CHAPTER IX

SIR MATTHEW'S PENITENCE

"FATHER, I'm going to Linwell!"

"Gracious, Matthew, you must be mad! You haven't taken a railway journey for months; and besides, whatever do you want to go there for?"

A look of irritability came across the old man's face as he spoke these words. Somehow of late he had been in the habit of giving up his will occasionally to his sole remaining son.

There was a strength and decision in Matthew which he could not altogether resist, and moreover the baronet realized the fact that he was growing old, and he could not afford to quarrel with Matthew, as he had in past days with his sons Gilbert and Wilfrid. Matthew with his lameness and consequent weakness was very dear to the old man's heart, and it was still his darling wish that Matthew might yet marry, and have a son who should inherit The Towers.

But Matthew thought otherwise, and his heart yearned over his eldest brother's children. Of their mother, he knew but little, as all intercourse had long ago been forbidden, and to please his father, he had given way in this respect, though now he sorely blamed himself for such weakness. Of Mrs. Wilfrid Rose he had no particularly pleasant recollections; in the days of the past she had been an intensely proud woman, and her departure from The Towers was rather a relief than otherwise, He had almost fancied that she scorned his weakness, and Matthew on this point was very sensitive.

Heedless of the cloud on his father's brow, he pursued his subject fearlessly.

"I want to see Hugh's wife and her children," he said.

"Then you'll do it in direct opposition to my will," was the angry retort. "I repeat, you must be mad to think of such a thing."

"It is not such a very long journey, father, after all—I suppose about forty miles—and besides, I shall take Hickson with me," answered Matthew soothingly.

"Well, if you've made up your mind, of course it's no use for me to seek to alter it, only understand I am not going to have a troop of unruly children here."

"I understand, father," said Matthew; "you must just humour this little whim of mine, because I have a feeling that good will come of my visit to Linwell."

"H'm!" was all the baronet retorted. But nevertheless a kindly gleam came into his eyes after Matthew had left the room.

"He's a good lad, is Matthew," he muttered. "I shall miss him sorely."

Prophetic words were they, for no sooner had Matthew departed with his trusted valet, than the blankness of desolation seemed to fall on the old man's heart.

He grew positively nervous and morbid, and the silence oppressed him strangely.

"The house wants children's voices, it is as still as the grave," he thought drearily, as looking out from the window one chill October morning (the day following his son's departure), he noted how the mists were hanging over the meadows. It seemed to him as though they were enwrapping his heart and soul in their chill, white folds.

He sat down to breakfast, but he could not enjoy the meal as usual. His mind kept reverting to the past, and he realized as he sat at his lonely repast, how bitterly hard he had been in the bygone days.

"I must be getting weak or childish," he thought irritably; "pshaw! I'm sick of myself."

During the day, his self-reproach grew deeper and deeper; he thought of Gilbert as a bonny lad, of Gilbert in the Land where nothing may enter to defile, of his widow left desolate, of her helpless bairns. Then his thoughts roamed to Wilfrid, of his lonely grave in a foreign clime, and actually his fierce old eyes grew misty, with mingled pain and regret.

"Pride and anger have been my bane," he said bitterly.

The shadows at length gathered round; it was the longest day he had ever known. He fought against the depression, the sorrow, the regret, against all his nobler feelings, until at length he was vanquished, and at night-fall, in the silence of his room, a cry went up to the gates of Heaven from a broken and contrite spirit:

"God be merciful to me, a sinner."

* * * * *

Matthew Rose had settled himself at the best hotel Linwell could boast, and was anxiously biding his time to make the acquaintance of his young nephews and nieces.

A great sorrow hung over The Gables; the boys with softened tones and noiseless footsteps moved about the house, as though the Death Angel had already entered. There was sorrow too at York House, for Mrs. Wilfrid dearly loved her little niece; the child with her winsome ways had completely vanquished the heart of the worldly-minded woman.

Reg was strangely moody and silent in these days. He would watch for his mother's return after one of her frequent visits to The Gables, with a white and anxious face.

"How is she to-day, mother?" he inquired one morning with intense eagerness, seeing an expression of deep sadness on her face.

"She is conscious, Reg, but I have seen the doctor, and he gives little hope that she will ever be strong and well again, even if her life is spared, which is doubtful." Tears checked further utterance, and she hid her eyes with her handkerchief.

Reg's expression of terrified grief would have frightened her, could she have seen it. A groan of anguish escaped his lips, which caused his mother to look at him with surprise.

"Why, Reg, I didn't know you took any notice of the child," she said.

"Oh, mother!" he cried, utterly broken down. "If she dies, I am her murderer."

"My dear boy, what are you saying?"

"I can't bear it, mother, I can't! The doctor 'must' make her well!" he sobbed.

"Reg," she replied, with unusual reverence in her tones, "Elsie is in God's hands, we must pray for her recovery."

At this moment Monty and Gwennie entered the room, each anxious to know the latest news of their little cousin. Reg paid no heed to their entrance, so overcome was he with the intensity of his emotions.

"I can't pray, mother, God wouldn't hear me."

"My dear child, don't give way so, you really must not," she said at length.

"Oh, you don't understand," he cried hopelessly. "Mother, I cut the rope of the swing partly through, so that Hugh should fall when he did his sums there."

Mrs. Wilfrid understood at length, and she looked terribly grieved and disappointed in her son; but there was, alas! more to follow.

"I must tell you all now, mother," he went on. "I hid that book in Hugh's desk, so that Mr. Deans should think he copied his sums."

Monty's rage burst forth at this last admission.

"And you let me fight Frank because of it, and black his eyes, Reg! I'll never forgive you!" And with these words the lad, with tears of mortification in his eyes, rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Gwennie, whose tender heart was touched by her brother's remorse, drew near him and laid her hand gently on his arm.

"Poor Reg," she said softly, "don't cry! Tell God you're sorry, and p'raps if you ask Him, He'll make Elsie well."

It was at this juncture, that Matthew Rose was ushered into the room. Having heard of the sorrow at The Gables, he refrained from calling there, until he had ascertained from Mrs. Wilfrid the particulars of the accident, which had taken place two or three days previously.

Quickly recovering herself, the lady welcomed her visitor graciously.

Bidding Reg and Gwennie leave the room, she presently gave him an account of the little sufferer's condition, in accents of such tender feeling that Matthew was deeply touched.

Needless to say, she refrained from mentioning the sad part which Reg had played in the accident.