But the outcome of these musings was always the same: there was the stern figure of Duty rising before him to remind him of his promise to his mother, and with his brow knitting, his hands would clench beneath table or desk as he softly muttered to himself—
“I’m going to be a lawyer, and I will succeed.”
But it has been written by a wise man, “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,” and Tom Blount was soon to find out its truth.
Matters had been going very badly at Mornington Crescent, and the boy’s life was harder than ever to bear, for, presuming upon his patience, Sam Brandon was more tyrannical than ever. Words failing to sting sufficiently, he had often had recourse to blows, and these Tom had borne patiently, till, to his cousin’s way of thinking, he was about as contemptible a coward as ever existed.
One morning at the office Sam was seated opposite to his cousin writing, Pringle was busily employed in the other room, and Tom was putting stamps on some letters, when his eye lit upon one standing edgewise against a gum-bottle between him and his cousin.
Just then Mr Brandon bustled in looking very stern and angry, and he gave a sharp look round the office. Then his eyes lit upon Tom and his task.
“What letters are those?” he said.
“The tithe notices, sir, you told me to fill up and direct from the book,” replied Tom.
“Humph! yes, quite right. Oh, by the way, Samuel, did you post that letter to Mr Wilcox yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes, father,” said Sam promptly; and as he raised his eyes he saw his cousin’s gazing at the letter standing on edge between them.