IT1E LcQVB Of WoMEf I '■. I ■,;■■■■■'■.:::■ .:.:.■ . L I B R.ARY OF THE UNIVERSITY Of ILLINOIS 82.3 v.\ x PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/passingloveofwom01need PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. $ iXODCl. BY MRS. J. H. NEEDELL, AUTHOR OF STEPHEN ELLICOTT'S DAUGHTER,' ' THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN,' ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. AND NEW YORK. 1892. [All rights reserved.] "1 6 V, 1 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. PART I. CHAPTER I'AGE I. A DOMESTIC INTERIOR - ... 1 II. MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW - 17 III. ' THE SOUL OF JONATHAN WAS KNIT TO TH E SOUL OF DAVID' - - - - 41 IV. MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER - - - 61 V. LIKE AND UNLIKE - - - - 84 VI. UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE - 103 VII. CASTLE STREET CHAPEL - - - - 124 VIII. A GIRL'S VENTURE - - - - 133 IX. AT THE BAR - - - - - 151 X. MOTHER AND SON - - - - 165 XI. SIR OWEN YORKE MAKES HIS BOW TO HIS J* GRANDSON - - - 175 XII. THREE GENERATIONS .... 195 XIII. GUESTS AT ROOKHUHST - - - 206 ^ PART I. PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN CHAPTER I. A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. It was a foggy night even over the open moors and hills of Hallamshire, so that in the towns, although the moon was at the full, not a single ray pierced the gloom. In the streets of Copplestone itself the fog, thickened and blackened by the smoke of factory chimneys, had made itself palpable to every sense but that of hearing. It condensed in unwholesome moisture on the clothes and beards of the passers- by, and obscured the light of the gas-lamps, feebly vol. i. 1 2 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. struggling upwards against the unequal pressure. The steam-trams had ceased to run, and not a cab was to be tempted out by the offer of a fare, however exorbitant. Martin Cartwright stood for a few moments on the threshold of his shop, with his confidential clerk beside him, before he braced himself to plunge into the darkness. ' Happy's the man,' he said, with a good-natured laugh, ' who has got no home to go to, or whose home, like yours, Mitchell, is only across the street. Good-night — I shall find my way.' The other hesitated, with a vague doubt whether an offer of companionship might have been ex- pected ; but before he could make up his mind his master's firm footsteps had carried him out of hearing. The sense of sight had ceased to be of account. The man walked on without hesitation and without collisions, guiding himself, not only through long familiarity with the road, but also A DOMESTIC INTERIOR, 3 from the same instinct of place and its bearings which serves the pioneer in some pathless forest. His way led right through the town to a close adjacent suburb, built over with substantial detached houses standing in trim gardens of about a quarter of an acre, and with a few scattered rows of ' villa residences ' of an inferior type and worse construction. It was to one of the houses of the better class that Mr. Cartwright found his way, He observed that the garden-gate had been set securely back, and when he had approached the house a little nearer he saw that the door also stood wide open, the blaze of gas within the hall being bright enough to reveal the fact, though unable to penetrate the darkness a stone's-throw beyond. A few minutes later he had given his overcoat into the hands of the maid, who had come forward to meet him, and had stepped at once into the warmth and brightness of his home. The dining-room at Elm Lodge — for so the pros- 4 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. perous tradesman called his house — was furnished in the style of fifty years ago, before art had been drilled to order and reform our domestic interiors. At one end of the room stood a huge sideboard, as innocent of plate- glass as of the shelves and alcoves now held essential for the deposit of super- fluous china ; but the fine grain and markings of the wood were resplendent with the persistent polish of what the mistress of the house called elbow-grease — an unguent almost unknown to the present generation — and every panel served as a reflector to the firelight. Curtains of red damask draped in hard, straight lines the opposite windows, and a dinner table stood between, of such large dimensions as almost to occupy the ample space. The chairs were ranged against the wall with the precision of a military martinet ; an old-fashioned bureau, the contents of which were concealed by red silk curtains drawn on thin brass rods behind the glass doors, stood in one recess by the fire- place, and a square piano in the other. The only A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. 5 possibilities of informal arrangement lay in the few books and papers, which appeared upon a table which was placed below the windows, and in the comfortable easy-chairs which flanked the hearth. Both chairs were provided with rockers. A few framed prints hung on the walls, for the most part the outcome of Art Union subscriptions and prizes. And yet it could not be said there was nothing picturesque in the room, for the fire itself, built up with the lavish hand of the North-country housewife, and reflected on brass and steel wrought by patient labour to the highest point of brilliancy, was in itself a thing of beauty. So also was the mistress of the establishment, she who sat expectant by the fireside — Mrs. Cart- wright, the draper's wife, and known as the hand- somest woman in Copplestone. She was a tall, stately, large-framed woman, with fine aquiline features, and an habitual air of reserve and self- repression ; but at the moment that we see her now, alone and consciously free from all restraint, 6 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. with her hands folded on the dropped stocking in her lap, and her head bent in deepest thought, there is a sort of spiritual aloofness in her aspect which is singularly noble and impressive. She rose slowly as her husband entered. 'I did not hear you come in,' she said; 'you are so light-footed. I think you pride yourself upon that.' There was a slight touch of querulousness in her voice. No direct greeting passed between them. He came forward to the welcoming fire, and, draw- ing his chair close up to it, leaned forward to the blaze with extended hands. 'It is a frightful night,' he remarked briskly, ' as you must know. A man cannot see his hand before his face. Were you uneasy ?' ' A little. We did what we could, and I knew how sure you were.' She looked at him intently. ' Have you something to tell me ?' she asked. 1 You look so keen and so eager. Your face, Martin, is always an open book.' A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. 7 Again there was the same touch of querulousness in her tone, as if these characteristics did not please her. ' Eight you are,' was his answer, with a sort of assumed jocularity ; ' but it can wait till after supper. Where is the boy ?' ' Gone to bed with a headache, which he puts down to the fog, and I — to temper.' She paused; then added : ' Things have not gone well to-day.' 'I am sorry— very sorry !' It was on his lips to say more ; but he checked himself, his wife's glance resting on his face. ' Let us have supper,' he said, ' and then you shall hear my news.' The supper was hot and substantial ; but Mrs. Cartwright perceived that her husband ate without appetite, and also without recognition that one of his favourite dishes had been prepared by her own hands. His preoccupation was so unusual that it was with difficulty that she kept her curiosity within strict bounds till the moment of explanation came. 8 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. When at length they had both returned to their rocking-chairs, and the servant had left the room, Mr. Cartwright began without preamble. 'You will remember, Eachel, that I had a sister ?' She was a little startled by his abruptness ; but it was always her instinct to conceal her feelings. ' Certainly. I have heard your poor mother mention her sometimes. She ran away with an officer of the 10th Hussars, a son of Sir Owen Yorke, a bold, profligate young man — the bad son of a bad father — of whom her friends had warned her in vain. I remember your mother telling me what an agony of apprehension she suffered until she knew that the man had really married her, as his friends were desperately opposed to the match. It is a very sad story — a girl cutting herself adrift from all the sacred influences of her home ties. Have you news of her ?' She looked at him with sharp anxiety, suspend- ing the almost mechanical knitting of the stocking A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. 9 which she had resumed. For a moment he hesitated to answer, then said abruptly : ' She is dead, Kachel ! I have got the news to-day — the time is gone by to throw stones at her. Poor girl ! poor girl ! It only seems to me like yesterday when she and I walked to chapel together on Sunday, and every head was turned to look at her as we passed. She was the prettiest girl in Copplestone — there were those who said in all Yorkshire !' The fine curve of Mrs. Cartwright's lips hardened a little, and the colour in her face deepened. Then, with a sigh of prompt compunction, she checked the weakness she had detected, and said gently : ' I am sorry, Martin ; I spoke without knowing. I have always heard that your sister was very handsome — was the letter from her husband ?' * Her husband, Colonel Yorke, has been dead for years. The — the letter was written by herself from her deathbed — a few shaky lines in pencil.' vol. 1. 2 io PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. He got up and shook himself a little ; then added firmly, as he placed himself on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, and looked at his wife's softening face, ' and they were brought to me by her son.' The effect of his words was not, perhaps, greater than he expected. A strange look, almost of terror, came into his wife's eyes. I Her son !' she repeated ; * and what have you done with her son ?' I I have left him at the shop for to-night. It was not a night to take him out in, and — I would not bring him home without consulting you.' He looked at her anxiously, hoping for some ex- pression of opinion or feeling ; but she had resumed her knitting, and her fine face had grown hard and cold. 1 1 will tell you all about it,' he said nervously. * I was in the counting-house — fog everywhere, gas lighted, shop empty — when Mitchell came in to say a youth wanted to speak to me. He had brought A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. u a letter of introduction — would not give his name. Do you know, Bachel, I had an intuition of some- thing — I won't say wrong, but upsetting — and when I saw him I knew him before he had opened his lips. He is the very picture of his poor mother !' A dubious smile touched Mrs. Cartwright's lips. ' Do you mean me to understand that he is very good-looking or very girlish in appearance ?' The ' boy ' upstairs, sleeping off his headache, was unquestionably neither the one nor the other. ' Both. A handsome, effeminate fellow, with a look of his father in his eyes. But his looks don't matter much, Kachel. If he were as ,ugly as sin, our duty — my duty, at least — would be the same. He does not seem to have a friend in the world but ourselves. This is the letter he brought.' He hesitated a moment as he pulled the paper out of his pocket. There was small encourage- ment to trust such desperate words to his wife's sympathy, and he read them in a constrained, almost shamefaced way. 12 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. ' I am dying, Martin, or I would not trouble you ; and I am dying of slow starvation. Body, soul, and spirit have been starved ever since my blessed husband died and left me to suffer alone. I should have killed myself long ago had it not been for Bertie, and a faint memory of Castle Street Chapel. Question him. I have no strength to com- plain. Be a friend to him — he has no other — and you are rich and prosperous, and had only one sister. Give back to my son just a tithe of what his mother's share would have been if she had her rights. As you do to him, may God do to you and yours ! 'Christina Yorke.' His wife held out her hand for the letter as he finished, and read it over again. Her face flushed a little as she did so. 'It is a dreadful letter for a dying woman to write,' she said, returning it. 'It is blasphemous, and it is audacious. She does not ask forgiveness, and seems to have no sense of wrong-doing. She even speaks of self-murder as if it were a mere matter of choice ! Possibly, she did not believe in a judgment to come. Then she does not even beg you to be kind to her son, but demands it as a A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. 13 right, and threatens you in default. She could not have succeeded better if she had wished to harden our hearts against him.' She paused, but her husband made no answer. He was carefully smoothing out and refolding the letter. When he had done so he went to the old bureau, and deposited it carefully in a drawer with some other family records. He relocked the desk, and resumed his seat with an air of decision. He was often afraid of his wife, but he was able on occasions to throw off the weakness. ' Kachel,' he said, ' I was afraid you would take this tone, but you will think better of it on reflec- tion. Such a woman as you cannot harden her heart against a friendless lad because his mother failed in what you think her duty. I mean to do mine, as far as I see it. God has given us one child only. He helping me, to all intents and pur- poses Gilbert Yorke shall stand as John's brother.' Mrs. Cartwright recognised the tone. ' Have you considered,' she asked, in a sup- 14 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. pressed voice, ' what may be the consequences of bringing these boys together? I suppose that is your idea. Don't you think we are answerable before God for any influence to which we subject the soul He has given into our charge ? Are you justified in exposing John to the companionship of a lad older than himself, I imagine, and who has been brought up most certainly with no fear of God before his eyes ? Martin, consider how I have striven to train up our son in the way that he should go !' She did not often make an appeal, and it touched him sensibly. ' My dear,' he answered evasively, ' you do not know how this boy will turn out. He seemed to me a lad of promise, easy to like. He may do John good rather than harm — you have often said yourself that he wanted brightening.' ' If I have, it has been in some moment of weak- ness. There is not much call for brightness in such a world as ours — to those, at least, who look A DOMESTIC INTERIOR. 15 below the surface. Do you think because I am well housed, well clothed, and well fed, that I for- get the sin and misery around me ? I bear it on my heart and conscience daily, and it makes me — what I am. My one prayer to God is that I may be so strengthened to brace up the temper of my son that he will be willing to give up his life to doing battle against the evil.' ' But if he is to do this, Kachel, he must know of it. He will be overmatched if you shut him up so close in your mother-love that he can see nothing beyond it.' She smiled a little grimly. 1 1 do not think I often allow my mother-love to make a fool of me, Martin. Time enough for John to come to closer acquaintance with the world, the flesh, and the devil when he is of full age, and has got his weapons ready for the encounter. Samuel was brought up at Eli's feet in the temple of the Lord, but I have never read that he was thereby rendered unfit to deliver God's judgments, 16 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. and denounce the backslidings of the people and their king. It shall not be with my consent that you bring your nephew home if his character and training make him a dangerous companion for our son.' She rose and folded up her knitting preparatory to leaving the room. 1 1 am going upstairs for a few minutes to see if John is asleep. Sometimes the pain in his head keeps him awake.' She paused at the door, and turned round. 'Let us both sleep upon this,' she said, * and make it a matter of prayer. At all events, I shall see Gilbert Yorke and judge for myself before we make him one of the family. It would be quite easy for you to provide for him other- wise.' CHAPTEE II. MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. The room in which John Cartwright slept was large and airy, and faced the pleasant, well-kept garden, but it was almost as bare in point of com- fort as an anchorite's cell. A narrow iron bedstead, a washstand, a chest of drawers, which served also as dressing-table, and a couple of chairs, included the whole of the furni- ture, with the exception of some book- shelves against the wall. There were no curtains at the window nor a shred of carpet on the floor. The meaning of this austerity was to be found partly in Mrs. Cartwright's hygienic dogmas, but still more in her religious convictions. She waCB a vol. i. 3 18 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. rigid Methodist, with a concentrated horror of Popery as bearing the ineffaceable mark of the beast, and sinking its votaries to hopeless per- dition ; but her methods of training her son to ' endure hardness ' were curiously akin to the practices of the faith she denounced. The chamber was full of fog, added to the dense darkness of a November night. No object was dis- tinguishable except from the few rays of light that struggled upwards from the hall. She had opened the door noiselessly, and now stood in the doorway, with her head a little bent, listening intently. Quiet as her movements had been, the boy, stretched in bed with wide-open eyes and arms flung upward on the pillow, heard them, and in- stinctively held his breath. He could just dis- tinguish the outline of his mother's figure in the open doorway, and his hope was that she would think he was asleep, and neither speak to him nor approach him. Presently the sound of her voice broke the silence, and as it reached his ears he MRS. CARTWRlGtiT EXAMINES HER NEPHE W. 19 shrank a little, as if the contact had been tangible. ' Are you asleep, John ?' she asked, in a careful whisper. There was no answer. She waited another moment, and then took a few steps nearer the bed, still listening. The boy, perceiving his first mistake, now drew his breath with simulated regularity, and attained his object. His mother thought he was asleep, and withdrew ; but before doing so she stroked, half unconsciously, the cover- let of the bed once or twice in a sort of mute caress, and a brief, unspoken prayer, to which the incident of the night lent additional intensity, rushed from her soul upwards, that God would have her darling in safe keeping. Meanwhile, the son she adored drew a long breath of relief as he heard her retreating footsteps, and saw the faint streak of light shut out by the closing door. Five minutes after he was on his knees by his bedside in the thick darkness. ' God !' he cried aloud, in an agony, but stifling the sound with the bedclothes, ' break my 20 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. hard heart ! It is like the nether millstone. I do not love Thee, nor my Saviour, nor even my mother. I love nothing upon earth nor in heaven !' He stopped, shaken with strangling sobs, then prayed in silence. ' I need not speak ; Thou knowest all things. Thou knowest that I am sick with misery !' And at the same hour, in a bedchamber of the house above his father's shop, another youth — his unknown kinsman, with whom his own life was to be henceforth so closely knit — lay heartsore and sleepless, counting the hours as they struck through the murk of the fog from the sonorous clock of St. Peter's Church. No passion of premature despair shook him, though he was very unhappy ; nor did any prayer pass his lip, though desire was strong upon him. He lay still, and suffered with the quiescence of one at home with trouble, and yet with the fire of hope and determination alive in his heart. More, he had rather enjoyed the evening. Much MRS. CART WRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 21 goodwill had been shown him by the young men employed in his uncle's shop, and who lived in the house above, under the care of a trusty house- keeper. Their strong provincialisms, and the rough freedom of their manners, had pleased his quick sense of humour, and he had been able to hold his own in the familiar give-and-take of inter- course, without any wound to his fastidiousness. He was already allowed to be ' not a bad soart 0' chap.' Such was Mrs. Cartwright's influence over her husband, that by ten o'clock the next morning Gilbert Yorke was walking in the direction of Elm Lodge, for the purpose of being subjected to a searching examination. His cousin John was bound to be at his desk in the Grammar School before that hour, for his mother had no intention of consulting his wishes in the matter, and he was kept in ignorance of yesterday's event. But, by a sort of caprice of chance, the two boys encountered each other that morning. The one — 22 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. with his strapped books in his hand, and his eyes, after their wont, fixed on the ground in sombre rumination — came into such sharp collision with the other at the corner of a street as almost to knock him down, and to dash his own loosely-held pack out of his hand. John grunted an apology, which was accepted with such singular pleasant- ness — the stranger stooping at the same moment to recover and restore the books — as to produce a feeling of surprise, for, perhaps, in nothing are the middle-class English more deficient than in those social amenities which, though they have no power to propel or divert the wheels of life, prevent, at least, their intolerable friction. As John Cartwright went on his way he took with him an impression that seemed to quicken his habitual sense of loneliness and dissatisfaction ; probably there were people in the world who found and made things pleasant ! Meantime, as Gilbert Yorke pursued his walk to his uncle's house, his heart sank within him. MRS. CART WRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 23 The fog still prevailed, less dense than the pre- ceding day, but dense enough to hang like a foul canopy over the town, and imprison the unwhole- some smoke of the factory chimneys. Only the sharpest outlines of the buildings asserted them- selves through the gloom, and for the first time in his life he saw shops and streets gas-lighted at mid- day. ' Is life possible here ?' he thought. ' No wonder that fellow looked so miserable. Poor mother ! I shall understand some things better soon.' It was a little clearer when he reached the outskirts of the town, but he would still have had grea,t difficulty in distinguishing the house he wanted had not a man who chanced to be going in the same direction pointed it out. * The master will be down at th' shop,' he ex- plained, ' but thou'll find the missis at home.' A question sprang to the lad's lips, but he checked it ; the moment was close at hand when he would be able to judge for himself. He was 24 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. admitted to the house like one expected, and shown into the dining-room. Mrs. Cartwright did not appear immediately, but he was not impatient. He was tired with his comfortless walk, and every- thing around him was new and strange ; the glorious coal-fire drew him like a magnet. He sat down near it, avoiding the capacious rocking-chairs, and stretching out his benumbed hands to the warmth, passed the room and its contents in anxious review. It was gas-lighted like the streets, and its formality struck him painfully ; it looked to him less like the interior of a home than a room in some institution, the only sign of occupation that he could discover being a half-knitted stocking, neatly rolled up on a bracket beneath the mantel- shelf. He rose, cap in hand, as the door opened and the mistress of the house entered, standing uncertain whether to advance or not, and waiting for her salutation with an anxiety that could be read in every line of his face. Mrs. Cartwright's anxiety was scarcely less than his own, but it was MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 25 better concealed. She came forward slowly until within a few paces of the hearth, and looked at him deliberately for a moment or two before she spoke. It seemed an act of discourtesy, and, under the circumstances, even one of unkindness, but it was instinctive. She looked, as it were, in her son's behalf, to see whether this unwelcome intruder possessed any advantages over him. "What she saw was a tall, slender youth, straight and lissom as the typical young palm-tree, and apparently about seventeen years old. The face, somewhat thin and wan, was very broad at the brows, but formed below a delicate oval, to which the cleft but rounded chin gave manliness and distinction. The brown eyes were full of anima- tion when he talked or listened, but in silence and in solitude were inclined to melancholy, and the lips were so mobile and sensitive as to give the impression of a highly nervous and perhaps un- certain temperament. Eachel Cartwright's judgment was distinctly vol. 1. 4 26 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. unfavourable ; she fancied she read all the indica- tions of character which she most dreaded, and another point touched her to his disadvantage. She possessed an almost morbid consciousness of her own good looks, and of the dignity of her presence (for such self-appreciation was regarded by her as one of her besetting sins) ; but she was also curiously aware that no charm of expression or grace of manner softened or enhanced these advantages. Her heart had often secretly ached when she had observed the sweet, intense gaze of childhood shrink away from hers, and had furtively watched how her son's eyes would rest at times upon her face, and be withdrawn without any softening or kindling of aspect. And now, before a word had passed her lips, she saw that the youth before her, who had met her steadfast gaze with one of unconcealed anxiety, dropped his eyes, and that his countenance fell. ' Sit down,' she said at last, moving slowly to her accustomed seat by the fire, and taking up her MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 27 stocking, partly from habit, partly to hide her strong excitement. ' I suppose you understand that I am your uncle's wife ; and I have sent for you that we may become better acquainted. I did not know till last night that I had a nephew. Tell me your name, and all about yourself.' He still stood looking away from her, with an expression half wistful, half perplexed. Then he answered : ' I think you must know my name ; it is Gilbert Yorke, the same as my father's, and I am seven- teen years old. For the rest, I do not know what to say. I never set foot in this country — in England — until yesterday.' ' Is that possible ?' She thought of the privileges he had missed, and the temptations to which he must have been exposed, and her voice took an inflection which brought Gilbert's eyes again upon her face. 'Do you pity me,' he asked, 'because I have lived where the sun shines and the air is clear ? If 28 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. your climate were always like this — but I know it isn't — I would rather beg my bread in Florence or Marseilles than be the greatest man in England. Had we lived in this town always, my poor mother and I, we should have been dead years ago ; but one is able to live and to enjoy life on very little in Italy.' He spoke with great vivacity, in a voice as clear as a bell, and with an accent decidedly foreign. There was no boldness in the glance with which he returned her scrutiny, but neither was there any fear ; and both look and manner impressed Mrs. Cartwright disagreeably, as indicative of un- chastened temper and spirit. ' Perhaps,' she answered, with a rather grim smile, ' there is nothing so very unpalatable to you in the idea of begging your brea I mean, it is possible you might dislike the prospect of earning it still more.' He flushed a little. ' It was a way of speaking ; and I am not used MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 29 to be taken so literally. Certainly I have never done that yet ; but I have more than once been very near doing it — though it was not because I would not have earned it if I could.' He paused, his face settling into an expression of troubled recollection. Then he looked up, and added : ' I think I understand. You know nothing about me, and you want to know everything. That is to be expected. Will you ask me questions"? or, to spare your feelings, shall I tell you about ourselves — my poor mother and me — as well as I can?' She bowed her head stiffly, and, with the inten- tion of putting him more at his ease, she took up her stocking again, and resumed her knitting ; but, to her astonishment, he interposed : ' Pardon, but I must ask you not to do that ! I cannot talk while I hear the click of your needles. I have gone through a good deal of late, and I suppose it has tried my nerves.' 3 o PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 'Nerves!' she repeated contemptuously. 'No English youth would speak like that.' ' Perhaps not,' he said, smiling ; ' they do not seem to have any ! How am I to begin to make you understand ? Do you know that it is only a week to-day since my mother was buried ?' ' No,' she replied more kindly ; ' I did not know it was so short a time.' She looked into his face, and added, ' You loved your mother very dearly ?' ' Loved her ! that does not express it. I loved nothing else. You must know we were not only mother and son, but friends — comrades. We were playfellows and fellow-students. We worked to- gether and suffered together, and no one knew it but ourselves. My father's death left us almost penniless, and from that time — I was only six years old — she worked for our living till I was able to help her. She had a wonderful talent for embroidery, and the eye and hand of an artist in design. She worked silk gowns for the great MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 31 ladies, first at Marseilles and then at Florence, and altar-cloths for the churches, and she would sing at her work like a bird, not because she was light- hearted, but that I might believe her back did not ache with stooping and her eyes were not dim with fatigue. Never did I hear her own to being tired or complain that life was hard for her — never ! And consider ! She was still a young woman and very beautiful. As I walked close to her side in the streets — we always went out together — I have seen the people turn to look at her. She did not seem to notice. I think she saw no one in the world but me and my father in her sweet memory.' He stopped and put his hands before his face. He was in an agony of tender reminiscence, and he could not endure to be looked at. Had he known it, there was a certain forbearance in the silence she maintained. It was with difficulty she had refrained from interrupting him when he spoke of ' altar-cloths.' Presently she broke the silence that had fallen. ' How did you help your mother ? Was she able to send you to school ?' ' When we lived at Marseilles I was an " externe " — how do you call it — a day boy ? — at the Lycee, but before I went in the morning, and at night when I came home, I did the work of our little menage that she might not be hindered in hers. I can brush the floors and make beds ; I can cook, not badly, and set the table ; that is, I can do these things quite well as we wanted them. And,' he added, with a flash of the eyes, ' if begging my bread would have helped my mother, I would have done that too.' ' Let the words pass. I ought not to have said them. I want to know how the last few years have been lived — I presume you have been brought up as a Protestant ?' ' Yes,' he answered, with an indifference that shocked her conscience. She had decided to reserve comment until she was in possession of the facts she wanted. MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 33 ' When did you leave Marseilles and go to Florence ?' she asked. ' And was your way of life the same in both places ?' ' No,' he answered, ' it was far worse at Florence. There my mother began to sicken and fade, and was not strong enough to work as before. Then — I need not tell you how — I tried in my turn to earn our living, and found it cruelly hard. But we managed ! She thought I did not know how much she suffered, and I believed I hid from her some of my shames and vexations. I dare say we both deceived ourselves. But we were sometimes helped by friends. One family, who had known my father, spent two winters in Florence, and were very good to us. Then the English chaplain was my friend. He gave me lessons out of pure charity, and now and then he found employment for me.' He smiled. ' I can play on the riddle a little, and sometimes I gave lessons on that and in English ; but it was to very humble pupils, and I was a very poor maestro.'' vol. 1. 5 34 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Mrs. Cartwright sighed ; the sense of incongruity weighed upon her, as also did the eager fluency of the lad ; she had never known anyone of this sort before, and it needed an effort to recover the position of authority which seemed to be slipping away from her. ' Were you with your mother when she died ?' she asked ; ' and did you see the letter you brought to your uncle ?' 1 1 did not read it, for it was sealed when she gave it me. I scarcely left her for an hour during her long illness. I was her nurse as far as a boy could be — the dear sisters of Sta. Maria Nuova came in and helped me some part of every day. She suffered — horribly! You will judge how dreadful it must have been when I tell you that every morning when the new day dawned I prayed God that she might never see another.' He stopped with knitted brows and a look in his eyes as if the vision were still before him. ' I can understand that it was hard to bear,' MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER XEPHE W. 35 was her answer, ' to an unchastened spirit like yours ; but do you not know that all suffering is ordained by God, and that to speak as you do is almost impious. We are not allowed to call that ''horrible" which comes by His appointment, nor to rebel against the Divine will. It is not possible that any chastisement He may think fit to inflict can equal our deserving. Besides, was your mother so fully prepared to die that you were justified in wishing to shorten her probation? Had she made her peace with God through faith in her Saviour, and striven to lead you to do the same? Otherwise her love for you was only a delusion and a snare.' For a moment his face lighted up with a passionate indignation, and words rose to his tongue which would have severed at once all intercourse between them ; but the memory of entreaties so lately spoken by his dying mother helped him to restrain himself. ' Be patient, beloved, with your uncle and aunt,' 36 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. she had breathed into his ear when every word was a spasm of agony. 'Bear the yoke a little while for my sake. I shall not be able to rest in my grave if they cast you out.' And then she had looked with an agony of forlorn love into his face and murmured : ' But they could not do it — if they see you they must keep you. It is I — miserable — that must let you go !' Mrs. Cartwright watched the conflict of his spirit, and was inclined to attribute his victory over himself to motives of self-interest. When he spoke again the music seemed to have gone out of his voice, and the light from his eyes. ' You did not know my mother,' he said ; ' and I do not suppose you ever knew anyone like her. You spoke of Christ just now — well, she was like Him, if Divine unselfishness can make a human being so. As for the rest of what you have said, I do not understand the meaning of it.' 'Ah,' she said, in an intense tone, 'it is all exactly as I feared ! ' MRS. CART WRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 37 She moved her chair a little farther off, and sat ruminating with her eyes on the ground. It seemed to her as if the foreboding which seized her mind from the moment she had heard that terrible letter was justified. To influences of more active evil the boy before her might have been exposed ; but scarcely to any that, in a spiritual sense, were more demoralizing. His ignorance was so absolute he did not even know what he lacked. No sense of God's requirements or of human inadequacy had ever pierced his soul. His was the fatal standpoint where acceptance with God rests on the fulfilment of natural duty, so that he based his confidence in his mother's salvation on the miserable grounds of personal merit. What heresy more soul-destroying could be found? Was there not in her son's mind already too much of the revolt of the natural man against the complete surrender of self-love and self-confidence ? Should she expose him to the peril of familiar intercourse with this fluent and 38 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. dangerous companion, knowing well how prone he himself was to be affected by what was pleasant and attractive to the sense rather than by what was for the good of the soul ? The silence between them was becoming oppres- sive. Mrs. Cartwright roused herself with an effort, and once more looked at her companion. Gilbert Yorke was leaning back in his chair as if he felt the incident to be closed, and was physically exhausted by the process. She noticed more exactly how spare he was, and the delicate pallor of his skin, and in spite of the strength of her convictions, her sympathies were stirred for his physical needs. 'Poor lad!' she said to herself, 'it is evident he has not been sufficiently nourished. We can mend that, though it shall not be under this roof.' Is there, amongst the mysteries of being, some magnetic communication of thoughts? Gilbert Yorke started and coloured as if he had followed the workings of her mind. MRS. CARTWRIGHT EXAMINES HER NEPHEW. 39 ' Shall I go ?' he asked. ' Have you anything more to say to me ? I presume I am at liberty to return to my uncle's shop ?' For almost the first time in her life the word, when he spoke it, grated upon her ear. His father had been what the world in its folly calls a gentleman, and she asked herself, with a bitter- ness that was new to her, whether his penniless son presumed to give himself airs of superiority ? ' There is plenty of time,' she said coldly. ' They do not dine till one o'clock, and it is only half an hour's walk. Besides, I could not let you go until you have taken some refreshment.' Her heart misgave her that her husband would be displeased that she had not detained him as a guest for the day ; but to a woman who would have gone to the stake for her convictions, such a consideration was of small account. ' Thank you, but I could not eat.' He rose and picked up his cap, evidently bent upon instant departure, then hesitated, as if a sudden thought 4 o PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. had struck him. ' I should like to have seen my cousin. May I see him?' He spoke as if deprecating her refusal. 1 You shall see him, certainly — some other time,' she said a little hurriedly. ' He is not at home now.' She paused to listen, and turned a shade paler as she did so. Was it not John's step on the threshold, and his voice in the hall questioning the servant ? What baleful combination of circum- stances had brought him home some two hours before the appointed time ? She rose swiftly, with the intention of averting what appeared to her the catastrophe of a meeting even before she had had the opportunity of warning and fortifying her son. But she was too late. Before she could reach the door it was pushed open from without, and John Cartwright had entered the room. CHAPTER III. DAVID. As John Cartwright came into the room he looked eagerly about, as if seeking for something he ex- pected to find. Gilbert recognised him at once, and, with the ease and promptitude which belonged to his character and training, went up to him with out- stretched hand. ' Is it you ? How strange it seems ! I am glad I was not gone away. So you are my cousin !' He smiled delightfully. John's face underwent a change. The heavy features lighted up, and the magnificent dark eyes, vol. i. 6 42 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. which were the only beauty he inherited from his mother, flashed out a cordial welcome. He had not noticed Gilbert's appearance much, the fog being thick and his mind preoccupied ; but the voice and manner instantly recalled the in- cident of the morning, and the strange yearning that it had excited. 'I am glad it is you,' he said simply; but he gripped the extended hand with a warmth that raised the sinking heart of the other. For a moment the two boys looked at each other, while Mrs. Cartwright gazed at them almost with the feeling of one at whose feet a bomb has ex- ploded. Had the mysterious principle of evil been already at work to circumvent her earnest en- deavours ? How could they have met already, and what had passed between them that was able to bring to her son's face an expression she so seldom saw there ? A new fear seized her — a possibility that her mind had not grasped till now. JONATHAN AND DAVID. 43 Before she had sufficiently recovered herself to question John, he turned to her, speaking with un- usual animation : ' We have been dismissed, mother, on account of the fog. Mr. Whitworth said that no brains could work under it a second day, and that we were better at home. I called in at the shop to speak to father, and then I heard about — Gilbert.' He hesitated and blushed a little as he pronounced the unfamiliar name. ' Father says he shall come home to dinner, and that it is to be a good one, in honour of the day.' ' Where have you met before ?' she asked, with a sternness which made Gilbert look at her curiously, and effectually checked John's exuberance of feel- ing. Ah, in any hope for the future, he had for- gotten that he had his mother to reckon with ! He explained curtly the morning's rencounter, but the unaccustomed brightness had gone out both of his voice and of his face. As regarded the latter, it almost seemed to 44 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Gilbert that he had put on a mask — the same as he was wearing when they had come into collision in the street. The cause, he thought, was not far to seek, and his whole heart went out to him in sym- pathetic pity. Mrs. Cartwright accepted the situation with the dignity due to the inevitable. The present had baffled her ; therefore, it would behove her to safe- guard the future with more stringency. She turned again to her son, and desired him in a milder tone to take his cousin upstairs, ' to wash his hands and brush his hair before dinner.' 1 To my room ?' asked the boy, with that sub- serviency, even in trifles, which comes of too rigid an exercise of authority. 'No,' was the answer; 'your cousin is a guest, and must be treated like one. Take him to the spare room, and see that he has all he wants.' Then she added, as they were leaving the room to- gether : ' I do not wish to hurry you, John, but I JONATHAN AND DAVID. 45 should like to speak to you before your father comes in.' The spare room to which Gilbert was taken was comfortably and substantially furnished. The bed was heavily draped, and the thick carpet extended from wall to wall. A deep easy-chair stood in the bay of the window, with a small writing-table in front of it, on which lay a Bible. Gilbert looked round. ' I shall never be able to go to sleep here,' he said ; ' you should have seen my bedroom at Florence ! It was little more than a nook in the wall, half-way up the tow r er — more like a bird's- nest than anything else.' His face softened, and his eyes took the far-away expression of one who sees the unseen in mental vision. Then suddenly a spasm of anguish con- tracted his features ; he threw himself into the deep chair by which he had been standing, and, burying his face in his hands, sobbed aloud. John stood beside him in silent consternation. The 46 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. quick transition of feeling baffled him a little, and such crying seemed to him unseemly — more like a woman or a girl ; and yet he himself (though no one knew it) wept sometimes, and the proof that Gilbert Yorke had feelings deep enough for tears was a bond between them. His fear had been otherwise. He waited a few minutes, and then touched his shoulder quietly. The other looked up. ' Don't think worse of me for this, old fellow,' he said ; ' but it all came over me so suddenly that I couldn't bear it. It is like Tophet ! I can hardly believe that earth is the same place, or that I am the same creature.' John hesitated. He was not apt at self- expression, but the look in his eyes had something of the speechless intensity one sees in those of a faithful dog. Then he said : ' I don't think the worse of you. I — I am — not very happy myself sometimes.' ' Shall we, then, agree to stick together ?' asked JONATHAN AND DAVID. 47 Gilbert, getting up and shaking himself a little, as if trouble were tangible and could be got rid of. ' I have not a friend in the world, or a sixpence either — so to speak. It's a generous offer, John ; will you close with it ?' His versatility distressed his companion, for John's experience was limited, and there seemed something incongruous in these changes from grave to gay : but the face into which he looked up was so charming in its April sunshine, and the delight- ful voice took so winning an inflection, that he sur- rendered all misgivings. ' If you like,' he answered, ' I will stick to you through thick and thin.' The return to the family circle was smoothed by the presence of the head of the family. His kindness to his nephew was so cordial that Gilbert revived under it to such a degree as again to excite John's quiet astonishment. His father had never travelled, and he was one of those men always athirst for colloquial informa- 48 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. tion. He found it too much trouble, after business hours, to seek knowledge in books, and the day of rest was strictly devoted to chapel services and religious literature. Gilbert, in answer to Martin Cartwright's leading questions, was prepared to describe Marseilles with the unction of one who knew and loved it. He took paper and pencil (without asking leave) from the table under the window, and drew a rapid plan of the city, showing how it climbed the acclivity of a hill, with a loftier range of hills behind, and with the blue Mediterranean at its feet. He went into animated detail about the antiquities of the old town and the splendour of the new, and with a few strokes of the pencil he marked the outline of the finest harbour of which France can boast, and of the forts by which it is defended ; and he was only at a loss when his uncle questioned him about the manufactures of the town and of the system of supply and storage practised in the great warehouses which line the quays. JONATHAN AND DAVID. 49 For all this to form an interlude between the courses of their early dinner was so contrary to custom and habit and her fixed notions of propriety that Mrs. Cartwright, who had endured with patience so long as she was able, at length inter- posed. ' Gilbert's ways are not our ways,' she said ; ' but it will be better for him to conform to them as soon as he can. Don't encourage him, my dear, to talk so incessantly — at least, till dinner is over — I cannot bear it !' She put her hand to her head, which, indeed, ached with suppressed nervous irritation. The natural result of this was to cover Gilbert Yorke with confusion. In many ways his life had been a hard life ; but he was entirely unused to the snub-direct, which is of too frequent employ- ment in the ordinary British domestic circle ; and though his uncle pooh-poohed his wife's rebuff, and took all the blame of the innovation on himself, and John looked at him with covert kindness, his vol. 1. 7 50 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. feeling was that the bread of dependence was bitter and that he would have none of it. The rest of the afternoon was a difficult experi- ence for all concerned. Mr. Cartwright's sense of duty towards his nephew was quickened into interest and affection as much by the charm of his tongue as by that of his personality. He had never heard anyone talk precisely in the same way before, or who seemed to have his information so easily at command, for Gilbert had soon rallied from the check he had received. The slightly foreign accent and the little mannerisms which offended his wife piqued his own curiosity, and pleased certain perceptions which had been decidedly latent hitherto. Beyond this, he was full of remorseful pity for his dead sister ; and the way in which this son spoke of his mother at once touched and satisfied him. And he afterwards said to his wife : 'He is a good lad, Rachel, a good lad, with his heart in the right place !' JONATHAN AND DA VlD. 51 The family did not leave the dining-room after dinner. The seniors took their place by the fire in their accustomed chairs. Mr. Cartwright had a glass of hot whisky-and-water on the bracket beside him, with which he was wont to solace his leisure ; and his wife, silent and stern, employed herself on some fine white sewing for her son. Middle-class women in those days made shirts for the men of the household. John Cartwright sat in a lounging attitude, his legs outstretched, his hands in his pockets, and his head sunk upon his breast. Now and again his mother, who watched him closely, though covertly, observed that he glanced towards his cousin when any point of special interest occurred in the talk still carried on between the uncle and nephew ; but the look expressed nothing beyond simple attention, and he would drop his eyes again without speaking, as was his way. At any other time, had he sat thus idle, she would have bidden him to find some employment ; but she was wise 52 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. enough to recognise that this day was not like other days. She did not guess that beneath this mask of stolidity her son was really rapt in a delicious dream. The inflections of Gilbert's voice, the picturesque appropriateness of his gestures, the indications of filial duty he unconsciously betrayed, pleased both his sensuous and moral nature. And this new factor in his dreary life — adequate to change it — was to be permanent. The bond of friendship had been knitted between them, and the hunger of his soul, which he had always felt and always con- cealed, was to be satisfied at last. As this thought pressed upon him, a little flush came into his down- cast face, and a spark of fire shot from his eyes. Presently his father's voice addressed him. ' What a quiet chap thou art, lad ! not a word to say for thyself, nor a question for th' cousin ! How dost thou like the idea of having a brother foisted upon thee ?' J ON A THA N AND DA VI D. 5 3 John looked up quietly and met his mother's eyes. Instinctively he veiled the gladness in his. ' I like it,' he said dryly ; but a smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. 1 And what says th' mother ?' pursued Mr. Cart- wright, with a secret anxiety that he tried to keep out of his voice. ' We will talk of this, Martin, when the boys are in bed. I am as anxious as you to do the best we can for Gilbert Yorke. The difficulty will be to decide what is the best.' John looked steadily at her, and read determina- tion and antagonism in every line of the face he knew so well. A sudden anguish of apprehension seized upon him ; he glanced across at Gilbert, then at his father, and took his resolution. ' If he is to be my brother,' he said, ' one thing- is certain — we must live together. Promise me, father, whatever you and mother arrange, that Gilbert and I shall live together !' 54 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. He tried to speak calmly, but the desire upon him was so strong that his voice shook. Mr. Cartwright laughed a little nervously, for his wife's eyes were upon his face. 'And what does Gilbert say?' he asked, as a diversion. ' That I shall always be grateful to you and to John, whether you give me a place in your home or not.' There was a little pause, filled up with an inter- change of looks between the lads, in which each chal- lenged the other to steadfastness. The big table stood between them, so that they could not draw together ; and, indeed, though that might have been the instinct of the elder, John Cartwright was not prone to demonstration. He perceived his mother was about to speak, though she had never relaxed her sewing, and his attention was instantly arrested. ' I do not think we should bind ourselves to any fixed plan,' she remarked quietly, ' without giving JONATHAN AND DA VID. 55 more thought to the matter. The boys have been brought up so differently. John, you know, goes to the college after Christmas, to prepare himself for his great work. Such a training would ill suit his cousin.' ' Every boy who goes to Wesley College is not meant for the ministry — not half of them !' There was a note of opposition in the speaker's voice new to his mother's ear. ' Such may be the case,' she answered, ' but that is when they are the sons of gentlemen or wealthy mill-owners who have not got their bread to earn. It would surely be unnecessary for your cousin to waste time in learning Latin and Greek ! But perhaps he knows them already — he seems very clever.' Gilbert shook his head. It was only the look in John's face that prevented him from bursting out into some passionate disclaimer. ' Words could not say how ignorant I am, ' he said. ' I know nothing of either, and I agree with 56 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. my aunt that such learning is not for me, nor do I want it. All that I want is ' Here he stopped, checked by a return of his former agony of grief. The time was so short since he had lost his all. He looked round him with something of the feeling of a wild creature suddenly caught and trammelled. The fog completely blotted out the world be3 x ond the windows ; the light of the unseasonable gas- jets fell direct upon Mrs. Cartwright's stern and handsome countenance. He thought of the worn, sweet face in which love for him had conquered mortal suffering and overborne the proud reluctance of a lifetime ; but he thrust the recollection from him. He would not weep before this woman, even if his sorrow choked him. He steadied his voice and repeated (changing the words he had meant to say) : ' All I want is — an answer to my mother's letter. I did not read it, as I have said before ; but I know that it was an appeal to my uncle to help me. I was in duty bound to deliver it, though, JONATHAN AND DAVID. 57 God knows, I would rather have begged such help from strangers. But now— I have done as I promised, and if you do not want me, I can go — back to my old life and my old work. You need not reproach yourselves — I can earn my own living — in a fashion. What was enough for two will serve for one.' His eyes flashed, and independence akin to scorn flamed on his thin cheeks, and touched every feature in his face. The soft brown eyes were alight with indignant pain. He held himself erect, for he had stood up as he spoke, and the poise of the head and figure was superb. John had never seen anything so fine in his life, and he gazed with the intenseness which one gives to a new revelation. Mrs. Cartwright looked too, and an angry light came into her own eyes. This was precisely what she had feared — the ebullition of temper in a spoilt and ill-trained boy. She was little used to defiance, and least of all would she brook it in the person of Gilbert Yorke. She had made a movement to vol. 1. 8 58 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. speak, when her husband held up his hand to restrain her. ' You are too hot and hasty, Gilbert, and speak to us as you have no right to speak. I don't think you have anything to complain of ; but there shall be no room for misunderstanding between us. From the time I read your poor mother's letter my mind was made up. You shall stand on the same footing as our own lad, and be like another son to us. I am pleased you and John seem to have taken to one another. If he goes to Wesley College so shall you ; it will give us time to know you better, and to find out what you are fit for. As John and his mother have made up their minds he is to be a minister, it is to be hoped you will take kindly to the shop. It would be a pity if such a business as mine should go a-begging !' There was a twinkle in his eye as Martin Cart- wright glanced at his nephew. ' Is he not already old enough for that,' said his wife, folding up her work with nervous hands, JONATHAN AND DAVID. 59 1 or do you think a few terms at the college will help to make him a better draper ?' Gilbert looked from one to the other, and then said steadily : ' I would as soon be a draper in Copplestone as anything else — that is, if my uncle's heart is set upon it. It is the only return I can make.' He took Martin's hand as he spoke, and pressed it gratefully. His impulse had been to put it to his lips, but he had a quick perception that such an action would be out of place. ' Good boy ! But, as I said before, we will not be in a hurry — a little more schooling will do you no harm, even though High Street is to be the end of it. I think, mother, he has said as much as we can expect. And now, lads, take yourselves off ! I am good for my after-dinner nap.' Mrs. Cartwright rose from her seat, and her lips opened ; but the boys had disappeared before she could decide on the form of her interference. For a few minutes she stood deliberating with her hand 6o PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. shading her face, some instinctive prayer for Divine guidance rising in her heart. Then she turned to speak to her husband with a softness in her eyes which was not often seen there. But Martin Cartwright appeared to be already asleep. CHAPTEE IV. MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. Two days after these events, during which the boys had been suffered to be together as little as Mrs. Cartwright's diplomacy could effect, a curious incident occurred. It was Saturday, and a half- holiday at the Grammar School, so that after their early dinner Gilbert and John had started off for a walk. Mr. Cartwright had himself suggested that they should do so before he left for his place of business in the morning, and his wife did not see her way to interfere. The weather had improved. Frost had succeeded fog, and the sun was casting a feeble brightness across the reek of the smoke. 62- PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. ' You have no idea how pretty the country is outside the town,' began John encouragingly. 1 We will walk to Seamoor. Let us make haste — the days are so short. Aren't you inclined to talk, Gilbert?' Gilbert shook his head. ' John,' was his answer, ' if it were not for you, I should run away. I can't live this life.' The other stopped short, and actually turned a little pale. ' Where would you run to ?' he asked in a low voice. 'Back to Florence, where my poor mother is lying in her grave all alone — back to daylight and to liberty ! I want to make you understand ! I was never so well housed or so well fed in my life : but I would rather eat rye-bread and macaroni, and sleep in the open air, like a dog, under some palace portico, than bear what goes with it. You see, I have been always used to say the word and do the thing as they took me ; now I am watched MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 63 and condemned in advance. Yes, yes ; I know what you would say, and I ought not to speak a word against your mother to you. She loves you dearly enough, at all events !' John gave a short laugh of incredulity, but his cousin was too self- absorbed to notice it. ' But that is not the worst,' he went on. 'I would try and bear that for your sake, and because my uncle is so good to me ; but can one bear this ?' — he glanced around him. ' And this ?' he added, with a shudder, as a steam- tram propelled its hideous bulk in their direction. They were walking through South Street as he talked, flanked on both sides by red-brick houses, and shops of irregular and meagre appearance, and roofed, as it were, by a strip of sky that would have shown the pale blue of wintry sunshine had it not been darkened and blurred by the dense smoke of a hundred colossal chimneys. ' I have not seen daylight, John, since I set foot in England ; and to live in such a place as Copple- stone — and as you live — will kill me. I dare not 64 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. in your house even speak to my fiddle.' John held his peace, conscious of an imperfect sympathy. ' To live in Florence,' persisted Gilbert, 'is just to suck in beauty with every breath. What do you know ? How can I give you any idea ? It's like talking to the blind and deaf ! The place is warm and bright and alive, Jack — not a pit, not a tomb ! There's colour everywhere ; you hang over the crowded bridges and see every line reflected in the golden river below. If you look up, there's a sunshiny sky overhead, with such towers and steeples standing out against the blue as no other city in the world can beat. There are marble palaces that make the " Arabian Nights " poor and tame ; and I am as free as the air to walk through their galleries and look at their miles' length of pictures and statues. Fancy ! they stand always open, and many a hungry hour I have passed inside, and forgot that I was hungry.' John looked up with a curious smile. MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 65 ' I was never hungry — in that way — in my life,' he said. Gilbert smiled too. 'But hunger there,' he said, 'is not so cruel and nipping as it would be here, and it's more easily satisfied. You see, at every step and turn there's something to look at. Art, as one calls it, isn't shut up with the pictures and statues — it's all abroad in Florence. Perhaps it's a bit of fresco on an old wall, or a chipped bas-relief on a dingy doorpost ; or you meet Giotto's Campanile as you turn the corner. Then, in the springtime, it's alive with flowers for sale —such flowers, John ! They spread them all over the broad ledges of the old palaces and churches, and you will often meet men with sheaves of lilies on their shoulders to decorate some church for a festival. . You have no festivals in Copplestone, nor in all England, I think !' John did not answer at once. He was over- whelmed by the rush of Gilbert's speech and the VOL. I. 9 66 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. conflict of feeling it excited. They had almost passed beyond the town before he answered. ' I see we are very unlike,' he then said. ' The things that satisfy you wouldn't satisfy me, I expect; nor should I get as much out of them. All that you say about Florence is true, no doubt ; but there seems, somehow, something left out in your way of looking at things. It is all outside of one. You don't think, do you, that it is the business of life to make things pleasant ?' ' Indeed I do,' returned Gilbert ; • and I wish everyone at Elm Lodge were of my persuasion.' ' If you mean that you wish mother and I were sweeter tempered, I agree with you ; but after all, that is but a small matter. You seem to feel that we are brought into the world to enjoy ourselves, and have a right to complain if we don't. With my views of life, I am not sure I should ever have the heart to be happy even if I had the chance.' ' Poor John !' said Gilbert softly. ' I understand MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 67 — you have been brought up to think happiness a sin.' ' Not so much a sin/ answered the boy, knitting his brows above his sombre eyes, ' as an im- possibility. " The whole world lieth in wicked- ness." " Strait is the gate and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it." "When ye shall have done all, say, we are unprofitable servants." These words are written, and I believe them ; and even if I were in your Italian city, and standing amongst your pictures and statues, they would rise up between me and them and make enjoyment impossible. There it is, Gilbert ! You seem to have no feeling of re- sponsibility, but take life as easily as some creature of the woods. Don't you think that God has set us all tasks alike ?' 'Are you speaking out of your own head?' asked Gilbert ; ' or doing what you have been told to do '? I don't like this kind of thing, Jack !' John's face darkened and flushed. 68 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. ' Then we'll stop it. Only understand this — all the beauty and glory of the world wouldn't make xne happy so long as I know what I know of myself, and saw men and women living as if there were no God and no judgment to come. Not,' he added in a muffled voice, 'that it makes much difference to those who remember it.' Silence fell between the lads. John felt miser- able, but he looked sullen ; and Gilbert's lighter spirits sank under a weight of spiritual oppression. The pale sunshine was already fading ; the country road, so picturesque to the limited experience of the one, seemed flat and uninteresting to the other. The valley of the Arno and the snow -crowned crests of the Apennines dwarfed such humble beauty. But it was he who spoke first. ' Don't let us quarrel, Jack. That would finish the thing up. If preaching is to be your calling, I see no reason why you shouldn't practise it on me. Go ahead and spare not. What tasks have been set us ?' MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 69 But the spell was broken. It was not often that John Cartwright's tongue was loosed, and no effort of his own could set it free again. He shook his head, and they continued to tramp side by side in silence. At this moment an open carriage, not very well appointed, which they had carelessly observed in the distance, had approached sufficiently near for John's recognition. More from the wish to break an awkward silence than from any interest in the announce- ment, he said : ' It is the Denisons' carriage — one of our county families. Don't stop,' he added, a little im- patiently. ' Why, Gilbert, it isn't possible that you know them ?' But his cousin's face had become suddenly radiant. The occupants of the carriage were two — one was a girl of about fifteen, warmly clad in velvet and fur, and with a heavily-plumed hat shading her face. A well-lined tiger- skin rug was 7o PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. drawn so closely about her waist as to conceal all further details of person and costume, and to give a quaintness of effect to the charming head and shoulders. By her side sat her father, a man under fifty years of age, but prematurely bowed and wasted from the effects of a slow but mortal disease. In his youth Cyril Denison had been singularly hand- some and debonair ; but scarcely a trace of this remained in the hollow and shrunken face, out of which the eyes gleamed with a piercing and un- kindly light. To meet the expression of those eyes at any moment when Mr. Denison was off his guard was to read pretty clearly the story of his spiritual experience — that disappointment, deep as the springs of his being, had been met with a cynical bitterness which, just so far as it strength- ened him to disdain his need of sympathy and consolation, exasperated the inward revolt against the hardship of his lot. Gilbert, upon whom his cousin's question had MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 71 been lost, stood still by the roadside, his cap in hand, his face, as we have said, alight with pleasure, and his eyes fixed on the approaching vehicle as if waiting for some signal to advance, and to John's increasing surprise he did not wait in vain. As soon as the girl's eyes fell upon him her recognition was as prompt as his own, and her clear voice ordering the coachman to stop reached their ears. The next moment she was bending eagerly for- ward, with both her little gloved hands, warm from her muff, extended to meet those of Gilbert Yorke. ' Oh, this is delightful,' she said, in a sweet, ringing treble, ' to meet you in Yorkshire — you ! Where are you staying ? When will you come and see us? And the fiddle — do not forget the fiddle !' Then, turning her animated face to Mr. Denison, she added — stating a fact rather than asking a question : ' You remember Gilbert Yorke, father '?' 72 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Her movements and speech had been so prompt and eager that Mr. Denison had scarcely had time to realize the situation, still less to avert it ; but this only served to provoke him the more. ' My memory is not so tenacious as my daughter's,' he answered, with his eyes fixed keenly on the youth's blushing face, ' or, possibly, she is making a mistake. I have no recollection of the honour of previous acquaintance.' 1 So far as you were personally concerned, it was so slight that you may well have forgotten me,' began Gilbert, but at this point Margery inter- posed : 'Oh, I will bring things back to my father's recollection! It was Aunt Sutherland who first knew Mrs. Yorke, and took me to see her. You must remember that we told you how lovely and sweet she was, and you said that Colonel Yorke had been a friend of yours in the old days. Then there was Gilbert's little fiddle that you praised so much. Why, fyou have spoken of it since — MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 73 that bit of Berlioz which you allowed was beau- tiful — Gilbert played it twice over to please you.' Mr. Denison's recollection of the circumstances was really exact. Mrs. Yorke, the impoverished widow of Sir Owen Yorke' s disinherited son, had been one of the army of proteges mustered by his quixotic and unconventional sister. She had brought Gilbert more than once to their hotel on the Lung' Arno ; but so slight was the interest he took in the details of her own or of his daughter's daily life that he had not the least idea what measure of intimacy had subsisted between her and the boy, for whose skill as a musician his own attention had been so eagerly claimed. Margery was evidently more hopelessly demoralized by her long association with her aunt than he had feared, and yet his fears had been ominous. ' I think,' he said, in a low, cutting voice, ' that I have some faint remembrance of the circumstances to which my daughter alludes, and ought to apolo- vol. 1. 10 74 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. gize. It is the Berlioz symphony that has done it. I believe, young as you were, you gave lessons, and I know that my sister, Mrs. Sutherland, has an unwearied sympathy with all struggling artists, be they who they may. Are you teaching or studying music at Copplestone, Mr. Yorke, and can we be of any use to you ? There is not much in the power of a poor man, but what little there is shall be at your service.' The tone and manner were not to be mistaken. Margery's eyes sparkled with prompt indignation, and she would have spoken again to make amends for her father's cruel courtesy, had he not held her hand in a restraining grip beneath the shelter of the tiger-rug. John Cartwright stood aloof and watched them. He was too ignorant of his own nature to be aware that it was acutely susceptible to all sensuous im- pressions, any more than he knew with what covert intentness he was gazing on Margery Denison's beautiful and vivid face, and how the MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 75 piquant music of her young voice seemed to touch some chord of his own being. But such vague sensations as these were altogether secondary to the interest he felt in his cousin's situation, and the acute anxiety with which he awaited his answer to Mr. Denison's question. He would have effaced his own individuality if that could have done any good, or changed the stubborn face of facts. In his eagerness John drew a little nearer to the carriage, for Gilbert was speaking in a low voice. ' No,' he said, ' I am not so happy, but I have found such a good friend in my uncle that I stand in need of help from no one else. I see I have made a great mistake. I will not offend again.' 'Are you living in Copplestone ?' demanded Mr. Denison, ' and is it permitted one to ask who is your uncle ?' 1 Oh yes,' was the unhesitating answer, while humour (which on occasion can be as pathetic as tears) lighted up the boy's face. ' I have no doubt you know him by name. It is Martin Cartwright, 76 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. my mother's only relative ; and this is my cousin John, his son.' He touched John's shoulder. Mr. Denison drew a breath of relief. Facts such as these disposed of all difficulty, and he was able to recognise John by a little nod of condescension. It amused him greatly, too, to feel the start of instinctive dismay with which his daughter had heard the announcement. 1 There are few men in Copplestone,' was his gracious reply, ' who do not know Mr. Cartwright. I congratulate you, Mr. Yorke ; your uncle has the reputation of being an excellent and liberal man. Mrs. Sutherland will be delighted to hear of your good fortune. And now you must permit us to say good-morning.' But Margery had rallied from her blow, and, despite the restraining grasp upon her arm, made a quick movement to arrest Gilbert's retreat. 'I did not know,' she fluttered; 'that is, I had forgotten that your mother belonged to our county. MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 77 I am almost afraid to ask if she is with you. She was so ill — she suffered so much ' There were tears in her voice as well as m her bright eyes, and the young fellow's heart bowed at her feet. 1 So much,' he answered, in a low voice, ' that I am glad that she is dead.' Mr. Denison winced a little. Such was the in- solent arrogance of youth and health. 'Drive on,' he said sharply. 'You will excuse us, Mr. Yorke. I am afraid of my daughter taking- cold,' and Gilbert stepped back as the carriage rolled on. Mr. Denison preserved silence for some time, fully expecting that his impetuous daughter would be the first to speak ; but as she showed no inten- tion of doing so, but sat very erect, with her head turned from him, he deemed it best to deliver his ultimatum. ' This is a very disagreeable incident,' he said, ' and is the result of your aunt's extraordinary want 78 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. of judgment. The young fellow was almost dis- posed to assume airs of equality. I presume it will be unnecessary to say that all intercourse must cease between you, unless, indeed, he should be so fortunate as to show you a ribbon across the counter.' Margery turned sharply. 'I despise myself,' she said, 'and he must de- spise me too ! I do not think if I had been told he had committed a crime I should have felt so dread- fully shocked as when he said the great draper in High Street was his uncle. He must have seen it in my face ! It is pitiful. We are not princes, and Gilbert Yorke is not a beggar !' Mr. Denison shrugged his shoulders — he was contemptuously amused by the girl's state of mind. 'My dear,' he said, 'your young fiddler is not a beggar by any means, probably not so much so as ourselves ; nor are we of the blood royal. But he is just as far — if not a little farther — off from us, being the nephew of Martin Cartwright, as if he MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 79 were the one and we the other. " Noblesse oblige," Madge.' ' I am not sure,' said the girl bitterly — ' I am not sure. If I had been on foot I would have run after him, and explained I did not mean it. And yet I did,' she added ; ' it is no good to try and cheat myself. I did mean it, and I despise myself as a poor, pitiful creature !' 1 Keally, Margery, it distresses me to acknow- ledge that I am of the same opinion. We will drop the subject. I have no taste for argument with a person who is one half child and the other half fool, without even the saving grace of filial respect. I cannot bear this — you shall go to school.' ' Was I undutiful ?' she asked, in a softened voice. ' I did not mean it.' ' None the less,' replied Mr. Denison, leaning back wearily in the carriage and closing his eyes, ' none the less, Margery, you shall go to school.' 80 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Meantime, the two boys pursued their way doggedly along the Seamoor road. John's mind was deeply stirred, so that he would have found it hard to say what feeling was uppermost. An in- stinctive delicacy withheld him from forcing his sympathy on his cousin ; he would not even look at him, but made one or two irrelevant remarks as they went along, to which he neither got nor expected any reply. At last, after they had measured about another weary mile, Gilbert stopped. 'Let us turn back,' he said; 'if you are not tired, I am.' John wheeled round instantly, and again silence reigned, which he now feared to break. His secret apprehension was that, in his soreness of heart, his cousin might in a way consider him accountable for what had happened. Would he have spoken as he did had not his uncle's son been standing beside him? Was it not natural — excusable, at least — to regret the closeness of the tie between MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 81 them since it had served to break one so much sweeter ? His heart beat faster as he saw from the move- ment of Gilbert's head, and the gesture with which he seemed to pull himself together, that he was at last going to say something. They were now within ten minutes' walk of Elm Lodge. ' John,' he began, ' don't say a word at home about — what has happened this afternoon.' 1 Not a word. Trust me !' ' You see, they knew my father in the old days, and were very kind to my mother and me for his sake — that is, she and her aunt. I ought to have understood things were different now, and not have put myself in the way of such a rebuff. I don't think I should if she had not called me. You heard her, Jack, you heard her call me, and I forgot everything in the joy of seeing her again !' Then, with one of his swift transitions, he added, smiling : ' For that matter, whenever Margery Denison calls I should answer, were I at the ends vol. i. 11 82 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. of the earth, and prostrate, like Job, on a dung- hill ! But she was sorry, Jack, very sorry that — forgive me, old fellow — I was your father's nephew. It was hard on us both.' ' It was very hard, and she was as sorry — as you were.' * Thanks, Jack ; that does me a little good. And now w 7 e will say no more about it. Another time, perhaps, it may comfort me a bit to tell you something about her; only, I don't think it will. And for the rest — you remember your promise to stick to me through thick and thin ?' * Yes,' said John breathlessly. ' Well, all I want is to remind you to keep it, for it strikes me it is all I shall have to depend upon ; and I am such a poor, weak-kneed creature that I grow 7 desperate if no one cares for me. It shall be fair play, Jack. I will pay back as much as I take.' ' All right,' said John huskily. ' Suppose we shake hands upon it,' MY UNCLE, THE DRAPER. 83 They did so, and then dropped each other's hand with the awkward shyness born of such unusual effusions of feeling. They entered the house to- gether, blinking like owls in the sunshine as they stepped out of the darkness into the glare of the already gas-lighted hall. John Cartwright's heart was singing quietly for joy ; while Gilbert Yorke, perceiving with his quick glance that tea was not quite ready in the cheerful dining-room, sped upstairs to the quiet of his own chamber, and throwing himself into the now familiar rocking-chair, with hands strained over his eye-balls to keep back the unmanly tears, lived over again in bitter recollection the humiliation, pain, and loss of that afternoon's experience. The passionate yearning of the boy's heart as he thought of his mother, grew to agony until another feeling rose to chasten and subdue it. 'But if she were here, I would not tell her,' he said to himself. ' Thank God, she never knew quite all I had to bear !' CHAPTEE V. LIKE AND UNLIKE. The growth of a passion in the human heart is almost as secret and mysterious as the springing of the blade, or the development of the blossom from the seed cast into the ground. It happened at this juncture that Mrs. Cart- wright was called away from home to attend the death-bed of her father, an old minister resident in a remote village of the West Riding, and filial duty kept her at his side for a period of six weeks. With how sore and anxious a heart she maintained her protracted watch was only known to herself ; her grief for her father had every mitigation she could desire, for his gathering into the inevitable LIKE AND UNLIKE. 85 harvest was as that of a shock of corn fully ripe, but she suffered intensely from the knowledge that she had left her beloved son under the baneful in- fluence of the new inmate of their home. It would have cut her to the quick to have known how little her absence was regretted. She left well-trained servants behind her, so that house- hold arrangements went on pretty well in the old way, and although her husband undoubtedly missed her impressive personality, he was con- scious of a certain freedom and relief which left him at liberty to pursue his own way without check of expostulation. To John it was like the lifting of a yoke, the full pressure of which is only realized when it is removed, and to Gilbert it gave the opportunity of showing himself in all his natural characteristics, as he could never have done under his aunt's watchful and inimical glance. As it wanted fully six weeks to the Christmas holidays, Martin Cartwright, whose local influence was considerable, induced the masters of the 86 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Grammar School to admit his nephew as a pupil for that time, partly to provide him with some- thing to do, and partly to establish a closer companionship between the two boys. He also advised that as Latin and Greek were to form no part of the lad's education, he should take advantage of this opportunity to improve his very rudimentary knowledge of arithmetic and geography. It was characteristic of Gilbert that he seemed to feel no mortification at his own deficiencies when brought into contact with the hard-headed youths of the North, nor from the fact that his cousin, though a year younger than himself, was at the head of the sixth form, while he found his temporary place in the third. Martin Cartwright, indeed, had imbibed a very inadequate notion of his son's scholarship until Gilbert supplied the details which gave new life and meaning to the bald statements of the periodical reports. John was not a boy who evoked much enthusiasm, LIKE AND UNLIKE. 87 either in his teachers or his comrades ; the glow of his own ardour was a subterranean fire. Perhaps this serves to explain the strength of the attraction which from the first moment of blundering collision bound him to his cousin. Gilbert Yorke, with the subtle apprehensiveness of his genius, understood him at once, and made his various appeals to his heart and brain confident of response, and the response came with the passionate abandonment of a temper breaking free from life-long restraint. As they walked to and from school together, or sat up at night secretly talking in their bedroom — for whatever opportunities the day affords, there is something in the privacy of night that tempts to more in- timate communion — they scarcely left anything untold of the immature experience of each. Per- haps Gilbert, who seemed the most outspoken, was the one who guarded some secrets of his life ; but if so, it was more for others' sake than his own. 1 You would scarcely think I was a coward, 88 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Gilbert,' said John, on one of these occasions ; 1 but I am. When I was a little chap, and was sent to bed early, and left in the dark, I suffered such terror that I wonder it did not drive me mad. I used to pray to God to let me hear some sound of life downstairs — the opening or shutting of the dining - room door, the peal of the house bell, or the servants talking in the kitchen — that is, when my desperation gave me courage enough to creep out of bed, and to kneel down by the side of it. I did not dare to pray shivering under the bedclothes. I have sometimes ventured so far as to sit on the head of the stairs in my nightgown, that I might see the line of light under the dining- room door. But that was in the old house, where there was no gas.' ' What were you afraid of ?' asked Gilbert. ' What I am afraid of still, though perhaps in a different way. I was afraid of the whole spiritual world, of God, of my sins, of the judgment to come ; and in the awful darkness of the bedroom LIKE AND UNLIKE. 89 these things seemed to take shape and voice, to touch me and speak to me. I once thought that I heard the devil laugh, and I shrieked out so loud that my mother came in. She was kind, I re- member. I told her I was frightened ; but I did not tell her how — it would have been impossible — and she thought to comfort me by saying that children who loved God never felt afraid. Then I felt sure that I did not love God, and that made me more miserable than she found me.' ' Poor little man ! I wish I had been there, and I would have kept the devil at bay. But, seriously, Jack, you don't mean you ever have such feelings now ?' ' I have very much the same sort of feelings,' he said, ' the chief difference being that I am not a little child now and am stronger to bear them. Also I have made up my mind on certain points, and I try to get some comfort out of that. You know I am going to be a minister. Well, I mean to serve God ; if I can't do it out of love, I must vol. 1. 12 90 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. do it out of fear ; but I will do it, however hard it may be or against the grain of my nature. You know it is the same with us ; some sons love their fathers, and get joy out of it : others are afraid of them. I suppose it all depends on character. But if both serve faithfully, a just father— let alone a merciful — will accept the one as well as the other. Don't you think so ?' 1 Jack, I am sorry ; but I have no thoughts on such subjects. There is nothing in my mind that answers to them. The idea of God, either in love or in fear, is not woven in and out of my brain as it seems to be in yours, and I am glad of it. I could not stand up under it !' 1 I don't know that I stand up under it,' answered John, a little ruefully. ' But when you have done wrong, Gilbert, does not that weigh on your con- science, and take a little of the sunshine out of your world ?' This talk took place in the seclusion of the ' spare room.' John occupied the easy-chair, as LIKE AND UNLIKE. 91 being ' the guest of the night,' as his cousin phrased it, and Gilbert had perched himself upon the table beside him, with a palpable disregard of means to end which would have called forth a severe admonition from his aunt, had she known it. In their relative positions John had a full view of Gilbert's face, and as he asked this question he looked up into it with a curious anxiety. Gilbert smiled down upon him brightly. ' I do not think I ever felt in that way in my life,' he said ; ' I have been dreadfully sorry some- times when I have hurt my mother ; but I was never, Jack, on such terms of acquaintance with the Supreme Being as to suppose He would take any notice of my peccadilloes.' 'Oh, don't jest!' was John's passionate answer — ' if my mother heard you ! But then, again, you are so different from me — you are something like that young man who seemed to have found it so easy to have kept all the Commandments — the one that Jesus loved, although he would not 92 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. follow Him. Goodness doesn't come so easy to me.' His head drooped. In the twinkling of an eye Gilbert was beside him on the arm of the easy- chair, and had thrown his own round his cousin's neck. 'Jack,' he said, 'you have a trick of running yourself down that is enough to break a fellow's heart ! Don't you see there is not depth enough in me for such feelings as you have to grow ? Why, all the saints who have left their names behind them— Loyola, St. Francis, and the rest — suffered just as you do from this sort of divine discontent. I, Jack, I can never get my eyes higher than dear old Mother Earth.' John Cartwright shrank a little from the sound of the names his cousin quoted. He knew all about their lives ; for his thirst for every kind of spiritual investigation had led him to make a study of them. But he regarded with anxious misgiving the fact that men, misled by so many grievous LIKE AND UNLIKE. 93 errors, had stirred the fires of his intense en- thusiasm higher than they had ever mounted before. ' John,' continued Gilbert, pressing closer to him, ' would you like to know what my ambition is that swallows me up as religion does you ? But it is a religion ! We have been together all these weeks, and I have never yet shown you what I love best in the world — what is my world, that knits body and soul together, and makes life worth living. I am parched up with the desire of it, and yet I have forborne — being afraid !' He sprang up, and going to his trunk, which still stood in a corner of the room, he knelt down on the floor to unlock it, taking the key, as John observed, from his breast-pocket, and drew forth a small violin enclosed in a case. There was some- thing in the expression of Gilbert's face, and the air with which he handled it, that made John smile, though at the same time it affected him with a curious sense of pathos ; it was like a mother 94 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. fondling a beloved child, or a devotee approaching a shrine. He unlocked the case, and drew out the instrument. ' I have not opened it since my beloved died,' he said, in a voice of tremulous excitement ; ' it will be horribly out of tune. This climate, too !' He touched the strings tentatively. The contact was irresistible ; his nerves thrilled to it ; a line as of fire shot through his frame. He placed it in position, each movement of hand and head conveying a caress, and began to tune it. John sat and watched him intently. His ignorance of music — outside the chapel organ — was complete, and he thought the noise excruciating, scarcely understanding that the process was a necessary preliminary to performance. But presently it ceased, and with a change of posture and expression and a brief pause of consideration, Gilbert drew the bow across the strings, and began to play. He was still an immature musician, but he had been taught by a master, and the instrument of which LIKE AND UNLIKE. 95 he was the happy possessor was of exquisite tone. Also the spirit of the true artist was vital in Gilbert Yorke, and as he played a fragment from the Berlioz symphony, which came easiest to his fingers, John sat spell-bound ; it seemed as if a human voice charged with divine meaning was evoking from secret recesses of being feelings and perceptions of which he had no knowledge before. It was less a revelation than a new birth, and was unquestionably the keenest sensuous enjoyment he had ever known. When Gilbert suddenly stopped, the voice in which his cousin asked him to go on startled him by its strange- ness. 'Not to-night, old fellow; it knocks me over!' He put down the fiddle gently, and threw himself across the bed, covering his face with his hands, and struggling to master the sobs that rose in his throat. The last ear that had listened to him had been his mother's, already grown dull with the near approach of death, but with the passionate 96 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. sympathy that bound them together still throbbing in the fainting heart. ' You know your calling,' she had said ; ' be true to it, dearest.' And how did things look to him now ? What blankness of darkness had gathered across his path ! what a vista of thwarted faculty, and incon- gruous if not impossible duty opened before him ! To continue to draw the breath of life in Copple- stone, shut out from heaven's sunshine and all the glory with which man's intellect had brightened the world elsewhere — to order his spirit to the routine and pious observance of Wesley College, to the end of fitting himself for the post of confidential clerk and correspondent in his uncle's shop, with every natural instinct checked, and the aspira- tion which had been to him as the very breath of life contemned and stamped out ! He rose from the bed, and, pushing back the hair from his knitted forehead, looked at his cousin almost wildly. LIKE AND UNLIKE. 97 ' Jack,' lie said hoarsely, ' it is of no use ! I have tried, and I can't do it.' ' Don't,' answered the other kindly. ' I did not mean to press you; and I can quite understand that it hurts you. Only — I never knew such music was to be got out of a fiddle before.' ' You don't understand ! I mean that I cannot bear things here. My uncle — I almost wish he were not so kind to me — must not go on paying money for an education that will do me no good, for I shall never be able to turn it to account. There L only one thing I'm fit for — if I am not a fiddler, Jack, I am less than nothing !' ' But you are that already,' was Jack's ruminat- ing answer ; ' and no rational being could make a life's business of fiddling.' 1 No,' cried the other eagerly, ' life is scarcely long enough for that ; and I am a fiddler in the same sense that a child beginning to crawl is an athlete. Poor old Jack, how much you know, and how much you don't know ! I verily believe you vol. 1. 13 98 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. never heard an opera, perhaps a quartet, in your life !' ' I not only never did, but I expect I never shall. Till now I never knew what music was to some people — of what is in one's self. But any way, Gilbert, I don't see any room in my life for that.' ' And in mine there is no room for anything else. I am in a fever, Jack — I have it in me to utter the thoughts of great musicians who found this language for them. I mean, I have it in me, if the chance is given me. And I must have the chance. Now, I am like a child with an impediment in his speech who is sent to deliver a message ; or a man whose brain is on fire, and yet can't speak the language of the people he wants to enlighten. I can play a little — a little— a little ; but oh,' and he leaned his cheek against the violin as he spoke, 1 how much lies inside here that I have not the skill to bring out !' 1 And where does one get this skill ?' asked John, LIKE AND UNLIKE. 99 ' There is a great Conservatoire at Naples, and one better still at Leipzig ; but the terms are high, and one has to live besides — only I can live on a crust ! Jack, the thought of it — of this being made the business of my life — of going to bed dead-beat with rigorous practice, in an atmosphere of musical training, to get up to the same thing the next morning, makes me faint and sick with desire. Do you know what I should think the prize of life '? To be first violin in one of Beethoven's great symphonies in Paris or London.' John Cartwright rubbed his forehead medita- tively. The ideal seemed lacking in what he held essential, but, then, he was prepared to own that his range of thought was limited. 1 1 feel quite sure,' he said at last, ' that my mother would never give her consent to such a scheme. She would not think it right, and my father never goes against her in such things. Don't you think you could make up your mind to some other mode of life, and take this as a diversion ioo PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. by the way ? If you went abroad, Gilbert ' — he stopped, then added : ' Of course, one ought not to think of one's self.' 1 Then I, for one, am always doing what I ought not,' cried Gilbert. 'All I live for is to please myself, or, at least, to try and do so. At the same time, I have no objection to please you too.' He came and sat down again on the arm of John's chair, and leaned affectionately against him. 'If I went away — well, you would miss me a little, and your life is not too bright. Is that it, Jack ?' 1 That is it, but I would not keep you at home for my sake, if, that is, it was the right thing for you to do.' He got up, stretched himself, and yawned. ' I am tired, Gilbert, and will go to bed. Mother wouldn't approve of our sitting up so late.' Gilbert caught his hand. ' Promise me you will help me all you can ! LIKE AND UNLIKE. 101 That is, if I have courage enough to try for this thing.' John pulled away his hand with a returning touch of sullenness. ' I will not promise, for I am not sure what I ought to do. Good-night.' He went to his bare room, and, sitting down, read with an odd sort of dogged persistence the portion of Scripture and the section of Bogatzky's ' Golden Treasury ' which formed his evening task. Then he undressed quickly, turned out the gas, and knelt down in the darkness to say his prayers. They were soon over, for there was a stern integrity in John Cartwright which abhorred forms as such ; and he was not in a praying mood, as he said to himself grimly. As he lay down he heard the sounds of Gilbert's violin, suppressed and whispered sounds, as if he did not dare to let it speak aloud, but with the same moving appeal in it as in a human voice. John kept quite still and listened intently ; then 102 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. a sudden rush of feeling submerged his late obstinate reluctance. He jumped out of bed, ran to his cousin's room, and knocked at the door. Gilbert opened it, and faced with surprise the white-robed figure, whose dark face was lit up with tender, shining eyes. ' Just a word before I go to sleep,' he said. ' I have altered my mind. I will help your plan all I can. We will persuade father before mother comes home.' And he was gone before Gilbert could answer. CHAPTEE VI. UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. The qualities which win social popularity for a man are not those which best stand the wear and tear of human life. Cyril Denison had been singularly gracious and winning so long as he was young, handsome, and in sound health, with possession of all those good gifts which position and wealth supply. But on the death of his father he found the hereditary estate insolvent, two generations of high play at cards and specula- tion on the turf having conduced to this result. It is possible, even under these circumstances, where the property is large and lawyers compliant, to protract the situation by shifting and rearranging 104 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. existing mortgages, so as still to produce fresh and, it must be conceded, delusive supplies. For a time the new heir kept his place in the gay world, eking out his pecuniary deficiencies by the resources which had ruined his father and grandfather, and which faithfully fulfilled, with a little occasional flattery of success, the same function for himself. In due, relentless course the Jiour struck when Cyril Denison knew himself to be without the means of subsistence — taking his own estimate of its requirements, and putting on one side, as he did, the alternative of earning his daily bread. What was he to do ? The Chace was let to a retired tradesman of fabulous wealth, who was the father of a son working hard in a shipbroker's office, according to the paternal theory that a man, to be worth his salt, must climb the commercial ladder from the lowest rung, and a daughter who kept house for him — he being a widower — and who was a very pretty and attractive girl. In his extremity Cyril Denison, who had hitherto shunned UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 105 his paternal home, accepted his tenant's oft- renewed invitation to visit it, and without much difficulty succeeded in making Miss Harcourt fall in love with him. She had led a very dull, secluded life, quite outside ' society,' and had never before come into daily contact with a man so accomplished and attractive. She was therefore not only prepared to give herself away to him, but to feel honoured and grateful that he would accept the boon ; and in answer to his discreet misgivings, encouraged him to lay his suit before her father, with the assurance that ' he had never denied her anything in his life.' Cyril did so, delicately suggesting as equipoise to the tradesman's money- bags the superiority of his own birth and connec- tions, and the devoted affection that he had con- ceived and — inspired. Mr. Harcourt was of a phlegmatic temper, and he neither raged nor swore, but he conveyed in unmistakable words his opinion that the young man was no other than a swindler to have abused his hospitality in this vol. 1. 14 106 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. fashion, and ordered him to quit the house on the spot. He spoke strongly to his daughter, but without anger, as he regarded her in the light of a victim he was as able as willing to save, and relied upon her yielding this point, as she had been accustomed to yield others, on the few occasions when their wills had clashed. But he made a mistake. He did not estimate aright the strength of a young girl's romantic passion, nor the unlimited capacity for eating humble-pie which impecuniosity confers on some men. The lovers ran away, and were married, each strengthening the confidence of the other that for- giveness would follow — Cyril's position, indeed, being so desperate that he regarded the venture as the cast of a die. Forgiveness never followed. Mr. Harcourt re- fused to see his daughter, paying down the forfeit for his half- expired lease, which Cyril Denison returned to the old man with a last spurt of expiring manhood. Probably he believed that the UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 107 father would relent, and he and his wife took pos- session of the family mansion (in default of any other home), under conditions of inadequacy very different from the young wife's previous experience as her father's housekeeper. A very bitter and sordid experience followed. Some shreds and patches of income were still to be extracted from park, home pastures, and gardens, and Mr. Har- court settled upon his daughter the sum of i'200 a year, under very hard and fast conditions, in order, as he put it, ' that no child of his should go to the workhouse.' Both 'of them, accustomed to lavish expenditure, now found themselves almost without money. This means that the sharpest touchstone of character was applied, and that neither could sustain the test. The man became bitter and sarcastic, bearing hard upon the very qualities in the wife which he had pronounced adorable in the lover. Sometimes, indeed, he ceased to be a gentleman, but that happened when one servant after another vanished from the dilapidated house- 108 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. hold, or the pressure of tradesmen's bills became too heavy for flesh and blood to bear. Mrs. Denison, on her side, developed no excep- tional qualities of patience or magnanimity ; she was as disappointed as her husband, and most of all in her husband. It is useless to speculate what she might have done if he had continued to love her, or, perhaps, we should say, had ever loved her at all. He neither loved her nor pretended to do so, and he resented her petulant complaints over the fate he himself found so hard. He left her to herself a good deal, and passed the periods of his absence in London or Paris, finding funds in that mysterious manner which seems possible to any man who still keeps a hold over his hereditary acres, and augmenting them with the resources of the turf and the card-table. The union did not last long. In the second year of their marriage Mrs. Denison died, after giving birth to a girl — the last wrong that she was able to inflict. After his daughter's decease, Mr. Harcourt trans- UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 109 f erred the allowance he had made to the child, who was a vigorous baby, and likely to live, and took occasion to assure the father that this was the beginning and end of what he should do for her. Also the heir-at-law, whom Cyril Denison scarcely knew, but cordially detested, for he added to other provocations the facts that he was a rich man and the father of a son, offered an adjustment of a certain portion of the property which was strictly entailed on heirs male — by which a slender income for his kinsman would be provided without injury to his own interests. He attached to this arrange- ment, which the poverty of the other compelled him to accept, the suggestion that Cyril should insure his life heavily for the benefit of his daughter, and by so doing exonerated his indignant beneficiary from the slightest obligation of grati- tude. Cyril Denison, once more a free man, fled from The Chace, leaving his daughter to be cared for by others, and led a wandering, irregular life, only returning thither when stricken by disease. no PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. The life which little Margery Denison lived in a corner of the spacious old mansion, which its impoverished owner had declared should never be let again, was not a dreary one. She had the good fortune to have a faithful nurse, and the com- panionship with her equals and contemporaries which she never knew she never missed. Her amusements were adequate, and she found them for the most part out of doors. The reduced estab- lishment included an old groom, who had been in the family from a boy, and was now content to make himself serviceable as a man-of- all- work. He kept the child supplied with as many of the sylvan creatures she adored as could by any art or skill be transformed into domestic pets. He taught her to ride — an old pony and a cart-horse being still to be found in the stables — and it was almost pathetic to see Dick Gardner lumbering on the latter beside or behind his imperious little mistress, who soon learned to torment him by outstripping him. The good fellow had always a secret shame UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. in to swallow, remembering the family glories of his youth. When Margery was about seven years old, her aunt, Mrs. Sutherland, Mr. Denison's only sister, returned from India, a childless widow, and pro- posed to her brother that she should make her home at The Chace, and play the part of mother to her neglected little niece. Her own income was not large, but it would more than suffice to meet the increased household expenses which this ar- rangement would make necessary. Cyril Denison was not so blind to his own interests as to object, though his interest in his daughter was of the slightest, the child being practically unknown to him. We are not quite sure that it was the best thing that could have happened to Margery. Mrs. Sutherland ' had her views ' in respect to the training of children, which consisted chiefly in the notion that, so far as was humanly possible, infancy and child- hood should be passed without atear, in order to leave the individual a bright record to look back upon. 112 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Consequently, in order to secure this result for Margery, already sufficiently self-willed, she was allowed to have her own way at precisely the time when the rapid growth of her intelligence would have made judicious discipline fruitful in good results. When, as soon as became necessary, a governess was engaged for the bright, engaging, but turbulent little girl, she was selected more from her reputation for kindness of heart than for more serviceable qualities. She was, in fact, neither capable nor conscientious, and she adopted her employer's laissez-faire policy with alacrity. For the next five years she fulfilled, or, rather, neglected, her office. Margery learnt just as little as she pleased ; but even that was more — for her mind was vigorous and her curiosity alert — than Miss Dawson cared to impart. Indeed, she often found herself so signally at fault that, to escape from unwelcome pressure, she allowed the child the run of the library, quite indifferent to the possible results of UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 113 indiscriminate reading. There was, however, one point of efficiency in this scrambling education — the governess was a good musician, and Margery, who inherited her father's aptitude in this direc- tion, was an eager and satisfactory pupil. The accumulated literature which filled the shelves of the library, and the line old Broadwood which stood in its midst, were the most stimulating influ- ences of her life ; while the fond indulgence of her aunt, if it failed to elicit that reverent affection which is twice blessed in its influence, at least softened and won her heart. She was about twelve years old when Mr. Denison paid one of his flying visits to his home. A dim sense of responsibility towards his almost unknown daughter had made itself felt, and also the residence of his sister at The Chace made things more comfortable. The conclusion reached by his observation was that Margery was grossly ignorant for her age, that her temper was un- manageable, and her manners bad ; the only vol. 1. 15 114 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. redeeming points being that the girl promised to be handsome and had a good ear for music. Miss Dawson was dismissed, and for the next few years a succession of more or less capable and accomplished women undertook and relinquished the charge of Miss Denison's education. The results were not eminently satisfactory. At fifteen Margery might still be regarded as a spoilt girl, wayward and imperious, which is only saying that, having been subjected to the extremes of neglect and indulgence, she had not by any miracle of individuality escaped the mischievous consequences. She was naturally generous and high-minded ; but she had missed in her early training the incul- cation of the divine idea of duty. It is a seed that takes root kindly in the tender soil of a child's heart, but it is more difficult of growth when that same soil has been pressed down and hardened by the tread of the passing years. Margery's notion of life was to get as much pleasure out of it as it could yield, and the ideal of abstinence or self- UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 115 denial had no attraction for her. Whether she were relieving distress and glowing with the delight of indulged sympathy, or breathless with rapture under the spell of music, or lost to her own identity over romance or poem, her out- look went no farther than her personal gratifica- tion. At this period, Cyril Denison, stricken by the disease which was ultimately to destroy him, returned to The Chace, and made his home there once more. He was a miserable and embittered man, and found in the magnificent vitality and health of his daughter a cause of irritation and annoyance. Her education and manners still appeared to him highly unsatisfactory ; and when his doctors sug- gested that he should winter in Florence, he pro- posed that his daughter and sister should accom- pany him, and that masters should be found for the girl who might do something to remedy her deficiencies. The benefit both to himself and to u6 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Margery was considerable, and the experiment was repeated the following winter. It was during this residence in Florence that the Denisons had become acquainted with Christina Yorke and her son. Mrs. Sutherland had first made her acquaintance in the character of patroness, having seen some specimens of her superb embroi- dery ; but it afterwards became known to her that she was the widow of Colonel Yorke, with the story of whose mesalliance Mrs. Sutherland was naturally acquainted. This discovery induced a feeling of modified equality, and she was quite willing to extend her goodwill to the handsome and gifted boy whom she found in such close attendance upon his mother, for the fact that his grandfather was their distinguished neighbour, Sir Owen Yorke, of Eook- hurst, could scarcely fail to be taken into account in his favour. She also, following the bent of her indulgent and kindly nature, allowed Margery not only to be her companion in their frequent visits to Christina UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 117 Yorke, but to form an intimacy with Gilbert much closer and more sympathetic than she was aware of, for both boy and girl found in each other that cordial camaraderie of feeling which neither had known before. Mrs. Sutherland herself, being singularly impressionable to external charm, treated Gilbert with caressing familiarity, frequently taking him home with them, or sanctioning his joining them in their walks or excursions. On the strength of his youthful promise as a musician, she even ventured to introduce him to Cyril Denison, who never gave himself any concern how his woman- kind spent their time ; he did not feel a spark of interest in the local association, but consented to hear him play, with his usual cynical indifference a little softened by the lad's undoubted talent, and forthwith dismissed him from his mind. Such had been the incidents of Margery Deni- son's life up to the time of her meeting Gilbert Yorke and John Cartwright on the Seamoor road. Almost as soon as she had taken off her walking u8 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. things she went to relate the adventure to her aunt, confident of her fellow-feeling, but she found to her vexation that her father had forestalled her, and, moreover, that he had repeated his threat of sending her to school, not as the result of momen- tary impatience, but of deliberate purpose. 'And, perhaps, my dear,' continued her aunt, whose judgment was always at the service of the last speaker, ' it will be as well ; you are nearly sixteen, and cannot possibly be presented for the next two years, granting that we can afford a season in London. What are you going to do all that time ? After all, your education has been rather a poor, scrambling affair, and two years in Paris will do wonders for you. None but ladies of the highest distinction are received by Mme. Coligny.' ' Wouldn't it be more to the point to be told that none but professors of the highest distinction were received ?' Margery retorted saucily. ' I am quite sure that association won't be enough for me.' ' Oh, that is a matter of course ! Think, Madge, UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 119 what a musician you will come home — your poor father declares no Englishwoman is able to teach the piano. You will know how to please him, dear.' A smile touched the girl's lips that was lament- ably bitter for her years. ' Is there only one side to the parental contract ?' she asked. ' I mean, is not my father bound to please me sometimes ? Did you ever know him try ?' 'My dear!' Margery went and sat down on the stool at her aunt's feet, and leaned her lovely head against the kind lady's knees. 1 Don't scold me,' she said. ' Where's the use of preaching maxims of duty when the spirit of it is dead '? I don't think it was ever alive. Poor me ! My mother fled away from me as soon as I was born, and my father has never forgiven me for being born at all. Who has ever loved me but you, auntie — a little ?' * little!' 120 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. ' Ah, well, things go by comparison, and my mind is full of the Yorkes. Do you remember how that sweet woman used to sit back in her chair, with her embroidery needle in her poor thin fingers, and look at her son ? If God had spared my mother, and she had looked at me like that, I would not have asked Him for anything else. As it is ' — the girl raised herself, and her eyes widened and flashed — 'as it is,' she repeated, 'I must have someone to love me before I die, or I shall kill myself in despair.' Mrs. Sutherland laughed a little weakly. She was soon at her wits' end when Margery was in one of her wild moods, as she called them. ' There will be plenty, my dear, to do that,' was her answer. ' The despair you will find to be all on the other side.' Margery laughed, too, but with scornful deri- sion. ' Lovers ! I don't mean that, or they must be made of different stuff from what I have seen or UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 121 heard aboat. Besides, auntie, that kind of despair nowadays is kept for heiresses — a poor girl never has the luck to evoke it.' Her aunt shook her head. ' My dear, you catch your father's sneering tone, and no wonder ! But don't do it, Madge ! In my view nothing spoils a girl's prospects like a sharp tongue.' ' But I am so poorly endowed otherwise that Nature provided me with that weapon in self- defence,' replied the girl wistfully. 'Consider, auntie, in what terms my father often describes me!' Mrs. Sutherland patted the upturned face affec- tionately. ' Nonsense, child ; we will not consider. It is just the irritability of disease. Two years with Mme. Coligny will make you all that he can desire.' Margery pressed a little closer to her aunt's knees, and put the kind hand that had taken hers against her lips. ' If I promise to submit like a good child and go to Paris, will you in your turn do VOL. I. 1() J22 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. something for me ? I want it very much.' She stopped, but went on, as her aunt did not answer at once. ' Let us go and see Gilbert Yorke — you and I — as we used to do in Florence ! I had no chance to-day even to tell him how grieved I was that his mother was dead.' ' My dear, the thing is impossible. You should have heard your father !' 1 But he need never know. He would never guess we could be so wicked.' Mrs. Sutherland professed to be shocked. ' Ah, Margery,' she said, ' there must indeed have been something wrong in your bringing up ! You make me feel afraid.' 1 All I want,' returned Margery, shrugging her shoulders, ' is to do good by stealth. Is not pity for poor Gilbert Yorke worth more than fear of my father ?' But for once she pleaded in vain. Apart from obvious objections, Mrs. Sutherland had too vivid a recollection of the recent scene with her brother UNDER THE ROOF-TREE OF THE CHACE. 123 to risk the chance of his displeasure. She under- stood what Margery did not — how strenuously his mind was fixed on his daughter's making a suc- cessful marriage — the word including only two requirements, wealth and position. Hence the fierceness of his opposition to any influence that might run counter to his hopes. The result reached by Margery's importunity was simply to confirm her aunt in the conviction that Mr. Deni- son's plan of scholastic exile was the best for all concerned. CHAPTEK VII. CASTLE STREET CHAPEL. Margery submitted without protest to this scheme of sending her to school, somewhat to the surprise of both her father and aunt. Cyril Denison had some knowledge of Mme. Coligny, a woman of personal and mental distinc- tion in the soundest application of the phrase, and as her duties brought her to England at Christ- mas it was arranged that she should come to The Chace to make the acquaintance of her pupil, and take her back to Paris with her. The intervening time was short, and Mrs. Suther- land was engrossed with wardrobe arrangements, for her niece, a premature sense of security CASTLE STREET CHAPEL. 125 leading her to leave Margery a good deal to herself. One day it happened that the incident was repeated which had occurred with her father. She and her aunt had met Gilbert Yorke when driving upon a sequestered country road, and, as before, the girl had eagerly pulled the check-string to stop the carriage. Mrs. Sutherland interfered sharply to countermand the order, but it was unnecessary, for Gilbert had hurried past, with a low bow of recognition. Margery, whose vision was that of a hawk, did not fail to observe that he had changed colour as he saw them, and that the look that he had cast towards them was one that she described as of ' reproachful indignation.' ' Have you forgotten,' she asked, in a curious suppressed voice, ' that it was only last year that you encouraged and petted him in Florence, and treated him like one of ourselves ? What must he think of us ?' 126 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Mrs. Sutherland sighed uneasily. ' It seems cruel, as a good many necessary social restrictions do, but I am not my own mistress. He has evidently learnt his lesson, dear, and we must submit to do the same.' To this Margery made no answer ; but her desire to have speech again with Gilbert Yorke before she left home strengthened into a purpose. The next time she saw him was the Sunday be- fore her departure. Mme. Coligny had arrived a few days previously, and had already won golden opinions by her mingled tact, sweetness, and intel- ligence. She was proud of the fact that she came of a good Huguenot stock ; and it happened that during a discussion with her host she had expressed a desire to assist at a religious service of one of the great Dissenting bodies. The result was that the Denison carriage stopped on the Sunday following at the gates of Castle Street Chapel. It was the first Sunday in the new year, and the weather was clear and cold. At the CASTLE STREET CHAPEL. 127 moment of their entrance a burst of wintry sun- shine shone through the undimmed transparencies of the great ugly sashed windows, revealing at a glance every nook and corner of the building. The pews were narrow and high, and each was fitted with comfortable cushions and hassocks, according to the taste or means of the occupier, so that there was no uniformity of colour or treatment. The pulpit, behind which stood the organ, was exalted upon a low platform, on which benches were fixed for the accommodation of the officers of the church and the leading singers, the front being occupied by a plain Communion-table, covered with a fair damask cloth, on which were already set the sacred vessels. The chapel was completely without charm or attraction, except that of the obvious adaptation of means to end — for it was large, commodious, and serviceable — and what might belong to it from long and honourable association. The ladies from The Chace were received and welcomed by a steward of the church with a cor- 128 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. diality that could scarcely fail to bring a sense of pleasure with it, and which was quite independent of their social standing. It seemed as if they con- ferred upon him a personal favour by placing themselves under the means of grace. The chapel, including the galleries, which flanked three sides of the building, was almost full as they entered, so that there was some difficulty in finding them places. When this was done, Margery was quick to perceive that the opposite pew was occupied by the Cartwright family. The little bustle of their arrival had naturally excited attention ; Gilbert Yorke had looked quickly up, and the girl saw his face flush and his eyes brighten. The play of expression, however, passed away immediately, and was suc- ceeded by an anxious and weary look that seemed as if it had become habitual to his features. Neither Mrs. Cartwright nor her son, who sat beside her, appeared to notice them. The pre- liminary hymn had just been announced, and CASTLE STREET CHAPEL. 129 John's soul as well as his gaze was concentrated on his hymn-book. The fine and unfamiliar words, sung in unison by the whole congregation, challenged even Margery's attention. There was a ring of true poetry in them, wedded to that note of intense spiritual aspiration which has made the name of Charles Wesley fra- grant in the memory of all worshippers of God, be •they who they may. ' Thou bidden love of God, whose height, "Whose depth unfathomed, no man know?, I see from far Thy beauteous light ; Inly I sigh for Thy repose. My heart is pained, nor can it be At rest till it find rest in Thee.' At this moment John Cartwright looked up, and the girl, who was watching the whole family with eager curiosity, could hardly persuade herself, as she caught the aspect of exaltation in his face, that he was the same heavy-featured lad who had stood lumpishly on the Seamoor road waiting for his .cousin to join him. She thought he looked at that vol. 1. 17 i<3o PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. moment of the stuff of which heroes and martyrs are made. During the long service which followed, and to- which her alertness of intellect inclined her to listen and her girlish arrogance to judge, she found much that startled and displeased her, more particularly in the audible ejaculations with which some of the audience vented, as it were under irresistible im- pulse, their devout acquiescence or thanksgiving. But now and again a phrase in the prayer or a sentence in the sermon, delivered by the earnest, gray-haired minister, struck across her mind as with the sudden white light of conviction, revealing- depths she had never suspected before, and from which she turned away her eyes. It chiefly amused and interested her to watch other people. There was that in Gilbert Yorke's posture and expression which showed to one who knew him so well as Margery that his mind was far away, and that he made not the slightest effort to follow what was going on. Neither the deep spirituality of the CASTLE STREET CHAPEL. 131 prayer nor the searching exhortations of the sermon, barbed with the sharp points of a New Year's appeal., reached his heart or won his ear. Sometimes the face was sad and sometimes illuminated ; but it was by the force of personal rumination only. Once during the protracted service she caught Mrs. Cart wright's eyes fixed on his face with an expression in which sorrow and anger seemed at strife ; but the sensitive Gilbert felt it instantly, and as he glanced uneasily towards her the look was quickly withdrawn. ' The poor boy looks unhappy — astra}' — like me !' said Margery to herself. ' If my wits do not fail me, I will see him yet before I go. I have three days of grace !' The service was over, and the crowded congrega- tion had risen to disperse. Mrs. Cartwright, with proud humility, was responding to Mrs. Suther- land's gracious recognition ; while, to her secret vexation, her husband pressed fussily forward with the offer to see if their carriage were in waiting- i 3 2 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. In the crush Margery was for a moment sepa- rated from her companions, and, casting an eager glance behind her,. saw that Gilbert had obstinately withdrawn himself beyond reach of voice or touch; of hand. But John Cartwright was close by her side. It was her forlorn hope. ' I am going away on Thursday for two years,' she said in a low whisper into his startled ear — he, hardly believing that she could be addressing him — ' and I want to say good-bye to Gilbert Yorke~ Can I trust you to manage it ? I often run with the dogs after lunch in the Idersleigh meadows.' Before he could rally from the shock Margery. Denison was gone. CHAPTEB VIII. a girl's venture. Margery Denison, looking at Gilbert Yorke as he sat in his pew at Castle Street Chapel, had thought he looked pale and ill ; and, indeed, he had been passing through a rough experience lately. He was of the temper where the action of the mind upon the body is instant and direct, and the circumstances in which he was now placed he could not persuade himself to accept. The request that he should be allowed to make music his profession had been duly presented to Mr. Cartwright and stringently refused. Whatever his own views might have been, a sense of loyalty to his absent wife would have made him repudiate the idea. j 34 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Moreover, the passion with which Gilbert pleaded his own cause, and the wildness, as it appeared, of some of his assertions, induced in the good man's mind a feeling of alarm, the more so when his own son, to whom such a notion ought to have been obnoxious, undertook to plead in its behalf. Mr. Cartwright began to believe that his wife had been more far-seeing than himself ; and that an element, if not of positive evil, at least of mis- chief and discomfiture, had been introduced into their midst. It may have been owing to the limitations of his mind, or to the natural sequence of things, that the very qualities which had first attracted him to his nephew — his power over words, his grace of action, his mental eagerness and zest — began to chafe and weary him. He had also a double sense of respon- sibility in his wife's absence, which at this time had nearly reached its close. ' Lad,' he answered, with unusual severity, drop- ping a little into the vernacular in his excitement, A GIRL'S VENTURE. 135 and holding up his hand to check the flow of Gilbert's speech, ' I'll have none of it, and thee hadst best hold thy tongue ! John, I'm ashamed of thee ! What would th' mother say ?' John remained silent but unblenching under the rebuke. Gilbert made one of his little impressive gestures ; his face was not only white, but drawn with pain. ' I see,' he said. ' I shall never escape that — her influence ! It shuts me in like a stone wall.' ' And a good thing for thee, Gilbert Yorke, if it does ; 'twill prevent thee bursting out of bounds. A. fiddler, indeed !' and Mr. Cartwright, with whom discretion was always the better part of valour, walked out of the room, to show that the incident was closed. A few days after this the holidays began, which deprived Gilbert of the chief interest of his days, and then just before Christmas Day Mrs. Cart- wright had returned, clad in deep mourning for her father. 1 36 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. There was an unusual softness in her manner when she first spoke to her son, and Gilbert, alive at every point of perception, thought her face beautiful as she bent over him. It seemed strange to him that no embrace was given or offered after so long an absence, not knowing the strange com- plication of feeling that withheld the mother from all forms of self-disclosure. His own presence alone would have been an effectual restraint. 'And you,' she said, when his turn for notice came, ' are you quite well ?' Her eyes rested on his face kindly, for we cannot assist at a death-bed without learning some lessons of humility and forbearance. She thought he looked pale and harassed, and there was a swell of joy at her heart at the proof that the unbroken intercourse of the boys had not resulted in such perfect happiness as she had feared. Gilbert turned away his head, for he was in that state of mind that he could scarcely bear the unex- A GIRL'S VENTURE. 137 pected kindness of her manner ; if she had kissed him, as his mother had done, she would have bound his heart to her for ever. ' I am well,' he said, ' and everyone has been very kind to me, but — I am not happy. Ask John.' ' Do you mean me to tell mother what you want on the spot — before she has taken off her things ?' was John's rejoinder. ' Yes,' said Mrs. Cartwright, loosening her bonnet and cloak, and putting them aside, ' tell me now — at once !' She sat down, and looked from one to the other with deep anxiety. If her nephew looked ill, her son, now that she observed him more closely, had an expression of awakened sensibility, which gave her a pang. As his eyes rested on his cousin for a moment, there was a look of tenderness and pity in them such as she never remembered to have seen before. 1 Tell me now,' she repeated, in a gentle voice. VOL. I. 18 It was John who told the tale of Gilbert's am- bition — told it with such simple directness, and yet with such persuasive art, that Gilbert guessed for the first time what power of advocacy lay under his taciturn and hidden manner. He finished by saying : ' No one can judge properly about this until they have heard Gilbert play on his violin. Perhaps you will think it wrong, mother, but the first time I heard him it seemed like — like a new heaven and a new earth.' Gilbert stood with his eyes fastened on his aunt. Instead of the stern condemnation he had ex- pected, he saw that she sat with her head inclined in an attitude of deep consideration. Was it pos- sible that there was hope for him from the very quarter where he had expected the worst ? He stepped forward and ventured to touch her hand. ' Oh, consent !' he breathed in a passionate whisper. ' It rests with you — it will be like life from the dead.' A GIRL'S VENTURE. 139 She looked up at him, and a little shudder passed through her frame. ' You little know,' she answered, waving him aside as she spoke, ' how you tempt me — to do wrong ! To such a scheme I dare not give my consent. To one like you it would be certain ruin — no, not another word !' She rose up to leave the room, gathering up her garments in her hands. Her feeling was as if she were fleeing from some palpable snare of Satan. Here was the solution of her difficulty and her sorrow — to grant this boy's passionate prayer, and thus deliver herself from the influence that was not only jeopardizing her son's eternal welfare, but stealing his heart from her. But then, again, how could she answer before God, or expect His bless- ing on her ceaseless vigilance, were she to traverse her most sacred convictions, and deliver the other lad over to this life of trivial and reckless self- indulgence ? And so the last hope had been extinguished, and 140 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. one weary clay had succeeded the other till the message of Margery Denison roused him to a state of tremulous excitement. ' I was bound to deliver it,' said John, ' and I have done so ; but I think you ought not to go. It will bring you into trouble, which you will say is nothing ; but it may bring her into trouble, which is much. You don't want my opinion, of course, but I think she was very wrong to send you such a message.' 'Ah!' was the answer, 'it is only those who never do wrong whom nobody loves and nobody wants. I should go, Jack, if I knew I should get fifty lashes of the cat for recompense !' He shud- dered and shrank. ' That means I should go if I were to die for it, for the first half-dozen lashes would set me free ! ' But the going was a more difficult matter than he had expected. Margery's luncheon hour pro- bably corresponded with the early dinner at Elm Lodge, and to be absent from meals was regarded A GIRL'S VENTURE. 141 as a dereliction of household duty not to be for- given on any plea save illness within Mrs. Cart- wright's recognition. On the Monday following the weather was fine, and Gilbert absented himself without hesitation or excuse. To his cousin's representations he answered : ' Say I felt the need of a long walk into the country, and I have taken my fiddle with me. On the moors I shall be free to play to my heart's content.' ' Are you going the way of the moors ?' asked John. Gilbert shrugged his shoulders, then, unable to escape the other's eyes, answered : ' I will extend my walk in that direction to save your conscience, Jack.' He came home at dark, worn-out and disap- pointed. He had haunted the Idersleigh meadows for hours, and then had ventured into the vicinity of The Chace, but without catching a glimpse of M2 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Margery Denison. His excuses were received with more readiness than the boys had expected, as any form of eccentricity was held natural to Gilbert. He went early to bed, to be the better prepared for the next clay's venture, which, of course, repe- tition made more difficult. •John's mind was oppressed by anxiety, but he was a little relieved when Gilbert suggested that they should start together as for a walk, which would cause no surprise, even Mrs. Cartwright recognising a limited right to free action in the Christmas holidays. They walked in company as far as the Idersleigh meadows. It was then twelve o'clock, and had begun to snow, and Gilbert in- sisted on John turning back at once. He would be just in time for dinner, and would escape blame ; but he himself refused to return with him, in spite of the obvious consideration offered by his cousin that no young lady was likely to keep an appoint- ment in a snowstorm. A GIRL'S VENTURE. 143 ' Very true, Jack, but I am bound to keep mine. I shall wait about here till dark.' ' And what am I to say when I get home ?' Gilbert looked perplexed. ' What can one say when one is between the devil and the deep sea ? — the latter being the abysse s of your conscientiousness, Jack. Say I would not come, but will explain the reason when I do.' ' But how will that be possible ?' asked John, with a flash of his eyes, which was repeated in those of the other. ' Old fellow, how little you know me ! Did you dare to fear that I would betray Margery? Say nothing, or what you like — I will answer for my- self. Good heavens, Jack, there she is !' John looked for a moment or two in the wrong- direction, but his cousin had leapt the gate by which they were standing, and was running, swift as a deer, across the field towards a slim, erect figure in the blurred landscape, which represented a young girl clad in a heavy mackintosh, and round 144 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. whose feet two or three dogs were leaping and yelping. He scarcely knew that he stayed a minute longer to watch the meeting, for instinct was stronger than volition, until he saw that Gilbert had reached her side, had taken her friendly outstretched hands and put them to his lips, with one knee almost touching the sodden ground. Then John Cart- wright turned his back upon the pair with a flush on his swarthy cheek, and walked home revolving many things. Meanwhile the boy and girl walked side by side up and down within the shelter of the hedge, such as it was. Margery had an umbrella in her hand, which she suffered Gilbert to open and hold over her. A little silence had fallen between them after the first excitement of the meeting; they each looked at the other with a delicious mingling of timidity and triumph. Above the ugly cloak, like a flower from its stalk, rose Margery's stately head, crowned by a cap of A GIRL'S VENTURE. 145 sealskin, which nestled close to the shining coils of her tawny hair. The brilliancy of her complexion was heightened by exercise and feeling till the soft, oval cheeks glowed like the heart of a damask rose, and added lustre to the lovely e} T es, which beamed upon her companion with an unusual expression of softness and kindness. All the loves and graces of Cupid's calendar seemed to hover in the dimples of the smiling mouth as she thought of the success ■of her escapade, and read in the very silence of her •companion the depth of the delight it had con- ferred. ' Oh,' he said at last, ' how heavenly kind you are ! But such weather ! You will take cold — they will miss you and seek for you. If you should get into trouble ' She laughed. ' It will not be for the first time, but they know my ways. I have not a mackintosh like this for nothing ! Often I take out the dogs in the rain, .and they really don't watch me so closely as you vol. 1. r.) 146 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. think. I warned them, too, that I should defy the weather these last few days of freedom.' ' You are going away ?' Gilbert's voice had a power of inflection that discounted eloquence. ' To school — to Paris ! It is their last desperate attempt to make a fine lady of me.' ' I pray God they may not succeed !' was his answer. ' If they do, you will forget me.' 1 And perhaps I shall do that even if they fail,' she said archly. ' But I will not tease you. You know I liked you very much, and your sweet mother still more. Tell me about her ; that is what I am come for. I am so sorry for you. Who knows, Bertie, what it is to lose a mother like her who never had one ?' He caught her hand again in a passion of grati- tude and grief. But he had much of the Italian's horror of the death-bed and the funeral chamber, and shrank from detail. 'She suffered so long before she died,' he said,. A GIRL'S VENTURE. 147 *;tliat I was glad when death came and set her free. As for me, I have never been quite alive since — we lived so close she could not die alone.' He looked straight before him with an aspect of incommunicable woe, and the girl saw, with a thrill of fellow-feeling, that for a moment she was for- gotten. ' You are just as nice as ever,' she said softly, .touching his arm with a sort of caress. ' But we .must make haste ; tell me about yourself.' He told her how matters stood with him briefly but fairly, to which she answered with breathless .eagerness : ' But, if things are like this, it may end in your .being compelled to serve in the shop.' ' No ; I shall never do that, for my father's sake. I would rather run away and earn my living as a strolling fiddler in some town of France or Italy. Not,' he added, brightening, ' that I should do that very long ; some maestro would hear me and iake me by the hand. Ah, Margery, I have im- 148 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. proved since you heard me last. Even without practice, studying only the score, I feel the power growing.' She clasped her hands in hearty camaraderie. ' Oh, we must manage,' she cried. ' We will be fellow-conspirators. Even my father owned you had a divine touch. You shall not run to waste in Copplestone. You ' She stopped short, for indeed the wind made talk a conflict, and the snow was dashed against her lips. ' I must go. How horrid of the weather, and it was so fine yesterday ! I must go, but I shall not forget.' She called her dogs and had started to run, but he caught her cloak and held her back. ' You shall not go alone. I must walk with you and hold the umbrella.' ' No one could keep it up. I will use it as a staff.' ' I refuse to leave you till you are safe at home. A GIRL'S VENTURE. 149 You are a good mile from The Chace. No matter who sees us.' ' No matter to you, perhaps — but to me ! Well, I won't draw too much on your gratitude, only it is not a trifle I have risked to-day. Still, I would do the same again to tell an old friend I was glad to see him, and felt his troubles as if they were my own. Not a step farther, if you love me.' ' I shall do that, Margery, to the last beat of my heart.' She laughed, nodded, and ran on, holding down her head before the blast, with the dogs trotting at her heels. Then, moved by a girlish impulse, she stopped and looked back. He was still standing- watching her. As her eyes met his, he flew to her as steel to the magnet, seizing her hands and kiss- ing them almost in the attitude of worship. ' Speak to me again — only another word.' The girl thrilled a little ; the upturned face pleading with passionate eagerness touched her to the quick. He was so lonely and forlorn, and so, ISO PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. in truth, was she. What could she say to comfort him ? 'Oh,' she cried impatiently, ' we will always be friends — you and I — always, always ! I will not forget you. I liked you from the first, Bertie, and will like you to the end. Will that do ?' He was still bowed before her, holding her hands and looking into her face. ' No one,' he said very gravely, ' has kissed me since my mother died. Kiss me, Margery, angel as you are !' It was an appeal from devotee to saint. Without a blush she leaned towards him, and touched his forehead with her fresh young lips. Gilbert bowed lower still, as if to receive a bene- diction. ' The good God bless you!' he said reverently, and went his way. CHAPTEE IX. AT THE BAR. The shades of night were drawn around the house before Gilbert Yorke re-entered Elm Lodge ; but, then, night fell early at Copplestone in the first month of the year. Tea was over, and Mr. Cartwright occupied his usual place by the cheerful fireside, thoughtfully watching the flames as they danced up the chimney and reflected their glow in every polished surface within their radiance. His wife sat opposite, with her knitting in her fingers and a vertical line on her brow, known to both husband and son as a sign of deep mental disturbance ; and John lounged at the table with an unread book before him. 152 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. There was an air of mixed oppression and expecta- tion in the aspect of each. The room was so quiet that the sudden swing of the garden-gate, and the sound of Gilbert's returning footsteps on the gravel, had almost a startling effect. When the door-bell rang, John got up from his seat as if to go out and open to him. Mrs. Cartwright looked up sharply. ' Go, if you will, and ask your cousin to come in and speak to us at once,' she said. ' But do not say anything more.' John went out and delivered his message. ' Before I change my shoes ?' asked Gilbert. ' I am wet through.' John bent his brows in silence, then suddenly grasped Gilbert's hand with a dumb fervour which was at once eloquent and painful. At the same moment Mrs. Cartwright herself stepped out into he hall. Gilbert was standing in the full light of the gas- AT THE BAR. 153 lamp, which showed him soaked with rain and splashed with the mud of the moors. His pale face made his eyes look unnaturally wide and bright ; but his expression was neither downcast nor defiant ; indeed, there was a sort of dignity in it which Mrs. Cartwright recognised. A boy with such a look as that had not been doing anything that he was ashamed of; only the in- firmity of Gilbert Yorke's conscience was to be taken into account. ' Go up to your room and change your wet clothes,' she said quietly; 'we cannot speak to you in that state.' And then she added, ' Have you had any dinner ?' He shook his head. Reaction was setting in, bringing with it the sense of exhaustion and con- sequent reluctance to trust himself with words. His aunt continued to gaze at him austerely, but, in fact, could he have known it, she had a greater feeling of pity for him than he had ever aroused before. It was the pity which the just but stern vol. 1. 20 154 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. judge feels for the criminal, and this criminal was. so young, and yet already was reaping the harvest of his pernicious upbringing. ' Go upstairs,' she repeated, ' and I 'will send you something to eat.' ' Send me a cup of coffee,' he pleaded, and such was the wistful charm of his manner that she signified assent, aware of a sharp pang of complex sensation ; then putting her hand on her son's shoulder, they went back to the dining-room together. Very little was said during the interval which elapsed before Gilbert entered the room. When he came in John pulled out a chair near his own,, which his cousin took with an encouraging smile ; one might have thought that it was he, and not Gilbert, who was on his trial. Martin Cartwright turned round on his seat, and faced the boys. 1 Gilbert, lad,' he began, ' we are in a bit of trouble about you, but no doubt you will be able to AT THE BAR. 155 clear it up. It seems you were wandering from home the chief part of yesterday, but we let that pass, knowing you are given to whimsies. What story was it that you told your aunt — that you were wandering about all those hours alone, and took that fiddle with you ?' ' It is quite true, sir. I was alone, and I did take my fiddle ; it was foolish, for I dared not pull it out of the case because of the damp.' 'And where have you been to-day? Do you expect us to believe that you have been tramping the country in the rain and the snow ever since you parted from John this morning, without a com- panion and without an object — for the pleasure of the thing ?' ' It does seem unreasonable,' was Gilbert's reply ; *, but I am always able to think better walking alone in the open air, and I had a great deal to think about.' ' This is evasion !' interrupted Mrs. Cartwright angrily. ' Answer your uncle's question — ' k Where 156 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. have you been, and with whom, since John left you this morning?" Your only chance of forgiveness lies in speaking the truth.' ' And what will the consequences be if I refuse to speak and am not forgiven ?' He stood up as he spoke, with his hand resting on the table and his eyes fixed steadily on his aunt. John touched his arm furtively, with a gesture that was meant for a warning, but which did not escape his mother's observation. 'Martin,' she said, turning to her husband, 1 there is a secret between these boys. It is already as I feared. It is not Gilbert Yorke alone who is deceiving us.' There was a tone as of anguish in her voice strange to her son, and which pierced his heart with compunction. It was quite true, innocent as he was, that he had something to conceal, and his eyes fell before his mother's glance, which was almost more reproachful than searching. His tongue was so effectually tied ! AT THE BAR. 157 Gilbert looked down upon him and smiled ; then said, in his musical, clear voice : ' To keep a secret to yourself that you have no right to tell is not deceit ; and John is just doing that. It is such a little secret, and such an inno- cent one, that to make an affair of it is absurd. It is altogether mine, and it is a pity that John knows, but he could not help himself ; it was thrust upon him. You would not wish him,' and he looked boldly at his aunt's noble face — ' you would not wish him to betray his friend ?' ' No,' she answered warmly ; ' but I would wish him not to have such a friend.' ' Ah, that is another story ! But at least you must exonerate John. He went out with me this morning, and never spoke to any other human creature while we were together. What he did on his way home I cannot answer for, of course.' The poor little jest was out of place, and bore witness more to the tension of Gilbert's feelings 158 PASSING THE LOVE OE WOMEN. than to any lightness of heart ; but it irritated Mrs. Cartwright, whose own mind was unstrung. 1 Let that pass,' she said sternly ; ' I will deal with my son at my own discretion. This matter narrows itself to one point. You went out with an object in view, probably to meet some person you dare not ask leave to bring under this roof. We demand, as your guardians, to know who this person was and what was your business together.' 1 Just so,' remarked Martin approvingly ; ' we are within our rights, and you must answer.' . Gilbert sighed, ruffled his hair with his hand, looked earnestly at his cousin, whose eyes were fixed on the ground, and then said : ' And that is just the one question that I will not answer.' ' Not if the consequence of your insubordination was to be dismissal from our home ?' ' Not even then,' replied Gilbert firmly. ' Indeed, during the long hours I have been wandering about to-day — alone, if you will believe me — I had almost AT THE BAR. 159 come to the conclusion to dismiss myself. I have thought out a plan of life I should like to talk over with you — to-morrow. I — I am dead beat to-night.' He kept his eyes turned away from John, but, in spite of this safeguard, his agitation was such he could scarcely keep the tears out of them. 1 You will think me ungrateful,' he said, ' and perhaps I am. One thing I may explain : I should not have been out so late but I lost my way on the moors, and met no one who could direct me.' The eyes with which Mrs. Cartwright regarded him looked in their fixed intensity as if they had the power of searching the heart ; but Gilbert met them without flinching, and their expression softened. ' I will not blame you,' she said. ' You do as you have been taught, and it would be unjust to blame you. Go to bed if you wish, and we will settle thin business to-morrow.' That night she and her husband sat late, discuss- ing Gilbert Yorke's future, and able to reach no i6o PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. conclusion. Just because to separate the cousins was the strongest desire of her mind, Mrs. Cart- wright was strictly on guard against suffering her conscience to be hoodwinked by personal bias. To Martin's astonishment she referred to the scheme of the Leipzig Conservatoire as one not to be regarded with utter reprobation ; but she owned that she stood in great need of information upon details, and the decision reached — ostensibly by both, though she was the moving force — was that the matter should be referred to the head-master of Wesley College, who was at once the most learned, pious, and enlightened person of their little world. But had their world been larger, or even of the largest, it would have been hard to find a man of choicer gifts or more sweet reasonableness than Dr. Fleming. The result of the conference was that he asked to be allowed to have the two lads to spend the even- ing with him, and further requested that Gilbert Yorke should bring his violin. AT THE BAR. 161 It was an occasion long remembered by both. There are some amongst us, and their host was of the number, who hold a key for the unlocking of hearts ; and not only did Gilbert Yorke open out his heart under the touch of Dr. Fleming's intimate sympathy, but John himself felt the ice of his reserve thawing into confidence and self-disclosure. The scholarly charm of the well-appointed library, where the softest of lamps shed its mild light around, and a wood-fire crackled andfroared on the open hearth, pleased the perceptions of both the lads ; nor was the elegant little supper that was served for them the least of their enjoyments, although it was on the grounds of restheticism rather than of appetite. It was not until this had been leisurely discussed, and they had returned to the library, that Dr. Fleming suggested that Gilbert should now give them a taste of his skill, and at the same moment the door opened to admit another visitor — a short, stout man, with a stoop in his shouldei's vol. i. 21 162 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. and a pair of keen gray eyes lighting up a rather florid face. ' A professional friend of mine,' said the doctor to the boys, after shaking hands with his guest. ' We will not mind him, Gilbert ; it grows late — begin !' The boy hesitated and flushed a little, then pre- pared to obey, the stranger pulling a chair close to the fire, and warming his hands at the cheerful blaze. Gilbert stood in the middle of the room, the soft illumination from above falling upon his erect figure and radiant face. The look of exaltation was so fine that Nature would indeed have been a hard stepmother if she had denied the power where the aspiration was so true. As he advanced his foot and bent his head to the fiddle, already scrupu- lously tuned, the stranger turned and fixed his brilliant eyes upon him ; a smile touched his lips. The first few strokes of the bow proved his pos- session of that mysterious rapport between musician AT THE BAR. 163 and instrument without which executive precision may go for naught. He played first his favourite passage from the French symphony ; then, having stopped and been bidden to go on, different fragments from memory — an air from ' Fidelio ' that sounded like the cry of a divine soul tortured by fiends, and a ' Miserere ' of Bach's, learnt in the Florentine churches. When at length he put down his violin, and ven- tured to look round, he saw first John's dark face, pale and transfigured, and so lit by the beautiful eyes that his own mother would have been startled to have seen him. Dr. Fleming was looking inquiringly at his elder guest, whose eyes were fixed on the ground, as if in inward debate. ' What do you think of yourself ?' he asked abruptly, turning to Gilbert. ' That you play very well ?' ' I ? Oh no ! but I think it is in me to play well.' 164 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. 1 But you are afraid of hard work ? I can see it in your face.' 1 Then my face bears false witness ! No work would be too hard for me.' 1 That is, if you could lighten it sometimes by performing in public as a youthful prodigy ?' Gilbert smiled. ' I am too ambitious for that role. I will wait till I'm a man.' The stranger smiled and nodded more amicably. ' We shall see,' he said sharply. ' If you become a great man we are bound to hear of you ;' and he went out of the room, followed by his host. ' I have not another moment to spare,' he said, turning around to shake hands ; ' but the boy is pro- mising. I should be disposed to call him a genius, but you know I don't put my faith in genius — the staying- power is so often wanting. If there are not funds forthcoming for Leipzig, send him to me ;' and the great man, who at that time ruled the organ at St. Paul's, and set lessons as Musical Doctor both to the present and to the future, hurried away. CHAPTER X. MOTHER AND SON. Two clays after this incident Gilbert was called to a private interview with his uncle, who informed him that, under the advice of Dr. Fleming, both he and his aunt had agreed to withdraw their opposition to his making a profession of music, though they still felt a great reluctance and misgiving, and to send him to Leipzig, under one condition. ' And what is the condition ?' asked Gilbert, suddenly pale with dire apprehension. ' There is no need to take fright ; but Dr. Fleming- has suggested that before taking such a decisive step we should let your other relatives know how things stand. Your grandfather is alive, Gilbert.' 1 66 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. ' But you are the only relative that has justified the right to the name,' cried the boy in an agony ; ' my mother sent me to you. You did not consult anyone else when you took me to your home, and promised to treat me as a son ' 1 Ay, lad, and if you would have let things bide as I hoped and expected, I would have asked for no man's interference. You refuse to be a son to us and a brother to poor Jack ; you are bent on your own way, and I for one don't like it, and won't accept the responsibility of it alone. Maybe your grandfather, Sir Owen Yorke, won't take kindly to the idea of his son's son turning fiddler. At any rate, he shall be consulted.' Gilbert, who had been standing, sat down. He felt stunned and in despair. The sudden downfall of a hope so near fruition made him sick and faint. At last he gasped out : ' My father always forbade any appeal to him — he treated him with such wicked injustice — and I promised. Dear uncle!' MOTHER AND SON. 167 He got up to lay an imploring hand upon Mr. Cartwright's arm. ' My lad, it's of no use — our minds are quite made up. Your aunt has sent the letter already, and if your grandfather is at home, we shall hear in a day or two.' To Gilbert's eager temper, ' a day or two ' seemed an age, but his sweetness of disposition helped him to disguise what he suffered, and he had John's sympathy to fall back upon. 'I am glad,' he said on one occasion, 'that you won't mind so much about my going away as I feared ; but why should you ? You have not known me long, and you have got your father and mother. It would make me miserable if I thought you missed me — much.' John was silent, if not sullen. ' You see, I don't want to make you miserable/ was the slow answer. ' I suppose if you get amongst these music people there is not much chance of your missing me ?' 168 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. ' Not while the work is going on, but every minute between whiles. Oh, Jack, how I shall long for you ! I never knew a fellow like you ; from the first you were so good to me.' John looked at him with his steadfast gaze. Gilbert's face was alight with his readily kindled fervour, and the beauty of it, added to the charm of his caressing manner, appealed both to John's senses and his heart with a force that startled himself. ' I shall always like you/ he said quietly, * and be " good " to you, as you call it, if I have the chance.' The next day brought a letter from Sir Owen Yorke, in reply to Mrs. Cartwright's. It was dated from the Old Steyne Hotel, Brighton, and ran thus : 'Sir Owen Yorke begs to thank Mrs. Cartwright for the great consideration of her letter. He was not aware of the death of his son's widow, and under this change of conditions is willing to recognise the claims of his grandson, who is requested to join him at the address given below. A cheque is enclosed to meet current expenses.' It happened that John entered the room while MOTHER AND SON. 169 his mother held this letter in her hand. He was struck by the expression of her face, at once softened and exalted by a profound sense of adoring gratitude, as towards a God she had distrusted, but who yet had given her the desire of her heart. None the less the effect on his mind was almost that of recoil. He stood with the handle of the door in his hand without advancing. Mrs. Cartwright roused, and, seeing him, motioned him to come nearer. ' My son,' she said, in a voice that shook with the strength of her feeling, ' rejoice with your mother ! The calamity I dreaded and rebelled against is passed away. We shall be as we were before — left to each other.' She had put her hand on his shoulder, and leaned towards him as he stood before her, her mother's heart quickened by the flame of her thanksgiving. John felt her unaccustomed kiss on his forehead. An overwhelming indignation smote him ; he vol. 1. 22 170 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. drew back sharply, the fire leaping into his eyes as he met hers. ' Why are you so glad !' he demanded. ' Is it because Gilbert is going away? Does that letter settle it ?' She had never seen such an outburst of natural feeling before, or conceived of the possibility of his defying her thus. More ; it was seldom that she allowed any outlet to the passionate love that con- sumed her, and having done so, it had been met not only with indifference, but repulse. The mixed pain and shame appealed to all the worst as well as to the best feelings of her nature, and for the moment the former triumphed. ' Yes,' was her answer. ' Gilbert Yorke is going away, not, as we had arranged, to Leipzig, when this house would still have been his home, but to his grandfather, Sir Owen Yorke, who proposes to undertake the entire charge of him. But he will not go before his example has wrought the mischief that I feared. MOTHER AND SON. 171 She saw that he shrank under her voice, and that his face grew white even to the lips, but he seemed to push her words aside in his anxiety to reach the vital issue. ' Does that letter say so ? May I read it ?' he asked breathlessly. She put it into his hand ; he glanced through it, dropped it on the table near which he was standing, and turned to go out of the room ; but, stoic as the boy was, his distress mastered him. Suddenly sinking into a chair, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and hid his face with his hands. ' Oh,' he cried, in a sharp, cutting voice, ' why are things so dreadfully hard ? I feel as if I could not bear it. This one thing — just what I wanted — I thanked God for it every day — and now — it is taken from me !' The passion revealed shook her as with a sudden revelation. She was cut to the quick, but love and pity conquered every other feeling. She knelt 172 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. down beside him, and put her hand very tenderly on his shoulder. 1 My son,' she whispered, ' you break my heart. I will comfort you if I can.' He shook his head, without answering or looking up. Then she spoke again, not very wisely. ' Is this frivolous boy, whom you did not know three months ago, more to you — than I ?' He was still silent and unresponsive, and her anger began to burn. She stood up. 1 Answer me !' she commanded. ' Do you wish me to understand that if your cousin Gilbert goes away there will be nothing left to comfort you? That God and duty, and your parents' love, are of no account? That this short spell of influence is able to destroy all the record of the past ?' Then John lifted his face, haggard with misery. 1 Mother,' he said, ' don't press me so hard ! I cannot answer these questions, only — God knows I do not mean to be ungrateful or undutiful.' MOTHER AND SON. 173 ' And yet you are, to an extent you cannot under- stand, because your love is not strong enough. John, you have never loved me. I used to think it a fault of nature, and excuse you to myself, until — until this fiddling chatterer came and opened my eyes !' She stopped to control the sob that rose in her throat, then went on : ' What is to be said of him who keeps back the payment of the debt he owes under the most sacred of all obligations, to bestow it where it is not even due ?' 'Oh,' he answered, ' love is not like that ! We don't need to take from the one to give to the other. I have always loved you, mother, as much as I dared ; and I have loved you better since I knew Gilbert. If I thought I had hurt you ' He looked shyly up, but the woman had frozen again ; she could not stoop to be a suppliant for her son's love. 1 You reverse the parable, John, and the son 174 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN gives a stone to the mother when she asks for bread. But such discussions as these are unnatural and humiliating. If I rejoice that your cousin is going away, it is for your sake — for your own good. Your feeling for him is extravagant, almost sinful. It is a sort of idolatry, and, like all idolatry, it degrades the worshipper. I will still hope and pray for clearer views and a better mind.' She turned and left him, but not without having paused for some moments to see if any answer were forthcoming — any plea or disclaimer that would have healed the aching soreness of her heart. But John had neither stirred nor spoken, and his face was again hidden by his hands. CHAPTER XI. SIR OWEN YORKE MAKES HIS BOW TO HIS GRANDSON. It was a soft morning in the beginning of February when Martin Cartwright and his nephew set foot in Brighton and drove to the Old Steyne Hotel. There was not a cloud in the sky which overhung the broad bosom of the sea, swelling at the top of its flood. A narrow, sinuous line of creamy foam just marked the contact of the waves' verge with the shingly beach, and made the faintest whisper. The promenade between the sea and the long line of stately buildings which faced it was gay with fashionable promenaders, idling in the pleasant sunshine ; while the crowd of carriages and saddle- 176 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. horses recalled the brilliancy and bustle of a June morning in Rotten Eow. Gilbert, who had been deeply depressed during his journey, began to revive and to look about him. Such a draught of pure air had not reached his lungs since the day he had stepped on English ground ; and his spirits rose at once to meet the animation of the scene. Squalor and misery were out of sight. The well- bred accents and low, musical laughter which he heard on all sides seemed to witness that the blessed spirit of enjoyment of life, which had seemed extinct at Copplestone, was still alive and regnant in the world. By the time they had reached their hotel his eyes were bright and his figure erect. Martin Cartwright went with him to the door, and they entered the hall together ; but here he had decided to take leave of his nephew. His object, he said, was to see his sister's son safely handed over to the care of his grandfather, and this was now SIR OWEN YORKE AND HIS GRANDSON. 177 accomplished. Gilbert's luggage lay at their feet ; and a tall, spare man-servant, with a staid and confidential air, had answered their inquiries after Sir Owen Yorke by the information that his master was at home, and ready to receive the travellers. ' But you will surely go upstairs and speak to my grandfather,' urged Gilbert, ' and let him thank you for all your goodness to me ? Besides, I am horribly afraid of him !' ' I will not go up and see the man who helped to break my poor sister's heart,' was the answer in a suppressed tone. ' As for you, you must " dree your weird," lad; and I don't think it's going to be a very hard one. It's like to suit you better than High Street, or Elm Lodge either. What word am I to take back to John ?' ' That I love him better than ever. I shall write so often that he will begrudge the time he spends over my letters, and my first holiday will be to •come and see you.' . vol 1. 23 178 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. ' That depends,' said Mr. Cartwright significantly. ' No message to your aunt, Gilbert ?' 1 Only one that you will not deliver. Beg her not to be hard on dear old Jack if he frets after me a little. He wouldn't have cared for me so much — for I am a poor thing, after all — if she had let him know how much she cared for him.' Mr. Cartwright frowned, for a rebuke to his wife from the light-hearted boy before him seemed pre- sumptuous ; but the frown was followed by a sigh of secret acceptance. 'Well, well,' he answered, 'youngsters have no right to judge their elders, and your aunt is a good woman, Gilbert. But I must be off; your grand- father won't like to be kept waiting. Good-bye, my dear, dear lad.' He held out his hand, for so for the most part the Englishman dismisses his kinsman, however near or dear to him ; but such a farewell did not suit Gilbert's temper or training. Without regard to onlookers, he threw his arm SIR OWEN YORKE AND HIS GRANDSON. 179 round his uncle's neck, and kissed him warmly, first on one cheek and then on the other, before the good man, at once touched and embarrassed, could extricate himself from his embrace. 1 And if Sir Owen Yorke makes my life a burden,' he asked, hanging on his uncle's arm as he walked back with him to the waiting cab, ' I have permis- sion to run away to you ?' ' No, lad, no ; you must make up your mind to the duties of life ; it's only the coward who runs away.' ' But that is just what I am,' said Gilbert, his face alight with fun, as he opened the door of the cab, and gave a parting squeeze to his uncle's hand. Five minutes later he was ushered into his grand- father's presence. The sudden encounter of two human beings, strangers, and yet bound by the closest ties of kindred, encloses a moment of acute anxiety, especially when the relative position is such that i8o PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. the unknown action of the one is of necessity influential over the fate of the other. Sir Owen Yorke was standing in the large bay- window facing road and sea, with a field-glass in his hand, as Gilbert entered the room ; but at the sound of the opening door he turned sharply, and faced his grandson. He was a man close upon seventy years old, and below the middle height ; but there was little sign of weakness or decay to be detected in his aspect. His figure was still well-knit and muscular, and was held aggressively erect, so as not to lose the advantage of an inch of stature. Thick iron-gray hair sat close to the bullet-shaped head, and a moustache of the same colour obscured the thin lips; the eyes beneath the overhanging brows were blue, with the hard brightness of steel, and the smooth chin was firm and square. It might, however, be doubted whether the singular pre- servation of his physical vigour (even to the fine teeth, of which he was inordinately vain) SIR OWEN YORKE AND HIS GRANDSON. 181 was not dearly purchased by the total absence of all venerable and attractive characteristics of old age. We have been minute in description because it was thus that the keen perceptive glance of his grandson marked the details of his personality, while fully aware that his own was being subjected to an equal scrutiny. As soon as the servant had closed the door, Sir Owen advanced a few steps and held out his hand with a ceremonious bow. 1 1 have the honour to make the acquaintance of the son of the late Colonel Yorke ?' he said, with a mixture of mockery and amusement more discom- fiting than, perhaps, any other behaviour could have been. Gilbert, though hurt and perplexed, obeyed the impulse of his natural courtesy ; he took the hand of his grandfather, and, bowing the head that over- topped him, put it to his lips. 'I am my father's son,' he replied, standing 182 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. upright, ' as also the son of my mother — his dear wife.' For a moment they exchanged glances ; then the elder man shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ' The spurt of a game-cock,' he said. ' I have no objection. Had not Christina Cartwright been my son's wife, whether dear or otherwise, you and I would never have met. But she is dead, I am given to believe, and she had no child but you ?' Gilbert made a sign of assent. 1 Do you know why I have sent for you ? You have been told, I presume, of your uncle's death ? I allude, not to the Copplestone draper, but to your father's brother. It occurred probably before you were born. I have not the advantage of knowing your age precisely. So long as you had closer ties existing, this circumstance would have made no difference in your fortunes ; but now I am willing, under certain conditions, to take you by the hand and to prepare you, if not too late, for the place you SIR OWEN YORKE AND HIS GRANDSON. 183 are likely to fill. Only the life of a sickly imbecile stands between you and — and the position that I hold.' Gilbert drew a deep breath. Sir Owen, who was watching him intently, saw a sudden fire in the soft brown eyes, and a smile on the lips that had a touch of rapture in it. A thought of Margery Denison had set the boy's soul aflame. ' I did not understand this before,' he said simply; ' and I don't know how to realize it.' Sir Owen smiled cynically. ' You like the idea ? No difficulty in accepting it —eh?' ' At the first moment it seemed splendid, but — may I ask a question ?' 1 As many as you like after luncheon. I pre- sume you have brought your luggage with you. I will ring for Baxter to show you to your room.' Thus dismissed, Gilbert had the opportunity of arranging his thoughts, while putting a few im- 1 84 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. proving touches to his toilet, the necessity of which seemed to have been implied. During the meal the presence of a servant re- strained conversation, and when his grandfather addressed him at all, which was not often, it was with the formal civilities of host to guest. Gilbert was also aware that a vigilant observation was kept on all his movements, as if to detect any breaches of good breeding. After lunch was over they went back to the pleasant sitting-room facing the sea, where they had first met, and Sir Owen, establishing him- self in a comfortable easy-chair, which commanded a view of the outer world without being too far from the fire, lighted a cigar, and motioned to Gilbert to take a seat opposite. ' Perhaps,' he began, ' it may save friction if, instead of asking me questions, as you obligingly proposed just now, I provide you with the facts you ought to know. On your cousin Edward's demise, which can scarcely be delayed many months longer, SIR OWEN YORKE AND HIS GRANDSON. 185 you are heir-at-law to the title which I now hold, and of which it would be in no man's power to deprive you. But although from the times of the Tudors the lands and emoluments thereto belong- ing have descended from father to son without any break of continuity, not a single acre, nor, equally, a single shilling, is entailed upon the said heir-at- law. Each successive baronet can bequeath what he holds at his own discretion. I wish you to think very seriously of this.' ' I knew it before,' said Gilbert quietly. ' My mother has told me.' Sir Owen winced as if a gnat had stung him, then, ignoring the remark, went on : ' Your father was my younger and favourite son ; but, as you know, he married beneath him, and I cut him thenceforth out of my heart, and should have cut him out of my will, without the proverbial shilling, had he been happy enough to survive me. In the same way I shall treat his son if he should prove refractory. My desire is that he should not vol. 1. 24 186 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. prove refractory — but I am wasting my breath ! There is a look about you of insubordination ready- made.' 'I do not know,' said Gilbert, 'whether it is that, but I feel that no one ought to speak to a son of his father as you have done. I am ashamed to defend him.' Sir Owen puffed lightly at his cigar for a moment or two with his eyes on the speaker ; then, with- drawing it, he said in a cold, hard tone : ' Defend him if you like. I am not unwilling to hear how he lived after the break with his family.' 'But I cannot do him justice — I knew him so little. I was only six years old when he died, so that my knowledge is from my mother, though I often fancy it is my own. You know what he looked like — a king among men, as if no mean thought had ever come near him. After the first three years of his marriage my father sold out of the army, as I suppose you know.' SIR OWEN YORKE AND HIS GRANDSON. 187 ' I know nothing. Tell your story your own way.' 'He was tempted by a traitor to invest every- thing in some speculation, which failed miserably, and left us penniless. From that time to his death his life was so hard and bitter that I cannot bear to think about it. He tried first one thing and then another, but nothing prospered, and I have heard my mother say that, in some of their extre- mities, he stooped to tasks in order to earn money that none but a saint and a soldier as he was could have consented to, though he tried hard to keep the knowledge from her.' ' Excuse me, did you say a saint ? I can scarcely believe that my son Gilbert ever developed in that direction.' ' Oh, I don't use the word in its vulgar meaning. I mean such saints as St. George and St. Martin, who were heroes as well.' He stopped short, his face burning with righteous anger as he met the half-sneer on the old man's 1 88 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN face ; then he said with a sort of deliberate bold- ness : ' Had you forgiven him, my father might have been alive now.' ' Possibly ; but I am not of the sort that forgives — as it will be well for you to remember. Have you anything more to tell me ?' Gilbert shook his head. Sir Owen continued for some time to smoke in silence, with his deliberate gaze on his grandson. At length he said : ' I propose to give you the training and education of a gentleman. Are you a dunce or a scholar ?' 'A dunce, without question.' ' Then it will take some heavy coaching to fit you for Oxford ?' Gilbert laughed. 1 No coaching would have weight enough to propel me. May I tell you now what you ought to know before you make any plans for me? I am so anxious about it. I should like to please you if I SIR OWEN YORKE AND HIS GRANDSON. 189 could, but there are some things that ' He stopped. ' Forgive me if I say that there are some things that must and others that cannot be.' Sir Owen raised his eyebrows. 'What things?' Gilbert sent up an instinctive prayer to the powers above for grace to speak wisely and with acceptance. ' When my aunt, Mrs. Cartwright, wrote to you,' he said, ' it was to ask your consent to my educa- tion as a musician. They had given theirs ; every- thing was arranged. I was to go to Leipzig. I had convinced them — others had convinced them — that it was the best thing that could be done with me. Indeed, it is the only thing that I am fit for — the only thing I care for.' He had begun quietly, but he was breathless by this time. ' W T hat do you mean ? That you want to take the old family title on the stage, and let yourself out for hire ?' 190 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. ' My ambition is — and I can think of none higher — to be one of the first violinists in Europe ; and what would be the good of that without an audience ? If I attained to it, would you put such a light under a bushel ? As for hire — well, I should fiddle none the worse if I did it for the pure love of it, or, as that would be unfair to my brothers, I could found a scholarship or a pension fund with my earnings.' Sir Owen put down his cigar, the better to mutter an oath between his lips. ' The strongest desire of my mind just now is to horsewhip you for a fool! It seems I am once more to be the sport of my kindred. Your father threw his filial duty overboard, and his brother died in his prime, leaving two miserable children to divide the family honours. And now, when I am disposed to turn to you as a forlorn hope, I find you — though not otherwise impossible — as besotted and impracticable as the rest. For any English baronet to contemplate the career of a SIR OWEN YORKE AND HIS GRANDSON. 191 public fiddler is pure lunacy. I admit that you have never probably associated the ideas ; now you will have to drop one of them.' * Then, let us hope my poor cousin will live,' cried Gilbert, ' and that I shall never be a baronet at all. Perhaps he is not more of a lunatic than I.' Sir Owen frowned ; then, on second thoughts, condescended to smile. There was something not altogether displeasing in the independence and vivacity of his grandson ; besides, as the case stood, he was not able to dispense with him, so that compromise became indispensable. ' That is an open question,' was his answer. ' But if you are reasonable, perhaps we may come to terms. Although an English baronet may not play the fiddle for hire, he may play it for pleasure, and if his bent is in that direction, he may even learn to play it well. How old are you ?' ' I shall be eighteen on the first of June.' ' Rather too young for Magdalen. You must go 192 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. to Oxford ultimately, or you will carry the taint of outlandishness to your grave ; you will never learn t he shibboleths of the English gentleman unless. But you need not go at once. Suppose I agree to send you to Leipzig with a tutor, who could cram you enough for bare matriculation in a year or so ? You would be able to keep your terms at the University, and get the benefit of the Conserva- toire at the same time, on the understanding that only a certain portion of your day was given to ycur hobby. You can think it over at your leisure. I don't want your ultimatum on the spot.' Gilbert's head was bent upon his hand, and his eyes fixed on the fire. 'It seems like betraying one's faith,' he said, in a low voice ; ' yet what can I do ? I wish you had asked my obedience, Sir Owen, on any other point.' ' There is another point on which I propose to ask it,' returned the other drily. ' As you are likely to become a member of my household, and SIR OWEN YORKE AND HIS GRANDSON. 193 to stand in the place of the sons I have lost, I desire that all intercourse should cease between you and your mother's family. I do not ask much. You have known them only a few months, and I gathered from the letter I received from Mrs. Cart- wright, who seems to be a sensible woman, that they were anxious to get rid of you. It will save disagreeable complications in the future if we wash our hands of them henceforth.' ' If I did,' said Gilbert hotly, ' I think no amount of washing would ever get my hands clean again. I would not give up my cousin, John Cartwright, even if you were to bribe me with my heart's desire. Nor will I give up Uncle Martin. My aunt does not like me, I own ; but even she is not unjust. It was she who first saw the wisdom of sending me to Leipzig. Let me go back to that plan and to them. You have another grandson, and you do not want me.' 1 1 do not want you to fill a blank in my heart,' sneered Sir Owen, ' or from any hope of gratitude ; vol. 1. 25 i 94 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. but as a matter of expediency I do want you. I am prepared to have some trouble with you, taking into account the influences of your life. But I am tired of being brow-beaten by an ill-bred boy. We will leave these questions for the present. Get your hat, and we will go and look at human nature out of doors, and hear the band play in the Pavilion Gardens. You will be able to tell me if it merits my subscription.' CHAPTER XII. THREE GENERATIONS. Sir Owen Yorke had gone through life under the two dubious privileges of perfect health and abundant means. The inheritance had fallen to him in his cradle, and during his long minority a careful guardian had nursed the estates so success- fully that not only were all outstanding mortgages paid off, but a fund accumulated that was in itself a handsome fortune. He married very early the girl of his choice, a pretty, frivolous creature, bred, like himself, in selfish indulgence, and with no object beyond the extraction of pleasure from life. Had she lived longer, each, no doubt, would have found the in- 196 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. sufficiency of the other ; but she died three years after marriage, leaving two sons behind her. The feeling of the father towards his children was rather one of embarrassment than of affection ; he was still so young that the relationship bored him considerably, and he finally left their training to strangers, and betook himself to an exhaustive analysis of the world, the flesh, and the devil. Both sons entered the army as they grew up, receiving from their father so meagre an allowance that they continually found themselves in debt and difficulty, the reluctant deliverance from which widened still further the unnatural breach between them. Sir Owen felt himself handicapped in the race of life by such expensive impediments, and the young men cherished a justifiable resentment at the heartless selfishness of his conduct. The younger son, Gilbert, married, as we know, the sister of Martin Cartwright, and it is quite certain that, in Sir Owen's estimate, the vexation of the mesalliance was almost compensated by the THREE GENERATIONS. 197 opportunity it gave him of cutting the culprit adrift from all further benefactions. The elder son, after a youth of profligate self-in- dulgence, only less pronounced than his father's from the want of equal means and of a certain hard- headedness which preserved the elder man from going too far for personal well-being, also married. His choice was a prudential one ; he married a widow considerably older than himself, who pos- sessed a small estate in one of the home counties, his father agreeing to a suitable increase of his allowance, on the understanding that he left the sowing of wild oats and settled down into respect- ability. A year after Edward Yorke's satisfactory settle- ment in life he was killed on the railway, through an act of bravado in crossing the line with an express train in view, and the shock of his death — or at least the shock caused by the sight of his mangled body — led to the premature birth of the heir which had been by both parents so anxiously 193 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. awaited. But although the expected heir was born he did not come alone. Mrs. Yorke gave birth to twins — a boy and a girl — to the huge dis- gust of her father-in-law, who looked upon the event as an infraction of all the laws of good breeding. As the years went by this disgust deepened. Both children were puny and delicate, but the boy was weak in intellect as well. The doctors from the time of his birth had decided that he would never have strength to reach manhood, but they had not taken into sufficient account the devotion of a mother. At the time when young Gilbert Yorke came to his grandfather, his cousin Edward was still alive, though nailed to his couch by spinal disease, and with a slow but steady deterioration of what brain power was left to him. So certain was Sir Owen — the conviction being based on desire — that death was now imminent, that he had graciously allowed Mrs. Yorke to try the effect of change of air, and THREE GENERATIONS. 199 had placed his Yorkshire house, Kookhurst, at her disposal. If the heir were about to die, it would not be unfitting, and might have its social advantages, to permit him to die at the old family seat, and be interred with his ancestors. It is true that, having done the honours of reception, he at once betook himself to town, and thence, as the season served, to Brighton. Mrs. Cartwright's letter found him in the mood of expectation. An heir would soon be wanted : possibly Gilbert's boy might be made fit for society, and — such was the cruel stringency of fate — he him- self could not live always. Now that the mother was dead, the obstacle was removed, and he was not unwilling to find a new interest in life, seeing that advancing age had dulled the old ones. Nor are the worst amongst us so bad as to be utterly destitute of that spark of divinity which saves from utter corruption, though in this old man the glow was of the feeblest. Soiled with all 200 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. the vices which the world encourages and condones so long as they are pursued with well-bred reticence, and steeped in a selfishness more demoralizing than even vice itself, there was still some faculty of moral apprehensiveness left. The boy's loyalty to his parents and friends, and his absurd indifference to his personal interests, to say nothing of his grace of manner and person, produced in Sir Owen's mind a sentiment of amused amenity, such as the exhausted drunkard might be supposed to feel for the simplicity of the child that rejoices in a cup of cold water. They were companions for the next few days. He introduced his grandson to his friends ; took him up to town to show London for the first time to one who had never seen it, and who had every sense open to receive new impressions ; even went with him to theatres and picture-galleries, and to a great concert at St. James's Hall, and tasted, in the delight and gratitude excited, almost the first pure sensation of his life. THREE GENERATIONS. 201 More than this, he checked in their intercourse together some of the cynical speeches that sprang to his lips as antidotes to Gilbert's ignorance of life, and left unspoken the cutting gibe or base suggestion on social aspects that came under their notice, shamed into silence by the expression of ingenuous confidence in the eyes which looked to his for enlightenment. Why should not this pleasant lad think well of him? It would do no harm, and though the burlesque was obvious, it was not so to him who did not see the fun. So curious was the influence produced by the one over the other that Sir Owen found himself answering Gilbert's inquiries about his Yorke cousins without mockery or bitterness — indeed, recognising for the first time, as the result of the boy's ungrudging sympathy, that there really was something piteous in the case. 1 Let us go and see them,' Gilbert asked, ' before vol. i. 26 202 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. I start for Germany ! I should dearly love to see my father's old home, and then ' He stopped short suddenly. He had been thinking of Margery Denison, and wondering whether the recent shifting of the slides of fate would give him back the privilege of com- panionship, and then he suddenly remembered she would not be at home. She was at school, he thought, with a smile. Well, he was going to school, too, and it behoved them both, no doubt, to fit themselves better for the conduct of affairs before he could seriously approach her with the offer of his life's devotion, and of everything that might be at his own disposal. It had been the secret purpose of his boyish passion to compass this in some way or another ; but certainly the chances were more in his favour as the accepted heir of Sir Owen Yorke than under the contingency of his European fame as a violinist, however resonant that fame might be. At least, such were the prejudices of the world. THREE GENERATIONS. 203 But when he stopped and hesitated it was because another idea had occurred to him, almost as eager and engrossing as that of Margery herself. If he went to Eookhurst he would be within easy reach of his cousin, John Cartwright. Sir Owen sat, as usual, when at ease, with a cigar between his lips, and amused himself by watching the lights and shades that passed over the boy's face. ' And then ?' he questioned, repeating his last words ; and Gilbert, to whom it would have seemed sacrilege to breathe a word of the other hope, answered boldly : ' And then I shall be able to go and see my uncle Martin.' Sir Owen shrugged his shoulders. 1 If you once carry out your desire and defy my authority,' he remarked carelessly, ' I will engage that you do not repeat the offence.' Gilbert did not protest, but determination was to be read in every line of his face. 204 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Sir Owen's frown grew formidable. He put down his cigar. 1 You hear me,' he resumed, in an altered voice ; 1 and I assure you I am a man of my word.' ' And so am I !' was the answer, in the lowest of tones, and without a touch of bravado. ' Jack and I have promised to stick to each other though thick and thin, and — we mean to stand to it.' Sir Owen muttered an oath between his lips ; but, after all, his anger was rather simulated than real ; for what was the use of fulminating threats against one who was prepared to accept the worst he could do with perfect indifference ? The alternative of casting off his grandson was that his uncle, the draper, would resume the charge of him, and strengthen the ties that family pride made odious, while he himself would be left in the cold. He could not eat his own words, or withdraw his veto ; but he was almost prepared to admit to himself that it would be expedient to wink at disobedience. THREE GENERATIONS. 205 'We will hope,' he said rather feebly, 'that reflection on the duty you owe me will bring you to a better mind, and that intercourse with your cousins and Aunt Yorke will help to open your eyes. At all events, I am willing that you should make their acquaintance. I shall write to Eook- hurst to-night, and tell them that they may expect us.' And as he spoke he smiled, in his hard, cynical way, as the thought occurred to him how very displeasing to the widow would be the intelligence that he proposed to give her. CHAPTER XIII. GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. Bookhl'rst was by no means one of the palatial country seats of old England, but it was none the less one of the most charming. An irregular pile of graystone, with fantastic chimneys curiously massed, it offered its long level facade to the south- east, covered by such a growth of ivy as could only be matched in one or two other places in the kingdom. The trunks and branches of the parent tree had attained in the course of ages a marvellous girth and development, so massive and contorted as to suggest nothing so much as the involutions of some gigantic serpent. GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 207 The low square tower which was planted above the central gateway, as well as the highest chimneys of the group, were equally covered with the growth, not flaunting in wilding streamers or maintaining its right of straying tendrils or sturdy shoot, but clipped and pruned to the highest point of trimness to be attained by gardener's shears. The house was set down upon a broad stone platform, from which two or three shallow steps descended to a delightful garden, enclosed by a low wall and kept in admirable order. The lawns were fine and close, with the mellow- ing work of centuries of scythes ; and even at this early season of the year the flower-beds were full of delicate spring blossoms, the colours grouped with that elaborate precision which takes from the grace of Nature all that it gives to Art. An antique fountain, which rose from the centre of a black marble basin, leaped high into the pure, cool sunshine, making a constant plash and tinkle, 208 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN, pleasant or irritating according to the ear of the listener. The park stretched on three sides, following the natural swells and hollows of the ground, and bear- ing some glorious specimens of that impressive tree known as the Cedar of Lebanon, whose superb level branches, amongst the general nakedness, cast heavy shadows upon the ground, the rest of the carefully lopped timber showing every curve and reticulation of ponderous limb or slender twig in sharp outline against the pale-blue sky. Behind the mansion and outbuildings lay an old- world village, quiet and somnolent, though the huge factories of Copplestone hammered and throbbed less than thirty miles away, and in the distance, encircling the valley in which the Eookhurst estate lay, rose the wooded hills of Derbyshire. On the morning of the day on which Sir Owen's letter to his daughter-in-law formed the most im- portant part of the contents of the post-bag, Mrs. Yorke had been the first to enter the breakfast- GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 209 room, and she was still busy with its contents when her daughter Philippa entered the room. Between mother and child there was a curious unlikeness, the one being a tall, finely proportioned woman, with the traces of that type of blonde beauty which best withstands the ravages of time ; the other was diminutive in figure and dark in complexion, with a small, sharp-featured face, on which the mother's eyes never rested without a pang of disappointment. Time seemed to have no power to soften the anguish of her regret that her girl should inherit neither her figure nor her face ; she scarcely ever looked in the glass without drawing a mental com- parison between them, and would willingly have robbed herself of her own personal endowments, if by so doing she could have transferred them to Philippa. She loved her, it is true ; but it was with the half-contemptuous pity which so ill fits a mother's pride and joy. The daughter, on her side, adored her mother, and so keen was her apprecia- vol. 1. 27 210 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. tion of the pitiful short-comings of her brother and herself that she regarded her almost in the light of a martyr, bearing patiently the cross of their existence. She entered the room almost as quietly as a shadow, and stealing like one to Mrs. Yorke's side, kissed her cheek. ' You have bad news ?' she asked anxiously, quick to interpret the expression of the lifted face. ' Yes, but we will have breakfast. Ring, Phil ; I have been up a long time, and am tired of waiting. Why, child what ails you ? You look like a ghost this morning.' Philippa blushed, and dropped her eyes under the look of irritated concern. ' I have been up with Ted part of the night. I could not help it — he sent for me — he could not sleep.' Mrs. Yorke sighed impatiently. 1 Was any woman ever so unfortunate as I ?' was her exclamation, though it might have been sup- GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 211 posed that her children were more to be pitied than herself ; but some of us regard all the conditions of life only as they impinge on our personal con- sciousness. Philippa, however, fully justified her mother. ' I think no woman ever was,' she answered, with a little smile ; ' but you must not mind me. I shall be better when I have eaten something, and had a walk. Oh, what a delicious morning !' Her eyes brightened as they looked out from the windows of the delightfully comfortable breakfast- room to the scene beyond. Mrs. Yorke's eyes fol- lowed hers, and she sighed again more impatiently than before. The luxury and beauty of their surroundings were undeniable, and under existing circumstances were so many aggravations of her lot. Even the amenities of breakfast had their reverse side, as suggesting their uncertain tenure, although with the trained perceptions of a woman of society she could not resist the mollifying influence of coffee 212 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. which brought with it the airs of Araby the Blest, or of the cotelette a la Maintenon which Sir Owen's chef had condescended to send up that morning. When she resumed the conversation it was in a milder tone. ' It will be necessary for me to see the house- keeper directly after breakfast. I have got a letter from your grandfather this morning. You had better read it — it will save trouble if you do.' Phil did so, her mother meanwhile watching her face, which, whatever its shortcomings, did not fail in expressiveness, and she was annoyed to see that it flushed and brightened with a look of pleasure. ' Oh, mamma, but this is delightful ! Does he mean they are coming to-day ?' ' That appears the natural interpretation of the words ; but it strikes me as an extraordinary thing that you should think that delightful which means probably the downfall of our hopes, or, I ought to say, of our rights ! Don't you see that this new GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 213 caprice of Sir Owen's means the risk of your brother losing the succession ?' ' No, I never thought of that !' Philippa blushed penitently. Her innocent thought had been that the coming of this unknown cousin, about whom she had speculated sometimes, might bring a gleam of sunshine across her shaded life ; but she was prompt to accept her mother's implied reproach and to condemn herself as selfish. She added timidly : 'Sir Owen' (the sensitive baronet had never allowed himself to be called ' grandfather ' by his son's children) ' does not imply anything of the kind. I thought he wrote rather more kindly of us than usual.' ' A bad omen, child ! He has never done more than tolerate either of you.' She smiled a little bitterly, feeling that she had hardly a right to com- plain — fate had been so cruel to her as a mother. 'He has the bad taste and bad feeling to speak of this upstart boy — sprung upon us in this indecent fashion — as " a lad to be proud of " ! 214 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. He tells me to give him one of the best bed- rooms !' ' But is it in Sir Owen's power to take away poor Ted's birthright ? How could our cousin take his place ?' ' " Our cousin !" repeated her mother contemp- tuously ; ' really, Phil, your eagerness to accept this new relationship tries my temper ! I could wish you had a little more spirit and loyalty. Your grandfather cannot rob the heir of the title ; but I imagined you understood he has a right to dispose of the property as he thinks fit. It is a monstrous privilege for any man to be allowed, though I believe the land has never yet been alienated from the natural heir — but, then, who could trust Sir Owen Yorke ?' She got up and left the room, patting her daughter's shoulder as she passed her, for the look in the girl's eyes touched her heart. Philippa seized the gracious hand, and kissed it passionately. GUESTS AT ROOK HURST. 21 5 After her mother was gone she still kept her seat at the table, looking out with tired eyes upon the scene beyond the windows. The phrase of her grandfather's letter haunted her — ' a lad to be proud of ' — and the feeling that weighed like lead upon her soul was, how different would life have been had a kind Providence made her ' a girl to be proud of.' The passionate yearning for acceptance was more for others' sakes than her own — that she might have been less of a disappointment and a burden to her mother and friends. Meanwhile, Mrs. Yorke, having given the neces- sary orders for the expected arrival of the master of the house, and the guest he was to bring with him, whose name, from a singular feeling of reluct- ance, she did not mention to the venerable house- keeper, took her way to her son's room, where she knew he would be by this time established. It would be necessary to prepare him to receive the coming guests. 216 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. Edward Yorke was at this time about sixteen years of age, and bore, as was to be expected, a close resemblance to his twin sister. In his case, however, the meagreness of the diminutive figure was accentuated by deformity, the legs being bowed and powerless, the shoulders high, and the head, sunk upon the chest, seemed buried between them. The small, sharp-featured face, unless quickened into alertness by the stimulus of pain or of ill- temper, had a pervading dulness of aspect which might well be excused in one whose heritage of life had been granted on such hard lines of suffering and deprivation. He was not imbecile, as his grandfather insisted upon considering him ; but his average intelligence had become weakened by the pressure of disease, and his own unceasing chafing under the yoke. All the resources of medical science had been called into service on his behalf, with such success that life had been cherished and retained in the GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 217 puny frame ; but no conquest had been gained over the obscure spinal disease which made at times a torture of his daily life. Nothing was spared in the effort to alleviate the hardship of his lot in the way of physical indul- gence. His appetite had been pampered from a child, and his solicitude about his meals was the liveliest interest of his life. He had, too, a curious personal vanity, and was precise and exacting about his dress. His valet, who was also his nurse, was a man absolutely essential to the youth's existence, and was the highest paid and most important servant in the widow's household. It was con- sidered impossible to allow Philippa a waiting- maid, or many other reasonable indulgences, on the ground of her brother's requirements ; and the idea of questioning the justice of these arrange- ments never glanced across the girl's generous mind. When Mrs. Yorke entered her son's room she saw from the expression of his face that it was one vol. 1. 28 2i8 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. of what were known in the family as ' his bad days.' His brows were contracted, and his lips sullen. The process of his toilet was always a painful one, and he had only just been assisted to his couch. One of the most delightful rooms in the house had been appropriated for his use, and at this moment a glorious fire of pine-logs blazed on the hearth before him, while the tender sunshine streamed through the high mullioned windows, and threw the colours of the heraldic blazon across the floor. Perhaps the mother had never felt more acutely the incongruity between these ancestral associa- tions and the heir to them. The spiteful phrase in Sir Owen's letter haunted her memory as it had done that of Philippa, and provoked a feeling of irritated bitterness. Very sullen replies were given to her anxious inquiries about her son's health, and the vexation his manner caused her — for she was not a long- GUESTS AT ROOKHURST. 219 suffering woman — enabled her to make the dis- agreeable announcement of his grandfather's visit with less reluctance than she would otherwise have done. It took more effect than she had feared. Edward shrank and shivered. 'I won't see him!' he cried harshly. 'I hate the old man ! Understand, don't bring him here !' Mrs. Yorke tried to soothe him. The contemp- tuous indifference with which Sir Owen had always regarded his grandson was resented by her as the most cruel of injuries, and the nervous dread and aversion it had excited, as one of the most piteous forms of her son's weakness. 'Trust me, dear; he shall not come,' she said tenderly. ' He shall not ; nor your new cousin, either.' Edward looked up with unusual alertness. 1 My new cousin !' he repeated sharply. ' Who is that ?' His mother explained, aware that he followed 220 PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN. her with alert attention ; then he fell back on his pillows, for he had risen with raised head. ' Ah !' he said, in his high, shrill voice, ' I see ! They think I shall die and make room for the son of the draper's shop-girl, but I shall not. I shall hold on, mother ; I shall hold on, and spite them all ! You will help me !' ' To the best of my power, dear,' she answered, with a rather dreary smile, and an involuntary shrinking from the expression of his face ; ' but there is no reason why you should not be friends with your cousin. It is not good form to be on bad terms with your relations.' ' I object to all parvenus — and their offspring !' was the boy's answer, with a sneer that his own infirmities rendered detestable. END OF VOL. I. BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. • UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 3 0112 052945737 Iff: v IB na liil HI i I I I