The Son of his father.

Otago Witness, Issue 1843, 18 March 1887, Page 29

The Son of his father.

BY MRS OLIPHANT, Author of "The Chronicles of Carliugford," " Oliver's Bride," " Madam," &c.

[The Right of Translation is Resebved.J

this was the solution of all the difficulties of that disruption in his lie which he had not himself done anything to bring about, yet which was natural and necessary, and a charge which he would neither refuse nor draw back from when it came.

The sudden rending asunder of all tho bonds that had fashioned his life for yea: a had been very painful to the curate. To keep them up unnaturally in defiance of separation and distance was all but impossible, and yet to cut finally adrift was an operation which he knew not how to perform.

Susie had given him, unconsciously, the k( y to all these difficulties. Had he remained :it Edgeley, leading a somewhat pensive an 1 unfulfilled yet happy life, his devotion (o Mrs Egerton would have been in all likelihood enough for his subdued and moderate spirit. It was as much out of the question that she should marry him as that the sky and the fields should affect a union, or any other parallel unconjoinablo things, but there was little occasion for any attempt at such an alliance, considering that the' terms on which they stood, of tenderestand most delicate friendship, were enough for all requirements.

It is delightful to keep up such a tie when circumstances permit, and no more strenuous sentiment breaks in — but to break it is a thing full of embarrassment and difficulty. Scarcely any woman is so unnaturally amiable as to behold the defection of her servant and knight without a certain annoyance ; it ia difficult altogether to forgive that selfemancipation and disenthral ment ; and on the other hand the very delicacy and romantic sentiment in the mind of man which makes such relations possible fills him with trouble and awkwardness when the moment comes at which more reasonable and natural ties take tho place of the Platonic bond.

Mr Cattley had felt the crisis deeply ; he had not known how to detach himself, or what to do with his life when the disquisition had been made. Susie's sudden appearance had been an inspiration and a delivoran.ee to him. He had felt in her the solution of all doubts and difficulties. And now the sudden trouble which had come upon her, and which in his interest and long affection for John it was so natural he should share, came in like what he would himself have called "a special providence," to make his way more easy. That he should take her, so to speak, into his own hands, guide her, take care of her, aid her in everything that could be done for the family at such a crisis, was natural, most natural, to a man of character, most convenient in the general crisis of affairs.

That he should step into the breach, that he should defend and help all who were likely to suffer, that he should manage matters for any distressed family, and specially help John, and help everybody, was what all the world expected from Mr Cattley. It was his natural office. So that not only Susie but Susie's troubles came with the most perfect appropriateness into his life, and afforded him the opportunity of withdrawing and emancipating himself on the one hand and securing his" own happiness on the other, as nothing else could have done. This is not to say that the communication Susie had made to him about her father had been received by the curate with indifference. Jfc had, on the contrary, given him a great shock.

A convict 1 That he should commit himself with such a person-^-he, a clergyman-*-a

Chapter LI. Ie Father and ChildrenCATTLEY had quietly taken possession of Susie and her arrangements from the moment of that conversation. It could scarcely be said that he had intended to make a declaration of love to her, though for some time it had

been apparent to him that

manplaced in a position where all his connections and relationships were exposed to scrutiny, gave him a momentary sensation, which was indescribable, of giddiness and faintness and heart-sickness ; but the result was somewhat remarkable. The shock made him instantly commit himself — identify himself with the sufferer ; take him up, so to speak, upon his shoulders and prepare to carry him through life, and save him from all effects of this irremediable misfortune.

This was not the effect it wonld have had on ordinary men; but it was so with Mr Cattley. The first thing to be done seemed to be to anatoh up Susie, not to let it 'hurt her — not even to let her feel for a -moment that it could hurt her.

A. conviot J He remembered the story faintly when he heard the name, and how it was dissipation and extravagance which were supposed to be the causes of it, and how May, the forger, had ruined his family, and plunged everybody belong to him into misery. And to think now, after so many yeara, that ho himself was to be one of the people plunged Into trouble by this criminal of a past time. The shock went through his nerves and up to his head like a sudden jar of his whole being.

But there was perhaps something in his professed habit of finding a remedy for the troubles brought under his eye, the quick impulse of doing something, which becomes a second nature with the physicians of the spirit as well as. with those of the body, wHch helped him now. And then it afforded him the most extraordinary and easy opening out of the difficnlt conjunction of affairs — that had to bo taken in earnest — as well as the rest.

The result was that Mr Oattley took Snsie to London to her mother, and at once, without anything, or at least very little more, being said, took his place as a member of the family threatened with great shamo and exposure through the return of the disgraced father, whom a portion of them had hoped never to see again, and a portion had no knowledge of.

Nobody but a clergyman could have done this so easily, and even Mrs Sandford, with all her pride and determination to share the secret with no one, could not rof use the aid of a cool head and sympathetic mind in the emergency in whioh sho found herself placed.

She was too much pre-occupied by her great distress to have much leisure of mind to consider this sudden new arrival critically as Susie's suitor.

At an easier moment that question would no doubt have been discussed in all its bearings — whether he was not too old for Susie ; whether he was not very plain, very quiet ; whether they had known each other long enough ; whether they suited each other — all these matters would have afforded opportunity of discussion and question. But in the present dreadful emergency there was no time for any such argument*

" Susie has accepted me for her husband," Mr Cattley said (which, indeed, Susie had scarcely done even tacitly), " what can I 'do to help you ?" '

There seemed nothing strange in it. It was his profession to have secrets confided to him, to help all sorts of people.

Even Mr Sandford did not insist his quiet certainty that their affairs were his, and that he could be of use. And he had all the comfort and freshness of a new agent, impartial, having full command of his judgment. He had none of John's stern and angry Quixotism and determination not to lose hold again oi the father who was a disgrace to him, that fiercest development of duty — neither did he share the horror and loathing of the wife for the man who had betrayed and disgraced her. He was of Mrs i Sandford's mind tnat the culprit should be Lkept apart, that no attempt should be made to reinstate him in the family ; and ho was of John's mind that May could not be abandoned. He agreed and disagreed with both, and he was sorry for all — both the family driven to horror and dismay by such a sudden apparition, and the unfortunate criminal himself thus cut off from all the ties of nature.

Susie took no independent action in the matter. She left it now to him, as she had left it all her life to her mother, feeling such questions beyond her, she who was so ready and so full of active service in the practical ways of life. She left the decision to those who were better able to make it, but with an altogether new and delightful confidence such as she had never known before, for Mr Cattley was far more merciful than any ono who in Susie's experience had ever touched this painful matter before.

Mrs Sandford bad desired nothing so much as never to hear the name of the husband through whom she had suffered so many humiliations and miseries again, but Mr Cattley wonld not permit the natiual right to be shaken off, or the claims of blood abandoned.

Su?ie turned to him with a gratitude which was bejond words in her mild eye?. Her mother's panic and loathing were cruel, but he was ever kind and just. She looked at him with that sense that he was the best of created beings, which it is so expedient for a wife to possess. Even love does not always carry this confidence with it?, but Susie was one of the women who will always, to the last verge of possibility, give that adoration and submission to the man upon whom their affections rest. And happily she had found one by whom, as far as that is possible to humanity, they were fully deserved.

•They set out together in the morning sunshine, after many arguments and consultations with Mrs Sandford, to go to John's lodgings and to come to some agreement with him on .this .painful question. But though the question was painful, these two people were able to discuss it as they walked along together. They seemed to walk into a land of gentle happiness the moment they were alone with each other, though in the midst of the crowded streets. They went across the bridge making momentary involuntary pauses to look at the traffic on the roads, forgetting that they-onght not to have had any attention to spare for such outside matters. Though Susie was entirely town bred, thej looked what they were "henceforward to be— a, country pair, a rural

couple come up "from ~. their" vicarage to see the world. There ought not' to have been so much ease, so much sweetness- in the morning to Susie, a convict's daughter. " And yet sHe conld not help it, there it wag. And to Mr Cattloy, who had always been .accustomed to a somewhat secondary place, that sensation of being supreme was strangely delightful. A woman who can give that unquestioning admiration, that boundless trust, is always sweet. It is not ©very woman that can do it, however godlike may be theman; and the curate did not beliive'that he was godlike. But y«t it was very delightful tßat she should think so. It waa-a surprise to him -to receive this- tender homage j-fout it was very sweets

They ha 4 reached the quiet atreet In which John's rooms were, when Susie was suddenly roused out of this heavenly state by the sight of- some one ' coming hastily out of ncr brother's door. They were still at a sufficient distance to Bee that became out half -running, as if pursued, and that he looked round him with alarm as he came towards 'them, stumbling: a little with uncertain Bteps. Something perhaps it was in this Bomewhat wavering movement which- roused old 'recollections in her mind— and her father, but for this temporary lapse into personal blessedness, had been very much in the foreground of imagination. She let go Mr Cattley.'s arm with a shock of sudden awakening, with a cry of "Papa!" She recognised him in a moment. He was in reality very ' little changed, far leas changed than she was, tho austerity of his prison life having preserved the freshness of early years in his face.'

"Papa," she said, and stopped and reddened with sudden emotion, ashamed to look at him whom she thought must stand abashed before her, and for the first time fully appre* hending this tragedy, which no one could smooth away.

" Eh ! " he cried, and gave her a hurried look. Then, "lam in a great hurry, I can't speak to you." And then ho stopped reluctantly, for the first time realising ;what she had said. No, it was not shame, he was not afraid of meeting her eye, bat a look o£ curiosity and interest came into his face. " What's that you are calling mo ? Do you know me ? Who are you '? Are you— is this Susie ? " he said.

" Oh, yes, papa, it is Susie. Don't go away r We were coming to look, to ask. Doii't go away from us. You are not all changed," sho said, putting out her hands to detain him, " you are just .the same. Papa, oh, where are you goiug ? don't go away." "Do you think so ? Not changed ! I might be— for you are ct&nged, Susie, and so is the world; everything is changed. Don't stop me, I must, go ; your brdther, if that is your brother ; and if you are Susie "

" Have you seen John, Papa 1 " " John," he repeated,' with a half smile ; and though he was in such haste he stopped, all at once with every appearance of lejßure. He may be John, but ■ he's not Johnny, my little boy. He's like a policeman," he went on, in a tone of whimsical complaint, rubbing his arm where John had grasped him ; \ " he clutches in the same way. My little chap would never have behaved like that. And so you're Susie 1 I see some likeness now. ' You were your mother's pet, and the boy was mine. Ah, well ? It comes to the same thing in the end. You're both of you ashamed of me now."

" Oh, papa," cried Susie, with many tears, " don't say so ; don't think so. John — — "

" Yes, I know • he wants to get hold of me, to keep in some family dungeon where I can't phame him, I know that's what he wants. No child, I'm going away. Do I want to shame yon ? I'll go, and you shall never hear of me more."

" Papa," cried soft-voiced Susie, " come back and let us talk .altogether like' one family. Come back to poor John's lodgings. We are all one family after all. We are all friends. Oh, come back, come back, papa ! " "He has got ladies there. The girl he is going to marry. Never, never ! I'm not going to have anything to do with him. I'm glad to have seen you, Susie. God bless you, you've got a sweet face. You're like a sjeter of mine that died young. If you ever see your mother — I suppose you see your mother sometimes ?— you can tell her— Well, perhaps I gave her reason to hate me and give lip my name. You can tell her she'll never be troubled any more with me."

" Oh, papa ! " Susie drew a long breath and held him firmly by the arm. " Here is John. You must speak to John."

John came hurriedly up to the other side and put his hand also upon his father's arm. " I can't let you out of my sight," ho said, breathlessly. "We must understand everything, we must settle everything now.' 1 " Oh, listen to him, papa ; it is not. hia fault ; let us consult together ; we are all one family. Surely, surely we are all friends," Susie cried.

May stood between his children with asulleness unusual to it coming over his face; He shook off John's hold pettishly. " I told you he clutched like a policeman," he said. "I don't; mind you, Susie, your natural If I had you with me 1 might perhaps — But it's no use thinking of that. You can tell you're mother that whatever happens she shall never be troubled with me."

" Father," said John, with a shudder at the word, " we none of us want to neglect our duties. Now that you" are here, you can't disappear again. We belong to each other whether we wish it or not. You have a claim upon us, and we — we have a claim upon you. Come back. Susie get him to come back."

A look of pain came upon May's face. ■ He shook them off from either hand. " Don't let us have a row in the street." he cried. " You'll bring all the policeman about. And when a man has once been in trouble they always think it's his fault. Let me go." " Not without telling us where to find you, at least," said John, " Oh, papa, ipapa ! " said Susie. " Don't go, don't go." " Well have all the policemen in the place about," May said, looking round him with a sort of alarm. - ' Mr Cattley had stood by all the time saying nothing. He came forward now, and drew John away, "Jack, will you. put it in my hands ?" he said. " I know everything, more perhaps than ydu do. And you're not

in a condition to judge calmly; You know you can trust me." " And who may this bo now ? " said May, still pettish and offended. He turned to the .new speaker with a rapid change of front. He had known a great many chaplains in his time, and had never found them unmanageable " I see you're aclergyman," he 'said in his usual mild tones, "and you have a_goo*i countenance," he added, approvingly . "There's some little questions between me and quart.' I think it is both better and cheaper . — my family— it can't be denied. I don't mind talking about our aflairs with such a— with suoh a— respectable person. So long as no attempt is made on my personal freedom." He paused a little, and then laughed, with hU usual perception of the ludicrous. , " I've my choice over that," he said, "it's been too much tampered with already "—looking from one to another, evidently expecting some smile or response to his joke from Susie's deprecating, anxious face and the stern misery of John. Tho want of that reply chilled him for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he stepped out briskly from between his irresponsive children. " Lead on, a3 Montressor would say, I'll follow with my bosom bare, or at least with my heart open — which comes to the same ching, I suppose," he said. This transaction took place so rapidly that John in Ins confused state and even Susie scarcely understood what was taking place till they found themselves alone, watching the two other figures going quickly and quietly along the street. To Susie it seemed as if in a moment everything had come right. Mr Cattily carried off her anxieties with him, to be solved in what was sure to be the best way. She came close to John's side and put her arm within his, supporting him with her confidence and certainty that all would now go well, supporting him even physically with the soft backing up which he wanted so much. They stood together silent, watching the other two disappear along the street. How was it that John gave in so easily, and let this matter be taken out of his hands, no one ever knew ; the secret was that he was worn out with misery and unrest. Body and eoul had become incapable of further exertion, even of further suffering. The only solution possible to his strained nerves ami strength was this — that some one else should do it for him For he was incapable of anything more. (To be continued. )