Lover or Friend Part 77

'Let us come away,' whispered Michael in Mr. O'Brien's ear. 'They will get on better without us.'

The tears were running down the old man's face as they turned into the little parlour.

'It beats me, sir, it beats me utterly, to see my poor lad trying to make friends with his own children, and looking so shamed before them.

That is a fine-looking chap, that eldest one,' he went on--'Miss Ross's sweetheart, as I used to call him. He is the sort any girl could fancy.

And he has a look of Mat about him, too, only he is handsomer and better set up than Mat ever was. "I believe you are my uncle, sir." Few young chaps would have said that. A fine fellow, and she has lost him. Well, the Almighty sends trouble to the young as well as the old. May I light my pipe, Captain? For I am a bit shaky, and all this has overset me.'

Meanwhile Cyril was saying:

'We have not brought Mollie. If you wish to see her, she shall come another time.'

'Thank you, my lad; that is kindly spoken. And I have a sort of longing to set eyes on her again. But you need not think that I am going to trouble her, or you either. A man like me has no right to trouble anyone.'

How could they answer him? But Mat did not seem to notice their silence.

His eyes were bent on the ground, and he twirled his gray moustache fiercely.

'My children belong to their mother, and not to me. I made you over to her years ago. She said I was not fit to have the charge of my own children; and maybe she was right. It was not a wifely speech, but I can't blame her. When you go home, tell her I'll keep my word--that I'll lay no sort of claim to any of you.'

He spoke in the slow, brooding tone that was natural to him, and the tears came into Kester's eyes as he listened.

Boy as he was, he understood the deep degradation of such words. This tall, hungry-eyed man, who stood aloof and talked so strangely, was his own father, who was voluntarily denuding himself of a father's rights--an outcast thrown over by his wife and children--an erring, and yet a deeply repentant man. Could anything be more unnatural and horrible? Kester's boyish sense of justice revolted against this painful condition of things; he longed to start up and take his father's hand.

'Do not be so miserable; whatever you have done, you are our father, and we will be good to you.' This is what he would have said; but he only looked at Cyril and held his peace.

Cyril had felt himself strangely attracted from the first. This was not the father whom he had dreaded to see, and on whose countenance he had feared to behold the stamp of the felon. Mat's worn, gentle face and deep-set, sorrowful eyes only inspired him with pity; the haggard weariness, the utter despondency of the man before him told their own story. True, there was weakness, moral weakness; but, at least, there was no glorying in his wrong-doing. The prodigal had come home weary of his husks, and craving for more wholesome food.

'If I have done wrong, I have suffered for it,' his looks seemed to say; and Cyril's generosity responded to the appeal.

'We are all in a difficult position,' he said; 'but there is no need to make things worse than they are. It is not for us to judge our parents, neither is it our fault that all these years we have believed that we had but one. Now I know all, I feel you have not been treated fairly.'

'I thought you would have taken your mother's part, my boy,' replied Mat humbly.

Cyril's words brought him some amount of consolation, only he could not quite bring himself to believe them.

'I hope that I shall always be on the side where the right lies,' was Cyril's answer. 'I do not wish to blame my mother. I think it is best and wisest to be silent. You are a stranger to us, and we have not even your memory to aid us. My own childish reminiscences are very vague: I can just remember a big man who used to play with us, and whom we called daddy; but I have no special recollection of him.'

'I hardly expected you to say as much as that,' and Mat's eyes brightened; 'but, after all, I doubt if I am better off in that respect than you. How am I to find my little chaps again when I look at you both--a fine grown man, and that poor sickly lad beside you? Why,' he continued in a tender, musing tone, 'the little chaps I remember had rosy cheeks and curly heads. I can feel their bare legs swarming up me now. "Give us a ride, dad!" It was always Kester who said that. He was never still a moment unless he was asleep, and then he used to look so pretty; but where shall I find him?--there is not a trace of the little rogue left in him; and when I see my girl Mollie, it will be the same.'

Kester could stand no more; he started up so hastily that his crutch slipped from under his arm, and he would have lost his balance if his father had not caught him and held him fast.

'Why did you do that, boy? You have given me quite a fright? There!

there! I will pick up your stick for you, while you stop quietly in your chair.'

But, to his surprise, Kester held him tightly by the wrist.

'Never mind the crutch, father; I am not afraid of a tumble. Somehow, my leg gets stiff, but I don't mind it. I only wanted to say that, if you like, I will come and see you sometimes, when I can get a lift; and I will bring Mollie with me. I can't help what mother says,' continued the boy, his face working, 'and I don't mean to let her hinder us from coming. Cyril is going away, so he will not count; but I'll bring Mollie: and though she is not your baby now, she will take to you and cheer you up.'

Kester was quite out of breath with this long speech that he blurted out, but he was hardly prepared for the result; for before he had finished a low sob broke from Mat's lips, and he sat down shaking with emotion, and covered his face with his hands. Kester looked at him wistfully.

'Have I said anything to hurt him?' he whispered; but Mat's ears caught the words.

'No, no,' he returned vehemently; 'you have put fresh life into me by speaking so kindly. It was only the word "father" that I never thought to hear. G.o.d bless you, my boy, for saying that! I thought that she would have taught you to hate me--as she did herself.'

'I shall never hate you, father; I would not be so wicked. If you will let me come and see you sometimes I will try to be good to you, and I know Mollie will, too. I suppose,' continued Kester doubtfully, 'that I must not ask you to come and see us in return. It is mother's house, and----'

But Mat finished the speech:

'No, my lad, you are right. Your mother and I have parted for this life.' And now he spoke with a sort of mournful dignity. 'The time was when I wors.h.i.+pped the ground she walked upon; but there are limits to a man's love. When she forsook me in my shame and trouble, when she stood there taunting me in my prison cell, my heart seemed to die to her.

Olive is nought to me now but a bitter memory, and if she prayed to me on her bended knees I would not enter her house.'

It was Cyril's turn to speak now.

'Yes, you are better apart,' he said in a low voice; 'and my mother has always been my charge. I shall tell her that she must not hinder Mollie or Kester from coming to see you. Shall you still remain here, father?'

He said the word with some little effort, but the same brightness came into Mat's eyes.

'I think so, my lad; I would as lief stay with Tom. All these years he has stuck to me, and I'll not forsake him now.'

'And you will be comfortable?'

Cyril asked the question with some degree of interest, and again Mat's eyes glistened with pleasure.

'I doubt if I was ever so comfortable in my life,' he returned, without any hesitation. 'You are young, my boy, and trouble is new to you, and Heaven forbid that you should ever be able to put yourself in my place.

But if you only knew what it is to me to bid good-night to someone again!

'It is not much of a life, perhaps,' went on Mat, with his gentle, melancholy drawl; 'but to me it is heavenly in its peace and quiet.

Prissy is sometimes a bit hara.s.sing: but, then, most women are; but she keeps things comfortable and s.h.i.+p-shape, and when she has gone off to bed there is Tom and his pipe in the chimney-corner, and it is "Come and have a chat, my lad, until it is time to turn in." Yes, yes, I'll bide with Tom and be thankful.'

'Then we will come and see you here sometimes,' returned Cyril, rising; 'for myself I cannot answer at present----' He paused, and then continued hurriedly: 'I shall not see you again for some time. I am leaving Rutherford.'

'Yes, lad, I know,' and Mat sighed heavily; 'and it is all through me that you are going. I wanted the Captain to hush it all up; but he would not hear of it. When I think of all I have brought on you, I wonder you can bring yourself to speak a kind word to me.'

'It is not all your fault; but I cannot talk of myself. Good-bye, father. If we do not meet again for some time, it will be because things are going badly with me; but I shall always be ready to help you, if you need my a.s.sistance.'

'Thank you, my boy,' returned Mat huskily.

And then it was Kester's turn.

'I shall come soon, very soon, and Mollie shall come with me.'

'Mollie!' Mat repeated the name in fond, lingering fas.h.i.+on as he moved to the window. 'My little girl! I wonder if she is like Olive? Cyril is; he has all her good looks, but he has something in his face that Olive never had. I almost felt shamed when he called me father; but the other one--he is not my little chap, and yet he is--but somehow when he spoke my whole heart seemed to go out to him.' And then Mat tried to light his pipe, only his hand trembled too much to do it. 'If I could only have my life back again!' he said to himself with a groan.

Cyril hardly broke the silence once during the drive back. It was not until several days had pa.s.sed that Michael heard how that interview with his father had affected him. Cyril said very little even then, but Michael was relieved to find that, on the whole, he had been more attracted than repelled.

'Kester likes him, and in a way I like him too,' he remarked; 'we both think he has been hardly used. My mother could have kept him straight--there is no doubt of that--but she never tried to do so. One is sorry for that sort of weakness, even if one cannot understand it,'

finished Cyril, with the feeling that there was nothing more to say.

Michael left them at the Cottage and drove on to Woodcote. His day's work had been somewhat arduous, and he felt f.a.gged and weary. It was long past tea-time, he knew, but he wondered if he could ask Crauford to bring him some. Michael's long years of ill-health made him depend on this feminine panacea for all ills more than most men. That Michael hated to miss his tea was a well-known fact in the Ross household.