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. too." 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 But that is your own fault, 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." "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 honour 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 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 ?" "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 hesi tated, he might have discovered ground for hesi tating "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." 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 behaviour, 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 downstairs, 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 for 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. honest way of living, and I like it." It's an "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 cheque-book, and proceeding to write a cheque for thirteen pounds six shillings and four pence. A "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 secing Tom he gave a grin-that is, a laugh without the smile in ithanded 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 "Do it again!" cried Thomas, seizing Mr. Stop-letter, and casting a sneering glance at his son's per'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.; "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 cheque, 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." Mr. Stopper very coolly withdrew his hand, turned round on his stool, replaced his cheque-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: ho 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 cheque, 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." garb, said "What's the meaning of this masquerading, Tom?” "It means that I'm 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, til! 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 resist ance 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 There came the rub, Thomas's countenance fell. you are driving your legal rights—which I have only He was afraid, and Mr. Fuller saw it. just learned-against Mrs. Boxall." 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 monthshe would have said years-yea, a whole past life of "Don't discompose yourself about it. It is all your misery-for the whole of his past life had been such 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. 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. "By what name, then, will you be pleased to be known in future, that I may say when I hear it that of you are none of mine?" "Oh, the devil!" burst out Tom, beside himself with his father's behaviour 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 syren and her harridan of a grannam for life; and take you home to wealth and a career which you shall choose for yourself." It is need "No, father. I will not." "Then take yourself off, and be less 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." Y "I'm going straight to her," answered Tom, as quietly as he could. "If you do, I'll murder her," Tom came up the stair 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 IOI 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. I "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. 1 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 "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 casiest 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 some- | thing like a clergyman!" "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 for ever," "Tom!" "It's true, mother." 66 'Why is that? What have you been doing?" "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 "Who is he, Thomas? I think I have heard father doesn't make you shut the door against me, 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 their 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." mother." "That shall never be, my boy. And you really are going on that sea again?" "Yes, mother. It's an honest calling. An believe me, mother, it's often casier to pray to Gol 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 boy! my boy! that is a godless calling. the right one, God will teach me that. Will that How ever?” Thomas interrupted her. "They that go down to the sea in ships, were supposed once to see the wonders of the Lord, mother." satisfy you, mother?" 'My dear, it is of no use mincing matters. Go! 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 "Yes. But when will you be reasonable? That misery for ever and ever." 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." 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 contro versy. |