He stopped, as if for an answer; Walter made no reply, but listened eagerly to what was to follow.
"Mine is a large business," said Goldie, a little proudly, "and besides that, I have a house and lodgings to let, as you know, at the other end of the town. I shall want assistance in the shop, especially now that Mrs. Goldie is ill, and—" he paused, for he would not allude to the son whom he had lost—"and I should be happy, Binning, to take you in, with a handsome salary now, and a prospect of future partnership if we find that we suit one another."
The heart of Walter leaped with delight! The prospect of comfort, independence, without separation from his friends, seemed so much more than he had ever dared to hope, that his first feeling was one of unmixed joy! The second, however, was of difficulty and doubt, and Goldie read it in the changing expression of his face.
"Well, what do you say to it?" cried the fruiterer rather impatiently. "Is not my offer a fair one?"
"Most kind, most generous, and I shall accept it with gratitude, if I may only be assured that in serving the shop I shall never be required to do anything against my conscience."
"Your conscience! Oh! That is some of Viner's cant—that won't do with me," cried Goldie. "If you live with me, you must do as I do, and have none of your nonsense about Sunday. You had better understand that clearly from the first, and put your conscience in your pocket, like a sensible man."
"Then I'm afraid—"
"Don't make a foolish decision in a hurry, that you will be sorry for all your life. There's a customer just come in, I see, I must go to the shop to attend to him. Remain here, and think over the offer that I have made; you'll never have such another chance of getting on well in the world."
Walter sat alone in Goldie's back parlour, buried in deep anxious thought, drawn in opposite directions by two strong powers—duty on one side, inclination on the other. There were so many reasons for accepting Goldie's kindness: he would be independent, he could help his friends, he would see them every day—perhaps he might even do some spiritual good in the house of this irreligious man. But to all this conscience had but one answer. If he who asks the Almighty to lead him not into temptation, wilfully, with his eyes open, throws himself into it, how dare he hope for the protection of Heaven?
Should he deliberately agree to disregard God's commandment, how could he ask or expect that a blessing should attend him? Nelly's favourite text seemed to ring in his ears—"The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow thereto."