Chapter Thirty Six.
Our Hero falls in with an old Acquaintance, and is not very much Delighted.
We left our hero rolling his knife-grinder’s wheel towards his father’s house. It must be confessed that he did it very unwillingly. He was never very fond of it at any time; but, since he had taken possession of Spikeman’s property, and had received from Mary the intelligence that he was worth 350 pounds more, he had taken a positive aversion to it. It retarded his movements, and it was hard work when he had not to get his livelihood by it. More than once he thought of rolling it into a horsepond, and leaving it below low-water mark; but then he thought it a sort of protection against inquiry, and against assault, for it told of poverty and honest employment; so Joey rolled on, but not with any feelings of regard towards his companion.
How many castles did our hero build as he went along the road! The sum of money left to him appeared to be enormous. He planned and planned again; and, like most people, at the close of the day, he was just as undetermined as at the commencement. Nevertheless, he was very happy, as people always are, in anticipation; unfortunately, more so than when they grasp what they have been seeking. Time rolled on, as well as the grindstone, and at last Joey found himself at the ale-house where he and Mary had put up previously to her obtaining a situation at the Hall. He immediately wrote a letter to her, acquainting her with his arrival. He would have taken the letter himself, only he recollected the treatment he had received, and found another messenger in the butcher’s boy, who was going up to the Hall for orders. The answer returned by the same party was, that Mary would come down and see him that evening. When Mary came down Joey was astonished at the improvement in her appearance. She looked much younger than she did when they had parted, and her dress was so very different that our hero could with difficulty imagine that it was the same person who had been his companion from Gravesend. The careless air and manner had disappeared; there was a retenue—a dignity about her which astonished him and he felt a sort of respect, mingled with his regard, for her, of which he could not divest himself. But, if she looked younger (as may well be imagined) from her change of life, she also looked more sedate, except when she smiled, or when occasionally, but very rarely, her merry laughter reminded him of the careless, good-tempered Nancy of former times. That the greeting was warm need hardly be said. It was the greeting of a sister and younger brother who loved each other dearly.
“You are very much grown, Joey,” said Mary. “Dear boy, how happy I am to see you!”
“And you, Mary, you’re younger in the face, but older in your manners. Are you as happy in your situation as you have told me in your letters?”
“Quite happy; more happy than ever I deserve to be, my dear boy; and now tell me, Joey, what do you think of doing? You have now the means of establishing yourself.”
“Yes, I have been thinking of it; but I don’t know what to do.”