‘Poor father!’ said Jim, moved to unusual sympathy, ‘I don’t believe he knows himself. First he thinks one thing and then he thinks another. And chiefly, I suppose, he thinks that I am not good for very much, any way.’
‘That’s an idea that you must get him out of, Plowden.’
‘It’s easy to say so, but how am I to do it? When people lose their confidence in you——’ said Jim. And then he hesitated and drew back. ‘What did you say you were going to Winwick for?’ he added hastily. ‘Musicians for your—what did you say?’
‘Musicians for my entertainment—to amuse my temperance people. Your sisters are going to sing: and I hear you recite, Plowden.’
‘No, I don’t—not good enough for you. I used sometimes to do things at penny readings; but that was before I went to Oxford,’ said Jim, with a sudden flush, which seemed to envelop him from head to foot—a flush half of unexpected pleasure, half of overwhelming shame.
‘Well,’ said the curate, ‘you had better begin again: unless you disapprove of my temperance meetings, like’—he paused a little and said fiercely—‘your sister.’
‘My sister!’ cried Jim with amazement; and then he laughed. ‘I don’t suppose you mind very much. Which was it? Emmy? She’s dreadfully serious about everything that God has given us being meant for use. I think that myself, you know,’ he said.
‘But perhaps you haven’t seen, as I have, the terrible misery it has brought,’ said the curate, watching secretly with great interest to see what the result would be.
Now Jim knew a great deal about himself, more than anybody else knew: but he did not accuse himself in this respect. He had not realised the danger here. In other ways he was aware that there was danger; but in this, for himself, no.
‘I’m not such a novice as you think,’ he said. ‘I’ve known fellows at Oxford—Good God! if one was to think of it, it’s enough to make your brain go round—nice fellows, men that there was no harm in, and yet—— ’