London's Heart: A Novel. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      "Something like that. We don't agree. There are not two rights, are there, Martha?"

      "I am not sure; there may be."

      "I am sure. My father's right and mine are as the north and the south pole. If I am right, I must not stay here and vex him: it would be unfilial. If he is right, I must sit in sackcloth and ashes, and pray for fresh blood and bone and brain before we can meet again. Any way I must go; that is settled."

      "Who settled it?"

      "He, or I, or both of us. Are you not witch enough to guess for yourself? It came, somehow. That is enough. If you entertain the idea that the difficulty is to be smoothed over – "

      "I do not," she interrupted. "I know your father."

      "And me-do you think you know me?"

      "I think I do."

      "Therefore you must see how impossible it is that he and I, having disagreed upon a vital point-it is vital, to my thinking-can live together. I have a fancy in my head, Martha; I'll tell it to you. To have a father and not have a father-as is the case with me-is dreadful. For father and son to disagree is dreadful also. So I shall imagine a father, and as he is sure to agree with me, we shall be the best of friends. I shall picture him tender, and good, and kind; tolerant, yet conscientious; merciful, yet just. I can see him, and I love him already!"

      Light as his words were, there was a vein of seriousness in his tones that showed how deeply his feelings had been stirred.

      "When I left the Continent," he continued, "I had a friend with me who also had been absent from home for years. At intervals during our journey, he spoke with enthusiasm of home delights and of the happiness in store for him when he and his family came together. He showed me letters from them which made me think. We crossed from Paris to Dover, and there he met his father, who had travelled a hundred miles to welcome his son the moment he set foot on English soil. They threw their arms round each other, like boys, and laughed to keep away the tears. When I came to the railway station here-just half a mile from where we stand-I looked about me with a dim hope that my father had come that distance to welcome his son home. But there are fathers and fathers, Martha. Now, if I had been wise, and had set up my imaginary father before the train stopped, I should have seen him waiting for me on the platform; I should have been able to throw my arms round his neck, to press him to my heart, and to see in his eyes a kindly welcome; I should have been able to grip his hand, and to say, 'Bravo, dear old fellow! I love you!' But I was not wise, and to be forewarned by my fears was not with me to be forearmed. It is not too late, though-it is never too late. Away, you shadows!"

      He flicked his handkerchief in the air, as if the reality oppressed him with a phantom presence, and said in a mock-serious tone, in which earnestness struggled not vainly for a place:

      "Here I raise a father whom I love. I kiss his hand, and vow to pay him all respect. He shall go with me, and we shall live together."

      There was nothing in the housekeeper's appearance to denote that freaks of the imagination would find favour in her eyes, and yet gleams of pleasure-all the more strange because she sought to suppress them-brought light to her dull white face as Felix with fantastic grace stooped to kiss the hand of the shadow he had raised. But these signs faded away as soon as Felix had finished speaking, and her face resumed its usual dulness of expression.

      "Those persons who have just gone, Felix-had they anything to do with your quarrel with your father?"

      "I never saw them before," he replied.

      "Had they anything to do with the quarrel with your father?" she persisted.

      "There's something of the bull-dog in your nature, Martha," he said, laughing. "You never leave a subject until it is settled."

      "I would not hurt you, Felix," she said, softly.

      "I don't believe you would. Well, yes, they had something to do with the immediate cause of my leaving-though it would have come to the same thing without them. We were on the verge of the precipice as they entered. I must go and see how they are getting along, and if I can be of any use to them; but I shouldn't wonder if they shrunk from me and looked upon me as an unclean thing. Are you surprised at all this, Martha?"

      "No," she replied tranquilly. "This is no house for sunshine. I knew when you came that you would not be here long."

      "You can do me a service. I shall soon look my last on this place; will you pack up such things as are mine, and give them to a messenger I shall send?"

      "Yes; they shall be ready this evening."

      "Then that is all, and the world is before me for me to open. Where is my oyster-knife?" He felt in his pockets with a comical air. "Ah, it is here," and he touched his forehead confidently. "So now good-bye, Martha."

      She did not relinquish the hand he held out to her, but clasped it firmly in hers.

      "You will let me know where you live, Felix?"

      "O, yes; I will let you know."

      "I have but little money of my own, unfortunately – "

      "Stop, stop, stop!" he cried, with his fingers on her "Enough has been said, and I must go. Good-bye."

      "Good-bye; I think you do right to leave, Felix."

      "I should be compelled to leave, sooner or later," he replied; "I could not live without love or sympathy. The cold austerity of this house is enough to turn heart and face to stone. I pity you, Martha. I have sometimes wondered how you could have stood it so long."

      "I earn money here, Felix. Your father pays me liberally-for him-because I suit him; and I am not entirely without love. I have something to work for, thank God. Good-bye. May every good fortune be yours!"

      CHAPTER XII

      POLLYPOD WANTS TO KNOW

      When Felix reached the churchyard, the grave was still empty. The coffin lay upon the earth by its side, and the women of the party were sitting on convenient tombstones. Of the men, only Alfred remained; Gribble junior and the old man were absent.

      Gribble junior's baby was sleeping peacefully beneath the umbrella tent, the gay outside of which had caused the two old men to go for two other old men, and the girls in dirty pinafores to go for other girls in dirty pinafores. These new-comers were as interested in the unusual sight as their friends, and expressed their admiration by staring persistently in the dullest possible manner.

      Pollypod, wandering about, was in a state of delight and wonderment. Truly the old churchyard was a world of wonders to the child. To her young mind there was nothing suggestive of corruption in it. The "Here lies" and "Here lieths" brought no melancholy thoughts to her, although she was curious about them. But, when she asked, wanting to know, her mother bade her "Hush!" as she had done in the coach, and Pollypod was fain to hold her peace. It was not difficult for her to let the matter rest for a time, as there were plenty of other things to occupy her mind. Now and then a butterfly flew by, and she watched it with delighted eyes till it was out of sight. She found ladybirds on leaves, and wished that she had a little bottle to take them home for father. But she could take him some buttercups and daisies, and she was plucking the prettiest and the most golden when her eyes lighted on Felix.

      Pollypod was not by any means a bashful child. She had her likes and dislikes, as all children have, but she had more of the former than of the latter. And she was fond СКАЧАТЬ