“You asked me; you began it! I should not have mentioned them if you had not asked that question. Then I recognised you, and thought it would be fun. You were not a stranger, you see; you were Uncle Bernard.”
“That may be my name, but as I have never seen you before, I can hardly rank as a friend. May I ask how you came to recognise me at all?”
“Oh yes! We have your portraits at home, and mother often talks of you, and the happy times she had when she used to visit you with father when they were engaged. When we were children it was a favourite game for one of us to be Uncle Bernard, and the other guests staying at the Court, and we used to go through all the adventures which father had as a boy,—fall into the mill-stream and be rescued by the dog, and be chased by the bull in the long meadow, and ride on the top of the waggons at the harvest home. We know all about the house, and the tapestry in the hall, and the funny wooden pictures of the Dutch ancestors, and the long gallery where you used to dance at night. Mother loves talking about it. She has not much fun in her life now, poor dear, and that makes her think all the more of her youth. We envy her, Ruth and Trix and I, because we have a very quiet time at home. We are poor, you see. You can’t have much fun if you are poor.”
“You think that riches are the one thing needful; that if you had enough money your happiness would be assured?”
“Ah!” sighed Mollie rapturously. “How happy I should be! I’ve never had enough money for my wants in all my life, so I can’t even imagine the bliss of it. I should not know how to be happy enough.”
The old man looked at her silently. She saw that he was about to speak, but the words were long in coming. A cloud had drifted across the sun, and the stretch of park looked suddenly grey and bare. Mollie drew her shoulders together with an involuntary shiver. Something had suddenly damped her ardour of enthusiasm; but it was not so much the bleak wind as the sight of the face gazing into her own, with its set lips, and bleached, joyless expression. For years to come Mollie could recall that moment, and feel again the chill in her veins with which she listened to his reply.
“All my life long,” said Bernard Farrell slowly, “all my life everything that I have touched has turned to gold, and everyone I have loved,”—he paused, lingering on the word, and again Mollie shivered in sympathetic understanding—“everyone whom I have loved has died!” The wind seemed to take up the word, and repeat it in melancholy echo. “Died! died! died!” wailed the trees, tossing drearily to and fro. “Died!” shivered the ripple over the cold grey lake. The clouds gathered in a pall overhead.
“I’m sorry!” gasped Mollie faintly—“I’m so sorry!” But Mr Farrell stopped her with a hasty gesture.
“Please spare me protestations of sympathy. They were the last thing I wished to evoke. I merely wished to impress upon you that I am in a unique position for judging the worth of riches.—Is it your pleasure that we continue our journey? The afternoon is growing chill.”
Mollie rose in confusion, but she did not reply, nor make any further offer of support. There was something in the old man’s voice which forbade familiarities. He was no longer merely cross and unamiable; she had caught a glimpse into the secret of a desolate heart, and the sight sobered her youthful spirits.