“I don’t know,” said Bessy, “but I’ll try.”
“Well said. It’s the most we can promise against sea-sickness. A long voyage, wench,” said Carraways.
“My dear Gilbert,” said the wife with anxious looks. “Are you resolved—are you really resolved?”
“I have looked at it every way, lass: I have turned the matter on every side. Weighed the risks with the good chances. And I am resolute.” A deep sigh escaped the wife. “Why, what’s the matter?” asked her husband.
“Nothing. I meant nothing—at least, nothing, if you are resolved. And yet, Gilbert, we are old”—
“Aye, that’s it; old to move. But, my good dame, what will our years bring us if we stop? I tell you, I can’t bear to think of it. I should die a thousand deaths here in London. I couldn’t go into the City—and somehow, I know myself, I should be sure to be going there if I was near it—I couldn’t go there, that every other face wouldn’t seem to stab me. Oh! I have seen the sight myself,—and I won’t provide the show.”
“What sight, father?” asked Bessy, almost heedless of the question.
“The sight of a ruined man. An old man broken to bits, with, no hope, no chance of patching. A piece of utter ruin with grey hairs upon it. The ghost of one who was ‘a good man.’ I’ve seen it. And I know what follows. I should pass people, and hear ’em talk—yes, feel ’em point at me. ‘There, sir’—says one to a country friend—‘do you see that old man? Once one of the proudest fellows in the City, sir. One who held his head above everybody. One who was as high as Lucifer’”—
“Oh, father! they never, never, could say that of you,” cried Bessy, and her face coloured, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Ha! ten to one but they would say it though. ’Tis hard for a man to tumble, and not get dirt about him, deserve it or not. ‘As proud as Lucifer’ they’d say; ‘and now look at him—poor fellow!’ Yes they’d call me—‘poor fellow; not a penny, sir; not a farthing.’ Now, I won’t endure this. I’ve talked to myself. I’ve had a little conversation with this Gilbert Carraways—old fellow!—he and I were not such intimate acquaintance as we ought to have been in fair weather times—but I’ve talked to him since we’ve been in trouble, and the end of it is, wife, he won’t suffer it. He won’t,” and Carraways struck the table.