“If you go out of this room, Joseph Todhetley, it shall be over my body,” cried he, a whole hatful of authority in his squeaky voice. “I have come in to hold a final conversation with you; and I mean to do it.”
I thought an explosion was inevitable, with Tod’s temper. He controlled it, however; and after a moment’s hesitation put off his cap. Mr. Brandon sat down in the old big chair by the fire; Tod stood on the other side, his arm on the mantelpiece.
In a minute or two, they were going at it kindly. Old Brandon put Tod’s doings before him in the plainest language he could command; Tod retorted insolently in his passion.
“I have warned you enough against your ways and against that woman,” said Mr. Brandon. “I am here to do it once again, and to bid you for the last time give up her acquaintanceship. Yes, sir, bid you: I stand in the light of your unconscious father.”
“I wouldn’t do it for my father,” cried Tod, in his fury.
“She is leading you into a gulf of—of brimstone,” fired old Brandon. “Day by day you creep down a step lower into it, sir, like a calf that is being wiled to the shambles. Once fairly in, you’ll be smothered: the whole world won’t be able to pull you out again.”
Tod answered with a torrent of words. The chief burden of them was—that if he chose to walk into the brimstone, it was not Mr. Brandon who should keep him out of it.
“Is it not?” retorted Mr. Brandon—and though he was very firm and hard, he gave no sign of losing his temper. “We’ll see that. I am in this town to strive to save you, Joseph Todhetley; and if I can’t do it by easy means, I’ll do it by hard ones. I got you out of one scrape, thanks to Johnny here, and now I’m going to get you out of another.”
Tod held his peace. That past obligation was often on his conscience.
“You ought to take shame to yourself, sir,” continued old Brandon. “You were placed at Oxford to study, to learn to be a man and a gentleman, to prepare yourself to fight well the battle of life, not to waste the talents God has given you, and fritter away your best days in sin.”
“In sin?” retorted Tod, jerking his head fiercely.
“Yes, sir, in sin. What else do you call it—this idleness that you are indulging in? The short space of time that young men spend at the University must be used, not abused. Once it has passed, it can never again be laid hold of. What sort of example are you setting my ward here, who is as your younger brother? Stay where you are, Johnny Ludlow. I choose that you shall be present at this.”
“Johnny need not fret himself that he’ll catch much harm from my iniquities,” said Tod with a sneer.
“Now listen to me, young man,” spoke Mr. Brandon. “If you persist in this insane conduct and refuse to hear reason, I’ll keep you out of danger by putting you in prison.”
Tod stared.
“You owe me a hundred pounds.”
“I am quite conscious of that, sir: and of my inability hitherto to repay it.”
“For that debt I will shut you up in prison. Headstrong young idiots like you must be saved from themselves.”
Tod laughed slightly in his insolence. A defiant, mocking laugh.
“I should like to see you try to shut me up in prison! You have no power to do it, Mr. Brandon: you have never proved the debt.”
Mr. Brandon rose, and took a step towards him. “You dare to tell me I cannot do a thing that I say I will do, Joseph Todhetley! I shall make an affidavit before a judge in chambers that you are about to leave the country, and obtain the warrant that will lock you up. And I say to you that I believe you are going to leave it, sooner or later; and that Chalk woman with you!”
“What an awful lie,” cried Tod, his face all ablaze.
“Lie or no lie, I believe it. I believe it is what she will bring you to, unless you are speedily separated from her. And if there be no other way of saving you, why, I’ll save you by force.”
Tod ran his hands through his damp hair: what with wrath and emotion he was in a fine heat. Knowing nothing of the law himself, he supposed old Brandon could do as he said, and it sobered him.
“I am your father’s friend, Joseph Todhetley, and I’ll take care of you for his sake if I can. I have stayed on here, putting myself, as it were, into his place to save him pain. As his substitute, I have a right to be heard; ay, and to act. Do you know that your dead mother was very dear to me? I will tell you what perhaps I never should have told you but for this crisis in your life, that her sister was to me the dearest friend a man can have in this life; she would have been my wife but that death claimed her. Your mother was nearly equally dear, and loved me to the last. She took my hand in dying, and spoke of you; of you, her only child. ‘Should it ever be in your power to shield him from harm or evil, do so, John,’ she said, ‘do it for my sake.’ And with Heaven’s help, I will do it now.”
Tod was moved. The mention of his mother softened him at all times. Mr. Brandon sat down again.
“Don’t let us play at this pitched battle, Joe. Hear a bit of truth from me, of common sense: can’t you see that I have your interest at heart? There are two roads that lie before a young man on his setting out in life, either of which he can take: you can take either, even yet. The one leads to honour, to prosperity, to a clear conscience, to a useful career, to a hale and happy old age—and, let us hope, to heaven. The other leads to vice, to discomfort, to miserable self-torment, to a waste of talent and energies; in short, to altogether a lost life. Lost, at any rate, for this world: and—we’ll not speculate upon what it may be in the other. Are you attending?”
Tod just lifted his eyes in answer. I sat at the table by my books, silently turning some of their leaves, ready to drop through the floor with annoyance. Mr. Brandon resumed.
“You have come to the Oxford University to perfect your education; to acquire self-reliance, experience, and a tone of good manners; to keep upright ways, to eschew bad company, and to train yourself to be a Christian gentleman. Do this, and you will go home with satisfaction and a sound conscience. In time you will marry, and rear your children to good, and be respected of all men. This is the career expected of you; this is the road you ought to take.”
He paused slightly, and then went on.
“I will put the other road before you; the one you seem so eager to rush upon. Ah, boy! how many a one, with as hopeful a future before him as you have, has gone sliding, sliding down unconsciously, never meaning, poor fellow, to slide too far, and been lost in the vortex of sin and shame! You are starting on well for it. Wine, and cards, and betting, and debt; and a singing mermaid to lure you on! That woman, with the hard light eyes, and the seductive airs, has cast her spell upon you. You think her an angel, no doubt; I say she’s more of an angel’s opposite–”
“Mr. Brandon!”
“There are women in the world who will conjure a man’s coat off his back, and his pockets after it,” persisted Mr. Brandon, drowning the interruption. “She is one of them. They are bad to the core. They are; and they draw a man into all kinds of irretrievable entanglements. She will draw you: and the end may be that you’d find her saddled on you for good. Who will care to take your hand in friendship then? Will you dare to clasp that of honest people, or hold up your face in the light of day? No: not for very shame. That’s what gambling and evil courses will bring a man to: and, his self-respect once gone, it’s gone for ever. You will feel that you have raised a barrier between you and your kind: remembrance will be a sting, and your days will be spent in one long cry of too late repentance, ‘Oh, that I had been wise in time!’”
“You are altogether mistaken in her,” burst out Tod. “There’s no harm in her. She is as particular as—as any lady need be.”
“No harm in her!” retorted Mr. Brandon. “Is there any good in her? Put it at its best: she induces you to waste your time and your substance. How much money has the card-playing and the present-giving taken out of you, pray? What amount of debt has it involved you in? More than you know how to pay.”
Tod winced.
“Be wise in time, lad, now, without further delay, and break off this dangerous connection. I know that in your better moments you must see how fatal it may become. It is a crisis in your life; it may be its turning-point; and, as you choose the evil or the good, so may you be lost or saved in this world and in eternity.”
Tod muttered something about his not deserving to be judged so harshly.
“I judge you not harshly yet: I say that evil will come unless you flee from it,” said Mr. Brandon. “Don’t you care for yourself?—for your good name? Is it nothing to you whether you turn out a scamp or a gentleman?”
To look at Tod just then, it was a great deal.
“Have you any reverence for your father?—for the memory of your mother? Then you will do a little violence to your own inclinations, even though it be hard and difficult—more difficult than to get a double first; harder than having the best tooth in your head drawn—and take your leave of that lady for ever. For your own sake, Joe; for your own sake!”
Tod was pulling gently at his whiskers.
“Send all folly to the wind, Joseph Todhetley! Say to yourself, for God and myself will I strive henceforth! It only needs a little steady resolution; and you can call it up if you choose. You shall always find a friend in me. Write down on a bit of paper the sums you owe, and I’ll give you a cheque to cover them. Come, shake hands upon it.”
“You are very kind, sir,” gasped Tod, letting his hand meet old Brandon’s.
“I hope you will let me be kind. Why, lad, you should have had more spirit than to renew an acquaintanceship with a false girl; an adventurer, who has gone about the country stealing jewels.”
“Stealing jewels!” echoed Tod.
“Stealing jewels, lad. Did you never know it? She took Miss Deveen’s emeralds at Whitney Hall.”
“Oh, that was a mistake,” said Tod, cheerfully. “She explained it to me.”
“A mistake, was it! Explained it to you, did she! When?”
“At Oxford: before she had been here above a day or two. She introduced the subject herself, sir, saying she supposed I had heard something about it, and what an absurd piece of business the suspecting her was; altogether a mistake.”
“Ah, she’s a wily one, Joe,” said Mr. Brandon. “Johnny Ludlow could have told you whether it was a mistake or not. Why, boy, she stole the stones out of Miss Deveen’s own dressing-room, and went up to London the next day, or the next but one, and pledged them the same night at a pawnbroker’s, in a false name, and gave a false account of herself. Moreover, when it was brought home to her, she confessed all upon her knees to Miss Deveen, and sued for mercy.”
Tod looked from Mr. Brandon to me. At the time of the discovery, he had had a hint given him of the fact, with a view of more effectually weaning him from Sophie Chalk, but not the particulars.
“It’s true, Todhetley,” said Mr. Brandon, nodding his head. “You may judge, therefore, whether she is a nice kind of person for you to be seen beauing about Oxford streets in the face and eyes of the dons.” And Tod winced again, and bit his lips.
Mr. Brandon rose, taking both Tod’s hands in his, and said a few solemn words in the kindest tone I had ever heard him speak; wrung his hands, nodded good-night to me, and was gone. Tod walked about the room a bit, whistling softly to make a show of indifference, and looking miserably cut up.
“Is what he said true?” he asked me presently, stopping by the mantelpiece again: “about the emeralds?”
“Every word of it.”
“Then why on earth could you not open your mouth and tell me, Johnny Ludlow?”
“I thought you knew it. I’m sure you were told of it at the time. Had I brought up the matter again later, you’d have been fit to punch me into next week, Tod.”
“Let’s hear the details—shortly.”
I went over them all; shortly, as he said; but omitting none. Tod stood in silence, never once interrupting.
“Did the Whitneys know of this?”
“Anna did.”
“Anna!”
“Yes. Anna had suspected Sophie from the first. She saw her steal out of Miss Deveen’s room, and saw her sewing something into her stays at bed-time. But Anna kept it to herself until discovery had come.”
Tod could frown pretty well on ordinary occasions, but I never saw a frown like the one on his brow as he listened. And I thought—I thought—it was meant for Sophie Chalk.
“Lady Whitney, I expect, knows it all now, Tod. Perhaps Helen also. Old Brandon went over to the Hall to spend the day, and it was in consequence of what he heard from Lady Whitney and Miss Deveen that he came down here to look us up.”
“Meaning me,” said Tod. “Not us. Use right words, Johnny.”
“They did not know, you see, that Sophie Chalk was married. And they must have noticed that you cared for her.”
Tod made no comment. He just leaned against the shelf in silence. I was stacking my books.
“Good-night, Johnny,” he quietly said, without any appearance of resentment; and went into his room.
The next day was Palm Sunday. Tod lay in bed with a splitting headache, could not lift his head from the pillow, and his skin was as sallow as an old gander’s. “Glad to hear it,” said Mr. Brandon, when I told him; “it will give him a quiet day for reflection.”
A surprise awaited me that morning, and Mr. Brandon also. Miss Deveen was at Oxford, with Helen and Anna Whitney. They had arrived the evening before, and meant to stay and go up with Bill and with us. I did not tell Tod: in fact, he seemed too ill to be spoken to, his head covered with the bedclothes.
You can’t see many a finer sight than the Broad Walk presents on the evening of Palm Sunday. Every one promenades there, from the dean downwards. Our party went together: Miss Deveen, Helen, and Anna; Bill, I, and Mr. Brandon.
We were in the middle of the walk; and it was at its fullest, when Tod came up. He was better, but looked worn and ill. A flush of surprise came into his face when he saw who we had with us, and he shook hands with the ladies nearly in silence.
“Oxford has not mended your looks, Mr. Todhetley,” said Miss Deveen.
“I have one of my bad headaches to-day,” he answered. “I get them now and then.”
The group of us were turning to walk on, when in that moment there approached Sophie Chalk. Sophie in a glistening blue silk, and flowers, and jingling ornaments, and kid gloves. She was coming up to us as bold as brass with her fascinating smile, when she saw Miss Deveen, and stopped short. Miss Deveen passed on without notice of any kind; Helen really did not see her; Anna, always gentle and kind, slightly bowed. Even then Madam Sophie’s native impudence came to her aid. She saw they meant to shun her, and she nodded and smiled at Tod, and made as though she would stop him for a chat. He took off his cap to her, and went on. Anna’s delicate face had flushed, and his own was white enough for its coffin.
Miss Deveen held Tod’s hand in parting. “I am so glad to have met you again,” she cordially said; “we are all glad. We shall see you often, I hope, until we go up together. And all you young people are coming to me for a few days in the Easter holidays. Friends cannot afford too long absences from one another in this short life. Good-bye; and mind you get rid of your headache for to-morrow. There; shake hands with Helen and Anna.”
He did as he was bid. Helen was gay as usual; Anna rather shy. Her pretty blue eyes glanced up at Tod’s, and he smiled for the first time that day. Sophie Chalk might have fascinated three parts of his heart away, but there was a corner in it remaining for Anna Whitney.
I did not do it intentionally. Going into our room the next day, a sheet of paper with some writing on it lay on the table, the ink still wet. Supposing it was some message just left for me by Tod, I went up to read it, and caught the full sense of the lines.
“Dear Mrs. Everty,
“I have just received your note. I am sorry that I cannot drive you out to-day—and fear that I shall not be able to do so at all. Our friends, who are staying here, have to receive the best part of my leisure time.
“Faithfully yours,“J. Todhetley.”
And I knew by the contents of the note, by its very wording even, that the crisis was past, and Tod saved.
“Thank you, Johnny! Perhaps you’ll read your own letters another time. That’s mine.”
He had come out of his room with the envelopes and sealing-wax.
“I beg your pardon, Tod. I thought it was a message you had left for me, seeing it lie open.”
“You’ve read it, I suppose?”
“Yes, or just as good. My eyes seemed to take it all in at once; and I am as glad as though I had had a purse of gold given to me.”
“Well, it’s no use trying to fight against a stream,” said he, as he folded the note. “And if I had known the truth about the emeralds, why—there’d have been no bother at all.”
“Putting the emeralds out of the question, she is not a nice person to know, Tod. And there’s no telling what might have come of it.”
“I suppose not. When the two paths, down-hill and up-hill, cross each other, as Brandon put it, and the one is pleasant and the other is not, one has to do a bit of battle with one’s self in choosing the right.”
And something in his face told me that in the intervening day and nights, he had battled with himself as few can battle; fought strenuously with the evil, striven hard for the good, and come out a conqueror.
“It has cost you pain.”
“Somewhat, Johnny. There are few good things in the way of duty but what do cost man pain—as it seems to me. The world and a safe conscience will give us back our recompense.”
“And heaven too, Tod.”
“Ay, lad; and heaven.”