THE BROTHERS.
During this short conversation between Rowland and Miss Gwynne, Gladys
was still playing with the children at no great distance from them. With
all a woman's penetration, she had guessed Rowland's secret during his
mother's illness, and had perceived no symptoms of attachment on the
part of Miss Gwynne; and now, with all a woman's pity, she was watching
him from afar. She had seen them standing together, had marked the hasty
bow and retreat of the lady, and the immoveable attitude of the
gentleman; she saw that he continued to stand where Miss Gwynne had left
him, as if he were a statue; she guessed something must have passed
between them.
As twilight was fairly come on, she told the schoolmistress that she
must go home, and begged her to see that the children dispersed when she
thought best. Owen, who was in the midst of a game of cricket with the
boys, was as well aware of all Gladys's movements as if he had been by
her side. He saw that she was shaking hands with the mistress, and that
the children were imploring her to stay a little longer. He went to her
and asked her to remain until he had finished his game, in order that he
might see her home.
She thanked him, but said, rather abruptly for her, that she must go at
once, and, heedless of what he or others might think, went hastily
across the park to Rowland.
'That's the way the wind blows, is it?' said Owen to himself, whilst a
frown gathered on his open forehead.
Rowland was unconscious of the approach of Gladys, and was startled from
his trance by the words,--
'Mr Rowland, sir, I think the mistress will be expecting you home.'
He looked at her half unconsciously for a moment, and then rousing
himself, said,--
'Oh! Gladys, is it you? Yes, I will go directly. Where? Home? Of course
it is time. I will walk with you.'
These were the only words spoken between the pair. Rapidly he strode
down the avenue, inwardly resolving never to enter it again; as rapidly
along the road that led to the farm, until he reached the house, with
Gladys breathless by his side.
'I am afraid I have walked too quickly, Gladys, I am very sorry. I was
anxious to get home, I do not feel very well.'
With these words he hurried through the passage, and was going to his
room, when his father met him and called him into the parlour. He felt
so bewildered that he scarcely knew what his mother said, when she told
him how proud and happy he had made her by his conduct that day.
'All, my dear son, church-people and dissenters were pleased with your
sermon, and the way you managed everything. Your aunt repeated it word
for word to me, and it was just what I like. This is the first comfort I
have felt since--'
Mrs Prothero pressed her son's hand, and her eyes filled with tears.
'Thank you, mother, I am glad,' was all Rowland could say.
'Mind you, Row, my boy, you must write a good sermon for Sunday. You've
got a character to lose now,' said Mr Prothero, giving him a slap on the
back.
'Yes, father. I will go and write it.'
'Not to-night, Rowland,' said Mrs Prothero, anxiously; 'you look pale
and tired. What is the matter?'
'Nothing, mother; but I must think of this sermon, I have only one clear
day. We will talk to-morrow. Good-night, dear mother.'
Rowland stooped to kiss his mother, and she felt that his face was very
cold, and that his hand trembled.
'You are ill, Rowland?'
'No, only tired. I will come and see you again by-and-by.'
Rowland went to his room and bolted himself in. He threw himself on a
chair, covered his face with his hands, and wept like a child. He was
seated by a little writing-table near the window, through which the moon
looked down pitifully upon him in his great anguish. Yes, great. Perhaps
the greatest anguish of a life. His arms on the table, his head on his
arms, he thought, in the misery of that moment, that he must die, and he
wished to die. The illusion of a life was destroyed, and how? So rudely,
so cruelly, so heartlessly broken! He could have borne it if there had
been one kind word, only a look of interest or pity; but that pride and
haughtiness were like the stabs of a dagger in his heart.
'Womanly weakness! unmanly folly!' you say, some one who has never felt
keenly and suddenly the pangs of such a passion unrequited. Perhaps so.
But out of our great weakness sometimes grows our strength; out of our
bitterest disappointments our sternest resolution. By-and-by such
weakness will strengthen; such folly will breed wisdom.
Thus Rowland remained for some time, with unkind and unholy thoughts and
feelings rushing through his mind, like the howling winds through the
air in a great storm. Afterwards, he prayed humbly to be forgiven those
devilish feelings of anger, pride, hatred of life and mistrust of God's
goodness that assailed him in that hour of misery. But for the time,
they were darting to and fro, and casting out every good thought, and
hopeful purpose from his soul, like demons as they were.
But strength came at last, and like one arising out of a horrid dream,
Rowland got up from his anguish, and looked out into the night. The moon
was too tender and beautiful for his mood at that time; he roughly drew
down the blind, took a box of matches from the table, and lighted a
candle. Then he paced up and down the room, and suddenly thought of
Howel and Netta. He knew not how the transition took place, but he
immediately accused himself of having been hard to them. Does any one
ever fully sympathise with another, until he has felt as he does? No, we
should not judge our weak fellow mortals so harshly, if we knew all
their temptations and trials.
Then, again, Miss Gwynne returned to him, with her pride and coldness.
How could he love such a woman? he, whose beau ideal of feminine
perfection was a creature of gentleness, love, and pity? but he would
think of her no more. She, at least, should discover that he was as
proud as herself.
Yes, he was proud, he knew it, and now, he would glory in his pride
instead of trample it down, as he had been of late trying to do, as an
arch tempter; he should be justified in showing pride for her pride.
Again a gentler and better mood came. Was he not vain, ambitious,
ridiculous in her eyes, for venturing to speak to her as he had done?
Doubtless he had been wrong, but she needed not to spurn him as she had
done; she might have told him so as a friend. Friend! she thought him
beneath her friendship.
But we will not pursue these musings further; every kind and degree of
feeling alternated for nearly two hours, when, as if by some sudden
impulse or resolution, Rowland sat down and determined to write his
sermon. It should be upon pride, and should touch her as well as
himself. He found pleasure in thinking of all the texts in which the
word occurs, in looking for them, and considering which was the most
biting.
A hasty knock at his door interrupted this study. It was Owen, who
insisted upon coming in, and would take no excuse.
Owen, too, had been ruminating upon the nature of woman, and was not in
a very good humour; he, however, had been cheerfully talking to his
mother of the events of the day, and duly lauding their own particular
hero, Rowland.
When he entered, he looked surprised at seeing Rowland with his Bible in
his hand; he took a chair, and, turning his seat towards him, sat down
astride upon it, leaning his chin upon the back and facing Rowland.
'Now, Rowland, I'm going to ask you a very plain question. There ought
to be no secrets between brothers: I've told you all mine, nearly? you
must tell me yours. Are you in love?'
Poor Rowland coloured to the temples, but did not answer.
'You won't tell me? There was a time, Rowland, when you and I knew one
another's hearts as well as if they were two open books, in which we
could read when we like, but I suppose London and fine people--'
'Stop, Owen, do not disgrace yourself or me by going on. Why do you wish
to probe me in a wounded place, where every stab is death?'
Owen looked at his brother, and saw the conflict that was going on in
his mind in the working of his features.
'Rowland, I only want your confidence; by Jove you shall have mine, even
though you are my successful rival; and I love you so well that I would
give her up to you, if it cost me--let me see--a voyage to the North
Pole.'
'Owen, this is no jesting matter. I have been a fool, I am ashamed of
myself, I am trying to conquer my feelings; leave me until I have
succeeded, and then--'
'But, Rowland, if she loves you, I don't see why you should try to
overcome your feelings. It would not be quite the right match,
certainly; but she would make a better parson's wife than a sailor's
wife after all; and my father might consent in time, and--'
'Owen, is it kind of you to make a jest of me?' asked Rowland, rising
from his chair, and resuming his walk up and down his room. 'If you had
ever really loved either of the many girls you have fancied you adored,
you would understand me better; but I deserve it all for my
presumption--my folly.'
'For that much, Rowland, perhaps I love her a trifle better than you do
at this very moment; still I am not selfish enough to come between you,
and would rather try absence and the northern latitudes; only just be
honest. I'm not quite such a piece of blubber as not to be capable of
constancy, though I may have been a rover until now; but when I see a
girl walk right away from me, and refuse to wait for me to go home with
her, and go straight off to another man, never mind if he was my father,
instead of my brother, I don't mean to break my heart about her.
Besides, I'm disappointed in her, and that's the truth. I thought she
was as modest as the moon; but I never saw the moon walk out of her
straight path to go after another planet, and no girl that I have
anything to say to, shall go after another man. So you're welcome to
her, though I'll say this, that I never saw the woman yet I loved so
well, and believe she's as good as gold, as pure as that same moon, but
as cold as ice itself; at least, so I've found her, perhaps you've a
warmer experience.'
As soon as Owen paused in his rapid speech, Rowland paused in his walk,
and putting his hand on Owen's shoulder, said,--
'This is a misapprehension, my dear Owen; you and I are thinking of a
different person.'
'I am thinking of Gladys,' said Owen bluntly, 'and repeat that I love
you both too well to come between you and happiness.'
'I am sure of that, Owen, you have no selfishness about you; but I do
not love Gladys. I never thought of her except as a beautiful and
superior girl, thrown by Providence amongst us, and to be treated with
kindness and consideration. I only hope my manner to her has never
indicated anything else.'
'Do you mean what you say?' said Owen, jumping up from his chair, and
cutting a caper, 'then shake hands, and tell me you forgive me for being
so hasty.'
They shook hands heartily, and Rowland said,--
'Thank you, Owen, you have done me good; now go away, and I will write
my sermon.'
'Not before I know what is the matter with you, and why Gladys went
across on purpose to walk home with you.'
After much hesitation, and some pressing on the part of Owen, Rowland
told his brother what had passed between him and Miss Gwynne. When he
had made a clean breast of it, he felt as if relieved of half his
load--especially when Owen assured him that women were all alike, and
that when you asked them the first time, they were as proud as Lucifer.
'It is first and last with me, Owen. I have forgotten my position, my
profession, my own dignity in giving way to a passion that I had no
right to suppose could be returned. I will crush it, and nobody but you
shall ever know of its existence. This struggle over, and I shall hope
henceforth to have but one Master and to serve Him.'
'Well, I never should have thought you would have fancied Miss Gwynne;
not but that she is handsome and clever and very agreeable and kind,
too, when she pleases; but so proud, so domineering, and then--'
'Neither should I have supposed Gladys to be your choice, Owen; and I am
sorry it should be so. What would my father say? so soon upon Netta,
too; and you must confess that her uncertain history, her present
condition, the way she came to us, would be utter barriers to anything
serious.'
'Bravo, Rowland; now I must put the application to your lecture. I
suppose everything is by comparison in this world--the squire and the
squire's daughter look down upon the farmer and the farmer's son, and
beg to decline the honour of an alliance. The farmer and the farmer's
son look down upon the corporal and corporal's daughter, and beg to do
the same, especially as she is their servant. Tom, the carpenter, thinks
his daughter too good for Joseph the labourer, and Matthew the shoeblack
wouldn't let his son marry Sal the crossing-sweeper for all the world.
Oh, Rowland!, is this what you have learnt from your profession, and
the book before you? Why, I've found a better philosophy on board ship,
with no teachers but the moon and stars.'
'Owen, I am ashamed of myself. My pride deserves to be thus pulled
down.'
'I don't want to seem unkind, Rowland, but my notion is, that an honest
gentleman, such as you, educated, and a clergyman is good enough for any
lady; and that a good, religious girl, who has saved my mother's life,
is a great deal too good for a ne'er-do-well fellow like me. But I won't
fall before I'm pushed, since I'm pretty sure she thinks so too. So,
now, cheer up, old boy! and show the heiress what a sermon you can
preach; and let her see you don't care a fig for her; and then, by
jingo, she'll be over head and ears in love with you, and propose
herself next leap-year.'
Rowland laughed, in spite of himself, at this notion.
'I will go and wish my mother good night,' he said, 'and then set to
work.'
The brothers went together to their mother, who was in bed, and together
received her 'God bless you, my children!' Then they separated for the
night, and Rowland returned to his room a wiser, if still a sadder, man,
than when Owen visited it. Owen's plain common sense had often got the
better of Rowland's romance; and although he could not approve his
roving and seemingly useless life, he always acknowledged that he
gathered some wisdom by his experience.
Again Rowland sat down, but this time he drew up the blind, and let the
moonlight in upon his chamber like a silver flood. He took himself to
task for his pride, ambition, and conceit, in a way that did him good,
doubtless, but was not palatable; still he made many excuses for
himself, and none for Miss Gwynne. He was not to recover the effects of
that disappointment in a few hours! Days and even years were necessary
for that. But he asked for strength where it is never asked in vain, and
then resolutely wrote a sermon on the words, 'Blessed are the poor in
spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'
He wrote as he felt, and under the influence of those strong,
half-curbed feelings, wrote so easily, that he was astonished to find
how quickly he composed, and how soon a sufficient number of sheets were
written, to occupy his customary half-hour when preached. He did not
read them over, but promised to do so on the morrow, which was Saturday.
He was already far into the small hours, and knew that he ought to be in
bed.
When he was there he could not sleep. That love of his was too
deeply-rooted to be torn up by a few proud words that haunted him all
the night, and to which he was constantly adding 'Yes, you are the
heiress of Glanyravon, and I am only a farmer's son and a poor curate.'