> - -<p>"They couldn't find me. I thought Jesus Christ would help me. He did."</p> - -<p>What was Mr. Spelt to say? He did not know; and, therefore, unlike -some, who would teach others even when they have nothing to impart, he -held his peace. But he took good care not to let her go out in that -dress any more.</p> - -<p>"Didn't you get any ha'pence?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Yes. I gave 'em all to the boy. I wouldn't if the cart hadn't gone -over him, though. Catch me!"</p> - -<p>"Why did you give them to him?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I don't know. I wanted to."</p> - -<p>"Did he take them?"</p> - -<p>"Course he did. Why shouldn't he? I'd ha' tookt 'em."</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt resolved at last to consult Mr. Fuller about the child. -He went to see him, and told him all he knew concerning her. To his -surprise, however, when he came to her onset with the broom, Mr. Fuller -burst into a fit of the heartiest laughter. Spelt stood with his mouth -open, staring at the sacred man. Mr. Fuller saw his amazement.</p> - -<p>"You don't think it was very wicked of your poor child to pray to God -and shoulder her broom, do you?" he said, still laughing.</p> - -<p>"We're told to forgive our enemies, sir. And Poppie prayed against -hers."</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes. You and I have heard that, and, I hope, learned it. But -Poppie, if she has heard it, certainly does not understand it yet. Do -you ever read the Psalms?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, sometimes. Some of them pretty often, sir."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You will remember, then, how David prays against his enemies?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, sir. It's rather awful, sometimes."</p> - -<p>"What do you make of it? Was it wicked in David to do so?"</p> - -<p>"I daren't say that, sir."</p> - -<p>"Then why should you think it was in Poppie?"</p> - -<p>"I think perhaps David didn't know better."</p> - -<p>"And you think Poppie ought to know better than David?"</p> - -<p>"Why, you see, sir, if I'm right, as I fancy, David lived before our -Saviour came into the world to teach us better."</p> - -<p>"And so you think Poppie more responsible than a man like David, who -loved God as not one Christian in a million, notwithstanding that the -Saviour is come, has learned to love him yet? A man may love God, and -pray against his enemies. Mind you, I'm not sure that David hated them. -I know he did not love them, but I am not sure that he hated them. And -I am sure Poppie did not hate hers, for she gave the little rascal her -coppers, you know."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, sir," said Spelt, grateful to the heart's core that Mr. -Fuller stood up for Poppie.</p> - -<p>"Do you think God heard David's prayers, against his enemies?" resumed -Mr. Fuller.</p> - -<p>"He gave him victory over them, anyhow."</p> - -<p>"And God gave Poppie the victory, too. I think God heard Poppie's -prayer. And Poppie will be the better for it. She'll pray for a -different sort of thing before she's done praying. It is a good thing -to pray to God for anything. It is a grand thing to begin to pray."</p> - -<p>"I wish you would try and teach her something, sir. I have tried and -tried, and I don't know what to do more. I don't seem to get anything -into her."</p> - -<p>"You're quite wrong, Mr. Spelt. You have taught her. She prayed to God -before she fell upon her enemies with her broom."</p> - -<p>"But I do want her to believe. I confess to you, sir, I've never been -much of a church-goer, but I do believe in Christ."</p> - -<p>"It doesn't much matter whether you go to church or not if you believe -in him. Tell me how you came to hear or know about him without going to -church."</p> - -<p>"My wife was a splendid woman, sir—Poppie's mother, but—you see, -sir—she wasn't—she didn't—she was a bit of a disappointment to me."</p> - -<p>"Yes. And what then?"</p> - -<p>"I took to reading the Bible, sir."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Why did you do that?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know, sir. But somehow, bein' unhappy, and knowin' no way out -of it, I took to the Bible, sir. I don't know why or wherefore, but -that's the fact. And when I began to read, I began to think about it. -And from then I began to think about everything that came in my way—a -tryin' to get things all square in my own head, you know, sir."</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller was delighted with the man, and having promised to think -what he could do for Poppie, they parted. And here I may mention that -Spelt rarely missed a Sunday morning at Mr. Fuller's church after this. -For he had found a fellow-man who could teach him, and that the Bible -was not the sole means used by God to make his children grow: their -brothers and sisters must have a share in it too.</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller set about making Poppie's acquaintance. And first he applied -to Mattie, in order to find out what kind of thing Poppie liked. Mattie -told him <i>lollipops</i>. But Mr. Fuller preferred attacking the town of -Mansoul at the gate of one of the nobler senses, if possible.—He tried -Lucy, who told him about the bit of red glass and the buttons. So Mr. -Fuller presented his friendship's offering to Poppie in the shape of -the finest kaleidoscope he could purchase. It was some time before she -could be taught to shut one eye and look with the other; but when at -length she succeeded in getting a true vision of the wonders in the -inside of the thing, she danced and shouted for joy. This confirmed -Mr. Fuller's opinion that it was through her eyes, and not through -her ears, that he must approach Poppie's heart. She had never been -accustomed to receive secondary impressions: all her impressions, -hitherto, had come immediately through the senses. Mr. Fuller therefore -concluded that he could reach her mind more readily through the seeing -of her eyes than such hearing of the ears as had to be converted by the -imagination into visual forms before it could make any impression. He -must get her to ask questions by showing her eyes what might suggest -them. And Protestantism having deprived the Church of almost all means -of thus appealing to the eye as an inlet of truth, he was compelled -to supply the deficiency as he best could. I do not say that Mr. -Fuller would have filled his church with gorgeous paintings as things -in general, and artists in especial, are. He shrunk in particular -from the more modern representations of our Lord given upon canvas, -simply because he felt them to be so unlike him, showing him either -as effeminately soft, or as pompously condescending; but if he could -have filled his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> church with pictures in which the strength exalted -the tenderness, and the majesty was glorified by the homeliness, he -would have said that he did not see why painted windows should be more -consistent with Protestantism than painted walls. Lacking such aids, he -must yet provide as he could that kind of instruction which the early -Church judged needful for those of its members who were in a somewhat -similar condition to that of Poppie. He therefore began searching the -print-shops, till he got together about a dozen of such engravings, -mostly from the old masters, as he thought would represent our Lord in -a lovable aspect, and make the child want to have them explained. For -Poppie had had no big family Bible with pictures, to pore over in her -homeless childhood; and now she had to go back to such a beginning.</p> - -<p>By this time he had so far ingratiated himself with her that she was -pleased to accompany Mattie to tea with him, and then the pictures made -their appearance. This took place again and again, till the pictures -came to be looked for as part of the entertainment—Mr. Fuller adding -one now and then, as he was fortunate in his search, for he never -passed a fresh print-shop without making inquiry after such engravings.</p> - -<p>Meantime Poppie went out crossing-sweeping by fits and starts. Her -father neither encouraged nor prevented her.</p> - -<p>One afternoon of a cold day, when the wind from the east was blowing -the darkness over the city, and driving all who had homes and could go -to them home for comfort, they were walking hand in hand in Farringdon -Street—a very bleak, open place. Poppie did not feel the cold nearly -so much as her father, but she did blow upon the fingers of her -disengaged hand now and then notwithstanding.</p> - -<p>"Have a potato to warm you, Poppie," said her father, as they came up -to one of those little steam-engines for cooking potatoes, which stand -here and there on the edges of the pavements about London, blowing a -fierce cloud of steam from their little funnels, so consoling to the -half-frozen imagination.</p> - -<p>"Jolly!" cried Poppie, running up to the man, and laying her hand on -the greasy sleeve of his velveteen coat.</p> - -<p>"I say, Jim, give us a ha'porth," she said.</p> - -<p>"Why, 'tain't never you, Poppie?" returned the man.</p> - -<p>"Why ain't it?" said Poppie. "Here's my father. I've found one, and a -good 'un, Jim."</p> - -<p>The man looked at Poppie's dress, then at Mr. Spelt, touched the front -of his cloth cap, and said:</p> - -<p>"Good evenin', guvnor." Then in an undertone he added,</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I say, guvnor, you never did better in your life than takin' that 'ere -pretty creetur off the streets. You look well arter her. She's a right -good un, <i>I</i> know. Bless you, she ain't no knowledge what wickedness -means."</p> - -<p>In the warmth of his heart, Mr. Spelt seized the man's hand, and gave -it a squeeze of gratitude.</p> - -<p>"Come, Jim, ain't your taters done yet?" said Poppie.</p> - -<p>"Bustin' o' mealiness," answered Jim, throwing back the lid, and -taking out a potato, which he laid in the hollow of his left hand. -Then he caught up an old and I fear dirty knife, and split the potato -lengthways. Then, with the same knife, he took a piece of butter from -somewhere about the apparatus—though how it was not oil instead of -butter I cannot think—laid it into the cleft as if it had been a -trowelful of mortar, gave it a top-dressing of salt and a shake of the -pepper-box, and handed it to Poppie.</p> - -<p>"Same for you, sir?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't mind if I do have one," answered Spelt. "Are they good?"</p> - -<p>"The best <i>and</i> the biggest at the price in all London," said Jim. -"Taste one," he went on, as he prepared another, "and if you like to -part with it then, I'll take it back and eat it myself."</p> - -<p>Spelt paid for the potatoes—the sum of three ha'pence—and Poppie, -bidding Jim good-night, trotted away by his side, requiring both her -hands now for the management of her potato, at which she was more -expert than her father, for he, being nice in his ways, found the -butter and the peel together troublesome.</p> - -<p>"I say, ain't it jolly?" remarked Poppie. "I call that a good trade -now."</p> - -<p>"Would you like to have one o' them things and sell hot potatoes?" -asked her father.</p> - -<p>"Just wouldn't I?"</p> - -<p>"As well as sweeping a crossing?"</p> - -<p>"A deal better," answered Poppie. "You see, daddie, it's more -respectable—a deal. It takes money to buy a thing like that. And I -could wear my red jacket then. Nobody could say anything then, for the -thing would be my own, and a crossing belongs to everybody."</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt turned the matter over and over in his mind, and thought it -might be a good plan for giving Poppie some liberty, and yet keeping -her from roving about everywhere without object or end. So he began at -once to work for a potato-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>steamer for Poppie, and, in the course of a -fortnight, managed to buy her one. Great was Poppie's delight.</p> - -<p>She went out regularly in the dusk to the corner of Bagot Street. Her -father carried the machine for her, and leaving her there with it, -returned to his work. In following her new occupation, the child met -with little annoyance, for this was a respectable part of the city, -and the police knew her, and were inclined to protect her. One of her -chief customers was Mr. Spelt himself, who would always once, sometimes -twice, of an evening, lay down his work, scramble from his perch, and, -running to the corner of the street, order a potato, ask her how she -was getting on, pay his ha'penny or penny, and hurry back with the hot -handful to console him for the absence of his darling. Having eaten it, -chuckling and rejoicing, he would attack his work with vigor so renewed -as soon to make up for the loss of time involved in procuring it. But -keeping out of view the paternal consumption, Poppie was in a fair way -of paying all the expense of the cooking apparatus. Mr. and Miss Kitely -were good customers, too, and everything looked well for father and -daughter.</p> - -<p>Every night, at half-past nine, her father was by her side to carry -the "murphy-buster"—that was Jim's name for it—home. There was no -room for it in the shop, of course. He took it up the three flights -of stairs to Poppie's own room; and there, with three-quarters of a -pint of beer to wash them down, they finished the remaining potatoes, -"<i>with</i> butter, <i>with</i> pepper, and <i>with</i> salt," as Poppie would -exclaim, in the undisguised delight of her sumptuous fare. Sometimes -there were none left, but that gave only a variety to their pleasures; -for as soon as the engine, as Mr. Spelt called it, was deposited -in safety, they set out to buy their supper. And great were the -consultations to which, in Mr. Spelt's desire to draw out the choice -and judgment of his daughter, this proceeding gave rise. At one time it -was a slice of beef or ham that was resolved upon, at another a bit of -pudding, sometimes a couple of mutton-pies or sausages, with bread <i>ad -libitum</i>. There was a cook-shop in the neighborhood, whose window was -all beclouded with jets of steam, issuing as from a volcanic soil, and -where all kinds of hot dainties were ready for the fortunate purchaser: -thither the two would generally repair, and hold their consultation -outside the window. Then, the desirable thing once agreed upon, came -the delight of buying it, always left to Poppie; of carrying it home, -still left to Poppie; of eating it, not left to Poppie, but heightened -by the sympa<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>thetic participation of her father. Followed upon all, -the chapter in the Bible, the Lord's Prayer, bed, and dreams of Mrs. -Flanaghan and her gin-bottle, or, perhaps, of Lucy and her first kiss.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XL.</p> - -<p class="center">THOMAS'S MOTHER.</p> - - -<p>Meantime Mrs. Worboise had taken to her bed, and not even Mr. Simon -could comfort her. The mother's heart now spoke louder than her -theology.</p> - -<p>She and her priest belonged to a class more numerous than many of my -readers would easily believe, a great part of whose religion consists -in arrogating to themselves exclusive privileges, and another great -part in defending their supposed rights from the intrusion of others. -The thing does not look such to them, of course, but the repulsiveness -of their behavior to those who cannot use the same religious phrases, -indicating the non-adoption of their particular creed, compels others -so to conclude concerning their religion. Doubtless they would say -for themselves, "We do but as God has taught us; we believe but as -he has told us; we exclude whom he has excluded, and admit whom he -has admitted." But, alas for that people! the god of whose worship is -altogether such a one as themselves, or worse; whose god is paltry, -shallow-minded and full of party spirit; who sticks to a thing -<i>because</i> he has said it, accepts a man because of his assent, and -condemns him because of his opinions; who looks no deeper than a man's -words to find his thoughts, and no deeper than his thoughts to find his -will! True, they are in the hands of another God than that of their -making, and such offenses must come; yet, alas for them! for they are -of the hardest to redeem into the childhood of the kingdom.</p> - -<p>I do not say that Mrs. Worboise began to see her sin as such, when the -desolation of Thomas's disappearance fell upon her, but the atmosphere -of her mind began to change, and a spring-season of mother's feelings -to set in. How it came about I cannot explain. I as well as any of -my readers might have felt as if Mrs. Worboise were almost beyond -redemption; but it was not so. <i>Her</i> redemption came in the revival -of a long suppressed motherhood. Her husband's hardness and want of -sympathy with her sufferings had driven her into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> arms of a party -of exclusive <i>Christians</i>, whose brotherhood consisted chiefly, as -I have already described it, in denying the great brotherhood, and -refusing the hand of those who followed not with them. They were led -by one or two persons of some social position, whose condescending -assumption of superiority over those that were without was as offensive -as absurd, and whose weak brains were their only excuse. The worst -thing of this company was that it was a company. In many holding -precisely the same opinions with them, those opinions are comparatively -harmless, because they are more directly counteracted by the sacred -influences of God's world and the necessities of things, which are very -needful to prevent, if possible, self-righteous Christians from sending -themselves to a deeper hell than any they denounce against their -neighbors. But when such combine themselves into an esoteric school, -they foster, as in an oven or a forcing-pit, all the worst distinctions -for the sake of which they separate themselves from others. All that -was worst in poor Mrs. Worboise was cherished by the companionship of -those whose chief anxiety was to save their souls, and who thus ran the -great risk set forth by the Saviour of losing them. They treated the -words of the Bible like talismans or spells, the virtue of which lay in -the words, and in the assent given to them, or at most, the feelings -that could be conjured up by them, not in the doing of the things they -presupposed or commanded. But there was one thing that did something -to keep her fresh and prevent her from withering into a dry tree of -supposed orthodoxy, the worst dryness of all, because it is the least -likely to yield to any fresh burst of living sap from the forgotten -root—that was her anxiety to get her son within the "garden walled -around," and the continual disappointment of her efforts to that end.</p> - -<p>But now that the shock of his flight had aggravated all the symptoms -of her complaint, which was a serious one though slow in the movement -of its progressive cycles, now that she was confined to her bed and -deprived of the small affairs that constituted the dull excitements -of her joyless life, her imagination, roused by a reaction from the -first grief, continually presented to her the form of her darling in -the guise of the prodigal, his handsome face worn with hunger and -wretchedness, or still worse, with dissipation and disease; and she -began to accuse herself bitterly for having alienated his affections -from herself by too assiduously forcing upon his attention that which -was distasteful to him. She said to herself that it was easy for an old -woman like her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> who had been disappointed in everything, and whose -life and health were a wreck, to turn from the vanities of the world; -but how could her young Thomas, in the glory of youth, be expected to -see things as she saw them? How could he flee from the wrath to come -when he had as yet felt no breath of that wrath on his cheek? She ought -to have loved him, and borne with him, and smiled upon him, and never -let him fancy that his presence was a pain to her because he could not -take her ways for his. Add to this certain suspicions that arose in -her mind from what she considered unfriendly neglect on the part of -the chief man of their chosen brotherhood, and from the fact that her -daughter Amy had already wrought a questionable change on Mr. Simon, -having persuaded him to accompany her—not to the theatre at all—only -to the Gallery of Illustration, and it will be seen that everything -tended to turn the waters of her heart back into the old channel with -the flow of a spring-tide toward her son. She wept and prayed—better -tears and better prayers because her love was stronger. She humbled her -heart, proud of its acceptance with God, before a higher idea of that -God. She began to doubt whether she was more acceptable in his sight -than other people. There must be some who were, but she could not be -one of them. Instead of striving after assurance, as they called it, -she began to shrink from every feeling that lessened her humility; -for she found that when she was most humble then she could best pray -for her son. Not that had her assurance rested in the love of God it -would ever have quenched her prayer; but her assurance had been taught -to rest upon her consciousness of faith, which, unrealized, tended to -madness—realized, to spiritual pride. She lay thus praying for him, -and dreaming about him, and hoping that he would return before she -died, when she would receive him as son had never before been welcomed -to his mother's bosom.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Worboise's dry, sand-locked bay was open to the irruption of no -such waters from the great deep of the eternal love. Narrow and poor -as it was, Mrs. Worboise's religion had yet been as a little wedge to -keep her door open to better things, when they should arrive and claim -an entrance, as they had now done. But her husband's heart was full -of money and the love of it. How to get money, how not to spend it, -how to make it grow—these were the chief cares that filled his heart. -His was not the natural anxiety the objects of which, though not the -anxiety, were justified by the Lord when he said, "Your Father knoweth -that ye have need of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> these things." It was not what he needed that -filled his mind with care, but what he did not need, and never would -need; nay, what other people needed, and what was not his to take—not -his in God's sight, whatever the law might say. And to God's decision -everything must come at last, for that is the only human verdict of -things, the only verdict which at last will satisfy the whole jury of -humanity. But I am wrong; this was not all that filled his heart. One -demon generally opens the door to another—they are not jealous of -exclusive possession of the human thrall. The heart occupied by the -love of money will be only too ready to fall a prey to other evils; for -selfishness soon branches out in hatred and injustice. The continued -absence of his son, which he attributed still to the Boxalls, irritated -more than alarmed him; but if sometimes a natural feeling of dismay -broke in upon him, it only roused yet more the worst feelings of his -heart against Lucy and her grandmother. Every day to which Thomas's -absence extended itself, his indignation sank deeper rather than rose -higher. Every day he vowed that, if favored by fortune, he would make -them feel in bitterness how deeply they had injured him. To the same -account he entered all the annoyance given him by the well-meaning -Mr. Sargent, who had only as yet succeeded in irritating him without -gaining the least advantage over him. His every effort in resistance -of probate failed. The decision of the court was that Mr. Boxall, -a strong, healthy, well-seasoned, middle-aged man, was far more -likely to have outlived all his daughters, than any one of them have -outlived him; therefore Mr. Worboise obtained probate and entered into -possession.</p> - -<p>Although Mr. Sargent could not but have at least more than doubted the -result, he felt greatly discomfited at it. He went straight to Mr. -Morgenstern's office to communicate his failure and the foiling of the -liberality which had made the attempt possible. Mr. Morgenstern only -smiled, and wrote him a check for the costs. Of course, being a Jew, he -did not enjoy parting with his money for nothing—no Christian would -have minded it in the least. Seriously, Mr. Morgenstern did throw half -his cigar into the fire from annoyance. But his first words were:</p> - -<p>"What's to be done for those good people, then, Sargent?"</p> - -<p>"We must wait till we see. I think I told you that the old lady has a -claim upon the estate, which, most unfortunately, she cannot establish. -Now, however, that this cormorant has had his own way, he will perhaps -be inclined to be <i>generous</i>; for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> justice must be allowed in this case -to put on the garb of generosity, else she will not appear in public, -I can tell you. I mean to make this one attempt more. I confess to -considerable misgiving, however. To-morrow, before his satisfaction has -evaporated, I will make it, and let you know the result."</p> - -<p>By this time Mr. Morgenstern had lighted another cigar.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XLI.</p> - -<p class="center">LUCY'S NEW TROUBLE.</p> - - -<p>Mr. Sargent's next application to Mr. Worboise, made on the morning -after the decision of the court in his favor, shared the fate of -all his preceding attempts. Mr. Worboise smiled it off. There was -more inexorableness expressed in his smile than in another's sullen -imprecation. The very next morning Mrs. Boxall was served with notice -to quit at the approaching quarter-day; for she had no agreement, and -paid no rent, consequently she was tenant only on sufferance. And now -Mr. Stopper's behavior toward them underwent a considerable change; not -that he was in the smallest degree rude to them; but, of course, there -was now no room for that assumption of the confidential by which he had -sought to establish the most friendly relations between himself and the -probable proprietors of the business in which he hoped to secure his -position, not merely as head-clerk, but as partner. The door between -the house and the office was once more carefully locked, and the key -put in his drawer, and having found how hostile his new master was to -the inhabitants of the house, he took care to avoid every suspicion of -intimacy with them.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall's paroxysm of indignant rage when she received the notice -to quit was of course as impotent as the bursting of a shell in a -mountain of mud. From the first, however, her anger had had this -effect, that everybody in the court, down to lowly and lonely Mr. -Dolman, the cobbler, knew all the phases of her oppression and injury. -Lucy never said a word about it, save to Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern, -whose offer of shelter for herself and her grandmother till they could -see what was to be done, she gratefully declined, knowing that her -grandmother would die rather than accept such a position.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span></p> - -<p>"There's nothing left for me in my old age but the work-house," said -Mrs. Boxall, exhausted by one of her outbursts of fierce vindictive -passion against the author of her misfortunes, which, as usual, ended -in the few bitter tears that are left to the aged to shed.</p> - -<p>"Grannie, grannie," said Lucy, "don't talk like that. You have been a -mother to me. See if I cannot be a daughter to you. I am quite able to -keep you and myself too as comfortable as ever. See if I can't."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense, child. It will be all that you can do to keep yourself; and -I'm not a-going to sit on the neck of a young thing like you, just like -a nightmare, and have you wishing me gone from morning to night."</p> - -<p>"I don't deserve that you should say that of me, grannie. But I'm -sure you don't think as you say. And as to being able, with Mrs. -Morgenstern's recommendation I can get as much teaching as I can -undertake. I am pretty sure of that, and you know it will only be -paying you back a very little of your own, grannie."</p> - -<p>Before Mrs. Boxall could reply, for she felt reproached for having -spoken so to her grand-daughter, there was a tap at the door, and Mr. -Kitely entered.</p> - -<p>"Begging your pardon, ladies, and taking the liberty of a neighbor, I -made bold not to trouble you by ringing the bell I've got something to -speak about in the way of business."</p> - -<p>So saying, the worthy bookseller, who had no way of doing anything but -going at it like a bull, drew a chair near the fire.</p> - -<p>"With your leave, ma'am, it's as easy to speak sitting as standing. So, -if you don't object, I'll sit down."</p> - -<p>"Do sit down, Mr. Kitely," said Lucy. "We're glad to see you—though -you know we're in a little trouble just at present."</p> - -<p>"I know all about that, and I don't believe there's a creature in the -court, down to Mrs. Cook's cat, that isn't ready to fly at that devil's -limb of a lawyer. But you see, ma'am, if we was to murder him it -wouldn't be no better for you. And what I come to say to you is this: -I've got a deal more room on my premises than I want, and it would be -a wonderful accommodation to me, not to speak of the honor of it, if -you would take charge of my little woman for me. I can't interfere with -her, you know, so as to say she's not to take care of me, you know, for -that would go nigh to break her little heart; but if you would come -and live there as long as convenient to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> you, you could get things -for yourselves all the same as you does here, only you wouldn't have -nothing to be out of pocket for house-room, you know. It would be the -making of my poor motherless Mattie."</p> - -<p>"Oh! we're not going to be so very poor as grannie thinks, Mr. Kitely," -said Lucy, trying to laugh, while the old lady sat rocking herself -to and fro and wiping her eyes. "But I should like to move into your -house, for there's nowhere I should be so much at home."</p> - -<p>"Lucy!" said her grandmother, warningly.</p> - -<p>"Stop a bit, grannie. Mr. Kitely's a real friend in need; and if I had -not such a regard for him as I have, I would take it as it's meant. -I'll tell you what, Mr. Kitely; it only comes to this, that I have got -to work a little harder, and not lead such an idle life with my grannie -here."</p> - -<p>"You idle, miss!" interrupted the bookseller. "I never see any one more -like the busy bee than yourself, only that you was always a-wastin' -of your honey on other people; and that they say ain't the way of the -bees."</p> - -<p>"But you won't hear me out, Mr. Kitely. It would be a shame of me to go -and live in anybody's house for nothing, seeing I am quite able to pay -for it. Now, if you have room in your house—"</p> - -<p>"Miles of it," cried the bookseller.</p> - -<p>"I don't know where it can be, then; for it's as full of books from -the ground to the garret as—as—as my darling old grannie here is of -independence."</p> - -<p>"Don't you purtend to know more about my house, miss, than I does -myself. Just you say the word, and before quarter-day you'll find two -rooms fit for your use and at your service. What I owe to you, miss, in -regard of my little one, nothing I can do can ever repay. They're a bad -lot them Worboises—son <i>and</i> father! and that I saw—leastways in the -young one."</p> - -<p>This went with a sting to poor Lucy's heart. She kept hoping and -hoping, and praying to God: but her little patch of blue sky was so -easily overclouded! But she kept to the matter before her.</p> - -<p>"Very well, Mr. Kitely; you ought to know best. Now for my side of the -bargain. I told you already that I would rather be in your house than -anywhere else, if I must leave this dear old place. And if you will let -me pay a reasonable sum, as lodgings go in this court, we'll regard the -matter as settled. And then I can teach Mattie a little, you know."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall did not put in a word. The poor old lady was beginning -to weary of everything, and for the first time in her life began to -allow her affairs to be meddled with—as she would no doubt even now -consider it. And the sound of paying for it was very satisfactory. I -suspect part of Lucy's desire to move no farther than the entrance of -the court, came from the hope that Thomas would some day or other turn -up in that neighborhood, and perhaps this emboldened her to make the -experiment of taking the matter so much into her own hands. Mr. Kitely -scratched his head, and looked a little annoyed.</p> - -<p>"Well, miss," he said, pausing between every few words, a most unusual -thing with him, "that's not a bit of what I meant when I came up the -court here. But that's better than nothing—for Mattie and me, I mean. -So if you'll be reasonable about the rent, we'll easily manage all the -rest. Mind you, miss, it'll be all clear profit to me."</p> - -<p>"It'll cost you a good deal to get the rooms put in order as you say, -you know, Mr. Kitely."</p> - -<p>"Not much, miss. I know how to set about things better than most -people. Bless you, I can buy wall-papers for half what you'd pay for -them now. I know the trade. I've been a-most everything in my day. Why, -miss, I lived at one time such a close shave with dying of hunger, -that, after I was married, I used to make picture frames and then pawn -my tools to get glass to put into them, and then carry them about to -sell, and when I had sold 'em I bought more gold-beading and redeemed -my tools, and did it all over again. Bless you! I know what it is to be -hard up, if anybody ever did. I once walked from Bristol to Newcastle -upon fourpence. It won't cost me much to make them rooms decent. And -then there's the back parlor at your service. I shan't plague you much, -only to take a look at my princess now and then."</p> - -<p>After another interview or two between Lucy and Mr. Kitely, the matter -was arranged, and the bookseller proceeded to get his rooms ready, -which involved chiefly a little closer packing, and the getting rid of -a good deal of almost unsalable rubbish, which had accumulated from the -purchase of lots.</p> - -<p>Meantime another trial was gathering for poor Lucy. Mr. Sargent had -met Mr. Wither, and had learned from him all he knew about Thomas. Mr. -Wither was certain that everything was broken off between Lucy and him. -It was not only known to all at the office that Thomas had disappeared, -but it was perfectly known as well that for some time he had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> -getting into bad ways, and his disappearance was necessarily connected -with this fact, though no one but Mr. Stopper knew the precise occasion -of his evanishment, and this he was, if possible, more careful than -ever to conceal. Not even to the lad's father did he communicate what -he knew: he kept this as a power over his new principal. From what -he heard, Mr. Sargent resolved to see if he could get anything out -of Molken, and called upon him for that purpose. But the German soon -convinced him that, although he had been intimate with Thomas, he knew -nothing about him now. The last information he could give him was -that he had staked and lost his watch and a lady's ring that he wore; -that he had gone away and returned with money; and, having gained -considerably, had disappeared and never been heard of again. It was -easy for Mr. Sargent to persuade himself that a noble-minded creature -like Lucy, having come to know the worthlessness of her lover, had -dismissed him forever; and to believe that she would very soon become -indifferent to a person so altogether unworthy of her affection. -Probably he was urged yet the more to a fresh essay from the desire -of convincing her that his motives in the first case had not been so -selfish as accident had made them appear; nor that his feelings toward -her remained unaltered notwithstanding the change in her prospects. He -therefore kept up his visits, and paid them even more frequently now -that there was no possible excuse on the score of business. For some -time, however, so absorbed were Lucy's thoughts that his attentions -gave her no uneasiness. She considered the matter so entirely settled, -that no suspicion of the revival of any farther hope in the mind of -Mr. Sargent arose to add a fresh trouble to the distress which she was -doing all she could to bear patiently. But one day she was suddenly -undeceived. Mrs. Boxall had just left the room.</p> - -<p>"Miss Burton," said Mr. Sargent, "I venture to think circumstances -may be sufficiently altered to justify me in once more expressing a -hope that I may be permitted to regard a nearer friendship as possible -between us."</p> - -<p>Lucy started as if she had been hurt. The occurrence was so strange -and foreign to all that was in her thoughts, that she had to look all -around her, as it were, like a person suddenly awaking in a strange -place. Before she could speak, her grandmother reëntered. Mr. Sargent -went away without any conviction that Lucy's behavior indicated -repugnance to his proposal.</p> - -<p>Often it happens that things work together without any con<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span>certed -scheme. Mrs. Morgenstern had easily divined Mr. Sargent's feelings, and -the very next day began to talk about him to Lucy. But she listened -without interest, until Mrs. Morgenstern touched a chord which awoke -a very painful one. For at last her friend had got rather piqued at -Lucy's coldness and indifference.</p> - -<p>"I think at least, Lucy, you might take a little interest in the poor -fellow, if only from gratitude. A girl may acknowledge that feeling -without compromising herself. There has Mr. Sargent been wearing -himself out for you, lying awake at night, and running about all day, -without hope of reward; and, you are so taken up with your own troubles -that you haven't a thought for the man who has done all that lay in -human being's power to turn them aside."</p> - -<p>Could Lucy help comparing this conduct with that of Thomas? And while -she compared it, she could as little help the sudden inroad of the -suspicion that Thomas had forsaken her that he might keep well with -his father—the man who was driving them, as far as lay in his power, -into the abysses of poverty; and that this disappearance was the only -plan he dared to adopt for freeing himself—for doubtless his cowardice -would be at least as great in doing her wrong as it had been in -refusing to do her right. And she did feel that there was some justice -in Mrs. Morgenstern's reproach. For if poor Mr. Sargent was really in -love with her, she ought to pity him and feel for him some peculiar -tenderness, for the very reason that she could not grant him what he -desired. Her strength having been much undermined of late, she could -not hear Mrs. Morgenstern's reproaches without bursting into tears. And -then her friend began to comfort her; but all the time supposing that -her troubles were only those connected with her reverse of fortune. As -Lucy went home, however, a very different and terrible thought darted -into her mind: "What if it was her duty to listen to Mr. Sargent!" -There seemed no hope for her any more. Thomas had forsaken her utterly. -If she could never be happy, ought she not to be the more anxious to -make another happy? Was there any limit to the sacrifice that ought to -be made for another—that is of one's self? for, alas! it would be to -sacrifice no one besides. The thought was indeed a terrible one.</p> - -<p>All the rest of the day her soul was like a drowning creature—now -getting one breath of hope, now with all the billows and waves of -despair going over it. The evening passed in constant terror, lest -Mr. Sargent should appear, and a poor paltry little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> hope grew as the -hands of the clock went round, and every moment rendered it less likely -that he would come. At length she might go to bed without annoying her -grandmother, who, by various little hints she dropped, gave her clearly -to understand that she expected her to make a good match before long, -and so relieve her mind about her at least.</p> - -<p>She went to bed, and fell asleep from very weariness of emotion. But -presently she started awake again; and, strange to say, it seemed to be -a resolution she had formed in her sleep that brought her awake. It was -that she would go to Mr. Fuller, and consult him on the subject that -distressed her. After that she slept till the morning.</p> - -<p>She had no lesson to give that day, so as soon as Mr. Fuller's -church-bell began to ring, she put on her bonnet. Her grandmother asked -where she was going. She told her she was going to church.</p> - -<p>"I don't like this papist way of going to church of a week-day—at -least in the middle of the day, when people ought to be at their work."</p> - -<p>Lucy made no reply; for, without being one of those half of whose -religion consists in abusing the papists, Mrs. Boxall was one of those -who would turn from any good thing of which she heard first as done by -those whose opinions differed from her own. Nor would it have mitigated -her dislike to know that Lucy was going for the purpose of asking -advice from Mr. Fuller. She would have denounced that as <i>confession</i>, -and asked whether it was not more becoming in a young girl to consult -her grandmother than go to a priest. Therefore, I say, Lucy kept her -own counsel.</p> - -<p>There were twenty or thirty people present when she entered St. -Amos's; a grand assembly, if we consider how time and place were -haunted—swarming with the dirty little demons of money-making and -all its attendant beggarly cares and chicaneries—one o'clock in the -City of London! It was a curious psalm they were singing, so quaint -and old-fashioned, and so altogether unlike London in the nineteenth -century!—the last in the common version of Tate and Brady. They were -beginning the fifth verse when she entered:</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Let them who joyful hymns compose</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To cymbals set their songs of praise;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cymbals of common use, and those</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That loudly sound on solemn days."</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>Lucy did not feel at all in sympathy with cymbals. But she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> knew that -Mr. Fuller did, else he could not have chosen that psalm to sing. And -an unconscious operation of divine logic took place in her heart, with -result such as might be represented in the following process: "Mr. -Fuller is glad in God—not because he thinks himself a favorite with -God, but because God is what he is, a faithful God. He is not one thing -to Mr. Fuller and another to me. He is the same though I am sorrowful, -I will praise him too. He will help me to be and do right, and that can -never be anything unworthy of me." So, with a trembling voice, Lucy -joined in the end of the song of praise. And when Mr. Fuller's voice -arose in the prayer—"O God, whose nature and property is ever to have -mercy and to forgive, receive our humble petitions, and though we be -tied and bound with the chain of our sins, yet let the pitifulness of -thy great mercy loose us: for the honor of Jesus Christ, our Mediator -and Advocate. Amen"—she joined in it with all her heart, both for -herself and Thomas. Then, without the formality of a text, Mr. Fuller -addressed his little congregation something as follows:</p> - -<p>"My friends, is it not strange that with all the old church-yards -lying about in London, unbusinesslike spots in the midst of shops and -warehouses, 'and all the numberless goings on of life,' we should -yet feel so constantly as if the business of the city were an end in -itself? How seldom we see that it is only a means to an end! I will -tell you in a few words one cause of this feeling as if it were an -end; and then to what end it really is a means. With all the reminders -of death that we have about us, not one of us feels as if he were -going to die. We think of other people—even those much younger than -ourselves—dying, and it always seems as if we were going to be alive -when they die: and why? Just because we are not going to die. This -thinking part in us feels no symptom of ceasing to be. We think on and -on, and death seems far from us, for it belongs only to our bodies—not -to us. So the soul forgets it. It is no part of religion to think about -death. It is the part of religion, when the fact and thought of death -come in, to remind us that we live forever, and that God, who sent his -Son to die, will help us safe through that somewhat fearful strait -that lies before us, and which often grows so terrible to those who -fix their gaze upon it that they see nothing beyond it, and talk with -poor Byron of the day of death as 'the first dark day of nothingness.' -But this fact that <i>we</i> do not die, that only our bodies die, adds -immeasurably to the folly of making what is commonly called the -business of life<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> an end instead of a means. It is not the business of -life. The business of life is that which has to do with the life—with -the living <i>us</i>, not with the dying part of us. How can the business of -life have to do with the part that is always dying? Yet, certainly, as -you will say, it must be done—only, mark this, not as an end, but as a -means. As an end it has to do only with the perishing body; as a means -it has infinite relations with the never-ceasing life. Then comes the -question, To what end is it a means? It is a means, a great, I might -say the great, means to the end for which God sends us individually -into a world of sin; for that he does so, whatever the perplexities the -admission may involve, who can deny, without denying that God makes us? -If we were sent without any sinful tendencies into a sinless world, -we should be good, I dare say; but with a very poor kind of goodness, -knowing nothing of evil, consequently never choosing good, but being -good in a stupid way because we could not help it. But how is it with -us? We live in a world of constant strife—a strife, as the old writers -call it, following St. Paul, between the flesh and the spirit; the -things belonging to the outer life, the life of the senses, the things -which our Saviour sums up in the words, 'what we shall eat, and what we -shall drink, and wherewithal we shall be clothed,' forcing themselves -constantly on our attention, and crowding away the thought and the -care that belong to the real life—the life that consists in purity of -heart, in love, in goodness of all kinds—that embraces all life, using -our own life only as the standpoint from which to stretch out arms of -embracing toward God and toward all men. For the feeding and growth of -this life, London city affords endless opportunity. Business is too -often regarded as the hindrance to the spiritual life. I regard it as -among the finest means the world affords for strengthening and causing -to grow this inner real life. For every deed may be done according to -the fashion of the outward perishing life, as an end; or it may be done -after the fashion of the inward endless life—done righteously, done -nobly, done, upon occasion, magnificently—ever regarded as a something -to be put under the feet of the spiritual man to lift him to the height -of his high calling. Making business a mean to such end, it will help -us to remember that this world and the fashion of it passeth away, but -that every deed done, as Jesus would have done it if he had been born -to begin his life as a merchant instead of a carpenter, lifts the man -who so does it up toward the bosom of Him who created business and all -its complications, as well as our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> brains and hands that have to deal -with them. If you were to come and ask me, 'How shall I do in this or -that particular case?' very possibly I might be unable to answer you. -Very often no man can decide but the man himself. And it is part of -every man's training that he should thus decide. Even if he should go -wrong, by going wrong he may be taught the higher principle that would -have kept him right, and which he has not yet learned. One thing is -certain, that the man who wants to go right will be guided right; that -not only in regard to the mission of the Saviour, but in regard to -everything, he that is willing to do the will of the Father shall know -of the doctrine.—Now to God the Father," etc.</p> - -<p>The worship over, and the congregation having retired, Lucy bent her -trembling steps toward the vestry, and there being none of those -generally repellent ministers, pew-openers, about, she knocked at -the door. By the way, I wish clergymen were more acquainted with the -nature and habits of those who in this <i>lowly</i>—alas, how far from -humble—office represent the gospel of welcome. They ought to have at -least one sermon a year preached to them upon their duties before the -whole congregation. The reception the servants of any house afford has -no little share in the odor of hospitality which that house enjoys, and -hospitality is no small Christian virtue. Lucy's troubled heart beat -very fast as she opened the door in answer to Mr. Fuller's cheerful -"Come in." But the moment she saw Mr. Fuller she felt as if she had -been guilty of an act of impropriety, and ought to have waited in the -church till he came out. She drew back with a murmured "I beg your -pardon," but Mr. Fuller at once reassured her. He came forward; holding -out his hand.</p> - -<p>"How do you do, Miss Burton? I am delighted to see you. By your coming -to the vestry, like a brave woman, I suppose there is something I can -do for you. Let me hear all about it. Sit down."</p> - -<p>So saying, he gave her a chair, and seated himself on the only -remaining one. And as soon as she saw that Mr. Fuller was not shocked -at her forwardness, such was Lucy's faith in him, that her courage -returned, and with due regard to his time and her own dignity, she -proceeded at once to explain to him the difficulty in which she found -herself. It was a lovely boldness in the maiden, springing from faith -and earnestness and need, that enabled her to set forth in a few plain -words the main points of her case—that she had been engaged for many -months to a youth who seemed to have forsaken her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> but whom she did -not know to have done so, though his conduct had been worse than -doubtful, seeing he had fallen into bad company. She would never have -troubled Mr. Fuller about it for that, for it was not sympathy she -wanted; but there was a gentleman—and here she faltered more—to whom -she was under very great obligation, and who said he loved her; and she -wanted much to know whether it was her duty to yield to his entreaties.</p> - -<p>My reader must remember that Lucy was not one of those clear-brained as -well as large-hearted women who see the <i>rights</i> of a thing at once. -Many of the best women may be terribly puzzled, especially when an -opportunity of self-sacrifice occurs. They are always ready to think -that the most painful way is the right one. This indicates a noble -disposition. And the most painful way <i>may</i> be the right one; but it -is not the right one <i>because</i> it is the most painful. It is the right -way because it is the right way, whether it be painful or delightful; -and the notion of self-sacrifice may be rooted in spiritual pride. -Whether it be so or not, the fact that the wrong way is the least -self-indulgent, is the most painful, will not prevent it from bringing -with it all the consequences that belong to it: wrong-doing cannot set -things right, however noble the motive may be. Of course the personal -condemnation and the individual degradation are infinitely less than -if the easiest and pleasantest way is chosen only because it is the -easiest and pleasantest. But God will not make of law a child's toy, to -indulge the vagaries of his best children.</p> - -<p>When Lucy had finished setting forth her case, which the trembling -of her voice, and the swelling of her tears, hardly interrupted, Mr. -Fuller said:</p> - -<p>"Now you must allow me, Miss Burton, to ask you one or two plain -questions."</p> - -<p>"Certainly, sir. Ask me whatever you please. I will answer honestly."</p> - -<p>"That I have no doubt about. Do you love this man to whom you say you -are obliged?"</p> - -<p>"Indeed I do not. I hope I am grateful to him, and I would do anything -in return, except—"</p> - -<p>"I understand you. It seems to me, though this kind of thing involves -many questions too delicate to be easily talked about, that, whatever -he may desire at the time, it is doing any man a grievous wrong to -marry him without loving him. Blinded by his love, he may desire it -none the less even if you tell him that you do not love him; but the -kindest thing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> even to him, is to refuse. This is what seems to me the -truth."</p> - -<p>While Mr. Fuller spoke, Lucy heaved such a deep sigh of relief, that if -any corroboration of what she represented as the state of her feelings -had been necessary, Mr. Fuller had it. After a little pause, he went on:</p> - -<p>"Now, one question more: Do you love the other still?"</p> - -<p>"I do," said Lucy, bursting at last into a passion of tears. "But, -perhaps," she sobbed, "I ought to give him up altogether. I am afraid -he has not behaved well at all."</p> - -<p>"To you?"</p> - -<p>"I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking about myself just then."</p> - -<p>"Has he let you understand that he has forsaken you?"</p> - -<p>"No, no. He hasn't said a word. Only I haven't seen him for so long."</p> - -<p>"There is, then, some room for hope. If you were to resolve upon -anything now, you would be doing so without knowing what you were -doing, because you do not know what he is doing. It is just possible it -may be a healthy shame that is keeping him away from you. It may become -your duty to give him up, but I think when it is so, it will be clearly -so. God gives us all time: we should give each other time, too. I wish -I could see him."</p> - -<p>"I wish, indeed, you could, sir. It seems to me that he has not been -well brought up. His father is a dreadfully hard and worldly man, as my -poor grandmother knows too well; and his mother is very religious, but -her religion seems to me to have done my poor Thomas more harm than his -father's worldliness."</p> - -<p>"That is quite possible. When you do see him again, try to get him to -come and see me. Or I will go and see him. I shall not overwhelm him -with a torrent of religion which he cannot understand, and which would -only harden him."</p> - -<p>"There is nothing I should wish more. But tell me one thing, Mr. -Fuller: would it be right to marry him? I want to understand. Nothing -looks farther off; but I want to know what is right."</p> - -<p>"I think," returned Mr. Fuller, "that every willing heart will be -taught what is right by the time that action is necessary. One thing -seems clear, that while you love him—"</p> - -<p>"I shall always love him," interrupted Lucy.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus06.jpg" alt="eyes" /> -</p> - -<p class="caption"> "LUCY NEVER LIFTED HER EYES."</p> - -<p>"I must speak generally," said Mr. Fuller; "and there have been a -few instances," he added, with the glimmer of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> smile through the -seriousness of his countenance, "of young maidens, and young men no -less, changing their minds about such matters. I do not say you will. -But while you love him it is clear to me, that you must not accept the -attentions of any one else. I could put a very hard and dreadful name -upon that. There is another thing equally clear to me—that while he -is unrepentant, that is, so long as he does not change his ways—turn -from evil toward good—think better of it, that is—you would be doing -very wrong to marry him. I do not say when, or that ever you are bound -to stop loving him; but that is a very different thing from consenting -to marry him. Any influence for good that a woman has over such a man, -she may exercise as much before marriage as after it. Indeed, if the -man is of a poor and selfish nature, she is almost certain, as far as -my observation goes, to lose her influence after her marriage. Many -a woman, I fear, has married a man with the hope of reforming him, -and has found that she only afforded him opportunity for growth in -wickedness. I do not say that no good at all comes of it, so long as -she is good, but it is the wrong way, and evil comes of it."</p> - -<p>"I am sure you are right, Mr. Fuller. It would be dreadful to marry a -bad man—or a man who had not strength, even for love of a wife, to -turn from bad ways. But you won't think the hardest of my poor Thomas -yet? He has been led astray, and has too much good in him to be easily -made all bad."</p> - -<p>"I too will hope so, for your sake as well as his own."</p> - -<p>Lucy rose.</p> - -<p>"Good-morning, Mr. Fuller. I do not know how to thank you. I only -wanted leave to go on loving him. Thank you a thousand times."</p> - -<p>"Do not thank me as if I could give you leave to do this or that. I -only tell you what seems to me the truth of the matter."</p> - -<p>"But is not that the best thing to give or to receive?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, it is," answered Mr. Fuller, as Lucy left the vestry.</p> - -<p>It was with a heart wonderfully lightened that she went home to her -grandmother. This new cloud of terror had almost passed away; it only -lightened a little on the horizon when she thought of having again to -hear what Mr. Sargent wanted to say.</p> - -<p>That same evening he came. Lucy never lifted her eyes to his face, even -when she held out her hand to him. He misinterpreted her embarrassment; -and he found argument to strengthen his first impression; for a moment -after, summoning all her courage, and remembering very conveniently a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> -message she had had for him, Lacy said to her grandmother:</p> - -<p>"Mr. Kitely said he would like to see you, grannie, about the papers -for our rooms. He has got some patterns."</p> - -<p>"I have done with this world, child, and all its vanities," said Mrs. -Boxall, with a touch of asperity.</p> - -<p>"It would only be polite, though, grannie, as he is taking so much -trouble about it, to go and see them. He is so kind!"</p> - -<p>"We're going to pay him for his kindness," said the old dame, soured -out of her better judgment, and jealous of Mr. Sargent supposing that -they were accepting charity.</p> - -<p>"No, grannie. That nobody ever could do. Kindness is just what can't be -paid for, do what you will."</p> - -<p>"I see you want to get rid of me," she said, rising; "so I suppose -I had better go. Things are changed. Old people must learn to do as -they're bid. You'll be teaching me my catechism next, I suppose."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall walked out of the room with as stiff a back as she had ever -assumed in the days of her prosperity. The moment the door closed, Mr. -Sargent approached Lucy, who had remained standing, and would have -taken her hand, but she drew it away, and took the lead.</p> - -<p>"I am very sorry if I have led you into any mistake, Mr. Sargent. I -was so distressed at what you said the other evening, that I made this -opportunity for the sake of removing at once any misapprehension. I -wish to remind you, that I considered the subject you resumed then as -quite settled."</p> - -<p>"But excuse me, Miss Burton. I too considered it settled; but -circumstances having altered so entirely—"</p> - -<p>"Could you suppose for a moment, that because I had lost the phantom -of a fortune which I never possessed, I would accept the man—whose -kindness I was always grateful for, but whose love I had refused before -because I could not give him any in return?"</p> - -<p>"No. I did not suppose so. You gave me a reason for refusing my -attentions then, which I have the best ground for believing no longer -exists."</p> - -<p>"What was the reason I gave you then?"</p> - -<p>"That you loved another."</p> - -<p>"And what ground have I given you for supposing that such has ceased to -be the case?"</p> - -<p>"You have not given me any. He has."</p> - -<p>Lucy started. The blood rushed to her forehead, and then back to her -heart.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Where is he?" she cried, clasping her hands. "For God's sake, tell me."</p> - -<p>"That at least is answer enough to my presumptuous hope," returned Mr. -Sargent, with some bitterness.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Sargent," said Lucy, who, though trembling greatly, had now -recovered her self-command, "I beg your pardon for any pain I may have -occasioned you. But, by surprising the truth, you have saved me the -repetition of what I told you before. Tell me what you know of Mr. -Worboise."</p> - -<p>But Mr. Sargent's feelings—those especially occupied with himself—got -the better of him now, bitterly as he regretted it afterward. He felt -it a wrong that such a woman should pass him by for the sake of such a -man; and he answered in the heat of injury:</p> - -<p>"All I care to know about him is, that for the sake of his game among a -low set of gamblers, he staked and lost a diamond ring—a rose-diamond, -which one of his companions seemed to know as the gift of a lady. That -is the man for whom Lucy Burton is proud to express her devotion!"</p> - -<p>Lucy had grown very pale; but she would hold out till Mr. Sargent was -gone. She had an answer on her lips; but if she spoke he would stay. -Still she <i>would</i> say one word for Thomas.</p> - -<p>"Your evidence is hardly of the most trustworthy kind, Mr. Sargent. -Good-evening."</p> - -<p>"It is of <i>his</i> kind, anyhow, whatever that may be," he retorted, and -left the room. Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, he despised -himself most heartily, and rushed up again to attempt an apology. -Opening the room door, he saw Lucy lying on the floor. He thought she -had fainted. But the same moment, Mrs. Boxall, who had only gone up -stairs, came down behind him, and he thought it best to leave and write -a letter. But Lucy had not fainted. She had only thrown herself on the -floor in that agony which would gladly creep into the grave to forget -itself. In all grief unmingled with anger there is the impulse to lie -down. Lucy had not heard Mr. Sargent return or her grandmother reënter, -for she had been pressing her ears with her hands, as if the last -sounds that had entered had wounded them grievously.</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm sure! what next?" remarked Mrs. Boxall. "I dare say fashions -<i>have</i> come to that at last!"</p> - -<p>What she meant was not very clear; but the moment she spoke, Lucy -started from the floor and left the room. She had not been long in -her chamber, however, before, with the ingenuity of a lover, she had -contrived to draw a little weak<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> comfort even out of what Mr. Sargent -had told her. She believed that he had done worse than part with her -ring; but when the thought struck her that it must have been for the -sake of redeeming that ring that he had robbed his employer, which was -indeed the case, somehow or other, strange as it may seem, the offenses -appeared mutually to mitigate each other. And when she thought the -whole matter over in the relief of knowing that she was free of Mr. -Sargent, she quite believed that she had discovered fresh grounds for -taking courage.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XLII.</p> - -<p class="center">MRS. BOXALL FINDS A COMPANION IN MISFORTUNE.</p> - - -<p>At last the day arrived that Lucy and her grandmother had fixed for -removing into the bookseller's house. The furniture was all Mrs. -Boxall's own, though, if Mr. Worboise had thought proper to dispute -the fact, there was nobody left who could have home witness against -it. Mr. Kitely shut shop a little earlier; Mr. Spelt descended from -his perch: and Mr. Dolman crept out of his hole—all to bear a hand in -the moving of it. It was dusk when they began, but the darkness did -not hinder their diligence, and, in the course of a couple of hours, -all the heavier articles were in their new places. When everything was -got into something like order, it did not appear that, save for the -diminution of space, they had had such a terrible downcome. Lucy was -heartily satisfied with their quarters, and the feeling that she had -now to protect and work for her grandmother gave a little cheerfulness -to her behavior, notwithstanding the weight on her heart. Mattie was -important, with an importance which not even the delight of having Miss -Burton to live with them could assuage; for she had to preside at a -little supper which Mr. Kitely had procured, in honor of the occasion, -from the cook-shop which supplied the feasts of Spelt and Poppie. But -when things were partially arranged for the night, Mrs. Boxall, who was -in a very despondent condition, declared her intention of going to bed. -Lucy would gladly have done the same, but she could not think of doing -dishonor to the hospitality of their kind friend.</p> - -<p>"Well, I am sorry the old lady can't be prevailed upon,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> said Mr. -Kitely. "Them sassages I know to be genuine—none of your cats or cats' -meat either. I know the very tree they grew upon—eh, princess? And now -we shan't be able to eat 'em up."</p> - -<p>"Why don't you ask Mr. Spelt to come in and help us?" said Mattie.</p> - -<p>"Bless you! he's gone to fetch his kid; and before they'll come home -they'll have bought their supper. They always do. I know their ways. -But I do believe that's them gone up the court this minute. I'll run -and see."</p> - -<p>Mr. Kitely hurried out, and returned with Mr. Spelt, Poppie, and the -steam-engine, which was set down in the middle of the room.</p> - -<p>"Ain't I been fort'nate?" said the bookseller. "Poppie ain't sold all -her potatoes. They was a-going to eat 'em up by the way of savin'. So -we've agreed to club, and go share and share. Ain't that it, Poppie?"</p> - -<p>Poppie grinned and gave no other answer. But her father took up the -word.</p> - -<p>"It's very kind of you to put it so, Mr. Kitely. But it seems to me -we're hardly fit company for a lady like Miss Burton."</p> - -<p>"Surely, Mr. Spelt, we haven't been neighbors so long without being fit -to have our supper together?" said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"That's very neighborly of you, miss. Let me assist you to a potato," -said Spelt, going toward the steamer. "It's my belief there ain't no -better taters in London, though I says it as buys 'em," he added, -throwing back the lid.</p> - -<p>"But we ain't going to begin on the taters, Spelt. You come and sit -down here, and we'll have the taters put on a plate. That's the right -way, ain't it, princess?"</p> - -<p>"Well, I should say so, Mr. Kitely," answered Mattie, who had hitherto -been too full of her own importance even to talk. But Mr. Spelt -interfered.</p> - -<p>"Them taters," said he, with decision, "ought to be eaten fresh out of -the steamer. If you turn 'em out on to a plate, I don't answer for the -consequences. We'll put 'em nearer the table, and I'll sit by 'em, with -your leave, Miss Burton, and help everybody as wants one."</p> - -<p>It was remarkable with how much more decision than had belonged to -him formerly, Mr. Spelt now spoke. Mr. Kitely, after a half hour's -meditation, next day, as to whether the cause of it was Poppie or the -potatoes, came to the wise conclusion that between them they had made a -man of him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span></p> - -<p>By this time they were all seated round the table.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Spelt, you be parson, and say grace," said Kitely, in his usual -peremptory tone.</p> - -<p>"Why should you ask me, Mr. Kitely?" said the tailor, humbly.</p> - -<p>"Because you know more about that sort o' thing than I do—and you know -it."</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt said grace so devoutly that nobody could hear him.</p> - -<p>"Why do you say grace as if you was ashamed of it, Spelt? If I was to -say grace, now, I would let you hear me."</p> - -<p>"I didn't know you cared about such things," returned Spelt, evasively.</p> - -<p>"Well," said Mr. Kitely, "no more I do—or did, rather; for I'm afraid -that Mr. Fuller will get me into bad habits before he has done with me. -He's a good man, Mr. Fuller, and that's more than I'd say for every one -of the cloth. They're nothing but cloth—meaning no offense, Mr. Spelt, -to a honest trade."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps there are more good ones among 'em than you think, Mr. -Kitely," said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"There ud need to be, miss. But I declare that man has almost made me -hold my tongue against the whole sect of them. It seems a shame, with -him in St. Amos's, to say a word against Mr. Potter in St. Jacob's. I -never thought I should take to the church in my old age."</p> - -<p>"Old age, Mr. Kitely!" Mattie broke in. "If you talk in that way, think -what you make of me!"</p> - -<p>A general laugh greeted this remark. But Mattie was serious, and did -not even smile.</p> - -<p>Poppie never opened her lips, except to smile. But she behaved with -perfect propriety. Mr. Spelt had civilized her so far, and that without -much trouble. He never told any one, however, that it was with anxiety -that he set out every night at half-past nine to bring her home; for -more than once he had found her potato-steamer standing alone on -the pavement, while she was off somewhere, looking at something, or -following a crowd. He had stood nearly half an hour before she came -back upon one of those occasions. All she said when she returned was, -"I thought I should find you here, daddy."</p> - -<p>But I must not linger with the company assembled in the bookseller's -back-parlor; for their conversation will not help my reader on with my -story.</p> - -<p>A very little man, with very short, bandy legs, was trudging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> along a -wide and rather crowded thoroughfare, with a pair of workman's boots in -his hand. It was Mr. Spelt's <i>sub</i>, Mr. Dolman, the cobbler.</p> - -<p>"Well, Dolly, how do?" said a man in a long velveteen coat, with a -short pipe in his mouth and a greasy cloth cap on his head. "You're -late to-night, ain't you, Dolly?"</p> - -<p>"Them lawyers; them lawyers, Jim!" returned Dolman, enigmatically.</p> - -<p>"What the blazes have you got to do with lawyers?" exclaimed Jim -Salter, staring at the cobbler, who for the sake of balance had now got -one boot in each hand, and stood weighing the one against the other.</p> - -<p>"Not much for my own part," returned Dolman, who was feeling very -important from having assisted at his neighbors' <i>flitting</i>. "But -there's good people in our court could tell you another story."</p> - -<p>I have said that Mrs. Boxall did anything but hold her tongue about her -affairs, and Dolman had heard Mr. Worboise's behavior so thoroughly -canvassed between Mr. Kitely and Mr. Spelt, that he was familiar with -the main points of the case.</p> - -<p>"Come and have a drop of beer," said Jim, "and tell us all about it."</p> - -<p>No greater temptation could have been held out to Dolman. But he had a -certain sense of duty that must first be satisfied.</p> - -<p>"No, Jim. I never touch a drop till I've taken my work home."</p> - -<p>"Where's that?" asked Jim.</p> - -<p>"Down by the Minories," answered the cobbler.</p> - -<p>"Come along, then. I'll help you carry it."</p> - -<p>"'Taint heavy. I'll carry it myself," answered Dolman, who, having once -been robbed on a similar occasion, seemed, in regard to boots, to have -lost his faith in humanity.</p> - -<p>"I can't think, Dolly, why you roost so far from your work. Now it's -different with me. My work's here and there and everywhere; but yours -is allus in the same place."</p> - -<p>"It gives me a walk, Jim. Besides it's respectable. It's having two -places of one's own. My landlady, Mrs. Dobbs, knows that my shop's -in a fashionable part, and she's rather proud of me for a lodger -in consekence. And my landlord, that's Mr. Spelt, a tailor, and -well-to-do—how's he to know that I ain't got a house in the suburbs?" -answered Dolman, laughing.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span></p> - -<p>The moment he had got his money, and delivered the boots—for that -was the order of business between Dolman and his customers—they -betook themselves to a public-house in the neighborhood, where Dolman -conveyed to Jim, with very tolerable correctness, the whole story of -Mrs. Boxall's misfortunes. Before he reached the end of it, however, -Jim, who had already "put a name upon something" with two of his -acquaintances that night, got rather misty, and took his leave of -Dolman with the idea that Lucy and her grandmother had been turned out, -furniture and all, into the street, without a place to go to.</p> - -<p>Much as she had dreaded leaving her own house, as she had always -considered it, Mrs. Boxall had a better night in her new abode than -she had had for months, and rose in the morning with a surprising -sense of freshness. Wonderful things come to us in sleep—none perhaps -more wonderful than this reviving of the colors of the faded soul from -being laid for a few hours in the dark—in <i>God's ebony box</i>, as George -Herbert calls the night. It is as if the wakeful angels had been busy -all the night preening the draggled and ruffled wings of their sleeping -brothers and sisters. Finding that Lucy was not yet dressed, she went -down alone to the back parlor, and, having nothing else to do, began -to look at the birds, of which, I have already informed my reader, -Mr. Kitely kept a great many, feeding and cleaning them himself, and -teaching the more gifted, starlings and parrots, and such like birds of -genius, to speak. If he did anything in the way of selling as well as -buying them, it was quite in a private way—as a gentleman may do with -his horses.</p> - -<p>"Good-morning, sir," screamed a huge gray parrot the moment she -entered, regardless of the sex of his visitor. It was one the -bookseller had bought of a sailor somewhere about the docks, a day or -two before, and its fame had not yet spread through the neighborhood, -consequently Mrs. Boxall was considerably startled by the salutation. -"Have you spliced the main-brace this morning, sir?" continued the -parrot, and, without waiting for a reply, like the great ladies who -inquire after an inferior's family and then look out of the window, -burst into the song, "There's a sweet little cherub," and, stopping -as suddenly at the word, followed it with the inquiry, "How's your -mother?" upon which point Mrs. Boxall may, without any irreverence, -be presumed to have been a little in the dark. The next moment the -unprincipled animal poured forth his innocent soul in a torrent of -imprecations which,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> growing as furious as fast, reached the ears of -Mr. Kitely. He entered in a moment and silenced the animal with prompt -rebuke, and the descent of an artificial night in the shape of a green -cloth over his cage—the vengeance of the lower Jove. The creature -exploded worse than ever for a while, and then subsided. Meantime the -bookseller turned to Mrs. Boxall to apologize.</p> - -<p>"I haven't had him long, ma'am—only a day or two. He's been ill -brought up, as you see, poor bird! I shall have a world of trouble to -cure him of his bad language. If I can't cure him I'll wring his neck."</p> - -<p>"The poor creature doesn't know better," said Mrs. Boxall. "Wouldn't it -be rather hard to kill him for it?"</p> - -<p>"Well, but what am I to do? I can't have such words running out and in -of my princess's ears all day."</p> - -<p>"But you could sell him, or give him away, you know, Mr. Kitely."</p> - -<p>"A pretty present he would be, the rascal! And for selling him, it -would be wickedness to put the money in my pocket. There was a time, -ma'am, when I would have taught him such words myself, and thought no -harm of it; but now, if I were to sell that bird, ma'am—how should I -look Mr. Fuller in the face next Sunday? No; if I can't cure him, I -must twist his neck. We'll eat him, ma'am; I dare say he's nice."</p> - -<p>He added, in a whisper: "I wanted him to hear me. There's no telling -how much them creatures understand."</p> - -<p>But before Mr. Kitely had done talking, Mrs. Boxall's attention was -entirely taken up with another bird, of the paroquet species. It was -the most awfully grotesque, the most pitiably comic animal in creation. -It had a green head, with a band of red round the back of it; while -white feathers came down on each side of its huge beak, like the gray -whiskers of a retired military man. This head looked enormous for the -rest of the body, for from the nape of the neck to the tail, except a -few long feathers on the shoulders of its wings, blue like those of a -jay, there was not another feather on its body: it was as bare as if -it had been plucked for roasting. A more desolate, poverty-stricken, -wretched object, can hardly be conceived. The immense importance of -his head and beak and gray whiskers, with the abject nakedness—more -than nakedness, <i>pluckedness</i>—of his body was quite beyond laughing -at. It was far fitter to make one cry. But the creature was so -absolutely, perfectly self-satisfied, without a notion of shame, or -even discomfort, that it appeared impossible he could ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> have seen -himself behind. He must sorely have fancied himself as glorious as in -his palmiest days. And his body was so thin, and his skin so old and -wrinkled—I wish I could set him in the margin for my younger readers -to see him. He hopped from place to place, and turned himself round -before the spectators with such an absence of discomposure, that one -could not help admiring his utter <i>sang-froid</i>, almost envying his -perfect self-possession. Observing that his guest was absorbed in the -contemplation of the phenomenon, Mr. Kitely said:</p> - -<p>"You're a-wondering at poor Widdles. Widdles was an old friend of mine -I named the bird after before he lost his greatcoat all but the collar. -Widdles! Widdles!"</p> - -<p>The bird came close up to the end of his perch, and, setting his head -on one side, looked at his master with one round yellow eye.</p> - -<p>"He's the strangest bird I ever saw," said Mrs. Boxall. "If you talked -of wringing <i>his</i> neck, now, I shouldn't wonder, knowing you for a -kind-hearted man, Mr. Kitely."</p> - -<p>"Wring Widdles' neck!" exclaimed the bookseller. "His is the last -neck I would think of wringing. See how bravely he bears misfortune. -Nobody could well lose more than Widdles, and nobody could well take it -lighter. He's a sermon, is that bird. His whole worldly wealth consists -in his wig. They was a fine pair once, only he was always henpecked. -His mate used to peck him because he wasn't able to peck her, for he -was the smaller of the two. They always reminded me of Spelt and his -wife. But when they were took ill, both of them, she gave in, and he -wouldn't. Death took his feathers, and left him jolly without them. -Bless him, old Widdles."</p> - -<p>"Well, it's a curious taste of yours, I must say, Mr. Kitely. But some -people, no more than some birds, ain't to be accounted for."</p> - -<p>Mr. Kitely chose to consider this a good sally of wit, and laughed -loud and long. Mrs. Boxall laughed a little too, and was pleased with -herself. And from that moment she began to take to the bird.</p> - -<p>"Try him with a bit of sugar," said Mr. Kitely, going to the carved -cabinet to get a piece, which he then handed to Mrs. Boxall.</p> - -<p>The bird was friendly and accepted it. Mrs. Boxall was pleased with -him now as well as with herself, and before long a firm friendship -was established between the two, which went so far that Widdles -would, when she put her hand into his cage, perch upon her bony old -finger, and allow himself to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> lifted out. There was no fear of his -even attempting to fly away, for he was perfectly aware of his utter -incapacity in that direction of bird-like use and custom. Before many -days had passed she had become so much attached to the bird that his -company did not a little to shield her from the inroads of recurrent -regret, mortification, and resentment.</p> - -<p>One evening when she came home from her now rather numerous -engagements, Lucy found her grandmother seated at the table, with the -bird in her hand, rubbing him all over very gently for fear of hurting -him, with something she took with her finger from a little pot on the -table.</p> - -<p>"What <i>are</i> you doing with Widdles, grannie?" she said.</p> - -<p>"Trying a little bear's grease, child. Why shouldn't I?" she added, -angrily, when Lucy laughed.</p> - -<p>"No reason in the world why you shouldn't, grannie. You mustn't mind my -laughing."</p> - -<p>"I don't see why anybody should laugh at misfortune," returned Mrs. -Boxall, severely. "How would you like to be in the condition of this -bird yourself?"—without a feather, she was going to say, but just -pulled up in time. She could not help laughing herself now, but she -went on, nevertheless, with her work of charity. "Who knows," she said, -"but they may grow again?"</p> - -<p>"Grow again!" shrieked the gray parrot, in the tone of a violin in -unskillful hands.</p> - -<p>"Yes, grow again, you witch!" said Mrs. Boxall. "I don't see why the -devil shouldn't be in you as well as in your betters. Why shouldn't -they grow again?"</p> - -<p>"Grow again!" reiterated the gray parrot. "Grow again! Widdles! -Widdles! Widdles! Ha! ha! ha!"</p> - -<p>"It shall grow again," retorted the old lady. "If bear's grease won't -do, I'll spend my last penny on a bottle of Macassar; and if it doesn't -grow then I'll pluck your back and stick them into his."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall had got into a habit of talking thus with the bird, which -the bookseller had already nearly cured of his wicked words by instant -punishment following each offense.</p> - -<p>"Stick them into his!" cried the bird like an echo, and refused to -speak again.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, however, he would say a naughty word evidently for the sake -of testing his master, or as if he wondered what punishment he would -have this time—for the punishments were various. On such occasions he -would shriek out the word, "Duck his head," and dart to the opposite -side of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> cage, keeping one eye full on his master, with such an -expression that his profile looked like a whole face with a Cyclopean -one eye in it.</p> - -<p>Whether Mrs. Boxall was at last successful in her benevolent exertions -I am unable to say, for her experiments were still going on when the -period arrived with which my story must close. She often asserted that -she saw them beginning to sprout; and to see her with spectacles on -nose, examining the poor withered bluish back of Widdles, was ludicrous -or touching, according to the humor of the beholder. Widdles seemed to -like the pains she took with him, however; and there is no doubt of -one thing, that she was rewarded for her trouble tenfold in being thus -withdrawn from the contemplation of her own wrongs and misfortunes. -Widdles thus gave her many a peaceful hour she would not in all -probability have otherwise enjoyed. Nor were her attentions confined to -him; through him, she was introduced to the whole regiment of birds, -which she soon began assisting Mr. Kitely to wait upon. Mattie had -never taken to them. While grannie, as she, too, called her, was busy -with them, Mattie would sit beside at her needlework, scarcely looking -up even when she addressed an occasional remark to grannie. It was a -curious household, and fell into many singular groups.</p> - -<p>But here I must leave Mrs. Boxall with her bird-companions, which, save -for the comfort they afforded her in taking her mind off herself, have -no active part in the story. Through Mrs. Morgenstern's influence and -exertions, Lucy soon had as much to do in the way of teaching as she -could compass, and her grandmother knew no difference in her way of -living from what she had been accustomed to.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XLIII.</p> - -<p class="center">WHAT THOMAS WAS ABOUT.</p> - - -<p>When Thomas left Rotherhithe with Jim Salter, he had no idea in his -head but to get away somewhere. Like the ostrich, he wanted some sand -to stick his head into. But wherever he went there were people, even -policemen, about, and not one of the places they went through looked -more likely to afford him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> shelter than another. Had he given Jim any -clearer information concerning the necessity he was in of <i>keeping -dark</i>, perhaps he would have done differently with him. As it was, he -contented himself with piloting him about the lower docks and all that -maritime part of London. They walked about the whole day till Thomas -was quite weary. Nor did refuge seem nearer than before. All this time -the police might be on his track, coming nearer and nearer like the -bloodhounds that they were. They had some dinner at an eating-house, -where Thomas's fastidiousness made yet a farther acquaintance with dirt -and disorder, and he felt that he had fallen from his own sphere into -a lower order of things, and could never more climb into the heaven -from whence he had fallen. But the fear of yet a lower fall into a -prison and the criminal's dock kept him from dwelling yet upon what he -had lost. At night Jim led him into Ratcliff Highway, the Paradise of -sailors at sea—the hell of sailors on shore. Thomas shrunk from the -light that filled the street from end to end, blazing from innumerable -public-houses, through the open doors of which he looked across into -back parlors, where sailors and women sat drinking and gambling, or -down long passages to great rooms with curtained doorways, whence -came the sounds of music and dancing, and through which passed and -re-passed seafaring figures and gaily bedizened vulgar girls, many of -whom, had the weather been warmer, would have been hanging about the -street-doors, laughing and <i>chaffing</i> the passers-by, or getting up a -dance on the pavement to the sound of the music within. It was a whole -streetful of low revelry. Poor Jack! Such is his coveted reward on -shore for braving Death, and defying him to his face. He escapes from -the embrace of the bony phantom to hasten to the arms of his far more -fearful companion—the nightmare Life-in-Death—"who thicks man's blood -with cold." Well may that pair casting their dice on the skeleton ship -symbolize the fate of the sailor, for to the one or the other he falls -a victim.</p> - -<p>Opposite an open door Jim stopped to speak to an acquaintance. The door -opened directly upon a room ascending a few steps from the street. -Round a table sat several men—sailors, of course—apparently masters -of coasting vessels. A lithe lascar was standing with one hand on the -table, leaning over it, and talking swiftly, with snaky gestures of the -other hand. He was in a rage. The others burst out laughing. Thomas saw -something glitter in the hand of the Hindoo. One of the sailors gave a -cry, and started up, but staggered and fell.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span></p> - -<p>Before he fell the lascar was at the door, down the steps with a bound, -and out into the street. Two men were after him at full speed, but they -had no chance with the light-built Indian.</p> - -<p>"The villain has murdered a man, Jim," said Thomas—"in there—look!"</p> - -<p>"Oh, I dare say he ain't much the worse," returned Jim. "They're always -a outing with their knives here."</p> - -<p>For all his indifference, however, Jim started after the Hindoo, but he -was out of sight in another moment.</p> - -<p>Jim returned.</p> - -<p>"He's crowding all sail for Tiger Bay," said he. "I shouldn't care to -follow him there. Here's a Peeler."</p> - -<p>"Come along, Jim," said Thomas. "Don't stand here all the night."</p> - -<p>"Why <i>you</i> ain't afraid o' the place, are you, guv'nor?"</p> - -<p>Thomas tried to laugh, but he did not enjoy the allusion—in the -presence of a third person especially.</p> - -<p>"Well, good-night," said Jim to his acquaintance.</p> - -<p>"By the way," he resumed, "do you know the figure of Potts's ken?"</p> - -<p>"What Potts? I don't know any Potts."</p> - -<p>"Yes you do. Down somewhere about Lime 'us, you know. We saw him that -night—"</p> - -<p>Here Jim whispered his companion, who answered aloud:</p> - -<p>"Oh, yes, I know. Let me see. It's the Marmaid, I think. You ain't -a-going there, are you?"</p> - -<p>"Don't know. Mayhap. I'm only taking this gen'leman a sight-seeing. -He's from the country."</p> - -<p>"Good-night, then." And so they parted.</p> - -<p>It was a sudden idea of Jim's to turn in the direction of the man whose -child Thomas had saved. But Thomas did not know where he was taking him.</p> - -<p>"Where will you sleep to-night, guv'nor?" asked Jim, as they walked -along.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," answered Thomas. "I must leave you to find me a place. -But I say, Jim, can you think of anything I could turn to? for my money -won't last me long."</p> - -<p>"Turn to!" echoed Jim. "Why a man had need be able to turn to -everything by turns to make a livin' nowadays. You ain't been used to -hard work, by your hands. Do you know yer Bible well?"</p> - -<p>"Pretty well," answered Thomas; "but I don't know what that can have to -do with making a living."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Oh, don't you, guv'nor? Perhaps you don't know what yer Bible means. -It means pips and pictures."</p> - -<p>"You mean the cards. No, no, I've had enough of that. I don't mean ever -to touch them again."</p> - -<p>"Hum! Bitten," said Jim to himself, but so that Thomas heard him.</p> - -<p>"Not very badly, Jim. In the pocket-book I told you I lost I had a -hundred pounds, won at cards the night before last."</p> - -<p>"My eye!" exclaimed Jim. "What a devil of a pity! But why don't you try -your luck again?" he asked, after a few moments of melancholy devoted -to the memory of the money.</p> - -<p>"Look here, Jim. I don't know where to go to sleep. I have a -comfortable room that I dare not go near; a father—a rich man, I -believe—who would turn me out; and, in short, I've ruined myself -forever with card-playing. The sight of a pack would turn me sick, I do -believe."</p> - -<p>"Sorry for you, guv'nor. I know a fellow, though, that makes a good -thing of the thimble."</p> - -<p>"I've no turn for tailoring, I'm afraid."</p> - -<p>"Beggin' your pardon, guv'nor, but you are a muff! You never thought -I meant a gen'leman like you to take to a beastly trade like that. I -meant the thimble and peas, you know, at fairs, and such like. It's all -fair, you know. You tell 'em they don't know where the pea is and they -don't. I know a friend o' mine'll put you up to it for five or six bob. -Bless you! there's room for free trade and money made."</p> - -<p>Thomas could hardly be indignant with Jim for speaking according to his -kind. But when he looked into it, it stung him to the heart to think -that every magistrate would regard him as capable of taking to the -profession of thimble-rigging after what he had been already guilty -of. Yet in all his dealings with cards Thomas had been scrupulously -honorable. He said no more to Jim about finding something to do.</p> - -<p>They had gone a good way, and Thomas's strength was beginning to fail -him quite. Several times Jim had inquired after the <i>Marmaid</i>, always -in public-houses, where he paid for the information or none, as the -case might be, by putting a name upon something at Thomas's expense; so -that he began to be rather uplifted.</p> - -<p>At length he called out joyfully:</p> - -<p>"Here's a fishy one, guv'nor, <i>at last</i>! Come along."</p> - -<p>So saying, he pushed the swing door, to which was attached a leather -strap to keep it from swinging outward, and entered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> It admitted them -to a bar served by a big fat man with an apron whose substratum was -white at the depth of several strata of dirt, and a nose much more -remarkable for color than drawing, being in both more like a half-ripe -mulberry than anything else in nature. He had little round, watery -eyes, and a face indicative of nothing in particular, for it had left -its original conformation years behind. As soon as they entered, Jim -went straight up to the landlord, and stared at him for a few moments -across the counter. "You don't appear to know me, guv'nor?" he said, -for the many things he had drank to find the way had made him <i>barky</i>. -His vocabulary of address, it will be remarked, was decidedly defective.</p> - -<p>"Well, I can't take upon me to say as I do," answered the man, putting -his thumbs in the strings of his apron, and looking at Jim with a -mixture of effort and suspicion on his puffy face. "And I'll be bound -to say," remarked Jim, turning toward Thomas, "that you don't know this -gen'leman either. Do 'ee now guv'nor? On yer honor, right as a trivet? -No, ye don't."</p> - -<p>"Can't say I do."</p> - -<p>"Look at him, then. Ain't he fit to remember? Don't he look -respectable?"</p> - -<p>"Come, none o' your chaff! Say what you've got to say. What do you -want?"</p> - -<p>"Cut it short, Jim," said Thomas.</p> - -<p>"How's your young marmaid as took to the water so nat'ral at the -Horsleydown tother day, Mr. Potts?" asked Jim, leaning on his elbows on -the counter.</p> - -<p>"Jolly," answered the landlord. "Was you by?"</p> - -<p>"Wasn't I, then! And there's a guv'nor was nearer than I was. Mr. -Potts, that's the very gen'leman as went a header into the water and -saved her, Mr. Potts. Hold up yer head, guv'nor."</p> - -<p>"You're a chaffin of me, I know," said Potts.</p> - -<p>"Come, come, Jim, don't make a fool of me," said Thomas.</p> - -<p>"I wish I had known you were bringing me here. Come along. I won't -stand it."</p> - -<p>But Jim was leaning over the counter, speaking in a whisper to the -down-bent landlord.</p> - -<p>"You don't mean it?" said the latter.</p> - -<p>"Ask the mis'ess, then," said Jim.</p> - -<p>"You don't mean it!" repeated the landlord, in a husky voice, and with -increase of energy. Then looking toward Thomas, "What will he take?" -and with the words<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> turned his back upon Jim, and his face toward -a shelf on which stood his choicest bottles between two cask-like -protuberances. He got down one of brandy, but Thomas, who was vexed at -being brought there as if he wanted some acknowledgment of the good -deed he had been fortunate enough to perform, refused to take anything.</p> - -<p>"What <i>will</i> you take then?" said the man, whose whole stock of ideas -seemed to turn upon <i>taking</i>.</p> - -<p>But at the moment a woman entered from behind the shop.</p> - -<p>"There, mis'ess," said her husband, "can <i>you</i> tell who that gentleman -is?"</p> - -<p>She looked at him for a moment, and exclaimed:</p> - -<p>"Bless my soul! It's the gentleman that took our Bessie out of the -water. How do you do, sir?" she continued, with mingled pleasure and -respect, as she advanced from behind the counter, and curtsied to -Thomas.</p> - -<p>"None the worse for my ducking, thank you," said Thomas, holding out -his hand in the delight a word of real friendship always gives.</p> - -<p>She shook it warmly, and would hardly let it go.</p> - -<p>"Oh! isn't he, then?" muttered Jim, mysteriously, but loud enough for -Potts to hear.</p> - -<p>"Won't you come in, sir?" said the woman, turning to lead the way.</p> - -<p>"Thank you," answered Thomas. "I have been walking about all day, and -am very tired. If you would let me sit down awhile—and—perhaps it -wouldn't be giving you too much trouble to ask for a cup of tea, for my -head aches rather."</p> - -<p>"Come in, sir," she said, in a tone of truest hospitality. "That I -will, with pleasure, I'm sure."</p> - -<p>Thomas followed her into a dingy back room, where she made him lie -down on a sofa from which he would have recoiled three days ago, but -for which he was very grateful now. She then bustled about to get him -some tea, and various little delicacies besides, in the shape of ham, -and shrimps, etc., etc. It was pretty clear from her look, and the way -she pressed her offerings of gratitude, that she had a true regard for -inward comforts, if not for those outward luxuries of neatness and -cleanliness.</p> - -<p>The moment Thomas was out of the shop, Jim Salter began to be more -communicative with Mr. Potts.</p> - -<p>"None the worse!" said he, reflectively. "Oh, no. That's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> the way your -quality talk about a few bank-notes. Nothing but a hundred pounds the -worst. Oh, no."</p> - -<p>"You don't mean it?" said Mr. Potts, making his eyes as round as two -sixpences.</p> - -<p>"Well, to be sure," said Salter, "I can't take my davy on it; 'cause as -how I've only his word for it. But he don't look like a cony-catcher, -do he? He's a deal too green for that, I can tell you. Well, he is -green!" repeated Jim, bursting into a quiet chuckle.</p> - -<p>"I don't mean he's a fool, neither. There's a vasty heap o' difference -betwixt a leek in yer eye and a turnip in yer brain-box. Ain't there -now, guv'nor?"</p> - -<p>"You don't mean it?" said Mr. Potts, staring more than ever.</p> - -<p>"What don't I mean, Mr. Potts?"</p> - -<p>"You don't mean that that 'ere chap? What <i>do</i> you mean about them -hundred pounds?"</p> - -<p>"Now I'll tell 'ee, guv'nor. It's a great pleasure to me to find I can -tell a story so well."</p> - -<p>"There you are—off again, no mortal man can tell to where. You ain't -told me no story yet."</p> - -<p>"Ain't I? How came it then, guv'nor, that I ha' made you forget your -usual 'ospitable manners? If I hadn't ha' been telling you a story, -you'd ha'—I know you'd ha' asked me to put a name upon something long -ago."</p> - -<p>Mr. Potts laughed, and saying, "I beg yer pardon, Mr. Salter, though -I'm sure I don't remember ever meetin' of you afore, only that's no -consequence; the best o' friends must meet some time for the first -time," turned his face to the shelf as he had done before, and, after -a little hesitation, seemed to conclude that it would be politic to -take down the same bottle. Jim tossed off the half of his glassful, -and, setting the rest on the counter, began his story. Whether he -wished to represent himself as Thomas's confidant, or, having come to -his conclusions to the best of his ability, believed himself justified -in representing them as the facts of the case, it is not necessary to -inquire; the account he gave of Thomas's position was this: That when -Thomas went overboard after little Bessie, he had in the breast of his -coat a pocket-book, with a hundred pounds of his master's in it; that -he dared not go home without it; that the police were after him; and, -in short, that he was in a terrible fix. Mr. Potts listened with a -general stare, and made no reply.</p> - -<p>"You'll give him a bed to-night, won't you, guv'nor? I'll come back in -the morning and see what can be done."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p> - -<p>Jim finished his glass of brandy as if it had been only the last drops, -and set it on the counter with a world of suggestion in the motion, to -which Mr. Potts mechanically replied by filling it again, saying as he -did so, in a voice a little huskier than usual, "All right." Jim tossed -off the brandy, smacked his lips, said "Thank you, and good-night," and -went out of the beer-shop. Mr. Potts stood for five minutes motionless, -then went slowly to the door of the back parlor, and called his wife. -Leaving Thomas to finish his meal by himself, Mrs. Potts joined her -husband and they had a talk together. He told her what Jim had just -communicated to him, and they held a consultation, the first result of -which was that Mrs. Potts proceeded to get a room—the best she could -offer—ready for Thomas. He accepted her hospitality with gratitude, -and was glad to go to bed.</p> - -<p>Meantime, leaving his wife to attend to the thirst of the public, Mr. -Potts set out to find his brother-in-law, the captain of a collier -trading between Newcastle and London, who was at the moment in the -neighborhood, but whose vessel was taking in ballast somewhere down the -river. He came upon him where he had expected to find him, and told him -the whole story.</p> - -<p>The next morning, when Thomas, more miserable than ever, after rather a -sleepless night, came down stairs early, he found his breakfast waiting -for him, but not his breakfast only: a huge seafaring man, with short -neck and square shoulders, dressed in a blue pilot-coat, was seated in -the room. He rose when Thomas entered, and greeted him with a bow made -up of kindness and patronage. Mrs. Potts came in the same moment.</p> - -<p>"This is my brother, Captain Smith, of the <i>Raven</i>," she said, "come to -thank you, sir, for what you did for his little pet, Bessie."</p> - -<p>"Well, I donnow," said the captain, with a gruff breeziness of manner. -"I came to ask the gentleman if, bein' on the loose, he wouldn't like a -trip to Newcastle, and share my little cabin with me."</p> - -<p>It was the first glimmer of gladness that had lightened Thomas's -horizon for what seemed to him an age.</p> - -<p>"Thank you, thank you!" he said; "it is the very thing for me."</p> - -<p>And, as he spoke, the awful London wilderness vanished, and open sea -and sky filled the world of his imaginings.</p> - -<p>"When do you sail?" he asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p> - -<p>"To-night, I hope, with the ebb," said the captain; "but you had better -come with me as soon as you've had your breakfast, and we'll go on -board at once. You needn't mind about your chest. You can rough it a -little, I dare say. I can lend you a jersey that'll do better than your -'longshore togs."</p> - -<p>Thomas applied himself to his breakfast with vigor. Hope even made him -hungry. How true it is that we live by hope! Before he had swallowed -his last mouthful, he started from his seat.</p> - -<p>"You needn't be in such a hurry," said the captain. "There's plenty of -time. Stow your prog."</p> - -<p>"I have quite done. But I must see Mr. Potts for a minute."</p> - -<p>He went to the bar, and, finding that Jim had not yet made his -appearance, asked the landlord to change him a sovereign, and give half -to Jim.</p> - -<p>"It's too much," said Mr. Potts.</p> - -<p>"I promised him a day's wages."</p> - -<p>"Five shillings is over enough, besides the brandy I gave him last -night. He don't make five shillings every day."</p> - -<p>Thomas, however, to the list of whose faults stinginess could not be -added, insisted on Jim having the half sovereign, for he felt that he -owed him far more than that.</p> - -<p>In pulling out the small remains of his money, wondering if he could -manage to buy a jersey for himself before starting, he brought out with -it two bits of pasteboard, the sight of which shot a pang to his heart: -they were the pawn-tickets for his watch and Lucy's ring, which he had -bought back from the holder on that same terrible night on which he had -lost almost everything worth having. It was well he had only thrust -them into the pocket of his trousers, instead of putting them into his -pocket-book. They had stuck to the pocket, and been dried with it, had -got loose during the next day, and now came to light, reminding him of -his utter meanness, not to say dishonesty, in parting with the girl's -ring that he might follow his cursed play. The gleam of gladness which -the hope of escaping from London gave him had awaked his conscience -more fully; and he felt the despicableness of his conduct as he had -never felt it before. How could he have done it? The ring, to wear -which he had been proud because it was not his own, but Lucy's, he had -actually exposed to the contamination of vile hands—had actually sent -from her pure, lovely person into the pocket of a foul talker, and -thence to a pawnbroker's shop. He could have torn himself to pieces at -the thought. And now that she was lost to him forever, was he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> to rob -her of her mother's jewel as well? He <i>must</i> get it again. But if he -went after it now, even if he had the money to redeem it, he might run -into the arms of the searching Law, and he and it too would be gone. -But he had not the money. The cold dew broke out on his face, as he -stood beside the pump-handles of the beer-shop. But Mr. Potts had been -watching him for some time. He knew the look of those tickets, and dull -as his brain was, with a dullness that was cousin to his red nose, he -divined at once that Thomas's painful contemplation had to do with some -effects of which those tickets were the representatives. He laid his -hand on Thomas's shoulder from behind. Thomas gave a great start.</p> - -<p>"I beg your pardon for frightening of you, sir," said Mr. Potts; "but I -believe a long experience in them things makes me able to give you good -advice."</p> - -<p>"What things?" asked Thomas.</p> - -<p>"Them things," repeated Potts, putting a fat forefinger first on the -one and then on the other pawn-ticket. "'Twasn't me, nor yet Bessie. -'Tis long since I was in my uncle's. All I had to do there was -a-getting of 'em down the spout. I never sent much up it; my first -wife, Joan—not Bessie, bless her! Now I ain't no witch, but I can -see with 'alf a heye that you've got summat at your uncle's you don't -like to leave there, when you're a-goin' a voyagin' to the ends o' the -earth. Have you got the money as well as the tickets?"</p> - -<p>"Oh dear, no!" answered Thomas, almost crying.</p> - -<p>"Come now," said Potts, kindly, "sweep out the chimley. It's no use -missing the crooks and corners, and having to send a boy up after all. -Sweep it out. Tell me all about it, and I'll see what I can do—or -can't do, it may be."</p> - -<p>Thomas told him that the tickets were for a watch—a gold watch, with -a compensation balance—and a diamond ring. He didn't care about the -watch; but he would give his life to get the ring again.</p> - -<p>"Let me look at the tickets. How much did you get on 'em separate?"</p> - -<p>Thomas said he did not know, but gave him the tickets to examine.</p> - -<p>Potts looked at them. "You don't care so much for the watch?" he said.</p> - -<p>"No, I don't," answered Thomas; "though my mother did give it to me," -he added, ruefully.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you offer 'em both of the tickets for the ring, then?" said -Potts.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span></p> - -<p>"What?" said Thomas. "I don't see—"</p> - -<p>"You give 'em to me," returned Potts. "Here, Bess! you go in and have -a chat with the captain—I'm going out, Bessie, for an hour. Tell the -captain not to go till I come back."</p> - -<p>So saying, Potts removed his white apron, put on a black frock coat and -hat, and went out, taking the tickets with him.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Potts brought a tumbler of grog for her brother, and he sat -sipping it. Thomas refused to join him; for he reaped this good from -his sensitive organization, that since the night on which it had helped -to ruin him, he could scarcely endure even the smell of strong drink. -It was rather more than an hour before Mr. Potts returned, during which -time Thomas had been very restless and anxious. But at last his host -walked into the back room, laid a small screw of paper before him, and -said:</p> - -<p>"There's your ring, sir. You won't want your watch this voyage. I've -got it, though; but I'm forced to keep it, in case I should be behind -with my rent. Any time you look in, I shall have it, or know where it -is."</p> - -<p>Thomas did what he could to express his gratitude, and took the ring -with a wonderful feeling of relief. It seemed like a pledge of farther -deliverance. He begged Mr. Potts to do what he pleased with the watch; -he didn't care if he never saw it again; and hoped it would be worth -more to him than what it had cost him to redeem them both. Then, after -many kind farewells, he took his leave with the captain of the <i>Raven</i>. -As they walked along, he could not help looking round every few yards; -but after his new friend had taken him to a shop where he bought a blue -jersey and a glazed hat, and tied his coat up in a handkerchief—his -sole bundle of luggage—he felt more comfortable. In a couple of hours -he was on board of the <i>Raven</i>, a collier brig of a couple of hundred -tons. They set sail the same evening, but not till they reached the -Nore did Thomas begin to feel safe from pursuit.</p> - -<p>The captain seemed a good deal occupied with his own thoughts, and -there were few things they understood in common, so that Thomas was -left mostly to his own company; which, though far from agreeable, was -no doubt the very best for him under the circumstances. For it was -his real self that he looked in the face—the self that told him what -he was, showed him whence he had fallen, what he had lost, how he had -hitherto been wasting his life, and how his carelessness had at length -thrown him over a precipice up which he could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> not climb—there was no -foothold upon it. But this was not all: he began to see not only his -faults, but the weakness of his character, the refusal to combat which -had brought him to this pass. His behavior to Lucy was the bitterest -thought of all. She looked ten times more lovely to him now that he -had lost her. That she should despise him was terrible—even more -terrible the likelihood that she would turn the rich love of her strong -heart upon some one else. How she had entreated him to do her justice! -and he saw now that she had done so even more for his sake than for -her own. He had not yet any true idea of what Lucy was worth. He did -not know how she had grown since the time when, with all a girl's -inexperience, she had first listened to his protestations. While he -had been going down the hill, she had been going up. Long before they -had been thus parted, he would not have had a chance of winning her -affections had he had then to make the attempt. But he did see that -she was infinitely beyond him, infinitely better than—to use a common -phrase—he could have deserved if he had been as worthy as he fancied -himself. I say <i>a common phrase</i>, because no man can ever <i>deserve</i> -a woman. Gradually—by what gradations he could not have told—the -truth, working along with his self-despising, showed him something of -all this; and it was the first necessity of a nature like his to be -taught to look down on himself. As long as he thought himself more than -somebody, no good was to be expected of him. Therefore, it was well -for him that the worthlessness of his character should break out and -show itself in some plainly worthless deed, that he might no longer be -able to hide himself from the conviction and condemnation of his own -conscience. Hell had come at last; and he burned in its fire.</p> - -<p>He was very weary, and went to bed in a berth in the cabin. But he was -awaked while it was yet quite dark by the violent rolling and pitching -of the vessel, and the running to and fro overhead. He got up at once, -dressed in haste, and clambered up the companion-ladder. It was a -wild scene. It had come on to blow hard. The brig was under reefed -topsails and jib: but Thomas knew nothing of sea affairs. She was a -good boat, and rode the seas well. There was just light enough for him -to see the water by the white rents in its darkness. Fortunately, he -was one of those few favored individuals in whose nerves the motion of -a vessel finds no response—I mean he did not know what sea-sickness -was. And that storm came to him a wonderful gift from the Father who -had not forgotten his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> erring child—so strangely did it harmonize -with his troubled mind. New strength, even hope, invaded his weary -heart from the hiss of the wind through the cordage as it bellied out -from the masts; his soul rejoiced in the heave of the wave under the -bows and its swift rush astern; and though he had to hold hard by the -weather shrouds, not a shadow of fear crossed his mind. This may have -partly come from life being to him now a worthless thing, save as he -had some chance of—he did not know what; for although he saw no way -of recovering his lost honor, and therefore considered that eternal -disgrace was his, even if God and man forgave him, there was yet a -genuine ray of an unknown hope borne into him, as I say, from the -crests of those broken waves. But I think it was natural to Thomas to -fear nothing that merely involved danger to himself. In this respect he -possessed a fine physical courage. It was in moral courage—the power -of looking human anger and contempt in the face, and holding on his own -way—that he was deficient. I believe that this came in a great measure -from a delicate, sensitive organization. He could look a storm in the -face; but a storm in a face he could not endure; he quailed before -it. He would sail over a smooth human sea, if he might; when a wind -rose there, he would be under bare poles in a moment. Of course this -sensitiveness was not in itself an evil, being closely associated with -his poetic tendencies, which ought to have been the center from which -all the manlier qualities were influenced for culture and development; -but he had been spoiled in every way, not least by the utterly -conflicting discords of nature, objects, and character in his father -and mother. But although a man may be physically brave and morally a -coward—a fact too well known to be insisted upon—a facing of physical -danger will help the better courage in the man whose will is at all -awake to cherish it; for the highest moral courage is born of the will, -and not of the organization. The storm wrought thus along with all that -was best in him. In the fiercest of it that night, he found himself -often kissing Lucy's ring, which, as soon as he began to know that they -were in some danger, and not till then, he had, though with a strong -feeling of the sacrilege of the act, ventured to draw once more upon -his unworthy hand.</p> - -<p>The wind increased as the sun rose. If he could only have helped the -men staggering to and fro, as they did on the great sea in the days of -old! But he did not know one rope from another. Two men were at the -tiller. One was called away on some emergency aloft. Thomas sprang to -his place.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span></p> - -<p>"I will do whatever you tell me," he said to the steersman; "only let -me set a man free."</p> - -<p>Then he saw it was the captain himself. He gave a nod, and a squirt -of tobacco-juice, as cool as if he had been steering with a light -gale over a rippling sea. Thomas did his best, and in five minutes -had learned to obey the word the captain gave him as he watched the -binnacle. About an hour after the sun rose the wind began to moderate; -and before long the captain gave up the helm to the mate, saying to -Thomas:</p> - -<p>"We'll go and have some breakfast. You've earned your rations, anyhow. -Your father ought to have sent you to sea. It would have made a man of -you."</p> - -<p>This was not very complimentary. But Thomas had only a suppressed sigh -to return for answer. He did not feel himself worth defending any more.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XLIV.</p> - -<p class="center">THOMAS RETURNS TO LONDON.</p> - - -<p>After this Thomas made rapid progress in the favor of Captain Smith. -He had looked upon him as a landlubber before, with the contempt of -his profession; but when he saw that, clerk as he was, he was yet -capable at sea, he began to respect him. And as Thomas wakened up more -and more to an interest in what was going on around him, he did not -indulge in giving him fool's answers to the questions he asked, as so -many sea-farers would have been ready to do; and he soon found that -Thomas's education, though it was by no means a first-rate one, enabled -him to ask more questions with regard to the laws of wind and water and -the combination of forces than he was quite able to solve. Before they -reached the end of the voyage, Thomas knew the rigging pretty well, and -could make himself useful on board. Anxious to ingratiate himself with -the captain—longing almost unconsciously for the support of some human -approbation, the more that he had none to give himself—he laid himself -out to please him. Having a tolerably steady head, he soon found -himself able to bear a hand in taking in a reef in the foretop-sail, -and he could steer by the course with tolerable steadiness. The sailors -were a not un<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span>sociable set of men, and as he presumed upon nothing, -they too gave him what help they could, not without letting off a few -jokes at his expense, in the laughter following on which he did his -best to join. The captain soon began to order him about like the rest, -which was the best kindness he could have shown him; and Thomas's -obedience was more than prompt—it was as pleasant as possible. He had -on his part some information to give the captain; and their meals in -the cabin together were often merry enough.</p> - -<p>"Do you think you could ever make a sailor of me?" asked Tom, one day.</p> - -<p>"Not a doubt of it, my boy," the captain answered. "A few voyages more, -and you'll go aloft like a monkey."</p> - -<p>"Where do you think of making your next voyage, sir?" asked Tom.</p> - -<p>"Well, I'm part owner of the brig, and can do pretty much as I like. I -did think of Dundee."</p> - -<p>"I should have thought they have coal enough of their own thereabouts."</p> - -<p>"A cargo of English coal never comes amiss. It's better than theirs by -a long way."</p> - -<p>"Would you take me with you?"</p> - -<p>"To be sure, if you can't do better."</p> - -<p>"I can't. I don't want anything but my rations, you know."</p> - -<p>"You'll soon be worth your wages. I can't say you are yet, you know."</p> - -<p>"Of course not. You must have your full crew besides."</p> - -<p>"We're one hand short this voyage; and you've done something to fill -the gap."</p> - -<p>"I'm very glad, I'm sure. But what would you advise me to do when we -reach Newcastle? It will be some time before you get off again."</p> - -<p>"Not long. If you like to take your share in getting the cargo on -board, you can make wages by that."</p> - -<p>"With all my heart," said Thomas, whom this announcement greatly -relieved.</p> - -<p>"It's dirty work," said the captain.</p> - -<p>"There's plenty of water about," answered Thomas.</p> - -<p>When they came to Newcastle, Thomas worked as hard as any of them, -getting the ballast out and the new cargo in. He had never known what -it was to work before; and though it tired him dreadfully at first, it -did him good.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus07.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p class="caption">"THOMAS WORKED AS HARD AS ANY OF THEM."</p> - -<p>Among the men was one whom he liked more than the rest. He had been in -the merchant service, and had sailed to India<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> and other places. He -knew more than his shipmates, and had only taken to the coasting for a -time for family reasons. With him Thomas chiefly consorted when their -day's work was over. With a growing hope that by some means he might -rise at last into another kind of company, he made the best he could -of what he had, knowing well that it was far better than he deserved, -and far better than what of late he had been voluntarily choosing. His -hope, however, alternated with such fits of misery and despair, that if -it had not been for the bodily work he had to do, he thought he would -have lost his reason. I believe not a few keep hold of their senses in -virtue of doing hard work. I knew an earl's son, an heir, who did so. -And I think that not a few, especially women, lose their senses just -from having nothing to do. Many more, who are not in danger of this, -lose their health, and more still lose their purity and rectitude. In -other words, health—physical, mental, moral, and spiritual—requires, -for its existence and continuance, work, often hard and bodily labor.</p> - -<p>This man lived in Newcastle, and got Thomas a decent room near his own -dwelling, where he slept. One evening they had been walking together -about the place till they were tired. It was growing late, and as they -were some distance from home, they went into a little public house -which Robins knew, to get a bit of bread and cheese and some ale. -Robins was a very sober man, and Thomas felt no scruple in accompanying -him thus, although one of the best things to be said for Thomas was, -that ever since he went on board the <i>Raven</i> he had steadily refused to -touch spirits. Perhaps, as I have hinted before, there was less merit -in this than may appear, for the very smell was associated with such -painful memories of misery that it made him shudder. Sometimes a man's -physical nature comes in to help him to be good. For such a dislike may -grow into a principle which will last after the dislike has vanished.</p> - -<p>They sat down in a little room with colored prints of ships in full -sail upon the walls, a sanded floor, in the once new fashion which -superseded rushes, and an ostrich egg hanging from the ceiling. The -landlady was a friend of Robins, and showed them this attention. On -the other side of a thin partition was the ordinary room, where the -ordinary run of customers sat and drank their grog. There were only -two or three in there when our party entered. Presently, while Thomas -and Robins were sitting at their supper, they heard two or three more -come in. A hearty recognition took place, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> fresh orders were given. -Thomas started and listened. He thought he heard the name <i>Ningpo</i>.</p> - -<p>Now, from Thomas's having so suddenly broken off all connection with -his friends, he knew nothing of what had been going on with regard to -the property Mr. Boxall had left behind him. He thought, of course, -that Mrs. Boxall would inherit it. It would not be fair to suppose, -however, that this added to his regret at having lost Lucy, for he was -humbled enough to be past that. The man who is turned out of Paradise -does not grieve over the loss of its tulips, or, if he does, how came -he ever to be within its gates? But the very fact that the name of -Boxall was painful to him, made the name of that vessel attract and -startle him at once.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" said Robins.</p> - -<p>"Didn't you hear some one in the next room mention the <i>Ningpo</i>?" -returned Thomas.</p> - -<p>"Yes. She was a bark in the China trade."</p> - -<p>"Lost last summer on the Cape Verdes. I knew the captain—at least, I -didn't know him, but I knew his brother and his family. They were all -on board and all lost."</p> - -<p>"Ah!" said Robins, "that's the way of it, you see. People oughtn't to -go to sea but them as has business there. Did you say the crew was lost -as well?"</p> - -<p>"So the papers said."</p> - -<p>Robins rose, and went into the next room. He had a suspicion that he -knew the voice. Almost the same moment a rough burst of greeting came -to Thomas's ears: and a few minutes after, Robins entered, bringing -with him a sailor so rough, so hairy, so brown, that he looked as if he -must be proof against any attack of the elements—case-hardened against -wind and water.</p> - -<p>"Here's the gentleman," said Robins, "as knew your captain, Jack."</p> - -<p>"Do, sir?" said Jack, touching an imaginary sou'wester.</p> - -<p>"What'll you have?" asked Tom.</p> - -<p>This important point settled, they had a talk together, in which Jack -opened up more freely in the presence of Robins than he would have felt -interest enough to do with a stranger alone who was only a would-be -sailor at best—a fact which could not be kept a secret from an eye -used to read all sorts of signals. I will not attempt to give the story -in Jack's lingo. But the certainty was that he had been on board the -<i>Ningpo</i> when she went to pieces—that he had got ashore on a spar, -after sitting through the night on the stern, and seeing every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> soul -lost, as far as he believed, but himself. He had no great power of -description, and did not volunteer much; but he returned very direct -answers to all the questions Thomas put to him. Had Thomas only read -some of the proceedings in the Court of Probate during the last few -months, he would have known better what sort of questions to put to -him. Almost the only remark Jack volunteered was:</p> - -<p>"Poor little July! how she did stick to me, to be sure! But she was as -dead as a marlin-spike long afore the starn broke up."</p> - -<p>"Were you long on the island?" asked Tom.</p> - -<p>"No, not long," answered the sailor. "I always was one of the lucky -ones. I was picked up the same day by a brigantine bound from -Portingale to the Sambusy."</p> - -<p>Little did Tom think how much might be involved in what Jack said. They -parted, and the friends went home together. They made a good voyage, -notwithstanding some rough weather, to Dundee, failed in getting a -return cargo, and went back to Newcastle in ballast. From Newcastle -their next voyage was to London again.</p> - -<p>"If you would rather not go to London," said the master to Tom, -"there's a friend of mine here who is just ready to start for Aberdeen. -I dare say if I were to speak to him he would take you on board."</p> - -<p>But Tom's heart was burning to see Lucy once more—if only to see her -and restore her ring. If, he thought, he might but once humble himself -to the dust before her—if he might but let her see that, worthless -as he was, he worshiped her, his heart would be easier. He thought, -likewise, that what with razoring and tanning, and the change of his -clothes, he was not likely to be recognized. And besides, by this time -the power must be out of Mr. Stopper's hands; at least Lucy must have -come to exert her influence over the affairs of the business, and she -would not allow them to drive things to extremity with him, worthless -as he was. He would venture, come of it what might. So he told the -captain that he would much prefer to work his passage to London again. -It was a long passage this time, and very rough weather.</p> - -<p>It was with strange feelings that Thomas saw once more the turrets of -the Tower of London. Danger—exposure, it might be—lay before him, but -he thought only of Lucy, not of the shame now. It was yet early morning -when Captain Smith and he went on shore at Shadwell. The captain was -going to see an old friend in the neighborhood, and after that to -Lime<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span>house, to the Mermaid, to see his sister. Thomas wanted to be -alone, for he had not yet succeeded in making up his mind what he was -going to do. So he sent a grateful message by the captain, with the -addition that he would look in upon them in the evening.</p> - -<p>Left alone, without immediate end or aim, he wandered on, not caring -whither he went, but, notwithstanding his heavy thoughts, with -something of the enjoyment the sailor feels in getting on shore even -after only a fortnight at sea. It was a bright, cold, frosty morning, -in the month of March. Without knowing his course, Thomas was wandering -northward; and after he had gone into a coffee-shop and had some -breakfast, he carelessly resumed his course in the same direction. He -found that he was in the Cambridge Road, but whither that led he had -no idea. Nor did he know, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts, even -after he came into a region he knew, till, lifting up his head, he saw -the gray, time-worn tower, that looks so strong and is so shaky, of the -old church of Hackney, now solitary, its ancient nave and chancel and -all having vanished, leaving it to follow at its leisure, wearied out -with disgust at the church which has taken its place, and is probably -the ugliest building in Christendom, except the parish-church of a -certain little town in the north of Aberdeenshire. This sent a strange -pang to his heart, for close by, that family used to live whose bones -were now whitening among those rocky islands of the Atlantic. He went -into the church-yard, sat down on a grave-stone, and thought. Now -that the fiction of his own worth had vanished like an image in the -clouds of yesterday, he was able to see clearly into his past life and -conduct; and he could not conceal from himself that his behavior to -Mary Boxall might have had something to do with the loss of the whole -family. He saw more and more the mischief that had come of his own -weakness, lack of courage, and principle. If he could but have defended -his own conduct where it was blameless, or at least allowed it to be -open to the daylight and the anger of those whom it might not please, -he would thus have furnished his own steps with a strong barrier -against sliding down that slope down which he had first slidden before -falling headlong from the precipice at its foot. In self-abasement he -rose from the grave-stone, and walked slowly past the house. Merry -faces of children looked from upper windows, who knew nothing of those -who had been there before them. Then he went away westward toward -Highbury. He would just pass his father's door. There was no fear of -his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> father seeing him at this time of the day, for he would be at his -office, and his mother could not leave her room. Ah, his mother! How -had he behaved to her? A new torrent of self-reproach rushed over his -soul as he walked along the downs toward Islington. Some day, if he -could only do something first to distinguish himself in any way, he -would go and beg her forgiveness. But what chance was there of his ever -doing any thing now? He had cut all the ground of action from under his -own feet. Not yet did Thomas see that his duty was to confess his sin, -waiting for no means of covering its enormity. He walked on. He passed -the door, casting but a cursory glance across the windows. There was -no one to be seen. He went down the long walk with the lime-trees on -one side, which he knew so well, and just as he reached the gates there -were his sister Amy and Mr. Simon coming from the other side. They -were talking and laughing merrily, and looking in each others face. He -had never seen Mr. Simon look so pleasant before. He almost felt as -if he could speak to him. But no sooner did Mr. Simon see that this -sailor-looking fellow was regarding them, than the clerical mask was on -his face, and Thomas turned away with involuntary dislike.</p> - -<p>"It is clear," he said to himself, "that they don't care much what is -become of me." He turned then, westward again, toward Highgate, and -then went over to Hampstead, paused at the pines, and looked along -the valley beneath; then descended into it, and went across the heath -till he came out on the road by Wildwood. This was nearly the way he -had wandered on that stormy Christmas Day with Mary Boxall. He had -this day, almost without conscious choice, traversed the scenes of his -former folly. Had he not been brooding repentantly over his faults, -I doubt if he could have done so, even unconsciously. He turned into -the Bull and Bush, and had some dinner; then, as night was falling, -started for London, having made up his mind at last what he would do. -At the Bull and Bush he wrote a note to Lucy, to the following effect. -He did not dare to call her by her name, still less to use any term of -endearment.</p> - -<p>"I am not worthy to speak or write your name," he said; "but my heart -is dying to see you once more. I have likewise to return you your -mother's ring, which, though it has comforted me often in my despair, I -have no longer any right to retain. But I should just like to tell you -that I am working honestly for my bread. I am a sailor now. I am quite -clear of all my bad companions, and hope to remain so. Dare I ask<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> you -to meet me once—to-morrow night, say, or any night soon, for I am -not safe in London? I will tell you all when I see you. Send me one -line by the bearer of this to say where you will meet me. Do not, for -the sake of your love to me once, refuse me this. I want to beg your -forgiveness, that I may go away less miserable than I am. Then I will -go to Australia, or somewhere out of the country, and you will never -hear of me more. God bless you."</p> - -<p>He cried a good deal over this note. Then came the question how he was -to send it. He could, no doubt, find a messenger at the Mermaid, but -he was very unwilling to make any line of communication between that -part of London and Guild Court, or, more properly, to connect himself, -whose story was there known, with Lucy's name. He would go to the -neighborhood of Guild Court and there look out for a messenger, whom he -could then watch.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XLV.</p> - -<p class="center">THOMAS IS CAPTURED.</p> - - -<p>As soon as he had resolved upon this he set out. There was plenty of -time. He would walk. Tired as he was beginning to be, motion was his -only solace. He walked through Hampstead, and by Haverstock Hill, -Tottenham Court Road, and Holborn to the City. By this time the moon -was up. Going by Ludgate Hill, he saw her shining over St. Paul's right -through the spire of St. Martin's, where the little circle of pillars -lays it open to the sky and the wind; she seemed to have melted the -spire in two. Then he turned off to the left, now looking out for a -messenger. In his mind he chose and rejected several, dallying with -his own eagerness, and yielding to one doubt after another about each -in succession. At last he reached the farther end of Bagot Street. -There stood Poppie with her "murphy-buster." Had it been daylight, when -her dress and growth would have had due effect upon her appearance, -probably Thomas would not have known her; but seeing her face only by -the street-lamp, he just recollected that he had seen the girl about -Guild Court. He had no suspicion that she would know him. But Poppie -was as sharp as a needle; she did know him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Do you know Guild Court, my girl?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"I believe you," answered Poppie.</p> - -<p>"Would you take this letter for me, and give it to Miss Burton, who -lives there, and wait for an answer? If she's not at home, bring it -back to me. I will take care of your potatoes, and give you a shilling -when you come back."</p> - -<p>Whether Poppie would have accepted the office if she had not recognized -Thomas, I do not know. She might, for she had so often forsaken her -machine and found it all right when she returned that I think the -promise of the shilling would have enabled her to run the risk. As -it was, she scudded. While she was gone he sold three or four of her -potatoes. He knew how to deliver them; but he didn't know the price, -and just took what they gave him. He stood trembling with hope.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he was seized by the arm from behind, and a gruff voice he -thought he knew, said:</p> - -<p>"Here he is. Come along, Mr. Worboise. You're wanted."</p> - -<p>Thomas had turned in great alarm. There were four men, he saw, but they -were not policemen. That was a comfort. Two of them were little men. -None of them spoke but the one who seized him. He twisted his arm from -the man's grasp, and was just throwing his fist at his head, when he -was pinioned by two arms thrown round him from behind.</p> - -<p>"Don't strike," said the first man, "or it'll be the worse for you. -I'll call the police. Come along, and I swear nothing but good will -come of it—to you as well as to other people. I'm not the man to get -you into trouble, I can tell you. Don't you know me?—Kitely, the -bookseller. Come along. I've been in a fix myself before now."</p> - -<p>Thomas yielded, and they led him away.</p> - -<p>"But there's that child's potatoes!" he said. "The whole affair will be -stolen. Just wait till she comes back."</p> - -<p>"Oh! she's all right," said Kitely. "There she is, buttering a -ha'p'orth. Come along."</p> - -<p>They led him through streets and lanes, every one of which Thomas knew -better than his catechism a good deal. All at once they hustled him -in at a church door. In the vestibule Thomas saw that there were but -two with him—Mr. Kitely, whom he now recognized, and a little man -with his hair standing erect over his pale face, like corn on the top -of a chalk-cliff. Him too he recognized, for Mr. Spelt had done many -repairs for him. The other two had disappeared. Neither Mr. Salter nor -Mr. Dolman cared to tempt Providence by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> coming farther. It was Jim who -had secured his arms, and saved Kitely's head. Mr. Kitely made way for -Thomas to enter first. Fearful of any commotion, he yielded still, and -went into a pew near the door. The two men followed him. It is time I -should account for the whole of this strange proceeding.</p> - -<p>Jim Salter did not fail to revisit the Mermaid on the day of Tom's -departure, but he was rather late, and Tom was gone. As to what -had become of him, Mr. Potts thought it more prudent to profess -ignorance. He likewise took another procedure upon him, which, although -well-meant, was not honest. Regardless of Thomas's desire that Jim -should have a half-sovereign for the trouble of the preceding day, -Mr. Potts, weighing the value of Jim's time, and the obligation he -was himself under to Tom, resolved to take Tom's interests in his own -hands, and therefore very solemnly handed a half-crown and a florin, as -what Thomas had left for him, across the counter to Jim. Jim took the -amount in severe dudgeon. The odd sixpence was especially obnoxious. It -was grievous to his soul.</p> - -<p>"Four and sixpence! Four bob and one tanner," said Jim, in a tone of -injury, in which there certainly was no pretense—"after a-riskin' -of my life, not to mention a-wastin' of my precious time for the -ungrateful young snob. Four and sixpence!"</p> - -<p>Mr. Potts told him with equal solemnity, a righteous indignation -looking over the top of his red nose, to hold his jaw, or go out of his -tavern. Whereupon Jim gave a final snuff, and was silent, for where -there was so much liquor on the premises it was prudent not to anger -the Mermaid's master. Thereupon the said master, probably to ease his -own conscience Jim-ward, handed him a glass of old Tom, which Jim, not -without suspicion of false play, emptied and deposited. From that day, -although he continued to call occasionally at the Mermaid, he lost all -interest in his late client, never referred to him, and always talked -of Bessy Potts as if he himself had taken her out of the water.</p> - -<p>The acquaintance between Dolman and him began about this time to grow -a little more intimate; and after the meeting which I have described -above, they met pretty frequently, when Mr. Dolman communicated to -him such little facts as transpired about "them lawyers," namely, Mr. -Worboise's proceedings. Among the rest was the suspicious disappearance -of the son, whom Mr. Dolman knew, not to speak to,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> but by sight, as -well as his own lap-stone. Mr. Salter, already suspicious of his man, -requested a description of the missing youth, and concluded that it -was the same in whom he had been so grievously disappointed, for the -odd sixpence represented any conceivable amount of meanness, not to -say wickedness. This increased intimacy with Jim did Dolman no good, -and although he would not yet forsake his work during work-hours, he -would occasionally permit Jim to fetch a jug of beer from a neighboring -tavern, and consume it with him in his shop. On these occasions they -had to use great circumspection with regard to Dolly's landlord, who -sat over his head. But in the winter nights, Mr. Spelt would put up the -outside shutter over his window to keep the cold out, only occasionally -opening his door to let a little air in. This made it possible to get -the beer introduced below without discovery, when Dolman, snail-like, -closed the mouth of his shell also, in which there was barely room for -two, and stitched away while Jim did the chief part of the drinking and -talking—in an undertone—for him—not so low, however, but that Spelt -could hear not a little that set him thinking. It was pretty clear that -young Worboise was afraid to show himself, and this and other points he -communicated to his friend Kitely. This same evening they were together -thus when they heard a hurried step come up and stop before the window, -and the voice of Mr. Kitely, well known to Dolman, call to the tailor -overhead.</p> - -<p>"Spelt, I say. Spelt!"</p> - -<p>Mr. Spelt looked out at his door.</p> - -<p>"Yes, Mr. Kitely. What's the matter?"</p> - -<p>"Here's that young devil's lamb, Worboise, been and sent a letter to -Miss Burton by your Poppie, and he's a-waitin' an answer. Come along, -and we'll take him alive."</p> - -<p>"But what do you want to do with him?" asked Spelt.</p> - -<p>"Take him to Mr. Fuller."</p> - -<p>"But what if he won't come?"</p> - -<p>"We can threaten him with the police, as if we knew all about it. Come -along, there's no time to be lost."</p> - -<p>"But what would you take him to Mr. Fuller for?"</p> - -<p>My reader may well be inclined to ask the same question. I will -explain. Mr. Kitely was an original man in thinking, and a rarely -practical man in following it up, for he had confidence in his own -conclusions. Ever since he had made the acquaintance of Mr. Fuller, -through Mattie's illness, he had been feeling his influence more and -more, and was gradually reforming his ways in many little things that -no one knew of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> but himself. No one in London knew him as any thing -but an honest man, but I presume there are few men so honest that if -they were to set about it seriously, they could not be honester still. -I suspect that the most honest man of my acquaintance will be the -readiest to acknowledge this; for honesty has wonderful offshoots from -its great tap-root. Having this experience in himself, he had faith in -the moral power of Mr. Fuller. Again, since Lucy had come to live in -the house, he had grown to admire her yet more, and the attention and -kindness she continued to show to his princess, caused an equal growth -in his gratitude. Hence it became more and more monstrous in his eyes -that she should be deprived of her rights in such a villainous manner -by the wickedness of "them Worboises." For the elder, he was afraid -that he was beyond redemption; but if he could get hold of the younger, -and put him under Mr. Fuller's pump, for that was how he represented -the possible process of cleansing to himself, something might come of -it. He did not know that Thomas was entirely ignorant of his father's -relation to the property of the late Richard Boxall, and that no -man in London would have less influence with Worboise, senior, than -Worboise, junior. He had had several communications with Mr. Fuller -on the subject, and had told him all he knew. Mr. Fuller likewise had -made out that this must be the same young man of whom Lucy had spoken -in such trouble. But as he had disappeared, nothing could be done—even -if he had had the same hope of good results from the interview as Mr. -Kitely, whose simplicity and eagerness amused as well as pleased him. -When Mr. Kitely, therefore, received from Poppie Thomas's letter to -give to Lucy, who happened to be out, he sped at once, with his natural -promptitude, to secure Mr. Spelt's assistance in carrying out his -conspiracy against Thomas.</p> - -<p>As soon as the two below heard Mr. Spelt scramble down and depart -with Mr. Kitely, they issued from their station; Mr. Dolman anxious -to assist in the capture, Mr. Salter wishing to enjoy his disgrace, -for the odd sixpence rankled. As soon as they saw him within the -inner door of the church they turned and departed. They knew nothing -about churches, and were unwilling to enter. They did not know what -they might be in for, if they went in. Neither had they any idea for -what object Thomas was taken there. Dolman went away with some vague -notion about the Ecclesiastical Court; for he tried to read the papers -sometimes. This notion he imparted with equal vagueness to the brain -of Jim Salter, already mud<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span>dled with the beer he had drunk. Dolman -went back to his work, hoping to hear about it when Spelt came home. -Jim wandered eastward to convey a somewhat incorrect idea of what had -happened to the inhabitants of the Mermaid. Having his usual design on -the Mermaid's resources, his story lost nothing in the telling, and, in -great perplexity, and greater uneasiness, Captain Smith and Mr. Potts -started to find out the truth of the matter. Jim conducted them to the -church door, which was still open, and retired round the corner.</p> - -<p>Meantime the captors and the culprit waited till the service was over. -As soon as Mr. Fuller had retired to the vestry, and the congregation -had dispersed, Mr. Kitely intimated to Thomas that he must follow him, -and led the way up the church. With the fear of the police still before -his eyes, Thomas did follow, and the little tailor brought up the rear. -Hardly waiting, in his impatience, to knock at the door, Mr. Kitely -popped his head in as Mr. Fuller was standing in his shirt-sleeves, and -said with ill-suppressed triumph:</p> - -<p>"Here he is, sir! I've got him!"</p> - -<p>"Whom do you mean?" said Mr. Fuller, arrested by surprise with one arm -in his coat and the other hand searching for the other sleeve.</p> - -<p>"Young Worboise. The lawyer-chap, you know sir," he added, seeing that -the name conveyed no idea.</p> - -<p>"Oh!" said Mr. Fuller, prolongedly. "Show him in, then." And on went -his coat.</p> - -<p>Thomas entered, staring in bewilderment. Nor was Mr. Fuller quite at -his ease at first, when the handsome, brown sailor-lad stepped into the -vestry. But he shook hands with him, and asked him to take a chair. -Thomas obeyed. Seeing his conductors lingered, Mr. Fuller then said:</p> - -<p>"You must leave us alone now, Mr. Kitely. How do you do, Mr. Spelt?"</p> - -<p>They retired, and, after a short consultation together in the church, -agreed that they had done their part and could do no more, and went -home.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XLVI.</p> - -<p class="center">THE CONFESSION.</p> - - -<p>As soon as the door closed behind them, Mr. Fuller turned to Tom, -saying, as he took a chair near him, "I'm very glad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> to see you, Mr. -Worboise. I have long wanted to have a little talk with you."</p> - -<p>"Will you tell me," said Tom, with considerable uneasiness, -notwithstanding the pacific appearance of everything about him, "why -those people have made me come to you? I was afraid of making a row in -the street, and so I thought it better to give in. But I have not an -idea why I am here."</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller thought there must be some farther reason, else a young man -of Thomas's appearance would not have so quietly yielded to the will of -two men like Kitely and Spelt. But he kept this conclusion to himself.</p> - -<p>"It certainly was a most unwarrantable proceeding if they used any -compulsion. But I have no intention of using any—nor should I have -much chance," he added, laughing, "if it came to a tussle with a young -fellow like you, Mr. Worboise."</p> - -<p>This answer restored Tom to his equanimity a little.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you know my father," he said, finding that Mr. Fuller was -silent. In fact, Mr. Fuller was quite puzzled how to proceed. He cared -little for the business part, and for the other, he must not compromise -Lucy. Clearly the lawyer-business was the only beginning. Ana this -question of Tom's helped him to it.</p> - -<p>"I have not the pleasure of knowing your father. I wish I had. But, -after all, it is better I should have a chat with you first."</p> - -<p>"Most willingly," said Tom, with courtesy.</p> - -<p>"It is a very unconventional thing I am about to do. But very likely -you will give me such information as will enable me to set the minds -of some of my friends at rest. I am perfectly aware what a lame -introduction this is, and I must make a foolish figure indeed, except -you will kindly understand that sometimes a clergyman is compelled to -meddle with matters which he would gladly leave alone."</p> - -<p>"I have too much need of forbearance myself not to grant it, -sir—although I do not believe any will be necessary in your case. Pray -make me understand you."</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller was greatly pleased with this answer, and proceeded to -business at once.</p> - -<p>"I am told by a man who is greatly interested in one of the parties -concerned, that a certain near relative of yours is in possession of -a large property which ought by right, if not by law, to belong to an -old lady who is otherwise destitute. I wish to employ your mediation to -procure a settlement upon her of such small portion of the property at -least as will make<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> her independent. I am certainly explicit enough, -now," concluded Mr. Fuller, with a considerable feeling of relief in -having discharged himself, if not of his duty, yet of so creditable a -beginning of it.</p> - -<p>"I am as much in the dark as ever, sir," returned Thomas. "I know -nothing of what you refer to. If you mean my father, I am the last one -to know anything of his affairs. I have not seen him or heard of him -for months."</p> - -<p>"But you cannot surely be ignorant of the case. It has been reported in -the public prints from time to time. It seems that your father has come -in for the contingent reversion—I think that is the phrase, I'm not -sure—of all the property of the late Richard Boxall—"</p> - -<p>"By Jove!" cried Thomas, starting to his feet in a rage, then sinking -back on his chair in conscious helplessness. "He did make his will," he -muttered.</p> - -<p>"Leaving," Mr. Fuller went on, "the testator's mother and his niece -utterly unprovided for."</p> - -<p>"But she had money of her own in the business. I have heard her say so -a thousand times."</p> - -<p>"She has nothing now."</p> - -<p>"My father is a villain!" cried Thomas, starting once more to his feet, -and pacing up and down in the little vestry like a wild beast in a -cage. "And what am <i>I</i>?" he added, after a pause. "I have brought all -this upon her." He could say no more. He sat down, hid his face in his -hands, and sobbed.</p> - -<p>Thomas was so far mistaken in this, that his father, after things had -gone so far as they had, would have done as he had done, whatever had -been Thomas's relations to the lady. But certainly, if he had behaved -as he ought, things could not have gone thus far. He was the cause of -all the trouble.</p> - -<p>Nothing could have been more to Mr. Fuller's mind.</p> - -<p>"As to Miss Burton," he said, "I happen to know that she has another -grief, much too great to allow her to think about money. A clergyman, -you know, comes to hear of many things. She never told me who he was," -said Mr. Fuller, with hesitation; "but she confessed to me that she was -in great trouble."</p> - -<p>"Oh, sir, what <i>shall</i> I do?" cried Thomas; "I love her with all my -heart, but I can never, never dare to think of her more. I came up to -London at the risk of—of—I came up to London only to see her and give -her back this ring, and beg her to forgive me, and go away forever. And -now I have not only given her pain—"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Pain!" said Mr. Puller. "If she weren't so good, her heart would have -broken before now."</p> - -<p>Thomas burst out sobbing again. He turned his face away from Mr. Puller -and stood by the wall, shaken with misery. Mr. Puller left him alone -for a minute or two. Then, going up to him, he put his hand on his -shoulder, kindly, and said:</p> - -<p>"My dear boy, I suspect you have got into some terrible scrape, or you -would not have disappeared as they tell me. And your behavior seems to -confirm the suspicion. Tell me all about it, and I have very little -doubt that I can help you out of it. But you must tell me <i>everything</i>."</p> - -<p>"I will, sir; I will," Tom sobbed.</p> - -<p>"Mind, no half-confessions. I have no right to ask you to confess but -on the ground of helping you. But if I am to help you, I must know all. -Can I trust you that you will be quite straightforward and make a clean -breast of it?"</p> - -<p>Tom turned round, and looked Mr. Fuller calmly in the face. The light -of hope shone in his eyes: the very offer of hearing all his sin and -misery gave him hope. To tell it, would be to get rid of some of the -wretchedness.</p> - -<p>"I hate myself so, sir," he said, "that I do not feel it worth while to -hide anything. I will speak the truth. When you wish to know more than -I tell, ask me any questions you please, and I will answer them."</p> - -<p>At this moment a tap was heard at the vestry door, and it opened, -revealing two strange figures with scared, interrogating faces on the -top—the burly form of Captain Smith, and the almost as bulky, though -differently arranged, form of Mr. Potts.</p> - -<p>"Don't'ee be too hard on the young gentleman, sir," said Mr. Potts, -in the soothing tone of one who would patch up a family quarrel. "He -won't do it again, I'll go bail. You don't know, sir, what a good sort -he is. Don't'ee get him into no trouble. He lost his life—all but—a -reskewing of my Bessie. He did now. True as the Bible, sir," added Mr. -Potts, with conciliatory flattery to the clergyman's profession, whom -they both took for the father or uncle of Thomas.</p> - -<p>"You just let me take him off again, sir," put in Captain Smith, while -the face of Mr. Potts, having recovered its usual complexion, looked on -approvingly like a comic but benevolent moon.</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller had a wise way of never interrupting till he saw in what -direction the sense lay. So he let them talk, and the seaman went on:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Everybody knows the sea's the place for curing the likes o' them fine -fellows that carries too much sail ashore. They soon learns their -reef-points there. Why, parson, sir, he's been but three or four -voyages, and I'll take him for an able-bodied seaman to-morrow. He's a -right good sort, though he may ha' been a little frolicsome on shore. -We was all young once, sir."</p> - -<p>"Are these men friends of yours, Mr. Worboise?" asked Mr. Fuller.</p> - -<p>"Indeed they are," answered Thomas. "I think I must have killed myself -before now, if it hadn't been for those two."</p> - -<p>So saying, he shook hands with Mr. Potts, and, turning to the captain, -said:</p> - -<p>"Thank you, thank you, captain, but I am quite safe with this -gentleman. I will come and see you to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"He shall sleep at my house to-night," said Mr. Fuller; "and no harm -shall happen to him, I promise you."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, sir;" and "Good-night, gentlemen," said both, and went -through the silent, wide church with a kind of awe that rarely visited -either of them.</p> - -<p>Without further preface than just the words, "Now, I will tell you all -about it, sir," Thomas began his story. When he had finished it, having -answered the few questions he put to him in its course, Mr. Fuller was -satisfied that he did know all about it, and that if ever there was a -case in which he ought to give all the help he could, here was one. He -did not utter a word of reproof. Thomas's condition of mind was such -that it was not only unnecessary, but might have done harm. He had now -only to be met with the same simplicity which he had himself shown. The -help must match the confession.</p> - -<p>"Well, we must get you out of this scrape, somehow," he said, heartily.</p> - -<p>"I don't see how you can, sir."</p> - -<p>"It rests with yourself chiefly. Another can only help. The feet that -walked into the mire must turn and walk out of it again. I don't mean -to reproach you—only to encourage you to effort."</p> - -<p>"What effort?" said Tom. "I have scarcely heart for anything. I have -disgraced myself forever. Suppose all the consequences of my—doing as -I did"—he could not yet call the deed by its name—"were to disappear, -I have a blot upon me to all eternity, that nothing can wash out. For -there is the fact. I almost think it is not worth while to do anything."</p> - -<p>"You are altogether wrong about that," returned Mr. Fuller.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> "It is -true that the deed is done, and that that cannot be obliterated. But a -living soul may outgrow all stain and all reproach—I do not mean in -the judgment of men merely, but in the judgment of God, which is always -founded on the actual fact, and always calls things by their right -names, and covers no man's sin, although he forgives it and takes it -away. A man may abjure his sin so, cast it away from him so utterly, -with pure heart and full intent, that, although he did it, it is his no -longer. But, Thomas Worboise, if the stain of it were to cleave to you -to all eternity, that would be infinitely better than that you should -have continued capable of doing the thing. You are more honorable -now than you were before. Then you were capable of the crime; now, I -trust, you are not. It was far better that, seeing your character was -such that you could do it, you should thus be humbled by disgracing -yourself, than that you should have gone on holding up a proud head in -the world, with such a deceitful hollow of weakness in your heart. It -is the kindest thing God can do for his children, sometimes, to let -them fall in the mire. You would not hold by your Father's hand; you -struggled to pull it away; he let it go, and there you lay. Now that -you stretch forth the hand to him again, he will take you, and clean, -not your garments only, but your heart, and soul, and consciousness. -Pray to your Father, my boy. He will change your humiliation into -humility, your shame into purity."</p> - -<p>"Oh, if he were called anything else than <i>Father</i>! I am afraid I hate -my father."</p> - -<p>"I don't wonder. But that is your own fault, too."</p> - -<p>"How is that, sir? Surely you are making even me out worse than I am."</p> - -<p>"No. You are afraid of him. As soon as you have ceased to be afraid of -him, you will no longer be in danger of hating him."</p> - -<p>"I can't help being afraid of him."</p> - -<p>"You must break the bonds of that slavery. No slave can be God's -servant. His servants are all free men. But we will come to that -presently. You must not try to call God your Father, till <i>father</i> -means something very different to you from what it seems to mean now. -Think of the grandest human being you can imagine—the tenderest, the -most gracious whose severity is boundless, but hurts himself most—all -against, evil, all for the evil-doer. God is all that and infinitely -more. You need not call him by any name till the name bursts from -your heart. God our Saviour means all the names in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> world, and -infinitely more! One thing I can assure you of, that even I, if you -will but do your duty in regard to this thing, will not only love—yes, -I will say that word—will not only love, but honor you far more than -if I had known you only as a respectable youth. It is harder to turn -back than to keep at home. I doubt if there could be such joy in heaven -over the repenting sinner if he was never to be free of his disgrace. -But I like you the better for having the feeling of eternal disgrace -now."</p> - -<p>"I will think God is like you, sir. Tell me what I am to do."</p> - -<p>"I am going to set you the hardest of tasks, one after the other. They -will be like the pinch of death. But they <i>must</i> be done. And after -that—peace. Who is at the head of the late Mr. Boxall's business now?"</p> - -<p>"I suppose Mr. Stopper. He was head-clerk."</p> - -<p>"You must go to him and take him the money you stole."</p> - -<p>Thomas turned ashy pale.</p> - -<p>"I haven't got it, sir."</p> - -<p>"How much was it, did you say?"</p> - -<p>"Eleven pounds—nearly twelve."</p> - -<p>"I will find you the money. I will lend it to you."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, thank you, sir. I will not spend a penny I can help till I -repay you. But—"</p> - -<p>"Yes, now come the <i>buts</i>," said Mr. Fuller, with a smile of kindness. -"What is the first <i>but</i>?"</p> - -<p>"Stopper is a hard man, and never liked me. He will give me up to the -law."</p> - -<p>"I can't help it. It must be done. But I do not believe he will do -that. I will help you so far as to promise you to do all that lies in -my power in every way to prevent it. And there is your father; his word -will be law with him now."</p> - -<p>"So much the worse, sir. He is ten times as hard as Stopper."</p> - -<p>"He will not be willing to disgrace his own family, though."</p> - -<p>"I know what he will do. He will make it a condition that I shall give -up Lucy. But I will go to prison before I will do that. Not that it -will make any difference in the end, for Lucy won't have a word to say -to me now. She bore all that woman could bear. But she shall give me -up—she has given me up, of course; but I will never give her up that -way."</p> - -<p>"That's right, my boy. Well, what do you say to it?"</p> - -<p>Tom was struggling with himself. With a sudden resolve, the source of -which he could not tell, he said, "I will, sir." With a new light in -his face he added, "What next?"</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Then you must go to your father."</p> - -<p>"That is far worse. I am afraid I can't."</p> - -<p>"You must—if you should not find a word to say when you go—if you -should fall in a faint on the floor when you try."</p> - -<p>"I will, sir. Am I to tell him everything?"</p> - -<p>"I am not prepared to say that. If he had been a true father to you, -I should have said 'Of course.' But there is no denying the fact that -such he has not been, or rather, that such he is not. The point lies -there. I think that alters the affair. It is one thing to confess to -God and another to the devil. Excuse me, I only put the extremes."</p> - -<p>"What ought I to tell him, then?"</p> - -<p>"I think you will know that best when you see him. We cannot tell how -much he knows."</p> - -<p>"Yes," said Thomas, thoughtfully; "I will tell him that I am sorry I -went away as I did, and ask him to forgive me. Will that do?"</p> - -<p>"I must leave all that to your own conscience, heart, and honesty. Of -course, if he receives you at all, you must try what you can do for -Mrs. Boxall."</p> - -<p>"Alas! I know too well how useless that will be. It will only enrage -him the more at them. He may offer to put it all right, though, if I -promise to give Lucy up. <i>Must</i> I do that, sir?"</p> - -<p>Knowing more about Lucy's feelings than Thomas, Mr. Fuller answered at -once—though if he had hesitated, he might have discovered ground for -hesitating—</p> - -<p>"On no account whatever."</p> - -<p>"And what must I do next?" he asked, more cheerfully.</p> - -<p>"There's your mother."</p> - -<p>"Ah! you needn't remind me of her."</p> - -<p>"Then you must not forget Miss Burton. You have some apology to make to -her too, I suppose."</p> - -<p>"I had just sent her a note, asking her to meet me once more, and was -waiting for her answer, when the bookseller laid hold of me. I was so -afraid of making a row, lest the police should come, that I gave in to -him. I owe him more than ever I can repay."</p> - -<p>"You will when you have done all you have undertaken."</p> - -<p>"But how am I to see Lucy now? She will not know where I am. But -perhaps she will not want to see me."</p> - -<p>Here Tom looked very miserable again. Anxious to give him courage, Mr. -Fuller said:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Come home with me now. In the morning, after you have seen Mr. -Stopper, and your father and mother, come back to my house. I am sure -she will see you."</p> - -<p>With more thanks in his heart than on his tongue, Tom followed Mr. -Fuller from the church. When they stepped into the street, they found -the bookseller, the seaman, and the publican, talking together on the -pavement.</p> - -<p>"It's all right," said Mr. Fuller, as he passed them. "Good-night." -Then, turning again to Mr. Kitely, he added, in a low voice, "He knows -nothing of his father's behavior, Kitely. You'll be glad to hear that."</p> - -<p>"I ought to be glad to hear it for his own sake, I suppose," returned -the bookseller. "But I don't know as I am, for all that."</p> - -<p>"Have patience, have patience," said the parson, and walked on, taking -Thomas by the arm.</p> - -<p>For the rest of the evening Mr. Fuller avoided much talk with the -penitent, and sent him to bed early.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XLVII.</p> - -<p class="center">THOMAS AND MR. STOPPER.</p> - - -<p>Thomas did not sleep much that night, and was up betimes in the -morning. Mr. Fuller had risen before him, however, and when Thomas -went down stairs, after an invigorating cold bath which his host had -taken special care should be provided for him, along with clean linen, -he found him in his study reading. He received him very heartily, -looking him, with some anxiety, in the face, as if to see whether he -could read action there. Apparently he was encouraged, for his own -face brightened up, and they were soon talking together earnestly. -But knowing Mr. Stopper's habit of being first at the counting-house, -Thomas was anxious about the time, and Mr. Fuller hastened breakfast. -That and prayers over, he put twelve pounds into Thomas's hand, which -he had been out that morning already to borrow from a friend. Then, -with a quaking heart, but determined will, Thomas set out and walked -straight to Bagot Street. Finding no one there but the man sweeping -out the place, he went a little farther, and there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> the bookseller -arranging his stall outside the window. Mr. Kitely regarded him with -doubtful eyes, vouchsafing him a "good-morning" of the gruffest.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Kitely," said Thomas, "I am more obliged to you than I can tell, -for what you did last night."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you ought to be; but it wasn't for your sake, Mr. Worboise, -that I did it."</p> - -<p>"I am quite aware of that. Still, if you will allow me to say so, I am -as much obliged to you as if it had been."</p> - -<p>Mr. Kitely grumbled something, for he was not prepared to be friendly.</p> - -<p>"Will you let me wait in your shop till Mr. Stopper comes?"</p> - -<p>"There he is."</p> - -<p>Thomas's heart beat fast; but he delayed only to give Mr. Stopper time -to enter the more retired part of the counting-house. Then he hurried -to the door and went in.</p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper was standing with his back to the glass partition, and took -the entrance for that of one of his clerks. Thomas tapped at the glass -door, but not till he had opened it and said "Mr. Stopper," did he take -any notice. He started then, and turned; but, having regarded him for a -moment, gave a rather constrained smile, and, to his surprise, held out -his hand.</p> - -<p>"It is very good of you to speak to me at all, Mr. Stopper," said -Thomas, touched with gratitude already. "I don't deserve it."</p> - -<p>"Well, I must say you behaved rather strangely, to say the least, of -it. It might have been a serious thing for you, Mr. Thomas, if I hadn't -been more friendly than you would have given me credit for. Look here."</p> - -<p>And he showed him the sum of eleven pounds thirteen shillings and -eightpence halfpenny put down to Mr. Stopper's debit in the petty -cash-book.</p> - -<p>"You understand that, I presume, Mr. Thomas. You ran the risk of -transportation there."</p> - -<p>"I know I did, Mr. Stopper. But just listen to me a moment, and you -will be able to forgive me, I think. I had been drinking, and gambling, -and losing all night; and I believe I was really drunk when I did that. -Not that I didn't know I was doing wrong. I can't say that. And I know -it doesn't clear me at all, but I want to tell you the truth of it. -I've been wretched ever since, and daren't show myself. I have been -bitterly punished. I haven't touched cards or dice since. Here's the -money," he concluded, offering the notes and gold.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper did not heed the action at first. He was regarding Thomas -rather curiously. Thomas perceived it.</p> - -<p>"Yes," Thomas said, "I am a sailor. It's an honest way of living, and I -like it."</p> - -<p>"But you'll come back now, won't you?"</p> - -<p>"That depends," answered Thomas. "Would you take me, now, Mr. Stopper?" -he added, with a feeble experimental smile. "But there's the money. Do -take it out of my hands."</p> - -<p>"It lies with your father now, Mr. Thomas. Have you been to Highbury? -Of course, I took care not to let him know."</p> - -<p>"Thank you heartily. I'm just going there. Do take the horrid money, -and let me feel as if I weren't a thief after all."</p> - -<p>"As for the money, eleven pound, odd," said Mr. Stopper, without -looking at it, "that's neither here nor there. It was a burglary, there -can be no doubt, under the circumstances. But I owe you a quarter's -salary, though I should not be bound to pay it, seeing you left as you -did. Still, I want to be friendly, and you worked very fairly for it. I -will hand you over the difference."</p> - -<p>"No, never mind that, I don't care about the money. It was all that -damned play," said Thomas.</p> - -<p>"Don't swear, Mr. Thomas," returned Stopper, taking out the check-book, -and proceeding to write a check for thirteen pounds six shillings and -fourpence.</p> - -<p>"If you had suffered as much from it as I have, Mr. Stopper, you would -see no harm in damning it."</p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper made no reply, but handed him the check, with the words:</p> - -<p>"Now we're clear, Mr. Thomas. But don't do it again. It won't pass -twice. I've saved you this time."</p> - -<p>"Do it again!" cried Thomas, seizing Mr. Stopper's hand; "I would -sooner cut my own throat. Thank you, thank you a thousand times, Mr. -Stopper," he added, his heart brimful at this beginning of his day of -horror.</p> - -<p>Mr. Stopper very coolly withdrew his hand, turned round on his stool, -replaced his check-book in the drawer, and proceeded to arrange his -writing materials, as if nobody were there but himself. He knew well -enough that it was not for Thomas's sake that he had done it; but -he had no particular objection to take the credit of it. There was -something rudely imposing in the way in which he behaved to Thomas, -and Thomas<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> felt it and did not resent it: for he had no right to be -indignant: he was glad of any terms he could make. Let us hope that Mr. -Stopper had a glimmering of how it might feel to have been kind, and -that he was a little more ready in consequence to do a friendly deed in -time to come, even when he could reap no benefit from it. Though Mr. -Stopper's assumption of faithful friendship could only do him harm, yet -perhaps Thomas's ready acknowledgment of it might do him good; for not -unfrequently to behave to a man as good rouses his conscience and makes -him wish that he were as good as he is taken for. It gives him almost -a taste of what goodness is like—certainly a very faint and far-off -taste—yet a something.</p> - -<p>Thomas left the counting-house a free man. He bounded back to Mr. -Fuller, returned the money, showed him the check, and told him all.</p> - -<p>"There's a beginning for you, my boy!" said Mr. Fuller, as delighted -almost as Thomas himself. "Now for the next."</p> - -<p>There came the rub. Thomas's countenance fell. He was afraid, and Mr. -Fuller saw it.</p> - -<p>"You daren't go near Lucy till you have been to your father. It would -be to insult her, Thomas."</p> - -<p>Tom caught up his cap from the table and left the house, once more -resolved. It would be useless to go to Highbury at this hour; he would -find his father at his office in the city. And he had not far to go to -find him—unfortunately, thought Tom.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XLVIII.</p> - -<p class="center">THOMAS AND HIS FATHER.</p> - - -<p>When he was shown into his father's room he was writing a letter. -Looking up and seeing Tom he gave a grin—that is, a laugh without the -smile in it—handed him a few of his fingers, pointed to a chair, and -went on with his letter. This reception irritated Tom, and perhaps so -far did him good that it took off the edge of his sheepishness—or -rather, I should have said, put an edge upon it. Before his father he -did not feel that he appeared exactly as a culprit. He had told him -either to give up Lucy, or not to show his face at home again. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> -had lost Lucy, it might be—though hope had revived greatly since his -interview with Mr. Stopper; but, in any case, even if she refused to -see him, he would not give her up. So he sat, more composed than he -had expected to be, waiting for what should follow. In a few minutes -his father looked up again, as he methodically folded his letter, and -casting a sneering glance at his son's garb, said:</p> - -<p>"What's the meaning of this masquerading, Tom?"</p> - -<p>"It means that I am dressed like my work," answered Tom, surprised at -his own coolness, now that the ice was broken.</p> - -<p>"What's your work, then, pray?"</p> - -<p>"I'm a sailor."</p> - -<p>"You a sailor! A horse-marine, I suppose! Ha, ha!"</p> - -<p>"I've made five coasting voyages since you turned me out," said Tom.</p> - -<p>"I turned you out! You turned yourself out. Why the devil did you come -back, then? Why don't you stick to your new trade?"</p> - -<p>"You told me either to give up Lucy Burton, or take lodgings in -Wapping. I won't give up Lucy Burton."</p> - -<p>"Take her to hell, if you like. What do you come back here for with -your cursed impudence? There's nobody I want less."</p> - -<p>This was far from true. He had been very uneasy about his son. Yet -now that he saw him—a prey to the vile demon that ever stirred up -his avarice till the disease, which was as the rust spoken of by the -prophet St. James, was eating his flesh as it were fire—his tyrannical -disposition, maddened by the resistance of his son, and the consequent -frustration of his money-making plans, broke out in this fierce, cold, -blasting wrath.</p> - -<p>"I come here," said Thomas—and he said it merely to discharge -himself of a duty, for he had not the thinnest shadow of a hope that -it would be of service—"I come here to protest against the extreme -to which you are driving your legal <i>rights</i>—which I have only just -learned—against Mrs. Boxall."</p> - -<p>"And her daughter. But I am not aware that I am driving my <i>rights</i>, as -you emphasize the word," said Mr. Worboise, relapsing into his former -manner, so cold that it stung; "for I believe I <i>have</i> driven them -already almost as far as my knowledge of affairs allows me to consider -prudent. I have turned those people out of the house."</p> - -<p>"You have!" cried Thomas, starting to his feet. "Father! father! you -are worse than even I thought you. It is cruel; it is wicked."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Don't discompose yourself about it. It is all your own fault, my son."</p> - -<p>"I am no son of yours. From this moment I renounce you, and call you -<i>father</i> no more," cried Thomas, in mingled wrath and horror and -consternation at the atrocity of his father's conduct.</p> - -<p>"By what name, then, will you be pleased to be known in future, that I -may say when I hear it that you are none of mine?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, the devil!" burst out Tom, beside himself with his father's -behavior and treatment.</p> - -<p>"Very well. Then I beg again to inform you, Mr. Devil, that it is your -own fault. Give up that girl, and I will provide for the lovely siren -and her harridan of a grandam for life; and take you home to wealth and -a career which you shall choose for yourself."</p> - -<p>"No, father. I will not."</p> - -<p>"Then take yourself off, and be—" It is needless to print the close of -the sentence.</p> - -<p>Thomas rose and left the room. As he went down the stairs, his father -shouted after him, in a tone of fury:</p> - -<p>"You're not to go near your mother, mind."</p> - -<p>"I'm going straight to her," answered Tom, as quietly as he could.</p> - -<p>"If you do, I'll murder her."</p> - -<p>Tom came up the stairs again to the door next his father's where the -clerks sat. He opened this and said aloud:</p> - -<p>"Gentlemen, you hear what my father has just said. There may be -occasion to refer to it again." Then returning to his father's door, he -said, in a low tone which only he could hear: "My mother may die any -moment, as you very well know, sir. It may be awkward after what has -just passed."</p> - -<p>Having said this, he left his father a little abashed. As his wrath -ebbed, he began to admire his son's presence of mind, and even to take -some credit for it: "A chip of the old block!" he muttered to himself. -"Who would have thought there was so much in the rascal? Seafaring must -agree with the young beggar!"</p> - -<p>Thomas hailed the first hansom, jumped in, and drove straight to -Highbury. Was it strange that notwithstanding the dreadful interview he -had just had—notwithstanding, too, that he feared he had not behaved -properly to his father, for his conscience had already begun to speak -about comparatively little things, having been at last hearkened to in -regard to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> great things—that notwithstanding this, he should feel such -a gladness in his being as he had never known before? The second and -more awful load of duty was now lifted from his mind. True, if he had -loved his father much, as it was simply impossible that he should, that -load would have been replaced by another—misery about his father's -wretched condition and the loss of his love. But although something -of this would come later, the thought of it did not intrude now to -destroy any of the enjoyment of the glad reaction from months—he would -have said years—yea, a whole past life of misery—for the whole of -his past life had been such a poor thing, that it seemed now as if the -misery of the last few months had been only the misery of all his life -coming to a head. And this indeed was truer than his judgment would yet -have allowed: it was absolute fact, although he attributed it to an -overwrought fancy.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER XLIX.</p> - -<p class="center">THOMAS AND HIS MOTHER.</p> - - -<p>When the maid opened the door to him she stared like an idiot, yet she -was in truth a woman of sense; for, before Thomas had reached the foot -of the stairs, she ran after him, saying:</p> - -<p>"Mr. Thomas! Mr. Thomas! you mustn't go up to mis'ess all of a sudden. -You'll kill her if you do."</p> - -<p>Thomas paused at once.</p> - -<p>"Run up and tell her, then. Make haste."</p> - -<p>She sped up the stairs, and Thomas followed, waiting outside his -mother's door. He had to wait a little while, for the maid was -imparting the news with circumspection. He heard the low tone of his -mother's voice, but could not hear what she said. At last came a little -cry, and then he could hear her sob. A minute or two more passed, which -seemed endless to Thomas, and then the maid came to the door, and asked -him to go in. He obeyed.</p> - -<p>His mother lay in bed, propped up as she used to be on the sofa. She -looked much worse than before. She stretched out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> her arms to him, -kissed him, and held his head to her bosom. He had never before had -such an embrace from her.</p> - -<p>"My boy! my boy!" she cried, weeping. "Thank God! I have you again. -You'll tell me all about it, won't you?"</p> - -<p>She went on weeping and murmuring words of endearment and gratitude for -some time. Then she released him, holding one of his hands only.</p> - -<p>"There's a chair there. Sit down and tell me about it. I am afraid your -poor father has been hard upon you."</p> - -<p>"We won't talk about my father," said Thomas. "I have faults enough of -my own to confess, mother. But I won't tell you all about them now. I -have been very wicked—gambling and worse; but I will never do so any -more. I am ashamed and sorry; and I think God will forgive me. Will you -forgive me, mother?"</p> - -<p>"With all my heart, my boy. And you know that God forgives every one -that believes in Jesus. I hope you have given your heart to him, at -last. Then I shall die happy."</p> - -<p>"I don't know, mother, whether I have or not; but I want to do what's -right."</p> - -<p>"That won't save you, my poor child. You'll have a talk with Mr. Simon -about it, won't you? I'm not able to argue anything now."</p> - -<p>It would have been easiest for Thomas to say nothing, and leave his -mother to hope, at least; but he had begun to be honest, therefore -he would not deceive her. But in his new anxiety to be honest, he -was in great danger of speaking roughly, if not rudely. Those who -find it difficult to oppose are in more danger than others of falling -into that error when they make opposition a point of conscience. The -unpleasantness of the duty irritates them.</p> - -<p>"Mother, I will listen to anything you choose to say; but I won't see -that—" <i>fool</i> he was going to say, but he changed the epithet—"I -won't talk about such things to a man for whom I have no respect."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Worboise gave a sigh; but, perhaps partly because her own respect -for Mr. Simon had been a little shaken of late, she said nothing more. -Thomas resumed.</p> - -<p>"If I hadn't been taken by the hand by a very different man from him, -mother, I shouldn't have been here to-day. Thank God! Mr. Fuller is -something like a clergyman!"</p> - -<p>"Who is he, Thomas? I think I have heard the name."</p> - -<p>"He is the clergyman of St. Amos's in the city."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Ah! I thought so. A Ritualist, I am afraid, Thomas. They lay snares -for young people."</p> - -<p>"Nonsense, mother!" said Thomas, irreverently. "I don't know what you -mean. Mr. Fuller, I think, would not feel flattered to be told that he -belonged to any party whatever but that of Jesus Christ himself. But I -should say, if he belonged to any, it would be the Broad Church."</p> - -<p>"I don't know which is worse. The one believes all the lying idolatry -of the Papists; the other believes nothing at all. I'm sadly afraid, -Thomas, you've been reading Bishop Colenso."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Worboise believed, of course, in no distinctions but those she -saw; and if she had heard the best men of the Broad Church party -repudiate Bishop Colenso, she would only have set it down to Jesuitism.</p> - -<p>"A sailor hasn't much time for reading, mother."</p> - -<p>"A sailor, Thomas! What do you mean? Where have you been all this -time?" she asked, examining his appearance anxiously.</p> - -<p>"At sea, mother."</p> - -<p>"My boy! my boy! that is a godless calling. However—"</p> - -<p>Thomas interrupted her.</p> - -<p>"They that go down to the sea in ships were supposed once to see the -wonders of the Lord, mother."</p> - -<p>"Yes. But when will you be reasonable? That was in David's time."</p> - -<p>"The sea is much the same, and man's heart is much the same. Anyhow, -I'm a sailor, and a sailor I must be. I have nothing else to do."</p> - -<p>"Mr. Boxall's business is all your father's now, I hear; though I'm -sure I cannot understand it. Whatever you've done, you can go back to -the counting-house, you know."</p> - -<p>"I can't, mother. My father and I have parted forever."</p> - -<p>"Tom!"</p> - -<p>"It's true, mother."</p> - -<p>"Why is that? What have you been doing?"</p> - -<p>"Refusing to give up Lucy Burton."</p> - -<p>"Oh, Tom, Tom! Why do you set yourself against your father?"</p> - -<p>"Well, mother, I don't want to be impertinent; but it seems to me it's -no more than you have been doing all your life."</p> - -<p>"For conscience' sake, Tom. But in matters indifferent we ought to -yield, you know."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Is it an indifferent matter to keep one's engagements, mother? To be -true to one's word?"</p> - -<p>"But you had no right to make them."</p> - -<p>"They are made, anyhow, and I must bear the consequences of keeping -them."</p> - -<p>Mrs. Worboise, poor woman, was nearly worn out. Tom saw it, and rose to -go.</p> - -<p>"Am I never to see you again, Tom?" she asked, despairingly.</p> - -<p>"Every time I come to London—so long as my father doesn't make you -shut the door against me, mother."</p> - -<p>"That shall never be, my boy. And you really are going on that sea -again?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, mother. It's an honest calling. And believe me, mother, it's -often easier to pray to God on shipboard than it is sitting at a desk."</p> - -<p>"Well, well, my boy!" said his mother, with a great sigh of weariness. -"If I only knew that you were possessed of saving faith, I could bear -even to hear that you had been drowned. It may happen any day, you -know, Thomas."</p> - -<p>"Not till God please. I shan't be drowned before that."</p> - -<p>"God has given no pledge to protect any but those that put faith in the -merits of his Son."</p> - -<p>"Mother, mother, I can't tell a bit what you mean."</p> - -<p>"The way of salvation is so plain that he that runneth may read."</p> - -<p>"So you say, mother; but I don't see it so. Now I'll tell you what: I -want to be good."</p> - -<p>"My dear boy!"</p> - -<p>"And I pray, and will pray to God to teach me whatever he wants me to -learn. So if your way is the right one, God will teach me that. Will -that satisfy you, mother?"</p> - -<p>"My dear, it is of no use mincing matters. God has told us plainly in -his holy Word that he that puts his trust in the merits of Christ shall -be saved; and he that does not shall be sent to the place of misery for -ever and ever."</p> - -<p>The good woman believed that she was giving a true representation of -the words of Scripture when she said so, and that they were an end of -all controversy.</p> - -<p>"But, mother, what if a man can't believe?"</p> - -<p>"Then he must take the consequences. There's no provision made for that -in the Word."</p> - -<p>"But if he wants to believe, mother?" said. Tom, in a small agony at -his mother's hardness.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span></p> - -<p>"There's no man that can't believe, if he's only willing. I used to -think otherwise. But Mr. Simon thinks so, and he has brought me to see -that he is right."</p> - -<p>"Well, mother, I'm glad Mr. Simon is not at the head of the universe, -for then it would be a paltry affair. But it ill becomes me to make -remarks upon anybody. Mr. Simon hasn't disgraced himself like me after -all, though I'm pretty sure if I had had such teaching as Mr. Fuller's, -instead of his, I should never have fallen as I have done."</p> - -<p>Thomas said this with some bitterness as he rose to take his leave. He -had no right to say so. Men as good as he, with teaching as good as -Mr. Fuller's, have yet fallen. He forgot that he had had the schooling -of sin and misery to prepare the soil of his heart before Mr. Fuller's -words were sown in it. Even Mr. Simon could have done a little for him -in that condition, if he had only been capable of showing him a little -pure human sympathy.</p> - -<p>His mother gave him another tearful embrace. Thomas's heart was -miserable at leaving her thus fearful, almost hopeless about him. How -terrible it would be for her in the windy nights, when she could not -sleep, to think that if he went to the bottom, it must be to go deeper -still! He searched his mind eagerly for something that might comfort -her. It flashed upon him at last.</p> - -<p>"Mother dear," he said, "Jesus said, 'Come unto me, all ye that are -weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.' I will go to him. I -will promise you that if you like. That is all I can say, and I think -that ought to be enough. If he gives me rest, shall I not be safe? And -whoever says that he will not if I go to him—"</p> - -<p>"In the appointed way, my dear."</p> - -<p>"He says nothing more than <i>go to him</i>. I say I will go to him, the -only way that a man can when he is in heaven and I am on the earth. And -if Mr. Simon or anybody says that he will not give me rest, he is a -liar. If that doesn't satisfy you, mother, I don't believe you have any -faith in him yourself."</p> - -<p>With this outburst, Thomas again kissed his mother, and then left the -room. Nor did his last words displease her. I do not by any means set -him up as a pattern of filial respect even toward his mother; nor can I -approve altogether of the form his confession of faith took, for there -was in it a mixture of that graceless material—the wrath of man; but -it was good, notwithstanding; and such a blunt utterance was far more -calculated to carry some hope into his mother's mind than any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> amount -of arguing upon the points of difference between them.</p> - -<p>As he reached the landing, his sister Amy came rushing up the stairs -from the dining-room, with her hair in disorder, and a blushing face.</p> - -<p>"Why Tom!" she said, starting back.</p> - -<p>Tom took her in his arms.</p> - -<p>"How handsome you have grown, Tom!" said Amy; and breaking from him, -ran up to her mother's room.</p> - -<p>Passing the dining-room door, Tom saw Mr. Simon looking into the fire. -The fact was he had just made Amy an offer of marriage. Tom let him -stand, and hurried back on foot to his friend, his heart full, and his -thoughts in confusion.</p> - -<p>He found him in his study, where he had made a point of staying all day -that Tom might find him at any moment when he might want him. He rose -eagerly to meet him.</p> - -<p>"'Now I see by thine eyes that this is done,'" he said, quoting King -Arthur.</p> - -<p>They sat down, and Tom told him all.</p> - -<p>"I wish you had managed a little better with your father," he said.</p> - -<p>"I wish I had, sir. But it's done, and there's no help for it."</p> - -<p>"No; I suppose not—at present, at least."</p> - -<p>"As far as Lucy is concerned, it would have made no difference, if you -had been in my place—I am confident of that."</p> - -<p>"I dare say you are right. But you have earned your dinner anyhow; and -here comes my housekeeper to say it is ready. Come along."</p> - -<p>Thomas's face fell.</p> - -<p>"I thought I should have gone to see Lucy, now, sir."</p> - -<p>"I believe she will not be at home."</p> - -<p>"She was always home from Mrs. Morgenstern's before now."</p> - -<p>"Yes. But she has to work much harder now. You see her grandmother is -dependent on her now."</p> - -<p>"And where are they? My father told me himself he had turned them out -of the house in Guild Court."</p> - -<p>"Yes. But they are no farther off for that; they have lodgings at Mr. -Kitely's. I think you had better go and see your friends the sailor -and publican after dinner, and by the time you come back, I shall -have arranged for your seeing her. You would hardly like to take your -chance, and find her with her grandmother and Mattie."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Who is Mattie? Oh! I know—that dreadful little imp of Kitely's."</p> - -<p>"I dare say she can make herself unpleasant enough," said Mr. Fuller, -laughing; "but she is a most remarkable and very interesting child. I -could hardly have believed in such a child if I had not known her. She -was in great danger, I allow, of turning out a little prig, if that -word can be used of the feminine gender, but your friend Lucy has saved -her from that."</p> - -<p>"God bless her!" said Thomas, fervently. "She has saved me too, even if -she refuses to have anything more to do with me. How <i>shall</i> I tell her -everything? Since I have had it over with my father and Stopper, I feel -as if I were whitewashed, and to have to tell her what a sepulchre I am -is dreadful—and she so white outside and in!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, it's hard to do, my boy, but it must be done."</p> - -<p>"I would do it—I would insist upon it, even if she begged me not, Mr. -Fuller. If she were to say that she would love me all the same, and I -needn't say a word about the past, for it was all over now, I would -yet beg her to endure the ugly story for my sake, that I might hear my -final absolution from her lips."</p> - -<p>"That's right," said Mr. Fuller.</p> - -<p>They were now seated at dinner, and nothing more of importance to our -history was said until that was over. Then they returned to the study, -and, as soon as he had closed the door, Mr. Fuller said:</p> - -<p>"But now, Worboise, it is time that I should talk to you a little more -about yourself. There is only One that can absolve you in the grand -sense of the word. If God himself were to say to you, 'Let by-gones be -by-gones, nothing more shall be said about them'—if he only said that, -it would be a poor thing to meet our human need. But he is infinitely -kinder than that. He says, 'I, even I am he that taketh away thine -iniquities.' He alone can make us clean—put our heart so right that -nothing of this kind will happen again—make us simple God-loving, -man-loving creatures, as much afraid of harboring an unjust thought -of our neighbors as of stealing that which is his; as much afraid of -pride and self-confidence as of saying with the fool, 'There is no -God;' as far from distrusting God for the morrow, as from committing -suicide. We cannot serve God and Mammon. Hence the constant struggle -and discomfort in the minds of even good men. They would, without -knowing what they are doing, combine a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> Mammon-worship with the -service of the God they love. But that cannot be. The Spirit of God -will ever and always be at strife with Mammon, and in proportion as -that spirit is victorious, is peace growing in the man. You must give -yourself up to the obedience of his Son entirely and utterly, leaving -your salvation to him, troubling yourself nothing about that, but ever -seeking to see things as he sees them, and to do things as he would -have them done. And for this purpose you must study your New Testament -in particular, that you see the glory of God in the face of Christ -Jesus; that receiving him as your master, your teacher, your saviour, -you may open your heart to the entrance of his spirit, the mind that -was in him, that so he may save you. Every word of his, if you will but -try to obey it, you will find precious beyond words to say. And he has -promised without reserve the Holy Spirit of God to them that ask it. -The only salvation is in being filled with the Spirit of God, the mind -of Christ."</p> - -<p>"I believe you, sir, though I cannot quite see into all you say. All I -can say is, that I want to be good henceforth. Pray for me, sir, if you -think there is any good in one man praying for another."</p> - -<p>"I do, indeed—just in proportion to the love that is in it. I cannot -exactly tell how this should be; but if we believe that the figure St. -Paul uses about our all being members of one body has any true, deep -meaning in it, we shall have just a glimmering of how it can be so. -Come, then, we will kneel together, and I will pray with you."</p> - -<p>Thomas felt more solemn by far than he had ever felt in his life when -he rose from that prayer.</p> - -<p>"Now," said Mr. Fuller, "go and see your friends. When you think of it, -my boy," he added, after a pause, during which he held Tom's hand in a -warm grasp, "you will see how God has been looking after you, giving -you friend after friend of such different sorts to make up for the want -of a father, and so driving you home at last, home to himself. He had -to drive you; but he will lead you now. You will be home by half-past -six or seven?"</p> - -<p>Thomas assented. He could not speak. He could only return the grasp of -Mr. Fuller's hand. Then he took his cap and went.</p> - -<p>It is needless to give any detailed account of Thomas's meeting with -the Pottses. He did not see the captain, who had gone down to his brig. -Mrs. Potts (and Bessie too, after a fashion) welcomed him heartily; but -Mr. Potts was a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> aggrieved that he would drink nothing but a -glass of bitter ale. He had the watch safe, and brought it out gladly -when Thomas produced his check.</p> - -<p>Jim Salter dropped in at the last moment. He had heard the night before -that Thomas was restored to society and was expected to call at the -Mermaid some time that day. So he had been in or looking in a dozen -times since the morning. When he saw Tom, who was just taking his -leave, he came up to him, holding out his hand, but speaking as with a -sense of wrong.</p> - -<p>"How de do, guv'nor? Who'd ha' thought to see you here! Ain't you got -ne'er another sixpence to put a name upon it? You're fond o' sixpences, -<i>you</i> are, guv'nor."</p> - -<p>"What do you mean, Jim?" asked Thomas, in much bewilderment.</p> - -<p>"To think o' treatin' a man and a brother as you've treated me, after -I'd been and devoted my life, leastways a good part of it, to save you -from the police! Four <i>and</i> sixpence!"</p> - -<p>Still bewildered, Thomas appealed to Mr. Potts, whose face looked as -like a caricature of the moon as ever, although he had just worked out -a very neat little problem in diplomacy.</p> - -<p>"It's my fault, Mr. Worboise," he responded in his usual voice, which -seemed to come from a throat lined with the insides of dates. "I forgot -to tell you, sir, that, that—Don't you see, Jim, you fool!" he said, -changing the object of his address abruptly—"you wouldn't have liked -to rob a gentleman like that by takin' of half a suvering for loafin' -about for a day with him when he was hard up. But as he's come by his -own again, why there's no use in keeping it from you any longer. So -there's your five and sixpence. But it's a devil of a shame. Go out of -my house."</p> - -<p>"Whew!" whistled; Jim Salter. "Two words to that, guv'nor o' the -Marmaid. You've been and kep' me all this many a day out of my -inheritance, as they say at the Britanuary. What do you say to that, -sir? What do you think o' yerself, sir? I wait a reply, as the butcher -said to the pig."</p> - -<p>While he spoke, Jim pocketed the money. Receiving no reply except a -sniff of Mr. Potts's red nose, he broke out again, more briefly:</p> - -<p>"I tell 'ee what, guv'nor <i>of</i> the Marmaid, I <i>don't</i> go out o' your -house till I've put a name upon it."</p> - -<p>Quite defeated and rather dejected, Mr. Potts took down his best -brandy, and poured out a bumper.</p> - -<p>Jim tossed it off, and set down the glass. Then, and not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span> till then, he -turned to Thomas, who had been looking on, half vexed with Mr. Potts, -and half amused with Jim.</p> - -<p>"Well, I <i>am</i> glad, Mr. Wurbus, as you've turned out a honest man arter -all. I assure you, sir, at one time, and that not much farther off than -that 'ere glass o' rum—"</p> - -<p>"Brandy, you loafing rascal! the more's the pity," said Mr. Potts.</p> - -<p>"Than that 'ere glass o' rum," repeated Jim, "I had my doubts. I wasn't -so sure of it, as the fox was o' the goose when he had his neck atwixt -his teeth."</p> - -<p>So saying, and without another word, Jim Salter turned and left the -Mermaid. Jim was one of those who seem to have an especial organ for -the sense of wrong, from which organ no amount or kind of explanation -can ever remove an impression. They prefer to cherish it. Their very -acknowledgments of error are uttered in a tone that proves they -consider the necessity of making them only in the light of accumulated -injury.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER L.</p> - -<p class="center">THOMAS AND LUCY.</p> - - -<p>When Lucy came home the night before, she found her grandmother sitting -by the fire, gazing reproachfully at the coals. The poor woman had -not yet reconciled herself to her altered position. Widdles was in -vain attempting to attract her attention; but, not being gifted with -speech like his gray brother in the next cage to his—whose morals, by -the way, were considerably reformed, thanks to his master's judicious -treatment of him—he had but few modes of bringing his wishes to bear -at a distance. He could only rattle his beak on the bars of his cage, -and give a rending shriek.</p> - -<p>The immediate occasion of her present mood was Thomas's note, which -was over her head on the mantel-piece. Notes had occasionally passed -between him and Lucy, and she knew the handwriting. She regarded him -with the same feelings with which she regarded his father, but she knew -that Lucy did not share in these feelings. And forgetting that she -was now under Lucy's protection, she was actually vowing with herself -at the moment Lucy entered that if she had one word of other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span> than -repudiation to say to Thomas, she would turn her out of the house. -<i>She</i> was not going to encourage such lack of principle. She gave her -no greeting, therefore, when she entered; but Lucy, whose quick eye -caught sight of the note at once, did not miss it. She took the note -with a trembling hand, and hurried from the room. Then Mrs. Boxall -burst into a blaze.</p> - -<p>"Where are you off to now, you minx?" she said.</p> - -<p>"I am going to put my bonnet off, grannie," answered Lucy, -understanding well enough, and waiting no farther parley.</p> - -<p>She could hardly open the note, which was fastened with a wafer, her -hands trembled so much. Before she had read it through she fell on -her knees, and thus, like Hezekiah, "spread it before the Lord," and -finished it so.</p> - -<p>And now, indeed, was her captivity turned. She had nothing to say but. -"Thank God!" she had nothing to do but weep. True, she was a little -troubled that she could not reply: but when she made inquiry about -the messenger, to see if she could learn anything of where Tom was -to be found, Mr. Kitely, who, I have said, returned home immediately -after Mr. Fuller dismissed him (though in his anxiety he went back -and loitered about the church door), told her that young Worboise was -at that moment with Mr. Fuller in his vestry. He did not tell her how -he came to be there. Nothing, therefore, remained for her but to be -patient, and wait for what would come next. And the next thing was a -note from Mr. Fuller, telling her that Thomas was at his house, bidding -her be of good cheer, and saying that she should hear from him again -to-morrow. She did not sleep much that night.</p> - -<p>But she had a good deal to bear from her grandmother before she reached -the haven of bed. First of all, she insisted on knowing what the young -villain had written to <i>her</i> about. How <i>dared</i> he?—and so on. Lucy -tried to pacify her, and said she would tell her about it afterward. -Then she broke out upon herself, saying she knew it was nothing to -Lucy what became of her. No doubt she would be glad enough to make her -own terms, marry her grandmother's money, and turn her out of doors. -But if she dared to say one word to the rascal after the way he had -behaved to her, one house should not hold them both, and that she told -her. But it is ungracious work recording the spiteful utterances of an -ill-used woman. They did not go very deep into Lucy, for she knew her -grandmother by this time. Also her hope for herself was large enough to -include her grandmother.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span></p> - -<p>And soon as Thomas left him in the morning, Mr. Fuller wrote -again—only to say that he would call upon her in the evening. He did -not think it necessary to ask her to be at home; nor did he tell her -anything of Tom's story. He thought it best to leave that to himself. -Lucy was strongly tempted to send excuses to her pupils that morning -and remain at home, in case Thomas might come. But she concluded that -she ought to do her work, and leave possibilities where alone they -were determined. So she went and gave her lessons with as much care as -usual, and more energy.</p> - -<p>When she got home she found that Mr. Fuller had been there, but had -left a message that he would call again. He was so delighted with -the result of his efforts with Tom, that he could not wait till the -evening. Still, he had no intention of taking the office of a mediator -between them. That, he felt, would be to intrude for the sake of making -himself of importance; and he had learned that one of the virtues of -holy and true service is to get out of the way as soon as possible.</p> - -<p>About six o'clock he went again, and was shown into the bookseller's -back parlor, where he found both Lucy and her grandmother.</p> - -<p>"Will you come out with me, Miss Burton, for an hour or so?" he said.</p> - -<p>"I wonder at you, Mr. Fuller," interposed Mrs. Boxall—"a clergyman, -too!"</p> - -<p>It is a great pity that people should so little restrain themselves -when they are most capable of doing so, that when they are old, -excitement should make them act like the fools that they are not.</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller was considerably astonished, but did not lose his -self-possession.</p> - -<p>"Surely you are not afraid to trust her with me, Mrs. Boxall?" he said, -half merrily.</p> - -<p>"I don't know that, sir. I hear of very strange goings-on at your -church. Service every day, the church always open, and all that! As if -folks had nothing to do but say their prayers."</p> - -<p>"I don't think you would talk like that, Mrs. Boxall," said Mr. Fuller, -with no less point that he said it pleasantly, "if you had been saying -your prayers lately."</p> - -<p>"You have nothing to do with my prayers, sir."</p> - -<p>"Nor you with my church, Mrs. Boxall. But come—don't let us quarrel, I -don't wonder at your being put out some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span>times, I'm sure; you've had so -much to vex you. But it hasn't been Lucy's fault; and I'm sure I would -gladly give you your rights if I could."</p> - -<p>"I don't doubt it, sir," said the old lady, mollified. "Don't be long, -Lucy. And don't let that young limb of Satan talk you over. Mind what I -say to you."</p> - -<p>Not knowing how to answer, without offending her grandmother, Lucy only -made haste to get her bonnet and cloak. Mr. Fuller took her straight to -his own house. The grimy, unlovely streets were, to Lucy's enlightened -eyes, full of a strange, beautiful mystery, as she walked along leaning -on her friend's arm. She asked him no questions, content to be led -toward what was awaiting her. It was a dark and cloudy night, but a -cool west wind, that to her feelings was full of spring, came down -Bagot Street, blowing away the winter and all its miseries. A new time -of hope was at hand. Away with it went all thought of Thomas's past -behavior. He was repentant. The prodigal had turned to go home, and -she would walk with him and help his homeward steps. She loved him, -and would love him more than ever. If there was more joy in heaven -over one such than over ninety-and-nine who were not such, why not -more joy in her soul? Her heart beat so violently as she crossed Mr. -Fuller's threshold, that she could hardly breathe. He took her into the -sitting-room, where a most friendly fire was blazing, and left her.</p> - -<p>Still she had asked no questions. She knew that she was going to see -Thomas. Whether he was in the house or not, she did not know. She -hardly cared. She could sit there, she thought, for years waiting for -him; but every ring of the door-bell made her start and tremble. There -were so many rings that her heart had hardly time to quiet itself a -little from one before another set it beating again worse than ever. At -length there came a longer pause, and she fell into a dreamy study of -the fire. The door opened at length, and she thought it was Mr. Fuller, -and, not wishing to show any disquietude, sat still. A moment more, and -Thomas was kneeling at her feet. He had good cause to kneel. He did not -offer to touch her. He only said, in a choked voice, "Lucy," and bowed -his head before her. She put her hands on the bowed head before her, -drew it softly on her knees, gave one long, gentle, but irrepressible -wail like a child, and burst into a quiet passion of tears. Thomas -drew his head from her hands, sank on the floor, and lay sobbing, and -kissing her feet. She could not move to make him cease. But when she -recov<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span>ered herself a little, after a measureless time to both of them, -she stopped, put her hands round upon his face, and drew him upward. He -rose, but only to his knees.</p> - -<p>"Lucy, Lucy," he sobbed, "will you forgive me?"</p> - -<p>He could not say more yet. She bent forward and kissed his forehead.</p> - -<p>"I have been very wicked. I will tell you all about it—everything."</p> - -<p>"No, no, Thomas. Only love me."</p> - -<p>"I love you—oh! I love you with all my heart and soul. I don't deserve -to be allowed to love one of your hands; but if you will only let me -love you I will be your slave forever. I don't even ask you to love me -one little bit. If you will only let me love you!"</p> - -<p>"Thomas," said Lucy, slowly, and struggling with her sobs, "my heart is -so full of love and gladness that it is like to break. I can't speak."</p> - -<p>By degrees they grew calmer, but Thomas could not rest till she knew -all.</p> - -<p>"Lucy," he said, "I can't be sure that all you give me is really mine -till I've told you everything. Perhaps you won't love me—not so -much—when you know all. So I must tell you."</p> - -<p>"I don't care what it is, Thomas, for I am sure you won't again."</p> - -<p>"<i>I will not</i>," said Thomas, solemnly. "But please, Lucy darling, -listen to me—for my sake, not for your own, for it will hurt you so."</p> - -<p>"If it will make you easier, Thomas, tell me everything."</p> - -<p>"I will—I will. I will hide nothing."</p> - -<p>And Thomas did tell her everything. But Lucy cried so much, that when -he came to the part describing his adventures in London after he took -the money, he felt greatly tempted, and yielded to the temptation, to -try to give her the comical side as well. And at the very first hint -of fun in the description he gave of Jim Salter, Lucy burst into such -a fit of laughter, that Thomas was quite frightened, for it seemed -as if she would never stop. So that between the laughing and crying -Thomas felt like Christian between the quagmire and the pitfalls, and -was afraid to say anything. But at length the story was told; and -how Lucy did, besides laughing and crying, at every new turn of the -story—to show my reader my confidence in him I leave all that to his -imagination, assuring him only that it was all right between them. My -women readers will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span> not require even this amount of information, for -they have the gift of understanding without being told.</p> - -<p>When he came to the point of his father offering to provide for them if -he would give up Lucy, he hesitated, and said:</p> - -<p>"Ought I to have done it, Lucy, for your sake?"</p> - -<p>"For my sake, Tom! If you had said for granny's—But I know her well -enough to be absolutely certain that she would starve rather than -accept a penny from him, except as her right. Besides, I can make more -money in a year than he would give her, I am pretty sure. So if you -will keep me, Tom, I will keep her."</p> - -<p>Here Lucy discovered that she had said something very improper, and hid -her face in her hands. But a knock came at the door, and then both felt -so shy that neither dared to say, <i>Come in</i>. Therefore Mr. Fuller put -his head in without being told, and said:</p> - -<p>"Have you two young people made it up yet?"</p> - -<p>"Have we, Tom?" said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"I don't know," said Tom. "What was it, sir?"</p> - -<p>Mr. Fuller laughed heartily, came near, put a hand on the head of each, -and said:</p> - -<p>"God bless you. I too am glad at my very heart. Now you must come to -supper."</p> - -<p>But at supper, which the good man had actually cleared his table to -have in the study that he might not disturb them so soon, Thomas had -a good many questions to ask. And he kept on asking, for he wanted to -understand the state of the case between Mrs. Boxall and his father. -All at once, at one reply, he jumped from his seat, looking very -strange.</p> - -<p>"I must be off, Lucy. You won't hear from me for a day or two. -Good-bye, Mr. Fuller. I haven't time for a word," he said, pulling out -his watch. "Something may be done yet. It may all come to nothing. -Don't ask me any questions, I may save months."</p> - -<p>He rushed from the room, and left Mr. Fuller and Lucy staring at each -other. Mr. Fuller started up a moment after and ran to the door, but -only to hear the outer door bang, and Thomas shout—"Cab ahoy!" in the -street. So there was nothing for it but to take Lucy home again. He -left her at Mr Kitely's door.</p> - -<p>"Well, miss, what have you been about?" said her grandmother.</p> - -<p>"Having a long talk with Thomas, grannie," answered Lucy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span></p> - -<p>"You have!" exclaimed Mrs. Boxall, who had expected nothing else, -rising slowly from her seat with the air of one about to pronounce a -solemn malediction.</p> - -<p>"Yes, grannie; but he knew nothing till this very night of the way his -father has behaved to us."</p> - -<p>"He made you believe that, did he?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, grannie."</p> - -<p>"Then you're a fool. He didn't know, did he? Then you'll never see him -again. He comes of a breed bad enough to believe anything of. You give -him up or I give you up."</p> - -<p>"No, I won't, grannie," said Lucy, smiling in her face.</p> - -<p>"You or I leave this house, then."</p> - -<p>"<i>I</i> won't, grannie."</p> - -<p>"Then <i>I will</i>."</p> - -<p>"Very well, grannie," answered Lucy, putting her arms round her, and -kissing her. "Shall I fetch your bonnet?"</p> - -<p>Grannie vouchsafed no reply, but took her candle and went—up to bed.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER LI.</p> - -<p class="center">JACK OF THE NINGPO.</p> - - -<p>My reader will know better than Lucy or Mr. Fuller what Thomas was -after. Having only a hope, he did not like to say much, and therefore, -as well as that he might not lose the chance of a night train, he -hurried away. The first thing he did was to drive to a certain -watchmaker's, to raise money if he could, once more on his watch and -on Lucy's ring, which I need not say remained in his possession. But -the shop was shut. Then he drove to the Mermaid, and came upon Captain -Smith as he was emptying his tumbler of grog preparatory to going to -bed.</p> - -<p>"I say, captain, you must let Robins off this voyage. I want him to go -to Newcastle with me."</p> - -<p>"What's up now? Ain't he going to Newcastle? And you can go with him if -you like."</p> - -<p>"I want him at once. It's of the greatest importance."</p> - -<p>"You won't find him to-night, I can tell you. You'd better sit down and -have something, and tell us all about it."</p> - -<p>When Thomas thought, he saw that nothing could be done<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> till next day. -Without money, without Robins, without a train in all probability, he -was helpless. Therefore he sat down and told the captain what he was -after, namely, to find Robins's friend Jack, whose surname he did not -know, and see what evidence he could give upon the question of the -order of decease in the family of Richard Boxall. He explained the -point to the captain, who saw at once that Robins's services must be -dispensed with for this voyage—except, indeed, he returned before they -weighed anchor again, which was possible enough. When Tom told him what -he had heard Jack say about little Julia, the captain, pondering it -over, gave it as his judgment that Jack, being the only one saved, and -the child being with him till she died, there was a probability almost -of his being able to prove that she outlived the rest. At all events, -he said, no time must be lost in finding this Jack.</p> - -<p>Mr. Potts having joined them, they sat talking it over a long time. At -last Tom said:</p> - -<p>"There's one thing, I shall be more easy when I've told you: that -lawyer is my father."</p> - -<p>"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Potts, while Captain Smith said something -decidedly different. "So you'll oblige me," Tom went on, "if you'll -say nothing very hard of him, for I hope he will live to be horribly -ashamed of himself."</p> - -<p>"Here's long life to him!" said Captain Smith.</p> - -<p>"And no success this bout!" added Mr. Potts.</p> - -<p>"Amen to both, and thank you," said Tom.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Potts would have got the same bed ready for him that he had had -before, but as the captain was staying all night, Tom insisted on -sleeping on the sofa. He wanted to be off to find Robins the first -thing in the morning. It was, however, agreed that the captain should -go and send Robins, while Thomas went to get his money. In a few hours -Robins and he were off for Newcastle.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER LII.</p> - -<p class="center">LUCY, AND MATTIE, AND POPPIE.</p> - - -<p>The Saturday following Tom's departure Lucy had a whole holiday, and -she resolved to enjoy it. Not much resolution was necessary for that; -for everything now was beauti<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span>ful, and not even her grannie's fits -of ill-humor could destroy her serenity. The old woman had, however, -her better moments, in which she would blame her other self for her -unkindness to her darling; only that repentance was forgotten the -moment the fit came again. The saddest thing in the whole affair was -to see how the prospect of wealth, and the loss of that prospect, -worked for the temperamental ruin of the otherwise worthy old woman. -Her goodness had had little foundation in principle; therefore, when -the floods came and the winds blew, it could not stand against them. -Of course prosperity must be better for some people, so far as we can -see, for they have it; and adversity for others, for they have it; -but I suspect that each must have a fitting share of both; and no -disposition, however good, can be regarded as tempered, and tried, and -weather-proof, till it has had a trial of some proportion of both. I am -not sure that both are absolutely necessary to all; I only say that we -cannot be certain of the character till we have seen it outstand both. -The last thing Mrs. Boxall said to Lucy as she went out that morning, -rousing herself from a dark-hued reverie over the fire, was:</p> - -<p>"Lucy, if you marry that man I'll go to the work-house."</p> - -<p>"But they won't take you in, grannie, when you've got a grand-daughter -to work for you."</p> - -<p>"I won't take a farthing of my own properly but as my own right."</p> - -<p>"Thomas won't have a farthing of it to offer you, grannie, I'm afraid. -He quarreled with his father just about that, and he's turned him out."</p> - -<p>"Then I <i>must</i> go to the work-house."</p> - -<p>"And I'll bring you packets of tea and snuff, as they do for the old -goodies in the dusters, grannie," said Lucy, merrily.</p> - -<p>"Go along with you. You never had any heart but for your beaux."</p> - -<p>"There's a little left for you yet, dear grannie. And for beaux, you -know as well as I do that I never had but one."</p> - -<p>So saying, she ran away, and up the court to Mr. Spelt's shop.</p> - -<p>"Where's Poppie, Mr. Spelt?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"In the house, I believe, miss."</p> - -<p>"Will you let her come with me to the Zoölogical Gardens to-day?"</p> - -<p>"With all my heart, miss. Shall I get down, and run up and tell her?"</p> - -<p>"No, thank you; on no account. I'll go up myself."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span></p> - -<p>She found Poppie actually washing cups and saucers, with her sleeves -tucked up, and looking not merely a very lovely, but a very orderly -maiden. No doubt she was very odd still, and would be to the end of -her days. What she would do when she was too old (which would not -be till she was too frail) to scud, was inconceivable. But with all -such good influences around her—her father, Mattie, Mr. Fuller, Lucy -Burton—it was no wonder that the real woman in her should have begun -to grow, and, having begun, should promise well for what was yet -to be. There is scarcely anything more marvelous in the appearance -of simple womanliness under such circumstances in the child of the -streets, than there is in its existence in the lady who has outgrown -the ordinarily evil influences of the nursery, the school-room, and the -boarding-schools. Still, I must confess that anything like other people -might well be a little startling to one who had known Poppie a year -before and had not seen her since. Lucy had had a great deal to do with -the change; for she had been giving her regular lessons with Mattie -for the last few months. The difficulty was, to get Poppie to open her -mental eyes to any information that did not come by the sight of her -bodily eyes. The conveyance of facts to her, not to say of thoughts or -feelings, by words, except in regard to things she was quite used to, -was almost an impossibility. For a long time she only stared and looked -around her now and then, as if she would be so glad to scud, if she -dared. But she loved Lucy, who watched long and anxiously for some sign -of dawning interest. It came at last. Nor let my reader suspect the -smallest atom of satire in her most innocent remark: "Was Jesus a man? -I s'posed he wor a clergyman!" But having once got a glimpse of light, -her eyes, if they opened slowly, strengthened rapidly. Her acquisition -was not great, that is, but she learned to think with an amount of -reality which showed that, while she retained many of the defects of -childhood, she retained also some of its most valuable characteristics.</p> - -<p>The contrast with Mattie was very remarkable. Poppie was older than -Mattie, I have said; but while Mattie talked like an old woman, Poppie -talked like a baby. The remarks of each formed a strange opposition, -both in manner and form, to her appearance, as far as bodily growth was -concerned. But the faces were consistent with the words. There was, -however, a very perceptible process of what may be called a double -endosmose and exosmose going on between them. Poppie was getting wiser, -and Mattie was getting merrier. Some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span>times, to the delight of Mr. -Kitely, they would be heard frolicking about his house like kittens. -Such a burst, however, would seldom last long; for Mrs. Boxall resented -it as unfeeling toward her misfortunes, and generally put a stop to it. -This did not please Mr. Kitely at all. It was, in fact, the only thing -that he found annoying in the presence of Mrs. Boxall in his house. But -he felt such a kindly pity for the old woman that he took no notice of -it, and intimated to Mattie that it was better to give up to her.</p> - -<p>"The old lady is cranky to-day. She don't feel comfortable in her -inside," he would say; and Mattie would repeat the remark to Poppie, -as if it were her own. There was one word in it, however, which, among -others of her vocabulary, making the antique formality of her speech so -much the more ludicrous, she could not pronounce.</p> - -<p>"The old lady don't feel over comfibittle in her inside to-day. We must -drop it, or she'll be worse," Mattie would gravely remark to Poppie, -and the tumult would be heard no more that day, or at least for an -hour, when, if they were so long together, it might break out again.</p> - -<p>Every now and then some strange explosion of Arab habits or ways of -thinking would shock Mattie: but from seeing that it did not shock Miss -Burton so much, she became, by degrees, considerably less of a little -prig. Childhood revived in her more and more.</p> - -<p>"Will you come with me to-day, Poppie, to see the wild beasts?" said -Lucy.</p> - -<p>"But they'll eat us, won't they?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, no, child. What put that into your head?"</p> - -<p>"I thought they always did."</p> - -<p>"They always would if they could. But they can't."</p> - -<p>"Do they pull their teeth out, then?"</p> - -<p>"You come and see. I'll take care of you."</p> - -<p>"Is Mattie going?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Then I'll come."</p> - -<p>She threw down the saucer she was washing, dried her hands in her -apron, and stood ready to follow.</p> - -<p>"No, no, Poppie; that won't do. You must finish washing up and drying -your breakfast things. Then you must put on your cloak and hat, and -make yourself look nice and tidy, before I can take you."</p> - -<p>"If it's only the beasts, miss! They ain't very particular, I guess."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span></p> - -<p>Was this the old word of Chaucer indigenous, or a slip from the -American slip?</p> - -<p>"It's not for the beasts, but because you ought always to be tidy. -There will be people there, of course, and it's disrespectful to other -people to be untidy."</p> - -<p>"I didn't know, miss. Would they give I to the bears?"</p> - -<p>"Poppie, you're a goose. Come along. Make haste."</p> - -<p>The children had never seen any but domestic animals before, and their -wonder and pleasure in these strange new forms of life were boundless. -Mattie caught the explosive affection from Poppie, and Lucy had her -reward in the outbursts of interest, as varied in kind as the animals -themselves, that rose on each side of her. The differences, too, -between the children were very notable. Poppie shrieked with laughter -at the monkeys; Mattie turned away, pale with dislike. Lucy overcame -her own feelings in the matter for Poppie's sake, but found that Mattie -had disappeared. She was standing outside the door, waiting for them.</p> - -<p>"I can't make it out," she said, putting her hand into Lucy's.</p> - -<p>"What can't you make out, Mattie?"</p> - -<p>"I can't make out why God made monkeys." Now, this was a question -that might well puzzle Mattie. Indeed, Lucy had no answer to give -her. I dare say Mr. Fuller might have had something to say on the -subject, but Lucy could only reply, "I don't know, my dear;" for she -did not fancy it a part of a teacher's duty to tell lies, pretending -acquaintance with what she did not know anything about. Poppie had no -difficulty about the monkeys; but the lions and tigers, and all the -tearing creatures were a horror to her; and if she did not put the -same question as Mattie had put about the monkeys, it was only because -she had not yet felt any need for understanding the creation of God in -relation to him. In other words, she had not yet begun to construct -her little individual scheme of the universe, which, sooner or later, -must, I presume, be felt by every one as an indispensable necessity. -Mr. Fuller would have acknowledged the monkeys as to him a far more -important difficulty than the ferocious animals, and would probably -have accepted the swine as a greater perplexity than either. Perhaps -the readiest answer—I say <i>readiest</i> only, but I would not use the -word answer at all, except it involved the elements of solution—for -Lucy to give would have been:</p> - -<p>"They disgust you, you say, Mattie? Then that is what God made them -for."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span></p> - -<p>A most incomplete, but most true and important reply—and the -<i>readiest</i>.</p> - -<p>Poppie shouted with delight to see the seals tumble into the water, -dive deep, then turn on their backs and look up at her. But their -large, round, yet pathetic, dog-like eyes, fixed upon her, made the -tears come in Mattie's eyes, as they dreamed up and down and athwart -the water-deeps with such a gentle power as destroyed all notion of -force to be met or force to overcome.</p> - -<p>Another instance or two, to show the difference between the children, -and we shall return to the business of my story. There are, or were -then, two or three little animals in a cage—I forget the name of them: -they believe in somersaults—that the main object of life is to run -round and round, doing the same thing with decency and order—that is, -turning heels over head every time they arrive at a certain spot.</p> - -<p>With these pretty enough, and more than comical enough creatures, -Poppie was exquisitely delighted. She laughed and clapped her hands and -shouted:</p> - -<p>"Now, now! Do it again. There you are! Heels over head. All right, -little one! Round you go. Now, now! There you are!" and so on.</p> - -<p>Mattie turned away, saying only to Lucy:</p> - -<p>"They don't make anything of it. They're no farther on at night than -they were in the morning. I hate roundabouts. Poor little things!"</p> - -<p>They came to the camel's house, and, with other children, they got upon -his back. After a short and not over comfortable ride, they got down -again. Poppie took hold of Lucy's sleeve, and, with solemn face, asked:</p> - -<p>"Is it alive, miss?"</p> - -<p>"How can you ask such a question, Poppie?"</p> - -<p>"I only wanted to know if it was alive."</p> - -<p>She was not sure that he did not go by machinery. Mattie gazed at her -with compassionate superiority, and said:</p> - -<p>"Poppie, I should like to hear what you tell Mr. Spelt when you get -home. You <i>are</i> ignorant."</p> - -<p>At this Poppie only grinned. She was not in the least offended. She -even, I dare say, felt some of the same admiration for herself that one -feels for an odd plaything.</p> - -<p>Lucy's private share of the day's enjoyment lay outside the gardens. -There the buds were bursting everywhere. Out of the black bark, all -begrimed with London smoke and London dirt, flowed the purest green. -Verily there is One that can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> bring a clean thing out of an unclean. -Reviving nature was all in harmony with Lucy's feelings this day. It -was the most simply happy day she had ever had. The gentle wind with -its cold and its soft streaks fading and reviving, the blue sky with -its few flying undefined masses of whiteness, the shadow of green all -around—for when she looked through the trees, it was like looking -through a thin green cloud or shadow—the gay songs of the birds, each -of which, unlike the mocking-bird within, was content to sing his own -song—a poor thing, it might be, but his own—his notion of the secret -of things, of the well-being of the universe—all combined in one -harmony with her own world inside, and made her more happy than she had -ever been before, even in a dream.</p> - -<p>She was walking southward through the Park, for she wanted to take the -two children to see Mrs. Morgenstern. They were frolicking about her, -running hither and thither, returning at frequent intervals to claim -each one of her hands, when she saw Mr. Sargent coming toward her. She -would not have avoided him if she could, for her heart was so gay that -it was strong as well. He lifted his hat. She offered her hand. He took -it, saying:</p> - -<p>"This is more than I deserve, Miss Burton, after the abominable way I -behaved to you last time I saw you. I see you have forgiven me. But I -dare hardly accept your forgiveness. It is so much more than I deserve."</p> - -<p>"I know what it is to suffer, Mr. Sargent, and there is no excuse I -could not make for you. Perhaps the best proof I can give that I wish -to forget all that passed on that dreadful evening is to be quite open -with you still. I have seen Mr. Worboise since then," she went on, -regardless of her own blushes. "He had been led astray, but not so much -as you thought. He brought me back the ring you mentioned."</p> - -<p>If Mr. Sargent did not place much confidence in the reformation Lucy -hinted at, it is not very surprising. No doubt the fact would destroy -any possibly lingering hope he yet cherished, but this was not all; he -was quite justified in regarding with great distrust any such change -as her words implied. He had known, even in his own comparatively -limited experience, so many cases of a man's having, to all appearance, -entirely abjured his wicked ways for the sake of a woman, only to -return, after marriage, like the sow that was washed, to his wallowing -in the mire, that his whole soul shrunk from the idea of such an -innocent creature falling a prey to her confidence in such a man as -Worboise most probably was. There was noth<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span>ing to be said at present on -the subject, however, and after a few more words they parted—Lucy, to -pursue her dream of delight—Mr. Sargent, lawyer-like, to make further -inquiry.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER LIII.</p> - -<p class="center">MOLKEN ON THE SCENT.</p> - - -<p>Now it had so happened that Mr. Molken had caught sight of Tom as -he returned from his visit to his mother, and had seen him go into -Mr. Fuller's house. His sailor's dress piqued the curiosity which he -naturally felt with regard to him; and as, besides, the rascal fed -upon secrets, gave him hope of still making something out of him if he -could but get him again in his power. Therefore he watched the house -with much patience, saw Mr. Fuller go out and return again with Lucy, -whom he knew by sight, and gave to the phenomenon what interpretation -his vile nature was capable of, concluding that Tom was in want of -money—as he himself generally was—and would get something out of -Lucy before they parted: he had stored the fact of the ring in his -usual receptacle for such facts. Besides, he had been in communication -with a lawyer, for he could see well enough that Mr. Sargent belonged -to that profession, concerning this very Thomas Worboise: perhaps he -<i>was wanted</i>, and if so, why should not he reap what benefit might be -reaped from aiding in his capture? With all these grounds for hope, he -was able to persevere in watching the house till Thomas came out alone -evidently in great haste and excitement. He accosted him then as he -hurried past, but Tom, to whom the sight of him recalled no cherished -memories, and who did not feel that he owed him any gratitude for -favors received, felt that it would be the readiest and surest mode of -procedure to cut him at once, and did so, although he could not prevent -Molken from seeing that he knew him, and did not choose to know him. -This added immeasurably to Molken's determination, for now his feelings -as a <i>gentleman</i> were enlisted on the same side. He was too prudent, if -not too cowardly, to ask him what he meant; nor would that mode have -served his turn; it fitted his nature and character better to lurk and -watch. When Tom got into a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span> cab, Molten therefore got into another, -and gave the driver directions to keep Tom's in sight, but not to -follow so closely as to occasion suspicion. He ran him to earth at the -Mermaid. There he peeped in at the door, and finding that he must have -gone into the house, became more and more satisfied that he was after -something or other which he wanted to keep dark—something fitted, in -fact, for Molken to do himself, or to turn to his advantage if done by -another. He entered the bar, called for a glass of hot gin and water, -and got into conversation with Mr. Potts. The landlord of the Mermaid, -however, although a man of slow mental processes, had instinct enough, -and experience more than enough, to dislike the look of Molken. He gave -him, therefore, such short answers as especially suited his own style, -refused to be drawn into conversation, and persisted in regarding him -merely as the purchaser of a glass of gin and water, hot with. On such -an occasion Mr. Potts's surly grandeur could be surpassed by no other -bar-keeper in England. But this caution completed Molken's conviction -that Thomas was about something dark, and that the landlord of the -Mermaid was in it, too; the more conclusively when, having, by way of -experiment, mentioned Thomas's name as known to Mr. Potts, the latter -cunningly repudiated all knowledge of "the party." Molken therefore -left the house, and after doubling a little, betook himself to a -coffee-shop opposite, whence he could see the door of the Mermaid from -the window, and by a proper use of shillings, obtained leave to pass as -much of the night there as he pleased. He thought he saw Thomas, with -a light in his hand, draw down the dingy blind of an upper window; and -concluding that he had gone to bed, Molken threw himself on one of the -seats, and slept till daylight, when he resumed his watch. At length -he saw him come out with another man in the dress of a sailor like -himself, but part with him at the door, and walk off in the direction -of the city. He then followed him, saw him go into the watchmaker's, -and come out putting something in his trousers' pocket, followed him -again, and observed that the ring, which he knew, and which he had seen -on his hand as he came behind him from Limehouse, was gone, as well as -his watch, which he had seen him use the night before, while now he -looked up at every clock he passed. Nor did he leave his track till -he saw him get into a train at King's Cross, accompanied by another -sailor, not the one he had seen in the morning, whom he met evidently -by appointment at the station. Here the condition of his own funds<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span> -brought Molten to a pause, or he would very likely have followed his -wild-goose chase to Newcastle at least. As it was, he could only find -out where they were going, and remain behind with the hope of being -one day called upon to give evidence that would help to hang him. Nor -had he long to wait before something seemed likely to come of all -his painstaking. For after a few days he had a second visit from Mr. -Sargent, to whom, however, he was chary of his information till bribed -by a couple of sovereigns. Then he told him all. The only point Mr. -Sargent could at once lay hold of was the ring. He concluded that he -had recovered the ring merely to show it to her, and again make away -with it, which must even in her eyes look bad enough to justify any -amount of jealousy as to the truth of his reformation. Acting on this -fresh discovery, he went to the watchmaker's—a respectable man who -did business in a quiet way and had accommodated Tom only for old -acquaintance' sake, not, however, knowing much about him. Mr. Sargent -told him who he was, gave him his card, and easily prevailed on him -to show the watch and the ring. The latter especially Mr. Sargent -examined, and finding quite peculiarity enough about it to enable him -to identify it by description, took his leave.</p> - -<p>Now, had it not been for Thomas's foolish, half-romantic way of doing -things, no evil could have come of this. If, when he found that he had -still a little time, he had returned and fully explained to his friends -what his object was when he left them so suddenly, all would have been -accounted for. He liked importance, and surprises, and secrecy. But -this was self-indulgence, when it involved the possibility of so much -anxiety as a lengthened absence must occasion Lucy, and Mr. Fuller -too. They had a right, besides, to know everything that he was about, -after all that they had done for him, and still more from the fact that -they were both so unselfishly devoted to his best good, and must keep -thinking about him. Regarding his behavior in its true light, however, -and coming to the obvious conclusion between themselves that Tom had -a clew to some evidence, they remained at ease on the matter—which -ease was a little troubled when Lucy received the following note from -Mr. Sargent. Without the least intention of being unjust, he gave, as -people almost always do, that coloring to his representation which -belonged only to the colored medium of prejudication through which he -viewed the object:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span></p><blockquote> - -<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Madam</span>,—Perfectly aware that I am building an -insurmountable barrier between myself and my own peace, I am yet -sufficiently disinterested to have some regard for yours. If you will -only regard the fact as I have now stated it—that I have no hope -for myself, that, on the contrary, I take the position, with all its -obloquy, of the bringer of unwelcome tidings—you will, however you -may regard me, be a little more ready to listen to what I have to -communicate. From one of a certain gentleman's companions, of such -unquestionable character that he refused information until I bribed -him with the paltry sum of two pounds—(I at least am open, you -see)—I learned that he had again parted with the ring, the possession -of which he had apparently recovered only for the sake of producing -it upon occasion of his late interview with you. You will say such -testimony is no proof; but I will describe the ring which I found in -the possession of the man to whom I was directed, leaving you to judge -whether it is yours or not: A good-sized rose-diamond, of a pale straw -color, with the figures of two serpents carved on the ring, the head -of each meeting the body of the other round opposite sides of the -diamond. Do not take the trouble to answer this letter, except I can -be of service to you. All that it remains possible for me to request -of you now is, that you will believe it is for your sake, and not -for my own, that I write this letter. In God's name I beg that you -will not give yourself into the power of a man whose behavior after -marriage has not the benefit of even a doubt when regarded in the -light of his behavior before it. If you will not grant me the justice -of believing in my true reasons for acting as I do, I yet prefer to -bear the consequences of so doing to the worse suffering of knowing -that there was one effort I might have made and did not make for your -rescue from the worst fate that can befall the innocent."</p> - -<p> -"Your obedient servant,<br /> -"<span class="smcap">J. Sargent</span>."<br /> -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Lucy gave a little laugh to herself when she read the letter. There -was no doubt about the ring being hers; but if Thomas had set out on -the supposed errand it was easy to see that the poor fellow, having -no money, must have parted with the ring for the sake of procuring -the means of doing her justice. But if this was so plain, why was it -that Lucy sat still and pale for an hour after, with the letter in her -hand, and that when she rose it was to go to Mr. Fuller with it? It was -the source alone of Mr. Sargent's information that occasioned her the -anxiety. If he had been as explicit about that as he was about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span> the -ring, telling how Molken had watched and followed Thomas, she would -not have been thus troubled. And had Mr. Sargent been as desirous of -being just to Thomas as of protecting Lucy, perhaps he would have told -her more. But there are a thousand ways in which a just man may do -injustice.</p> - -<p>My reader must not suppose, however, that Lucy really distrusted -Thomas. The worst that she feared was that he had not quite broken with -his bad companions; and the very thought of Molken, returning upon her -as she had seen him that night in the thunder-storm, and coming along -with the thought of Thomas, was a distress to her. To be made thus -unhappy it is not in the least necessary that one should really doubt, -but that forms, ideas of doubt, should present themselves to the mind. -They cannot always be answered in a quiet, triumphant fashion, for -women have been false and men have been hypocrites in all ages; and the -mind keeps seeking the triumphant answer and cannot find it.</p> - -<p>In something of this mood, and yet more vexed that such disquietude -should have any place in her mind, regarding it as vile unfaithfulness -on her part, she rose, and for the sake of hearing Mr. Fuller's answer -justify her own confidence, took him the letter.</p> - -<p>Having read it, the first words Mr. Fuller spoke, were:</p> - -<p>"The writer of this is honest."</p> - -<p>"Then you think it is all true!" said Lucy, in some dismay.</p> - -<p>"What he tells as fact, no doubt is fact," answered. Mr. Fuller. -"It does not follow, however, that his conclusions are in the least -correct. The most honest man is, if not as liable, yet as certainly -liable to mistake as the most dishonest. It is indubitable out of -regard for your welfare that he has written the letter; but you know -all the other side of which he knows nothing. You don't believe it -yourself, Lucy—the inference of Thomas's hypocrisy, I mean?"</p> - -<p>"No, no," cried Lucy. "I do not."</p> - -<p>"Facts are certainly stubborn things, as people say. But it is equally -certain that they are the most slippery things to get a hold of. And -even when you have got a hold of them, they can be used with such -different designs—after such varying fashions, that no more unlike -buildings can be constructed of the same bricks or hewn stones, than -conclusions arrived at from precisely the same facts. And this because -all the facts round about the known facts, and which keep those -facts in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span> their places, compelling them to combine after a certain -fashion, are not known, or perhaps are all unknown. For instance, -your correspondent does not know—at least he does not give you to -understand that he knows—how his informant arrived at the knowledge -of the facts upon which he lays such stress. When I recall Thomas's -whole bearing and conduct I cannot for a moment accept the conclusions -arrived at by him, whatever may be the present appearance of the facts -he goes upon. Facts are like faces—capable of a thousand expressions -and meanings. Were you satisfied entirely with Thomas's behavior in the -talk you had with him?"</p> - -<p>"Entirely. It left nothing to wish more, or different."</p> - -<p>"Then you have far deeper ground to build upon than any of those facts. -They can no more overturn your foundation than the thickest fog can -remove the sun from the heavens. You cannot <i>prove</i> that the sun is -there. But neither can you have the smallest real doubt that he is -there. You must wait with patience, believing all things, hoping all -things."</p> - -<p>"That is just what I have been saying to myself. Only I wanted to hear -you say it too. I wanted it to come in at my ears as well as out of my -heart."</p> - -<p>When a month had passed away, however, bringing no news of Thomas; when -another month had passed, and still he neither came nor wrote, hope -deferred began to work its own work and make Lucy's heart sick. But -she kept up bravely, through the help of her daily labor. Those that -think it hard to have to work hard as well as endure other sore trials, -little know how much those other trials are rendered endurable by the -work that accompanies them. They regard the work as an additional -burden, instead of as the prop which keeps their burdens from crushing -them to the earth. The same is true of pain—sometimes of grief, -sometimes of fear. And all of these are of the supports that keep the -weight of evil within us, of selfishness, and the worship of false -gods, from sinking us into Tophet. They keep us in some measure from -putting our trust in that which is weak and bad, even when they do but -little to make us trust in God.</p> - -<p>Nor did this season of trial to Lucy pass by without bringing some -little measure of good to the poor, disappointed, fretful soul of -her grandmother. How much Widdles had to do with it—and my reader -must not despise Widdles; many a poor captive has been comforted by -a mouse, a spider, a rat even; and I know a lady who, leading a hard -life while yet a child, but possessing one little garret-room as her -own, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span> window that opened on the leads, cultivated green things -there enough to feed a few pet snails, to each of which she gave -the name of one of her best friends, great names, too, and living -names, so that I will not, as she most innocently and lovingly did, -associate them with snails, though even thus they were comforters -to her brave heart;—how much Widdles had to do with it, I say, and -how much the divine help of time, and a sacred deprivation of that -hope in chance which keeps man sometimes from hoping in God, I cannot -tell; it was the work of the all-working Spirit, operating in and on -her mind mediately or immediately. She grew calmer, and began to turn -her thoughts a little away from what she fancied might have been if -things had not gone wrong so perversely, and to reflect on the fact, -which she had often expressed in words, but never really thought about -before—that it would be all the same a hundred years after—a saying -which, however far from true—although, in fact, taken logically as -it stands, absolutely false—yet has, wrapt up in it, after a clumsy -fashion, a very great and important truth. By slow degrees her former -cheerfulness began to show a little light over her hitherto gloomy -horizon; her eyes became less turbid; she would smile occasionally, -and her communications with Widdles grew more airy. I do most potently -believe that Widdles was, not only in the <i>similarity</i>, but in -the <i>infinitesimality</i> (I am sorry to have to coin a word) of his -influence, homeopathically operative in working a degree of cure in the -troubled nature of the old woman.</p> - -<p>"Ah, Widdles, Widdles!" she would say, as she rubbed the unavailing -Balm of Columbia on his blue back, "you and I know what trouble is! -Don't we, old bird?"</p> - -<p>She began to have a respect for her own misfortunes, which indicated -that they had begun to recede a little from the point of her vision. To -have had misfortunes is the only distinction some can claim. How much -that can distinguish one man from another, judge, oh Humanity. But the -heart that knows its own bitterness, too often forgets that there is -more bitterness in the world than that.</p> - -<p>Widdles would cock his magnificent head and whiskers on one side, and -wink with one eye, as much as to say, "I believe you, old girl." Then -he would turn his denuded, featherless back upon her, as much as to -add, with more solemnity: "Contemplate my condition, madam. Behold me. -Imagine what I once was, that you may understand the spite of fortune -which has reduced me to my present bareness. Am I not a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span> spectacle to -men and angels? And am I not therefore distinguished above my fellows?" -Perhaps, however, I am all wrong in giving this interpretation to -the actions of the bird. Perhaps the influence that flowed from him -into the heart of Mrs. Boxall was really such as, put in words, would -amount to this: "Here I am without a feather to hide my somewhat skinny -proportions; but what the worse am I? Who cares? So long as you don't, -I don't. Let's turn about once more. My dancing days are over; but life -is life, even without feathers."</p> - -<p>If Mrs. Boxall had had her way with Widdles, he would have turned out -a resplendent bird in spite of fate. But if you had told her not to be -distressed at his nakedness, for God cared for Widdles, not as much, -but as well as for her, she would have judged you guilty of something -like blasphemy. Was it because the bird was comical, as even she -admitted, that you must not speak of God's care in relation to him? -Certainly, however, he sowed not neither did he reap; and as for a barn -to store his winter-grain in—poor Widdles! Yet, was he forgotten? Mrs. -Boxall was the last person who could say so, with her sugar, her nuts, -her unguents of price—though the latter, clearly a striving against -Providence, were not of so much account in the eyes of the bird. I dare -say he found them soothing, though.</p> - -<p>However all these things may have been, one thing is certain, that -Mrs. Boxall began to recover her equanimity, and at length even her -benevolence toward men in general—with one class exception, that of -lawyers, and two individual exceptions, those of old Worboise and -young Worboise. I believe she had a vague conviction that it was one -of the malignant class above mentioned that had plucked Widdles. "Ah, -my poor Widdles! Them lawyers!" she would say. "You would have been a -very different person indeed, Widdles, if it hadn't been for them. But -it'll be all the same in a hundred years, Widdles. Keep up heart, old -bird. It'll all be over soon. If you die before me, I'll put you on a -winding-sheet that'll be a deal more comfortable than dead feathers, -and I'll bury you with my own hands. But what'll you do for me, if I -die first, you little scarecrow? You'll look about for me, won't you? -That's about all you can do. And you'll miss the bits of sugar. Mattie, -my dear, mind that Widdles has his sugar, and everything regular after -I'm dead and gone."</p> - -<p>She began to take to Mattie again, and even to make her read to her of -a Sunday. But this, as of old, gave rise to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span> much difference of opinion -between them, which, however, resulted in the old woman's learning -something from the child, if not in the immediate case, yet in the next -similar case. For it often happens that a man who has opposed another's -opinion bitterly in regard to the individual case that occasioned the -difference, will act entirely according to that others judgment in the -next precisely similar case that occurs; although if you were to return -to the former, he would take up his former position with an access of -obstinacy in the reaction from having yielded to argument. Something -like this took place between Grannie and Mattie. It was amusing to -hear now the former would attribute all the oddities of the latter to -the fact that she belonged to the rising generation, never seeming -to suspect that Mattie was an exception to children in general, as -peculiar as Widdles in relation to birds.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER LIV.</p> - -<p class="center">GRANNIE APPEALS TO WIDDLES.</p> - - -<p>One sultry evening in summer, Lucy was seated at her piano, which had -its place in Mr. Kitely's back parlor, near the black oak cabinet, but -she was not playing. She had just been singing a little song from some -unknown pen, which she had found with music of her father's in the -manuscripts he had left her. This was the song:</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;">1.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sunshine fair,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the air,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the earth!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Everywhere</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Waking mirth!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stay not there.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I sit apart</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the hearth</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of my heart</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the dark.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dost thou mark</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How I sit</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the dark,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With my grief,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nursing it?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bring relief,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sunny gold!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Look, I set</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Open door</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thee before,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the fold</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of my curtain draw aside.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Enter, enter, golden tide.</span><br /> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;">2.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Summer Wind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nature's laughter!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of sweet smiling</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Waker, wafter!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Care beguiling,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Toying, wiling,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never glance</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Throw behind.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the dance</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still advance,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the past</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deaf and blind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Follow after,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fleet and fast,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Newer gladness,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Careless wind!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">See the sadness</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of my mind.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Over river.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hill and hollow,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Resting never,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou dost follow</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Other graces,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lovelier places,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Newer flowers,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Leafier bowers:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I still sit</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nursing it—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My old sorrow—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Night and morrow.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All my mind</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Looks behind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I fret.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Look, I set</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A wide door</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thee before,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And my casement open lay:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come, and blow my cares away.</span><br /> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;">3.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sunshine fair!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the saint</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gild the hair;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wake the child,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With his mirth</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Send him wild.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the faint</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Give new breath;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the earth</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Take the death,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Take the dearth.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'Tis in vain</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To complain,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And implore</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thee to glide,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thee to glow,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In my mind;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For my care</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Will nevermore</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rise and go.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Open door,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Windows wide,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I do find</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yield no way</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the mind.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Glow and play,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come and go,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Glance and glow,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To and fro,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Through the air!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou would'st say,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As ye use,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou and Wind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Forget</i>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But not yet</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I would choose</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That way:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shine and glitter, come and go;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pass me by, and leave me so.</span><br /> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;">4.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I whisper</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the wind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Evening lisper</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the curl</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the girl,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who, all kind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Waits her lover—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Waft and hover,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Linger over</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her bright color,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Waft her dolor</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O'er the ocean,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With a faint,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Reviving motion.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blow her plaint</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the maiden</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sorrow-laden;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Take all grief,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which to lose</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were relief.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Leave me, leave me, for I choose</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still to clasp my grief.</span><br /> -</p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;">5.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sunshine fair!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Windy air!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come and go,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Glance and glow,</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shine and show,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Waft and blow!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Neither choosing</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor refusing,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Neither fretting</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor forgetting</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I will set</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Open yet</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Door and pane.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You may come,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or the rain:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I will set,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Indifferent,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Open yet</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Door and pane.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sun and wind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rain-cloud blind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Parted, blent,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There is room,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Go and come.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Loving only</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To be lonely,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To be sad.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I repent,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sun and wind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That I went</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You to find:</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I was rent</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In my mind.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sun and wind, do what ye will;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I sit looking backward still.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>Lucy, I say, had finished this song, and was sitting silent before the -instrument, with her hands laid on the keys, which had just ceased the -long-drawn sound, and again sunk into stillness. Two arms came round -her from behind. She did not start. She was taken by but not with -surprise. She was always with him in mood, if not in thought, and his -bodily presence therefore overcame her only as a summer cloud. She -leaned back into his embrace, and burst into tears. Then she would rise -to look at him, and he let her go. She saw him rather ragged, rather -dirty, quite of a doubtful exterior to the eye of the man who lives to -be respectable, but her eye saw deeper. She looked into his face—the -window of his being—and was satisfied. Truth shone there from the true -light and fire within. He did not fall at her feet as once before. The -redeemed soul stood and looked her in the face. He put out his arms -once more, and she did not draw back. She knew that he was a man, that -he was true, and she was his. And he knew, in the testimony thus given -him, that the last low-brooding rims of the cloud of his shame had -vanished from his heaven, and that a man may have sinned and yet be -glad. He could give God thanks for the shame, whose oppression had led -him to understand and hate the sin. For sin gives birth to shame, and -in this child-bearing is cleansed. Verily there is One, I repeat, who -bringeth light out of darkness, good out of evil. It comes not of the -evil, but out of the evil, because He is stronger than the evil; and -He, not evil, is at the heart of the universe. Often and often yet in -the course of life, would Thomas have to be humbled and disappointed. -But not the less true was the glow of strength that now pervaded his -consciousness. It was that this strength, along with a thousand other -virtues,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span> might be perfected, that the farther trials were to come. It -was true, so true that it was worth making fact.</p> - -<p>But my young reader, who delights in the emotion rather than in the -being of love, will grumble at these meditations, and say, "Why don't -you go on? why don't you tell us something more of their meeting?" -I answer, "Because I don't choose to tell you more. There are many -things, human things too, so sacred that they are better left alone. -If you cannot imagine them, you don't deserve to have them described. -We want a little more reticence as well as a great deal more openness -in the world—the pulpit included. But against stupidity the gods -themselves are powerless." Ah no! that is a heathen utterance. Let -the stupid rage, and when they imagine, let it be vain things. The -stupid, too, have a God that will slay their stupidity by the sword -of his light. The time will come when even they will repent, not of -their stupidity, for that they could not help, but of the arrogance -of fancied knowledge that increased instead of diminishing it, and -made them a thorn in the flesh of them that saw and would have opened -their eyes. No doubt many of them that suppose they see, fancy it only -in virtue of this same stupidity; but the end will show all. Meantime -the tares and the wheat must grow together, and there are plenty of -intellectual tares that spring from the root of the moral tares, and -will be separated with them.</p> - -<p>After awhile, when their feelings were a little composed, Thomas began -to tell Lucy all his adventures. In the middle, however, Mrs. Boxall -returned. She had most opportunely been calling on a neighbor, and if -Thomas had not learned this from Mr. Kitely, he would have sent for -Lucy instead of going in as he did. They heard her voice in the shop.</p> - -<p>"Don't tell grannie anything about it yet," said Lucy. "She's much -quieter in her mind now, and if we were to set her off again it would -only do her harm. Any thing certain she has a right to know, but I -don't think she has a right to know all that you are trying to do for -her. That is your business. But you mustn't mind how she behaves to -you, Tom dear. She thinks you and your father all one in the affair."</p> - -<p>When the old lady entered she saw at a glance how things were going; -but she merely gave a very marked sniff, and retreated to her chair -by the window. She first seated herself, and then proceeded to take -off her bonnet and shawl. But she could not keep silent long, and the -beginning of speech as well as of strife is like the letting out of -water.</p> - -<p>"Thomas," she said—for people of her degree of education<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span> became more -familiar in their address when they are angry—"is this room mine or -yours?"</p> - -<p>"Grannie," said Lucy, "Thomas has nothing to do with it. He was away -from home, I assure you, when—when—things went wrong."</p> - -<p>"Very convenient, no doubt, for both of you! It's nothing to you, so -long as you marry him, of course. But you might have waited. The money -would have been yours. But you'll have it all the sooner for marrying -the man that turned your grandmother into the street. Well, well! Only -I won't sit here and see that scoundrel in my room."</p> - -<p>She rose as she spoke, though what she would or could have done she -did not know herself. It was on Lucy's lips to say to her—"The room's -mine, grannie, if you come to that, and I won't have my friend turned -out of it." But she thought better of it, and taking Thomas's hand, -led him into the shop. Thereupon grannie turned to Widdles for refuge, -not from the pain of Thomas's presence, but from the shame of her own -behavior, took him out of his cage, and handled him so roughly that one -of the three wing feathers left on one side came off in her hand. The -half of our ill-temper is often occasioned by annoyance at the other -half.</p> - -<p>Thomas and Lucy finished their talk in a low voice, hidden in the leafy -forest of books. Thomas told her all about it now; how he wanted to -find the man Jack Stevens, and how Robins and he had followed him to -Lisbon, and found him there and brought him home; how he had had to -part with her ring as well as his own watch for money to start them in -their search, and how even then they had had to work their passage to -Lisbon and back. But if the representation she and Mr. Fuller had given -him of the state of the case was correct, he said, there could be no -doubt but Jack's testimony would reverse the previous decision, and -grannie would have her own.</p> - -<p>"I can't help being rather sorry for it," concluded Tom; "for it'll -come to you then, Lucy, I suppose, and you will hardly be able to -believe that it was not for my own sake that I went after Jack Stevens. -I've got him safe, and Robins too, at the Mermaid. But I can't be grand -and give you up. If you were as rich as Miss Coutts, I couldn't give -you up—though I should like to, almost, when I think of the money and -my father."</p> - -<p>"Don't give me up, Tom, or I'll give you up, and that would be a bad -job for me."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then they made it clear to each other that nothing was further from the -intention of either of them.</p> - -<p>"But what am I to do next, Lucy? You must tell me the lawyers that -conducted your side of the case."</p> - -<p>"I am afraid I can't ask <i>him</i> to do anything more."</p> - -<p>"Who's <i>him</i>, Lucy?"</p> - -<p>"Mr. Sargent."</p> - -<p>"Sargent—Sargent—I think I have heard the name. He's a barrister. If -you are not satisfied with him, the firm you employed will speak to -another."</p> - -<p>"He did everything, Thomas. But—"</p> - -<p>Lucy hesitated. Thomas saw that she was blushing. Perhaps it was the -consciousness of his own unworthiness that made him jealous.</p> - -<p>"Oh, very well, Lucy! If you don't want to tell me, of course—"</p> - -<p>"Thomas! Thomas! Can't you trust me yet? I have trusted you, Thomas."</p> - -<p>He had the grace to feel ashamed of himself at once.</p> - -<p>"Forgive me, Lucy," he said. "I was wrong. Only I love you so!"</p> - -<p>"I will tell you all about it, Tom, dear."</p> - -<p>"You shan't tell me a word about it. I can guess. But what are we to -do?"</p> - -<p>"I will go and consult Mr. Morgenstern."</p> - -<p>"There is no time to lose."</p> - -<p>"Come with me to his office, then, at once. It is not far to Old Broad -Street."</p> - -<p>They set out instantly, found Mr. Morgenstern, and put him in -possession of the discovered evidence. He was delighted with the news.</p> - -<p>"We must find Sargent at once," he said.</p> - -<p>Lucy began to stammer out some objection.</p> - -<p>"Oh! I know all about that, Lucy," said he. "But this is no time for -nonsense. In fact you would be doing the honest fellow a great wrong if -you deprived him of the pleasure of gaining his case after all. Indeed, -he would feel that far more than your refusal of him. And quite right, -too. Sargent will be delighted. It will go far to console him, poor -fellow."</p> - -<p>"But will it be right of me to consent to it?" asked Thomas, with -hesitation.</p> - -<p>"It is a mere act of justice to him," said Mr. Morgenstern; "and, -excuse me, I don't see that you have any right to bring<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span> your feelings -into the matter. Besides, it will give Mrs. Boxall the opportunity -of making him what return she ought. It will be a great thing for -him—give him quite a start in his profession, of which he is not a -little in want. I will go to him at once," concluded Mr. Morgenstern, -taking his hat.</p> - - - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER LV.</p> - -<p class="center">GUILD COURT AGAIN.</p> - - -<p>I will not linger over the last of my story. Mr. Sargent was delighted -at the turn affairs had taken—from a business point of view, I mean. -The delight was greatly tempered by other considerations. Still he went -into the matter mind and soul, if not heart and soul, and moved for a -fresh trial on the ground of fresh evidence. Mr. Worboise tried the -plan of throwing discredit on the witness; but the testimony of Robins -and Thomas was sufficient to remove any influence that course might -have had. The former judgment was rescinded, and the property was Mrs. -Boxall's.</p> - -<p>Mr. Worboise and Mr. Sargent met in the lobby. The latter, in very -unlawyer-like fashion, could not help saying:</p> - -<p>"You would have done better to listen to reason, Mr. Worboise."</p> - -<p>"I've fought fair, and lost, Mr. Sargent: and there's an end of it."</p> - -<p>The chief consolation Mr. Worboise now had was that his son had come -out so much more of a man than he expected, having, indeed, foiled him -at his own game, though not with his own weapons. To this was added the -expectation of the property, after all, reverting to his son; while, to -tell the truth, his mind was a little easier after he was rid of it, -although he did not part with it one moment before he was compelled -to do so. He made no advances however, toward a reconciliation with -Thomas. Probably he thought that lay with Thomas, or at least would -wait to give him an opportunity of taking the first step. My reader -would doubtless have expected, as I should myself, that he would vow -endless alienation from the son who had thus defeated his dearest -plans, first in one direction, then in another; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span> somehow, as I have -shown, his heart took a turn short of that North Pole of bitterness.</p> - -<p>There is nothing to wonder at in the fact that Mrs. Boxall should know -nothing yet of her happy reverse of fortune. They had, as I have said -already, judged it better to keep the fresh attempt from her, so that -if by any chance it should fail, she might not suffer by it, and, in -any case, might be protected from the wearing of anxiety and suspense.</p> - -<p>"Let's give grannie a surprise, Lucy," said Thomas, having hurried to -her with the good news.</p> - -<p>"How do you mean, Tom? We must be careful how we break it to her. Poor -dear! she can't stand much now."</p> - -<p>"Well, my plan will just do for that. Get Mrs. Whatshername, over the -way—her old crony, you know—to ask her to tea this evening. While -she's away, Kitely, Spelt, and I will get all the things back into the -old place. There's nobody there, is there?"</p> - -<p>"No, I believe not. I don't see why we shouldn't. I'll run across to -the old lady, and tell her we want grannie out of the way for an hour -or two."</p> - -<p>She took care, however, not to mention the reason, or their surprise -would have been a failure.</p> - -<p>There were no carpets to fit, for the floor had been but partially -covered, showing the dark boards in the newest fashion. Before Mrs. -Boxall's visit was over, the whole of her household property had been -replaced—each piece in the exact position it used to occupy when they -had not yet dreamed of fortune or misfortune. Just as they were getting -anxious lest she should come upon the last of it, Lucy, bethinking -herself, said to the bookseller:</p> - -<p>"Mr. Kitely, you must lend us Widdles. Grannie can't exist without -Widdles."</p> - -<p>"I wish you hadn't proposed it, miss; for I did mean to have all the -credit of that one stroke myself. But Widdles is yours, or hers rather, -for you won't care much about the old scaramouch."</p> - -<p>"Not care about him! He's the noblest bird in creation—that I know, -Mr. Kitely. He does not mind being bald, even, and that's the highest -summit of disregard for appearances that I know of. I'm afraid I -shouldn't take it so quietly."</p> - -<p>"It don't much matter nowadays," said Mr. Kitely. "They make such -wonderful wigs."</p> - -<p>"But that's ten times worse," said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"You don't mean to say you'd go with a bare poll, miss, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span> be that -Providence was to serve you the same as Widdles?—which Heaven forbid!"</p> - -<p>"I wouldn't bear a wig anyhow."</p> - -<p>"What would you do, then, miss? Black and polish it?"</p> - -<p>"What nonsense we are talking!" said Lucy, after a good laugh. "But -I'm so happy I don't know what to do. Let's make a wig for Widdles, -and grannie will think her bears' grease has made hair grow instead of -feathers."</p> - -<p>Whether this proposal was ever carried out, I do not know. But Widdles -followed the furniture; and when grannie came home she found that all -her things were gone. She stared. Nobody was to be seen. But all were -watching from behind the defences of Mr. Kitely's book-shelves.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Kitely," she called at last, in a voice that revealed -consternation.</p> - -<p>The bookseller obeyed the summons.</p> - -<p>"I didn't expect it of you, Mr. Kitely," she said, and burst into tears.</p> - -<p>This quite upset the conspirators. But Mr. Kitely kept them back as -they were hurrying forward.</p> - -<p>"We thought we could do a little better for you, you see, ma'am. It was -a confined place this for the likes of you. So Miss Lucy and I made -bold to move your things up to a place in the court where you'll have -more room."</p> - -<p>She said nothing but went up stairs. In both rooms she found utter -emptiness. Mr. Kitely followed her.</p> - -<p>"There's not a stick left, you see, ma'am. Come and I'll take you home."</p> - -<p>"I didn't think you'd have turned me out in my old age, Mr. Kitely. But -I suppose I must go."</p> - -<p>It was with considerable exercise of self-denial that the bookseller -refrained from telling her the truth, but he could not spoil the young -people's sport. He led her up to the door of her own house.</p> - -<p>"No, Mr. Kitely. I'll never set foot in that place again. I won't -accept it from no one—not even rent-free."</p> - -<p>"But it's your own," said Kitely, almost despairing of persuasion, and -carried beyond his intent.</p> - -<p>"That's just why I won't go in. It is mine, I know, but I won't have my -own in charity."</p> - -<p>"Thomas," whispered Lucy, for they were following behind, "<i>you</i> must -tell her the good news. It will help her over her prejudice against -you. Old people are hard to change, you know."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span></p> - -<p>"Mrs. Boxall," said Thomas, going up to her, "this house is your own."</p> - -<p>"Go away," returned Mrs. Boxall, energetically. "Isn't it enough that -you have robbed me? Will you offer me my own in charity."</p> - -<p>"Do listen to me, grannie," pleaded Thomas.</p> - -<p>"I will not listen to you. Call a cab, Lucy. We'll drive to the nearest -work-house."</p> - -<p>Lucy saw it was time to interfere.</p> - -<p>"What Thomas says is true, grannie, if you would only listen so him. -Every thing's changed. Thomas has been over the seas to find a man who -was in uncle's ship when it went down. He has given such evidence that -the property is yours now."</p> - -<p>"I don't care; it's all a trick. I don't believe he went over the seas. -I won't take any thing from the villain's hand."</p> - -<p>"Villains don't usually plot to give away what they've got," said Lucy.</p> - -<p>"But it's Thomas Worboise you mean?"</p> - -<p>"Yes; but he had nothing to do with it, as I've told you a hundred -times, grannie. He's gone and slaved for you, and that's all the thanks -you give him—to stand there on the stones, refusing to take what's -your very own."</p> - -<p>The light was slowly dawning on grannie's confused mind.</p> - -<p>"Then you mean," she said, "that all my son Richard's money—"</p> - -<p>"Is yours, grannie," said Lucy and Thomas in a breath.</p> - -<p>"Only," added Lucy, "you've spoiled all our bit of fun by being so -obstinate, grannie."</p> - -<p>For sole answer the old woman gave a hand to each of them, and led them -into the house, up the wide oak stair-case, and along the passage into -the old room, where a fire was burning cheerfully just as in the old -time, and every article of furniture, book-case, piano, settle, and -all, stood each in its old place, as if it had never been moved.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall sat down in her own chair, "like one that hath been -stunned," and for some moments gave no sign of being conscious of what -was going on around her. At length a little noise at her ear attracted -her attention. She looked around. On the edge of the little table -which had always been beside her easy-chair, stood Widdles, the long -feathers of whose wings looked like arms that he had tucked under his -coat-tails, only there was no coat.</p> - -<p>"Poor Widdles!" said the old woman, and burst into tears.</p> - -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/illus01.jpg" alt="heading" /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</a></span></p> - - - - -<p class="ph2">CHAPTER LVI.</p> - -<p class="center">WOUND UP OR RUN DOWN.</p> - - -<p>Thomas resumed his place in the office, occupying his old stool, and -drawing his old salary, upon which he now supported himself in comfort -and decency. He took a simple lodging in the neighborhood, and went -twice a week in the evening to see his mother. In doing so, he did -not run much risk of meeting his father, whom he neither sought nor -avoided, for he was seldom home before midnight. His mother now lived -on these visits and the expectation of them. And she began not only to -love her son more and more for himself, but to respect him. Indeed, -it was chiefly the respect that increased her love. If he was not -converted, there must be something besides conversion that was yet -good, if not so good. And she thought she might be excused if she found -some pleasure even in that. It might be a weakness—it might be wrong, -she thought, seeing that nothing short of absolute conversion was in -the smallest degree pleasing in the sight of God; but as he was her -own son, perhaps she would be excused, though certainly not justified. -As Thomas's perception of truth grew, however, the conversations he -had with her insensibly modified her judgment through her feelings, -although she never yielded one point of her creed as far as words were -concerned.</p> - -<p>The chief aid which Thomas had in this spiritual growth, next to an -honest endeavor to do the work of the day and hour, and his love to -Lucy, was the instruction of Mr. Fuller. Never, when he could help it, -did he fail to be present at daily prayers in St. Amos's Church. Nor -did he draw upon his office hours for this purpose. The prayers fell in -his dinner hour. Surely no one will judge that a quarter of an hour, -though in the middle of the day, spent in seeking the presence of that -Spirit whereby all actions are fitted to the just measure of their true -end, was disproportioned by excess to the time spent in those outward -actions of life, the whole true value of which depends upon the degree -to which they are performed after the mind of that Spirit. What gave -these prayers and exhortations a yet more complete fitness to his was -their shortness. No mind could be wearied by them. I believe it very -often happens that the length of the services, as they are called, -is such that they actually disable the worshiper in no small degree -from acting so after them as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span> alone can make them of real worth to his -being: they are a weakness and not a strength, exhausting the worshiper -in saying "Lord, Lord," instead of sending him forth to do his will. -The more he feels, the less fit is he, and the less fitting it is, -to prolong the expression of his devotion. I believe this is greatly -mistaken in all public services that I know anything about, which -involve, in their length, an entire departure from good old custom, -not good because old, but so good that it ought to have been older, -and needs now to be raised from the dead that it may be custom once -more. Thomas did not enjoy his dinner less, and did his work far more -thoroughly and happily because of this daily worship and doctrine—a -word which, I think, is never used by St. Paul except as meaning -instruction in duty, in that which it is right to do and that which it -is right not to do, including all mental action as well as all outward -behavior.</p> - -<p>It was impossible under the influence of such instruction that Tom -should ever forget the friends who had upheld him in the time of his -trouble. He often saw Captain Smith, and on one occasion, when he had a -fortnight's holiday—the only one before his marriage—he went a voyage -to Jersey in his brig, working his passage as before, but with a very -different heart inside his blue jacket. The Pottses, too, he called on -now and then; and even the unamiable Jim Salter came round to confess -his respect for him, when he found that he never forgot his old mates.</p> - -<p>As soon as Thomas resumed his stool in the counting-house Mr. Wither -resigned his, and went abroad.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Boxall of course recovered her cheerfulness, but her whole -character was more subdued. A certain tenderness toward Lucy appeared, -which, notwithstanding all her former kindness was entirely new. -A great part of her time was spent in offices of good-will toward -Widdles. She always kept her behavior to Mr. Stopper somewhat stately -and distant. But he did his best for the business—for it was the best -for himself.</p> - -<p>My story leaves Mr. Spelt and Mr. Kitely each happy in a daughter, and -Mattie and Poppie growing away at their own history.</p> - -<p>One evening when Tom was seated with his mother, who had again -recovered so far as to resume her place on the couch, his father came -into the room. Tom rose. His father, without any greeting, said:</p> - -<p>"Keep a lookout on that Stopper, Tom. Don't let him have too much of -his own way."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a></span></p> - -<p>"But I have no authority over him, father."</p> - -<p>"Then the sooner you marry and take the business into your own hands -the better."</p> - -<p>"I'm going to be married next week."</p> - -<p>"That's right. Make Stopper junior partner, and don't give him too -large a share. Come to me to draw up the articles for you."</p> - -<p>"Thank you, father. I will. I believe Mrs. Boxall does mean to make the -business over to me."</p> - -<p>"Of course. Good-night," returned Mr. Worboise, and left the room -without speaking to his wife.</p> - -<p>From this time Tom and his father met much as before their quarrel. Tom -returned to the house for the week before his marriage, and his father -made him a present of an outfit for the occasion.</p> - -<p>"Oh, Tom! I can hardly believe it," said Lucy, when they came home from -church.</p> - -<p>"I don't deserve it," was all Tom's answer in words.</p> - -<p>After their wedding-journey they went back to the old house in Guild -Court, in which they had had one or two more rooms fitted up. Their -grandmother, however, is now urging them to move to some suburb, saying -she is quite willing to go with them. "And I don't believe you will -have any objection either—will, you, old Widdles?" she generally adds.</p> - - -<p class="center">THE END.</p> - -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="center"> Transcribers Note:<br /> -Original spelling and dialect has been retained. -</p> -</div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Guild Court, by George MacDonald - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GUILD COURT *** - -***** This file should be named 56176-h.htm or 56176-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/1/7/56176/ - -Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, MFR, University of North -Carolina at Chapel Hill,Graeme Mackreth and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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