that I shall escape; I know that I have been guilty of no great crime against you, and I am no longer afraid of you.”
“Why, boy!” said Eliza. “We’ve done all we could for you. What crime have we accused you of?”
“Of breathing your air, of eating your food, of living under your roof, of having your life and your blood in my veins, of accepting your sacrifice and privation, and of being ungrateful for it all.”
“We should all be thankful for what we have,” said Luke sententiously. “Many a fellow would give his right eye for the chance you’ve been given.”
“I’ve been given nothing!” said Eugene, his voice mounting with a husky flame of passion. “I’ll go bent over no longer in this house. What chance I have I’ve made for myself in spite of you all, and over your opposition. You sent me away to the university when you could do nothing else, when it would have been a crying disgrace to you among the people in this town if you hadn’t. You sent me off after the Leonards had cried me up for three years, and then you sent me a year too soon—before I was sixteen—with a box of sandwiches, two suits of clothes, and instructions to be a good boy.”
“They sent you some money, too,” said Luke. “Don’t forget that.”
“I’d be the only one who would, if I did,” the boy answered. “For that is really what is behind everything, isn’t it? My crime the other night was not in getting drunk, but in getting drunk without any money of my own. If I did badly at the university with money of my own, you’d dare say nothing, but if I do well on money you gave me, I must still be reminded of your goodness and my unworthiness.”
“Why, son!” said Eliza diplomatically, “no one has a word to say against the way you’ve done your work. We’re very proud of you.”
“You needn’t be,” he said sullenly. “I’ve wasted a great deal of time and some money. But I’ve had something out of it—more than most—I’ve done as much work for my wages as you deserve. I’ve given you a fair value for your money; I thank you for nothing.”
