“Oh, Charley,” she said, “if I can only trust you.”
“You can, you must, Lily. For your sake I will take the pledge. I will do whatever you ask me to do.”
She gave way, but not without conditions.
“Well,” she said, “I will try to think no more about it. But, Charley, remember, I could never, never, never marry a man who drinks.”
“You never shall, dear,” he replied, earnestly.
“And then, another thing, Charley. This speaking work—oh! I know it is clever and that—but it doesn’t help us forward. How long is it since you determined to learn shorthand, because it would advance you so much? And French, because a clerk who can write French is worth double? Where are your fine resolutions?”
“I will begin again—I will practise hard; see now, Lily, I will do all you want. I will promise anything to please you—and do it, too. See if I won’t. Only not quite to give up the speaking. Think how people are beginning to look up to me. Why, when we get a 444 reformed House, and the members are paid, they will send me to Parliament—me! I shall be a member for Camden Town. Then I shall be made Home Secretary, or Attorney General, or something. You will be proud, Lily, of your husband when he is a distinguished man. There’s a splendid time for us—ahead!”
“Yes, dear. But first you know you have got to get a salary that we can live on.”
He left her at her door with a kiss and a laugh, and turned to go home. In the next street he passed a public-house. He stopped, he hesitated, he felt in his pocket, he went in and had a go, just a single go—Lily would never find out—of Scotch, cold. Then he went home and played at practising shorthand for an hour. He had promised his Lily. She should see how well he could keep his promise.