“I don’t want to trouble you,” said Jack at last, abruptly, “but I should very much like to know, sir, what all this means. If Mrs. Preston is mad—as—God knows I don’t want to think it,” cried the young man, “but one must believe one’s eyes—if she is mad, why did you give in to her, and humor her? Why did not you let me take her away?”
“I don’t think she is mad,” said Mr. Brownlow, slowly.
Upon which Jack came to a dead stop, and stared at his father—“Good heavens, sir,” he said, “what can you mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow, getting up in his turn. “My head is not quite clear to-night. Leave me now. I’ll tell you after. I’ll tell you—sometime;—I mean in the morning.” Then he walked once more across the room, and threw himself into the big easy-chair by the dying fire. One of the lamps had run down, and was flickering out, throwing strange quivers of light and shade about the room. An indescribable change had come over it; it had been bright, and now it looked desolate; it had been the home of peace, and now the very air was heavy with uncertainty and a kind of hovering horror. Mr. Brownlow threw himself wearily into the big chair, and covered his face with his hands. A moment after he seemed to recollect himself, and looked up and called Jack back. “My boy,” he said, “something has happened to-night which I did not look for. You must consider every thing I said to you before as cancelled. It appears I was premature. I am sorry—for you, Jack.”
“Don’t be sorry for me,” cried Jack, with a generous impulse. “It could not have made much matter anyhow—my life is decided, come what may.”
Then his father looked up at him sharply, but with a quiver in his lip. “Ah!” he said; and Jack perceived somehow, he did not know how, that he had unwittingly inflicted a new wound. “It could not have made much matter—true,” he said, and rose up and bowed to his son as if he had been a stranger. “That being the case, perhaps the less we say to each other the better now—”
“What have I said, sir?” cried Jack in amaze.
“Enough, enough,” said Mr. Brownlow, “enough”—whether it was in answer to his question, or by way of putting an end to the conversation, Jack could not tell; and then his father waved him away, and sat down again, once more burying his face in his hands. Again the iron had entered his soul. Both of them!—all he had in the world—his fortune, his position, his son, his daughter, must all go? It seemed to him now as if the external things were nothing in comparison of these last. Sara, for whose sake alone he feared it—Jack, whom he had not petted—whom perhaps he had crossed a little as fathers will, but whom at bottom—never mind, never mind! he said to himself. It was the way of the world. Sons did not take up their father’s cause nowadays as a matter of course. They had themselves to think of—in fact, it was right they should think of themselves. The world was of much more importance to Jack than it could be to himself, for of course a young man had twice the length of time to provide for that his father could possibly have. Never mind! He said it to himself with his head bowed down in his hands. But he did mind. “It would not make much matter anyhow”—no, not much matter. Jack would have it instead of Sara and Powys. It was the same kind of compromise that he had intended—only that the persons and the motive were changed.
Poor Jack in the mean time went about the room in a very disconsolate state. He was so startled in every way that he did not know what to think, and yet vague shadows of the truth were flickering about his mind. He knew something vaguely of the origin of his father’s fortune, and nothing but that could explain it; and now he was offended at something. What could it be that he was offended at? It never occurred to Jack that his own words might bear the meaning that was set upon them; he was disconcerted and vexed, and did not know what to do. He went wandering about the room, lifting and replacing the books on the tables, and finally, after a long pause, he went up to his father again.
“I wish you’d have some confidence in me,” he said. “I don’t pretend to be wise, but still—And then if there is any thing hanging over us, it is best that a fellow should know—”