A CALLER.
DINNER was just over at Mr. Selwyn's,—a well-appointed and well-ordered
meal, always. Mr. Selwyn liked to have things "nice" about him, and he
could afford to have them as he wished. He was tired with his day's
work, not knocked up and exhausted, but just comfortably tired, able
to enjoy the thought of a reposeful evening. Mrs. Selwyn, in a happy
flutter of silk and lace, had made her way into the drawing-room, and
thither the two gentlemen, father and son, had speedily followed her.
The son was very little younger than his step-mother, and he and
she appeared to be on extremely pleasant terms. It would have been
difficult to be on any other terms with Mortimer Selwyn. He was a
thorough gentleman, sweet-tempered almost to a fault, fastidious on
certain points, but never exacting. Many counted Mortimer a singular
man. He was slightly lame, and had passed a sickly boyhood. Strange
to say, he had never been put into any profession. Mr. Selwyn through
many widowed years had shrunk morbidly from parting with his only
son. Mortimer was long counted unfit for hard work, and, his mother's
property being settled upon him, his future was amply provided for. So
he had lived on at home, year after year, with no definite work in life.
No definite work, that is to say, provided for him by others. A plan
which would have been utterly detrimental to ninety-nine young men in
a hundred had had no ill results with Mortimer. For he was by nature
a man of thoughtful purpose and of literary tastes; and he was, "not"
by nature, a man of high Christian principle. To fritter away his
time in self-pleasing was not a possibility with Mortimer Selwyn. The
work which had not been provided for him, he provided for himself.
The life-aims which had not been set before him, he sought out and
found. Strong as was the affection which existed between father and
son, it was by no means the affection of unity in tastes, or likeness
in manner of thought. Mortimer cared not a whit for the law, and
Mr. Selwyn had small interest in his son's pursuits. Truth to tell,
the latter were legion in number, and leisure was necessary for the
appreciation of them. Mr. Selwyn was a man of no leisure, and a man of
one primary pursuit, Mortimer was a man of boundless leisure, which
yet never implied idleness, and of multitudinous pursuits; among which
literature, science, and philanthropy held no doubt the foremost places.
Also, on religious points the two did not agree. Mr. Selwyn was not
without a certain amount of religion, professed, and perhaps, so far
as it went, genuine. He was very reserved on such topics, and possibly
felt more deeply than he allowed to appear. But he counted office-work
and religion to be matters necessarily kept apart, to be in their
nature "wide as the poles asunder;" the inevitable consequence of which
view was that religion found itself in a small corner, the chief space
in his time and thoughts being monopolized by "work."
Mortimer, on the contrary, was one whose very life was impregnated with
religion, whose every word and action were as in the presence of the
living God. He lost nothing in manliness by this; rather, he gained by
it. But for this high consciousness, but for his vivid realization of
the great realities of life and death and the future beyond, he might
have sunk into a mere self-indulgent invalid, or, as health came to him
in an unemployed youth, have rushed into a career of self-indulgent
evil.
He was not much of a religious talker. He "could" speak, of course,
and with glowing earnestness, on the things which most occupied his
mind, but he rarely spoke uninvited, and never thrust his opinions
upon unwilling hearers. There was no need. Mortimer's manly pleasant
face spoke for itself; and the manner of his daily life had a clearer
utterance for the honour of his Master's Name than any mere words could
have had. Neither did he say much at any time about at least one chief
part of his work in life. People heard of his coming and going, and saw
his interest in science and literature. But of the many poor whom he
visited, the sufferers lifted out of want by his hand, the struggling
toilers helped onward, the gifts silently given where needed,—of these
the world in general knew nothing at all, or heard only a whisper here
and there by accident.
A fire had been lighted, more for cheerfulness than from necessity,
since it was a warm spring day; and Mrs. Selwyn sat near it, making
believe to get through a little fancywork, in reality hoping for
conversation. She hoped for some time in vain. Mortimer was deep in a
periodical; and Mr. Selwyn apparently was deep in thought. He broke out
suddenly, after a long pause,—
"You women are the most irrational beings—sometimes."
"Thanks!" Isobel said drily.
"Especially for the last qualifying word," added Mortimer, lifting a
pair of amused eyes. "What unfortunate female has aroused your ire
to-day, father?"
"I was merely thinking of my trip to Riversmouth last week, and of Miss
Halcombe's extraordinary conduct."
"Miss Halcombe does not give one the impression that she is an
irrational being exactly."
"I should have supposed her to be a young woman of remarkable sense,"
said Mr. Selwyn. "But to throw away such an opportunity! However, it is
done now, and cannot be undone. She will never have another."
"Is the old lady so vindictive?" asked Isobel.
Mr. Selwyn moved his shoulders. "Lady Halcot counted herself slighted.
That was all."
"Miss Halcombe couldn't possibly have gone to the Leys in a
draggle-tailed condition," said Isobel.
"Miss Halcombe had no business to become draggle-tailed," said Mr.
Selwyn.
"Why, Stuart, I shall be quite frightened of you. I did not know you
could be so severe."
The lawyer's face relaxed into a smile. "Was I severe? My regrets
are all for Gwendoline Halcombe's own sake. She is a charming girl,
and might have won the old lady over,—a most desirable thing for her
parents. I fear there is no hope now of such a consummation."
The man-servant entered. "If you please, sir, Miss Halcombe desires a
few words with you, if possible."
"Certainly," said Mr. Selwyn, though not quite pleased. He liked to
keep business for business quarters, and to have his home inviolable.
"Show her into my study."
"Stuart, do bring her here," interposed Isobel. "How odd that she
should come just when we were speaking about her! But I really am
curious to see this little paragon of yours."
"Stay," Mr. Selwyn said to the man. "Will you have her in at once,
Isobel?"
"To be sure,—I should like it immensely. If she wants a private
interview, you can take her to your study afterwards."
The man vanished, and Mortimer said quietly, "You will admire her."
"How do you know? Have you seen Miss Halcombe?"
"Yes,—more than once."
"But I may not think her pretty."
"I think you will. You are not one of those women who cannot admire
another pretty woman."
Isobel looked pleased. She liked words of appreciation from her
step-son. There was no time for more, however. Gwendoline was already
in the doorway.
There she paused. She had on her ulster, and her little cap with the
wavy short hair showing below, as Mr. Selwyn had seen her on the shore;
but no geranium-tint was in her pale cheeks, and the large brown eyes
were opened with a startled and dazzled expression.
"I beg your pardon," she said, drawing back. "There is some mistake. I
only wanted a few words with Mr. Selwyn alone."
"You shall have them, Miss Halcombe," said the lawyer. "But my wife
wishes for the pleasure of your acquaintance, and she asked to make
use of this opportunity. Come in and sit down. Isobel, this is Miss
Halcombe."
"I have heard my husband speak of you," Isobel said kindly, leading
Gwendoline to a chair, and giving Mortimer a glance expressive of
admiration.
He came forward, with his slight limp and his courteous manner, and as
they shook hands a faint colour rose for an instant to her cheeks. The
paleness following was so marked that Mortimer said gravely, "You are
not well, I am afraid."
"Thank you—I—" Gwendoline hesitated, as if trying to collect her
thoughts. "I am only—a little—"
"Have you been wandering about London without food for hours?" he
suggested, with a touch of reproach.
"I had dinner at one, only I could not eat," said Gwendoline, with
difficulty. "It does not matter, thank you."
"My dear, you will be fainting away if you don't take something," said
Isobel, laying her plump little hand, with its diamond rings, upon
Gwendoline's slender fingers. "Pray don't do that, for I have the
greatest horror of seeing anybody faint. Here comes the coffee, just in
time. Or would you rather have a glass of wine?"
"Oh no, coffee, please," said Gwendoline; and she was speedily served.
A minute or two later she could look up, with a sweet, though, Isobel
thought, touchingly sad smile, to say, "Thank you very much. I didn't
quite know how much I wanted something."
"Have you had a very busy day?" asked Isobel kindly.
"Yes. I was sorry I could not get to Mr. Selwyn's office in time; but
indeed I could not."
"Are you in a hurry now?" asked Isobel, noticing a furtive glance at
the clock.
"I am afraid I ought not to wait. It is getting late, and I have so far
to go."
"You ought not to go about like this, my dear, unprotected," said
Isobel.
Gwendoline's lip quivered. She said only, "I must."
"How do you get home?"
"I shall walk part of the way, and catch an omnibus somewhere."
"It is not right," said Isobel.
Mr. Selwyn thought the same, but he did not say so. "We must not delay
you," he said; and he rose to lead the way into his study, followed by
Gwendoline.
"I shall see you again some day," Isobel said cordially, pressing her
hand.
And Mr. Selwyn was some time closeted with the young girl. Coming out,
Gwendoline was met in the hall by Mortimer.
"Pardon me," he said. "There is a cab at the door, waiting for you.
Mrs. Selwyn and I could not be content to let you go any other way."
Gwendoline did not know what to say, and allowed herself to be handed
in.
Mr. Selwyn presently found his way from the study to the drawing-room.
"I suppose I must not ask what the interview was about?" his wife said.
"It is easily told. Her father is to lose his situation at Midsummer;
and—unless by a miracle—he and they will then be almost penniless."
Mr. Selwyn spoke in a moved tone. "That poor child! If ever I saw
heart-break in a girl's face—yet all the while so collected and
womanly. Poor little Gwendoline!"
"But can nothing be done?"
"I have promised to inquire elsewhere for him—after other work. The
matter does not look hopeful. Something may be found, no doubt. The
difficulty is to find any opening for a man of his age which will bring
in enough to support such a family."
"Can't you give them some money?"
"A fifty-pound cheque would not go far towards keeping twelve people in
comfort for a quarter of a year."
Isobel thought of her last dressmaker's bill with a twinge of
conscience.
"Fifty pounds!" she repeated. "It is perfectly appalling."
The man-servant reappeared, and gave Mr. Selwyn a telegram. "Do you
know where Mr. Mortimer is?" Mr. Selwyn asked, opening it.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Mortimer went upon the coach-box, to see the young lady
safe home. He also said he had some one to call upon in that direction."
Mr. Selwyn's face wore a dubious expression. "Humph!" he muttered, when
the man was gone. "Rather unnecessary philanthropy."
"Who is that from?"
"Lady Halcot again. She desires an interview immediately. I can't
possibly go for three or four days."
"Lady Halcot seems to think you have nothing to do but to wait upon
her," said Isobel.
Meanwhile Gwendoline, driving homewards alone in her cab, had time for
the indulgence of sad thoughts and weariness. She was heavy at heart,
and her interview with Mr. Selwyn had scarcely lightened the weight.
He had not spoken in a sanguine tone about finding employment for her
father, and the future looked very dark.
At the end of the street where she lived the cab halted. Certain
road-repairs made it impossible to proceed farther.
Gwendoline was astonished to see a cloaked figure alight and come with
limping step to the window.
"Miss Halcombe, shall we drive to the other end of the road—I suppose
that will be open—or will you alight here?"
"Here, if you please; it is not far," she answered; and then she said,
"Mr. Selwyn!"
"Excuse the liberty I have taken. There is a sick person in this
neighbourhood whom I wish to see, and I thought I might venture to
utilize your coach-box."
Gwendoline descended and paused. "A sick person—at this time of night?"
"An old man, past eighty. He is bedridden, and suffers much from
sleeplessness, and likes late visitors."
"But were you really going to-night? Is that your reason?"
"No," he said, smiling. "I was not going, but I have come—and it is
true that I wished to see the old man. Also, I wished to see you safely
home."
"The cabman?" said Gwendoline, turning.
"I have not done with him yet. It will be all right."
"Don't come any farther, please. Good-night," said Gwendoline.
"I should like to see you to your door,—but I can walk behind, if you
like."
"Oh no, no!—Nonsense!" said Gwendoline hurriedly, breaking into a
laugh, which was almost a sob. "You are very kind—only I don't think it
is right that you should have the trouble."
Mortimer made no answer to this. They crossed the road together, and he
said quietly, after a slight break, "There are some days in which it is
difficult to see the light behind the cloud."
"I can't see any light at all to-day," said Gwendoline sadly.
"And yet it is there."
"I can't see it," repeated Gwendoline.
"I saw from your face that you were in trouble,—'walking in darkness,'
perhaps, and 'having no light.' Then, Miss Halcombe, 'let him trust in
the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God.'"
"Could you do that if everything were being taken away from you?" asked
Gwendoline bitterly.
Mortimer's manner changed, and his voice grew strangely humble. "I dare
not say," he answered. "If God gave me grace—yes—not otherwise. It has
not been God's will to try me thus. How easy for me in my circumstances
to look on and tell another to trust! And yet—I too have known times
of darkness and pain, and I have proved the loving faithfulness of my
God. Surely I have a right to speak without presumption. Miss Halcombe,
His fatherly care will not come to an end. 'He will not fail thee nor
forsake thee.'"
Gwendoline lifted her face, wet with tears, as they paused at the door
of the house. "Thank you," she said tremulously. "Oh, thank you! I
think I was forgetting. Honor has so often said the same. I know it is
so, really. But it isn't easy always to feel sure. Good-bye."
[Illustration: SHE LEAPED BOLDLY IN, STRIKING THE RIGHT SPOT.]
She gave him her hand, and he bent his head, with a murmur which
sounded like, "God bless you." Then he was gone, and she stood dreamily
listening to the sound of his unequal steps passing into the distance.
Mr. Halcombe answered the bell.
"Gwen, my child, you are late," he said. "We were growing anxious."
"I could not help it, father. I could not get to Mr. Selwyn's in time,
and I have been all the way to his own home. He was very kind, and Mr.
Mortimer Selwyn called a cab, and saw me home, and would not let me
pay. I don't know whether I ought to have allowed it."
They moved slowly into the deserted dining-room, where the boys had
been doing lessons all the evening, and where a tumbler of milk and
some bread and butter waited on the table.
"Ruth left these for you. She had to go up-stairs to do some mending
for the children; and your mother was knocked up, so we persuaded her
to go to bed early. You must want food, Gwen."
"No, I had something. I can't eat, father."
She drank the milk; then put her two arms round him, as he stood beside
the mantelpiece, and rested her head on his shoulder.
"Poor worn-out child, always toiling for others," he said sadly. "It
grieves me that the burdens of life should come upon you so early. You
are not fitted for them yet,—under twenty, my Gwennie. Ten years later
I should not mind. I wish I could shelter my darling a little longer."
"It will all come right by and by," murmured Gwen.
"I ought to have gone to Mr. Selwyn's, and not you, my dear."
"Oh no, father; I am glad I went. I know Mr. Selwyn best, and he is
always kind to me. But he did not seem very—hopeful."
"He would not wish to pledge himself to anything, of course. And he is
a busy man. I hardly see what we can expect from him."
A cold shiver ran through Mr. Halcombe's whole frame, communicating
itself to the slight figure which rested against him. The prospect
ahead seemed to him so utterly chill and dark. He had almost no private
means. Victor received a small salary, and Gwendoline could make a few
pounds here or there by painting little pictures; but with the loss of
his situation in the bank, all other means of livelihood were swept
away.
"Father, something will turn up. We shall be cared for," said
Gwendoline.
"I am trying to think so, Gwen, but it is a hard trial of my faith."
"God will not fail us," said Gwendoline, half-unconsciously echoing
Mortimer's words.
"He has never failed me yet, but I never came before to such a strait
as this. It is utter darkness—utter destitution."
"But God can help us. It isn't too hard for Him," whispered Gwendoline.
Then the poor tired girl burst into tears. "Oh, father, if only I had
seen Lady Halcot—if only that had not been prevented! Ruth wouldn't
have been so easily hindered in my place. Why did I not go to her the
next day? It does seem so terrible that I may have stopped help from
coming to you and mother. I don't know how to bear the thought."
"You acted for the best. It is of God's ordering, Gwen."
"Father, why don't you write to Lady Halcot and ask help?"
He shook his head. "No use. I have tried that plan before."
"Then let me write. May I do it? I think my note of excuse was too
short. I didn't want to make a fuss, and perhaps I went too far the
other way. Honor thought so. May I write, father?"
She grew eager over the idea, and her cheeks flushed. "I know what to
say," she went on. "It all seems coming to me, like daylight. Shall I
show you the letter, or shall I tell her that no one has seen it."
"I think that would be best," said Mr. Halcombe slowly. "I do not wish
to prevent your making the attempt, my dear, as a satisfaction to
yourself. But nothing will come of it. I know Lady Halcot better than
you, and I have no hope whatever of any favourable result. Better say
nothing to your mother or Ruth. It will probably end in disappointment."
"I am not so sure," said Gwendoline softly. "It might be the way God
would help us, father. I think I am right just to try. But I will not
say a word to anybody. I'll write the letter now, before I go to bed."