‘Has he spoken of her to the lady, do you think?’
‘Oh no!’ replied the other, with perfect
confidence. ’He has promised me to keep
all that a secret as long as I wish. The lady—
her name is Miss Lant—seemed all that my
friend said she was, and perhaps Jane might do well
to make her acquaintance some day; but that mustn’t
be till Jane knows and approves the purpose of my life
and hers. The one thing that troubles me still,
Sidney, is—her father. It’s
hard that I can’t be sure whether my son will
be a help or a hindrance. I must wait, and try
to know him better.’
The conversation had so wearied Michael, that in returning
to the house he had to lean on his companion’s
arm. Sidney was silent, and yielded, he scarce
knew why, to a mood of depression. When Jane
returned from Maldon in the evening, and he heard her
happy voice as the children ran out to welcome her,
there was a heaviness at his heart. Perhaps it
came only of hope deferred.
DEATH THE RECONCILER
There is no accounting for tastes. Sidney Kirkwood,
spending his Sunday evening in a garden away there
in the chaw-bacon regions of Essex, where it was so
deadly quiet that you could hear the flutter of a
bird’s wing or the rustle of a leaf, not once
only congratulated himself on his good fortune; yet
at that hour he might have stood, as so often, listening
to the eloquence, the wit, the wisdom, that give proud
distinction to the name of Clerkenwell Green.
Towards sundown, that modern Agora rang with the voices
of orators, swarmed with listeners, with disputants,
with mockers, with indifferent loungers. The
circle closing about an agnostic lecturer intersected
with one gathered for a prayer-meeting; the roar of
an enthusiastic total-abstainer blended with the shriek
of a Radical politician. Innumerable were the
little groups which had broken away from the larger
ones to hold semi-private debate on matters which
demanded calm consideration and the finer intellect.
From the doctrine of the Trinity to the question of
cabbage versus beef; from Neo-Malthusianism
to the grievance of compulsory vaccination; not a
subject which modernism has thrown out to the multitude
but here received its sufficient mauling. Above
the crowd floated wreaths of rank tobacco smoke.
Straying from circle to circle might have been seen
Mr. Joseph Snowdon, the baldness of his crown hidden
by a most respectable silk hat, on one hand a glove,
in the other his walking-stick, a yellow waistcoat
enhancing his appearance of dignity, a white necktie
spotted with blue and a geranium in his button-hole
correcting the suspicion of age suggested by his countenance.
As a listener to harangues of the most various tendency,
Mr. Snowdon exhibited an impartial spirit; he smiled
occasionally, but was never moved to any expression
of stronger feeling. His placid front revealed
the philosopher.
