CHAPTER XXVIII.

COLOUR-BLIND.

The consequences were more serious than any one of us could possibly have imagined, with the single exception of uncle Bryan; where we hoped, he reasoned, and reasoned with bitterness against himself. There are in the world a sort of men with whom you are for ever at a disadvantage--men who from various motives are strangely, and ofttimes cruelly, reticent as regards themselves, their thoughts, and their actions. These men receive your confidences, but do not confide in you in return; they listen to your schemes, your hopes, your fears, but say not a word concerning their own. You wear your heart upon your sleeve; they lock up theirs jealously, and place upon them an impenetrable seal, which perhaps once or twice in a lifetime they remove--perhaps never. Uncle Bryan was one of these men. Scarcely by a look had he ever shown us his heart, and it required a nature not only more noble and generous, but more self-sacrificing, than mine not to misjudge him--to be even tolerant of him.

All our hopes of a more harmonious feeling between him and Jessie were utterly shattered, and my birthday, instead of being the commencement of a brighter and better era in our home relations, inaugurated an era of much unhappiness and discomfort. In the most unfortunate, and yet, as it seemed to me, in the most natural way, we were placed in a painfully-delicate position of antagonism. Who was to blame for this? I found the answer to this question without difficulty. Who but uncle Bryan was to blame? The part which Jessie had taken in the conversations between them was dictated by the best of feelings--was good and tender--and I admired her, not only for her courage, but for the affection she had displayed towards him, and for her efforts to wean him from his moroseness and infidelity. That she had failed was no fault of hers. The fault lay entirely in himself, and in his insensibility to softening influences. That, if she had succeeded, the result would have been both good and beautiful, was incontrovertible. I argued the matter very closely in my mind, for, notwithstanding my love for Jessie, I was anxious not to do uncle Bryan an injustice, and I could come but to one conclusion. What home could be happy with a master who possessed such a nature as his? He was like a dark shadow moving among us, and turning our joy into gloom.

These were partly the result of my reflections. Other considerations also arose. We were all bound to one another by ties of affection. That was a certainty, in the first blush of my reflections; but afterwards a doubt occurred to my mind. By what tie of affection was Jessie bound to uncle Bryan? He himself, when he told my mother and me the story of his life, had confessed it: by none. The charge of Jessie had almost been forced upon him, and his sense of duty had compelled him to accept it. It was not humanity that had impelled him to give Jessie a home. And if, after she came among us, she had failed to win his love, it was because his heart was hard and cold, and incapable of tenderness. I recalled a hundred little ways in which she had wooed him, and every one of them was an argument against him. Then I thought of her helpless dependent position, and my love for her and my anger against him grew stronger. That he was hard to her was an additional reason why I should show her openly, and without false weakness, that in me she had a champion and a friend who would be true to her until death. Even if I did not love her, I argued, this championship of one who was cast as a stranger amongst us would have been demanded of my manliness.

All these things were settled in my mind before my mother and I returned home from church on that memorable Sabbath, but not a word passed between us on the subject. I was silent out of consideration for my mother; she was silent out of the exquisite tenderness of her nature. Over and over again had she played the part of the Peacemaker between uncle Bryan and Jessie; but knowing uncle Bryan as she did, she felt that in this crisis she was powerless. The day passed quietly and unhappily. Jessie joined us as we passed the house of the Wests, and walked home with us; but during the whole of the day neither uncle Bryan nor she addressed each other, nor made any conciliatory movement towards each other. Once or twice she looked towards him, and the slightest look of kindness from him would, I knew, have brought her to his side. But although he was conscious of her gaze, he carefully avoided meeting it, and she, instinctively aware of his intention, looked towards him no more. It had been arranged that we should go to the Wests on this night; our visits there during the past fortnight had not been so frequent as usual; but as the time drew near, Jessie whispered to me that she intended to stop at home.

'I will run round,' she said, 'and tell Josey that I can't come; but you can go.'

'I shall do as you do, Jessie,' I said.

I thought afterwards that it was a great pity we stopped at home, for we were anything but lively company. Uncle Bryan might have been made of stone, so silent was he; Jessie rejected all my sympathising advances towards her; and even my mother was at a loss for words. I was curious about the 'good-night' between uncle Bryan and Jessie when bedtime was near; it occupied Jessie's thoughts also; but he settled it by lighting his candle and going to bed without bidding any one of us good-night. It was evident from this and from uncle Bryan's behaviour during the week that followed that all harmonious relations between him and Jessie were at an end. On the next Sunday Jessie came to church with us as usual.

I fully expected that she would take an opportunity of speaking to me on the subject of her difference with uncle Bryan; but as the time passed, and she did not speak of it, I approached the subject myself. I told her my opinion, and praised her for her courage.

'You are speaking against uncle Bryan,' she said.

'I can't help it, Jessie; 'he brings it on himself by his tyranny.'

'Tyranny!' she exclaimed. 'Do you forget what you said, and what I believe--that he is upright, honest, and just?'

'In other things he is; but not in this. He is like a man who can see, and who is colour-blind.'

'That is,' she said, with a deprecatory shake of the head, 'that he is Jessie-blind. Ah, Chris, if he is blind to what there is good in me, are you not blind to what there is bad?' I was about to expostulate, but she stopped me: 'I am not quite satisfied with myself; I don't know that it would not have been better for me to have held my tongue. And another thing, Chris: I am not sure whether I am glad that you think I was right.'

'Why, Jessie, what things you are saying!'

'I must say them, Chris, for I know what is in my mind. Answer me this question. Supposing you were not fond of me, as I know you are--I don't mind saying it now, for I am speaking very seriously--would you think then that I was right? Do you side with me out of your head or out of your heart?'

'My reason approves of what you did,' I said earnestly; 'I want you to believe that, Jessie. Say that you do believe it.'

'I do, Chris.'

'Then you must be glad to know that I am certain you are not to blame.'

She shook her head again, and said:

'Perhaps it would have been better if all of you had been against me.'

'But who _is_ against you, Jessie?' I persisted. 'Mother is not, and I am not.'

'Never mind that now, Chris. I can see things that you can't see, because----'and she took my hand, and looked straight into my eye.'

'Because what, Jessie?'

'Because you are colour-blind, my dear,' she replied, half gravely, half sportively, in unconscious imitation of Josey West.

From this time her visits to the Wests grew even more frequent than they used to be. She was there not only in the evening--on which occasions I was always with her--but very often also in the day. My mother spoke of this to me regretfully, and said she was afraid that Jessie mistrusted her.

'Mistrust the sweetest woman in the world!' said Jessie. 'No, indeed, indeed I do not! But can't you see, Chris, that I am better away?'

'No, I can't see it, Jessie--not that I have any objection to the Wests; you know that I am very fond of them.'

'Still colour-blind, Chris? you still can't see what I can see?'

'You seem to be putting riddles to me, Jessie,' I said.

'Well, you must find the answers without my assistance; and as to my going to the Wests so often in the daytime, what comfort do you think I find at home?'

None, I was compelled reluctantly to confess.

'Have you heard uncle Bryan complain of my absence?' continued Jessie. 'Does he say that I am too often away?'

'No, Jessie, he has said nothing, to my knowledge.'

'Because he sees nothing to regret in it.'

'But mother does, Jessie.'

'Chris,' said Jessie, with tearful earnestness, 'if I had a mother like yours I should thank God for her morning, noon, and night; and if I ever wavered in my love for her, in my faith in her, if I ever did anything to give her pain, I should pray to die!'

'You speak out of _my_ heart, Jessie, as well as out of your own.'

She gazed at me sadly and affectionately, and with something of wonder too.

'Well, well, Chris,' she said, 'I have my plans; let me go my way.'

I was content that she should, having settled in my mind that her way was my way, and that her way was right. I had my plans also, which I did not disclose to Jessie. I was improving my position rapidly, and I knew that the day was not far distant when I should be able to support a home by my own labour--nay, I was at the present time almost in a position to do so. But there were things to be seen to and provided for--furniture and that like; and I was saving money for them secretly. I looked forward with eagerness to the accomplishment of my scheme, and I worked hard to hasten its ripening. The sweet pictures of home-happiness which I conjured up were sufficient incentives--pictures from which neither Jessie nor my mother was ever absent. 'Then,' I thought, 'Jessie will not be a dependent upon one who is filled with unkind and uncharitable feelings towards her.' It was on my tongue a dozen times to tell Jessie how I was progressing in my scheme, but I restrained myself. 'No,' I said, 'I will not say anything to her about it until I am quite ready. Then I will speak openly to her. She knows that I love her, and that I am working for her.'

But I could not keep my plans entirely to myself. I unfolded them to my mother, who sat silent for a little while after I had finished. Then she said:

'Have you not forgotten something, my dear?'

'No, mother, not that I know of.'

'Or some one, I should rather say--your uncle Bryan.'

I returned a disingenuous answer. Uncle Bryan would never leave his shop. What would he find to do in a place where there were no customers to serve, and no business to look after?' (I added mentally, and where he was not master and tyrant?')

'Chris, my dear child,' said my mother humbly and imploringly, 'do not hide your heart from me!'

'Mother!' I cried, shocked at myself.

'Dear child, forgive me! It was forgetfulness on your part, I know, and unkind of me to put such a construction upon it. My boy could not be ungrateful. He knows how I love him, how proud I am of him. How well I remember his promise to me one night--in the old times, my darling, when I used to take in needlework for a living--that he would try to grow into a good man; and how grateful I am to the Lord to see him after all these years a good and clever man, the best, the dearest son that mother was ever blessed with!'

The old times came vividly before me, and a strangely-penitent feeling stirred my heart as I looked into my mother's face, with its expression of yearning love, and thought of the road I had traversed from boyhood to manhood. Bright and beautiful was this road with flowers of sweet affection; a heart whose tenderness time nor trouble could not weaken had cheered me on the way, and unselfish hands had made it smooth for me. The faithful mother who had strewn these flowers was by my side now, shedding the light of her sacred love upon me. She was unchanged and unchangeable, but I---- Ah, me! Let me not think of it. Let me kneel, as I used to kneel with my head in her lap when I was a boy, and when we were all in all to each other. Let me kneel and think of the long, long nights during which my mother used to work for bread for me; the trials, the disappointments, and the cheerful spirit bearing up through all, because a life that was dearer than her own was dependent upon her. The intervening years melted like a dream, and for a little while I was a boy again, and my heart was overflowing with tenderness for this dearest, best of women.

'I remember that night too, mother,' I said, raising my head from her lap; 'I have been looking at it again. I lay awake for a long time watching you; you were sighing softly to yourself, and did not know that I was awake.'

My mother smiled, and sang, as softly now as then, and as sweetly, the very words she had sung on that night.

'You forget nothing, mother.'

'Nothing that is so near to my heart, my dear. Nor would I have you forget Chris, to whom it is we owe our release from the dreadful difficulties that once threatened to overwhelm us; for I was getting very ill, you recollect, when your uncle's letter came to us, and I felt that my strength was failing me. We owe all to him, my dear; wherever our home is he must share it. We must never leave him--never; the mere contemplation of it, after all these years, makes me very unhappy.'

Delicate as was the manner in which my mother had set my duty before me, she had made it quite clear to my mind; but love and duty were at war with each other. All my visions of home-happiness were darkened now by the shadow of uncle Bryan. Whichever way I turned his image seemed to stand, barring my way to the realisation of my dearest hopes.