The Ballad and the Source Read Online Free Page B

father.”
    â€œHe’s changed rather, hasn’t he?” I said in a tactful way.
    â€œPeople change as they get older. They get more firmness, more character in their faces—if they are good people. For instance,” said Mrs. Jardine rapidly, in a matter-of-fact way, “Harry had an almost girlish beauty as a boy. As he grew older, and became such a brilliant soldier and led such a hard-working­­­­, responsible life, the quality of his looks changed. All the strength and manliness in him came out.”
    â€œI didn’t know he was a soldier,” I said.
    â€œOf course,” said Jess. “What d’you suppose Major means?”
    â€œWell, he is a retired soldier,” said Mrs. Jardine, stroking Jess’s hair affectionately. “He had a terrible fall from his horse, and then his health broke down, and he had to give up the Army. It was a great grief to him.”
    I pondered, realising for the first time that it was the strength and manliness coming out in men that gave them purplish faces with broken veins. Yet my father was not red at all. Possibly it worked both ways: one could start highly coloured and grow paler, and the cause would be the same.
    As if reading my thoughts, Mrs. Jardine said:
    â€œI dare say your father has changed a great deal from when I knew him. But I am sure he must still be a very fine-looking man.”
    â€œOh yes,” I said; and preoccupied as I was at this time with the problem of marriage, I added: “If he was the very handsomest man you knew, do you wish you had married him instead?”
    â€œ Mais voyons donc, Rebecca,” interrupted Mademoiselle sharply. But Mrs. Jardine smiled and said:
    â€œWell—it would have been delightful, of course. But the question never arose.”
    â€œI suppose he never asked you?”
    â€œNo, never. Apart from anything else, I was too old. As you know, men generally prefer to marry women younger than themselves. I am about half-way between him and your grandmother in age.”
    â€œSo you could be friends with them both?”
    â€œIt was your grandmother who was my darling friend. Of course I was very fond of your father, but he was often away, at school, then at Cambridge, and I never saw him much.” She paused, and added: “And then I lost sight of him altogether.” She drummed with her fingers on the back of a chair, tapping out a brisk tune, then announced abruptly: “I was frightened of your father.”
    I felt myself colour violently with shock.
    â€œWhy?” said Jess, piercing her with an unblinking stare. But she was looking far away, over our heads and went on dreamily:
    â€œ Such charm he had! … Nobody could resist it.”
    â€œEverybody thinks he’s very kind,” said Jess.
    â€œPerfectly true.” She spoke with decision.
    â€œThen why were you frightened of him?”
    â€œHe had a terrible temper,” she said, still looking away, “when he was a young man.”
    â€œHe still has,” we assured her.
    Mrs. Jardine seemed to come out of her dream and said in her most matter-of-fact way:
    â€œOh, he still has. What a pity.”
    â€œHe shouts a bit sometimes,” said Jess, dismissing his temper with a light shrug. “Mostly at Mossop. Not at us. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”
    She glanced at me, irritable: I was frightened when he shouted. I said nothing.
    Mrs. Jardine turned to the window, so that only her bleached stone profile was visible to us, and as if declaring herself, alone, before the judgment of the world, said:
    â€œI have never been a person to be frightened. Physically, I am exceptionally brave. I may say that I have never known physical fear. I have known great pain in my life, and great danger. Each time I have thought: ‘How interesting! A first class experience. Not to be missed on any account.’ As for those ignoble anxieties which rule the