“No, Charley; I will only tell you, as I told himself, that I thank him for doing so, that I am sorry he did so, and that I hope he will do much better, and be happy.”
Some touch of compunction smote the boy’s hardening heart as he looked upon her, his patient little nurse in infancy, his patient friend, adviser, and reclaimer in boyhood, the self-forgetting sister who had done everything for him. His tone relented, and he drew her arm through his.
“Now, come, Liz; don’t let us quarrel: let us be reasonable and talk this over like brother and sister. Will you listen to me?”
“Oh, Charley!” she replied through her starting tears; “do I not listen to you, and hear many hard things!”
“Then I am sorry. There, Liz! I am unfeignedly sorry. Only you do put me out so. Now see. Mr. Headstone is perfectly devoted to you. He has told me in the strongest manner that he has never been his old self for one single minute since I first brought him to see you. Miss Peecher, our schoolmistress—pretty and young, and all that—is known to be very much attached to him, and he won’t so much as look at her or hear of her. Now, his devotion to you must be a disinterested one; mustn’t it? If he married Miss Peecher, he would be a great deal better off in all worldly respects, than in marrying you. Well then; he has nothing to get by it, has he?”
“Nothing, Heaven knows!”
“Very well then,” said the boy; “that’s something in his favour, and a great thing. Then I come in. Mr. Headstone has always got me on, and he has a good deal in his power, and of course if he was my brother-in-law he wouldn’t get me on less, but would get me on more. Mr. Headstone comes and confides in me, in a very delicate way, and says, ‘I hope my marrying your sister would be agreeable to you, Hexam, and useful to you?’ I say, ‘There’s nothing in the world, Mr. Headstone, that I could be better pleased with.’ Mr. Headstone says, ‘Then I may rely upon your intimate knowledge of me for your good word with your sister, Hexam?’ And I say, ‘Certainly, Mr. Headstone, and naturally I have a good deal of influence with her.’ So I have; haven’t I, Liz?”
“Yes, Charley.”
“Well said! Now, you see, we begin to get on, the moment we begin to be really talking it over, like brother and sister. Very well. Then you come in. As Mr. Headstone’s wife you would be occupying a most respectable station, and you would be holding a far better place in society than you hold now, and you would at length get quit of the riverside and the old disagreeables belonging to it, and you would be rid for good of dolls’ dressmakers and their drunken fathers, and the like of that. Not that I want to disparage Miss Jenny Wren: I dare say she is all very well in her way; but her way is not your way as Mr. Headstone’s wife. Now, you see, Liz, on all three accounts—on Mr. Headstone’s, on mine, on yours—nothing could be better or more desirable.”
They were walking slowly as the boy spoke, and here he stood still, to see what effect he had made. His sister’s eyes were fixed upon him; but as they showed no yielding, and as she remained silent, he walked her on again. There was some discomfiture in his tone as he resumed, though he tried to conceal it.
“Having so much influence with you, Liz, as I have, perhaps I should have done better to have had a little chat with you in the first instance, before Mr. Headstone spoke for himself. But really all this in his favour seemed so plain and undeniable, and I knew you to have always been so reasonable and sensible, that I didn’t consider it worth while. Very likely that was a mistake of mine. However, it’s soon set right. All that need be done to set it right, is for you to tell me at once that I may go home and tell Mr. Headstone that what has taken place is not final, and that it will all come round by-and-by.”
He stopped again. The pale face looked anxiously and lovingly at him, but she shook her head.
“Can’t you speak?” said the boy sharply.
“I am very unwilling to speak, Charley. If I must, I must. I cannot authorize you to say any such thing to Mr. Headstone: I cannot allow you to say any such thing to Mr. Headstone. Nothing remains to be said to him from me, after what I have said for good and all, tonight.”
“And this girl,” cried the boy, contemptuously throwing her off again, “calls herself a sister!”
“Charley, dear, that is the second time that you have almost struck me. Don’t be hurt by my words. I don’t mean—Heaven forbid!—that you intended it; but you hardly know with what a sudden swing you removed yourself from me.”
“However!” said the boy, taking no heed of the remonstrance, and pursuing his own mortified disappointment, “I know what this means, and you shall not disgrace me.”
“It means what I have told you, Charley, and nothing more.”
“That’s not true,” said the boy in a violent tone, “and you know it’s not. It means your precious Mr. Wrayburn; that’s what it means.”
“Charley! If you remember any old days of ours together, forbear!”
“But you shall not disgrace me,” doggedly pursued the boy. “I am determined that after I have climbed up out of the mire, you shall not pull me down. You can’t disgrace me if I have nothing to do with you, and I will have nothing to do with you for the future.”
“Charley! On many a night like this, and many a worse night, I have sat
