Brownlows: A Novel

by Mrs. Oliphant

Later in the afternoon he had some visitors. Altogether it was an exciting day. The first who came to him was Sir Charles Motherwell, who had ridden in from Ridley, where he was staying, to see him, and whose appearance awoke a certain surprise and expectation in Mr. Brownlow’s mind; he thought Sara must have accepted him after all. But the baronet’s looks did not justify his hope; Sir Charles was very glum, very rueful, and pulled at his mustache more than ever. He came in, and held out his hand, and put down his hat, and then pulled off his gloves and threw them into it, as if he were about to perform some delicate operation; when he had got through all these ceremonies, he sank into the chair which stood ready for Mr. Brownlow’s clients, and heaved a profound sigh.

“I thought I’d come and tell you,” he said, “though it ain’t pleasant news; I tried my luck, as I said I would—not that I’ve got any luck. She—she—wouldn’t hear of it, Brownlow. I’d have done any thing in the world she liked to say—you know I would; she might have sold the old place, or done what she pleased; but she wouldn’t, you know, not if I’d gone down on my knees—it was all of no use.” He had never uttered so many sentences all on end in his life before, poor fellow. He got up now, and walked as far as the office wall would let him, and whistled dolefully, and then he returned to his chair, and breathed another deep sigh. “It was all of no use.”

“I am very sorry,” said Mr. Brownlow—“very sorry; she would have chosen a good man if she had chosen you; but you know I can’t interfere.”

“Do you think I want any one to interfere?” said Sir Charles, with momentary resentment. “Look here, Brownlow, I’ll tell you how it is; she said she liked some one else better than me—I’d like to wring the fellow’s neck!” said the disappointed lover, with a little outburst; “but if there’s money, or any thing in the way, I thought I might lend him a hand—not in my own name, you know. I suppose a girl ain’t the master to like whom she ought to like, no more than I am,” said Sir Charles, disconsolately, “but she’s got to be given in to, Brownlow. I’d lend him a hand, if that was what was wanting. As long as she’s happy and has her way, a man can always pull through.”

Mr. Brownlow started a little at this strange speech, but in the end the confused generosity of the speaker carried him out of himself. “You are a good fellow, Motherwell,” he said heartily, holding out his hand—“you are the best fellow I know.”

“Ah, so she said,” said poor Sir Charles, with a hoarse little laugh—he was not bright, poor fellow, but he felt the sarcasm; “I’d a deal rather she had praised me less and liked me more—”

And he ended with another big sigh. Mr. Brownlow had to make himself very uncomfortable by way of discouraging Sir Charles’s generosities. He had to protest that he knew no one whom Sara could prefer. He had to say at last peremptorily that it was a matter which he could not discuss, before his anxious and melancholy visitor could be got rid of. It was not a pleasant thought to Mr. Brownlow. He did not like to hear of Sara preferring any man. He could have given her to Charley Motherwell, who would have been her slave, and could have assured her position, and endowed her with a title such as it was; but Sara in love was not an idea pleasant to her father, besides the uneasy wonder who could be the object of her preference. He tried to go back and recollect, but his memory failed him. Then there came a dim vision to his mind of a moment when his child had turned from him—when she had wept and rejected his embrace and his sympathy. How long was that ago? But he did not seem able to tell. It was before—that was all he knew. Every thing had happened since. He had told her she was free, and she had turned upon him and upbraided him—for what? Years seemed to lie between him and that half-forgotten scene. He tried in vain to resume the thread of his plans and arrangements. In spite of himself his reluctant yet eager thoughts kept going back and back to that day. How long was it since he had thought Powys the heir? How long since the moment of unlooked-for blessedness when he believed himself free? It was on that day that Sara had turned from him and cried—that day when he was so full of comfort, so anxious to show his gratitude to God—when he had drawn that check for the Masterton charities, which—by, the way, how had he distributed the money? Catching at this point of circumstance, Mr. Brownlow made an effort to escape from his recollections. He did not want to recall that foolish premature delight. It might have been years ago, to judge by his feelings; but he knew that could not be the case. It had become late in the afternoon by this time, and the clerks were mostly gone. There was nobody whom he could ask what had been done about the check for the charities; and he had just drawn toward him the dispatch-box with his papers which had been brought from Brownlows with him, to ascertain for himself, when the office-boy came pulling his forelock to ask if he would see a lady who was waiting. Mr. Brownlow said No, at first, for it was past office hours, and then he said Yes, no longer feeling any tremor at the prospect of a strange visitor. He could believe it was a simple client now, not a messenger of fate coming to ruin and betray, as for a long time he had been in the way of feeling. Such ease of mind would be cheaply purchased even with fifty thousand pounds. The lady came in, accordingly, and Mr. Brownlow received her with his usual courtesy, which was, however, a little disturbed when he looked at her. Not that he had any real occasion to be disturbed. A far-off flutter of his past anxieties, a kind of echo, came over him at the sight of her pleasant homely face. He had thought she was Phœbe Thomson the last time he had seen her. He had shrunk from her, and lost his self-possession altogether. Even now a minute had elapsed before he could quite command himself, and remember the real condition of affairs.

“Good day, Mrs. Powys,” he said; “I am sorry to have’ kept you waiting. Why did not you send me word who it was?”

“I thought you might have been engaged, sir,” said Mrs. Powys; “I wasn’t sure if you would remember me, Mr. Brownlow. I came to you once before, when I was in trouble, and you were very kind—too kind,” she added, with a sigh. “No, no, it is not the same thing. If my poor boy has troubles still, he does not hide his heart from me now.”

“That is well,” said Mr. Brownlow, coldly. He thought some appeal was going to be made to him on behalf of Powys and his folly. Though he was in reality fond of Powys, he stiffened instinctively at the thought. “It is growing late,” he went on; “I was just going. Is there any thing in which I can be of use to you?” He laid his hand on his dispatch-box as he spoke. His manner had been very different when he was afraid of her; and yet he was not unkind or unreasonable. She was his clerk’s mother; he would have exerted himself, and done much to secure the family any real benefit; but he did not mean that they should thrust themselves into his affairs.