Then he stole other things. At last he took the furniture, bit by bit, and pawned it, until his mother was left with nothing but a mattress and a pair of blankets. He could not take her money, because all she had was an annuity of fifteen shillings a week, otherwise he would have had that too. He then borrowed Lily’s watch and pawned it, and her little trinkets and pawned them; he took from her all the money she would give him.
Both women half starved themselves to find him in drink and to save him from crime. Yes, to save him from crime. They did not use these words—they understood. For now he had become mad for drink. There was no longer any pretence; he even left off lying; he was drunk every day; if he could not get drunk he sat on the bare floor and cried. Neither his mother nor Lily reproached him.
An end—a semicolon, if not a full stop—comes to such a course. Unfortunately not always the end which is most to be desired—the only effectual end.
The end or semicolon which came to this young man was that, having nothing more of his mother’s that he could pawn, one day he slipped into the ground floor lodger’s room and made up quite a valuable little parcel for his friend the pawnbroker. It contained a Waterbury watch, a seven and sixpenny clock, a mug—electro-plate, won at a spelling competition—a bound volume of “Tit Bits,” and a Bible.
When the lodger came home and found out his loss he proved to be of an irascible, suspicious, and revengeful disposition. He immediately, for instance, suspected the drunken young man of the first floor. He caused secret inquiry to be made, and—but why go on? Alas! the conclusion of the affair was eight months’ hard.
“Here he comes,” said Lily. “Look up, mother; we must meet him with a smile. He will come out sober, at any rate.”
He was looking much better for his period of seclusion. He walked home 448 between them, subdued, but ready, on encouragement, for their old confidence.
In fact, it broke out, after an excellent breakfast.
“I have made up my mind,” he said, “while I was thinking—oh! I had plenty to think about and plenty of time to do my thinking in. Well, I have made up my mind. Mother, this is no country for me any longer. After what has happened I must go. You two go on living together, just for company, but I shall go—I shall go to America. There’s always an opening, I am told, in America, for fellows who are not afraid of work. Cleverness tells there. A man isn’t kept down because he’s had a misfortune. What is there against me, after all? Character gone, eh? Well, if you come to that, I don’t deny that appearances were against me. I could explain, however.