A. H. Clough.
ALONE with Mr. Guildford, Colonel Methvyn soon lost the nervousness and hesitation of manner, which were evidently the result of his invalidism and secluded life, but the gentleness of tone and bearing, natural to him, remained. He was a very attractive man, intelligent, accomplished and thoughtful, but hardly of the stuff to do battle with the world or to breast unmoved the storms of life.
“You must be patient with me,” he said to Mr. Guildford. “Since my health has broken down, troubles of all kinds have accumulated, and I fear I have grown fanciful and selfish. Constant suffering tries one’s philosophy sadly.”
“It needs not even to be constant to do that,” said Mr. Guildford. “A very little physical pain goes a long way in its mental effect.”
“I feel the want of a son sorely,” continued Colonel Methvyn. “Till my accident I looked after everything myself. This place is not very large, you know; not large enough to require a regular agent, and I can’t make up my mind to give it all up to hirelings. As far as is possible for a woman, my daughter does her best; she writes my letters, looks over the bailiff’s accounts, and so on, in a very creditable fashion, but I have no great faith in taking women out of their own sphere. For her, of course, it was to some extent necessary, as she stands in the place of a son, and must come after me here.”
He talked with some amount of egotism, and an almost amusing taking for granted that the family arrangements of the Methvyns must be subjects of public interest. But Mr. Guildford did not feel repelled, as he usually did, by the inference of superior importance in his patient’s tone. It was too unconscious to offend, even had it not been softened to the stranger by the natural gratification a young man cannot but experience at quickly winning the confidence of one many years his elder. After a while the conversation fell upon Mr. Guildford’s first visit to Greystone; he repeated in other words the opinion he had expressed to Miss Methvyn.
“I am glad to hear what you tell me,” said Colonel Methvyn. “I felt the little boy’s death very much—very much indeed.”
“Naturally,” said Mr. Guildford sympathisingly, “and you would feel it doubly on your daughter’s account.”
“Yes; she felt it a good deal, poor girl!” said Colonel Methvyn; “but young people, my dear sir, can throw off trouble—ah! yes, they can throw it off. It sinks deeper when one is no longer young.”
“But a mother,” said Mr. Guildford, a little surprised, “young or old, a mother’s feelings must be the same.”