And Martin? It was possible that Sidney and Margaret were exaggerating his deficiencies. Laura felt no doubt that they painted him worse than he was; it was Margaret's habit to overstate any opinion she formed. If he was only a boor, why could not Phyllis civilize him? She might, in any case, keep her boorish husband in the background and still enjoy the distinction of being Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn. Before she bade them good-night she had constructed for herself a tolerable image of Martin, which might be quite easily tolerated by a girl like Phyllis. She might still live to see her the wife of Sidney's eldest son.
It was late one evening, after all the shops were closed, when Sidney and Margaret together knocked at Andrew Goldsmith's door. It was opened softly by Mary, and they stepped inside the dark shop, standing there while she stole back and knelt down at a chair just within the kitchen door. Old Andrew was at prayer, and as soon as Mary re-entered his quavering voice resumed its solemn petition.
"We beseech Thee, O Lord," he said, "to take under the shadow of Thy wings that poor child of mine, my lost girl's son, who is now in sore straits and great trouble. He has no friend save Thee;
there is nothing in him to make folks love him. But nothing has been done for him, Thou knowest. The man that deserted my girl deserted his own flesh and blood. And he is no better than a heathen, worshiping stocks and stones. Let us see Thine arm stretched out to save him, and to punish that man, his father, who left him to perish, body and soul. Vengeance, O Lord; let us see Thy vengeance on him."
Sidney heard nothing more. It was a terrible thing to hear a fellow-man appealing to God against him. Margaret's heart was melted with pity toward them both. If only either of them knew the infinite love of God; if they could but realize how small a moment in their endless life the brief passage through this world was to every soul of man; if they could only understand how much closer God is to every soul he creates than we are to one another—what need would there be to pray in this manner, even for Martin?
"We are come to answer your prayer, Andrew," she said, stepping forward as soon as he had finished; "not your prayer for vengeance, but for your grandson. He is my husband's son, and mine. We all care for him. My dear boy Philip is doing all he can for him; and now we want you and Mary to help us."
"What can we do, my lady?" he asked, despondently; "the past is past. He can never be like Mr.
Philip and Mr. Hugh."
"Not like them," she answered; "but do you suppose he is less precious to God than they are? God makes no difference between them. Christ died for him as truly as for them. You are too much troubled about small things, Andrew. But you can help Martin. Listen to our plans for him. It is best for him to live at Brackenburn, because that place will always be his own; and we want you and Mary to go and live there with him as master and mistress of his household. You will naturally care for him more than anyone else can do; and you know it is not possible for us to go to live at Brackenburn; it is too far from London. We think, too, of getting somebody who will be a sort of tutor to him, who will teach him all he is able to learn."
She paused a moment, but Andrew did not speak.
"You will make this sacrifice for Sophy's sake," she resumed. "Your grandson has suffered a great wrong, not altogether from my husband's fault, and we must all do what we can to set it right. My husband did not know of the existence of this son."
"Not know of him!" repeated Andrew.
"He knew only that Sophy was dead," said Margaret.
"But you knew she was dead!" he cried, turning fiercely upon Sidney; "you knew it while you were pretending to comfort me, you scoundrel! you hypocrite! You made promises to me of searching for her, and making inquiries, and all the time you knew she was in her grave. God grant I may see you punished!"
The impotent anger of the old man was painful to witness. His white head shook as if with palsy, and his trembling hands clutched the back of a chair for support. Mary ran to his side as if afraid of his falling to the floor.
"I am punished, Goldsmith," said Sidney. "Do you think it is nothing to be branded, as you have branded me, with infamy? But I have come to ask your forgiveness, and your aid in saving Martin from further consequences of my sin."
"Forgive you!" he answered. "I cannot, neither in this life nor the life to come. But I'll do what Miss Margaret asks. I'll quit my old house, and go away, and die among strangers, as my poor Sophy did; and every time you go up and down the street you'll see how desolate you've made my house. I've got a long lease of it, and it shan't be let to anybody else. We'll put up the shutters and leave it empty, and every time you see it you'll remember Sophy and my curse on you."
"Andrew!" said Margaret, "you are casting yourself away, out of the light of God's love, and all your path will be dark to you. You will cease to know him as he is; and you will find how terrible he can be in his anger."
"I repent bitterly of my sins against you," urged Sidney, "and I own how treacherous they were.
But, Goldsmith, believe me when I say that I am changed, that I could not sin against you now as I did then."
"Changed!" said the old man scornfully, "changed! How can you show it to me? You've been found out; and we are changed toward you. But I can see no difference in you. You've not lost your riches and your lands. You're not punished in any way that I can see. Yes, you are a grand son-in-law for an old saddler like me."
"Let us go away," said Margaret sadly.
She took her husband's arm, and walked silently along the streets and up the long avenue, so familiar to them through many happy years. But now their hearts were heavy and cast down. The difficulty had come to Sidney which comes upon men whose outward life has been at variance with the inner. There was no mode by which he could prove to his fellow-men the reality of the change within him. He had seemed to be a Christian so long that there was no way of manifestly throwing off the cloak of hypocrisy. He must wear the livery of Judas to the end.