“What is the matter with the child to-day?” said Captain Rothesay to his wife, with whom, oh rare circumstance! he was sittingtête-à-tête. But this, and a few other alterations for the better had taken place in consequence of his longer stay at home than usual, during which an unseen influence had been busily at work. Poor Olive! Was it not well for her, that, to temper the first shock of her bitter destiny, there should arise, in the dreary blank of the future, duties so holy, that they stood almost in the place of joys?
“How dull the girl seems!” again observed Captain Rothesay, looking after his daughter, with a tenderness of which he afterwards appeared rather ashamed.
“Dull, is she?” said the mother; “oh, very likely poor child! She is grieving to lose her chief friend and companion, Miss Derwent. News came to her this morning that Sara is about to be married.”
“Oh, indeed!” and Captain Rothesay made an attempt at departure. He hated gossiping, even of the most harmless kind. But his wife, pleased that he condescended to talk to her at all, tried to amuse him in her own easy way.
“Poor Sara! I am glad that she is going to have a home of her own—though she is young enough to marry. But I believe it was a very sudden affair; and the gentleman fell so desperately in love with her.”
“More fool he!” muttered Captain Rothesay.
“Nay, he is not a fool at all; he is a very sensible, clever man, and a clergyman too; Miss Derwent said so in her brief note to Olive. But she did not mention where he lived; little indeed she told, but that his name was Gwynne”——
Captain Rothesay turned round quickly.
—“And Sara speaks of his mother being a stiff old Scotswoman. Ah, you are listening now, my dear. Let me see, I think Miss Derwent mentions her maiden name. The silly girl makes quite a boast of her lover's ancient family, on the maternal side.”
“There is no silliness in that, I hope, Mrs. Rothesay?”
“Certainly not—was I not always proud of yours?” said the wife, with a meekness not newly learnt She hunted in her reticule for Sara's letter, and read.
“Ah, here is the name—Alison Balfour: do you know it?”
“I did once, when I was a boy.”
“Stay! do not go away in that hasty manner. Pray, talk to me a little more, Angus; it is so dull to be confined to this sick-room. Tell me of this Alison Balfour; you know I should like to hear about your friends.”
“Should you?—that is something new. If it had been always so—if you had indeed made my interests yours, Sybilla!” There was a touch of regret and old tenderness in his voice. She thought he was kind on account of her illness, and thanked him warmly. But the thanks sent him back to his usual cold self; he did not like to have his weakness noticed.
Mrs. Rothesay understood neither one state of feeling nor the other, so she said, cheerfully, “Come, now for the story of Alison Balfour.”
“There is no story to tell. She was merely a young companion of my aunt Flora. I knew her for some years—in fact, until she married Mr. Gwynne. She was a noble woman.”
“Really, Angus, I shall grow jealous,” said Mrs. Rothesay, half in jest, half in earnest. “She must have been an old love of yours.”
Her husband frowned. “Folly, Sybilla! She was a woman, and I a schoolboy!”
And yet the words galled him, for they were not far off the truth. True, Alison was old enough to have been his mother; but many a precocious lad of sixteen conceives a similar romantic passion, and Angus Rothesay had really been very much in love, as he thought, with Alison Balfour.
Even when he quitted the room, and walked out into the road, his thoughts went backward many years; picturing the old dull mansion, whose only brightness had come with her presence. He remembered how he used to walk by her side, in lonely mountain rambles—he a young boy, and she a grown woman; and how proud he was, when she stooped her tall stature to lean upon his arm. Once, she kissed him; and he lay awake all night, and many a night after, dreaming of the remembered bliss. And, as he grew a youth, what delicious sweetness in these continued dreams! what pride to think himself “in love”—and with such a woman! Folly it was—hopeless folly—for she had been long betrothed to one she loved. But that was not Owen Gwynne. Alas! Alison, like many another proud, passionate woman, had married in sudden anger, thereby wrecking her whole life! When she did so, Angus Rothesay lost his boyish dream. He had already begun to find out that it was only a dream; though his first fancy's idol never ceased to be to him a memory full of all that was noble and beautiful in womanhood.
For many years this enchanted portion of Captain Rothesay's past life had rarely crossed his mind; but when it did, it was always with a half-unconscious thought, that he himself might have been a better and a happier man, had his own beautiful Sybilla been more like Alison Balfour.
This chance news of her awakened memories connected with other scenes and characters, which had gradually melted away from Angus Rothesay's life, or been enveloped in the mist of selfishness and worldliness which had gathered over it and over him. He thought of the old uncle, Sir Andrew Rothesay, whose pride he had been; of the sweet aunt Flora, whose pale beauty had bent over his cradle with a love almost like a mother's, save that it was so very very sad. One had died estranged; the other—he would not let many weeks pass before he sought out Miss Flora Rothesay: that he was determined on! And to do so, the best plan would be first to go and see Alison—Mrs. Gwynne.
Captain Rothesay always kept his intentions to himself, and transacted his matters alone. Therefore, without the aid of wife or daughter, he soon discovered in what region lay Mr. Gwynne's curacy, and determined to hasten his customary journey to London, that he might visit the place on his way.
The night before his departure came. It was really a melancholy evening; for he had stayed at home so long, and been most of the time what his wife called “so good,” that she quite regretted his going. The more so, as he was about to travel by the awful railway—then newly established—which, in the opinion of poor Mrs. Rothesay, with her delicate nerves and easily-roused terrors, entailed on him the certainty of being killed. She pleaded so much and so anxiously—even to the last—that when, in order to start at daybreak, he bade “good-bye” to her and Olive overnight, Captain Rothesay was softened even to tenderness.
“Do you really care so much about me, Sybilla?” said he, half mournfully.
She did not spring to his arms, like the young wife at Stirling, but she kissed his hand affectionately, and called him “Angus!”
“Olive!” said the father, when having embraced his wife, he now turned to his daughter, “Olive, my child! take care of your mother! I shall be at home soon, and we shall be very happy again—all three!”
As they ascended the staircase, they saw him watching them from below. Olive so content, even though her father was going away. She kissed her hand felt to him with a blithe gesture, and then saw him go in and close the door. When the house sank into quietness, a curious feeling oppressed Captain Rothesay. It seemed to take rise in his wife's infectious fears.
“Women are always silly,” he argued to himself. “Why should I dread any danger? The railway is safe as a coach—and yet, that affair of poor Huskisson! Pooh! what a fool I am!”
But even while he mocked it, the vague presentiment appeared to take form in his mind; and sitting, the only person awake in the slumbering house, where no sound broke the stillness, except the falling of a few cinders, and the occasional noise of a mouse behind the wainscot, somewhat of the superstitions of his northern youth came over him. His countenance became grave, and he sank into deep thought.
It is a trite saying, that every man has that in his heart, which, if known, would make all his fellow-creatures hate him. Was it this evil spirit which now struggled in Captain Rothesay's breast, and darkened his face with storms of passion, remorse, or woe? He gave no utterance to them in words. If any secret there were, he would not trust it even to the air. But, at times, his mute lips writhed; his cheeks burned, and grew ghastly. Sometimes, too, he wore a cowed and humble look, as on the night when his daughter had stood like a pure angel to save him from the abyss on the brink of which he trod.
She had saved him, apparently. That night's shame had never occurred again. Slowly, his habits were changing, and his tastes becoming home-like. But still his lonely hours betokened some secret hidden in his soul—a secret which, if known, might have accounted for his having plunged into uproarious excitement or drunken oblivion.
At length, as by a violent effort, Angus Rothesay sat down and began to write. He wrote for several hours—though frequently his task was interrupted by long reveries, and by fits of vehement emotion. When he had finished, he carefully sealed up what he had written, and placed it in a secret drawer of his desk. Then he threw himself on a sofa, to sleep, during the brief time that intervened before daybreak.
In the grey of the morning, when he stood despatching a hasty breakfast, he was startled by a light touch on his arm.
“Little Olive!—why, I thought you were fast asleep.”
“I could not sleep when papa was going away; so I rose and dressed. You will not be angry?”
“Angry?—no!” He stooped down and kissed her, more affectionately even than was his wont But he was hasty and fidgety, as most men are when starting on a journey. They were both too busy for more words until the few minutes during which he sat down to wait for the carriage. Then he took his daughter on his knee—an act of fatherly tenderness rather rare with him.
“I wish you were not going, or that I were going with you, papa,” Olive whispered, nestling to him, in a sweet, childish way, though she was almost a woman now. “How tired you look! You have not been in bed all night.”
“No; I had writing to do.” As he spoke his countenance darkened. “Olive,” he said, looking at her with sorrowful, questioning eyes.
“Well, dear papa.”
“Nothing—nothing. Is the carriage ready?”
“Not yet. You will have time just for one little thing—'twill take only a minute,” said Olive, persuasively.
“What is it, little one?”
“Mamma is asleep—she was tired and ill; but if you would run up-stairs, and kiss her once again before you go, it would make her so much happier—I know it would.”
“Poor Sybilla!” he muttered, remorsefully, and quitted the room slowly—not meeting his daughter's eyes; but when he came back, he took her in his arms, very tenderly.
“Olive, my child in whom I trust, always remember I did love you—you and your mother.”
These were the last words she heard him utter, ere he went away.
Captain Rothesay had intended to make the business-excursion wait on that of pleasure—if pleasure the visit could be called, which was entered on from duty, and would doubtless awaken many painful associations; but he changed his mind, and it was not until his return from London, that he stayed on the way, and sought out the village of Harbury.
Verbal landscape-painting is rarely interesting to the general reader; and as Captain Rothesay was certainly not devoted to the picturesque, it seems idle to follow him during his ten-mile ride from the nearest railway station to the place which he discovered was that of Mrs. Gwynne's abode, and where her son was “perpetual curate.”
Her son! It seemed very strange to imagine Alison a mother; and yet, while he thought, Angus Rothesay almost laughed at himself for his folly. His boyish fancy had perforce faded at seventeen, and he was now—pshaw!—he was somewhere above forty. As for Mrs. Gwynne, sixty would probably be nearer her age. Yet, not having seen her since she married, he never could think of her but as Alison Balfour.
As before observed, Captain Rothesay was by no means keenly susceptible to beauty of scenery; otherwise, he would often have been attracted from his meditations by that through which he passed. Lovely woodlands, just bursting into the delicate green of spring; deep, still streams, flowing through meadows studded with cattle; forest-roads shadowed with stately trees, and so little frequented, that the green turf spread from hedge to hedge, and the primroses and bluebells sprung up almost in the pathway. All these composed a picture of rural loveliness which is peculiar to England, and chiefly to that part of England where Harbury is situated. Captain Rothesay scarcely noticed it, until, pausing to consider his track, he saw in the distance a church upon a hill. Beautiful and peaceful it looked—its ancient tower rising out against the sky, and the evening sun shining on its windows and gilded vane.
“That must surely be my landmark,” thought Captain Rothesay; and he made an inquiry to that effect of a man passing by.
“Ay, ay, measter,” was the answer, in rather unintelligible Doric; “thot bees Harbury Church, as sure as moy name's John Dent; and thot red house—conna ye see't?—thot's our parson's.”
Prompted by curiosity, Rothesay observed, “Oh, Mr. Gwynne's. He is quite a young man, I believe? Do you like him, you good folks hereabout?”
“Some on us dun, and some on us dunna. He's not much of parson though; he wunna send yer to sleep wi' his long preachings. But oi say the mon's a good mon: he'll coom and see yer when you're bad, an' talk t' ye by th' hour; though he dunna talk oot o' th' Bible. But oi'm a lad o' t' forest, and 'll be a keeper some toime. That's better nor book-larning.”
Captain Rothesay had no will to listen to more personal revelations from honest John Dent; so he said, quickly, “Perhaps so, my good fellow.” Then added, “Mr. Gwynne has a mother living with him, I believe. What sort of person is she?”
“Her's a good-enough lady, oi reckon: only a bit too proud. Many's the blanket her's gen to poor folk; and my owd mother sees her every week—but her's never shook hands wi' her yet. Eh, measter, won ye go?”
This last remark was bellowed after Captain Rothesay, whose horse had commenced a sudden canter, which ceased not until its owner dismounted at the parsonage-gate.
This gate formed the boundary of the garden, and a most lovely spot it was. It extended to the churchyard, with which it communicated by a little wicket-door. You passed through beautiful parterres and alleys, formed of fragrant shrubs, to the spot
Where grew the turf in many a mouldering heap.
It seemed as though the path of death were indeed through flowers. Garden and churchyard covered the hill's summit; and from both might be discerned a view such as is rarely seen in level England. It was a panorama, extending some twenty or thirty miles across the country, where, through woodlands and meadow-lands, flowed the silver windings of a small river. Here and there was an old ruined castle—a manor-house rising among its ancestral trees—or the faint, misty smoke-cloud, that indicated some hamlet or small town. Save these, the landscape swept on unbroken, until it ended at the horizon in the high range of the D—shire hills.
Even to Captain Rothesay, this scene seemed strangely beautiful. He contemplated it for some time, his hand still on the unopened gate; and then he became aware that a lady, whose gardening dress and gardening implements showed she was occupied in her favourite evening employment, was looking at him with some curiosity.
The traces of life's downward path are easier to recognise than those of its ascent. Though the mature womanhood of Alison Balfour had glided into age, Rothesay had no difficulty in discovering that he was in the presence of his former friend. Not so with her. He advanced, addressed her by name, and even took her hand, before she had the slightest idea that her guest was Angus Rothesay.
“Have you, then, so entirely forgotten me—forgotten the days in our native Perthshire, when I was a bit laddie, and you, our guest, were Miss Alison Balfour?”
There came a trembling over her features—ay, aged woman as she was! But at her years, all the past, whether of joy or grief, becomes faint; else, how would age be borne? She extended both her hands, with a warm friendliness.
“Welcome, Angus Rothesay! No wonder I did not know you. These thirty years—is it not thus much?—have changed you from a boy into a middle-aged man, and made of me an old woman.”
She really was an elderly lady now. It seemed almost ridiculous to think of her as his youth's idol. Neither was she beautiful—how could he ever have imagined her so? Her irregular features—unnoticed when the white and red tints of youth adorned them—were now, in age, positively plain. Her strong-built frame had, in losing elasticity, lost much of grace, though dignity remained. Looking on Mrs. Gwynne for the first time, she appeared a large, rather plain woman. Looking again, it would be to observe the noble candour that dwelt in the eyes, and the sweetness—at times even playfulness—that hovered round the mouth. Regarding her for the third time, you would see a woman whom you felt sure you must perforce respect, and might, in time, love very much, if she would let you. Of that gracious permission you would long have considerable doubt; but once granted, you would never unlove her to the end of your days. As for her lovingyou, you would not be quite clear that it did not spring from the generous benevolence of her nature, rather than from any individual warmth toward yourself; and such was the reserve of her character, that, were her affection, ever so deep, she might possibly never let you know it until the day of your death.
Yet she was capable of attachments, strong as her own nature. All her feelings, passions, energies, were on a grand scale: in her were no petty feminine follies—no weak, narrow illiberalities of judgment. She had the soul of a man and the heart of a woman.
“You were gardening, I see?” said Captain Rothesay, making the first ordinary remark that came to his mind to break the awkward pause.
“Yes; I do so every fine evening. Harold is very fond of flowers. That reminds me I must call him to you at once, as it is Wednesday,—service-night, and he will be engaged in his duties soon.”
“Pray, let us enter the house; I should much like to see your son,” said Angus Rothesay. He gave her his arm; and they walked together, through the green alleys of holly, to the front-door. Then Mrs. Gwynne stopped, put her hand oyer her eyes for a moment, removed it, and looked earnestly at her guest.
“Angus Rothesay! how strange this seems!—like a dream—a dream of thirty years. Well, let us go in.”
Mechanically, and yet in a subdued, absent manner, she laid her bonnet and shawl on the hall-table, and took off her gardening gloves, thereby discovering hands, which, though large, were white and well formed, and in their round, taper delicacy, exhibited no sign of age. Captain Rothesay, without pausing to think, took the right hand.
“Ah! you wear still the ring I used to play with when a boy. I thought”—— and recollecting himself, he stopped, ashamed of his discourtesy in alluding to what must have been a painful past.
But she said, quietly, sadly, “You have a good memory. Yes, I wear it again now. It was left to me, ten years since, on the death of Archibald Maclean.”
Strange that she could thus speak that name! But over how many a buried grief does the grass grow green in thirty years!
In the hall they encountered a young man.
“Harold,” said Mrs. Gwynne, “give welcome to an old—a very old friend of mine—Captain Angus Rothesay. Angus, this is my son—my only son, Harold.”
And she looked upon him as a mother, widowed for twenty years, looks upon an only son; yet the pride was tempered with dignity, the affection was veiled under reserve. She, who doubtless would have sustained his life with her own heart's blood, had probably never since his boyhood suffered him to know a mother's passionate tenderness, or to behold a mother's tear.
Perhaps that was the reason that Harold's whole manner was the reflection of her own. Not that he was like her in person; for nature had to him been far more bountiful. But there was a certain rigidness and harshness in his mien, and a slightly repellant atmosphere around him. Probably not one of the young lambs of his flock had ever dreamed of climbing the knee of the Reverend Harold Gwynne. Though he wore the clerical garb, he did not look at all apostle-like; he was neither a St. Paul nor a St. John. Yet a grand, noble head it was. It might have been sketched for that of a young philosopher—a Galileo or a Priestley, with the heavy, strongly-marked brows. The eyes—hackneyed as the description is, no one can paint a man without mentioning his eyes: those of Harold Gwynne were not unlike his mother's, in their open, steadfast look; yet they were not soft, like hers, but of steel-grey, diamond-clear. He carried his head very erect; and these eyes of his seemed as though unable to rest on the ground; they were always turned upwards, with a gaze—not reverent or dreamy—but eager, inquiring, and piercing as truth itself.
Such was the young man with whom Captain Rothesay shook hands, congratulating his old friend on having such a son.
“You are more fortunate than I,” he said; “my marriage has only bestowed on me a daughter.”
“Daughters are a great comfort sometimes,” answered Mrs. Gwynne; “though, for my part, I never wished for one.”
The quick, reproachful glance of Harold sought his mother's face; and shortly afterwards he re-entered his study.
“My son thinks I meant to include a daughter-in-law,” was Mrs. Gwynne's remark, while the concealed playfulness about her mouth appeared. “He is soon to bring me one.”
“I know it—and know her too; by this means I found you out. I should scarcely have imagined Sara Derwent the girl for you to choose.”
“Hechooses, not I. A mother, whose dutiful son has been her sole stay through life, has no right to interfere with what he deems his happiness,” said Alison, gravely. And, at that moment, the young curate reappeared, ready for the duties to which he was summoned by the sharp sound of the “church-going bell.”
“I will stay at home with Captain Rothesay,” observed Mrs. Gwynne. Her guest made a courteous disclaimer, which ended in something about “religious duties.”
“Hospitality is a duty too—at least we thought so in the north,” she answered. “And old friendship is ever somewhat of a religion with me. Therefore I will stay, Harold.”
“You are right, mother,” said Harold. But he would not that his mother had seen the smile which curled his lip as he passed along the hall and through the garden towards the churchyard. There it faded into a look, dark and yet mournful; which, as it turned from the dust beneath his feet to the stars overhead, and then back again to the graves, seemed to ask despairingly, at once of heaven and earth, for the solution of some inward mystery.
While Harold preached, his mother and Captain Rothesay sat in the parsonage and talked of their olden days, now faint as a dream. The rising wind, which, sweeping over the wide champaign, came to moan in the hill-side trees, seemed to sing the dirge of that long-past life. Yet the heart of both, even of Angus Rothesay, throbbed to its memory, as a Scottish heart ever does to that of home and the mountain-land.
Among other long unspoken names came that of Miss Flora Rothesay. “She is an old woman now—a few years older than I; Harold visits her not infrequently; and she and I correspond now and then, but we have not met for many years.”
“Yet you have not forgotten her?”
“Do I ever forget?” said Alison, as she turned her face towards him. And looking thereon, he felt that such a woman never could.
Their conversation, passing down the stream of time, touched on all that was memorable in the life of both. She mentioned her husband—but merely the two events, not long distant each from each, of their marriage and his death.
“Your son is not like yourself—does he resemble Mr. Gwynne?” observed Rothesay.
“In person, yes, a little; in mind—no! a thousand times no!” Then, recollecting herself, she added, “It was not likely. Mr. Gwynne has been dead so many years that my son”—it was alwaysmyson—“has no remembrance of his father.”
Alas! that there should be some whose memories are gladly suffered to perish with the falling of the earth above them.
A thought like this passed through the mind of Angus Rothesay. “I fancy,” said he, “that I once met Mr. Gwynne; he was”—-
“My husband.” Mrs. Gwynne's tone suppressed all further remark—even all recollection of the contemptible image that was intruding on her guest's mind—an image of a young, roistering, fox-hunting fool. Rothesay looked on the widow, and the remembrance passed away, or became sacred as memory itself. And then the conversation glided as a mother's heart would fain direct it—to her only son.
“He was a strange creature ever, was my Harold. In his childhood he always teased me with his 'why and because;' he would come to the root of everything, and would not believe anything that he could not quite understand. Gradually I began to glory in this peculiarity, for I saw it argued a mind far above the common order. Angus, you are a father; you may be happy in your child, but you never can understand the pride of a mother in an only son.”
While she talked, her countenance and manner brightened, and Captain Rothesay saw again, not the serene, stern widow of Owen Gwynne, but the energetic, impassioned Alison Balfour. He told her this.
“Is it so? Strange! And yet I do but talk to you as I often did when we were young together.”
He begged her to continue—his heart warmed as it had not done for many a day; and, to lead the way, he asked what chance had caused the descendant of the Balfours to become an English clergyman?
“From circumstances. When Harold was very young, and we two lived together in the poor Highland cottage where he was born, my boy made an acquaintance with an Englishman, one Lord Arundale, a great student. Harold longed to be a student too.”
“A noble desire.”
“I shared it too. When the thought came to me that my boy would be a great man, I nursed it, cherished it, made it my whole life's aim. We were not rich—I had not married for money”—and there was a faint show of pride in her lip—“yet, Harold must go, as he desired, to an English university. I said in my heart, 'He shall!' and he did.”
Angus looked at Mrs. Gwynne, and thought that a woman's will might sometimes be as strong and daring as a man's.
Alison continued—“My son had only half finished his education when fortune made the poor poorer. But Scotland and Cambridge, thank Heaven were far distant I never told him one word—I lived—it matters little how—I cared not! Our fortune lasted, as I had calculated it would, till he had taken his degree, and left college rich in honours—and then”——
She ceased, and the light in her countenance faded. Angus Rothesay gazed upon her as reverently as he had done upon the good angel of his boyish days.
“I said you were a noble woman, Alison Balfour.”
“I was a mother, and I had a noble son.”
They sat a long time silent, looking at the fire, and listening to the wind. There was a momentary interruption—a message from the young clergyman, to say that he was summoned some distance to visit a sick person.
“On such a stormy night as this!” said Angus Rothesay.
“Harold never fails in his duties,” replied the mother, with a smile. Then turning abruptly to her guest—“You will let me talk, old friend, and about him. I cannot often talktohim, for he is so reserved—that is, so occupied with his clerical studies. But there never was a better son than my Harold.”
“I am sure of it,” said Captain Rothesay.
The mother continued—“Never shall I forget the triumph of his coming home from Cambridge. Yet it brought a pang, too; for then first he had to learn the whole truth. Poor Harold! it pained me to see him so shocked and overwhelmed at the sight of our lowly roof and mean fare; and to know that even these would not last us long. But I said to him—'My son, what signifies it, when you can soon bring your mother to your own home?' For he, already a deacon, had had a curacy offered him, as soon as ever he chose to take priest's orders.”
“Then he had already decided on entering the Church?”
“He had chosen that career in his youth. Towards it his whole education had tended. But,” she added, with a troubled look, “my old friend, I may tell you one doubt, which I never yet breathed to living soul—I think at this time there was a struggle in his mind. Perhaps his dreams of ambition rose higher than the simple destiny of a country clergyman. I hinted this to him, but he repelled me. Alas! he knew, as well as I, that there was now no other path open for him.”
Mrs. Gwynne paused, and then went on, as though speaking more to herself than to her listener.
“The time came for Harold to decide. I did not wonder at his restlessness, for I knew how strong ambition must be in a man like him. God knows I would have worked, begged, starved, rather than he should be thus tried. I told him so the day before his ordination; but he entreated me to be silent, with a look such as I never saw on his face before—such as I trust in God I never may see again. I heard him all night walking about his room; and the next morning he was gone ere I rose. When he came back, he seemed quite excited with joy, embraced me, told me I should never know poverty more, for that he was in priest's orders, and we should go the next week to the curacy at Harbury.”
“And he has never repented?”
“I think not. He is not without the honours he desired; for his fame in science is extending far beyond his small parish. He fulfils his duties scrupulously; and the people respect him, though he sides with no party, high-church or evangelical We abhor illiberality—my son and I.”
“That is clear, otherwise I had never seen Alison Balfour quitting the kirk for the church.”
“Angus Rothesay,” said Mrs. Gwynne, with dignity, “I have learned, throughout a long life, the lesson that trifling outward differences matter little—the spirit of religion is its true life. This lesson I have taught my son from his cradle; and where will you find a more sincere, moral, or pious man than Harold Gwynne?”
“Where, indeed, mother?” echoed a voice, as Harold, opening the door, caught her last words. “But come, no more o' that, an thou lovest me!”
“Harold!”
Captain Rothesay found himself at breakfast on the sixth morning of his stay at Harbury—so swiftly had the time flown. But he felt a purer and a happier man every hour that he spent with his ancient friend.
The breakfast-room was Harold's study. It was more that of a man of science and learning than that of a clergyman. Beside Leighton and Flavel were placed Bacon and Descartes; dust lay upon John Newton's Sermons, while close by, rested in honoured, well-thumbed tatters, his great namesake, who read God's scriptures in the stars. In one corner by a large, unopened packet—marked “Religious Society's Tracts;” it served as a stand for a large telescope, whose clumsiness betrayed the ingenuity of home manufacture. The theological contents of the library was a vast mass of polemical literature, orthodox and heterodox, including all faiths, all variations of sect. Mahomet and Swedenborg, Calvin and the Talmud, lay side by side; and on the farthest shelf was the great original of all creeds—the Book of books.
On this morning, as on most others, Harold Gwynne did not appear until after prayers were over. His mother read them, as indeed she always did morning and evening. A stranger might have said, that her doing so was the last lingering token of her sway as “head of the household.”
Harold entered, his countenance bearing the pallid restless look of one who lies half-dreaming in bed, long after he is awake and ought to have risen. His mother saw it.
“You are not right, Harold. I had far rather that you rose at six and studied till nine, as formerly, than that you should dream away the morning hours, and come down looking as you do now. Forgive me, but it is not good for you, my son.”
She often called himmy sonwith a beautiful simplicity, that reminded one of the holy Hebrew mothers—of Rebekah or of Hannah.
Harold looked for a moment disconcerted—not angry. “Do not mind me, mother; I shall go back to study in good time. Let me do as I judge best.”
“Certainly,” was all the mother's reply. She reproved—she never “scolded.” Turning the conversation, she directed hers to Captain Rothesay, while Harold ate his breakfast in silence—a habit not unusual with him. Immediately afterwards he rose, and prepared to depart for the day.
“I need not apologise to Captain Rothesay,” he said in his own straightforward manner, which was only saved from the imputation of bluntness by a certain manly dignity—and contrasted strongly with the reserved and courtly grace of his guest. “My pursuits can scarcely interest you, while I know, andyouknow, what pleasure my mother takes in your society.”
“You will not stay away all this day too, Harold. Surely that is a little too much to be required, even by Miss Derwent,” spoke the quick impulse of the mother's unconscious jealousy. But she repressed it at once—even before the sudden flush of anger awakened by her words had faded from Harold's brow. “Go, my son—your mother never interferes either with your duties or your pleasures.”
Harold took her hand—though with scarce less formality than he did that of Captain Rothesay; and in a few minutes they saw him gallop down the hill and across the open country, with a speed beseeming well the age of five-and-twenty, and the season of a first love.
Mrs. Gwynne looked after him with an intensity of feeling that in any other woman would have found vent in a tear—certainly a sigh.
“You are thinking of your son and his marriage,” said Angus.
“That is not strange. It is a life-crisis with all men—and it has come so suddenly—I scarcely know my Harold of two months since in my Harold now.”
“To work such results, it must be an ardent love.”
“Say, rather, a vehement passion—love does not spring up and flower, like my hyacinths there, in six weeks. But I do not complain. Reason, if not feeling, tells me that a mother cannot be all in all to a young man. Harold needs a wife—let him take one! They will be married soon; and if all Sara's qualities equal her beauty, this wild passion will soon mature into affection. He may be happy—I trust so!”
“But does the girl love him?”—“Of course,” spoke the quick-rising maternal pride. But she almost smiled at it herself, and added—“Really, you must excuse these speeches of mine. I talk to you as I never do to any one else; but it is all for the sake of olden times. This has been a happy week to me. You must pay us another visit soon.”
“I will And you must take a journey to my home, and learn to know my wife and Olive,” said Rothesay. The influence of Alison Gwynne was unconsciously strengthening him; and though, from some inexplicable feeling, he had spoken but little of his wife and child, there were growing up in his mind many schemes, the chief of which were connected with Olive. But he now thought less of her appearing in the world as Captain Rothesay's heiress, than of her being placed within the shadow of Alison Gwynne, and so reflecting back upon her father's age that benign influence which had been the blessing of his youth.
He went on to tell Mrs. Gwynne more of his affairs and of his plans than he had communicated to any one for many a long year. In the midst of their conversation came the visitation—always so important in remote country districts—the every-other-day's post.
“For you—not me. I have few correspondents. So I will go to my duties, while you attend to yours,” said Mrs. Gwynne, and departed.
When she came in again, Captain Rothesay was pacing the room uneasily.
“No ill news, I hope?”
“No, my kind friend—not exactly ill news, though vexatious enough. But why should I trouble you with them!”
“Nothing ever troubles me that can be of use to my friends. I ask no unwelcome confidence. If it is any relief to you to speak I will gladly hear. It is sometimes good for a man to have a woman to talk to.”
“It is—it is!” And his heart opening itself more and more, he told her his cause of annoyance. A most important mercantile venture would be lost to him for want of what he called “a few paltry hundreds,” to be forthcoming on the morrow.
“If it had been a fortnight—just till my next ship is due; or even one week, to give me time to make some arrangement! But where is the use of complaining! It is too late.”
“Not quite,” said Alison Gwynne, looking up after a few moments of deep thought; and, with a clearness which would have gained for her the repute of “a thorough woman of business,” she questioned Captain Rothesay, until she drew from him a possible way of obviating his difficulty.
“If, as you say, I were in London now, where my banker or some business friend would take up a bill for me; but that is impossible!”
“Nay—why say that you have friends only in London?” replied Alison, with a gentle smile. “That is rather too unjust, Angus Rothesay. Our Highland clanship is not so clean forgotten, I hope. Come, old friend, it will be hard if I cannot do something for you. And Harold, who loves Flora Rothesay almost as much as he loves me, would gladly aid her kinsman.”
“How—how! Nay, but I will never consent,” cried Angus, with a resoluteness through which his first eager sense of relief was clearly discernible. Truly, there was coming upon him, with this mania of speculation, the same desperation which causes the gambler to clutch money from the starving hands of those who even yet are passionately dear.
“Youshallconsent, friend,” answered Mrs. Gwynne, composedly. “Why should you not? It is a mere form—an obligation of a week, at most. You will accept that for the sake of Alison Balfour.”
He clasped her hand with as much emotion as was in his nature to show.
She continued—“Well, we will talk of this again when Harold comes in to dinner. But, positively, I see him returning. There he is, dashing up the hill. I hope nothing is the matter.”
Yet she did not quit the room to meet him, but sat apparently quiet, though her hands were slightly trembling, until her son came in. In answer to her question, he said—
“No, no; nothing amiss. Only Mr. Fludyer would have me go to the Hall to see his new horses; and there I found”——
“Sara!” interrupted the mother. “Well, perhaps she thought it would be a pleasant change from the dulness of Waterton during your absence; so never mind.”
He did mind. He restlessly paced the room, angry with his mother, himself—with the whole world. Mrs. Gwynne might well notice how this sudden passion had changed his nature. A moralist, looking on the knotted brow, would have smiled to see—not for the first time—a wise man making of himself a slave, nay, a very fool, for the enchantments of a beautiful woman.
His mother took his arm and walked with him up and down the room, without talking to him at all. But her firm step and firm clasp seemed to soothe—almost force him into composure. She had over him at once a mother's influence and a father's control.
Meanwhile, Captain Rothesay busied, or seemed to busy himself, with his numerous letters, and very wisely kept nearly out of sight.
As soon as her son appeared a little recovered from his vexation, Mrs. Gwynne said,
“Now, Harold, if you are quite willing, I want to talk to you for a few minutes. Shall it be now or this evening?”
“This evening I shall ride over to Waterton.”
“What! not one evening to spare for your mother, or”——she corrected herself, “for your beloved books?”
He moved restlessly.
“Nay, I have had enough of study; I must have interest, amusement, excitement. I think I have drunk all the world's pleasures dry, except this one. Mother, don't keep it from me; I know no rest except I am beside Sara.”
He rarely spoke to her so freely, and, despite her pain, the mother was touched.
“Go, then, go to Sara; and the matter I wished to speak upon we will discuss now.”
He sat down and listened, though often only with his outward ears, to her plan, by which Captain Rothesay might be saved from his difficulty.
“It is a merely nominal thing; I would do it myself, but a man's name would be more useful than a woman's. Yours will. My son Harold will at once perform such a trifling act of kindness for his mother's friend.”
“Of course—of course. Come, mother, tell me what to do; you understand business affairs much better than your son!” said Harold, as he rose to seek his guest.
Captain Rothesay scrupled a while longer; but at length the dazzling vision of coming wealth absorbed both pride and reluctance. It would be so hard to miss the chance of thousands, by objecting to a mere form. “Besides, Harold Gwynne shall share my success,” he thought; and he formed many schemes for changing the comparative poverty of the parsonage into comfort and luxury. It was only when the pen was in the young man's hand, ready to sign the paper, that the faintest misgiving crossed Rothesay's mind.
“Stay, it is but for a few days—yet life sometimes ends in an hour. What if I should die, at once, before I can requite you? Mr. Gwynne, you shall not do it.”
“Heshall—I mean, he will,” answered the mother.
“But not until I have secured him in some way.”
“Nay, Angus; we 'auld acquaintance' should not thus bargain away our friendship,” said Mrs. Gwynne, with wounded pride—Highland pride. “And besides, there is no time to lose. Here is the acceptance ready—so, Harold, sign!”
Harold did sign. The instant after, glad to escape, he quitted the room.
Angus Rothesay sank on a chair with a heart-deep sigh of relief. It was done now. He eyed with thankfulness the paper which had secured him the golden prize.
“It is but a trifle—a sum not worth naming,” he muttered to himself; and so, indeed, it seemed to one who had “turned over” thousands like mere heaps of dust. He never thought that it was an amount equal to Harold's yearly income for which the young man had thus become bound.
Yet he omitted not again and again to thank Mrs. Gwynne, and with excited eagerness to point to all the prospects now before him.
“And besides, you cannot think from what you have saved me—the annoyance—the shame of breaking my word. Oh, my friend, you know not in what a whirling, restless world of commerce I live! To fail in anything, or to be thought to fail, would positively ruin me and drive me mad.”
“Angus—old companion!” answered Mrs. Gwynne, regarding him earnestly, “you must not blame me if I speak plainly. In one week I have seen far into your heart—farther than you think. Be advised by me; change this life for one more calm. Home and its blessings never come too late.”
“You are right,” said Angus. “I sometimes think that all is not well with me. I am growing old, and business racks my head sadly sometimes. Feel it now!”
He carried to his brow her hand—the hand which had led him when a boy, which in his fantastic dream of youth he had many a time kissed; even now, when the pulses were grown leaden with age, it felt cool, calm, like the touch of some pitying and protecting angel.
Alison Gwynne said gently, “My friend, you say truly all is not well with you. Let us put aside all business, and walk in the garden. Come!”
Captain Rothesay lingered at Harbury yet one day more. But he could not stay longer, for this important business-venture made him restless. Besides, Harold's wedding was near at hand: in less than a week the mother would be sole regent of her son's home no more. No wonder that this made her grave and anxious—so that even her old friend's presence was a slight restraint Yet she bade him adieu with her own cordial sincerity. He began to pour out thanks for all kindness—especially the one kindness of all, adding—
“But I will say no more. You shall see or hear from me in a few days at farthest.”
“Not until after the wedding—I can think of nothing till after the wedding,” answered Mrs. Gwynne. “Now, farewell, friend! but not for another thirty years, I trust!”
“No, no!” cried Angus, warmly. He looked at her as she sat by the light of her own hearth—life's trials conquered—life's duties fulfilled—and she appeared not less divine a creature than the Alison Balfour who had trod the mountains full of joy, and hope, and energy. Holy and beautiful she had seemed to him in her youth; and though every relic of that passionate idealisation he once called love, was gone, still holy and beautiful she seemed to him in her age.
Angus Rothesay rode away from Harbury parsonage, feeling that there he had gained a new interest to make life and life's duties more sacred. He thought with tenderness of his home—of his wife, and of his “little Olive;” and then, travelling by a rather circuitous route, his thoughts rested on Harold Gwynne.
“The kind-hearted, generous fellow! I will take care he is requited double. And to-morrow, before even I reach Oldchurch, I will go to my lawyer's and make all safe on his account.”
“To-morrow!” He remembered not the warning, “Boast not thyself of to-morrow.”