In the silence of their long drive Mrs. Egerton repeated now and then to herself, ‘A convict!’ with a shudder. Anything but that; if the father thus suddenly discovered had been a beggar, if he had been a poor broken-down drunkard, a reprobate! There are drunkards and reprobates, alas! everywhere, whom the best of families have to put aside into some corner, and veil with silence or with pitiful excuses, with abandonment or sacrificing love. But a convict cannot be hid. A man may live the purest life, he may win everything that energy and even genius can secure, but at the end of all the meanest may rise up and say, ‘Behold the convict’s son,’ and cover even a hero with shame. Imagination could not go so far as that in picturing the evils that are possible. Poor Jack! Poor boy! with his father a convict--a convict! The horror of it was so great and terrible that nothing was possible, save to say over and over these words of shame. And Elly felt it still more deeply in her way. It seemed to ache all over her, this consciousness which she could never shake off, never forget. She took it for her own without doubt or question, embraced it, drew it close to her, with all the _abandon_ of youth. It seemed to Elly that nobody would ever forget it, that it would be blazoned on Jack, and all who belonged to them, on their name, their dwelling, and, above all, on those great things that he was to do. And, of course, he could not give up his father; he must live with them, be their daily companion, this man who had spent years and years in a prison. She was silent, too, with a chill upon all her thoughts. No idea of deserting him ever came into Elly’s mind. She accepted the misery as for her too. And all the accounts she had ever heard of the cruelty of the world in visiting disgrace upon the innocent came into her mind. Could they live it down? she asked herself, or must Jack, poor Jack, dear Jack, with only her to console him, live under this shadow, this awful, undeserved shadow, all his life? Things were better when they got to their rooms, where all was quiet, as quiet as a London street can ever be; and where, as they sat down facing each other with nothing to do, the irrepressible controversy broke forth: ‘Your father will never, never hear of it,’ Mrs. Egerton said. ‘Never! Even I myself, Elly---- A convict--how could we let you connect yourself with a convict? And your father and brother both clergymen! Percy would die first. I am sure he would see you die first. And even your father: your father--can be very decided when he takes a thing into his head.’ ‘You said so before, Aunt Mary. You said you never would consent; but you talk now as if you would have consented; as if you had consented.’