Part 7 (1/2)
”I'm _so_ sorry,” said May; ”I don't know what Shank will do without you.”
At that moment a loud knocking was heard at the door. May rose to open it, and Mrs Leather looked anxiously at her son.
A savage undertoned growl and an unsteady step told all too plainly that the head of the house had returned home.
With sudden interest in worsted fabrics, which he was far from feeling, Charlie Brooke turned his back to the door, and, leaning forward, took up an end of the work with which the knitter was busy.
”That's an extremely pretty pattern, Mrs Leather. Does it take you long to make things of the kind?”
”Not long; I--I make a good many of them.”
She said this with hesitation, and with her eyes fixed on the doorway, through the opening of which her husband thrust a s.h.a.ggy dishevelled head, with dissipation stamped on a countenance which had evidently been handsome once.
But Charlie saw neither the husband's head nor the poor wife's gaze, for he was still bending over the worsted-work in mild admiration.
Under the impression that he had not been observed, Mr Leather suddenly withdrew his head, and was heard to stumble up-stairs under the guidance of May. Then the bang of a door, followed by a shaking of the slimly-built house, suggested the idea that the poor man had flung himself on his bed.
”Shank Leather,” said Charlie Brooke, that same night as they strolled on the sea-sh.o.r.e, ”you gave expression to some sentiments to-day which I highly approved of. One of them was `Speak out your mind, and fear nothing!' I mean to do so now, and expect that you will not be hurt by my following your advice.”
”Well!” exclaimed Shank, with a dubious glance, for he disliked the seriousness of his friend's tone.
”Your father--” began Charlie.
”Please don't speak about _him_,” interrupted the other. ”I know all that you can say. His case is hopeless, and I can't bear to speak about it.”
”Well, I won't speak about him, though I cannot agree with you that his case is hopeless. But it is yourself that I wish to speak about. You and I are soon to separate; it must be for a good long while--it may be for ever. Now I must speak out my mind before I go. My old playmate, school-fellow, and chum, you have begun to walk in your poor father's footsteps, and you may be sure that if you don't turn round all your hopes will be blasted--at least for this life--perhaps also for that which is to come. Now don't be angry or hurt, Shank. Remember that you not only encouraged me, but advised me to speak out my mind.”
”Yes, but I did not advise you to form a false, uncharitable judgment of your chum,” returned Leather, with a dash of bitterness in his tone. ”I admit that I'm fond of a social gla.s.s, and that I sometimes, though rarely, take a little--a very little--more than, perhaps, is necessary.
But that is very different from being a drunkard, which you appear to a.s.sume that I am.”
”Nay, Shank, I don't a.s.sume that. What I said was that you are _beginning_ to walk in your dear father's footsteps. No man ever yet became a drunkard without _beginning_. And I feel certain that no man ever, when beginning, had the most distant intention or expectation of becoming a drunkard. Your danger, dear old fellow, lies in your _not seeing_ the danger. You admit that you like a social gla.s.s. Shank, I candidly make the same admission--I like it,--but after seeing your father, and hearing your defence, the danger has been so deeply impressed on _me_, that from this hour I resolve, G.o.d helping me, never more to taste a social gla.s.s.”
”Well, Charlie, you know yourself best,” returned his friend airily, ”and if you think yourself in so great danger, of course your resolve is a very prudent one; but for myself, I admit that I see no danger, and I don't feel any particular weakness of will in regard to temptation.”
”Ah, Shank, you remind me of an eccentric old lady I have heard of who was talking with a friend about the difficulties of life. `My dear,'
said the friend, `I do find it such a _difficult_ thing to resist temptation--don't you?' `No,' replied the eccentric old lady, `I don't, for I _never_ resist temptation, I always give way to it!'”
”I can't quite make out how your anecdote applies to me, Charlie.”
”Don't you see? You feel no weakness of will in regard to temptation because you never give your will an opportunity of resisting it. You always give way to it. You see, I am speaking out my mind freely--as you have advised!”
”Yes, and you take the whole of my advice, and fear nothing, else you would not risk a quarrel by doing so. But really, my boy, it's of no use your troubling your head on that subject, for I feel quite safe, and I don't mean to give in, so there's an end on't.”
Our hero persevered notwithstanding, and for some time longer sought to convince or move his friend both by earnest appeal and light pleasantry, but to all appearance without success, although he reduced him to silence. He left him at last, and went home meditating on the truth of the proverb that ”a man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.”
CHAPTER FIVE.
ALL THINGS TO ALL MEN.