I see why thee would fain be a gentleman."

"Oh, father--how can you?"

"So thee knowest it too--I see it in thy face--Wouldst thee be led away
by him a second time! But thee shall not. I'll put thee under lock
and key before thee shalt ruin thyself and disgrace thy father."

This was hard to bear; but I believe--it was John's teaching--that one
ought to bear anything, however hard, from a just and worthy parent.
And it was John himself who now grasped my hand, and whispered
patience. John--who knew, what I myself, as I have said, did not learn
for years, concerning my father's former history.

"Sir, you mistake; Phineas has nothing whatever to do with this matter.
He is altogether blameless. So am I too, if you heard all."

"Tell me all; honour is bold--shame only is silent."

"I feel no shame--an honest love is no disgrace to any man. And my
confessing it harms no one. She neither knows of it nor returns it."

As he said this, slowly, gravely, John moved a step back and sat down.
His face was in shadow; but the fire shone on his hands, tightly locked
together, motionless as stone.

My father was deeply moved. Heaven knows what ghosts of former days
came and knocked at the old man's heart. We all three sat silent for a
long time, then my father said:

"Who is she?"

"I had rather not tell you. She is above me in worldly station."

"Ah!" a fierce exclamation. "But thee wouldst not humble thyself--ruin
thy peace for life? Thee wouldst not marry her?"

"I would--if she had loved me. Even yet, if by any honourable means I
can rise to her level, so as to be able to win her love, marry her I
will."

That brave "I will"--it seemed to carry its own fulfilment. Its
indomitable resolution struck my father with wonder--nay, with a sort
of awe.

"Do as thee thinks best, and God help thee," he said, kindly. "Mayst
thee never find thy desire a curse. Fear not, lad--I will keep thy
counsel."

"I knew you would."

The subject ceased: my father's manner indicated that he wished it to
cease. He re-lit his pipe, and puffed away, silently and sadly.

Years afterwards, when all that remained of Abel Fletcher was a green
mound beside that other mound, in the Friends' burying-ground in St.
Mary's Lane, I learnt--what all Norton Bury, except myself, had long
known--that my poor mother, the young, thoughtless creature, whose
married life had been so unhappy and so brief, was by birth a
"gentlewoman."