Before many years all was bright again. A good fortune was unexpectedly left to Mr. Woodcock. First, he paid all his creditors, debts, interest, and compound interest. Then he went into his old house again; and his old servants came back to him joyfully. His fellow-citizens made him mayor again; and the guild-feast was as handsome as before. There are many now who remember Edward's curly head in the mayor's carriage, and the wonder of his school-fellows as to how the boy would behave at the great dinner, among all the grown-up people. He sat beside his mother; and she would not laugh, say what he might, more than became her position as hostess to six hundred people. He asked the young ladies to dance very properly at the ball afterward; but he amused them so excessively that they were almost glad at last to change partners and rest from laughing. What a thing this would be to remember when he became a bishop! Of course the university was again before him; and his mother was now as gracious and right-minded in her shrewdness as ever.
Before Edward went to Oxford his father died. The honest and benign face, under the brown wig, was no more seen in the market-place, nor was the cheerful voice, with a reasoning tone, heard in the magistrates' hall; nor, for a while, were pleasant parties assembled in the bright and handsome drawing-room, before whose windows the cathedral tower and spire uprose in the sunset, like a sculptured mountain reflecting the western lights. In those summer evenings the mother was seen, leaning on her son's arm, taking the last walks with him before his going to Oxford.
There was less gossip about the Woodcocks than might have been expected by those who hear much of the vulgarities of provincial towns. Edward gave such fair occasion for talk, that it is surprising there was not more of it. When he came home for the first vacation it was remarked—it could not but be remarked—that he and his mother were rarely seen together. When once she had his arm, he did not at all condescend to her short stature; he twirled his cane about, fidgeted, and struck the pebbles as he walked. But he was often seen galloping out of the city on a spirited horse, or lounging near the news-room, or lolling out of the window of the billiard-room there. His mother walked alone. She was seldom visible when neighbors called; and, when found at home, she appeared to be growing caustic again. With this there was a slight affectation about her son; a little ostentation about deriving all her information from Oxford, or from Edward's lips. "My son writes"—"My son tells me"—was the preface to most things she said. One incident which occurred during this vacation could not escape remark. She was now just out of mourning, and had declared her intention of inviting her friends again, as soon as Edward should come home. She had one party the week after his arrival. He did not appear. Flushed, fidgety, and with that knit of the brow which in her countenance told so much, she exerted herself to the very utmost, talking and setting every body talking, moving about and letting nobody sit too long. Some of the party had to return home through the market-place that summer night. The windows of the billiard-room were open, and it was well lighted; and among the moving figures within they perfectly distinguished Edward Woodcock.
After that vacation, it was long—I think it must have been three years—before he appeared again at home. Little was said, but much was understood, of the weariness of those years to his mother. It was known that there had somehow been losses. Her great charities were much contracted. She went out so little that she had no occasion for any kind of carriage; but the livery-servant disappeared. If any stranger called or met her, she still said, when college or church was mentioned, "My son is intended for the Church;" but it was as if she was stung to say it. It was said so tartly that the conversation never lingered upon the Church. As for old acquaintances, they found it required some resolution now to go to the house—Mrs. Woodcock's manner had become so sharp, and her eye so suspicious. One autumn she was going to the sea. It was only twenty miles off; but it was long since she had gone from home at all. A family of neighbors were there, too, and they saw what they can never forget. Now and then she walked alone, frowning, and lost in thought, along the cliffs. Sometimes she sat on a bench below, glancing about up and down the sands, and turning restlessly when any footstep approached. Oftener she sat at an open window, in a little common, ugly cap and a cheap gown, gazing at the jetty below.
And why at the jetty? Because he was there. Hardly any one would have known it was he, but for the direction of his mother's gaze. His bright eyes were hidden under green goggles; his once curly hair was lank and thin; it is impossible to fancy the cheeks of a living person more hollow—the whole face more ghastly. He walked with two sticks; but his time was spent chiefly in sitting at the end of the jetty or the window of the billiard-room, quizzing, giggling, and striving after a mirth which brought tears from some who were within hearing. His giggle was a convulsion; his quizzing was slander; his mirth was blasphemy. He once or twice appeared in his native place, painfully making his way to the billiard-room; and once with his mother on his arm: but it is thought that they met such looks in the streets—such astonishment—such involuntary grief—that they could not bear it; at least, she could not; and he ceased to appear.
He was heard of for two years more. Not in connection with the Church. No one could, for shame, join the ideas of Edward Woodcock and the Church. In connection with Oxford he was often spoken of. Mothers of sons trembled, and even fathers doubted, when they were told that Edward Woodcock's case was by no means a remarkable one. He had lost his ability altogether under the exhaustion of disease and dissipation. He had lost his health in debauchery; he had lost his money and his mother's fortune in gaming: but so had many other young men of promise equal to his. If any asked how such things could be common in such a place, some answered that they did not know, and others had always been told they could not be helped.
At last Mrs. Woodcock's door was closed against all visitors except the physician. Edward was there; and he was dying. Great decorum and tenderness were observed about the secrets of that dreary house; but it was known to those who most cared to know that there was no solace to the mother's heart—no softening of the son's. He treated her like a servant; and in the way that good-natured people never treat servants. He repelled her affection; he mocked.... But I can not dwell on this.
One summer morning the hearse and two mourning coaches were seen moving from the door under the shady trees in the close. Old friends hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that all was over. They would have been glad if there had been any domestic resource for the mother; any other survivor to make the old home somewhat like itself. But was ever any worn-out being more lonely? One old acquaintance, by no means an intimate friend, saw that it would now be right to go. She dreaded the visit inexpressibly; but she saw that it was right to go. She went; and she shed a lapful of tears when she came home.
She found Mrs. Woodcock immeasurably more haughty than ever before. She could scarcely rise at first from the rheumatism she had caught by night-watching; and when she sat down on her faded old sofa she worked her thumbs and twitched her fingers as if impatient of her visitor, and cut short or contradicted every thing that was said. She still harped on Oxford; on which, however, it was impossible to say any thing to please her. At last—whether it was that the effort was of itself too much for her, or that old tones of voice and a kindly expression of countenance touched the spring of tears, I do not know—but she was overtaken by such a passion of weeping as it was heart-rending to witness. She well-nigh choked before she would acknowledge her own tears; but when she laid her head against the back of the sofa, her sobs shook the very room. She did not stop speaking for this. She said but one thing, but she said it incessantly. "Don't pity me, Mrs. A——. I can not bear to be pitied. I am not at all unhappy. I can not bear to be pitied. You must not pity me," and so on.
Such a life could not last long. I forget exactly how long it was. Probably, in the suspense of our compassion, it seemed longer than it would now in the retrospect. It could not, I think, have been many months before the hearse was again moving away from the door under the trees, and we felt that the household which had been once so much to the city was extinguished. Nothing was left but that which still remains—the portrait of the mayor in his robes in the great hall, and the aching remembrance in many hearts of the fate of his wife and only child.