“I beg your pardon, sir; but I could not but smile at the thought of Mr. John—”
“Never mind Mr. John,” said Mr. Brownlow, discomfited. “He has his way, and we have ours. I don’t set up my son as an example. The thing is, that I should be glad if you would take me into your confidence. If any thing is wrong I might be able to help you; and if you have something on your mind—”
“Mr. Brownlow,” said young Powys, with a deep blush, “I am very sorry to seem ungrateful, but a man, if he is good for any thing, must have something he keeps to himself. If it is about my work, I will hear whatever you please to say to me, and make whatever explanations you require. I am not going to the bad; but for any thing else I think I have a right to my own mind.”
“I don’t deny it—I don’t deny it,” said Mr. Brownlow, anxiously. “Don’t think I want to thrust myself into your affairs; but if either advice or help—”
“Thank you,” said the young man. He smiled, and once more Mr. Brownlow, though not imaginative, put a thousand meanings into the smile. “I will be more attentive to my work,” he said; “perhaps I have suffered my own thoughts to interfere with me. Thank you, sir, for your kindness. I am very glad that you have given me this warning.”
“But it does not tempt you to open your heart,” said Mr. Brownlow, smiling too, though not with very pleasurable feelings.
“There is nothing in my heart that is worth opening,” said Powys; “nothing but my own small affairs—thank you heartily all the same.”
This is how Mr. Brownlow was baffled, notwithstanding his superior age and prudence and skill. He sat silent for a time with that curious feeling of humiliation and displeasure which attends a defeat even when nobody is to be blamed for it. Then by way of saving his dignity, he drew once more toward him the Wardell papers, and studied them in silence. As for the young man, he resumed, but with a troubled mind, his examination of the dark old picture. Perhaps his refusal to open his heart arose as much from the fact that he had next to nothing to tell as from any other reason, and the moment the conversation ceased his heart misgave him. Young Powys was not one of the people possessed by a blessed certainty that the course they themselves take is the best. As soon as he had closed his mouth a revulsion of feeling came upon him. He seemed to himself hard-hearted, ungrateful, odious, and sat thinking over all Mr. Brownlow’s kindness to him, and his detestable requital of that kindness, and asking himself how he could recommence the interrupted talk. What could he say to show that he was very grateful, and a devoted servant, notwithstanding that there was a corner of his heart which he could not open up? or must he continue to lie under this sense of having disappointed and refused to confide in so kind a friend? A spectator would have supposed the circumstances unchanged had he seen the lawyer seated calmly at the table looking over his papers, and his clerk at a little distance respectfully waiting his employer’s pleasure; but in the breast of the young man, who was much too young to be sure of himself, there was a wonderful change. He seemed to himself to have made a friend into an enemy; to have lost his vantage ground in Mr. Brownlow’s good opinion, and above all to have been ungrateful and unkind. Thus they sat in dead silence till the bell for luncheon—the great bell which amused Pamela, bringing a lively picture before her of all that was going on at the great house—began to sound into the stillness. Then Mr. Brownlow stirred, gathered his papers together, and rose from his chair. Powys sat still, not knowing what to do; and it may be imagined what his feelings were when his employer spoke.
“Come along, Powys,” said Mr. Brownlow,—“you have had a long walk, and you must be hungry—come and have some lunch.”