"Yes," I said, "it has been a vexed question for years, and it comes very hard upon us, that there are so few openings. Still matters are improving year by year, and I think we may venture to hope for better things ere long."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

COBWEB'S FATHER.

Remembering as you will my unhappy lot, you will not feel surprised that I should take a deep interest in what people call the love affairs of the young, but which I look upon as something too great and holy to be spoken of with anything but reverence and respect. For that attraction that draws youth to youth in the bright spring-time of their lives, what is it but a heaven-implanted instinct that leads the stronger to take the weaker under his protection, and joins two hearts in a compact of love for life, giving to each a true counsellor, a tender companion, and a shield of strength to bear the troubles of this world?

It has been in no busy, old-maidish, envious spirit that I have watched these affairs. I have never been one to hurry into a church to see a wedding, for I was never present at one in my life; but I have felt a kind of joy that I cannot express when I have seen some fine manly young fellow grow softened in his manner, and gradually become chivalrous and attentive to some sweet maiden, for it has revived old memories of the past, and set me dreaming of what might have been had it not been otherwise willed.

One thing has often struck me, and that is the natural selfishness that is brought out in a father, and the feeling of half-dislike with which he looks upon the man who comes, as it were, to rob him of the soft sweet maiden whom he has had growing closer and closer round his heart.

I have often tried to put myself in his place, and when I have so done I have easily felt how painful it must be to draw the line between the two natural affections there are in the girl's heart--the love of her father and that for the man who seeks to make her his wife.

The selfish feeling is but natural, and the father must feel heart-wrung as he fancies that his child's love is going from him fast, and he trembles with dread at the thought that his little ewe lamb is about to be taken away from the fold, to be plunged into endless trouble and care; to encounter storms from which he has shielded her heretofore; and he wonders how she would bear such troubles as have fallen to his and her mother's lot, forgetting that every life must inevitably be one of storm and calm.

"I noted all this particularly in the case of a friend of the Smiths, a Mr Burrows, with whom and his family I became very intimate. He was a successful City man, who had engaged with great shrewdness in trade, and ama.s.sed a considerable amount of money. He and Mr Smith were great friends, and were wont to advise each other, Mr Burrows placing great faith in the st.u.r.dy sewing-machine dealer in most things; but there had been a great deal of difference in the two men, the selfishness of which I have spoken and jealousy about his daughter being the predominant points in Mr Burrows, who was lavish with his money, while Smith, who had had a far harder struggle to get on, always seemed to have an intense affection for his banking account.

"It was long after the change had taken place in Mr Burrows that I came to know so much as I did, and it was during one or other of my pleasant little runs down to his home in Suss.e.x, where he pa.s.ses all the time that he can persuade himself to steal from the City.

"Come, Miss Stoneleigh," he used to say, "have a run down amongst the b.u.t.tercups and daisies. I'm going to steal three days. Come down with me."

"Steal!" I said smiling, "I wonder you don't give up business and live altogether in the country."

"Why?" he said wonderingly.

"Report says that you are very wealthy."

"Report's a stupid old woman!" he said sharply; "and I suppose, if the truth was known, Report was that money-grubbing, tight-fisted old screw--Smith. Confess now: wasn't it?"

"Well, yes; I've heard Mr Smith say so, among others," I replied.

"Yes, of course," he said st.u.r.dily. "But look here, Miss Stoneleigh, you don't think I'm sc.r.a.ping and saving--"

"I never said you sc.r.a.pe and save, Mr Burrows," I said; "I always thought you generous to a fault. Why, look at the money you've given me for my poor peo--"

"Stuff--nonsense--hosh!" he exclaimed. "There, if you say another word, I'll b.u.t.ton up my cheque-book tight, and never give you a farthing again."

"I am Silence personified," I exclaimed.

"I don't want to go to the City," he exclaimed, taking hold of my sleeve and speaking very earnestly, in his desire that I should not think him mercenary; "but suppose I didn't go on making money, and anything happened to Grantly--how then?"

"My dear Mr Burrows," I said, "never let us try to meet troubles half-way."

"Yes," he said, "that's all very well, but then look at the ants and bees, you know. You must make preparations for the worst. Grantly's a fine fellow, and makes a lot of money by his pictures; but he don't save, and I've got to think of those two little ones. I say," he cried, the hard look going out of his face to give way to one of bright genuine pleasure, "you must come down. You never saw such a pair of young tyrants in your life. I can't get rid of them. They hang on to me all day long. I have to go up and kiss them in bed, or else they won't go; and I'm woke up every morning by one or the other of them climbing into mine. I tell Cobweb I shall stop away."

"And she will not believe it," I said smiling.

"Humph! No: I suppose she won't. But, I say; little Cobweb got her tiny arms round my neck the other morning, and her soft little cheek rested up against my rough old phiz, and she says, in her little silvery voice--`Oh! granpa, dear, I do yove oo so!' and then little Frank kicked and screamed to get to me to tell me he loved me too, ever so much.

They pretty nearly tear me to pieces."

"Poor man!" I said, as I looked at his softened face and kind nature breaking through the hard City crust.

"That's right," he said, "laugh at me. Regular old gander ain't I.

Never mind: you come down and see if the two young tyrants don't soon take you about in chains."

"Daisy chains?" I said, laughing.

"Yes, if you like," he said; "but they are chains you can't break. Ah!"

he continued, as he thoughtfully stirred the cup of tea I had had made for him, "it only seems but yesterday that I went home and said to Cobweb, `I've found the place, my dear.'

"`You have papa?' she said.

"`I have.'

"`Not a dreadful detached villa or _cottage ornee_, papa?'

"`Oh, no.'

"`With admirably planned kitchen and flower gardens?'

"`No,' said I, laughing.

"`With an extensive view of the Surrey Hills?'

"`Why, any one would think you were a house agent, Cobweb,' I said, smiling.

"`No wonder, papa, when I've been reading so many advertis.e.m.e.nts. But do tell me; have you really found the place at last?'

"`I have really, my dear--at least, I think so.'

"`Is it a real, old-fashioned country house?'

"`Yes.'

"`Smothered in clematis and roses and honeysuckle?'

"`Yes, and swarming with birds' nests and insects.'

"`And with a regular great wilderness of a garden?'

"`Yes.'

"`In which you can lose yourself?'

"`Yes, and in the wood too.'

"`What! is there a wood?'