"SHE NEVER TOLD HER LOVE."
Old Mr. Weston, a great magnate in his neighbourhood, a wealthy man, the owner of a fine estate, a justice of the peace, and what not, had been surprised out of himself by the sudden meeting of his friend, Gerald Hart, from whom he had been separated when they were almost boys, or at all events before either of them had experienced those trials and temptations, the reception and handling of which give the true stamp to a man's character. Our dear friend, Mr. Hart, had passed through the fire unscathed. His fine, honest nature shone steadily in the midst of every temptation; it never flickered or wavered when brought into contact with opportunity which by dishonesty or trickery could be turned to his advantage at another person's expense. His conscience was a touchstone, and he was guided by it; rogue could never be written on the sleeve of his jacket. That he was occasionally worsted by knaves distressed him, but did not embitter him; nor did it cause him to swerve. He was--to use a phrase I once heard from an American, who was speaking of a person he admired--emphatically a straight man.
To all outward appearance, Mr. Weston, when he was a young man, bade fair to rival his friend in genuineness and honesty of character; but the result falsified the promise. Money had spoiled him, as it spoils many a thousand men and women every year of our lives, and it is strictly true to state that he would have been a better man had he been less prosperous. I sometimes think what a dreadful world this would be if every person in it had more money than was needed for his requirements. Great prosperity is a heavy burden, and one can keep one's moral balance much better amid the storms of misfortune than when all his worldly desires are satisfied. More men are wrecked upon golden sands than upon sterile rocks of stone. So, in course of time, the young man who had won the love and esteem of Gerald Hart became over-weighted by prosperity, and over all the finest qualities of his nature crept a crust of worldliness which hardened and grew firmer with his years. These changes in character are common enough. I have in my eye now a young man whom I have known for a few years; a meek, quiet lad he was, with a mild and gentle face, advancing his opinions, when he could muster sufficient confidence, with a timid and unassuming air, which seemed to be the natural outcome of a kind and modest soul. This young man, having had a start in life, is fast developing beneath my observation into a solemn humbug, and he is already, with a seriousness which would be laughable if it were not lamentable, dealing very largely in a certain kind of stereotyped milk-and-water religious sentiment, which he parades (having the opportunity) with a long, sedate, and melancholy face, with all the authority of a Solon, before men and women who have grown grey in the service of the years. If I have the good fortune to live a dozen years, and then to meet this wretched prig (for I know exactly what he will grow into) dealing out his milk-and-water platitudes, I dare say I shall wonder what has become of the meek, modest lad whose gentle face first attracted my notice and won my favour.
As, in the same way, shall Mr. Hart presently wonder what has become of the frank and generous friend he knew in his youth, and whom he had cherished in his heart for so many, many years.
How, then, to account for the part Mr. Weston played in the interview which took place in the sweet Devonshire lane, where the fairy bells of the feather-grass were swinging to and fro in the clear waters of the brook? As I have said at the commencement of this chapter, he was surprised out of himself by the strange and sudden meeting; old memories had penetrated the crust of worldliness which now overlaid the better part of his nature, and for a little while the present was forgotten, and unconsciously set aside. He found it, indeed, a pleasant sensation to yield to the sweet waves of youthful remembrance which the appearance of Gerald Hart had conjured up, and worldly as he was, he honestly resolved to help his friend a little. Still when, in the latter part of the day, he thought over the interview, he confessed to himself that it would have been much more agreeable to him if his friend had been well-dressed and well-to-do.
Nevertheless, he gave Mr. Hart a cordial welcome to his house, a great part of his cordiality arising from a sense of satisfaction at being able to show his friend how well he had got on in the world.
"And this is your daughter?" he said, taking Lucy's hand; "I may use an old man's privilege."
When he took her hand, Lucy gave a little start of surprise, which only one person noticed.
Then he turned to Margaret, and shook hands with her. At her own request, she was introduced to him by her maiden name. "I don't want to be known yet as Mrs. Rowe," she had said.
It did not occur to Mr. Hart that there was any change in the nature of his old friend, as they stood gazing into each other's face, where lines and wrinkles were. It was one of his tricks to judge others by himself.