Ned stood silent, but the tears welled up into his eyes.
'It can't be helped, sir,' he said in a choking voice, and then with an attempt at gaiety: 'it will be all the same fifty years hence, I suppose.'
'That is a poor consolation, Ned,' Mr. Porson rejoined. 'Fifty years is a long time to look forward to. Can't we do anything before that?'
Ned was silent.
' I do not want you to tell me, Ned, anything that happens at home—God forbid that I should pry into matters so sacred as relations between a boy and a parent!—but I can see, my boy, that something is wrong. You are not yourself. At first when you came back I thought all was well with you; you were, as was natural, sad and depressed, but I should not wish it otherwise. But of late a change has come over you; you are nervous and excited; you have gone down in your class, not, I can see, because you have neglected your work, but because you cannot bring your mind to bear upon it. Now all this must have a cause. Perhaps a little advice on my part might help you. We shall break up in a week, Ned, and I shall be going away for a time. I should like to think before I went that things were going on better with you.'
'I don't want to say anything against my mother/' Ned said in a low voice. 'She means kindly, sir; but, oh! it is so hard to bear. She is always talking about father, not as you would talk, sir, but just as if he were alive and might come in at any moment, and it seems sometimes as if it would drive me out of my mind.'
'No doubt it is trying, my boy,' Mr. Porson said; 'but you see natures differ, and we must all bear with each other and make allowances. Your mother's nature, as far as I have seen of her, is not a deep one. She was very fond of your father, and she is fond of you; but you know, just as still waters run deep, shallow waters are full of ripples, and eddies, and currents. She has no idea that what seems natural and right to her should jar upon you. You upon your part can scarcely make sufficient allowance for her different treatment of a subject which is to you sacred. I know how you miss your father, but your mother must miss him still more. No man ever more lovingly and patiently tended a woman than he did her so far as lay in his power. She had not a wish ungratified. You have in your work an employment which occupies your thoughts and prevents them from turning constantly to one subject; she has nothing whatever to take her thoughts from the past. It is better for her to speak of him often than to brood over him in silence. Your tribute to your father's memory is deep and silent sorrow, hers is frequent allusion. Doubtless her way jars upon you; but, Ned, you are younger than she, and it is easier for you to change. Why not try and accept her method as
being a part of her, and try, instead of wincing every
time that she touches the sore, to accustom yourself to it.
It may be hard at first, but it will be far easier in the
end.'
Ned stood silent for a minute or two; then he said: 'I will try, sir. My father's last words to me were to
be kind to mother, and I have tried hard, and I will go
on trying.'
'That is right, my boy; and ask God to help you. We
all have our trials in this life, and this at present is
yours; pray God to give you strength to bear it.'
CHAPTER VIIL
NED IS SORELY TRIED.
MONG the many who called upon Mrs. Sankey after the death of her husband was Mr. Mul-ready, the owner of a mill near Marsden. He was one of the leading men in the place, although his mill was by no means a large one. He took rank in the eyes of the little town with men in a much larger way of business by means of a pushing manner and a fluent tongue. He had come to be considered an authority upon most subjects. He paid much attention to his dress, and drove the fastest horse and the best got-up gig in that part of the country; but it was Mr. Mulready's manner which above all had raised him to his present position in the esteem of the good people of Marsden. He had the knack of adapting himself to the vein of those he addressed.
With the farmers who came into market he was bluff and cordial; with people in general he was genial and good-tempered. At meetings at which the county gentry were present he was quiet, business-like, and a trifle deferential,
showing that he recognized the difference between his position and theirs. With ladies he was gay when they were gay, sympathetic when sympathy was expected. With them he was even more popular than with the men, for the latter, although they admired and somewhat envied his varied acquirements, were apt in the intimacy of private conversation to speak of him as a humbug.
There was one exception, however, to his general popularity. There was no mill-owner in the neighbourhood more heartily detested by his workpeople; but as these did not mingle with the genteel classes of Marsden their opinion of Mr. Mulready went for nothing. The mill-owner was a man of three or four and forty, although when dressed in his tightly-fitting brown coat with its short waist, its brass buttons, and high collar, and with a low hat with narrow brim worn well forward and coming down almost to the bridge of his nose, he looked seven or eight years younger.
His hair was light, his trimly cut mutton-chop whiskers were sandy, he had a bright fresh complexion, a large mouth, and good teeth, which he always showed when he smiled, and in public he was always smiling; his eyes were light in colour, very close together, and had a somewhat peculiar appearance. Indeed there were men who hinted that he had a slight cast, but these were, no doubt envious of his popularity. Mrs. Sankey had been flattered by his visit and manner; indeed it could hardly have been otherwise, for he had expressed a sympathy and deference which were very soothing to her.
'It is indeed kind of you to receive me,' he had said. 'I know, of course, that it is not usual for a man who has the misfortune to be unmarried to make a call upon a lady, but I could not help myself. William Mulready is not a man to allow his feelings to be sacrificed to the cold etiquette of the world. I had not the pleasure of the acquaintance of that most brave and distinguished officer your late husband. I had hoped that some day circumstances might throw me in contact with him, but it was not for me, a humble manufacturer, to force my acquaintance upon one socially my superior; but, my dear madam, when I heard of that terrible accident, of that noble self-devotion, I said to myself, 'William Mulready, when a proper and decent time elapses you must call upon the relict of your late noble and distinguished townsman, and assure her of your sympathy and admiration, even if she spurns you from the door.''
'You could not think I should do that, Mr. Mulready,' Mrs. Sankey said. ' It is most gratifying to me to receive this mark of sympathy in my present sad position;' and she sighed deeply.
' You are good indeed to say so,' Mr. Mulready said in a tone of deep gratitude; ' but I might have been sure that my motives at least would not be misunderstood by a high-bred and delicate lady like yourself. I will not now trespass on your time, but hope that I may be permitted to call again. Should there be anything in which so humble an individual could be in the slightest degree useful to you pray command my services. I know the
responsibility which you must feel at being left in charge of those two noble boys and your charming little daughter must be well-nigh overwhelming, and if you would not think it presumption I would say that any poor advice or opinion which I, who call myself in some degree a man of the world, can give, will be always at your service.'
' You are very good,' Mrs. Samkey murmured. ' It is indeed a responsibility. My younger boy and girl are all that I could wish, but the elder is already almost beyond me;' and by the shake of her head she testified that her troubles on that score approached martyrdom.
' Never fear, my dear madam,' Mr. Mulready said heartily. ' Boys will be boys, and I doubt not that he will grow up everything that you could desire. I may have heard that he was a little passionate. There was a trifling affair between him and his schoolmaster, was there not? But these things mend themselves, and doubtless all will come well in time; and now I have the honour of wishing you good-morning.'
' Charming manners!' Mrs. Sankey said to herself when her visitor had left. ' A little old-fashioned, perhaps, but so kind and deferential. He seemed to understand my feelings exactly.'
That evening when they were at tea Mrs. Sankey mentioned the agreeable visitor who had called in the afternoon.
