because they are grand folk. I have other reasons — strong reasons.”
“Be honest. Tell me thy strong reasons.”
Here was a strait.
“Why dost thee blush, young man? Is it aught thee art ashamed of?”
“Ashamed! No!”
“Is it a secret, then, the telling of which would be to thee, or to any else, dishonour?”
“Dishonour!” And the bright eye shot an indignant gleam.
“Then, tell the truth.”
“I will. I wish first to find out, for myself, whether Lady Caroline Brithwood is fitted to have under her charge one who is young — innocent — good.”
“Has she such an one? One thee knows?”
“Yes.”
“Man or woman?”
“Woman.”
My father turned, and looked John full in the eyes. Stern as that look was, I traced in it a strange compassion.
“Lad, I thought so. Thee hast found the curse of man’s life — woman.”
To my amazement, John replied not a syllable. He seemed even as if he had forgotten himself and his own secret — thus, for what end I knew not, voluntarily betrayed — so absorbed was he in contemplating the old man. And truly, in all my life I had never seen such a convulsion pass over my father’s face. It was like as if some one had touched and revived the torment of a long-hidden, but never-to-behealed wound. Not till years after did I understand the full meaning of John’s gaze, or why he was so patient with my father.
The torment passed — ended in violent anger.
“Out with it. Who is deluding thee? Is it a matter of wedlock, or only —”
“Stop!” John cried; his face all on fire. “The lady —”
“It is a ‘lady’! Now I see why thee would fain be a gentleman.”
“Oh, father — how can you?”
“So thee knowest it too — I see it in thy face — Wouldst thee be led away by him a second time! But thee shall not. I’ll put thee under lock and key before thee shalt ruin thyself and disgrace thy father.”
This was hard to bear; but I believe — it was John’s teaching — that one ought to bear anything, however hard, from a just and worthy parent. And it was John himself who now grasped my hand, and whispered patience. John — who knew, what I myself, as I have said, did not learn for years, concerning my father’s former history.
“Sir, you mistake; Phineas has nothing whatever to do with this matter. He is altogether blameless. So am I too, if you heard all.”
“Tell me all; honour is bold — shame only is silent.”
“I feel no shame — an honest love is no disgrace to any man. And my confessing it harms no one. She neither knows of it nor returns it.”
As he said this, slowly, gravely, John moved a step back and sat down. His face was in shadow; but the fire shone on his hands, tightly locked together, motionless as stone.
My father was deeply moved. Heaven knows what ghosts of former days came and knocked at the old man’s heart. We all three sat silent for a long time, then my father said:
“Who is she?”
“I had rather not tell you. She is above me in worldly station.”
“Ah!” a fierce exclamation. “But thee wouldst not humble thyself — ruin thy peace for life? Thee wouldst not marry her?”
“I would — if she had loved me. Even yet, if by any honourable means I can rise to her level, so as to be able to win her love, marry her I will.”
That brave “I will”— it seemed to carry its own fulfilment. Its indomitable resolution struck my father with wonder — nay, with a sort of awe.
“Do as thee thinks best, and God help thee,” he said, kindly. “Mayst thee never find thy desire a curse. Fear not, lad — I will keep thy counsel.”
“I knew you would.”
The subject ceased: my father’s manner indicated that he wished it to cease. He relit his pipe, and puffed away, silently and sadly.
Years afterwards, when all that remained of Abel Fletcher was a green mound beside that other mound, in the Friends’ burying-ground in St. Mary’s Lane, I learnt — what all Norton Bury, except myself, had long known — that my poor mother, the young, thoughtless creature, whose married life had been so unhappy and so brief, was by birth a “gentlewoman.”
Chapter 17
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Mrs. Jessop’s drawing-room, ruddy with fire-light, glittering with delicate wax candle-light; a few women in pale-coloured gauzy dresses, a few men, sublime in blue coats, gold buttons, yellow waistcoats, and smiles — this was all I noticed of the scene, which was quite a novel scene to me.
The doctor’s wife had introduced us formally to all her guests, as the custom then was, especially in these small cosy supper-parties. How they greeted us I do not now remember; no doubt, with a kind of well-bred formal surprise; but society was generally formal then. My chief recollection is of Mrs. Jessop’s saying pointedly and aloud, though with a smile playing under the corners of her good little mouth:
“Mr. Halifax, it is kind of you to come; Lady Caroline Brithwood will be delighted. She longs to make your acquaintance.”
After that everybody began to talk with extraordinary civility to Mr. Halifax.
For John, he soon took his place among them, with that modest self-possession which best becomes youth. Society’s dangerous waters accordingly became smooth to him, as to a good swimmer who knows his own strength, trusts it, and struggles not.
“Mr. Brithwood and Lady Caroline will be late,” I overheard the hostess say. “I think I told you that Miss March —”
But here the door was flung open, and the missing guests announced. John and I were in the alcove of the window; I heard his breathing behind me, but I dared not look at or speak to him. In truth, I was scarcely calmer than he. For though it must be clearly understood I never was “in love” with any woman, still the reflected glamour of those Enderley days had fallen on me. It often seems now as if I too had passed the golden gate, and looked far enough into youth’s Eden to be able ever after to weep with those that wept without the doors.
No — she was not there.
We both sat down. I know not if I was thankful or sorry.
I
