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 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 AT ALL THE LIBRARIES 
 
 CATERINA. By the author of ' Lauterdale.' 3 vols. 
 JAC OBI'S WIFE. By Adeline Sergeant, author of 
 
 ' No Saint,' ' An Open Foe,' ' Beyond Recall,' &c. 3 vols 
 
 ON THE SCENT. By Lady Margaret Majendie, 
 
 author of ' Dita,' ' Once More,' ' Sisters in Law,' &c, 1 vol. 
 
 A GREAT PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. ByW.DuTTON 
 
 BuRRARD. 3 VOlS. 
 
 THE GOLDEN HOPE : A Romance of the Deep. By 
 
 W. Clark Russell, author of -A Sea Queen,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 HURST & BLACKETT, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
 
 THE SON OF HIS FATHER 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. OLIPHANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "IT WAS A LOVER AND HJS LASS," " AGNES," 
 "THE LAIRD OP NORLAW," 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1887. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 3 
 
 nv 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CHA1TEK HACK 
 
 
 I. 
 
 When he was a Child ... 1 
 
 
 II. 
 
 When he was a Child (continued) . 
 
 
 18 
 
 I 
 
 III. 
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIN LlFE 
 
 
 35 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 John's Choice .... 
 
 
 53 
 
 
 V. 
 
 An Adventure . 
 
 
 
 
 71 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 Grandmamma 
 
 
 
 
 89 
 
 i 
 
 VII. 
 
 Comrades . 
 
 
 
 
 106 
 
 r i 
 
 VIIL 
 
 A Call for Emily 
 
 
 
 
 . 123 
 
 
 IX. 
 
 John's Letter . 
 
 
 
 
 139 
 
 
 X. 
 
 The Reply . 
 
 
 
 
 156 
 
 
 XI. 
 
 The Shadow of Death 
 
 
 
 174 
 
 J 
 
 XII. 
 
 Emily 
 
 
 
 192 
 
 
 XIII. 
 
 What the Parish thought 
 
 
 210 
 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Mr. Sandford's Daughter 
 
 
 229 
 
 
 XV. 
 
 A Visit to the Foundry . 
 
 
 247 
 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Research 
 
 
 264 
 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Mother and Son 
 
 
 283 
 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Farewell . 
 
 
 301 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 THE SOX OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHEN" HE WAS A CHILD. 
 
 * Don't say anything before the boy.' 
 
 This was one of the first things he remem- 
 bered. In the confused recollections of that 
 early age, he seemed to have been always hear- 
 ing it : said between his mother and his sister, 
 afterwards between his grandparents, even by 
 strangers one to another, always, ' Don't say 
 anything before the boy.' What it was, about 
 which nothing was to be said, he had very little 
 idea, and, indeed, grew up to be a man before, 
 in the light of sudden revelations, he began to 
 put these scattered gleams together, and see 
 what they meant. They confused his little 
 VOL. i. B
 
 2 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 soul from the beginning, throwing strange lights 
 and stranger shadows across his path, keeping 
 around him a sort of unreality, a sense that 
 things were not as they seemed. 
 
 His name was John in those days : certainly 
 John — of that there was no doubt: called 
 Johnnie, when people were kind, sometimes 
 Jack — but John he always was. He had a 
 faint sort of notion that it had not always been 
 John Sandford. But this was not clear in his 
 mind. It was all confused with the rest of the 
 broken reminiscences which concerned the time 
 in which everybody was so anxious that nothing 
 should be said before the boy. 
 
 In those days his recollection was of a little 
 common-place house — a house in a street — with 
 two parlours, one behind the other, kitchens be- 
 low, bed-rooms above, the most ordinary little 
 house. There was a little garden behind, in 
 which he played ; and in which sometimes he 
 was vaguely conscious of being shut out on 
 purpose to play, and doing so in an abortive, 
 unwilling way which took all the pleasure out 
 of it. Sometimes he only sat down and won- 
 dered, not even pretending to amuse himself,
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 6 
 
 until a butterfly flew past and roused him, or 
 his little spade showed itself temptingly at hand. 
 At seven one is easily beguiled, whatever weight 
 there may be on one's spirit. But now and then 
 he would stop and look up at the windows, 
 and see some one moving indoors, and wonder 
 again what it was that the boy was not in- 
 tended to know. 
 
 At this period of John's career, his father was 
 alive — and he was fond of his father. Some- 
 times papa would be very late, and would go up 
 to John's little bed, and bring him down in his 
 night-gown only half awake, seeing the candles 
 like stars through a mist of sleep and wonder, 
 till he was roused to the fullest wakefulness by 
 cakes and sweetmeats, and every kind of dainty 
 which papa had brought. John became quite 
 used to all the varying experiences of this mid- 
 night incident — the reluctance to be roused up, 
 the glory of going downstairs, the delight of the 
 feast. He sat on his father's knee, wdth his little 
 bare feet wrapped in a shawl, and his eyes shin- 
 ing as brightly as the candles, munching and 
 chattering. He got quite used to it. He used 
 to feel uncomfortable sometimes in the morning,
 
 4 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 and heard it said that something was very bad 
 for him, and that the child's stomach, as well as 
 his morals, would be spoiled. Johnnie knew as 
 little about his stomach as about his morals. And 
 he had a way of being well which greatly inter- 
 fered with all these prognostications. He was 
 a very sturdy little boy. 
 
 He had a consciousness through all these 
 scenes of his mother's face, very pale, without 
 any smile in it, showing serious, like the moon, 
 among those lights. She gave him no cake or 
 oranges, but it was she who wrapped up his 
 feet in the shawl, and took care of him in the 
 morning when his little head sometimes ached. 
 Papa was never visible in the morning. Johnnie 
 was sometimes a little afraid of him, though he 
 was so jolly in these mid-night visits. The boy 
 was frightened when he was being carried down- 
 stairs, and clung very close, though he did not 
 say anything about his fears. Papa would lurch 
 sometimes on those occasions, like the steam- 
 boat on which John once had gone to sea. The 
 memory of the lighted table, the father who 
 always made a noise, laughing, talking, some- 
 times singing, always so fond of his little boy ;
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 5 
 
 but mamma dreadfully quiet, scarcely saving 
 anything, and the lights of the candles, not at 
 all like the candles we have now-a-days, but 
 big, and shining like stars, never faded from his 
 memory, even when he had grown a man. 
 
 In the day-time, it was rather dull. Susie 
 was five years older than he, going on for twelve, 
 and knowing everything. She got to saying, 
 1 Go away, child,' when he asked her to come 
 and play. As he remembered her, she never 
 played, but was always at her needlework or 
 something, almost worse than mamma — and there 
 would be long conversations between those two 
 in the winter's afternoon, while he was playing at 
 coach and horses, made with chairs, in the other 
 room, the back parlour, which was the place 
 where they had their meals. Sometimes when 
 he got tired of the obstinacy of Dobbin, who 
 was the big mahogany arm-chair, and who would 
 have his own way, and jibbed abominably, he 
 would catch a glimpse through the half-opened 
 folding-doors of those two over the fire. They 
 always spoke very low, and sometimes ciied — 
 and, if he came a little near, would give each 
 other a frightened look and say, ' Not a word
 
 C) THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 before the boy.' Johnnie's ears got very quick 
 to those words — he heard them when they were 
 whispered, and sometimes he heard them 
 through his sleep. Could they be talking of 
 anything naughty, or what was it so necessary 
 that he must not know % 
 
 There came a time at last when all this con- 
 fused mystery came to a climax. There were 
 hasty comings and goings, men at the door 
 whose heavy loud knockings filled the house 
 with dismay, stealthy entrances in the dark: 
 for Johnnie a succession of troubled dreams, of 
 figures flitting into his room in the middle of 
 night, but never papa in the old jovial way to 
 carry him down to the parlour with its staring 
 candles. No one thought of such indulgences 
 now. If they were wrong, they were all over. 
 When he awoke he saw,half awake and half dream- 
 ing, sometimes his father, though he had been 
 told he was away, sometimes his mother ; other 
 strange visitors flitting like ghosts, all confusion 
 and disorder, the night turned into day. He 
 was himself kept in corners in the daylight, or 
 sent into the garden to play, or shut up in the 
 back parlour with his toys. It seemed to
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 7 
 
 Johnnie that they must think he wanted noth- 
 ing but those toys, and never could understand 
 that to play without any companions, without 
 any wish for playing, was impossible ; but he was 
 a dutiful child, and tried to do what he was told. 
 It was at this strange and uncomfortable period 
 that he learned how nice it is to have a book, 
 after you have exhausted all your solitary inven- 
 tions and played at everything you know. The 
 fascination of the books; however, added to the 
 confusion of everything. Johnnie mixedup Robin- 
 son Crusoe with the agitating phantasmagoria of 
 his little life. He thought that perhaps it was 
 from the savages his father was hiding, — for he 
 was sure that it was his father he saw in those 
 visions of the night, though every one said he 
 had gone away. Then there came a lull in the 
 agitation, and silence fell upon the house. 
 Mamma and Susie cried a great deal, and were 
 together more than ever, but Johnnie's dreams 
 stopped, and he saw no more in the night 
 through his half-closed eyes the flitting figures 
 and moving lights. 
 
 Then there came a strange scene very clearly 
 painted upon his memory, though it was not for
 
 8 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 many years after that he was able to piece it in to 
 his life. Johnnie had been left alone in the 
 house with the maid, the only servant the family 
 had, who was a simple-minded country woman, 
 and kind to the child, though not perhaps in a 
 very judicious way. She was kind in the way 
 of giving him sweetmeats and pieces of cake, 
 and the remains of dainty dishes which upstairs 
 were not supposed to be wholesome for Johnnie, 
 { as if the dear child shouldn't have everything of 
 the best,' Betty said. On this day Betty was full 
 of excitement, not capable of staying still in one 
 place, she herself told him. She gave him his dinner, 
 which he had to eat all by himself, a singular but 
 not on the whole a disagreeable ceremony, since 
 Betty was about all the time, very anxious that 
 he should eat, and amusing him with stories. 
 
 ' Master Johnnie,' she said, when the meal 
 was over, ' it do be very dull staying in the 
 house, with nothing at all to do. Missus won't 
 be back till late at night. I know she can't, 
 poor dear. It would be more cheerful if you 
 and me went out for a walk.' 
 
 * But how could you leave the house, Betty, 
 all alone by itself?' said the little boy.
 
 WHEN" HE WAS A CHILD. 9 
 
 ' It won't run away, never fear, nor nobody 
 couldn't steal the tables and chairs ; and there 
 ain't nothing else left to steal, more's the pity,' 
 said Betty. ■ We'll go afore it's dark, and it'll 
 cheer us up a bit : for I can't sit still, not me, 
 more than if I was one of the family : though 
 you don't know nothing about that, you poor 
 little darlin', Lord bless you.' 
 
 Betty, it is to be feared, would have told 
 him readily enough, but the child was so used 
 to hearing that he must not be told that he 
 asked no questions. To go out, however, 
 was certainly more cheerful than to pass 
 another wintry afternoon in the back parlour 
 without seeing anyone but Betsy. He allowed 
 himself to be buttoned up in his little thick 
 blue topcoat of pilot cloth, which made him 
 as broad as he was long, and to have his 
 comforter wound round his neck, though he did 
 not much like that ; and then they sailed forth, 
 Betsy putting in her pocket the great key of the 
 house door. She did not talk much, being 
 occupied profoundly with interests of her own, 
 of which Johnnie knew nothing, but she led him 
 along past lines of cheerful shops all shining
 
 10 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 with Christmas presents : for Christmas was com- 
 ing on, and there was an unusual traffic in the 
 toy shops and the book shops, and all the places 
 where pleasant things for Christmas were. 
 Johnnie stopped and gazed, dragging at her hand, 
 and wondered if any of the picture-books would 
 fall to his share. His mother did not buy many 
 pleasant things for him ; but if papa came back 
 he never forgot Johnnie ; he thought to himself 
 that surely for Christmas papa would come back 
 — unless indeed the savages had got him. But 
 a certain big policeman strolled by, while this 
 thought passed through the child's mind, and, 
 even at seven years old, one cannot feel that 
 savages are ineffectual creatures where such 
 policemen are. But the thought of papa gave 
 Johnnie a sense of mystery and alarm, since his 
 father had disappeared in the day-time, only 
 to be seen fitfully through half-shut eyes at 
 night. 
 
 As the afternoon wore on, and the lights were 
 lighted in all the shop windows, Johnnie thought 
 this better than ever ; but Betty was no longer 
 disposed to let him gaze. She said it was time 
 to go home, and then led him away through
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 11 
 
 little dark and dingy streets which, he did not 
 know, and which tired him both in his little legs 
 and in his mind. At last they came to a row of 
 houses which ran along one side of a street, the 
 other side of which was occupied by a large and 
 lofty building. Here Betty paused a moment 
 pondering. 
 
 ' Master Johnnie,' she said at last, * if you'll 
 be a good boy and don't say a word to anyone, 
 I'll take you to see the most wonderful place you 
 ever saw, something which you will never, never 
 forget all your life.' 
 
 ' What is it, Betty V asked Johnnie. 
 
 I Oh, you would not understand if I was to tell 
 you its name. But it's something that you will 
 always remember, and be glad you went there. 
 But you must never, never tell ; for if you were 
 to tell anyone your mamma would be angry, and 
 it's not known what she would do to me.' 
 
 I I will never tell,' said Johnnie, upon which 
 Betty gave him a kiss and called him ' a poor 
 darlin', as knew nothing,' and knocked at the 
 door before which they were standing, and took 
 him up a long, long narrow stair. Johnnie saw 
 nothing of any importance when he was taken
 
 12 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 into a little ordinary room at the top, where two 
 women were sitting beside a little fire, where a 
 kettle was boiling and the table set all ready 
 for tea. 
 
 * This is the poor little boy,' Betty said, after 
 a while : and both the women looked at him, 
 and patted him on the head, and said, * Poor 
 little gentleman,' and that he must have his 
 tea first. He did not mind having his tea, 
 for he was tired with his walk, and the bread 
 and butter they gave him was sprinkled thinly 
 over with little sweetmeats, very little tiny 
 things, red and white, whieh were quite new to 
 Johnnie. He was used to jam and honey and 
 other things of this kind, but to eat bread and 
 butter sprinkled with sugar-plums was quite a 
 novelty. While he was busy in this agreeable 
 way, one of the women put out the candles and 
 drew up the blind from the window. And then 
 Johnnie saw the wonderful thing which he was 
 never to forget all his life. 
 
 Out of the little dark room there was a view 
 into a great hall, lighted up and crammed full of 
 people all sitting round and round in endless 
 lines. Even in church he had never seen so many
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. lo 
 
 people together before. Some were seated in red 
 dresses quite high up where everybody could see 
 them, but the others were quite like people at 
 church. It was very strange to see all that 
 assembly, busy about something, sitting in rows 
 and looking at each other, and not a word to be 
 heard. Johnnie gazed and eat his bread and 
 butter wdth the sugar-plums, and was not quite 
 sure w r hich was the most wonderful. 
 
 1 What are they doing V he asked Betty. But 
 Betty only put her arms round him and began 
 to sob and cry. 
 
 ' Oh, bless the child, Lord bless the child ! Oh 
 listen to him, the little innocent.' 
 
 He did not like to be held to Betty's breast, 
 nor to be wept over in that unpleasant way. 
 He shook himself free, and said to the other 
 women, 
 
 ' Will you tell me ? What are they doing all 
 staring at each other.' 
 
 1 It's a trial, my poor dear little gentleman. 
 They are trying a man for his life.' 
 
 1 Xo, no, not for his life : though it would have 
 been for his life a little time ago,' said the other. 
 
 Johnnie did not know what it meant to try a
 
 14 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 man for his life; but he accepted the description, 
 as a child often does, without further inquiry 
 and stood and looked at it wondering. But it 
 did not seem to him the extraordinary thing 
 that Betty had said it was, and presently he 
 began to pull at her skirts, and asked to go 
 home. 
 
 That was a very dismal night for Johnnie. They 
 got home, and his things were taken off, and he 
 returned to his toys. To see him playing in his 
 forlorn way, all alone, with his little serious face 
 was too much for Betty. But he got very tired 
 of her caresses and attempts at consolation. 
 The night passed on, and bed-time came, but his 
 mother never came home. He sat and listened 
 for the steps coming along the street, and dozed 
 and woke up again, and felt as if all the world 
 was empty round him, and only he and Betty 
 left. He began to cry, but he felt as if he dared 
 not make a noise, and sat with his little head in 
 his hands trying to keep quiet, though now and 
 then breaking out into sobs. * Oh, where was 
 mamma ? Why didn't she come % Where was 
 Susie ? What had happened that they did not 
 come home V And then the picture-books in the
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 15 
 
 shop windows, and the great place full of people, 
 who sat all silent under the light in those rows 
 and rows of seats, and the little sugar-plums upon 
 the bread and butter, all circled confusedly in 
 his mind. And in the end he fell asleep, and 
 was earned up to bed by Betty, and undressed 
 ■without knowing it ; but yet even in his sleep 
 seemed to know and feel that there was nobody 
 in the house but Betty and him. Nobody but 
 the servant and the little boy ! What a strange, 
 miserable thing in a house that it should be left 
 alone with only the servant and the little boy. 
 
 Johnnie woke up suddenly out of his confused 
 and broken sleep. His little bed was in the 
 dressing-room that opened into his mother's bed- 
 room. He woke to hear a sound of crying and 
 miserable voices, low and interrupted with tears. 
 There was a light in his mother's room, and he 
 could see Susie moving about, taking off her 
 outdoor dress, while mamma lay back in the 
 easy-chair Jbef ore the little fire, as if she had been 
 taken ill. She lay there as if she could not 
 move, till a sudden quick pang sprang up in 
 the little boy's heart, and a coldness as of ice 
 crept over him, even in the warmth of his little
 
 16 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 bed. Could mamma, too, be going to die ? 
 Mamma too ? He did not know at all what he 
 meant, and yet he knew that something had 
 happened which was more miserable than any- 
 thing that ever had been before. He lay still, and 
 gazed out from between the bars of his crib, and 
 listened to the crying. That grown-up people 
 should cry was dreadful to him. He wanted 
 to get up and creep to his mother's knee, and so 
 at least belong to them, rather than be left out in 
 this dreadful solitude : but he knew that if he did 
 this they would immediately stop their talking, 
 and tell each other that nothing must be said 
 before the boy. So all that he could do was to lie 
 still, and cry too, the silent tears dropping upon 
 his little pillow, the sound of the low voices, 
 too low to be intelligible, but not to betray the 
 wretchedness that was in them, coming to him 
 like sounds in a dream. Oh what a different 
 scene from the other awakings, when, half peevish, 
 half frightened out of his sleep, he had opened his 
 eyes to the dazzling of the candle, and seen papa's 
 laughing face bending over his ; and then to 
 be carried off, with his little bare feet in papa's 
 hands to keep them warm, even though there
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 17 
 
 might be a lurching like the steamboat, which 
 frightened yet made him laugh. And then the 
 cakes, the oranges, the sip of papa's wine, and, 
 best of all, papa's laugh, and his merry face. 
 That little vision out of the past got confused 
 by-and-by with the crying and the low talk 
 in the next room, and then with the people 
 sitting in the court, and the sugar-plums on the 
 bread and butter, till Johnnie, in a great 
 bewilderment of images, not knowing which 
 was which, at last out of that chaos once more 
 fell asleep. 
 
 VOL. l.
 
 18 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD (CONTINUED). 
 
 It was not very long after this, but how long 
 his memory could not clearly make out, when 
 Johnnie was sent to the country to his grand- 
 father and grandmother, who lived in a village 
 some twenty miles away. He did not recollect 
 being told about it, or at all prepared for his 
 journey, but only that one morning the old 
 people came in, driving in an old-fashioned little 
 light cart, called a shandry in the neighbourhood, 
 and took him away. They were old people who 
 were ' retired,' living in the village in a nice 
 little house of their own, without any particular 
 occupation. The old lady kept poultry, and 
 the old gentleman read the newspapers, and 
 they were very comfortable and happy, with 
 fresh country complexions, and kind country
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 19 
 
 ways. Grandmamma wore a little brown front 
 with little curls under her cap, which had been 
 the fashion in her day. But her husband looked 
 much handsomer in his own white hair. They 
 were neither of them very like Johnnie's mother, 
 who was tall and quiet and very serious, while 
 the old people were full of cheerfulness and 
 jokes. But there were no jokes on the day 
 when they came to carry off Johnnie. They 
 came in, and kissed their daughter with scarcely 
 a word, and then the old gentleman sat down in 
 a chair by the fire, with a great many curves 
 about his eyes, and wrinkles in his forehead — 
 which had never been seen there before — while 
 his wife dropped down upon the sofa and began 
 to cry, saying, 
 
 ' Oh that we should have lived to see this 
 day !' rocking herself backwards and forwards in 
 dreadful distress. 
 
 1 Don't cry, grandmamma,' said Johnnie, 
 stealing to her side, and stroking with his hands 
 to console her the skirts of her thick silk gown. 
 Susie went to the other side, and put her arm 
 round the old lady, and said the same thing. 
 
 * Don't cry, grandmamma !' but Susie knew all
 
 20 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 about the trouble, whatever it was. She was 
 not like her little brother, only unhappy and 
 perplexed to see the grown-up people cry. 
 
 * Run away, dear, and play,' his mother said ; 
 and the poor little boy obeyed, very forlorn and 
 miserable to be always sent away. But he only 
 went to the back parlour, where his box of 
 bricks was standing on the floor, and where he 
 began to build a house, oh, so seriously, as if it 
 were a matter of life and death. The folding- 
 doors were half open, and he still could see 
 grandmamma cryiogand the wrinkles on grand- 
 papa's face, and hear the murmur of the talk, 
 very serious, and broken now and then with a 
 sob. They were in great trouble — that Johnnie 
 could easily make out : and by this time he was 
 as sure, as if some one had told him all about it, 
 that their trouble had something to do with his 
 father — his merry laughing father, who spoilt 
 him so — who was never now to be seen even in 
 the middle of the night through half shut eyes. 
 The conversation that went on was not much. 
 Grandpapa for his part only sat and stared 
 before him, and occasionally shook his head, and 
 drew his brows together, as if it was somebody's
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 21 
 
 fault ; while grandmamma cried and sometimes 
 exclaimed, 
 
 1 Oh, how could he do it ? Had he no thought 
 of you or the children, or how dreadfully you 
 would feel it?' 
 
 * If he did not think of himself, mother, how 
 should he think of me,' said Johnnie's mother, 
 with a sort of stern smile. ' He knew better 
 than anyone what the penalty was.' 
 
 ' He was a fool, always a fool,' said grandpapa, 
 hastily. 
 
 1 Oh,' said grandmamma, ' when he was 
 young, he was very dear! There never was 
 anyone nicer than he was — instead of thinking 
 harm of his mother-in-law, as so many foolish 
 fellows do ' 
 
 1 Hush, mother ! don't speak so that the child 
 can understand. I don't want him to know.' 
 
 1 How can you keep it from him ? It isn't pos- 
 sible. Why, everybody knows, even the people 
 at the turnpike. They looked at your father 
 and me so pitifully as we came through.' 
 
 ' That for their pity !' said grandpapa, with an 
 angry snap of his fingers, and the colour mount- 
 ed up to the very edge of his white hair.
 
 22 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Johnnie, peeping timidly out between the legs 
 of the table, thought his mother, too, was very 
 angry with grandmamma. She was standing in 
 the middle of the room, looking very tall and- 
 grand, enough to strike terror into any little 
 shrinking breast, whether it belonged to a child 
 of seven or to a man of seventy. 
 
 She said : * Mother ! Pity is what I cannot 
 bear. Let them crush us if they like. Let them 
 think us as bad as — but pity, never ! That I 
 cannot bear.* 
 
 4 Oh, my dear,' said grandmamma, ' try to be 
 softened and not hardened by this great trouble/ 
 
 These were things that Johnnie heard partial- 
 ly. Sometimes a few words would get lost as 
 the corner of the table-cover fell down between 
 him and the other parlour, like a curtain in a 
 theatre, which was what happened from time to 
 time : and there would be long pauses in which 
 nothing at all was said, but only a little sob from 
 grandmamma, or the tchick, t chick of inarticulate 
 comment which the old man made, or the mother 
 or Susie moving across the room. There is no- 
 thing more terrible than those long pauses 
 in which those who have come to console the
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 23 
 
 Sufferers can find nothing to say, when words 
 are impossible, and the silence of the little com- 
 pany, which cannot be broken save on one subject, 
 becomes more intolerable than if no consolation 
 had been attempted at all. 
 
 Then they had a sort of dreary dinner, to pre- 
 pare for which Johnnie and his bricks had to be 
 removed into a corner. They all sat down 
 round the table, grandpapa still giving a tchick, 
 tchick from time to time and grandmamma 
 stopping in the midst of a mouthful to dry 
 her eyes. Johnnie himself was hungry, but it 
 was difficult to eat when everybody looked so 
 miserable, and when he asked for a little more 
 they all looked at him as if he had said some- 
 thing wrong. 
 
 * Poor child, he had always a good appetite, 
 bless him,' grandmamma said, laying down her 
 knife and fork with a little sob. ' What a good 
 thing it is that nothing matters very much at his 
 age.' 
 
 Johnnie did not say that it mattered very much 
 indeed — he had no words to use ; but his little 
 heart throbbed up into his throat, and he could 
 not eat a morsel of his second help. Oh, if any-
 
 24 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 one had known how forlorn that little heart 
 was, groping among the mysteries with which 
 he was surrounded, which he could not under- 
 stand ! All he could do was to gaze at the 
 grown-up people who were so hard upon him, 
 who did not understand him any more than he 
 understood them. Grandpapa, though he went 
 on with his tchick, tchick at intervals, made a 
 tolerable meal, and thought he could taste 
 a bit of cheese after all the rest had 
 done. 
 
 ' Meat has no savour to people in trouble/ he 
 said, * but sometimes you can taste a bit of 
 cheese when you can take nothing else.' 
 
 All the same, however, he made a very good 
 meal. 
 
 Some time after this it was suddenly intimated 
 to Johnnie that he was going ' back ' with the 
 old people. 
 
 1 Grandpapa and grandmamma are going to 
 take you with them,' Susie said, seeking him 
 out in the back parlour where he had relin- 
 quished the bricks and taken to Robinson 
 Crusoe, and began again to wonder whether, in 
 spite of the placid policeman, the savages, after
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 25 
 
 all, might not have something to do with the 
 disappearance of papa. 
 
 ' Oh, what a lucky boy you are, Jack ! You 
 are going to drive back between them in the 
 shandry, and stay there for a change — for 
 mamma thinks you are not looking very well. 
 Oh, you lucky little boy !' 
 
 Though Susie said this as if she envied 
 him, Johnnie could see that in her mind she 
 thought it was a good thing that he should be 
 going away. And his poor little heart, which 
 was so silent, gave a great throb and cry, 
 1 Why do you want to send me away?' 
 
 'It is because mamma thinks you are so pale — 
 and that a change will do you good,' said Susie. 
 She said it as if it were a lesson she had learnt, 
 repeating the same words. * You are to make 
 haste and get on your things, and not keep 
 them waiting. You can take your book with 
 you if you like,' she said. And then Betty came 
 in with the little blue pilot cloth topcoat which 
 was so thick and warm, and the comforter, and 
 a fur cap which papa had bought for Johnnie in 
 old days when he used to take the little boy out 
 for drives. The sight of this was too much for
 
 26 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 the child. He rushed out to the front hall 
 where mamma was standing watching her 
 mother mount into the shandry, and caught hold 
 of her by the skirts of her dress. 
 
 * I want papa ; I want papa V said Johnnie, 
 flinging himself upon his mother. The cry was 
 so piercing that it went out into the street 
 where old Mrs. Sandford was arranging her 
 wraps round her, and making a warm seat be- 
 tween herself and her husband for the child. 
 
 'Tchick tchick!' said the old gentleman, 
 standing on the pavement before the open door. 
 Mamma caught Johnnie in her arms and gave 
 him a hug which was almost fierce, to solace 
 him as well as to take good-bye of him, and then 
 she lifted him up beside his grandmother and 
 tucked him in. 
 
 * Mind you are a good boy, and don't trouble 
 granny,' she said, but took no notice of his cry- 
 ing or of the trouble on his little face. Looking 
 back as they drove away he could see her stand- 
 ing, very pale in her black dress, and Susie by 
 her, who was waving her hand, and calling out 
 good-bye. Betty stood behind them, crying, 
 but neither his mother nor his sister seemed to
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 27 
 
 be sorry to see him go away. He looked back 
 at them with a dreadful choking in his throat, 
 and for years after saw it all like a picture — the 
 two figures in the doorway and Betty crying 
 behind. Susie smiled and waved her hand, but 
 his mother neither wept nor smiled. She was 
 all black and white, like a woman cut out of 
 marble, as though nothing could move her more. 
 And that was the last that Johnnie saw of them 
 for years. 
 
 The house to which he went at first was not 
 the place in which he grew up : for the grand- 
 parents, it seemed, were on the eve of a removal. 
 Everything was new in the new house to which 
 they took him, and which was a very neat 
 little red brick house, with green shutters, like a 
 house in a story book. It stood in the village 
 street, with a little garden full of lilac and rose 
 bushes in front, and a large garden with every- 
 thing in it, from lilies to cabbages, behind. No- 
 thing could exceed the comfort, or the neat- 
 ness, or the quiet of this little place. ' There was 
 only one servant, as at home ; but probably she 
 was a better servant than Betty : and there was 
 a gardener besides, who did a great many odd
 
 28 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 jobs in the house, and now and then took 
 Johnnie out with him upon wonderful expedi- 
 tions to the moor which lay just outside the last 
 houses of the village. It was the most wonder- 
 ful moor that ever was seen, sometimes golden 
 with gorse, sometimes purple with heather, with 
 wild little black pools in it, which looked as if 
 they went down into the very heart of the earth, 
 and here and there a little ragged tree, which 
 the wind had blown into corners and elbows, 
 and which stood and struggled for bare life with 
 every storm that raged. The wind blew on the 
 moor so fresh and keen that Johnnie's cheeks 
 got to be two roses, and his little body 
 ■strengthened and lengthened, and he grew into 
 a strong and likely lad without any fancies or 
 delicacies, or anything at all out of the way 
 about him. The grandparents were more kind 
 than words could say; that is they were not 
 kind, but only loved the child with all their 
 hearts, which is the one thing in the world 
 that is better than kindness. He did nothing 
 but play for a year or two, and then he had 
 lessons from the curate, and learned a great 
 deal, and was trained up in all the duties which
 
 WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 29 
 
 can be required from a boy. There could not 
 have been a happier child. He was the king of 
 the little house, and of the two old people's 
 hearts, and of Sarah the maid, and Benjamin 
 the gardener, and of the donkey and cart. And 
 in the village itself he was quite a considerable 
 person, ranking next after the rector's boys 
 and above the doctor's son, who was delicate and 
 spoilt. 
 
 This change of life worked a great change in 
 every way in the boy. He was removed al- 
 together from his own childish beginnings and 
 all those scenes which had impressed themselves 
 on his mind in the mists of early recollection. 
 He had become the son of his grandfather and 
 grandmother, who were old, and comfortable, 
 and quiet, and never stepped beyond their 
 routine or did differently to-day from what they 
 had done yesterday. The vision of his father 
 had gone altogether from his life, and his mother 
 was as much or even more lost, for her aspect 
 was completely changed to him. She had ceas- 
 ed to be his mother and become Emily, which 
 was the name by which he always heard her 
 called, a person found fault with sometimes, dis-
 
 30 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 cussed and criticised, about whom there were 
 shakings of the head between the grandparents, 
 complaints that she liked her own will, and 
 would have her own way. 
 
 By dint of hearing her spoken of like this for 
 years, and hearing very little of her in any 
 other way, John came to have a sort of im- 
 pression that she was only an elder sister, whom 
 lie too might call Emily, who had been very 
 long away from home, and who had departed 
 from all their traditions. In his mind he came 
 to feel himself a sort of little uncle to Susie, 
 which, of course, being grandmamma's son, was 
 what he would naturally be. He fell into all 
 the old people's ways of thinking, feeling sorry 
 in a disapproving way that Emily and her 
 daughter never came to see them, yet feeling 
 this more as a fault in them than as anything 
 that told upon himself. Children and old people 
 are more near to each other than the old and 
 the middle-aged, and Johnnie made a far better 
 child than Emily, who herself was older than 
 her father and mother. He redressed the balance, 
 and by slipping, as it were, a generation, set 
 them right again in their parental place. But
 
 "WHEN HE WAS A CHILD. 31 
 
 the effect upon him was very confusing. 
 
 Emily did not write very often, and scarcely 
 at all to the boy. When she did send him a 
 letter to himself at Christmas, or on his birthday, 
 it was without any appreciation of the fact that 
 Johnnie had grown into John, and was no 
 longer a child : and her letters to the old people 
 were bulletins of life rather than familiar letters. 
 She told them what she was doing, and how 
 Susie was getting on, and what sort of weather 
 it was — hot or cold — and that she was quite well 
 in health, or else had little ailments, of which she 
 hoped soon to be well : but there was nothing in 
 these epistles to interest the boy. As a matter of 
 fact he was much disposed in his heart to the con- 
 clusion that Emily was not sympathetic, and was 
 fond of having her own way. His way was that 
 of the elder world, and was quite different from 
 hers: and for years he had ceased to wonder why 
 it was that the letters were addressed to Mrs. 
 Sandford, and that he too bore that name. 
 
 He was so little when all these changes 
 happened that he was very hazy in his mind 
 about the circumstances, and very far from clear 
 that he had ever been anything but John Sand-
 
 32 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ford. As a matter of fact tie never discussed 
 this matter with himself. One does not natural- 
 ly enter into discussions about one's self. Even 
 the most strained of circumstances appear to us 
 all quite simple and easy when they concern 
 ourselves. He was quite natural, everything 
 about him was quite natural — he felt no mystery 
 in his own being or surroundings : and — what- 
 ever might have been said or felt at the time 
 when he came to his grandfather's — neither did 
 anyone else. Indeed, in the new place where 
 they had settled, nobody knew anything of Mr. 
 Sandford's daughter, nor of their previous 
 history at all. 
 
 And yet at the bottom of his heart John had 
 forgotten nothing. Those far distant scenes 
 were to him like a dream, like a play he had seen 
 some time (though he had never been at the 
 theatre in his life), like a story that had been 
 told him, but far more vivid than any story. He 
 recollected those wakings in the middle of the 
 night, and the dazzling of the candle in his eyes, 
 and his father's face— and ho w he was carried down 
 to the parlour in his night-gown, and the table 
 in all the disorder of supper, with oranges and
 
 WHEX HE WAS A CHILD. 33 
 
 cakes, and a little wine out of his father's glass 
 — and of the other face on the other side of the 
 fire which would look on disapproving, and 
 as soon as possible bear him off again into 
 the darkness of bed. The look on that other 
 face was quite what he would have expected 
 from Emily, that grown-up uncomfortable child 
 of whom the grandparents disapproved. 
 
 The other scenes of the drama came also 
 fitfully to John's mind from time to time — the 
 back parlour where he was sent to play with his 
 bricks, and then Robiuson Crusoe, and the 
 trouble in his mind lest the savages should have 
 got papa : and then that strange silent spectacle 
 of the lighted court with the judges sitting (as 
 he knew now) and the little sugar-plums 
 sprinkled upon the bread and butter ; and then 
 the old people coming to dinner, and grand- 
 mamma crying and grandfather with his ' t chick, 
 tchick,' and the shandry in which he was 
 carried away, with Betty crying and Susie 
 waving her hand, and mamma neither smiling 
 nor weeping (always so like Emily !) at the open 
 door; and the impression through everything 
 that nothing was to be said before the boy. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 All this was as distinct in his mind as it ever had 
 been — which perhaps was not saying much : for 
 all was misty with childhood, imperfect in out- 
 line, running into such wildernesses of ignorance 
 on either side ; but yet so very certain, never 
 forgotten, always at the same point. His mind 
 varied upon matters of every day, and he got 
 to see what happened last year in a different 
 light after passing through the experiences of 
 this year. But nothing changed for him those 
 early scenes, they were beyond the action of 
 experience. They were the same to him at 
 sixteen as they had been when they happened 
 — misty, incomprehensible, yet quite certain and 
 true. 
 
 He was the son of his grandparents, as has 
 been said. He was like a boy who had never 
 had either father or mother when he set out upon 
 the active way of his life. And how he came to 
 work in that early drama of the beginning, with 
 all the later incidents, and how he was affected 
 by it for good and evil, has now to be shown 
 in the story of John Sandford, who was his 
 father's son, though he knew nothing of him, 
 and did not even bear his name.
 
 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIN LIFE. 
 
 They were all seated one evening in the parlour 
 round the fire. The house of the Sandfords was 
 like many other old-fashioned middle-class 
 houses. The dining-room was the principal 
 room in it. They would have thought it very 
 pretentious and as if they were setting up for a 
 gentility to which they laid no claim had they 
 called their other sitting-room a drawing-room. 
 The rector might do so who belonged distinct- 
 ly to the county ; but the Sandfords called their 
 sitting-room the parlour, without even knowing 
 what a pretty old-fashioned word that is, and 
 how it is coming into fashion again. Old Mr. 
 Santjford's armchair stood on one side of the fire, 
 and his wife's on the other. He had a stand for 
 the candle near him, and she had a little table. 
 
 d2
 
 36 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Otherwise the room was furnished according to 
 its epoch, with a round table in the centre, 
 and chairs set round the walls. On grand- 
 mamma's little table was her knitting, a basket 
 with some needle-work, and a book. She read 
 all through a book in a conscientious yet leisure- 
 ly way, doing a bit of needle-work, when the 
 light was good, and knitting when her eyes 
 were tired. In this way she was always occupied 
 and yet never fatigued by being busy too long 
 at one thing. The knitting was done with 
 large pins and thick wool. It was easy work. 
 It resulted in comforters, mufflers, and other little 
 things that were useful at Christmas, and made 
 the school-children and the old people in the 
 village happy — or as nearly happy as anyone is 
 ever made by presents of warm woollen things 
 to keep out the cold. 
 
 John sat at the table between the old people. 
 He had the advantage of the lamp and warmest 
 place. They liked to have him there, and he 
 had learned to do all his work in that warm 
 family centre, with their silent society, sur- 
 rounded by their love. The old people did not 
 talk very much at any time, and, when they
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIN LIFE. 37 
 
 thought it was for the advantage of John and 
 his work, were capable of sitting all the evening 
 in a silent blessedness making little signs to each 
 other across him, but never speaking lest they 
 should disturb him. They said at other times, with 
 secret delight, that their John never wanted to 
 retire into any study, but did his work, bless 
 him, in the parlour, and never found them in his 
 way. 
 
 On this particular evening it could scarcely be 
 said that he was at work ; his lessons were all 
 prepared, and ready for next day : and John 
 was reading for his own pleasure in that delight- 
 ful calm of feeling which results from the sense 
 of duty performed. It is not always in later hie 
 that one is privileged to enjoy this conscious 
 virtue even when one's work is fully accom- 
 plished, but at fifteen the case is different — and, 
 as it happened, among the books on the table, 
 the boy had brought down inadvertently the old 
 copy of Robinson Crusoe which had been so dear 
 to him in his childhood, and which was associat- 
 ed with so many of the confused reminiscences 
 of that long departed past. He had taken it, 
 and was looking at it, before the old people
 
 38 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 opened the conversation which for the whole 
 evening had been in their thoughts. John 
 scarcely felt it was necessary to open that book. 
 He knew not only what was in it, but a great 
 many things that were not in it, things which it 
 suggested before it was opened, the strange 
 visions of the time through which papa's image 
 flitted, dim now but still well remembered. He 
 was thinking of all this with a vagueness in 
 which there was no pain. There never indeed 
 had been any pain, only a confused sense of so 
 many things which he could not understand. 
 He might have heard, if he had taken any 
 notice, that the old people were simultaneously 
 clearing their throats, with little coughs and 
 hems — partly of preparation, partly to have him 
 see that they were about to speak, and call his 
 attention. But John did not take any notice, 
 being fully absorbed with his own recollections 
 and interests. Anyone who could have seen 
 them would have been amused to remark how 
 the grandfather and grandmother looked at each 
 other, and made little signs egging each other 
 up to begin, across the unconscious boy who 
 took no notice at all.
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIN LIFE. 39 
 
 It was Mrs. Sandford who spoke the first after 
 all this pantomime. She gave her husband an 
 upbraiding look as much as to say that he always 
 pushed her to the front when anything disagree- 
 able had to be done. Not that it was in reality 
 anything disagreeable, but only exciting and 
 full of new possibilities. She laid down her large 
 pins with the knitting upon her lap, and cleared 
 her throat finally, and said, * John.' 
 
 It had to be repeated a second time in a 
 slightly raised voice, and with a touch of her 
 hand upon his arm before he paid any attention. 
 Then the boy roused up suddenly, gave himself 
 a little shake, pushed his ' Robinson Crusoe ' 
 away from him on the table, and turning round, 
 said, briskly, * Yes, grandmamma,' coming back 
 in a moment out of his dreams. 
 
 ' We want to speak to you, my dear/ the old 
 lady said. She put her hand on his arm again, 
 and patted it softly. He sat, as a matter of 
 fact, on his grandmother's side, not exactly in 
 the middle ; nearer to her than to the old gen- 
 tleman, who had long observed the circumstance 
 not without a little kind of jealousy, but had 
 never taken any notice.
 
 40 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Mrs. Sandford was conscious of it, and secretly 
 proud ; but you may be sure she took no notice, 
 and would no doubt have shown a little surprise 
 had it been remarked. 
 
 * We want to speak to you,' she said. ' John, 
 you are growing a great boy.' 
 
 ' Seventeen last birthday,' said the grandfather. 
 * I had been working for myself a couple of 
 years when I was his age.' 
 
 'Well, my dear, but it is not John's fault. 
 You have always said you regretted having so 
 little schooling.' 
 
 * The question is,' said old Mr. Sandford, 
 striking his hand against the arm of his chair, 
 1 whether the education he has been getting 
 counts like schooling. For, you see, he has 
 never been at school. I had my doubts on that 
 subject all along.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, oh, yes, my dear,' said the old lady. 
 ' To be taught by a good man that knows a 
 great deal, like our curate, that is better, surely, 
 than being exposed to meet with bad boys and 
 bad influences in a strange place.' 
 
 John listened to this conversation, turning his 
 face from one to the other. He was quite used
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIN LIFE. 41 
 
 to be discussed so, and thought it the natural 
 course of affairs — but here it seemed to him 
 that he might intervene in his own person. 
 
 1 Grandpapa,' he said, l Mr. Cattley says Elly 
 and I construe much better than Dick and 
 Percy, though they have been so many years at 
 school.' 
 
 * Does he really, John !' said Mrs. Sandford, 
 and her old eyes got wet directly with pleasure ; 
 but grandpapa still shook his head. 
 
 ' I don't know much about construing,' he 
 said ; ' I never had time to study any outlandish 
 tongues, but you and Dick, as you call him, and 
 Percy are very different ; one's going to the 
 army and one to Oxford, as I hear ; but as for 
 
 you, my Johnny-boy ' Here Mr. Sandford 
 
 winked his eyes, too ; for, though he had begun 
 with the intention of taking his John down a 
 little, and showing him that he was far from 
 being so fine a gentleman as he thought — when 
 it came to the point, the old grandfather did 
 not himself like the idea, and felt that his John 
 was much more of a gentleman than any other 
 boy he knew. 
 
 ' Yes, grandfather,' said John, tranquilly. ' I
 
 42 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 know I'm not like the others. I've got to make 
 my own way/ 
 
 ' Yes ; and you've got to make it without a 
 family behind you, and friends to push you on 
 as those young Spencers have — though you've 
 more in you than both of them put together,' 
 cried grandpapa, with a little outburst of feel- 
 ing which John did not at all understand. 
 
 John smiled. He was used to hearing that 
 he was a fine fellow, and better than the others, 
 and he took it as a peculiarity of the doting 
 affection these old people had for him, and 
 excused it good-naturedly on that ground : but 
 he knew very well it was not true. 
 
 i The only thing that is wanting to Percy and 
 Dick is that they're not your boys, grandfather," 
 said John — * yours and grandmamma's — you 
 would know then that they are quite as good 
 as me — or better, perhaps,' he added, candidly, 
 feeling that so far as this went there might be 
 reason for a doubt. 
 
 ' You will never make us see that,' said Mrs. 
 Sandford ; * but I love the boys, bless them, for 
 they've always been like brothers to you. And 
 it is saying a deal for the rector and all of them
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIN LIFE. 43 
 
 that, though we are not just in then position, 
 they have never hindered it nor made any 
 difference, which they might have done ; dear 
 me, oh ! yes, they might have done it, and 
 nobody blamed them ' 
 
 * My dear,' said the old man, in a tone of 
 warning. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, yes/ cried grandmamma. * I know ; 
 
 I know ' And she cried a little, and gave 
 
 a stolen look at John such as he had caught 
 many a day without ever understanding the 
 meaning of it — a look in which there was 
 something like pity, compassion, and indigna- 
 tion as well as love, as if somebody had 
 wronged him deeply, though he did not know 
 it, and she felt that nothing could ever be too 
 good for him, too tender to make up for it — 
 and yet that nothing ever would wipe out that 
 wrong. All this in one glance is, perhaps, too 
 much to believe in ; but John saw it all con- 
 fusedly, wondering, and not knowing what it 
 could mean. 
 
 Mr. Sandford cleared his throat again, and then 
 it was he who began. 
 
 ' John,' he said, * we think, and so does your
 
 44 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 . mother think, that it is time to speak to you 
 about what you are going to do ' 
 
 1 Yes, grandfather,' said John. He looked up 
 with a little eagerness, as if he were quite ready 
 and prepared, which, while it made matters 
 much easier, gave the old people a little chill 
 at the same time, as if the boy had been want- 
 ing to get away. 
 
 ' There is no hurry about it,' the old gentle- 
 man said, closing up a little and drawing back 
 into his seat. 
 
 ' But, grandfather,' said John, * I've been 
 thinking of it myself. Percy is going to the 
 University after he's finished at Marlborough : 
 but I can't do that. I can't wait till I'm a 
 man before getting to work. I know I'm not 
 like them. Mr. Cattley has taken us — oh, I 
 don't mean us : me — as far as I have any need 
 to go.' 
 
 ' Why shouldn't you say " us/' John?' 
 
 1 Because Elly is a girl. She is more different 
 still. She says her aunt will never let her go on 
 when she comes back. And, it is thought, Mr. 
 Cattley will get a living : so that's just how it is, 
 grandfather. I've been thinking the very same.
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIX LIFE. 45 
 
 As I've got to make my own way, it's far better 
 that I should begin.' 
 
 'Especially as the poor lad has no one behind 
 him,' said his grandmother, shaking her head. 
 
 1 I have yon behind me,' said John ; ' I'd like 
 to know how a fellow conld have anything 
 better. And Pve all the village behind me that 
 know yon and know me, though I'm not so much. 
 "What could I have more ? I've only got to 
 say I'm Mr. Sandford's grandson, and, all this 
 side of the county, everybody knows me. The 
 Spencers have got greater relations, perhaps, 
 but what could be better than that? 
 
 He looked round upon them, first to one side, 
 then to the other, with a glow of brightness and 
 happy feeling in his cheerful young face. He 
 was a good-looking boy, perhaps not strictly 
 handsome, with mobile irregular features, honest 
 well-opened eyes, with a laugh always in them, 
 and brown hair that curled a little. He was not 
 particularly tall for his age, neither was he short, 
 but strong and well-knit. And he had the com- 
 plexion of a girl, white and red, a little more 
 brown perhaps than would have been becoming 
 to a girl. But to John the brown was very
 
 46 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 becoming. He looked like a boy who was afraid 
 of nothing, neither work, nor fatigue, nor poverty, 
 nor even trouble, if that should have to be borne 
 — but who was entirely confident that he never 
 need be ashamed to look the world in the face, 
 and that everything known of him, either of him- 
 self or those who had gone before him, was of a 
 kind to conciliate friendship and spread good- 
 will all round. 
 
 The two old people looked at him, and then 
 at each other. The grandfather gave his 
 ' tchick, tchick ' under his breath, as it were, 
 the grandmother under her soft white knitting 
 wrung her old hands. But an awe was upon 
 them of his youth, of his confidence, of his 
 happiness. They withdrew their eyes from him 
 and from each other with a suddenness of alarm, 
 as if they might betray themselves — and for a 
 moment there was silence. They dared not 
 venture to say anything, and he had said what 
 he had to say. After a moment, however, he 
 resumed. He noticed no hesitation, no tragic 
 consultation of looks ; for him everything was so 
 simple, so plain. 
 
 6 Don't you agree with me V he said.
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIN T LIFE. 47 
 
 * Agree with him ! Listen to the young 'un,' 
 said the old man at last, with a quaver in his 
 voice. ' But I'm glad you take it like this, my 
 boy. We're old folks, and we're growing older 
 every day. We'd like to live just to see you 
 settled for yourself in the world. You've 
 advantages, as you say, in the village maybe, 
 and just a little way about, where our name 
 is known, though we have not spent all our 
 lives in this little place. But look you here. 
 John. You mustn't expect to be able to make 
 your way in the village, nor perhaps near it. 
 You mustn't expect the old folks will last for ever. 
 When you go out into the world, you'll find there 
 are very few that ever heard tell of your grand- 
 mother and me. You will have to be your own 
 grandfather, so to speak,' grandpapa said, with 
 an unsteady little laugh. 
 
 It was just at this moment that John, looking 
 down on the table with his smiling eyes, with 
 an undimmed boyish satisfaction in grandfather's 
 little jokes, contented he could scarcely call how, 
 saw the old ' Robinson Crusoe ' which lay there. 
 It lay among half-a-dozen books, in no way dis- 
 tinguished from the others, but to John it was
 
 48 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 not like any of the others. It brought a sudden 
 check, like the rolling up of a cloud over his 
 mind. The light paled somehow on his face, 
 as the sky pales when the cloud rolls up. It 
 was not that he was afraid, or that any shadow 
 of a coming trouble fell upon him. No, not 
 that. He was only recalled to the far back 
 childish life, like a faint vision which lay in the 
 distance, like an island on the other side of the 
 sea, half touching the line of the ocean, half 
 drawn up into the skies. He paused for a mo- 
 ment in the shock of this idea, and said, half 
 to himself, 
 
 'By-the-by: I talk as if I were only your 
 grandson, grandfather : but there's something 
 that comes between — there's papa.' 
 
 There was a slight faint stir in the room. 
 He did not look up to see what it was, being 
 fully engaged following out the thread of his 
 own thoughts. 
 
 ' I remember him quite well,' he said ; ' some- 
 times I don't think of him for ages together, 
 and then in a moment it will all come back. 
 I've been away from them a long time, haven't 
 I, to be the only son ? and though yon some-
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIN LIFE. 49 
 
 times speak of — mother ' — he had nearly said 
 Emily, and reddened a little, half with horror, 
 half with amazement, to think of the slip he had 
 almost made — 'you never say a word about 
 papa.' 
 
 John could not employ any other than the 
 childish name to denote his absent father. He 
 could not think of him but as papa. He was 
 silent for a little, following out his own thoughts, 
 and it was not till a minute or two had elapsed 
 that it occurred to him how strange it was that 
 they should be quite silent too, making no re- 
 sponse. He looked up hastily, and caught sight 
 of one of those signs which the old people would 
 make to each other across him, he paying no 
 attention. But somehow this time he did pay 
 attention. Mrs. Sandford was bending forward 
 towards the old man. Her hands were clasped 
 as if in entreaty. She was giving him an anxi- 
 ous, almost agonized look, imploring him to do 
 something, to refrain from doing something — 
 which was it? — while the grandfather, drawn 
 back into his chair, seemed to resist, seemed to 
 be making up his mind. They both assumed 
 an air of indifference, of forced ease precipi- 
 
 TOL. I. E
 
 50 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 tately, when they saw that John was observing 
 them, and then the old gentleman spoke. 
 
 * I'm — glad yon've asked, John. It's been on 
 my mind for a long time to tell yon. We ought 
 to have done it years ago : but somehow you 
 were always such a happy lad, and it seemed 
 a pity, it seemed a pity to— disturb your 
 mind ' 
 
 ' Oh, John Sandford !' the old lady said. It 
 was not to the boy she was speaking, but to 
 her husband, once more wringing her hands. 
 
 Grandfather gave her a look which was almost 
 fierce, a look of angry severity, imposing silence ; 
 and then he resumed — 
 
 'Your mother left it to us, to do what we 
 thought best ; and we had that anxiety for you 
 to keep you happy that I said unless you asked 
 — and strange it is you never asked before, 
 though it's not far off ten years you have been 
 with us. You can't remember much about 
 him, John.' 
 
 ' I do, though — I remember him quite well. 
 How he would come and take me out of bed 
 and carry me downstairs, and how jolly he was. 
 I don't perhaps think of him much, but when I
 
 HOW HE WAS TO BEGIN LIFE. 51 
 
 do, I remember him perfectly. He was ruddy 
 and big, and had bright merry eyes — I can see 
 him now ' 
 
 The old lady gave a little whimpering cry. 
 
 'Poor Robert ! poor Robert ! You may say 
 what you like, but the boy is like him, not like 
 any of us,' she said. 
 
 ' Hold your tongue !' said her husband, per- 
 emptorily. * Merry, yes, he was merry enough 
 in his time ; but it doesn't make other folks 
 merry that kind ' 
 
 And there was again a little pause. John's 
 curiosity was aroused, and his interest : but yet 
 he was not greatly moved — for anything con- 
 nected with his father was so vague for him 
 and far away. 
 
 1 Well, grandfather V he said at last. 
 
 ' Well,' said the old man, slowly, ' there is not 
 very much to say ; the short and the long of it 
 is that — hush, woman, 1 tell you ! he is just — 
 dead. That is all there is to say.' 
 
 ' Dead !' John was startled. He repeated the 
 word in an awestruck and troubled tone. He 
 did not know what he had expected. And yet 
 
 e2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 WMERsmroFumnfc
 
 52 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 the moment he thought of it — and thought goes 
 so quick ! — he had gone through the whole in a 
 moment like a flash of light, realising the long 
 separation, the utter silence, through which 
 there never came any news. Of course, that 
 was the only thing that was possible. He said, 
 after a time, 
 
 * I ought to have known. It must have been 
 that. Never to hear of him for so many years — ' 
 
 'Yes, to be sure/ grandfather said. 'He 
 didn't do well in his business, and he went abroad, 
 and then he died ' 
 
 ' I ought to have known — it must have been 
 that,' said John.
 
 53 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 JOHN'S CHOICE. 
 
 THIS conversation was interrupted by a knock 
 at the door, which was evidently a very welcome 
 sound to the old people, who displayed even more 
 than their usual cordiality when the door of the 
 parlour opened and Mr. Cattley was shown in. 
 Mr. Cattley was the curate. He had held that 
 position in the village of Edgeley-on-the-Moor 
 since John's childhood, having little influence, 
 and no ambition, and finding himself in con- 
 genial society, which indisposed him to take any 
 measures for ' bettering himself ' or moving, as 
 perhaps he would himself have said, to a wider 
 sphere. As a matter of fact, if Mr. Cattley had 
 ever possessed any friends who would have 
 helped him to that wider sphere, they had for- 
 gotten him before now ; and he had forgotten
 
 54 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 them, having succeeded in concentrating him- 
 self in the little rural parish as few people could 
 have done. Perhaps his pupils had helped to 
 weave that spell which bound him to the little 
 place. He had taken charge of all the young 
 Spencers in their earlier days. He had trained 
 both Dick and Percy for their school, in which 
 they had done him credit, at least, in the be- 
 ginning of their career : but Elly and John were 
 his favourites : and, as they had remained with 
 him until now, his interest in his work had re- 
 mained unbroken. 
 
 Mr. Cattley was not a very frequent visitor 
 at the house of the Sandfords. He was, to tell 
 the truth, generally so absorbed by another 
 friendship that he had no leisure to pay visits. 
 This was in fact the secret, but it was no secret, 
 of the good curate's life. The rector, Mr. 
 Spencer, was a widower, having been so for 
 many years, and his house was ruled and presid- 
 ed over by a sister, also a widow, to whom en 
 tout bien et tout honneur, the curate was devoted. 
 Tt was such a devotion as from time to time arises 
 without any blame on one side or another in the 
 heart of a young man for a woman who is older
 
 JOHN'S CHOICE. 55 
 
 than himself, and whom there is not the least 
 possibility that he can ever marry. Such attach- 
 ments are perhaps less uncommon than people 
 think, and they are very warm, constant, and 
 absorbing. Sometimes, as everybody knows, 
 they do end in marriage, but that is a disturb- 
 ance of the ideal, and brings in elements less 
 delicate and exquisite than the tie which is 
 more than friendship, yet a little less than love, 
 and which by its nature can and ought to come 
 to nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Egerton was a woman of forty-five, 
 bright-eyed and comely, and full of interest in 
 everything ; but without any pretence at youth : 
 and the curate had ten years less of age and no 
 experience whatever of the world, so that the 
 difference between them was rather emphasised 
 than lessened. There was, however, one thing 
 which reduced this difference, which was that 
 Mr. Cattley had a great air of gravity, and took 
 an elderly kind of view in the simplicity of his 
 heart, whereas she was full of vivacity and 
 spirit, and sided always with the young rather 
 than the old. The curate had for this middle- 
 aged woman a sort of quiet worship which was
 
 56 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 beyond all reason : all that she said was admirable 
 and excellent to him ; what she did was beyond 
 criticism. Whatever she was occupied in he would 
 have had her to do that ever, like the young 
 lover of poetry : yet hailed every new manifesta- 
 tion of the variety of mind which seemed to him 
 inexhaustible, as if it were a new revelation. He 
 was sometimes foolish in his worship, it may be 
 allowed, and the elderly object of that devotion 
 laughed at it not a little. But in her heart she 
 liked it well enough, as what woman would not 
 do % Her heart was soft to the man who adored 
 her. But that she should adore him in turn, or 
 that anything should come of their intercourse 
 save peaceful continuance, was not only out of 
 the question, but was altogether beyond the 
 possibility of being taken into question, which is 
 more conclusive still. 
 
 Mrs. Egerton was at this moment absent from 
 the rectory, and Mr. Cattley was like a fish out 
 of water. He spent almost all the time he could 
 spare from his pupils and the parish in writing 
 long letters to her : but all his evenings could not 
 be spent in this way, and now and then, sighing 
 for the difference, he would come out of an even-
 
 JOHN'S CHOICE. 57 
 
 ing and \isit one of the houses in the village. 
 The Sandfords stood very high in the little 
 aristocracy of Edgeley-on-the-Moor. They were 
 not very old residents, having come here only 
 about ten years before, but they had always been 
 very highly thought of. Mr. Cattley was receiv- 
 ed by them with all the deference which good 
 Church people, to whom his visit is an honour, 
 show to their clergyman. They thought more 
 of his visit than if it had been a common occur- 
 rence. And, though he was only the curate, it 
 was he that was most of a clergyman in the 
 parish, for the rector, though he was much liked, 
 was of the class which used to be called Squar- 
 son, and was more of a country gentleman than 
 a parish priest. There was yet another reason 
 for their great pleasure at sight of this visitor, 
 and the warm welcome they gave him. The 
 conversation had come to a point which made a 
 break — a new incident very convenient. They 
 were glad to escape at that moment from John. 
 After a little interval it would be more easy to 
 resume their talk in a cool and matter-of-fact 
 tone. 
 
 'You will have a cup of tea, sir,' said Mrs.
 
 58 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Sandford. f Oh ! dear, yes, we've had our tea a 
 long while ago, but it is just a pleasure and a 
 pride to have some made fresh for you ; and 
 though we don't live in that way ourselves I 
 know many that do. We understand the habits 
 of gentlepeople, even though we may not be 
 gentlefolks ourselves.' 
 
 * That I am sure you are,' said the curate, e in 
 the truest sense of the word.' 
 
 ' Oh ! well, sir, it's very good of you to say it, 
 and I hope we're not rude or rough,' said the 
 old lady, and she bustled out of the room to 
 look after the tea, which he did not at all care 
 for, with great satisfaction in being able thus to 
 leave the room for a moment. Her husband 
 plunged into parish talk with Mr. Cattley with 
 not less relief. 
 
 6 Thank God, that's got over,' he said to 
 himself. 
 
 As for John, he was very glad to see his tutor 
 also, but without any of their special thankful- 
 ness. He did not take much part in the con- 
 versation, which was natural. At his age a boy 
 is expected not to put himself forward. He sat 
 and listened, and through it all would now and
 
 JOHN'S CHOICE. 59 
 
 then feel a bitter throb of wonder and pain go 
 through him. Dead! He might have known 
 it all the time. Papa, so kind as he was, would 
 never have left him so long without finding 
 him out, without coming to see him, even if, 
 as he had sometimes fancied, the grandparents 
 did not approve. And so he was dead ! gone, 
 never to be seen more. It was so long, so long 
 since there had been any reality in the relation- 
 ship that the boy could not grieve as he would 
 have done had he lost anyone he knew and 
 loved. It was only a shadow he had lost, and, 
 indeed, he had not lost that, it was with him 
 just the same as before. And, as a matter of 
 fact, he had never thought of any meeting again. 
 The shock he had received was more a kind of 
 awe of dying, a kind of ache at the thought that 
 his fond recollections had been, as it were, vain all 
 this long time. He listened to the conversation, 
 and even would put in a word or two, and 
 smile at what grandfather or Mr. Cattley said. 
 And then the thought, the throb would again 
 dart through him : dead ! It was a strange 
 thing to feel that some one belonging to him 
 had actually gone over that bourne from which.
 
 4)0 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 no traveller returns. This was so solemn, and 
 John's recollection was so far from solemn ; and 
 he knew that the gayest, the most light-hearted 
 had to die all the same, like the gravest. But 
 to think that some one belonging to him had 
 stepped across that dark line of separation, that 
 some one might be thinking about him upon the 
 other side, beyond the grave. This made John's 
 nerves tingle, and a shiver passed under his 
 hair. Dead ! it is so strange when one is young 
 to realise, though it is, no doubt, common to all, 
 yet that one individual known to one's self 
 should die. 
 
 Mrs. Sandford came up after a little while, 
 followed by the maid with a tray. She had 
 much too good manners to let the guest take 
 this refreshment by himself, accordingly there 
 were two tea-cups with the little teapot. And 
 the old lady's eyes were a little red, if anyone 
 had remarked it. She had been doing more 
 than making tea. She had run up to her own 
 room and cried a little there in the dark over all 
 the confusing troubles of the past, and over the 
 new chapter which was opening. She said to 
 herself,
 
 JOHN'S CHOICE. 61 
 
 * Oh ! I don't approve it — I don't approve it !' 
 But what did it matter what she approved, 
 when it was certain that he (which was the 
 only name she ever gave her husband) and 
 Emily would have it their own way? 
 
 ' I suppose,' said the gentle curate, ' that it is 
 all settled, and that it is I now that am to have 
 holiday. I shall miss the young ones dread- 
 fully. I don't know what I shall do without 
 them. It will make all the difference in the 
 world to me.' 
 
 ' You see, sir,' said Grandfather Sandford, 
 who had a faint and uncomfortable feeling that 
 it was the want of those little payments which 
 had been made for John which would make the 
 great difference to the curate, * as it doesn't suit 
 us to carry him on for what you may call a 
 learned education, we think it's better for the 
 boy not to lose more time.' 
 
 ' Xot meaning that he ever could be losing 
 time with you, Mr. Cattley !' 
 
 ' Mr. Cattley knows I don't mean that : but 
 only that he has to work and make his own way.' 
 
 1 1 understand perfectly,' said the curate, ' and 
 you are quite right. When a boy has to go into
 
 62 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 active life it is far better that he should begin 
 early. Don't think I disapprove. John and I 
 have been great friends, and I shall miss him 
 sadly. But he has really got as much from me 
 as I can give him — unless it were a little more 
 Greek : and I'm afraid there is not much prac- 
 tical advantage in Greek.' 
 
 ' Learning anything,' said old Mr. Sandford, 
 in a respectful sort of apologetic tone, ' is al- 
 ways a practical advantage. If you know how 
 to learn Greek, you'll know how to learn any- 
 thing. So the time can never be said to be 
 lost.' 
 
 Mr. Cattley laughed a little quietly, and made 
 a mental note of this as something to tell Mrs. 
 Egerton. It amused him very much that the 
 old man should patronise learning and explain 
 to himself how Greek could do harm : but still 
 there is no doubt that Mr. Sandford was quite 
 right from his point of view. 
 
 < I wish he had taken a little more to figures,' 
 said the old gentleman ; ' figures are very useful 
 in every way of life. I would teach more sums 
 than anything else if I were one that was engaged 
 in instructing youth.'
 
 JOHNS CHOICE. 63 
 
 Mr. Cattley laughed again and said he would 
 have to learn them first himself. 
 
 ' For that was always my weak point : but 
 John has a very pretty notion of mathematics. 
 And have you come to any decision as to what 
 he is going to do V 
 
 1 We were just beginning to talk of it,' said 
 the old gentleman. ' We were going over a 
 few family matters, and then we were coming 
 to the great question.' 
 
 'I am afraid then/ said the curate, 'that I 
 came in at an unfortunate moment. You should 
 have told me you were occupied, and I should 
 have gone away.' 
 
 4 Dear, dear, I hope you don't think we are 
 capable of such rudeness/ cried the old lady, 
 1 and it was just this very reason, Mr. Cattley, to 
 see you come in was what we wished most.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir/ said her husband, ' nobody can 
 know like you what the boy's good for. It will 
 help us more than anything. I was just going 
 to ask him — John, my lad, what do you think 
 you'd like to be V 
 
 And John, though he had received that shock, 
 though he was so serious, still, moved by thrills
 
 64 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 of wondering and confused emotion, laughed. 
 He said, ' How can I tell, grandfather, all at 
 once?' with that elasticity of the youthful mind 
 which older people find it so difficult to take 
 into account. 
 
 The grandparents looked at each other across 
 John and across Mr. Cattley. What their eyes 
 said was briefly this — ' Thank God that's over.' 
 'And he hasn't a doubt,' said old Sandford's 
 look, with a little brightness of triumph, to 
 which his wife's reply was an almost impercep- 
 tible shake of her head. This little pantomime 
 was not at all remarked either by Mr. Cattley, 
 who knew nothing about it, or by John, who 
 made no remark at all. The existence of any 
 mystery never occurred to the boy. How should 
 it 1 He knew nothing about skeletons in cup- 
 boards, and was quite ready to have sworn to it 
 that nothing of the kind belonged, or could 
 belong, to his family at least. 
 
 * Well,' said the curate, ' if it is making money 
 you are thinking of, we all know what is the 
 best way and the one way — if you have any 
 opening : and that is business — in a London 
 office now, or in Liverpool or Manchester.'
 
 JOHN'S CHOICE. 65 
 
 * Oh, the Lord forbid !' cried Mrs. Sandford, 
 letting her knitting drop and clasping her hands. 
 
 Her husband looked at her severely, and 
 breathed a hasty ' Hush !' Then after a little 
 pause, 
 
 1 Perhaps we're prejudiced. We have had to 
 do with some that have done badly in business, 
 and we don't take a sanguine view. You may 
 make money, I don't deny, but again you may 
 lose it. You may have to part with every 
 penny you've got, and there's a deal of tempta- 
 tion to speculate and all that. And besides 
 we've got no opening that I know,' he added, 
 almost sharply, ' which alters the question/ 
 
 There had been no argument nor anything to 
 excite him, and yet he ended up in a belliger- 
 ent manner, as though he had been violently 
 contesting the views of some antagonist, and then 
 looked at Mr. Cattley with a sort of defiance, as 
 if that mild and innocent clergyman had been 
 pressing upon him some undesirable course. 
 
 'Nay, nay, if you don't like it,' said the 
 curate, ' there is nothing more to be said. I am 
 not much, moved that way myself. 1 had a 
 
 brother once ' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 « Yes V cried Mrs. Sandford, putting away her 
 knitting altogether, as if in the importance of 
 this discussion the mere touch of the work 
 irritated her. The old gentleman lifted a finger 
 as if in warning. 
 
 * Don't you excite yourself, my dear,' he said. 
 
 'Poor fellow,' said Mr. Cattley. 'He was 
 much older than I : but he died young, broken- 
 hearted. He was not the resolute sort of fel- 
 low that gets on. He got his accounts into a 
 muddle somehow ' 
 
 ' Yes !' cried Mrs. Sandford again. She was 
 as eager as if this were something pleasant that 
 was being told her ; whereas the curate had his 
 eyes fixed, meditatively, on the fire, and spoke 
 slowly and with regret. 
 
 ' He was not much more than a boy,' said Mr. 
 Cattley. ' It's a long time ago, when I was a 
 child. I believe it never could be found out 
 how it was — whether he had lost the money or 
 spent it without knowing, or whether some one 
 had taken it. Nobody blamed him, but he 
 never got over it. It broke his heart.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Mrs. Sandford, with a gasp for 
 breath. But she seemed a little disappointed —
 
 JOHN'S CHOICE. 67 
 
 as if she were sorry — though that of course 
 must have been impossible —that the curate's 
 brother was not to blame. 
 
 'Things do happen like that,' said the old 
 gentleman, breathing what seemed like a sigh of 
 relief. ' And sometimes it's partly a young fel- 
 low's fault, and partly it isn't. But my wife 
 and I, we've seen so much of it, living near 
 Liverpool at one time, which is a great business 
 place, that it's not at all the kind of life we 
 would choose for John.' 
 
 ' Oh, John would be all right,' said Mr. Catt- 
 ley, 'but I'm sorry I have been so unfortunate 
 in my first shot. I don't doubt, however, that 
 he has a very fan* guess what he wants to be 
 himself.' 
 
 1 1 didn't know,' said John, ' you had any 
 objection to business. I should have liked an 
 office as well as anything, for then one could 
 have been upon one's own hook at once, and got 
 a salary, and not needed to come upon you.' 
 
 * Oh, Johnnie, my boy, did we ever grudge 
 you anything that you say that V 
 
 ' Nothing, grandmamma ! and that's why I 
 should like to do for myself when I begin : but 
 
 f2
 
 68 THE SON OP HIS FATHER. 
 
 then I'll do nothing that wouldn't please you. 
 May I speak out quite what I should like? 
 Well, then, Mr. Cattley knows. I'd like to build 
 bridges and lighthouses, especially lighthouses ; 
 that's to say, I'd like to be an engineer.' 
 
 * An engineer !' They looked at each other 
 again, but not with any secret communications, 
 in simple surprise and mutual consultation. 
 ' Nobody belonging to you ever was that 
 before,' Mrs. Sandford said. 
 
 ■ Y es, that is something quite new,' said the 
 grandfather. 'I thought he'd have favoured 
 farming, or to try for an agency, or, perhaps, the 
 corn-factoring trade. Well, it is none the worse 
 that I know of for being something new.' 
 
 * The worst is that it takes a great deal of 
 learning,' said John, doubtfully. * Mr. Cattley 
 knows, grandfather. You have to serve your 
 time, and to work hard : but I don't mind the 
 work.' 
 
 1 Yes,' said the curate, < I know a good deal 
 about it, or at least, I could get you all the in- 
 formation. I have a brother ' 
 
 < Not the one,' said Mrs. Sandford, with again 
 a little gasp, * that broke his heart '
 
 JOHN'S CHOICE, <>9 
 
 * Oh, no,' said the curate, * my father was 
 three times married, and I have a great many 
 brothers. This was one of the first lot. He is 
 quite an old fellow, and he's done very well for 
 himself ; he never had the least idea of break- 
 ing his heart. Indeed, I don't know/ he added, 
 with a smile — but stopped himself, and left his 
 sentence unfinished. ■ He has a great foundry, 
 and is in a large way of business. By the way, 
 John, I'm afraid he has nothing to do with 
 lighthouses. He is what is called a mechanical 
 engineer.' 
 
 1 1 suppose they are all connected,' said Mr. 
 Sandford, as if he knew all about it : and he 
 expressed himself as very grateful to Mr. Catt- 
 ley, who promised to procure him all necessary 
 information about the further education that 
 John would require to go through: and the 
 evening terminated with a little supper of the 
 simplest kind, which the curate was not too fine 
 to share. It seemed to bring him closer to 
 them, and knit the bond of long association more 
 warmly that he should thus have something to 
 do with John's future career, and on the other 
 hand it threw a light of respectability upon the
 
 70 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 profession John had chosen, that Mr. Cattley's 
 brother should be in it. It was a very dark 
 night, and when the curate left them, John took 
 the lantern to see him home to his own house. 
 When the old people were alone, after accom- 
 panying their guest to the door, they came 
 back to the fire, for it was cold ; but for a few 
 minutes neither spoke. Then Grandfather Sand- 
 ford said, with an air of relief, 
 
 1 Well, that's over, thank heaven. It's been 
 hanging over me, day after day, for years. But 
 I might have saved myself the trouble, for he 
 took it as sweetly as any baby, and never had 
 a doubt.' 
 
 * Oh, John Sandford,' said the old lady, ' and 
 doesn't that make it all the worse to deceive 
 him now? We've told him the truth all his 
 days ; how could he doubt us ? But when he 
 finds it out he will think it's all a lie everything 
 we've ever said.' 
 
 To this the old gentleman replied with some- 
 thing like a sob, covering his face with his hand, 
 
 'If you feel you can take it upon you to 
 break that poor lad's heart, do it ; but don't ask 
 me.'
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 The curate and his pupil trudged along in the 
 dark, guided by the lantern which threw a gleam 
 along the road and showed them the irregulari- 
 ties in it, which indeed they both knew very 
 well, avoiding by instinct the bit of broken 
 causeway before the schoolhouse, and the heap 
 of crates and packages that were always to be 
 found in front of the shop. The darkness of the 
 village was not like the modified darkness to 
 which dwellers in towns are accustomed. It 
 was a blackness which could be felt ; without 
 any relief. But then both of these people knew 
 every step of the way. The drawback of the 
 darkness, however, was that one could not see 
 who might be listening, and had, therefore, no 
 guidance to tone one's voice or change the sub-
 
 72 THE SON OP HIS FATHER. 
 
 ject when there were people passing by, to 
 whom one did not care to confess all one's 
 thoughts. This, however, very little affected 
 John and the curate, who knew everybody, and 
 had nothing in the world to conceal. 
 
 ' I'm very glad, John,' said the curate, as they 
 trudged along, speaking a little louder than 
 usual because of the night; for it was so heavy 
 and depressing that it seemed to require more 
 cheer than usual in the human voices, * very 
 glad that your grandfather and grandmother 
 take it so well. It's a very fine profession, the 
 best you can have.' 
 
 * Yes, that is just what I think,' said John, 
 ' it's not a mere trade to make one's living by. 
 It means more than that.' 
 
 * Yes, a great deal ; but, all the same, a sure 
 trade to make one's living by is something. 
 You must not be contemptuous ' 
 
 '* I, sir !' said John. « I hope I'm not contemp- 
 tuous of anything ; but if you can make your 
 living and do something for your fellow-crea- 
 tures at the same time — like yourself,' the boy 
 said, lowering his voice, * though not in such a 
 fine way '
 
 AX ADVENTURE. 73 
 
 1 Ah, my boy,' said the curate, in a tone which 
 implied that he was shaking his head, ' when you're 
 older even you, perhaps, won't think so much 
 of my way of serving my fellow-creatures. It 
 is not very much one can do. If I were in the 
 East-End of London, perhaps, or on a mission — 
 but never mind about that. You must remem- 
 ber that building lighthouses is the heroic part, 
 but learning to survey and to calculate, or hav- 
 ing to work at machinery, as you would do if 
 you went to my brother ' 
 
 ' I'd like the one for the sake of the other,' 
 said John. 
 
 'But you might never, perhaps, get to the 
 other. You may have to grind for years at the 
 mechanical part. You must not form too high 
 expectations. We all have our dreams of light- 
 houses — and then, perhaps, never get any fur- 
 ther than to make a bit of railway or to look 
 after the fall of the water in a lock.' 
 
 ' You always say,' cried the boy, ' that a firm 
 resolution is half the battle/ 
 
 1 Yes, indeed,' said the curate, and once more 
 there was that in his voice which sounded as if he 
 were shaking his head. ' Ah, yes,' he went on,
 
 74 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 with a laugh, ' that's the greatest part of the 
 battle. I never said a wiser thing (if I said it) 
 than that. Solomon himself couldn't teach you 
 anything better. Stick to it with a determina- 
 tion that you are going to succeed, and, unless 
 you are very unfortunate indeed, you will suc- 
 ceed. Ah ! what is that ! Who is there % The 
 lantern, John.' 
 
 They had just passed the village public-house, 
 which was a thorn in the curate's flesh, and had 
 dimly perceived, by the light of the half-open 
 door, dim figures striding out and flitting into 
 the darkness ; for the hour of closing was near. 
 Perhaps one of the times Mr. Cattley shook his 
 head, it was at this headquarters of opposition 
 to all he was trying to do. He was not of differ- 
 ent clay from other men, and he hated the place, 
 as those who have had to contend against an 
 evil influence, whose headquarters they cannot 
 reach, are apt to do, with more vehemence than 
 perfect justice demands. Some one had address- 
 ed him, as he spoke to John, with a hoarse, ' I 
 say, master,' out of the darkness, and there had 
 come along with the voice into the fresh, chill, 
 and wide air round them that overpowering
 
 AX ADVENTURE. 75 
 
 smell of drink which sickens both the senses and 
 the heart. It must have been a very bold 
 parishioner, indeed, who could have addressed 
 the curate at that stage, and it was with a voice 
 much sterner than usual that he said, 
 
 ' The lantern, John !' 
 
 John raised the lantern quickly, sharing his 
 master's indignation, and, the light suddenly 
 shifting, fell upon a figure which, happily, was 
 not that of a village toper. It was a tall man, 
 in rough clothes, with a red spotted handker- 
 chief tied round his neck, and a hat slouched 
 over his eyes. If there had been any possi- 
 bility of violence in Edgeley, the curate, who 
 was a slim man, and, notwithstanding his 
 height, not very strong, might have shrunk 
 from such a meeting in the dark: but he was 
 in his own kingdom, and there was not one 
 even of the worst characters in the village who 
 did not more or less acknowledge his authority. 
 And Mr. Cattley, besides, was not the sort of 
 man to be afraid. He said, with a voice which 
 changed at once from the friendly softness with 
 which he had been talking to the boy, 
 
 1 Who are you ! and what do you want V
 
 76 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 His tone, John, thought, was enough to strike 
 terror to the most obdurate heart. 
 
 1 No offence, master/ said the man. ' I was 
 only wishful to ask if you know'd of a Missis 
 May, that I've been told lived about here/ 
 
 ' No. I know no one of that name/ said the 
 curate. * There is no Mrs. May in this village. 
 You seem to be a stranger here. Wherever 
 you're lodging, I advise you to go home and 
 go to bed. It's too late to be asking for any- 
 one at this hour of the night.' 
 
 'You think I'm drunk, and so do a many; 
 but I'm not drunk. I've only a drop of beer 
 on board,' said the man. 'It's a long time 
 since I've had the chance, and I'm a-making up 
 for lost time.' 
 
 ' Where are you lodging V said the curate, in 
 his stern voice. 
 
 ' They said they'd give me a bed there,' said 
 the stranger, pointing with a hand towards the 
 public-house ; ' but, now they've found out 
 about me, they say they won't. And it's drefful 
 hard upon a man as has come out of his way 
 for nothing, as ye may say, but to do a good 
 turn. And that's the reason as I was asking for
 
 AX ADVENTURE. 77 
 
 Missis May ; for she'll put me up if he won't, a 
 good lady as her husband was my mate, and 
 I'm come to bring her news out of my way.' 
 
 * Sir,' said Johnson of the public-house, com- 
 ing up on the other side, * he's a man as has 
 let out as he's fresh from Portland, just served 
 out his time ; and he's looking for a woman as 
 is the wife of another of 'em. There ain't no 
 such person here. I've told him over and over 
 again. And I've told him to move on, and be 
 off to the station afore the last train goes by. 
 But I can't get him to do neither one thing nor 
 the other. And I can't be expected to put up 
 a fellow like that in my house.' 
 
 ' Was it in your house he got all the drink 
 he has swallowed?' said the curate. ' If you 
 will not give him a bed to sleep it off in, why 
 did you give him the drink V 
 
 ' Oh, that's a different thing. Every man is 
 free to have his glass,' said Johnson, with a 
 growl of insolence. Then he added, ' And it 
 only came out in his drink who he was, and all 
 this bother about his Mrs. May. There's no- 
 body here or hereabout of that name.' 
 
 6 It's none of you or your miserable holes I
 
 78 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 want. It's my mate's wife as 1 want,' said the 
 man. ' Yon tell me where she lives, or I'll — 
 I'll break all your windows and pull your old 
 barracks about your ears.' 
 
 He said this with an interlarding of many 
 oaths, and, swaying back and forward, finally- 
 lost his balance and dropped upon the road- 
 side, where John, changing the level of the 
 lantern, poured a stream of light upon him, as 
 he sat up with tipsy gravity, leaning against a 
 low wall which bordered the path, and looking 
 up at the group before him with blank, lack- 
 lustre eyes. 
 
 6 He can't be left out here in the cold, what- 
 ever he is,' the curate said. 
 
 ' That's all very well for you, Mr. Cattley. 
 Them as hasn't got to do a thing never see any 
 difficulty in it,' said the master of the public- 
 house. 
 
 ' I can't stand here bandying words,' said the 
 curate ; < if you will not take him in, I must do 
 it. He can't be left to be frozen to death in 
 the public road. Some of those fellows who 
 are skulking away in the dark not to face me 
 — but I see them well enough.' Mr. Cattley
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 79 
 
 raised his voice, and terror ran through the 
 loiterers who had been lingering to see what 
 would come of this exciting incident. ' Some 
 of them can help me along with him to my 
 house. Come along, and lend a hand, before 
 he goes to sleep.' 
 
 ' I ain't a-going to sleep,' said the stranger, 
 haranguing from what he evidently felt to be a 
 point of 'vantage. * I'm as steady as a churcb, 
 and a deal soberer nor e'er a one of you. I 
 wants Missis May, as '11 take me in and do for 
 me thankful, along of her husband, as was my 
 mate.' 
 
 1 Come along, men,' said Mr. Cattley, sharply. 
 ' I'm not strong enough to do it myself, and you 
 won't leave the boy to drag him, will you, not 
 the boy ' 
 
 * If it's come to that, sir,' said the man of the 
 publichouse, * I'd rather do it nor trouble you. 
 After all, it's more fit for me to have him than 
 you. Supposing as he can't pay, I take it you'd 
 rather pay for him than have him in your house. 
 Hey, man, get up and get to bed !' 
 
 * All I'm wishful for,' said the man, growing 
 more and more solemn, ' is for some one to direct
 
 80 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 me where Missis May's living. It's she as will 
 be glad to see me wi' news — news of her man — 
 as was my mate/ 
 
 ' Thank you, Johnson,' said Mr. Cattley, with a 
 reluctance which he felt to be unjust. ' I will 
 certainly pay, and I'm obliged to you, which is 
 more. Do you want the lantern ? Then come 
 along, John, you've had enough of this dismal 
 sight/ 
 
 He went along the remainder of the way, 
 which was not long, in silence, and it was only 
 at his own door that he spoke. 
 
 * John,' he said, * that's such a spectacle as 
 the Spartans, don't you remember, gave to their 
 boys/ 
 
 * It was awfully cruel, sir,' cried John, ' they 
 made the Helots drink — and then — it wasn't the 
 fault of the poor brutes. 1 would rather go with- 
 out the lesson than have it like that/ 
 
 'And I'd rather you had gone without this 
 lesson. I'd rather you knew nothing about it. 
 But we can't abstract ourselves from the world, 
 and we can't live in the world without seeing 
 many horrible things. I wonder now whether 
 there was a bit of faithfulness and human feeling
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 81 
 
 at the bottom of all that ? Heaven knows !— or 
 it might be the reverse — an attempt to get some- 
 thing out of some poor decent woman to cover 
 her shame. Did you ever hear the name of May 
 about here V 
 
 1 No,' said John, ' never;' and then he paused 
 for a moment. ' I seem to know something about 
 the name ; but I'm sure there's no one called May 
 here.' 
 
 1 Not down by Feather Lane V said the curate, 
 thoughtfully. ' I must speak to Miss Summers 
 about it. She will know. Now, here we are at 
 my door, and I shouldn't have let you come so 
 far. Go quickly home, my dear boy.' 
 
 John obeyed, yet did not obey, this injunction. 
 He went home without lingering, but he did not 
 go quickly. Why there should be a particular 
 pleasure in lingering out of doors in the dark in 
 a world unseen, where there is nothing to please 
 either mind or eye, it would be difficult to say. 
 But that there is, every imaginative spirit must 
 have felt. The boy strolled along in a medita- 
 tive way, dangling his lantern at his cold 
 fingers' end, throwing stray gleams upon the 
 
 road, which gave him a fantastic half- conscious 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 amusement but no aid, though, indeed, he did 
 not require that, in seeing his way. The land- 
 lord of the ' Green Man' was still outside discours- 
 ing upon the hardship of being compelled to take 
 a drunken brute fresh out of prison into his 
 respectable house. 
 
 'We'll maybe wake up in the morning all 
 dead corpses,' he said, unconscious of the warrant 
 of Scripture for the words, ' all along of a clergy- 
 man as just fancies things.' 
 
 6 Put him in the barn,' said one of the loungers 
 about, slow spirits excited by the stir of some- 
 thing happening, who had returned and hung 
 about the door discussing it after the curate had 
 passed. 'Put him in the stable, that's good 
 enough for the likes of him.' 
 
 * I'll put him in the loft and turn the key upon 
 him, so as he'll do no harm,' said the landlord. 
 The man, as John made out with a gleam of his 
 lantern, was still seated on the edge of the 
 pathway, supported against the wall, his red 
 handkerchief showing in the light. He was 
 muttering on in a long hoarse monologue, in 
 which there was still audible from time to time 
 the name of May.
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 83 
 
 May ! John asked himself, as he went on, 
 how was it that he knew that name ? It seem- 
 ed to be so familiar to him, and yet he could not 
 recall distinctly what the association was. Then 
 he pondered on what the curate had said, 
 whether by any chance there might be what he 
 had called ' a bit of faithfulness and human feel- 
 ing ' at the bottom of the miserable fellow's per- 
 sistence. Nobody but Mr. Cattley would have 
 thought of that, the boy said to himself; and 
 there rose before his half-dreaming eyes a pic- 
 ture of some poor creature waiting for news, 
 blessing even this wretched man for bringing 
 them to her. 
 
 John had read 'Les Miserables ' (in the orig- 
 inal; for Mr. Cattley knew so much! and had 
 taught him French as well as Latin), and a 
 comparison between the incidents rose in his 
 mind. He felt, as one feels at that age, that it 
 was rather grand to be going along in the dark, 
 thinking of Victor Hugo's great book and com- 
 paring French and English sentiment, he who 
 was only a country boy ; and this feeling min- 
 gled with the comparison he was making. Mr. 
 Cattley was not an ideal saint like Monseigneur 
 
 g2
 
 84 THE SON OF HIS FATEER . 
 
 Bienvenu, but neither were the English village- 
 folks so hard-hearted as the French ones. They 
 would not have left even a returned convict to 
 perish in the cold. This suggestion of perishing 
 in the cold, which made him shiver, sent John's 
 imagination all abroad upon shipwrecks at sea, 
 and tales of desolate places, the martyrs of the 
 Arctic regions and those in the burning deserts ; 
 his fancy flitting from one to another without 
 coherence or any close connection as thoughts 
 do. And then, with a sudden pang, as if an 
 arrow had gone into his heart, he remembered 
 what had been told him only this evening, that 
 his own father, papa, who had been a sort of god 
 to his infancy, was dead. How was it possible 
 that he could forget it as he had done, letting 
 any trifling incident take possession of his mind 
 and banish that great fact from the foreground ? 
 He felt more guilty than could be said, and yet, 
 while feeling so, his mind flitted off again in 
 spite of him to a hundred other subjects. The 
 recollection returned with a fluctuating thrill, at 
 intervals, but it would not remain. It linked 
 itself even with this question about Mrs. May. 
 May ! what had that to do with the revelation
 
 AX ADVENTURE. 85 
 
 which had been made to him? — that, a mere vulgar 
 incident seen on the roadside — the other an event 
 which ought to make everything sad to him. 
 
 He went on a little quicker, spurred by the 
 thought. His father's death had not made 
 everything sad to him. It was but one incident 
 among many which came back from time to 
 time; but the other incidents — he felt ashamed 
 to think they had interested him quite as much. 
 It had been altogether an exciting evening. 
 First that intimation, and then the talk about 
 what he was going to be, and the consent of his 
 grandparents to his plan. Either of these facts 
 had been quite enough to fill up an evening, or, 
 indeed, many evenings, and now they all came 
 together ; and then, as if that were not enough, 
 the startling scene in the darkness of the night, the 
 returned convict just like ' Les Miserables,' but 
 so different, the ' bit of faithfulness,' perhaps, and 
 1 human feeling.' John said to himself that this 
 was a poor little outside affair, not worth to be 
 mentioned beside the others, but yet he could 
 not help wondering whether the poor fellow, 
 though he was so little worthy of interest, would 
 ever find his Mrs. May.
 
 86 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 He got home before he expected, in the mul- 
 tiplicity of these thoughts ; and when the door 
 was opened to him noiselessly, without anyone 
 appearing, he knew it was grandmamma, who 
 was always on the watch for him. She said, in 
 a whisper, 
 
 ' You've been a long time, dear. Hush, don't 
 make any noise, grandfather has gone up to bed/ 
 
 * I was kept by a strange thing,' said J ohn. 
 * Come into the parlour, and I'll tell you, grand- 
 mamma. Why, the fire is nearly out, though 
 it's so cold !' 
 
 ■ There's a fire in your room, my dear. You 
 forget how late it is — near eleven o'clock. And 
 what was the strange thing, Johnnie 1 There 
 are not many strange things in our village at 
 this hour of the night.' 
 
 She was wrapped up in a great white shawl r 
 and the pretty old face smiled over this, her 
 complexion relieved and brightened by it, a 
 picture of an old lady, beaming with tender 
 love and cheerful calm. 
 
 ' It was very strange,' said John, ' though it 
 seemed at first only a drunken fellow at the 
 door of the « Green Man." '
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 87 
 
 1 Mr. Cattley shouldn't have taken you that 
 way. I don't like to have you mixed up with 
 drunken men.' 
 
 1 How could I be mixed up V said John, with 
 a laugh. ' But the strange thing is that he says 
 he's a returned convict, and that he was calling 
 out and asking everyone for some woman, a 
 Mrs. May.' 
 
 Mrs. Sandford clutched at John with her 
 hand. Her lips fell apart with horror, the 
 colour fled from her face. 
 
 ' Oh, good Lord ! What is it you are saying?' 
 she gasped, scarcely able to speak. 
 
 ' You don't mean to say you are frightened, 
 with the doors locked and all the windows 
 fastened! Why, grandmamma,' said John, 
 laughing, 'you are as bad as the people in 
 " Les Miserables," that I read to you, you 
 know ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, I'm frightened !' she said, leaning 
 upon him, and putting her hand to her heart, as 
 if she had received a blow. 
 
 He felt the throbbing which went all through 
 the slight frame as if it had been a machine 
 vibrating with the quickened movement.
 
 88 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ' Why, grandmamma,' he said again. ' You 
 to be frightened ! He can't, if he were a demon, 
 do any harm to you. And shall I tell you what 
 Mr. Cattley said ? He said it might be a bit 
 of faithfulness and human feeling, his coming 
 to look for this poor woman, to bring her news 
 of her husband.' 
 
 '■ What had he to do with her husband V said 
 the old lady, almost in a whisper, turning away 
 from him her scared and panic-stricken face. 
 
 'Oh, he had been in the same prison with 
 him,' said John. ' He said her husband was his 
 mate — that means, you know — but of course 
 you know what it means. And, by-the-by,' 
 said the boy, ' can you tell me, grandmamma, 
 how it is that I seem to have some association 
 or other — I can't tell what it is — with the name 
 of May? 5
 
 89 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GRAXDMAM M A 
 
 Mrs. Sandford got up very early next morning, 
 some time before it was daylight. She had 
 scarcely slept all night. As quiet as a little 
 ghost, not to wake her husband, she had stolen 
 upstairs after dismissing John to bed : and she 
 stole out of her room as softly in the morning, 
 her heart rent with trouble and fear. It was 
 her habit to go out early in the summer morn- 
 ings to look after the garden, to collect the eggs 
 from the poultry-yard, to gather her posies with 
 the dew upon them, which was an old-fashioned 
 way she had. But in winter the old lady was 
 not so brave, and feared the cold as the least 
 courageous will do. Notwithstanding, it was 
 still dark when she stole out, unseen as she 
 fondly hoped, by Sarah in the kitchen. The
 
 90 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 darkness of the night was just beginning to 
 yield to the grey -unwilling daylight. The 
 milkman was going his rounds. Some late 
 people, not the labourers, who were off to their 
 work long ago in the darkness, were coming out 
 very cold to their occupations : the shop had still 
 a smoky paraffin-lamp lighted, and there was 
 one of the same description shining through the 
 open door of the ' Green Man.' Except for 
 these points of light, all was grim and grey in 
 the village. The sky widened and cleared 
 minute by minute. It did not grow bright, but 
 slowly cleared. Mrs. Sandford had a thick veil 
 over her face, but everybody knew her. To at- 
 tempt to hide herself was vain. She had taken 
 a basket in her hand to give herself a counte- 
 nance. It was a basket which was well known. 
 It carried many a little comfort to sick people 
 and those who were very poor. The sight of 
 the little slim old lady with her fair, fresh face 
 and white hair, her trim black-silk gown, and 
 warm wadded cloak, and the basket in her 
 hand, was very familiar to the people in Edge- 
 ley. But she was seldom out so early, and her 
 steps were a little uncertain, not quick and
 
 GRANDMAMMA. 91 
 
 light as usual. You could generally see, to look 
 at her, that she was very sure where she was 
 going and knew every step of the way. This 
 morning she went up past the ' Green Man,' so 
 that the milkman, who was a great gossip, said 
 to himself, 
 
 ■ 1 know ! She's going to that tramp as was- 
 took bad last night in Feather Lane.' 
 
 But when he had gone on his round a little 
 further and saw her coming back again, his con- 
 fidence was shaken. 
 
 1 It must be old Molly Pidgeon she's looking 
 for — and most like don't know as she's moved.' 
 
 But, when Mrs. Sandford crossed the street, 
 this observer was altogether at fault. 
 
 1 There's nobody as is ill that a- way,' he said 
 to the customer whom he was serving. * What- 
 ever is Mrs. Sandford doing out with her basket 
 at this time in the morning, and no sickness to 
 speak of about V 
 
 The woman standing at her door with the 
 jug in her hand for the milk leaned out too, and 
 stared. 
 
 ' There's a deal of children with colds, and 
 old folks,' she said.
 
 92 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 And they both stopped to look at the un- 
 certain movements of the little figure. Even 
 curiosity in the country is slow in its operations. 
 They stood half turned away from the milk- 
 pails, which were their real point of meeting, and 
 stared slowly, while the unwonted passenger in 
 still more unwonted uncertainty flickered along. 
 In the meantime there had been a little commo- 
 tion at the ' Green Man,' such as was very un- 
 usual too : for in the morning all was decorous 
 and quiet there, if not always so at night. 
 There was a loud sound of voices, which, though 
 beyond the range of the milkman and his cus- 
 tomer, attracted the attention of other people who 
 were about their morning's business. The post- 
 man paused while feeling for his letters, and 
 turned his head that way, and the people in the 
 shop came running out to the door. 
 
 * It'll be him as made the row last night,' they 
 said, in fond expectation of a second chapter. 
 Their hopes were so far realized that at this 
 moment the folding swinging-doors flew open, 
 and a man burst out more quickly than is the 
 usual custom of retiring guests. And he stopped 
 to shake his fist at the door, where Johnson
 
 GRANDMAMMA. 93 
 
 appeared after him watching his departure. 
 * I promise you I'll keep an eye on you,' John- 
 son cried after him, and the stranger sent back 
 a volley of curses fortunately too hoarse to be 
 very articulate. 
 
 Mrs. Sandford crossed the road again just at 
 that moment, and she heard better than the 
 observers far off. A look of horror came over 
 her face. 
 
 1 Oh ! my good man,' she cried, lifting up her 
 hand, * I am sure you don't wish all those hor- 
 rible things. "What good can it do you to 
 swear !' 
 
 The man looked at her for a moment. Her 
 little dainty figure, her careful dress, her spot- 
 less looks made such a contrast to this big 
 ruffian, all disordered, squalid, and foul, with 
 every appearance of having lain among the 
 straw all night, and the traces of last night's 
 debauch still hanging about him, as no words 
 could express. He stood a moment taken 
 aback by her address ; probably he would have 
 shrunk even from appealing to the charity of a 
 being so entirely different and out of his sphere ; 
 but to have her stop there and speak to him
 
 94 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 took away his breath. His hand stole up to his 
 cap involuntarily. 
 
 * It do a man a deal of good, lady,' he said ; 
 ' it relieves your mind ; but I didn't ought to,' 
 he added, beginning to calculate, ' I know.' 
 
 'You should not, indeed,' she said; and then 
 added, ' You seem a stranger. Are you looking- 
 for work? or have you any friends about here?' 
 
 The postman, the woman at the shop, and 
 everybody within sight admired and wondered 
 to see Mrs. Sandford talking to * the man.' 
 This was the name he had already acquired in 
 Edgeley. They wondered if she could know 
 that he was a man out of prison. But she was 
 known to be very kind. 
 
 « I shouldn't wonder if that was just why she's 
 doing of it, because nobody else would touch 
 him with a pair of tongs,' an acute person said. 
 
 He seemed, it must be added, much surprised 
 himself; but he was a man who had been used 
 to prison chaplains and other charitable persons, 
 and he thought he knew how to get over every 
 authority of the kind. 
 
 ' Lady,' he said, ' that's just what I want. It's 
 work, to earn an honest living ; but, 'cause I'm
 
 GRANDMAMMA. 95 
 
 a poor fellow as has been in trouble, nobody 
 won't have me or hear speak of me ; but to have 
 been in trouble oncet, that's not to say ye don't 
 want to do no better. It's only when ye gets 
 there as ye know how bad it is.' 
 
 4 That may be very true,' said Mrs. Sandford ; 
 * but a little village like this is not the place to 
 get work, I'm afraid ; for there is nothing to do 
 here.' 
 
 1 Xo, lady,' said the man ; * and it wasn't so 
 much work I was looking for this morning, as 
 to do a good turn to a mate o' mine, as was 
 with me, I needn't say where. Maybe ye may 
 know, lady, as it can be seen you're a charitable 
 lady. Maybe you can tell where I'll find a 
 Missis May ' 
 
 Mrs. Sandford's little outline quivered for a 
 moment, but her face did not change. She 
 shook her head. 
 
 ' There is nobody,' she said, 'of that name in 
 this village. I know all the people, as you say. 
 I think there was a woman called May about here 
 a number of years ago, but she has removed, 
 and where she has gone I can't say.' 
 
 ' Ah, that's like enough,' said the man ; * it's
 
 96 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 a long time, and maybe she might not want the 
 
 folks belonging to her to know.' 
 
 'Was it news you were bringing her?' Mrs. 
 
 Sandford said. ' That was very kind of you — 
 
 but perhaps she would rather you didn't tell 
 
 her affairs to everybody, and that her husband 
 
 was ' 
 
 ' I didn't say nothing about her 'usband,' said 
 
 the man, quickly. 
 
 ' Oh ! was it her son then, poor creature ? for 
 that is still worse,' the old lady said. 
 
 He looked at her keenly with the instinct of 
 one who, deceiving himself, has a constant fear 
 of being deceived ; but to see the little Lady 
 Bountiful of the village standing there with her 
 basket, her fresh face as fresh as a child's, her 
 limpid eyes looking at him with an air of pity yet 
 disapproval, and to imagine that she was taking 
 him in was impossible even to a soul accustomed 
 to consider falsehood the common-place of 
 existence. 
 
 * It was her 'usband,' he said, sullenly, * and I 
 don't care much if she liked it or not. She 
 oughter like it if she didn't, for it was news of 
 him I was bringing, and I could tell her all
 
 GRANDMAMMA. 97 
 
 about him — being mates for a matter of seven 
 years, him and me.' 
 
 ' Poor woman !' Mrs. Sandford said. ' But I 
 can't tell you where she has gone, only that 
 she's not here/ 
 
 * You wouldn't deceive a poor fellow, lady? 
 I've 'ad a long tramp, and that beggar there, 
 
 though it's nothing but a public he keeps, 
 
 him ' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mrs. Sandford, ' don't swear ! "What 
 good can that do you % Indeed, I am not 
 deceiving you. I'm very sorry for you. I will 
 give you something to pay your fare to the 
 town. You will be better off there than here.' 
 
 ' It's not much of a town as far as I've heard,' 
 he said, < and I ain't 'ad no breakfast. And my 
 'eart's set on doing my duty by my mate. I'll 
 go from door to door but I'll find that woman, 
 blast her. She's a proud 'un, I know, and 
 thinks herself a lady. I'll have it out with her, 
 I will, afore I go.' 
 
 ' In that case,' said Mrs. Sandford, * I can't 
 give you the money which I offered you : and I 
 meant to give you something for your break- 
 fast too — and I must speak to the constable, for 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 VJ8 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 we cannot have you about the village, Mr. 
 
 I don't know what your name is. To have you 
 here frightening all the poor people would 
 never do/ 
 
 She gave him a lofty nod of her little head, 
 and turned away : but the man, after all, was 
 not willing to relinquish present advantage for 
 problematical good. He made a stride after her, 
 which frightened her very much, and took away 
 all her pretty colour, but not the courage in her 
 heart. 
 
 'Lady/ he said, 'if you tell me on your 
 honour that woman ain't here — them folks all 
 said so, but I didn't believe 'em : and if you'll 
 give me — say ten shillin' — over and above the 
 fare, as you promised ' 
 
 A gleam of eagerness came into Mrs. Sand- 
 ford's eyes ; but she controlled herself. 
 
 < 1 can assure you,' she said, 'the woman is not 
 here/ 
 
 She had grown quite pale, and, though she 
 smiled still, her countenance was drawn with 
 terror, perhaps, or some other feeling. 
 
 ' You're frightened of me, lady,' the man said, 
 ' but you hain't got no cause. I'm rough enough,
 
 GRANDMAMMA. 99 
 
 but a lady as speaks kind and don't try to bully 
 a poor fellow — or go talking about the police — 
 and besides I couldn't do nothin' to you. The 
 
 men would be on me afore we could say Jack 
 
 And I'm pretty sure as it's the truth, and May's 
 wife ain't here. She's a proud one, she is. She's 
 maybe gone out of the country, or changed her 
 name, or summat. Gi' me ten shillin' and I'll 
 go away.' 
 
 ' You had better go to the clergyman,' said 
 Mrs. Sandford. 
 
 1 Gi' me ten shillin',' said the man. 
 
 'Oh, perhaps I am doing what is wrong; 
 perhaps I ought to speak to the constable. I'm 
 not a person with any authority, and why should 
 I interfere V 
 
 1 Gi* me ten shillin',' he repeated, coming- 
 close to her, holding out his hand. 
 
 1 AY ill you go away if I do 1 Perhaps you 
 had better see the clergyman. I've no right to 
 interpose to send you away. Will you go if I 
 
 dor 
 
 He nodded, watching her trembling hands as 
 she took out her purse and felt in it, pressing 
 very close to her, rubbing against her silk gown 
 
 h2
 
 1.00 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 with his rough dress ; and, as it happened by ill- 
 luck, Mrs. Sandford had but a sovereign in her 
 purse. When he saw it he put his hand upon 
 hers suddenly, and crushed the little fingers 
 together which held the golden coin. 
 
 ' Gi' me that,' he said, with his hot breath in 
 her face, ' gi' me that, or afore any o' them can 
 get to ye I'll knock you down ; and they can't 
 do anything as bad to me.' 
 
 The little old lady stood enveloped in his big 
 shadow, with his hairy, villainous face close by 
 hers. She did not shrink, nor scream, nor faint, 
 but stood up, deadly pale, with her limpid eyes 
 fixed upon him. 
 
 ' I am not afraid of you,' she said, with a little 
 gasp. * Will you keep your word and go away?' 
 Some sentiment, unknown and inexplainable, 
 came into the ruffian's heart. He loosed his 
 grip of the delicate little hand that felt like 
 nothing in his grasp, which he could have crush- 
 ed to a jelly: and indeed he had nearly done so. 
 He said, ' I will ; I'll keep my word,' in a deep 
 growling bass voice. 
 
 It was all that Mrs. Sandford could do to 
 unclasp the fingers he had gripped, and to keep
 
 GRANDMAMMA. 101 
 
 from crying with the pain. She dropped the 
 sovereign into his hand. 
 
 ' Now go/ she said. 
 
 1 You are game/ he cried, with a sort of ad- 
 miration, looking at her rather than the sove- 
 reign, though his hand closed upon that with 
 the eagerness of a famished beast upon a bone. 
 * I never saw one as was more game.' 
 
 She made a gesture of dismissal with her 
 cramped fingers. 
 
 * Oh, go, go — and God forgive you. And oh ! 
 try to get honest work, and live decent — and 
 not fall into trouble again/ 
 
 < Good-bye, lady/ he said ; then coming back 
 a step — ' I'm sorry I hurt you/ 
 
 She waved to him to go away. The man still 
 lingered a moment, putting up his hand to his cap, 
 then turned, and, slouching, with his shoulders 
 up to his ears, took the way across the corner 
 of the moor to the railway-station, which was a 
 mile off or more. 
 
 Mrs. Sandford turned to go back to her house. 
 She was so pale that when she came near the 
 door of the shop Mrs. Box came running out to 
 her in alarm.
 
 102 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 * Oh, Mrs. Sandford, come in, ma'am ; come in 
 and rest a bit. You've not a bit of colour on 
 your cheeks — you that have such a fine com- 
 plexion. You're just dead with fright, and I 
 don't wonder at it. How did he dare to speak 
 to you, the villain ? and shook your nerves, poor 
 dear, so that I see you can't speak.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I can speak,' said the old lady. 
 Her knees were knocking under her, her whole 
 little person in a tremble. 'I was glad to 
 speak to him, poor creature. He wanted some 
 one that used to live here by. Perhaps a 
 person like that, who does really wicked things, 
 may not be worse, in the sight of God, than 
 many a man who makes a fair show to the 
 world.' 
 
 She said this with many a catch of her breath 
 and pause between the words. She was very 
 much overdone, as anyone could see, but she 
 would not sit down. 
 
 * If you'll give me a little milk, or some 
 water, to revive me, I'll be quite right in a 
 minute,' she said. 
 
 ' That may be true,' said Mrs. Box, * for good- 
 ness knows the best of folks you can't see into
 
 GRANDMAMMA. 103 
 
 their heart ; but a man as has been in prison 
 ain't like any other man. They learn such a 
 deal of harm, even if it's not in them to begin 
 with. I've just made the tea for breakfast, and 
 here's a nice cup — that'll do you more good 
 than anything else — and sit down a moment and 
 get your breath. I said to William, " There's Mrs. 
 Sandford a-talking to that brute ; you go and 
 see that she's all right." But William, he said 
 to me, " If anyone can bring him to his senses 
 it's just Mrs. Sandford will do it." So we stood 
 and we watched. And what did he say to you, 
 ma'am ? — and dear, dear, how it's taken all the 
 nice colour out of your cheeks.' 
 
 ' Thank you for the tea. It has done me a 
 great deal of good,' said the old lady ; ' and now 
 I must go home, for Mr. Sandford will be won- 
 dering what has become of me. Poor man, he 
 was very amenable, after all, when one comes 
 to think of it. I told him Edgeley was no 
 place for the like of him, and that perhaps 
 he might get work in the town : and you see 
 he has gone away. Oh, poor soul ! He was 
 some poor woman's boy once, that perhaps has 
 broken her heart for him, Mrs. Box, and never
 
 104 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 thought to see him come to that, any more than 
 you or me.' 
 
 * Well, that's true, ma'am,' said Mrs. Box. 
 * We don't know what they'll come to, as we're 
 so proud of when they're children. Hold up 
 your head, Willie, do ! and ask Mrs. Sandford to 
 let you carry her basket, as is always heavy 
 with things for the poor.' 
 
 ' Not this morning, Mrs. Box. I had but an 
 egg or two in it,' said Mrs. Sandford, opening 
 the lid to show that it was empty. There was 
 a certain suspicion, she thought, in this speech. 
 ' There is no need for troubling Willie ; but he 
 is a fine, good-natured boy, and always willing 
 to carry a parcel or run an errand. Good-morn- 
 ing to you all ; you are kind folks.' 
 
 She thought the tea had saved her as she 
 set out again down the village street. But 
 her limbs still tottered, and she walked slowly, 
 thinking the way twice as long as usual. 
 They all called out how pale she was when she 
 got in. 
 
 ' It is going out,' she said, ' without a cup of 
 tea or anything, which was all my own fault.' 
 
 ' And why did you go out so early, without
 
 GRANDMAMMA. 105 
 
 saying a word,' said her husband. ' Charity, my 
 dear, is a fine thing ; but you should not carry it 
 too far. Neither that nor anything else is good 
 when it's carried too far.' 
 
 Mrs. Sandford only smiled and said it would be 
 difficult to go too far when there were so many 
 poor people, and pretended to make a very good 
 breakfast behind the tea-urn. After breakfast 
 she lay down a little on the sofa, saying that it 
 was the most ridiculous thing in the world to 
 be so tired for nothing, and that she must have 
 taken something that disagreed with her, for 
 the stomach was at the bottom of everything 
 when one grew old. It was still holiday time 
 with John, and he insisted upon staying with 
 her when grandfather went out for that daily 
 walk which nothing short of death in the house 
 would have made him leave off. John was un- 
 usually grave. He came and sat beside the sofa 
 with a very perplexed countenance. 
 
 * Grandmamma,' he said, ' I feel all mixed. I 
 am so puzzled with remembering something. 
 Remembering and forgetting. Wasn't I some- 
 how mixed up when I was a little chap with the 
 name of May V
 
 106 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 COMRADES. 
 
 ' So we've got to leave off work, Jack. I don't 
 know how you may feel, but I don't like it at 
 all.' 
 
 This was what Elly Spencer said as she put 
 her books together in Mr. Cattley's study on a 
 day in January not long before that on which 
 the holidays, if they had been only holidays, 
 would have come to an end. She was sixteen 
 — a little younger than John Sandford, hitherto 
 her constant companion and class-fellow. The 
 relations between them were even more close 
 than this, as the class consisted but of these two. 
 Occasionally there had been a little emulation 
 between them, even by times a keen prick of 
 rivalry, but Mr. Cattley had made it very dis- 
 tinctly understood that, while John was more
 
 COMRADES. 107" 
 
 accurate in point of grammar and all the scaffold- 
 ing of study, Elly was the one who caught the 
 poetry or the meaning most quickly, and 
 jumped at the signification of a sentence even 
 when she did not know all the words of which 
 it was composed. This was true to a certain 
 extent, but not perhaps to the full length to 
 which the curate earned it ; but it had a very 
 agreeable effect as between the two students, 
 and carried off everything that might have been 
 too sharp in their rivalry. 
 
 Thus Elly's part was clearly defined, and so 
 was John's. If by chance the girl remembered 
 a rule of construction before the boy on some 
 exceptional occasion, or the boy perceived the 
 sense of a passage before the girl, it made a 
 laugh instead of any conflict of mutual jealousy. 
 
 ' Why, here's Jack and Elly changing places,' 
 the curate would say, and no harm was done. 
 The link between the two was, however, a very 
 unusual one to exist between a boy and girl. 
 They were like brother and sister, they were 
 two comrades in the completest sense of the 
 words, and yet they were something more. 
 They were like each other's second self in
 
 108 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 different conditions. Elly could not very well 
 imagine what she would do were she Percy or 
 Dick — who had strayed away from the habits of 
 their home, into those of public schoolboys, 
 members of a great corporation bound by 
 other laws ; but she thought she could quite 
 imagine what she would do were she John, or 
 Jack, as the young ones called him. 
 
 It did not indeed enter into Jack's mind to 
 realise what he should do were he Elly ; for 
 that is one inalienable peculiarity of the human 
 constitution that no male creature can put him- 
 self in the place of a woman, as almost all 
 female creatures imaginatively place themselves 
 in that of some man. It is the one intimate 
 mark of constitutional superiority which makes 
 the meanest man more self-important than the 
 noblest woman. Elly knew exactly what she 
 would do if she were John. It was like herself 
 going out into the world, planning the future, 
 foreseeing all that was to happen. If it had 
 been possible for her to go out into the world 
 too, and have a profession, which with a sigh 
 of regret she acknowledged was not possible, 
 she would have done it just as he was going to
 
 COMRADES. 109 
 
 do it. His enthusiasm about lighthouses had 
 indeed been struck out by Elly, who had read 
 all about the Eddystone ' in a book,' as she said, 
 and who thenceforward had done nothing but 
 talk about it till she became a bore to her 
 brothers, and set John's congenial soul aflame. 
 
 John and she talked between themselves 
 about ' the boys ' with a great deal of honest 
 kindness, but perhaps just a little contempt — 
 contempt is too hard, too unpleasant a word ; 
 but then toleration always implies this more or 
 less. The boys got into scrapes : they thought 
 of nothing but their shooting or their fishing : 
 they were dreadfully bored on wet days, or 
 when, as they said, there was ' nothing to do.' 
 
 * Jack and I can always find something to do/ 
 Elly said. 
 
 Perhaps it was after hearing one of these 
 speeches that Mrs. Egerton, called at the rec- 
 tory Aunt Mary, decided that Elly had carried 
 her studies far enough, and had better now 
 devote herself to feminine accomplishments, and 
 cany on the lighter part of her education at 
 home. This decision coincided in point of time 
 with the resolution of Mr. and Mrs. Sandford to
 
 110 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 withdraw John from the curate's charge; so 
 that, though it had a certain dolorous character 
 as a break-up. there was none of the painful 
 feeling on either part of being sent away from 
 those studies which another more fortunate was 
 still carrying on. 
 
 John and Elly had come together by one im- 
 pulse to remove their books. The room in which 
 they had worked was Mr. Cattley's study, the 
 front parlour of the house in which he lodged ; 
 for the curate being only, as it were, in the 
 position of a temporary inhabitant (notwith- 
 standing that no known inducement would have 
 been enough to carry him away from Edgeley) 
 bad no house of his own, but lodged where all 
 the curates had lodged within the memory of 
 man, in Mrs. Sibley's, whose house stood ob- 
 liquely at the end of the village street, com- 
 manding a beautiful view of the street itself, 
 and everything that went on there. The street 
 was broad, and almost all the houses had little 
 gardens, which made it a very pretty view in 
 summer. Within a stone's throw, at the right 
 hand, was the ' Green Man,' which was a draw- 
 back, especially on Saturday nights, when the
 
 COMRADES. Ill 
 
 guests were a little noisy, and when Mr. Cattley 
 was busy with his sermon. But it had this ad- 
 vantage, that the curate secured from his win- 
 dow a great deal of information as to the habits 
 of the more careless portion of his parishioners, 
 and now and then was able to come down upon 
 them accordingly, with very crushing effect. 
 Beyond the ' Green Man,' at a little distance, 
 was the shop, and then the row of houses ran 
 on, sloping a little to the right hand, so that the 
 gable of Mr. Sandford's house in the distance, 
 which was old, and of a fine, mellow, red brick, 
 closed up the view. The church and rectory 
 were withdrawn among trees to the left hand, 
 behind the line of the village street, which had 
 nothing at all remarkable about it, but was 
 homely, and pleasant to the eyes which had 
 known it all their lives and knew everybody in 
 it. To be sure, John Sandford was seven when 
 he came to Edgeley — but that at seventeen does 
 not tell for much. Feather Lane, the low part 
 of Edgeley, was quite unseen from Mr. Cattley 's, 
 being a narrow street which sloped down to the 
 river, well hidden by intervening houses. Mis. 
 Sibley's was rather a modem house — at least, it
 
 112 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 had additions which were of very recent date. 
 The window was a wide, bow- window, roomy 
 enough to hold the curate's writing-table, and seat 
 his two pupils, one at each side. The other part of 
 the room was quite square, and not very lovely. 
 It had a table in the centre — a black horse-hair 
 sofa and chairs, and a red and green carpet 
 with a very bold pattern. The want of beauty 
 in these articles, however, had not struck any- 
 one. The furniture was all so familiar, associ- 
 ated with so many tranquil, pleasant days, so 
 many little jokes and youthful laughter. It was 
 ' a dear old room,' Elly said. She looked round, 
 as she gathered up her books, with affectionate 
 regard. ' Dear old place ! To think one will 
 never come here again, except to ask for Mr. 
 Cattley, or bring him a message from Aunt 
 Mary !' The regret was quite genuine, but 
 there was a little laugh in it too. 
 
 * I sha'n't be able even to do that,' said John. 
 ' 1 shall be away.' 
 
 <Ah, but then you'll write,' said Elly. ' Writ- 
 ing brings you back to a place more than merely 
 coming with a message. If you don't write 
 regularly to me, I shall come to Mr. Cattley, and
 
 COMRADES. 113 
 
 ask him, " Mr. Cattley, have you heard from 
 Jack ?" And then hell take it out, and read it 
 to me ; and so we'll all three be together again.' 
 
 ' Oh, I'll write fast enough,' said John, lightly, 
 without any sense of the privilege it was to be 
 permitted to write as often as he liked to Elly. 
 * 1 shall have nothing else to do.' 
 
 Elly was not at all offended by this easy state- 
 ment. She said, 
 
 ' Not at first ; but after, when you come to 
 know people, then you'll drop off, I'm sure. 
 Everybody does. I have heard Aunt Mary say 
 so often, " Oh, wait till they get among their 
 own friends." But keep it up as long as you 
 can be troubled, Jack ; for I am not going among 
 new friends, you know. Look here, Mr. Cattley 
 has papa and Aunt Mary on his mantelpiece. 
 He has hung papa only to keep Aunt Mary com- 
 pany, I'm sure. Now, let you and me leave him 
 our photographs, one on each side. He'll like it, 
 and it will be a little surprise for him when he 
 comes in.' 
 
 * He will like yours, I daresay,' said Jack, ' but 
 mine ? I am sure he can't want mine : and I've 
 not got one, that I know of.' 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ' Yes, you have,' said Elly. ' This is my own : 
 I brought it with me on purpose ; and, of 
 course, Mrs. Sandford must have another copy, 
 and she'll give it me. Look here,' said the girl, 
 taking out two photographs,whichshehad placed 
 together in an envelope. They were not very 
 noble works of art. They were the production 
 of a travelling photographer who had been in the 
 village for a week, and in that time had ' done ' 
 everybody, both gentle and simple, in Edgeley. 
 They represented two young, round faces, very 
 staring as to likeness, but without other advan- 
 tage : however, neither Elly nor John knew 
 any better. And there was enough in that 
 juxtaposition to have made the heart of a youth 
 beat; but John's heart remained perfectly at 
 ease. It seemed to him, as to Elly, the most 
 natural thing in the world that they should 
 balance each other. Nor was he at all offended 
 that she should give ' my one,' as she called it, 
 to the curate, with the intention of getting 
 another from his grandmother to fill the vacant 
 place in her room when he was aware he had 
 been placed beside ' the other boys.' There 
 was no feeling about the matter that was not
 
 COMRADES. 115 
 
 quite simple and straightforward. Elly took 
 them out of their envelope, and attached them 
 over the curate's mantelpiece with two big pins. 
 
 ' 1 thought at one time,' she said, 'of giviug 
 him the frames, too, but then I thought it was 
 better to pin them up — for if he cares for them 
 very much he can get frames for them, and if 
 he doesn't it's no great matter. All the same it 
 will be you and me.' 
 
 Elly stood up against the fire, reaching up 
 with her arms to fasten the photographs, in her 
 dark winter frock, which made her slim, girlish 
 figure more slim than ever. Her hair still hung 
 down upon her shoulders in half curling locks, 
 not very long, but very thick and shining, and 
 full of the wavy, long undulation of natural 
 curls, which have never been put in paper, or 
 touched with curling-irons. John, though it 
 had never occurred to him to admire Elly, did 
 think her hair very pretty, falling upon her 
 shoulders in that easy way. It was reddish- 
 brown, but more brown than red on ordinary 
 occasions ; only now and then, when there was 
 no occasion for such vanities, the red would 
 come out. 
 
 12
 
 116 THE SON OP HIS FATHER. 
 
 ' You've got very pretty hair, Elly,' he said, 
 quite simply. ' I think I never saw anyone with 
 such pretty hair.' 
 
 * Oh, Jack, papa says it's too red, and Aunt 
 Mary says it's not red enough ; it's neither one 
 thing nor another. How can one help the 
 colour of one's hair, or anything else for the 
 matter of that ; and yet people speak as if it 
 was your fault ! Will that do, do you think ? 
 I've put you on Aunt Mary's side and myself on 
 papa's, because a lady and a gentleman should 
 always come alternately, as people sit at dinner, 
 don't you know. It looks very nice, quite com- 
 plete. If Mr. Cattley has any brothers or sisters, 
 or anything of that sort, there is no room for 
 them now, that is clear.' 
 
 * Or fathers and mothers,' said John. 
 
 * Well, he has had a long time to put them up 
 in, if he wanted to. We must not trouble our- 
 selves about them. Everybody has got fathers 
 and mothers, of course. But I don't remember 
 mamma a bit ; and you don't either, do you, 
 Jack?' 
 
 1 Oh ! yes, I think I do ; but there is one 
 thing, Elly,' said Jack, 'I remember papa; I re-
 
 COMRADES. 117 
 
 member him as distinctly as if it Lad been 
 yesterday. He used to come and take me out 
 of bed, I should think in the middle of the night, 
 and take me downstairs to supper, and 1 had 
 oranges and cakes and all sorts of things sitting 
 on his knee.' 
 
 ' Oh, how bad for you/ said Elly, with a wo- 
 man's instinctive consciousness of maternal 
 responsibility. 'He must have been very 
 thoughtless to do that.' 
 
 ' Thoughtless ? well, perhaps : I never thought 
 of it in that light — but it seems very nice as 
 I look back. Can you believe it, Elly,' said 
 John, coming close and speaking low, ' it was 
 only two or three days since, when we were 
 talking it all over, that I heard for the first time 
 that my father was dead.' 
 
 * Dear, dear !' said Elly, looking very grave ; 
 but then she added, ( I've known it a long time, 
 Jack. I've always heard papa say that you were 
 an orphan boy.' 
 
 ' I am not an orphan boy, my mother is living,' 
 said John, hurriedly. For the first time it oc- 
 curred to him that to have a mother living 
 whom he had not seen for ten years was strange.
 
 1 18 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 It had never struck him in this light before. 
 ' But papa/ he added, in a softer tone, * died 
 many years ago. I don't know why I never 
 understood it. One doesn't thiuk of things when 
 there is nothing to lead one's mind to them.' 
 
 * I know,' said Elly. * It is just now that I 
 am trying to remember a little about mamma. 
 You know, I was only a baby when she died, 
 and for years and years I never even thought — ' 
 
 * That was like me : it all seemed so natural,, 
 one made no inquiry.' 
 
 * We are very like each other, Jack,' said 
 Elly, ' now some people would have been always 
 inquiring : at least that is how they do in books. 
 You and I just took it for granted. Has your 
 mother, then, a large family that she has given 
 you quite up to old Mr. and Mrs. Sandford? I 
 suppose your father was their son, as you are 
 Sandford too.' 
 
 This puzzled John extremely. It was a ques- 
 tion he had not asked himself. Though he knew 
 that his mother was Emily, and that she was the 
 daughter of the old people, it had not occurred 
 to him to wonder why he should be called John 
 Sandford. It sent off his mind at an entirely
 
 COMRADES. 119 
 
 different angle of wonder and inquiry. John — 
 he had always been called Johnnie in those old 
 days. John — what ! It seemed to him a dozen 
 times that he was just on the eve of catching 
 the name, and then it went from him again ; 
 besides, he had not time to think of it now with 
 Elly looking in his face with her brown eyes, all 
 round and big with the inquiry. He replied to 
 her question, 
 
 1 1 don't think I know, Elly. It really is 
 very funny how little one thinks. I don't 
 believe there were many of us. I have a 
 sister Susie — but whether there are any more 
 
 Oh, no, I don't think there are any more. 
 
 My mother never comes to see us because — I 
 am sure I don't know why. I never asked. 
 Some time or other I must think it all out, and 
 ask grandmamma. It is absurd, isn't it, to 
 know so little about one's own people.' 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Elly, • not when you have not 
 heard people talking of them. See how well we 
 look, over Mr. Cattley's mantelpiece. I wonder 
 what he will say when he comes in. He will 
 say, " That's Elly," I am sure. He will never 
 give you the credit of it.'
 
 120 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 'And of course he will be quite right,' said 
 John. ' I should never have thought of such a 
 thing. Well, dear old place, good-bye. I shall 
 think of it often when I am away and working. 
 We have been just the same for a long time, 
 but we are going to be very different, Elly. 
 Perhaps next time we meet you won't have 
 anything to say to me.' 
 
 'Why?' she asked, opening wide again her 
 great soft brown eyes. 
 
 ' Because, of course, you will always be a 
 lady, and I shall perhaps be a rough kind of 
 working man.' John laughed in spite of him- 
 self at the idea, which did not frighten him at 
 all. ' Mr. Cattley says one has to go and work 
 at the foundry like any working man.' 
 
 ' Likely that I shouldn't have anything to say 
 to you! Why, that is what I should enjoy,' 
 said Elly. * Have you got all your books 1 
 Well, then, we'll say good-bye in concert. 
 Good-bye, dear old place ! Of course I shall 
 come back to you often, but Jack most likely 
 will not come back for a very long time. I hope 
 when he does he'll be a good engineer, and be 
 building a new Eddystone, or something of that
 
 COMRADES. 121 
 
 kind : and I hope he will never be such a fool 
 as to think that people will have nothing to say 
 to him. We two schoolfellows will always be 
 friends whatever happens, and wherever we go. 
 You shall always tell everything to me, Jack, 
 just as you always did in Mr. Cattley's dear 
 old study. Xow, that is a promise, mind.' 
 
 1 Yes, Elly,' said John, ' but you ought to 
 promise the same, that you will tell everything 
 to me.' 
 
 'Oh, girls are different,' said Elly. They 
 walked out, carrying with them their burdens of 
 books. It did not occur to John that he should 
 offer to carry hers for her, or treat her otherwise 
 than on the footing of perfect equality which 
 they had hitherto occupied. Nor did she think 
 of it. They stood upon no ceremony with each 
 other. Elly's instinct told her that to promise 
 entire confidence was not on her side so simple, 
 as on his : but she was ready to promise 
 * faithfully,' on her part, always a ready ear for 
 his confidences, and her best attention to any 
 problem he might present for her consideration. 
 John accepted this without further question. 
 He knew vaguely that girls were different.
 
 122 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Elly would go back to the drawing-room at the 
 rectory, while he went out to work at his pro- 
 fession. He felt that the girls had the worst of 
 it, poor things. 
 
 And they walked out through the little gar- 
 den and down the side street which led to the 
 rectory with a little sentiment in their young 
 bosoms, but none that touched upon the rela- 
 tions between themselves. They felt a little 
 sad at leaving school. They felt that one 
 chapter of their lives was over, and that it was 
 a pity, yet delightful. They were sad to leave 
 Mr. Cattley and their books, yet enchanted to 
 be on the threshold of life. John walked to the 
 rectory gate with his school-fellow, for company, 
 and then they parted, but without any tender 
 adieu, without even shaking hands ; for after all, 
 until John actually left Edgeley, they would 
 certainly see each other every day.
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CALL FOR EMILY. 
 
 Mrs. Sandford had not been well ever since 
 that morning expedition of hers. There was 
 nothing the matter with her, she said, oh, no- 
 thing. She was only a little tired ; perhaps she 
 had done too much at Christmas, what with the 
 flannel-petticoats and all the rest. The cloth- 
 ing club had been a little trying that year. 
 There had been more people to satisfy, a greater 
 number of pence to reckon up, and garments to 
 choose. And Mrs. Egerton had been absent on 
 a visit, so that the great part of the work fell to 
 Mrs. Sandford's share. All these she set forth, 
 smiling, as reasons why she should be tired. 
 And then there was the reason that underlay 
 all these, which gave force to them — that she 
 was growing old. Of that there could be no
 
 124 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 question — every birthday made it more and more 
 certain. She was no longer at a time of life 
 when people can make light of fatigue. She 
 was growing older every year. This smiling 
 plea was received by grandfather with his tchick, 
 tchick, and by John with a troubled but never- 
 theless unquestioning acquiescence : for there 
 could be no doubt that it was true. He thought 
 her even older than she thought herself, and 
 felt that her days were over, before she had 
 realised that fact in her own person. She grew 
 older not only every year but every day as the 
 weeks of January went on. At first she went 
 out a little in the middle of the day when the 
 sun shone. But soon this little exercise was 
 given up. It did a delicate person no good, 
 really no good, the doctor said, to go out in that 
 wintry weather. It was wiser and better to 
 stay indoors ; and then it came to be considered 
 wiser that she should rise late, and lie on the 
 sofa when she came downstairs. She lay there 
 always smiling, declaring that nothing ailed her, 
 but as a matter of fact fading and failing day 
 by day. 
 
 The last time she went out with John she had
 
 A CALL FOR EMILY. 125 
 
 kept looking about with a little nervous glance 
 by all the side roads. They went as far as the 
 common and paused a little, looking across by 
 the path which led to the railway-station. 
 
 1 Have you ever heard anything more of that 
 man?' she said. 
 
 * What man, grandmamma V 
 
 ' The man you once told me of, you know, 
 who had been a convict. The man who was 
 asking for somebody's poor wife ' 
 
 * Oh ! yes, I remember. Xo. I am sure 
 he has never come back again. Perhaps 
 he did not mean all he said. He had been 
 drinking ' 
 
 ' Drink is • a terrible thing, John. Almost 
 everything begins with drinking. I have known 
 it poison more lives than anything else in the 
 world. If I had to choose, I think I would 
 rather that a child of mine should murder some 
 one outright than take to drink, for in that case 
 there is no telling how many he might mur- 
 der — all that loved him — and himself as well as 
 the rest/ 
 
 ' You need not tell me, grandmamma ; no one 
 can hate it more than I.'
 
 126 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 'I hope so. I hope so, dear! You have 
 never seen anything all your life that could in- 
 cline you in any such way, have you, John ? 
 But remember you have never been in any 
 temptation — and till one is in temptation one 
 can never tell what may happen. I think, my 
 dear, we will go home.' 
 
 They had many little conversations of this 
 kind. The old lady would begin upon any sub- 
 ject, it did not matter what, and then by degrees 
 she would come to this : 
 
 'I have seen so much in my life. I have 
 seen many young people grow up everything 
 that could be wished, as you have done, John ; 
 and then, as soon as they came into temptation, 
 they have gone astray. Nobody knows till he 
 has been tried : and it is not the disagreeable ones, 
 the ones that you would dislike, that go : some- 
 times the very nicest, John — those that are the 
 kindest, the tenderest. That is a great mystery. 
 None of us can fathom it.' 
 
 * It does seem very strange,' said the attentive 
 boy, listening at once out of respect and out of 
 the cheerful curiosity of his age, often with a 
 sense that he knew better, but far too consider-
 
 A CALL FOR EMILY. 127 
 
 ate and kind, as well as conscious of the fitness 
 of things, to let her see this. She had seen so 
 much : and yet to one who had begun to know 
 a little philosophy and a number of books, how 
 little it seemed that grandmamma could know. 
 
 ' Oh ! it's veiy strange,' she said. i I've lain 
 in bed for hours thinking of it, and I've gone 
 about the house for days thinking of it, and yet 
 I never come any nearer. Do you remember 
 what it says in the Bible, about the potter 
 making one vessel to dishonour and another to 
 honour ? Oh ! but, John, it seems sometimes 
 more than that! It seems as if He took the 
 vessels that had been made for honour, and 
 dashed them down on the ground and let them 
 all break into shreds and miserable fragments. 
 You can't think what it is to stand and look on 
 at that, and be able to do nothing, nothing !' 
 
 John was sitting by the side of her sofa : for 
 they had come in : and he saw with wonder, yet 
 great respect, that the tears had come to her eyes. 
 
 ' But, surely, grandmamma,' he said, seriously, 
 1 it must be their own fault.' 
 
 1 Oh ! yes, my dear, no doubt it must be their 
 own fault,' she said, and put up her handkerchief
 
 128 THE SUN OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 to her eyes, and for a moment conld not speak. 
 The boy sat by her side, greatly touched by 
 her emotion and wondering who it might be of 
 whom she was thinking : for he felt that it could 
 not be only the general question that went so 
 much to the old lady's heart. But he felt in- 
 clined to speak to her seriously, and reason with 
 her, and say to her that no one could be forced 
 to go wrong, that the people who did so must 
 do it because they liked it, because they had no 
 self-control, or wanted something in their con- 
 stitutions : and that it was wrong to blame 
 Providence or even human nature for what was 
 their own individual fault. He only did not say 
 this because he was so respectful and kind, and 
 the sight of her silent crying — although, indeed, 
 at her age, an old lady is easily moved to tears 
 — went to his heart. 
 
 * But no one can ever tell whether they can 
 resist or not, till they have been tempted,' she 
 said. ' We think nothing would ever make us 
 do it, and then the next thing is that we find 
 ourselves doing it, some in small things and 
 some in great.' 
 . To this, which was abstract, John did not
 
 A CALL FOR EMILY. 129 
 
 know how to make any reply ; and there was a 
 silence of a minute or two, after which Mrs. 
 Sandford said, suddenly, 
 
 1 John, I am thinking of sending for Emily. 
 It is a long, long time since I saw her, and 
 at my age, you know, one can't go on living 
 for ever.' 
 
 6 You don't feel any worse, grandmamma V 
 
 ' Oh, worse !' she said, with her pretty old 
 smile, ' not even ill — there is nothing at all the 
 matter with me. Still, I've been keeping quieter 
 than usual, and lying on the sofa so much makes 
 one feel weak. And I've been thinking that it's 
 a long, long time since she has been here. It is 
 not quite natural that a daughter should be so 
 long without coming to see her parents, is it ? — 
 and she our only child. But you must not sup- 
 pose 1 blame Emily — oh, no ! There were 
 many reasons which seemed to make it better 
 that she should not come — family matters which 
 we should have to explain to people that know 
 nothing about them. And in some respects, 
 John, though you will think it strange, it might 
 be a painful meeting. Still, 1 think that she 
 should come.' 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 John did not feel able to make any reply. It 
 seemed to have escaped Mrs. Sandford's mind 
 that this was his mother of whom she was 
 speaking, and that, if it was strange that a 
 daughter should not come to see her parents, it 
 was still more strange that a mother should not 
 come to see her child. The thought of her 
 coming brought a great sense of disturbance 
 into his mind. He did not feel that he had any 
 wish to see her. His mother had got confused 
 and lost in this Emily of whom he had heard so 
 much. They were, he supposed, the same per- 
 son, but he had a reluctance to identify them. 
 It was not to her but to his grandparents that 
 he belonged. He had no desire to have this 
 little world disturbed, where all was so harmoni- 
 ous, by an alien presence. The wonder which 
 had arisen in his mind when he talked with 
 Elly, rose up again more painfully. How little 
 she must care for him never to have wished to see 
 him again. Perhaps she was one of those people 
 who do not care much for anyone. Altogether 
 it would be better that the family should re- 
 main as they had always been, without the 
 disturbing influence of one who was so near to
 
 A CALL FOR EMILY. 131 
 
 them all, and yet was a stranger. An uneasy 
 sense that harm would come of it and that pain 
 would be in it filled his thoughts. 
 
 1 Yes,' said the old lady, in her soft voice, 
 ' whatever happens, it would be well that she 
 should come. Her father would like her to be 
 here. Even if he did not wish it at the time, he 
 would be glad of it afterwards ; for how could 
 he settle everything, he that has never had any 
 trouble about the house, by himself ? John, we 
 have a nice quiet time just now. It's raining, 
 and nobody is likely to call, and your grand- 
 father has gone over to Sailsfield to ask 
 about those new strawberries. Bring your little 
 writing-case — that Mr. Cattley gave you on 
 your birthday. You can put it here on my 
 table. I'm too tired to write myself. Just 
 say what . I tell you. Are you ready, dear ? 
 Then, you may begin. " Dear Emily " ' 
 
 1 But, grandmamma,' said John, ' how can I 
 say " dear Emily," when it is my mother ? I 
 can't write to my mother so/ 
 
 * Dear, dear me !' said Mrs. Sandford, ' how was 
 it I never thought of that ? Oh, my poor boy. 
 It is just a confusion altogether,' she cried, once 
 
 K2
 
 132 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 more, with tears ready to drop, ' just a confusion, 
 everything turned upside down, and all as un- 
 natural ! I felt it from the first, but they 
 
 thought they knew better than me. Then you 
 must say, " dear mamma," John. I am glad you 
 reminded me of that, for I get confused too. Now 
 go on, my dear. " It is a long time since you 
 have been here, and I think it is time that you 
 should pay us a visit. We are getting old peo- 
 ple, and your dear father, though he never 
 complains, is not such a walker as he used to 
 be, and I have got a little stupid, and can't keep 
 him as cheerful as I could wish." Do you think 
 I shouldn't say as much as that ? or what do 
 you object to, my dear V 
 
 < Dear grandmamma,' said John, f I had better 
 put " Emily" at the beginning of the letter : for I 
 could not say that about getting old, and about 
 her dear father, could I — when I am only her — 
 sonf 
 
 Mrs. Sandford said tchick, tchick as her hus- 
 band did ; half coughing, half crying. 
 
 e How very silly I am. Of course, you can't 
 put all that in if you begin " dear mamma." 
 This is what you must say, John, just "My
 
 A CALL FOR EMILY. 133 
 
 dear." That is neither one thing nor another. 
 Put all the rest that I have told you, and " My 
 dear," to begin with. " My dear," will do for 
 anybody. Tell her that I've been thinking of 
 late of a great many things I should like to say 
 to her : but that it tires me veiy much to write, 
 and that the only way I can think is if she would 
 come. Of course it will interfere with her time 
 and she might not be able to get leave ; but I 
 hope she won't grudge that once in a way to her 
 mother : and tell her, John — it is just a little 
 matter between us ; it is nothing you will under- 
 stand — tell her that the people here are very 
 ignorant, good sort of souls that never know 
 anything. They don't even read the newspapers, 
 and never have done so. She will know what I 
 mean.' 
 
 John put down all this in the best way he 
 could ; but it seemed sadly out of character to 
 him to write with his firm young handwriting, 
 and with all the sense of incongruity that was 
 in his mind, such sentences as these to his 
 mother. He wrote to her very seldom ; only on 
 great occasions, at Christmas and other anni- 
 versaries, and very formally, as a boy writes
 
 134 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 when he is at school. He had done this for a 
 long time, as a matter of course, and never 
 thought any more of it. But now his eyes were 
 opened to the strangeness of everything, to all 
 that was out of nature in the constitution of his 
 family, and it did not seem possible to him to 
 continue any longer in that way which till now 
 he had accepted without question. There was 
 something even in the erasures with which this 
 paper began — the ' dear Emily ' which gave him 
 a little shiver, the ' dear mamma' which was still 
 more incongruous — which seemed to stir up all 
 the smouldering questions which he was not 
 aware were in his mind. He had not known 
 anything about them, and yet, apparently, they 
 were all there, waiting only this touch to bring 
 them to light. Why was it she never came? 
 Why was it she had abandoned him, her child, 
 and then her parents 1 What was it in her life 
 that kept her so far apart, so unknown, in a 
 strange world, from which nobody ever came — 
 nobody who could say f I have seen her ' — to 
 give them fuller satisfaction than letters could 
 afford, letters which John was now aware told
 
 A CALL FOR EMILY. 135 
 
 nothing but the merest surface of existence, that 
 all was well, that he was getting on with his 
 lessons, that the weather was very fine, or the 
 season a cold one? What are such facts as 
 these in comparison with the intercourse that 
 ought to exist between people who were each 
 other's nearest relations ? It gave him a great 
 shock as he wrote that about * your dear father.' 
 Was grandpapa, indeed, her dear father ! and did 
 she think so little of him that she never came to 
 see with her own eyes whether he was growing 
 old or not ? And what was he, John himself, her 
 son V Oh, but other women were not so with their 
 sons. All this must have been in his mind, though 
 he had never thought of it before. He wrote 
 down all that his grandmother had told him, and 
 then he paused in his new development of feel- 
 ing. It seemed to him that he would like to 
 take this paper and tear it into a dozen pieces in 
 the exasperation of his soul. 
 
 * Grandmamma,' he said, with a little quiver 
 in his voice, ' don't you think it would be better 
 for me to write from myself, and tell her this in 
 my own way ? I will say just what you want
 
 136 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 to have said, but it shall be from myself. It 
 would be more natural. After all she is my 
 — mother, I suppose.' 
 
 'John!' said the old lady. 'You suppose! 
 What should she be but your mother ? Who 
 should be your mother but she % Oh, my dear, 
 I hope you will not take things into your head 
 that are not true. We have enough of trouble, 
 enough of trouble, in our family. Don't you 
 begin and imagine things that are not true.' 
 
 ' 1 don't imagine anything,' said the boy, 6 but 
 if you will consider, grandmamma, this is my 
 mother. And I know nothing about her. For 
 a long time it seemed all simple. 1 never 
 minded. But, now I'm getting older and see 
 how other people are, it is all so strange. Let 
 me have my own way this time — let me just 
 write to her as it would be natural if I were 
 really her son.' 
 
 ■ Oh, my John, that you are, indeed, indeed ; 
 her son and nothing else. Whose son should 
 you be but hers ? Don't take any wrong notions 
 into your head. My poor Emily I Oh, if you 
 knew how many things she has had to bear ! 
 And what would she do at the end of all if her
 
 A CALL FOR EMILY. 137 
 
 own boy's heart was cold to her ? You are her 
 son and no one's else — hers, my dear, and hers 
 alone.' 
 
 John looked with his clear young eyes, severe 
 yet gentle, in her face. 
 
 ' Isn't that too much to say, grandmamma ? 
 Am I not the son of my father, too ?' 
 
 The old lady looked at him with a strange, 
 low cry. She caught hold of both his hands for 
 a moment, with a grasp in which there seemed 
 something like terror. And then she dropped 
 back upon her pillow and covered her face with 
 her hands. 
 
 1 1 always said it. I always said it/ she cried. 
 Just then, in the pause that followed, a 
 heavy, familiar step, slow and steady, came 
 along the road, audible for some time in the 
 quiet of the afternoon and the house. Mrs. 
 Sandford dried her eyes hastily and raised 
 herself up again. 
 
 ' There is your grandfather,' she said. * Oh, 
 my dear, take that away, and write as you 
 please : but don't say anything about it, for I 
 have not spoken to him. And it is not as if I 
 were sending for her, John. I am only saying
 
 138 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 that I should like to see her. Of course I 
 should like to see her, every mother wishes 
 that, to see her child. Write out of your own 
 head; but don't say anything about it, and 
 quick, quick, take all that away!'
 
 139 
 
 CHAPTER IX, 
 
 JOHN'S LETTER. 
 
 JOHNT was allowed to sit in the parlour now that 
 he was almost a man, after the old people had 
 gone to bed. His own room was small, and it 
 had been agreed upon as a reasonable thing that 
 he should have a place in which he could sit and 
 read, or write — till eleven o'clock, at least. Mr. 
 Sandford retired to his room at ten exactly, every 
 night, and, since she had been so ill — no, not ill, 
 tired — his wife had preceded him, going upstairs 
 very early, in that unaccountable but quite gentle 
 fatigue which had come over her. x\ll the after- 
 noon and evening John had been very silent, 
 thinking — chiefly what he was to say in his letter 
 to his mother — but also about all the circum- 
 stances, the strangeness of the household life 
 altogether, the extraordinary separation which,
 
 140 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 now that conveyance was so easy, now that every- 
 body travelled, when even little Joe Hodge, who 
 was apprenticed in London, came home every 
 Christmas to see his mother, a poor widow in the 
 alms-houses — was more wonderful than ever. In 
 old times it might have been understood, when 
 there were no railways, in the days which the old 
 people remembered — but now ! It perplexed 
 him beyond description, when his thoughts were 
 fully directed to the subject. And it became 
 clear to him all at once, as when a landscape sud- 
 denly becomes apparent to us on turning a cor- 
 ner or coming to the top of a hill, that some 
 other reason must exist for this than the simple 
 fact that his mother lived in London and his 
 grandparents at Edgeley. That was no reason ; 
 his enlightened mind rejected it. All the after- 
 noon he kept turning over and over in his mind 
 what he was to say. He had never in his life 
 written an important letter, scarcely ever written 
 one at all which was not suggested, partly dic- 
 tated even, by the old people, who would say to 
 him, < You must write to Susie,' or, ' Don't you 
 think, John, that you ought to write to your 
 mother?' This was how his correspondence
 
 141 
 
 had generally been conducted. He had written 
 a few schoolboy epistles to Dick and Percy, 
 but they did not count. He thought a great 
 deal of the importance of the letter. Phrases 
 for it, sentences which he polished and recon- 
 structed, and which he felt, with a little satisfac- 
 tion, would come very well, kept passing through 
 his mind in a sort of procession. Sometimes he 
 felt that he had put a thing very strongly indeed, 
 that his mother must feel herself entirely in the 
 wrong, and change her procedure altogether. He 
 was not aware that people do not like to find 
 themselves in the wrong, and are far from can- 
 did in acknowledging that fact, even when it is 
 most apparent in the accuser's eyes. 
 
 He got out the little writing-case, of which he 
 was proud, as soon as his grandfather had gone 
 upstairs. He got out some paper, carefully in- 
 specting it to see that there was no infinitesimal 
 soil on its glossy purity ; and then he began to 
 write, taking a new pen, and every precaution 
 against blotting. All these were signs and 
 symbols of the importance of the act he was 
 about to accomplish. He lingered over the 
 preparations w T ith a hope that they would inspire
 
 142 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Trim. But when all was done he did not find 
 it so easy to put down what he wanted to 
 say. He did not go to bed at eleven that night. 
 He sat up for two hours later, trying to shape an 
 epistle which should be like that of a son to his 
 mother, yet at the same time that of a young 
 man coming into full possession of his reason to 
 a woman who was not obeying the dictates of 
 that fundamental principle. He did not want 
 to be instructive or dictatorial, but yet he wanted 
 to show her that he was aware she was failing 
 in her duty ; and withal it was his intention to 
 be perfectly respectful and filial. To combine 
 these things was to an unaccustomed letter- 
 writer very difficult. His beautiful sheet of paper 
 which he had chosen so carefully was all scored 
 and interlined, and had become a mere scrawl 
 long before he was done. And he himself grew 
 hot and excited in the process : far more than 
 if Mr. Cattley had cut to pieces his Latin poem, 
 and he had been trying to do a new composition. 
 As a matter of fact, he had made two or three 
 compositions of this letter before he settled on 
 one that would do.
 
 JOHN'S LETTER. 143 
 
 This was what he decided on sending at the 
 last : 
 
 1 Dear Mother ' — (He had always heretofore said 
 Mamma, keeping the baby name, which was the 
 only one under which he had any real knowledge 
 of her. That, and Emily, he understood : but 
 Mother seemed a new person, some one with 
 whom he had no real acquaintance, whom he 
 must learn to know). ' Dear Mother,' — He did 
 not add any more for half an hour, and then he 
 began to write quickly for ten minutes, and put 
 down the most of what is copied here, though 
 with corrections and interlining past counting. 
 This was nothing but the mere draft. 
 
 'I think I am old enough to write to you from 
 myself, being no longer a child : for it seems so 
 very hard not to know you, or to understand 
 why it is that I have not seen you for such a 
 long, long time. People change very much in 
 such a time ; it is said that even your body 
 changes, and, still more, your mind, which is al- 
 ways undergoing developments, and learning 
 more and having more experiences. Dear 
 mother, I am not now a little boy. I have finish-
 
 144 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ed my education. Mr. Cattley thinks I have 
 gone as far as I need try to do, as I am not to 
 proceed seriously with my studies, and now it 
 has been settled that 1 am to begin to learn the 
 profession of an engineer. I had my choice be- 
 tween that and going into an office, and I chose 
 that. I hope you will be interested in hearing 
 all this. Mothers are generally so, and it is hard 
 upon me — Please do think so ! — not to know 
 whether you care, or if you will be pleased. 
 Mother, I am writing now to ask you something 
 — something that is very much in my mind. I 
 do want you to come here. Consider that I 
 don't know you at all. It is not natural. I feel 
 almost as if it were wrong not to know my 
 mother. But it is not my fault ; and there are 
 poor grandfather and grandmamma whom you 
 have given up too. They are your parents just 
 as you are mine, and it is dreadful that we should 
 never meet. Mother, please don't think I am 
 saying more than I ought to say ; but do come 
 — oh, do come. I do not feel that I can go on 
 longer as I have gone on all these years, know- 
 ing nothing about myself, or about you. You 
 must see, if you will think, that it is very, very
 
 JOHN'S LETTER. 145 
 
 hard upon me, especially now when I am old 
 enough to think for myself. 
 
 1 1 am, dear mother, 
 
 1 Your affectionate son, 
 
 < John Sandford.' 
 
 He had worked himself up to a very high 
 pitch of feeling before he came to the end. It 
 need scarcely be added that it was not in the 
 least what he intended to say. He meant to 
 have pointed out the hardship of his own case 
 incidentally, and put the force of his prayer into 
 his grandmother's wishes. But John found out, 
 like other people, that his pen ran away with 
 him — his thoughts ran away with him. The 
 stream of his eloquence all poured in one direc- 
 tion, while his intentions took the other way 
 — curious conflict of that dual nature which 
 nobody understands though so many people talk 
 of it. It is more often in doing than in saying 
 that we contradict our own purpose. But John 
 was more near to the truth in what he said, be- 
 ing carried away by the fever of writing, and the 
 natural impulse which seized upon his pen, than 
 if he had discharged his commission more ex- 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 actly. It was only when he read his letter 
 over, still labouring with the emotion it had 
 called forth, and which gradually rose higher 
 and higher by the stimulus of his own eloquence, 
 that it occurred to him that he had altogether 
 left out his grandmother's message. He added, 
 as so many people do, in the manner which is 
 called feminine, the real object of his writing 
 in a postscript. It was very brief, and deliver- 
 ed with a much decreased earnestness. 
 
 ' Grandmamma is not very well. She can't 
 do nearly so much as she did a little while ago. 
 It was she who first said I might write to beg 
 you to come, and to say that she would like to 
 see you. There are many things she would like 
 to say to you, for the people here are very 
 ignorant, and don't understand/ 
 
 John had no doubt that he had thus given 
 everything that was of the least importance in 
 his grandmother's message. He made a fair 
 copy — a very fair copy of the document which 
 was the most important he had ever had to 
 do with. He would not trust himself to the 
 opportunities of the morning, when, perhaps, 
 Mr. Sandford might want him to do some-
 
 JOHN'S LETTER. 147 
 
 thing, or Mr. Cattley might send for him, or 
 anything might happen. The fire had gone 
 out by this time, and the boy was very cold 
 and cramped, and the stillness of the dead of 
 night pressed upon his spirits. He took off his 
 shoes before he stole up the creaking stairs to 
 bed, with the fumes of his great intellectual 
 effort in his head, and all his feelings roused. 
 A sense of temerity, yet of pride, in the in- 
 dependent step he had taken was strong within 
 him. Whatever might happen, at least he had 
 made it apparent that he was now able to act 
 and judge for himself. 
 
 When Mrs. Sandford came downstairs a little 
 later than usual next day — it was always now a 
 little later, so that it was hard upon any princi- 
 ple of averages to say what the ' usual ' was — 
 she asked John about his letter, with a look and 
 a grasp of his hand, which showed how much 
 in earnest she was, and which gave him a mo- 
 mentary compunction at the thought of how 
 little important her share in the invitation had 
 been made. 
 
 ' Did you send it away V she said to him, as 
 he kissed her. 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 * Yes, grandmamma, this morning/ 
 
 ' Thank you, my dear,' she said; ' did you say 
 how much I wanted her, and how I hoped she 
 would come soon V 
 
 t Ye-es,' said John, with a less assured affirma- 
 tive ; then he added, ' I said everything I could 
 think of. I implored her to come/ 
 
 She pressed his hand in hers with a tender clasp. 
 
 'Dear boy,' she said, 'you know I would 
 never wish you to keep a secret from your 
 grandfather. But unless he asks you — unless he 
 says something — you will not take any notice, 
 John f 
 
 John drew himself apart a little, squaring his 
 young shoulders. 
 
 4 1 think/ he said, ' grandmamma, that I am 
 old enough to write to my mother on my 
 own responsibility, without thinking what even 
 grandfather might say.' 
 
 * Oh ! yes/ she said, looking up at him with a 
 woman's admiration for masculine independence, 
 ' that is quite true/ 
 
 'And he would be the last to think other- 
 wise. He would see that it was only natural 
 and right/
 
 JOHN'S LETTER. 149 
 
 I Yes,' she answered, more doubtfully ; ' but 
 he might think he ought to be consulted before 
 you took any step. And that would only be 
 just. What I hope is that Emily, who is so 
 sensible, will take it into her own hands and 
 write that she is coming — without saying any- 
 thing about an invitation — that would certainly 
 be the best way.' 
 
 I I think,' said John, * that, whether there were 
 an invitation at all or not, she ought to have 
 come long ago to see ' 
 
 He paused with a curious sense of the 
 involved situation. Mrs. Sandford echoed his 
 words with a soft, little sigh. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, whatever might have happened, 
 she should have come to see her mother, John.' 
 
 But that was not what John intended to say. 
 
 Mr. Sandford came in shortly after, full of an 
 interview he had just had with Mr. Cattley, who 
 had been corresponding with his brother, the 
 engineer, about John's plans. 
 
 4 It appears that Mr. Cattley 's brother is an 
 -engineer who has to do with machinery,' grand- 
 father said. ' I don't know if that is the same 
 thing as a lighthouse man. You will have to
 
 150 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 go to the foundry and learn how everything 
 is made. It is not surveying and that sort of 
 thing, so far as I can hear. You will have to 
 put your shoulder to the 'wheel, they tell me, 
 and work with your own hands : but I suppose 
 you will not mind that, John.' 
 
 4 And where is the foundry?' asked grand- 
 mamma, from the sofa. ' I hope it is not too 
 far away.' 
 
 ' Well, it is not perhaps the place I should 
 have chosen ; but what does it matter? one 
 place is very like another. Anything that could 
 harm him would be just as likely to come to 
 him in any other place. It's in Liverpool, my 
 dear/ 
 
 'In Liverpool ' Mrs. Sandford raised 
 
 herself so quickly and energetically for her weak 
 condition that she looked as if she were about 
 to spring from the sofa. ' John Sandford,' she 
 said, ' you will never let the boy go there.' 
 
 ' It is not what I should have wished,' said 
 the old gentleman ; ' in short, it is the last 
 place I should have chosen. But I did not 
 think of that soon enough, and, after Mr. Catt- 
 ley has been so kind as to make all the in-
 
 151 
 
 quiries What can it matter, after all? 
 
 That or any other place. It will be just the 
 same. I can't think that there is any more 
 danger there than anywhere else. And, things 
 have gone so far, I don't see how we can draw 
 back.' 
 
 ' Oh, John Sandford !' cried his wife, * it is 
 not possible. I can never, never consent. 
 What ! After all we have suffered, and all the 
 sacrifices we have made, to send him back 
 there !' 
 
 1 1 know, I know,' said the old gentleman, 
 with a deprecatory wave of his hands. ' It is 
 all true ; but still, what can we do ? A long 
 time has passed, and he is going back without 
 
 any No, I know very well what you would 
 
 say : but if you will look at it reasonably ' 
 
 ; How can I look at it reasonably ? And do 
 you think Emily will be reasonable? She will 
 never consent, and neither will I.' 
 
 1 But, my dear, my dear !' he said, ' it is all 
 settled, and how can I go back V 
 
 John had listened to this conversation with 
 a surprise which gradually grew into something 
 like indignation.
 
 152 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 'Grandmamma,' he said, coming forward to 
 the sofa, ' I don't want to seem wiser than you, 
 or as if I knew better ; but why should you be 
 so afraid to trust me I I have never done any- 
 thing to make you afraid. I don't think I 
 want pleasure or anything that is wrong. I 
 will try to do my duty either at Liverpool or 
 anywhere else. Don't, please, think that I 
 shall forget everything you have taught me, 
 and all that I have been brought up to, the 
 moment I go away.' 
 
 Both the old people had their eyes fixed on 
 him as he spoke, and then they looked at each 
 other across him, with one of those looks which 
 he had so often caught in the passing, looks 
 which it had always been hard to understand. 
 Whatever it was, their eyes spoke to each other, 
 not to him, with a sort of troubled commentary 
 between them on what he said. Grandfather 
 shook his head slightly in answer to his wife's 
 look, and he cleared his throat as if for some- 
 thing he wanted, but did not know how, to say 
 — but in the end it was she who spoke. 
 
 1 Oh, John, it is not that, my dear. We do 
 trust you, both grandfather and I. It isn't
 
 153 
 
 that. I'm always of a tremble when I see an 
 innocent boy go out into the world. Oh, yes, I 
 allow I am, John : and for you, because you're 
 so precious, most of all ; but it's not that — oh, 
 no, it's not that.' 
 
 ' What is it, then ? What is there so dread- 
 ful about Liverpool V 
 
 That look passed between them again — but 
 this time there was a warning in the husband's 
 eyes. He turned round in his chair towards 
 where John stood. ' 
 
 * Grandmamma was always one of the ner- 
 vous ones,' he said, with a faint little laugh, 
 ' and the particular thing about Liverpool is 
 that we once lived near it, and knew a great 
 deal of what went on there. And there were 
 some dreadful things happened — one above all. 
 Oh, you need not be afraid, my dear. I'm not 
 going to disturb the boy's mind with any tales. 
 But that's how it is, John. We've seen such 
 things happen under our very eyes.' 
 
 1 That is no reason, grandfather,' said John, 
 very gravely, < that anything bad .should happen 
 to me.' 
 
 1 Have I not been saying so ! The best thing
 
 154 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 is to shut your ears to all idle tales. Don't 
 believe half you hear, and never go inquiring 
 into trouble that is past. If you make up your 
 mind to it, and never forget your duty, and keep 
 steady — why, Liverpool is just the same as any 
 other place.' 
 
 ' Not to us — not to anyone connected with 
 us,' Mrs. Sandford said. 
 
 It was all very strange to John. He could 
 not think why they should distrust him, why 
 they should have so little faith. Keep steady ! 
 That was a very low level of duty ; he said to 
 himself that he hoped he would do better than 
 that. Any poor workman, or poor fellow with- 
 out education or advantage of training, dis- 
 graced himself if he did not keep steady. How 
 much more was required of one like himself ! 
 He had not time, however, to express these 
 sentiments, for that was the night on which 
 Mrs. Sandford had one of her attacks. She 
 had never been in the way of having attacks 
 as so many people have. But on that evening 
 she was very ill, and John had to run for the 
 doctor, and for medicines, and was kept per- 
 petually in movement, not to say that he was in
 
 JOHN'S LETTER. 255 
 
 deep anxiety, altogether discouraged by the 
 sight of her suffering, and jumping at once, as 
 is usual to inexperience, to the awful idea of 
 death. He did not know how hard that is of 
 coming, and how many lingering preliminaries 
 there are to go through. He thought that the 
 dread presence might push through all human 
 defences at once, as he does sometimes, and do 
 his work in a moment. And he was awe-stricken, 
 overwhelmed with terrible suspense. She waa 
 very ill all night, but in the morning began to 
 get better. 
 
 « We shall pull her through,' the doctor said, 
 'but you must see she is not worried or put 
 out about anything — for that in her present 
 state she could not bear.' 
 
 1 We are to see she is not worried. But who 
 except God can do that V said grandfather, still 
 up in the cold, blue dawn of the morning, leaning 
 upon John's shoulder. 'As long as she lives 
 she will never cease to worry : and what can I 
 do ? Perhaps if Emily were here '
 
 156 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE REPLY. 
 
 When John heard his grandfather breathe that 
 sigh of helplessness which resolved itself into a 
 desire for Emily — if the purposeless exclamation 
 * if Emily were here !' could be construed into a 
 wish — he considered it best to tell him what he 
 had done. He had felt it so strange never to see 
 her, to know nothing of her, that he had written 
 to beg his mother to come. For the first instant 
 the old gentleman had shown displeasure and 
 something like alarm. 
 
 ' Who gave you authority to invite her here ? 
 What is she going to do here ? Don't you know, 
 sir, don't you know, sir, that I — that she — that 
 she — that everything depends — ' Mr. Sandford 
 stammered forth in wrath. And then he stopped 
 himself in considerable agitation, and walked
 
 THE REPLY. 157 
 
 about the parlour a little, to calm himself down. 
 * To be sure she's the boy's mother, after all,' 
 he said to himself, in a sort of whisper. i And 
 then her mother's bad — my poor old dear — she's 
 very bad.' There seemed a process of reason- 
 ing going on in his mind of which those murmurs 
 marked the stages. Finally he put his hand on 
 John's shoulder not untenderly. ' You've done 
 it,' he said, * out of your own head. I would 
 not have let you do it had I known. But now 
 that it's done it's done, and it may turn out for 
 the best.' 
 
 1 Do you think she will come, grandfather V 
 John asked, eagerly. 
 
 1 God knows. She would, like a shot, if it 
 was anyone but Emily. But how can I tell 
 what she will do ! She was always too many 
 for me.' 
 
 And with a sigh the old man hurried upstairs 
 again ■ to see how She was going on.' His old 
 wife had done everything for him all the long 
 lifetime they had spent together. But his alarm 
 and awkward anxiety were touching. He would 
 fain have done everything for her with his 
 clumsy, old, trembling hands and slow compre-
 
 158 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 hension of invalid needs. How should an old 
 man who had been used to have everything 
 done for him learn in a moment the arts of a 
 sick-room — the recollection of everything, the 
 softened touch, the subdued sounds'? Love 
 itself is not enough to teach all these. And old 
 Mr. Sandford had been less used to help him- 
 self than any duke. To have your wife there 
 to do everything for you, as is the habit of the 
 class to which he belonged, involves a far closer 
 service than any valet would give. The poor 
 old gentleman, with the best will in the world, 
 was quite incapable. He required her to tell 
 him what to do. * My dear !' the appeal of 
 fifty years, which had always been met on her 
 part by the instant response of a service which 
 was far more than duty, came to his lips every 
 moment almost with at ouch of indignation : for 
 if she would not tell him how could he be 
 expected to know ? But he could not keep 
 away from her. He wanted to see with his own 
 eyes every moment that she was getting a little 
 better. She had never been ill, and he did not 
 believe in her being ill ; but still if she should be 
 ill what would become of him and everything ?
 
 THE REPLY. 159 
 
 His very heart seemed to stop beating at the 
 thought. 
 
 These two had come to that point of age and 
 long continuance when it is scarcely possible to 
 believe in an end at all. Everything went on 
 with such a steady, gentle routine, one day 
 following another, each the same as the other, a 
 steady succession of hours and habits, and 
 invariable ways. They were so accustomed to 
 it all : they were past the age of change : they 
 were so easily satisfied, wanting nothing more 
 than the warrnth of the fireside, and their mutual 
 talks, and their sober, moderate meals, and to 
 see John growing up such a fine fellow ! That 
 was the one quicker, keener throb of happiness 
 in the midst of their well-being. That he should 
 go away would indeed be a wrench. But then 
 there was no reason to suppose that his going 
 away would be for anything but his good, and 
 it was inevitable, a thing they had always known. 
 And then they would have his letters, and his 
 visits now and then, and always themselves to 
 fall back upon, the inseparable pair, the two who 
 were one. It is true that everybody knows that 
 everybody else must die, but there seemed no
 
 160 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 reason in the world why this life should not go 
 on for ever, so peaceful, so uneventful, doing no 
 harm to anybody, doing good, demanding so 
 little, and in itself so contented, without further 
 desire or expectation. Mr. Sandford had long 
 got over that other human sentiment which fears 
 its own well-being, and feels that, the more com- 
 fortable you are, the more likely it is that fate 
 will come down and crush you. Fate had no- 
 thing to do with this old pair : they were good, 
 religious people, who had suffered much in this 
 life, but to whom God had given a peace which 
 was very sweet. And why should it be broken 
 by any startling change? Why should it be 
 disturbed ? It was not an idea to be entertained 
 for a moment. Did not all experience prove 
 that that which hath been is the thing which 
 shall be ? He went upstairs, trying to make no 
 noise with his heavy tread, to convince himself 
 that every moment she was getting a little bet- 
 ter, and that no change was possible, except for 
 good. 
 
 The answer to John's letter could not come 
 till the second day ; as a matter of fact, it did 
 not come till the fourth. All these three morn-
 
 THE REPLY. 1G1 
 
 ings he came down early, and was at the door 
 to meet the postman as he went his rounds, 
 which did not mean that John doubted his mo- 
 ther's coming, but only that he was very anxi- 
 ous, and eager to know what she would say. 
 Not only her answer, but what she would say. 
 Was it possible that her reply would be in the 
 old, formal tone, as to a little boy who knew no 
 better ? or would she now perceive that he was 
 at least an independent human creature, capable 
 of feeling, capable of knowing, and address him 
 as such ? John was almost more anxious to re- 
 solve this question than to know whether she 
 was coming. Of course she must be coming. 
 Who could resist the appeal, that was at once 
 from her mother and from her son ! He had for- 
 gotten by this time how very little had been her 
 mother's part in it, and believed sincerely that 
 he had said everything that had been suggested 
 to him. In the first pang of astonished disap- 
 pointment with which he found that there was 
 no letter the first day, all his calculations were 
 confounded, for he had never for a moment sup- 
 posed that she would not answer, and answer at 
 once. But then his hopes sprang up, and he 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 said to himself that she must be thinking it over, 
 and arranging how to come, and that she did 
 not wish to write till she could tell him exactly 
 the hour she would arrive. On the third day, 
 grandmamma was downstairs again, looking 
 paler, but still smiling. She took his face be- 
 tween her two thin hands (how thin they had 
 grown, and all the veins showing), and whis- 
 pered in his ear, as he stooped over her : 
 
 < What does Emily say V 
 
 Always Emily. He could not get rid of 
 Emily. 
 
 ' There is no letter yet, grandmamma.' 
 
 ' Ah ! she will be waiting till she can settle 
 exactly which train she is to come by,' said the 
 old lady, and gave him a kiss, and lay smiling, 
 thinking, no doubt, of her daughter, who was 
 coming. She could not talk much, for she was 
 still very weak. 
 
 On the fourth morning the letter arrived. 
 
 * It is for you, Mr. John,' said the postman. 
 
 * Yes, yes,' cried the boy ; ' I know it is for 
 me.' 
 
 He hurried in, and shut the parlour-door, that 
 no one might disturb him in reading it. At all
 
 THE REPLY. 163 
 
 events, it was a letter, he could see in a moment, 
 and not the usual little formal note about his 
 health and her health, which had been enough 
 for him when he was a child. John's heart beat 
 very high as he began to read, but gradually 
 calmed down, and became quite still, scarcely 
 moving at all in his breast. For his mother's 
 letter was not the kind of letter to encourage 
 the beatings of any heart. 
 
 ' My dear John, 
 
 1 I have received your letter, partly 
 with pleasure, seeing that you write in a much 
 more intelligent and independent way than usual, 
 which I am glad to see — for at nearly seventeen 
 you are on the eve of manhood, and very differ- 
 ent things may be expected from you from those 
 which all your friends were content with when 
 you were a child. But I also read it with pain, 
 for there seems to me an idea in it that, if you 
 insist very much, you are sure to get your own 
 way, a sort of thing which perhaps is natural, 
 seeing how you have been brought up, and that 
 no doubt my father and mother have indulged 
 you very much : but which is not good for you, 
 
 m2
 
 164 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 and will expose you to disappointment even 
 greater than we are doomed to by nature. How 
 can you know that it would be a good thing if 
 1 were to come ? You ought rather to under- 
 stand that, as I have not come all these years, it 
 is because your grandparents and I, who know 
 all the circumstances, have decided that it is 
 better I should not come. This 1 probably could 
 not explain to your satisfaction, but it was 
 settled to theirs and to mine long ago — and you 
 cannot expect that I should depart from a reso- 
 lution which I did not make without pain — be- 
 cause you, a boy who knows nothing about it,, 
 have been taken with a fancy that you would 
 like to see your mother. It is quite natural, no 
 doubt, that you should wish it, though I cannot 
 suppose that it would make any particular dif- 
 ference to you whether your wish was granted 
 or not. You are at an age when a mother is 
 not of much consequence, and, if you had been 
 brought up with me, you would probably be 
 very impatient of me, and prefer to get out of 
 my way, like most boys of your age. And I 
 am sorry to say that I don't think you would 
 like me much if you saw me. Your ideal of
 
 THE REPLY. 165 
 
 course is my mother, and I am not at all like 
 my mother. If anything should happen that 
 would make it necessary for us to be together, 
 necessity will help us to get on with each other ; 
 but for the present, so long as there is no neces- 
 sity, it is best to go on as we are doing. 
 There are reasons, quite needless to enter into, 
 which make it out of the question, unless it 
 were a matter of life and death, that I should 
 go to Edgeley. I am sorry to disappoint you, 
 but it is much better you should know. 
 
 ' I shall always be glad to hear how you are 
 getting on. I am glad to know that something has 
 been done towards deciding what you are to do 
 for your living. Of course my father and mother, 
 who have brought you up, are the right persons 
 to settle that, and I approve in general, though 
 I should like to know what they are doing most 
 particularly, and to give my advice, though I 
 should not interfere. For yourself, pray write 
 to me whenever you feel disposed, and I will 
 answer to the best of my ability, though I can- 
 not always promise you to do what you desire. 
 1 Your affectionate mother, 
 
 1 Emily Saxdford.
 
 166 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 'P.S — I am sorry to hear that my mother is 
 not so strong as usual. Let us hope she will 
 recover her old spirits as the spring comes on. 
 I daresay she was a little low when she thought 
 it would do her good to have a talk with me. 
 Tell her, if she thinks a little, she will remember 
 that it is very doubtful whether we should either 
 of us like it, and, as for the people being ignor- 
 ant, the more ignorant the better, it seems to 
 me.' 
 
 John had been palpitating with expectation 
 and hope when he opened this letter. He came 
 gradually down, down, as he read it. All 
 through, he felt that it was Emily who was writ- 
 ing to him, a woman whom he knew a great 
 deal about (and yet nothing), and whom he did 
 not like very much — not his mother. 
 
 It seemed likely that he had no mother. The 
 loss of all that he had been expecting and look- 
 ing forward to, and the strangest sense of 
 whirling down, down, as if everything was giv- 
 ing way under him, made him sick and cold. 
 When he had read it to the last word, he fold- 
 ed it up carefully, with a very grave face, and
 
 THE REPLY. 167 
 
 put it into his pocket. He was far too serious 
 for the angry impulse of throwing it into the 
 fire. He was not angry so much as crushed 
 and overawed. He felt himself altogether put 
 down from the position which he had taken. 
 She had acknowledged that he was no longer 
 a child, and yet she treated him as if he knew 
 nothing, understood nothing. The injury to his 
 pride, to his heart, to all that was individual in 
 him, was more than words could say. 
 
 Mrs. Sandford looked at him wistfully when 
 she came downstairs (always a little later). She 
 caught his hand when he came and stood by her 
 sofa looking down at her, thinking how bright 
 and liquid her eyes were. How large and deep 
 the sockets seemed, as if they had widened out, 
 and what a pallor had come upon her face — her 
 little face ! She was a small woman, but now her 
 face was like the face of a child, all but the widen- 
 ed circle about her eyes. She put her hand upon 
 his, the touch felt like a feather, and looked up 
 at him wistfully, but without speaking. He had 
 gone out immediately after breakfast, half stupi- 
 fied, and taken a long walk, his chief object 
 being not to see her, not to give her any in-
 
 168 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 formation. But he was obliged to answer the 
 question in her eyes. 
 
 * I have had a letter, grandmamma. She says 
 she can't come.' 
 
 * Can't come, John !' The old lady kept look- 
 ing up at him, till suddenly her eyes grew dim 
 with two great tears. She clasped her hands 
 together with a low cry. He could see the 
 disappointment, which was so unexpected, go 
 over her like a flood. She could not say any 
 more. Her lips quivered — it was all she could 
 do in her weakness not to break down alto- 
 gether, and whimper and moan like a child. 
 1 Can't come !' she repeated, after a time, with 
 little broken sobs. • 
 
 ' Grandmamma, don't take it like that, and 
 break my heart. It is my fault. I began to 
 write as if it was me only, and I felt it a good 
 deal and went on and on from myself, not from 
 you. She thinks it was only my letter, only I 
 that wanted her. She seems to have thought 
 that it was rather impudent of me to ask.' 
 
 * She could not have done that. She could 
 not have done that,' said the old lady. She was 
 so used to mastering herself that she had by this
 
 THE REPLY. 169 
 
 time succeeded in doing so, though her lip trem- 
 bled and she kept softly drying her eyes : for at 
 her age the eyes only get full with a dew of 
 pain, they do not pour forth easy floods of tears 
 like those that are young. John felt that she 
 was, like himself, cast down from a height of 
 expectation. She began to smile after a time 
 very pathetically with her quivering lips. ' We 
 mustn't forget,' she said, ■ that it's just Emily's 
 way.' 
 
 * Oh, grandmamma,' cried John, 'can't you 
 understand that I don't want to think any more 
 of her as Emily. She is not Emily to me.' 
 
 I We must not judge her hardly, my dear. 
 She has always had a way of her own. She 
 was one that never could bear the idea of dis- 
 grace or — anything of that kind. She would 
 bear a great deal, but, if anyone brought dis- 
 credit on the family, that she could not bear. 
 She was more like a man than a woman in that 
 way. A woman has to put up with everything, 
 John.' 
 
 I I don't see why she should, any more than a 
 man.' 
 
 ' I can't tell you the rights of it. I never was
 
 170 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 a clever woman like Emily. From her childhood 
 she learned everything a great deal better than I 
 could ever do. She could learn anything when she 
 was a girl, she was so bright and clever, and I can't 
 tell you how proud we were of her, John ; oh ! so 
 proud. There seemed nothing she couldn't do. 
 Especially her father — he ivas proud of her. fle 
 and she used to talk, and quite go beyond me. 
 But anything that was a discredit she couldn't 
 bear. I don't say but what it's unjust to expect 
 it of us ; but I do think it's best when a woman 
 just puts up with everything, as I was always 
 taught it was my duty to do.' 
 
 6 You speak as if there was something she 
 would not put up with,' he said. 
 
 Here Mrs. Sandford looked at him anxiously. 
 
 4 Oh, my dear,' she cried. ' Some day or other 
 everything is found out in this world. I never 
 put any confidence in secrets for my part. 
 Though they may be ever so carefully kept, 
 they always come out in the end.' 
 
 ' Is there a secret, grandmamma % I had been 
 beginning to fear something of the kind. And 
 they think, perhaps,' said John, with indignation, 
 ' that I am a child, and cannot be trusted — that
 
 THE REPLY. 171 
 
 whatever it is I must not know it. But I have 
 always felt there was something. Whatever it 
 is, if it affects us, surely I ought to be told it 
 now.' 
 
 Mrs. Sandford had been thoroughly recalled 
 to herself by his words. She cast a glance of 
 terror round her, lest, perhaps, some one might 
 be within hearing. 
 
 6 Secret !' she said. ' Oh, John, what has put 
 that into your head ? Yes, yes ; there have been 
 things in the family which were very unpleasant 
 — but they are all past and over, and what is 
 the use of going back upon them 1 If there 
 was anything you ought to know, you may be 
 sure Emily and her father would have told you. 
 As for me, I am not the one — I am not ' 
 
 1 Grandmamma, you are ill again.' 
 
 1 Oh, no, I'm not ill — not anything to mind. 
 Never take any notice if I cry. I just cant 
 help it, John. I'm ill, you know, and not very 
 strong. I cry for nothing, because I can't help 
 it, because Fm old. I have grown a great deal 
 older, don't you think so, in the last three weeks 1 
 and that was why I wanted Emily, partly. 
 There were things I wanted to tell her. I want-
 
 172 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ed to tell her about that — don't you remember, 
 
 that What am I saying 1 The like of him 
 
 could have nothing to do with us, nothing at 
 all. Emily ! Oh, I want her, I want to tell her 
 
 something — I want ' 
 
 John had no more than time to ring the bell 
 hurriedly, to hold her in his arms lest she should 
 fall from the sofa, when another of her attacks 
 came on. He had not seen it before, and he was 
 very much frightened and distressed. It began 
 with a sort of faint, followed by violent spasms 
 of pain ; it was dreadful to see her, so fragile 
 and soft as she was, thus fighting for her life, 
 and the scene made John's heart bleed. But 
 he was pushed out of the room by-and-by, when 
 his grandfather, looking, oh! so haggard and 
 anxious, and the doctor, in his brisk, professional 
 way, came in. They bade him stay outside that 
 he might be ready to run for anything that was 
 wanted, which the boy understood well enough 
 was only to get him out of the way. Presently 
 the struggles grew less ; the attack went off as 
 the others had done. And he was allowed to 
 help to carry her to her bed. She gave him a 
 faint little smile as he laid down her head upon
 
 THE REPLY. 173 
 
 the pillow, and made a slight movement as if to 
 put up her face to kiss him. Then she spoke 
 confusedly, as if her brain were not quite clear : 
 1 Emily, Emily,' she cried, as if to some one at 
 a distance. ' Oh, Emily, tell the boy: if it should 
 be my last word ; Emily ! tell the boy.'
 
 174 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 Mrs. Sandford did not rise from her bed again. 
 She disappeared into that mystery of the death- 
 chamber, in which the fits of suffering that 
 mark the different steps of progress towards 
 the end, alternate with long intervals of calm, 
 intervals which seem so long because there is 
 no incident in them, and in which another series 
 of habits springs up as if that state also might 
 last for ever. The hours for medicine, the 
 hours for food, the little toilet so painfully 
 accomplished, after which the patient feels 
 weary but refreshed, and is said to have ' a 
 better colour,' a more hopeful aspect — all those 
 laws and rules, a perfect routine of subdued 
 being, were set up, and the alarm of the house- 
 hold was calmed.
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 175 
 
 When John was admitted now and then to 
 sit by her for a little while, and hold her trans- 
 parent hand, he felt a great consolation in that 
 established routine of affairs. It seemed to 
 afford a solid framework out of which she 
 could not slip. She might not get better, per- 
 haps ; but still she would remain there, which 
 was much. John sat down by the bedside at 
 first with awe and anxiety, but, soon getting 
 accustomed to it, lost his fears. 
 
 1 You are better to-day,' he would say, wist- 
 fully. 
 
 * Oh, almost well,' said the old lady ; and he 
 believed it, though with a silent doubt down at 
 the bottom of his heart ; a doubt which was so 
 painful and unpleasant that he would not listen 
 to it, nor give any heed. 
 
 One night, about a week after the receipt of 
 his mother's letter, he was allowed to watch her 
 for part of one night, the nurse having occasion 
 for rest, and the grandfather, too, being ex- 
 hausted with much watching. It was the 
 middle of the night when John's watch began, 
 arid she was very quiet, asleep, and likely to 
 want nothing, the nurse had said.
 
 176 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 'If you'll sit quite still here behind the 
 curtain, with the light shaded, most likely she'll 
 never stir at all : but, if she does, you must call 
 me ; now mind you do call me, whether it's 
 anything of consequence or not.' 
 
 John promised, and sat down motionless 
 within the shadow of the curtain. He had 
 never in his life been up at such an hour, and 
 the profound silence of the night, and the solem- 
 nity of the occasion, at once overawed and 
 excited the boy. He felt as if this fading life 
 was in his hands. If she woke, if she wanted 
 anything, his action, perhaps, might save her — 
 who could tell % He felt, as the inexperienced 
 are so apt to feel, that an accident or miracle 
 was always possible, and that some little matter 
 might at any time arrest the progress of dying, 
 and bring a sufferer back from the verge of the 
 grave. But she did not stir. She was very 
 quiet, as the nurse had said she would be. And 
 then he got frightened of the stillness, and 
 thought that she might have died. 
 
 This oppression of quietness grew upon him 
 so that he moved the curtain slightly to look at
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 177 
 
 her: and then John was more startled still, 
 driven almost into a panic by the sight of her 
 open eyes, which turned to him when he moved 
 though she did not move her head. She was 
 lying back upon her pillow like a child, so 
 small, her little face encircled by her cap, her 
 eyes turned to him, two lamps of light amid the 
 stillness and the dimness. There was nothing 
 dim or still in them, they shone with all the 
 brightness of a life which was inexhaustible, 
 perhaps even with humour in them, but certainly 
 with a clearness and vigour more remarkable, 
 John thought, than he had ever seen in them be- 
 fore. He faltered * Grandmamma !' in his alarm, 
 though he knew that he ought to have taken 
 no notice, that he ought to have kept perfectly 
 still in order that she might go to sleep again, 
 and not be disturbed. 
 
 She did not say anything for a moment, but 
 gave him a soft reply with her eyes, then feebly 
 put out her hand. She smiled when she felt 
 the touch of his hands clasping it, but for 
 some time did not attempt to speak. Then, 
 after awhile, she called him faintly. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 < John !' It took some time to form her 
 
 words. 'I'm glad you're there. I wanted to 
 speak to you — my boy.' 
 
 ' Yes, grandmamma/ He had knelt down 
 at the bedside, where his head was on a level 
 with hers as it lay on the pillow. She moved 
 her other hand, as if to give him a caress. 
 
 'You've been a good boy. Whatever may 
 happen afterwards, you've been a good, good 
 boy to me. Always remember that, whatever 
 happens. John, it's about — Emily ; I want to 
 speak to you.' 
 
 She lay still a little and rested, and then 
 resumed, 
 
 ' Emily is not — like me. She's one that is — 
 more difficult to get on with. She thinks you're 
 like him, and you are — like him. I see it, too. 
 But never mind — there was good in him — 
 plenty of good. You mustn't — be discouraged 
 —my boy.' 
 
 She put her left hand upon his shoulder — it 
 was a great effort for her — and faintly patted 
 him with her fingers. So faintly : like the 
 touch of a bird. 
 
 ' And she seems — harder than she is. It's her
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. l r <9 
 
 — principle. She has more — love in her — than 
 she knows. If you wait long enough, it will 
 come out. John — remember that. She will not 
 let — her heart speak. It's her — principle. She 
 has — always done that. She has never — let her 
 heart speak.' The old lady stirred a little in her 
 bed. Her voice strengthened for a moment. 
 * Except once,' she said. ■ And you know how 
 that — turned out. She blames me, for I — was 
 always fond of him — John.' 
 
 Her voice was so faint he could scarcely hear 
 it, though every word was so precious to him, 
 and though it was so hard to understand. 
 
 1 Poor dear,' she resumed, * poor dear — if ever 
 you should see him — you can tell him — I — always 
 — prayed for him — to — the — end.' 
 
 ' Who is it, grandmamma ? Oh, one word — 
 tell me — who is it V 
 
 The light in her eyes nickered a little. Per- 
 haps she did not hear him. They wandered, 
 fixed on his face for a moment, then strayed 
 uncertain to other things. 
 
 'It's about Emily,' she said, 'Emily — don't 
 you know, Emily ? You will think — she is hard 
 — but, no — that's her principle. Where — where
 
 180 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 is she? I thought — just now — she was here. 
 Emily !' She raised her voice a little, to call. 
 And then a smile came over her face. Her hand 
 dropped from John's shoulder. ' Yes/ she said ; 
 * you are right, Emily — you always are right. 
 I'll talk — no more. I'll go to sleep/ 
 
 John remained on his knees, he did not know 
 how long. He was still there when the nurse 
 came in from her sleep. 
 
 * I hope you have not been talking to her, or 
 crying, to excite her.' 
 
 1 She spoke to me a little ; it was not my fault. 
 I found her with her eyes wide open, and, when 
 she saw me, she spoke.' 
 
 'You ought not to have let her. This is 
 always the way when one of the relations inter- 
 feres. How is one to do one's nursing, when rela- 
 tions interfere ? There should have been another 
 to take the night duty, and no amateurs here.' 
 
 * May I stay V said John, who was shivering 
 with cold and excitement. 
 
 ' No — get away, please, and leave me my sick 
 person to myself; relations is just the destruc- 
 tion of everything. Oh, get away, please.' 
 
 John went downstairs to the fire, which had
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 181 
 
 been kept up all night, and over which he 
 crouched to warm himself. He was overwhelm- 
 ed with wonder and sorrow. Death had come 
 to the house, he felt it chill and cold, chilling 
 him to his very heart. And what did these 
 wandering words mean 1 Who was it for whom 
 she had prayed to the end ? He had his knees 
 almost in the fire, and yet he shivered with cold, 
 and with wondering and trying to understand. 
 He must have dozed a little, for the voice of his 
 grandfather, calling him, came to him through 
 some sort of miserable dream, in which he seemed 
 to be seeking some one and unable to find them 
 — searching through wild distances and open 
 wastes. He heard the call repeated two or 
 three times, repeated through his dream, before 
 he woke, with the trembling hand of the old 
 man on his shoulder. 
 
 ' John ! John ! run for the doctor. John !' 
 * Yes, grandfather,' he cried, starting to his 
 feet, still in his dream. Then he saw the cold, 
 grey dawn of the morning about him, and the 
 fire, and the well-known walls, and, with a shock 
 and terrible sense of reality, came to himself. 
 4 Is she worse V he cried.
 
 182 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ' Run, run ! Tell him he is to come directly/ 
 the old man cried, with a wave of his hand. 
 
 After the doctor had come and gone again, 
 there was another errand for John. He had 
 heard for himself what the doctor said. It had 
 been said before them both, and they had re- 
 ceived it in silence, saying nothing. Mr. Sand- 
 ford was standing up, leaning against the man- 
 telpiece, covering his eyes with his hand. He 
 said, in a low voice, it might have been to him- 
 self, 
 
 'We must send for Emily, now; she must 
 come. She must come — now.' 
 
 * Shall I telegraph, grandfather V 
 
 6 Yes ; say the time has come. Say her mother 
 — her mother ' 
 
 And then there rose, in full wintry splendour, 
 the day. It seemed to burst into sunshine all at 
 once, as John came back from the telegraph 
 office. It had been grey and misty before. But, 
 suddenly, in a moment, the sun burst out over 
 the top of the dark trees, in a flush and glow of 
 triumph, and the village street blazed from end 
 to end. It had rained the day before, and the 
 road was wet and glistening, giving back a
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 183 
 
 reflection from every broken edge and bit of 
 pavement. It seemed to arrest and take hold 
 of John in his cloud of trouble and unaccus- 
 tomed misery, and flash him all over with 
 light and warmth. He was astonished by it, 
 as if it had been some great mysterious comet, 
 and the suddenness of the illumination came 
 into his mind and memory with an aching 
 contrast to everything else about. It seemed 
 to summon him to life and all its exer- 
 tions, to hope and prosperity and activity ; 
 above all, it moved in his young soul an eager 
 desire to do something, to fling himself into 
 work, whatever it was; to begin in earnest. 
 Alas, all that he had to do was to go back to 
 the silent house, to meet and go through that 
 awful day of waiting — that day in which nothing 
 can be begun or done — in which all is waiting, 
 in which every hour seems a whole day, 
 although one would give one's life to prolong 
 that which this endless steady slow succession 
 of flying moments is carrying away. The two 
 watchers sat down sombre to meal after meal, 
 at which each made a pretence of eating for the 
 sake of the other, or rather that Mr. Sandford
 
 184 THE SON OP HIS FATHER. 
 
 made a pretence of eating, for John, poor John, 
 restless and unhappy, with nothing else to do, 
 eat almost more than usual, ashamed of himself, 
 yet feeling the relief of the dinner which was the 
 only thing he had to do, the only break to those 
 monotonous, endless hours. 
 
 * Emily will arrive by the seven o'clock train. 
 You must get the cab at Johnson's, and go over 
 to meet her, John.' 
 
 ' Yes, grandfather.' 
 
 ' And tell her her mother is if anything a little 
 better. She may rally still. You will lose no 
 time, John.' 
 
 ' No, grandfather.' 
 
 This was all the conversation that passed 
 between them. It was repeated in about the 
 same words three or four times during the day. 
 For what was there else to say ? All was either 
 too trifling or too solemn. How could they talk 
 of her, lying upstairs upon the edge of the 
 eternal world? And how, she being there, 
 could anything else be spoken of? The day 
 went on like a century. Grandfather went up 
 and down stairs, trying to walk softly, stealing 
 into the room above on tiptoe, coming out again
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 185 
 
 after a while shaking his head. John down- 
 stairs sat still and listened, sometimes dozing, 
 in the long strain of that expectancy, waiting, 
 almost wishing, for the news that would break 
 his heart to hear. At last the evening came, 
 and it was time to see after the cab at Johnson's, 
 and to set out to meet his mother. To meet his 
 mother ! How strange the words sounded ! and 
 yet he did not think much of them now. He 
 drove to the station across the edge of the 
 common, watching all the lights in the cottage 
 windows staling out into the night. 
 
 There were several people arriving by the 
 train, as John stood half stupified on the plat- 
 form, still vaguely gazing, looking at the dark 
 figures undistinguishable, which flitted to and 
 fro against the background of the lights : the 
 flicker of the lamps in the wind, the movement, 
 the noise, the little crowd, confused him, even 
 if he had not been confused before by all the 
 effects of the domestic tragedy. He looked 
 helplessly at the moving figures, wondering 
 should he know her whom he sought, wondering 
 if she had come, wondering which could be her ? 
 He felt now, at this moment for which he
 
 186 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 believed himself to have wished, that if she had 
 not come it would be a relief, then he could go 
 back all the easier, more peacefully if he went 
 back alone. Even as the thought passed 
 through his mind, one of the figures which he 
 had been following with his eyes, that of a tall 
 woman, detached itself quickly from the group 
 of the others, and came towards him. 
 
 ' You are John V she asked. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, with a gasp. 
 
 ' Have you a cab ? This is all I have brought. 
 Let us lose no time.' 
 
 She had put her hand in his as she had come 
 up to him. She gave him no other salutation, 
 no kiss ; but followed, as the boy, once more 
 with the sensation of falling down, down, from 
 he knew not what height, led the way to where 
 the cab was standing. She put in her bag, 
 stepped in hastily, motioned him to her side, 
 and in another moment they were driving away 
 together, seated there, this mother and son who 
 had not met for years. John felt timid, alto- 
 gether stupid, unable to say a word, his heart 
 one moment giving a great throb, the next like 
 a lump of lead in his breast.
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 187 
 
 * How is my mother V she asked, ? is she still 
 alive?' 
 
 It was like a stab to John to have this question 
 put to him in so many words, though he knew 
 that it was a question of how long she might 
 survive. 
 
 ' I was told/ he said, * to tell you that your 
 mother was a little better and might rally.' 
 
 1 Might rally V she said, thoughtfully, ' I should 
 scarcely think it likely.' She was quite calm. 
 John seated so that he felt her breath upon 
 him. could scarcely help shivering with a nervous 
 chill which seemed to come from her. She 
 remarked this at once. 
 
 1 You are cold,' she said. ' Put up the win- 
 dow at your side ; no doubt it is your nerves : 
 you have been kept on the strain all day, or 
 perhaps for some days. It is not a good thing 
 for you at your age : put up the window, I will 
 keep mine open ; I like the air. Have they let 
 you be with her V 
 
 I A little last night — not before.' 
 
 I I am glad they had so much sense as that. 
 She would talk to you, no doubt, and you 
 would be veiy much affected. Poor boy !'
 
 188 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 There seemed a momentary wavering in her, 
 as if she might have turned to him with some- 
 thing like tenderness. Her arm seemed to him 
 to move. He thought she was going to put it 
 round him, and his heart filled with a sudden 
 rush of warmth and softness. His mother! 
 But either she had never meant it, or she 
 changed her mind. She altered her position 
 only enough to change from one hand to 
 another the little bag she carried. And yet he 
 could not help feeling that she meant more 
 than that. 
 
 6 Did she say anything to you % — I mean 
 anything beyond what she would naturally 
 say?' 
 
 * She spoke to me about you, mother.' 
 
 Once more the dark figure at his side moved. 
 A sort of thrill seemed to run through her. She 
 took a little time apparently to compose and 
 command herself. 
 
 < What did she say to you of me V 
 
 ' I did not understand it,' said John. 
 
 She turned, and seemed to look at him as if 
 asking herself whether this simplicity was as-
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 189 
 
 sumed or not. Then, with a touch of divination, 
 put her hand upon his arm for a moment, and 
 repeated, 
 
 1 Poor boy ! I can see you are half-dazed 
 w^ith trouble and fatigue,' she said. 
 
 ' Mother !' said John, ' mother ' 
 
 Again there was that faint thrill and moving 
 in the profile that showed against the dim 
 night of the further window. There was a 
 soft suffusion of whiteness in the air from an 
 unseen moon, and he could see the outline of 
 her face and figure against it. But, if she had 
 been moved by any impulse of love, she re- 
 strained it once more. 
 
 * I would rather,' she said, quickly, * that you 
 used that name as little as possible while I am 
 here. I am your mother, certainly ; but we've 
 been separated for a long time, and I have 
 my reasons, chiefly for your own sake, for pre- 
 ferring not to be talked about among your 
 village people, or discussed who I am. I 
 mean no unkindness/ she added, after a little 
 pause. 
 
 * Must I not call you mother?' asked the boy.
 
 190 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 He was so tired, so dazed, as she said, so broken 
 down with weariness and wonder and grieving 
 that the sharp tone in his voice was more the 
 petulance of a child than the indignation which 
 began faintly to rise among the other emotions 
 that were too much for him. 
 
 'Not except when we are alone,' she said. 
 * Is this the village % are we near V 
 
 The carriage stopped with a sudden creaking 
 and jar. John had not observed where they 
 were. He stumbled out now to his feet and 
 held the door for her to get out. The 
 door of the house was open, and his grandfather 
 stood in the opening. The old man came down 
 through the little garden slowly, shuffling 
 with his heavy feet. There seemed to John's 
 feverish eyes some change, he scarcely knew 
 what, in the house, as if the expectation, the 
 waiting, had come to an end. 
 
 ' Emily,' said old Mr. Sandford, ' you are too 
 late. Your mother is dead.' 
 
 'Deadf she said, standing still at the gate. 
 
 * Half- an-hour ago.' 
 
 The two, father and daughter, stood facing
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 191 
 
 each other, with John behind not able to con- 
 vince himself that there was anything real in 
 it, that it was not all a dream. 
 
 ' Do you mean me to go back again, straight,' 
 she said, * from your door V
 
 192 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 EMILY. 
 
 She came into the parlour first, where she sat 
 down close to the fire. She shivered as she 
 looked round, Mr. Sandford and John both 
 standing behind looking at her. There was 
 indeed already upon the house that air of revo- 
 lution, the cold strangeness of a place which is 
 no longer the centre of domestic life, but fit 
 only for an ante-chamber and waiting-room for 
 those who cannot be at the point of deepest 
 interest. There was an unusual chill in this 
 place which had always been so warm. 
 
 John could see now for the first time what 
 his mother was like. She did not resemble 
 either of her parents. Her features were 
 marked and high ; her complexion of an ivory 
 paleness; her hair quite black in original
 
 EMILY. 193 
 
 colour, with, a thread or two of grey — alto- 
 gether a tragic woman whom nobody could 
 pass without a certain interest. She showed 
 no emotion, nothing beyond the seriousness of 
 aspect which was evidently habitual to her. For 
 a little time even she said nothing, but held 
 with a shiver her hands to the fire. Her father 
 stood beside her leaning upon the mantel-piece, 
 looking down upon the hearth, and for some 
 time there was not a word spoken. 
 
 ' Half-an-hour ago/ she repeated at length, in 
 a low voice. f Did she know I was on the 
 way?' 
 
 1 For twenty hours she has scarcely taken any 
 notice. The last was ' 
 
 * The last must have been what she said to the 
 boy,' — his mother spoke of him as if he were a 
 thing and not a person — ' and that was, he says, 
 about me, something he did not understand. I 
 hope there was no talk about affairs.' 
 
 'Emily, you are not softened, even by 
 death.' 
 
 ' It is not in me, I suppose,' she said, with a 
 sigh. Then she turned round to John. ' Why 
 did you not tell me that she was ill? You 
 
 YOL. I.
 
 194 THE SON OP HIS FATHER. 
 
 wrote from yourself. You said nothing about 
 her — or nothing to speak of. If you had told me 
 she was ill, 1 might have been in time.' 
 
 They both turned and looked at him, his 
 grand-father with heavy eyes and a blank 
 aspect of exhaustion and helplessness, but, with 
 so much expression as was left in him, reproach- 
 ful too. 
 
 And all power of self-defence, of anything but 
 submission and acquiescence, seemed taken from 
 John. 
 
 ' I did not think of it,' he said, giving 
 himself up, as he was dimly conscious, to total 
 misconstruction, but what did it matter ? Noth- 
 ing seemed to be of any consequence in the 
 subtle misery which had invaded the house. 
 John did not feel even that he was aware of the 
 cause of it. He scarcely thought of his grand- 
 mother, dead. He knew only that where all 
 had been so happy and full of tenderness there 
 was nothing but a chill misery and desolation, 
 with a fault of his somehow involved, he could 
 not tell how. 
 
 ' Of course I should have come at once,' she 
 repeated, turning round again to the fire, with
 
 EMILY. 195 
 
 her hands held over it. * We did not always 
 understand each other. We were not like each 
 other. How can one help it if that is so V 
 
 ' Children are not always like their parents,' 
 Mr. Sandford said. 
 
 * Some are not.' She half turned towards John 
 again with a movement of her hand as if direct- 
 ing her father's attention to him. ' There are 
 likenesses — that take away one's breath.' 
 
 1 Ah — yes — it may be so,' the old man said. 
 Then, as if waking up, ' Will you take anything ? 
 The house is upset — there is nobody to give any 
 orders. Still,' he said, looking round at the table 
 where a cloth was laid, ' there are meals all the 
 same.' 
 
 She looked up at him with a momentary 
 softening in her face, and put her hand on his 
 arm. 
 
 1 Poor father,' she said. 
 
 ' Yes — I'll be poor, poor enough by myself. To 
 begin — that sort of thing at my time of life — 
 after nearly fifty years ' 
 
 ' Be thankful that you have had fifty years — 
 without any trouble,' she said. And then, 'I 
 should like to see her. No doubt she is changed, 
 
 02
 
 196 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 much changed, since I saw her last. Don't stir, 
 father — sit down and rest — you are ready to 
 drop with fatigue. The boy will show me the 
 way.' 
 
 1 1 hope you won't think it strange. I — I 
 couldn't go with you, Emily.' 
 
 ' No. I understand it all. Sit down there in 
 your own chair.' 
 
 The old man seated himself with a sudden 
 burst of sobbing. 
 
 * It's not mine, it's her chair. I like it so. I 
 like it so ! For fifty years ! and she will never 
 sit here more.' 
 
 ' Poor father !' she said again. Her face 
 softened more and more as she looked at him ; 
 she stooped down and kissed his forehead. 
 ' Now, come,' she said to John. To him there 
 was no softening. She gave him a fixed look as 
 she signed to him to lead the way — a look of 
 recognition, of stern investigation, which stirred 
 the boy's being. It seemed to call his faculties 
 together, and awake him from the torpor of con- 
 sternation and grief. He forgot almost where 
 he was going, and what he was to see. 
 
 They went together into the room, already all
 
 EMILY. 197 
 
 in order, in the chill and rigid decorum of a 
 chamber of death. All was white and cold. 
 The curtains laid back, the white coverlet fold- 
 ed, a fine embroidered handkerchief covering 
 the spot scarcely indented in the pillow where 
 the head lay. John went in with his light in 
 his hand, though there were candles on the 
 table, in a tumult of personal feeling, which for 
 the moment swept away all the natural emo- 
 tion which that scene was calculated to call 
 forth. He did not think of what lay there, 
 but of the stranger so near him and yet so 
 distant, so coldly serious, without any grief, 
 only the subdued regret of a spectator, and 
 with that keen observation of himself under- 
 neath, like a spectator too, but a spectator 
 almost hostile. He had never known in all his 
 life before what it was to be judged coldly, 
 weighed in the balances and found wanting. 
 His very soul seemed penetrated by the look, 
 which fixed on something, he knew not what, 
 that was hostile in him. Her eyes, as she 
 followed him, searched into him, and he felt 
 nothing but those keen looks going through 
 and through his soul.
 
 198 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 But when he came face to face with that little 
 waxen image which lay upon the bed, a flood of 
 other feelings poured through the boy's mind. 
 For the first time he saw that which was Some- 
 thing awful and solemn, yet Nothing. Sometimes 
 the dead retain the looks of life, and lie and smile 
 upon us as if they slept ; but sometimes the 
 effect is very different, and, after a long illness, 
 the worn-out body loses all the characteristics of 
 identity. His mother went up to the bed, pass- 
 ing him by, and, without a word, lifted the 
 handkerchief. When John saw what was un- 
 derneath, he gave a great cry, a cry almost of 
 horror ; his limbs trembled under him. 
 
 1 They've taken her away,' he said, hoarsely, 
 * they've taken her away/ 
 
 The other spectator said not a word. She 
 knew better. Death was to her no wonder. 
 She had lived long enough to see it in all its 
 aspects. She stood looking down upon the little 
 body, the little, little body shrunken out of all 
 semblance of life ; the worn-out garment of long 
 living, never big enough for the soul that had 
 inhabited it, and cast it off as if it had never 
 been hers.
 
 EMILY. 199 
 
 1 No,' she said at last ; ' they have not taken 
 her away. This is all she has left.' 
 
 She took the candle out of John's trembling 
 hand, and held it so that the light fell on the 
 small head surrounded by the white cap, and 
 the face in which no expression lingered. The 
 room was very strange. The white bed laid 
 out in rigid lines, the small and solemn thing 
 laid therein, the black, tall figure standing by 
 throwing the light down from her hand. She 
 was not like a woman by her mother's bed-side, 
 but like a solemn spectator expounding the 
 mysteries of life and death. 
 
 ' People are as different,' she said, ' in their 
 dying as in their living. She has taken every- 
 thing with her she could take. She wouldn't 
 leave even a look for me, as if she thought I 
 could have come, and did not. But I'll not ex- 
 cuse myself here. Mother '—she stooped down, 
 and kissed the waxen forehead — ' good-bye. 
 You would have been a good mother to one 
 more like yourself; she has been a good mother 
 to you ' 
 
 John said no word in reply. He had fallen 
 down by the bedside, with a sickening sense of
 
 200 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 loss which was more than grief. He could not 
 speak, or even think. His young soul seemed 
 to go out in a gasp towards the nothingness that 
 seemed before him. He had thought she would 
 be dear and beautiful still in her death — as peo- 
 ple said — more dear, more beautiful than in life. 
 But this was not as people said. His heart sank 
 into depths unspeakable. Only last night what 
 words she had spoken to him from that bed. 
 
 And now, and now ! 
 
 ' Poor boy !' said his mother, with her hand on 
 his shoulder, 'you have never seen death be- 
 fore ! Come away ; she would not like you to 
 stay here ; never come again. And forget that. 
 For once she has not thought of other people. 
 She has taken all she could away with her ; her 
 own look, as well as all the rest. Rise up, and 
 come away.' 
 
 John obeyed her, scarcely knowing what he 
 did. And so presently did all the house. She 
 took the command of everything instantly, as if 
 it was her right to do so. There was not much 
 conversation, as may be supposed. She sat 
 down by the fire, after the meal at which she 
 eat moderately without any look of reluctance,
 
 EMILY. 201 
 
 and talked a little, in the same grave tone, to her 
 father. But there were no tears, no words of 
 sorrow. The old man gave a broken sort of ac- 
 count of his wife's illness, subdued into a narra- 
 tive of facts by the influence of that serious, but 
 quite conventional, figure opposite to him ; while 
 John sat at the table behind, with a book before 
 him, which he did not read, listening in a miser- 
 able way to every word, feeling a wretchedness 
 which was beyond description, but which could 
 not get vent in the ordinary way, because of the 
 atmosphere about him, which was full of the new 
 presence. He had been hungry, poor boy, but 
 could not eat, feeling that to be able to eat at 
 such a moment was more horrible than words 
 can say. And his brain was giddy for want of 
 sleep. Body and soul were in the same condi- 
 tion of exhaustion and misery. But still the 
 slow exchange of those subdued voices over the 
 fire held him like a spell. 
 
 The next days passed slowly and yet swiftly, 
 every moment with leaden feet, yet, when they 
 were gone, looking like a dream. And every- 
 thing was done without trouble, it seemed ; in 
 perfect order and quiet, the whole house per-
 
 202 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 vaded by the strong, still presence of this stranger. 
 Tf there had been a confusion before between his 
 mother and the daughter of the old people, the 
 Emily whom he knew so well, there was no con- 
 fusion now. John's mother had disappeared into 
 the mists from amid which her idea had never 
 clearly developed itself. She had been swept 
 out of his horizon altogether. He saw still very 
 clearly in that far distant background, the father 
 who was dead — but not her any more. And 
 this was Emily, who had come to set everything 
 right. It was almost a difficulty for him not to 
 call her by that name. She was a very useful 
 and very powerful personality in the house; but, 
 as a matter of fact, no one knew what to call 
 her. Her name was Sandford, like her father's. 
 It was on her travelling-bag and her linen, and 
 the book or two she carried with her. E. Sand- 
 ford ; no more. To the servants it was a great 
 problem how to address her. Mrs. Sandford it 
 did not seem possible she should be ; and Miss 
 Sandford — there was something in her which 
 seemed to contradict that title. Something of 
 youth is associated with it, a possibility of de- 
 pendence, and a secondary place. But no such
 
 EMILY. 203 
 
 ideas were compatible with the presence of this 
 new-comer, of whom no one out of the house 
 had ever heard before. The curate even, who 
 was the only visitor, looked at her with a sort 
 of diffident curiosity, and said < your daughter,' 
 when he spoke of her to the old man. She 
 went to the funeral, supporting her father on 
 her arm, while John walked with Mr. Catt- 
 ley behind. A great many people, indeed, it 
 might be said the whole parish, attended the 
 funeral ; and there were many tears among the 
 crowd. But Emily shed no tear. She kept her 
 father's arm in hers, and encouraged and sup- 
 ported him. The old gentleman, who had been 
 so strong and hale, had sunk all at once into 
 helplessness ; his heavy foot, that had been so 
 steady, became shuffling and uncertain ; some- 
 times he would sob feebly, like the voluntary 
 crying of a child, without tears. 
 
 And more and more to John was this melan- 
 choly period like a dream. It all fitted in, one 
 event with another — the meeting at the station, 
 the pause at the door, when he thought for a 
 moment that Emily would have turned back, 
 and gone away without entering the house ; and
 
 201 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 then that scene upstairs, the tall figure all in 
 Mack, her bonnet still on, a veil drooping over 
 her face, holding up the light over the snow- 
 cold whiteness of the bed and the dead face on the 
 pillow. He shuddered when he thought of that 
 scene. It was all a dream — a dream from which 
 he might perhaps awake to see all these sombre 
 circumstances disappear, and the old, sweet life 
 which was real — the only real life he could 
 think of, with the two old faces, full of love, 
 beaming on him — would come back. But that, 
 John knew very well, it would never do. And 
 what was it that lay before him ? — new work, a 
 strange place, his old grandfather left alone and 
 desolate, his mother of whom he had once 
 dreamed disappeared into thin air, and nothing 
 certain in the world but Emily, who was and 
 
 was not Emily, but But now the dream 
 
 within dreams had gone. He did not believe 
 that she was his mother. He began to think, 
 in all seriousness, that his mother must have 
 been a younger sister, one, perhaps, about whom 
 there was a mystery, who had perished along 
 with his father, who — but that seemed very 
 ■confusing and wonderful to think of — might
 
 EMILY. 205- 
 
 have been the subject of that secret of which 
 his grandmother had spoken. It was all so 
 strange, so little clear, that this solution of the 
 matter took stronger form in John's thoughts. 
 
 On the evening after the funeral they were 
 all seated together once more like the old ar- 
 rangement, two on different sides of the fire, the 
 boy in the middle with his book, but, ah ! so 
 different. No kind looks exchanged across him, 
 all meaning love to him ; no interest in what he 
 was doing; no consciousness on his part that he 
 was the principal figure, the centre of their 
 thoughts. John was of no importance now, and 
 felt it. He was in the background, an insignifi- 
 cant unit in the group. His grandfather sat, 
 saying nothing, limp in his chair, a little irritable,, 
 ready to watch any movement, while Emily (he 
 could not call her anything but Emily) sat be- 
 tween the fire and the table with her work. 
 Presently John awoke to the consciousness that 
 she was talking of himself. 
 
 ' I should like you to tell me what you have 
 arranged about the boy?' 
 
 ' The boy ' was what she called him almost 
 always. And the words were never uttered
 
 206 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 without rousing a sense of injury in John's 
 heart. 
 
 6 How can I tell you,' said Mr. Sandford, 
 * about John or anything ? Do you think I'm 
 able to be troubled about that V 
 
 6 You must,' she said, in her steady, serious 
 tone, ' for in a day or two 1 shall have to go 
 back, and all business should be settled before I 
 go.' 
 
 1 Must !' said the old man, with unwonted fire ; 
 and then he fell again into the half- whimpering 
 tone of complaint. ' I have never had that said 
 to me. I've been master in my own house, and 
 no one to lift their hand against me, near upon 
 fifty years.' 
 
 * Father, you will recognise, if you think, that 
 I have a right to hear about the boy. You had 
 settled to send him to an engineer? So much I 
 know ; but who is it, and where ? It is far more 
 easy to tell me than to quarrel with me about 
 my right to ask.' 
 
 Mr. Sandford had already forgotten his mo- 
 ment of wrath, or perhaps the good sense of 
 her argument had an effect upon him. 
 
 * He has had all his schooling from the curate,
 
 EMILY. 207 
 
 Mr. Cattley. You saw him, Emily. Now, Mr, 
 
 Cattley has a brother — in Liverpool.' 
 
 Her work fell from her lap. 
 
 ' In Liverpool — in Liverpool. I must be 
 dreaming. You don't mean that, father'?' 
 
 1 1 remember now,' said the old gentleman, 
 i she thought you would object. She objected 
 herself, poor dear. But what does it matter, 
 one place or another ? It is the curate's brother 
 — a kind man that would look after him. He 
 will be better there than anywhere. Mr. Cat- 
 tley 's brother ' 
 
 ' He shall not go there,' she said ; her pale 
 face coloured over a little, very little, and yet 
 enough to make a great difference. And she 
 looked her father steadily in the face as she 
 spoke. 
 
 * Shall not ! Is it you or me that is the mas- 
 ter? She tried to persuade me, as a woman 
 may, but you, you, with your " shall not," 
 your " shall not !" . . .' He rose up and began 
 in his wrath to walk about the room, recovering 
 something of his old force. ' I have never al- 
 lowed anyone to speak to me so.' 
 
 'Xot since I left home, father. You must
 
 208 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 hear it again, for it is necessary you should. 
 He shall not go there. No, if there was no 
 other place for him in the world. There he 
 shall not go/ 
 
 What further development the quarrel might 
 have taken it is needless to speculate, for at this 
 moment John, who had been turning aimlessly 
 over a number of children's books, which had 
 been brought out of his grandfather's room, here 
 uttered a strange cry. What he said was, 
 4 Johnny May, Johnny May,' with a mixture of 
 trouble and satisfaction. 
 
 ' I knew that I had something to do with 
 that name/ he said. 
 
 The discussion stopped at once. Mr. Sand- 
 ford went back tremulous to his easy chair, and 
 Emily turned to the boy. 
 
 4 With that name — with your own name/ she 
 said. 
 
 1 Is it my name ? — but my name is Sandford.' 
 
 * May Sandford,' she answered, fixing him 
 with her steady eyes. 
 
 ' More than that, more than that/ said John, 
 ' now I remember ! Papa was Mr. May. I am 
 Mr. May's little boy. He taught me to say that.
 
 EMILY. 201) 
 
 Now I remember everything. And my mother 
 would be Mrs. May, not Mrs. Sandford. Now I 
 know. You are not my mother. I felt sure of 
 it from the first,' said the boy. 
 
 Emily paled so that every shade of colour 
 w r ent out of her face. It had been pale before, 
 but now it was like a stormy evening sky, of the 
 blankest whiteness. She looked at John for a 
 moment, with something like a quiver on her 
 steady lip. Then she turned to her father with 
 a singular smile and asked, 
 
 ' "Will you send him to Liverpool now ?' 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 210 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 
 
 4 1 WANT to know who this woman is,' said Mrs. 
 Egerton. * She seems to take the control of 
 everything. They tell me that poor Mr. Sand- 
 ford does not venture to call his soul his own, 
 and John goes about as if all the life was cow- 
 ed out of him. Who is she, Mr. Cattley ! don't 
 you know?' 
 
 The curate was seated in the drawing-room 
 of the rectory, which was to him the place 
 most near to Paradise. It was twilight of the 
 wintry day, and almost dark, the blaze from the 
 fire dancing upon the walls and making glad 
 Mr. Cattley's heart. He loved, above every- 
 thing in the world, to sit and talk by that un- 
 certain light. Elly, who at sixteen was old 
 enough to have been the object of his devo-
 
 'WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 211 
 
 tion, was sitting close against the great window 
 of the room, which looked upon the lawn and 
 waving trees, with a book in her arms. She was 
 making use of the very last rays of the daylight, 
 which were not strong enough for older eyes, 
 and was altogether enrapt in the book, and un- 
 conscious of what was going on behind her, 
 though now and then a word would come to 
 her and she would return across the short dis- 
 tance of several centuries to reply; for she was 
 deep in the ' Morte d' Arthur,' and inattentive to 
 everything else, except, as we have said, when 
 something which interested her, something upon 
 which she was ready with a word, came upper- 
 most and flashed across the keen young faculties 
 which found it no matter of difficulty to be in 
 two places at a time. 
 
 ' I suppose I ought to know,' said the curate, 
 1 for I have spoken to her three or four times. 
 "Whoever she is, she looks a lady and talks — with 
 great sense at least ; but more than that I know 
 nothing, not even her name.' 
 
 ' What relation is she to John ! I am glad 
 to hear she is a lady. Our dear little Airs. 
 Sandford, whom we all loved — yes, yes, she was 
 
 p2
 
 212 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 a true gentlewoman in her heart — but they were 
 what you would call bourgeois, don't you think ? 
 No, you must not shake your head at my French 
 word. There is no English word that expresses 
 what I mean.' 
 
 ' Middle-class,' the curate said. 
 
 ' Middle-class is such a big word, and it does 
 not mean the same thing. When I was young it 
 meant gentry, too, all who did not belong to the 
 very highest. Oh, yes, we are all as good gentle- 
 men as the King ; but I feel quite middle-class 
 myself, not living with duchesses, nor wishing 
 to do so.' 
 
 ' For that matter,' said Mr. Cattley, hotly, 
 ' there are very few duchesses who are worthy 
 to ' 
 
 < Tie my shoe,' said the lady, with a laugh. 
 ' Let us take that for granted ; but middle-class is 
 
 not what I mean, exactly. And this Mrs. what 
 
 is her name ' 
 
 ■ 1 can't tell, indeed. He said "my daughter.', 
 The servants called her Sandford, but whether 
 Mrs. or Miss ' 
 
 * Oh, not Miss, at all events. That woman has 
 gone through everything which is in life. I feel
 
 WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 213 
 
 sure of it. It is a handsome face, but a great deal 
 of trouble in it.' 
 
 'Must one be married to have that?' asked the 
 curate, with a little sigh. 
 
 * Yes,' she replied, laughing again, for his little 
 sentimentalities amused her, though she did not 
 dislike them. ' One must have been married to 
 have a face with so much in it. You young ones 
 have your own vexations, no doubt, but not of 
 that kind.' 
 
 ' We young ones : does that mean Elly,' said 
 Mr. Cattley, < and me V 
 
 'You are as great innocents the one as the 
 other,' said Mrs. Egerton. 
 
 She was seated by the side of the fire, with a 
 little screen before her which shielded her face, 
 an ample figure in a black satin dress which 
 gave back a faint glimmer of reflection. The tea- 
 table beside her, half in light and half in shadow, 
 gave brighter dancing gleams, and the curate, 
 stooping forward with a certain tender eagerness, 
 saw a gigantic uncouth shadow of himself moving 
 with the movements of the light upon the further 
 wall. Behind Mrs. Egerton was the great 
 window, full of the fading twilight, fading quick-
 
 214 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ly into night, against which came the shadow 
 silhouette of Elly with her big book clasped in 
 her arms. 
 
 6 But this is abandoning our subject,' said 
 Mrs. Egerton. * The best thing is for me to 
 call.' 
 
 ' Far the best — you will make it all clear if 
 anyone can.' 
 
 ' I have not so much confidence in myself as 
 all that, but still I can try. It is curious to find 
 a sort of mystery about people one seemed to 
 know so well — or rather to find out how very 
 little we did know after all. And whose son 
 is John ? It never seemed necessary to inquire. 
 But this — lady : well, I will call her so if you like 
 it — seems to confuse everything. There may be 
 other daughters — or sons — half-a-dozen, for any- 
 thing we know.' 
 
 She spoke in the aggrieved tone natural to a 
 lady in the country, a semi- clerical lady, en- 
 titled through her brother to know everybody, 
 and finding that here was somebody whom she 
 did not know. 
 
 ' John — must be the son of a son — for other- 
 wise how could he be Sandford V
 
 WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 215 
 
 1 John has got a mother,' said Elly, nodding 
 from the window. ' He has not seen her for ten 
 years.' 
 
 1 Can this, then, be John's mother?' cried Mrs. 
 Egerton. 
 
 ' Oh, no/ said the curate, and ' Oh no,' cried 
 Elly, jumping up. 'I've seen them together, 
 and she looked at him as if she were not the least 
 fond of him ; so that couldn't be.' 
 
 4 She can't be very fond of him if she has never 
 come to see him for ten years.' 
 
 ' No,' said the curate, ' old Sandford was very 
 particular to say his daughter ; therefore she must 
 be John's aunt, I suppose. And aunts are not 
 always, not necessarily, fond of their ' 
 
 'Do you hear that, Aunt Mary?' cried Elly, 
 placing herself in the full light of the fire with 
 the indifference of her age to scorched cheeks 
 and strained eyes. 
 
 ' Few people,' said Mr. Cattley, with subdued 
 enthusiasm, ' are so happy, Elly, as the boys and 
 you.' 
 
 1 My dear, it is quite true that I am not at all 
 necessarily fond of you — (you will make digres- 
 sions from our subject). Get up this moment,
 
 216 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 and put aside your book till Joseph brings the 
 lamp. Now, Elly, do what I tell you. You will 
 ruin your eyes, and as for your complexion ' 
 
 'Mr. Cattley, you are always flattering Aunt 
 Mary. She is a tyrant. She is as cruel as Nero. 
 She does not care for us at all.' 
 
 ' Hush — don't blaspheme,' Mr. Cattley said. 
 
 1 1 wish I had been here,' Mrs. Egerton resum- 
 ed, making an end of the interruption, ' to see 
 the dear little woman herself before the end 
 came. How sad it is that one cannot be away 
 for two or three weeks without the chance of 
 finding some familiar face gone before one comes 
 back. No doubt she would have told me — in- 
 deed one would naturally have asked if there 
 was anyone she would like to have sent for, or 
 wanted to see. And the daughter did not arrive 
 till she was gone ? How sad it all is. I will go 
 there to-morrow. Mr. Sandford, of course, knew 
 I was away.' 
 
 ' Everyone knows when you are away. It 
 makes a difference in the very atmosphere,' the 
 curate said. 
 
 Mrs. Egerton passed over this compliment 
 with a slight wave of her hand ; a smile would
 
 "WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 217 
 
 have been enough, had it been possible to see it. 
 1 I shall go to-morrow,' she said. ' I should have 
 done so anyhow. And John — is anything settled 
 with your brother about him ? Is he going to 
 begin his work ? Poor boy ; he will go with an 
 aching heart. But he is so young.' 
 
 1 Do you think people don't feel when they are 
 young, Aunt Mary ? 1 think it is then they feel 
 most.' 
 
 ' Yes, Elly — and no : you feel, my dear, no one 
 more keenly ; but then you forget. Your heart 
 will be breaking, and then there will come a bright 
 day, a burst of sunshine, and it will spring up like 
 a bird in spite of you. Thank God for it. That is 
 the good of being young.' 
 
 6 There seems to be some hesitation now about 
 my brother,' said Mr. Cattley. ' This aunt, if she 
 is the aunt, seems to have interfered. I don't 
 know what is to come of it, except that the boy 
 is evidently unhappy.' 
 
 * It is very clear,' said Mrs. Egerton, half 
 smiling, half serious, ' that I have been too long 
 away, and that I must try what I can make of it 
 at once.' 
 
 ' Oh, do ! No one ever understands like
 
 218 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 you,' said the curate, with a sigh of relief. 
 And then the fireside talk floated off to other 
 things. 
 
 Mrs. Egerton set out next morning according 
 to her engagement. She was a comely woman 
 of forty-five, bright-eyed, grey-haired, ample, as 
 became her age, and making no pretensions to 
 be a day younger than she was. She had been 
 long a widow, so long that the recollection of 
 her married life was not much more than a 
 dream ; but her brother's household and children 
 had kept her from relapsing into any narrowness 
 of a celibate state, and conferred upon her that 
 larger and softer development of motherhood 
 which was not hers in fact. She was a woman in 
 whom a great many people had much confidence, 
 and who had, to tell the truth, a good deal of con- 
 fidence in herself. But she did not take herself 
 altogether seriously, as Mr. Cattley did. She 
 half laughed at the influence with which she 
 was credited, and laughed altogether at the 
 magic powers with which that one worshipper 
 endowed her. But still the worship had a 
 certain effect. Perhaps but for that she would 
 not have thought herself capable of unwinding
 
 -WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 219 
 
 the tangled skein which had suddenly been 
 brought under her notice. A sense of half- 
 fantastic annoyance to find that the family she 
 knew so well was in reality not known to her 
 at all, which in Edgeley parish was a breach of 
 all custom and decorum ; and at the same time 
 a half satisfaction that these perplexing circum- 
 stances had come to light while she was out of 
 the way, so that it was quite possible that every- 
 thing might be set right when she, the legiti- 
 mate confidential adviser of the parish, had 
 returned — was, in her mind, not unmixed with a 
 certain self-ridicule on the surface, and amuse- 
 ment with herself for this certainty of setting 
 all right. 
 
 'How do I know they will tell me any 
 more than the others V she said to herself: but 
 as a matter-of-fact she had no doubt what- 
 ever that they would tell her more than the 
 others. She had been away for nearly a month, 
 and found a great many things to remark as she 
 walked down the village street. Perhaps she 
 was, as Elly had said, something of a despot — as 
 the benevolent head of a community, wishing the 
 greatest possible happiness of all, not only of
 
 220 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 the greatest number, usually is. Her despotism 
 was of the benignant kind, but still here and 
 there it was resented by a too independent 
 spirit. That she should pause to put the baby 
 in a comfortable position in its perambulator, 
 and to give the young nurse a lesson as to care- 
 fulness in driving it, was no doubt quite legiti- 
 mate ; but when she stopped to say to Mrs. Box 
 at the shop — i I would not, if I were you, send 
 out the child with such a very young girl ; she 
 can't have sense enough to take proper care,' 
 Mrs. Box tossed her head a little, and said she 
 hoped she was as careful of her children as most 
 folks. 
 
 ' So you are, I don't doubt, yourself; but that 
 girl is too young, you should have some one 
 with more sense. I am sure you are able to 
 afford it,' the rector's sister said. 
 
 Mrs. Box from that day was unsettled in her 
 principles, and, though in the interests of trade 
 she made no reply, it became very clear to her 
 that clergy and clergy's belongings who inter- 
 fered with what they had nothing to do with, were 
 extremely troublesome. Mrs. Egerton, how- 
 ever, walked on with a conviction that she had
 
 WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 221 
 
 said no more than was her duty, and a serene 
 unconsciousness of having fostered the first 
 flying seeds of Dissent. 
 
 She was disconcerted when, on being shown 
 into Mr. Sandford's parlour by Sarah — who 
 paused in the doorway to sniff and put her 
 apron to her eyes, and secure a word of sym- 
 pathy in respect to 'poor missis' — she found 
 the old man alone. The visit was by way of 
 being one of condolence to him ; but when Mrs. 
 Egerlon looked round the familiar little room, 
 and saw no trace of the presence of any stran- 
 ger, she was, there could be no doubt, disap- 
 pointed. Her eye and mind took in this fact 
 even while she advanced to the old gentleman 
 with her hands stretched out, and a perfectly 
 genuine pang of regret and pity in her heart. 
 She herself missed the pretty, old, kind face 
 that always brightened at the sight of her. Her 
 eyes filled with natural and most genuine tears 
 as she took Mr. Sandford's hand; for a moment 
 something rose in her throat which hindered 
 her speech : and yet she was able to feel that 
 her visit would be a failure if this were all. She 
 recovered her voice after a moment, and
 
 222 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 sat clown beside the old gentleman's chair. 
 
 4 1 hope, at least,' she said, faltering a little, 
 ' that there was not much suffering. She was 
 so sweet and patient. It is so dreadful to come 
 back and find her gone — without a word.' 
 
 1 She was always fond of you,' he said, with 
 that little, broken sob in his voice which was 
 his way of giving vent to his sorrow. 
 
 'And I was very fond of her,' cried the 
 visitor. ' It was a comfort always, whatever 
 was troubling me, to come and see her pretty, 
 kind face. But, though it is our loss, it is her 
 gain. We must not forget that. How happy 
 she must be now!' 
 
 ' So they say,' said the old gentleman ; * but 
 I can't very well understand for my part how 
 she can be so happy in a strange place. For 
 it will be a strange place to her without 
 me.' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear old friend, we must not think 
 of things in that way, as if this world were the 
 model of everything. It must be such a very 
 different life.' 
 
 4 Yes, 1 suppose it must be very different,' he 
 said, musing, leaning with his hand upon his
 
 WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 223 
 
 knee, * but she was old to begin in a new 
 way.' 
 
 ' But she is not old now,' said the comforter. 
 * We may be sure of that. With such a new 
 beginning everything must be renewed too.' 
 
 'I suppose you must be right, Mrs. Egerton ; 
 but we were so used to our old ways. A little 
 rheumatism, a bit of a cold now and then was 
 all we had to disturb us. I should have been 
 very well pleased to put up with it. And she 
 too ' 
 
 fc But we can't go on living for ever, Mr. 
 Sandford.' 
 
 ' Xo, 1 suppose not,' he said, though without 
 any conviction; but it was perhaps injudicious 
 of her to add, though with the best intentions, 
 
 < There is one great consolation on your side, 
 that it cannot be for very long : that must soften 
 every parting. At an advanced age ' 
 
 Mr. Sandford sat very upright in his chair. 
 
 1 1 don't see the certainty of that,' he said, 
 with some briskness. ' It may be or it may 
 not be, no one can say for certain either at 
 seventy or at forty. Many a younger man may 
 die before me '
 
 224 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 * That is quite true/ Mrs. Egerton said, and 
 the strain of her condolence and consolatory 
 remarks was stemmed. She was silent for a 
 moment, and then added, ' But you are not left 
 quite solitary in your trouble. You have a 
 daughter with you, I hear.' 
 
 ' Yes, there's Emily,' he said. 
 
 ' She has not come to see you since you've 
 been here. I was not sure you had any chil- 
 dren — alive.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, there's Emily,' repeated the old 
 man. 
 
 ' And I hope she will be able to remain with 
 you and take care of you.' 
 
 ' Oh, dear, no !' he said, sitting up in his 
 chair. * Emily — couldn't stay. Oh, no ! It 
 was a chance her being able to get away at all. 
 She is going, I think, to-morrow.' 
 
 * It must have been dreadfully sad for her — 
 to arrive too late V 
 
 The old man shuffled in his chair. 
 
 4 Emily — is not just like — any other person. 
 She is not young, you know — not like a young 
 girl — her eldest child is quite grown up, and — 
 then there is John '
 
 WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 225 
 
 'Is she John's mother, then?' cried Mrs. 
 Egerton, in surprise. 
 
 'Well, you know — ' said old Mr. Sandford, 
 and paused — ' she has been a long time away. 
 She is kept very close by her engagements, and 
 she never was a great letter-writer. My poor 
 wife and me were glad to know just that she 
 was well. What happened besides we didn't 
 — hear much about ' 
 
 'But John?' said Mrs. Egerton, quite bewil- 
 dered by this speech. There was an air about the 
 speaker of having explained all that was asked 
 him, and this confused his questioner : though 
 she said to herself after the first moment that 
 John — was not an incident that could have 
 passed without remark. Besides, John had 
 been with them all these years — presumably 
 before the period at which their daughter had 
 been withdrawn from their view. 
 
 ' Emily is not at all an ordinary person,' Mr. 
 Sandford said : and then he added, ' You have 
 been away a long time, Mrs. Egerton, for you. 
 My poor dear would have liked to say " Good- 
 bye/" 
 
 She felt that he was thus directing her away 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 from a dangerous subject, and she was more 
 than ever curious and anxious to know. 
 
 ' I am very sorry I happened to be absent. I 
 would have come home had I known how ill 
 she was. And probably I could have been of 
 use in sending for your daughter in time.' 
 
 'Don't disturb yourself about that,' he said. 
 * She was sent for, but could not come. And 
 then we telegraphed, not knowing how near it 
 was. They must all be very glad at the rectory 
 to have you back/ 
 
 ' I suppose so,' she replied, carelessly. f Mayn't 
 I see your daughter now I am here ? I should 
 
 like to tell her how sorry, how very sorry ■ 
 
 I don't even know her name.' 
 
 ' Emily has gone out,' he said. ' She is giv- 
 ing some orders for me. She is very kind try- 
 ing to save me trouble ; though I might manage 
 by means of John. John and I are so accustom- 
 ed to each other. We'll get on very well — when 
 we're alone.' 
 
 < But John is going away to begin his work,' 
 she said, assuming ignorance notwithstanding, 
 what Mr. Cattley had said. 
 
 * Not at present. His m I mean, I think
 
 WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. 227 
 
 it is best to keep him at home for a little longer. 
 Emily is going to look for something near Lon- 
 don — but for my part I am glad to have him at 
 home.' 
 
 'Your daughter seems to be making great 
 changes in your arrangements ' 
 
 ' 1 don't know,' said the old gentleman, some- 
 what testily, ' who has so good a right. She is 
 all I have. I have always given a great deal of 
 heed to Emily. She knows most things — better 
 than most people. I don't know who I should 
 trust to advise me if it wasn't Emily ; with her 
 I know that I am safe.' 
 
 ' Oh, surely you are the best judge,' said Mrs. 
 Egerton, with offence. She had no right to be 
 offended. What he said was perfectly just, and 
 she had no ground whatever on which to stand 
 with any idea of ousting Emily. What right 
 could she have to oust Emily ! She felt a great 
 interest in John, but not enough to interfere 
 on his account. Nevertheless, she was more or 
 less indignant. It was ingratitude ; it was a 
 kind of insubordination. It was not often she 
 was told in the parish what this old man virtu- 
 ally told her, that she had no right to interfere : 
 
 Q2
 
 228 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 and there could be no doubt that she was 
 annoyed. She talked a little, somewhat coldly, 
 of ordinary topics, of the people who were ill in 
 the village, and that it was rather a sickly 
 season, and that Mr. Cattley had a great deal to 
 do. And then she got up to go away, much 
 dissatisfied, disappointed, and even a little 
 humiliated, feeling that she had not shown the 
 power which she was supposed to possess. But 
 it was not fated that Mrs. Egerton was to with- 
 draw thus uncontented. As she opened the door 
 of the parlour to go out, there rose before her 
 suddenly a tall shadow in the doorway. It was 
 Emily herself.
 
 229 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 MR. bandford's daughter. 
 
 4 Oh !' cried Mrs. Egerton. 
 
 This was so entirely unexpected after she had 
 given up all thought of it. She decided within 
 herself in a moment that the curate was right 
 when he said that the stranger looked like a lady. 
 Yes, she looked like it ; but — there was some- 
 thing in the dress of Mr. Bandford's daughter, in 
 her look, in the gravity of her manners, which 
 gave a sudden enlightenment to the inquirer. 
 She wore a peculiar bonnet closely encircling 
 her face ; a long cloak, a black heavy gown 
 which was not newly got for mourning, but 
 evidently her habitual dress. The experienced 
 half-clerical lady of the parish perceived in a 
 moment with whom she had to do. 
 
 4 1 am so glad to have met you before you go/
 
 230 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 she said, putting out her hand, < although glad 
 is scarcely a word to use — in the present sad 
 circumstances.' 
 
 I How do you do V Emily said, with a grave 
 movement of her head. It was more disconcert- 
 ing than if she had reproved the undue warmth of 
 the visitor in so many words. Mrs. Egerton 
 felt herself obliged to be conciliatory, to make 
 herself agreeable if possible to this serious 
 woman with her pale handsome face. 
 
 I I may call myself an old friend/ she said, 
 with a feeble smile, ' though I have never seen 
 you before. I have been away, unfortunately, 
 during — all that has happened. I was so griev- 
 ed to hear — and that you were just too late.' 
 
 ' No one need be grieved to hear that suffer- 
 ing is over,' said Mr. Sandford's daughter ; ' for 
 my part I could not but be glad. I would not 
 have had her suffer an hour or a moment longer, 
 for me ' 
 
 ' But you might have been called sooner — be- 
 fore the illness had gone so far. These, how- 
 ever, are vain things to say. No doubt,' said 
 Mrs. Egerton, ' everything is for the best.'
 
 MR. sandford's DAUGHTER. 2oI 
 
 To this general statement Emily made no 
 reply. She did not ask the visitor to sit down 
 again. She did not even come into the room 
 herself, bnt stood in the little passage outside the 
 open door. 
 
 1 1 am glad to see your father so well,' Mrs. 
 Egerton said. 
 
 1 Yes, he is very well. The health does not 
 suffer from distress of mind so much as people 
 think.' 
 
 * That is true, though it is very strange to 
 think that it should be so.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, not at all strange,' said Emily, with 
 the calm of superior knowledge. ' The more 
 your mind is taken off yourself, the less you suf- 
 fer physically — except, perhaps, in the case of 
 actual disease, and I am not sure that the rule 
 does not apply there too. It is always good to 
 have the mind earned away from the contempla- 
 tion of itself.' 
 
 1 You have experience in such cases.' 
 
 * Yes, I have great experience. I am matron 
 of a hospital, and see it every day.' 
 
 'Ah, that explains,' said Mrs. Egerton, who
 
 232 THE SON OP HIS FATHER. 
 
 had known this fact from the first glance. ' Of 
 course, with such a responsible post, you cannot 
 give much time to — your relations.' 
 
 ' I can give none,' said this calm, inscrutable 
 woman. * I am going away to-night.' 
 
 < To-night!' 
 
 ' Yes. I have been ten days here, and I think 
 I've arranged everything comfortably. John, 
 until a place has been found for him, will stay 
 with his grandfather.' 
 
 * John — oh, I suppose your — nephew. It is, no 
 doubt, a good thing that he should be with his 
 grandfather ; but isn't it a pity he should lose a 
 good opening just for this ; he must leave, one 
 time or another.' 
 
 * We did not feel, on thinking it over, that it 
 was a very good opening,' said Emily, with the 
 same unalterable gravity. ' The boy wishes to 
 be a civil engineer ; and this was an engine- 
 foundry, mechanical engineering, not what he 
 wants ■' 
 
 ' But it was Mr. Cattley's brother, a man who 
 would have taken an interest ' 
 
 ' The interest which the head of a great 
 foundry can take in one of his apprentices is not
 
 MR. sandford's daughter. 233 
 
 much to rely upon. We preferred that he should 
 not go.' 
 
 'Then there is nothing to be said, I sup- 
 pose,' said Mrs. Egerton, with something like 
 indignation. 
 
 It seemed so extraordinary that the Sand- 
 fords, or any people in their position, should not 
 pause, and weigh what she might have to say. 
 It was ridiculous, besides. 
 
 'Nothing, I think,' said this Emily, quite seri- 
 ously. ' We have gone over it carefully, and 
 our minds are quite made up.' 
 
 She stood in the passage, without any regret 
 or apology, without any sign of yielding, not 
 impatient, and yet, perhaps, a little tired, as 
 might be seen in her eyes, of being thus stopped 
 as she came into the house. 
 
 ' Then, perhaps, there is nothing better for me 
 to do than to take my leave,' said Mrs. Egerton, 
 smiling as best she could, yet feeling, if truth 
 must be told, very little inclination to smile. 
 
 Emily made no protest, nor any effort to de- 
 tain the visitor. She turned round politely, and, 
 opening the door, made room for the lady in her 
 satin draperies to pass. And presently the rec-
 
 234 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 tor's sister, the chief personage in Edgeley, found 
 herself in the street again, feeling, she knew not 
 how, that old Sandford's daughter, the matron 
 of a hospital, a woman with a mystery about 
 her, a stranger unknown in the place, had over- 
 come and proved herself the better woman. Mrs. 
 Egerton felt angry, humiliated, astonished. She 
 felt, too, which was more remarkable, that she 
 was herself in fault, that her attempted interfer- 
 ence had been an unjustifiable intrusion, that she 
 had no right to thrust herself into their house 
 and dictate to them what they should do. Old 
 Sandford was a lonely old man, over whom it 
 might have been easy enough to domineer, but 
 was it possible that she had really tried to do it ? 
 She was angry, first with them, then with her- 
 self. She met Mrs. Box's perambulator again, 
 with the baby hanging out of it, in imminent 
 risk of dislocating its neck; but Mrs. Egerton 
 was so subdued that she let the little unfortu- 
 nate pass, and never said a word. Finally, she 
 met the curate, whose undoubting faith in her 
 was her best consolation at such a moment. 
 
 ' I have been beaten,' she said to him, * horse 
 and foot — defeated all along the line.'
 
 MR. saxdford's daughter. 2S5 
 
 Meanwhile, Emily went into the parlour where 
 her father sat, a little tremulous, glad to be out 
 of it, leaving the women to struggle, if they 
 pleased. The voices had been quite soft, and 
 all had passed with the perfect decorum of good 
 breeding, notwithstanding that Mrs. Egerton had 
 been so conscious of her defeat. Mr. Sandford, 
 though he had been listening anxiously, had 
 heard no sound of any quarrel. He gave Emily 
 a questioning look as she came in. 
 
 ' I hope she was not uncivil to you, my dear ? 
 She seems to think I want taking care of, now 
 my poor dear's gone. She's a good woman, and 
 a kind woman, Emily, and I'm glad you said no- 
 thing that was disagreeable to her, my dear.' 
 
 ' She is like many parish ladies,' said his 
 daughter, who was not without experience of 
 such. ' She thinks she should be allowed to 
 meddle with everything, because her motives 
 are good. I don't doubt that she's good and 
 kind in her way, but she has nothing to do with 
 you and me.' 
 
 1 Still she was always very nice to your 
 mother ; and when you are gone I may be thank- 
 ful to have her come to see me. There are
 
 236 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 times when we have both been very glad to see 
 her coming in. Sometimes she would bring the 
 papers, or Punch, or a new book — especially in 
 the winter afternoons it was a pleasure — and if 
 I am to be left without even John ' 
 
 ' But you are not to be left without John. 
 And nothing has passed that need keep her 
 from coming to see you. She will like to come 
 and be kind. It is as good a way of filling up 
 vacant time as any other,' said Emily, with an 
 experience of such matters which probably 
 justified a little harshness of speech. 
 
 ' I shall be left very lonely,' said the old man, 
 with the break in his voice which was his substi- 
 tute for weeping. * There is Mr. Cattley too. 
 He was always very kind : but now you've gone 
 and made me break with him — after giving him 
 all that trouble with his brother about the boy.' 
 
 * Father,' she said, ' I thought we had settled 
 that question. I have never interfered with the 
 boy. All his life, at least since he was a child, 
 he has been with you : and you saw last night 
 what it has come to, and what ideas he has on 
 the subject. I don't complain — I am not saying 
 a word. Wait till I complain before you speak.
 
 MR. saxdford's daughter. 237 
 
 But so it is : there is only one subject on which 
 I am determined, and you know what that is too. 
 I will not have the past made known to him. 
 I will not have him find out — no, not for the 
 world.' 
 
 * And how should he have found out by going 
 to Liverpool?' said old Sandford, querulously, 
 • a boy serving his time in a foundry, is it likely 
 that he would go raking up old stories in such 
 a very different sphere V 
 
 1 Everything is likely that we don't want to 
 happen,' she said. 
 
 * And now,' cried the old man, ' all's undone 
 that was settled before she left me, my poor 
 dear. She has gone to heaven carrying a false 
 idea with her ; thinking of things that were 
 never going to happen. Do you call that keep- 
 ing faith with those that are gone ! I will never 
 be able to explain it to her, without putting the 
 blame upon you.' 
 
 * I hope it will be long before you have to 
 explain it to her — and I don't mind about the 
 blame. I can bear it, father ; put it upon me.' 
 
 ' It is all very easy for you to speak,' he said, 
 in his broken voice, * but you put me all in a
 
 238 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 muddle, and I'm growing old, as Mrs. Egerton 
 said.' 
 
 ' What has she to do with your age 1 You 
 are not old — to speak of. Most probably you 
 will see us all out.' 
 
 This did not seem an unpleasant considera- 
 tion at first, but afterwards he said, in his com- 
 plaining voice, 
 
 * The longer I live the worse it will be for 
 me, if you take away all my friends/ 
 
 To this she made no reply, but after a while 
 sat down beside him, endeavouring to turn his 
 thoughts to other subjects. 
 
 ' I have settled everything I can for you,' she 
 said, ' it will not be so comfortable as in mother's 
 time. She was very comfortable, without hav- 
 ing any method in particular or settled ways. 
 If I don't make any fuss, yet I feel that all the 
 same. But after a while you'll fall into the new 
 method. Sarah's a good girl. She will do 
 everything for you that she knows. And 
 new customs creep up, and you will get 
 on more comfortably than you think. The 
 only question that there is any anxiety about is 
 the boy.'
 
 MR. sandford's daughter. 239 
 
 * You had better take him back, Emily, into 
 your own hands.' 
 
 1 How can I do that V Her face changed a 
 little out of its fixed gravity and calm. ' You 
 can't undo ten years in a day. By all the 
 habits of his mind he's your boy. It was a 
 risk, but you took it. I ought to have thought, 
 but I didn't then, that in the course of nature 
 I should most probably live the longest, and 
 that, before he was fully set out in the world, 
 you might ' 
 
 She paused, reflecting that this was the very 
 contrary of what she had said a few minutes 
 before. 
 
 "What?' he said, fretfully. 'If you think 
 that in consequence of what has happened I will 
 make any chauge — of any kind — you are much 
 mistaken, Emily. I'll neither form new ties, nor 
 change in any way. Half is left to you and half 
 to him, as we always settled, and there shall 
 be no alteration.' 
 
 ' I was not thinking of that,' she said, gently ; 
 but she did not say any more. It is difficult, 
 unless as a matter of business, to speak to any 
 man of what will happen when he dies, and if
 
 240 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 he does not care to contemplate that idea it is 
 so much the worse. Emily let the subject drop. 
 She had said he might see them all out, which 
 indeed might happen, as such things happen 
 every day ; but though she said this she per- 
 ceived with her experienced eyes that her father 
 was a man unlikely to live long. The loss of 
 the companion of his life, who had been his prop, 
 though his mind had never been sensible to 
 the fact, was not a thing likely to be got over 
 so easily as seemed. Though she spoke of 
 Sarah's faithfulness and the new ways, she had 
 no real faith in the apparent composure with 
 which he had accepted the change in his life. 
 In many ways this was to her a painful conclu- 
 sion, and hard to face. Something no doubt of 
 natural feeling had survived the long separation, 
 the great difference between her ways of think- 
 ing and his. To have that house swept from 
 the face of the earth in which there was always 
 a refuge whatever might happen ; and still worse 
 to have on her hands a responsibility from which 
 she had shaken herself free ; to have it back 
 again with all its difficulties increased, and 
 every kind of new complication, was a most
 
 MR. sandford's daughter. 24 1 
 
 unwelcome thought. But her mind was a 
 very clear and cool one in its peculiar way, and 
 she foresaw everything that could possibly occur 
 to make her arrangements vain, even while in 
 the act of making those arrangements. How 
 could she help seeing the extreme probability of 
 another visit to that little house ere long, of a 
 final winding up of all things, and the absolute 
 necessity of regulating all future movements in 
 her own person ? People of very tender feelings 
 conceal these prognostications from themselves, 
 and think of them, if think they must, only with 
 previsions of sorrow, not the clear arrangements 
 of a foregone conclusion. But Emily Sandford 
 had been separated from her parents for many 
 years. She was not affectionate in the ordinary 
 sense of the word. She was compelled to a 
 system of rigid plans and rules by the necessi- 
 ties of her life, and she could not help giving a 
 serious eye to the eventualities which she felt 
 might be so near. 
 
 John accompanied her to the train as he had 
 accompanied her from the train ten days before. 
 It was again night, and to sit by her side during 
 that short drive, which still afforded opportunity 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 for so many things to be said, was about as ex- 
 citing to him as on the previous occasion ; but 
 it was a different kind of excitement. His heart 
 was no longer quivering on the balance between 
 love and opposition. It had taken strongly the 
 latter poise; his very ears seemed to thrill 
 with eagerness to hear every word she said, 
 which his mind instantly construed in a sense 
 offensive to himself. When this impulse seizes 
 upon us, it is astonishing how much bitterness 
 can be extracted from the very simplest phrases. 
 She had no disposition to offend the boy that 
 night. On the contrary, there was in her voice 
 a softness, and in her words a tremulous feeling 
 such as a week since would have gone to John's 
 heart. She had an appearance of emotion about 
 her altogether which, not even in the moment 
 when they stood together beside the bed of 
 death, had been in her before. And now it was 
 she who was the most ready to speak. 
 
 ' It is only now,' she said, ' when I am gone, 
 that you will settle down to your changed life 
 — you will only realise it fully now.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I have realised it,' said John, < since the
 
 MR. saxdford's daughter. 243 
 
 first day. It will be less strange — less — when 
 grandfather and I are alone.' 
 
 'Less?' she said, with a question unexpressed, 
 i you don't leave me room to think very much of 
 myself.' 
 
 To this he made no reply : and there was the 
 faint quiver of a laugh in the air, which, the 
 speaker's face being unseen, was more sug- 
 gestive of pain than any other sound could 
 have been. 
 
 1 1 need not recommend your grandfather to 
 your care, John. You will be as good to him 
 and watchful of him as you can. He is not so 
 strong as he thinks he is. You will write to me 
 at once, if you see anything to be anxious about.' 
 
 ' It didn't do much good,' said John, ' writing 
 to you before.' 
 
 ' You did not tell me the true state of the 
 case,' she said, exercising evident control over 
 herself. * You wrote as if it was entirely from 
 yourself ' 
 
 1 1 know better now,' he said, bitterly. ' You 
 may be sure I will never do that again.' 
 
 He turned his head away from her, and 
 
 e2
 
 244 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 stared out of the window at the lights in the 
 cottages which skirted the common — lights 
 which twinkled at him many a time afterwards 
 in his dreams. 
 
 * Boy,' she said, suddenly grasping his arm 
 with her hand, ' you don't know what you say.' 
 
 ' That is no fault of mine,' said John. 
 
 He would not yield even so much as to turn 
 his head to her. It was, indeed, all he could do 
 to keep himself from shaking off the hand on 
 his arm. She took it away after a moment, and 
 then resumed : 
 
 * This is the last time 1 shall have the chance 
 of saying anything to you. John, you've set 
 your heart against me without any cause.' 
 
 * Isn't it cause enough that you're taking both 
 father and mother from me,' cried the boy. 
 * Isn't that enough % But no, I'm saying too 
 much, for you've given me back my mother, my 
 faith in a mother. I had always been thinking 
 you were my mother — till now.' 
 
 She gave a little, low cry as if some one had 
 struck her, and paused for some time to recover 
 herself, putting her hand up to her throat as if 
 she were suffocating. He never looked round
 
 MR. saxdford's daughter. 245 
 
 nor moved, but, with bis heart on flame, kept his 
 shoulder towards her, looking out fixedly into 
 the darkness of the night. 
 
 ' Well,' she said, * well, if you feel so : I — I 
 have nothing to say if you feel so. One thing I 
 would ask of your honourable feeling, John. If 
 it has been thought best by everyone, my 
 mother included, not to enter into our family 
 circumstances at your early age, I ask you to 
 respect our decision. We know better than 
 you. We must know better than you. Don't 
 try to surprise your poor old grandfather, in his 
 loneliness, into saying — what he will regret. 
 Don't try ' 
 
 ' I'll do nothing dishonourable, I hope,' cried 
 the boy, ' but I'll make no promises. I'll find 
 out, if I can. I'll do all I can to find out ' 
 
 ' And when you have done so,' she said, with 
 an audible quiver in her voice, ' what will you 
 discover ? Nothing that is of any consequence 
 to you or anyone — only that we wanted you, all 
 of us, to respect and reverence your family until 
 you were old enough to understand how things 
 come about. That is all. And it was my mother's 
 wish as well as '
 
 246 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 * Don't say that,' exclaimed John. l She died 
 saying, " Tell him— tell him " ' 
 
 ' This is madness,' she said, with a start, as if 
 she would have sprung out of the carriage : then 
 recovering herself. * Like every young and 
 heated imagination you make mountains out of 
 molehills,' she said, in a very slow and measured 
 voice. 'A mere matter of family expediency, 
 and you turn it into some dreadful secret. This 
 shows how little you are to be treated with con- 
 fidence. What a child you are still !' 
 
 He turned round upon her with all the fierce- 
 ness of boyish wrath. 
 
 < If it isn't a dreadful secret, what is it ? 
 You've taken my father and my mother from 
 me, both, both.' 
 
 She gave a little, quivering cry. 
 
 'And what am I, thenf she said. 
 
 The boy turned away with a sorrowful move- 
 ment. They were drawing up at the little 
 station, and there was time for no more. 
 
 4 You are Emily,' he said.
 
 247 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A VISIT TO THE FOUNDRY. 
 
 John was not, perhaps, very much pleased with 
 himself as he came home after seeing Emily 
 away. As soon as he said that to her, his heart 
 swung back like a pendulum, and he asked 
 himself what if he were wrong after all, what 
 if it were not so V He had believed her to be 
 his mother all his life, and what if, after all, 
 that idea, which up to a few days since there 
 had been no doubt about, what if it proved the 
 right one, and this new light which had burst 
 upon him, wrong? He shivered when this 
 thought came into his mind, but he would not 
 entertain it. Yet instinctively, involuntarily, it 
 would come back and back. In all that he 
 could recollect of his childhood there was no- 
 thing which indicated to him a different kind of
 
 248 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 mother. He had little recollection of caresses 
 or the softness of maternal tenderness. The 
 bright spots in his childhood were those illegiti- 
 mate moments which he knew enough to know 
 must have been infringements of every rule, 
 when he had been brought down in his night- 
 gown in his fathers arms. In place of all the 
 ordinary pleasures of childhood, he had the re- 
 collection of those moments and nothing more ; 
 but of a mother, such as his grandmother had 
 been, nothing. All that he did remember chim- 
 ed in well enough with the image of her whom 
 he had called Emily, a recollection which began 
 to burn and sting, but which yet he justified to 
 himself, remembering all the years in which he 
 had heard her spoken of by that name, and in 
 which she had never come near him, never ex- 
 pressed any wish to see him, as most mothers 
 would. He came home distracted by these 
 thoughts, driving back solitary in the cab — 
 though he had meant to walk ; and found that 
 his grandfather had gone to bed, and that all 
 was silent and miserable in the house. There 
 was the fire, and that was all, to give a little 
 cheerfulness. John was not old enough to feel
 
 A VISIT TO THE FOUNDRY. 249 
 
 the companionship of a cheerful fire, making its 
 little noises, its ashes falling, its flames break- 
 ing out, to cheer the solitary ; but he liked the 
 warmth in his nervous condition, and sat down 
 by it and thought. If by chance it should have 
 been to his mother that he dealt that cruel 
 blow ! but he would not think of a hazard so 
 terrible. And then he put forward his hand and 
 pulled out two old books from the shelf, where 
 all his old classics stood untouched. These were 
 classics too in a way, but it was not for their 
 rank in literature that he prized them. One 
 was the ' Robinson Crusoe,' which was so full 
 of memories ; the other, which was the one he 
 chiefly sought, was Mrs. Trimmers' « Robins.' 
 But it was not the story of Pecksy and Chicksy 
 that moved him. It was the name in a large 
 scrawl of childish text, Johnny May. He re- 
 membered it so distinctly now, the name that 
 had come to him with such vague souvenirs, 
 such a familiar but long-forgotten sound. He 
 had never heard it since he came to Edgeley. 
 And why did his grandfather give him no answer 
 to his question when he asked what he had to 
 do with that name ? The wildest fancies went
 
 250 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 circling about his brain. Why was his name 
 taken from him ? Who was he ? Had he indeed 
 lost both father and mother in those old, long- 
 forgotten days, or was she — the grave mother of 
 old, the mother who never played with him or 
 caressed him — was she — could she be after all — 
 Emily ? His heart grew sick at the thought- 
 sick not so much with repugnance and opposition 
 as with the recollection of how he must have 
 wounded her, insulted her, if this was so. 
 
 He tried next day to get some satisfaction 
 from his grandfather, but failed entirely. John 
 began by telling the old man that, now he had 
 found out his real name, he intended to be 
 called no longer John Sandford, but John May 
 — words which turned Mr. Sandford livid with 
 horror, and for a moment dumb with passion. 
 
 ' You shall do nothing of the sort,' he cried, 
 * unless you want to break at once and for ever 
 with me.' 
 
 * But, grandfather ' 
 
 * There's no "but" in the matter. I'll hear 
 of no " buts." Dismiss this nonsense out of your 
 head, or else dismiss yourself out of this house. 
 Do you hear me, sir? Not another word of it.
 
 A VISIT TO THE FOUNDRY. 251 
 
 It shan't be — I "won't hear of it. Silence, John ! 
 Say another word and I'll turn you out to the 
 street. Cast off my name, who have been your 
 
 guardian all your life, to take up Silence, 
 
 John ! Don't say another word to me.' 
 
 John, indeed, was saying no word. He was 
 gazing at his grandfather with wide-open, as- 
 tonished eyes. Never in his life had such words 
 been said to him before. He was too much 
 astonished to resent them. When the old man 
 reproached him for his wish to cast off the name 
 which was that of the tender protector, the only 
 father he had really known, compunction came 
 quick to the boy's heart. That was not what 
 he had intended — it had never entered his 
 thoughts. 
 
 * Grandfather, indeed you do me wrong. I — 
 never thought of that.' 
 
 ' How was it you didn't think of it ! Haven't 
 we done enough for you, my poor dear and me ? 
 What have we not done for you that heart 
 could desire "? And now you want to be shut 
 of us, to clear out, to change your name. I am 
 glad she's out of the way not to see it or to hear 
 of it. I'm glad she's out of the way.'
 
 252 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 * Grandfather ! don't, for pity's sake don't ' 
 
 ' Pity !' said the old man — * you don't show 
 
 much for me. I'm settling down, my poor old 
 -dear in her grave, and the house desolate, and 
 Emily gone, and nobody left but you and me. 
 And the first day, the very first day when 
 everything's over, and I've got to face the 
 world again alone, that's the time you choose 
 to tell me that you're going to make a fuss and 
 disturbance, and take a new name, and set all 
 the village talking. Set' 'em talking and in- 
 quiring and putting things together. Oh, I'll 
 not have it. I'll rather clear out myself and go 
 right away.' 
 
 ' Grandfather !' said John again. 
 
 4 Don't speak to me. I'll go and telegraph 
 for Emily back again. She'll have to find me a 
 place where I can have some peace ; for all my 
 peace will be gone here. Oh, John ! oh, John ! 
 I am glad she has not lived to see this day.' 
 
 ' Don't say that, grandfather,' the boy cried. 
 ' I'll not do anything to vex you. I only wanted 
 to bear my own name.' 
 
 * And who told you it was your own name? 
 Your mother is Sandford, and so are you '
 
 A VISIT TO THE FOUNDRY. 253 
 
 'My mother?' said John, faltering — < my 
 mother?" 
 
 1 Perhaps,' said old Sandford, ' you're going to 
 deny her too ' 
 
 And then there was a silence in the middle 
 of the storm — a silence which marked the dan- 
 gerous point beyond which these two unused to 
 fighting did not care to go. 
 
 1 Grandfather,' said John at last, ' I don't 
 want to vex you, nor to make myself as if I 
 didn't belong to you. But why shouldn't you 
 tell me ? I'm old enough to understand. If 
 there's any secret, oughtn't I to know it ? Per- 
 haps it isn't half so bad as the things I take 
 into my head. It would be so much better if 
 you would trust me — tell me. One time or other 
 I shall be sure to find out ; and if I've been 
 insulting my mother (how can I tell ?) and vex- 
 ing you, is it my fault ? It is out of exaspera- 
 tion because I know there is something, and yet 
 what it is I'm not allowed to know.' 
 
 The old man calmed down during this speech 
 and perceived what his best policy was. He 
 said : 
 
 ' You moider my poor brains with your talk
 
 254 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 of secrets. Let alone, my boy. There's few 
 families that haven't got something that they 
 keep to themselves — but the Sandfords have 
 less than most. We've never been very rich or 
 great, but we've always been able to hold up 
 our heads wherever we went. I'm very shaky 
 this morning,' he said, relapsing into his broken 
 voice. ' I'd like to take the air a little ; but I've 
 been so long indoors I don't know if I could 
 keep my legs.' 
 
 'Will you have my arm, grandfather?' said 
 John. 
 
 ' Well,' said the old man, with his half sob, 
 ■* the first day we're alone it's a kind of natural 
 to go out together ; and we'll just look if there's 
 a snowdrop or two out yonder. By this time 
 there should be a snowdrop out.' 
 
 This altogether overcame John, who walked 
 with the old man leaning on his arm to the 
 new-made grave, which had been covered with 
 snowdrops, and where already two or three of 
 these pale, wintry blossoms, cold and pure, were 
 peeping out. They were followed all along 
 the street by many a sympathetic look. The 
 men took off their hats, the women gave them
 
 A VISIT TO THE FOUNDRY. 255 
 
 half-tearful greetings. < They go unto the 
 grave to weep there.' These words can never 
 be said without moving the general heart, so 
 easily touched, and to some griefs so sympathetic. 
 That it should be an old man and a boy who 
 were making that pilgrimage was, the gossips 
 said, * more heart-breakin' than if it had been a 
 woman and a girl.' The helplessness of the 
 pair, and yet the difference between their help- 
 lessness and that of the women who had lost 
 their bread-winner, has something poignant in 
 it. And if Mr. Sandford had exhausted all 
 resources in finding an expedient for calming 
 the mind of John, and diverting him from his 
 inquiries, he could not have found one that was 
 more effectual. The chill sweetness of the little 
 snowdrop upon his tender old mother's grave 
 quenched all the heat and fire of thought out 
 of the boy's heart. 
 
 But he did not forget the question which tore 
 it asunder. Some time after he heard that Mr. 
 Cattley was going to Liverpool for a day or 
 two to see his brother, and eagerly asked to be 
 allowed to go with him. The boy was looking 
 pale, they had all remarked without surprise,
 
 256 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 and the curate was very willing to have him 
 for a companion. John managed to get his 
 grandfather's permission without letting him 
 know where they were going ; for Mr. Sandford 
 was pleased and proud that his boy should be the 
 curate's companion anywhere. It was with a 
 mixture of excitement and trouble that John set 
 out. He felt that he might be about to make 
 some monstrous discovery, he knew not what, 
 yet the sense of doing something clandestine 
 and forbidden contended in his mind with that 
 pleasure in carrying out our own desires, which 
 is so strong in most hearts. 
 
 It was a long journey. Mr. Cattley and he 
 went over the common to the station at twelve 
 o'clock of a brilliant, sunshiny February day, 
 when all the roads in their wetness reflected the 
 wonderful colours of the sky, and the very pud- 
 dles were strewn with turquoise and gold ; but 
 it was between six and seven at night, dark 
 and cold, when they reached the great town, 
 which John entered with all the natural ex- 
 citement of a country boy who has never seen 
 such a place before. Mr. Cattley took him to 
 the lodging to which he himself usually came
 
 A VISIT TO THE FOUNDRY. 257 
 
 on his visits here; for his brother, like most 
 other people of his importance, lived out of 
 town. He took .John next morning through 
 a world of streets, some of which were impos- 
 ing and brilliant, but by far the greater part 
 mean, narrow, and unlovely, to the place where 
 the great foundry was, and where but for an 
 accident he himself might have been. The 
 youth went over it with a mixture of pleasure 
 and repulsion. The novelty, the bustle, the 
 feeling of a great new energy unknown to him 
 before, the quickened sense of living and 
 great creative work went to his head like a 
 new inspiration ; but the plunging and plough- 
 ing of pistons and wheels, the huge monstrous 
 machines which looked like sentient creatures ; 
 the grind, and whirl, and noise, and endless 
 movement, in so many different senses at once, 
 up and down, round and round, back and for- 
 ward, contradicting each other, made the brain 
 of the country lad go round too, with a sicken- 
 ing confusion. A touch of envy of all those ac- 
 customed workmen, who understood, and moved 
 about so coolly among, this confusing round of 
 wheels, and at the same time a sense of thank- 
 VOL. I. S
 
 25S THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 fulness that he was not himself to take his place 
 among them, was in John's mind. This was not 
 what had fired his imagination, or rather, had 
 fired Elly's imagination, and thrown a warm re- 
 flection upon his. The lighthouses, the canals, 
 the civilising roads, the works that would be 
 good for humanity, as well as worth a man's 
 while, were different from all this buzzing and 
 plunging. Yet John was wise enough to know 
 that the two things were too closely connected 
 to be severed. He was glad, however, that he 
 was to be set to surveying and outdoor work 
 rather than to this. 
 
 Mr. Cattley was with his brother in the office, 
 and John was left to stray about the outskirts 
 of the place, after he had been shown over it, to 
 wait for the curate. The grimy courts, the big, 
 ugly buildings, sheds, all the frightful accessories 
 of the place were new to him. Why were such 
 places so ugly % Was it necessary they should 
 be so ugly 1 The black soil of the yard, over 
 which the workmen went crunching in their 
 heavy boots, seemed mixed up of cinders and 
 coal dust and mud. He was asking himself, with 
 a half laugh at his own simplicity, why this must
 
 A VISIT TO THE FOUNDRY. 259 
 
 be — whether it might not be worth while to make 
 the surroundings of the workshops less hideous — 
 when his eye was caught by one of the labourers 
 passing between him and the grimy wall. Xo 
 skilled workman this, like those in the blackened 
 moleskins, which, at the beginning of the week, 
 were white, with their free step and independent 
 aspect. The man was one of the drudges of the 
 establishment, a skilless hanger-on, doing jobs as 
 they were wanted, carrying the great, rusty bars 
 of iron, bringing coals, doing all the rough work 
 of the place. He was dressed in the indescrib- 
 able clothes of the British labourer, who has no 
 sort of habitual costume, not even a blouse under 
 which to hide his rags, with a red cotton hand- 
 kerchief knotted about his neck. Perhaps it was 
 this bit of cotton that caught John's eyes : and 
 then it seemed to him that the face above it was 
 not unknown to him. It was a sufficiently vil- 
 lainous face ; the features looked as if they had 
 been roughly shaped out of some coarse paste, 
 the small eyes, looking out from under shaggy 
 brows, with a sidelong glance, the slouching 
 gait, the unshaven chin, made up a very un- 
 attractive picture altogether. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ' Where can I have seen him V John said to 
 himself. He had the keen recollection of youth, 
 and soon identified the unlovely figure which 
 had passed across his field of vision once, and no 
 more. The man, seeing John's gaze fixed on 
 him, felt it expedient to touch his cap, and claim 
 the recognition that was in the lad's eyes. It 
 might mean, if nothing more, a pint of beer. 
 
 ' Morning sir,' he said, as if he knew all about 
 him. 
 
 John was a little startled by this recognition. 
 
 ' You know me, too V he said. 
 
 ' I never forget anyone I ever sets eyes upon — 
 especially a young man as has little to do with 
 them sixpences of his, and knows as a poor man 
 is mostly dry.' 
 
 'And yet 1 never saw you but once,' said 
 John, with a laugh. He thought within himself 
 that this was not a very dignified acquaintance, 
 and yet to have remembered was something in 
 the fellow's favour. ' When I saw you you were 
 looking for some one down at Edgeley, don't 
 you know V 
 
 And then it suddenly occurred to John that it 
 was this man's inquiries which had ended in
 
 A VISIT TO THE FOUNDRY. 261 
 
 bringing to his mind his own forgotten name — 
 the name of his childhood, which, for the present, 
 at least, he was not allowed to claim — and this 
 changed his countenance from its lighter aspect 
 to profound gravity. For was not this the ob- 
 ject with which he came here, to find out some- 
 thing ? — which he was not likely to do wander- 
 ing about the grimy yard of the foundry. 
 
 ' Ah !' said the man, with a sudden lighting up 
 of his seemingly impassive countenance, ' I have 
 ye now. Never forgets a face, but don't always 
 remember where I seen it. Edgeley, where I 
 went to look up my mate's wife ? But where 
 that mate was, I'm not a-goin' to say now.' He 
 put his finger against his nose. f I warn't a- 
 minding clown there. Bless you, I knew if I'd 
 a-found her, she'd a-bought me off pretty smart, 
 rather than let the story run that I was his mate 
 and where he was. But mum's the word in the 
 foundiy. You won't peach on a poor man, that 
 is trying to turn a honest penny, and get back 
 his character — will ye, now V 
 
 ' I !' cried John, with great disdain. ' I know 
 nothing about you. I only remembered I had 
 seen your face '
 
 262 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ' And was so kind as to want to know if I was 
 in good 'ealth — which the same to you, young 
 man/ said the fellow. * You wouldn ? t give me 
 no help, though, then ; and ye might have done 
 it, and no harm.' 
 
 ' I couldn't have helped you ; for I knew 
 there was no one of the name you wanted in the 
 village.' 
 
 ' Maybe there was, and maybe there wasn't,' 
 said the man. ' There was them belonging to 
 her, if she wasn't there herself. An old lady 
 come and give me a sov. to go away. She did 
 — she give me a sov. — though if it was for that, 
 or because she thought her blasted village 
 
 wasn't good enough for the likes of me Give 
 
 us a shilling, young master, to drink your 
 'ealth.' 
 
 John was so unused to the magnificence of 
 dispensing shillings that he took one mechanic- 
 ally from his pocket in answer to this appeal. 
 But he said before he gave it, with much 
 authority and wisdom, 
 
 4 You don't deserve a shilling, or anything 
 else — if all you wanted was to bring some poor 
 woman to shame.'
 
 A VISIT TO THE FOUNDRY. 263 
 
 * It was very wrong,' said the man, with a wink. 
 ' I know'cl you'd think so. But that was only my 
 fan, bless you — and you're sure there warn't not 
 one o' that name in the village, young master ! 
 Why, I wanted to give her news of her 'usband 
 as was my mate. You're sure there warn't one 
 o' that name V
 
 264 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 RESEARCH. 
 
 JOHN reflected as he walked back to his lodging 
 on the small matters on which great effects some- 
 times hang. This wretched fellow — hoping to get 
 something out of a poor woman whose husband 
 was a felon, but who was probably living in 
 decent obscurity somewhere, keeping this 
 dreadful fact from the knowledge of those about 
 her — had pronounced the name which the boy 
 had not heard for ten years, and thus, by an 
 accident which had nothing whatever to do 
 with John, had thrown a light upon the boy's 
 life. At this moment it was not a very comfort- 
 able light. The gleam it had thrown had not 
 brought peace, but the reverse. It had awoke 
 difficulties, troubles which no doubt were there
 
 RESEARCH. 265 
 
 and must have come into evidence some time, 
 though not necessarily now. John did not feel 
 that he had any reason to be grateful to the 
 returned convict who had all unawares, by 
 mere chance, thrown that passing gleam upon 
 his way. But it was very strange to him to think 
 how such things come about — perhaps by mere 
 accident, if there was such a thing as mere acci- 
 dent in the world (John had touched the edge 
 of philosophy, and liked to think that he had 
 thought on such subjects), perhaps in the elaborate 
 arrangements of a purpose which regulates the 
 world in matters both small and great. It gave 
 him a sense of pleasure that such high mysteries 
 should come into his mind in connection with 
 his own little affairs, and yet it was no doubt 
 just as wonderful, nay, more so, that a sparrow 
 can not fall without Divine Providence noting 
 that infinitesimal event, than if the schemes of 
 heaven concerned only nations and principal- 
 ities and powers. He said to himself, following 
 out that line of thought (and liking himself for 
 the impulse to do so), that if one thing, then 
 another ; and that if God's pui-poses regulated 
 one act of human affairs, they must regulate
 
 266 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 all, for nothing could be small or great with 
 Him. And whatever happened, though the 
 present effect of the revelation had been perhaps 
 more painful than pleasant it was always best 
 to know. He said to himself that it is always 
 best to know. Supposing there is anything un- 
 pleasant in the antecedents of your family, 
 supposing they are less dignified, less well-off 
 than you may now suppose, still to know is a 
 great matter. He was determined to leave no 
 stone unturned to find out why it was that he 
 was not to be allowed to come to Liverpool, 
 and what harm it was supposed that he should 
 get there, and how his name, his father's name, 
 was connected with it, and why he was forbidden 
 to bear that name. These were momentous 
 questions, but they were not of that kind which 
 he could get solved by any of the ordinary 
 means of procuring information. 
 
 On the last morning of his stay in Liverpool, 
 John, being alone for an hour or two, set out 
 with a distinct determination on his mind to do 
 something, to leave not a stone unturned. He 
 had already, when going about with the curate, 
 fixed his mind upon this. Indeed it was never
 
 RESEARCH. 267 
 
 out of his mind. What had he come here for 
 but with the determination to find out some- 
 thing, to find out everything if it were pos- 
 sible 1 He had gone about always on the look 
 out, with his eyes open ; but there had been 
 nothing either said or done within his ken which 
 threw any light upon his subject. On the last 
 morning he was left alone, Mr. Cattley having 
 business to execute with his brother, and John 
 felt that now was his opportunity. He went 
 out about ten o'clock with all the advantage of 
 being by himself and unhindered by anyone else's 
 business. By this time he had become a little 
 accustomed to the place and knew his way 
 about. He walked along straight in front of 
 him, looking at all the shop windows and the 
 names over the doors. He did not quite see what 
 help was to be got out of that — but still he went 
 on, observing everything, hoping that perhaps 
 some street corner might awaken his own dor- 
 mant recollection, or something that would give 
 him a better guidance catch his eye. He meant 
 to leave no stone unturned. 
 
 Was there ever a wilder undertaking than to 
 try to find information about an unknown
 
 268 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 family by walking about the streets of a great 
 city? When he had walked for an hour or 
 two, and began to feel tired, the futility of 
 this mode of research suddenly struck him. It 
 did not seem likely that he could do it in this 
 way, when he came to think of it. But how 
 was he to do it ? In what way was he to turn the 
 metaphorical stone under which knowledge 
 might be hid f 
 
 He found himself in front of the Exchange 
 when he woke up to this view of the question. 
 He went in timidly by .the archway through 
 which so many men were streaming, and found 
 himself suddenly in the midst of a sea of men, 
 all intent upon affairs which seemed life and 
 death to them, all too much absorbed in their 
 own business to give any attention to the boy- 
 ish stranger. Sometimes there would arise a 
 clamour of voices speaking together, then this 
 momentary storm would be over, and a lower hum 
 of many voices, a sound of feet, the murmur of a 
 crowd would be all that met his ear. And now 
 and then this human tide would be moved like 
 the sea by a wave setting in one direction, and 
 then would break off into eddies and sweeps of
 
 RESEARCH. 209' 
 
 current here and there. John was very much 
 interested by this sight. He had heard of such 
 assemblies so often — the characteristic heads, 
 the strange sombre important aspect of this 
 crowd of men, the faces full of meaning and 
 earnestness, affected him with mingled awe and 
 interest. They had the affairs of half the world 
 in their hands ; many of them had a look of 
 wealth, money written all over their substantial 
 persons ; and then there were the shabby ones r 
 more exciting still to look at, with a hungry 
 eagerness in their faces. The boy forgot himself 
 altogether and stood for a long time watching 
 them, pushed aside, now to one corner, now to 
 another by the stream. Then it suddenly oc- 
 curred to him that he was neglecting his quest. 
 He wondered whether if he had the courage to 
 call out in the midst of them all and ask whether 
 they knew anything of his father he might per- 
 haps acquire some information. But then shrank 
 away into a corner ashamed of himself, wonder- 
 ing what all those occupied men would think of 
 him if he disturbed their business consultations 
 and arrangements with such a question. If 
 John had done so, no doubt the merchants would
 
 270 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 have been delighted. It- would have been a 
 delightful story to cany home : ' To-day on 
 'Change the funniest thing happened. A young 
 fellow of seventeen or so, evidently fresh from 
 the country, got up suddenly and asked if any- 
 one was known there by the name of May !' 
 That is what the merchants and stockbrokers 
 would have told their families with great satis- 
 faction. But the idea filled John with shame 
 and sudden discomfiture. He saw for the first 
 time how ridiculous were his hopes, and how 
 impossible it was that he should discover any- 
 thing in this way. 
 
 It was half from shame, to recover from the 
 self-ridicule of this unaccomplished idea, that he 
 plunged into a great public reading-room, where 
 he sat down to recover himself. True, he had 
 not done anything to be ashamed of, but the 
 intention was so vivid that he felt as if he had 
 done it, and threw himself in to a seat in a tremor 
 of excitement, his heart beating exactly as if he 
 had carried that wild fancy into action. By- 
 and-by, when he recovered himself, he turned 
 over a newspaper or two mechanically, not 
 knowing what he was doing, and feeling a con-
 
 RESEARCH. 271 
 
 fused calm in this atmosphere — the quiet which 
 was in the heart of the tumult, a noiseless 
 room within and the roar of the traffic and the 
 multitude without. While he thus sat in a kind 
 of half-dazed condition his eye fell upon a large 
 thick volume, which was the directory of the 
 town. It seemed to him that an expedient more 
 possible, more practicable, was here afforded to 
 him. He got up hurriedly, and turned it over, 
 finding without difficulty the name of a number 
 of Mays. It was a May who was the Mayor even. 
 If he had asked the merchants in the Exchange, 
 there was no doubt this was what they would 
 have thought he meant. 
 
 Then John went out again, and went straight 
 to the Town Hall, which had been pointed out 
 to him, and which was close to the Exchange. 
 He went, not knowing very well what he was 
 doing ; and though he was shy by nature, not 
 venturesome, pushed his way through the town 
 officers and officials, and asked to see the Mayor. 
 To see the Mayor ! Had he gone to Windsor 
 Castle and asked to see the Queen, it would have 
 been only a little less reasonable. What did he 
 want with the Mayor 1 It was only when this
 
 272 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 question was asked him by a person of com- 
 manding presence and still more commanding 
 costume, of the beadle race, that he came to him- 
 self. What did he want with the Mayor ? To 
 ask him if he could give any information as to 
 some one of his name who ten years ago or 
 thereabouts had lived in Liverpool (John 
 supposed) and fallen into misfortune ? Poor 
 John made a very faltering explanation to the 
 beadle, and shrank away, not without raising 
 suspicions in that functionary, who watched 
 him out of sight with a look which was not 
 complimentary. And it was only then that the 
 boy perceived the foolishness altogether of that 
 fervent resolution of his to leave no stone un- 
 turned. What stone was there which he could 
 hope to turn ? What could he do ? To appeal 
 to the mayor because his name was May ! He 
 might just as well, he said to himself, have 
 appealed to the ex-convict who had known 
 some one of the name of May in prison. The 
 one would really have been as sensible as the 
 other, which was to say that both were folly 
 itself. And, short of this appealing to some one, 
 what was he to do ?
 
 RESEARCH. 273 
 
 He did, as may be supposed, nothing. When 
 he went to meet the curate at the foundry in 
 time for their train, he saw again the fellow who 
 had known May the prisoner, and had a shame- 
 faced laugh at himself as he thought of May the 
 mayor. What if he were to interrogate this 
 man, who was already his acquaintance, who 
 touched his cap and brightened at sight of him, 
 expectant of another shilling ! The one, he 
 said to himself, would be just as sensible as the 
 other, and more easily carried out. AYhen Mr. 
 Cattley saw the recognition that passed be- 
 tween this labourer and his young companion 
 he looked at John with surprise. 
 
 1 Do you know that man f he asked, upon 
 which John entered into the story of his appear- 
 ance at Edgeley, saying, 
 
 4 Don't you remember V 
 
 1 1 think I remember something of the kind,' 
 said the curate, ' but I wonder you recollect 
 the looks of the fellow. He is not a very 
 attractive-looking acquaintance.' 
 
 'He brought a name to my mind/ said John, 
 * that I had a recollection of — when I was quite 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 a child. I have been trying to find out some- 
 thing about it, but I can't.' 
 
 ' What have you been trying to find out 
 about V 
 
 6 Well, that's the funny part,' said John, with 
 an embarrassed laugh. ' I don't exactly know. 
 I want to know something, I can't tell what, 
 about a gentleman of that name who I think 
 lived here, or near here, ten or twelve years 
 ago.' 
 
 ' That's vague,' said the curate. 
 
 f Yes, it's very vague. I suppose it was silly 
 to think I could find out anything. The mayor's 
 name,' said John, with a touch of pride in it, * is 
 May.' 
 
 ' Ah, the mayor. You didn't think it was he, 
 I suppose 1 I remember some story of a May 
 who embezzled or forged or something; no 
 doubt the one whom your friend there ' (Mr. 
 Cattley jerked his thumb over his shoulder to 
 indicate the man at the foundry) ' knew. Now, 
 John, look sharp. We haven't got a minute to 
 lose. Our train is at four.' 
 
 6 My things are all ready,' said John : and they 
 got their train, and there was an end of the
 
 RESEARCH. 275 
 
 three days at Liverpool, in which he had hoped 
 to find out so much. 
 
 It was not so easy to explain his little jour- 
 ney to his grandfather as he had hoped. He 
 tried to give vague answers to the old man's 
 questions, but in the end had to confess where 
 he had been and why he had been so desirous 
 of going there. 
 
 < To find out what?' Mr. Sandford cried, with 
 a flash of displeasure quite unusual. ' What did 
 you want to find out ?' 
 
 ' About my father, grandfather,' said John. 
 * I have never been satisfied with what I have 
 been told, and now less than ever.' 
 
 'Why now? What has happened to make 
 you dissatisfied? What does it all mean?' 
 
 ' Since my — since your — since — Emily was 
 here.' 
 
 'How dare you call her Emily, sir? What 
 do you mean by it ? Do you intend to drive 
 me distracted in my lonely state ? Am I to be 
 brought to the grave with your questions and your 
 doubts ? Ah, you never would have taken that 
 upon you,' said the old man, 'while she was 
 here. You think you have got me at your 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 mercy. You think you can take every advan- 
 tage of me now that I am alone.' 
 
 ' No,' said John. ' Grandfather, it is you who 
 are hard upon me. She was going to tell me. 
 She would have told me if she had lived. The 
 last thing she said was, " Emily, tell the boy." ' 
 
 Old Mr. Sandford relapsed into his broken 
 sobbing. It was quite genuine, and yet both 
 now and on other occasions it had served his 
 purpose. 
 
 6 What is between two women,' he said, 
 'nobody can know, nobody but their Maker. 
 And neither you nor me can tell what that was. 
 But she never told you, bless her soul, that you 
 were to insult your mother : oh no ! nor me that 
 have always been your support and provided for 
 you all your life. You think perhaps you would 
 have got on just as well without me, by your- 
 self, left upon the world V 
 
 And then he fell into such agitation that John 
 was full of regret and self-reproach. He tried 
 the best he could to make his grandfather forget 
 all that had been said, and to forget it himself, 
 and to return to their old life. But it was very 
 hard to do. Indeed, this period in John's life
 
 RESEARCH. 277 
 
 was altogether very hard ; his lessons were 
 given over and he had nothing to do : and after all 
 the troubles and emotions of the past month or 
 two he had not strength of mind to begin some 
 study by himself, as Mr. Cattley advised and 
 Elly urged him to do. 
 
 'You should cany on your mathematics. 
 Mathematics are always good for an engineer : 
 or even draw,' said Elly, as if that branch of in- 
 dustry was very frivolous in comparison, ' that's 
 good for an engineer too. I am sure Mr. Cattley 
 would help you if you were to ask him. But, for 
 goodness sake, Jack, do something ; don't fall 
 into the same ways as all the other boys, 
 wandering about with your hands in your 
 pockets. It is better to do anything,' said Elly, 
 4 than to do nothing at all.' 
 
 John assented dutifully, but he neither resum- 
 ed his drawing nor his mathematics. He began 
 even to avoid Elly, lest she should scold him ; 
 and did wander about disconsolate with his 
 hands in his pockets, with no heart to do any- 
 thing. This pause in his life was very hard upon 
 him. It had been settled that his mother, or 
 Emily, whichever she was, should arrange
 
 278 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 matters her own way at some engineer's office 
 in London, where she had hopes of getting him 
 taken in ; but in the meantime she made no sign, 
 and it did not seem possible to do anything with- 
 out her. Mr. Sandford himself would take no 
 trouble ; sometimes he would lament querulously 
 that the boy whom he had brought up wanted 
 to leave him and had no feeling for him : some- 
 times he would say that his mother must settle 
 all that, that Emily was the proper person to 
 arrange for her son. But in any case nothing 
 was done, and John relapsed into idleness and 
 wretchedness, and did nothing, devouring his 
 own heart. 
 
 Whether this was a calculation of a cold-blood- 
 ed kind on the part of the woman who now 
 seemed to have the lives of these two, the 
 old man'and the boy, in her hands, as to what 
 would happen — or whether it was the mere 
 course of events unquickened by any mortal 
 calculation — it proved at all events that Emily's 
 prognostics were right. Mr. Sandford never re- 
 covered the death of his lifelong companion. He- 
 went out a little fitfully as the spring came on,, 
 and took little walks chiefly ending in a visit to
 
 RESEARCH. 279 
 
 her grave to see, after the snowdrops were over, 
 if the primroses and then if the violets were 
 coming out there. He had covered the little 
 mound at first with all those spring flowers 
 which she had loved, perhaps with a dim pre- 
 vision that the sod would be displaced before 
 the time for the later blossoms came. And all 
 the long evenings he would sit with a book laid 
 out open upon her little table, but not read- 
 ing, gazing in the fire and twirling his thumbs. 
 John sat at the table in his old place near 
 the lamps with his books, and sometimes tried 
 to talk. But his grandfather was not disposed 
 to talk, and the hours would thus pass by 
 on leaden wings, so slow, so endless, so silent, 
 not a sound in the little parlour but the falling 
 of the ashes from the fire, and the ticking of the 
 clock, and the rustle now and then of a page 
 turned. But John had no new books to tempt 
 him, and at this turn of his life was but a languid 
 reader, and yielded in spite of himself to the 
 fascination of the strange dreary silence, and the 
 contemplation of the old man twirling his thumbs 
 by the fire. 
 
 The summer had scarcely begun when Mr.
 
 280 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Samlford's daughter was again summoned from 
 London. When she arrived she found the sick- 
 room in charge of John, who had learned all 
 that had to be done for the patient as well as 
 such an unlikely nurse could learn. The old 
 man would not suffer him out of his sight. He 
 would not let him go even when Emily with 
 her superior knowledge came and took the seat 
 at his bedside, and began, almost before she 
 came in, to alter the arrangements which the 
 boy-nurse had made. 
 
 * He shouldn't have this and that,' she said, 
 ' they are bad for him in his present state.' 
 
 * My grandfather likes it so,' said John. 
 
 ' We mustn't ask what he likes, but what is 
 best for him,' said the new-comer. She was not un- 
 kind, but she was professional, seeing everything 
 from a point of view very different from theirs, 
 with a knowledge of what was right in the 
 abstract and none of that tremulous desire to 
 please which moves a domestic ministrant. And, 
 as if he had waited for that sanction to his dying, 
 the old man sank rapidly from the time of her 
 arrival. Whenever he could talk at all, his talk 
 was about ' the boy ' over whose head these two
 
 RESEARCH. 281 
 
 earned on their discussions, taking no more 
 notice of his presence than if he had been a chair 
 or a table. 
 
 ' He's been used to your mother, Emily. 
 Your mother was very indulgent. Perhaps he 
 has been spoilt a little.' 
 
 * A great deal, I fear, father/ 
 
 1 It was your mother did it. I like whatever 
 she did best. It was all done in love. Love is 
 what he has been used to.' This was on the last 
 night of his life. He was lying holding John's 
 hand, who was at one side of the bed, while 
 Emily was at the other. ' Oh, be kind to him, 
 my dear. He's a good boy. Don't let there be 
 any misunderstanding. When I am gone he 
 will have no one but you.' 
 
 ' I will try to do my duty to him, father. I 
 don't think you need have any fear.' 
 
 ' Your duty, Emily, yes ; but I hope it will be 
 a little more than that. Your own flesh and 
 blood wants a little more. Trust him as much 
 as you can, my dear. He's worthy of it. You 
 would never repent it. Remember that he has 
 no one in the world but you.' 
 
 At midnight, the two to whom these words
 
 282 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 had been spoken stood again together over the 
 bed in silence more significant than words. ' He 
 had no one in the world but you.' The room 
 was cold with the awe and chill of death, and 
 John stood stupified, as if his heart was dead. 
 No one in the world but her. Was this all he 
 had to look to now?
 
 283 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MOTHER AND SOX. 
 
 They drove back together alone without a word, 
 sitting close together, not looking at each other 
 — saying nothing. A few neighbours, out of ' re- 
 spect,' had attended old Mr. Sandford's funeral ; 
 and many hearts in the village were sore for 
 John. Behind the drawn blinds in the rectory, 
 and in many humbler houses, they spoke of the 
 boy with great tenderness. ' He'll find out the 
 difference/ people said. * The old people thought 
 there was nobody like him : but if it's an aunt, 
 
 perhaps with children of her own ' And 
 
 none of the little cortege returned with the 
 mourners to the house. The two were left al- 
 together alone. 
 
 The little parlour was in painful good order,.
 
 284 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 the blinds drawn up, the daylight coming in as 
 ■usual, the hearth so cleanly swept, the fire so 
 bright, the two chairs standing one on each side. 
 It was all so suggestive of the old people, as if 
 they might have only gone out for a walk, arm 
 in arm, in their old way, and soon would come 
 in and sit down and look up smiling at their boy, 
 and bid him come near the fire, for it was a cold 
 day. This suggestion flashed to John's heart as 
 he came in, and might have overwhelmed him 
 with sorrow and tears ; but the presence of that 
 tall figure in her black cloak and close bonnet 
 effectually put a stop to any expression. She 
 drew one of those chairs from the fire to the 
 table, without any sense of desecration, or of 
 disturbing any sacred image, and sat down. 
 Her face was very grave, but without any 
 harshness. She was always very serious, yield- 
 ing to no lighter impulses. She turned to John, 
 who stood vaguely, not knowing what he was 
 to do, by the table. 
 
 ' Now,' she said, not without feeling, ' there 
 are only us two — we must try to understand 
 each other.' 
 
 He made no reply. The movement she had
 
 MOTHER AND SOX. 285 
 
 made of the chair, though perfectly simple and 
 quite unintended, was enough to re-awaken in 
 his mind all the resistance, the repulsion, which 
 indeed her action throughout had never suffered 
 to fade. For she had managed everything in a 
 perfectly clear, unhesitating, business way, giv- 
 ing her orders with quiet and brief decision 
 saving everybody trouble, but leaving no place 
 for any consultation, for any of those faltering 
 conversations upon what would have been most 
 pleasant, or according to the ideas of the de- 
 parted, which draw together mourners in their 
 grief. There was no particular appearance of 
 grief in her at all. She was serious and pale ; 
 but then, she was always so, and there had been 
 no room for sentiment in anything she had done 
 or said. 
 
 Xo creature more desolate than the boy him- 
 self at that moment ever stood by a new-filled 
 grave. The love which had enveloped him so 
 closely all his life had passed altogether away. 
 He felt as if there was no longer anyone that 
 cared for him in the world. He felt that this 
 familiar place, which had been his home for so 
 long, was not only to cease to be his home, but
 
 286 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 to cease altogether. The jar of the chair as it 
 
 was drawn aside seemed to go through his heart. 
 
 It was only a commonplace piece of furniture 
 
 now, a common old chair to be put up at an 
 
 auction. The place seemed to be desecrated by 
 
 that simple movement. He had thought he 
 
 would keep the house just as it was, like a little 
 
 temple to the memory of the good guardians of 
 
 his childhood. He was to be their heir, he took 
 
 that for granted. He would leave everything, he 
 
 thought, and from time to time come back out 
 
 of the midst of the active life he had planned 
 
 for himself, and always find them in imagination 
 
 sitting there to meet him. No doubt John would 
 
 soon have found out the impossibility of that fond 
 
 imagination ; but this was what he thought. He 
 
 had even planned how he should put the gardener 
 
 and his wife — themselves old people for whom 
 
 it would make a provision — into the house to 
 
 keep it for him, which he had said to himself, 
 
 with tender childish pleasure, would please 
 
 grandmamma. But with the jar of that chair as 
 
 it was drawn aside, John's tender imaginations 
 
 went from him, leaving him with a sense of 
 
 astonishment and startled waking up. He had
 
 MOTHER AND SOX. 287 
 
 another will to calculate with of which he had 
 not thought. 
 
 She kept looking at him while these thoughts 
 passed in a tumult through his mind, waiting for 
 an answer. It was but for a very short time, 
 yet to both of them it seemed long: and with all 
 her seriousness she was of a disposition which 
 could not brook waiting. She said, f Well ! J a 
 little sharply, when he made no reply. 
 
 1 1 did not say anything,' John replied. 
 
 ' Xo, you did not say anything — you made no 
 response. You look at me as if you wanted to 
 make a quarrel over those graves. But you shall 
 not make any quarrel, on that point I am re- 
 solved. We must understand each other.' 
 
 He went and leant upon the mantelpiece and 
 stood looking down into the fire. Make a 
 quarrel ! It seemed to John that his heart 
 would burst with the pang this misconception 
 gave him. A quarrel, over their graves ! But, 
 though the suggestion was so abhorrent, he felt 
 the sense of rebellion and resistance grow 
 stronger and stronger. He would not even 
 meet her eye. He would withdraw into that 
 passive unyielding silence which of all things in
 
 288 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 the world is most difficult to meet and to with- 
 stand. 
 
 She turned again towards him though she 
 could not see his face. 
 
 ' John,' she said, * don't make me feel, at a 
 moment when I am far from wishing to feel it, 
 how you have been spoiled by my father and 
 mother — and how wrong I was in giving you 
 out of my own care.' 
 
 He made a fierce gesture of denial at the first 
 part of her sentence, and added at the last, 
 with a sort of mocking echo, ' Out of your own 
 care !' 
 
 ' I have said that it is time we understood each 
 other,' she said, < I don't know whether it was 
 merely to wound me that you flung at me that 
 suggestion that I was not your mother.' Here 
 she made a pause, and he too, his attention sus- 
 pended with an excitement that took away his 
 breath. ' If that was the motive, it was fully 
 successful. It did wound me. But if you had 
 any real doubt on the subject ' 
 
 ' He had, he had !' he said to himself, the blood 
 throbbing in his head with a giddy sense of 
 mounting up and up to the circles of the brain,
 
 MOTHER AND SOX. 289 
 
 and yet he knew very well what she was going* 
 to say, and knew also that it was true. 
 
 • It seems strange that I should have to put 
 such an assurance into words. Who would have 
 borne with your alienation and your caprices, 
 but your mother? Many women even, in the 
 circumstances, would have said, Let him go. If 
 nature has no voice, if there are no recollections 
 of your childhood to move you — never mind ! 
 Say it since you feel it. But I have not been 
 willing to do that. I have felt that the moment 
 would come — and the moment has come — wheu 
 you would have nobody but me. I have spoken 
 to Susie about it,' she added, with a slight tremor 
 in her voice. 
 
 ' Susie !' The name brought a new sensation — 
 something that touched his heart. 
 
 * Your sister — your only sister — as I am your 
 only mother, though you have so strangely mis- 
 conceived me and denied me. I put that all 
 down to the circumstances, not to you. I am not 
 blaming you — only we must understand each 
 other now.' 
 
 John, leaning on the mantelpiece with his face 
 overshadowed by his hand, knew in his heart that 
 VOL. 1. U
 
 290 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 all this was true. He made no attempt within 
 himself to deny it. The reality of it was too 
 much for him. It went into his heart like a stone 
 in deep water, deep, deep to the bottom, where 
 it lay a dead weight never to be got rid of. 
 He could not protest or say anything, as if he 
 were surprised by this sudden announcement. 
 He was not surprised. He felt now that he had 
 known it all well enough, that when he said 
 otherwise it had only been in the impulse of the 
 moment, with a frantic short-lived hope that 
 perhaps that might come true. Alas ! he knew 
 very well that it was this which was true. He 
 seemed to remember her now always silent, 
 cold, an image of reserve and gravity in the 
 midst of the more cheerful scenes in his memory. 
 It was rather from the extreme occupation of his 
 mind with these thoughts and recollections 
 which surged through it, than from any antag- 
 onistic intention that he said nothing. But 
 standing there with his head bent and his eyes 
 lowered it was not wonderful that he should 
 appear to her an impersonation of silent rebellion, 
 a determined opponent. 
 
 * You say nothing;' she spoke in a tone in which
 
 MOTHER AND SOX. 291 
 
 a growing exasperation began to make itself felt. 
 4 It might have been less painful for me to let 
 you go on in your own delusion — if delusion 
 it was. But unfortunately you cannot be free 
 of me and my authority ; you are at an age when 
 your life has to be settled for you, and in that 
 as in everything else it is with me only that you 
 have to do.' 
 
 John changed his position a little, which, in 
 the high strain of emotion at which they were, 
 seemed to both of them like a sort of response ; 
 so that he was almost forced to add, < With you 
 only V faintly. He did not intend to say it. It 
 did not mean anything. It was a mere echo, 
 as if the air caught the words. But it had not 
 upon her this harmless effect. Her paleness, 
 which nothing else had touched, flushed high 
 at these words ; she made a sudden movement as 
 if she had received a blow. 
 
 ' With me only,' she repeated, with mingled 
 energy and irritation, as if he had suggested a 
 doubt. * Who else ? — do you mean to say ? do 
 
 you think V These questions came from her 
 
 hurriedly with something quite unlike her usual 
 gravity and calm. Then she stopped with a 
 
 u2
 
 292 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 panting hard-drawn breath, and added after a 
 moment, in a tone almost of derision, * As you 
 are so intent on setting yourself against me, 
 perhaps you will tell me what, left to yourself, 
 you would do.' 
 
 John could not quite tell what this change of 
 tone meant. He was not used to the quick inter- 
 change of argument nor was he quick to note the 
 significance of the inflections of a voice. He had 
 never known controversy at all, until he had em- 
 barked upon this one, and the moment he with- 
 drew from the unintentional force of silence, 
 in which he had at first wrapped himself, his 
 ignorance and defencelessness became apparent. 
 He thought however that she was withdrawing 
 from her position, and recognising some claim in 
 him to know and judge for himself. He left the 
 place where he had been standing, and came 
 to the middle of the room, throwing himself into 
 a chair on the other side of the table. 
 
 * I suppose/ he said, ' that all this is mine now/ 
 
 < What is yours V 
 
 6 1 mean : I suppose it is — all left to me ? 
 I could stay here, and — give no one any 
 trouble.'
 
 MOTHER AND SOX. 293 
 
 * Left to yon, my father's house and all that 
 he had ! Is that what yon mean ? and you 
 would stay here V 
 
 'I suppose so/ said John. 'I don't know 
 why. It seems natural, I thought it would 
 always be mine. If I was wrong, I'm — I'm 
 very sorry,' he cried, giving a sudden bewildered 
 glance round him, with a new and painful light 
 of possibility breaking on his mind. 
 
 ' And you would stay here ?' she said. ' xA.nd 
 do— what? nothing? If you have your plans 
 made ' 
 
 * I have no plans made. I have not thought 
 of anything. I supposed — that was how it could 
 be.' He looked at her for the first time with a 
 bewildered appeal in his eyes. * If you knew 
 what it was — to change all at once from being 
 so — spoilt, perhaps, as you say, always under- 
 stood, never found any fault with ' in spite 
 
 of himself his voice faltered, 'to change from 
 
 that to — to and being not very old, nor 
 
 knowing very well : it makes a great difference,' 
 John said, feeling a sob swell upwards in his 
 boyish throat, and breaking off that he might 
 not betray himself. And he did not look at her
 
 294 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 again to see if there was in her any responsive 
 feeling, but leaned his head upon his hands, 
 shading his countenance from the light. And 
 then there followed a moment of silence, — so 
 silent, so long — with the clock ticking loudly 
 through it with a sort of triumphant click-clack, 
 as if that ceaseless measure were the master of 
 all. 
 
 After a while she spoke again, with a softened 
 voice. 
 
 ' 1 recognise,' she said, * all the difference : 
 poor boy ! — it is natural you should feel it. I 
 am a stranger — so to speak — though I — gave 
 you birth, which is something, perhaps. But it 
 is not your fault. Tell me — you think that all 
 my father had to leave is yours, and that you 
 might continue to live here, just as before — is 
 that what you expect V 
 
 He made a little movement with one hand, still 
 leaning his head on the other. It was a move- 
 ment that looked like assent. And yet this was 
 not what he had expected ; for he had expected 
 nothing, nor had he any thought what he was 
 to do. 
 
 'To do nothing?' she continued, ' or to do —
 
 MOTHER AND SON. 295 
 
 -what ? To live all alone at your age — to earn- 
 on the sort of life my father led ? That was 
 suitable enough at his time of life, but not at 
 all for you. To keep the maid Sarah and the 
 gardener, and doze in your chair of an afternoon ? 
 This could not be seriously what you thought.* 
 
 He started a little and cast a look at her, 
 half indignant, half piteous, but did not reply. 
 
 < I am not laughing at you,' she said, quite 
 gently ; ' you will yourself see when I put it to 
 you that this would be quite impossible. Xow I 
 must tell'you how things really are. All that my 
 father had is divided between you and me ; but 
 you are^too young to enter into possession of your 
 share. It will accumulate for you till you are 
 twenty-one, and in the meantime the charge of 
 you naturally lies with me. Whatever has to be 
 determined is between us two. This is what I 
 told you when we came in ; you have nobody 
 but me/ 
 
 To describe what John's feelings were while 
 she spoke would be impossible; everything 
 seemed to swim and dissolve around him. It 
 was true that he had formed no definite idea to 
 himself of what was to come ; and yet there had
 
 296 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 never seemed any question about this — that he 
 was his grandfather's heir — his natural and law- 
 ful heir. Nothing else had occurred to him. 
 There had been nothing said about it ; but it 
 was this arrangement which seemed inevitable 
 to the boy. He did not think even that any 
 will was wanted. He, John Sandford, and no 
 one else, could succeed John Sandford. This 
 was what he had believed ; and in this in- 
 heritance a certain sense of liberty was involved. 
 He had thought of various things he would do. 
 That about keeping up the house for one thing, 
 and putting in the old gardener to take care of it; 
 and then of the measures he would take in his own 
 person to learn his profession, and prepare him- 
 self for a larger life. But in all of these thoughts 
 emancipation was the first article. He did not 
 suppose that he could have much to do with 
 Emily. He had shivered a little when he so 
 named her in his own mind, feeling a chill 
 shadow of doubt as to who she was. But he 
 had never remembered that he was only seven- 
 teen, much under age, and that he might have 
 to yield to some other will instead of doing 
 his own. He looked at her with a sort of help-
 
 MOTHER AND SOX. 297 
 
 less alarm in his eyes, feeling that everything was 
 going to pieces round him, and as if he were 
 feeling for something to clutch at in the general 
 whirl. 
 
 'You are surprised,' she said, 'and yet it is quite 
 true. You have been put, perhaps, in a false 
 position, John. It is not your fault, nor any- 
 one's ; but I cannot let it go on. You are only 
 seventeen. Who at seventeen is fit to be his 
 own master ? The position would be absurd, if 
 it were not worse. It is sad for us both that you 
 have not been brought up to care for me. I never 
 realised how it might be when I left you in my 
 father's and mother's hands. I was willing that 
 they should have you, but not that they should 
 turn the heart of my child away from me.' 
 
 John's voice broke forth hoarse, not as it had 
 sounded in his own ears before, ' It was not 
 their fault.' 
 
 1 1 do not ask whose fault it was. Mine, per- 
 haps, for giving you up ; but that is past and 
 need not to be taken into account. The thing 
 we have to do is to get right now.' 
 
 Right ! did she call this right ! Whose doing 
 had it been that she had become Emily, the daugh-
 
 298 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ter of the old people, in his eyes — not herself, not 
 his mother ? And then he gave her a furtive 
 look to see if, perhaps, she looked like his 
 mother now, and was no longer Emily. She 
 met his wistful look with one that was troubled 
 too ; but even this expression did not change 
 her. And whose fault was that ? He seemed to 
 hear the old people talking of Emily with many 
 unguarded comments. It was like her, they 
 would say. When a letter came, or when they 
 would ramble off into those mutual recollections 
 with which so often, to John's amusement, they 
 had traced out for him, with glimpses of the half- 
 seen landscape all around, the story of their lives, 
 that name always came in from time to time : 
 < Emily said — Emily did — this or that. How like 
 that was to Emily ! It washer way of looking at 
 things : for Emily never would see, don't you know 
 
 — never made any allowance ' A hundred 
 
 such scenes appeared to him, like scenes out of 
 some play suddenly becoming visible without any 
 will of his. How could he help it, if his mind had 
 collected out of all these unconscious portraits an 
 image of Emily, which was more clear than any-
 
 MOTHER AND SOX. 299 
 
 thing else he knew ! It was not their fault 
 Was it not she herself who was to blame if this 
 was how he knew her best, as the daughter 
 whom the old people were half afraid of, whose 
 probable criticism'alarmed them, whose thoughts 
 were not as theirs? The fear of her which 
 crept into his own mind was more chill, more 
 overwhelming — for how could he make any 
 stand against her if it was true that he was 
 entirely at her mercy, without any defence or 
 shield. 
 
 That little quiet parlour, the old people's room 
 with all its old-fashioned furniture and little 
 prim ornaments ! Had it ever beheld such a mute 
 encounter, such a strange struggle before? The 
 boy looked at his mother and she at him. His eyes 
 appealed to her, yet resisted her, while hers — but 
 he could not read what they meant. He was not 
 capable of comprehending, in his youthful inex- 
 perienced judgment, the many things he wot not 
 of, the recollections, the sternness, the relentings 
 that were in his mother's eyes. But no more 
 was said. For just then Sarah came in, pushing- 
 open the door with the great tray in her arms
 
 300 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 to prepare for tea — which was a thing that 
 -could not be intermitted, though heaven and 
 earth should be beginning to dissolve and drop 
 away.
 
 301 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 John went up the village street towards the 
 rectory with a heavy heart. 
 
 It was all over — his resistance and his notion 
 of being able to resist, his hopes and all the 
 foundation for them, his fond dreams and thoughts 
 (so fallacious and so foolish) of independence, of 
 settling matters for himself, of keeping the little 
 house as a sort of monument to the old people 
 to whom it belonged. Could anything be more 
 vain than these visions ? It was all settled now, 
 and not a child in the village had less to do with 
 it than he. The furniture was to be sold, the 
 house itself to be let if it could not be disposed 
 of. The gardener and Sarah had received their 
 dismissal. They remained only till ' the family ' 
 left, which was an event now fixed for next day.
 
 302 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 In short, every part of John's little world had 
 crumbled under him. Himself was of no account 
 in all the changes that had been determined 
 upon. They were all quite reasonable, perhaps 
 necessary, and his childish intention had been 
 silly as well as vain. He understood that now ; 
 but how painful was the discovery *? It left him 
 aching body and soul, not only with the thought 
 of what was to come, but with the smarting 
 sensation of pain and shame, that overwhelming 
 sense of having formed ludicrous intentions 
 impossible to carry out, which is so terrible to 
 youth. He felt himself blush from head to foot 
 when he thought how foolish he had been, and 
 how impossible that which he had supposed the 
 most natural thing in the world. For the sting 
 of it was that he saw the impossibility, and how 
 childish it was to suppose that he could have 
 done it, and the futility of everything he had 
 imagined and planned. It was natural that she 
 should take all the steps she had done— calmly, 
 without the silly sentiment into which he had 
 fallen. She was acting only as reasonable 
 people should act — but he, he had been going on 
 like a foolish boy.
 
 FAREWELL. 303 
 
 John bad passed through a great many 
 vicissitudes both of mind and situation in these 
 past days. He bad been to his own thinking 
 independent, feeling very young and forlorn 
 indeed, but yet with a firmness of purpose and 
 a tenderness of feeling which had given him 
 confidence in himself. He had felt that he 
 would not abuse the old people's confidence. 
 He would make a man of himself to do them 
 credit. He would show them honour in his 
 keeping up of everything that had pleased them, 
 in his return, whenever he had leisure, to the 
 home in which their love had guarded him. 
 That had been his first phase, and it had been 
 full of a simple youthful dignity, and a sense of 
 worthiness of the trust they had placed in him. 
 And then there had come a revolution, a storm, 
 a fierce moment of fighting and resistance to the 
 new will, a fight which was weakened from the 
 beginning by the fatal conviction that it must 
 be lost. And now even the struggle was over, 
 and he had fallen — into what had he fallen ? 
 Into a child again — into what perhaps w r as his 
 natural position— the place of a boy who did not 
 quite know what was going to be done with
 
 304 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 him, whose fate was in other hands, who had to 
 wait and hear what was intended, where he was 
 to be placed, with a knowledge that his own 
 wishes had very little to do with it, and no 
 dignity, no freedom at all ! Could there be a 
 greater downfall for a sensitive, high-spirited 
 boy? With a certain mental elation, tem- 
 pered by sorrow, he had felt himself a man 
 though only seventeen, with all the tender am- 
 bitions of a boy, to do credit to those that loved 
 him : now he had fallen back to the position of 
 a child — wistfully dependent, uncertain what 
 his fate was to be. In more ordinary circum- 
 stances even, such as happen every day, a boy 
 who has been brought up by his grandparents, 
 made into the son of their old age, matured by 
 the constant company of people full of experi- 
 ence, and the indulgence which comes with the 
 end of life, is apt to feel a terrible downfall when 
 he goes back into his own family, where his 
 parents, in their busy prime, think but little of 
 his precocious wisdom, and do not respect at all 
 the fictitious independence into which he has 
 grown, and where his brothers and sisters, a 
 rabble rout, knock him about in a way which is
 
 FAREWELL. 305 
 
 supposed to be very muck to his advantage. 
 
 John's experiences were but a little more 
 painful. The disenchantment was complete. • 
 He was shaken out of all opinion of himself. 
 Perhaps even his feeling that his own will or 
 way was of no importance at all exceeded 
 reality : for he had no reason to suppose that 
 his mother would be . entirely indifferent to 
 what he wished. She had not been unkind. 
 She was not an emotional woman, nor given to 
 any effusion of sympathetic feeling ; but she was 
 not unkind. But John in his downfall and dis- 
 may could not consider that. He felt himself 
 altogether brought low. And then his position, 
 so far as his mother was concerned, was so pain- 
 ful and extraordinary. She was his mother ; he 
 could not, even to himself, set up any other 
 hope. He could not blind himself to the con- 
 viction that this was she that appeared in his 
 childish recollections, always so silent, putting 
 him aside, saying that the boy was not to know. 
 But he could not call her * mother,' having 
 known her so long and seen to the depths of her 
 character as Emily. He said * she ' to himself, 
 and no more. She was the arbiter of his life. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 He did not think she cared at all for him, or 
 minded whether he was happy or otherwise. 
 Secretly, perhaps, he thought that she preferred 
 lie should not be happy ; but that he knew, even 
 while he entertained the thought, was a wrong 
 thing to think, unkind and untrue : yet he kept 
 it in his mind all the same. 
 
 He was strolling along with his hands deeply 
 thrust into his pockets, and despondency un- 
 speakable in his soul, feeling that everything 
 that made life worth living had been taken from 
 him. He was going to the rectory to say good- 
 bye. Good-bye was what was in his heart 
 towards everything he looked on. Not a house 
 he passed but was familiar to him — the shop, 
 the post-office, even Johnson at the public- 
 house, though the old people had so disapproved 
 of him, and John had grown up in the idea that 
 he was not much better than the roaring lion, 
 seeking whom he might devour, of Scripture ; 
 they were all kind, familiar objects now. He 
 regretted them all, worthy and unworthy. As 
 he went along, there was some recollection asso- 
 ciated with every bit of the road. There, Dick 
 Spencer had thrown a snowball and hit him, and
 
 FAREWELL. 307 
 
 made his forehead bleed ; a snowball with a 
 stone in it — but how sorry Dick was ! There 
 he had run against Percy on the way to school 
 and they had both come to the ground, rolling- 
 over each other. At another corner was the 
 spot where Elly used to start to run and get 
 before them all, with swift, light steps like a 
 deer, scarcely touching the ground. All the 
 boys had united in saying that it was not fair, 
 that Elly could not stay, that the slowest of them 
 could have beaten her in a quarter-of-a-mile ; 
 but, nevertheless, she had always got first what- 
 ever they might say. He was turning over all 
 these old things in his heart while he strode 
 along slowly, languidly, his whole being in pain, 
 when suddenly, in the midst of his troubled 
 thoughts, a slap came on his shoulder from be- 
 hind, and a cheerful voice hailed him : 
 
 ' Why, Jack ! what are you doing here at this 
 time of day V 
 
 Then another voice addressed the first one 
 with that pleasant frankness which characterises 
 brothers or dear friends, and bid him for a block- 
 head to remember. Whereupon the first speaker 
 penitently cried out : 
 
 x 2
 
 308 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ! You know I didn't 
 mean to be unfeeling, Jack.' 
 
 John had scarcely the heart to turn round. 
 He did so, half, saying, in a tone of little 
 interest, 
 
 ' Have you fellows come back V 
 
 The fellows were two. They were older than 
 John. One — the nearest to him in age — was 
 short and of spare figure, neat and careful of 
 apparel ; the other was some two years older, a 
 person of advanced age in the estimation of his 
 juniors, who did not think Dick's sense was on 
 a level with his years. He was large and fair, 
 a full-grown man in person, with a moustache 
 which many an older man might envy, and a 
 careless good-humour and heartiness about him 
 which was very attractive to many of his fel- 
 low-creatures, though his own immediate be- 
 longings were a little contemptuous of them. 
 Both the lads were dressed with a little of that 
 jauntiness which characterises the University. 
 They came from a centre of boyish fashion; 
 their coats were cut on the correctest model, 
 and even Percy, though so much the wiser of 
 the two, would have died, it was evident to the
 
 FAREWELL. 309 
 
 commonest observer, rather than wear any- 
 thing which he ought not to have worn. The 
 very canes which both of them scrupulously 
 carried were exactly the right kind of cane. 
 When John turned round slowly upon them, he 
 was a little overawed as he awoke to it by the 
 splendour of their appearance. 
 
 ' I didn't know you were here,' he said. 
 
 1 No, only for the day. Where are you going 
 — to the rectory? Come along, then. That's 
 all right,' said Dick. ' We wanted to go and 
 look you up, but didn't like.' 
 
 Percy gave his brother a push aside. 
 
 ; I should have come fast enough ; but 1 
 wanted to know first — that's to say, we thought 
 you might have relations or something. We're 
 awfully sorry, you know, Jack/ 
 
 1 Awfully sorry,' echoed Dick, eager to make 
 his sympathy known. 
 
 * There's nobody but my mother,' said John, 
 with an effort. ' We are going away to- 
 morrow morning.' 
 
 ' Going away?' 
 
 'Yes. I'm going back with my mother. 
 There is to be a sale and the house is to be let.'
 
 310 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 John forced himself to say all this with an 
 appearance of stolid calm. 
 
 Dick thrust his arm into John's, and, half 
 roughly, half tenderly, led him along. 
 
 ' Come and talk to Aunt Mary,' he said. This 
 was his own idea of consolation. He could not 
 himself say anything that would be of any use 
 to a mourner ; but Aunt Mary, if anyone, could. 
 Dick always said that he would back her 
 against the world. 
 
 John suffered himself to be led along a little 
 more quickly than the pace at which he had 
 been going along the street. He was vaguely 
 encouraged by Dick's arm within his, and even 
 by Percy's little trim shadow walking along on 
 the other side of him. The boys had naturally 
 nothing to say. What could they have to say to 
 a comrade in trouble 1 They could only stand 
 by him ; grip his hand till he cried out ; hold 
 his arm tight in theirs ; get him a chair, as 
 if he had been a girl ; minister to his wants in 
 any way he would let them : but otherwise,, 
 beyond ' awfully sorry/ what could they say 1 
 
 6 We have made a run home to see Aunt 
 Mary and Elly,' said Percy, * but we can't stay
 
 FAREWELL. 311 
 
 above an hour or two. It's a capital offence, 
 don't you know, to be out of college without 
 leave ; but Dick had something he wanted to 
 look to, and so had I. I wish we had come be- 
 fore yesterday/ 
 
 * It didn't matter,' said John. 
 
 * We tried hard,' said Dick, ' and then we 
 thought at least you'd like to see us before ' 
 
 'Are you going to town, Jack? Best thing 
 for you. You will be sure to get something 
 there. And nothing so easy as to meet one's 
 friends in town/ said Percy, briskly. Dick 
 was inclined to make allusions, to dwell upon 
 the departure from Edgeley, and repeat that he 
 was awfully sorry. But Percy was much more 
 a man of the world. It was always better, he 
 had heard, to speak in the most cheerful way 
 to fellows who were in trouble, and direct their 
 eyes beyond the trouble to the time when all 
 should be cheerful again. ' You must leave us 
 your address,' he said. ' We constantly run up 
 to town. We shall see more of you than if you 
 were staying here.' 
 
 * I don't know if I shall have an address,' said 
 John. ' I — don't know where I'm going. I'm
 
 31 2 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 — all at sea. I know nothing. It's like a mist — ' 
 
 ' 1 know,' said Percy, soothingly : * that's how 
 fellows feel ; but it can't last like that. You'll 
 have to pick up, and go on again, don't you 
 know.' 
 
 Dick did not say anything, but he gave John's 
 arm a sort of hug, which almost threw the boy 
 off his feet. 
 
 f Why, there's Elly running along in her wild 
 way. She ought to know that she's not a child 
 now,' said Percy, who understood it was a good 
 thing to divert a fellow's thoughts from himself 
 and his troubles as soon as possible. ' Hallo, 
 Ell ! Where are you running, like a rabbit, and 
 never looking? and here we are, and here's 
 Jack.' 
 
 ' Oh, you have come !' said Elly, suddenly 
 perceiving them, with a flash of her eyes from 
 one to another, but holding out her hand to 
 John between them. ' You ought to have been 
 here yesterday, you know. What does it 
 matter coming now ? Jack, Aunt Mary wants 
 you. Never mind the boys. Oh, you two, why 
 didn't you come yesterday ? Don't tell me you 
 couldn't have come if you had tried !'
 
 FAREWELL. 313 
 
 1 We couldn't, though,' said Percy ; while 
 Dick, drawing his arm from John's, stood 
 abashed, making no reply. 'You don't know 
 what a fellow old Scrymgeour is. He won't 
 give you leave. And to-day we came, you 
 know, without asking. So we've got to be 
 back before the gates are closed.' 
 
 ' I know,' said Elly, * you've come to-day for 
 your own pleasure ; but when there was some- 
 thing serious to do, something you were wanted 
 
 for John, do run; Aunt Mary is waiting 
 
 for you, and afterwards you can see these two. 
 You might have had sense enough,' she added, 
 as John left them ; * you might have had heart 
 enough — the last of the two old people that 
 were always so nice to us — and then poor Jack. 
 Papa saw it,' said Elly, as if that was something 
 unusual, * as well as Aunt Mary and me.' 
 
 ' Funerals are horrible things,' said Dick, 
 under his breath. 
 
 • But what is the use of talking when we 
 couldn't manage it V said Percy, glibly. ' We 
 thought it better to come and see him, poor old 
 beggar, after. And, I say, what's all this about 
 a mother? Has he got a mother? and perhaps
 
 314 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 a sister and a brother ? and no doubt a nearer 
 one still and a dearer one?' 
 
 ' How dare you laugh,' cried Elly, stamping 
 her foot : and ' I say, stop that !' said Dick, 
 with a low growl. 
 
 John did not hear anything beyond the 
 merest murmur of this conversation. He left 
 them quarrelling, explaining themselves with 
 that ease of brother and sisterhood which sets 
 all politeness at defiance, and hurried on as 
 Elly had directed him to see Mrs. Egerton. 
 Perhaps John had not the same absolute con- 
 fidence in her powers of consolation that her 
 nephew had, but she had always been very kind 
 to him, and he went with a sort of dull pleasure, 
 knowing that she would be even more kind 
 than usual to-day. She was in her own special 
 room, the morning-room, which looked out over 
 the shrubberies to the village street in the dis- 
 tance, and whence she saw, more or less, all 
 that was going on. It was a room more useful 
 than ornamental, with bookshelves filled with 
 shabby books, which formed a sort of extra 
 lending library for the parish, and cupboards 
 full of the goods purchased for the Clothing
 
 FAREWELL. 315 
 
 Club, and all sorts of parish necessities ; but it 
 was also very bright, with its corner windows, 
 one in each angle, and its air of occupation and 
 cheerfulness. Mrs. Egerton looked up as John 
 came in after a little tap at the door. She held 
 out her hand to him across the table, where she 
 was busy with the concerns of the parish, and 
 drew him to a chair opposite to her. 
 
 * Dear boy,' she said, * how I have wanted to 
 see you.' Her smile was beaming warm with 
 kindness. It was not love, but it was the nearest 
 thing to it, and it warmed the chilled and fam- 
 ished youth. 
 
 ' Well,' she said, ' I hope you were coming to 
 me of yourself, John.' 
 
 ' I was on my way,' he said. 
 
 ' That's right ! I thought you would not 
 desert your old friends. 1 told Elly to look out 
 for you, and, if you were not coming, to bring 
 you. Now tell me, my dear boy, do you go or 
 stay V 
 
 6 We are going to-morrow, Mrs. Egerton.' 
 
 1 To-morrow ! So soon as that ? And you 
 say we ' 
 
 * With my mother, Mrs. Egerton.'
 
 316 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 He grew a little pale, and so, it seemed, did 
 she. 
 
 * Is that — that lady your mother, John V 
 
 1 Yes/ he said, and no more. 
 
 ' And you knew all along that your mother 
 was living ? How strange that you never spoke 
 •of her— that we never heard — I hope, dear John, 
 I— I trust ' 
 
 She had meant to say, ' that she is kind to 
 you.' But her courage failed her in sight of his 
 pale, set face. 
 
 'We heard from her always regularly, but 
 there seemed nothing to write about. She had 
 given me up to my grandparents.' John had 
 to pause to get rid of the sob in his throat ; but 
 he was determined to tell all he knew, to leave 
 nothing to be found out. ' She has been living 
 in London, with little time to herself.' 
 
 It was a curiously lame story. He felt it was 
 so, as he told it ; hitherto it had all seemed 
 simple enough. He met Mrs. Egerton's look of 
 interest and her interrogative 'Yes?' with 
 sudden confusion, as if it was all a made-up tale. 
 
 ' Yes V she said, and paused with her eyes full 
 of a hundred questions expecting him to resume.
 
 FAREWELL. 317 
 
 But John had told everything he had to tell, 
 and stopped short with no more to say. She sat 
 looking at him for a minute longer expecting 
 when he should resume. Then, as he said no- 
 thing, she asked, as if to make a beginning 
 again and draw him on, ' Are there any more of 
 the family V 
 
 1 I have a sister,' John said. 
 
 ' Oh ! a sister. I am very glad to hear it. I 
 am extremely glad for your sake. A sister is so 
 near — a sister will sympathise. I have seen — 
 Mrs. Sandford, once : it seems so strange to say 
 that name and not to mean your dear old grand- 
 mamma, my kind, true old friend.' Mrs. Eger- 
 fcon's bright eyes were moistened with tears, but 
 John sat stolid in the stupidity of his grief, and 
 made no sign. ' Did you know I had seen her 
 once?' she said. 'She is Mrs. Sandford, isn't 
 she ? and that is your name 1 She must have 
 married — a cousin, I suppose V 
 
 John made no reply. He felt a sense of guilt 
 come over him. He said to himself that she 
 was not Mrs. Sandford, nor was that his name ; 
 but his lips were sealed. He did not himself 
 know how it was. His discovery of his own
 
 318 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 childish name had led to no further discoveries, 
 and in his own family no one had given him 
 any help to understand how it was. The sub- 
 ject was one which now he could not enter 
 upon with his mother ; and he felt by instinct, 
 though no warning had ever been given to him, 
 that it was a subject he must not speak of to 
 others. So he made no answer, but in his heart 
 felt a pang of secret guilt. He had not been 
 used to secrets, especially he had not been used 
 to concealing anything about himself: and now, 
 in the sting of this consciousness, he sat silent, 
 unresponsive, feeling himself dull and blank in 
 presence of the kind, genial, affectionate woman 
 full of curiosity, who wanted to know every- 
 thing. She wanted him to tell her everything 
 — to confide in her : and she was disappointed 
 that the boy to whom she had been so kind 
 should close up all the avenues to his heart and 
 make no reply. Then Mrs. Egerton opened her 
 drawer and took out her present to John. She 
 was very liberal in the way of presents, loving 
 to give them, delighted to give pleasure to 
 others. What she had got for John was a gift 
 of real value, a pretty gold hunting-watch,
 
 FAREWELL. 319 
 
 which was much better than the silver one 
 that his grandparents had given him. It was 
 very pretty, very nice, very kind ; but when he 
 took the old shabby silver one out of his pocket 
 ■which had been given him when he was a boy, 
 which had never gone very well, in order to 
 make place for the new one, he tried his best to 
 thank his kind friend, but he held the little 
 old watch in his hand and gazed at it with 
 troubled eyes. 
 
 ' You must give it away to some one,' said 
 Mrs. Egerton. ' It will be a pleasure for you to 
 give it to some good lad — Hedger's boy, per- 
 haps, who has been with you so long.' 
 
 He murmured an assent, but put the old 
 watch back again into another pocket with a 
 quick revolt of feeling. Give it away — to Ned 
 Hedger. Oh ! no, no, not for the world ! He 
 would keep it all his life for grandmamma's 
 sake. 
 
 Then there was a tumult in the room with 
 the entrance of all the young people, and John 
 did his best to allow himself to be ' cheered up ' 
 by the boys as they intended. But he was not 
 cheered up, and was very glad to steal away with
 
 320 THE SOX OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 Elly to go ' once round the garden,' she said, be- 
 fore he went away. The rectory garden had wit- 
 nessed so many of the pleasures of his childhood. 
 It was big and old-fashioned, with an orchard 
 attached, where the children had roamed at 
 their pleasure. The girl and the boy set out 
 talking with a little show of vivacity, but, as 
 they strayed along the shady paths, they got 
 more and more silent. At the bottom of the 
 orchard, where the long stretch of the common 
 showed under the trees, and all was silent and 
 full of recollections, Elly suddenly thrust her 
 hand into his. 
 
 * Oh, Jack !' she said, * how will you bear 
 going away? Always think of me just here 
 under the old pear-tree. Look how it is coming 
 out like a great white tower of blossoms. I shall 
 come here and think of you ; and that will keep 
 us near to each other. And, Jack ' 
 
 < Yes, Elly V 
 
 4 If you should feel lonely or anything — if you 
 should miss home very much — oh, just think ! 
 I'll come and do my algebra here, and think of 
 you. It will be always something — not like 
 your grandmother, but always something — a
 
 FAREWELL. 321 
 
 little bit of a home just here under the pear- 
 tree.' 
 
 * Elly,' said John, ' will you do one thing for 
 me ? There is nobody but you that I would ask.' 
 
 1 Yes, I will, Jack ; half-a-dozen. Tell me 
 what it is.' 
 
 ■ There are the two old chairs by the fire. 
 They will be sold like all the rest. I've money 
 enough to buy them, but nowhere to put them. 
 Oh, Elly !' 
 
 * They shall stand in my own room. I'll 
 always keep them there,' said Elly, with enthu- 
 siasm, ' the two dear old chairs ! Oh ! yes, yes, 
 Jack ; in my own room.' 
 
 ' Thanks, awfully,' said John. 
 
 He grasped the little, warm hand she had put 
 into his, and they stood for a moment holding 
 each other, like two children, by the hand. 
 
 ' Oh, Jack ! this is dreadfully like good-bye 
 now !' 
 
 1 It is good-bye. Elly, you give the boys a 
 kiss when they go away. Won't you give me 
 one too ? Oh, not if you don't like ; it's only 
 because it seems cold, just shaking hands, after 
 what you have said.' 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 THE SON OF HIS FATHER. 
 
 There was no blush on John's simple face. 
 He meant in absolute sincerity what he said. 
 The girl reddened, being, perhaps, a little more 
 advanced in life, though a year younger than 
 the boy. She turned away her head for the 
 moment, but then turned to him again with a 
 steady look, and suddenly inclined her head 
 towards him. 
 
 ' Yes, Jack ; it will be like being brother and 
 sister really, and for good/ 
 
 'For good,' he repeated, touching her fresh 
 cheek with honest, tender lips ; and then they 
 went back sedately to the house, very quiet, 
 with a certain awe upon them. For it is a cere- 
 monial, and a sad one, to say that first good- 
 bye. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON ; TRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.
 
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