"Surely,"I said anxiously,"you have never repented what you did about Lord Ravenel?""No--not once.It cost me so much,that I know it was right to be done.""But if things had been otherwise--if you had not been so sure of Maud's feelings--"He started,painfully;then answered--"I think I should have done it still."I was silent.The paramount right,the high prerogative of love,which he held as strongly as I did,seemed attacked in its liberty divine.For the moment,it was as if he too had in his middle-age gone over to the cold-blooded ranks of harsh parental prudence,despotic paternal rule;as if Ursula March's lover and Maud's father were two distinct beings.One finds it so,often enough,with men.
"John,"I said,"could you have done it?could you have broken the child's heart?""Yes,if it was to save her peace,perhaps her soul,I could have broken my child's heart."He spoke solemnly,with an accent of inexpressible pain,as if this were not the first time by many that he had pondered over such a possibility.
"I wish,Phineas,to make clear to you,in case of--of any future misconceptions--my mind on this matter.One right alone I hold superior to the right of love,--duty.It is a father's duty,at all risks,at all costs,to save his child from anything which he believes would peril her duty--so long as she is too young to understand fully how beyond the claim of any human being,be it father or lover,is God's claim to herself and her immortal soul.
Anything which would endanger that should be cut off--though it be the right hand--the right eye.But,thank God,it was not thus with my little Maud.""Nor with him either.He bore his disappointment well.""Nobly.It may make a true nobleman of him yet.But,being what he is,and for as long as he remains so,he must not be trusted with my little Maud.I must take care of her while I live:afterwards--"His smile faded,or rather was transmuted into that grave thoughtfulness which I had lately noticed in him,when,as now,he fell into one of his long silences.There was nothing sad about it;rather a serenity which reminded me of that sweet look of his boyhood,which had vanished during the manifold cares of his middle life.The expression of the mouth,as I saw it in profile--close and calm--almost inclined me to go back to the fanciful follies of our youth,and call him "David."We drove through Norton Bury,and left Mrs.Edwin there.Then on,along the familiar road,towards the manor-house;past the white gate,within sight of little Longfield.
"It looks just the same--the tenant takes good care of it."And John's eyes turned fondly to his old home.
"Ay,just the same.Do you know your wife was saying to me this morning,that when Guy comes back,when all the young folk are married,and you retire from business and settle into the otium cum dignitate,the learned leisure you used to plan--she would like to give up Beechwood.She said,she hopes you and she will end your days together at little Longfield.""Did she?Yes,I know that has been always her dream.""Scarcely a dream,or one that is not unlikely to be fulfilled.Ilike to fancy you both two old people,sitting on either side the fire--or on the same side if you like it best;very cheerful--you will make such a merry old man,John,with all your children round you,and indefinite grandchildren about the house continually.Or else you two will sit alone together,just as in your early married days--you and your old wife--the dearest and handsomest old lady that ever was seen.""Phineas--don't--don't."I was startled by the tone in which he answered the lightness of mine."I mean--don't be planning out the future.It is foolish--it is almost wrong.God's will is not as our will;and He knows best."I would have spoken;but just then we reached the manor-house gate,and plunged at once into present life,and into the hospitable circle of the Oldtowers.
They were all in the excitement of a wonderful piece of gossip;gossip so strange,sudden,and unprecedented,that it absorbed all lesser matters.It burst out before we had been in the house five minutes.
"Have you heard this extraordinary report about the Luxmore family?"I could see Maud turn with eager attention--fixing her eyes wistfully on Lady Oldtower.
"About the earl's death.Yes,we saw it in the newspaper."And John passed on to some other point of conversation.In vain.
"This news relates to the present earl.I never heard of such a thing--never.In fact,if true,his conduct is something which in its self-denial approaches absolute insanity.Is it possible that,being so great a friend of your family,he has not informed you of the circumstances?"These circumstances,with some patience,we extracted from the voluble Lady Oldtower.She had learnt them--I forget how:but news never wants a tongue to carry it.
It seemed that on the earl's death it was discovered,what had already been long suspected,that his liabilities,like his extravagances,were enormous.That he was obliged to live abroad to escape in some degree the clamorous haunting of the hundreds he had ruined:poor tradespeople,who knew that their only chance of payment was during the old man's life-time,for his whole property was entailed on the son.
Whether Lord Ravenel had ever been acquainted with the state of things,or whether,being in ignorance of it,his own style of living had in degree imitated his father's,rumour did not say,nor indeed was it of much consequence.The facts subsequently becoming known immediately after Lord Luxmore's death,made all former conjectures unnecessary.
Not a week before he died,the late earl and his son--chiefly it was believed on the latter's instigation--had cut off the entail,thereby making the whole property saleable,and available for the payment of creditors.Thus by his own act,and--as some one had told somebody that somebody else had heard Lord Ravenel say:"for the honour of the family,"the present earl had succeeded to an empty title,and--beggary.
