RETROSPECT.
Of some note in the county, though poor for their rank, were the
Oswalds of Thorndyke. Thorndyke, their country seat, was situated
about five miles from Hallingham, and had been generally made the
constant residence of the reigning baronet. It was a fine old place;
the dyke surrounding it, or dike, as you may like to spell it--from
which the place no doubt had partially taken its name--was of
remarkable width. It was filled up in the time of Lady Oswald's
husband, the _third_ baronet of his name; and fine pleasure-grounds
might be seen now where unwholesome water had once stagnated. Possibly
that water had been the remote and unsuspected cause of the dying off
of so many of the house's children--as they had died in the old days.
The _second_ baronet, Sir Oswald Oswald, lost five children in
succession. Two daughters and a son alone lived to grow up: and
perhaps it had been as well for the peace of Sir Oswald and his wife
had those three likewise died in infancy; for pain they all brought
home in one shape or other. They were self-willed and disobedient;
preferring their own ways. The son wished to go into the army: his
father had the greatest possible aversion to it; but he persisted, and
went, in spite of remonstrance. The younger daughter, Frances, married
an old man for his rank: Sir Oswald objected to it; the man's
character was of startling notoriety; but Frances took her own will
and married him. A few short months only, and she was back again at
Thorndyke, driven to take refuge from her husband in her father's
home. The elder daughter, Mary, married Mr. Cray, a gentleman of no
account in comparison with the Oswalds of Thorndyke. To this the most
strenuous objection of all was made by Sir Oswald and his lady--in
their haughty pride they looked down with utter contempt upon Mr.
Cray. Miss Oswald disputed the grounds of their objection, urging that
Mr. Cray, though of no particular note, was at least of gentle blood
and breeding, and though his means might be small, _she_ deemed them
sufficient. It was of no use: she could make no impression on her
father and mother, she could not shake their refusal of consent, and
she married Mr. Cray without it. Public opinion on the matter was
divided. Some took Miss Oswald's part. She was of an age to judge for
herself, being, in fact, no longer very young; and there appeared no
good reason, save that he was not wealthy, for objecting to Mr. Cray.
But her family--father, mother, brother, sister--bitterly resented it,
and said she had disgraced them.
Mr. Cray had about eight hundred a-year, derivable from money in the
funds, and he lived in the Abbey at Hallingham. The Oswalds enjoyed
some three or four thousand a-year, landed property, and they lived at
Thorndyke, and were baronets, and very grand. Of course there was a
great difference; but some thought the difference might have been got
over by Sir Oswald. Some went so far as to say that Mr. Cray, with his
fine manly person and good conduct, was a better man than that
shrivelled old lord who was breaking the heart of his poor wife, the
younger daughter. Sir Oswald and Lady Oswald could not be brought
to see it; none of the Oswalds could see it; and, take them
altogether--brothers, cousins, uncles and nephews--there was a large
family of them.
Mary Oswald married Mr. Cray, and he brought her home to Hallingham
Abbey, and her friends never saw her after; that is, they never would
recognise her. Many a Tuesday, on which day the family from Thorndyke
would drive into Hallingham in their carriage and four--as was the
habit with some of the county people--did they pass her without
notice. They would be in the large close carriage, the old baronet
and my lady, and their daughter Frances--who had no home now but
theirs--opposite to them, and they would see Mrs. Cray at the Abbey
windows, alone or with her husband, as the case might be, for their
road took them past it, and all the greeting they gave her was a stony
stare. Time went on, and there appeared a baby at her side, a pretty
little fellow in long petticoats, held in his nurse's arms. That baby
was named Oswald Oswald, and was the Mr. Oswald Cray whom you have
seen: but the stare from the baronet's carriage was not less stony
than before.
A twelvemonth more, when Oswald could just begin to run about in his
pretty white frocks, and get his sturdy legs into grief, his hands
into mischief, another child was born, and died. Poor Mrs. Cray died
herself a few weeks afterwards. People said she had grown weak,
fretting after Thorndyke, after her father and mother, lamenting their
hardness, regretting her own disobedience; but people are prone to
talk, and often say things for which there's not a shadow of
foundation. She died without having seen her friends--unreconciled;
and when Mr. Cray wrote to Sir Oswald a very proper letter, not
familiar, but giving the details of her death, no answer was accorded
him. Mrs. Cray, as Mary Oswald, had possessed a small income
independent of her father, and this on her death passed to her little
son. It was just one hundred and six pounds per year, and she made it
her dying request that he should use the surname of Oswald in addition
to that of Cray--should be known henceforth as Master Oswald Cray.
And it was so; and when the boy first entered a noted public school
for gentlemen's sons, far away from Hallingham, and the boys saw him
sign his exercises and copies "O. Oswald Cray," they asked him what
the "O" was for. For his Christian name, he answered. Was not Oswald
his Christian name? they wanted to know. Yes, his Christian and his
surname both, he said--Oswald Oswald. It was his grandpapa's Christian
and surname, Sir Oswald Oswald. Oh! was _he_ his grandfather asked the
boys. Yes; but--Oswald added in his innate love of truth--he had never
been the better for him, Sir Oswald had never spoken to him in his
life; there was something unpleasant between him and his papa, he did
not know what. No; at that stage of the boy's age he was unconscious
what the breach was, or that his dead mother had made it.
Poor Oswald Cray had not had a very happy childhood's life; he
scarcely knew what was meant by the words, home-ties, home-love. _He_
had never enjoyed them. There was a second Mrs. Cray, and a second
family, and she did not like the boy Oswald, or care that he should be
at home. He was but four years old when he was despatched to a far-off
preparatory school, where he was to stay the holidays as well as the
half-years. Now and then, about once in two years or so, he would be
had home for a fortnight at Christmas, and Mr. Cray would make an
occasional journey to see him.
It was at ten years old that he was removed to the public school,
where the boys asked him the meaning of the "O." Before that time
came, grief had penetrated to the family of Sir Oswald Oswald. His
only son and heir had died in battle in India; his daughter Frances,
who had never gone back to the old lord, had died at Thorndyke; and
Sir Oswald and his wife were childless. Neither survived the year, and
when Oswald was eleven years old, and getting to hold his own in the
school, the title had devolved on the next brother, Sir John. Sir John
was sixty when he came into it, and had no children. He had offended
the Oswald family in the same way that Mary Oswald had offended them,
by marrying a lady whose family was not as good as his own.
That lady was the present widow, Lady Oswald, now lamenting over the
threatened innovation of the railway sheds. Sir John Oswald enjoyed
the title for four years only, and then it lapsed to a cousin, for Sir
John had no children. The cousin, Sir Philip, enjoyed it still, and
lived at Thorndyke, and his eldest son would succeed him. They were
proud also, those present Oswalds of Thorndyke, and never had spoken
to Oswald Cray in their lives. The prejudices of old Sir Oswald had
descended upon them, and Sir Philip and Lady Oswald would pass Oswald
Cray, if by chance they met him, with as stony a stare as had ever
greeted his poor mother.
Perhaps the only one of the whole Oswald family upon whom the
prejudices had not descended was the widow of Sir John. Upon the death
of her husband, when she had to leave Thorndyke, she took on lease the
house at Hallingham, and had never removed from it. Her jointure was
not a large one; but Sir John had bequeathed to her certain moneys
absolutely, and these were at her own disposal. These moneys were also
being added to yearly, for she did not spend all her income; so that
it was supposed Lady Oswald would leave a pretty little sum behind
her, by which somebody would benefit. There was no lack of
"somebodies" to look out for it, for Lady Oswald had two nephews with
large families, both of whom wanted help badly. One of these nephews,
the Reverend Mr. Stephenson, was a poor curate, struggling to bring up
his seven children upon one hundred a year. Lady Oswald sent him a
little help now and then; but she was not fond of giving away her
money.
The pride and prejudices of the family had not fallen upon her and she
noticed and welcomed Oswald Cray. He was fifteen when she settled at
Hallingham, and she had him to spend his first holidays with her
afterwards. She had continued to notice him ever since, to invite him
occasionally, and she was in her way fond of him; but it was not in
the nature of Lady Oswald to feel much fondness for any one.
And yet, though not in her inmost heart cherishing the prejudices of
the Oswalds, she did in a degree adopt them. She could not be
independent and brave them off. Conscious that she was looked down
upon herself by the Oswalds, she could not feel sufficiently free to
take up her own standard of conduct, and fling those prejudices
utterly to the winds. Upon tolerably good terms with Thorndyke, paying
it occasional state visits, and receiving state visits from it in
return, she did not openly defy all Thorndyke's prejudices. Though she
acknowledged Oswald Cray as a relative, received him as an equal,
there it ended, and she never, by so much as a word or a nod,
recognised his father, Mr. Cray. She never had known him, and she did
not enter upon the acquaintance. But in this there was nothing
offensive, nothing that need have hurt the feelings of the Crays; Lady
Oswald and they were strangers, and she was not bound to make their
acquaintance, any more than she was that of other gentlepeople about
Hallingham, moving in a sphere somewhat inferior to herself.
Mr. Cray had continued to reside at Hallingham Abbey, and to live at
it in a style that his income did not justify. However the Oswalds may
have despised him, he did not despise himself; neither did Hallingham.
Mr. Cray of the Abbey was of note in the town; Mr. Cray was courted
and looked up to; Mr. Cray went to dinner-parties, and gave them; Mr.
Cray's wife was fashionable and extravagant, and so were Mr. Cray's
daughters; and altogether Mr. Cray was a great man, and spent
thousands where he ought to have spent hundreds.
He had four children, not counting Oswald--Marcus and three
daughters--and it cost something to bring them out in the world.
Marcus, changeable and vacillating by nature, fixed upon half a dozen
professions or occupations for himself, before he decided upon the one
he finally embraced--that of a doctor. Chance, more than anything
else, caused him to decide on this at last. Altogether what with home
extravagance and the cost of his children, Mr. Cray became an
embarrassed man; and when he died, about two years previous to the
opening of this story, a very slender support was left for his wife
and daughters. His will did not even mention Oswald. Two or three
hundred pounds were left to Marcus--the rest to Mrs. Cray for her
life, and to go to her daughters afterwards.
Oswald had not expected any. Where a home gives no affection, it is
not very likely to give money. When Oswald had come of age he found
that his own income, of which his father was trustee, had no only been
spent upon his education, but the principal had been very considerably
drawn upon as well--in fact, it would take years to redeem it. "I was
obliged to do it, Oswald," his father said. "I could not limit your
educational expenses, and there was the heavy premium to pay in
Parliament Street. I'd willingly have paid all cost myself; but it has
not been in my power."
Oswald was not ungenerous. He grasped his father's hand and warmly
thanked him, saying it was only right his own money should pay his
cost when there were so many at home to educate. Ah, it was not the
_money_ he regretted. Had every sixpence of it been spent--why, it was
spent--he was young and strong, with a good profession before him, and
brains and hands to work it, he could make his own way in the world,
and he should make it. No, it was not the money; but what Oswald had
been hurt at, was the manner in which they had estranged him from his
home; had kept him from the father's affection which he had yearned
for. He knew that the fault had been Mrs. Cray's; that his father held
him aloof only under her influence. He did not allow himself to blame
his father even in his own heart; but he could not help thinking that,
were he ever placed in a similar situation, he should openly love and
cherish his first-born son, in spite of all the second wives in the
world. Oswald had yet to learn by experience how utterly futile is
that boast which we are all apt to make--that we should act so
differently in other people's places. Never was there a truer aphorism
than the homely saying: "Nobody knows where the shoe pinches save
those who wear it."
Oswald Cray had been born proud: it might be detected in every tone of
his decisive voice, in every turn of his well-set head, in every
lineament of his haughty features. He could not help it. It is well to
repeat this assertion, because pride is sometimes looked upon as a
failing demanding heavy reproach. There it was, and he could not shake
it out of him any more than he could shake out his other qualities or
feelings. It was discerned in him when a little child; it was seen
conspicuously in his schooldays; it reigned paramount in his early
manhood. "The boy has the proud spirit of his grandfather Sir Oswald,"
quoth the gossips; and no doubt it was from that quarter that it had
come. Only in his later days, those years between twenty and thirty
when thought and experience were coming to him, did it grow less
observable, for he had the good sense to endeavour to keep it in due
subjection.
But it was not a bad sort of pride, after all. It was not the foolish
pride of the Oswalds generally, who deemed everybody beneath them; it
was rather that pride of innate rectitude which keeps its owner from
doing a mean, a wrong, or a disgraceful action. It was the pride of
self-esteem, of self-reliance; that feeling which says: "I must not do
so and so, for I should disgrace myself--those careless-living men
around me may do these things, but I am superior to it" Other young
men might plunge into the world's follies; pride, if no better motive,
kept Oswald Cray from them. He could not for very shame have borne a
tainted conscience; he could not have shown a clear outside to the
world, open and fearless, knowing that his heart was foul within.
He was not proud of his family descent from the Oswalds. Quite the
contrary. He found no cause to pride himself on either the Oswalds or
the Crays. So far as the Oswalds went, many a hundred times had he
wished they were no connections of his. All his life he had received
from them nothing but slights; and slights to a man of Oswald Cray's
temperament bring the deepest mortification. He knew now how they had
treated his mother; he felt to his very heart how they despised
himself. If he could have changed his dead grandfather into somebody
else, a little less foolish and a great deal less grand, he had been
better pleased.
But this very isolation from his mother's family had tended to
foster his own pride--the mortification which it induced had fostered
it--just as the isolation from his own home, from his father and the
second family, had contributed to render him self-reliant. It is not
your home darling, bred up in fond dependence, sheltered from the
world's storms as a hothouse flower, who becomes the self-reliant man,
but he who is sent out early to rough it, who has nobody to care for
him, or to love him, in all the wide earth.
Not a more self-reliant man lived than Oswald Cray. He was sure, under
God, of _himself_, of his good conduct; and I think it is about the
best surety that a man or woman can carry with them through life. In
moments of doubt, perplexity, difficulty, whatever might be its
nature, he turned to his own heart and took its counsel--and it never
failed him. It was with himself he deliberated; it was his own good
judgment, his right feeling, that he called to his aid. He had an
honest, upright nature, was strictly honourable; a proud man, if it is
the proper sort of pride, nearly always is so. His ambition was great,
but not extravagant; it did not soar him aloft in flights of fancy,
vain, generally speaking, as they are absurd. He was determined to
rise to the summit of his profession--that of a civil engineer--but he
entertained no foolish dreams beyond it. To attain to that, he would
use every diligence, every effort, consistent with uprightness and
honour; and dishonourable efforts Oswald Cray would have scorned to
use, would have shaken them from him as he shook a summer-day's dust
from his shoes.
He was connected with a firm of high repute in Parliament Street:
Bracknell and Street. Oswald Cray was a partner, but his name did not
appear as yet: and, as you may readily imagine, the lion's share of
the profits did not fall to him. In fact, he had entered it very much
as his half-brother had entered the house of Dr. Davenal--to obtain a
footing. For more substantial recompense he was content to wait.
Bracknell and Street were engineers to the Hallingham line, and to
Oswald Cray had been entrusted its working and management.
He had said to Lady Oswald, in answer to her reproach of his not
calling to see her more frequently, that his time when at Hallingham
was much occupied. True, so far: but the chief and real motive which
kept him from her house was a sort of sensitive feeling relating to
her money. It was not that he dreaded people's saying he was looking
after it: he would have scorned that kind of reproach: but he did
dread lest any degree of intimacy, any pushing of himself in her way,
should cause her to leave it to him. I am not sure that you will quite
understand this; understand him or his feeling. None but a man of the
nicest honour, who was entrenched, as it were, in his own pride, the
pride of rectitude, could have felt this delicacy. He did not want
Lady Oswald's money; he knew that he had no claim upon any of it, no
right to it, and he would not put himself in her way more than he
could help, even as a passing visitor. Gossiping Hallingham had said:
"My lady would be leaving her nest-egg to Mr. Oswald Cray." The gossip
had penetrated to Mr. Oswald Cray's ears, and his only notice of it
was a haughty gesture of contempt: but in all probability it tended to
increase his dislike to go to Lady Oswald's. During these business
visits at Hallingham, he sojourned at a respectable inn of the old
school, a little beyond the town and the Abbey Gardens, called the
"Apple Tree," and had recently become more intimate with the family of
Dr. Davenal.
Driven forth all his life from his father's home, allowed to enter it
but at rare intervals, and then as a formally-invited guest, it cannot
be supposed that Oswald Cray entertained any strong affection for his
half-brother and sisters. Such a state of things would have been
unnatural, quite in opposition to ordinary probabilities. It would be
wrong to say that they disliked each other; but there was certainly no
love: civil indifference may best express the feeling. Marcus, the
eldest child of the second Mrs. Cray, was from three to four years
younger than Oswald. It had been better that Mrs. Cray had fostered an
affection between these boys, but she did just the reverse. She
resented the contempt cast on her husband by the Oswalds of Thorndyke;
she resented, most unreasonably, the fact that the little money of the
first Mrs. Cray should have descended at once to Oswald; she even
resented the child's having taken the distinguishing name: he was
Oswald Cray, her son, plain Cray. How worse than foolish this was of
her, how wrong, perhaps the woman might yet learn: but altogether it
did excite her against Oswald; and she had kept him aloof from her own
children, and encouraged those children to be jealous of him. When the
boys became men, they met often, and were cordial enough with each
other; but there was no feeling of brotherhood, there never could be
any.
For a twelvemonth after Mr. Cray's death, Mrs. Cray remained at the
Abbey, and then she left it. It was too expensive a residence for her
now--its rent swallowing up half her income. She removed with her
daughters to a watering-place in Wales, where, as she fractiously
said, she hoped they should "get along." Marcus, who had qualified for
a surgeon, became assistant to Dr. Davenal, and that gentleman at
length gave him a small share in the profits. It was not a
regularly-constituted firm--"Davenal and Cray"--nothing of the sort.
Hallingham knew that he was admitted a partner so far as receiving a
share went; and they knew that that was all.
He was liked in Hallingham, this young doctor, and Dr. Davenal had
done it in kindness, to give him a standing. As the time went on, he
would have no doubt a larger and larger share--some time succeed to
the whole. He was considered a suitable partner for the doctor; the
Crays of the Abbey had always been looked up to in the town; and young
Cray's skill as a medical man was in the ascendant. Lady Oswald was
getting to like him very much; she evinced a desire to patronise him,
to push forward his interests; and Dr. Davenal was really in hope that
she would adopt him as her attendant for everyday calls instead of
himself. Mr. Cray could spare the time for these useless visits better
than Dr. Davenal. He, Mr. Cray, resided in lodgings in the town, and
was growing in its favour daily in a professional point of view: not
that he had displayed any unusual skill, but simply that Hallingham
gave him credit for possessing it, because they liked _him_.
There was a large family of the Davenals, as there was of the
Oswalds--speaking, in both cases, of the days gone by, and comprising
collateral branches. Years and years ago Surgeon Davenal's had been a
noted name in Hallingham; he had a large practice, and he had several
children. It is not necessary to speak of all the children. Richard
(the present Dr. Davenal) was the eldest son, and had succeeded to the
practice. The two other sons, Walter and John, had chosen to enter the
Church, and both, when ordained, had gone out to the West Indies; one
of them became chaplain to the Bishop of Barbadoes, the other obtained
a church in the island. Both had married there, and Caroline Davenal
was the only child of Walter, the elder of the two.
Sara was twelve years old when her cousin Caroline arrived in England,
an orphan; father and mother were both dead. A poor clergyman in the
West Indies, dying young, was not likely to have amassed money, and
the little child, Caroline, had literally nothing. Her father wrote an
appealing letter to his brother Richard, on his deathbed, and Richard
Davenal was not one to reject it.
"She shall be my child henceforth, and Sara's sister," said he, in the
warmth of his heart, when the letter and the child arrived at
Hallingham. And so she had been.
But it was by no means so certain that Caroline Davenal would not some
time be rich. A very large sum of money was pending in her mother's
family, who were West Indians. It had become the subject of dispute,
of litigation, and was at length thrown into that formidable court in
England--Chancery. Should it be decided in one way, Caroline would
derive no benefit; if in another, she would come in for several
thousand pounds. The probabilities were in her favour--but Chancery,
as you all know, is a capricious court, and does not hurry itself to
inconvenience.
Upon the death of Dr. Davenal's wife, his sister Bettina came to
reside with him, and to rule his children. He had but three--Richard,
Edward, and Sara. There had been others between Edward and Sara, but
they died young. Fine lads, those of Dr. Davenal, although they took
to plaguing stern Miss Bettina, and aggravatingly called her "Aunt
Bett." Fine young men, too, they grew up--well reared, liberally
educated. Richard embraced his father's profession; for Edward a
commission in the army was purchased, in accordance with his strong
wish, and he was now Captain Davenal.
And Richard Davenal, the eldest son, where was he? Ah! it was a
grievous story to look back upon. It had clouded the life of Dr.
Davenal, and would cloud it to the end. Richard was dead, and Dr.
Davenal blamed himself as the remote cause.
When Richard had completed his studies, and passed the College of
Surgeons, he returned to Hallingham, and joined his father in
practice, as it had been intended that he should. He grew greatly in
favour: he promised to be as clever as his father: and Hallingham
courted him. He was a man of attractive presence, of genial manners,
and he mixed a great deal of pleasure with his life of work. Dr.
Davenal spoke to him seriously and kindly. He said that too much
pleasure did not agree long with work, could not agree with it, and he
begged him to be more steady. Richard laughed, and said he would. A
short while, and startling news reached the ears of Dr. Davenal--that
Richard was thinking of marrying one who was undesirable. Richard, his
fine boy, of whom he was so fond and proud, marry _her!_ It was not
against the young lady herself that so much could be urged, but
against her connections. They were most objectionable. Dr. Davenal
pointed out to Richard that to wed this girl would be as a blight upon
his prospects, a blow to his reputation. Richard could not be brought
to see it. Though not equal to themselves in position, she was
respectable, he said; and her connections had nothing to do with
it--he did not marry them, he married her. The feud continued: not an
open feud, you understand, but an undercurrent of opposition, of
coolness. Richard would not give up his project, and Dr. Davenal
would not view it with anything but aversion. As to giving his
consent, that Dr. Davenal never would; and Richard, hitherto dutiful,
was not one to go the length of marrying in defiance.
It was at this time, or a little before it, that the dispute had
arisen in Barbadoes touching the money already spoken of. Particulars
of it were written to Dr. Davenal by his brother John, explaining also
how Caroline's interests were involved. He, the Reverend John Davenal,
said in the same letter that he was anxious to send his two little
boys to Europe for their education, and was waiting to find them a fit
escort; he did not care to trust them alone in the ship. As Dr.
Davenal read this letter, a sudden thought darted into his mind like a
flash of lightning. What if he sent out Richard? Richard could sift
the details about this fortune, could, if expedient, urge Caroline's
interests; he could bring back the two little boys, and--and--the
chief thought of all lay behind--it might break off the engagement
with the young girl here, Fanny Parrack! Quite a glow of satisfaction
came over Dr. Davenal's face at the thought.
He sought a conference with his son. He told him that he wished him to
take a voyage to Barbadoes; that Caroline's interests required
somebody to go out; that the two little boys had no friend to bring
them over. Richard hesitated. To most young men a visit to the West
Indies would be a welcome distraction; but Richard Davenal seemed
strangely to hold back from it--to shrink from its very mention. Did
some mysterious warning of what it would bring forth for him dart
unconsciously across his spirit? Or did he fear that it might in some
way lead to his losing the young lady upon whom he had set his heart?
It cannot be known. Certain it was, remembered, oh how remembered
afterwards, that an unaccountable repugnance on Richard's part did
evince itself, and it was only to the persistent urgent persuasion of
Dr. Davenal that he at length yielded. He yielded, as it were, under
protest, and he said he did, sacrificing his own strong wishes against
it to his father's.
He set sail, and he wrote on his arrival at Barbadoes, after a fine
passage; and the next letter they received, a fortnight afterwards,
was not from him, but from his uncle, the clergyman. Richard had died
of yellow fever.
It seemed to turn the current of Dr. Davenal's life. He blamed himself
as the cause: but for his scheming--and in that moment of exaggerated
feeling, of intense grief, he called it scheming--Richard, his best
beloved son, would be still by his side to bless him. He had never
been a scheming man, but an open and straightforward one; and never,
so long as he lived, would he scheme again. In his unhappiness, he
began to reproach himself for having needlessly opposed Richard's
marriage--to believe that he might have done worse than in marrying
Fanny Parrack. He sent for her, and he found her a pretty, modest,
gentle girl, and his repentance heaped itself upon him fourfold. He
informed her very kindly and considerately of the unhappy fact of
Richard's death, and he told her that should any memento be found left
for her amidst Richard's effects when they arrived--any letter, no
matter what--it should be given to her.
But that death had changed Dr. Davenal into an old man; in the two
years which had elapsed since, he had aged ten, both in looks and
constitution. No wonder that a spasm of pain came over his face when
Mr. Cray asked him whether he should forbid Caroline to him. You can
understand his answer now: "So long as I live I shall never 'forbid' a
marriage to any over whom I hold control:" and you can understand the
anguish of the tone in which it was spoken.
And that ends the chapter of retrospect.