Jessie Trim

CHAPTER XXVI.

WE ENJOY A DECEITFUL CALM.

The harmonious relations between uncle Bryan and Jessie which my birthday seemed to have inaugurated continued for more than a fortnight, a result entirely due to Jessie's untiring efforts to conciliate him, and to 'keep him good,' as she expressed it. On the day following that on which I came of age, he showed symptoms of irritability at the tenderness into which he had been betrayed--for that undoubtedly was the light in which he viewed it; he had a suspicion that he had been played upon, and he was annoyed with himself for his weakness. Having, I doubt not, thought the matter well over during the night, and having quite made up his mind to vindicate himself, he came down in the morning more than usually morose and reserved, and received Jessie's affectionate advances in his coldest and most repellent manner. But Jessie would not permit him to relapse into his old cross humour; she charmed it out of him by a display of wonderful submission and tenderness, and by answering his snappish words with gentleness. In this way she disarmed him, and he, after some resistance, and with a singular mixture of pleasure and ungraciousness in his manner, allowed himself to be beguiled by her. The truth of the proverb that 'a soft answer turneth away wrath' was never better exemplified. If, when she had wooed him into a kinder mood, she had shown any signs of triumph, her influence over him would have come to an end immediately; he watched furtively for some such sign, and detecting none, resigned himself to this new and pleasant beguilement. Whether Jessie's conduct sprang from impulse or reason, she could not have behaved more wisely.

My mother was greatly rejoiced, and told me from day to day all that passed between these opposite natures. That the links of home love which bound us together were being strengthened was a source of exceeding delight to her.

'And it is all Jessie's doings, mother.'

'It is, my dear. I scarcely believed her capable of so much gentleness and submission.' (Here I thought to myself, 'I believe no one but I knows of what Jessie is capable.') 'When your uncle is most trying----'

'As he often is,' I interrupted, 'and without cause.'

'Well, my dear, if you will have it so. When he is most trying, she is most gentle, and she wins him to her side almost despite himself. And, Chris, I really think he likes it.'

'Who would not,' I exclaimed, 'when wooed by Jessie?'

'It is in her power,' said my mother, with a sweet smile of acquiescence, 'to make a great change in him. There is an undercurrent of deep tenderness in your uncle's nature, and Jessie is reaching it by the most delicate means. If she will only have patience! for it will take time, my dear.'

But these fair appearances were treacherous. Neither my mother nor I saw the clouds that were gathering, and when the storm burst I was impressed by the unhappy conviction that I, and I alone, was the cause. How little do we know of the power of light words lightly spoken! But for certain inconsiderate words which I had used, there would certainly have been sunshine in our house for a much longer time. As it was, this better aspect of things was destined soon to come to an end, and to come to an end in a way which introduced not only a more bitter discord between Jessie and uncle Bryan, but imbued us insidiously with a want of faith in one another. The storm broke suddenly, and without forewarning to uncle Bryan and my mother. But in the mean time the harmony was almost perfect. Jessie, when she went to bed, no longer parted from uncle Bryan with a careless 'Good-night,' but kissed him regularly every morning and every night, and he submitted to the caress without, however, inviting it by look or word. But even that wonder took place on a certain evening when Jessie, with a touch of her old ways upon her, wished us all good-night in a careless tone, and without kissing uncle Bryan. She opened and closed the door, but did not leave the room, and placed her fingers on her lips with a bright eager look in our direction, warning us not to betray her. Uncle Bryan's back was towards us, and he made no motion at first. Jessie stole quietly behind his chair, and stood there in silence. Presently, uncle Bryan turned his head slowly to the door, with something of a yearning look of regret in his face, and at the same instant Jessie's arms were round his neck, and her lips were pressed to his.

'Don't be angry with me,' she said.

'Angry, Jessie! I thought you had forgotten me. But you are as full of tricks as Puck was.'

'I can't help it, uncle Bryan. Good-night!'

'Good-night, my dear.'

And Jessie went to bed with a very light heart, and left light hearts behind her. It was apparent that these enchanting ways were pleasant to uncle Bryan, and I told Jessie so.

'It softens him, Jessie.'

'It takes a long time to soften a rock,' she observed, with a thoughtful smile.

'If anybody can do it, you can, Jessie.'

'You think nothing but good of me, Chris.'

'I only say what I feel. And you really want uncle Bryan to love you?'

'Yes--more than I can say--and I can scarcely tell why.'

'Except,' I said, with a foolish hesitation, 'that you like to be loved by everybody.'

'Perhaps it is because of that, Chris. I do like everybody to love me. It is much nicer so.'

If I wanted any consolation I supplied it by observing: 'To be sure, there are different kinds of love.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Jessie tantalisingly. 'Is it like uncle Bryan's sugar, of different shades and different degrees of sweetness? Some of it tastes very sandy, Chris.'

'Ah, now you are joking, Jessie!'

'I am not in a joking humour. I want to speak seriously. Chris, I have sometimes wondered that you have never asked me questions about myself.'

'In what way, Jessie?'

'About myself, before I came here. When one likes any one very much, one is naturally curious to know all about one.'

'I had my reasons, Jessie. When you first came, mother wished me not to ask you any questions. She said it would be like an attempt to steal into uncle Bryan's confidence. He might have secrets, she said, which he would not wish us to know.'

'Secrets!' she mused. 'What can I have to do with them? And yet, it is strange, now I think about it.'

'I should like you to tell me all about yourself,' I said; 'it doesn't matter now that you have spoken of it first yourself.'

'I was thinking of a secret that I have, Chris.'

I composed myself to receive her confidence.

'But I don't know what it is myself, yet. It is in a letter; perhaps----'

'Well, Jessie?'

'Perhaps nothing. It is only a letter that I am not to open until I am eighteen years of age. That will not be long, Chris. We will wait until then, and then I will tell you all I know. Let us blow it away till that time comes.' She blew a light breath. 'I wanted to make you a present on your birthday, but I did not have money enough then. Shall I give it to you now?' I held out my hand eagerly, and Jessie took from her pocket a small card-box. 'It is in this. What do you think it is?' I made a great many guesses, but she shook her head merrily at all of them. 'I went to look at it every day in the shop-window, afraid that some one might buy it before I had saved up money enough.'

I opened the box, and took from it a small silver locket, heart-shaped, with the words engraven on it, 'To Chris, with Jessie's love.' Unspeakable happiness dwelt in my heart as I gazed upon the emblem. As I held it in my hand tenderly, it seemed to me a living link between Jessie and me--an undying assurance of her love. Nothing so precious had ever been mine. My looks satisfied Jessie, and she clapped her hands in delight.

'So you like it, Chris?'

'I will never, never part with it, Jessie. But I want a piece of ribbon; may I have that piece round your neck?

'Take it off yourself, Chris.'

What a bungler I was, and how long it took me to remove the piece of simple ribbon, need not here be described. I know that while my trembling fingers were about her neck, Jessie, in reply to a look, said, 'Yes, you may, Chris;' and that I kissed her.

'And now, Chris,' she said, 'I want to speak to you about something that is troubling me very much. When you said the other night that uncle Bryan was an atheist, were you in earnest?'

'I said what I believed,' I answered with an uneasy feeling.

'And he is an atheist?'

'I am afraid he is, Jessie.'

'Has he ever told you so?'

'Oh, no; there are some things that one scarcely dares to speak of.'

'That is if one is weak and a coward. I am not that, and I don't think you are, Chris. Then I suppose you have never spoken to uncle Bryan about religion?'

'Not a word has ever passed between us upon religious matters.'

'An atheist is a person who does not believe in God, is he not, Chris?'

I was sensible that the discussion of so solemn a subject might lead to grave results, and I wished to discontinue it; but Jessie said:

'Don't be weak, Chris; I think I ought to know these things, and if we can't speak together in confidence, no two persons in the world can. Of course I can easily find out what I want to know; Gus West will tell me everything; but I came to you because we are nearer to each other.'

'Nearer and dearer, Jessie.'

'Yes, Chris; and now tell me what you know.'

I told her all that I knew concerning atheism, and all that I knew concerning uncle Bryan in connection with it. 'When I was a boy, Jessie, scarcely a week after we came to live with uncle Bryan, I heard him say that life was tasteless to him, and that he believed in nothing. I thought of it often afterwards.'

'Life was tasteless to him because he did not believe in anything; that is the proper view to take of it. If a person does not believe in anything, he cannot love anything. Can you imagine anything more dreary than the life of a person who does not love anybody, and who has nobody to love him? I can't. A person might as well be a stick or a stone--better to be that, for then he couldn't feel. But the words that uncle Bryan used may not have meant what you suppose, Chris.'

'They came in this way, Jessie. On the first Sunday we were here, mother asked uncle Bryan if he was going to church. He said that he never went to church. Mother was very sorry, I saw, but she did not say anything more. On that same night, uncle Bryan was reading a book, and he read aloud some passages from it. Mother asked him what was the name of the book, and he answered, The Age of Reason. When he laid the book aside, mother took it up, and looked at it; and then she sent me upstairs for the Bible. That was all; but I didn't quite know what was the real meaning of it until a long time afterwards, when I found out what kind of a book The Age of Reason is.'

'Tell me what it is.'

'It is a book written by an atheist for atheists; it might almost be called the Atheist's Bible, Jessie.'

'And did you never speak to your mother about uncle Bryan's religion?

'I have tried to, but mother is like me; there are some things she does not like to speak of.'

'And this is one of them,' said Jessie, following out her train of thought; 'and out of your love for her, when she said, "Let us talk of something else, my dear," you have talked of something else.'

'That is so, Jessie. It is almost as if you overheard what we said.'

'It is easy to see into your mother's heart, Chris. She did not like to speak about uncle Bryan's religion, because she loves him, and because she wants you to love him. Now, if it had been anything that would have made uncle Bryan stand out in a good light, she would have encouraged you to speak about it.'

'That is true enough, Jessie.'

'Chris, your mother is all heart.'

'She is everything that is good, if you mean that?'

'I do mean that; she is the best, the sweetest, the dearest woman in the world. Ah, if I were like her! But I am very, very different. What I say and what I think comes more often out of my head than out of my heart. Chris, it is impossible for an atheist to be a good man!'

I saw the pit we were walking into, but I had not the skill to lead Jessie away from it.

'A man who does not believe in God,' she exclaimed, 'cannot believe in anything good. No wonder that he is what he is. I am not satisfied--I am not satisfied! It is shocking--shocking to think of!' She shook her head at herself, and I listened to her words in no pleasant frame of mind. She was showing me an entirely new phase in her character. It was Jessie reasoning, and reasoning on the most solemn of subjects. 'Why,' she continued, 'God made everything that's good, and if uncle Bryan is an atheist, he is a bad man. And yet your mother loves him.'

'That she does, Jessie, with all her heart.'

'She couldn't love anything that's bad. If you were an atheist, Chris, I should hate you.'

'Thank God, I am not, Jessie; even if I were, you could make me different. But I don't like to hear you speak like this,' I said, reproaching myself bitterly for having been the cause of this conversation; for when I had told Jessie that uncle Bryan was an atheist I had spoken with a full measure of dislike towards him. 'Mother does not reason as you do. After all, I may be mistaken, Jessie, and we maybe doing him a great injustice. I know so much that is good of him--more than you possibly imagine.'

And then I told her what, from a false feeling of shame, I had hitherto withheld from her--the story of my mother's hard battle with the world when we came to London, and of uncle Bryan's noble behaviour to us when we were sunk in the bitterest poverty.

'All the time I have known him, Jessie, I have never known him to be guilty of an unjust action. He is as upright and honest a man as ever lived. Can such a man be a bad man?'

'Upright, honest, and just!' she repeated my words in a musing tone. 'It is an enigma.'

'He would die,' I continued warmly, 'rather than be guilty of a mean action. Now that we are speaking of him in this way, I am ashamed of myself for ever thinking ill of him. Mother was right, from the very first--she was right about him, as she always is about everything. If he were not so hard----But you don't know what trials he has gone through in his life.'

'Do you?'

'I know some of them, but I am pledged not to speak of them to any one--not even to you. One thing happened to him--never hint, for my sake, Jessie, that you even suspect it--one thing happened to him so terrible and so dreadful that it is no wonder he is hard and cold and morose. Many and many a time mother has entreated me to be kind and charitable in my thoughts towards him, and instead of doing so I have repaid all his kindness by the basest of ingratitude.'

'How have you done that, Chris?'

'By saying anything to you to cause you to dislike him. Ah, you may shake your head, but it is so, Jessie. If he were in my place, and I in his, he would come to me and ask me to forgive him; but I haven't the courage and fearless heart that he has, and I shouldn't know how to do it without giving him pain.'

I was really very remorseful, and sincerely so; but Jessie said nothing to comfort me.

'Have I had no reason of my own, until the last few days, to dislike him? Has he behaved quite kindly to me? Chris, is it possible that I am wrong in nearly everything that I have done? How many times have I tried to conciliate him, and how many times has he answered me with unkind words! There is some reason for it--there is some reason for it.'

'And yet remember, Jessie,' I said, without thinking, 'that he has given you a home, as he gave one to us, never asking for a return--never expecting one.'

Her face turned scarlet.

'Would he have said that?' she asked, and left me without another word.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE STORM BREAKS.

Jessie's moods were sufficiently variable and perplexing to cause me serious uneasiness, but I had no suspicion of what was in her mind when she spoke of uncle Bryan and his religious opinions, or I should have used my strongest efforts to avert the storm. Even when she made her first open move, which she did on the evening of the same day on which we had the conversation just recorded, I did not suspect her; truth to tell, my mind at that time was almost completely occupied by one theme--the locket which Jessie had given me, and its significance. As a charm, it was most potent in its power of bringing happiness to the wearer; I felt that while this locket was in my possession, it would be impossible for a cloud to shadow my life. But clouds came all too quickly.

We were sitting together in the evening, in the most amicable of moods. Suddenly Jessie addressed uncle Bryan.

'Uncle Bryan, who teaches the young?'

He looked inquiringly at her.

'Well,' she continued, understanding that an explanation was expected of her, 'one has to learn things; knowledge doesn't come of itself.'

'Assuredly not,' he said, with evident pleasure and curiosity; 'even parent birds teach their brood the use of their wings, and how to build their nests.'

'I did not know that; but it is of men and women I am speaking. They are higher than birds and beasts.'

'Yes,' he said, in a reflective tone; 'it is so.'

'If the world were filled with nothing but old people, I wonder what sort of a world it would be!'

'It would soon be no world at all,' he said; and added, with good-humoured depreciation, 'and while it lasted it would be a very disagreeable world, if the inhabitants in any way resembled me.'

'Never mind that, uncle Bryan; perhaps some people try to make themselves out a great deal worse than they are. So, then, there must be young people; that is a necessity.'

'As much a necessity as the seasons; it is the law of nature.'

'A good law?'

'Undoubtedly, young philosopher.' His manner was almost blithe.

'Well, then, to come back, as a friend of mine says. The young do not know what is right and wrong, and knowledge does not come of itself. Who teaches them?'

'The old,' he replied readily.

'Because they are more likely to know what is right and wrong.'

'For that reason, I should say. They have had more time to learn, and they have had more experience of the world.'

'Of course,' she said, 'and experience means wisdom. The old must know better than the young.'

'Naturally.'

'And young people should be guided by old people?'

'It would be better if that were more generally done.'

'That is all I wanted to know.'

Before many days were over, Jessie made her meaning apparent. She always accompanied my mother and me to church, and on the Sunday following this conversation she unmasked her battery.

'Uncle Bryan,' she said, while we were at breakfast, 'I want you to come to church with us this morning.'

A startled look flashed into my mother's eyes; uncle Bryan stared at Jessie, and bit his lips. He did not reply immediately.

'Young ladies have many wants,' he said.

'But this is a good want,' she pleaded. There was nothing saucy or defiant in her tone or manner; both were very gentle. 'But this is a good want. You will come with us?'

'I will not come with you,' he replied sternly.

'Do you never go to church?

'Never.'

'Why?'

'That is my affair.' The corners of his lips began to twitch.

'Is it not good to go to church?' she asked, still in a gentle tone, her colour beginning to rise. I noted with consternation these familiar signs of the coming battle. The shock was the more bitter because, to all outward appearance, everything had been fair between them until this moment. Only the night before we had stopped up half an hour later than usual, because the time was passing very pleasantly to all of us.

'My dear,' said my mother, with a sweet smile, taking Jessie's hand in hers; 'my dear, you forget!'

'Forget what, mother?' asked Jessie; she sometimes addressed my mother thus. 'Am I doing anything wrong?'

Even I could not help acknowledging to myself that Jessie, by a literal acceptation of my mother's words, was wilfully misinterpreting the nature and intent of her remonstrance; but I found justification for her.

'Uncle Bryan is the best judge,' said my mother.

'I know he is,' said Jessie.

'Let her go on,' cried uncle Bryan.

The old stern look was in his face, and his voice was very harsh. I was the more unhappy, because I alone held the key of the situation. Jessie repeated the question, addressing herself to uncle Bryan.

'Is it not good to go to church?'

'I do not say that,' was his reply.

'But I want you to say one way or the other. It must be either good or bad. You will come with us!'

'I will not come with you.'

The high tone in which he spoke put a stop to the discussion, and we finished the breakfast in the midst of an unhappy silence. Indeed, we all seemed too frightened to speak. At the proper time my mother and I were ready for church, and were waiting downstairs for Jessie, whom my mother had left in their room dressing. But Jessie was somewhat more dilatory than usual. My mother went to the stairs, and softly called out,

'Now, my child, be quick, or we shall be late!'

It was the first time I had ever heard my mother call Jessie her child, and I pressed her hand fondly for it. She returned the pressure, almost convulsively, and presently Jessie came slowly downstairs. She was dressed with unusual care in a pretty new soft dress, concerning the making of which there had been great excitement; but her head was uncovered.

'Get on your hat quickly, my dear,' said my mother; 'we shall have to walk fast.'

'I am not going to church,' said Jessie, in a low tone, in which I--and I alone, I believe--detected a tremor.

'Jessie!' cried my mother, in a tone of suffering; 'Jessie, my dear child!'

She stepped to Jessie's side, trembling from agitation. Jessie stood quite quietly by the table, and repeated, in a tone which she strove in vain to make steady,

'I am not going to church this morning.'

Uncle Bryan was in the room, but spoke not a word.

'Are you not well, my dear?' asked my mother.

'I am quite well.'

'Then why will you not come with us?'

'I am not sure that it is right to go to church.'

'My dear, if I tell you that it is'

'Uncle Bryan is older than you--twenty years older--and has had more experience of the world; therefore he must know better than you. If it were right to go to church, he would go, for I am sure he is an upright and just man.'

At this direct reference to him uncle Bryan raised his head, and gazed fixedly at Jessie, and at her latter words something like a sneer passed into his face. My mother looked helplessly from one to another.

'I know,' said Jessie, 'that I am the cause of this trouble, and I wish--oh, I wish!--that I had never come into the house! No, I don't wish it, for then I should never have known you!' She stood very humbly before my mother. 'I feel how ungrateful I am: to uncle Bryan for giving me a home'--(how these words stung me!)--'and to you for giving me a love of which I am so undeserving.'

The tears came into her eyes, and I went towards her, but she moved a step from me; and thus apart from each other we four stood for a few moments in perfect silence--a house pulsing with love and tenderness, but divided against itself. Then Jessie said suddenly:

'Uncle Bryan, if I go to church this morning, will you come with us some time during the year?'

'No,' he replied sternly and firmly.

'I have asked you in the wrong way, perhaps,' she said; 'but that would not alter the thing itself.'

'Whichever way you asked me, my answer would have been the same, young lady.'

'If you tell me to go now, I will go.'

'I will tell you nothing. You are your own mistress.'

'How are the young to be taught, then, if the old will not teach them?'

In the presence of my mother's distress he had no answer to make, and I felt that it was out of consideration for her, and not from any desire to spare himself, that he went into the shop and left us to ourselves.

Then Jessie to my mother:

'I hope you will forgive me, but if I knew I should have died for it I could not have helped doing what I've done. Don't be grieved for me; I am not worth it. I am going to spend the morning with Miss West.'

My mother and I went to church by ourselves; but I fear that my mood was not a very devout one. My mind was filled with what had taken place at home, and its probable consequences.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

COLOUR-BLIND.

The consequences were more serious than any one of us could possibly have imagined, with the single exception of uncle Bryan; where we hoped, he reasoned, and reasoned with bitterness against himself. There are in the world a sort of men with whom you are for ever at a disadvantage--men who from various motives are strangely, and ofttimes cruelly, reticent as regards themselves, their thoughts, and their actions. These men receive your confidences, but do not confide in you in return; they listen to your schemes, your hopes, your fears, but say not a word concerning their own. You wear your heart upon your sleeve; they lock up theirs jealously, and place upon them an impenetrable seal, which perhaps once or twice in a lifetime they remove--perhaps never. Uncle Bryan was one of these men. Scarcely by a look had he ever shown us his heart, and it required a nature not only more noble and generous, but more self-sacrificing, than mine not to misjudge him--to be even tolerant of him.

All our hopes of a more harmonious feeling between him and Jessie were utterly shattered, and my birthday, instead of being the commencement of a brighter and better era in our home relations, inaugurated an era of much unhappiness and discomfort. In the most unfortunate, and yet, as it seemed to me, in the most natural way, we were placed in a painfully-delicate position of antagonism. Who was to blame for this? I found the answer to this question without difficulty. Who but uncle Bryan was to blame? The part which Jessie had taken in the conversations between them was dictated by the best of feelings--was good and tender--and I admired her, not only for her courage, but for the affection she had displayed towards him, and for her efforts to wean him from his moroseness and infidelity. That she had failed was no fault of hers. The fault lay entirely in himself, and in his insensibility to softening influences. That, if she had succeeded, the result would have been both good and beautiful, was incontrovertible. I argued the matter very closely in my mind, for, notwithstanding my love for Jessie, I was anxious not to do uncle Bryan an injustice, and I could come but to one conclusion. What home could be happy with a master who possessed such a nature as his? He was like a dark shadow moving among us, and turning our joy into gloom.

These were partly the result of my reflections. Other considerations also arose. We were all bound to one another by ties of affection. That was a certainty, in the first blush of my reflections; but afterwards a doubt occurred to my mind. By what tie of affection was Jessie bound to uncle Bryan? He himself, when he told my mother and me the story of his life, had confessed it: by none. The charge of Jessie had almost been forced upon him, and his sense of duty had compelled him to accept it. It was not humanity that had impelled him to give Jessie a home. And if, after she came among us, she had failed to win his love, it was because his heart was hard and cold, and incapable of tenderness. I recalled a hundred little ways in which she had wooed him, and every one of them was an argument against him. Then I thought of her helpless dependent position, and my love for her and my anger against him grew stronger. That he was hard to her was an additional reason why I should show her openly, and without false weakness, that in me she had a champion and a friend who would be true to her until death. Even if I did not love her, I argued, this championship of one who was cast as a stranger amongst us would have been demanded of my manliness.

All these things were settled in my mind before my mother and I returned home from church on that memorable Sabbath, but not a word passed between us on the subject. I was silent out of consideration for my mother; she was silent out of the exquisite tenderness of her nature. Over and over again had she played the part of the Peacemaker between uncle Bryan and Jessie; but knowing uncle Bryan as she did, she felt that in this crisis she was powerless. The day passed quietly and unhappily. Jessie joined us as we passed the house of the Wests, and walked home with us; but during the whole of the day neither uncle Bryan nor she addressed each other, nor made any conciliatory movement towards each other. Once or twice she looked towards him, and the slightest look of kindness from him would, I knew, have brought her to his side. But although he was conscious of her gaze, he carefully avoided meeting it, and she, instinctively aware of his intention, looked towards him no more. It had been arranged that we should go to the Wests on this night; our visits there during the past fortnight had not been so frequent as usual; but as the time drew near, Jessie whispered to me that she intended to stop at home.

'I will run round,' she said, 'and tell Josey that I can't come; but you can go.'

'I shall do as you do, Jessie,' I said.

I thought afterwards that it was a great pity we stopped at home, for we were anything but lively company. Uncle Bryan might have been made of stone, so silent was he; Jessie rejected all my sympathising advances towards her; and even my mother was at a loss for words. I was curious about the 'good-night' between uncle Bryan and Jessie when bedtime was near; it occupied Jessie's thoughts also; but he settled it by lighting his candle and going to bed without bidding any one of us good-night. It was evident from this and from uncle Bryan's behaviour during the week that followed that all harmonious relations between him and Jessie were at an end. On the next Sunday Jessie came to church with us as usual.

I fully expected that she would take an opportunity of speaking to me on the subject of her difference with uncle Bryan; but as the time passed, and she did not speak of it, I approached the subject myself. I told her my opinion, and praised her for her courage.

'You are speaking against uncle Bryan,' she said.

'I can't help it, Jessie; 'he brings it on himself by his tyranny.'

'Tyranny!' she exclaimed. 'Do you forget what you said, and what I believe--that he is upright, honest, and just?'

'In other things he is; but not in this. He is like a man who can see, and who is colour-blind.'

'That is,' she said, with a deprecatory shake of the head, 'that he is Jessie-blind. Ah, Chris, if he is blind to what there is good in me, are you not blind to what there is bad?' I was about to expostulate, but she stopped me: 'I am not quite satisfied with myself; I don't know that it would not have been better for me to have held my tongue. And another thing, Chris: I am not sure whether I am glad that you think I was right.'

'Why, Jessie, what things you are saying!'

'I must say them, Chris, for I know what is in my mind. Answer me this question. Supposing you were not fond of me, as I know you are--I don't mind saying it now, for I am speaking very seriously--would you think then that I was right? Do you side with me out of your head or out of your heart?'

'My reason approves of what you did,' I said earnestly; 'I want you to believe that, Jessie. Say that you do believe it.'

'I do, Chris.'

'Then you must be glad to know that I am certain you are not to blame.'

She shook her head again, and said:

'Perhaps it would have been better if all of you had been against me.'

'But who is against you, Jessie?' I persisted. 'Mother is not, and I am not.'

'Never mind that now, Chris. I can see things that you can't see, because----'and she took my hand, and looked straight into my eye.'

'Because what, Jessie?'

'Because you are colour-blind, my dear,' she replied, half gravely, half sportively, in unconscious imitation of Josey West.

From this time her visits to the Wests grew even more frequent than they used to be. She was there not only in the evening--on which occasions I was always with her--but very often also in the day. My mother spoke of this to me regretfully, and said she was afraid that Jessie mistrusted her.

'Mistrust the sweetest woman in the world!' said Jessie. 'No, indeed, indeed I do not! But can't you see, Chris, that I am better away?'

'No, I can't see it, Jessie--not that I have any objection to the Wests; you know that I am very fond of them.'

'Still colour-blind, Chris? you still can't see what I can see?'

'You seem to be putting riddles to me, Jessie,' I said.

'Well, you must find the answers without my assistance; and as to my going to the Wests so often in the daytime, what comfort do you think I find at home?'

None, I was compelled reluctantly to confess.

'Have you heard uncle Bryan complain of my absence?' continued Jessie. 'Does he say that I am too often away?'

'No, Jessie, he has said nothing, to my knowledge.'

'Because he sees nothing to regret in it.'

'But mother does, Jessie.'

'Chris,' said Jessie, with tearful earnestness, 'if I had a mother like yours I should thank God for her morning, noon, and night; and if I ever wavered in my love for her, in my faith in her, if I ever did anything to give her pain, I should pray to die!'

'You speak out of my heart, Jessie, as well as out of your own.'

She gazed at me sadly and affectionately, and with something of wonder too.

'Well, well, Chris,' she said, 'I have my plans; let me go my way.'

I was content that she should, having settled in my mind that her way was my way, and that her way was right. I had my plans also, which I did not disclose to Jessie. I was improving my position rapidly, and I knew that the day was not far distant when I should be able to support a home by my own labour--nay, I was at the present time almost in a position to do so. But there were things to be seen to and provided for--furniture and that like; and I was saving money for them secretly. I looked forward with eagerness to the accomplishment of my scheme, and I worked hard to hasten its ripening. The sweet pictures of home-happiness which I conjured up were sufficient incentives--pictures from which neither Jessie nor my mother was ever absent. 'Then,' I thought, 'Jessie will not be a dependent upon one who is filled with unkind and uncharitable feelings towards her.' It was on my tongue a dozen times to tell Jessie how I was progressing in my scheme, but I restrained myself. 'No,' I said, 'I will not say anything to her about it until I am quite ready. Then I will speak openly to her. She knows that I love her, and that I am working for her.'

But I could not keep my plans entirely to myself. I unfolded them to my mother, who sat silent for a little while after I had finished. Then she said:

'Have you not forgotten something, my dear?'

'No, mother, not that I know of.'

'Or some one, I should rather say--your uncle Bryan.'

I returned a disingenuous answer. Uncle Bryan would never leave his shop. What would he find to do in a place where there were no customers to serve, and no business to look after?' (I added mentally, and where he was not master and tyrant?')

'Chris, my dear child,' said my mother humbly and imploringly, 'do not hide your heart from me!'

'Mother!' I cried, shocked at myself.

'Dear child, forgive me! It was forgetfulness on your part, I know, and unkind of me to put such a construction upon it. My boy could not be ungrateful. He knows how I love him, how proud I am of him. How well I remember his promise to me one night--in the old times, my darling, when I used to take in needlework for a living--that he would try to grow into a good man; and how grateful I am to the Lord to see him after all these years a good and clever man, the best, the dearest son that mother was ever blessed with!'

The old times came vividly before me, and a strangely-penitent feeling stirred my heart as I looked into my mother's face, with its expression of yearning love, and thought of the road I had traversed from boyhood to manhood. Bright and beautiful was this road with flowers of sweet affection; a heart whose tenderness time nor trouble could not weaken had cheered me on the way, and unselfish hands had made it smooth for me. The faithful mother who had strewn these flowers was by my side now, shedding the light of her sacred love upon me. She was unchanged and unchangeable, but I---- Ah, me! Let me not think of it. Let me kneel, as I used to kneel with my head in her lap when I was a boy, and when we were all in all to each other. Let me kneel and think of the long, long nights during which my mother used to work for bread for me; the trials, the disappointments, and the cheerful spirit bearing up through all, because a life that was dearer than her own was dependent upon her. The intervening years melted like a dream, and for a little while I was a boy again, and my heart was overflowing with tenderness for this dearest, best of women.

'I remember that night too, mother,' I said, raising my head from her lap; 'I have been looking at it again. I lay awake for a long time watching you; you were sighing softly to yourself, and did not know that I was awake.'

My mother smiled, and sang, as softly now as then, and as sweetly, the very words she had sung on that night.

'You forget nothing, mother.'

'Nothing that is so near to my heart, my dear. Nor would I have you forget Chris, to whom it is we owe our release from the dreadful difficulties that once threatened to overwhelm us; for I was getting very ill, you recollect, when your uncle's letter came to us, and I felt that my strength was failing me. We owe all to him, my dear; wherever our home is he must share it. We must never leave him--never; the mere contemplation of it, after all these years, makes me very unhappy.'

Delicate as was the manner in which my mother had set my duty before me, she had made it quite clear to my mind; but love and duty were at war with each other. All my visions of home-happiness were darkened now by the shadow of uncle Bryan. Whichever way I turned his image seemed to stand, barring my way to the realisation of my dearest hopes.