Gwendoline

CHAPTER V.

AFTERWARDS.

"HONOR! Is the child safe? Oh, Honor!"

Gwendoline started up in bed to a sitting posture, suddenly awake to the situation. She had been dimly conscious of her whereabouts for an hour past, conscious of very sick and weary sensations, and of moving figures around her; conscious also of an indefinite sense of fear from time to time, which made her cling to her friend's hand for protection. She had not, in her exhaustion, yet remembered what had occurred, or thought of asking about the child. But as she lay half sleeping, with the pleasant protectiveness of Honora's cool hand clasping hers, clear recollection flashed all at once into her mind.

"Honor! What am I about? I had quite forgotten. Is the boy safe?"

"Keep quiet, Gwennie. You are under doctor's orders," said Honora.

"What doctor? Why, I am not ill."

"Mr. Fosbrook. You have been quite well the last hour, haven't you, Gwen?"

Gwendoline's mind travelled back. "I had forgotten. But I am all right now. How about the boy?"

"Mr. Fosbrook is with him. They are doing all they can," said Honora gently.

"Then he has not come to yet? I did my best, my very best," said Gwendoline sorrowfully. "I could not manage to hold the poor little head higher; and that last wave nearly did for both of us, I think. He was longer in the water than I. Is there no hope for him?"

"They do not give up hope. He may revive even now. If not, you will still know that you did your utmost. The men cannot say enough about your courage."

"Courage! That is nothing. I couldn't have stood by to see him drown. Oh, Honor, if it has been useless after all! I do wish I had tried a little harder."

"It was not possible. Don't take a morbid view of the matter, Gwen. You endangered your own life for his, and you could not have done more. The result must be in God's hands."

"Poor little fellow! I wonder if he has a mother," Gwendoline said. Tears were dropping—a rare event with her; but she had been unnerved.

"Not a mother, I believe—only a sister who takes the place of a mother. I have been too busy with you to learn particulars. I will go now, and see how he is, if you can promise to keep yourself quiet meantime."

She found efforts being still carried on, with unremitting vigour, as yet unsuccessfully. Mr. Fosbrook, a man of about forty, thin, but well-knit, with sallow complexion and observant eyes, was alike directing operations and taking an abundant share in them himself. His assistants were Mr. Widrington and the three sailors. Mrs. Widrington flustered hither and thither, procuring whatever was asked for, and making numberless suggestions which nobody heeded.

No time had been lost, for Mr. Fosbrook had happened to pass at the very moment of the accident, and he was himself the fourth man in the boat which put off to the rescue. But the small figure lay still to all appearance lifeless, and one and another was silently giving up hope. Honora stood unnoticed for a few seconds near the door.

"I'm afeared it's all up with him, poor little chap," one of the men said. "I don't see as it's much use keeping on."

"Nor I," said Mr. Widrington, though he did not venture to stop rubbing. "I could tell from the first it wouldn't be no good. Trust me to know! He's dead, wifie."

Mrs. Widrington put her handkerchief to her eyes. Mr. Fosbrook had stooped low, to place his ear over the child's heart, and he stood up now, with a sharp glance round.

"Keep on. Don't slacken for an instant. Heat more flannels! It is 'not' all up with him."

"Do you mean to say he is alive, doctor?" exclaimed Mrs. Widrington. "I shouldn't have thought it, now. Poor dear little man."

Mr. Fosbrook held again to the parted lips a tiny feather, brought to him by Honora. "See," he said; and there was indeed a faint stir visible.

"Why, so he is! Why, he isn't dead after all!" exclaimed Mrs. Widrington. "Now I am glad. And that brave girl won't have risked drowning for nothing. Do you think we may say he is out of danger, doctor? I should like to send word to his sister, poor thing! And wouldn't you like me to get some beef-tea or something ready? I shouldn't wonder if the butcher's shop was open still, and Mary Jane could run for a pound of beef. He'll want something when he comes to. What do you think, Honor?"

Mrs. Widrington's excited little patter of talk seemed to be unheard by Mr. Fosbrook, but at the last word he turned himself about.

"Miss Halcombe doing well?" he asked, looking at Honora.

"She is quite herself, and very anxious about the child."

"Tell her there are signs of life. I hope we shall bring him round yet."

Honora went swiftly back to bear the message, and to spend another hour of suspense by Gwendoline's side. Gwendoline said little, only lay with eager eyes and tremulous lips, watching for tidings. Once or twice Mrs. Widrington fluttered in, carrying a gentle bustle with her, and assuring them that the little boy was getting on beautifully; a statement somewhat modified by a very audible whisper to Honora, that "she didn't believe he would ever get over it, and she could see the doctor thought so too."

"And he's a clever man, is Mr. Fosbrook," she added aloud for the benefit of both; "and a kind one, though he is rather positive, and says a sharp word sometimes. But I'm sure he'd do anything for anybody, if he thought it right. I wonder he don't marry, for he's getting on in life, and he looks sickly, as if he wanted somebody to take care of him. Only think, Honor, the poor little boy hasn't any mother living, and his father was drowned at sea only last year; wouldn't it have been strange if he had been drowned too?—And he would have been if it wasn't for this brave girl. And there's a sister who takes care of the three children, and she is lame or something, and can't come to him. They say she is half-frantic, poor creature, she cares so much for this boy. He's a pretty little fellow, and I don't wonder. She must be a great deal older than these younger children. I wonder if she's only a half-sister. Now don't you make yourself unhappy, Miss Halcombe. I'll soon come back with more news."

But Mr. Fosbrook himself came next. His first move was to take Gwendoline's hand, and to shake it gently.

"I congratulate you with all my heart on having saved a life," he said. "You have acted nobly."

Gwendoline's lips twitched, and she laughed in a nervous manner. "If I saved one, you helped to save two," she said.

"Ay, but not at the risk of my own. There is a slight difference, Miss Halcombe. You ought to have a Humane Society's medal."

"Oh, no, no, thank you! I should not like any fuss," said Gwendoline. "Nothing of that sort. But I am so glad. Poor little boy."

"Is he quite out of danger?" asked Honora.

"Quite out of immediate danger. I cannot answer for after consequences."

"Honor," Gwendoline said softly, a little later, when they were again alone, "I did not know that the purpose of my coming to Riversmouth was to be this. I expected something quite different."

"I suppose there is always a purpose in each step of our way," said Honora. "But God's purpose for us and our own purpose for ourselves are often not identical."

Gwendoline smiled assent, and seemed indisposed to carry on the conversation. Honora was glad to see her growing sleepy; but suddenly the sleepiness vanished, and she started up.

"Honor!"

"What is the matter?"

"Dinner at Lady Halcot's."

"Past eleven o'clock, Gwen, so I am afraid you can't go now."

"No, but seriously—was no excuse sent?"

"I am sorry to say I forgot all about it till an hour ago, and then it was too late. Besides, we really had no one to spare for a messenger earlier in the evening. We must despatch a note of explanation in the morning."

"I am not going to have any stir made," said Gwendoline resolutely. "My part of the affair was only just doing what I had to do, and what anybody else must have done in my place. I shall tell Lady Halcot that I had an accidental wetting, and that I was very sorry not to go to her."

To this plan she adhered when morning came. Honora would have preferred a little more explicitness, but Gwendoline shrank from any appearance of boasting, and the note was despatched as she wrote it.

"I don't see as the thing matters either way," Mr. Widrington said to his niece. "News travels apace, and her ladyship is sure to hear the story before many hours are over,—take my word for it."

Mr. Widrington was mistaken, so far as hours were concerned. Riversmouth news did not always reach Lady Halcot quickly. She fenced herself round with an enclosure of distant reserve, and few ventured to address her uninvited. Miss Withers heard the tale, of course, but Miss Withers did not repeat it, and for many days Lady Halcot believed that Gwendoline had made use of a trivial excuse to set aside her engagement. Such a belief implied displeasure on the part of Lady Halcot.

So also thought Mr. Selwyn. He returned by an early train, having not even seen the note which Gwendoline sent. He ascribed her non-appearance at dinner to a fit of girlish shyness or pride, and was alike vexed for her and disappointed in her. He had counted Miss Halcombe to be rather superior to some feminine weaknesses.

Gwendoline's return home suffered only a day's postponement. She was somewhat shaken by her adventure, and the doctor counselled longer delay; but Honora could not remain, and Gwendoline would not consent to be left behind. She wrote home lightly of what had occurred, making little of the matter, and Honora, by her request, did not write at all.

CHAPTER VI.

GWEN'S HOME.

"I DON'T see that your Riversmouth trip has done much for you. If it was a pleasure, you seem disposed to keep the enjoyment to yourself. Certainly you are not looking any the better for it."

Ruth Halcombe, the speaker, was a blunt-mannered girl of seventeen, two years Gwendoline's junior, and in most respects a contrast to her elder sister. She was the useful and practical member of the household, and she prided herself on so being. Everybody in the house depended more or less on Ruth, yet none looked to her for sympathy. The boys went to Ruth for buttons and strings, but they carried all their little confidences to Gwendoline. There was a touch of hardness about Ruth which repelled people. She was affectionate below the surface, but she had no tenderness of manner; and she had not yet learnt that usefulness may co-exist with beauty, and practicalness with poetry. Gwendoline's restless pantings and aspirations were "sentiment," in Ruth's opinion.

Gwendoline had returned two or three hours earlier to find herself suddenly plunged into the little whirl of home cares and the big swirl of London life.

The low roar of the latter struck her forcibly, after the quiet of Riversmouth. Londoner that she was, she never grew reconciled to perpetual sound, never attained to Ruth's happy condition of not hearing it, never ceased to feel oppressed by the great city and its unceasing tumult. She had such a thirst for stillness, and there was no stillness in her life. Out of doors and indoors, Gwendoline could never be alone. To her finely-strung nature, solitude at times was more than a pleasure—it was a positive necessity; yet it was almost unattainable.

For Mr. Halcombe's income was very narrow, and his house was very small; and he had a wife, three daughters, and seven sons, not to speak of a little maid-servant. Lady Halcot possessed her abundance of large rooms absolutely unused; but in this narrow dwelling with its dingy outside closed in by other houses to right and left and front and rear, there was not a corner where one might be secure against interruption. The elder boys were away all day, it is true: Victor in a counting-house; Jem, Edmund, and Fred at school; but so was Gwendoline away most days at her painting, and when she came back, they came back also. And the four youngest children, Artie, Willie, Bob, and Nell, were always at home, Ruth being their teacher. So Gwendoline spent her time in a crowd.

The sense of overcrowding, and the pressure of home cares, had come upon her heavily that afternoon, as she found herself once more within the hall door.

Gwendoline knew that some fresh trouble was brewing. She knew it before she had been five minutes at home. Not a word was said which might suggest the idea, but she read it in her mother's burdened look, and in the extra sharpness of Ruth's tones. She saw that they wanted to spare her a little while, and she heard her mother whisper softly, "After tea, Ruthie." There was no leisure as yet for any quiet conversation, and Gwendoline wisely asked no questions.

The narrow dining-room, with its worn-out chairs and its carpet of undistinguishable pattern, had a crowded appearance at meal times. The boys were healthy and merry enough, and chatter flowed on unceasingly, but life's cares seemed to have pressed hard upon the father and mother. Mr. Halcombe was a frail man, thin and stooping, with a shadowy likeness to Gwendoline, almost lost in the anxious wrinkles which furrowed his brow and drew down his mouth-corners. Mrs. Halcombe was a little slight woman, exceedingly worn, yet with a kind of habitual cheeriness about her; never perhaps pretty even in the past, but always refined and sweet-mannered.

Mr. Halcombe and Victor had a mutton-chop each, in consideration of their day's work, and Mr. Halcombe ate his slowly, with an abstracted and mournful air, while Victor, a tall lad of sixteen, talked and laughed over his in untiring fashion. Ruth stood at the foot of the table, dispensing hunches of bread from the huge quartern loaf, and generally overlooking the other six boys, varying in ages from thirteen-years-old Jem to six-years-old Bob. The fairy-maiden, Nell, with her sweet eyes and sunny hair, sat in her three-years-old queenship close beside the tea-making mother, idolized by all.

"Gwen is tired," Mrs. Halcombe said, in response to Ruth. "It has been such a bustle ever since she came in. I wish we could have arranged differently."

"It has been the same as usual, I suppose," said Ruth. "Gwen must take home as she finds it—like other people."

"Ruth always has an appropriate moral ready for every occasion," said Victor. "I say, Gwen, did you see anything of the old lady down there?"

Mrs. Halcombe had not asked the question, but Gwendoline saw the quick quiver of her eyelids. "I saw Lady Halcot pass in her pony-carriage, Victor."

"Did she speak to you?"

"No,—she looked—"

"And that was all?"

Gwendoline had not meant to give particulars just then, but she could not answer in the affirmative.

"Lady Halcot saw me standing with Mr. Selwyn," she said. "He was down for the day, and we had met. She asked him afterwards who I was, and she sent an invitation through him, asking me to dinner. That was all. I meant to tell mother presently."

"A weighty 'all,' too, in my opinion," said Victor.

Mrs. Halcombe could not trust her voice.

Mr. Halcombe looked up slowly, and asked, "What did it mean?"

"I am afraid it did not mean much, father. Mr. Selwyn told me not to count upon it—at least, I think he meant that. Still, it was very disappointing that I could not go. I sent a note next morning, with an explanation; but I had no answer."

"You don't mean to say you allowed a paltry wetting in the sea to keep you away?" exclaimed Ruth, in a tone of strong disapproval.

"I could not help it, Ruth."

"I would have helped it in your place. How you 'could,' Gwen! When you knew how much might depend on your pleasing her! If your dress was not fit to go in, surely Miss Dewhurst would have lent you another. Why, it seems like insanity!—Such a chance thrown away!"

"I was very sorry, but it was impossible," repeated Gwendoline, flushing. "I was in bed all the evening."

"I would not have been there, I can tell you. And not even an excuse sent till next morning."

"No, it was forgotten. I didn't think about Lady Halcot when I first came to myself,—and the rest were all too busy with the child and me—"

Gwendoline's agitation under Ruth's reproaches betrayed her into saying so much, and then she paused. For a moment nobody seemed quite to take in the meaning of her words. Mr. Halcombe was the first to speak. He had been looking at her steadily, and he now put aside the little boy between him and Gwendoline, and moved to her side.

"Gwen, my child," he said in his depressed manner, "this has been more of an affair than we know. You are quite unnerved and poorly. What is it, my dear?"

Gwendoline's face went down on his shoulder, and she clung to him, trembling.

"I saw that she was not herself, directly I came in," he said. "Ruth, you must not be so hard upon your sister. She would not have stayed away without good reason, I am sure. What is this about 'coming to yourself,' Gwennie? You don't mean that you were long enough in the water to lose consciousness."

"It couldn't be helped, father," said Gwendoline, lifting her face, and speaking hurriedly. "I did not want to make a fuss about the thing. It was only that a little boy fell in, and I had to go after him. There was nobody else near enough, and he would have been drowned. They got out a boat as quickly as possible, and came after us, just in time. I'm not a good enough swimmer for such waves, and I couldn't have held out any longer. I don't think I was long insensible, and it was more of a faint than anything else, but the poor little boy was very long coming round, and somehow nobody remembered Lady Halcot. I never thought about her at all until eleven o'clock at night. The doctor would not let me get up next day until the afternoon—not that I was ill, only weak and shaky. He was very kind, and so was everybody. But I really don't think I could have gone to see Lady Halcot even yesterday, and I had no answer at all to my note."

"My own brave girl," said Mr. Halcombe; and he folded her in his arms. "Thank God for it—and for His bringing you through. Yes, there are worse troubles than even money troubles,—you spoke truth, Nellie." This was to his wife. "If our Gwen had been taken from us! Thank God for His mercy."

"Why, Gwen's a heroine!" Victor exclaimed. "Well done, Gwen! We shall all be proud of you."

"There's no need. It was just the natural thing to do," Gwendoline said shamefacedly.

"You never told us you had been in danger, Gwen," her mother said, with full eyes.

"I didn't see the need to write, mother—more than just a few words. And the danger was soon over. Honor said she meant to call soon and tell you everything. But don't feel as if I could bear to talk about it yet," Gwendoline added, with whitening lips. "The very thought of the sea brings it all back, and turns me dizzy. Can't we speak of something else?"

"Gwen had much better go into the next room and be quiet," Ruth said, with a touch of apology for her own harshness. "Why don't you, Gwen?—and mother too. You will like a chat, and I'll look after everything."

Gwendoline did not protest. She gave Ruth a grateful look, and went, followed by Mrs. Halcombe. It was not the household custom to dispute Ruth's mandate in lesser matters.

"Mother," Gwendoline said, making early use of her opportunity, "what has happened since I went away?"

"A good many things have happened, Gwen."

"Yes; but you can't take me in," Gwendoline said, looking stedfastly into Mrs. Halcombe's faded eyes. "Something particular has come—something that troubles you and father very much. I see it plainly. You can't take me in, mother darling. I must know, or I shall lie awake all night, wondering. It is easier to bear the truth than one's own fancies."

"Not always, Gwen," her mother said.

"Almost always, I think. Is it a money trouble, mother?"

Mrs. Halcombe tried to answer, and her voice failed. She could only press Gwendoline's hand.

"It must be something very bad indeed, for you to feel it so much," said Gwendoline gravely. "Tell me all, please. It is worse to wait."

"I wish I could make you wait," Mrs. Halcombe said with a sob. "Oh, Gwen, it is hard to bear up. God will surely provide for us. I have told myself so again and again, the last day or two, and I have tried hard to be brave—to trust. But it is a sore trial of faith. I cannot see what we can do. I cannot see any way out."

"What is it, mother? Don't mind crying, but just tell me."

That Mrs. Halcombe should fail in her cheery self-command, at least before others, was an event rare indeed, and Gwendoline was proportionately dismayed, yet proportionately anxious not to be herself betrayed into tears.

She repeated earnestly, "Don't be afraid, mother. We shall be helped—surely—somehow. Only please tell me what is wrong."

"It is at the bank. They have told your father that they will not want him any more—any more—after Midsummer."

"Mother!"

Gwendoline could say no more. She was absolutely paralyzed. Her first sensation was as if she had been sinking again among ocean waves, as if literal billows were rising around her and taking away her breath. But she only uttered the one faint word, and then sat, white and still, till power of breath and speech came back. Mrs. Halcombe's face was hidden in her hands.

"Father dismissed! But what for? What has he done?" asked Gwendoline, in distress.

"Nothing. It is not anything that he has done. They spoke kindly—said they would give the highest testimonials. But they are making some changes, and they want a younger man in his place. Your father says it is natural. He says he has grown old and slow lately, and has been forgetful and made mistakes. He is wearing out. But oh, Gwen, it is very very terrible! What shall we do? How shall we live?"

"If I had seen Lady Halcot!" muttered Gwendoline's quivering lips. "If I had not tried to save the child's life! Mother, it couldn't be wrong to do that!" she broke out passionately. "It couldn't be wrong! I would do it again, no matter what might come after. But why didn't I go to Lady Halcot next day? If only I had not been so shy, so foolish."

"It might have made no difference. I do not suppose she would help us, Gwen."

"Honor would tell us to look higher—to trust. Mother, God won't forsake us. He will bring us through somehow. There may be better days ahead. But it is terrible. Poor poor father!"

CHAPTER VII.

MR. FOSBROOK'S STORY.

LADY HALCOT sat in her favourite room, beside her davenport, writing letters—an occupation which filled many hours of each day. She was an active old lady, mentally as well as bodily, and took a keen personal interest in everything which concerned her estate and her tenants.

The letter-writing did not advance so well as usual this morning. Lady Halcot looked more than wontedly pale, and her bony hand trembled visibly. She laid down her pen and took it up again several times, as if struggling against the weakness.

The placid fair-haired Miss Withers sat in the bow-window, over a small work frame, and her eyes travelled repeatedly towards the old lady. She said at length, "Would you like me to send for Conrad?"

"What for?" asked Lady Halcot.

"I thought he might be a help; you seem scarcely equal to your work this morning."

"If I am not equal to the task of managing my own brains, Miss Withers, I certainly am not equal to the task of managing Mr. Withers' brains."

Miss Withers bore the remark meekly. After a pause she gave utterance to a low sigh, and a gentle, "Poor Conrad."

"He does his best. I am quite aware of that," said Lady Halcot, in a manner half satirical, half conciliatory. "He may improve in time. At all events, we can hope so a little longer. When did Mr. Fosbrook say he would be here?"

"At about eleven."

"Half-past eleven now. I shall not wait in for him much longer."

The pen was laid down again, and Lady Halcot leant back with a tired look.

"I think you have done too much lately," said Miss Withers.

"It is not 'doing.' Work never hurts me. I have a difficulty in making up my mind—"

Miss Withers said, "Yes?"

"I shall have to send for Mr. Selwyn again. His last visit was thrown away. I could come to no conclusion."

"About—?" said Miss Withers.

"Certain alterations which I desire to have made in my will. What else should I mean?"

Lady Halcot was, as a rule, reserved to a fault about her own affairs; but occasional little fits of unpremeditated frankness were among the signs of old age creeping over her. Miss Withers showed no excitement, but her pale blue eyes watched the face of Lady Halcot intently as a cat watches a bird.

"I supposed it was a question of some distant heir-at-law with you," she said slowly, and with seeming indifference.

"You supposed rightly, as regards the title and the landed estate. But I have also property at my own disposal. However, there is no need to carry on the subject. It concerns myself alone—only sometimes I have a wish to get things settled and off my mind. I am not so young as I was, and responsibilities weigh more upon me than they once did. Be so good as to order the pony-carriage to be ready for me in half an hour, Miss Withers. I shall not wait any longer for Mr. Fosbrook."

Miss Withers moved in her soft and gliding fashion to obey. She was absent about ten minutes, and on coming back the sound of voices told her of the doctor's arrival meantime. Miss Withers waited outside a little longer, and then re-entered the boudoir.

"Mr. Fosbrook does not think there is much the matter with me," Lady Halcot said, turning her head. "Not a break-up yet, by any means—eh, doctor? I am to take a tonic for a week or two. Not that I believe in tonics at my age. But it will do no harm. Mr. Fosbrook is giving me quite a glowing description, Miss Withers, of a young lady rescuing a little boy from drowning last week in Riversmouth. I cannot imagine how I have escaped hearing of it sooner. Did no report of the adventure reach your ears?"

"A mere report,—nothing of consequence," Miss Withers said hesitatingly, with a faint blush. "I imagined it to be an exaggerated story."

"The courage and self-devotion of the young lady were hardly capable of exaggeration," Mr. Fosbrook said.

"Mr. Fosbrook is quite carried away by his admiration," said Lady Halcot. "But we may depend upon the correctness of an eye-witness. Go on, doctor, if you please; or stay—begin again, for Miss Withers' benefit."

Mr. Fosbrook obeyed without reluctance. He spoke quietly, and with no superabundance of adjectives; but as he described Gwendoline's position, and her brave plunge into deep water, his sallow cheek glowed, and a curious light shone in the old lady's black eyes.

Yet Lady Halcot's first remark at the close of the tale was cynical. "So you were the rescuer, after all! Quite a poetical finale, Mr. Fosbrook. I suppose we may expect a third volume to the novel."

Mr. Fosbrook suddenly resumed his cool professional manner. "You were not present, Lady Halcot. If you had been—but time is getting on."

"Not twelve yet. Wait a minute," said Lady Halcot. "That girl ought to have a medal, Mr. Fosbrook."

"So I said; but she would not hear of its being made known."

"She can't help it. Such a deed must become known. I will take action in the matter myself. What is her name, and where does she live? 'A young lady' you call her."

"She was down in Riversmouth merely for a day or two,—quite a stranger to the place. Her name is Halcombe—Gwendoline Halcombe."

Mr. Fosbrook was, of course, aware of the relationship between Gwendoline Halcombe and Lady Halcot; doctors usually hear the little ins and outs of such matters. It was hardly likely that he should have practised sixteen years in Riversmouth, though originally not a native of the place, without knowing the tale of Lady Halcot's displeasure towards her niece. But he betrayed no consciousness in word or manner; and whether or no Lady Halcot believed in his unconsciousness, she did not betray herself either.

"Gwendoline Halcombe," she repeated.

"A young artist from London, whom I believe you kindly purposed taking some notice of, Lady Halcot."

"Mr. Selwyn had mentioned her to me. Yes, I invited her to dinner, and she did not come. There was a note next morning, which spoke of an 'accidental wetting' in the sea as the cause. I confess I was displeased."

"The 'accidental wetting' was of a serious nature," said Mr. Fosbrook.

Lady Halcot sat considering, some strong feeling visible through the quick motions of her eyebrows.

"A pretty girl," she said at length, half to herself.

"Very pretty and ladylike," assented Mr. Fosbrook.

"Yes—ladylike. One could see that at a glance. The story interests me a good deal, Mr. Fosbrook, I like heroism, and I like to see it rewarded. Gwendoline Halcombe interests me also. Perhaps I may get her down here some day on a visit. She must be a girl of character. Yes—I should not mind seeing something more of her. What do you say to the idea, Miss Withers?"

"I have not the pleasure of Miss Halcombe's acquaintance," said Miss Withers, trying to cover an unhappy expression with a smile. "She may no doubt be the kind of young person who would suit your ladyship."

"Young person!" said Lady Halcot, with an astonished air.

And, when Mr. Fosbrook was gone, she added, "You seem to forget that Gwendoline Halcombe is my relative."

"I did not know your ladyship wished the fact to be remembered," faltered Miss Withers.

CHAPTER VIII.

A CALLER.

DINNER was just over at Mr. Selwyn's,—a well-appointed and well-ordered meal, always. Mr. Selwyn liked to have things "nice" about him, and he could afford to have them as he wished. He was tired with his day's work, not knocked up and exhausted, but just comfortably tired, able to enjoy the thought of a reposeful evening. Mrs. Selwyn, in a happy flutter of silk and lace, had made her way into the drawing-room, and thither the two gentlemen, father and son, had speedily followed her.

The son was very little younger than his step-mother, and he and she appeared to be on extremely pleasant terms. It would have been difficult to be on any other terms with Mortimer Selwyn. He was a thorough gentleman, sweet-tempered almost to a fault, fastidious on certain points, but never exacting. Many counted Mortimer a singular man. He was slightly lame, and had passed a sickly boyhood. Strange to say, he had never been put into any profession. Mr. Selwyn through many widowed years had shrunk morbidly from parting with his only son. Mortimer was long counted unfit for hard work, and, his mother's property being settled upon him, his future was amply provided for. So he had lived on at home, year after year, with no definite work in life.

No definite work, that is to say, provided for him by others. A plan which would have been utterly detrimental to ninety-nine young men in a hundred had had no ill results with Mortimer. For he was by nature a man of thoughtful purpose and of literary tastes; and he was, "not" by nature, a man of high Christian principle. To fritter away his time in self-pleasing was not a possibility with Mortimer Selwyn. The work which had not been provided for him, he provided for himself. The life-aims which had not been set before him, he sought out and found. Strong as was the affection which existed between father and son, it was by no means the affection of unity in tastes, or likeness in manner of thought. Mortimer cared not a whit for the law, and Mr. Selwyn had small interest in his son's pursuits. Truth to tell, the latter were legion in number, and leisure was necessary for the appreciation of them. Mr. Selwyn was a man of no leisure, and a man of one primary pursuit, Mortimer was a man of boundless leisure, which yet never implied idleness, and of multitudinous pursuits; among which literature, science, and philanthropy held no doubt the foremost places.

Also, on religious points the two did not agree. Mr. Selwyn was not without a certain amount of religion, professed, and perhaps, so far as it went, genuine. He was very reserved on such topics, and possibly felt more deeply than he allowed to appear. But he counted office-work and religion to be matters necessarily kept apart, to be in their nature "wide as the poles asunder;" the inevitable consequence of which view was that religion found itself in a small corner, the chief space in his time and thoughts being monopolized by "work."

Mortimer, on the contrary, was one whose very life was impregnated with religion, whose every word and action were as in the presence of the living God. He lost nothing in manliness by this; rather, he gained by it. But for this high consciousness, but for his vivid realization of the great realities of life and death and the future beyond, he might have sunk into a mere self-indulgent invalid, or, as health came to him in an unemployed youth, have rushed into a career of self-indulgent evil.

He was not much of a religious talker. He "could" speak, of course, and with glowing earnestness, on the things which most occupied his mind, but he rarely spoke uninvited, and never thrust his opinions upon unwilling hearers. There was no need. Mortimer's manly pleasant face spoke for itself; and the manner of his daily life had a clearer utterance for the honour of his Master's Name than any mere words could have had. Neither did he say much at any time about at least one chief part of his work in life. People heard of his coming and going, and saw his interest in science and literature. But of the many poor whom he visited, the sufferers lifted out of want by his hand, the struggling toilers helped onward, the gifts silently given where needed,—of these the world in general knew nothing at all, or heard only a whisper here and there by accident.

A fire had been lighted, more for cheerfulness than from necessity, since it was a warm spring day; and Mrs. Selwyn sat near it, making believe to get through a little fancywork, in reality hoping for conversation. She hoped for some time in vain. Mortimer was deep in a periodical; and Mr. Selwyn apparently was deep in thought. He broke out suddenly, after a long pause,—

"You women are the most irrational beings—sometimes."

"Thanks!" Isobel said drily.

"Especially for the last qualifying word," added Mortimer, lifting a pair of amused eyes. "What unfortunate female has aroused your ire to-day, father?"

"I was merely thinking of my trip to Riversmouth last week, and of Miss Halcombe's extraordinary conduct."

"Miss Halcombe does not give one the impression that she is an irrational being exactly."

"I should have supposed her to be a young woman of remarkable sense," said Mr. Selwyn. "But to throw away such an opportunity! However, it is done now, and cannot be undone. She will never have another."

"Is the old lady so vindictive?" asked Isobel.

Mr. Selwyn moved his shoulders. "Lady Halcot counted herself slighted. That was all."

"Miss Halcombe couldn't possibly have gone to the Leys in a draggle-tailed condition," said Isobel.

"Miss Halcombe had no business to become draggle-tailed," said Mr. Selwyn.

"Why, Stuart, I shall be quite frightened of you. I did not know you could be so severe."

The lawyer's face relaxed into a smile. "Was I severe? My regrets are all for Gwendoline Halcombe's own sake. She is a charming girl, and might have won the old lady over,—a most desirable thing for her parents. I fear there is no hope now of such a consummation."

The man-servant entered. "If you please, sir, Miss Halcombe desires a few words with you, if possible."

"Certainly," said Mr. Selwyn, though not quite pleased. He liked to keep business for business quarters, and to have his home inviolable. "Show her into my study."

"Stuart, do bring her here," interposed Isobel. "How odd that she should come just when we were speaking about her! But I really am curious to see this little paragon of yours."

"Stay," Mr. Selwyn said to the man. "Will you have her in at once, Isobel?"

"To be sure,—I should like it immensely. If she wants a private interview, you can take her to your study afterwards."

The man vanished, and Mortimer said quietly, "You will admire her."

"How do you know? Have you seen Miss Halcombe?"

"Yes,—more than once."

"But I may not think her pretty."

"I think you will. You are not one of those women who cannot admire another pretty woman."

Isobel looked pleased. She liked words of appreciation from her step-son. There was no time for more, however. Gwendoline was already in the doorway.

There she paused. She had on her ulster, and her little cap with the wavy short hair showing below, as Mr. Selwyn had seen her on the shore; but no geranium-tint was in her pale cheeks, and the large brown eyes were opened with a startled and dazzled expression.

"I beg your pardon," she said, drawing back. "There is some mistake. I only wanted a few words with Mr. Selwyn alone."

"You shall have them, Miss Halcombe," said the lawyer. "But my wife wishes for the pleasure of your acquaintance, and she asked to make use of this opportunity. Come in and sit down. Isobel, this is Miss Halcombe."

"I have heard my husband speak of you," Isobel said kindly, leading Gwendoline to a chair, and giving Mortimer a glance expressive of admiration.

He came forward, with his slight limp and his courteous manner, and as they shook hands a faint colour rose for an instant to her cheeks. The paleness following was so marked that Mortimer said gravely, "You are not well, I am afraid."

"Thank you—I—" Gwendoline hesitated, as if trying to collect her thoughts. "I am only—a little—"

"Have you been wandering about London without food for hours?" he suggested, with a touch of reproach.

"I had dinner at one, only I could not eat," said Gwendoline, with difficulty. "It does not matter, thank you."

"My dear, you will be fainting away if you don't take something," said Isobel, laying her plump little hand, with its diamond rings, upon Gwendoline's slender fingers. "Pray don't do that, for I have the greatest horror of seeing anybody faint. Here comes the coffee, just in time. Or would you rather have a glass of wine?"

"Oh no, coffee, please," said Gwendoline; and she was speedily served.

A minute or two later she could look up, with a sweet, though, Isobel thought, touchingly sad smile, to say, "Thank you very much. I didn't quite know how much I wanted something."

"Have you had a very busy day?" asked Isobel kindly.

"Yes. I was sorry I could not get to Mr. Selwyn's office in time; but indeed I could not."

"Are you in a hurry now?" asked Isobel, noticing a furtive glance at the clock.

"I am afraid I ought not to wait. It is getting late, and I have so far to go."

"You ought not to go about like this, my dear, unprotected," said Isobel.

Gwendoline's lip quivered. She said only, "I must."

"How do you get home?"

"I shall walk part of the way, and catch an omnibus somewhere."

"It is not right," said Isobel.

Mr. Selwyn thought the same, but he did not say so. "We must not delay you," he said; and he rose to lead the way into his study, followed by Gwendoline.

"I shall see you again some day," Isobel said cordially, pressing her hand.

And Mr. Selwyn was some time closeted with the young girl. Coming out, Gwendoline was met in the hall by Mortimer.

"Pardon me," he said. "There is a cab at the door, waiting for you. Mrs. Selwyn and I could not be content to let you go any other way."

Gwendoline did not know what to say, and allowed herself to be handed in.

Mr. Selwyn presently found his way from the study to the drawing-room.

"I suppose I must not ask what the interview was about?" his wife said.

"It is easily told. Her father is to lose his situation at Midsummer; and—unless by a miracle—he and they will then be almost penniless." Mr. Selwyn spoke in a moved tone. "That poor child! If ever I saw heart-break in a girl's face—yet all the while so collected and womanly. Poor little Gwendoline!"

"But can nothing be done?"

"I have promised to inquire elsewhere for him—after other work. The matter does not look hopeful. Something may be found, no doubt. The difficulty is to find any opening for a man of his age which will bring in enough to support such a family."

"Can't you give them some money?"

"A fifty-pound cheque would not go far towards keeping twelve people in comfort for a quarter of a year."

Isobel thought of her last dressmaker's bill with a twinge of conscience.

"Fifty pounds!" she repeated. "It is perfectly appalling."

The man-servant reappeared, and gave Mr. Selwyn a telegram. "Do you know where Mr. Mortimer is?" Mr. Selwyn asked, opening it.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Mortimer went upon the coach-box, to see the young lady safe home. He also said he had some one to call upon in that direction."

Mr. Selwyn's face wore a dubious expression. "Humph!" he muttered, when the man was gone. "Rather unnecessary philanthropy."

"Who is that from?"

"Lady Halcot again. She desires an interview immediately. I can't possibly go for three or four days."

"Lady Halcot seems to think you have nothing to do but to wait upon her," said Isobel.

Meanwhile Gwendoline, driving homewards alone in her cab, had time for the indulgence of sad thoughts and weariness. She was heavy at heart, and her interview with Mr. Selwyn had scarcely lightened the weight. He had not spoken in a sanguine tone about finding employment for her father, and the future looked very dark.

At the end of the street where she lived the cab halted. Certain road-repairs made it impossible to proceed farther.

Gwendoline was astonished to see a cloaked figure alight and come with limping step to the window.

"Miss Halcombe, shall we drive to the other end of the road—I suppose that will be open—or will you alight here?"

"Here, if you please; it is not far," she answered; and then she said, "Mr. Selwyn!"

"Excuse the liberty I have taken. There is a sick person in this neighbourhood whom I wish to see, and I thought I might venture to utilize your coach-box."

Gwendoline descended and paused. "A sick person—at this time of night?"

"An old man, past eighty. He is bedridden, and suffers much from sleeplessness, and likes late visitors."

"But were you really going to-night? Is that your reason?"

"No," he said, smiling. "I was not going, but I have come—and it is true that I wished to see the old man. Also, I wished to see you safely home."

"The cabman?" said Gwendoline, turning.

"I have not done with him yet. It will be all right."

"Don't come any farther, please. Good-night," said Gwendoline.

"I should like to see you to your door,—but I can walk behind, if you like."

"Oh no, no!—Nonsense!" said Gwendoline hurriedly, breaking into a laugh, which was almost a sob. "You are very kind—only I don't think it is right that you should have the trouble."

Mortimer made no answer to this. They crossed the road together, and he said quietly, after a slight break, "There are some days in which it is difficult to see the light behind the cloud."

"I can't see any light at all to-day," said Gwendoline sadly.

"And yet it is there."

"I can't see it," repeated Gwendoline.

"I saw from your face that you were in trouble,—'walking in darkness,' perhaps, and 'having no light.' Then, Miss Halcombe, 'let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God.'"

"Could you do that if everything were being taken away from you?" asked Gwendoline bitterly.

Mortimer's manner changed, and his voice grew strangely humble. "I dare not say," he answered. "If God gave me grace—yes—not otherwise. It has not been God's will to try me thus. How easy for me in my circumstances to look on and tell another to trust! And yet—I too have known times of darkness and pain, and I have proved the loving faithfulness of my God. Surely I have a right to speak without presumption. Miss Halcombe, His fatherly care will not come to an end. 'He will not fail thee nor forsake thee.'"

Gwendoline lifted her face, wet with tears, as they paused at the door of the house. "Thank you," she said tremulously. "Oh, thank you! I think I was forgetting. Honor has so often said the same. I know it is so, really. But it isn't easy always to feel sure. Good-bye."