'Honest men are ruined by a rogue,' said he gloomily. 'As I stand

now, my creditors, money is safe--every farthing of it; but I

don't know where to find my own--it may be all gone, and I

penniless at this moment. Therefore, it is my creditors' money

that I should risk.' 'But if it succeeded, they need never know. Is it so desperate a

speculation? I am sure it is not, or you would never have thought

of it. If it succeeded--' 'I should be a rich man, and my peace of conscience would be

gone!' 'Why! You would have injured no one.' 'No; but I should have run the risk of ruining many for my own

paltry aggrandisement. Mother, I have decided! You won't much

grieve over our leaving this house, shall you, dear mother?' 'No! but to have you other than what you are will break my heart.

What can you do?' 'Be always the same John Thornton in whatever circumstances;

endeavouring to do right, and making great blunders; and then

trying to be brave in setting to afresh. But it is hard, mother.

I have so worked and planned. I have discovered new powers in my

situation too late--and now all is over. I am too old to begin

again with the same heart. It is hard, mother.' He turned away from her, and covered his face with his hands.

'I can't think,' said she, with gloomy defiance in her tone, 'how

it comes about. Here is my boy--good son, just man, tender

heart--and he fails in all he sets his mind upon: he finds a

woman to love, and she cares no more for his affection than if he

had been any common man; he labours, and his labour comes to

nought. Other people prosper and grow rich, and hold their paltry

names high and dry above shame.' 'Shame never touched me,' said he, in a low tone: but she went

on.

'I sometimes have wondered where justice was gone to, and now I

don't believe there is such a thing in the world,--now you are

come to this; you, my own John Thornton, though you and I may be

beggars together--my own dear son!' She fell upon his neck, and kissed him through her tears.

'Mother!' said he, holding her gently in his arms, 'who has sent

me my lot in life, both of good and of evil?' She shook her head. She would have nothing to do with religion

just then.

'Mother,' he went on, seeing that she would not speak, 'I, too,

have been rebellious; but I am striving to be so no longer. Help

me, as you helped me when I was a child. Then you said many good

words--when my father died, and we were sometimes sorely short of

comforts--which we shall never be now; you said brave, noble,

trustful words then, mother, which I have never forgotten, though

they may have lain dormant. Speak to me again in the old way,

mother. Do not let us have to think that the world has too much

hardened our hearts. If you would say the old good words, it

would make me feel something of the pious simplicity of my

childhood. I say them to myself, but they would come differently

from you, remembering all the cares and trials you have had to

bear.' 'I have had a many,' said she, sobbing, 'but none so sore as

this. To see you cast down from your rightful place! I could say

it for myself, John, but not for you. Not for you! God has seen

fit to be very hard on you, very.' She shook with the sobs that come so convulsively when an old

person weeps. The silence around her struck her at last; and she

quieted herself to listen. No sound. She looked. Her son sate by

the table, his arms thrown half across it, his head bent face

downwards.




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