“I do not think,” said Mr. Nicholson at last, “that I am an ungenerous father. I have never grudged you money within reason, for any avowable purpose; you had just to come to me and speak. And now I find that you have forgotten all decency and all natural feeling, and actually pawned—pawned—your mother’s watch. You must have had some temptation; I will do you justice to suppose it was a strong one. What did you want with this money?”
“I would rather not tell you, sir,” said John. “It will only make you angry.”
“I will not be fenced with,” cried his father. “There must be an end of disingenuous answers. What did you want with this money?”
“To lend it to Houston, sir,” says John.
“I thought I had forbidden you to speak to that young man?” asked the father.
“Yes, sir,” said John; “but I only met him.”
“Where?” came the deadly question.
And “In a billiard-room” was the damning answer. Thus had John’s single departure from the truth brought instant punishment. For no other purpose but to see Alan would he have entered a billiard-room; but he had desired to palliate the fact of his disobedience, and now it appeared that he frequented these disreputable haunts upon his own account.
Once more Mr. Nicholson digested the vile tidings in silence; and when John stole a glance at his father’s countenance, he was abashed to see the marks of suffering.
“Well,” said the old gentleman at last, “I cannot pretend not to be simply bowed down. I rose this morning what the world calls a happy man—happy, at least, in a son of whom I thought I could be reasonably proud——”