The Son of His Father. Mrs. Oliphant

Egerton was a woman of forty-five, bright-eyed and comely, and full of interest in everything; but without any pretence at youth: and the curate had ten years less of age and no experience whatever of the world, so that the difference between them was rather emphasised than lessened. There was, however, one thing which reduced this difference, which was that Mr. Cattley had a great air of gravity, and took an elderly kind of view in the simplicity of his heart, whereas she was full of vivacity and spirit, and sided always with the young rather than the old. The curate had for this middle-aged woman a sort of quiet worship which was beyond all reason: all that she said was admirable and excellent to him; what she did was beyond criticism. Whatever she was occupied in he would have had her to do that ever, like the young lover of poetry: yet hailed every new manifestation of the variety of mind which seemed to him inexhaustible, as if it were a new revelation. He was sometimes foolish in his worship, it may be allowed, and the elderly object of that devotion laughed at it not a little. But in her heart she liked it well enough, as what woman would not do? Her heart was soft to the man who adored her. But that she should adore him in turn, or that anything should come of their intercourse save peaceful continuance, was not only out of the question, but was altogether beyond the possibility of being taken into question, which is more conclusive still.

      Mrs. Egerton was at this moment absent from the rectory, and Mr. Cattley was like a fish out of water. He spent almost all the time he could spare from his pupils and the parish in writing long letters to her: but all his evenings could not be spent in this way, and now and then, sighing for the difference, he would come out of an evening and visit one of the houses in the village. The Sandfords stood very high in the little aristocracy of Edgeley-on-the-Moor. They were not very old residents, having come here only about ten years before, but they had always been very highly thought of. Mr. Cattley was received by them with all the deference which good Church people, to whom his visit is an honour, show to their clergyman. They thought more of his visit than if it had been a common occurrence. And, though he was only the curate, it was he that was most of a clergyman in the parish, for the rector, though he was much liked, was of the class which used to be called Squarson, and was more of a country gentleman than a parish priest. There was yet another reason for their great pleasure at sight of this visitor, and the warm welcome they gave him. The conversation had come to a point which made a break—a new incident very convenient. They were glad to escape at that moment from John. After a little interval it would be more easy to resume their talk in a cool and matter-of-fact tone.

      ‘You will have a cup of tea, sir,’ said Mrs. Sandford. ‘Oh! dear, yes, we’ve had our tea a long while ago, but it is just a pleasure and a pride to have some made fresh for you; and though we don’t live in that way ourselves I know many that do. We understand the habits of gentlepeople, even though we may not be gentlefolks ourselves.’

      ‘That I am sure you are,’ said the curate, ‘in the truest sense of the word.’

      ‘Oh! well, sir, it’s very good of you to say it, and I hope we’re not rude or rough,’ said the old lady, and she bustled out of the room to look after the tea, which he did not at all care for, with great satisfaction in being able thus to leave the room for a moment. Her husband plunged into parish talk with Mr. Cattley with not less relief.

      ‘Thank God, that’s got over,’ he said to himself.

      As for John, he was very glad to see his tutor also, but without any of their special thankfulness. He did not take much part in the conversation, which was natural. At his age a boy is expected not to put himself forward. He sat and listened, and through it all would now and then feel a bitter throb of wonder and pain go through him. Dead! He might have known it all the time. Papa, so kind as he was, would never have left him so long without finding him out, without coming to see him, even if, as he had sometimes fancied, the grandparents did not approve. And so he was dead! gone, never to be seen more. It was so long, so long since there had been any reality in the relationship that the boy could not grieve as he would have done had he lost anyone he knew and loved. It was only a shadow he had lost, and, indeed, he had not lost that, it was with him just the same as before. And, as a matter of fact, he had never thought of any meeting again. The shock he had received was more a kind of awe of dying, a kind of ache at the thought that his fond recollections had been, as it were, vain all this long time. He listened to the conversation, and even would put in a word or two, and smile at what grandfather or Mr. Cattley said. And then the thought, the throb would again dart through him: dead! It was a strange thing to feel that some one belonging to him had actually gone over that bourne from which no traveller returns. This was so solemn, and John’s recollection was so far from solemn; and he knew that the gayest, the most light-hearted had to die all the same, like the gravest. But to think that some one belonging to him had stepped across that dark line of separation, that some one might be thinking about him upon the other side, beyond the grave. This made John’s nerves tingle, and a shiver passed under his hair. Dead! it is so strange when one is young to realise, though it is, no doubt, common to all, yet that one individual known to one’s self should die.

      Mrs. Sandford came up after a little while, followed by the maid with a tray. She had much too good manners to let the guest take this refreshment by himself, accordingly there were two tea-cups with the little teapot. And the old lady’s eyes were a little red, if anyone had remarked it. She had been doing more than making tea. She had run up to her own room and cried a little there in the dark over all the confusing troubles of the past, and over the new chapter which was opening. She said to herself,

      ‘Oh! I don’t approve it—I don’t approve it!’ But what did it matter what she approved, when it was certain that he (which was the only name she ever gave her husband) and Emily would have it their own way?

      ‘I suppose,’ said the gentle curate, ‘that it is all settled, and that it is I now that am to have holiday. I shall miss the young ones dreadfully. I don’t know what I shall do without them. It will make all the difference in the world to me.’

      ‘You see, sir,’ said Grandfather Sandford, who had a faint and uncomfortable feeling that it was the want of those little payments which had been made for John which would make the great difference to the curate, ‘as it doesn’t suit us to carry him on for what you may call a learned education, we think it’s better for the boy not to lose more time.’

      ‘Not meaning that he ever could be losing time with you, Mr. Cattley!’

      ‘Mr. Cattley knows I don’t mean that: but only that he has to work and make his own way.’

      ‘I understand perfectly,’ said the curate, ‘and you are quite right. When a boy has to go into active life it is far better that he should begin early. Don’t think I disapprove. John and I have been great friends, and I shall miss him sadly. But he has really got as much from me as I can give him—unless it were a little more Greek: and I’m afraid there is not much practical advantage in Greek.’

      ‘Learning anything,’ said old Mr. Sandford, in a respectful sort of apologetic tone, ‘is always a practical advantage. If you know how to learn Greek, you’ll know how to learn anything. So the time can never be said to be lost.’

      Mr. Cattley laughed a little quietly, and made a mental note of this as something to tell Mrs. Egerton. It amused him very much that the old man should patronise learning and explain to himself how Greek could do harm: but still there is no doubt that Mr. Sandford was quite right from his point of view.

      ‘I wish he had taken a little more to figures,’ said the old gentleman; ‘figures are very useful in every way of life. I would teach more sums than anything else if I were one that was engaged in instructing youth.’

      Mr. Cattley laughed again and said he would have to learn them first himself.

      ‘For that was always my weak point: but John has a very pretty notion of mathematics. And have you come to any decision as to what he is going to do?’

      ‘We were just beginning to talk of it,’ said the old gentleman. ‘We were going over a few family matters, and then we were coming to the great question.’

      ‘I am afraid then,’ said the curate, ‘that I came in at an unfortunate moment.