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.