บทที่ บทที่ 67 · 第67章

. As soon as Ernest found that he had no money to look to upon leaving

prison he saw that his dreams about emigrating and farming must come to

an end, for he knew that he was incapable of working at the plough or

with the axe for long together himself. And now it seemed he should

have no money to pay any one else for doing so. It was this that

resolved him to part once and for all with his parents. If he had been

going abroad he could have kept up relations with them, for they would

have been too far off to interfere with him.

He knew his father and mother would object to being cut; they would

wish to appear kind and forgiving; they would also dislike having no

further power to plague him; but he knew also very well that so long as

he and they ran in harness together they would be always pulling one

way and he another. He wanted to drop the gentleman and go down into

the ranks, beginning on the lowest rung of the ladder, where no one

would know of his disgrace or mind it if he did know; his father and

mother on the other hand would wish him to clutch on to the fag-end of

gentility at a starvation salary and with no prospect of advancement.

Ernest had seen enough in Ashpit Place to know that a tailor, if he did

not drink and attended to his business, could earn more money than a

clerk or a curate, while much less expense by way of show was required

of him. The tailor also had more liberty, and a better chance of

rising. Ernest resolved at once, as he had fallen so far, to fall still

lower—promptly, gracefully and with the idea of rising again, rather

than cling to the skirts of a respectability which would permit him to

exist on sufferance only, and make him pay an utterly extortionate

price for an article which he could do better without.

He arrived at this result more quickly than he might otherwise have

done through remembering something he had once heard his aunt say about

“kissing the soil.” This had impressed him and stuck by him perhaps by

reason of its brevity; when later on he came to know the story of

Hercules and Antæus, he found it one of the very few ancient fables

which had a hold over him—his chiefest debt to classical literature.

His aunt had wanted him to learn carpentering, as a means of kissing

the soil should his Hercules ever throw him. It was too late for this

now—or he thought it was—but the mode of carrying out his aunt’s idea

was a detail; there were a hundred ways of kissing the soil besides

becoming a carpenter.

He had told me this during our interview, and I had encouraged him to

the utmost of my power. He showed so much more good sense than I had

given him credit for that I became comparatively easy about him, and

determined to let him play his own game, being always, however, ready

to hand in case things went too far wrong. It was not simply because he

disliked his father and mother that he wanted to have no more to do

with them; if it had been only this he would have put up with them; but

a warning voice within told him distinctly enough that if he was clean

cut away from them he might still have a chance of success, whereas if

they had anything whatever to do with him, or even knew where he was,

they would hamper him and in the end ruin him. Absolute independence he

believed to be his only chance of very life itself.

Over and above this—if this were not enough—Ernest had a faith in his

own destiny such as most young men, I suppose, feel, but the grounds of

which were not apparent to any one but himself. Rightly or wrongly, in

a quiet way he believed he possessed a strength which, if he were only

free to use it in his own way, might do great things some day. He did

not know when, nor where, nor how his opportunity was to come, but he

never doubted that it would come in spite of all that had happened, and

above all else he cherished the hope that he might know how to seize it

if it came, for whatever it was it would be something that no one else

could do so well as he could. People said there were no dragons and

giants for adventurous men to fight with nowadays; it was beginning to

dawn upon him that there were just as many now as at any past time.

Monstrous as such a faith may seem in one who was qualifying himself

for a high mission by a term of imprisonment, he could no more help it

than he could help breathing; it was innate in him, and it was even

more with a view to this than for other reasons that he wished to sever

the connection between himself and his parents; for he knew that if

ever the day came in which it should appear that before him too there

was a race set in which it might be an honour to have run among the

foremost, his father and mother would be the first to let him and

hinder him in running it. They had been the first to say that he ought

to run such a race; they would also be the first to trip him up if he

took them at their word, and then afterwards upbraid him for not having

won. Achievement of any kind would be impossible for him unless he was

free from those who would be for ever dragging him back into the

conventional. The conventional had been tried already and had been

found wanting.

He had an opportunity now, if he chose to take it, of escaping once for

all from those who at once tormented him and would hold him earthward

should a chance of soaring open before him. He should never have had it

but for his imprisonment; but for this the force of habit and routine

would have been too strong for him; he should hardly have had it if he

had not lost all his money; the gap would not have been so wide but

that he might have been inclined to throw a plank across it. He

rejoiced now, therefore, over his loss of money as well as over his

imprisonment, which had made it more easy for him to follow his truest

and most lasting interests.

At times he wavered, when he thought of how his mother, who in her way,

as he thought, had loved him, would weep and think sadly over him, or

how perhaps she might even fall ill and die, and how the blame would

rest with him. At these times his resolution was near breaking, but

when he found I applauded his design, the voice within, which bade him

see his father’s and mother’s faces no more, grew louder and more

persistent. If he could not cut himself adrift from those who he knew

would hamper him, when so small an effort was wanted, his dream of a

destiny was idle; what was the prospect of a hundred pounds from his

father in comparison with jeopardy to this? He still felt deeply the

pain his disgrace had inflicted upon his father and mother, but he was

getting stronger, and reflected that as he had run his chance with them

for parents, so they must run theirs with him for a son.

He had nearly settled down to this conclusion when he received a letter

from his father which made his decision final. If the prison rules had

been interpreted strictly, he would not have been allowed to have this

letter for another three months, as he had already heard from me, but

the governor took a lenient view, and considered the letter from me to

be a business communication hardly coming under the category of a

letter from friends. Theobald’s letter therefore was given to his son.

It ran as follows:—

“My dear Ernest, My object in writing is not to upbraid you with the

disgrace and shame you have inflicted upon your mother and myself, to

say nothing of your brother Joey, and your sister. Suffer of course we

must, but we know to whom to look in our affliction, and are filled

with anxiety rather on your behalf than our own. Your mother is

wonderful. She is pretty well in health, and desires me to send you her

love.

“Have you considered your prospects on leaving prison? I understand

from Mr Overton that you have lost the legacy which your grandfather

left you, together with all the interest that accrued during your

minority, in the course of speculation upon the Stock Exchange! If you

have indeed been guilty of such appalling folly it is difficult to see

what you can turn your hand to, and I suppose you will try to find a

clerkship in an office. Your salary will doubtless be low at first, but

you have made your bed and must not complain if you have to lie upon

it. If you take pains to please your employers they will not be

backward in promoting you.

“When I first heard from Mr Overton of the unspeakable calamity which

had befallen your mother and myself, I had resolved not to see you

again. I am unwilling, however, to have recourse to a measure which

would deprive you of your last connecting link with respectable people.

Your mother and I will see you as soon as you come out of prison; not

at Battersby—we do not wish you to come down here at present—but

somewhere else, probably in London. You need not shrink from seeing us;

we shall not reproach you. We will then decide about your future.

“At present our impression is that you will find a fairer start

probably in Australia or New Zealand than here, and I am prepared to

find you £75 or even if necessary so far as £100 to pay your passage

money. Once in the colony you must be dependent upon your own

exertions.

“May Heaven prosper them and you, and restore you to us years hence a

respected member of society.—Your affectionate father,

T. PONTIFEX.”

Then there was a postscript in Christina’s writing.

“My darling, darling boy, pray with me daily and hourly that we may yet

again become a happy, united, God-fearing family as we were before this

horrible pain fell upon us.—Your sorrowing but ever loving mother,