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Hi.- p.;.. t mIIihis. .iikI tilt' inii.istry t»f tl-ir pMiii— tli.-.M- m-.v \ .'t 1.-' Ii.i.' \>>\i poitidM, iintuniMMitiui,' .-iii'l .liviiif. s.-iak-, •['.'.• \ >\- ili- I (-• tli;it ii'W 's : in»r, it in;i\ bi', v\illi 11. HIIOTMKU .\SU SIKI'KIl, , , 20 III. NKW ^AC'K.S, . , , , , .{J '.y. Ills KATIIKK's H(»MK, . , , -17 V. HKVc»Nh UKCALL, .... no VI. Ki;*illt..T AND IIOI'E, .... 70 > II • HIS I.ITTI.K LA.S.S,' .... 8.') VIII. TIIK ClUATK IN CIIAROK, 10(» IX. KIUKMIS, . . . . » iir> X. A Wo.MANS UKRITAOE, . . . . 127 XI. A KKVKLATIOS, . . . . , 1.3!» XII. A (iKNTLK IIKART, .... i.".:j XIII. A Woman scorned, . . , , . h;.') VIV. A Mo.MKNT()rs HOUR, . , , 176 .\v. ' OP HIS KINGDOM,' .... IS!) XVI. CHANOK, • . . , , 201 XVII. FAREWELL, ..... 212 XVIII IN DARK PLACES, .... 222 XIX. DAWN, • . . . , 2.34 XX. A YEARNING HEART, 246 XXI. THE STING OF REMORSE, 256 XXII. THE SAD PAST, .... 272 XXIII. LOVE CONQUERS ALL, . , , 287 XXIV. SUNRISE, ..... 302 Ill ) I! I l! I ■U A CHAPTER L A STRANGE BEHEST. ' They say that love, like death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the sceptre ' BuLwsR Ltttov. OU are about to begin a new life, Denis. After to-morrow you will know nothing of this place. It must be as a dream to you. Only if you should ever be in need you may recall Hanbury Lane, and know there is help for you here at any and all times, so long as I am alive.* The above strange speech was spoken by a mother to her son, whom she most passionately loved, who was the idol of her heart, the object upon whom every hope was centred, in whom the ambition of a life expected to have fulfilment. The place in which these words were uttered was a dingy living-room at the back of a small provision shop in Hanbury Lane, a poor, squalid, and even disreputable thoroughfare in the neigh- bourhood of London Tower. In that low, dimly- lighted place it would have been difficult to define 1 ' tj m I: if n 5i n ■ii if ■I Ms I If I i |i' tf : 1 ,i 10 BRIAR AND PALM, the hour. It had one narrow window looking out into a square stone court, totally hemmed in by the five -storey walls of those tenements which shelter so many hundreds of families In the quarters of the poor. It was one of the early days of June, such a day as becomes a wonder of loveliness and light in country places, but in crowded cities a day of heat and languor and insufferable weariness. The atmosphere of the little room behind the provision shop wao close and hot, but not evil -smelling, because there was no unclean thing in the whole domain. The furnishings, if extremely plain and simple, were kept with a scrupulous regard to cleanlinesa There was even an air of refinement and taste in the disposal of these poor articles, which indicated that the occupants of that humble home must have at one time known what is commonly called * better days.' A tin)'' bed-closet opened off one side of the room, while at the other a door, the upper panels of glass hung with a neat muslin curtain, opened into the shop. It also was scrupulously clean, and well stocked with articles of that quality and price usually sought by the patrons of such an emporium. The old moth-eaten counter, through much scrubbing, had assumed a yellowish hue, the copper scales and brass weights shone like gold, each article was arranged in its place with tidiness and care. It was a pleasant, wholesome place, an oasii:, indeed in the desert of Ilanbury Lane. J her A STRANGE BEHEST, II dng out (1 in by s which In the be early- wonder , but in uor and of the ^^aG close be re was n. The )le, were janlinesa md taste s, which ble home ommonly e of the er panels , opened y clean, ality and such an through sh hue, one like ace with holesome Ilanbury I n On a low wooden chair behind the counter sat a young girl knitting a sock. She was only seventeen, but looked much older. Her grave face in its repose might have been taken for that of a woman of thirty. The expression was not that of a young girl. It was anxious, brooding, and at times not pleasant, varying of course with the thoughts which chased each other through her brain. Rhoda Iloloate was a thinker. She cai lied it in her deep, Hashing eyes ; it was written ill those lines too early planted on her broad brow. It was not a pretty face, but striking in its w ay ; and her eyes were magnificent, capable of immeasurable li(|uid depths of tenderness, yet their jirevailing expression was one of sullen, half-veiled rehellicni. Her dress, a coarse, plain, cheap, black thing, ill-fitting and roughly made, hung about the half-formed figure with a certain rugged grace. Iter tawny hair, carelessly dressed, coiled in a loose knot behind, made no unbecoming frame to her face. While the girl's fingers were busy, her head was often turned towards the glass door which gave admittance to the inner room. It was then that her eyes showed active rebellion. She could not distinguish the words being uttered by those within, but it was as if the very sound of their voices irritated her. Sometimes she bit her lips, and once the colour swept, hot, strong, and angry, across her pale grey face. Rhoda Holgate had none of that lu'illiant colour characteristic of a fair skin and auburn hair. Her complexion was as colourless as her life. ,11 ■.il (I 4 i M' «4 BRIAR AND PALM. \ I '- 11: iiil l!il, I ! Tell me, Denis, are you full}^ equipped for the work you enter upon to-morrow ? ' * So far as graduation honours can equip a man for the serious business of mudical work,' returned the young man. ' I have experience to gain yet.' ' Of course, but you have lacked for nothing. You have had every advantage in your studies^ have you not ? ' * Yes, every advantage.' * Then it is your turn now to do something for me. If you are not as anil)itious for yourself as I am for you, I shall be disappointed in you, Denis.' The voun2 man was silent for a moment. * May I ask you something, mother ? ' he said at length. 'What thing?' ' Why have you made such sacrifices to give me so much ? Why has so great a difference been made between Rhoda and me ? It has long puzzled me.' * You shall know now. I have a story to tell you, Denis. I have given you a gentleman's education, because you are a gentleman's son. Are you curious to hear the story I have to tell ? ' Denis Holgate did not at once reply. The thought was suddenly forced upon him that there might be a slur upon his birth, of which he had better remain in ignorance. He scarcely remem- bered his father ; he understood that his mother had been early widowed, and he knew she had had a hare to i ahv anyt he c j instj a sli< tiling dwel last t band comf( less 1 edge and \^ upon romar 'Fa sea, tl hande tion ; Many there i eldest was a make ] is som which thougl: made : the th: A STRANGE BEHEST, IS for the quip a work,' euce to nothing, studies^ hing for arself as in you, e said at give me ice been [as long to tell Itleman's In's son. tell ? ' . The Ut there he had remem- mt)ther lad had a hard struggle for existence. But he had not dared to ask any questions concerning her past ; she had always repelled any desire on his part to learn anything concerning his father, wisely or unwisely he could not tell. The keen eyes of Anne Holgate instantly divined her son's unspoken thought, and a slight smile touched her grave mouth into some- tliing of the Ijeauty of long ago. Few smiles had dwelt upon the face of Anne Holgate during the last tw^enty years. Her sun had set with her hus- band's death, and even her children, the abiding comfort of many a widowed heart, had been power- less to fill that worshipped place, or to take the edge off that irreparable loss. * I shall tell you a story, Denis,' she said dicamily, and with a touch of that rare smile still lingering upon her lips,— 'r, story which will sound like a romance, but which you will know is true. * Far away from here, in a county near to the sea, there is a fine old property, a family heritage handed down with pride from generation to genera- tion ; its name is St. Cyrus — St. Cyrus Abbey. Many years ago, before you were born, there lived there a widowed mother with her three sons. The eldest of the three, heir to the title and the estate, was a hard, selfish, overbearing man, who did not make life pleasant for his younger brothers. There is something grievously wrong, Denis, in the law which gives all to one and nothing to the others, though they are children of the same parent. It made many a bitter quarrel in St. Cyrus. When the three grew to manhood, the youngest brother, til t i ,'u X \ H 1 I'll M r ii iVi i6 BjR/ar and palm. 1 m m a hot-hearted, high-spirited youth, unable to bear his brother's petty tyranny, left St. Cyrus and went abroad, where he had obtained a good Government appointment. He married there, I believe, but I know nothing more of him. The second son was of delicate constitution, and, as is often the case, carried with it a keen and sensitive nature, peculiarly susceptible to every slight and injury. He was a student, a lover of books and art and music, and, as he spent his time chiefly indoors, he did not come much in contact with his elder brother. He was his mother's favourite, and it was understood that her fortune was to be his. She would, I believe, have laid down her life for him, yet she did not sympathize with his studioua tastes, and was impatient even of his delicate health, constantly urging him to join in his brother's sports and become a man like him. * Manly she called him : the younger son was the true gentleman ; the other, a handsome, cowardly tyrant. There could be no comparison between them. The name of the family was Holgate. The younger son was your father, Denis. I was his mothers maid.' Denis Holgate sprang to his feet in the intensity of his excited surprise. All trace of calm in- difierence had fled. He hung in eager expectation, still touched with dread, on his mother's next words. * His mother's maid ! ' she repeated, with a slow, proud smile; *a creature ineff'ably beneath considera- tion, a mere machine, a thing paid to do menial A STRANGE BEHEST n \ to bear and went ^ernment ^e, but I [ son was the case, \ nature, id injury. 1 art and idoors, he his elder ;e, and it ;o be his. 3r life for 3 studious s delicate s brother's m was the cowardly between Holgate. I was intensity calm in- tpectation, ier*s next bh a slow, Iconsidera- Lo menial oflPces for my lady ; yet who rose high enough to be enshrined in the heart of her best loved son who lived to become his dear and honoured wife.' She drew herself up, a quiet triumph sat upon her sad, proud face. * I do not know that I can tell you how it came about, Denis,' she continued after a pause. *Your father, not being trong, was much in the house, and I, Lady Holgate's trusted maid, was much with her, and was sometimes required to do little things for him. He used to talk to me so kindly, Denis, for he had a noble, good heart ; his words used to make mine fill, for I was an orphan, without a living being in the world to care whether I lived or died. It was my lady's charity which took me from the Union at Ainsborough and placed me in St. Cyrus. * They said I had a beauty beyond my station. Sir Fulke used to tell me so in a way which made my blood boil. But his brother was always kind and respectful as he might have been to any one of his mother's guests. I was grateful for it, and being grateful I became interested in him and everything concerning him. I used to steal down to the library after the household was asleep, and bring up his books to my room, where I pored over them, and tried to understand them and to learn something from them. In that way I picked up a little knowledge, though why I should desire it I did not know. By slow degrees a kind of sympathy and friendship sprang up between us two, — a friend- ship which could only have one ending foy me, 1 B ,1'' n I: J.- i»..i \ \\ ' • 1 t8 BRIAR AND PALM. li , F 1 Hi learned to worship the very ground on which ho trod. But I never dreamed that he would lift his thoughts to me in the way of love, hu* ^'e did ; he asked me openly and honourably t j his wife. If I were to attempt to describe Lady llolgate's state of mind when this was made known to her, — for there was no concealment, — I should fail. She was like a mad woman in her fury. She turned me out of the house with what ignominy I do not care to recall. I was willing to go, willing to give him u|». I knew it to he true what slie said, that I should ruin his life-, and I loved him so well, Denis, that I could give him up. But he would not. He made his choice. He took me, Denis, he nade me his wife, and gave up the whole world for me.' She paused here, wholly overcome by the sweet memory of that precious past. Denis Holgat(! looked on in silence full of wonder. He could scarce believe that this passionate woman, her face glorified with the light of a bygone happiness, could be the mother whom he had never known to lose her self-control. Amazement at the transformation somewhat dimmed his interest at first in the tale she was unfolding to him. * We were married,' she said after that brief pause, ' and came to London. Needless to say, all ccjmuiunication was at an end at once and for ever between us and St. Cyrus. My husband ho])ed to be able, with such connections as he had, to earn a living by literary work, as a journalist if ])ossible. But he was not strong, and his style was to<» A STRANGE BEHEST. »9 ^hich ho I lift his (lid ; he [lis wife, lolgate's to her, — lil. She e turned I do not y to give said, that so well, he would Denis, he ole world he sweet Holgat(i ie could her face ess, could ^n to lose formation the tale lat brief say, all 1 for ever i ho])ed to to earn a ])0ssible. was to<^ pnliflhed and refined, it was above the ordinary level of journalistic work. lie did not succeed, iiid before a year went by I knew that we had niiide a mistake. Not that we were disappointed ill each other, — God knows none could be haj)pier I !i;in we, — but the step we had taken with imprudent liiiste and without any regard for the future. My liiisKand was unfit to fight a hard battle. I did what I could, but we sank step by step, until we were lost in the wilderness of London. In this room, Denis, your father died when you were six years old and your sister an infant in' arms. Is th.'tt a pleasant thought, Denis, a Holgate of St. Cyrus to die in this hovel, and through me ? Yet I loved him ; ay, too well.* She covered her face with her thin hands, and for a time there was unbroken silence in the room. 1 I r ! f I'i. i .' i » iii CHAPTER II. BROTHER AND SISTER. !*■ Ill'iP!^' * Human profit, earthly praise, Thou didst set before my gaze, As the beacon stars of Hfe, As the meed of toil and strife.' Jewsburt. E died/ repeated Anne Holgate, breaking the long silence at length, and once more looking with calm, clear eyes upon the face of her son. * And I lived, how or why I do not know. It was a long time before I could rouse myself even to take interest in you and Rhoda. At last I fancied I saw in you a resemblance to your father, and my heart began to cleave to you, as it had cleaved to him. I told myself that you were a Holgate, and that your father "/ould wish you to be reared like a gentleman. You were his only son, his representa- tive, and there was a possibility that one day you might be required to mingle with his people, that the law would demand it. There was even a pos- sibility that St. Cyrus might be yours. I told myself that I must see to it that when that day so I •I (•flllillf BROTHER AND SISTER. fi JsWSBUItT. I, breaking once more upon the d, how or |me before terest in |aw in you art began to him. I, and that ■ed like a epresenta- |e day you lople, that |ven a pos- I told that day came, if it ever did, you might bo able to appear before them without shame, and that they would not need to blush for you. To do that h.is been a fearful struggle for me ; I will not hide it from you. There have been times when my heart has failed me ; but new courage came, and so I have been able to carry you through. Had it been possible, I should have sent you away from this vile place ; I should have cut you oft' in your child- hood from such surroundings as these. But that I could not do without incurring debt, which I would not do, even for you. Tell me once more, Denis, have you lacked anything? Have you Inot been able to hold up your head among your fellows ? Have you not always had money in your pocket to pay your way and more ? ' * I have,' answered the young man in a low voice ; ' but I did not know at what cost.' *I have told you, Denis, in order that you may know what a thing it is for me that you should succeed. Hitherto you have satisfied me com- pletely. Had you been a laggard or an idler in your work, I could not have borne it. I have more to say. I expect more yet. You must let your ambition have no limits. Only when you rise to the height of your profession shall I be satisfied.' The young man's eye kindled. His spirit was touched with her enthusiasm. * 1 have something yet to tell you, something which will surprise you yet more,' she continued. ' 1 want to prepare you for every contingency. i\ m 1 1 i •.' m 1 ', '•% \i as BRIAR AND PALM, 1' % 11 Mi Hi i [lit i :li!,. f; iill: This place to which you are going, Waveney, is only five miles from St. Cyrus Abbey, your father's early home. You may go there, however, and nothing come of it ; only you will learn the state of affairs there. I am in absolute ignorance whether Lady Holgate is dead or alive. You must be very wary ; you must walk cautiously, and before you reveal yoursell' to them, if that should seem prudent or desirable, you must come first to me. Promise me that.' Denis Holgate was bewildered. Events seemed to be crowding thick and fast upon him. He could scarcely comprehend all that was being revealed to him. ' It may be that destiny has led you to Waveney, that the time is at hand for you to take your father's place in the world. You will see ; and, above all, you will be very wary. You will reveal yourself to none without first consulting me. I can trust you, Denis ? ' The look she cast upon him was half wistful, half commanding. She seemed anxious, as if what she asked was of momentous weight. * I shall do nothing without first consulting you, mother,' he assured her, when he could collect his thoughts. He began to pace up and down the narrow room restlessly, with an excited look on his face. Perhaps already he felt that it was not the place for him. * One other thing, and 1 have done. When you go into the world, you will meet with many fair young girls likely. As yet you have known none. BROTHER AND SISTER, n You are young, and may be susceptible. Never forget who you are ; a Holgate of St. Cyrus. But you must forget this place, as I have said, except when you may be in need of money or advice. There are some things in which I may be able to help you. I am giving you up, Denis, for your father's sake ; but if you marry otherwise than as a IIol<]:ate should, I shall never forgive you. You must never commit the terrible mistake your father made.' Denis Holgate made no reply, but continued his restless walking to and fro. As he passed the glass door, he happened to raise his head, and saw above the muslin screen the bead of his sister Rhoda. She was sitting behind the counter, but her work had fallen from her hands, her face was leaning on her hand. It wore a strange expression which struck Denis. A sense of the injustice which had been done to her came suddenly home to him ; and involuntarily found expression in the words, * Poor Rhoda ! ' They were spoken to himself, but his mother caught them. ' Why should you pity Rhoda ? ' she said sharply. * She can be nothing to you. I have purposely kept you apart. I did not wish you to become attached to each other, because I knew this must come. You and she will walk different ways, of course, but you need not pity her. She shall be well cared for. She is a clod like me, a daughter of the people. Little will satisfy her. She shall have food and clothing, and will wish no more.' Anne Holgate spoke with emphasis and passion, % I :ii ,.i % f I • ' . ,1 ! > * ■ 1 ; ■ ■ ■V •4 BRIAR AND PALM. n,i ! r ;t i Ml' ii Hi but there was a secret apprehension in her soul. Of late there had been an upheaving of the girl's nature. She had begun to question, even to rebel. It had indeed become almost imperative that Denis ehould leave home, so that the contrast, daily growing more marked, between the brother and sister might be removed from before the eyes of Rhoda. In childhood she had been made to give way in all things to her brother, and had obeyed through fear of her mother. But with years that fear had diminished, and a rebellious kicking against unjust law had come in its place. * You will be careful,' in your intercourse with the people you will meet in your new sphere, not to allude to your upbringing,* resumed Mrs. Hol- gate, having disposed of Rhoda. * Were it to be known where you have been reared, it would be an insuperable barrier in the way of your success. It is a despicable, degrading pride which rules the world, as I have bitterly proved, but it is all- powerful, and must be pandered to. Are you listening to me, Denis ? * 'I am ; and I know that you are right,' he returned somewhat gloomily. He felt depressed by the conversation, which had given to him a morbid view of life. A one-sided view also; his mother spoke from her own harsh experience. The lovely and desirable things of life had not come much in her way ; perhaps it was not strange that she should have ceased to believe in their existence. *You have proved the truth of my words, then ? ' she said inquiringly. * I suppose, had you BROTHER AND SISTER. «5 mentioned where your home was to your fellow- students, they would have been surprised.' * Some of them would never have spoken to noi recognised me again. They are insufferable cads,' said Denis hotly, smarting still at the memory of certain snubs to which his ignorance of the world's ways had subjected him in his student life. * Oh, I know them well,' said his mother, with a significant nod. * Then you understand how it is to be. T^ere are to be no comings and goings between Waveney and Hanbury Lane. Unless you are in need of money or advice, as I said, you must not even write to me. Only once a year I should like to hear how you are succeeding, — once a year as long as I live.' Denis Holgate stood still in the middle of the room, and looked at his mother. His heart was touched as it had never yet been, his face wore a softened and beautiful expression. The magnitude of his mother's self-sacrifice stirred his innermost being. It showed a strength and even heroism such as he had never come in contact with. But something within him whispered that it was a mistaken heroism, that she was sacrificing herself to a false idea. The best impulses of his heart revolted against the thought of turning his back upon the woman who had made him what he was. Anne Holgate, while absolutely worshipping this boy, had purposely made herself unlovable to him. She had even repelled the affection which in his earlier years had gone out to her. Why? Because she had the future, this day, perpetually before (;!' ^'1 ir# i I 1 4 ,. : .X- ' it:: t. .' !'! 36 BRIAR AND PALM, I 11 I ill I Iff II f \ ill llii !h;!M|i. t \\\ iiii I tti' her, and wished him to cross the bridge between the old life and the new with the least possible pain to himself. Thus her self-abnegation was very complete, and in its way wholly pathetic and noble. She did not like that look, though it sent a warm thrill to her heart. She thought it showed a wavering, a slight indecision, and her eye grew stern. Before, however, anything further could be said, the glass door was impatiently thrown open, and Rhoda entered. Denis turned and looked at her, conscious of a vast and even a tender pity. He had never been nearer loving his sister than at that moment, though she had often jarred upon his sus(ieptibilities, which education had made finer than hers. They certainly presented a contrast, the gentlemanly young man and the poor, depressed, common-looking girl. But there was that in her face which his lacked, a splendid power. In a few years Rhoda Holgate would be either a noble and good woman, or the reverse. There could be r:o middle course for her. She was not an ordinary woman. But her brother detected nothing of such promise, though it was beginning dimly to dawn upon the mind of the mother. He was moved as he looked at her. He wps about to go forth into a world full of hope and high possibilities, but Hanbury Lane was the doom of Rhoda. The thousjht troubled Denis Holo^ate so much that he fel' uncomfortable in her presence. When she entered he took his hat and went through the shop an 1 out into the street. * Are ycu tired staying in the shop, Rhoda ? ' BROTHER AND SISTER, •7 her mother asked. ' Surely you have had few customers this afternoon ? ' * I have had enough,' Rhoda answered abruptly. ' It is tea-time. Why has Denis gone out ? ' * I don't know. lie comes and goes as he pleases. We have no right to question him. Get tea, then, and I shall stay in the shop.' Rhoda sat down on the hearth and fixed her eyes on the fire. Her mother felt irritated, think- ing she was sulking. She was seldom just, never indulgent to Rhoda. But she was not conscious of her own harshness. * Get tea when I tell you, Rhoda, and don't sulk,* she said sharply. * What moods have taken you of late ? You used to be a handy, useful girl to me ; u hat is wrong now ? ' Mrs. Hulgute was very uneasy concerning Rhoda. She did not like her moods, her restlessness, her (M(!asional bursts of passion. She would have [(referred her to continue happy, good-natured, contented as of yore, pleased with a new frock or a day's outing. This change boded ill for the success or peace of the future she had mapped out for Rhoda. Anne Holoate was about to be taught that the ])ower to order the lives of others could not be permitted her. It is a lesson many human heings have to learn ; it is good for us to be reminded occasionally of our own impotence. ' Denis is going away to-morrow, mother,' said lihoda presently, ignoring the questions which had heen [>ut to her. ' Where is he going?' ' That need not concern you/ was the cold, curt j - '1 .1 ; I \' y 1,1,. I ■ \ ' 'It jf j ' m J flS BRIAR AND PALM. ,""ii .,,,ii. answer. * He is going where neither you nor I can follow him. We can have no part in his life.' ' Why not ? ' * Because he is a gentleman. He will be above us. He must move in a different sphere.' * A gentleman ! But he has lived here. He belongs to us. I am his sister, and will always be, however high he may go,' said Rhoda, with a certain slow satisfaction which irritated her mother afresh. ' He will soon foro;et that, and rioht and fit that he should. We are not his equals. What do we know in comparison with him ? ' ' He belongs to us,' repeated Rhoda. ' I shall not forget that I am his sister, nor shall he, though he may try.' ' What do you mean, girl ? ' * What I say.' Rhoda lifted her largi*, calm eyes to her mother's face. ' I want to know now why so much has been given to him and nothing to me. Is it because he is a man and 1 am % woman ? There is a difference between the two in the world, I know, but not so great, I think, as that you have made between him and me. I ha^^e looked about everywhere, and I see no brother and sister brought up as w^e have been. Most share alike. Why did not we ? ' Mrs. Holgate turned to the shop door. She would not condescend to any explanations with Rhoda. She was only a girl, to be treated as a child. Such was the mother's mistaken thought. * Don't trouble your head with such things, BROTHER AND SISTER. S9 Rliorla, like a good gin. Get tea now, and if ymi l)ehave you shall have a new dress next wtcl . she said, and, entering the shop, closeil the i;l;iss door. Rhoda gathered herself up with a slow, l>itt<'i- smile, and set on the kettle. Her toiimi*' w.is silenced, but her heart was in active relu'llioii. ( )'\ late questions had arisen in her mind dtniiiii'iiii'j,- satisfactory answers. Rhoda, too, was awaken iiii;. She was beginning to think, to ponder even on the problems of life. She was not made ha[)pier there- by. The child was gone, the woman, with a yearning, troubled heart, stood ujion a j)erih)iis brink. She had need just then of some wise, loving, guiding hand. The voice of experieiu^e and of love might have stilled her question i n l!,s ; without it, and pondering things in her own nndis- ci[)lined heart, it was inevitable that she shouhl arrive at conclusions which were wholly wrong. Denis did not come back to tea. Mother and daughter partook of the unsociable meal in silence together, with the shop door ajar, so tliat no customer or thief could enter unobserved. Airs. Plolgate had suffered severely from the pilfering tendencies which prevailed in Hanbury Lane, and had learned, through hard experience, to keej) a strict watch on her goods and chatrels. ' I am going out this evening, mother,' Khoda said, as they rose from the table. * Where ? I do not like you to go prowling about the streets alone. It is not good nor safe for a young girl.' i 11 ! ■hi 'J ' 4 ': f '1,1 It 30 BRIAR AND PALM. * 1 don't prowl, I walk,' Rhoda answered sul- lenly. 'Why is it not safe ? Nobody ever meddles with me/ * Denis does not like it. lie prefers that you should stay indoors,' said Mrs. Ilolgate. Khoda's blue eyes flashed. * I will go just because he does not like it I * she said rebelliously. * Why should he meddle with me ? Do I trouble him ? If I may not question what he does, he has no right with me.' So saying, Rhoda flung a little faded shawl about her shoulders, tied on her hat, and walked out of doors. Her mother followed her to the shop door, and watched her go with a perplexed expression on her face. The girl troubled her ; but she allowed her to go without further remonstrance. She was wholly engrossed with Denis to-night, but to-mor- row he would be gone, and she would have time to deal with Rhoda. It was a lovely evening, the close of a choice summer day. But in Hanbury Lane the air was stifling and evil-smelling. A sense of oppression, both physical and mental, stole upon Rhoda Hol- gate as she threaded her way through the narrow street. She had set out in haste, but soon slack- ened her pace, and looked about her with her usual compassionate interest. More than once she stopped to speak to some miserable creature, or to pat a ragged urchin on the head as he played among the refuse in the gutter. Rhoda was a favourite with the people in Hanbury Lane, because she did not hold herself aloof from them. She was (i it ^.-^^^ \'U n .1 4, ,1 I : . I '■.I I h HANBURV LANE Ml] .,1 1 ' '»' 'fill * an always she rel walk, with I Holgjit would Rhoda had nc to her upon li outlet ] The gir trained mould been a v/reteh( years t Why si had bee blamed The ric] side of She res ground own g] Rh(Kla <*ould a Jiiai'tyrs htrgely large c iss;ued : devoure BROTHER AND SISTER, S> always willing to help. Many a tired mother had she relieved by carrying her children off for w h>iig walk. Many an hour had Klioda paced the streets with a ragged, sickly baby in her arms. Mrs. Holgate knew nothing of these good deeds. She woukl have forbidden them had she known ; but Rhoda kei)t her own counsel in many things. She had never been encouraued to give her confidence to her mother. All her life she had been cast back upon herself, with no channel for her affections, no outlet for the niauy longings which possessed her. The girl had an earnest soul, which might have been trained to fine issues. But she had been left to mould it as she liked. Hanbury Lane had long been a problem 'to Rhoda. She had known its wretchedness all her life, but it was only of late years that she had begun to try to understand it. Why should these things be ? was a question Rhoda had been long asking : and, being ignorant, she had blamed the innocent for the wrongs of the poor. The rich, who lived in the great world at the other side of the city, Rhoda hated with a mortal hatred. She regarded them as unscrupulous oppressors, who ground the faces of the poor in order that their own greed and selfishness might be gratified. Ivlioda never dreamed that any blame whatsoever could attach to the poor themselves. They were iiiaityrs in her eyes. Her views had been taken largely from books and pamphlets which had a large circulation in Hanbury Lane, and which i^^ued from the socialistic press. These Rhoda 3 devoured, necessarily in secret, and, not being able . ! ti ! iJ 35 BRIAR AND PALM. tn (liscriminato iM'twt'cii truth and falsohoofl, she accc|)tc(l all thoso exaggo rated Htatomonts as truth. Ft was pcruifioiM reading for a y>ung, liot-hcadod, inn)ulsivc girl. It excited her, and filled her with hurnini^ indi<'nation. All this went on undreamed of by her mothc'*, who had unconsciously added substantial weight to the arguments IJhnda was accustomed to have set before her in her literature. In her own home and family life, Anne Ilolgate had given a striking example of the distinction between class and class. She had drawn a hai'd and fast line between her two children ; and her conduct had taken a deep hold upon the heart of Rlioda. She brooded over it by day, and dreamed of it by night. She thought of it that June evening as she took her way through the lal)yrinth which lay be- tween Hanbury Lane and the West End. Rhoda spent many an hour wandering through the streets, and in the summer evenings she often went to the Park, and watched the riders in tut; Row and the fashionable throng on the promenade with a strange bitterness in her soul, contrasting the purple and fine linen of Belgravia with the raij^s and tatters of Hanbury Lane. It was about seven o'clock when she crossed the Park and took up a place close to the railing separating the Row from the promenade. She was only one of many, and no one paid any heed to her, nor guessed what was passing in her mind. While she was standing thus, a pair came cantering gaily up the Row, apparently engrossed with each other. They were both young, and the lady so dazzlingly fair that in spite of her- BROTHER AND SISTER, 33 self Rhodn l()()k(' ' > tJ; to a human being. The children under her care rendered her implicit obedience and respect, but they feared her. She had never been kiK^wn to deal lightly with any offender ; the discipline of Waveney school was perfect. Though it was evening, her school work was not over. She was preparing whitc-seam for the sewiiijr class, and it was pleasant to watch how deftly and skilfully her white fingers did their work. Every- thing Lydia Bolsover did w^as ^ell done, and seemed to cost her no effort. * Mrs. Dacre was in school this afternoon, mamma,' she said presently, without lifting !:<•! eyes from her work. *Was she? That is nothing new. But I nm say I think it queer that she should never \\\\ \ . called here. My husband's profession was as oi as Doctor Dacre's any day; anyway she mi have come, seeing I'm such a good customer t<> husband. And look how kind and friendly M Wagram is I Why, she thinks nothing of sittn two whole hours here of an afternoon. TIjijv isn't any pride about her.' *0r you don't see it,' said Lydia, with a little curl of her straight upper lip. *Mrs. WagT-am comes here and talks to you as she would talk to Sally Phillips, her cook's mother. For pride there isn't much to choose between the two. They make me sick when they come into school ; but I'm their match, and they know it. They hate me, but so long as I do my work faithfully they can't hurt me, so I have the best of it.' i(i' I \\ I NEW FACES, 39 e it :o of ot rv- 111' -' Ml [ttii iCfVMW Llk to there make It I'm |e me, can't * Dear me, Lyddy, how you talk ! I'm sure you exaggerate ; Mrs. Wagram admires you very much.' * About as much as I admire her ! ' said Lydia, biting her thread through with unnecessary vehe- mence. * I wish you wouldn't say Lyddy, mother. I can't bear to hear it.' * You're always finding fault with me, Lydia,' said Mrs. Bolsover, making a violent efibrt to jerk out the name correctly. * I know I'm a burden on you, but it won't be for long.' * Mrs. Dacre had an errand this afternoon, mamma,' said Lydia serenely, ignoring her mother's speeck ' The doctor's new assistant has come.' * Well, what of that ? I hope she didn't call to say he'd attend me in future, because I won't have him, Lyddy I ' exclaimed Mrs. Bolsover excitedly. * Although I'm reduced, I won't let myself into the hands of one o' them raw lads from the hospital. I've more respect for my body.' * I wish you wouldn't be so idiotic, mamma,' said Lydia quickly. * You might let me finish what I have to say. She wants to know if we can have him to lodge here.' * Lodge here ! and have him going out and in at all hours, leaving the front door open in the nighb-icime, and all sorts of poor creatures finding their way in. Not likely. I hope you said no at once.' * I didn't, but I will to-morrow when I see Mrs. Dacre ; or I can write a note and send Patty over with it to-night.' * Why can't they have him at the Dovecot, as : \ I f H i'll I 111 H fl' ,ii ,ii !.■ il ■A \\ ■ ' i 40 BRIAR AND PALM. i \ they've always had ? I never heard of a doctor's assistant living out of the house before.' ' There are too many little babies ; the servants are slaved nearly to death already,' said Lydia, curling her lip again. ' I should think the assistants would approve of the new arrangement. I'm told they don't have it all their own way. The vittles is skimp, as Patty would say.' * Do you say so ? and her always hanging in silks and velvets,' said Mrs. Bolsover quite vivaciously. She dearly loved a bit of gossip, and Lydia did not often purvey for her. ' Well, Lyddy, even in my hardest times, when your poor father was struggling up, I never took it out of my inside to put it on my outside ; I was above that.' * We sometimes hadn't much either for inside or outside,' retorted Lydia, who ahvays recalled the stern reality of the past as a foil to her mother's sentimental recollections. * What would he pay suppose we were to take him in ? ' asked Mrs. Bolsover. ' I didn't ask. But as I thought you were set upon a lodger, mother, 1 said to Mrs. Dacre she might tell the assistant to call to-nio[ht.' ' Call ! Then I must have another cap on. Why, he might come in at any minute, and me such a guy. ' Don't trouble ; very likely he won't look at you except in the light of a landlady who may or may not make capital out of him. Lie down and let us talk of it. Do you suppose Patty is able to undertake any extra work ? It must be under- J^TEW FACES, 4« stood that she and not I would require to clean the lodger's boots and wash his tea-cups.' ' Patty's a big strong girl ; there's nothing to hinder her doing for him. And if he'd pay the matter of a sovereign a week, Lyddy, it wouldn't be to be despised.' * No, we should be the better for it. Doctor Dacre's bills are heavy enough. It takes my salary to make ends meet ; there's nothing left over. I have been thinking of late, mamma, that something would need to be done.' 'Then, if he comes, you'll say you'll take him.' * You will. I am not to be his landlady.' * But the house is yours, Lyddy.' *But you are the mistress. You must make arrangements with Doctor Holgate.' ' Holgate I is that his name ? I wonder if he's any relation of the Holgates of St. Cyrus ; you know the Abbey on this side of Ainsborough. My grandmother was housekeeper there for over forty years.' * Not likely ; and, mamma, don't you, I beseech you, go informing Doctor Holgate of all the relations you had who served in great families. It won't improve my position in Waveney to have it known that your grandmother was a housekeeper at St. Cyrus.' * Who said I'd say anything to the young man ? ' said Mrs. Bolsover weakly. ' I must say you catch me up too quick, Lyddy. You are very hard on your poor mother. You're too like your poor 4. 4 :,i*.J 4a BRIAR AND PALM, ii^^ n : father in that. You'll never get a husband if you snap at young men the way you do at me. Tliey like to be treated civil, as you'll find to your cost when you're a miserable old maid.' Lydia Bolsover smiled slightly, and, pausing in her work, looked through the open lattice up the long village street, with its sheltering lines of spreading lime trees clothed in all the beauty of early summer. As she looked, she pictured her future, a long, dreary, monotonous vista spent in teaching in the dull red brick school, and in eating her heart out for a fuller existence. Life con- tained no bright prospect for the schoolmistress of Waveney. 'There's a stranger coming down the street, mother, — a young man, — and he's making for our gate. It must be Doctor Holgate,' she said quickly, and then serenely resumed her sewing, amused at the flutter the intelligence caused her mother. Miss Bolsover's self-possession was very perfect. Presently Patty, a soft- faced, rather clumsy- looking girl, who had come from Ainsborough workhouse to the schoolhouse as a first place, awkwardly enough showed Doctor Holgate into the sitting-room. Miss Bolsover did not rise, only lifted her head and bowed gravely and distantly. Mrs. Bolsover fussily excused herself from rising, and begged him to be seated. * My name is Holgate,' said the stranger courte- ously, and with a slight backwardness of manner, I NEW FACES. 43 as if he found liinusclf in an unusual situation. *I am Doctor Dnrn '^ assistant. Mrs. Dacre has told me you were good enough to say I might call here to see whetlier you could accommodate me.' He addressed his remarks to Mrs. Bolsover, but looked at Lydia. It is possible that even in that first nioment he reioLinised in her the stronger nature, and took in the relations which existed between mother and daughter. Miss Bolsover ke})t her serene eyes fixed on the seam with which her white fingers were so busily employed, and appeared oblivious of the stranger and his errand, nevei'theless she did not miss a word. ' Well, I'm sure, Doctor Ilolgate, do sit down, please,' said jlrs. Bolsover fussily, delighted to have a new interest in her purposeless life. * I don't (juite know what to say al)out it. You see, though my daughter has to teach in the school now, we were (mce in different circumstances. Mr. Bolsover was a solic.-itor with a large practice in Ainsborough. But for his untimely death we should have been differently placed from what we are now. Wouldn't we, Lyddy « ' ' Doctor Ilolgate's time may be valuable, mamma. We need not inflict our family history upon him,' Lydia answerc'd, and Holgate saw her colour rise, lie wondered why he could not help regarding her with interest, she was so (juietly handsome, so serene, so ladylike in every particular. Holgate, as we are aware, had snudl experience of woman- kind ; it was thus far to be expected that he should ■ 1 i \ 'I -^: ■! !'!! ;i .11 \ I' .,1 1' ^ ■A.' h 1 ■■ -It ;|l 44 BRIAR AND PALM, admire Lydia Bolsover — others did who had seen many fair women. She was certainly not an ordinary-looking woman. A finer nature, or rather one which had had a difiorent fostering, would have felt something offensive in her manner when she spoke to her mother. It was not entirely respectful, but rather the manner she might adopt towards her scholars. Holgate, however, did not notice it at that time. *Well, I was just going to say, when you interrupted me, Lyddy, that we might make a stretch to accommodate you, just to oblige Doctor Dacre. I have a great respect for Doctor Dacre ; a most gentlemanly man. Doctor Holgate. I think you will find him that.' ' I am sure of it, ma'am,' said fiolgate, with a slight smile. * And Mrs. Dacre is very nice too in her way, but proud, very proud — money, you know, that's the secret,' said Mrs. Bolsover wisely, nodding her head several times. * But money isn't everything, as I say to Lyddy sometimes. Money won't make a gentleman.' * I quite agree with you, ma'am,' assented Holgate. * Well, as I was saying. Doctor Holgate, you'll find Waveney a very nice place, though I daresay dull enough for a young man. There's a good deal of stuckupness in it, as Lyddy could tell you. But I daresay you won't mind that when you have your work to attend to, and you'll always find — Well, Lyddy, what now ? ' liliii "11 NEW FACES. 45 ^liss Bolsover put down her sewing nnd liftc^l her largo, calm cye.s to Ilolgate's face. She was very much annoyed, hut there was no outw.irJ siatronizing ; he felt that it was condescension for her to entei- tain his propositi for a moment. * I have never lived in apartments^ Miss T^^olsovei-. hut I suppose I would require two rooms, jind, as to attention, I should give a:s little trouble as l)ossible. I hope you will take me in.' ' We have only one maid, and she is not at ail experienced ; but if you care to give us a trial, we shall do our best for you. We are anxious to let the rooms, because we need the money, Doctor Holgate. It is as well to let you understand that at once.' Holgate was at a loss wliat to say ; however, after some further talk, the matter was settled, and it w\as arrano-ed that he should brin«j his belongings to the cottage on the morrow. Then Miss Bolsover rang the bell for Patty to show the gentleman out. Mrs. Bolsover's hospitable ideas were shocked at this, I ! % i i;i' I.. ■if ■\\ 1 ■''■■ ■•J'! A i ■ [•I vir »! 46 BRIAR AND PALM. '■; * ! \ I ' li *Dcnr mo, TiV .''*' lia, CHAPTER IV. HIS father's home. '0 idle dreams, That fret my life away !' PJ^^yl^NIS TIOT.GATE was sitting by the fire in his own room at the schoolliouse on a winter's niglit. He had had a hnrd day's work out of doors, and was veiy tired, as his face betrayed. He was thinking, as he Silt there, of what? Seven months ago he had come to Waveney, to enter upon the first stage of his life-work ; and, looking back, what did he see ? It seemed years instead of months since he had left his home in the Tower Hamlets : and every l.iy he became less and loss inclined to think of it IS his home. He wondered now that he had so i"iig tolerated his early surroundings. They seemed ^Aiv'tched and even vile in comparison with those t the present. As was ])or]iaps natural, he often onipared the ladies with whom he came in con- tact with the mother and sister he had left in London. Sometimes he found himself contrasting llhoda with Doctor Dacre's sweet fair-haired eldest 47 I ' ' w » ! J , \ ■ir w !•> t»i 48 BRIAR AND PALM, (laughter, or with Lydia Bolsover. The result was the thought of Rhoda became repugnant to him. When he remembered her poor, mean, depressed appearance, he wished there was no tie between them. The new life, then, was plainly harder Ing Denis Holgate. He had got the length of feeling secretly ashamed of his nearest and dearest. He was popular in Waveney. Doctor Dacre, a good- natured, gentle-hearted man, found his new assistant so capable and energetic that he bestowed upon him many a hearty word of commendation. The poorer people adored him ; he was invited in a friendly way to the best houses in the neighbour- hood. Perhaps his fine appearance helped him greatly, enhanced as it was by a modest, quiet, unassuming manner, which commended itself to the sensible. Brt a secret conceit and pride of self \vere creeping in upon Denis Holgate, as perhaps was natural. He began to think well of himself, to feel that he was making a position, and his day-dreams grew very brilliant. He felt impatient of the dark background made by Han- bury Lane and its memories, he tried to forget it altogether. But, like all other shadows, it was obtrusive in its nature. Sometimes, when he was <^njoying himself at a social gathering in some fine house, a sudden picture of the little shop, with its smell of musty provisions, would rise vividly and unpleasantly before him, and he felt ashamed, not of himself, but of his past and all its connections. The loving self-sacrifice his mother had made for him began to lose the beauty and pathos which had l HIS FATHER'S HOME, 49 tonrhed him when it was first presented to him. ''''ie injustice done to Rhoda also faded away ; he iiikl think of her condition placidly in so far as it aii'ected herself. Hanbury Lane was fit enough for her. Doubtless had these things been set as plainly before him as I have set them down here, he would have been shocked, and would probably have indignantly denied that he ever entertained them. Nevertheless, they did exist, and visited him often in a stealtiiy, half-whispering kind of way. Unworthy thoughts are not bold just at first. Being unw^orthy, they sneak into place after the manner of sycophants and time-servers. Holgate did not fight as he might and ought to have done against these unworthy thoughts. Nay, he rather fostered and encouraged them, until he began to imagine himself wronged by that strange past of his. When he heard others speaking with pride and love of the homes w4iere they had been reared, he felt it hard that his mouth should have to be closed. He felt moved by a desire to go and see his father's early home, but as yet time and opportunity had been lacking for the fulfilment of that desire. He was thinking of his fine connec- tions at St. Cyrus, and indulging in pleasant castle- building, in which he and they w^ere the chief characters concerned, when a little knock came lo the door. ' Come in,' he said lazily, and yawning as he spoke. It was cold out of doors ; he hoped no call had come to summon him far abroad. When he looked round he saw Mrs. Bolsover s faded face in iii f '■ \ ■ • 1 1 Ill iin !«' iir lifift I'f ij I: 1 l|< 1' 50 £/i/AIi AND PALM. the doorway, her mauve ribbons fluttering airily about her as she advanced with her dancing step into the room. ' It's just me, Doctor Holgate. Lyddy's gone down to Ainsborough to see a friend ; she went by the three fifteen train, Patty has just brought in my tea, so I made boid to come and see if you'd drink a cup with me. Do ; I can': ' -ear to eat by myself, it's so lonesome.' * I shall be only too glad. I'm feeling uncom- monly lazy and sleepy, Mrs. Bolsover,' answered Holgate pleasantly. * Shall I come now ? ' * Yes, before the muffins is cold. Don't you notice an improvement in Patty's muffins lately, Doctor Holgate ? ' asked Mrs. Bolsover, as she led the way across the little hall to her own sitting- room. * That's Lyddy ; she's been superintending Patty this while.' ' Indeed ! it is very good of Miss Bolsover to take trouble with Patty. I have noticed an im- provement lately,' answered Holgate, as he took his seat by the cosy fire, quite unconscious of Mrs. Bolsover's keen scrutiny. The good lady had an object in inviting Holgate to a private tea-drink- ing in her daughter's absence. She wished to find out whether there was likely to be anything between the two. The courtship which she had so confidently expected had advanced very slowly. Indeed, it could hardly be said to have advanced at all. Lydia was very stiff and haughty in her behaviour towards the surgeon, while he seemed to be wholly engrossed with his work. The most Bol< peop; Dacrd he's i they even 'I of me have I llrs. LIl an k- had heed Imed HIS FATHERS HOME. 5» evil-disposed tongue in Waveney could find nothing in the life at the schoolhouse to hang a tale upon. Miss Bolsover was the personification of dignified discretion. * And how are you liking Waveney, Doctor Holgate ? ' asked Mrs. Bolsover, as she poured out the tea with rather an important air. She was feeling that the strain of Lydia's severe presence was removed. She could enjoy a real gossipy half- hour with the surgeon without fear of reproof * Oh, I like it fairly well. The people are very kind tome, notably yourself, Mrs. Bolsover.' * Oh, it isn't me, it's Lyddy. She sees after everything. She's so managing and clever — such a head. Doctor Holgate, just like her poor father's I Bolsover was a born lawyer ; so is Lyddy, only you see she's a woman,' said Mrs. Bolsover, laughing at her own smartness. * Don't you think I'm very well off, to have a girl like Lyddy ? ' * You are indeed,' answered the surgeon sincerely enough. He honestly admired and respected Lydia Bolsover ; had she been less reserved, that feeling might have ripened into something warmer. * Well, you're getting on in Waveney. There's I)eople that would rather have you than Doctor Da ere. Not that they've anything against him, — he's a gentlemanly man if ever there was one, — but they think you've greater ability. I have heard even Lyddy say so, and I guess she knows.' * I did not know Miss Bolsover thought so well of me,' said the surgeon, with a smile. * She will have nothing to say to me, as a rule.* \ 4li' i !' » I :11 ■■i^ in i li f. ^m s» JBJi/A/i AND PALM. n :iiil I' . -,■. * Oh, that's just her way, Doctor Hoi gate ! * ex- claimed Mrs. Bolsover, trembling with pleasurable excitement, for she felt that she had a great deal in her power. * I do assure you Lyddy likes — I mean, respects you very much. She was always that still, quiet kind of creature even when she was a little girl. Perhaps too much so, because she thinks I'm silly when I'm only saying what I think. As I say to her sometimes, everybody can't be like a tightly - corked barrel of ale, else the world '11 come to an end. But when Lyddy does speak, she speak3 to a purpose. She always means what she says.' * I am sure of that,' answered the surgeon rather absently, thinking of something else. * And you're liking Waveney, and Waveney i? liking you,' said Mrs. Bolsover, coniplacenth •Iropping another lump of sugar into her tea ' Have you ever been down at Ainsborough yet % * Not yet.' * Ah, well, there ain't much to see there. It's a dead-and-alive place — pretty enough in its wpy though. By the bye. Doctor Holgate, I have always been going to ask if you are a connection of the Holgates of the Abbey — St. Cyrus Abbey. That's a place now ! Have you ever seen it ? ' * No, I have never seen it. Is it very fine ? ' * Isn't it just fine and no mistake. It's what they call a show place. There's an old ruin in the grounds you can see quite well out of the drawing-room window. Why they let it stand I don't know ; it was al .vays a perfect eyesore to me ; tini( true you' unco fast ?bat In in the Ind 1 ine; BIS FATHER'S HOME, 53 but there it is, and the family are that proud of it, and that frightened any of the trippers damage it, that they havei always a keeper on the watch when there's picnics in the grounds.* * You have been there then, Mrs. Bolsover ? ' asked Holgate carelessly, though he was intensely interested. * There I I should say so ; why, my grand- mother was housekeeper there for over forty years. I was often at the Abbey when I was quite a little gel, and the old squire, Sir Fulke, used to notice me that kindly on account of my curls and my blue eyes, he said,' simpered Mrs. Bolsover. * I was often at it, too, when I grew up, though never of course after I was married to Mr. Bolsover, — of course my position was different then; but my sister Cicely was stillroom-maid, and was married at the Abbey to Sutton, who has a place of his own now, and doing well. They keep the " Boot and Shoe " at Crosshaven, and if you're ever that way, Dr. Holgate, and call in, you'll find a warm welcome from Cicely Sutton. A better-hearted creature never breathed ; though, of course, being married to Sutton, she never had my advantages, and has no refinement.' ' Who lives at St. Cyrus now ? * *01d Lady Holgate. She's a Tartar. If Td time, Dr. Holgate, I'd tell you better stories, and truer ones, too, than you ever read in a aovel. Go you're no connection ? We\l, the name is not that uncommon. And Sir Fulke, he isn't i^trong. It's fast living that has brought him down, for he waa ^..•?,... fill I , I'j 'V- fi 1 . 1 1 ill' i < . - . t I ; ; ) i ; 1 ' i 1 ' I 1 'm M , !♦ I ,! .(1 !^ hi I MO ; 1 i'^ ^^f 1 1 ' r j :\\ \ ! li Mi 1 \ il 54 BRIAR AND PALM, ii'iii If UiA'Mlltlf'ill lilip once a perfect giant. There were three brothers, you know, but they're both dead, and only Sir Fulke left/ * What became of the other two ? ' * The third one, Mr. Be vis Holgate, went abroad, to Bombay, I think, and married a young widow with a little girl. Both of them were drowned in a boat on a river there, and the poor little thing came home to the Abbey, though of course she hadn't any claim on her stepfather's relations.' * What became of the second brother ? ' * Ah, that was a sadder story still ! Mr. Denis — he was called after my lady his mother's Irish kinsfolk — was a favourite with everybody. You should hear Cicely talk of him ! She was still- room-maid at the Abbey when Mr. Denis fell in love with and married Anne Braithwaite, his mother's own maid. That was a turn-up and no mistake, Dr. Holgate. Cicely said Lady Holgate would never hold up her head again, and she never has. Not that she has ever relented her harsh treatment of Mr. Denis and his wife, who was a handsome and a good girl, for I knew her myself through Cicely living there.' * Then yor don't know what became of him ? * * Nobody does, except that he died away in some poor place in London. Whether he had any family or not nobody knows. If Sir Fulke were to die, it would need to be inquired into before St. Cyrus could go to any far-away folks.' Had Mrs. Bolsover been less absorbed in her own reminicoences of St. Cyrus, she must have in my to St. HIS FATHER'S HOME, 55 noticed a peculiar expression cross the face of Deiiis Holgate. It was an immense relief to him at that moment when Patty entered, saying there was a message come from Redacre, a little hamlet several miles distant, on the road to Ains- borough. * Now I call that aggravating!' said Mrs. Bolsover regretfully. ' Just when we were having such a fine chat. Redacre at this time of night ! Nobody can say you eat the bread of idleness, doctor.' ' No ; but I like my work, and have no inclina- tion to grumble,' said Holgate, with a smile. ' Good evening, Mrs. Bolsover. I assure you I have enjoyed my tea-drinking immensely.' ' I'm glad to hear it. But not a word to Lyddy, or she'll go on awful at me. She's that fussy and particular, you can't think. I'll tell her myself by degrees.' ' AH right ; honour bright,' said Holgate, laugh- ing, as he went to get on his riding-boots before going up to the stables. It was a fine, clear winter night, with a full moon high in the frosty sky and a flood of glorious light lying upon the earth. A splendid night for a ride, and Holgate felt his pulses tingle and the blood course swiftly through his veins, as he urged the cob to a brisk trot along the hard, clean high- way to Ainsborough. Mrs. Bolsover's gossip had awakened in him a new vein of thought, and had suggested to him a possibility of which he had never dreamed even in hi^^- wildest imaginings. If her statements were all true, then there was only t 1^1 1 . i ^1 hi i i ■ 11 1 1 I ,il ' ' 9 1 % 1 'if J ifl ^::r 1 i.l''l • H .:Vi„ ■ ■! \ .\ « • ■ li'l ii in ,i2: : ! if 'I 56 BRIAR AND PALM. an ailing man 1)ctween him and St. Cyrus ! It was a strange, wild, exciting thought, with wliich he felt himself almost entirely carried away. He was astonished when he came within sight of the low- lying, whitewashed cottages of Redacre, hardly realizing that he had already ridden more than four miles. By a strong effort he banished all distracting thoughts from his mind, and when he entered the house, where a woman was in sore need of his aid, he was again the calm, confident, self-reliant surgeon, who knew his work and did it well. A steady nerve and a wonderful coolness were characteristics of Holgate, and were the main elements of his success. He never allowed himself to be daunted or discouraged ; he did his work to the best of his ability, and expected good results. Thus any serious case which had been entrusted to him since his settlement in Waveney had been a complete success. His self-confidence carried him through where a man of more ability but less courage might have failed. He was detained about half an hour in the cottage, and when he was mounting his horse at the door he put a question to the woman's husband, who had been watching the animal. ' How far is it to St. Cyrus Abbey from here, Craddock ? ' ' A matter o' twa mile, sur, a mile an' a quarter to t' gates, an' then th' approach,' answered the man. ' There's a near cut to walk through them woods,' he said, pointing to the dark belt of trees on the other side of the meadow which skirted the my ride HIS FA THER'S HOME. 57 jre, rter tlie lem Irees tlie road. * That's th' way I guo to my work ; 'tain't more'n tiiree-(iiiartors.' 'Do you work at the Ahl)oy, Crachlock V ' Ay. Fin one o' th' woodmen ; an' my feyther wur afore me, an' his'n afore liim. We've alius served th' Abbey, sur.' * Good masters to serve, I suppose ? ' said Holgate carelessly. *Wur wonce, noan noo. Ivvrything's ground down. The way Sir Fulke's liackin' an' sellin' t' timber, sur, 's a disgrace to mortal mon. If it wur known wheer the heir wur it 'ud be stopped maybe. There'll be a cry after him, likely, when Sir Fulke dies, but then it'll be ower late. Ivvry- thing's turned into cash. The very vegetables is sent to Covent Garden, an' t' table at th' Abbey ain't what it wur. But I'm keepin' yo, sur ? ' *Not at all. I am sorry to hear such poor reports of the old place. It must be grieving to such as you, who have been about it so long.' * Ay is it ; tho' maybe I han't noan reet to com- plain, so Lang's I git my money regler. It all come, sur, of owd Sir Fulke marryin' that Irish wench — beggin' yor parding, sur, but ivvry won knaws th' owd un's a Tartar. There's noan good i' th' Irish, gentle or simple, a greedy, graspin', ill- conditioned lot.' ' Come, come, that's too sweeping an assertion, Craddock,' said the surgeon good - humouredly. ' But there, I must go. Good-night. Eemember my directions about your wife's medicines. I'll ride over in the morning.' 58 BRIAR AND PALM. And with (1 th .ii \ tf i!ii ifflnyi >ffllldl,i ii^ii witn a iiu Y l)et ore iiini II e saw tl le little slioM in Hani )ur 'y I ane th le ixMU'. 1) I ilain 1 ivni!^- rooin oc(nipied by his mother and Ulioda. He s(('!ned to see Ivhoda's dull face in its iVaine oi' aw iiy idi ous lair 1 it all h^ok mir ino( kiniih mt o his. Jl OW w IS lire ! Why could he not foi-i»et it!* \\ liy shouhl these i)ast phantoms (already Holgat«' had sejKirated them from all connection with hini- s.lf) rise u}) before him in the very moments of his • i:L»hest self-exultation? What link (-ould thei*e be between JIanbury Lane and St. Cyrus Abbe}' '. ly no e. As Jloloate rode towards \Va\'eney once more he saw the ii^ure of a woman walking (juickly along the moonlit road. He would luive ridden })ast lier had not somethino- familiar struck him. lie slii^htly slackened rein and looked again. Tln'ii the woman turned her head and stood still. He «aw then that it was Lydia Bolsover. .}■ ' (■ \ i «-< \ 4 I ■ 1 • 1.: * ;■ •1' il t 1 '^'Hl: i'!' ■'1' i J CHAPTER V. BT^YOND RECALL. * I, too, at love's brim Touched the sweet.' Browning. ISS BOLSOVER I ' he exclaimed in sur- prise. ' I scarcely expected to see you here.' * No, yet the explanation is simple enough/ Lydia Bolsover answered. * I missed the last train to Waveney — not my fault, you may be very sure. Doctor Holgate. So there was nothing for it but to walk. I only parted from my friend at the Abbey gates.' ' Are you not tired ? ' he asked. * Not at all ; I am very strong, and am seldom tired. One is oftener wearied in mind than in body, I think ; at least I am.' ' Are you ? You will let me walk Harold slowly by your side ? I know you would not mount him. I am in no hurry. We may as well walk together.' * Provided we do not bore each other,' said Lydia Bolsover, lifting her fine eyes with a little gleam 60 BEYOND RECALL 61 iple the be dom in to tho siirffcon's lurndsoTnc face. lie was strnok at that moment by her beauty. She n'as beautiful in her way. There was a fine colour in her chock, her eyes shone, every mo^^emcnt was instinct with the grace of health and strength. Her attire, as usual, was faultless. Uolgate did not know what she Won; ; he only knew that the whole was very pleasant to the eye. He was inclined to be very friendly with her. She had opportunely inter- rupted a very unpleasant vein of thought. 'Have you been at Ainsborough too?' she asked j)resently. * I ? Oh no. I had a patient to see at Redacre, and just cantered along the road a bit, not being in a hurry. It is a fine night.' * Very fine,' answered Miss Bolsover; after which interesting remark there was a pause. She was not a talker, she would not make conversation even to please a handsome young man like Denis Holgate. Lydia Bolsover was at least free from affectation or coquetry. As a rule, the male youth of Waveney professed a dislike for her. She was too straightforward and matter-of-fact for them. She made them painfully conscious of any little weakness they might possess. Yet she never said anything disagreeable or unpleasant. There is a silence, however, which is quite as expressive and much more aggravating even than plain speech. This silence was a characteristic of Miss Bolsover. * I have been under your mother's roof for seven months, Miss Bolsover, and you and I are like strangers to each other,' said Holgate, expressing a ti' i'i In ■: \ Ir 69 BRIAR AND PALM, W: thought which had sometimes been in his mind of late. * Yes ; and what of that ? We are civil to each other when we do speak, which might not be the case were we better acquainted.' * What am I to infer from that % ' asked Holgate laughingly. * Am I a source of annoyance to you ? ' Miss B >lsover laughed also. * Why should you be ? You are very harmless.' * You allude to me as if I were on a footing with your mother's canary and her pet cat. I think I have heard you say they are harmless,' said Holgate a trifle dryly. He did not relish the treatment he received at the hands of the schoolmistress. The smiles and sweet words of the Waveney young ladies had given him an exalted idea of his own charms. Why did Lydia Bolsover regard him with such tranquil contempt ? Because she was different from other girls she interested him. He felt that he should like to see those cold, proud lips put on a smile for him. It would be a triumph to ruffle that serene composure with a breath of tenderness. He looked at her face, and fancied he felt his heart beat quicker at sight of it. Could he be in love with Lydia Bolsover ? The question was interest- ing and fascinating to him as well as to other young men. * 1 am very fond of Tommy and Jeremiah,' said Miss Bolsover, alluding to the canary and the cat. * And if I am harmless like them you i ight extend that fondness to me, eh ? ' asked Holgate, catching her humour, but bending his handscjiiie 'I I rbt (te, me BEYOND RECALL. 63 head a little towards her with a touch of cagcrnoss on his face. It [)lcased him to see the swift, hot colour rise in her cheek. She was not so cold, so im|>reonal)le as outward seeming indicated. Nay, if thcn^ was any truth in the adaoe concernino; still waters, there must be a very })assionate heart heat- ing in Lydia Bolsover's breast. The day came when Denis Holgate wished he had left thnt too pas- sionate heart dormant, when he would have given worlds to recall even this one night. * Let us be friends, ^liss Bolsover,' he said etigerly. * I am sure we have a great deal in common. We both hate Waveney, for one thinoj.' 'Why should ?/o?i hate Waveney, Doctor Hol- gate? Your positi(m cannot be Ci)mpared with mine,' said Lydia Bolsover bitterly. ' It's a mean, stuck-up little place, and there is no scope for a man in it,' he said loftily. ' When I see the way you are treated my blood boils. There is not a woman in Waveney to be compared to you for a moment.' It was a hastily uttered, imprudent speech, exag- gerated too ; but to Lydia Bolsover it was wholly sweet. She turned her head away, and her eyes shone aoain. Holoate caught a ;ers pressed liohtly the arm to which thev ciiniL'". Remember Holo;ate's ionorance of and suscci)tiljilitv to the charms of a pretty woman. He was very young too, and fancied himself in love. BEYOND RECAZL. 67 'I shall never do that,' he answered earnestly, as a lover ought. ' Whatever happens, 1 shall always be the same to you.' * You will know, at any rate, that it was you I cared for and not your position,' she whispered softly, and Ilolgate stooi)ed and kissed her almost passionately. When she became sweet and tender she was wholly irresistible. Link by link he bound upon himself his chain of Ijondage. * It will not do to let Waveney see any difference in our relations to each other. It is a nest of gossip as it is ; we need not give it another tit-bit in th(i meantime,' he said after a pause. 'Do you not think so ? ' * I am not a fool ; I know Waveney better than you,' Lydia answei-ed shortly. ' Nor your mother, Lydia, though she is a most cstiujaMt' woman,' continued Ilolgate a trifle nervously. ' But 1 fear she could not keep our secret.' ' Our secret shall be kept as long as it is necessary; flo not fear,' she said (]uickly. ' I am not a hare- Inained girl who cannot hold her toni^ue where a ninn is concerned. I think, whntever my faults, I liave a little prudence. I know that we must wait perhaps years, but 1 do not mind. My way of life lias taught me to be patient, not to expect too Tiuich, but, like Shylock, J hope for my pound of flesh some day. I have some accounts to settle in Wr.vcney.' Ilolgate felt uncomfortable in the extreme. She spoke quietly, yet witii a deliberate bitterness \ t >■ ' + w \^. 1 1 * ! 1 e:» 1 ■ i . i I ^'■t iTf i •i 1' . '! I > i'i' 'I 68 BRIAR AND PALM, which chilled him. Tf flashed across him that this woman, wVio might be cnie and faithful in friend- ship or in love, would be a bitter foe. Already he wished he had left her in her cold reserve, that he had not bridged the l)ar:;er l)et\veen them. 'It may be yejirs, as you say,' he repeated, but did not specify what event was to be thus post- poned. * I have a position to make, and I may never be an)^ nearer 8t. Cyrus than I am now. My uncle may live for years ; he may even marry, and have an iieir of his own.' * It might happen, but it is not likely. They say he cared for that Indian girl who came home to become his w^ard ; his brother's step-child. She would have nothing to say to him, and in revenge they married her to a man she hated. Poor thing ! they say she is very unhappy, but she has a great position and [)lenty of means. I confess I know of no misery for which these are not an antidote. It is degrading to be poor and obscure. There is nothing I would not do to attain a position of influence.' 'Yet not long ago, Lydia, you did not turn away from me, though you thought me only a poor assi^ tant. You are not consistent,' said Holgate, with a laugh. * No, you are right; I am not consistent. Prol)ably by to-morrow I should have come to the conclusion :hat I was a fool, and should likely have told you 80,' she said, smiling. She felt very happy, and also elated. They were now entering the picturesque village. i of of My ■?ion you unci age. Hi BEYOND /RECALL. 69 She lookofl about her with a kind of quiet triumph. She was the chosen love of the heir of St. Cyrus ; what wouhl the jealous, narrow-minded clique, who made the humiliations of her life, say to that when it became known? Holgatc's thoughts were (liticrcnt. Already he regretted his haste. * Do you know that never until to-night have I lu'cn glad that I am a woman,' she said, and her lip trembled. ' 1 have hated and despised myself, and wished myself anything rather than what 1 am. ' And what has wrought the change, Lydia ? ' Ilolgate asked, touched by her comph^te surrender. ' Because I have learned that 1 am not distaste- ful to you. You have raised my self-respect,' she said, and again the brilliant colour dyed her cheek. It was marvellous the change love had VNTouglit in this girl. Her face was absolutely glorified by it. Holgate could not but l)e proud of it, and yet there was an element of doul)t, even of fear, in his pride. The love he had so lightly won, and which })erhaps he should not long care to keep, would be very exacting, he foresaw. He had never yet thought of marriage seriously in lelation to himself, yet now he was pledged to a woman of whom he knew very little. What, then, could be the issue? Time alone would disclose. M 'i M^' 1. I ■ 'it ;i' !':^?!^ ^\ • : . ■ -1 '' ♦: # 1 ' 1 ■ i , ■ ; . i t ■ 3 t 1 : ! \ ' i M .v^fUri im ■v^.;^ lTri.^.^i^''"';i!n^^v' CHAPT ^a. REGRET AND HOPE. * Youth hath a restless heart, And thinks to drain life's goL)let at a draught.' OME in here, Denis ; I wish to speak to you,' said Doctor Dacre, intcrc('[)ting Holgate one evening as he was leaving the surgery. Holgate followed the doctor into his library with a slight feeling of curiosity. His manner was kind as usual, but a trifle serious. *Ay, shut the door,' he said, when they entered. ' How long have you been with me now ? ' * Fifteen months, sir,' Denis answered. * So long as that ? ' said the doctor in mild surprise. ' How the time flies ! Well, Denis, I think it quite time you made a change.' Holgate reddened a little, fancying he was about to receive his dismissal. * If you have no longer any need for my services, Doctor Dacre, of couioc I must make a change,' he replied stiffly. A genial smile shone upon the face of the elder 70 ^ It e Nv' ■n Q ! . \ \ ] :'( .^ ■n , I. liilil ir i! i i 1:1 >i Ml man ofFei •Jl cam^ you You no d H flusli drea the ] play St00( his £1 *I kind you only Wer shou not 1 influ 1 su you 'I >said anxi 'I in y. is a head prae f f'r^ REGRET AND HOPE, 71 man, and his blue eyes twinkled at the tone of ufFendcd dionity. • My need is just as great as it was when you camv; to me,' he said quietly. ' But it is time you souglit an advance on your present position. Your abilities are beyond Waveney. Have you no desire to rise in your profession?' HolgMte's foce flushed again, this time with the Hush of conscious shame. For many months his dreams had been of a future in which the work — the preparation for which had cost so much — had played do part whatever. His friend misunder- stood his heightened colour, and hast':ned to relievo his apparent embarrassment. * I will speak more plainly, Denis,' he said kindly. ' You have been invalua])le to me while you have l)een with me, and have saved me not only much hard work, but many an anxious hour. Were I to consult my own wishes, believe me, I should not be speaking to you now. But I shall not be selfish. I know of an opening in which my influence might be of considerable use to you. 1 suppose you are quite willing to go, provided you are to gain any advantage by it ? ' ' I am certainly obliged to you, Doctor Dacre,' said Denis Holgate sincerely. ' Of course I am anxious to rise in the world, and in my profession.' ' I thought so. 1 would have l)een disappointed in you otherwise. A young man without aml)ition is a sad spectacle,' said the doctor, nodding his head. 'Well, an old friend of mine has been in practice for many years at Crosshaven, a little I f i I*' m : If'!' ■ i i ■ , 1 w '• ■(? \ : I' t 7« B/i/A/i AND PALM. J fishing villagft on the coast a few miles from Southport. It is a good berth, Denis, for he has, 1 believe, also a consulting practice in Southport. I am right in saying his income during the last ten years has not been under a thousand. lie is an old man now, and not able to compass his work even with the aid of an assistant. He wants a partner, with a view to a successor. We had some talk about you when I was down a few weeks ago, and we have had some correspondence on the subject since. What would you think of a partnership with my friend ? ' * It would depend on the terms, sir,' said Plolgate, recalling his mother's injunctions the last night he had spent in Hanbury Lane. * I have considered that too. You will allow me to help you, Denis. It would be a pleasure to me.' * But, sir, I have no claim upon you.' * Why not ? I like you, and you have faithfully done your duty while with me. I am a rich man. It will cost me no self-denial to advance a few hundreds, and you can repay me as circumstances allow.' It was the offer of a generous, large-hearted man, and Holgate could not but be touched by it. * If you will allow me. Doctor Dacre, I shall communicate with my friends at once,' he said at length. * Certainly. Is your father living ? * ' No, only my mother.' regr:lt and hope. 73 'Parflon the question, hut will cin^umstjinces eiKiMt' licr to help you ? ' ' 1 hclieve so. I think she could give me the nuMK \'.' 'All. well, ill that raso, of course, I shall not press the matter. It is tor you an such a secret ? It was confided by degrees to hei motlu.'r, who duly, and with a strong sense of the importance of her news, imparted it to Mrs. WagiMUK Mrs. Wagram, liaving a personal dislike to JMiss Bolsover, deli<2;hted to hear of this de[)arture from the customary bounds of her prutlenee. If Miss Bolsover sat alone in the •;ii \l\ d :e 1. lis *r le REGRET AND HOPE, 75 surgeon's parlour with him in the evenings, she nrgued, she was guilty of indiscretion, and ought to he rebuked. Such conduct did not l)efit one who was tlie i^uide and ]>attern to the youth of Waveney. L^'dia Bolsover knew (^uite well that she and Jlolgate had hecome the talk of Waveney, hut that mattered nothing to hci". She was ha|)}»}' with a \vi](l, deep, iiitciisc happiness, l)oi'n p('i'ha})s of the \'ei"}' res('i-\c and sclf-containedness of her natni't'. She had iiiven her wliolc heart to Ho] and make a woman f «i ■4 ii !S » ' !f i '• : , ■ '!'! 11^ m M ," ^ ir In )W1 :i il ri 76 BRIAR AND PALM, unhappy. He had found the companionsliip of Lydia Bolsover a pleasant change and re] id ironi the monotony of his work, and had availed hinist'lt" of it, saying sometimes things which had only their being on his lips, though they went to the heart of another. He had allowed himself to drift with the current of events, and now, when a pros[)ect of a (change was ])laeed immediat''ly hefore him, he was conscious of an intense feeling of relief which was almost ohHln(\'lace? By and by he emerged from the wihl de]»ths of the wood to the well-ke])t pai'k, which as vet had not s u if e red from Sir Fulke. How majestic (C g- o;! aiK I el ms and noble looked these spreadin standing like sentinels against the sky. their branches scarcely stirring in the still night air! The silence was absolutely oj)pressive. the soft turf sent forth no echo of the solitary stroller's steps; he felt almost like a thief in the night, nnce more DiMiis Ilolgate found hims at the door. Ilolgate drew hack into the shadow of the trees, for^cttini'' that he was sj)yin_ii,' upon the actions of othcj's. lie saw the footman s[>r('ad a strip of matiiiiLi," from within the entrance hall, and immediately an chU'rlv hidv, closely muffled in wraps, came out and cnlo-cd the carriai>e. Jloloate could see that her tiLLiirc was noble and commanding, lie coidd lie;ir the rustle of her silken train as it swept the carriage step. The servant st<»od by the » pen door a lew- seconds still, and until a second figure appealed ; a young lady this time, with a graceful, gii'lisii figure, clad in a shimmer of white hice and dk. Her wrai) hung loosely al)out hei shouhiers her head was bare, and as she steppe(l out the full light from the lamp al)oye the door fell upon her lace, — a face so exquisitely lovely tluit to Holgate it a})peared like that of an angel. ' Do hurry, \\'inifred ! ' a quick, inqx'rious voice said from within the carriage. ' We shall ceitainly be late.' 'Oh no, rc, and it was driven ra])idly away, leavino; H' vression of (h'e|) and anxious eai'e ;* Couhl this he the oi'plian whose u'uai'diaus had so iioorlv iulfillcd th^'i?' tiaist ;* Holoate was devoui"e(l with curiositx'. W- .-eeuied to \w' in an unreal world, full of pliantoni,- '\liieli lie per[)etuall\' |tur.-ue( t() 1 1. II e seemed to ilVe 1 U <> ll ives, even to have two peisonahtK's. W le carriage had disaj)[)eared in the dark sliaa w - of tl le avenue le PI' steOlXM \ r-oni ins h ;he}' - :r:d holdly ajtproacljeser\ ing that the inti-uder wore the gai-h and had the ap])eai'anc(* of a e-entlenian, he touched his i'orelock. I >e l)arding, sir: I took you lor one as had no Inisiness ere. What can 1 do for \'ou \ ' Hole-ate was a trifle confused, hut succeeded in ivgaiuing his conij>osure. '("an 1 see Sir Fulke Holgate T he asked, td, heing inwardly excited, his V(jiee took rather a nervous tone. ' I'll see. If you'll step» this way, sir, I'll tell li .f ^ •Si i \ HI IfK^ •Hi H ' • ( m M •; r 80 BRIAR AND PALM. Sir Fulke. He's at dinner. I hope you can wait a minute or so ? ' * Surely.' * Then step this way, sir, if you please.' Holgate followed the man across the hall and up the broad, richly-carpeted steps to the first floor. He was curiously calm, though he felt that he had reached a crisis whose issues might change the whole current of his existence. He was shown into the library, which had only one dim shaded lamp burning on an antique marble centre table. It only served to heighten the sombre gloom of that magnificent and noble room, the finest in the Abbey. Holgate's feet sank in the rich, soft pile of the Persian rugs scattered over the polished floor. He felt a\ ed ; a sense of smi.llness and insignificance stole upon him. The place was so girtrt, so imposing, so difierent from anything he had ever seen ! Even here Haubury liane came to the front. How painful, how absurd in the might of its contrast did that poor home seem to him now ! ' What name shall I say, sir ? ' asked the man, liii ^cring at the door. liolgate sta'^ted, * Oh, no name. Simply say that a gentleman wishes to see Sir Fulke at his leisure.' The man bowed, and closed the door. Holgate said, * at his leisure,' but he hoped that his time for thought would be short. He had placed himself in an extraordinary position, he had an ordeal of no common kind to face. Yet he was curiously calm. He walked leisurely about the fine REGRET AND HOPE, 8x o1(l I'Dom, drinking in ovory detnil. Th^. volumes which lined the shelves from eeilino- to Hoor were priccloss, he knew, and tlie other articles rare and \aluahle of their kind. He even fingered the; mag- uiticent silk hangings at the wide windows, and looked witl) interest at the quaint brass clock and candclahra ahove the superb fireplace. Nothing ('S('a[)ed his eye. His interest was that of one who feels a right in what the eye falls upon. Only one very slender harrier stood between him and his. He was thus occupied when the door was abruptly oj)ened, and some one entered. Holgate was at tlic far end of the room, and he turned round, feelinii; the hot blood suroino; throujj^h his veins, hi the intensity of his excitement his lip even quivered. Nevertheless he endeavoured to com- mand himself, and advanced towards the middle of the room, where the lamp shone upon the polished surface of the marble table. There he found him- self face to face with Sir Fulke Holgate, ninth baronet of St. Cyrus. He was a tall, spare, attenuated figure, attired in half dress, a black velvet jacket and vest. His face was dark and sallow, with high cheek-bones and piercingly keen l»lue eyes. The heavy masses of his reddish-brown hair were carefully arrang^ed above his hiixh white brow. He was a strikinu-lookino' man, thouo;h not handsome, an aristocrat without doul)t, carrying it in every movement, in the very gesture of his long, thin, white hand, as it lightly touched the table, while with a very slight bow he looked inquiringly at the stranger. F 1 -I t 1 i \ \ '• 1 f i ^ ■■ i'iil ^.;.i!: ■ j i - i* i , ( i , (1^' ¥. iiiir i;j I ft 83 BRIAR AND PALM. ;■■!•; M ill li % ..1 1 1 ' 1 * Sir, what can I do for you ? ' he said in indolent tones, which had a toucli of linutcur. Denis Kolgate's tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. Jle began to tremble in every limb. Sir Fuliie saw his agitation, and [)ointed to a chair. * Pray be seated,' he said courteously, though not cordially ; then he repeated the question, ' What can I do for vou ? ' * My name is Ilolgatv^,' faltered the surgeon at leno;th, — ' Denis HoliTT7T^»ill(IOi,j<7|i«Bi„j. •.y/t/*'* CHAPTER VIL 'his little lass.* * Two travellers in life's way : One totterin I I i t lit (;|„| i I i ! 86 BRIAR AND PALM. \\\\\w. lie was lovprl in C^'osslinven with a great love, which was voiy pr(;cinus to him, though he said so little alxnit it. He was the children's friend, and tlie i>articiil;ir friend of one particular little cliild, for wlioni, indeed, lie was waiting that very afternoon, and for whom tiie door had been left open in Jill weathers since ever she had been able to toddle down the sl()[)e to tlie cottage. It wus a (juaint old-wurld corner the kitchen in the home of Captain Silas. The walls were white- washc'd, and hung with many curious things whereat the children were wont to gaze and marvel. A whale's tusk here, the skeleton of a (jueer fish there, stuffed birds innumerable, nautical charts, ])rints of sea-})ieces, old fishingdines, figure- heads sui)ported on rougldy-carved brackets : such were the adornments of the place. The floor was laid with brick of a warm red colour, the roof was composed of solid oaken lafters, the furnishings were simple and }>lain — a deal table, two chairs, an old-fashioned oak settle, and a bed in the corner suthced for Cajttain Silas. But in this place he was as happy as a king. lie did not fret that he was old and }>ast work, that he must now be an idler at home, and wait with the women, when strong men were required on the raging sea. Per- ha[)s that was the hardest, but he could thank God for many a brave night's work vouchsafed him in the ])ast, and pra}" for a blessing on those who were }oung and strong. A beautiful spirit this, and one not easy of cultivation, therefore beyond j)rice. It was a sight to see him butter the * HJS LITTLE lass: 87 iinifiin, lioldinnj it so ctMofully in his l)ig brown liaixl, which l)oiv tlic mark of many a bruise. ']Ialf-])ast four — the littk' Lass's by hoo's toime,' he said, as the ohl ehx'k rung the half-liour. Just tlicn a sha(h)W fell athwart the doorway, and a shrill, sweet, childish voice fell upon his happy ear. 'Are you in, Cai)tain Silas?' ' Ov coorsc. my little lass ; eoom in, coom in. Thou's late to-neet ; I feared, my precious, that I'd need to take tea without somebry.' ' I was sitting with papa, C/aptain Silas, and helping mamma keep baby. Oh dear, he is so cross I ' said the little lady, heaving a prodigious sigh as she perched herself contentedly on the settle, while Captain Silas proceeded to put sugar in the tea-cups. It was a pretty sight to see the dainty little tiling in that rude place, and to see how very much at home she was, and how content and happy. She was a mite of a creature, a little girl of eight, slender — very slender — and pale and fragile, with large, earnest eyes looking out from a sweet mass of golden curls. Not an ordinary child, it was easy to see, but one of those old-fashioned, pre- cocious, world-wise creatures whom we watch and yearn over with a fearful yearning : one of those who probe deep into things from which childhood should be far removed; in a w^ord, a guest, njt a dweller upon the earth. Already Daisy Frew, the little daughter of the curate-in-charge at Cross- haven, had turned her face towards her home, and it was not on earth. Captain Silas knew it, and i ' "r ,■1 i'' t n 88 BRIAR AND PALM, ■i.'t li ' II one other. A little coiijrh shook her as she stretched out her chilled hands to Captain Silas's cheerful fire, and the old man's eye shadowed as he saw the quick hri^ht flush rise to the sweet j»ale cheek. lie saw. too, that she was not warndv clad, but had run down with only a little loose scarf above her pinafore. Had little Daisy, then, no mother? Yes, but we shall see. ' How nice your muiiins are, and your tea ! but I must have it very weak, i)lease ; papa says so,' she said. * How far can we walk to-night. Captain Silas. Is it wet on the marshes ? ' She s})oke with the grave })recision and correct- ness of a much older person ; indeed, her manner and bearing w^ere touched with a certain dignity and repose not common in a child. ' Nawe, my ])recious, it's as diy as furze, and we'll walk as far as thou'rt able,' said the Captain gravely. ' Theer's a foine storm comin' up fra th' east. Miss Daisy. It'll be a stiff one, or I'm nawe judge. There'll be nawe more walkin' foi thee an' me for a week, fur sure.' ' That's bad ; but I'll come down and you'll tell me stories, Captain Silas, won't you ? Don't you wish the sunny days were here again, so that we might go out to the sandbanks with Jerry for the cockles ? ' ' They'll coom, my lass, in their own toime. Jerry's gettin' lazy,' said the Captain, with a sly twinkle in his eye. ' I had my hands as full as a fitch wi' him to-day, I tell thee. I had him at Southport this mornin' for some errands, an' what 'HIS LITTLE lass: 89 does the chap do but lays him down i' th' rond, panniers an' all. Theer wur cj]jression of earth anpt the wide prospect with his usual keen interest. It was never unlovely, never uninteresting]; to him ; perhai)S because it was the most familiar scene on the face of the earth to him. The child Daisy looked about her with iiii' rest too, and her face clouded a little, as if a sadness, born of the prevailing gloom, had settled down upon her soul. ' I don't see Jerry, Captain Silas. Can he be lost ? ' ' Lost — Jerry lost ! ' laughed the Captain softly, 'That ud be a cpieer thing, my little lass. Lost — Jerrv lost ! Not he ! Cannot thou see his honest face an' his long ears thonder beyant the beacon.' 'Oh yes, I see him now. We shall go lound there, Captain Silas, and speak to him. i>c» yon think this is a nice day, Captain Silas ? Isn't it cold and dark ? ' ' was « ' o;n*V 'lu'ial it tl\«' 1, ami >()iith- ithout 3(1 and yes of Lth hi« , never ras the to him. 8t too, s, born )0U her he be softly. Lost— - honest ItU'Oll. I) i-oiuul t)o yoi' llsu t it JUS LITTLE LASS: 91 * Ay, it is. niv i»ro(iniis, an' tliou's not trottrn eiioo^'oi) b\' iiaiivc,' sai«l the old num. with solicit in U'. 'Thou niini jjnunisc nic. Miss Daisy, to put thv cloak about theo next time thou coonis tor thv walk. W«' caiinnt sj»aru thcM' tVoni the Ilavt-n. ' What (h) you moan l)y that, Captain Silas '. \ all) not •^niiin- away fVoni tho Haven, am I T ' I hojH' iiawc, my precious,' said the laptaiu, aiid a soiitarv toar rose in his lionest eve. ■ Mamma s,i\s I must 'jo t(» hoarding-school soon I -liouliin ike that, Captain Silas, to be awa\' lioni pa;M. and you, and Ci«'ely. and tin* baby.' It was noticeable that the cjiild did not name lici- nntl her among those whom it would pain her to !ca\('. KUi's noblait a mite and a ba])y thvselF vet. Tl Miss |)ais\-. W hoam s t bit for thee fori Near \'et.' said the ^'antai llV/f//'^ SI I in. H ere s t nony a le s ijreakHi U]), poor o wd L iss. like iii\ lie alluded to tlie old boat in which he had Mia-le nian\- a vova^e as he miuht 1 uive alluded to :i liiniian beini;- whom he loved. She lay now keel ni'Ward on the sandy eratain Silas ? ' The child's voicre was wistful, her earnest eyes had a touch of pain as they dwelt upon the rugged face of her dear old friend. * Some day, my lass, when t' Lord's time cooms, 1 mun goo. I'm hreakin' up loiko t' owd lass, an' mun g(it into port.' ' Don't go till I go, Captain Sihis,' said the child simply, and without thouglit that there might be anything prophetic in her words. They startled the Ca})tain, and reminded him that they were linfrering too long in the chill nio;ht air. ' We mun goo, my precious. T' parson 'ud take my head off for keepin' thee stonin' here. Coom, let's seek after that brute ov a Jerry.' So saying, he clasped the hand of his little companion closely in his spacious palm, and they took their way briskly together along the marsh, kee{)ing close by the edge of the breakwater, where the fishing-boats drifted lazily, waiting for the incoming tide. They chatted pleasantly as they went, the child questioning mostly, he answering in good faith, as anxious to give information as she was to seek it. It would be hard to say which found these evening strolls pleasantest ; they were real joys in the life of both the old man and the little child. The Haven folks had grown accustomed to seeing the two solitary figures wandering about the marshes and the shore, in the cleax evening i : , ■ V \ if, 1 ■! 'i' i f:„: • 31 M . it ,i 94 BRIAR AND PALM. ) > I M t liglit, niid would smile to cjicli otlic: ai ' t' (^-iptain \\\\ liis little lass.' By and by they came up with Jerry, the ('aptain's donkey, wh<» rarried tho load ot (•ockl(\s from the sandbanks to the vina<:;e. and was as ;^reat a favourite in the Haven as his master. He was very uixly, painfully homely even for a doidvey, Imt he was fat and o^ood-natured and well eared for, and (tould afford to he [)erfeetly indiH'erent to his personal appearance. His l)r<»atain ) willi id WMS for w id well d wheii novvin*!; ry coat \ud lu^ •ks vul»- l, useful fond <>t" of liini mig and behind, im to l»e ;oot /and ithe sky. I he sand- Dader on d ahvays juth and l(^uld not a large, lovenient you looked at Cicely Suttnu you ulaiity ol the ' PnM>t and Shoe' It was a (|uaint little hostelry, in which the wayfarer couM thi'ow himself on the old oak setth' l>y tla^ wide lirt!i»lace, and drink Cicely's t'anious ale in i-eal, solid i'oiidbrt. There was no tapi'ooni, nor even a har in the ' Boot and Shoe ; ' it w.is a hoinely hostelry of the old-world type, in which one could feel weleouie and heaitilv at home. It l»ein«i ahout ica-tiuH^ in the villai;e, there was n<> one on the settle lait Sutton himself, enjoyin;;: his evening [)i[)e after his work was done. The inn helonged to Cicely now, and her hushand took n(>thing to do with the manaecment. He had his own work to attend to, his occupation being that of a cariier, and he would sometimes say, in his slow, dry way that he was only a lodger at the ' Boot and Shoe.* But though he had not his wife's a(;tive, hustling, cheerful temper, he could hold his own, and on the whole they were a hai)py, well-matched pair. They were childless, a grief to Cicely, whose heart was a hio motherly one, as every child in the Haven knew. 'Jist come here, Sutton, or look out by the window,' said Cicely, putting her head round the kitchen door. • What is't, owd lass ? ' asked Sutton lazily. * Oh, th' Cap'n an' his little lass an' Jerry, ov coorse. It's a sight to see the tw^o o' them — it is indeed. They'll be coomin' in, loikely. 1 mun git a slice o' cake for Miss Daisy. ' So saying, Cicely bustled into the kitchen, and '• I I i' . \'-- 'b!t I , 96 BRIAR AND PALM, ■ I i HI took a larf^e tempting-looking spiced loaf from the wall ('U|)lM)anl. ' Thccr's a .storm brewin', Sutton. I see by the si'afovvls screaming all over the marshes,* she said. ' 1 wish it 'u(l coom an' be done wi' it. I suy, 1 wonder how th' parson's wife '11 loike the thowt o' th' Rectory being let to strangers.' ' She'll ha' to loike it. T' Rectory ain't hers, lass,' was Sutton's comment, as he indolently watched the blue smoke from his pipe curling up to the oaken rafters. ' She won't loike it. She'll be in a ragin' passion.' * Well, it does seem a mean thing for th' rector to do ; but for sure it'll be his wife's doin',' said ( Hcely. * Th' parson himsel' mun feel a bit sore at th' way he's passed ower. Theer wur nowt to hinder them fra' livin' at th' Rectory when the rector's away. Nobbut Mrs. Frew connot keep her own little corner tidy, so how could she do wi' sich a house as th' Rectory ? ' * How you women peck at each other I' said Sutton, with his slow, dry smile. * I could bet, noo, th' parson's wife con keep house as well as thou con.' ' I jist wish thou had a trial o' her, my mon,' said Cicely quietly. ' Theer 'ud be squally weather, 1 doubt, in th' "Boot an' Shoe." Well, if they han't gone away t'other way,' she added, going out to the door again. ' It's time th' little lass wur whoani out o' the cowd. T dursay we'll ha' the C.^ap'n as he comes back.' She surmised rightly. Having seen the little companion of his walk to the door of her father's « HIS LITTLE LASS,' 97 house, the (^aptiiin came briskly down the lane, and ('ntor('(l Cicely's kitchen. ' G(K)d evenin' both. A covvd raw neet this,' he said briskly. Sutton nodded, and made room on the settle., while Cicely went for a <:;laHH of ale. * I watched tho an' th' little lass eoomin' by the sand-hills, an' ran to cut a bit o' cake fur her, Imt thou's ifin me th' slip. How's th' world usin tho, Cap'n Silas ? ' ' As well's ever. IIoo's tho gettin' on. Cicely ?' 'Th' same owd way, Cap'n, an' Sutton's th' same owd man. Jist see him lounj^ing there as if he'd broken his bactk wi' his hard work. Gie me men- folk for knowin' hoo to be good to thursel's.' Sutton grunted, and winked to the Captain in his slow way, as much as to say, ' Listen to her now.* * I've news for tho, Caj)'!! ; th' Rectory's let to some folks fra Southport, an' they'll be here in no time. The servants are to coom up to-morrow.' * Ay, ay, 'at'll be some'at for Haven folks to sharpen their tongues wi'.' ' Ay is it, Cap'n. Cicely's been sharpenin hers on it sin' ever she got th' bit o' news fra Joss o' Peter Wright's up at th' mill. He wur bringin' flour here, an' he brings th' news, reet or wrang. Cicely's swallowed it, as women-folk do wi' their eyes shut.' ' You shut thy mouth, Sutton, an' let me get word o' th' Cap'n. Hast seen th' new doctor, Cap'n Silas ? ' ' Ay, twice, ridin' on th' road. A manly, well- loike chap, Cicely.' •n (.r^ h'\ I I it' I 'ifV'!;'; '*it I > [! i 98 BRIAR AND PALM. * Ay is he. A tall, strappin', handsome chap, Cap'n Silas. If his inside Lc as fair as his outside, he'll eiit out th' owd man. Wlint do tho' think but that he comes fra Waveney, where my sister Mary Anne, as married Bolsoverth' attorney, lives.' ' There'll be a letter followin' u}) from Mary Anne wi' a' ^h' latest news about th' chap — who he's cwortcd an' who he hasn't. It wur a pity, wurn't it, Cap'n, 'at he knawed any o' Cicely's folk,' said Sutton, with a grin. * Hear him, Cap'n Silns,' cried Cicely, with a laugh. * As if men-folk didn't like a bit o' talk as well's a woman. But they doan't think. If they'd nobbut listen to thirsens 'at meets here some- toimes ; sich a din an' clatter, an' turnin' their, iieighbours inside out. There's nowt wran<>: wi' 'at, I suppose, though it's a deadly sin for a woman to turn ower a bit o' news in a kindly spirit.' * Hear, hear, C 'icely ! Thou's getten th' right way,' said the Captain, clap[)ing his hand on the table. ' Theei-'s noan harm in a bit kindly gossij). If we live among folk it's natur' fur us to talk o' them. There's nothing wrang wi' 'at. It's the spiteful wicked talk which mak's t' worst 0' folk's failin's that's wrang ; at least t'at's my way o' thinkin'.' 'An' mine,' nodded Cicely. *I say, Cap'n, the little lass is gettin' too owd and world-wise like. I'm afeard sometimes when I look at her. There's ;i some'at in her big eyes 'at goes to mi heart like, and mak's me like to cry. Is hoo weel, think tho ? ' A sliadow fell across the cheerful sunshine on the lace of Captain Silas. M ^ •^/5 LITTLE lass: 99 *It goos to mi heart, Cicely, to hear thee say that, the' I see it mysen, I see it mysen.' ' She an't keered for, that's how it goes,' said Sutton. *Th' parson's wife's no moore use than t'at table, nor so much. She wur always a useless, silly wench all her days. I've knawn her since she was so high.' * She isn't like th' parson, bless un ! * said Cicely, and a tear stood in her eye. And somehow it was as if a discord had jarred upon their cheerful talk, and very soon Captain Silas rose and said he would have to go and get Jerry housed for the night. Cicely followed him to the door. ' If anything took th' little lass, Cap'n Silas, th' parson 'ud never howd up his head again.' • Nor any o' us, Cicely. Hoo's our little lass as well as his'n.' ' Ay, that hoo is. I guess it 'ud be no use askin' the Lord to spare her. Hoo's getten His mark on her face. Hoo wur in here yesterday, an' when hoo wur gone, I just said to Sutton, ** Miss Daisy an't long for this world." ' The Captain slowly shook his head and walked away down the street. He paused once or twice, and looked upon the ground as if absorbed in deep thought. By the time he reached the cottage Jerry was waiting at the gate. And just then the first drops of the storm came pattering down, and the wind rose with a sudden gusty shriek, and in haif an hour the fury of a winter's storm had burst upon the Haven. f 1 .1 ■\, I I ii II i i:>7ymi^:^p CHAPTER VIII. THE CURATE IN CHARGE. *A little rift within the lute.' HE fire had gone out in the study. The curate, sitting at his table with writing materials before him, glanced at the dead embers and shivered as he tried once again to apply himself to his task. It was a task that wintry afternoon ; of late Gilbert Frew had found less joy than of yore in his chosen work. Outward circumstances were telling upon the man ; his heart was growing chilled by the frosts of life. The curate in charge at Crosshaven had need of an exceptional faith; the demands upon it were serious and many. The place in which he sat, called by courtesy the study, was a cheerless place enough. The furniture was poor and plain, and, being ill-kept and even dirty, it had a meagre, miserable look. The square of carpet in the middle of the floor was worn quite threadbare, and looked dusty, besides being littered with scraps of paper, onds of thrccid, and crumbs. The atmosphere of the room was close and heavy, and sm^lt of ■t THE CURATE IN CHARGE. lOI cobwebs and dust and lack of air. Certain! ' the curate's surroundings were not calculated to infuse much warmth into his soul. His attire corre- sponded with the general shabbiness, l)ut one nlaiice at Gilbert Frew was sutticient to assure one that he was a gentleman. There was a certain dignity and even grace in the tall, sjiare, slightly- rounded figure, and the face was wliolly winning. If any fault could be found with that finely- moulded countenance, it was that it lacked decision and manliness. The deep grey eyes were gentle and sad, the mouth sweet and molnle like a woman's. It was a sad face. There dwelt upon it an expression of patience, of saintly sweetness not natural to any human face. Sueh a look is bought by hard experienc^e, and is worn, as a rule, at serious cost. It is a look more common on the faces of women than of men in this world. Darkness had stolen upon him while he lingered idly at his desk, with the open Bible before him, luid his pen in his hand. He had not even chose u a text, and it was Friday evening. Gilbert Frew could only now write his sermons under the strain of haste and dire necessity. It was a common thing for him to sit far into the Sabbath niorninu: preparing his work for the day. They said in Crosshaven that for a tinu^ back Mr. Frew had been more eloquent than in the first years of his ministrations. They did not know that the words which were with such power among them were tin? result of pressure upon heart and head which could not poBsibly go on. Such a state of things '1 [ii , I u'r \\ t s .i 1'i ;1 » ! ) i 1 :1 II I09 BRIAR AND PALM. t I ' I W nil rii showed that there must be care of no orrlinary kind sapping the springs of hope and energy in tin* curate's being. We may be permitted a glimpse into his home. Perhaps we may find tlicic the primary cause. His reverie, if indeed it was a reverie, was interrupted presently by a low, light tap at the door. It was the child Daisy, returneii from her evening walk with Captain Silas. * May I come in, dear papa ? ' A smile, very rare and very beautiful, immediately dawned upon the curate's face. * Come in, my darling, to be sure,' he answered, and there was a perceptible tone of relief in hiy voice. Instantly the door was gently opened, carefully closed again, and the child stole lightly across tlie floor and climbed upon her father's knee. She laid her arms about his neck, her cheek to his, and so they sat in silence for a time. It was ensy to see the love which was between them, a love far surpassing the ordinary aff'ection between parent and child. These two were sullicient one to the other. * Tea is ready, papa. I have been at Captain Silas's, and had mine with him, out of the funny little teapot with the fish carved on it. Then we walked along the marsh tu see Jerry. Oh, papa, such a fanny, naughty Jerry he was to-day. He tumbled all Captain Silas's errands on the ruad and broke all the eggs, every one.' * Which shews that Jerry has a dignity of his own, and objects to being made Jack of all trades. 5 THE CURATE IN CHARGE, 103 !ii I daresay he thinks his legitimate business is to carry the cockle baskets,' answered the curate, with his quiet smile. ' How cold it is out to-day, papa ! Captain Silas says there is a storm coming up/ * Were you cold out of doors, Daisy ? * * A lil^tle, papa.' * And are you tired with your walk ? ' There was keen and aflFectionate solicitude in these questions which indicated an anxious heart. *A little, papa, but not more than usual. I think you are very tired, dear papa, writing your sern^on. Is it quite finished ? * * I'lot even begun, my darling/ * Oh, you naughty, lazy papa. I think you sLouId not have any tea for being so lazy.' 'That would be a punishment. Come, then, and see what mamma says to it. What stories did the Captain tell you to-day ? ' * Oh, a sad story, papa, about Lucy Wright, his wife. She was drowned, papa, in the fog on the sandbank watching for Captain Silas and the Lacy Wright. Wasn't that a bad thing, papa ? ' The child's large, earnest eyes were full of pain as she spoke. The thing had laid hold of her heart ; she would never forget it. It was her nature to brood and ponder such things in her soul, a strange and undesirable habit for a child. ' I have heard the story, Daisy. It was before I came to the Haven.* * Yes, it was long ago ; but Captain Silas does not forget. It makes him sad yet. He cried i I ! ('! Jom[)ous and rather indolenr man, and now in his old age he had given hinisclt up wholly to the world. Gilbert Frew's post was no sinecure, yet he strove conscientiously to fulfil his manv duties, thouoh often with a tired and \ sens u \ ,Uiva \ ■ i i ■ 1 I'ccci liui. : 1 Iiinr ' 1 i % u|» a W lie ^ lll(';|o (jiiicr 1 w ■ a (jU( 1 curat THE CURATE IN CHARGE, 107 nnxious heart. There was nothing to give him counige at home. When a man has a happy fire- side lie is doubly strong to fight the world's battle. There is no armour more serviceable in the field of life tlmu that buckled on by the hands of wife and (children wlu) love and are beloved. Gilbert Frew h'ld striven to do his duty by his wife ; she was still dear to hitn, but it must be told that it was as the mother of his children rather th.iu as his wife. A sad thing iiidiMMl, but not without parallel in everydjiy life. The seci'ct of wedded happiness is a mysterious juid beautiful thing »vhich requires very delicate handling. Henrietta Frew, being disappointed in her lot in life, had degraded herself into a slattern and a slm'W. Her husband was compassionated in liosshaven as much as he was beloved. Very few indeed had a good word to say for the curate's wife, yet she ueetled pity })erhaps more than he. For he liatl his own deep joys peculiar to a refined and s( nsitive nature, and his people loved him with a uriat love. He could not go out of doors without ricciviug evidence of it, and it was \^ery precious to him. But he was a careworn, anxious, often a sad- liiaited man. He saw his five children i^rowinor up ar(>un(l him, every day increasing their wants, which he had not the wherewithal to meet. Mr.s. Fii'w was not a manaoer. The stii)end was not so iiica'arclv small but that it miolit have afforded tjiiit't couifort, and left a surplus for future need. \\ hat was to become of those youiior creatures was a <|iU'stioii which often darkened the horizon of the t^urute's thought. As for his wife, she drifted with :| ' ■ '• ! i . 1 \\\ 'I 11^ f f; ! I 1^ io8 BRIAR AND PALM. \\m Hi Hi 1 1 !i mw li! Mm! : i :i ■f Mill the tide, spent the money recklessly as it (Jtimo in, and, when it was all gone, gruniMed over dnnur without meat and bread without \y '♦^er till quaitci day brought her luxury ali( rniini. It cannot be good for the child, Mr. Frew, to associate so much with that old man.' * She will get no harm, but only good from Captain Silas, Henrietta,' said the curate, with a sliglit smile. He knew well that the heart of the old man was as pure and simple as that of his own little child. * Oh, of course I ' snapped Mrs. Frew. * It would be impossible for you to agree with me or to sup- port my authority before the children. But if you go on the marshes again with Captain Silas, Daisy Frew, I shall whip you — remember that.' Mrs. Frew was out of sorts, in plain words, in a bad temper. Funds were low at Woodbine Cottage, and a whisper that the Rectory was let had reached her ears. The curate's face flushed, but he did not say to his wife that Daisy should not be whipped should she walk again with Captain Silas, liut upon that he was determined. The child's lip quivered as she bent to her teacup, but she spoke not a word. ' Have you heard, Mr. Frew, that the Rectory is let ? ' Mrs. Frew asked, more placidly, as she sipped her own tea, * Yes, I heard it some days ago/ m '^ % I , ■J'i Vl k h II ■ I- r f : t I" ( ' II l.^.l no BRIAR AND PALM. ' Ami fliil not tliink it worth vmir while to tcl 1 11 fiiiii %\: III . ]i.!„ii ini me,' .sna|>|»o(l Mrs. Kivw. ' I li.-id it fnun Mjiitli.i when she came in tn set tlir tea. Would it not Lc too nuicli to ask wlictlici* you know anything about the tenants ? ' 'Doctor IJaih'lillL' tohl me, Ilcniii'tta. A Mr. »». liarnam an< 1 1 lis wi fe fi' om near AinsI •ol'oULili. (^)uite younnr pcoph'. Jle nut with a serious aeci(h'nt in the liuntini^^-fiehl. I helieve his hack was injured. The}' have liecn at Southport (oi some weeks, hut Mr. I>arham has tired of it.' ' Barham,' said Mrs. Frew meditativel}'. ' Is In Barl uim () f S caris Deiu o you know * That is the name of his })ljice, I believe,' sai fist from his tea. lie lunidh'(l the child awk- wardly, and couhl not enjoy his meals and nurse h lim at the same time. Nevertheless Mrs. Fi CW invariably placed the child on his knee when they were at table. T riiat will make a fine stir in the Haven. TIkv will pay a ]»retty sum for the house : Carol i in ii'ewav won Id see to that,' said ^Irs. Fre Hid bitterl garden gate — a gentleman ; do you know him, Mr. Tl lere is some one com in u" m at the rew ' Oh, that's the new doctor, mamma,' said Willie, with his mouth full. ' I've seen him often.' ' Oh. indeed ! What does he want here, I woik!' i * He will wish to return my call, probably,' saiered ihat she h;id once been attractive. The instincts of the vain co(|uette were still alive within her. Tlu^ ohildien staretl open-mouthed, tlu; curate rose, with the hahy on his arm, lookini^ slightly confused. lie was a gentleman, and he keenly felt the awkwardness of his position, only for a moment however. As he looked into the (hirk eyes of the stnuiger, he felt kindly toward him, a sweet smile touched his lips, and he frankly held out his hand. ' How are you. Doctor Ilolui;ate ^ I am pleased to see you. This is my wife. Excuse lack of (.'ci'cinony, and join us at tea.' 'Yes, do. Doctor Holgate,' said AFrs. Frew. ' Xow, you children, get away, every one of you, to the nursery, and be quiet there. Daisy, tell ^!;irth:i to bring some hot water, and then take h;il»\- and keep him (|uiet in the nursery.' lloloate sat down. The table was not invitinor, strewed with the children's scraps and crumbs, and adorned with dirty cups. Then Mrs. Frew, in her fiiii ■A\ m 1 ,1 i 1' 1 1 , • • '1 \ : \y ■ J > } I I . \ nl'ii I ■ iii '1 M i ili n ■ viwl hi! !mi!!"" i' W!:; I I ■11 milt I ■■■ I'; ■ill t! 112 BRIAR AND PALM. soiled and even ragged gown, with her hair untidily caiig!it up with pins at the back, did not make an attractive hostess. But there was something about the curate which drew Holgate to him ; his face had a history, his eyes carried in their depths a world of patient endurance. ' I was sorry I missed your call, Mr. Frew,' Holgate said sincerely. * And I ought to have returned it earlier.' ' Oh, not at all. We do not stand on ceremony in the Haven,' said the curate, with his sunny smile. ' And how are you going to take to us ? Kindly, I hope. We are prepared to be very fond of you. I have heard good reports of you already in the Haven. Doctor RadclifFe will require to look to his laurels, eh ? ' * Doctor Radcliffe is behind the age, and he never was much of a favourite,' said Mrs. Frew. * I fear the advantage will be all on our side. There is not much in the Haven to recommend it to you. It is a mean, vulgar, horrid little place.' ' I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Frew. I assure you I had formed quite a different opinion of it.' ' AVhich you'll soon change,' said Mrs. Frew, with a nod. ' Of course Mr. Frew will contradict me ; he always does. But I know Crosshaven well. I've lived in it since I was six. My uncle is tlu' rector.' ' Indeed ? He does not reside here, I understand.' 'No.' The monosyllable was jerked from Mrs. Frew's lips with extraordinary vehemence. The curate THE CURATE IN CHARGE. "3 I ( l(»(>lcefl nervous. He did not wish his wife to \ ciitihite her pet grievance before a stranger. He I lied to change the su])ject by asking Holgate a (|iK'stion concerning his former home, but directly it was answered Mrs. Frew began again. ' You'll be having a new and a paying patient presently. The Rectory is let furnished, — a shame- ful tliinsj if ever there was one ; but it's Mrs. Rid Leeway's doing. My uncle would never do such a thing.' ' 1 understand that the tenants come to the Rectory to-morrow.' ' Oh, indeed ? Do you know them. Doc Lor Holgate ? ' ' Not at all ; I am ignorant even of their name, Mrs. Fiew.' 'Oh, I know their name ; Barham, from Scaris Dene, near Ainsborough.' Holgate visibly started. Mrs. Frew made a mental note of it. 'By the bye, were you not located near Ains- borough, Doctor Holgate ? ' asked the curate. *Yes, at Waveney, seven miles east of Ains- borough. I have heard the name of Barham,' answered Holgate. ' It is a curious coincidence that they should come here. I knew of the sad accident which befel ^Ir. Barham.' ' Ay, a young man in the prime of life, and a beautiful young wife, I am told. It is very sad,' said the curate. ' Have you half an hour's leisure, doctor ? Would you care to take a stroll with me across the marshes ? ' H 'fi t : ; k T ■ n. U-; ,ni H !■■ '.ii H ! ^m^ \i\ I I 'Hi hi III ! 'ii' 11 i ill 1 ! ; ! i 1 \ 1 Mi > fi i i i 1 i Ii :';;'' -j 1 1 114 BRIAR AND PALM, ' I shall be most happy.' ' I'm sure you needn't be so inhospitable, Mr. Frew, turnins^ Doctor Holoate out like that ! ' said Mrs. Frew sharply. 'Men are so selfish, Doctor Ilolgate. Mr. Frew forgets that it might be a little change for me to talk to you. 1 am never out of doors. Life is changed for me since the dear old Rectory days, when my uncle and 1 were all in all to each other.' Holgate saw the curate wince and slightly turn his head away. He looked froni husband to wife, noting unconsciously the striking contrast between them. He knew now what had })l{i('ed these deep hnes on the curate's brow, what h.id given to his Cace that patient look which had in it a touch of the sublime. :i ■! Mil CHAPTER IX. FRIENDS. ' This to me is life, That if life be a burden, I will join To make it but the burden of a song.* Bailey. HERE shall we go?' asked the curate when they stepped out of doors. * The sky has overcast ; I am afraid it will rain presently.' * It will not harm us/ said Holgate. * 1 have not had time yet to go down by the shore/ ' Come, then.' The curate opened the garden gate, and allowed Holgate to pass out first. Woodbine Cottage, a small but picturesque brick hiiilding, stood on a slight eminence above the 'hurch, and commanded the village and a fine sea view. It had been built by Mr. Ridgeway as a nsiik'nce for the curate. The church was a large liandsome structure recently restored, but the Rectory was quite a picture, a lovely rambling old house, hung with ivy, embowered among trees. Its wide garden stretched across to the road, but lis n. til V it^ ■.i \ i. , i 1'. \i ■ I ' ' * I 1 ■ 1:! il i , ^ 11 ii6 BRIAR AND PALM. I ■■! I ' i r I I I I;, li' ll! ^ '■■: I, 1$ I' :! hi .ii^illiiii t ,1 i ii : it had a neglected api)earance, having been long uncaied for. A man, however, was working in it as the two gentlemen passed. The curate paused, and, leaning over the low wall, called him by name, and asked for his wife and family. ' That seems a fine old house. Is the rector out of health that he lives abroad ? ' asked Holgate when they went on again. ' No ; but his wife does not like the Haven,' returned the curate, with slightly shadowing eyes. ' It is a pity. His action has weaned him away from the people, and they loved him once.' 'And have you the entire work of the parish, Mr. Frew ? ' * I have.* ' Is there not an abuse there ? ' asked Holorate. ' I prL'Sume the absentee will be the recipient of the larger portion of the income ? ' The curate smiled. ' My stipend is a hundred and sixty pounds per annum, Doctor Holgate.' Ilolgdte looked curiously into the curate's fiii»^ face. Its expression was perfectly serene ; there was not even a trace of bitterness in his eye. ' You seem perfectly satisfied. I wonder that you stay here,' he said involuntarily. * It is not easy, in these days of overcrowding in the profes.' Ions, to make an advantageous change,' said the curate. ' Besides, I love the place and the people. I b<^lieve I have a corner in every heart in the parish.' * No doubt ; but your children are growing up FRIENDS, 117 W cabout you. How many did I see in your dining- room ? ' asked Holgate. ' I have five,' returned the curate, and the sun- shine on his face became obscured by a passing shadow. The surgeon had touched a sore i)oint. ' I confess I have many an anxious thought con- cerning them, and yet why should I. My times and theirs are in my Father's hand.' Holgate was surjnised. He had never heard any one speak in such a strain. The expression on the curate's face as he uttered these words was even more expressive. It betrayed a full and confident trust in an unseen love which touched Holgate. He did not understand it. Hitherto religion had not occupied his thoughts, nor had it had a place in the home where he had been reared. As yet, perhaps, he had not felt the need of it. Yet this man spoke as if his faith were one of the most precious of his possessions. The curate had started a nevv vein of thought in the surgeon's mind, which might yet be touched to fine issues. ' So you have been favourably impressed with ( 'I'osshaven ? ' said the curate, as they entered upon the village. ' I hope a closer acquaintance with it will strengthen these pleasant impressions. They aiv a simple, kindly, honest people, who in the iiiaiii do their duty by God and man.' ■ I expect to be very happy and comfortable,' ivtiiniod the surgeon, then he paused a moment and looked up the wide, straggling street. ' Do you know, it is very picturesque. The old inn is a picture in itself. It is a quaint, old-fashioned place.' 11 \ I' ( I ' i I ; t upon those to whom they ow^ed their success. The world may call these successful men, but a curse dwells up(ai them, because they have broken one ot the commandments ' ' You speak strongly, Mr. Frew.' ' I feel strongly. It is a common sin, and is not much reprobated. Even in the Haven we have Ri I FRIENDS. 123 had instances of old pcoplo hecominor cliaT2;oal)le to the parish, because their own children had heeome careless of their sacred obligations. I sometimes think that filial ingratitude is a product of the nineteenth century.' The curate's words were powerful, they sank into the heart of Denis- Holgate. He had never !nct one who ex|)ressed himself so fearlessly, and lie li.id not a word to say. For a moment he felt l( iiipted to lay his case before his new friend, but, 1' licet inii tl'«*it the shortness of their acquaintanee scareeK' iustified such a confidence, he refrained. Sdinctinies Molojite stilled an aceusinff conscience 1>\ reriecting that he was only obeying a parental l)clicst. Yet lie was not at ease. There w^as a nnblciicss in him which revolted against the severance of that sacred bond of kinship. He felt that in accepting his mother's mistaken charge he had lowered his own maidiood. Holgate was awaking gradually to the knowledge of a higher lite than that bounded by a merely selfish aim. A liLTpetual struggle seemed to be going on in his mind. ' 1 h()])e we shall see much of each other,' said the curate, as they approached the home of Captain Sihis. ' Perhaps we may be of use to each other ; the true use of friendshi}).' ' Mr. Frew, you are a good man,' said the surgeon, with a boyish simplicity and earnestness which bocame him well. ■ Nay, only a struggling soul who often finds the path of life too hard. 1 have not been without u,' ' f; I f 'I, >< !• I) ,» r lili I' .' i ^ i#i Is 1 Iff 1 I 124 BRIAR AND PALM. A in •iiii, 4i.!;i Ml ri'!' ,:ni ::'l care. Even now it sits djiiklv on inv heart. Wciv I wimt yon say, a trnly j^ood ni.in, I slionld 1m' .iMt to trnst to the nttci-niost. Th( it are times, im (hmht, wlien orn' cjiii nionnt th<' very hill ot (J of the curate's woi'ds. Iloloate looked at him, and saw that his face was turned towards the rauiii" sea with an ex])ression of peace and of joy. A feeling of envy touched llolgate's heart. Tlii> man, weighod down by the sordid cares of earth. possesse o H '■■-J X x: i ' H ii. ' 1 1 : i U l'5 I •i »• ! .! I M lii'l ( '• w Llr^HW*'"» M ] f m If iWr i^ lHj !p^W ' i ii i i 1; ' i 1 ; ■ 1 : 1 1 ' "'; 9HD t 1 A WOMAN'S HERITAGE. 139 wondered why lie was kept waiting so long. There was a (juaint Swiss timepiece on the mantel, which indicated two quarters of the hour while he waited. He could hear the faint sound of voices, and of hurrying feet, through the house, and, more than once, the loud, impatient ringing of a bell. At last, when he was growing tired of waiting, the door was quickly opened, ind a lady entered the room. In the pale uncertain glimmer of the candle-light he did not see her face until she had come up to the table. * I have to apologize for keeping you waiting so long,' she said in a voice whose sweetness fell upon the ears of Holgate like some familiar melody; ' but my husband was not quite ready to see you.' ' It did not matter. I was quite pleased to wait,' the surgeon answered, and his tone and manner were both confused. For, now that the light fell full upon her, he knew that hers was the face he had seen, as in a dream, one moonlit night at St. Cyrus. Not so radiant now as then, but pale and worn and sad, with the shadow of an inward care dwelling perpetu- ally upon it. Her attire was very plain ; a brown serge dress, a linen collar and cuffs fastened with links of gold, no ornament save her wedding-ring. ' I expected to see a much older gcxitleman,' she said, with a faint smile, yet with a touch of concern in her voice. ' If you would prefer to see my colleague, Doctor Radcliffe, I could go for him. I daresay he will be home now. He could be here in fifteen minutes,' said Holgate readily. ' Oh no ; you are very kind, but when you have I if . ' ! I ntH. *'-n M I ' ■ 1 £t f^- I \i Kiftr f -4- 1 ! -i 1 '' J 'ill i ■1; 1 :! ij : 'i' 1 : 1 ; 1 'i ■rjl ; . ' 1 i li 1 ' :i ■ M I I f i i: -H^ [I! 1 r m I ■::l 130 BRIAR AND PALM, taken the trouble to come, Doctor ' She pausorl and looked inquiringly at him, waiting for his name. ' Holgate.' * Holgate,' she repeated, and her fine eyes wore a puzzled look. 'How wingularl I have relatives oftli.it name. Mine is Barham. W ill you please take a cliji ii while I tell you something about my husbaiKl's illness.' * May I offer you a chair, Mrs. Barham ? you look tired,' said Holgate, with gentleness. He liarl never looked better than at that moment, his fine face softened by that kindliness. His heart was touched by the appearance of this young girl, wlio ought not to have been so early burdened with thi- care of wifehood. 'Thank you.' Her beautiful smile was only a passing gleam. When &he began to speak, the sadness returned tn her face. Holgate stood l)y the table, looking down upon her with a mingling of emotions in his soul. Perhaps at that moment the man had the niasterv over the physician. He feit impatient of the troulilc which had robbed that sweet face of its bloom. She was a creature made for sunshine and happiness not for the sordid cares of earth. He was vc^t tn learn that that frail woman's form held a capjicity for endurance, a power of patience and unselfish- ness, before which he would stand ashamed. ' Some months ago my husband met with an accident in the hunting-field,' she began in »jui'' steady tones. * It was a serious fall; his horse 1' I above him, and his spine has been injured seriously. A WOMAN'S HERITAGE, J3» T may say hopelessly. The whole system received ;i teiTil)le shock.' llolc^ate listened and learned something — that she did not care for her husband. A woman who loved could not so calmly have spoken of such a cilaniity. Why he should notice that, or why it should interest him, he did not know. ' It liaDpened when we were ])avin<]: a visit to my guardian, 8ir Fulke Ilolgate, at St. ( yru.s Ahhey, and Mr. Darham was laid up there f(>r sonu^ weeks. Directly he was conscious he insisted upon being removed to our own home at Scaris Dene. The surneon said it was a m-eat risk, and advised against it, but Mr. Barliam insiste<]. and we wrnt. He was the worse for it, and was thrown hack for some time. When he Ijegan to recover the desire for change came upon him again, and he would not rest. Early in the year we came to Soutli- [>oi't, but my husl)and tired of it. You see it is a liTcat trial to him to be confined to the house. When lit' wns in health he lived out of doors. It is natural that he should weary of everything. He constantly fnucies he is out of sorts, and must have a physician seeing him every day. We liave taken this house for tlic spring months, but whether we shall stay or not 1 caimot tell. 1 should l)e glad to feel settled for a little while ; and it seems a sweet, (piiet spot.' ilolgate bowed. Of course h-^ had no right to speak a Word of synn>atliy. He was there in a professional aipncity, and he must l)e careful to keep within it. •Mis.Barham rose. ' Will you come up now ? ' she i'skt'd, and then her eyes fell as she continued, with a ' I \ li t! 1 ■ li ; , t i . 1 » nw. I % 1 *'S i ' 1,1 WK ;l ■"•?''■'" H ^ K'flwv^ fill 1 ' II 1 /.i .1 m4^ :>: I ii;* fill 13a BRIAR AND PALM. slight hesitation, * I think it right to toll you that my husband's manner is sometimes very abrupt and quick. We must be very gentle with him. To l)e confined to one room, as he is, is a living death.' * It is. 1 am deeply sorry, madam, for him and for you.' It was impossible not to feel the deep sincerity with which the surgeon spoke. Winifred Barhnni raised her eyes gratefully to his face, and a sliolit smile dawned upon her own. It is possible that the man's sympathy comforted her ; it is certain that neither felt as if the other were a stranger. At that moment the furious ringing of a bell sounded through the house. Mrs. Barham's colour rose, and her hands were clasped nervously together. ' That is Mr. Barham's bell. Will you come up, Doctor Holo;ate ? ' ' If you are ready.' Holgate held open the door for her to pass out, and followed her up-stairs. As they stepped on to the landing they heard the sound of an angry voice order- ing a servant to see whether the doctor had arrived. Mrs. Barham hurried forward into the room, Hol- gate following. It was brilliantly lighted, one of thf candelabra from the drawing-room being in full blaze on the dressing-table, and a fine wood fire was send- ing forth a cheorful glow from the hearth. On a couch near it lay the patient the surgeon had come to see. ' This is Doctor Holgate, Guy,' said his wife, as she went swiftly to his side. Holgate could see her face, and it wore a distinctly appealing glance. * And why in the name of wonder couldnt V^k A WOMAN'S HERITAGE. 133 Doctor Ilolgate come when he was sent for ? ' in([uiivd Mr. Barham, with a scowl. ' He came at once, Guy. I have detained him (lowii-.staii's explaining your case to him.' ' You might have saved yourself the trouble, iiurMUi; I'm (juite capable of explaining my own case. Sit down, can't you ? ' he added to Holgate. ' Now I want something U) put away this confounded rest- lessiR'ss and pain. I want sleej), sir. and if you can make nie sleep for ever, so much the better.' Holii'ate sat down .nid drew his chair near the conch. He was the physician now, deeply interested in his patient. Calm, self-possessed, thoroughly (•onfi(h3nt, he created a favoural)le impression on Guy Bjuhani, who had been accustomed, perhaps, to r,ee his medical adviser slightly rutHcd by his irritability and rude mode of address. Holgate took no notice of either. His heart WaS touched with pity at sight of the wreck of splendid manhood before him. If Gnv Barham did not bear his cross with becoming meekness, it could not be said that it was light. To he stricken down in his young prime, and cut off for ever from that open-air life to which he had been devoted, was a hard trial. He had the synn)athy even of those who had held him in light esteem ; and when the surgeon's final verdict was given, and it was known that never again would the squire of Scaris Dene sit in the saddle, nor, indeed, be able to help himself, it was said that it might have been better had the accident proved fatal at the time. Such was his opinion, expressed openly, and ^vith that clioice bitterness of language of which he was master. ' \ i ! 'i ■M ' U'l .\ ^i \ I! '34 BRIAR AND PALM. ■I': m He was an exfoptionally liamlsoino man, l)nt it wms merely a pliysicnl bejiuty; his face, yoiin^ ;is Ik- was. bore the inipi'ess of a selfish and even a comi-sc nature. He did not look like one fitted to hold in his hand the hapi)iness of a refined and hiohlv- striinijj nature like thnt of his wife. The nian'i;i"i' had been none of her seeking ; nay, it had I teen forced upon her by the indomitable will oi" her grandmother. The ])ast two years had been years of bitterness for Winifred Barham. Sh;- had married without even the basis of respeet, aid she knew now that, in acquiescing in the will of others. she had grievously wronged herself and her husband. It had not taken him lonoj to discover that she cared nothing for him, and it came u})on him with a blow, for he had passionately and bbndly loved her in his own way. But it was a selfish way, which would sacrifice nothing nor give a moment's eoli- th o sideration to any feelings but his own. So their union became only a mockery of the name — a miseiahh' chain cWcjinsj both their lives. Winifred Barhaii!. with that earnestness peculiar to her nature, did lici duty to the uttermost, but found it a hard and stony pathway for her feet. An unblessed wifehood! Can any heavier curse lie upon a woman's soul ( ' I tell you I w^ish the brute had killed me when she was at it,' said Mr. Barham in a savage under- tone. * I paid three hundred guineas for her, and that was how she served me the second time I mounted her. It was a satisfaction to me to order her to be shot. I wish somebody would have as much compassion for me. Instead, they keep me A WOMAN'S HERITAGE. »35 here in torture, and won't let me have the only thing tliMt gives me a moment's peace. If they'd consult their own peace they'd let me have my way, and I'd soon put an end to the whole concern.' Winifred Barham stepped to the side of the coucli and laid her soft hand with a soothing touch on his hot head. But he impatiently thrust aside the oentle hand. * That's what she gives me instead of morphia,' he said, with a mirthless laugh, ' Why don't you s|)(>jik, Doctor Holgate ? If you're only going to sit and look at me, you needn't come back. You look us if you knew your business too.' ' Your husband has been absolutely forbidden opiates, of course, Mrs. Barham ? ' said Holgate, as lie rose. ' Talk to me, if you please,' interrupted Mr. Bar- ham angrily. ' I am not a child or an idiot. I know what's the matter with me. Yes, that old fossil at Southport said I wasn't to have them ; but I will by some means. What do I want my nerves stimulated for ? That's what the stuff in that bottle's for. Throw it in the fire. It's some- thing to kill I want, since I can't cure.' ' Uh, hush, Guy ! ' fell low and falteringly from the wife's sad lips. ' Hear her now ! As if she wouldn't account it a stroke of uncommon good fortune,' he said jeer- ingly. ' You don't like the truth, eh ? But you've got to swallow it, as I have to swallow the rubbish the quacks prescribe. AVell, are you off, Holgate ? Are you supposed to have done me any good ? •!, , Ji ! ^ \ il : U !*• ■ !■(■ m ■ I^fi BRIAR AND PALM, m • "1 .^!m:i %. ' 'iw < 11 • !i ' 1; 1 1 1 I ll Ilolf^atc sniilcd at the impetuous, candid question. * I understand your case at least, Mr. Barham. I shall send something to ease your wakeful nights,' he said (juietly. * Good evening. Mrs. Barham, may I s[)eak with you a moment, please ? ' ' No, you mayn't,' retorted Guy Barham. ' That's the way slu; used to go plotting with them ut Southport, trying to circumvent me. It's my side you must take, sir, or not a copper.' * We are all on your side, Mr. Barham,* said tlie surgeon, with a slight smile, as he turned to leave the room. He was inexpressibly touched by the interview ; it was impossible not to feel pity for the man. It was a living death for him to be confined to that couch of pain. ' Come back ! When are you coming again ? Remember you are not to neglect me. You must come every day till I tell you to stop. Win, can't you offer him a glass of wine ? ' * There is nothing unpacked yet, Guy ; we have been so short a time in the house.' ' Nothing unpacked ! What are the women about ? Things soon go to sixes and sevens when I'm on the shelf,' he fumed angrily. * Can't you sit down and wait a minute, Holgate ? I haven't said half I wanted to. You can't understand any- thing about me, though you pretend you do. You haven't spoken half a dozen words to me since you came in. Sit down and tell me something about the place. They will drag me from one place to another. I can't get rest night nor day for them.' * It is you who will not rest, Guy/ his wife said. A WOMAN'S HERITAGE. 13? estion. irham. arliam, * That'8 hem. }it side tny said the to leave by the pity tor m to he T again \ ou must in, can't we have women lens when ^an't you haven't iand any- Lo. You iince you |ng about place to )r them.' wife said. * If you had taken the surgeon's advice we would never have left Scaris Dene.' ' So she says to get out of the scrape. It's a wretched affair, Ilolgate, when a man is under a woman's thumb. She looks soft and sweet enougii, doesn't she — a patient angel, and all that ? Don t you believe it. Those meek-faced kind are the worst to (leal with. They can't be honest with a fellow. They give him sweet words when hate is in their souls. But they say that is a woman's w.iy.' Again Winifred Barham's colour rose, and she left the room. Accustomed as she was to insult and humiliation, she found it at that moment |>ecu- liarly trying. H< Igate lingered a few minutes talking with the patient, and when he at length was allowed to go, he found her waiting for him in the hall. He saw her over the balustrade, standing against the table, and was struck by the lioi)eless- ness of her attitude. He did not marvel at it verv much. The life she lived in that si(;k-room, sub- jected to the vagaries of a selfish and exacting invalid, must be one of curious torture. But how- far short of the sad reality did his surmises fall ! 'Well,' she said, when he reached her side, ' what is to be done ? ' ' He must not have the opiate he is craving for, Mrs. Barham,' he answered gravely. ' I daresay other surgeons have warned you of its danger.' * Yes,' she said quietly, ' they have.' Her mouth trembled. She clasped her hands nervously before her. Her face was very pale and worn, her sweet eyes encircled by purple shadows. t' n , ( ( I I ( ', X 138 BRIAR AND PALM, nil ■1 1 %' i;i3ii She had a hard trial, a heavy cross to bear. On her, the wife, the burden must fall. None could relieve her of it, nor even bear a share for lier. * Is there no likelihood,' she asked after a moment, ' that the ci aving will grow lesp ? ' * Yes, if it has nothing to feed upon it must die out,' he answered. ' It is because every drop strengthens the desire that it is imperative it should be altogether kept from him. It has a strong h( :]d upon him evidently.' ' Yes ; it was given to him for the pain at first, and he still imagines the pain as severe, though 1 am assured it is not so. The surgeon at Southport told me the craving for morphia was worse to bear than pain. 1 can see that. It seems cruel to keep it from him. He has no reason, you see, and wc cannot wonder at it. We must be very gentle with him. It is a heavy cross.' 'It is ; but not heavier than yours, madam,' liolgate said involuntarily. Iler colour slightly ruse, but she did not resent his words. She seemed to know him kind, true, keenly sympathetic, and her heart was crying out desolately for some human nid. ' You will come soon and often,' she s;ii. l)arhani ? lie ou^ht never to have left home.' * They did not permit him,' she answered, with a faint smile. ' But my husband knows no law, Mr. lioliiati', but his own whim. Good-night.' n CHAPTER XI. A REVELATION. * Wearier with heart-sorrowa Thau with the weight of years.' E. B. Browning. |S^::^'FrAT 'las come over you, Holgate ? 1 »lM seem to have seen so little of you for M-=iM weeks. Surely you are busy ? ' It was the curate who spoke. lie met Holgate as he was coming leisurely up the street one July evening, with Daisy by his side. * I am very busy,' Holgate answered, as he shook hands with the curate and stooped to pat Daisy's fair chock. * I have my own work and Doctor KadcJill'c's to do, you know.' ' 1 heard he was off. It shows what un- hounded confidence he must have in you. It is t\v(j|ve years since I came to the Haven, and I liavc never kuuwn him take more than a day's li"h(hiy.' Holgate smiled. His relations with his colleague Will' wholly pleasant. They were like brothers in tlieir work. 189 1 r 1 i i ' 1 , ■ h • 1 ■ t 1 H .:.! M Wi mm ^'^^•■^a n i ai tnt lmm.Ta •i'\' '^'J 1 »'=l if 140 BRIAR AND PALM, ' I am glad he is enjoying his trip ; he deserves it. How is Mrs. Frew ? ' ' Nut well ; I wish you would look up and see her. The warm weather tries her, and she will nut go out. I wish you would try and impress upon her the necessity of sjiending a part of each day out of doors.' ' I shall look in ^^^is evening when I come hack from the Rectory. I am going there now.' ' Ah, that is a sad case, Doctor Holgate ! Sick- ness of body and of mind. 1 ain de(3ply sorry for that poor girl. She has a heavy cross.' Holgate said nothing. The child Daisy, lookiiigf at him earnestly, for she loved him, saw a strange dark shadow creep over his face. ' It is a sad case,' was his brief reply. * I suppose there is no hope ? ' said the curate inquiringly. ' What is the disease ? ' ' Paralysis of the spinal cord. It is only a matter of time. The state of irritation in which he keeps himself will shorten his days, that is all.' ' Do they intend remaining the summer here \ ' ' No one knows. They might leave to- da}' or to-morrow if Mr. Barham took it in his head,' returned Holgate. ' I must go, Mr. Frew. I shall see you in an hour or so.' ' Did you know that Mr. Barham has refused to see me every time I have called ? ' asked the curate, lingerino; a moment. ' He told me so.' ' Poor fellow ! it shows a mind ill at ease, when the very thought of the messenger of the truth A REVELATION. 141 ^1 irritates him. The opportunity is yours, Doctor Holgate.' 'I mean that it may be your duty to sjM^jik tlic word in season,' said the curate, with a bright sinilc. Holgate reddened, and, stooping, kid his ImiikI on Daisy's sunny curls. ' 1 see you often on the sands with Capt.iiii Silas, Miss Daisy. When will you take nic for a stroll, eh ? ' 'Any time. Doctor Kolgate,' answered the child, smiling up into his face. 'Your little maid needs a rose in her check. Mr. Frew,' said the surgeon. ' I think I must take her in hand. Would you take my drugs, Daisy { ' 'If you told me they would do me good,' answered the child in her grave, old-fiishiont'd \\\\\ ; 'and if they did not taste vo-y badly.' ' 1 thought I had found a model child, Imt she has her conditions like the rest,' laughed Holuate. 'Good evening just now.' '(lood evening. You did not like my hint, Ihtl^ate,' said the curate. ' If 1 did not, it was because I felt that I \v;is in ;is uieat or greater need than ni}' patient, Mr. Frew,' returned the surgeon almost bitterly. a)id, lifting his hat, strode away, leaving the curate to ponder on his words. Holgate quickened his pace, nodded to Captain Silas enjoying his evening pipe at his cottage d(jor, i^nd passed on to the Rectory gate. He felt his lieart beat quicker as he strode up the leafy lane I 'if I ' I i, 1 i !'«■ I I ■ i t ■ |1 :H'' \\ i Ill : iH 'iff i'-'r|:l' j 1 1 i 1 I 1 1 ; ■ 11 ^ . ' : ■ ' ■f ■ . : as:, u.:.: " : ': m 'III ii ll '■ I 'I ii [■ 14a BRIAR AND PALM. by the side of the church, and turned into tin shrublieiy which grew tliickly l)efore the house. The way had become very famihar to him ; Ik* w.is sometimes at the llectory three anc four tiiiK^ in a day, whenever the s<|uire in his whims scm for him. lie remonstrated at first, saviiii! he could do notliing ; but the squire had silenced him in his usual jjcremptory fashion, and tlieiv had been no more said about it. These visit> were full of peculiar experiences for Holgate, and were beginning to be things of moment i'l his life. He was shown directly up to the drawing-mom. into which the invalid had been moved soon .li'iei his arrival. He did not know a moment's rest: and, had they given him his w^ay, would have changed into a new room every day. Ilolgati. however, had absolutely forbidden any further change. In his hands Guy Barham was wonder- fully docile. His couch was drawn near to the low, wide window, from which there (-ould hi obtained a magnificent view of the sea and of thi' towns on the o})posite coast. When the siir^eiui entered the room that evenini>-, it was Hooded hv the rjidianeo of the setting sun. The hivalid \v;i> alone, a'ld his face wore a wonderfully calm exjuis- sion. Perhaps something of the sunset peace ami hcauty had touched his fretful spirit. ' llulloa, Holgate I sit down,' he said, turiiiiiL' his head. "Why didn't you come sooner? It> confoundedly wearisome here when a fellow lia^ only women to talk to.' A REVELATION, M3 ^ I came when I could. I have other work to do, Mr. Barham,' the surgeon answered pleasantly. ' Ah, I su]>pose so. Poor sort of a life attending to sick folks. Don't you get sick of it ? ' * Never.' 'I don't know how anybody in health can bear to have anything to do with it. I never could when I was well. Do you know wliat I was think- \\Yi Ivinu^ here, Holo^nte? IIow^ s])h'ndi(l the l)cne will he looking just now! Harvest will he in full swino-, and the bu'ds getting strong and wih' for the Twelfth.' Holgate could not help being touched by the woids. The mans heart was yearnin-^ (►vcr the old, stirring, active life, his old haunts and occupa- tions were (tonstajitlv before him, tauntini' him with the free and happy past. But in ji momenr any IV'eling of sympathy vanished at the next words. 'My wife is croaking about going back, but I won't. I like this place. As well die here as anywhere else. It'll be a relief to her when that comes; you couldn't tell her anvthino- tlu't would [•lease her better.' 'You are not just to Mrs. Barham. sir,' he said • [uickly. He could not sit cpiietly and hear him >l>eak of her in such a tone. 'Oh, perhaps not. Of course you'll take her ^i'le ; they all do, and think I'm a brute. They •lont know her as well as 1 do. You think I make a slave of her here, I su|>pose. I've seen you look as if you thought it. But she's ray wife, and she shall bear my burden, if I ohoosc. 'h\- '■^'' 1, * 1 1 en Vother neet. Sutton winna stand it, either. He's quiet, but he con say a bit sharp word, an' he will to Lyddy afore she's mony days owder. Hoo's jes' her feyther, as I said. Thou's heerd me speak o' Bolsover. If tha had known liini, Cap'n, he'd a' made tha sick. Mary Anne would ha' crawled on her very knees to serve him. Mony a time have I towd her, I wished 1 A GENTLE HEART. ^SS had her chance, I'd made a better mon o' him. He wur jes' a great, nasty, domineerin' lump. Me an him didna pu' thagither. He knawed I saw through him. The gel has all his pride an' his close way. Hoo didna tell me aboot th' doctor ; I had to foind that out, an' it about turned my stomach.' * What turned your stomach, Aunt Cicely ? ' asked a cool, calm, sweet voice, and the inner door ()[)eiied, and a tall, womanly figure in white a|»]ieared on the threshold. Her eyebrows were slightly arched, a cool, amused smile played about hor well-formed mouth. She had overheard the greater part of her aunt's speech, and they knew it. ' This is my niece, Lyddy Bolsover, fra Waveney, Ca[)'n,' said Cicely, with reddening face. ' Happy to see tha, miss, for tha aunt's sake. Her an' me's owd friends,' said the Captain, takinor off his hat and offerinir his weather-beaten hand. Miss Bolsover gave a cool little nod, but took no uotice of the offered hand. ' Is that a' th' manners thy school-teachin's taught tha, Lyddy ? ' asked her aunt severely. ' Doesna tha see Cap'n Silas oiFerin' ta shake hands wi' tha ? ' ' I bowed to Captain Silas, Aunt Cicely ; good manners required no more,' s:iid Lydia. * May I go for a stroll on these lovely marshes ? they look so tem[»ting.' ' if tha wur civil, Lyddy, ih' Cap'n moigbt offer fur to tak' tha himsen. He knaws ivvry bit o' them fra Hesketh to Formby, and iwry bit o* grass that blows on th* sand-hills knaws him.' * Oh, m not trouble him ; I am not particularly I i1' iL ' '•' ' :i A m '1 ' |i m6 BRIAR AND PALM, interested in the grftss. Good-evening, Captain ; thanks all the same,' said Lydia, jaid walked away from the door, putting up her wliite lace sunslijulc. whieh had a black bow on it to match the ribljun.s on lier muslin gown. ' Hoo is a foine lass an' no mistak', Cicely,' said the Captain, looking after her admiringly. ' The doctor moight do w^orse. They'd mak' a gradely <'ouple ; doesna tha think so ? ' ' Well enough, well enough ; but it'll nivver l)e. It's on'y to tliysen, Cap'n Silas, I durst whisper that 1 doubt he's lost his heart somewheer else, wheer he had noan bezniss t.a lose it. Hoo's a dear, sweet, heart-broken cretur at th' Rectory, Cap'n.' ' Tha conna mean that that foine young chap has lost liissel' to another mon's wife, Cicely?' said the Captain, shaking his grey head doubtfully. ' I mean jes' that, Cap'n.' ' I durstna believe it o)i him, Cicely. He's a foine chap. Him an' me's had mony a good talk, an" [ nivver seen noan nonsense aboot him. He's often there, but it's th' squire. They do say th^er's noan livin' wi' him. I see that young choild, his wife. walkin' i' the lane. It's a soar handful for her, })0()i' lass.' ' Ay, it is ; but I mun tell tha how I fand oot aboot th' doctor. Cap n. He wair in here wan neet, an' I happen't to say summat aboot her sudden loike, an' at that vera minit hoo went by the door. an' I seed it in his face. God help tha, lad ! said I in my heart, an' I nivver spak o't, noan even to Sutton. tie'd a' laughed at me, but I wurna mista'en.' Ill i:: A GENTLE HEART. 157 ' Ay, ay ; tha had need to say God help th' lad, if it be true, Cicely, fur it's a soar thing fur mon or woman to set theer hearts wheer there's noan hope. I hope theer's that in oor young doctor, Cicely, that'll mak' a mon o' him i' this trouble then. I hev gradely hopes ov him ; I think he'll trample it underfoot.' * I hope so. Theer's Sutton comin'. That Sally ov ours is getten beyant ivvrything wi' laziness. I see her hobnobbin wi' thy Jerry whiles on th' sand-hills ; I believe she's larnt some o' his foine tricks,' said Cicely humorously, and with a nod she went in-doors to see that the kettle was boiling for Sutton's tea. Captain Silas continued his slow course up the street, stopping every few minutes for a word with a neighbour, or to pat a little child on the head. The very dogs came smelling kindly about his feet, recognising in him a protector and a friend. While Captain Silas was taking his solitary walk, little Daisy, having succeeded in singing the fretful baby to sleep, stole out of doors, intending to run down and see her old friend. But as she was speeding down the middle of the road, the lady walking alone in the Eectory Lane saw her, and, leaning over the gare, smiled and asked her to come and speak to her. * You are Mr. Frew's little girl, I think ? * she said ; and her voice was so sweet that it sounded like music in the child's ears. * Yes, I am Daisy Frew,* she answered, smiling too. She had never seen anything so lovely as this sweet lady in her robe of clinging white, 1 ' t -,. V' <\ i i BRIAR AND PALM. with the sunlight on her face and in her ojoldon hair. ' Is your mamma better, dear ? 1 lieard she was very ill.' Instantl}' the child's face grew very grave. ' Oh no ! mamma is very ill. She lies in hod all day, so quiet and still. Papa sits by hor nil the time, and I keep baby, and try to get the boys to be (juiet.' * You ! Poor little tender mite ! you are only a baby yourself And how old is this baby you kco])? ' ' Baby is eleven months ; he is a dear baby, but so lazy. He won't even sit good by himself.' ' And do you carry him about yourself 1 ' * Yes, there is no one else.' * Does it not tire vou ? ' ' Sometimes my back aches, and if papa ?;op=, he makes me give baby to Martha, or takes hiui hini- Belf. But I don't like that. Papa has a great leal to do, and is often tired and sad.' ' Your unselfishness shames me, Daisy,' said ^Irs. Barham, and the tears stood in her eyes. ' I don't quite know what you say, ma'am," -ai'l Daisy shyly, wondering to 3ee tears in the hidys eyes. ' Shall 1 tell you ? I was feeling ver}" sid aiiil ver}' weary and discontented, my darling, and 1 have learned from you that I have been wronu/ ' Have you a great deal to do, and does yuiu back ache ? ' asked Daisy timidly. ' I think it musi, your face is so white.' * My heart aches, dear, and that is worse than ii! A GENTLE HEART, '59 . ! ' tie was in ^tod bev all iie l)<>vs I oriiv a il)Y, but v' If.' reat 'loal sy,' s^ii*"^ yes. ;be bidys y sad aiKl does youv k it must, korse than mv bnok/ answoi'cd Winifred, vvitb a faint sniib\ ' \\<\\ I kiss vou ? * ' If you [)l('as<\' answered Daisy, and uplifted her sweet tliirj face very willingly to the beautiful one aiiuve her. ' Do you tbiidx vou could come down some day and have tea with me ? The strawberries are ripening in the garden alie;Hly.' ' Oh, are they ? I couldn't come till mamma is hotter, and bal^y tries to walk ; 1 have charge of him, you know.' ' You poor little mite 1 ' repeated Winifred Barham pitifully. * You must be your father's pet, 1 think.' ' I'm his sunbeam and his heart's comfort, he says,' answered the child simply. ' May 1 go now ? I am going to see Captain Silas. Do you know Captain Silas ? ' * Is that the old fisherman, with the lame leg and the stick, who lives down in yon little cottage ? ' ' That's him. He's my chum, papa says. I love him next to papa. He knows everything ; 1 know a lot of things he has told me. I know where the sea-daisies come out first on the sand- hills. They'll be there now, only I haven't been rf7JJ^2"''^l.>«*"*»^i.»«... CHAPTER XIIL A WOMAN SCORNED. * When the hite is broken, Sweet tones are renieniliered not ; When the lips have h] token, Loved accents aie suuu fuigut.' SUFTXET. RS. BARHAM shook hanr' , with IIol- ain riow, for he^ In'ows were drawn ; hut she would have died rather than liave admitted it in words. '(lod knows, Lydia, 1 will do what I can. I have been in the wrong. I am in }our hands/ ' 1 know you are,' she said quietly. ' TJieu kt me speak. I have had something to boar in Wavencv on your account. Mrs. Waiven up mv situation for vou. I liave no- thing: in the world, no home, no Iriends. Aunt (yicely and her boor of ... husband only tolerate me at the " Boot and 8ho«:/' I shall not stay tlieie. Before I C'o I must have some understanding' witli you. You asked me last year to be your wife, ami I consented. I have not released you from }'our promise, and I do not intend to do so.' ' Very well, then, I sliall marry you ; but you understand that I do not <'are for vou as a iii;iii care., for the woman he would make his wife.' ' So you have been careful to tell me alroadv, she .^aid .-harply. * There is no need to repeat it. I daresa > we shall bi' as happy as the most ol ^iiarried people in ihis world.' ' I shall do my duty,' Holgate answered quietly 111 i ' :!! 'i ill A WOMAN SCORNED, 171 or how acrcr eyes. ' I will not stay now then. Tell papa I shall come up a little later in the evening.' ' 1'!] come out with you to the gate ; I want to tell you something,' said the child, and, slippiug ^^^ i : 1 i, .iji A WOMAN SCORNED. 173 slender hand in his, she led him out into the plensant iraiden. 'As I was going down to ('ii|)taiii Silas's a little ago I saw the lady at tlie lu'cioiy. She asked me to talk to her, and she kissed uie ton. (!an you tell me why she is so sad ? ' 'She has many cares, Daisy. They weioh upon her heart.' The cliild turned her eyes away to the soft Miie line of the distant sea, and watched the lioldcn shafts cast upon it by the setting sun. The niys- teiy of life was sinking into her being ; she had grown weary in her young childhood [M>ndering upon the sorrows and the cares of those ai'ound her. Holuate felt the slight hand tremble in his own. ' What is it, Daisy ? ' he asked very gently, ' Papa says God knows all about us, and that He loves us very much. It must grieve Mini that every one suffers. Have you cares too, Doctor Holgate ? ' 'Ay, child, bitter cares,' answered Holgate (piickly. ' I have been very wrong and very wicked. 1 am trying, Daisy, to be a better man.' 'Oh, I do not think you can be that ! Papa loves you very much ; you are so kind to everybody. /love you, Doctor Holgate,' added the cliihl sli}ly, looking up into his face. 'God l^ess you, Daisy! you are an angel in tiiis place,' said Holgate, with emotion, and, bending •^lown, he touched the pure brow with his lips, and then went his way. Two hours later he was summoned in hot haste ^0 \\ oodbine Cottage. He found, the curate's wife 174 BRIAR AND PALM. w\ i ii very ill, and slightly dclirions. He saw at once that there was no hope, Gilhert Frew was siirni._f by the bedside in an attitude of hopeless dcspiiir. His sensitive nature was writliin'j; keeidy willi iin- availing remorse. He liad never in his life uttciKl a harsh or reproachful word to his wife, but tin re had been times when lie had felt weary and im- patient of her careless housekeeping, her poor fulfil- ment of the duties of wife and mother. Those thoughts now stabl)e(l tlie curate to the heart like ;i two-edged sword. If he liad only been kiiidci'. more helpml, more faithful, with her, lie said tn himself accusingly, he could htive Itetter bonit' to have her taK3n away. Holgate laid his hand on his slioulder, and the curate turned his head and raised a ha<'i'ard faci' id his. * Can YOU do nothing;?' he asked imidorino^lv. Holgate shook his head. His heart was wi'unir with the man's ano-uish. Never had he fdr so keenl\- how little he knew, how very slioht was lii^ boasted power. He stood helpless at the appinacli of death. * Are vou there, Gilbert V * Ves, Hetty, I am here,' said the curatft biv.ith- lessly, thankful for that brief gleam of recogiiitii'ii. *I am going to die, Gilbert, am 1 iK-t ?' * I fear, my darling, nothing more can be duin', he answered in a whisper. She closed her eyes a moment, her pale li^^ moved, then she opened them and fixed them on her husband's face. ijj? A WOMAN SCORNED. '75 TTolga^^ stepped liglitly across the room niul looked o it of the window across the sea. where alnady the young moon had lit c. silvered pathway. ' I have been a poor wife to you, (lilhert. I wish 1 hnd l)een better. But you foroive me, do }(»u not?' iisk('(l the dying woman earnestly. 'Oil, Henrietta, liush! Thei'o ean he no (|uestion alioiit that now. Do you forgive me, my wife?' ' Foi'give ?/07( f Don't moek me, (Jilhert. You liavc heen too good, too kind, too Jbrhearing. I was iievei' fit to l)e vour wife. But vou will miss me a little, and the children will he a heavy care to you. Take care of Daisy, Gilbert. I have not Ihcii just to her, but you will make it up to her, 011(1 she will be a comfort to you, I know. JLjw (lark it grows ! lias the sun set yet ? ' ' Lon^ since. You are not afraid to cross the dark river, Henrietta ? You have faith in the Saviour? ' ' 1 — I think so. No, I am not afraid. I have asked to he foigiven. I should like to have lived a little Iniiooi", to try and be a better wife to you, a better mutlior to the children, but 1 am quite willing to "'It. llolgate opened, the door of the adjoining dress- iii'i-iooni and slipped in. No stranger slioidd i tell to the last words between the husband and \\H('. She spoke no more. And within the hour tliL' (Urate s household w^as made motherless. . ,1 'i; , I i m ; ^^' i ^ 1 ■ :»' ■!■!) 'Mi M (f'v ' /r-- .-^ w **' CHAPTER XIV. A MOMENTOUS HOUR. * If you knew the light Tlwit your HO\il casts in my sight, How I look to you For the pure and the true, And the beauteous, and tlie right' Browning. Hi Y master is asleep, sir/ said the servant to Doctor llolgate, one evening when he called at the Rectory. * I will see Mrs. Barham, then, if you ; 'lease.* The girl hesitated a moment before she niiswered ' Step into the dining-ruum, sir, and I'll tell her vou are here.' Holgate nodded, hnn^ np his hat, and crossed the liall in the direc -^mI of the diniiiix-room. As he did so, he noticed sii^iis of (confusion about, and some packed trunks standing in a recess. He turned to ask tlie maid wlietlicr thcv were leavinn the house, but slie had already disapi)eared througli the baize-covered door into the kitchen. When he entered the dining-room, he saw Mrs. Barham 17« A MOMENTOUS HOUR. 177 M Browning. e servant liner wlieii aen, if you miswH'red. I'll tell her 1(1 crossefl Iroom. A> labout, and tM-ess. He jre leaving led tbrougb :s. Barham sittincf at the claveiij)ort, writinpj. A candle was liiiiniu^' beside her, for though it was a summer I'vciiing' a dense fog had come suddenly down, mil king twilight before the settin^jj of the sun. She losi." hurriedly, and only half-turned her head to ujrcet him. lie wondered at the evident confusion in her manner, usually so calm and self-possessed. '(lood evening, Doctor Ilolgate. Excuse me jusi one moment, while I address this letter. .\nuht I ask }'ou to take it to the post as you go (lowu? The maids are at their wits' end. We leave Crosshaven to-morrow.' Wvv voice was distinctly tremulous; she seemed much distressed. ' Anything I can do, ^Irs. Barham, will be gladly (loiio/ he answered sincerely ; and sat down to wait until she should be disengnged. She seemed to lin forget as it is to speak of it,' returned the surgeon gl'^ B of eacli never wcct We way les,' she saiil with wbicli isly througli the house. He saw her start, and grow palor, if that were possible ; there was a distinct expression of fear on her face. ' I must go. Good-night, Doctor Holgate,' she said hurriedly. As she spoke, she passed her hand nervously across her brow. At that moment the caudle, in an expiring effort, sent up a bright flame, and Holgate saw that in pushing the golden hair aside she had revealed a long blue mark like a bruise. 'What is that ? Are you hurt, Mrs. Barham ? ' he asked, starting forward. * Have you met with any accident ? ' Her colour rose again, this time in a hot, quick, painful wave. " Do not ask. It is better not. The shame of it was harder than the pain. Forget it and me. Doctor Holgate. Again, thanks for all your good- ness. The heart of a desolate woman has been cheered by your friendship.' So sa} ing, she glided from the room. Holgate, like a man in a dream, followed her, took his hat, and went out of the house. He was possessed of a thousand impulses, which were like to overwhelm him. One \vas uppermost, a wild desire to be revenged on the coward who tyrannized over the weak woman the law had placed in his power. There had been times when intense pity for Guy Barham had made him find excuses for his irritability, his waywardness, the selfishness of his whims. But now pity was dead ; a blind indignation, a black and bitter hatred I i > ) S- 1^ i; m lillM T'n 183 BI^/A/^ AND PALM, po.sso.s.sed his whole ])eing. That purple bruise on tlie white lu'ow sci'ined to have burned itself into his very .^ )ul. lie drew his hat over his brows; he groi nd his teeth and elenehcd his hands. It wa.s well that no one saw him in that wild mood. It is <;ertain he eould not have controlled himself sufti- ciently to [)resent an unrutHed exteriin*. It had l)een a fine mild day, without Ijrilhaiit sunshine, or the heat common to the month of Julv, but now a dense fojr huny; over sea and land like a pall. A low wind had risen, and drove the mist against Holgate ; he felt its cold, stin<;iniT touch in his face. Involuntarily he turned his steps towards the shore. He needed its iscjlation, its freedom ; he had a hard battle to fight. lie i;ave himself up, as he went, to a vision of what life might liave been had they met in happier circum- stances, had l)oth been free. He told hinisilf bitterly it was mad, wronii: to think of her at all; l>ut oh, such thoughts were passing sweet 1 They were like a solace to an achinu' wound ; and they could harm no one. They had parted, probably to meet no more on earth. To-morrow he would be brave and strong to take up the grey routine of In-* life, made better, he hoped and prayed, l)y the sweet • 'xample which had been daily before him for uionths. Standing there on the sloping bank, where Captain Silas's ' owd boat' was rottino; in wind and weather, quieter, holier, better thoughts came home to the heart of Denis Holgate. He \atched the tide flowing in with stealthy rapidity; he saw the gradual risino- of the breakwater, and A MOMENTOUS HOUR, 183 heard the swell lapping the keels of tlie boats at aiKthor there ; he listened to the sea winds moaning within the impenetrable mist ; and felt as if he were a creature utterly alone in some remote region, far removed from the haunts of men. The village was lost in the fog ; he could only see a few yards before and behind him ; but the solitude, the sense of utter isolation, suited his mood. He had to bid farewell here, by the edge of the sobbing tide, to a part of his life which must henceforth be to him a dim but very sacred memory. This love, which had been at once the deepest joy and the keenest pain of his existence, must henceforth be shut altsolutely out of his life. With folded arms and .!yes downbent upon the sea-daisies blowing on the sward, Denis Holgate looked ahead a little into the life which a woman's influence was to make a nol)ler, manlier, heavenlier thing than it had ever yet been. For her dear sake, to be worthy of the friendship she had said was between them, he would do his duty henceforth, with God's help, unflinch- ingly, at whatever sacrifice or cost. First of all, thun, self must be trampled upon, must be put alisolutely in the background. Duty first of all pointed to his childhood's home, to his patient, heroic, self denying mother, to his sister, whom, God help and forgive him I he had once despised. Tears rose in his eyes as he thought of her ; a new tender- ness crept into his heart, sufi'using his whole being with a soft and radiant glow. To see them, to seek them out, to insist that they should share what he liad, that they should permit him to atone for the 184 BRIAR AND PALM, z.m lil' |M past, tliin must be his first step. That done, liia iH'Xt Jiiid liurdcr duty coneerned tlie woman whose love Ik; had won, and whose liappincss he had it in his power to make or mar. lie had not been just to her, lie told himself. lie would be kinder, niore frcnerons, more tender with her. When she \v;is his wife, [)erhaps, the love which beautifies marri.iire would <»row up slowly, and on a sure foundation. 80 Denis Holgate mapped out his life, lookin*,^ its realities sternly in the fjice, making up his mind manfully to its manifold duties. There was a silent heroism in this, which had a touch of the sublime in it, because he was making a tremendous efl'ort. He was still sitting on the old boat with his eyes downbent, whe i 'Le sound of approaching hoofs caused him to rai^^ iiis head. Then he saw Silas Rimmer's Jerry trotting along the path, with his ears back, his nostrils dilated, his shaggy coat dripping wet. The poor creature came up to his side, rubbed his wet nose against his sleeve, and exhibited signs of distress. Holgate smiled, and bade him get away home, but when he moved away the animal persistently followed him, exhibiting a strange uneasiness which struck Holgate. He walked right out upon the marshes, through the dense folds of the mists, until he reached the white edge of the tide. It was now almost full ; only a narrow strip of sand remained dry. Jerry had left him, and was careering wildly about the sand-hills, as if a sudden terror had possessed him. As Holgate was about to retrace his steps, a sudden sound was borne to him on the wind, like the shrill cry of a A MOMENTOUS HOUR, i8S woman half muffled in the (h'adnoss of the mist. He strained eyes and ears an instant, until he heard it aj^jiiii, this time unmistakahly a (;ry of a^ony niid tear. He knew whence it came, from the sjind- luink where the cockh'-^^ntherers iiad l)een husy in the afternoon. The shore w;is Ilf^^ ( ! :; 1 86 BRIAR AND PALM. faoo in its agony of terror blanched like the fuoo of the (lead. * I shall try. I heard the cry, but did not droam it wouhl be yours. Can you swim ? ' he askcil in a quiet, firm voice. 'No, uo! We shall be lost 1* she cried wildly. * Oh, that dreadful, cruel sea I ' * Hush 1 ' he said sternly. * Listen to me. There is only one chance of safety. You must cling to me. I can swim, and I am strong, but every tiling depends on your keeping absolutely still. If yuu hamper me with any motion in the water, it is certain death for us both.* She hesitated a moment. His calm, quiet man- ner gave her confidence. She saw that he had faith in himself. She also became perfectly calm. ' I understand you. Tell me exactly what to do ; I am ready.' * Come, then.' He held out his hand. She cast one look at the fast-lessening islet on which she stood, shuddered, and stepped into the water. It was a curious thing that on this night Denis Holgate should save the life of the woman who loved him, but whom he did not love. He smiled slightly as be breasted the wave with her on liis arm. His progress was but slow ; it was un- doubtedly a time of fearful suspense and peril for them both. But shortly it was over, and they stood together safely on the shore, she very white and trembling, he exhausted with his toil. * Let us get home as quickly as possible,' he said. ' Are you able to walk ? ' A MOMENTOUS HOUR. 1S7 ' Yes ; l)ut you ? I I'car you are quite exhausted. Can T run tor lielp ?' * No. Conio, let us ^o home. Tell me hov you cnnie to be there and let the tide eome in on you. Has no one ever warned you of these dan«^erous .siUidlianks ? ' ' Xo. I was sittini*' reading and watehinii- the Sim set. When it dropped into the sea, the too- caiHc down just like a j)all ; and when J got U[) to (•(» lioiMc 1 t'ound (h'cp water all round me. I was ^iltiiin with inv lace seawards, so 1 did not notice the «|ui<'k flow of tlie tide.' There is one [)hice where you could have sf('|)pe(l over. 1 suppose you could not find it ill the mist.' No; besides I did not know. I hope Captain Silas and Mr. Frew's little girl are safe. I saw tlit'iii jind the donkey far across the sands opposite Maishside.' There is no fear of Captain Silas; he knows tlii'se treacherous sands too well,' said Denis iloluate. '1 ho])e you will he none the worse for vour adventure. If I am able I shall look in and see vou to-niolit.' she looked at him suddenly — gratefully, yet with wondering eyes. ' Would you have swam to my rescue had you known it was I on the sandbank ? ' she asked. '^lust certainly, Lydia.' 'You have saved m\ life. I thank you for it, Denis Holgate. I shall not forget it.' u''P 1 88 BRIAR AND PALM. ' Wliosc life would I save if not that of my pronuHcd wife, Lye of peace within the trelliaed doorway — nevermore. >, ;»,; . '7 l,i ) of my uih'. se in licr cottaj^c. '\\v^ that tlllVsl|(tltl trelliscd & u o r; ^ »J ■ « * , ' .J lli !i '11 Ml f '^''km CHAPTER XV. *0P HIS kingdom/ • Tliese birds of Paradise but long to flee Back to their native mansions.' Prophecy of Dante. HEN the baby, worn out with a fretful day, fell asleep in the evening, little Daisy had stolen away down to see her old friend, leaving her father in the study, and the boys playing in a more subdued way than usual in the back yard. Martha, softened l>y the sorrow which had come upon the house, fitid touched by Daisy's pale face, willingly promised i'> nurse the baby should he awake, and bade her iHtt hurry, if she would like a walk. Daisy would like to have told her father, but the study door liid been locked since tea, so the child only slipped 'juietly across the hall, touched the door-handle with her lips, and stole out of the house. No one met her on the road, but Cicely Sutton iiappened to observe her entering the door of I'aiitain Silas's cottage, and her tears had started at the thought of the care now weighing upon the shoulders of the solitary child. She had remained 189 t I* ■i \ I % ill I* III liffii 190 BRIAR AND PALM. a little in-doors, and then she and the old man luul emerged, and taken together the familial pathway to the shore. Jerry, browsing pea'-efully on the sand-hills, had trotted after them, and one of tlio cockle - gatherers had met them strolling slowly westward, hand in hand, talking in low, caniest tones. It is probable that, out of the sad event of the day, tlieir talk had turned u])on the ni\-sti'iy of death. That was just at sundown ; imnKMliatclv afterwards the blinding mists came down, suddenly an J thickly, as if some unseen hand had let loose the folds of a heavy mantle upon the earth. Ik- tween eight and nine o'clock the (mrate came out of the study, to find the boys all in bed, and Martha sitting in the sitting-room watching the sleeping child. ' Has Daisy gone to bed ? ' he asked. * No, sir ; she went out long since to see Captain Silas. She's bidden a grade!}' whoile. Shall I goo an' bring her wdioam ? ' ' Never mind ; I shall go. Dear me, what a disagreeable night ! W hat a fog ! It was very wrong of Captain Silas to keep Daisy so long,' said the curate, as he put a muffler about his throat and took down his overcoat from its peg. He had opened the front door, and the wet, stinging night air blew chilly in upon him. It was very cold for a night in summer, A few minutes' sharp walking brought him to Silas Rimmer's cottage, only to find it in total darkness, The door was open, but there was no * OF HIS KINGDOM* X91 one within. A slight feeling of alarm rnmo upon the curate; it was just possible, he thought, that in their walk they might have lost their way. TL.it vague sense of uneasiness gave sj)eed to his footsteps as he hurried up the street to the * Boot and Shoe.' As he stepped into the ponli he heani the sound of excited voices in the kitchen, and when he looked in he saw Cicely vigorously stirring something on the fire, and talking very loudly. *I beg pardon, Mr. Frew/ she said, the moment she caught sight of him. * Please coom in an' sit down, sir. It's a raw neet if ever theer wur won.' Sutton took his pipe from his cheek and touched his forelock as he rose to ofier * th' parson ' a chair. ' I won't sit down, thank you. I am in search of my little daughter, Cicely. She went out some hours ago, Martha says, to see Captain Silas, and she has not come back. The old man's cottajje is dark and empty. I thought they might be here. Have you seen anything of them ? ' Cicely Sutton gave a quick gasp, and caught her side with her hand. All the ruddy colour died out of her winsome face, and her mouth trembled. * Tlie Lord forbid ! ' she said in a shaking voice, — * the Lord forbid ! Oh, Mr. Frew, fur sure He'd nivver let nowt happen t' little lass ! * Gilbert Frew sank into a chair, now totally over- come, lie did not know what he feared. Cicely could not bear to see him in that attitude of despair, with his face bent on his hands. * Duunot take on, sur ; fur sure owd Cap'n Silas knaws ivvry fut of th' marshes an' th' shore fra Mi' 1 Id I i> lii'i ii ' lltlll m i lii H 155 ^. 't ■A H'^'l }' ^ ( 1 1 k 1 1 1 1 ! il il II ! j !! it ^ i 1 :« ] \ . ;.t f 193 BRIAR AND PALM. Hesketh to Formby. Mayhaps hoo*s gon wi' him to Souport, an' they'll coom whoam by tli' neet train.' * It is the sandbanks, Cicely. I fear them,' said the curate, rising heavily to his feet. * Ay ; my niece Lyddy's had a taste of 'em to- neet. Hoo's coom' whoam drippin' fra th' sand- bank. Dr. 'Ow'git saved hoo's life to her. Tlieer wur deep watter atween her an' th' shore, an' he swam fur her, an' brought her whoam. Hoo's in bed noo, an' wonna git th' better o't fur lang. Hoo's getten a foine fright, I can tell yo'. That wur loike a sill}' wench. Mister Frew ; but catch Cap'n Silas goin' near th' banks an' a fog brewin'. He's han't forgot what they took fra -him years agoo, parson. Art gooin' out, Sutton ? * ' Ay, I'll jest tak' a walk alang th' sand-hills. Happen I'll see 'em,' answered Sutton, pulling on his boots. Cicely saw that her husband was not less anxious than herself * Yo'd better git Sammy Wright an' Jack Wright and Bob Linacre wi' yo', Sutton. One pair o' hands an't no use. Keep up thy heart, parson sur. Fur sure's the Lord 'ud look after the little lass. Whoile Sutton goos for th' men, wonnot yo' goo up to th' station ? Th' train '11 be in soon, an' they may coom be it.' ' I'll go. Cicely, but I don't expect they will come. I am very anxious,' said Gilbert Frew wearily. He was right. No passenger from Southport alighted at Crosshaven station that night, and he hurried bac'i to the inn, thoroughly alarmed. He • OF HIS KINGDOM? 193 founfl the men waiting for him, with anxiety and distress depicted on their faces. If anything had happened to little Miss Daisy, it would be even a worse grief to the parson than his wife's death. All night through the anxious group wandered about the marshes and the shore, but found no trace of Captain Silas or his little lass. One fear possessed them, and was indeed whispered among them out of the curate's hearing, that the ebb tide might f-arry the bodies out to sea, and that no trace might ever be found, or any clue to the mystery of their deoth. There was no doubt in their minds that the worst had happened to the old man and the little child. The dawn found them wandering disconsolately along the w^ide stretch of sand out from Marshside. It was a lovely dawn, clear, sweet, and bright, with a flush in the east like the bloom on a baby's cheek, and a promise fairer than could be imagined or described preceded the rising of the sun. They strained their anxious eyes across the expanse, but nothing was visible. ' Lyddy said she saw 'em gooin' on to Marshside/ said Sutton at length. ' Bob Linacre, wilt coom alang 0' me an* see if theer be anything beyant yon sand-hill ? ' His manner was a little excited, but they did not notice it. Gilbert Frew was like a man in a dream, passive, still, silent, following the others, but apparently taking no interest in the ol)ject of their search. Ho even wondered at times what they were doing wandering about here in the liush of the early morning, not realizing that they .■ ! m iU.* 194 BIl/AJi AND PALM, ii \\ Si:' were looking for his own lost child. It was ai^roofl that while Sutton and Bob Linacre went eastwuid a little way, the others should wait where iliov were. * Theer's summat yandcr, Bob, see, bi yon rork/ said Sutton, grasping his companion's arm when they were out of hearing. ' Doesna it look oiicom- mun loike a little gel's frock ? If it be, God liol|» th' parson ! I wish I wur anywheer but wheer 1 {uii at this minit.' * We mun goo an' see, I reckon,' answered the other in a trembling voice ; so in silence they strode across the wet sands until they came to the low- flat rock left dry by the receding tide. And so they found them, the old man and the litle chikl ; she with her little arms clasped tightly about liis neck and her head on his breast, her golden liaii lying in wet tangles over his shoulder, both ([iiito dead. They had loved each other in life, and together had entered that happy haven of wliidi they had so often talked. There was no expression of terror or fear in their faces ; both were peaceiul and pleasant, the lips of little Daisy parted in a smile. The cruel sea which had hemmed them in and made them its prey had only given tlieni a better inheritance than any earth could give, ' lur of such is the kingdom of heaven.* » > * I can say now, ** It is well.' It was the curate who spoke. Holgate and lie were alone together in the sitting-room at \\'ooil- bine Cottage on the evening of the second day * OF HIS kingdom: '95 after the calamity which had cast a gloom of nioiiiiiing over the Haven. He was standing by the mantel with his arm leaning on it, his head turned to his friend, who was pacing to and fro the narrow room, as if lal touring under a strong agitation. lie had risen from his bed, where he had lain since his adventure on the sandbank, to come up and see (Gilbert Frew. They had been talking, not of the calamity alone, but of the general affairs of life, and had touched upon its mysteries and strange sorrows. nol,i»ate was questioning, rebellious, incredulous of the sweetness of the Divine Will, the curate wholly trustful and at rest. The Lord had given to him the comfort he needed ; the dark hour was past. ' You amaze me, 2.ir. Frew ; to see you so calm, so cheerful, so like your^^lf, is the most wonder- ful thing I have ever knowi . It cannot be a delusion and a snare, this religion which so upholds you in trials which few other men could bear.' * It is no delusion, I bless God ! ' answered the curate (juietly. * When He reveals Himself to you, \()U will understand it, not till then. I do not know what holds you back, my friend, from the full belief and joy ? I often think you cannot be fur from the Kingdom.' * Far enough,' answered Holgate gloomily. ' You think too well of me. You do not know of what luoauness, what ino-ratitude, what selfishness I liiive been guilty. If it is not too selfish, I should like to speak to you a])Out myself, Mr. Frew ; ! Jioed the advice, the help of such a friend as you.' I 1 4I , 1 196 BRIAR AND PALM. It I m * I shall be glad to listen,' answered the curate, and sat down by the window, from which lie could see the smiling blue line of the sea whicli had robbed him of his little child. Perhaps it was hut natural that he should turn his back upon it witli a slight quick shiver ; the wound was very open yet. In the upper room the child still lay, covered with the choicest blossoms of the summer, awaitiuLr the hour when they sliould carry her to the new- made grave under the shadow of the liectory limes. Holgate, still continuing his walk, began at the beginning his life - history, omitting nothing, glossing nothing over, not sparing himself. There was a fine hope for him in the curate's heart as he listened. When a man can thus lay his faults and stumblings bare before the gaze of a friend, he has taken a step in the right way ; his face, beyond a doubt, is setting towards the Kingdom. * Hearing all this, Gilbert Frew, will you still touch my hand in friendship ? ' he said in conclu- sion. ' Do you not hate and despise me ? * * No, I love you.' He rose and gripped him by the hand, and so they stood a moment looking into each other's eyes. * Life is about to begin for you. You will make it very noble,' said the curate warmly, and his face shone with his love and hope in his young friend. ' If God out of His goodness permits you to make your reparation to your dear mother, to give }'oiir sister a sweeter life, you will be grateful for * OF HIS kingdom: 197 His mercy, and show your gratitude in your life.' ' 1 will, so help me God ! * said Denis Ilolgate, with the firm resolution of the man, and yet with the liumility of a child. * Will you sit down while I tell you the rest ; and this will relieve me yet more. I want to keep nothing from you. It was Winifred Barham who roused me first of nil to a sense of my own abounding unworthiness. I loved her.* ' I knew it. I do know it ; but 1 was not afraid tor you. God was watching over you. She is a noble, good woman, one of Ilis saints, who praise cind .Djlorify Him in their lives.' ' I low you understand everything ! I feared I could not explain to you just how I loved her. It was with a love which purified my whole being. You will believe me when I tell you that not an unworthy thought ever mingled with it. That night we parted, when I was alone out on those dreary marshes, I did think for a moment what life might have been for me had we met free, under happy circumstances. She did not know I had such a thought. She will never know now. We may never meet again ; and I am going to marry another woman. The very memory of W^inifred Barham will make me strive to the uttermost to make happy the w^oman who becomes my wife.' ' I love you,' repeated the curate again. It was an exquisite and beautiful thing in his nature that even in the midst of his own tribulations he could ^vean his thoughts away from self and take a heart •s Ill Mi I 1 08 BRIAR AND PALM, interest in the life and welfare of another. * Wlion will you go to London ? ' he asked after a niunieiil'a silence. 'The day after to-morrow,' Hr' ate answcnMl ; and there was a moment's silence ,a both thouniit of the double burying whicth to-morrow would cast such a sad gloom over the Haven. Who would till the empty places ? There could be no second (Viptain Silas ; no other little lass to entwine hcii- sclf so closely about the people's hearts. * It was a fearful thing,' said Holgate invohin- tarih'. ' Something ou^ht to be done. There should be some signal of warning in these dciisu logs. ' ' I think something will be done now. I intend to move in the matter. It has l)een spoken uf before. At the time Captain Silas lost his wife there was some talk of erecting a fog-bell house, and afijain wiien the cockle-fijatherers were losi some years ago. It is probable the matter will be taken up again. I shall try and push it to some practical end, though I shall not be a resident here.' ' Are you going away from Crosshaven, Mr. Frew ? ' ' Yes ; as soon as I can get something to do in London I intend to go. I do not think I could stay here now. The place has lost its beauty for me. I could not look with the same eye now on yonder shining sea, Denis,' said the curate quickly. ' A fuller, more active, more engrossing life would be the best thing for me just now.' • OF HIS kingdom: 199 * I understand ; but what will Croa.slmvcn be without you ?' ' Oh, another, perhaps worthier, will be found. In writing to Mr. Ridge way yesterday, to acquaint him witli my double sorrow, I mentioned my inten- lioii and desire. It is probable he will come home to see how matters stand iu the parish. It is a pity lie (cannot see his way to undertake at least a part of the work himself. We have iio right to ju(l<;e, Denis ; but to me it is a mystery how a man in the prime of life should be content to dwell in ease as he does, frittering away the precious days among the frivolities of worldly fashions. It is a poor, barren, aimless life. Well, must you go now?' * Yes ; it is growing dark, and I have some work waiting me,' answered Holgate, but still lingered, as it he had left something unsaid. ' Mr. Frew, may I go in for a little alone to see my little friend ? ' lie asked at length hesitatingly and in a low voice. ' Assuredly. She is in the room where her mother died. You know the way. 1 shall not come up. Perhaps I have been there too long to-day. I found it hard to realize that my darling's living presence had really gone from me. The child was unspeak- ably dear to me, Denis ; but I shall see her some day, and she is safe from these troubles. God's will be done.' Holgate nodded, and slipped out of the room, with a full heart. He entered the upper chamber very softly, and, closing the door, stepped lightly to the side of the bed where the child lay asleep. Her face was most natural and life-like, a sweet i Ml , 200 BRIAR AND PALM. reponc dwelt upon it. As he looked, TT(>l;;ate thoufrjit ho would not have been startled hud a Krcath from the lips stirred the petals of the wliite roses on her breast. A stran;^e sense of soleinnitv, of nearness to something; infinite and divine, came upon him by the side of the dead child. He knelt down, and, folding his hands, prayed that tlic sins oi his unworthy past might be blotted out, and tliat help and strength might be given to go forward in the better way. He prayed that his lienrt might be made pure and humble, as the lieart of the dead child had been, and that he might be made fit to meet her when the time came for him to lay down the burden of life. When he rose from his kaees he kissed the sweet face, and, with a reverent and chastened r)irit, went comforted upon iiis way. i It m Pi :[ 1 1^%' ' \ npi': i lil'^' ; k y id. i CHAPTER XVL CHANGE. < > 'Oh, it is sad to feel the heart-spring gone, To watch Hope phirue her soft bright wings for flight ; Then is the world most drear.' T was a fine August evening when Denis Holgate threaded his way through the mazes of East London to his old home in the Tower Hamlets. The way was familiar, yet not familiar. He remembered it all, —the narrow streets, the continuous bustle, the close, impure air, the squalid women and children, the coster barrows, the discordant street cries. Yet it seemed years since he had lived among it all. Since then nothing had chanored but himself. Something of the vague wonder, the deep com- passion which had been wont to weigh upon Rhoda ill her pondering upon the problem of East London life touched the spirit of Denis Holgate that sum- mer night, as he slowly made his way from the railway station to Hanbury Lane. He had chosen to walk the whole way, perhaps to see about him, perhaps to try and calm the excitement which had taken hold of him at the near prospect of seeing ^1 202 BRIAR AND PALM. -y 1 v. his mother and sister, of renewing his acquaintanoe with the old home. As he came nearer the river, it seemed to him. that the air grew more difficult to hrenthe, that scenes of wretchedness, evidences of sin and misery, abounded yet more. His heart was filled with a vast compassion as he looked iqxtn his fellow - creatures condemned to breathe }»er- petually this contaminated air, at the little childieii who had seen green fields and heard the miirniur of the sea only in their dreams. Surely the place had grown moie wretched than in the days when he had been wont to walk to and fro this very way, he told himself, but the next moment it came lionic to him that there was no change save in himself. Then his eyes had been holden so that he could not see, a selfish interest had wholly engrossed him ; now the largeness of life had touched him, his heart had grown more tender, more sympatlietic, he knew tliat there were other claims upon him than those advanced by self alone. A purifying influence had been at work upon him, and wdiile he was a better he was beyond a doubt a sadder man. A higher knowledge, a wider sympathy had brought its (jwn shadow with it. He saw the mas^nitude of the work which ought to be done, and felt himself weak. almost powerless to do anything to aid his brothers and sisters. As he walked that summer iiight through the narrow ways of the great city, a ye.irii- inix desire to cast in his lot with those who lived • '1 their lives here came uj)on him. The Haven, witli its quiet nnd lovely influences, had done its work: it had opened his heart, and now it could not hold ^3»*.> .^ CHANGE. 203 him. Here, in this place, where he had lived part of his life, he felt his life-work must l)e. It came upon him suddenly, almost like an inspiration from above. In an instant his duty was revealed to him. He felt glad and willing to take it up. It is a blessed thing, not only to be willing to do what is required of us, but to know exactly what that may be. There has been precious time and orolden (opportunity irrev()cal)ly lost through lack of this clear vision. 1 cannot but think, however, that, if we are in sober earnest, our calling will be revealed to us. llolgate hnd not hurried on his way, and the sun had set when he turned into Hanbury Lane. He felt impelled to stand still a moment at the corner, though he was the object of close observa- tion and curiosity. Here at least was no change. It seemed to him that the same wretched curs fouuht and scrambled among the dust-heaps, that the same tangled and dirty urchins made mud-pies ill the gutter. The old tumble-down houses still leaned towards each other from their topmost >r()reys, the same rags and tatters were drying ^liniily from the window-poles. The gin-palaces, \\ith their gaudy fronts and brilliant gaslights, still yawned a cruel invitation to their miserable hvijiienters to drown their care once more, the siiue degradation and sipialor and poverty pre- vailed. Would he find no change, he asked liiniself, with a beating heart, in that one corner of Ihuihurv Lane which was dear to him, where of late his thoughts had so often been ? I! I lil |i I' >! 1 '■■> ' .1 ■' 1 ■; 1 \ 1 • iitllil i 1 i'l 1 1- 1^! ijiii Hi '■! Ill il 1 if • «kK;«i|i S04 BRIAR AND PALM, A curious feeling of hesitation, almost of roliicv tance, came upon him as he felt himself so licur ; but he strove to overcome it, and walked with quick, firm steps down the side pavement to tlie little shop. When he came nearer it, what did he see ? There was a change here. The viiKhjw, dirty and obscured, was filled with dusty second- hand articles, the door hung about like a wardiolie with old clothes. The sign read, * Isaac Ratlibone, Dealer in Second-hand Furniture and Clothiiisx.' The master of the emporium, a greasy individual in shabby broadcloth and a velvet skull-cap, was smoking a cigar of doubtful brand at the door, and, seeing the well-dressed stranger eyeing his jihue with interest, stepped out to the pavement with ;i bland smile. * Want a nice suit cheap, sir, or some real Queen Anne tables or a Louis XV. cabinet? Step in. Prices moderate. All bargains at the money and no deception. You pays your money an' you gets your article, them's my principles. Honesty is the best policy. Step in, step in.' * I need nothing, sir,' answered Ilolgate, in a disturbed voice. * But I will step in if you will allow me. Can you tell me anything about ^Irs. Anne Ilolgate, who had this place of business as a provision shop a year or two ago ? ' The dealer shook his head and rubbed his hands contemplatively together. ' I've been 'ere, sir, fifteen months, an' I rented the place from a man wot bought it for an eatiu' 'ouse, but that spec didn't pay 'inL I axed no CHANGE. 205 questions about who was 'ere before 'im. It's dcai- at tlie money, sir, and times is hard. Won't you look at this 'ere clock? I swear, sir, it's a ical French bronze. Came out of a liaris ociiit'c mansion near 'yde Park, 'pon honour it did. sii-. Only five guineas, cheap at the mone\", a i-.ic bargain. Won't you 'ave it? An oni.-iiiKMit lo any gentleman's residence, sir, an' sent 'omc iVcc uv cost.' Holgate shook his head. A keen disa]H)(>intni('iit lia' fallen upon him. He felt inn»atieiit of the man's volubility, and with a brief good eyoniiig Icii the shop. What was to be done now!* He \vm\ never dreamed that they might have left the old place. How and where, then, was he to find any due to their whereabouts? What did it mean ^ Could his mother be dead ? If so, what liad l»(M(>ni(' of Rhoda ? A sick dread took hold upon Denis Holgtite as he asked himself these questions. Was this to be his punishment ? Would no op[)oi-tunit \- oe given him to prove the sincerity of his icpcnt- auee? Must he carry the sting of an unavailing remorse witli him to the grave? lie continued liis walk through Hanbury Lane, looking about him anxiously, eagerly, hoping that something niiglit catch his eye, the old sign, perhaps, al>o\ c anotlici- 'l<»or. Unless some strange circumstanco luid ron;- pelled her, why had his mother left lLi:M»;ny Lane? He had never heard her hint at any 'hange, and she was too prudent a woman to loliufjuish an established business for any paltry reason. He stepped into a little coffee-house which lihii ;]« i m- I m m 1*1 206 BRIAR AND PALM, i he knew had been there for twenty years. Tlie woman who kept it might be expected to l)e awaits of any important change in the Lane. She did not recognise him, though he saw but little (dian^c in her. 'Could you tell me, please, anything about Mrs, Holgate, who kept the provision shop at the cuiiiei- of Tom Beckett's alley ? ' he asked. ' No, sir, nothin' 'cept that they cleared out more'n two year ago. The old lady had made a bit o' money, an' 'twas thought she'd gone to livi' with her son, who was a doctor away in the couiinv. But that was only spckkelation, sir, cos she were as close as a corked bottle, an' nobody knowctl Im certain,' answered the woman. ' Maybe you'ie a connection, sir ? * ' Yes. There was a daught r ; you would not hear what became of her ? ' ' She went wi' her mother ; an* she were soiv missed i' the Lane, sir, were Rhoda 'Oigate. kSIic were a friend to the poor. No, I know nothiu.u" of her ; but she's all right, an' a-doin' of good wheiever she be, sir, or my name ain't Sally Barker 1 >i»l you know the young man 'Oigate, sir ? ' ' Yes. Then you think I need not make any inquiries in the Lane ? No one will be al >le to ;2;ive me any mere information than yourself?' * I'm sure o' it, sir. Mrs. 'Oigate took up wi' nobody. It's my belief that it were to keep Kli"li tlicre was something in their courtinsc she did not understand. H Ml t< 1 !' n CHAPTER XVIL FAEEWELL. t i i' i fi m ■' 'im* 91 11: i H : III ^ E III i ■ J] '*3 I '-2! ■!■ * Estrange her once, it bodes not how, By wrong, or sil mce, anything that tells A change has come upon your tenderness, And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o'ermastereth not' "Willis. S Holgate stepped across the clean cool stone court at the back door and up die little flight of worn steps into the garden, he could not but think what a pleasant place it was that sultry summer afternoon, with its wealth of sweet old-fashioned flowers and its grassy walks made shady by the boughs of the apple-trees bending low with the rich promise of their harvest. The soft air was redolent of a thousand sweet odours and instinct with the melody of bird and bee. The ground sloped down to the edge of a running brook, and it was at the lower end that tlie blackberry and raspberry bushes grew thick and tall. In this little forest of green Holgate cauglit sight of a white gown and the fluttejr of a hat- ribbon, but he did not make haste to the girls nt FAREWELL. ai3 side, nor did his heart beat nor his pulse quicken, as it ought at sight of her. He made his way leisurely along the shady path, and even stopped at a gaudy rose-bush to pick a bud for his button- hole. Turning round quite suddenly, she saw him bending over it, and the colour rushed all over her face and dyed even her finger-tips. But she was calm and colourless again when he came to her side, holding out his hand. 'How are you, Lydia? I have just come by the afternoon train. I hope you are quite well agam 'Yes, thank you/ she answered, and with her basket over her arm stepped out from the bushes. ' How are you ? * It was a curious meeting, not like that of lovers certainly ; they were courteous to each other, no more. Since that night at the gate of Woodbine Cottage, Holgate had not offered to kiss her, and she had noticed it, and perhaps regretted the hasty passion with which she had spoken then. ' I hope you found your mother and sister well ? ' she said in a low voice, swinging the basket on her arm as she spoke. '1 have not found them at all,* he answered :loomily. * Can you come and sit with me a little m the arbour, and I shall tell you about it ? ' • Yes.' She turned and led the way along a little wind- ing path to a rustic wooden bower built in the cool shelter of the high hawthorn hedge which separated tlie garden from the paddock. i 1 A ■•! ,1 il .1 4 E' i (* 1.1 I \.l ai4 BRIAR AND P \LM. She set her basket on the little table, and seated herself opposite Ilolgate. She was outwardly ver\' calm and unconeerncd, inwardly she was not so. Her interest in Denis Holirate was not a .s!i'] f |: 3l8 B/S7AIi AND PALM, * I can only accept your decision, Lydia ; but I am neither a liappy nor a satisfied man.' * I know what is troubling you ; it is the thought of me, not your own disappointment,' she said quietly. * Do I look like a woman who would break her heart over a lost lover? I think you know I am made of different stuff, Denis/ Holgate made no reply. His heart was troubled. He did not know what to say or do. Her self- possession now was very perfect, but he had other memories of her, and his self-reproach was very keen. He felt that he had been a blight on the clear sunshine of this woman's life, and there seemed no opportunity for any atonement. She would have nothing to say to him and would accept nothing at his hands. He felt him- self in a painful position ; the folly of his thought- less youth was causing him to reap a bitcer harvest. ' Don't look so dolorous, Denis,* she said kindly, and she touched his arm with her fingers. * I know what you are feeling, and it does not make me think less of you. Don't fret about me. Your conscience may be quite at ease. You are willing to make me your wife, but I decline the honour. I am going to stay at home with Aunt Cicely. We are beginning to understand each other better. Some day you will hear of my marriage, perhaps, and will smile over our old folly, as I shall do when I hear of yours.' There was a womanliness and dignity in her whole manner as she spoke, which touched Holgate FAREWELL. •19 inexpressibly. She saw it in his face, and it was as if a sudden wavering shook her. * I must go in, Aunt Cicely will scold me,' she said. * Will you join us at tea ? * ' No, thank you ; I shall just go home through the paddock. Good-night, Lydia.* ' Good-night. You will come and see us befoi o vou leave the Haven ? ' ' If I can. Good-night. I despise myself, Lydia, jumI honour youj So saying, he passed through the wicket and sMc.le across the paddock, but, instead of goin^ > I light home, went up the road to Woodbine (' 'ii;iii;c. Perhaps the sight of the curate, busy in tilt' neglected flower-beds, suororested the thouorht to him. Gilbert Frew saw him come, and had a s;;iile and a warm word of welcome for him when lie 1 (tilled him in the garden. ' Vliatluck?' he asked cheerily. 'All's well, I trust.' ' No, it's all wrongj. There's nothinjj rif]rht under the Sim, Mr. Frew. I wish I were anybody but myself.' 'That's bad. Tell me about it. Shall we sit down ? or can you talk while 1 tie up these poor lieaton, broken things ? I have taken heart again, you see, Denis, and the tide was at a very low ebb with me.' ' Yes, but you have never lost your self-respect. I'm a poor mean wretch, conscious of my own in- significance,' said Holgate gloomily. * I don't know what can be the end and aim of my exibtenco/ I. '1 'I 4 ^i| n-'X :M':[li4 I It! ■ * 820 BRIAR AND PALM, \ The curate laughed as he deftly fastened up a trailing brauch of jessamine to the low fence. * Go on, it'll do you good, my friend ; you are just on the toughest bit of the road. Rail away at the irony of fate.' Ilolgate did not reply, and when the curate looked up inquiiingly he saw that he was seriously troubled. Then his manner changed, and he became kind, anxious, deeply sympathetic as none could be so well. * Let us sit down here ; the air is pleasant, is it not? I always think the open air gives one a freedom of thought and even a clearness of vision he has not in-doors. I think we shall unravel this, and out of our quiet talk arrive at a conclusioc concerning life and its usage of you.' Holgate sat down, not unwillingly, on the bench beside his friend. Before he spoke, a vision of the sweet child who had loved this little home stole upon him, and his eyes filled with tears. ' A thought of your little daughter came to me, Mr. Frew,' he said. * Her influence seems to hallow this place, her spirit to breathe in its very air. She was a blessed child.' * And w,' said the curate dreamily, and with a smile of peace. Meanwhile, Aunt Cicely, grown weary for her tea, was sitting on the settle enjoying it when Lydia came in alone. She looked up, and was struck by the girl's exceeding paleness. * Wheer's th' doctor, Lyddy ? ' * He has gone away, Aunt Cicely,' she answered, FARE WELL. 991 as she set down her basket on the broad window- sill, and stood a moment with her back to her aunt, as if picking the stray leaves from among the fruit. * Art tired, my gel ? thy face is white enow. I Jidna mean thee, Lyddy, to bide i' th' sun or thy liead got bad,' said Cicely kindly. * My head is all right,' Lydia answered cheerfully. Then she came over to the table, and, leaning hei hand on it, loob d straight into her aunt's kind face. 'Aunt Cicely, it is all at end between Doctor Holgate and me. It is my doing ; and if you'll let me stay with you, I'll try to be a help, and not a burden. Only, don't, if you love me, ask me any- thing about it; because I — I don't think I could speak about it.' * A' reet, a' reet. Sit tha doon, my gel, an' hev thy tea,' said Cicely cheerily. * I knaw it's a bit soar ; but yo'll get used to it by and by, an' maybe hev hauve a dozen lads cwortin' afore thy own mon coomes by. So donna fret; but tak' thy tea. Theer's nowt sets up a woman's heart, an' mak's troubles loight, loike a cup o' tea.* '\ \ i • ■ \ 1 * ' It' i i \\ v^m 4 lil II CHAPTEE XVIII. IN DARK PLACES. * The pathos exquisite Of lovely minds set in harsh forma. George Eliot. RANNY, them people wot's come in up- stairs arc horful quiet, don't yer think?' 'Ttiey've maybe got their livin's to make, like you an' me, Benjie. an' hain't got no time to mak' no noise,' returned Granny, and, having threaded her needle, went on again with her button-holes with redoubled energy. ' Are ye tired, Benjie ? ' ' Oh no, not tired, only lazy,' answered Benjie cheerfully. *But its a-gettin' dark, don't yer think? an' It's only five o'clock.' A sigh followed the words, and a pair of large, hollow eyes were turned sadly upon the little narrow window, through which could be obtained a very meagre glimpse of the darkening October sky. That morsel of sky, changing with the seasons and with the weather, was a very precious thing to Benjie, the match-box maker ; it was all he had of the outside world, all he knew or had IN DARK PLACES. 223 evor Icnown of its l)Ocauties. lie was a linncliback, one of those whom we speak of with pity as (U'foniK'd. At the first glance, he appealed strange nnd even repulsive in appearance. His body scorned too large for the thin, stunted limbs, and tli( iL! was an unsightly hump between the two shoulders. His hair hunff in a rough tani[]jle about his face, which was seared and wizened like that of an old man. The eyes were his one redeeming feature. They were large and lustrous, and had indescribable depths of pathos, even of tenderness in them. They gave an expression to that uncomely (oiiiitoiiance, there were times when they even iii.ide it beautiful. The person whom he addressed lis (Iranny was a withered old cronr', whose age it was impossible to determine. In certain quarters in a great city age is not so much a question of time as of experience. Granny, then, migiit not he very old in years, her experience perhaps had left these marks upon her. Her f[ice was a pleasant one to look at, in spite of its wan colour, its wrinkles, its infinite pathos. She had clear black eyes, which had a twinkle in them. In happy ciicunistances Granny would have been one of the li'i[>{)iivst, most cheerful persons in the w^orld. As it was her good spirits only flagged when she was, as sonicinnes happened, in absolute want. But for these good si)iiits, a mixture of hope and faith and contentment, she had undoubtedly been in lier grave long ago. Her present occupation was troLiser finishing, that is, sewing on buttons, putting in liuings, and other items, for which she received n ! I f ■i a I "1... I:hii: ''! L 1 * II 224 BRFAR AND PALM, the sum of twopence-halfpenny a pair, and found \\vA' own thread. In such conditions as these cheer- fulness becomes a virtue of no ordinary kind. There was no relationship between her and the hun('hl)ack, though they shared their home, and he called her Granny. Benjie's mother, a drunken oran^Tje-seller, had fallen down a stair with him when he was a baby in arms. The fall had killed lier and maimed him for life. Granny had taken charge of the child then, and till now ; and they h)\'ed ea(di other with a love which had few parallels in Straddler's Corner. Domestic affection was not a plant which flourished in that peculiar portion of the Queen's domain. ' I'll tell yer wot, Benjie my man, it's yer tea yer wantin', eh ! isn't that it ? ' said Granny cheer- fully. ' An' if ye jes' wait till I sew on four buttons, I'll make it. That's fivepence-halfpenny, Benjie, since five this morning, an' I'll finish another, perhaps two pairs, afore bed-time, an' that'll be a shillin'. Eh lad, if only I could get em regler, we'd be rich in no time, an' could save up to go on the river when the sunny days come.' * I hain't done much to-day, Granny, not near a gross. It'll take me all my time to make twopence- halfpenny afore bed-time,' said the hunchback regretfully. * Match-boxes don't pay, Granny, with the fire for dryin' em, an' the string to buy. I wish I could do summat else.' * Don't 'ee fret, Benjie. Bless yer heart, you does as much as you can. An' the poor back has been bad to-day, I know. I wonder, now, could we JN DARK PLACES. 825 afford a red herring to-night, eh ? Let me see, I have threepence left, but the coals is near done, an' there's the rent on Friday. No, we can't to-day. Well, well, we'll be content with our tea, eh, lad ? It's a blessed thing to be content, even if it be httle, an' we can't live for ever, that's one blessin'. Some day, Benjie, you an' me'll be lookin' down through that very bit o' sky you're so fond o' down on Traddler's Corner, and a-pityin' of the poor critters here, jes' as the angels are a-pityin' now o* you an' me.' A smile very exquisite dawned on the hunch- back's face, as his eyes were once more uplifted to the sky. As if to confirm Granny's words, a star, bright with promio?, suddenly became visible in the tiny patch of blue. 'There, there's other twopence -ha'pennj:,' said Granny, with a kind of quiet triumph, as slie folded up the trousers and laid them on the box beside the others. * Now, we'll have our teas, Benjie, an' then we'll go on again, as busy as crickets, eh ? * ' How cheerful you are to-day. Granny ! ' said the hunchl)ack almost wonderingly, as he followed the old woman's active movements with his eye. 'Ay, lad ; it's wot I heard last night at the Ilall,' she said. * Oh, Benjie, he was a fine gentleman, an' he know^ed wot he was a-speakin' o'. I wish you'd 'a seen an' heard 'im. I said to myself when I saw 'im, that un 'ud do my Benjie good. He ad such a kind face, Benjie, an' he knowed, I tell ye, wot he was a-speakin' o'. He's had his own i il ■ ; \ ' i! I' t 1 '!?•" ■iiii'! \ III 4 ; ^l' 326 BI^/AIi AND PALM, troubles, an* he knows that it's only the Lord wot can do any good when there ain't no sun a-sliinin'. You an' me knows that, eh, Benjie ? Mariy's the time we'd 'a felt our hunger more hut for know in' the Lord knew all about it, an' had been liini<^qy Hisself It's the want o' knowin' tlie Lord that makes 'em so badly off 'ere in Traddler's Coiner. But p'r'aps they'll all know Him some day, ay, p'raps they will.' * I say. Granny, do you s'pose now the Lord knows I ain't made a gross o' boxes the day, un' that it's a-vexin' of me ? ' asked the hunchback. * Why, in course He does. He knows everv- think, an' He'll make it all right,' said Gr; annv cheerfully, as she poked two very tiny morsels (tf stick in the grate to make the kettle boil. ' Why, there's somebody knockin' at our door. Who can it be ? Come in, come in.' In response to the invitation the door was opened, and a woman entered. ' Have you no light ? ' she asked, with a touch of imperiousness in her clear voice. ' We have a candle, ma'am, but we was a-savin' o' it for our work, as we were jes' goin' to hev' tea.' Granny answered rather perplexedly, for she c(»ul(i not understand this unceremonious intrusion, and rather resented it, thinking it was some undesirahlc neighbour. Granny rather held herself aloof from the dwellers in Straddler's Corner, although she would do any one of them a good turn if slie haJ it in her power. * Light it, if you please, and I shall give you IN DARK PLACES, 127 another in its place,' she said coolly. * I want to talk a little with you.' Granny lit the candle, and then turned to look at their visitant. The hunchhack also turned his large penetrating eyes full on her face, and seemed fascinated by it. It was certainly a fine face, nay, more, the face of a strikingly beautiful woman. Each feature was perfect; the mouth, in spite of a sternness and grave firnnioss, had an exquisite sweetness, the eyes were as clear and limpid as a summer sky. Her figure, though not tall, was well developed, and carried with unmistakeable grace. Her hair was red gold, and seemed to be confined with difficulty, its natural tendency being to hang in waves about her shoulders. It strayed now from beneath the close Quaker like bonnet, and lay in tiny ripples on her broad white brow. Her dress was severely plain, and she wore no gloves ; in her white, well-shaped hand she carried a note- book and a pencil. * May I sit down ? ' she asked quietly. * I wish to ask a few questions concerning your way of life. Xot out of mere idle curiosity. I have an end in view. 1 wish to better the condition of such as you.' * Are you a Biblewoman, ma'am ? ' asked Granny, iis she dusted a clu.^i' for her strange visitor. ' No, no, nothing of that kind,' said she im- patiently. * 1 am a poor woman like yourself. 1 will not listen to a tale of your distress and give }ou a tract to satisfy your hunger.' The scorn with which she spoke was very ««•''! \i 338 BRIAR AND PALM. marked, but the hunchback did not like to sec hor lip curl as it did at that moment. He was lookiii- at her perplexedly, as if trying to make her out She looked so young, and yet seemed to have l);i.l a hard experience of life too, else she had net learned to knit her brows so grimly. She had tli. look of one constantly at war with .something; tlieiv was no repose about her, though she was perfectly self-possessed. * I belong to a Society whose aim it is to try and better the condition of the poor, and to wrest justice from the rich, who are their slave-drivers. We only ask justice, and we shall get it too. We are collecting facts concerning life in such places as this. I have told you this frankly, because you seem intelligent, and would resent any questions asked out of idle curiosity. This poor lad, I see, earns Lis living, if such it can be called, by making match- boxes.' As she spoke she turned her magnificent eyes full upon the face of the hunchback. It was evident that her feelings were keen, her compas- sion quick and true, for her tears started. * Yes, ma'am,' he answered simply. * I've jes' been sayin' to Granny that it doesn't pay. You see we only get twopence-ha'penny a gross for 'em, an', work as hard as I can, I can't make more'n two gross a day, an' we find the fire an' the string.' * Twopence - halfpenny a gross,' repeated the visitor, making an entry in her note-book. ' No, my lad, it doesn't pay. And what do you do, Granny ? Do vou make these trousers.' IN DARK PLACES. a29 ' No, ma'am, I'm a finisher,' answered Granny, a little guardedly. ' Tell me what you do to them and what they pay you.' ' 1 hope you won't say as I've been makin' any (M)inj)laint.s, ma'am, beeus they'd pay me off, an' work s that hard to get. I've been lucky hevin' *eni pretty reg'lar from the same place for a month buck.' ' No, no, that is the very last thing I would do,' said the stranger quickly. ' I assure you that if we Liiiuiot do you any good we will at least not do you any harm.* Thus reassured. Granny stated her miserable remuneration, but noo in a grumbling tone, though she admitted it was not enough. 'The times is hard, ma'am, the master says —but it's alius hard times with us, an' we've got kinder used to it ; ain't we, Benjie ? ' ' Ay, Granny ; but we've alius the one sure comfurt left,' said the hunehbaek, and his large, luelancholy eyes dwelt on the stranger's face. ' What is that ? I am glad to hear you have some comfort. One would not think it,' she added, glancing expressively round the poor little room. ' We know the Lord knows all about us, an' we've that bit o' His sky to look at. He looks down on us o' nights from there ; doesn't He, Granny ? We feel Him quite near sometimes.' 'I should have thou<2;ht the Lord wouldn't trouble Straddler's Corner much,' said the lady, with a quiet scorn. * The rich have Him as well as other things, i :i': w hi 230 BRIAR AND PALM. poor folk haven't. The Lord likes those tliat can pay up, that's about it. He won't give much fur nothing.' * Oh, ma'am, what a way to speak ! ' cried the hunchback in dl may. ' Why, He ^ives us everv- think : the liii;ht and the s'.nshine, and the biids and nil, and He made us all, every one.' ' If He made us, why doesn't He provide for us ? ' asked the stranger sharply. ' Were you bum as you are no \v ? ' ' No, ma'am ; it was the result of an accident.' ' Why did He let that accident happen ? If you had been an able-bodied man you might liave ])eeii independent, instead of needy and helpless, as you are. It is impossible you can be content as }uu are.' ' Sometimes I am, ma'am,' said the hunchback eagerly, for she had touched a tender point ; she had assailed the faith which was the beacon -lighr on his stormy sea of life. ' Mostly I am. Granny "11 tell you. The only thing I fret about is not bein' able to iiO to the Hall in Mile End Road \vi her on Sunday nights. It's grand there, Graiiii}' says so.' • ' What do they give you there ? ' she asked, with yet a swifter scorn. ' Do they offer to help \'ou out of your slough of destitution ? Would tliev give you a sixpence to buy a loaf of bread with, these Christians ? No, I think not. They make you sing and pray, and tell you to thank God for your lot, because He has ordained that there shall be rich and poor on the face of the earth. Isn't that the IN DARK FLA CMS. 831 luit can iiueh ftjv jried the as every- tlie bin Is icident.' ? If you have been iss, as you icnt as you liunchl)ack point; slie )eacon-li;ii>^ Granny "U s not l»eiu L Roail wi ere, Granny stuff they feed you with at Charrington's ? I know the set.' Granny rose from her chair, and drew herself up with a dignity which gave even her poor shrunken figure a touch of dignity. Her black eyes shone, her mouth trembled with a righteous anger. * I don't know wot yer wani, ma'am, nor wot yer means to do, but me an' Benjie don't want nothin' to do with ye, so please to go away. Me an' Benjie's knowed the Lord a longer time than we' 76 knowed you, and it'll need to be harder times wi' us afore we gives 'im up. So good day to ye, ma'am, an' a better heart. Ye are worse ofl than us.' ' Very well. Of course if you have no desire to 1 tetter yourselves you must just grovel in your misery,' said the lady sharply, and, gathering lier skirts about her, she turned to go. Yet she iiesitated and kept her eyes fixed on the old arm- I hair where the hunchback sat, as if some magnet I hew her to the spot. ' Wot is it, ma'am ? ' asked Benjie softly, and with a smile, for he saw the kindliness in her look ; there was something about her which won his heart. ' Do you suffer much ? ' she asked, with a gentle- ness which sat exquisitely upon her. Her face, softened by the earnestness of her pity, seemed to Benjie like the face of an angel. ' Not much, only sometimes, ma'am,' he answered. * Won't you come back an' see me again 1 I think I'd like you to, if Granny 'ud let ye, an' we needn't ( i II' i m 133 £J^/AIi AND PALM, IP speak of the missions or them things unless you like.' It was a shrewd, world- wise speech, but Benjie was old beyond his years. * No, Benjie,' said Granny firmly. * Not in 'ere while I'm in it, if ye please. She ain't up to no good, my man — she ain't up to no good.' * If you wish it I shpU come, Benjie,' said the stranger, with her hand on the door. At that moment there was a low knock, and it was opened from without. * May I come in ? ' asked the deep, pleasant tones of a man's voice, and a gentleman in the attire of a clergyman entered. He took off his hat as he crossed the threshold, but it was a moment or two before his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light and he could discern the occupants of the room. *0h, Benjie, Benjie, it's the gen'l'man wot was a-speakin' last night at the Hall ! ' cried Granny joyfully. *Come in, sir, to be sure, an' proud an* glad we are to see ye, sir. Yes, indeed, we are.' The clergyman hesitated a moment, looking doubt- fully at the face of the other visitor, who seemed waiting to pass out. He was struck by her exceed- ing beauty, but she had hardened her expression, her lips were curled in scorn, she drew her skirts yet more closely about her, as if she feared contami- nation from his touch. * I hope I have not disturbed your visit, madam, he said courteously, and with a gleam of that rare JN DARK PLACES. ■33 smile it was impossible to resist. * My name is Frew. I am the new incumbent of St. Saviour's in Mile End Road.' The stranger made no reply, but with lips closely compressed and head held in air, passed out of the room and down-stairs into the noisy street. "1 i I CHAPTER XIX. DAW^N. i^ * Twaa better youth Should strive through acts uncouth Toward making, than repose on aught found made/ Browxino. OU are out of sorts, Denis.' * Yes, I am well-nigh sick of my life. I sometimes wish I had stayed in Cross- haven, Gilbert.' The two friends, more closely united than ever, were pr nng slowly arm in arm along Mile End Road, near the Assembly Hall. It was a wet night, but the traffic in the streets had suffered no abate- ment; the pair were jostled and interrupted frequently as they walked ; there is no hour of the day or night when the footways of East London can be said to be deserted. * Tell me what is troubling you most, Denis.' * Among so much I could hardly specify. To begin, then, Doctor Parsons is a sordid money- grubber, without soul or conscience. He would grind the last farthing out of the miserable wretchi 5 among whom he labours, and he expects me to be DAWN, 235 tilt' same. He knew what he was doing wlien he hound me to him for three years. I am toiled ninlit and day, Gilbert, for my paltry hundred a vear. Tlie post of assistant to an East End practi- tioner is no joke.' ' You did not expect it to be a joke,' said the ciirato, with a quiet smile. • No, but I expected to have time and oppor- tunity to do a little o()od. As it is, I am hard put to it to i2;et throui>h what is expected of me. If an (i|)})()rtunity presents itself to speak a word or do a kind deed, I have not the dedre to do it ; that ^ what troubles me most. I am just sinking back iiiti) the okl selfish slouoh. It does seem hard that a fellow anxious to do well should be so hardly kept down.' ' It must have its use, Denis, else it would not he,' returned the curate quietly. ' I'hen I have never obtained the slightest clue/ "ontinued Holgate gloomily. ' It is nearly six months since I came to London, and in such ineauie leisure as I have had I have not been idle. I have come to the conclusion that they arc both 'lead. I wish I were done with life too.' ' Why, Denis, you talk like a crossed child, in- stead of like a stronor youno' man with life before you. I know, my friend, that in your experience (here have been things hard to understand. One u think. But for you, I should have made shij (wreck ol my life, — you, and Daisy, and she,' said the sui;athos, four mothei'less boys, who clung to him for care and guidance in all things, their very liel[»lessness giving new strength and a yet more tender touch to his fatherly love. I'here were times, however, when Gilbert Frew felt terribly alone, v;hen the lack of a woman's gentle presence in his home was most bitterly felt. He could be much, }'et scai'cely all to his boys. He saw that they too missed a mother's care. He did his best for them, and left the rest with God. When Holgate left him he went back to the Hall, but found that his services were not rcipiired. His allusion to his friends at Straddler's Corner had reminded him that he had not seen them for a week ; so he quickened his [)ace, and threaded his way through the labyrinth to that unsavoury place of habitation. There w^as no light in the rickety t ^1 ■: J li : it 1 !" ■ |:i V.' !i ^ i !n 1 ' i II 1. « 940 BRIAR AND PALM. % I'm' I i! stair, but, the way being now tolerably familiar to him, he groped through the darkness to the second floor where Granny lived. Just as he was about to knock, the low, steady tones of a voice arrested him. Some one within was reading aloud, a woman evidently, by the low, gentle, musical sound. It was not Granny's voice ; she, poor soul, had no time to read, either to herself or to her charge. Each minute of every hour represented so much food and fire and shelter. He knocked gently, and then opened the door. He felt no surprise at sight of the figure on the low stool by the hunchback's chair. The little table was placed in front of Benjie, who was busy with his match-box making, while Granny was bending low over her monotonous needlework at the other side. A solitary candle flickered in the centre of the table, its uncertain light fell full on the gulden head of the reader as she bent over her book. Her bonnet was lying on her lap, her cloak unfastened and thrown back, revealing the beauty of her full v/hite throat. They had not hear^' his knock, nor his gentle opening of the door, so that he stood a moment looking and listening unobserved. She was read- ing the tenth chapter of Matthew. The manner ot her reading and the expression of her face caused the curate to think she was performing a task It was a task, however, which seemed to give ex- quisite pleasure to her hearers ; both were intensely interested, and a sweet smile played about the hunchback's mouth as his wasted fingers deftly did . ! DAWN, 241 tlieir work. A lame sparrow, Benjie's pet, had none to loo.st on the narrow mantel-shelf with his little l)r()wn head under his wing. The currite noted even that in the few seconds he stood witliin Hie doorway, and he could not but think what a picture was the interior of that poor little home. Perhaps his interest centred in the reader ; he liad met her several times at Straddler's Corner and in other poor places, and was quite at a loss to divine who she couhl l)e or what her object. lie had not even learned her name. Presently Granny, reaching over for her thread, started and gave an exclama- tion at siojht of the curate. ' oh, bless me, sir, come in ! It's Mr. Frew, lloiijie. Don't stop, ma am. It's only Mr. Frew, wot you've met 'ere so often.' ' I fear I am interrupting a pleasant and pro- fitable hour,' said the curate pleasantly, as he advanced into the room. ' Do not let me disturb you, madam. I shall go presently. I only came to ask for our friends.' ' It is no interruption,' she said coldly, and rising she closed the book and laid it on the table. * I shall go now. Perha})S you will kindly finish my task. It will suit you perhaps better than it has suited me.' She gave a slight mirthless laugh as she fastened her cloak about her throat. Gilbert Frew was at a loss what to say. He saw the hunchback's beauti- ful eyes dwelling on her face with unspeakable yearning, which seemed to have a touch of com- passion in it. He also saw that she was careful not to meet that look. li"'! J \l 'I ^1 imMA 949 ^^//^^ ^iVZ? PALAf. * Like yourself, I merely looked in to seo onr friends, and they would have me to read to tlicin from this book. And if it pleases them, ^nd they imagine it has a message of comfort for thcni, w liy not?' She spoke rapidly, and with a slight defiaii -o in her tone. * Imagination has not much to do with it, [ fancy. There is very real and solid comfort within these pages, eh, Benjie ? ' said the curate, la}'iiig his hand on the lad's shoulder. ' Ay, sir ; that's wot I tell 'er. She doesn't sec nor b'lieve it yet, but she will some day, sir ; she will some day, cos I've axed God to let 'er see an" b'lieve,' cried the hunchback, witli great earnest- ness. ' She's the best in the world, sir, only fur that ; ax Granny, she thinks the same as me.' The stranger, tying her bonnet-strings with a liand which trembled, lifted her eyes to the curate's face. They had no smile in their deptlis, though a shadow of amusement slightly parted her lips, ' It has a strong hold upon them, sir. If j)e()|>le would have as great a faith in each other as the} have in an unseen and unknown deity, there would be less misery in this sad world. I could almost say that there would be no such place in London as Straddler's Corner. It is a disgrace to us as a nation. The dwellings in which so many thousands of our fellow-beings live are a curse upon us, as we shall see when it is too late. And we are a Christian nation, making a boast of the example we set to the world at large. To you and me, who DA WN, a4'> > ^esn't soo , sir ; she 'er see }in" ,t carnest- r, only fur me.' rs with a he curate's hs, though cr lil»s. If peojtle er as they lere would uld almost II Loudon to us as a thousands pon us, as we are a le example id me, who know a little of this t('rril)l(' Tionrlon, it is an ex<]uisiti' satire. You know it, though it is part of your er(!('(l not to admit it.' Her passion rose as she spoke, the coh^ur Hashed into hei' pale ehcek, one slight hand was (blenched. Bi'Vond a doul)t she felt most keenly what she said. 'You are young, madam, very young, to liavt* the weight of such (piestions lying so heavily u[)on you,' said the (curate gently, his kind eyes fixed on her face. * 1 am not old as years go, but 1 have lived here in East London all my life. Thought over the way the poor live seemed to be born with me. I fiannot remember the time when 1 did not think of it by day and dream of it by night. And every day I live the burden grows, the weight lies heavier on my heart. There is a fearful injustice to be righted, sir ; the cry of the outcast and the oppressed has too long risen in vain to a merciless Heaven. The time has come for them to seek justice for themselves, to stand at bay before those whose greed and selfishness and cruelty have ground them into the very dust. Here in this viry room there are wrongs which it is im2Jossil)le to know of and keep silence.' * We're afraid of 'er, Granny and me, when she ^l>eaks like that, sir,' whispered the hunchback, just as if she had not been present to be affected l»y his words. ' She ain't often like that now, sir ; and oh, she is gentle an' good an' kind ! You couldn't help lovin' 'er so if you knowed 'er like Granny an' me knows 'er,' t \ i ' : i • 1, i :»■ 1 1 m f •f'l !i;a 244 BRIAR AND PALM, * Afraid of me, are you, Benjie ? ' she said, sm 11 in or ui:)on him with unutterable sweetness. 'You know well, my lad, I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head. Good-night, Granny ; good-night, sir,' she a(l(1(M], acknov/ledging the curate by a slight and distani bow. He took a step forward. He was intensely in- terested in this young girl — she was in reality no more ; he must learn something of her. Surclv no ordinary experience had so hardened a natiiv which, without doubt, had a finer, sweeter sido. Her kindness, her comj^assion, her fellowship with Granny and her charge were undeniable proof that her w^omanhood was a pure and noble and lovahlc thing. ' If you will permit me, madam, I shall walk with you,' he said. ' It is dark and growing late. Are you never afraid to be abroad in these un.^afo thoroughfares alone and unprotected ? ' * I ? Oh no, they know me. They would not hurt a hair of my head,' she answered calmly. ' I shall not trouble you, sir. Your visit is to our friends.' ' If you please, I will escort you,' he repeattd. ' I can come again to-morrcw and see our friends. I am sure they will not mind. I should like to have some talk with you.' ' As you please,' she said indifferently, and with- out further remark turned to leave the room. The curate allowed her to go, knowing he could easily overtake her. * What is the lady's name, Granny ? ' he asked, when she was out of hearing, DAWN. «45 ou know •ur licad. e }i(l.— __jf yK>7yfm^. CHAPTER XX. A YEARNING HEART. * She seemed not great, nor good, A soldier with her banner half unfurled, A pure, high nature, half misunderstood.' Christina Rossettl |T still rained, and a dreary fog had closed over the city. It was one of the chilliest and most dismal of November nights. Gilbert Frew buttoned up his overcoat as lie stopped from the doorway of Straddlers Corner into the mire and slurfh of the street. Com [)ji rati ve quiet reigned at that hour in the vicinity of the Corner ; but through the half open dour of one of the gin-palaces the curate could see that it was thronged with a motley assemblage, men, women, and children, grateful, no doubt, for the shclttx and warmth purveyed by the publican for his customers. Gilbert Frew did not marvel to see that spectacle ; the marvel to him since his coming to London had been that he had found even so many decent, temperate, honest people in his parish. His work lay among the lowest and most vile, who could not show any visible means of earn- 246 A YEARNING HEART, 247 inor a livelihood. When he saw their homes, or the places which mocked them with their lack of every homely attribute, he was not astonished that to them the tavern was a species of happy haven, and money only precious because it could gain them admittance to its privileges. In common with hundreds of earnest, thinking men and women, with the welfare of his fellow- creatures at heart, Gilbert Frew had this problem, the horror of life among the lowly, before him nii>ht and day. His heart was perpetually up- lifted to the almighty God, who witnessed and permitted its evil and the strange anomaly it presented. He did his own part faithfully, and throucrh the grace of God had seen more than one l)rand plucked from the burning. He was only one of many concentrating every energy upon the diffusion of the gospel of peace and the highest law of liberty among these outcasts, and doubtless others could point to results as fair as his, but when it was all calculated, what did it amount to ? Sometimes he was obliged to admit that so little had been done that it scarce merited recognition. There was no visible betterment of the condition of the whole ; the mass of crime and misery and absolute pauperism remained untouched. He passed down the court, and was about to turn into the street when he saw the woman he sought standing by a tavern door looking in. She saw him too, and, turning away, waited for him under the gas-lamp. ' I was looking at these poor creatures enjoying ) HI t !l l-[ < i 'M^^ 248 BRIAR AND PALM. themselves. They have shelter and heat. We cannot grudge them that, such as it is.' She spoke with bitterness. He saw that the scene had saddened her, that the whole way of life in the place lay heavy on hsr heart. She had a large heart, a widely sympathetic soul, he divined, and in a woman these are much. He felt yet more drawn to her. * I am glad I have not missed you,' he said gently. * I should like to talk with you. Will you accept the shelter of mj'' umbrella ? ' * Thank you, I have my own.' He put it up for ner, and they walked a few steps in silence. * May I know whom I have the honour of ad- dressing ? ' he said presently. * It is no matter. You would not know me any better by my name. I am an obscure woman, who has known disappointment and poverty and sick- ness of heart. Out of these, perhaps, has grown a sympathy for others. I would do something to better their condition if I could.' * You are very young to speak in such a strain,' he repeated involuntarily. * So you think,' she answered ; and he saw a very slight smile dawn on her lip, giving to it a matchless sweetness. * I am interested in this question also,' said Gil- bert Frew presently. * Any new views are very welcome. No doubt you have studied it longer and more carefully than I. What do you think of its aspect just now ? ' A YEARNING HEART, 249 * If you mean the condition of the lower chisses, as they are called in cant phrase, it is as black as midnight. It could not possibly be worse.' * And the remedy ? ' * Is at hand, I hope and trust,' she answered quickly ; * for they are beginning to awaken them- selves to a sense of the degradation and injustice under which they have so long lain passive.' * What injustice?' * Do you not know ? or is it that you wish me to speak plainly ? ' she askeu. * It needs no clear vision, no special study of the life of to-day to con- vince one that the labour which is undoubtedly the wealth of the country is shamefully remunerated. The workers who produce all the wealth of society have no control over its production or distribution. The people, who are the mainspring of society, are treated as mere appendages to capital. A change must come, sir. There must be more equality. Labour must be recognised as the motive power in the world. At the present day production is solely in the interest of the employing classes.' * These are socialistic views, madam,' said the curate. ' Yes, I am a Socialist/ she returned briefly. ' I have not studied the subject. It is only since I came to London that I have been called to take a special interest in it. There is without doubt a spirit of unrest abroad among the people ; but it seems to me that they do not know what they want.' ' I can tell you. It is justice.' ' I admit that they have grievances,' said the • 'ii t >i i ! 250 BRIAR AND PALM, curate sadly. ' For instance, it is neither fair nor just tliat ^I'at old woman and the deformed lad we have just left should labour as they do for such poor remuneration. But so long as the supply of lalxnir so fir exceeds the demand, wages will con- tinue to fall. The only remedy 1 can see is in emigration. We are over-popuhited here, beyunil a vloubt.' ' Yes, but there is plenty of space in London for us all. Wh}' are we crowded into one ])ortioi) of the city ? That the rich may have a fine clear air to breathe, and i)lenty of space for their carriages to roll. It is only the accident of their birth and education that entitles them to such consideration.' ' You spoke of eijuality a little ago. That 1 hold to be im})ossible. Since the creation there have been men who have laboured with their heads and others with their hands. You cannot deny the greater power of intellect. If it be wisely employed in the organization of lal)our, and wealth be the result, would you say the man of intellect did not come by that w^ealth justly '{ ' ' If his business is carried on upon the present capitalist lines, I say no. Take the present factory system, for instance. The producers receive only about a quarter of the value of their work, the employeis three-quarters. Yet capital, without labour, is incapable of producing. Is not that an anomaly ? Surely the half would not be too much to ask.' ' The capitalist must have a return for his risk and outlay/ said the curate. A YEARNING HEART, aSi *Jnstso. Selfishness, insatiable greed for profit is at the root of the evil,' she replied, with a slight smile. * Until there can be a sweeter spirit of brotherhood infused into the hearts of the rich, tluse wrongs will exist. The only alternative is for the labourers to take law into their hands.' ' Nothing but the s[)irit of Christianity will create a sweeter brotherhood/ said Gilbert Frew, with ein})hasis. She shook her head with impatience. ' Christianity is too often made a cloak for yet deeper, more grinding selfishness. In our investi- gations we have proved that the psalm-singing and cl I inch -going capitalist is the worst taskmaster and slave-driver. That theory is exploded, sir, and we are thrown back upon the higher instincts of liumanity.' ' Which are of God — planted by His hand,' said the curate reverently. ' How comes it that one so young, and with such undoubted capacity for happy usefulness, has so early lost a believing heart ? ' ' it is not possible for me to see and know what I have seen and known and retain a faith in an all- powerful, all- tender love. They say God is a God of love and infinite compassion. So they tell them in the Hall here, and send them home to wonder when His love and compassion is going to touch them. Mr. Frew% if God indeed exist, how can such things bef ' There are thousands, madam, who bring misery and wrong upon themselves by their own conduct i ^1 * I .!.'■ ).>!•. I|:J nr 359 BH/JIi AND PALM, of life. Would you hold God responsible for their state ? ' ' You mean that they spend in drink and other vices the meagre wages they can earn. I admit it. It is not part of our creed to shirk undeniable facts,' she returned quietly. 'But, on the other hand, it is the v^.ry hopelessness of their condition that makf tLi in utterly careless regarding their conduct. Ilie >rutishness of their surroundin^rs deadens manly fc I'ngs in their breasts. It is common for reformers, who do not understand the question, to advise the poor to be thrifty, temperate, and industrious. It is not sound advice. To raise the tone of the labourers is to improve the instru- ments whereby the capitalist may increase his pro- fits. The advice may be good for the individual ; I do not deny that it is ; but for the wrongs of the class it is quite inadequate.* * And what, then, is your panacea ? ' * The workers must control production until only those who work shall obtain any share of the profits. Monopolies must be abolished, and society established on a new and sound basis of brother- hood and loving-kindness.' *You would desire, then, to see in England a repetition of the French Revolution of 1789 ? ' * If necessary ; but there is not absolute need. If men could be roused to a sense of their duty to their fellows, if the truest and best instincts of humanity could be awakened in their breasts, there would be no need for revolution. But I fear such a hope savours too much of Utopia. I do not A YEARNING HEART. '53 think that our higher culture or our advanced education is improving the race.' * I repeat that it is only the blessed gospel of Christ which can rouse men to a sense of the love and duty they owe to their brotliers.' *Do you honestly believe what you say, Mr. Frew ? ' ' I thank God I do. I have had many sorrows in my life, madam. Out of these sorrows, by the grace of God, has arisen a stronger, more " lent desire to do what I can for the furtheranc of His cause,' returned the curate, with emotion. *I believe you are in earnest. Yo) <1 > good where you can. I liave seen it. I have l j desire to underrate your work. It will bless ^>iduals. Tliey are to be envied who can accept your faith with the simplicity of a child. It saves the human lu^art many battlings, many sore agonies, if it can thus rest implicitly on a higher power,' she said, with a strange passion. The curate saw that the tears stood in her eyes, he detected a painful yearning in her trembling voice. His heart beat. A word in season might be blessed to this strong soul whose questionings had led it wholly astray. It might be his privilege to utter that word, to awaken in this woman's earnest heart a further questioning which might lead her to eternal peace. ' In my old home, a country village by the sea, I had a little daughter who was all the world to Mie,' he said in a low voice. 'How I loved her you may know some day, perhaps, when you have > «s because she was one of tliosL' fnmile little mortals who seldom stay lonir on 'Jio shores of earth. Its winds and waves are too rude for them, they are only at home in the land of perpetual summer.' ' And she died ? ' ' Yes, on the evening of the day on wliich I buried her mother. She had wandered aloui*' the seashore with an old man who had been her tiieiid and companion almost from her babyhood. A f()ate gave the order to drive home. Whe^i they entered the house she asked Winifred to ^MM-om- pany her to her dressing-room. When the\ wcie alone the old lady &t \k into a chair trembling ; Winifred, looking on, feared that such excitement in her delicate state of health might have serious consequences. 'Dear grandm other, f4\Q iaid gently, 'what has so upset you ? I fear you are very unwell to-day. We should not have gone out.' ' I am quite well in body, Winifred. It is the mind that is ill at ease,' she said in a low voice. ^ My child, I am a very old woman now, and I have not many good deeds to look back upon. I have not long to live, and T have not much to comfort me as I draw near the grave.' For a moment Winifred B.irham did not speak, V/ii stood leaning against the table, looking with Hi xious and even wondering eyes on the woman h 3 THE STING OF REMORSE. 263 11 i'' lit as move as the next laii ill a )ti<>iu l>'it eniin,!; it. ^ Hol.uatc iie^i they DO iu'eoni- they were iremblinking with the woman whom she had alternately loved and feared since she Iiad come, a timid, melancholy child, over the sea to St. Cy]us A])bey. She seemed much broken down now ; the sight of the proud head bent low in self-accusation touched the heart of Winifred inexpressibly. It was like the bending of an aged tree tliat had braved the storms of many a winter. ' No, I have not much to comfort me. Winifred, hve your lite as y^ou have begu^i it, — lovinuiv, gently, kindly, — and when you are old \' )U will not he haunted with the phantoms and meioaories of a selfish and sinful past. My dear, I ka^sfe made pride my idol all my life, and it can oiily mock me now.' Winifred Barham slid down upon iner k lees heside the old woman's chair, and (^amffm^ he tremblinu: hands firm and fast in her m^. T)Ji")r s. O A- She had laid her bonnet down, amJ i 'r air, escaping from its fastening, lay about her .•siiouiders, and made a frame for the pure, sweet face shin- ing with the love and compassion of ler soul. Lady Holgate, looking up, fixed her eyes on tiie earnest face with an afi'ectionate but melancholy smile. ' I believe you love me, cliild, in spite of the hard destiny I marked out for you. If any gentler thought has ever touched my heart, my Winifred, it has come through you. Since you have come hack to me you liave awakened in ny heart yearnings which I do not understand. Tell me, my darling, where you have found such strength 264 BRIAR AND PALM. M''\k im^^ ■■^^^\ ■'M and courage and sweetness to face the ills of life ? ' * God helped me, grandmamma, when I v/as hard beset,' she answered, with a slight falter in her voice. She hid her face on the arm of the cliair, and a slight tremor shook her. There were times when the memory of the bitter past was like to overwhelm Winifred Barham. Her unselfishness was a thing to marvel at, and even yet she tor- mented herself with reproaches, fearing lest she had not done her duty by her dead husbiuid. Lady Holgate's withered hand fell with an infinite tenderness on the shining head. ' You have been a living lesson to me, my darling, since you came, a timid little child, to us so many years ago. Only I hardened my heart and closed my ears, and would not listen to the sweet messenger sent to show me my folly and my sin. Winifred, 1 am a miserable old woman, with the shipwreck of lives lying upon my soul. I was a mother, child, without the feelings of a mother. I have heard a voice from the dead this day.' Winirved lifted her head suddenly and looked, not without alarm, on her grandmother's face. Slie almost thought Ler wandering, her words had so wild a sound. ' Yes, J have heard a voice from the dead, speak- ing through the voice of the living. I have looked to-day, Winifred, upon the face of my son's son, and I know how great has been the wrong I did to him and his.* at hk aft th THE STING OF REMORSE. 265 e times like to fishness she ti^r- lest she lusbaud. infinite me, my Id, to us ny heart n to the ,/ and Liy [lan, with soul. 1 Qo;s of a dead this d looked, face. Blic ds had so ad, speak- xve looked son's son, 12 I. did to 1= Winifred Barham sprang to her feet in the greatness of her surprise. ' Oh, grandmother, can it be? Doctor Iloli^ate your grandson! — the son of Uncle Denis, whom I have always loved since the first time I saw his picture in the gallery at St. Cyrus and lieard his story from Mervyn ! It seems impossible. Are }'ou sure there can be no mistake, lie is not in the least like tlie picture of Uncle Denis, or like any of the Holgates, or 1 might have thought of it.' 'No, he is not a Holgate, Winifred. He is Iiis mother's living image. Ah, poor Anne Braithwaite ! ' Winifred Barham was silent a little. She saw that memories were cro wading thick ami fast upon the old woman, and that for the moment she was foriT^otten. ' No, there is no mistake. Let me tell you, Winifred. When he was in Waveney, he came one night to St. Cyrus, — that ni^lit }'ou and I dined at Kokeby, — and asked for Fulke. He treated him like a dog, Winifred, and boasted of it to me long- afterwards. He did not tell me at the time. Since then I have never know^n peace of mind. 1 knew my son was dead, but I did not know^ till then whether he had left any child. Poor Anne braithwaite ! She must have had a fearful strum^le. She was a noble and good girl, Winifred ; but she was my maid, and my pride was stronger than any other feeling. And this young man is the rightful heir to Sb f-vrus. Fulke will never marry now.' i \ n' i i! fiv. r ■ •if lldi^ !l "A*! 1, f^ 366 BHIA/i AND PALM. ' He is a gontleman, grandmamma, and, more, be is nohlo and good, as you say his mother was,' said Winifred Barham. ' I shall never for- get his goodness during these trying months at Crosshaven. But for him, dear grandmamnin, [ feel that I could not have borne it all as I did; Lady Holgate turned her eyes searcliingly on the girl's sweet face, hut no flush or sign of con- sciousness wt;s apparent there. ' For that, if for nothing else, i am deoply in his debt. Come and kiss me, Winifred, and leave me for a little. I should like to lie down and try to rest. Yet I iuive much to tliink of, much to plnii. What if he should not come, Winifred ? That would be a fearful disappointment.' ' lie will come, "dear grandmother. lie pro- mised ; and Doctor Iloloate never breaks his word,' said Winifred lightly. ' It is like a romance, and it will have a happy ending. If Uncle Denis's wife is still alive, grandmamma, you will be go(jd to her now.' ' I cannot venture to hope I may have sucli an opportunity, child, and could I dare ask forgiveness from her I 1 did her a great wrong.' ' She will forp'ive you, I prophesy, and 1 am a bird of [)r()mise,' said Winifred, with a sunny smile, as she sped away. Left alone, Katharine Ilolgate, with her head bowed down upon her hands, faced a part of lur life which for years an iron will had kept in the background. In these sharp moments she recalled THE STING OF REMORSE, 267 ., more, motlicr ver for- iiths at namnia, all as no;ly on of con- Iv iu his leave me id try to to plan. . ? That lie pro- lis word,' irice, ami iiis's wife o'ood to li an sue I'oiveness I am a ny smile, her head irt of luT pt in the e recalled a long gone agony, for she had suffered in tlie niidsr c :' her pride, she had not given up her best loved son witliout a ])anL'". Of late ^'ears, wlien licalth had l)ei>un to fail, and she had had to face a future for which she was hut poorly prepared, gentler thoughts had come to her, regrets liad mingled strangidy witli her memories of the })ast. Her son's marriage had l)een a i>reat blow to her [)ride, and she had hardened herself, l)elie\inn' that had her husband lived, he would have a('ted in tlu^ same way ; old Sir Fulke ha.d made everything subservient to his faniih' })ii(ie. .She wished now she had been less hard ; if onlv she had sent liei- son and his lowl)-b(>rn wife on their wav with one word of comfort or of kindliness, if only she had liccni allowed to whis[)er her regret to him before lie died ! She remembered Anne Braithwaite, as >lie sat there in the quiet room ; her gentle, digni- fied, ladylike ways, her beautiful fa(*e, her soft and helpful hands ; and wondered what she would look like now, what traces the strut-ole of a lifetime had h'lt n})on her. She had done well by the son her husband had left to her care, she had sent him ftiitii well e(]uipped into the world, but at what cost ? Katliarine Iloloate could not but ask herself the (juest on self-accusingly, for, while she had had enough and to spare, her son's widow and child niiuht sometimes have known the lack of daih' hread. She rose heavih' to her feet, and began to pace the room, her velvet robe trailing noiselessly holiind her, her slender ringed hands nervously clasped, her proud mouth trembling, her eyes dim i I'f li ''ii 268 BRIAR AND PALM. r -11- that they could not see. Remorse had its 1k)1(1 upon the heart of Katharine, Lady Ilol^atc. and its pangs were not easy for her to bear. .Mean- while Winifred, dear heart, had stolen to ili<- library, and, opening the organ there, was playino- low and softly to herself. A sweet peace was in her heart; for the first time for many months Aw felt most utterly at rest. She could not tell why, l)ut it seemed as if the desire of liei- heart had been given her that day. She knew she was glad when her eyes dwelt on the r.ice of Denis Holgate. He was her dear, true friciifl, who had helped her in the old sad days ; and now he might be more, they could (tlaim a tic of kinship, wliich though distant might be very sweet. So she was thinking and playing softly in the twilight when he came into the room. She \v;is not sur])rised, she was thinking of and expect- ing him. So she said when she rose and with one white hand laid lightly on the keys tiu'iicd and extended the other to him in friendliest greeting. ' Good-evening,' she said, and a sweet smile touched her lips. ' We must shake hands again. I think. Grandmamma has told me, Doctor Holgate, and we are cousins, are we not ? ' He took her hand ; his own trembled at its soft touch. His face was very earnest as he bent over it. ' II you will accord me the privileges of cousin- ship, they will be very precious to me,' he said. smiling too. He did not presume to call her by THE STING OF REMORSE. 969 lior name. His manner was modest, unassuniiti^x, but wholly manly. She sat down ai::ain, and ran her finL»(M"s soft I v and lightly over the keys. Both were silciii, luit not end)ai'ras.sed ; they seemed to know cadi ollici- s(> well, llolgate's heart was filled with uiis|MMk- iiMe yearninof as he looked at the womanly IickI. at the graceful, girlish figure in its black rohc. .-.id einhlem of her })ast wifehood. How lie 1()\((1 licr lie had scarcely realized till now, when tlic possi- l>ihty of winnini; her was within his reach. If he wooed, he had a man's chance to win ; l»iil w hat could he offer her? A slight and bitter smile came upon his lips, and as she turned her head })rescntly she saw it. 'What is it. Cousin Denis? — may 1 call you tliat ? How miserable you look ! What has vexed \ou ? Are you sorry to make friends with ^'our relatives ? ' 'No ; I was not thinking of that, W\k Baiham,' he said, getting out the name with diliiculty. She turned round on the organ seat and faced him, with hands lightly folded on her lap. He saw her face pale a little and a touch of the old sad earnestness creep to her mouth. He was not sur- prised, therefore, at her next woids. ' I should like to tell you just how it happened,' she said hurriedly. ' It was very soc>n after we reached home. He caught a cold on the journey, and, being so weak, he could not throw it off. Were you surprised to hear of his death ? ' ' I did not hear of it ; T only surmised it about a ' I 1 1 1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) ^O ^/,^ € -^'^^^ /. ^4^ ^ ^ 1.0 ^lii 1^ 11-25 i^ u^ '/A >!^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STRItT WiBSTER.N.Y. U5S0 (716) •73-4503 370 BRIAR AND PALM. i fortnight ago, when I met you driving with T.ady Holgate in Oxford Street.' * Did you meet us ? Why did you not speak to us?' * I would have spoken had you been alone, Mis. Barham.' * Did you know then that Lady Ilolirate was your grandmother ? Oh, of course you did ! ' said Winifred quickly. ' I cannot ])elieve that you arc the son of Uncle Denis, of whom I have heard ^o much. It is like a romance. Is not life full (tf strange and painful histories ? ' * It is indeed, Mrs. Barham,' said Ilolgate, witli bitterness. * It is a record of mistakes and sins from first to last, but these do not go unpunished.' * Is your mother alive yet, Dr. Holgate ? ' * I would I could say I knew, Mrs. Barham. I am a miserable man,' returned IloWte doomilv. Winifred looked up in startled surprise, and at that moment a servant entered the room. * Lady Ilolgate will see you in the drawing-room, sir, if you please,' he said. Holgate nodded and turned to go. Winifred Barham, noting his knit brows and compressed lips, took a step timidly towards him. She would plead for the proud heart up-stairs, anxious, if it knew how, to atone for the injustice of the past. ' Be gentle with grandmamma,' she said softly. * She is much broken down. She has been very ill. you know ; tliat is why we are here. Be kind to her, as you have been kind to me.' Holgate's face flushed, but he did not speak. THE STING OF REMORSE. 371 Under his earnest ^aze tlie colour slowly rose in Winifred's cheek, and slie turned away, not knowiiiLj why she should feel confused. lie passed out of the room, and she heaid him r ' 376 BRIAR AND PALM, * Do not tlmuk inc. It is nothing. You oiurlit to repi'oMcli mo. It is at my door all this wr(>nut wr will he hopeful. All may yet he well.' ' I have not given up hope,' said Holt the house. Will you come and see us there?' ' Thank you, I will.' ' I have no comfort on the face of the earth except Winifred, Denis, ^ly son Fulke and I do not agree. Perhaps we are too much alike. I have not had much liapi)iness in my children. The one who would have done his duty for love of me I banished from my presence. Do you remember your father ?' ' Not vividly. 1 liave a faint remembrance of some one who was always ill, out who spoke very kindly and used to pat me on the head. Rhoda could not remember him at all.' ' Rhoda ? Tell me about Rhoda, my own grand- tlaughter ! Perhaps if we find her she may allow me to love her. Is she like you ? ' * She was not when I last saw her. Poor Rhoda ! A lifetime of earnest reparation could never take i?-L . .It ■ THE SAD PAST, 279 I I away tlic stinpr of my sclf-roproacli. T dospiscd lior beaiuse she was poor and i<^n()rant. I did not think of my own complete seltislmess in takin«^ all, while she had nothin<^. It stands hetore me now with fearful vividness. I must go now, Lady Ilol;i;ate. 1 have already outstayed my scanty leisure.' She looked at him with yearning, atieetionate eyes. ' 1 can scarcely let you go. Your place is here ; you are my son's son,' she repeated, as if she loved the words. * I shall come back/ he said, with a slight smile. ' But it is not right nor fit that a Ilolgate should labour as you are doing in such a way. You should not be at the call of any man.' * I pray that no Holgate may ever sink lower. It is at least honourable toil,' said Denis quickly. He could not help the reproach. It sprang to his lips and escaped them before he could keep it back. But it did not offend her ; she felt the truth of his words. * You are right,' she said humbly ; * I spoke without thinking. It is a fearful thing this pride which rules the world, Denis.' He \vas silent a moment, recalling that evening years ago in the little house in Hanbury Lane, when his mother had spoken words to the same effect. It seemed a lifetime since then. He turned to her listlessly, for one thought was so absorbing that the full interest of any other thing was marred for him. He was in his grandmother's ' I' aSi BRIAR AND PALM. m itr 1,. houMc, ar»knowlc(l<^ccl by her; she vvns Tjoprnrino- liini to make his home with her, to take all she y•^^\\V\ give, and it wa.s as nothing to him. He fell im desire for the things she offered. Snrely there w as ,1 great (change in Denis llcjlgate since the days nvIkmi he had haunted St. ^'yrus, dreaming of it night and day. * You must see Winifred, Denis. I should like to introduce you on the new footing. You are cousins. you know,' said Lady Ilolgate, rising and moving towards the fireplace to ring the bell. * I saw her down-stairs. She was in the library when i was shown in. If you will excuse me, I shall go now. I must make haste, or Doctor Parsons will take me to task. Good evenhif', Lath- ilolgate.' * Is it to be Lady Holgate always ? I am your grandmother, boy. Is it so hard for you to have a kindly feeling towards me?' she asked, as she took his strong hand in her poor nervous clasp. Tears were in her proud eyes, her mouth trembled, her heart was yearning over the lad. She saw in him one she could love and trust, in whom she could take pride as she had never taken pride in her own. And she had had no hand in the building up of this fine manly character ; it was the work of others in which she must take pride now. To do the right thing at the right moment, to utter just what words were fittest and best for the occasion, was natural to Denis Holgate. He bent his head and kissed the deep-lined brow, saying, with a slight smile, but with earnest, speaking eyes, — THE SAD PAST. 381 * rn)0(l-])yo, ^rainlinotlit*!'. I sIimII oiiio hack vorv soon. I tliink wc will he tVicnds.' ' Ami voii tonrive the past { Wln'ii I soo voiir kijHJK' (*V('H lu'nt iiiMHi inc, I feci as if inv son had fniuivcii nx',' s1h» said taltciiniilv. ' Yaration ? You, who have ever been ready to help others to the utter- most ; whose life, even now, is wholly given up for others ! ' ' I only wish your sweet opinion of me were justified, Mrs. Barham,' he said in a low voice. ' Lady Holgate will tell you. Try not to think too hardly of me.' In her deep interest and strong sympathy, it seemed natural that she should go near to him. t i"hi .. 1 ■ ■ ) ■ ■'! 1 1 '■ 1 Ul "ti: r' «' US ( f ■> ., • ■ + *' i> 38a BRIAR AND PALM. that she should lay her kind hand on his arm. She did not notice how his face Hushed at her gentle touch. * Whatever I may hear, it will not change me. 1 shall never forget that you were my friend wlieii 1 most needed one, when, but for you, 1 was most utterly aJone. Nothing can ever alter that, or make it less precious in my eyes.' He bent his eyes on her sweet, earnest face, which was shining upon him like that of an angel of promise. A moment more, and he must have forgotten himself, and uttered words which he might wish to recall. ' For that I thank you. God bless you, Winifred Barham, for ever and ever, and make you a blessing to otliers, as you have been to me ! ' he said hoarsely, and without another word quitted her presence. She was left bewildered by the strange abruptness of his manner ; her heart was beating ; she seemed to feel his earnest, passionate look in her very soul. I believe that at that moment, and for the first time, it dawned upon her that there might be in life a love which could give to the human heart a foretaste of heaven. She crept back to the organ seat, and, crouching there in the shadows, bent her head on the keys, and sat silent a long, long time. It was an hour of awakening for Winifred Barham. Iler life, instead of being ended as she had some- times thought, lo-'king back on the long, sad past, was all before her, full of loveliest prumise, of possibilities which might yet give to her woman- hood its sweetest crown. THE SAD PAST. 283 The time had s]>cJ (juickly while Denis Holgate was in the house. He was astonished w^hen, looking at his watch on the steps outside the door, he found that it was nearly nine o'clock. As he hurried into the street, he saw a figure walking leisurely to and fro the pavement. As he drew nearer he recognised (iJill)crt Frew. Needless to say, that faithful friend !i;i(l hecn made accjuaintcd with the event of the (lay, hut it was not altogether anxiety to hear the result (jf his interview with Lady Holgate that had brought him to Hereford Oardems. ' I am lying in wait for you, you seel' he said, meeting him with a smile. ' Now tell me, can you ert. for a breath of air away from these staring eyes. As I live, that is my sister Khoda I * r creep u[» CnAPTETl XXIIL LOVE CONQUERS ALL. * Love doth ever shed Rich healing where it nestles — spread O'er desert pillows some green palm.' Gerald Massbt. JN the landing outside they stood still, and Holgate leaned against the wall. He was quite overcome. Gilbert Frew wisely let him alone for a little, and himself paced slowly to and fro the long passage. From within the clear, sweet tones of the lecturer's voice were audible, though they could not distinguish the words. * I have hoped and prayed for this, Denis,* said the curate at last, pausing before his friend with a bright, happy face. *I thank God for the ful- filment of your hopes, for the answer to my prayers.' Holgate started up and caught him by the arm. *Let us ffo in and hear what she is talkinoj about,' he said excitedly. They entered the gjillery (b»or, and, standing well back behind a sheltering pillar, looked and listened 2f7 1 1 ; i i . i ! ' ! 1 ^ ^ I » it' ' m Wf ' W-, I V t , ■ t t 1, 288 BRIAR AND PALM. with the rest. It was a very curious expcrionoc for them both, one which it was not likely they would ever forget. Both were absor])e(l in the [)ersonality of the speaker ; Denis fixed his eyes on her face with a gaze which might have attracts 1 her, and he wondered as he looked. Could that l)eautiful woman, with the proud, high-bred face and the grace of a queen, be the poor depressed *arl whom he had been wont to reoard with a Jialf (contemptuous pity in the old mistaken days ? He was struck by one thing chiefly — her striking resemblance to Sir Fulke Holgate. The beauty she had inherited from her high-born father had now developed, and she carried her birthright in every jiiovement, — every gesture was instinct with a natural grace. Rhoda was a lady ; there was nothing common about her now. She stood before her audience like one born to command Thcv hung in breathless attention upon her words, impressed as much by her personality as by the messaf][e she had for them. Hol*>ate and his friend only heard the closing words of her address, but from them they gathered what had been its gist. She spoke quietly, and not with the enthusiasm which Gilbert Frew, remembering the bitter emphasis of her conversation with him, might have expected. There was nothing bold or unwomanly in her action or attitude, but the very idea of seeing his sister there made Denis Holgate sick at heart. ' We have seen, then, my friends,' she said, * some of the fearful results accruing from this competitive system which leaves capital wholly in the hands of '■#;tJ LOVE CONQUERS ALL, 289 individuals. A few are rich, some free from sordid care, but the majority are in poverty, and a hirge number in abject misery. AVe have also touched ui)on the immediate and sole remedy. I have only to impress it once more upon you before I sit down. Poverty and degrailation have too long been your portion, you in whose hands alone the production of wealth lies. On scanty and uncertain wages you are expected to maintain the independence, self- respect, and honesty of men and women. I'he selfish rich capitalists, who so long have been your taskmasters, must be shown the impossibility of this. If need be, they must be made to taste the sweets of badly paid labour themselves. There nmst be no more creating of wealth for the in- dividual. You must learn and realize the responsi- bility of your unused powers. The oppressors soon will n ^.ed to look to themselves and their children, for, unless some of the fearful wrongs of the poor are redressed, a desperate and miserable people will rise to seek justice for themselves. The revolution will come ; already its shadow is upon us. We must be prepared for it ; we must see to it that those who rise when the day comes are a combined and intelligent people, wise enough to know their own rights, strong enough to insist upon them, and disciplined and honourable enough to guard them in purity when they are won. Till then take courage, gather strength, and look into the future with hopeful, happy hearts. The dark clouds are rolling backward from the horizon, the dayspring of peace, and prosperity, and absolute relief from 390 BRIAR AND PALM. sordid care for yourselves and your children, is at hand. ' She stepped back from the table a little hurriedly, and took the (thair the president of the nieetinu!; at that moment vacated. Amid the deafening applause he took her pi ice, and began his remarks with a complacent and singularly un2)leasant smile. They were not at all to the point, and consisted of fulsome and vulgar compliments applied to the lecturer. The two behind the pillar in the gallciv saw a look of weariness and disgust on her face, and the vociferous applause with which her chair- man's eulogiums were received by the audience made her cheek burn. Immediately he had con- cluded, she rose and swept off the platform. Again llolgate grasped his friend's arm. ' Come,' he said hoarsely. ' We must go round to the rooms and see her. We may lose her, Gilbert. I dare not miss this opportunity.' ' We could not lose her entirely now. From here she could be easily traced,' the curate answeiod. ' But we had better go round. You will not be satisfied else.' ' To see her there, Gilbert — it unmanned me ! ' he said as they sped down-stairs. ' Hush, Denis ! Be grateful to God that it is no worse,' v/as the reply, and Denis felt himself rebuked. The curate led the w^ay, and, asking a man linfferincj in an inner lobby, evidently a care- taker, in which room the lady could be found, was pointed to a door at the farther end. He knocked there, and was immediately asked ■i*i LOVE CONQUERS ALL, S91 to enter. When they opened the door they saw the lady standin<>j at the table tying uj) the papers she had used in the iiall. * Is that my cab ? I shall be out presently. Docs it rain, Jacobs ?' Re(;eiving no answer, she swiftly turned her head. The two men entered the room and shut the door. * I shall go, Denis,' said the curate, taking a back- ward step ; but Holgate held him by the arm. * No, stay ; I have no secrets from you,' he said. Then there was a moment's absolute and painful silence in the room. Her recognition of her brother was instantaneous. The colour died out of her face, till she became white to the very lips. Her hand treml )led slightly, but she tried to recover herself; she drew herself up and looked him straight in the ftice with cold inquiry. She did not even appear to recognise Gilbert Frew. ' Well ? ' she said, and her voice was curiously clear and calm. ' What do you want with me, Denis Holgate ? ' Then a strange thing happened. Denis Holgate sat down by the table, and, burying his head upon his hands, burst into tears. For a few seconds there was no sound but the voice of a strong man sobbing in the room. The curate felt his own composure going, and, what was more important, he fancied he saw Rhoda's proud mouth quiver. Just then the door opening on to the platform was opened, and the chairman, rubbing his hands, and wearing the same bland, disagreeable smile, was about 't.. 1 ) 993 BRIAR AND PALM, m to enter, when she turned her head, and waved him back. * Be good enough, Mr. Grotham, to withthjiw, and leave r cdone with these gentlemen,' she said, with the ^ ^ure and the look of a queen. Mr. Grotham hastily withdrew and shut tin: duur. The greatness of the surprise and hewildenncnt on his face was comical. Gilbert Frew, without a word, opened the door by which he had entered and left the room also. What these two had to say to each other, no stranger had any right to hear. So they were left alone. Rhoda Holgate, without glancing again at her brother, continued the rolling of her papers ; but now her hands shook, one by one the loose sheets fluttered to the floor. Her excitement was rising ; she knew she could not much longer be calm. She leaned against the wall and folded her arms. Her brows were knit, her eyes troubled, her mouth now and again visibly trembled. She felt the unuttci- able yearnings of her heart ; had she obeyed their behest, she would have knelt by his side and laid her arms about his neck. He was her brother, and she loved him. She scorned herself even while she admitted it. Did he deserve her love ? she asked herself bitterly. Perhaps not, but the fact remined. It is the mark of highest womanhood to love and to forgive seventy times seven. But Rhoda was supposed to have abjured the weaknesses of her sex ; she ought by this time to have been above being moved even by the tears of a brother. She could not understand this thing at all. It puzzled and LOVE CONQUERS ALL, «93 troubled her to see him there, apparently in the nlumdoinnontof jjriet Of course she knew nothing of the long strain of suspense and anxiety he had Ijorne, else she would have understood. That strain removed, he could not sustain his self-control, pent- 11 [) feeling demanded its most natural vent. It seemed a long time before he spoke. In reality it was but a few minutes. Before she had time to til ink the matter out, he rose suddenly and knelt at her feet, catcliing her hands in a grip from which she could not release them. She felt them wet with his tears. ' Rhoda,' he said, and the tones of his voice, so long unheard, went to her heart, * will you forgive me? I cannot explain away or excuse what I have done ; only forgive me, and let me live to atone for the past.' A strange feeling came over Rhoda. She had never heard such words. She did not know how her heart had hungered for love. It had asked bread, and she had given it a stone. Since she had crossed the threshold of womanhood she had learned that there is nothing upon the wide earth will satisfy a woman's need save love alone. But she had battled bravely on, doing good according to her light, making herself the slave of a mistaken idea, yet with a motive which was wholly noble and pure. She had sometimes, in her most bitter moments, pictured a meeting with the brother who had turned his back upon them because they were poor ; she had even mapped out a course of action, and planned the scathing words she should utter l.ltMij \ aqui BRIAR AND PALM. yf-\ when that day came. What did she do now ? Did she draw herself up, and with finger of unutt('ra])l(' soorn point him away from her? Did she licap reproach uj)on him, taunt him with his selHshiicss. and hid liim <^o, for those wliom lie had left had iid need of him, having (^ast him oti" !* She lifted one hand and laid it on his head, and her own tears fell upon it. He felt them, and, rising slowly to his feet, looked into her eyes, and, putting his arm ahoiit her, ilrew her to his heart. And there was a long, long silenee in the room. Rhoda loved the touch of that sheltering arm ; she nestled elose to it and hid her head up >i V ■ I' III rt U it" ■: !' )' .1 296 BRIAR AND PALM, »lid not wait for them, but went out to the street, and was standing at the cab door when they came out. A look at their faces was enough for him, and a smile came to his lips. There were a few loungers on the steps waiting to see the lecturer drive away, but she did not appear to see them as she passed out, leaning on her brother's arm. ' Rhoda,' said Denis Holgate, ' let me introduce to you Gilbert Frew, the best and truest friend man ever had. Gilbert, you see my sister has forgiven me.' His voice was unsteady. The curate saw how deep was the emotion surging in his soul. He looked at Rhoda and extended his hand. She laid hers in it with a radiant smile. She knew that she was pleased to see him at that moment, that he did not seem to be an intruder. ' We are friends already,' he said. ' Now, where is your man to go ? He is growing impatient.' Denis Holgate opened the cab door and helped his sister in, then motioned to his friend. But he drew back. ' Not to-night. You have no need for me. To- morrow I shall see you. Good-night, and God bless you both.' So saying, he raised his hat, and before they could detain him he was gone. 'The man knows where to go. He has often driven me,' said Rhoda, and Denis stepped in beside her and shut the door. ',■*. LOVE CONQUERS ALL. 297 * I don't want to say very much to-night, Rlioda, though 1 have a long, long story to tell,* lie said, as they drove away. * But I must ask one thing. Why did our mother leave Hanhury Lane? Did the business fall away % ' *No. It was I who did it,' Tlhoda returned in a low voice. * Soon after you wont awa}^ her health began to droop. It was just .is if" her iiiUMcst in life had expired. She seeni('(l to have nothing to do. I always hated the shop, l)iMiis, and when it was left almost entirely to my care the custom dwindled away. I had become interested in other things, and acquainted with pco[»le who wished to secure my services. I have been very selfish, Denis. My way of life has been and is a grief to my mother, but I have not minded that 1 have children once,' said Rhoda, rising with a nic.;! trembling. 'Your heart yearns often aftoi- Dcniv. mother, and Denis has como hack.' Then Denis Holgute entered the room and bi ;, the door. Iff. hi'. Vil m I' • im CHAPTER XXIV. SUNRISE. * There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of th' everlasting clime.' Keblb. HEN did Denis say he would come to-day, Ehoda ? ' *As soon as he could. I think he will not be very long/ Ehoda answeicM] cheerily. * Docs not the sun seem to shiiie brighter to-day, mother, because Denis has come back ? * The mother smiled a sweet and happy smile, but did not answer by words. It was easy to see from that smile that her heart was most utterly at rest. The last years had wrought a change, too, on Anne Ilolgate : the old ambition had waned, pride and bitterness had grown less hard. After lier boy was gone, she knew that in sending him away, in her whole rearing of him, she had made a grand mistake. Like too many things for which we strive in this world, when the desire of her heart 80S I *l SUNRISE. 303 r I t was granted, it became bitter to the taste, and she knew that it was not her desire at all. P('rha[)s her anxiety and care about Rhoda helped her to this conclusion. Left alone with her girl-child, she began to study her, and to her astonishment discovered that of the two hers was the finer nature. It was too late, however, for her influence to be of much use. She had left the girl in her young childhood to mould her own character, and when she turned her attention to her after Denis was gone, she discovered that Rhoda was no girl, but a woman, with mature and pronounced opinions, which she could not hope to shake. As time went on, Anne Holgate learned other lessons of humility and gentleness and love. Without saying much or making any fuss, Rhoda took her way of life into her own hands, asking advice or help from none. But in the midst of her self-will she was most kind, most attentive, most tender in her dealing with her mother. It was her aim that no care should touch that worn and weary heart. Iler mother was all she had upon the face of the earth, and that her mother might be well and comfortable Rhoda toiled without a thought of self She had her reward in the slow sweet turnins; of her mother's heart to her, until she knew herself the dearest in the world ; ay, dearer even than Denis, the wor- sliipped idol of the past. Rhoda's complete joy at the return of her brother was to Anne Holgate a wonderful and mysterious thing. Had she been cold, distant, bitter, she could not have cast upon her a breath of reproach. 1 1 iifl. 304 BRIAR AND PALM. She looked at licr at that moment, standing within the curtains of the window, watchinff for him as one watches for tlie absent and beloved. Tlie liLj,litness of her heart seemed to have soimht expression in her attire. She had lace about her throat and a cluster of Cliristmas roses nestling among it. Ilcr face was radiant ; it even seemed a to the fond, proud mother that there was brighter sheen upon her golden head. As Rhoda watched, she saw a carriage whirl rapidly up tlie street ; and, knowing w^hat it meant, her heart beat more quickly, her breath came quick and fast, her colour rose, and she looked with a slight appre- hension at her mother. Before she could speak, the prancing horses drew up at the door, and a moment later a loud knock sent its echoes through the quiet house. ' That is Denis, mother,' said Rhoda, laying her cool, soft hand on her mother's brow as she passed her couch. ' He has brought some friends with him to see you, old friends. You will be calm at meeting wdth them ? They have been anxious, like 1dm, to see you for very long.' There was the sound of voices and steps and the rustle of women's dresses at the door. Anne Holgate half raised herself on her elbow as it was opened. She had no time nor desire to look beyond the first who entered, a tall, slender, wasted woman, with a tottering step, and a haggard, pallid face, lined deep with the furrows of age and pain, her sunken eyes brilliant just then with a strange and eager light. She crossed SUNRISE. 30s IV as it was the room with a swift step, and knelt — ay, very Inw — beside Anne Holgate's couch. Her veil was llirowM back, her ungloved, nervous hands out- stretched in entreaty, her worn eyes fixed with sad eagerness on the face now flushed with strong excitement. ' Anne ! Anne ! forgive me ! I regret the past. I am a sinful, miserable old woman. Forgive me, for my son's sake, before I die ! ' Anne llolgate treml^led before the kneeling figure ; memories shook her, half-forgotten words and looks came back ; she could not for a moment calm herself sufficiently to speak. ' If not for my son's sake, for his children's, Anne,' repeated the proud woman more humbly. ' it was a great wrong I did you, one for which you and yours have most bitterly suffered. But forgive me ! you were always a nobler, better woman than I.' Anne Holgate looked wonderingly round her. Her children were there, and a sweet woman with a girlish face and figure, clasping Rhoda's hands and smiling up into her face, and here, at her feet, Lady Katharine, kneeling with her head bowed, asking to be forgiven for the past. What it meant, how it had come about, she did not know. She closed her eyes and her lips moved. Lady Holgate, looking up, saw the tears rolling slowlv down her cheeks. She leaned forward and kissed them away. Then Anne Holgate opened her eyes and smiled, and their hands met in a long, lingering clasp. But not a word was spoken. u 3o6 BRIAR AND PALM. lf4 .' ' Will Rhoila come to me ? ' said Lady Holgate, looking round at length to see her other grand- child. Rhoda, smiling, came across the room and sat down on the couch beside her mother. ' This is my child, Anne,' said the old woman tremulously. ' This is a Holgate of St. Cyrus. It is my son's eyes I see. Don't you remember, Anne, how hi.j bright hair used to lie low on his brow just like Rhoda's ? My dear, will you kiss your grandmother, and forgive her for your mother's rake ? ' After a time Winifred Barham joined a little in the talk, and so they grouped themselves about Anne Holgate's couch, and there was not a discord or a jar. For the moment even the past had not a sting. ' Rhoda and I are old friends. We met once, many years ago,* said Winifred, as her hand fell lightly on Rhoda's slender shoulder. She looked up, and their eyes met. * Yes,' said Rhoda, and her eyes filled, though her voice was low and steady. ' But you have given me another flower to-day, Winifred, and I shall not throw it away.' The sun had set with a lingering and exquisite radiance on the sea. The after-glow still remained on the shimmering waves, though the moon had risen, and in the clear evening sky many stars were shining. Down the Rectory Lane, in the sweet, falling i 'M [olgate, grand- ind sat woman 'US. It ', AlllK', is brow ss your Qothur's little in s about discord ist had I t once, nd fell though )U have and I tquisite mained on had y stars falling i t V t; o tl tl hi w sc VVJ dv sai Ci. mc int ch fei an< the bei Ba pla me De Ho son put fitt SUNRISE, 307 twiliprht, came two figures, a Inrly and a p^ontloniaTi, walkiiifi; Icisuroly, as if tlicy had conu! out to t'lijoy the restful va\\\\\ of tlic suninier ui^lit. At the end of the vilhige street tliey turned aside and took tlie path whicli led by the home of Captain Silas to the shore. There was no one in it now. As he had left it, so it still remained, l^ut there was no si 17 #» If ; I 11 keep from straying on her broad white brow. Hers was a sweet face indeed ; all lines and marks of care had wholly gone from it now, because her heart was most utterly at rest ; she knew that she was per- fectly happy at this moment, and that she wished it might last for ever. But she did not admit to herself that it was because Denis Holgate stood near, his earnest tones making sweetest melody in ear and heart. ' Winifred,' he said presently, bringing his eyes from the moonlit pathway on the sea to her sweet dear face, ' do you feel happy and at home here with me ? ' ' Yes.' Winifred Barham could not have uttered another word, and she began to tremble, she knew not why. ' I have tried to make m3^self a worthier, better man, Winifred ; my desire first being t » make my- self worthy of your precious friendship. It is still precious, but it is not enough. Do you under- stand ? ' She bent her head and clasped her hands, and tlic sweet colour rose sik'utly in her cheek. But no \voi"(l fell from her happy, trembling lips. Only her heart filled with that unspeakable tenderness and rest a woman feels when the crown of her life conies to her, offered in a true, earnest, unselfish love. ' I am still very unworthy. The best of us, I think, however we may stiive and labour, fall far short of the height upon which such women as you SUNRISE. 3" Hers of care lart was ^as per- wished dmit to e stood 3lody in his eyes ;r sweet me here another new not T, better lake my- It is still under- mds, and ek. But is. Only 3nderness f her life unselfish : of us, I r, fall far en as you stand unapproached. A good woman, even on earth, lives nearer heaven than any man can ever hope to live. Will you help me, Winifred ? Will you take me as I am, and let me try to care for you ? As 1 live, I love you beyond anything on earth. You know all my past. In our talks I have hid nothing from you, and yet, knowing all, you have not withheld your friendship,' he went on. ' It is that which gives me courage to ask that you will not withhold something else from me. I have not much to offer you, and I know that if you come to me you will have to give up much. But love has made me bold. Winifred, will you give me yourself ? ' She rose, hat and wrap fell to the grass at her feet, and she stood before him with clasped hands in silence. But her eyes met his, and their infinite trust had a message for him. So, by the old boat where Denis Holgate had spent a dark hour in the old life, the dawn of the new cast its radiance on his happy heart. For there is no hour in a man's life when he feels nobler and better and more earnest in all that is good, than when a good woman places her hand in his, and, with the trust of infinite love, leaves her destiny to be shaped by his love. A pure and unselfish human love beyond a doubt brings our hearts more near to the greatness of the Divine. • • • • • An hour later Denis Holgate took Winifred back to the Rectory, but left her to go in alone. He ■X 3" BRIAR AND PALM. !■ 1 1 -■f ;-' ; y \ ; M. A wanted to look down before it was too late to see his old friends at the ' Boot and Shoe.' He was ^A'm\ to find Cicely alone in the kitchen ; Sutton, tired with his day's work, had gone early to bed. Cicely was putting past the mugs and tankards which had been used by those who drank their evening ale as regularly in the old corner as they took their other meals at home. ' Coom in, coom in, Doctor 'Ow'git,' she said most heartily. * I heerd yo'd coom ; indeed I saw tlia ower th' marshes wi' Mrs. Bar'am. An' art tha weel, doctor ? Eh, but it's a rare pleasur' to set- thee agen. Thou'rt not furgetten i' th' Haven, noan more'n th' parson, bless 'im ! But sit doon, sit doon. Nivver moind ma lang tongue, but coom tell me a' aboot thy sen.' * There is not very much to tell, Cicely. I am a very busy and a very happy man,' he answered readily. She looked at him keenly with her kind, clear eyes. * I wadna seek to be impident, doctor ; it's because I loove tha I'd loike to hear summat more,' she said, with her pleasant smile. * When J seed yo an' her sittin' bi tha owd boat, I says to mysen, that's a' reet. We a' loove her here i' th' Haven. Th' owd lady an't a bad sort either ; but Mrs. Bar'am, she's an angel. Is she to be thy angel, doctor ? * Yes.' Then Cicely had to shake him by the hand, and bid God bless them both, in her hearty, loving fashion. SUNRISE. 313 * An' we've getton Lycldy made a grand lady sin' thou wcrt here hist year,' she faid, with a twinkh' in her eye. ' Thou made a mistak', (h)ctur, if thou thowt as oor Lyddy 'ud wear tli' willow fur thee. She's drivin' her own kerrige up theer near Waveney, an' seems as happy as a queen.' ' How did it come about ? ' Holgate asked, with deep interest. He had heard of the marriage, but knew no particulars. ' It began last September, when he wur livin' i' the Haven wi' his mother an' sisters, as foine ladies as ivver you saa ! Lyddy got in wi' them, an' they wur vera friendly, an' the young gentleman, he got into the way o' coomin' here of an evenin', an' so a bit o' loove grew up atween the twa. He's as foine a chap as yo iwer seed. An' i' the winter they had 'er up stayin' wi' them at the Hall, where she's th' mistress noo ; an' they're a' as happy as can be. He has plenty money. Yo' ken the big mills up at Thornleigh belangs to him. Ay, the girl's gradely weel off noo, an' she knaws it, doctor. Theer nivver wur a greater change in enny won than in oor Lyddy, she's that gentle an' kindly ; an' she mak's him a good woife, as weel she may. So tha sees, doctor, she's made a better match, after a', than thou'd 'a been, eh ? ' ' She has indeed. I never was so glad to hear anything,' Holgate said sincerely. ' Bless me ! theer's some won at the door, an' it after ten. Theer's fowk, doctor, as 'ud pour b "'er into their insides mornin', noon, and neet if they cud get them silly enow to give it 'em,' said 314 BRIAR AND PALM. Cicely somewhat wrathfully ; but, to her astonish- ment, the door was opened immediately after the knock, and who sliould enter but the ' parson,' as Gilbert Frew was still affectionately called in tlic Haven, though there was another in his place. ' Bless me, Gilbert ! ' exclaimed Holgate in utter amazement. ' Where have you sprung from ? 1 left you in London this morning.' * Yes ; but I came in by the last train, and have walked from Southport. And how are you, Cicely ? You are not a bit changed,' he said heartily, as he shook hands with his old friend. She was not able to speak, her eyes were full of tears, and she turned aside with a sob. The sight of the parson awoke too many memories, very tender memories, in her heart. ' Can you put me up. Cicely ? ' asked the parson after a minute, and that brought back her self- control. ' Surely, surely, and reet prood to do it, sur,' she said, hugely pleased at the idea of giving him house- room at the ' Boot and Shoe.' ' There is plenty of room at the Rectory, Gilbert,' llolgate said ; but the curate nodded to him, and he understood that, to please Cicely, he would stay the night at least at the inn. ' Don't shut up for a little. Cicely. I shall walk round to the Rectory with the doctor,' he said. ' I have a oreat deal to say to vou when I come back.' So the friends left the house together, and walked arm in arm down the quiet familiar street and turned up the Rectory Road. >u SUNRISE. 31S * I am going l)a('k to-morrow. I wanted to see you to-night, Denis, before your mother and sister come down.' ' Yes,' 8aid Denis, rather absently. He had caught sight of a shadow on the blind at one of tlie Rectory windows, and for a moment his thouglits wandered to Winifred. ' Can you guess why ? ' ' No ; what is it? Anytliing particular?' ' Yes. Will you give your sister to me, Denis ? ' ' Hhoda r A smile dawned on the surgeon's fjM'c. ' 1 have no control over her. It would be rather late in the day for me to seek to rule her actions, wouldn't it?' 'i'he curate smiled too ; but in a moment llolgate l)c<-;ime serious and earnest, and, turning to his friend, grasped his hand. ' We have been brothers so lon^:. Gilbert, that it seems as if nothing could bring us any nearer to each other,' he said. . ' But there is nothim? in the world would give me greater joy than to see Rhoda }our wife.' * 1 thought so, but I wanted to hear it from your lips,' said the curate. ' I feel at times that I have asked a great deal from her. She is so young and beautiful. Life is all l)efore her. And I am gr(jw- ing old, Denis, and these motherless boys are no li«»'ht cliarofe.' ' Old ! You will never be old. And if Rhoda chooses to take the boys, Gilbert, she will not con- sider them a burden. It will be the very life for her. She has promised, I hope ? * 3i6 BRIAR AND PALM. If m i m ■y i-l %'i ' Yes/ ' Then we are both 2<^inosition to offer my wife a home where at least sordid care will never touch her. She paid two thoissand ])Ounds for Parsons' practice, Gilbert. Would you have thought it worth that ? ' * Yes, it is very extensive. You had a tough battle with Lady Holgate, I fancy, regarding the relative advantages of the East and West End ? ' ' Yes. Sh.e was for tl e West End practice, of course ; but the ladies 'Jl sided with me, and we won the day. But I only regard my grandmother's money as a loan. I gratefully accept the kindness she bestows on my mother, but I cannot take any- thing for myself.' ' You have a proud spirit, Denis. Have you never seen your uncle yet ? ' * No ; he would not receive me, or acknowledge my mother. He has alienated himself from his mother on our account, and lives, 1 am told, like a hermit at St. Cyrus. His ill-health prevents him going out. He must be very wretched.' They were silent a moment, and listened to the soft wind stirring the leafy branches of the limes and sighing through the churchyard grass. Peace w^as in both their hearts, and a humble gratitude for the care and love which had so !^ 3i8 BRIAR AND PALM, guided their footsteps along some of life's thorny paths. * What are you thinking of, Denis ? ' asked the curate, seeing the softened and beautiful expression on the face of his friend. * I was recalling some words your little daughter said to me long ago in the garden up yonder.' * Ay ? wliat were they ? ' * " God knows all about us. He loves us very much." If we could always remember that, Gilbert, how very diiferent would be our walk through life ! ' * It would, my friend. Ay, the child's faith has had an early fruition. But we must battle on, doing what we can for His sake. May we all pass into His presence with souls as pure and loving as hers.' The surgeon brushed the tears from his eyes as he a.i.-\vcii(l, I«»\v ;ind reverently, — ' Ameu, aud ameu 1 ' 3 thorny jkcd the ipression iaughter er.' i us very , Gilbert, igh life 1 ' faith has •attle on, e all pass loving as IS eyes as