“It’s not for your strength,” she
answered. “For that, you could do well
enough! But think of the dust! It’s
so irritating to the lungs! And then there’s
the stooping all day long!”
“Never mind, mother; I’m quite able for
it, dust and all—or at least shall soon
be. We mustn’t be anxious about others any
more than about ourselves. Doesn’t the
God you believe in tell you so?”
“Don’t you believe in him then, Richard?”
said his mother sadly.
“I think I do—a little—in
a sort of a way—believe in God—but
I hope to believe in him ten thousand times more!”
His mother gave a sigh.
“What more would you have, mother dear?”
said Richard. “A man cannot be a saint
all at once!”
“No, indeed, nor a woman either!” she
answered. “I’ve been a believer all
these years, and I’m no nearer a saint than ever.”
“But you’re trying to be one, ain’t
you, mammy?”
She made him no reply, and presently reverted to their
former topic—perhaps took refuge in it.
“I think it might be managed—some
day!” she said. “You could go on with
your trade after, if you liked. Why shouldn’t
a college-man be a tradesman? Why shouldn’t
a tradesman know as much as a gentleman?”
“Why, indeed, mother! If I thought it wouldn’t
be too much for father and you, there are not many
things I should like better than going to Oxford.
You are good to me like God himself!”
“Richard!” said his mother, shocked.
She thought she served God by going to church, not
by being like him in every word and look of love she
gave her boy.
The mere idea of going to college, and thus taking
a step nearer to Barbara, began immediately to better
his health. It gave him many a happy thought,
many a cottage and castle in the air, with more of
a foundation than he knew. But his mother did
not revert to it; and one day suddenly the thought
came to Richard that perhaps she meant to apply to
sir Wilton for the means of sending him. Castle
and cottage fell in silent ruin. His soul recoiled
from the idea with loathing—as much for
his mother’s sake as his own. Having married
his reputed father, she must have no more relation,
for good any more than for bad, with sir Wilton—least
of all for his sake! To her he was dead; and
ought to be as dead as disregard could make him!
So, at least, thought Richard. He was sorry he
had confessed he should like to go to Oxford.
If his mother again alluded to the thing, he would
tell her he had changed his mind, and would not interrupt
the exercise of his profession as surgeon to old books.
DEATH THE DELIVERER.
