"No, it is not all my business. I want you to forgive George,--not to prosecute him,--not to give him up to the law."

"Ah! I thought that was coming. And why, pray, should I not prosecute the young rascal? Don't you think he richly deserves punishment?"

"Honestly, I do."

When Effie said this, Mr. Gering's eyes twinkled for the first time.

"Eh, eh!" he exclaimed. "I am glad we're of one mind on that point. We both doubtless believe that punishment would be good for him."

"We do."

"Then why deprive him of anything so beneficial?"

"Because of my mother."

"Your mother! Is there a mother in the case?"

"There is--a mother who lies now at the point of death. Let me tell you her story."

"I haven't read my letters yet, Miss Staunton."

"Oh, never mind your letters! Let me tell you about my father and my mother. Four months ago my father was alive. He was a country doctor. He was very good, everyone loved him. He caught diphtheria, and died. My mother has heart disease, and my father felt sure that the shock of losing him would kill her. He loved her most tenderly. When he lay dying he was certain that G.o.d would allow them both to leave the world together. My mother was kneeling by his bedside; and George, my brother, knelt there too. And my brother said. 'Don't take mother away, father;'

and then father said to mother, 'Stay with George.' At that moment something strange must have happened--all my mother's great love seemed suddenly directed into a new channel. Her love for George since that moment has been the pa.s.sion of her life. He was not strong-minded."

"No, indeed," interrupted Mr. Gering.

"No; and he yielded to temptation and got into trouble, and--and lost money. But all the time my mother has been imagining that he is the best and steadiest fellow in London. She lives in a sort of golden dream about him. If she learns the truth she will certainly die, and George will be lost. He will then, as he himself expresses it, 'go under'

forever. He won't be able to stand the thought that through his sin and weakness he has killed his mother."

"I should hope not," interrupted Mr. Gering.

"Therefore I want you to forgive him--it is your duty."

"My duty, child! What right have you to come and talk to me about my duty?"

"Every right, if I can only make you perform it."

"You are either impertinent or very brave, young lady. I was never spoken to in this strain before."

"Well, you see, it is a matter of life and death," said Effie. "I can't mince words when life and death hang in the balance."

"You're a queer girl--a queer girl; I don't know what to make of you.

'Pon my word, I'm sorry for that mother of yours--poor soul, poor soul!

It's a pity she didn't bring up her son as conscientiously as she did her daughter. Now, you wouldn't have taken fifty pounds out of my till?"

"No," said Effie.

"I wish you were a boy--I'd give you that lad's place within an hour."

"Thank you, but I don't think I should care to have it. Will you come now and do your duty?"

"Come! Where am I to come?"

"To see George."

"The rascal! Where is he?"

"I'll take you to him."

"Do you know that you are bullying me in the most shameful way, Miss Staunton?"

"I know that you have a very kind heart," answered Effie.

At this moment the room door was opened, and Power came in again.

"Mr. Fortescue has called, sir."

"Tell Mr. Fortescue that I can't see him."

"And Ford has sent round about that shipping order. When can you give him his answer?"

"Some time this afternoon."

"But they want it this morning."

"Well, they can't have it; I'm going out for a bit. Come along, Miss Staunton; we can't let the gra.s.s grow under our feet."

CHAPTER XXIII.

There come moments in the lives of all of us when we feel as if a restraining and powerful hand were pulling us up short. We have come to a full stop; we cannot go back, and we do not know how to proceed. These full stops in life's journey are generally awful places. We meet there, as a rule, the devil and his angels--they tear us and rend us, they shake us to our very depths with awful and overpowering temptation; if we yield, it is all over with us, we rush at headlong speed downhill.

But, on the other hand, if in this pause we turn our back upon the devil, good angels come in his place--they whisper of hope and a new chance in life even for us.

When Effie left George on that miserable evening, and when Lawson retired presently to his room, the young man found that he had come to such a fearful place of trial as I have just described. He was pulled up short, and the devil was tempting him. At one side was the devil, at the other he saw the face of his mother. It was impossible for him to lie down and sleep. He fought with the devil all night. In the morning there was neither victory nor defeat, but the young, smooth face looked haggard and gray, and the upright, well-knit figure was bowed.

Lawson came into the sitting room for a moment.

"I am sorry I can't stay with you, George," he said. "I am due at St.

Joseph's at nine o'clock. Have you made any plans for yourself?"

"No--at least, yes. I've had an awful night, Lawson, and there seems to be but one end to it."

"What is that?"