I could have told her, but the seal of secrecy was on my tongue. I need scarcely say that all my sympathies were with Jessie. I was an attentive observer of the state of things at home, and I had many confidential conversations with my mother concerning matters. Loving Jessie as I did, I could not, in my heart, be tolerant and kind to uncle Bryan, as she begged me to be; the hard and stern rules which he had set down for himself, the following out of which by us might possibly have won his favour, would have made life a burden. I applied these rules to himself, and his own life was his own condemnation. There was no question in my mind as to whether he was right or wrong. But I could not win my mother to my way of thinking; nor did I endeavour after a little while, for I saw that it gave her pain. Never did a hard word pass her lips concerning him; she had affectionate excuses for him in every fresh difference between him and Jessie. I thought she was wrong, but I did not tell her so, nor did I distress her by endeavouring to explain to her that her own conduct was a contradiction to her words. That she never missed an opportunity to be tender and gentle to Jessie was a sufficiently strong argument against uncle Bryan. In her love for my mother Jessie never wavered; it seemed to me to grow stronger every day. Sometimes when we were at home together--it was not a very frequent occurrence now, for Jessie and I were generally out of an evening at the Wests', or at a theatre for which orders had been given to us--I observed Jessie watching us; but when she saw my eyes upon her, she would turn hers away thoughtfully. One night we had come home late; uncle Bryan was abed; my mother had prepared supper for us. We sat down, and after supper fell into silence; I do not know what I was thinking of, but we remained silent for many minutes. Happening to look in the direction of my mother, I saw her wistful eyes upon me, and at the same moment Jessie rose, and, kneeling before my mother, drew her face down, and kissed it. I was by their side in an instant, and the three of us were clasped in one embrace; but Jessie quickly released herself, and left me and my mother together.
Time went on and there was no change, except that we were growing older, and that Jessie was growing more and more beautiful. I was getting along well, and as I was earning fair wages, I contributed, with pride, a fair sum towards the expenses of the house. I was enabled to make my mother and Jessie many little presents now, and I sometimes coaxed my mother to buy Jessie a new dress or a new hat, and not to let her know that they came from me. On the anniversary of my twenty-first birthday we had a party at home, the four of us, and were happier and more comfortable in each other's society than we had been for a long time. Even uncle Bryan softened--not only towards me, but towards Jessie.
'Your boyhood is over,' said uncle Bryan; 'you are now a man, with a man's responsibility, and a man's work to do in life. Do it well.'
'I will try to, uncle,' I replied.
'To perform one's duties,' continued uncle Bryan, 'taxes a man's judgment very severely, and as a man's judgment is generally the slave of his inclination, it is seldom that he can look back upon his life with satisfaction.'
'I don't quite understand that,' I observed; 'if a man's inclinations are good----'
Uncle Bryan interrupted me, for I had paused. He took up my words. 'Inclination is an idle selfish imp. Life is full of temptations, and inclination leads us to them; we follow only too readily.'
'All that we can do,' said my mother, caressing me fondly, 'is to do our best; we are often the slave of circumstances, Bryan.'
'In many cases,' he replied, 'not in all, a man can rise above them. We do not exercise our reason sufficiently. We cry and fret like children because things are not exactly as we wish.'
'Do you?' asked Jessie quickly. He answered her evasively. 'I have my sorrows.'