"Dear friend, remember you are not to agitate yourself."

"No, no, I will take care; but I think it does me good to talk a little; the steam must have vent, you know, and I have kept silence for so many years. All these weeks they have kept my boy from me; but they were right," his voice trembling with weakness. "I could not have borne it, neither could Alwyn. Ah, how changed and ill he looked."

"Dear Mr. Gaythorne," returned Olivia, beseechingly, "indeed I must go away now, unless you will consent to rest and let me read to you a little."

"Well, well, do as you like," he replied, closing his eyes, "you all tyrannise over the sick man, but perhaps I am a bit tired," and then Olivia found a book and soon had the satisfaction of seeing him sink into a peaceful sleep. What a grand face it looked with its fine chiselled features and grey peaked beard lying against the dark red cushions. Alwyn would never be such a handsome man as his father, Olivia thought. There was power and intellect on the broad forehead, the thin lips and obstinate chin were hidden under the drooping grey moustache.

Olivia sat by him for some time, and then softly left the room. When Marcus had paid his evening visit he was able to a.s.sure her that her little visit had done his patient no harm.

Mr. Gaythorne had stipulated that he should see his son alone, but Dr.

Luttrell, who was keenly alive to the danger of any strong excitement, had decided to remain in the house during the interview.

Alwyn seemed so unnerved and miserable that it was impossible to do more than give him a word of warning.

"Say as little as possible, Gaythorne," he had observed as they walked across together; "if you take my advice, you will just let bygones be bygones. Don't be more emotional than you can help; remember how ill he has been, very little excites him."

And though Alwyn only nodded in answer to this, Marcus was sure that he understood him; but as he stood by the hall fire caressing Eros he could not help feeling very anxious.

"They are neither of them to be trusted," he thought, and he determined that if the talk were too prolonged he would make some excuse to go in and interrupt them; then he raised his head uneasily and listened as the sound of a man's stifled sobs reached his ear.

It was what he had feared, that Alwyn, weak and unstrung, would break down utterly, and the next moment Dr. Luttrell had opened the door of the library.

Neither of them perceived him as he stood for a moment, watching them with keen professional eyes. Alwyn was kneeling with his face hidden on his father's knees, and Mr. Gaythorne's clasped hands were resting on his head. "My boy, we must both say it," he whispered. "Forgive us our trespa.s.ses as we forgive them"--but Marcus heard no more, he closed the door again softly--the scene was too sacred--not even to his dearer self--his wife--did he ever speak of what he had seen.

The Prodigal had eaten his fill of husks and had returned to his father's roof and his father's love. But in this case the father had also sinned, for surely undue severity and exacting hardness and failure of sympathy are sins to be bitterly repented. No one can gather grapes of thorns, or glean corn from a harvest of tares. And no parent who has first unwisely indulged his son, and then ruled him with a rod of iron, can well claim the glad obedience of a free son.

If Alwyn Gaythorne, trammelled and embittered by his father's tyranny, had dashed recklessly down the path that leads to destruction, his father had first driven him to the verge of frenzy.

Young limbs will not always adjust themselves to the Procrustean bed.

Alwyn, who had inherited his father's strong will, refused to bear the yoke of his despotism.

"I would rather starve, and have room to breathe," he had once said to Greta. "There is no room here."

Another half-hour pa.s.sed before Dr. Luttrell ventured into the room again. He found Mr. Gaythorne leaning back in his chair looking very white and exhausted, but with a peaceful expression on his face. Alwyn had just left his side and was standing by the window with a miniature in his hand.

"Dr. Luttrell," observed the old man feebly, as he gave him some restorative, "my son will stay with me to-night." And then Alwyn flushed as he met the doctor's eyes.

"He wishes it very much, and perhaps it will be better," he said in a low voice. "Will you explain how it is to Mrs. Luttrell? I will see her tomorrow."

"Very well, but there must be no more talking to-night. If you will go into the next room I will see you presently," and Alwyn nodded.

"It is all right, happiness never kills," observed Mr. Gaythorne, "and for the matter of that, grief, either. We must just bide our time."

Then with a flash of strong feeling in the deeply-set eyes, he held out his hand to the young doctor.

"G.o.d bless you, Luttrell. He says you have been like a brother to him.

And as for your wife, he has no words for her goodness. May Heaven repay you both for what you have done for me and my boy."

When Marcus returned home he found Greta sitting with his wife; they both looked at him anxiously.

"Mr. Gaythorne will not part with his son," he informed them. "Mrs.

Crampton is getting a room ready for him, so your labours will be lightened, Livy. She looks tired, does she not, Miss Williams? though she will not confess it. Well, it has all pa.s.sed off well. Mr.

Gaythorne is very much exhausted, but nurse is getting him to bed, and I have told Alwyn to rest. I left Mrs. Crampton fussing round him, so he will be all right," and then Olivia smiled as though she were satisfied.

But more than once that evening she observed to Marcus how quiet the house seemed without their guest.

"Do you know I quite miss him," she said. "I suppose one always get attached to any one for whom one takes trouble. He was the sort of person who was always wanting something; you could never forget him for a moment. I wonder what Martha will say when I tell her he is gone away for good. He gave her plenty to do, but I expect she will be sorry to lose him."

And Olivia was right. Martha burst out crying in quite a lamentable manner.

"Oh, ma'am," she sobbed, "and he was such a kind young gentleman. I am sorry, that I am, that he won't live with us no more. And he painted Miss Baby and the kitten so beautiful too; and he thought such a deal of you and master." But though Olivia smiled at Martha's lugubrious speeches, she could not help being rather sorry herself.

Alwyn was not a perfect character by any means, but somehow he had such nice ways with him,--little caressing ways that go to a woman's heart.

His nature was affectionate and emotional, and all his troubles had not hardened him. Even Marcus had observed more than once lately that "he could not help liking the fellow."

"He was not cut out for a black sheep," he said once, "and the character does not suit him. He has the makings of a good man, only he has let himself drift so terribly. Well, he has pulled himself up in time. He could not have roughed it much longer."

When Olivia returned from her next visit to Galvaston House she went straight to Marcus.

"I just felt I must come and tell you all about it," she said in her enthusiastic manner. "I have had such a happy afternoon. Mr. Alwyn was reading to his father when I went in, and they both looked so comfortable and contented. They made me stay and pour out their coffee for them. At first Mr. Alwyn wanted to leave us; he declared that two was company and three none, and that he was only in the way; but of course I would not hear of that, and I was so glad to see him too."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "They both looked so comfortable and contented."]

"He is his father's right hand already, and does all sorts of things for him. It is so lovely to see them together. When he went out of the room for a moment, Mr. Gaythorne told me that he could scarcely realise sometimes that it was Alwyn."

"He has just Olive's ways," had been Mr. Gaythorne's words. "I could almost fancy it was my little Olive near me. If he were only stronger I should not have a wish ungratified, but I cannot help troubling about his cough. Dr. Luttrell thinks a sea voyage would do him good, but I do not know how I am to bring myself to part with him.

"Oh, by-the-bye, did Alwyn tell you that Greta Williams is coming to see us? She was my Olive's friend, so of course she will be welcome,"

and then, in rather a meaning voice, "I rather think she is Alwyn's friend too."

Olivia made no answer to this remark, but more than once lately she had noticed that Greta and Alwyn seemed very much engrossed with each other, and she was almost sure that Marcus had noticed it too.

"Surely Greta would never consent to marry him," she thought. "With her sad experience she would never venture to link her life with a man whom she could not wholly respect."

Greta's nature was a n.o.ble one. She had lofty aims and a high sense of duty. In spite of her gentleness she had plenty of firmness and backbone.

It was one thing to be sorry for her old friend and playmate, and to show him a sister's tenderness, but quite another to give herself to him, and more than once Olivia had felt uneasy, but delicacy had led her to keep her thoughts to herself.

"I do hope she would not carry self-sacrifice to such a length as that," said the young wife to herself. "Alwyn may be lovable, but he would never satisfy a girl like Greta. A woman ought to be able to look up to her husband, as I look up to my dear Marcus, and not be always trying to drag him up to her level.

"I do want Greta to be married. When her father dies she will be so utterly alone, but I cannot reconcile myself to her marrying Alwyn Gaythorne. For one thing, his health is so unsatisfactory that his wife would never be easy about him. Eyen Marcus owned the other day that he feared he would never be fit for much. But there is no use in trying to manage other people's lives. As Aunt Madge says, it takes all our strength and cleverness to manage our own. 'A meddler is always a muddler;' how well I remember her saying that. We did not make the world, and we cannot rule the world. When I see grown-up folk trying to arrange for other people, I always think of children playing at snap-dragon. One gets one's fingers burnt so badly when we try to pull out our neighbour's plum. No, no; bearing other people's burdens never meant that."

CHAPTER XVIII.

AUNT MADGE GIVES HER OPINION.

"Death is a black camel that kneels at the gate of all."--_Abd-el-Kader_.