“I feared there was something wrong,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I feared it, though I never thought it could have gone so far. I’ll do what I can, but I fear it is little I can do. If he has taken to bad ways—”
But here the stranger gave a cry of denial which rung through the room. “Bad ways! my boy!” said the mother. “Mr. Brownlow, you know a great deal more than I do, but you don’t know my son. He taken to bad ways! I would sooner believe I was wicked myself. I am wicked, to come and complain of him to them that don’t know.”
“Then what in the name of goodness is it?” said the lawyer, startled out of his seriousness. He began to lose the tragic sense of a dangerous presence. It might be the woman he feared; but it was a homely, incoherent, inconsequent personage all the same.
Mrs. Powys drew herself up solemnly. She too was less respectful of the man who did not understand. “What it is, sir,” she said slowly, and with a certain pomp, “is, that my boy has something on his mind.”
Something on his mind! John Brownlow sunk again into a strange fever of suspense and curiosity and unreasonable panic. Could it be so? Could the youth have found out something, and be sifting it to get at the truth? The room seemed to take life and become a conscious spectator, looking at him, to see how he would act in this emergency. But yet he persevered in the course he had decided on, not giving in to his own feelings. “What can he have on his mind?” he asked. His pretended ignorance sounded in his own ears like a lie; but nevertheless he went on all the same.
“That’s what I don’t know, sir,” said Mrs. Powys, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “He’s been rummaging among my papers, and he’s may be found something, or he’s heard some talk that has put things in his head. I know he has heard things in this very house—people talking about families, and wills, and all that. His father was of a very good family, Mr. Brownlow. I don’t know them, but I know they’re rich people. May be it’s that, or perhaps—but I don’t know how to account for it. It’s something that is eating into his heart. And he has such a confidence in you! It was you that took him up when we were strangers, and had nobody to look to us. I have a little that my poor husband left me; but it’s very little to keep four upon; and I may say it’s you that gave us bread, for that matter. There’s nothing in this world my boy wouldn’t do for you.”
Then there was a pause. The poor woman had exhausted her words and her self-command and her breath, and stopped perforce, and Mr. Brownlow did not know how to reply. What could he say to her? It was a matter of death and life between him and her boy, instead of the indifferent question she thought. “Would you like me to speak to him?” he said at last, with a little difficulty of utterance; “should I ask him what is occupying his mind? But he might not choose to tell me. What would you wish me to do?”
“Oh, sir, you’re very good,” said Mrs. Powys, melting into gratitude. “I never can thank God enough that my poor boy has met with such a kind friend.”
“Hush!” said Mr. Brownlow, rising from his chair. He could not bear this; thanking God, as if God did not know well enough, too well, how the real state of the matter was! He was not a man used to deception, or who could adapt himself to it readily. He had all the habits of an honest life against him, and that impulse to speak truth and do right which he struggled with as if it were a temptation. Thus his position was awfully the reverse of that of a man tempting and falling. He was doing wrong with all the force of his will, and striving against his own inclination and instinct of uprightness; but here was one thing beyond his strength. To bring God in, and render him, as it were, a party, was more than he could bear. “I am not so kind as you think,” he said hoarsely. “I am not—I mean your son deserves all that I can do.”
“Oh, sir, that’s kind—that’s kindness itself to say so,” cried the poor mother. “Nothing that could be said is so kind as that—and me, that was beginning to lose faith in him! It was to ask you to speak to him, Mr. Brownlow. If you were to ask him, he might open his heart to you. A gentleman is different from a poor woman. Not that any body could feel for him like me, but he would think such a deal of your advice. If you would speak and get him to open his heart. That’s what I wanted to ask you, if it’s not too much. If you would be so kind—and God knows, if ever it was in my power or my children’s, though I’m but a poor creature, to do any thing in this world that would be a service to you—”