And then farewell to all his
hopes, his plans, his high ambition. No beautiful home for him now,
no loving mother nor winsome sister nor taste of any joy that he had
thought to know. It was hard to give them up, it was terrible, but it
must be done.
He fell to thinking of his visit to his mother. It seemed to him as
though it were something that had taken place very long ago. It was
like a sweet dream that he had dreamed as a little boy. He wondered
if it was indeed only that afternoon that it had all occurred. It
had been so beautiful, so very beautiful; and now! Could it be that
this boy, sitting weak, wretched, disconsolate, on the steps of this
deserted office, in the night-time, was the same boy whose feet had
scarcely touched the ground that afternoon for buoyant happiness? Oh,
it was dreadful! dreadful! He began to wonder why he did not cry. He
put up his hands to see if there were any tears on his cheeks, but he
found none. Did only people cry who had some gentler cause for tears?
But the thought of what would happen if he should keep his knowledge
to himself came back again into his mind. He drove it out, but it
returned. It had a fascination about it that was difficult to resist.
It would be so easy simply to say nothing. And who would ever know
that he was not Mrs. Burnham's son? Why, Old Simon would know, but he
would not dare to tell; Lawyer Sharpman would know, but he would not
dare to tell; Rhyming Joe would know, but he would not dare to tell,
at least, not for a long time.
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