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.