Sam Hobson Character Analysis

“You are not happy, Mrs. Twycott, I'm afraid?” he said.

“O, of course not! I lost my husband only the year before last.”

“Ah! I meant in another way. You’d like to be home again?”

“This is my home—for life. The house belongs to me. But I understand”—She let it out then. “Yes, Sam. I long for home—our home! I should like to be there, and never leave it, and die there.” But she remembered herself. “That's only a momentary feeling. I have a son, you know, a dear boy. He's at school now.”

“I forgot, ma’am, that you've been a lady for so many years.”

“No, I am not a lady,” she said sadly. “I never shall be. But he's a gentleman, and that—makes it—O how difficult for me!”

The air and Sam’s presence had revived her: her cheeks were quite pink—almost beautiful. She had something to live for in addition to her son. A woman of pure instincts, she knew there had been nothing really wrong in the journey, but supposed it conventionally to be very wrong indeed.

“I have a son . . . I almost fancy when I am miserable sometimes that he is not really mine, but one I hold in trust for my late husband. He seems to belong so little to me personally, so entirely to his dead father. He is so much educated and I so little that I do not feel dignified enough to be his mother . . . Well, he would have to be told.”

But by indignation and contempt for her taste he completely maintained his ascendency; and finally taking her before a little cross and altar that he had erected in his bedroom for his private devotions, there bade her kneel, and swear that she would not wed Samuel Hobson without his consent. “I owe this to my father!” he said.

The poor woman swore, thinking he would soften as soon as he was ordained and in full swing of clerical work. But he did not. His education had by this time sufficiently ousted his humanity to keep him quite firm; though his mother might have led an idyllic life with her faithful fruiterer and greengrocer, and nobody have been anything the worse in the world.

Her lameness became more confirmed as time went on, and she seldom or never left the house in the long southern thoroughfare, where she seemed to be pining her heart away. “Why mayn’t I say to Sam that I’ll marry him? Why mayn’t I?” she would murmur plaintively to herself when nobody was near.

Some four years after this date a middle-aged man was standing at the door of the largest fruiterer's shop in Aldbrickham. He was the proprietor, but to-day, instead of his usual business attire, he wore a neat suit of black; and his window was partly shuttered. From the railway-station a funeral procession was seen approaching: it passed his door and went out of the town towards the village of Gaymead. The man, whose eyes were wet, held his hat in his hand as the vehicles moved by; while from the mourning coach a young smooth-shaven priest in a high waistcoat looked black as a cloud at the shopkeeper standing there.

“You are not happy, Mrs. Twycott, I'm afraid?” he said.

“O, of course not! I lost my husband only the year before last.”

“Ah! I meant in another way. You’d like to be home again?”

“This is my home—for life. The house belongs to me. But I understand”—She let it out then. “Yes, Sam. I long for home—our home! I should like to be there, and never leave it, and die there.” But she remembered herself. “That's only a momentary feeling. I have a son, you know, a dear boy. He's at school now.”

“I forgot, ma’am, that you've been a lady for so many years.”

“No, I am not a lady,” she said sadly. “I never shall be. But he's a gentleman, and that—makes it—O how difficult for me!”

The air and Sam’s presence had revived her: her cheeks were quite pink—almost beautiful. She had something to live for in addition to her son. A woman of pure instincts, she knew there had been nothing really wrong in the journey, but supposed it conventionally to be very wrong indeed.

“I have a son . . . I almost fancy when I am miserable sometimes that he is not really mine, but one I hold in trust for my late husband. He seems to belong so little to me personally, so entirely to his dead father. He is so much educated and I so little that I do not feel dignified enough to be his mother . . . Well, he would have to be told.”

But by indignation and contempt for her taste he completely maintained his ascendency; and finally taking her before a little cross and altar that he had erected in his bedroom for his private devotions, there bade her kneel, and swear that she would not wed Samuel Hobson without his consent. “I owe this to my father!” he said.

The poor woman swore, thinking he would soften as soon as he was ordained and in full swing of clerical work. But he did not. His education had by this time sufficiently ousted his humanity to keep him quite firm; though his mother might have led an idyllic life with her faithful fruiterer and greengrocer, and nobody have been anything the worse in the world.

Her lameness became more confirmed as time went on, and she seldom or never left the house in the long southern thoroughfare, where she seemed to be pining her heart away. “Why mayn’t I say to Sam that I’ll marry him? Why mayn’t I?” she would murmur plaintively to herself when nobody was near.

Some four years after this date a middle-aged man was standing at the door of the largest fruiterer's shop in Aldbrickham. He was the proprietor, but to-day, instead of his usual business attire, he wore a neat suit of black; and his window was partly shuttered. From the railway-station a funeral procession was seen approaching: it passed his door and went out of the town towards the village of Gaymead. The man, whose eyes were wet, held his hat in his hand as the vehicles moved by; while from the mourning coach a young smooth-shaven priest in a high waistcoat looked black as a cloud at the shopkeeper standing there.