bothered out of my life.”
“My good fellow, so am I.”
“You!” returned Tom. “You are the picture of independence. Mr. Harthouse, I am in a horrible mess. You have no idea what a state I have got myself into—what a state my sister might have got me out of, if she would only have done it.”
He took to biting the rosebuds now, and tearing them away from his teeth with a hand that trembled like an infirm old man’s. After one exceedingly observant look at him, his companion relapsed into his lightest air.
“Tom, you are inconsiderate: you expect too much of your sister. You have had money of her, you dog, you know you have.”
“Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know I have. How else was I to get it? Here’s old Bounderby always boasting that at my age he lived upon twopence a month, or something of that sort. Here’s my father drawing what he calls a line, and tying me down to it from a baby, neck and heels. Here’s my mother who never has anything of her own, except her complaints. What is a fellow to do for money, and where am I to look for it, if not to my sister?”
He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat.
“But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it——”
“Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don’t say she has got it. I may have wanted more than she was likely to have got. But then she ought to get it. She could get it. It’s no use pretending to make a secret of matters now, after what I have told you already; you know she didn’t marry old Bounderby for her own sake, or for his sake, but for my sake. Then why doesn’t she get what I want out of him, for my sake? She is not obliged to say what she is going to do with it—she is sharp enough; she could manage to coax it out of him, if she chose. Then why doesn’t she choose, when I tell her of what consequence it is? But no. There she sits in his company like a stone, instead of making herself agreeable and getting it easily. I don’t know what you may call this, but I call it unnatural conduct.”
There was a piece of ornamental water immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind Junior, as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude, and nothing more solid went over the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a little surface-island.
“My dear Tom,” said Harthouse, “let me try to be your banker.”
“For God’s sake,” replied Tom, suddenly, “don’t talk about bankers!” And very white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white.
Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised—he could as soon have been affected—but he raised his eyelids a little more, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much against the precepts of his school to wonder as it was against the doctrines of the Gradgrind College.
“What is the present need, Tom? Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are.”
“Mr. Harthouse,” returned Tom, now actually crying—and his tears were better than his injuries, however pitiful a figure he made—“it’s too late; the money is of no use to me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very much obliged to you; you’re a true friend.”
A true friend! “Whelp, whelp!” thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily, “what an Ass you are!”
“And I take your offer as a great kindness,” said Tom, grasping his hand. “As a great kindness, Mr. Harthouse.”
“Well,” returned the other, “it may be of more use by-and-by. And, my good fellow, if you will open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you better ways out of them than you can find for yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Tom, shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. “I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Harthouse.”
“Now, you see, Tom,” said Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a contribution to the island which was always drifting to the wall as if it