A MORE CHEERFUL VIEW.
Sir Edward, with more than the usual irritation in his countenance,
contemplated the new member of the family council. He had come in with a
great deal to say, and the sight of Rochford was like a sudden check,
unlooked for, and most unwelcome. He had, indeed, begun to speak,
throwing himself into a chair. “I’ve got my trouble for my pains--” when
he perceived that the weariness, the contrariety, the trouble in his
face, had been betrayed to a stranger. He pulled himself up with a
sudden effort. “Ah, Rochford,” he said, with an attempt at a smiling
welcome, which was as much out of his usual habits as of his present
state of mind.
“Edward,” said his wife, “Mr. Rochford has heard from Walter. He came to
bring us the letter; he has some information, and he knows, oh, more
than any of us--from the first.”
“What is it he knows?” cried the father, exasperated, with a start of
energy in defense of his privacy and of his son. He looked with his
angry, troubled eyes at the intruder with an angry defiance and
contempt. Rochford the solicitor! the man of business, a man whom indeed
he could not treat as an inferior, but who had no claim to place himself
on the same level as a Penton of Penton. He had not hitherto shown any
disposition to stand on his dignity to make the difference between the
old level and the new. But that this young fellow should presume to
bring information about his son, to thrust in a new and intrusive
presence into a family matter, was more than he could bear. “I am very
glad to consult Mr. Rochford on matters within his range,” he added,
with an angry smile, “but this is a little, just a little, out of his
sphere.”
“Edward!” cried Lady Penton, and “Father!” cried Ally; the latter with
an indignation and resentment which surprised herself. But to hear him,
so kind as he was, put down so, put aside when he wanted nothing but to
help, had become suddenly intolerable to Ally. Why should Walter, who
was behaving so unkindly, be considered so much above him, who had come
out of his way to help? An impulse almost of indignation against Walter
filled her mind, and she felt ready to silence her father himself, to
demand what he meant. She did not herself comprehend the fervor of new
feeling, the opposition, the resentment that filled her heart.
“When Sir Edward reads this letter he will understand,” said the young
man, who kept his temper admirably. He was ready to bear a great deal
more than that, having so much at stake. And he for his part was quite
aware that for a Rochford of Reading to ally himself to the Pentons of
Penton was a great matter, and one which might naturally meet with
opposition. To have his part taken by Ally was a great matter--he could
put up with her father’s scorn for a time.
Sir Edward read the letter, and his serious countenance grew more somber
still. “From this it appears that my son has applied to you for money? I
am sorry he has done it, but I don’t see that it tells any more. Walter
has not made a confidant of you that I can see. My dear, I don’t mean to
be disagreeable to Mr. Rochford; but he must see, any one might see,
that a family matter--a--a consultation among ourselves--a question
which has nothing to do with the public--”
“I am your man of business, Sir Edward,” said Rochford. “My family have
known the secrets of yours long before my time. I don’t think we have
ever betrayed our trust. Your son has put some information into my
hands. I did not think I was justified in keeping it from you, and I
think, if you will let me, that I can help you. Intrusion was not what I
meant.”
He was the least excited of that tremulous party, and he felt that the
object which was before him was well worth a struggle; but at the same
time the young man was not without a certain generosity of purpose, a
desire to help these troubled and anxious people. To Ally his attitude
was entirely one of generosity and nobleness. He had come in the midst
of the darkness to bring the first ray of light, and he was too
magnanimous to be disgusted or repulsed by the petulance of her father’s
distress. If he had a more individual motive it was that of pleasing
_her_, and that was no selfish motive, surely. That added--how could it
be otherwise?--a charm to all the rest in her dazzled eyes.
“Mr. Rochford is very kind, Edward,” said Lady Penton. “Why should we
not take the help he offers? He is a young man, he understands their
ways, not like you and me. The young ones understand each other, just as
we understand each other. They haven’t the same way of judging. They
don’t think how their fathers and mothers suffer at home. Oh, let him
go! it isn’t as if he would talk of it and betray us. Listen to him. He
has known of this all the time, and he hasn’t betrayed us. Oh, let him
go.”
“Go! where is he to go?”
“To find Walter,” they all cried together.
“It is killing you,” said Lady Penton. “Let the young man--who doesn’t
feel as we do, who doesn’t think of it as we do--let him go, Edward. It
seems so dreadful to us, but not to him. He thinks that probably there
is nothing dreadful in it at all, that it is a thing that--a thing
that--boys do: they are so thoughtless--they do it, meaning no
particular harm.”
“There is something in that,” said Sir Edward, with relief. “I am glad
you begin to see it in that way, my dear. It is more silly than wrong--I
have thought so all along.”
“That is what Mr. Rochford says. He is a young man himself. He thinks
the boy will never have considered--and that as soon as he thinks, as
soon as he finds out--Edward, we mustn’t be tragical about it. I see it
now as you say. Stay at home--you have so many things to think of--and
let the young man go. They understand each other between themselves,”
Lady Penton said, with a somewhat wan smile.
And then Sir Edward began to relax a little. “Rochford is right there,”
he said. “It is perhaps a good thing to have a man’s view. You, of
course, were always unduly frightened, my dear. As for not writing, that
is so common a thing--I could have told you all that. But, naturally,
seeing you in such a state has affected me. When you are married,” he
said, turning to Rochford with a faint smile, “you will find that though
you may think it weak of her, or even silly, the color of your thoughts
will always be affected by your wife’s.”
This speech produced a curious little momentary dramatic scene which had
nothing to do with the question in hand. Rochford’s eyes instinctively
flashed a glance at Ally, who, though hers were cast down, saw it, and
flamed into sudden crimson, the consciousness of which filled her with
shame and confusion. Her blush threw a reflection instantaneous, like
the flash of a fire, over him, and lighted up his eyes with a glow of
delight, to conceal which he too looked down, and answered, with a sort
of servile respect, “I have no doubt of it whatever, sir; and it ought
to be so.”
“Well, perhaps theoretically it ought to be so,” Sir Edward said, who
noticed nothing, and whose observation was not at any time quick enough
to note what eyes say to eyes. Now that it was all explained and
settled, and he felt that it was by his wife’s special interposition
that Rochford had been taken into favor, there could be no doubt that it
was a comfort to have a man, with all the resources of youth and an
immediate knowledge of that world which Sir Edward was secretly aware he
had almost forgotten, to take counsel with. His spirits rose. His
trouble had been greatly intensified by that sensation of helplessness
which had grown upon him as he wandered about the London streets, sick
at heart, obstinate, hopeless, waiting upon chance, which is so poor a
support. This day he had been more hopeless than ever, feeling his
impotence with that sickening sense of being able to do nothing, to
think of nothing, which is one of the most miserable of sensations. It
was so far from true that he had taken the color of his thoughts from
his wife, or felt Walter’s absence more lightly than she had done, that
it was he who had been the pessimist all along, whose imagination and
memory had furnished a thousand stories of ruin and the destruction of
the most hopeful of young men, and to whom it was almost impossible to
communicate any hopefulness. But a partnership of any kind is of great
use in such circumstances, and above all the partnership of marriage, in
which one can always put the blame upon the other with the advantage of
being himself able to believe that the matter really stands so. Lady
Penton did not complain. She was willing enough to bear the blame. Her
own heart was much relieved by Rochford’s cheerful intimation that
Walter’s little escapade was the commonest thing in the world, and most
probably meant nothing at all. If it might but be so! If it were only
his thoughtlessness, the folly of a boy! At least if that could not be
believed it was still a good thing and most fortunate that people should
think so, and the man who suggested it endeared himself to the mother’s
heart.
And then another and more expansive consultation began. On ordinary
occasions Sir Edward allowed himself to be questioned, giving brief
answers, sometimes breaking off impatiently, shutting himself up in a
troubled silence, from which an unsatisfactory scrap of revelation
unwillingly dropped would now and then come. Sometimes he drove them all
away from him with the morose irritation of his unsuccess. What did it
matter what he had done in town, when it all came to nothing, when it
was of no consequence, and brought no result? But to-day he spoke with a
freedom which he had never shown before. Everything was more practical,
more possible. The new agent had to be informed of all the facts upon
which perhaps his better knowledge of such matters might throw new
light. Sir Edward confessed that he had extracted from old Crockford the
address of the girl’s mother, “Though I could not allow--though I mean I
feel sure that the boy never mixed himself up with people of that sort,”
he added, with his little air of superiority; then described Mrs. Sam
Crockford to them, and her declaration that she knew nothing of the
young gentleman. In his heart of hearts Sir Edward did not believe this
any more than Rochford did, but it gave him a countenance, it supported
his new theory, the theory so adroitly suggested to him that Walter
after all was probably not much to blame. This theory was a greater
consolation than can be told to all of them. Not much to blame! Careless
only, amusing himself, a thing which most youths of his age did somehow
or other. “Of course,” Rochford said, “there are some preternatural boys
who never tear their pinafores or do anything they ought not to do.”
Thus he conveyed to their minds a suggestion that it was in fact rather
spirited and fine of Walter to claim the emancipation which was natural
to his kind. The load which was thus lifted from their gentle bosoms is
not to be described. Lady Penton indeed knew better, but yet was so
willing to be deceived, so ready to be persuaded! And Sir Edward
knew--oh, a great many variations of the theme, better and worse--but
yet was willing too to take the young man’s word for it, the young man
who belonged to Walter’s generation and knew what was in the minds of
the boys as none of the others could do. He brought comfort to all their
hearts, both to those who had experience of life and those who had none,
by his bold assumption of an easy knowledge. “I have no doubt, if truth
were told, he is dying to come home,” Rochford said, “and very tired of
all the noise and nonsense that looks so pleasant at a distance. I know
how one feels in such circumstances--bored to death, finding idleness
and the theaters and all that sort of thing the dreariest routine, and
yet ashamed to own it and come back. Oh, he only wants to see a little
finger held up to him from home, I know!” said the young fellow, with a
laugh. He did himself the greatest injustice, having been all his life
of the order of those who have the greatest repugnance to dirtying their
pinafores. But love and policy, and pity as well, inspired him, and his
laugh was the greatest comfort in the world to all those aching hearts.
He took down Mrs. Sam Crockford’s address, and all the information which
could be given to him; the very sight of his little note-book inspiring
his audience with confidence. “The thing for me to do,” he said, “is to
take him myself the money he wants. Though the address he gives is only
at a post-office I shall find him out--and perhaps take a day or two’s
amusement in his company,” he added, with a smile.
“Oh, Mr. Rochford, that would be kindness indeed!” Lady Penton said.
And Ally gave him a look--what did it say? Promises, pledges, a whole
world of recompense was in it. He said, with another little laugh of
confidence and self-satisfaction, not untouched with emotion, “Yes, I
think that’s the best way. I’ll get him to take me about, I only a
country fellow, and he up to all the ways of town; and it will be
strange if we don’t get to be on confidential terms; and as I feel quite
certain he is dying to come home--”
“Most likely, most likely,” said Sir Edward. It was, as Rochford felt,
touch and go, very delicate work with Sir Edward. A word too much, a
look even, might be enough to remind Walter’s father that he was the
head of the house of Penton, and that this was only his man of
business. The young lawyer was acute enough to see that, and wise
enough to restrain the natural desire to enlarge upon what he could do,
which the intoxication of feminine belief which was round him encouraged
and called forth. He subdued himself with a self-denial which was very
worthy of credit, but which no one gave him any credit for. And by this
time the afternoon was spent, darkness coming on, and it was necessary
he should go home: he felt this to be expedient in the state of affairs,
though it was hard to go without a word from Ally, without a moment of
that more intimate consultation, all in the erring brother’s interests,
which yet drew these two so much closer together. “I will come this
way,” he said, as they all went with him to the door where the dog-cart
was standing, “to-morrow, on my way to town, to see if there are any
last directions--anything you wish to suggest, Sir Edward--anything that
may occur to you in the meantime, which I might carry out.”
“Yes, perhaps that will be well,” Sir Edward said.
“To go direct from you will give me so much more influence.”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. It was very delicate work with Sir
Edward. “Telegraph if I’m wanted. Of course I am ready--whatever is
wanted.”
“And you will let us know at once, oh, at once, Mr. Rochford; you know
how anxious, though foolishly, as you all say--”
“Not foolishly,” the young man said, pressing Lady Penton’s hand. He was
very sorry for her wistful, tremulous looks, though his heart was
bounding with satisfaction and elation in his own prospects. “Not
foolishly,” he half whispered, “but soon to be over. I think I can
promise you that--I feel sure I can promise you that.”
“God bless you!” said Walter’s mother, “and reward you, for I can’t--oh,
if you bring me back my boy, Mr. Rochford!”
“I will,” he cried, but still in a whisper. “I will! and you _can_
reward me, dear Lady Penton.” He kissed her hand in his emotion, which
is a salutation very unusual in mild English households, and brought a
little thrill, a sensation of solemnity, and strangeness, and
possibilities unconceived, to her startled consciousness. Ally could not
speak at all. She was half concealed in her mother’s shadow, clinging
to her, still more full of strange sweet excitement and emotion. Her
young eyelids seemed to weigh down her eyes. She could not look at him,
but his words seemed to murmur in her ears and dwell there, returning
over and over again, “You can reward me.” Ally at least, now, if not
before, knew how.
“You’ve got a good horse there,” said Sir Edward, mechanically stroking
the shining neck of the impatient animal, “you’ll not be long on the
road.”
“No, she goes well; to-morrow then, sir, early.”
“As early as you please--you’ll have a cold drive. Thank you, Rochford.”
He put out his hand to the young man with a hasty touch just as Rochford
took the reins, and then turned away and shut himself up in his
book-room, while the others stood watching the dash of the mare, the
sudden awakening of sound in the silence, the glimmer of the lamp as the
cart flew along the drive. Sir Edward retired to think it over by his
dull afternoon fire, which was not made up till after tea. The night had
fallen, but he did not immediately light his candles. He bent down over
the dull red glow to think it over. His mind was relieved, there seemed
now some possibility that this miserable anxiety might be over. But even
though his object may be gained by other means, a man does not like to
fail in his own person, and the chill of unsuccess was in his heart.
Rochford, his man of business! well, princes themselves have to seek
help from men of business. It was his trade to find out things. It was
in the way of his profession that he should succeed. But then had not
his ear caught something about a reward--a reward! what reward? except
his charges, of course. A new contrariety came into Sir Edward’s mind,
though he could not define it. He had not at all an agreeable half hour
as he sat thinking it over in that dull moment before tea, over the dull
book-room fire.