'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.