FELIX, DISSATISFIED WITH THE REALITY, SETS UP AN IDOL, AND
WORSHIPS IT.
In the passage Felix was confronted by the colourless housekeeper. He
had a kindly feeling for her. She had been his father's housekeeper
ever since he could remember. She was a young woman and well-looking
when he was a little child. When he came home, a man, she had
addressed him in the old familiar way, and he was surprised at the
change in her; but he soon recognised that living all her life within
the influence of his father's house had made her what she was. Now,
as, she confronted him, he gave her a kind nod, and would have passed
her: but she laid her hand upon his arm to detain him.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Into the churchyard," he answered.
"Where, after that?"
"A subtle question, Martha. Who knows where he goes to after he gets
into the churchyard?"
"Where, after that?" she repeated.
"Ask the worms," he replied; and added, somewhat bitterly, "or the
preachers."
"Answer me, Felix," she said.
"I can't;" and again he attempted to pass her.
"Nay," she said, almost entreatingly; "let me speak to you for a
minute or two."
"Come outside, then; I cannot speak to you here."
She followed him into the porch. The chair which he had brought for
Lily was there, but Lily was gone. The fragrance of the scented water
he had sprinkled upon his handkerchief lingered in the air. He placed
his hand upon the chair, and in his fancy the sweet air became
associated with the tender girl who had rested there awhile ago. He
smiled, half gladly, half sadly, as the fancy came upon him. The
housekeeper watched him earnestly, as if striving to read his
thoughts.
"Now, Felix, where are you going afterwards?"
"I can't tell you, Martha," he replied--softly, for he was thinking of
Lily. "My plans are unformed."
"When do you return?"
"Never; unless something dearer than life brings me back."
"You have had a quarrel with your father?"
"You are a witch," he said lightly, "and ought to be burnt."
"You have had a quarrel with your father," she repeated, showing no
temper at his light manner, but even seeming to take pleasure in it.
"Something like that. We don't agree. There are not two rights, are
there, Martha?"
"I am not sure; there may be."
"I _am_ sure. My father's right and mine are as the north and the
south pole. If I am right, I must not stay here and vex him: it would
be unfilial. If he is right, I must sit in sackcloth and ashes, and
pray for fresh blood and bone and brain before we can meet again. Any
way I must go; that is settled."
"Who settled it?"
"He, or I, or both of us. Are you not witch enough to guess for
yourself? It came, somehow. That is enough. If you entertain the idea
that the difficulty is to be smoothed over----"
"I do not," she interrupted. "I know your father."
"And me--do you think you know me?"
"I think I do."
"Therefore you must see how impossible it is that he and I, having
disagreed upon a vital point--it _is_ vital, to my thinking--can live
together. I have a fancy in my head, Martha; I'll tell it to you. To
have a father and not have a father--as is the case with me--is
dreadful. For father and son to disagree is dreadful also. So I shall
imagine a father, and as he is sure to agree with me, we shall be the
best of friends. I shall picture him tender, and good, and kind;
tolerant, yet conscientious; merciful, yet just. I can see him, and I
love him already!"
Light as his words were, there was a vein of seriousness in his tones
that showed how deeply his feelings had been stirred.
"When I left the Continent," he continued, "I had a friend with me who
also had been absent from home for years. At intervals during our
journey, he spoke with enthusiasm of home delights and of the
happiness in store for him when he and his family came together. He
showed me letters from them which made me think. We crossed from Paris
to Dover, and there he met his father, who had travelled a hundred
miles to welcome his son the moment he set foot on English soil. They
threw their arms round each other, like boys, and laughed to keep away
the tears. When I came to the railway station here--just half a mile
from where we stand--I looked about me with a dim hope that _my_
father had come that distance to welcome his son home. But there are
fathers and fathers, Martha. Now, if I had been wise, and had set up
my imaginary father before the train stopped, I should have seen him
waiting for me on the platform; I should have been able to throw my
arms round his neck, to press him to my heart, and to see in his eyes
a kindly welcome; I should have been able to grip his hand, and to
say, 'Bravo, dear old fellow! I love you!' But I was not wise, and to
be forewarned by my fears was not with me to be forearmed. It is not
too late, though--it is never too late. Away, you shadows!"
He flicked his handkerchief in the air, as if the reality oppressed
him with a phantom presence, and said in a mock-serious tone, in which
earnestness struggled not vainly for a place:
"Here I raise a father whom I love. I kiss his hand, and vow to pay
him all respect. He shall go with me, and we shall live together."
There was nothing in the housekeeper's appearance to denote that
freaks of the imagination would find favour in her eyes, and yet
gleams of pleasure--all the more strange because she sought to
suppress them--brought light to her dull white face as Felix with
fantastic grace stooped to kiss the hand of the shadow he had raised.
But these signs faded away as soon as Felix had finished speaking, and
her face resumed its usual dulness of expression.
"Those persons who have just gone, Felix--had they anything to do with
your quarrel with your father?"
"I never saw them before," he replied.
"Had they anything to do with the quarrel with your father?" she
persisted.
"There's something of the bull-dog in your nature, Martha," he said,
laughing. "You never leave a subject until it is settled."
"I would not hurt you, Felix," she said, softly.
"I don't believe you would. Well, yes, they _had_ something to do with
the immediate cause of my leaving--though it would have come to the
same thing without them. We were on the verge of the precipice as they
entered. I must go and see how they are getting along, and if I can be
of any use to them; but I shouldn't wonder if they shrunk from me and
looked upon me as an unclean thing. Are you surprised at all this,
Martha?"
"No," she replied tranquilly. "This is no house for sunshine. I knew
when you came that you would not be here long."
"You can do me a service. I shall soon look my last on this place;
will you pack up such things as are mine, and give them to a messenger
I shall send?"
"Yes; they shall be ready this evening."
"Then that is all, and the world is before me for me to open. Where is
my oyster-knife?" He felt in his pockets with a comical air. "Ah, it
is here," and he touched his forehead confidently. "So now good-bye,
Martha."
She did not relinquish the hand he held out to her, but clasped it
firmly in hers.
"You will let me know where you live, Felix?"
"O, yes; I will let you know."
"I have but little money of my own, unfortunately----"
"Stop, stop, stop!" he cried, with his fingers on her "Enough has been
said, and I must go. Good-bye."
"Good-bye; I think you do right to leave, Felix."
"I should be compelled to leave, sooner or later," he replied; "I
could not live without love or sympathy. The cold austerity of this
house is enough to turn heart and face to stone. I pity you, Martha. I
have sometimes wondered how you could have stood it so long."
"I earn money here, Felix. Your father pays me liberally--for
him--because I suit him; and I am not entirely without love. I have
something to work for, thank God. Good-bye. May every good fortune be
yours!"