He could have gone and asked that lawyer to give him work, as he had said he would do; but if he had recourse to his offer, Editha would doubtless hear of it, and, thinking him to be in need, would be made unhappy thereby.
Many a time the tempter whispered, when there was scarcely a dollar left in his purse:
“Never mind, in a few months you will have but to reach forth your hand and pluck the golden harvest which Richard Forrester has set apart for you, and all your trials will be at an end.”
It needed but Editha’s majority and her signature to insure him independence. But he would not yield.
“I will build up my own foundation, or I will not build at all,” he would say at such times, with gloomy brow and firmly compressed lips, but with undaunted resolution.
One evening he sat in his office more than usually depressed.
He had not had a single call during the week, and now, as it was beginning to grow dusk, he yielded himself up to the sad thoughts that oppressed him.
It was beginning to storm outside, and as he looked forth into the dismal street, a feeling of desperation and dreariness came over him, such as he had not experienced before.
His office was excessively gloomy, for he did not indulge much in the luxury of gas nowadays, since he had not the wherewith to pay for it. His purse lay upon the table before him—he had been inspecting its contents and counting his money.
All that remained to him in the world was a two-dollar bill and some small pieces of silver.