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.