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 lat.i.tudes; 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sion that I had no right to suppose could be returned. I will crush it, and n.o.body 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 s...o...b..ack 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 'G.o.d 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 Sat.u.r.day.

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.'

CHAPTER XXII.

THE GOVERNESS.

'Only a curate!' exclaimed Miss Gwynne, as she and Miss Hall were discussing Rowland's presumption the following morning.

'Still, a gentleman,' replied Miss Hall quietly.

'The son of one of my father's tenants; a farmer's son!'

'Still, a gentleman!'

'The ninety-ninth attempt on Glanyravon, and, happily, an unsuccessful one.'