Brownlows: A Novel

by Mrs. Oliphant

“And I have told you, sir, that you are mistaken,” said Jack. “How is Powys different? except that he’s a young—cad—and never had any breeding. As for any idea you may have in your head about his family—have you ever seen his mother?”

“Have you?” said Mr. Brownlow; and his heart, too, began to beat heavily, as if there could be any sentimental power in that good woman’s name.

“Yes,” said Jack, in his ignorance, “she is a homely sort of sensible woman, that never could have been any thing beyond what she is; and one look at her would prove that to you. I don’t mean to say I like people that have seen better days; but you would never suppose she had been any thing more than what she is now; she might have been a Masterton shopkeeper’s daughter from Chestergate or Dove Street,” Jack continued, “and she would have looked just as she looks now.”

Mr. Brownlow, in spite of himself, gave a long shuddering sigh. He drew a step apart from his son, and stumbled over a stone in the gravel, not having the heart even to kick it away. Jack’s words, though they were so careless and so ignorant, went to his father’s heart. As it happened, by some curious coincidence, he had chosen the very locality from which Phœbe Thomson would have come. And it rang into the very centre of that unsuspected target which Mr. Brownlow had set up to receive chance shots, in his heart.

“I don’t know where she has come from,” he said; “but yet I tell you Powys is different; and some day you will know better. But whatever may be done about that has nothing to do with your own case. I repeat to you, Jack, it is very humbling to me.”

Here he stopped short, and Jack was doggedly silent, and had not a word of sympathy to give him. It was true, this second mésalliance was a great blow to Mr. Brownlow—a greater blow to his pride and sense of family importance than any body would have supposed. He had made up his mind to it that Sara must marry Powys; that her grandeur and her pretty state could only be secured to her by these means, and that she must pay the price for them—a price which, fortunately, she did not seem to have any great difficulty about. But that Jack should make an ignoble marriage too, that people could be able to say that the attorney’s children had gone back to their natural grade, and that all his wealth, and their admittance into higher circles, and Jack’s education, and Sara’s sovereignty, should end in their marrying, the one her father’s clerk, the other the little girl in the cottage at the gate, was a very bitter pill to their father. He had never schemed for great marriages for them, never attempted to bring heirs and heiresses under their notice; but still it was a downfall. Even the Brownlows of Masterton had made very different alliances. It was perhaps a curious sort of thing to strike a man, and a man of business, but nevertheless it was very hard upon him. In Sara’s case—if it did come to any thing in Sara’s case—there was an evident necessity, and there was an equivalent; yet even there Mr. Brownlow knew that when the time came to avow the arrangement, it would not be a pleasant office. He knew how people would open their eyes, how the thing would be spoken of, how his motives and her motives would be questioned. And to think of Jack adding another story to the wonder of the county! Mr. Brownlow did not care much for old Lady Motherwell, but he knew what she would say. She would clasp her old hands together in their brown gloves (if it was morning), and she would say, “They were always very good sort of people, but they were never much in our way—and it is far better they should settle in their own condition of life. I am glad to hear the young people have had so much sense.” So the county people would be sure to say, and the thought of it galled Mr. Brownlow. He would not have felt it so much had Jack alone been the culprit, and Sara free to marry Sir Charles Motherwell, or any other county potentate; but think of both!—and of all the spectators that were looking on, and all their comments! It was mere pride and personal feeling, he knew—even feeling that was a little paltry and scarcely worthy of him—but he could not help feeling the sting and humiliation; and this perhaps, though it was merely fanciful, was the one thing which galled him most about Jack.

Jack for his part had nothing to say in opposition. He opened his eyes a little in the dark to think of this unsuspected susceptibility on his father’s part, but he did not think it unjust. It seemed to him on the whole natural enough. It was hard upon him, after he had worked and struggled to bring his children into this position. Jack did not understand his father’s infatuation in respect to Powys. It was infatuation. But he could well enough understand how it might be very painful to him to see his only son make an obscure marriage. He was not offended at this. He felt for his father, and even he felt for himself, who had the thing to do. It was not a thing he would have approved of for any of his friends, and he did not approve of it in his own case. He knew it was the only thing he could do; and after an evening such as that he had passed with little Pamela, he forgot that there was any thing in it but delight and sweetness. That, however, was a forgetfulness which could not last long. He had felt it could not last long even while he was taking his brief enjoyment of it, and he began again fully to realize the other side of the question as he walked slowly along in the dark by his father’s side. The silence lasted a long time, for Mr. Brownlow had a great deal to think about. He walked on mechanically almost as far as Betty’s cottage, forgetting almost his son’s presence, at least forgetting that there was any necessity for keeping up a conversation. At last, however, it was he who spoke.

“Jack,” he said, “I wish you would reconsider all this. Don’t interrupt me, please. I wish you’d think it all over again. I don’t say that I think you very much to blame. She has a sweet face,” said Mr. Brownlow, with a certain melting of tone, “and I don’t say that she may not be as sweet as her face; but still, Jack, you are very young, and it’s a very unsuitable match. You are too sensible not to acknowledge that; and it may injure your prospects and cramp you for all your life. In justice both to yourself and your family, you ought to consider all that.”

“As it happens, sir, it is too late to consider all that,” said Jack, “even if I ever could have balanced secondary motives against—”

“Bah!” said Mr. Brownlow; and then he added, with a certain impatience, “don’t tell me that you have not balanced—I know you too well for that. I know you have too much sense for that. Of course you have balanced all the motives. And do you tell me that you are ready to resign all your advantages, your pleasant life here, your position, your prospects, and go and live on a clerk’s income in Masterton—all for love?” said Mr. Brownlow. He did not mean to sneer, but his voice, as he spoke, took a certain inflection of sarcasm, as perhaps comes natural to a man beyond middle age, when he has such suggestions to make.