FATHER AND SON

I think Isabella Lethbridge must have realized that something out of the ordinary had brought me there that night, for when she met me in the hall there was a look of inquiry on her face. Still, she greeted me kindly, almost eagerly.

"It is good of you to come up with Hugh. Father is in the library alone," she said, "and mother and I have sat for more than an hour without speaking. Come in, will you?"

"I am afraid I can't," I said. "I have come to see Mr. Lethbridge."

Again she looked at me inquiringly, and I was sure, as her glance pa.s.sed from myself to Hugh, that she divined something of our purpose.

"You said the pater was in the library, Bella?" said Hugh.

"Yes," was her reply. "Some man came up to see him directly after dinner, and has only just left. I fancy he has had some unpleasantness about business."

Hugh, whose mouth had now become firm and determined, went to the library door and knocked.

"Yes, come in."

I followed Hugh Lethbridge into the room, while he carefully shut the door. The older man looked at us inquiringly.

"Won't you sit down?" he said to me, nodding towards a chair; but I could see that he hardly knew what he was saying. His eyes were riveted on Hugh's face, as if he would read his inmost soul. Even then I could not help being impressed by the young fellow's behavior, nor, for that matter, by his general appearance. For Hugh Lethbridge was one of the finest specimens of British young manhood I have ever met. Quite a boy in appearance, he was tall, well knit, and muscular. He had an open, frank countenance, sparkling blue eyes, and brown, wavy hair. He stood before his father firm and erect. His every movement belied the statement that he was afraid. There was no suggestion of fear in his presence, except for the fact that once he looked towards me, as if to be certain that I was there, near to him. Then, without preamble, and without seeking to excuse himself in any way, he burst forth with the news.

"Pater," he said, "I have joined the Army--and--and I have married Mary Treleaven."

The two sentences came like two pistol-shots. He had evidently determined to waste no time or words.

His father did not speak a word for some time. At first he looked at his son, as though he did not comprehend him, and then, when the truth came to him, felt stunned. I watched his face closely, as Hugh spoke, and for a moment could not help pitying him. I realized the pride of the man, realized, too, all the plans he had made, and understood something of what he felt when he saw that the structure he had built up was levelled to the ground like a house of cards.

At first I thought he was going to lose control over himself. I saw anger flash from his eyes, saw his face harden. Perhaps, had I not been there, he would have yielded to the pa.s.sion of the moment; but he was a proud man, and would not willingly place himself in a ridiculous position. It was evident, too, that two forces were fighting in his heart. One was love for his boy; for doubtless, in his way, Hugh was very dear to him. He was his only son, and, as he had hoped, heir to his possessions. On the other hand, he could not bear opposition, and would not yield an inch in the pathway which he had chosen to tread.

The silence was almost painful. After Hugh had blurted out his confession, he seemed like one incapable of speech, as his eyes were riveted on his father's face. Neither did he feel that there was anything for him to say. I had told Hugh, on my way up to the house, that he must not expect me to plead for him. It was not my business to interfere between father and son. Indeed, I felt like an intruder all through the painful interview. As for Josiah Lethbridge, he sat in the leather-covered library chair, close by his writing-desk, motionless, for what seemed an interminable time. Then, as if by force of habit, he took a pen, and began to draw grotesque figures on the blotting-pad. He was evidently thinking deeply. Outside the night was windless, and no sound reached us save that of the roll of the waves upon a distant beach.

"Dad," burst out Hugh at length, "have you nothing to say?"

The older man moved in his chair slowly, and as if with difficulty.

"What is there to say?" and his voice was hard and cold.

"Well, I thought that--that----" And then Hugh broke down.

"What is there to say?" repeated Josiah Lethbridge in the same cold, even voice. "You know what my views are, you know what my wishes are. I have told you more than once my plans about you; but it seems that you thought yourself wiser than I. Or perhaps," he added, "you do not care about my wishes. That is why you have gone and married a penniless girl who can never be anything but a drag to you--married her, too, senselessly, madly, without a shadow of reason for doing it."

I saw then that the thing which had wounded him most deeply was not the fact that his son had joined the Army, but that he had married a poor village girl--married her in spite of his wishes, in spite of his positive command.

"You have acted in a very honorable way, too, haven't you?" he sneered.

"Knowing what my feelings are in the matter, you take the irrevocable step first, and then come and tell me afterwards."

"But, dad, don't you see?" and Hugh spoke excitedly. "Yes, I ought to have spoken to you first, perhaps; but then I knew you would not give your consent, and--and I could not bear to lose her. You see, I--I love her!"

"Love her!" and Josiah Lethbridge spoke contemptuously.

"Yes, love her," cried the young fellow hotly. "I have loved her for years."

"A common village girl!" burst forth the father.

"She is not common," replied the son. "A purer, better girl never breathed. No one has ever dared to raise a breath against her. She is well educated, too, and every one respects her."

It was evident the father's contempt aroused the lad's anger. He had no difficulty in speaking now. Mary Treleaven had to be defended, and he no longer stammered in his speech; words came easily.

"I say she is a pure girl and a good girl," he continued almost angrily, "and I love her."

I thought for the moment that Josiah Lethbridge would have lost self-control here, and have burst forth in a tirade of abuse; but still he kept command over himself, and, although his lips quivered, he spoke quietly.

"Pardon me if I doubt your love," he said. "May I ask what you intend doing with her? If a man loves a woman, he should at least have some prospect of keeping her decently before he marries her."

At this Hugh was silent. The father had, by his question, pierced the weak place in Hugh's armor.

"If you think," went on Josiah Lethbridge, "that I am going to do anything for her, or you, you are mistaken. You have chosen your own way; you must follow it. I had intended another future for you, but my intentions do not seem to count. I think there is nothing more to say,"

and he moved in his chair as though the interview were at an end. Then, as if on second thoughts, he turned to me and said quietly:

"I do not see why you should have been dragged into this, Mr. Erskine; but I suppose you had your own reason for coming."

I felt he had placed me in a wrong position, and for a moment was at a loss how to answer him. Indeed, I felt I had made a mistake in coming, and I was almost sorry I had yielded to Hugh's entreaty.

"He came," stammered Hugh, "because I--I begged him to. I was a coward, and I--I thought you would b--be more reasonable to me if he came."

"Have I ever been anything but reasonable to you, Hugh?" asked the father. "Of course, to one like yourself, who will not listen to reason, I suppose my words have seemed harsh and arbitrary. I am an older man than you, and therefore think my way is best. Besides----But we will not speak of that. Surely, however, Mr. Erskine did not come here with the intention of condoning your action."

"I am sorry if my presence here is unwelcome," I said. "All the same----"

"Excuse my interrupting," said Josiah Lethbridge. "Did you know of my son's intention? Were you aware of his mad plans?"

"No, dad," burst in Hugh; "Erskine knew nothing. He was as surprised as you when, an hour ago, I went and told him. The truth is, dad, that you and I have never got on well together. You seem to have forgotten that you were ever a young man, and had a young man's feelings and thoughts--seem to have forgotten that you were ever in love. You have always treated me, even since I have reached a man's age, as though I were never to have a will of my own, or to think of disagreeing with you. I feared you as a child, and--and up to to-night I feared you still. That was why I asked Mr. Erskine to come with me while I made my confession."

"Did you think," asked Mr. Lethbridge, "that he would influence me in any way?"

"I don't know what I thought," replied Hugh; "but Erskine told me that you ought to know--that I ought to come and tell you everything; and I have come, and I have told you."

"Very well. That is all, I suppose?" and still the older man spoke in the same calm, measured tones. "You, I imagine, think you have done a very romantic and heroic thing. On the other hand, I feel that my only son has disgraced me."

"Disgraced you?"

"Yes, disgraced me. Every one in the county who knows me will point at me as one whose son married against his father's wishes--married without a penny--married like one who is ashamed of his action. Well, I imagine I can bear it."

"Is that all you have to say, dad?"

"I cannot see what there is to say besides. You have followed your own devices, and you must take the consequences."

"I think it may be as well to remember, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "that, whether your son has acted wisely or foolishly, he can claim the credit of being sincere and honest. There is nothing ign.o.ble in a young fellow marrying the girl he loves. As for his joining the Army, it is what every young man ought to do at a time like this."