‘Consideration like an angel came

And whipped the of ending Adam out of her

Leaving her body as a paradise

To envelop and contain celestial spirits.’

SHAKESPEARE: Henry V.

THE next morning, after much prayer for the needful strength and wisdom, Mr Lyon came downstairs with the resolution that another day should not pass without the fulfilment of the task he had laid on himself; but what hour he should choose for his solemn disclosure to Esther, must depend on their mutual occupations. Perhaps he must defer it till they sat up alone together, after Lyddy was gone to bed. But at breakfast Esther said —

‘To-day is a holiday, father. My pupils are all going to Duffield to see the wild beasts. What have you got to do today? Come, you are eating no breakfast. O, Lyddy, Lyddy, the eggs are hard again. I wish you would not read Alleyne’s Alarm before breakfast; it makes you cry and forget the eggs.’

‘They are hard, and that’s the truth; but there’s hearts as are harder, Miss Esther,’ said Lyddy.

‘I think not,’ said Esther. ‘This is leathery enough for the heart of the most obdurate Jew. Pray give it little Zachary for a football.’

‘Dear, dear, don’t you be so light, miss. We may all be dead before night.’

‘You speak out of season, my good Lyddy,’ said Mr Lyon, wearily; ‘depart into the kitchen.’

‘What have you got to do today, father?’ persisted Esther. ‘I have a holiday.’

Mr Lyon felt as if this were a fresh summons not to delay. ‘I have something of great moment to do, my dear; and since you are not otherwise demanded, I will ask you to come and sit with me up-stairs.’

Esther wondered what there could be on her father’s mind more pressing than his morning studies.

She soon knew. Motionless, but mentally stirred as she had never been before, Esther listened to her mother’s story, and to the outpouring of her step-father’s long-pent-up experience. The rays of the morning sun which fell athwart the books, the sense of the beginning day, had deepened the solemnity more than night would have done. All knowledge which alters our lives penetrates us more when it comes in the early morning: the day that has to be travelled with something new and perhaps for ever sad in its light, is an image of the life that spreads beyond. But at night the time of rest is near.

Mr Lyon regarded his narrative as a confession — as a revelation to this beloved child of his own miserable weakness and error. But to her it seemed a revelation of another sort: her mind seemed suddenly enlarged by a vision of passion and struggle, of delight and renunciation, in the lot of beings who had hitherto been a dull enigma to her. And in the act of unfolding to her that he was not her real father, but had only striven to cherish her as a father, had only longed to be loved as a father, the odd, wayworn, unworldly man became the object of a new sympathy in which Esther felt herself exalted. Perhaps this knowledge would have been less powerful within her, but for the mental preparation that had come during the last two months from her acquaintance with Felix Holt, which had taught her to doubt the infallibility of her own standard, and raised a presentiment of moral depths that were hidden from her.

Esther had taken her place opposite to her father, and had not moved even her clasped hands while he was speaking. But after the long out-pouring in which he seemed to lose the sense of everything but the memories he was giving utterance to, he paused a little while and then said timidly —

‘This is a late retrieval of a long error, Esther. I make not excuses for myself, for we ought to strive that our affections be rooted in the truth. Nevertheless you —’

Esther had risen, and had glided on to the wooden stool on a level with her father’s chair, where he was accustomed to lay books. She wanted to speak, but the floodgates could not be opened for words alone. She threw her arms round the old man’s neck and sobbed out with a passiona............