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.