Once he had recognised it there everything became coherent.  The sharp point to which all his light converged was that the whole call of his future to him, as a father, would be in his so managing that Maggie would less and less appear to herself to have forsaken him.  And it not only wouldn’t be decently humane, decently possible, not to make this relief easy to her—­the idea shone upon him, more than that, as exciting, inspiring, uplifting.  It fell in so beautifully with what might be otherwise possible; it stood there absolutely confronted with the material way in which it might be met.  The way in which it might be met was by his putting his child at peace, and the way to put her at peace was to provide for his future—­that is for hers—­by marriage, by a marriage as good, speaking proportionately, as hers had been.  As he fairly inhaled this measure of refreshment he tasted the meaning of recent agitations.  He had seen that Charlotte could contribute—­what he hadn’t seen was what she could contribute to.  When it had all supremely cleared up and he had simply settled this service to his daughter well before him as the proper direction of his young friend’s leisure, the cool darkness had again closed round him, but his moral lucidity was constituted.  It wasn’t only moreover that the word, with a click, so fitted the riddle, but that the riddle, in such perfection, fitted the word.  He might have been equally in want and yet not have had his remedy.  Oh, if Charlotte didn’t accept him, of course the remedy would fail; but, as everything had fallen together, it was at least there to be tried.  And success would be great—­that was his last throb—­if the measure of relief effected for Maggie should at all prove to have been given by his own actual sense of felicity.  He really didn’t know when in his life he had thought of anything happier.  To think of it merely for himself would have been, even as he had just lately felt, even doing all justice to that condition—­yes, impossible.  But there was a grand difference in thinking of it for his child.

XII

It was at Brighton, above all, that this difference came out; it was during the three wonderful days he spent there with Charlotte that he had acquainted himself further—­though doubtless not even now quite completely—­with the merits of his majestic scheme.  And while, moreover, to begin with, he still but held his vision in place, steadying it fairly with his hands, as he had often steadied, for inspection, a precarious old pot or kept a glazed picture in its right relation to the light, the other, the outer presumptions in his favour, those independent of what he might himself contribute and that therefore, till he should “speak,” remained necessarily vague—­that quantity, I say, struck him as positively multiplying, as putting on, in the fresh Brighton air and on the sunny Brighton front, a kind of tempting palpability.  He liked, in this preliminary stage, to feel that he should be