CHAPTER XXVII.

THE STORM BREAKS.

Jessie's moods were sufficiently variable and perplexing to cause me serious uneasiness, but I had no suspicion of what was in her mind when she spoke of uncle Bryan and his religious opinions, or I should have used my strongest efforts to avert the storm. Even when she made her first open move, which she did on the evening of the same day on which we had the conversation just recorded, I did not suspect her; truth to tell, my mind at that time was almost completely occupied by one theme--the locket which Jessie had given me, and its significance. As a charm, it was most potent in its power of bringing happiness to the wearer; I felt that while this locket was in my possession, it would be impossible for a cloud to shadow my life. But clouds came all too quickly.

We were sitting together in the evening, in the most amicable of moods. Suddenly Jessie addressed uncle Bryan.

'Uncle Bryan, who teaches the young?'

He looked inquiringly at her.

'Well,' she continued, understanding that an explanation was expected of her, 'one has to learn things; knowledge doesn't come of itself.'

'Assuredly not,' he said, with evident pleasure and curiosity; 'even parent birds teach their brood the use of their wings, and how to build their nests.'

'I did not know that; but it is of men and women I am speaking. They are higher than birds and beasts.'

'Yes,' he said, in a reflective tone; 'it is so.'

'If the world were filled with nothing but old people, I wonder what sort of a world it would be!'

'It would soon be no world at all,' he said; and added, with good-humoured depreciation, 'and while it lasted it would be a very disagreeable world, if the inhabitants in any way resembled me.'

'Never mind that, uncle Bryan; perhaps some people try to make themselves out a great deal worse than they are. So, then, there _must_ be young people; that is a necessity.'

'As much a necessity as the seasons; it is the law of nature.'

'A good law?'

'Undoubtedly, young philosopher.' His manner was almost blithe.

'Well, then, to come back, as a friend of mine says. The young do not know what is right and wrong, and knowledge does not come of itself. Who teaches them?'

'The old,' he replied readily.

'Because they are more likely to know what is right and wrong.'

'For that reason, I should say. They have had more time to learn, and they have had more experience of the world.'

'Of course,' she said, 'and experience means wisdom. The old _must_ know better than the young.'

'Naturally.'

'And young people should be guided by old people?'

'It would be better if that were more generally done.'

'That is all I wanted to know.'

Before many days were over, Jessie made her meaning apparent. She always accompanied my mother and me to church, and on the Sunday following this conversation she unmasked her battery.

'Uncle Bryan,' she said, while we were at breakfast, 'I want you to come to church with us this morning.'

A startled look flashed into my mother's eyes; uncle Bryan stared at Jessie, and bit his lips. He did not reply immediately.

'Young ladies have many wants,' he said.

'But this is a good want,' she pleaded. There was nothing saucy or defiant in her tone or manner; both were very gentle. 'But this is a good want. You will come with us?'

'I will not come with you,' he replied sternly.

'Do you never go to church?

'Never.'

'Why?'

'That is my affair.' The corners of his lips began to twitch.

'Is it not good to go to church?' she asked, still in a gentle tone, her colour beginning to rise. I noted with consternation these familiar signs of the coming battle. The shock was the more bitter because, to all outward appearance, everything had been fair between them until this moment. Only the night before we had stopped up half an hour later than usual, because the time was passing very pleasantly to all of us.

'My dear,' said my mother, with a sweet smile, taking Jessie's hand in hers; 'my dear, you forget!'

'Forget what, mother?' asked Jessie; she sometimes addressed my mother thus. 'Am I doing anything wrong?'

Even I could not help acknowledging to myself that Jessie, by a literal acceptation of my mother's words, was wilfully misinterpreting the nature and intent of her remonstrance; but I found justification for her.

'Uncle Bryan is the best judge,' said my mother.

'I know he is,' said Jessie.

'Let her go on,' cried uncle Bryan.

The old stern look was in his face, and his voice was very harsh. I was the more unhappy, because I alone held the key of the situation. Jessie repeated the question, addressing herself to uncle Bryan.

'Is it not good to go to church?'

'I do not say that,' was his reply.

'But I want you to say one way or the other. It _must_ be either good or bad. You will come with us!'

'I will not come with you.'

The high tone in which he spoke put a stop to the discussion, and we finished the breakfast in the midst of an unhappy silence. Indeed, we all seemed too frightened to speak. At the proper time my mother and I were ready for church, and were waiting downstairs for Jessie, whom my mother had left in their room dressing. But Jessie was somewhat more dilatory than usual. My mother went to the stairs, and softly called out,

'Now, my child, be quick, or we shall be late!'

It was the first time I had ever heard my mother call Jessie her child, and I pressed her hand fondly for it. She returned the pressure, almost convulsively, and presently Jessie came slowly downstairs. She was dressed with unusual care in a pretty new soft dress, concerning the making of which there had been great excitement; but her head was uncovered.

'Get on your hat quickly, my dear,' said my mother; 'we shall have to walk fast.'

'I am not going to church,' said Jessie, in a low tone, in which I--and I alone, I believe--detected a tremor.

'Jessie!' cried my mother, in a tone of suffering; 'Jessie, my dear child!'

She stepped to Jessie's side, trembling from agitation. Jessie stood quite quietly by the table, and repeated, in a tone which she strove in vain to make steady,

'I am not going to church this morning.'

Uncle Bryan was in the room, but spoke not a word.

'Are you not well, my dear?' asked my mother.

'I am quite well.'

'Then why will you not come with us?'

'I am not sure that it is right to go to church.'

'My dear, if I tell you that it is'

'Uncle Bryan is older than you--twenty years older--and has had more experience of the world; therefore he must know better than you. If it were right to go to church, he would go, for I am sure he is an upright and just man.'

At this direct reference to him uncle Bryan raised his head, and gazed fixedly at Jessie, and at her latter words something like a sneer passed into his face. My mother looked helplessly from one to another.

'I know,' said Jessie, 'that I am the cause of this trouble, and I wish--oh, I wish!--that I had never come into the house! No, I don't wish it, for then I should never have known you!' She stood very humbly before my mother. 'I feel how ungrateful I am: to uncle Bryan for giving me a home'--(how these words stung me!)--'and to you for giving me a love of which I am so undeserving.'

The tears came into her eyes, and I went towards her, but she moved a step from me; and thus apart from each other we four stood for a few moments in perfect silence--a house pulsing with love and tenderness, but divided against itself. Then Jessie said suddenly:

'Uncle Bryan, if I go to church this morning, will you come with us some time during the year?'

'No,' he replied sternly and firmly.

'I have asked you in the wrong way, perhaps,' she said; 'but that would not alter the thing itself.'

'Whichever way you asked me, my answer would have been the same, young lady.'

'If you tell me to go now, I will go.'

'I will tell you nothing. You are your own mistress.'

'How are the young to be taught, then, if the old will not teach them?'

In the presence of my mother's distress he had no answer to make, and I felt that it was out of consideration for her, and not from any desire to spare himself, that he went into the shop and left us to ourselves.

Then Jessie to my mother:

'I hope you will forgive me, but if I knew I should have died for it I could not have helped doing what I've done. Don't be grieved for me; I am not worth it. I am going to spend the morning with Miss West.'

My mother and I went to church by ourselves; but I fear that my mood was not a very devout one. My mind was filled with what had taken place at home, and its probable consequences.