A Lost Son and The Glover's Daughter

Chapter I. The New Cousin

" The liquid drops of tears that you have shed, Shall come again, transformed to orient pearl ; Advantaging their loan, with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness." Shakespeare : King Richard III. HERE was no one but Martin Brooke and Ben Chadwick in the shop ; the others — Joshua Serlcote, senior, his wife, and half a dozen sons and daughters, were all sitting round the tea-table in the back parlour. It was a narrow room and somewhat dim, but the Serlcotes were quite contented with it. They had a grand room over the shop, with a Brussels carpet and a good piano, and looking-glasses and china ornaments, and coloured antimacassars in profusion ; but this was only for visitors. Mrs. Serlcote would as soon have thought of taking her sewing into one of the big square pews of the parish church as of trying to make herself at home in her front parlour.

Her thin, sour, suspicious-looking face has more colour than usual this afternoon, her black satin cap ribbons flutter over the tea-tray, she grows confused over the sugar, and forgets that Julian, her eldest son, likes a double quantity of cream. Julian reminds her quietly, and she all but empties the cream-jug into his cup, a proceeding noticed by the others without a shade of discontent. Even Elizabeth, who is eight years older than her brother, has no thought of doing anything but help to spoil him. It only seems natural to them all that Julian, who is so handsome and so gentlemanlike, and so much admired everywhere, should be treated with practical admiration at home. Julian never appears to presume upon this feeling, but it is open to ques tion whether they ever give him fair opportunity.

Even Joshua Serlcote, stiff, prim old martinet that he was, had a secret pride in this son of his. Joshua was a man well to do in the world. The well-stocked jeweller's shop in the Corn Market of Lyme-St. - Mary's had been established by his great-grandfather, and the Serlcotes had always held their heads higher than any other tradespeople in the somewhat ex clusive little town. Yet there was a line drawn, and he knew it, and had never made any attempt to overstep it in his own person ; but he could not help exulting a little when Julian, cetat one-and-twenty, came back from a two years' sojourn in London and Paris, and took his place on the other side of the line quite naturally. Whitehouse, the principal lawyer, Dr. Sargent, who was the mayor that year, and Mark Oakley, who was the son of a rich brewer, knew quite well that young Serlcote had been away for what his father termed improvement ; or, in other terms, that he had been giving his services in large establishments for the sake of gaining an extended knowledge of busi ness ; but it was also patent to them that he had gained knowledge of other things not connected with business, and that in consequence of this knowledge, and his mode of communicating it, he was decidedly an acquisition to the somewhat " slow " society of Lyme-St. -Mary's. He had been at home about a year on this No vember afternoon, a year during which life had been made very pleasant to him.

It was supposed that he was in the shop gradually learning to take his father's place, and occasionally during the forenoon he might be found there ; but no stranger who saw him standing about chatting pleasantly and con fidently with people who hardly knew whether to regard themselves as customers or visitors, and who felt a certain delicacy in asking for anything they might happen to want, could possibly have supposed that his connection with trade was other than the unpleasant fiction that Julian himself considered it to be. If the afternoon was bright and tempting there was usually an outdoor engagement to be suddenly remembered — a drive in Whitehouse's waggonette, a boating expedition on the Trent with Oakley and his sisters ; or in summer-time a picnic or a cricket match, or, what was more to his taste, a croquet party.

Of his evenings he seldom had any account to give, but he had a latch-key, and often went in so late that there was no one to be interested in his accounts. Of course there was business to be done in the shop, and Joshua Serlcote was quite the right man to see that it was neither left undone nor done badly. It was well for him, and he knew that it was well, that he had Martin Brooke to trust to. Martin was his wife's nephew — a homeless, penniless, unattrac tive lad of nineteen or thereabouts. The word " un attractive," however, had better be qualified at once. Martin had strong attractions for his quick-sighted uncle ; steadiness, punctuality, a habit of silence, and other business-like qualities were not too common, as Joshua knew. It was quite possible that Martin had merits less stern and more graceful, but these had little chance of coming to the surface of that commonplace, monotonous daily life of his.

And there was no one to look below the surface ; hardly any to take a careful look at that. The lad had failings, but no one to excuse them. He had virtues, but, seen through the depressing medium of indifference, they appeared very small. Martin, like everybody else about the place, is in a state of expectancy this afternoon. It is not more than three weeks since Joshua Serlcote received a letter from a small town in Northumberland con taining the news of his sister's death, and enclosing an appeal written by her to him only a few days before that event. It was over twenty years since any communication had passed between them, but time had not frozen his memories of the kindly, gentle girl, whose only unforgivable sin had been that she had chosen to marry a poor man — an artist named Herbert Dyne, who, with no capital except his brains and his brush, had yet been courageous enough to take to himself a wife.

He had never repented, nor had she. They had suffered, but they had loved — loved with a love that would have made a harder life than theirs worth living. It was now about five years since his death. From that time until the beginning of her own last illness Mrs. Dyne had supported herself and her daughter by keeping a school. It was this daughter of Herbert and Elizabeth Dyne who was expected at No. 17, Corn Market, Lyme-St. -Mary's, in the county of Trentfordshire. All through the dull wintry day — nay, all through the week — a curious sense of anticipation had made itself felt, curious in many ways. It may be said — sadly enough, if you think of it — that not one inmate of that house thought with any pleasure of the coming stranger ; so completely a stranger that even her age had to be guessed.

The dying mother had not thought of anything so unim-, portant as that when she had written to plead for a home for her child. That was the word she had used, " my child." Later on in the letter she had called her Agnes, and Agnes herself had written one or two brief, quiet, simply-expressed notes to her uncle, who had imagined therefrom that she was probably some fifteen or sixteen years old. That was all that was known of her. The household at No. 17 was in nowise a demon strative one. Hardly any member of it knew the real opinion of another on this important matter. From the beginning the utmost reserve had been used. The four younger children — Fanny, Ellen, John, and Sam — had wondered, but only in whisper when they were alone, whether they would have to call the stranger "cousin." Even Hannah, the talkative maid-servant, who had helped Miss Serlcote to prepare the room that was to be devoted to the use of the new inmate, had felt that discretion had to be used in asking questions.

Perhaps it was because of this outward repression that the inner current of expectation had become so strong. Probably Julian was troubled less than any one else by his anticipations. One thing was certain, she would not interfere with him in any way. His sisters had never interfered ; why should she ? It might be that she would prove an acquisition. If she should be very pretty, or musical, or lively, or even stylish-looking, an evening at home might seem less intolerably slow than such evenings had usually seemed hitherto. These and similar vague specula tions had passed once or twice rapidly through his mind, but they had not been strong enough to prepare the way for disappointment. Martin, being a young man of fewer external re sources, had naturally given more time to internal surmisings.

Imagine him standing there behind the long counter, a youth under twenty, rather short in figure, somewhat clumsily built, but well and carefully dressed. This was usual with him. It had not occurred to him to bestow any extra care on his dress because of the expected addition to his uncle's family. His hair, which was of that indefinite colour which no one ever knows how to name, being neither light nor dark, nor brown nor red, was yet very nice hair in its way. It always looked soft and bright and well cared for. His complexion was of a type not so difficult to classify, being decidedly a bad one, but his eyes went far to redeem any defect of that kind. If you had looked into Martin Brooke's eyes once you could hardly help wishing to look into them again. They were rather large, and of a bright blue grey, but it was the expression, not the size nor the colour, that attracted you.

You saw a real human soul in them, and a gentle, kindly, unselfish soul it was, but somewhat sad withal if you had sufficient acquaintance with sadness to be able to discern in it such an uninteresting person as the young man behind the counter of a jeweller's shop. It was such a handsome shop that I need hardly apologise for taking the most exclusively high-bred reader into it. All round, from the floor to the lofty ceiling, there was a glitter of pretty things, gold and silver, gilding, glass and polished mahogany ; and all these things were reflected from such a number of cunningly-inserted mirrors that a sense of bewilder ment was apt to seize certain of Mr. Serlcote's more countrified customers. They remembered the time when the business was conducted in a place about a quarter the size, the door of which had stood at the top of four steps.

This, however, had been when Julian had been quite a little boy. Most of the im provements had been made since his return from Paris. There was no flaring of gas. The farther end of the shop was almost in darkness, and it was a very subdued light that descended upon the heads of Martin Brooke and Ben Chadwick. Ben was the younger apprentice, a lazy, mischievous, incompre hensible youth, who seemed to have been sent into the world for no other purpose than the inscrutable one of making Joshua Serlcote ceaselessly, unreason ably, and causelessly angry. If Ben spoke, or rather muttered, his muttering was an offence ; silence was an offence still greater, and his smile was simply unpardonable. Joshua had been known more than once to turn red with anger because Ben blushed. Ben was not blushing for nothing.

Some sense of hidden guilt was at the bottom of such impudence and shamefacedness as that. Martin and Ben stood there, one on either side, quite silently. It was supposed that Ben was rubbing something with washleather ; Martin was for once making no pretence of doing anything. His uncle and Julian had disappeared when the tea-table bell rang at five o'clock, agreeing as they went into the house that they would go up as far as the station together to meet the seven o'clock train. It would suit Julian's convenience to do so. The station was on the road to Buxton Grove, where he had an engagement for the evening. There was no sound anywhere, within or without, when suddenly the rattle of wheels broke the silence. This was unusual in the Corn Market, especially after dark, so unusual that Martin felt a curious sug gestion of palpitation, and even Ben's colour changed to a dark crimson as he looked up.

Nearer the sound came and yet nearer, then it stopped just outside. It was too late for a carriage customer. Martin flying forward decided hastily that the cabman was a fool for not knowing where the private entrance was. He looked rather desperate as he flung the shop door wide open, but he edged himself behind it very deferentially, not to say timidly. A tall young lady in deep mourning entered, lifted a heavy black veil, and looked round with an appealing, bewildered look that restored Martin's presence of mind at once. " Come this way," he said. The words seemed brusque, but his tone was im pressively gentle. Just as he spoke, the glass door at the other end of the shop was opened. Martin led the way ; the girl followed, shrinking, blushing more deeply at every step. Who were all these strange people ?

They were filing in one by one, arranging themselves in a stiff, awkward row. Old Joshua stood at the top in a broad black satin stock that seemed to keep his head as high as he could possibly wish it to be kept ; his grey hair brushed out imposingly, his whole presence and bearing pro claiming his life-long sense of irreproachableness. Julian came next; Martin had slipped a little be hind ; John and Ben Chadwick were staring at her from the corner of the desk. There were only five altogether, but they seemed like fifteen for a moment : and the moment was of quite indefinite length and intensity. So intense it was and so bewildering that when Julian stepped out with courteous presence from the little group she looked up to him in a timid, graceful way that added a new element to his first feeling of surprise.

There had been no time for thought, but " quick as thought " is not the best comparison that could be made ; there are quicker mental processes than thinking. Julian himself could not have told how it was that he came to be so much surprised by that first sweet, deprecating smile. But somehow he felt that a dark, stately, beautiful girl like this cousin of his might have met him coldly and proudly without upsetting his notions of feminine ways in the least. " I am sorry that there was no one at the station to meet you, but we thought you had intended to come by a later train," he said, speaking with a certain shy grace. Mr. Serlcote said nearly the same thing without knowing it. The old man was rubbing his hands quite nervously, and there was a break in his voice that made Ben think he must be even angrier than usual.

Then Julian and his father led the way into the house. There was only a narrow passage to cross. Elizabeth Serlcote, a fair, blue-eyed young woman of thirty, with an amicable smile and an honest, homely expression, was standing by the parlour door, too uncertain to venture farther. Behind her stood Fanny and Ellen, two bright-looking but much sub dued girls of sixteen and fourteen ; small, white haired, pale-eyed Sam, aged ten, was still farther in the background. John, a boy of similar appearance but two years older, had remained in the shop with Ben Chadwick. Tea was still on the table. Mrs. Serlcote rose from her chair behind the teacups, and added her formal greeting to the rest. Julian had quite percep tion enough to feel that the atmosphere to which he was so accustomed himself must strike this gentle looking stranger with a sense of stiffness and coldness.

It rather distressed him and incited him to efforts that his mother and sister noted with a little wonder. Presently Agnes went upstairs with Elizabeth, and Julian remained in the sitting-room until she reap peared. It was pleasant for the younger ones to have him there. He was not one of them, he was above them and far away from them in other things than years, and these good but commonplace little things knew it ; but they also knew that he was always kind to them, always had a smile and a playful word. His condescension was the one pleasant thing in their lives. Perhaps condescension is a hard word ; certainly Julian's brothers and sisters would not have used it. They loved him with that rare young love that believes in return without any question. He was, however, less vivacious than usual this evening.

His agreeable surprise was working in his brain, awakening an amount of curiosity that was not likely to be soon satisfied. If he had thought his cousin's appearance striking and beautiful while she was still in her travelling dress, it was not probable that he would have any reason for changing his opinion when she re-entered the room, divested of her heavy wraps and refreshed by change of toilet. He had seen grace before, he had worshipped beauty, he had been affected by transient glimpses of human goodness, but he had never been touched as he knew that he was touched now. He could not have told you whether she had any special charm. He saw that her figure was slight and graceful, that her dark, bright, undulating hair was coiled at the back of a small, well-shaped head, that the pale oval face was redeemed from colourless ness by crimson lips of fine curve, and rich, lustrous black eyes that were, if anything, a little too large ; but he knew that the power that had arrested him lay in none of these things.

Where did it lie ? He did not ask himself the question as he sauntered out through the kitchen to a large space behind the house that one would hardly know whether to call yard or garden. It was a curious place to find in the middle of a town like Lyme-St. -Mary's, and behind a shop. There was a high brick wall, with a stone coping all round it, but you could only see the bricks here and there between the luxuriant masses of ivy, broad-leaved, shining ivy that glittered in the light of the young moon that was well-nigh overhead. There were narrow flower borders all round, but in place of turf or gravel walks were damp, green paving-stones. At one end an old fountain kept up a perpetual trickling over a few unhappy-looking ferns. You could hardly call it a pleasant place, unless you happened to be in a very pleasant mood ; but it was quaint and silent, and afforded a sense of breathing space that was very refreshing to dwellers in a street.

Julian walked up and down a few times. It could hardly be said that he was thinking — hardly even that he was feeling. Had his experience been less, or his ignorance more, he might have fancied that he had fallen, or was falling, in love, but this idea did not occur to him. Julian Serlcote, weak, pleasure-loving, self-indul gent young man that he was, had yet capacity for being strangely attracted by whatsoever of truth, purity, or spiritual loveliness might come in his way- His knees were not yet so stiffened into brass that worship was impossible. His devotion might be of the vaguest nature, but perhaps a little pity might be mingled with blame for this. He had never come into close contact with virtue much higher than his own. Whatever yearning after better things there might have been in him had been allowed to lie dormant so long that he had ceased to suspect its existence.

He had been stirred to-night, and he knew that he had, and he accepted the knowledge without impatience. The remembrance that he had promised to spend the evening with Whitehouse came upon him rather unpleasantly ; he even felt his face, which was very fair and delicate, grow hot over the thought. For once he almost wished that he had not been quite so intimate with this cynical, clever friend of his. Perhaps it would be possible to withdraw a little. So he dreamed as he walked up and down over the mossy stones. It was a mild evening, the moonlight fell softly, the stars seemed to shine out of the past, out of his younger and purer days. But he was young yet, he reminded himself, barely two-and-twenty ; and if he could never be innocent again — well, he need not stain his soul more deeply than it was stained already.

He was thinking now to good purpose, and his thought presented a graphic Bible-picture, a picture of a man who was rich and a sinner, and who not only repented but made restitution, and this mainly because he was moved thereto by the sight of a Holy Face, by the sound of a Holy Voice ; in a word, by the power of goodness to communicate itself. There had been no rebuke, not even remonstrance; but indeed unlooked-for friendliness, un expected kindliness. This man Zacchæus had repented. Julian knew but very little of repentance. He was in the habit of going to church on a Sunday morning, his father's wish being the main motive for the uncharacteristic proceeding, but he knew that he was not much the better nor much the wiser for going there. He very seldom listened to the sermon, or even pretended to listen.

Now for one moment, though he hardly knew it, there was thirst in his soul, a desire to begin life afresh on new and higher terms. Nevertheless he must keep his engagement at Whitehouse's handsome villa in Buxton Grove. Before he went, he returned to the sitting-room to say " good-night." He should not be late, he said; it was his usual phrase on going out, and for once he meant it. He lingered about in a curious way before going. Agnes was resting in an old crimson-covered easy chair. Her pale, sweet face, her dark, bright hair and eyes, seemed to strike him as something more vividly new and fresh every time he looked at them. He wished she would talk more. Hitherto she had only answered when any one spoke, but her answers were made in such a low, pleasant voice, and with such a winning smile on her lips and in her eyes, that he could not help waiting about in the hope of extracting from her more than response.

But per haps she was tired ; or it might be that her grief was too new and strong for ordinary conversation. His walk that evening was a pleasant one. He recalled things that he had hardly seemed to note at the time. Until he found himself no longer alone he had no thought save thought of his new cousin.

Chapter II

"THE WILD ROSE BLOSSOMS FAIR." Love took up the glass of time and turned it in his glowing hands, Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the cords with might Smote the chord of Self, that trembling passed in music out of sight. Locksley Hall. ND what of this cousin herself? In all this stir of change and new impression, was she quite unstirred ? Was she really as calm and placid as her smile seemed to betoken ? Was the soul within her as unmoved as she herself appeared to be? We all know the story of Elaine ! we have most of us been struck into a certain sadness of mood by its pure, simple truthfulness. The noble knight had not yet stepped with all grace into that rude hall, when the guileless maiden, without one thought of sin, or sorrow, or shame, " Lifted up her eyes And loved him with that love which was her doom.

Read how we will, no thought of improbability strikes us here. The maiden was all unused to love and ways of love. The strange knight, with his mellow voice, his courtly ways, his touch of melancholy, might well seem to her the goodliest man that " even among ladies ate in hall," and noblest ; and, seeing this, it was small wonder that all night long his face should live before her, and that when the morning dawned her heart's secret should blaze itself in the heart's colours on her simple face. No sense of suddenness jars upon us as we read ; none of unmaidenliness. Nor is it probable that any such sense jarred upon the maiden herself. Certainly this Elaine of ours felt none, neither had she any sorrow or fear or dis may of any kind. Her only feeling was a nameless and indefinite one of joy.

Some good thing had happened to her. When she sat alone in her own room at night she sat wonderingly, but altogether peacefully ; even her great sorrow for the dead was subdued and quiet within her. Her grief had never — save for one day, the day of the funeral — been of a wild and uncontrollable nature. The cross of be reavement was heavy. She was but a girl — hardly yet nineteen — inexperienced, and almost alone in the world, for the far-off uncle and cousins were only names to her then, and the sense of helplessness and forlornness strikes very chill to a heart like hers. The fact that her mother had died was not in itself a bitter one. Mrs. Dyne had been very tired, and not sorry when time for rest had come. Death had no sting for the one that was taken, nor any terror for the one that was left.

The pain of separa tion was deep and ceaseless, and it had seemed to Agnes that it never could be any other until that day when there shall be no more pain. But although she had shed tears secretly and sadly, they had not been unsubmissive tears. Before coming to Lyme-St. -Mary's she had done what she could to nerve herself for the first few days of strangeness and dependence — for she was altogether dependent on the bounty of Joshua Serlcote. Some thought she had that if no work were found for her to do in her uncle's house work might be found elsewhere — perhaps in a school. She could not be idle, and she had never had proof ' ' How savoureth of salt The bread of others, and how hard a road The going down and up another's stair." • Now already change had passed " over the spirit of her dream," the grand change that comes but once into any life.

The thought of leaving her uncle's house came to her like a sudden pain, and she made haste to put it away from her. There was no more any feeling of strangeness. The days came and went, each one bringing some touch of hope or joy or promise, each one moving her to a new and glad surprise that life should be so rich, so beautiful, and yet so calm and quiet. Ah ! she would never again dread any change, or any coming event that might throw shadows before. She would remember the tears she had shed in the railway carriage as she came to Lyme-St. -Mary's ; she would never forget how the shower had come before the sunshine. There is something that it is no misuse of lan- 1 Dante. guage to call sacred about the birth of true, pure love in the heart of any good man or woman. No levity of thought or word is possible.

Such coming from any other person strikes with a painful jar. This jarring element was perceptible not seldom during the first few weeks of Agnes Dyne's life at the house in the Corn Market. When or how she had betrayed her secret she did not know, but it was a secret no longer. The ways of the people about her were not as her ways, nor as the ways of her mother had been. Agnes could hardly doubt that Julian's love had grown at least as rapidly as her own. There was reason why doubt was not possible, but he had not yet spoken openly, nor was she anxious that he should. She was already happy — quietly happy in this sense of a new and warm affection ; but that others should see it and jest over it before it was securely hers seemed strange and cruel. Perhaps there was a not altogether unsatisfactory side to the matter.

No one disapproved ; rather it seemed that they were inclined to approve too pre maturely. Elizabeth could hardly remember the time when her father had been in such good temper and spirits; and Martin Brooke, who was quite aware how matters were tending, had much ado to repress himself when Ben Chadwick winked to him knowingly from behind the opposite counter. But let Ben be forgiven ; it was almost his only mode of adequate expression ; and it must be conceded that there was much to be expressed in those days. There was the singular and not-to-be-defined improvement in Julian Serlcote himself; there was the presence of the beautiful stranger, who made such a difference in the house, and whose smile and kind word Ben would have run a mile to win any day ; and more than all this, there was the change in old Joshua.