LI B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 V. \ 
 
 dwgB muu.
 
 OWEN G^^'NNE'S CxEEAT WOEK,
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/owengwynnesgreat01noel
 
 OWEN GWYXNES GREAT WORK, 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF *' THE STORY OP WAXDERING MILLIE, 
 '• CONRAD THE SQUIRREL," ETC. 
 
 " And Lancelot said — 
 
 .... Be ye wise 
 To call him shamed who is but overthrown ? 
 Thrown have I been, not once, but many a time, 
 Victor from vanquished issues at the last, 
 And overthrower from being overthrown." 
 
 Gaeeth axd Lysette. 
 
 IX TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 :\I A C M I L L A N AND CO 
 
 1875. 
 
 {All riglits reserved.)
 
 
 
 
 
 A. 
 
 ? 
 
 OAYEX GWYXXES GEEAT WORK. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 The lamp was still biu'iiirig in Owen 
 Gw}-nne's study, though the bells of St. 
 Mary's Abbey had chimed midnight more 
 than an horn' ago, and all the chm'ch clocks 
 in Marlixtowe had followed theii' leader. 
 
 The streets were silent and the town was 
 asleep. Most people had been in then beds 
 for the last two hours at least. But then, 
 most people had no great work on hand. 
 Owen Gwynne had: a work, the ^Titing 
 of which was the object of his life, its 
 H completion the one fail' vision that bright- 
 ened the horizon of his di-eams. A great 
 
 ^^ VOL. I. B 
 
 ?J 
 
 4
 
 Z OWEN GWYNNE S GEE AT WORK. 
 
 work indeed — '^ Gwynne's History of the 
 Fifteenth Century," a voluminous book, full 
 of deep research and of profound scholar- 
 ship, but of such comprehensive design that 
 ordinary mortals heard of it with admiring 
 awe, and the Marlixtowe folk asked each 
 other in whispers whether it could by any 
 possibility be finished in the term of Owen 
 Gwynne's natural life. 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne knew what it was all about, 
 which was more than any one else in 
 the world, the author hardly excepted, 
 professed to do. But Mrs. Gwynne knew. 
 A title page had been completed (and at 
 present it was the only complete thing 
 about the work), setting forth at full length 
 all that the book purported to show, to 
 prove, and to inquire into. This title page 
 was so long and complicated that no one as 
 yet had been able to master it, save and 
 except Mrs. Gwynne. She knew it by 
 heart. The fair copy now lying in the 
 drawer of the study table, with the big 
 lettering and the small, the long lines and
 
 OWEN GWTNXE S GREAT WOEK. 3 
 
 the short, all wiitten out just as they would 
 be printed some day, was made by her own 
 hard and industrious steel pen. 
 
 In a work of this magnitude, Mrs. Gwynne 
 observed, time was everything. A cei-tain 
 portion must be got through each day. 
 Therefore, as there had been some vexatious 
 inteiTuptions during the past day, the lamp 
 still burnt in Owen Gwynne 's study at half- 
 past two in the morning. 
 
 Its rays, just now beginning to gi'ow 
 wavering and uncertain, and to tell of a long 
 vigil and of wasting oil, fell upon a worn, 
 Hned, thoughtful face bent patiently over a 
 big sheet of paper, which was covered with 
 half-marginal, much erased handwiiting. 
 The erasures had gi'own more frequent 
 during the last half-hour as the wiiter be- 
 came increasingly weary. Mrs. Gwynne, 
 standing by to work her willing horse to the 
 utmost, saw that she had got nearly as much 
 out of him as she was likely to get to-night. 
 
 She stood about, folding the scattered 
 papers, collecting the pencils and pens, and
 
 4 OWEN GWYNNE S GEEAT WOEK. 
 
 generally fidgeting in a way that would 
 have been trying to an author of nervous 
 temperament. But Owen Gwynne wrote 
 on unheeding. In truth, she had fidgeted 
 round him now, had rustled his papers, and 
 straightened his books of reference, for five 
 and twenty years, and, marvellous as it may 
 seem, for nearly twenty he had ceased to 
 mind it. 
 
 To do her justice, she did not talk. She 
 only thought, and, at this moment, here is 
 the substance of her reflections. 
 
 "Something must be done — ^it really must. 
 We are in a bad way now, living on capital; 
 and if it does not last until the book comes 
 out, what are we to do, I wonder ? Then it 
 will be all right, of course. But it is a long 
 time to wait, especially now that Owen has 
 remodelled the whole work, and begun again 
 on an improved plan. That is the loss of 
 two good years of work. Not that I regret 
 it, certainly not. It was not to be thought 
 of that he should go on in the old way, 
 when this new scheme will double the w^orth
 
 OTVEN GWYXNE S GEE AT WOEK. 5 
 
 of the book. I don't want him to be 
 wonied with money-cares. Only I don't 
 see my way. One must Hve. The school 
 had to go, of coui'se. I do not regret that 
 for one moment. He never had time for 
 any steady work. Still, something must be 
 done. There is little Maxy, too, we have to 
 think of him, poor boy. Lance must come 
 home. I see no other way. That is the long 
 and short of it. Lance must come home." 
 
 And Mrs. Gwynne picked up a Spanish 
 dictionary just pushed aside by her husband, 
 and closed it with a decisive bang, as if she 
 was shutting up her new resolution safely 
 between its pages. 
 
 ''It is late, isn't it ? " said Mr. Gwynne, 
 looking up at the sound. ''I don't think 
 I can do much more to-night. Look, the 
 lamp is going out." 
 
 " It vnR last a little longer if I wind it up," 
 answered Mrs. Gwynne, vigorously attacking 
 it. '' Don't leave off on account of the 
 lamp, if it breaks in upon your train of 
 thought. Go on, Owen."
 
 b . OWEN GWYNNE S GEE AT WOKE. 
 
 ^'I haven't got a train of thought," said 
 Mr. Gwynne rather disconsolately. ^' Some- 
 times I doubt whether I am getting on at 
 all." 
 
 To light a bed-room candle at the 
 smouldering fire, and to extinguish the 
 lamp with a resolute turn of the screw, was 
 Mrs. Gwynne's practical answer. 
 
 ^^ You will come fresh to the work in the 
 morning," she said, speaking out of the 
 gloom into which she had plunged the 
 study. ^^ Another time we must allow 
 nothing to break in upon your proper 
 hours of study." 
 
 Mr. Gwynne sighed as he took his bed- 
 room candle. 
 
 People seeing him for the first time now, 
 wondered how he had ever been able to 
 reign over such a turbulent realm as that 
 of a boy's school. He was not a bit Hke 
 the conventional type of a schoolmaster, 
 prompt, stern, and a Uttle pompous. 
 
 Owen Gwynne must always have mooned 
 about absently with his hands behind his
 
 OWEN gwtxxe's gee at woek. 
 
 back, and been plunged in learned reveries 
 at the wrong moment. He must always 
 bave found it bard work to make up Ms 
 mind, bave accepted otber people's decisions, 
 have been rided by his ushers, and imposed 
 upon by his boys. 
 
 Nevertheless there was not a more popular 
 school in that part of the country than his 
 had been fifteen years ago. Until, unfortu- 
 nately, Owen Gwynne took to writing. One 
 midsummer hohdays he pubhshed an archae- 
 ological pamphlet, which tm-ned out a de- 
 cided success. Letters and compliments 
 came pouring in upon the author ; Mrs. 
 Gwynne awoke to find herself the wife of 
 a genius. And having once tasted the sweets 
 of authorship it was not easy to go back 
 to the di'udgery of a schoolmaster' life. 
 Before the boys came back Owen Gwynne 
 was deep in historical research, and the 
 materials for a new book were growing 
 under his hands. 
 
 The work got on apace. The school 
 gradually went down. Godfi'ey Deane, long
 
 8 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 the pride of Stone Cross, was taken away. 
 His father, the banker at Marlixt owe, thought 
 he was learning nothing. Other boys fol- 
 lowed. Mrs. Gwynne saw them depart with 
 the stoicism of a Eoman matron. All that 
 was long ago now. The first book came 
 out. It was not brilliantly successful, but 
 just enough so to spur its author on to fresh 
 exertions. It was then that he began his 
 great work. 
 
 Two or three years passed. There were 
 fewer ushers at Stone Cross, many fewer 
 boys. Owen Gwynne was more absent than 
 ever, and a great pile of crabbed-looking 
 manuscript lay hoarded in the drawers of 
 his study table. 
 
 Lancelot, his eldest son, was nearly grown 
 up by this time, and had gone to study art 
 at Eome. All his father's patience and 
 perseverance, and much of his mother's 
 tireless ambition had descended to him. 
 He would have been a son to be proud of 
 in most families, but neither Owen Gwynne 
 nor his wife cared much about art.
 
 OWEN GWYNXE S GREAT WOEK. 9 
 
 They had another son. Xo one would 
 ever he prond of ]\Iaxy, or amhitious for him ; 
 but those who care for a steadfast childish 
 courage, for a brave bright spirit that pain 
 and helplessness tried in vain to quench, for 
 a high spiiit and a sunny temper, would have 
 been very fond of ]\Iaxy. Poor httle boy, 
 he was always at home. Every morning they 
 put him on a couch near the window, and he 
 lay there all day watching the boys in the 
 playground with bright ungrudging interest. 
 
 They told him he would play, too, some 
 day, and he beheved it with a child's perfect 
 faith, sometimes looking forward to the 
 feats he would perform when that good time 
 came, oftener absorbed in admii^ation for 
 Godfrey Deane, or some other stalwai-t 
 young hero of the playground. 
 
 No one knows for cei-tain whether Mr. 
 Gwynne gave up the school at last, or 
 whether the school gave him up. Mrs. 
 Gwynne stoutly asserted the former : the 
 world at large was rather of an opposite 
 opinion.
 
 10 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 
 
 However that may be, there came a cer- 
 tain bleak, blustering December day on 
 which Owen Gwynne stood for the last time 
 in the old schoolroom that had so long 
 called him master. It was cold, empty, and 
 silent. The boys had gone home for the 
 holidays a week ago, and when the school 
 should re-open it would be under other 
 auspices than his. 
 
 The wind came whistling through the 
 windows, and swept round the big room. 
 The long tables were bare — the ink-stained 
 desks empty. Silence and dreariness had 
 marked the place for their own. Something 
 that was not either relief or regret passed 
 through Owen Gwynne's mind as he stood 
 for a moment in his accustomed place and 
 looked back on the long course of years that 
 closed to-day. Memories came thronging 
 over him. So it was all really over. Just 
 then it did not seem quite such unmixed 
 pleasure to him as it was in general, to 
 know that he was for ever quit of an unruly 
 set of boys, who worried him and took up
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WOEK. 11 
 
 all his time. After aU, there had been some 
 fine feUows among them. He used to be 
 fond of some of them long ago : Godfrey 
 Deane, for instance, and that poor young 
 Grey who died. How fall the room used to 
 be once, and how noisy ! 
 
 But the chill air made him shiver; and 
 Mrs. Gwynne stood at the door caUing to 
 him not to keep the fly waiting. He went 
 slowly down the room again, and passed 
 out of the door with something of a sigh. 
 His wife tui-ned the key after him with a 
 harsh, grating sound, that echoed through 
 the dismantled house. So Owen Gwynne 
 departed to MarHxtowe ; and when the 
 school re-opened, after Chiistmas, the 
 Kev. Stephen Grimston reigned in his 
 stead. 
 
 Since then the Gwynnes had Hved in the 
 Abbey Eoad. The doctor still told Maxy 
 that he would be a strong feUow some day. 
 Meanwhile he looked out of his window on a 
 square bit of lawn, instead of on the merry 
 playground, and that was nearly all the
 
 12 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 difference that the change of home made 
 to him. 
 
 Such as the house was here is its picture. 
 The Ahhey Eoad ran through the outskirts 
 of Marhxtowe — a wide, smooth road, mth 
 a raised walk on each side, bordered by 
 houses standing in their own gardens. Mr. 
 Gwynne's was No. 4. It was an old- 
 fashioned red brick house, faced with stone. 
 Inside there was a matted stone hall with 
 panelled waUs, and an old staircase that 
 creaked and groaned whenever it was 
 walked upon, and often when it was not ; 
 square small rooms with low ceihngs ; one 
 muUioned window looking into the road, 
 where Maxy's couch was placed — only one, 
 however ; even that seemed out of character 
 in a house so severely simple, unadorned, 
 and square. 
 
 It stood sideways to the road. A door in 
 the garden wall opened on to the lawn — 
 square, too, — and a straight strip of gravel 
 walk led up to the doorstep. 
 
 The whole place had about it an atmo-
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 13 
 
 sphere of aiithorsliip. A scholastic silence 
 pervaded the rooms, where there were always 
 extracts being copied, translations to be 
 made, or quotations hunted up. It was 
 profoundly dull. No one laughed or whistled 
 or slammed the doors. The robins chirped 
 in the holly-bush on the lawn, and some 
 house-martins built a nest underneath the 
 eaves, where they twittered cheerily enough; 
 but that could not be helped. The flower 
 borders under the wall had seen better 
 days. Laiu'els, hlac bushes, hoUyhocks, and 
 mignonette flourished there still. Every 
 now and then the lawn was mown. Mrs. 
 Gwynne Uked everything to be scnipulously 
 neat, and had the grass kept short and 
 smooth, just as she saw that Mr. Gwynne's 
 hair was cut, and the kitchen chimney 
 swept when necessary. 
 
 And the gardener who came to mow the 
 lawn, having his heart in his profession, 
 could not resist pruning the old rose trees, 
 and putting in a few sweet-peas while he 
 was about it. But they bloomed unheeded.
 
 14 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 No hand gathered them to brighten the 
 rooms ; no one sanntered across the grass 
 to count the rose-bnds, and tie up the 
 stragghng sprays of honeysuckle. 
 
 Marhxtowe tradition told of a large family 
 who had lived in the house half a century 
 ago, when the Abbey Koad ran through the 
 country, and you looked across green mea- 
 dows towards the towers of St. Mary's. A 
 merry group of children used to romp on 
 the lawn, and run in and out across the 
 quiet hall. Maidens in chintz sacques and 
 high- heeled shoes played an old harpsi- 
 chord near the window where Maxy's couch 
 stood now, or flitted over the grass to cut 
 the faded roses for pot-pourri. Flowers 
 smiled from every corner of the garden, and 
 from every window in the house. Voices 
 sang and laughed, and called each other all 
 day long. In those days young lovers had 
 come to sit with the maidens in the old 
 arbour, long since fallen into decay, and all 
 went merrily. 
 
 Now there only remained the silent house
 
 OWEN gwyxne's geeat vroEK. 15 
 
 and the untended garden, and from the 
 window looked out one pale little sunflower 
 —poor Maxy. 
 
 On the morning after ]\Irs. Gwynne had 
 decided that her son Lance must be recalled 
 from Eome, Owen GA^ynne was pacing 
 slowly, with his hands behind his back, up 
 and down the garden path that led fr'om the 
 green door to the boundary wall. 
 
 It was one of those early spring days, 
 perfect in beauty, more perfect still in pro- 
 mise, when to many people existence is in 
 itseK a pleasure, and each breath an uncon- 
 scious thanksgiving. 
 
 It is almost impossible to remain quietly 
 in the house on such a morning, for the 
 afr seems laden with messages fr'om the 
 awakened spring, and is frill of a soft joy 
 and rustle, as if it were eager to tell the 
 glad tidings that it has come fr'om blowing 
 over violet beds, and ruffling the edges of 
 opening prmaroses. 
 
 But Owen Gwyime neither saw nor felt
 
 16 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 anything of this. A certain number of 
 turns along his quarter-deck walk he must 
 take every day, for the good of his health ; 
 but his heart was in his hook, and as he 
 walked he was mentally rounding the 
 period of one of those sonorous sentences 
 in which his soul delighted. 
 
 He would have talked learnedly enough 
 about the fifteenth century, about the kings 
 who reigned, the statesmen who schemed, 
 and the soldiers who fought four hundred 
 years ago, but his eyes were holden that he 
 should not see the glories of the opening 
 year. And yet those heroes he was full of, 
 those princes and courtiers, had long lain 
 ^'low in the dust of haK-forgotten kings," 
 while here was the spring back again once 
 more, and radiant in new life and hope. 
 
 Poor Owen Gw3rQne ! he did not know 
 how the bees were humming in many a 
 blossoming orchard, or why it was that the 
 rooks cawed so noisily from the elms in the 
 Abbey meadows. How should he ? Why, 
 he had no thought even of the sweet little 
 spring secrets close at home.
 
 -^ 
 
 OWEN G^VT^'XE'S GEE AT WOEK. 17 
 
 He never guessed tliat a paii* of black- 
 bii'ds Tvere gloriously happy in the big laui'el 
 bush that he bnished against in his walk, 
 that their nest was full of eggs, and theii' 
 little hearts of joy. He did not know that 
 the apricots on the sunny walls were ^'set," 
 and that there was fair}^ fruit — tiny, won- 
 drous green balls — folded up daintily in the 
 pinky bloom. Poor Owen Gwynne ! 
 
 Maxy's couch was di'awn up as near as 
 possible to the open window, where the soft 
 air could blow in upon him. Xow and then 
 he raised himself, and stretched out his 
 hand into the sunshine. He looked out 
 and saw the showers of blossom which the 
 lazy wind shook down fi'om the fiaiit-trees ; 
 saw birds go skimming over the garden 
 wall, out somewhere into the wide world 
 beyond ; saw, fi'amed by the window, a bit of 
 blue sky, and white clouds float across it. 
 
 Presently Maxy saw his mother go out 
 to join her husband, and say something to 
 him that he heard with an impatient 
 gesture. He stood still and pointed towards 
 
 YOL. I. C
 
 18 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 the house, but she laid her hand on his 
 arm, and drew him on again. Maxy, sur- 
 veying them from the window, and shooting 
 at them with a pea-shooter when ever their 
 backs were turned, idly wondered what they 
 could be talking about. 
 
 In truth, Mr. Gwynne was being brought 
 back abruptly and unwiUingly to the present 
 time. His wife wished him to sanction her 
 sending for Lance from Eome. Her own 
 mind was made up, but still, for the form of 
 the thing, it was better to lay before him 
 the necessities of the case. Unused to 
 be troubled with household concerns, Mr. 
 Gwynne listened, with half-startled, half- 
 injured attention, to her lucid statement 
 of ways and means. It was certainly dis- 
 tressing that she should find it so difficult to 
 make the two ends meet, but surely that 
 was her affair, not his. Furthermore, to 
 Mrs. Gwynne's inexpressible surprise, her 
 husband did not like her plan of summoning 
 Lance to help them. He was getting on 
 very well at Eome, and ought by no means 
 to be disturbed.
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 19 
 
 Then what was to be clone ? Mrs. 
 Gwynne went over the ground again with 
 unruffled patience. 
 
 *' Poor Lance," said his father. '^ I think 
 it seems hard on him. I am sui'e he would 
 not hke it. Can you think of no other plan, 
 my dear? " 
 
 *'None that would be of any real use. 
 I know that Mr. Deane is willing to take 
 Lance into the bank immediately ; and he 
 pays his clerks very liberally. It is an 
 opening that we shall not meet with easily 
 again." 
 
 *^ Perhaps not; but still — no, I don't 
 think it wiU do." 
 
 '^What do you propose, then?" asked 
 Mrs. Gwynne. 
 
 ^'I?" answered her husband, hmTiedly. 
 *^ Oh, I propose nothing, of course not." 
 
 '^ Will you take pupils again ? " 
 
 " My dear, I don't know what you are 
 thinking of. Take pupils ! It is quite out 
 of the question. How can you propose 
 such a thing ? A sheer waste of time. 
 You must know^ that it is impossible."
 
 20 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 ^^ I know it, therefore I see the necessity 
 of sending for Lance home." 
 
 *^ Well, I can't tell. It is very distressing. 
 Poor Lance, he seemed quite full of his 
 painting when he last wrote. I am afraid 
 it would he a sad wrench to him." 
 
 *^ It is a sacrifice, no douht, and I am 
 sorry for him, poor boy. But I think we 
 ought to ask it of him. It is hard that you 
 should have no son to help you, and surely 
 a change would come more easily to Lance 
 than to you." 
 
 *^ Of course, yes, of course. Still he has 
 chosen his profession, and we gave our 
 consent at the time." 
 
 ^^ I never consented willingly," said Mrs. 
 Gwynne. ^' You must do me the justice to 
 allow that." And her tone expressed, ^'Be- 
 hold the consequences of disregarding me," 
 
 ^'Ah, true. But he was tremendously 
 set upon it. They said at the time, if I 
 remember right, that he would never settle 
 to anything else. It is that which makes 
 me doubtful now."
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 21 
 
 ^^ Have you considered tlie alternatiye? 
 You would have to give your book up — for 
 a time, at all events ; to give it up now, 
 wlien it so far on, when you have got it all 
 clear before you." 
 
 Mr. Gwynne was but mortal. The first 
 mention of his book recalled his thoughts 
 into their accustomed groove. " Ah, very 
 true, perfectly true. I had not taken that 
 into consideration. It would be a pity 
 certainly to stop now, just as I have land in 
 sight, as one may say — a cruel pity. Eh, 
 my dear?" 
 
 ^'It is not to be thought of for a 
 moment." 
 
 " xlnd, after all, poor Lance is young — a 
 mere boy. Changes don't fall heavily at 
 his age. All the same 1 do wish we could 
 struggle on without distm'bing him." 
 
 " So do I, very sincerely. Still, Owen, 
 you must remember that you do not work 
 only for yom' own sake." 
 
 ^' Xo, indeed; I feel that. It is hard work 
 — uphin work very often ; but, for all yoiu*
 
 22 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 sakes, I must go on. I wonder how soon I 
 can get it done. Can I go in now ? I have 
 a great deal to do this morning, and surely 
 I have walked for half an hoar." 
 
 '^ Then I am to write to Lance to-day ? " 
 said Mrs. Gwynne, following him into the 
 study. 
 
 ^' Eh ? Yes, write. I cannot find a sheet 
 of paper on which I noted some very im- 
 portant Is this it? Ah, yes, here it 
 
 is. I was afraid that I had mislaid it. 
 Write hy all means, my dear, if you Hke." 
 And Owen Gwynne relapsed into the 15th 
 century. 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne had conquered, but she 
 went back into the parlour undated by her 
 victory, and told Maxy she was ready for 
 his lessons. 
 
 Maxy cordially hated them. Nature had 
 intended him for a pickle, and as far as in 
 him lay he fulfilled his vocation. True, his 
 sphere was limited; but he could draw 
 caricatures in his books, and tear pages out 
 of his Latin grammar. Patient and stiff,
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at tvoek. 23 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne daily took np her position by 
 his couch, and the day's work was got 
 through somehow. It did not affect Mrs. 
 Gwynne that her scholar stretched himself 
 and yawned, looked out of the window 
 instead of listening, and seldom recollected 
 ten words of what he had been reading. 
 She had done her duty by him. One 
 o'clock struck. Maxy swallowed his last 
 yawn, and closed his book. His mother 
 folded up her work, put down ^^ careless " 
 or ^'idle" in Maxy's mark-book, and that 
 business was over for the day. 
 
 Then the letter to Lance was written, and 
 despatched to Eome by the afternoon's post. 
 
 It reached Lance Gwynne on a sunny 
 evening, w^hen he and a party of brother 
 artists entered Kome by the Porta Portese 
 after a sketching expedition to Ostia. They 
 got their letters as they passed the Post 
 Office. Lance read his while he slowly 
 mounted the Spanish steps, read it twice 
 through with a puzzled expression and then,
 
 24 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 putting it in his pocket, leant absently over 
 the wall, and stared at the sunht city with- 
 out seeing it. 
 
 The Piazza di Spagna below was full of 
 shadows and people and voices. There 
 were sturdy beggars basking in the low sun- 
 shine, and contadino models gossiping in 
 picturesque groups round the boat-shaped 
 basin of the fountain. The air was scented 
 with almond blossom and orange-flower, 
 and huge baskets of camellias and violets 
 stood at the corners of the streets. 
 
 Here and there the church bells were 
 beginning to ring for the Ave Maria, and 
 now the convent church of the Trinita de' 
 Monti close at hand joined in with its deep 
 monotonous bells. 
 
 Presently another English artist, a few 
 years older than himself, came briskly up 
 the steps and put his hand on Lance's 
 shoulder. 
 
 '^ Got your letters. Lance ? '' 
 
 '^ Why, yes. I got more than I bargained 
 for."
 
 OWEN g^tnxe's geeat woek. 25 
 
 ^^ As how?" 
 
 ^^ I got a summons home." 
 
 ''Eh? You can't go. ^Miat do they 
 ■want you for ? " 
 
 " That's more than my mother tells me. 
 Bead this." 
 
 '' Short and sweet," said Austin Hope, 
 returning the letter. " There's nothing 
 wrong evidently. Just say you haven't 
 time to go." 
 
 " I vish I could,' but I shall have to make 
 time." 
 
 "You oughtn't." 
 
 '' I think there's a boat fi'om Civita 
 Yecchia to-mon-ow," said Lance. "I can 
 catch the diligence to-night." 
 
 Austin Hope shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " You'll never make much of an aitist. 
 Lance." 
 
 " Why, what do you want me to do ? " 
 
 '' Stay quiet and do your work. I am 
 thankful that there is nobody to send for 
 me home for a httle talk upon family 
 affahs."
 
 26 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 
 
 ^^ You'd have to go if there were." 
 
 " Not I. They will keep you dawdling 
 there all the summer." 
 
 ^^ I wish I knew what they want." And 
 Lance studied the letter again, but Mrs. 
 Gwynne had purposely made it as vague as 
 it was peremptory. 
 
 *^Well, I must go and get ready. You 
 will see me off, I suppose ? " 
 
 ^' Of course, if you will go ; but I think 
 it's a mistake." 
 
 Lance had much to do, and many fare- 
 wells to exchange during the next hour or 
 two. The news of his departure spread 
 quickly, and his room was crowded by his 
 artist friends. 
 
 '^ Going to England ! " exclaimed one of 
 them, a young Englishman, Nigel Euthven 
 by name, who was constantly with Lance 
 and Austin Hope, and was very unlike 
 either of them. " Going to England to- 
 night! I have a great mind to go with you?" 
 
 ^^ You, Nigel ! What on earth should you 
 go to England for ? "
 
 OWEN gwyxne's gee at woek. 27 
 
 ^' Oh, I don't know. For a change. One 
 can't always stay in one place." 
 
 *' I thought you were hard at work on 
 a picture ? " 
 
 *^ Oh, so I am, but I am not siu'e about 
 finishing it. I have thought of another 
 subject that I like better. But you are 
 a lucky fellow, Lance, to have to go." 
 
 '^ I wish you could go instead of me, then, 
 with all my heart," said Lance. '^ I would 
 give a good deal to stay where I am, just 
 now." 
 
 ^^ Well, I never can see any one packing 
 up without wanting to start too. I declare 
 I don't see why I should not go with you 
 to-night." 
 
 " How disgusted Hope would be with you ! 
 Here he has been pitching into me for what 
 I can't help, and if you were to go without 
 any necessity " 
 
 "Oh, Austin's an enthusiast: he is mad 
 about painting. Here he comes as black as 
 thunder. I say, xlustin, I want yom' advice : 
 shall I go home ^ith Lance for a month or 
 so?"
 
 28 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 '' I shall be back long before that/' said 
 Lance, closing his portmanteau. 
 
 '' WeU, Austin, shall I ? "What say you ? " 
 
 ^^ Please yourself," answered Austin Hope 
 grimly. "It's all one to me." 
 
 ''Beneath contempt," said Nigel, laugh- 
 ing. " I dare say you are right." 
 
 ''Well, are you coming?" inquired 
 Lance. 
 
 "No, I suppose not. I dare say I had 
 better stay here after all, and grind on at 
 the old work." 
 
 "Come along. Lance, will you?" inter- 
 posed Austin Hope impatiently. "You've 
 hah a dozen things to do before you start." 
 
 The two friends walked down to the 
 dihgence office together. Austin Hope did 
 not try again to alter Lance's resolution, 
 but as they stood waiting in the dark court- 
 yard he began abruptly : — 
 
 " I say. Lance, you will stick to painting, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 Lance looked rather surprised, but he 
 answered briefly, " Of course I shall."
 
 OWEN GWTNNE's gee at WORE. 29 
 
 *' Don't stay in England longer than you 
 can help, and don't take to anything else 
 instead." 
 
 ^asithkely?" 
 
 "Well, no, I suj^pose not." 
 
 " Then why on earth do yon keep on ask- 
 ing ? what is all this about ? " said Lance, 
 waxing impatient. 
 
 "Upon my word I don't know. I don't 
 like your going, that's all. I have not got 
 many friends," said Austin in a less matter- 
 of-fact tone than usual, "and I should he 
 sorry to lose you. I had rather the whole 
 lot went than you. Lance." 
 
 " Thanks, I'm not thinking of going in 
 the sense of giving up my profession ; you 
 may he sure of that. I can't think why you 
 make so much of my having to go home for 
 a few days on business." 
 
 "Well, well, only stick to the old shop." 
 
 " Am I more likely to leave it than you 
 are yourself? " 
 
 " Why yes, I think you are. You told me 
 your people did not half fancy your taking
 
 30 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 to painting. Now, I haven't got any well- 
 to-do relations to bother me." 
 
 Lance's attention had wandered to his 
 portmanteau, which was just then mounting 
 on to the top of a loosely piled pyramid of 
 luggage on the roof of the diligence, but he 
 turned round with a laugh at Austin's last 
 words. 
 
 ^^ Well-to-do relations ! Why, Austin, my 
 father is a poorer man than you are, if 
 possible." 
 
 ^' Not easy to be that," said Austin Hope 
 placidly. 
 
 *^ Still, authorship doesn't seem to be 
 a thriving trade," continued Lance. '^ You 
 needn't distress yourself on that score." 
 
 '^I suppose you don't believe in presenti- 
 ments ? " asked Austin, rather as if he was 
 ashamed of himself. 
 
 **No, I don't," responded Lance; ''and 
 I should be sorry to think you did. How 
 slow those fellows are ! We shan't get off 
 to-night. You won't forget my messages, 
 old fellow."
 
 OWEN gwyxne's geeat woek. 31 
 
 Meantime the diligence had received its 
 load of passengers, and its overload of 
 luggage, and was ready to depart. 
 
 The hghts danced about. The confusion 
 of excited voices gi'ew louder, and Lance's 
 quietly spoken farewell was drowned in the 
 chorus of vehement ItaHan talk that was 
 going on all round. 
 
 "I will see after your things," said Austin 
 Hope. ^^ Write and tell me when you will 
 be back." 
 
 ^'All right," said Lance, mounting into 
 the banquette. " Grood-bye." 
 
 The whip cracked, the bells on the horses' 
 harness began to jingle, theu' hoofs clattered 
 noisily on the uneven pavement. 
 
 ^^ Buon viaggio !'' shouted those who re- 
 mained behind, as the Civita Yecchia dili- 
 gence went lumbering out of the courtyard, 
 and drove off through the dark streets 
 towards the starht Campagna. 
 
 Austin Hope watched it out of sight, gave 
 a half sigh, lit his pipe, and walked home, 
 thinking of the picture he was painting.
 
 32 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 From Kome to Marlixtowe. The two 
 places both hterally and figuratively are 
 very far apart. Nevertheless, a few days 
 and nights of hard travelling brought Lance 
 Gwynne to his journey's end. He arrived 
 between the dark and the dayhght of an 
 April evening, when the shops were being 
 closed, and the lamps lighted in the Marlix- 
 towe High Street. 
 
 At this hour the Abbey Eoad was almost 
 deserted. The walls, overhung by trees 
 and shrubs, looked like the long black hues 
 of a fortification, and the white road glim- 
 mered between them. No one was stirring, 
 except a belated baker's boy, with a big
 
 OWEN gwtnne's gee at tvokk. 33 
 
 basket and a shrill whistle, whom Lance 
 followed, marching miconsciously along to 
 the tune of '' Eosahe the Frame Flower." 
 
 Some places strike one ^vith a cmions 
 sense of michangeableness. Lance tui'ned 
 in at the green garden door with a convic- 
 tion that when he last stood there, it was 
 in the same haK hght, with the same cold 
 spring wind blowing in his face, and with 
 the steps and whistle of that identical 
 baker's boy receding along the road. 
 
 He went in through the garden, entered 
 the house, and pushed open the parlour 
 door. It was in total darkness except 
 where two faint squares of Hght showed 
 the uncurtained windows. 
 
 ^' No one here ? " asked Lance, pausing at 
 the door. 
 
 " I'm here ; no one else," answered a 
 smaU bright voice from the darkness. 
 '' Can that be Lance ? " 
 
 ''Yes; and you are Maxy, I suppose. 
 "Where are you ? " 
 
 '' I am here. Take care : you wih tumble 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 over the table. I am so glad to see you, 
 Lance ! " 
 
 ^^ But where is everybody? Where is 
 my mother? and what are you doing in 
 the dark?" 
 
 ** They forgot me, I suppose," said Maxy, 
 laughing. ^' They do sometimes. If you 
 could remember the way to the mantel- 
 piece, there are some matches there, I 
 know. I wish I had a Hght." 
 
 ^! Can't you come and help me ? " 
 
 *^ Oh dear no ! I wish I could. I could 
 make Jane hear if I shouted very loud ; 
 but then that would disturb father." 
 
 '^ Is he iU?" asked Lance, groping his 
 way towards the fireplace. " What's the 
 matter ? Is anything going on ? " 
 
 *' * Gwynne's History of the Fifteenth 
 Century,' " said Maxy in a demure tone. 
 *^It's always going on. Look out, Lance. 
 
 * Froissart ' is on the mantelpiece, and 
 
 * Eobertson's History ' is behind with the 
 matches." 
 
 "But can't I see anybody? Where's 
 my mother ? "
 
 OWEN gwtnne's gee at woek. 35 
 
 '' In the study. She came here a little 
 while ago, and said that some new books 
 had come, and father had got a fresh start, 
 so tea was put off," said Maxy, with a small 
 sigh. ''That's right, Lance; you've found 
 them." 
 
 Lance stmck a light, and turned to look 
 for the owner of the bright voice and cheery 
 laugh. In a far corner of the room, on a 
 veiy big old-fashioned sofa, he saw a small 
 childish figure sitting up, with a radiant 
 look of welcome in a pair of dark eyes, and 
 a morsel of a weak white hand eagerly 
 extended. 
 
 " Maxy, my boy, are you always here ? " 
 
 '' Oh yes, always. We are awfuUy glad 
 you have come, Lance. We did not think 
 you could be here so soon. I wish tea was 
 ready. I shouldn't think mother would 
 mind father's being distm'bed if she knew 
 you were here." 
 
 The last words were spoken doubtfully. 
 
 '' But, Maxy, can't you walk at aU ? " 
 
 " I ! oh, no ; not a bit. But I'm veiy
 
 36 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 well off except wlien they forget me some- 
 times. I say, Lance, you don't know how 
 glad we are to see yon/' And the eager voice 
 and sparkling little face seemed striving to 
 make up for all that was wanting in Lance's 
 welcome home. ^'Mother thought you could 
 not possibly be here before to-morrow." 
 
 '^I came over by the night boat," said 
 Lance. ^' Maxy, what made my mother 
 send for me in such a hurry?" 
 
 ^* I don't know. Why, how hungry you 
 must be ! " And hospitality getting the 
 better of Maxy's prudence, he began shout- 
 ing ^' Hallo ! Jane, Jane," at the top of his 
 voice. 
 
 The study door was opened wide enough 
 to allow a prolonged '^ Hush" to be heard, 
 and then a grave remonstrating voice said, 
 ^^ Maxy, Maxy, thoughtlessness." 
 
 ^' No, mother ; here's Lance." 
 
 '' Lance ! " 
 
 And Lance met his mother in the hall. 
 
 The meeting was not a demonstrative 
 one, for the Gwynnes, always excepting
 
 OWEN GWYNXE's great WORK. 37 
 
 Maxy, were not demonstrative people. 
 Nevertheless they were very glad to see 
 one another, though the fii'st sight of her 
 son was rather a shock to Mrs. Gwynne. 
 She had not expected him to have altered 
 so much. This was not the Lance she 
 had pai^ted with, the handsome, quiet boy 
 she used to order about. The present 
 Lance was decidedly a man, and looked 
 as if he might have a tolerably strong will 
 of his own. 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne studied his face as he sat 
 opposite to her, and the longer she looked 
 the more determined she thought it. His 
 firmly cut mouth, and manner of quiet self- 
 reliance, rather dismayed his mother. 
 
 She remembered that dutiful though he 
 had always been, when it came to choosing 
 his profession. Lance had taken and kept 
 his own way in spite of her opposition. 
 
 "But then," thought Mrs. Gwymie, "I 
 
 had no very strong motive for resisting at 
 that time. I let myself be over persuaded; 
 
 it will be different now." Still the task she
 
 38 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 had set herself did not look quite so easy as 
 she had expected. Lance was so entirely 
 unsuspicious too, and evidently his whole 
 heart was in his work. " I will put off 
 speaking to him as long as I can," she 
 thought; '^it will give him time to fall 
 hack into his old position." 
 
 ^' No, Lance, it is too late to talk business 
 this evening," she said, when he followed 
 her into her room at night. 
 
 ^' I want to get my orders as soon as pos- 
 sible," said Lance, as he held her hand. 
 ^' I have really so Httle time to spare just 
 now." 
 
 *'Well, to-morrow," she answered un- 
 easily. '^ Not now, good-night." 
 
 u There's nothing wrong, mother, is 
 there?" he said, turning to leave her. 
 
 '^ No, no ; do go to bed. Lance, and get 
 a good sleep. You look tired." 
 
 Lance received a warning that night 
 before he went to bed, which might have 
 told him that something was going to be 
 required of him, only he was too sleepy to 
 attend to it.
 
 OWEN gwtnne's gee at woek. 39 
 
 Jane, once his nm'se, from time imme- 
 morial a member of the Gwynne household 
 — grim, philosophical, faithful-hearted old 
 Jane, welcomed him with a deep sigh and 
 a shake of the head that was intended to 
 speak volumes. ^^ So you really have come 
 home. Ah well ! poor boy." 
 
 *^ Why, Jane, haven't you anything pie a- 
 santer to say to me than that ? " asked 
 Lance cheerily, as he took her by both hands. 
 
 '* Least said soonest mended, Mr. Lance," 
 responded Jane. 
 
 ^*Why, what's the matter? Has any- 
 thing gone wi'ong?" he asked again, with 
 a httle touch of impatience. ^' You are all 
 so frightfully mysterious. I can't get any 
 one to tell me what made my mother send 
 for me in such haste." 
 
 '^More haste worse speed, sometimes," 
 said Jane. ^'You'll hear soon enough what 
 you are wanted for, Mr. Lance. You go to 
 bed; but mind you look before you leap, my 
 dear, that's all." 
 
 Jane's was emphatically '^proverbial phi-
 
 40 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 losophy." She derived real comfort from 
 her store of wise saws and old wives' sayings, 
 and had a proverb ready for every emergency. 
 Years ago, when Owen Gwynne's marriage 
 was announced, Jane's only comment was, 
 that " men would be men." After the new 
 wife had come home, she added quietly, 
 *'What can't be cured must be endured." 
 For Jane knew her mistress well. She 
 remembered her when she was Joan Prit- 
 chard, the daughter of a spendthrift father, 
 a small squire, owning a tumble- down wild 
 place in the Welsh mountains. Joan had 
 a sister, Patience, and one brother. The 
 old squire's jovial companions used to stand 
 rather in awe of the two dark quiet girls, 
 with their distant manners and rare smiles. 
 They were alike — both good-looking, both 
 silent, both unpopular. Joan Pritchard was 
 much given to dreaming in those days, and 
 in her dreams something alw^ays happened 
 that made her great. But a crash and 
 downfall came instead. Her father was 
 completely ruined, and Joan and Patience
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 41 
 
 lost tlieir home. Joan did not become 
 great ; she married Owen Gwynne, the 
 schoohnaster of Stone Cross. 
 
 She had not been a bad mistress to Jane. 
 In their queer way the two women were 
 attached to one another, though each " saw 
 the other's faults " with great clearness. 
 Time also had forged links which bound 
 Jane more firmly than ever to the G^-^mnes. 
 
 When a fall down a flight of stone steps 
 changed Maxy h'om the finest baby that 
 ever was seen into a life-long inyahd, Jane 
 took him in his helplessness and suffering 
 home to her rough tender heart. In the 
 words of one of her beloved proverbs, 
 " God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." 
 Who could tell the blessing that Jane had 
 been to Maxy ? 
 
 She adored him, and he knew it, by some 
 subtle instinct, but certainly by no volun- 
 tary sign of affection she had ever given 
 him. First Lance, then Maxy, grew up in 
 the bracing atmosphere of her rigorous 
 disapproval. What she secretly thought
 
 42 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 of them was anotlier matter, and was no 
 one's business but her own. 
 
 '^ Oh, Jane," said Maxy, sitting up in bed 
 on the evening of Lance's return, "isn't 
 it joUy, Lance having come home ? " 
 
 Jane jerked up her head in a way that 
 betokened general disapprobation, and said 
 she never shouted until she was out of the 
 wood. 
 
 " Come, old Jane, you know you're as 
 pleased as Punch," said Maxy. ''I don't 
 know why you're so glum." 
 
 "Lookers-on see most of the game," 
 said Jane. 
 
 " Well, but isn't he handsome ? " 
 
 " Handsome is as handsome does. Master 
 Maxy," said Jane, walking off with the 
 candle. 
 
 The next day. Lance's first at home, was 
 one of ceaseless rain. It was falling when 
 he came down to breakfast, in a steady, 
 business-like down-pour that was thoroughly 
 dispiriting.
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 43 
 
 For there is rain and rain. Who hut 
 hreathes freer when the heavy di'ops pom- 
 thick from a thunder- cloud ? And few things 
 are hrighter than a fast, shining shower 
 as it slants through a shaft of sunbeams. 
 But this was altogether another kind of 
 wet day. The grey sky looked doggedly 
 determined to give the earth a thorough 
 soaking ; clouds of mist rolled slowly over 
 one another past the windows, and the 
 chances of its clearing up were not great 
 enough even to fui'nish a subject of tahi for 
 the silent breakfast-table. It was not the 
 household custom to make conversation at 
 breakfast. Mr. Gwynne had an open book 
 beside his tea-cup. Mrs. Gwynne closed the 
 tea-caddy, locked up the sugar, and waited 
 with elaborate patience. The only sunbeam 
 made its appearance about the middle of 
 breakfast in the person of httle Maxy. 
 
 '^What a jolly wet morning," he said, 
 rubbing his hands cheerily as he was put 
 upon his sofa. 
 
 ^^ Are you well, Maxy ? " asked his mother.
 
 M OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 ^'Yes, all right, motlier, thank ^ jou.'" 
 The same question and answer passed 
 between them every morning, after which 
 silence set in again. 
 
 At last Mr. Gwynne rose, put his open 
 hook crosswise over his arm, pushed hack 
 his spectacles, and retreated into the study. 
 
 " Mother, can't you stay and talk to me 
 now ? " said Lance, getting into despair, as 
 he saw her preparing to follow. 
 
 '^ No, not this morning. I shall be too 
 busy. But there will be plenty of time to- 
 day, for I suppose you won't be going out." 
 
 Plenty of time, indeed, during that long 
 rainy forenoon, which would have seemed 
 interminable but for little Maxy ! The wet 
 day made no difference to him, and his 
 spirits rose higher than ever at the prospect 
 of not being left alone. 
 
 Lance saw a flash of surprised satisfac- 
 tion cross his face when he found that his 
 brother meant to stay in the sitting-room. 
 A few old books, some scraps of drawing- 
 paper, and his own thoughts were commonly
 
 OWEN gwyxxe's gee at tvoek. 45 
 
 the only companions of Maxy's mornings. 
 Sometimes the maid coming in to pnt coals 
 on the fire was startled at finding him 
 laughing all by himself over his drawing; 
 and any chance visitor was sm-e to he 
 received with the same alert look of wel- 
 come. 
 
 Lance let him alone at first, and pre- 
 tended to be absorbed in writing a letter. 
 Whenever he looked up he found the bright 
 eyes fixed gravely on him. A new face did 
 not often come within the range of Maxy's 
 observation. He was making the most of 
 the present opportunity. ^Tien his eyes 
 met Lance's he smiled a little, but did not 
 speak. It was almost sad to see how per- 
 fectly he had been trained never to inter- 
 rupt. 
 
 Lance wondered how long he would He 
 so quietly, with his head propped on his 
 arm, and what it was which he found to 
 look at. At last he drew a long sigh, 
 nodded his head as if satisfied, and tui'ned 
 away. After all, silent contemplation was
 
 46 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 not a part of Maxy'.s original nature. Cir- 
 cumstances had taught it to him. He 
 began to look out now for entertainment. 
 
 Presently some one passed who amused 
 him. Lance could hardly help joining in 
 the little low laugh with which he pounced 
 upon his drawing-board. Away went the 
 small, thin hand scribbling with all its 
 might, and you could almost have seen the 
 joke in Maxy's face. 
 
 The passer-by, struggling with wind and 
 rain and rebeUious umbrella, fought on his 
 watery way, and most likely had got safe 
 home long before the amusement he afforded 
 Maxy was exhausted. But the portrait, 
 such as it was, was finished at last, and the 
 artist sank back tired, but complacent. 
 Next he drew a big book towards him, a 
 very well-worn old friend it looked, full of 
 engravings. He turned over the pages 
 rather fast. Evidently he knew them all 
 so well. 
 
 Lance could stand it no longer. 
 
 ** Do you like drawings, Maxy ? "
 
 OWEN gwtnne's great woek. 47 
 
 '^Oh, don't I!" 
 
 Lance went npstaks three steps at a time, 
 and presently a portfolio made its appearance 
 beside Maxy's sofa. 
 
 'f Only a few sketches, yon know. I didn't 
 bring many home." 
 
 But such sketches, such a portfoho as 
 Maxy had never dreamt of. Every sort of 
 di'awing had been tumbled in promiscuously. 
 They were almost all Italian — glimpses to 
 Maxy of a brighter land, and of a sunny 
 dawdling out-of-doors kind of a life. Many 
 were veiy rough, but all had the glow of 
 southern colouiing, and through them all 
 ran the same vivid charm. Here and there 
 was a pen-and-ink sketch, or a caricature ; 
 brown faces, quaint buildings ; a few care- 
 fully finished copies of old frescoes, with 
 the name of some Httle known convent 
 written in the corner ; figures just sketched 
 in, and scraps of di'apeiy — studies for 
 some pictm-e that Hved as yet only in 
 Lance's dreams. Maxy pored over them 
 all in the silence of enchantment.
 
 48 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 '^ Lance, you are an artist," he exclaimed 
 at last. 
 
 ^^I hope so," answered Lance, looking 
 amused. 
 
 " You w^ill beat Eaffaelle, and Eubens, and 
 Paul What's-his-name, all to nothing, you 
 know." 
 
 ^' What do you know about Eubens and 
 Paul What's-his-name ? " And Lance came 
 and leant over the end of the sofa. 
 
 But hero-worship had taken full posses- 
 sion of Maxy's willing heart. This wonder- 
 ful elder brother — this grave, handsome, 
 quiet-looking Lance, was certainly a genius. 
 Maxy twisted himself round so as to look up 
 at him. 
 
 ^' You are a great painter, Lance, are not 
 you?" 
 
 ^^No, indeed, Maxy." Lance turned over 
 one drawing after the other with a dissatis- 
 fied sigh. 
 
 ^' But you soon will be — very soon ? " 
 
 ^^ Shall I, httle Hopeful?" And ''little 
 Hopeful " was for many a day Lance's nick- 
 name for his brother.
 
 OWEN gwyxne's gee at woek. 49 
 
 LazLce turned over a few more of his 
 sketches, and then said, ''If I am not, it 
 will not be for want of hard work, Maxy ; I 
 promise yon that." 
 
 " Thank you. Lance," said Maxy xery 
 seriously. 
 
 And then they began to look over the 
 portfoHo together. Lance told the story of 
 each drawing, and Maxy had never spent 
 such a day — never. Somehow, before the 
 rainy morning merged into an equally 
 rainy afternoon, Maxy knew a great deal 
 about Lance's life at Eome — that wonder- 
 ful artist life ; a great deal, too, about his 
 brother's thoughts and hopes and fears, and 
 about the enthusiasm for his art that in 
 general he kept very closely to himseK. 
 But Maxy's eyes drew him on. He had 
 never told so much even to Austin Hope. 
 
 *' And you, Maxy, you must be an artist, 
 too, I think, if you care so much about 
 pictures," said Lance at last. ''Let's see 
 that drawing of yours." 
 
 It made Lance laugh, at all events. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 60 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 
 
 " oil, no ; of course I could never be an 
 artist." 
 
 ^^ Then what do you mean to be, Maxy ? " 
 
 ^' I ? Oh, a sailor most likely, or perhaps 
 an emigrant," said Maxy in a matter-of-fact 
 way. 
 
 ^' You must make haste and get well, 
 then." 
 
 ^^Yes." Maxy spoke without much en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 ^^ Isn't it very dull to be always lying 
 there?" 
 
 ^^ Sometimes, I suppose it is ; but I'm so 
 used to it, you see." 
 
 And Lance remembered how he had 
 thought in the morning that one day in- 
 doors would be unbearable. He w^as so fuH 
 of the boy that when, late in the afternoon, 
 his mother called him into the next room 
 his first words were about Maxy. 
 
 ^^ What do the doctors say of him, 
 mother? Will he get quite well?" 
 
 "I don't know. They say so. Poor boy, 
 I don't see much change in him myself."
 
 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 51 
 
 Lance looked back into the other room, 
 where he could see the httle lignre lying 
 alone, out of hearing though not quite out 
 of sight. '' Poor little feUow ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne sighed too. 
 
 ''Well, Lance," she began presently, "I 
 thought you wanted to hear why I sent for 
 
 you." 
 
 '' Of course I do," said Lance, rousing 
 himself. 
 
 "I am much gratified at your obeying my 
 summons so soon. The fact is, my dear 
 Lance, that I want your advice and your 
 help." 
 
 She stopped, and Lance said " Yes ?" in- 
 terrogatively, with great inward sui'prise. 
 When did his mother ever want advice 
 before ? 
 
 ''And I feel sure that you will be ready 
 to give it. I have no doubt of that, 
 Lance." 
 
 Again Mrs. Gw^Tine paused and looked 
 up at her son. He was standing near the 
 fire, with one elbow leaning on the mantel- 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF injNOK^
 
 52 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 piece, and he smiled and answered, ''I hope 
 not, mother," with the same quietness of 
 manner. Mrs. Gwynne found her words 
 very tardy in coming. 
 
 '' I did not send for you from Italy with- 
 out a great deal of consideration, and I was 
 sorry, really sorry, to be ohHged to do it." 
 
 '^ Never mind that," said Lance. '' After 
 all it is only losing a little time. I can 
 make up for it when I go back, and of course 
 I shall be only too glad if I can be of any 
 use to you or my father." 
 
 '^ You can, Lance ; but at the expense of 
 more than a httle of your time." 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne spoke so solemnly that 
 Lance looked at her in renewed surprise. 
 She smoothed her black gown over her 
 knees and bethought herself. She had in- 
 tended carrying things with a higher hand 
 than this, and she begun in a firmer tone — 
 ''You know that I never approved of your 
 becoming an artist. It was a profession 
 I should never have chosen for you, but 
 I suffered myself to be overruled. It was
 
 OWEN gwtnne's gee at wokk. 53 
 
 against my better judgment that I gave my 
 consent." 
 
 ^' Still it lias turned out pretty well 
 hitherto," said Lance. 
 
 " Pray allow me to finish. I say that it 
 has not turned out well. If you had chosen — 
 I must say it — less selfishly, you might by 
 this time have been in a position to help 
 your father. Hush ! I don't wish to re- 
 proach you. I did not wish even to allude 
 to this, except to remind you of all your 
 father has done for you, of the first-rate 
 education he gave you, at the cost of how 
 many hours' toil, which with his talents 
 might have been spent on higher work than 
 mere school-keeping. Lance, I am very 
 sony, but you cannot go on being an artist." 
 
 ''I can never be anything else," said 
 Lance quickly. 
 
 ^' Not from choice, perhaps ; but fi'om 
 necessity. I have told you that a sacrifice 
 is demanded of you. Will you fail your 
 father now ? " 
 
 ^' I don't understand," he said, after a
 
 54 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 moment's silence. '^ Tell me what it is 
 you want me to do ? " 
 
 '^ Lance, you know all about your father's 
 book." Lance nodded. "You know — no, you 
 have been away so long that you can't know, 
 how everything has been made to give way 
 to one object — the leaving him free to write. 
 For that the school was given up ; for that 
 I have striven, struggled, saved. I have 
 tried hard— hard. Lance, to keep things 
 straight and to get on alone ; I have, in- 
 deed. But I cannot do it. Not till the last 
 moment have I turned to you. Surely you 
 are the natural person to help him, his 
 eldest son." 
 
 " Of course, mother, of course." 
 
 "It will be such a remarkable book," 
 continued Mrs. Gwynne. " Lance, his fame 
 ought to be as dear to you as it is to me. 
 Are you not willing to give up something for 
 your father's sake ? " 
 
 " I am willing," said Lance steadily, 
 "What can I do?" 
 
 "I have spoken to Mr. Deane, one of
 
 OWEN gwynxe's gee at woek. 55 
 
 Deane Brothers, the bankers. He is ready 
 to take you into the bank as a clerk." 
 
 Lance turned suddenly, and leaning over 
 the mantelpiece covered his eyes with 
 his hand. 
 
 " Thus you would be getting a regular 
 salary, and your father's mind would be 
 set at ease for his work. Do you follow 
 me, Lance?" she inquired as he gave no 
 answer. 
 
 ^^It is very sudden." He spoke in a low 
 quick voice. "I was utterly unprepared for 
 anything like this." 
 
 ''You said just now that you were pre- 
 pared to help your father." 
 
 "Did I? Yes, lam." 
 
 There was a pause which Mrs. Gwynne 
 did not try to break. 
 
 " Mother, ask me anything but that. I 
 cannot do it." 
 
 "And your promise — how else can you 
 fulfil it?" 
 
 Lance was silent. 
 
 " I know what an artist's life is," said his
 
 56 OWEN gwynne's gkeat woek. 
 
 mother. " For one wlio succeeds how many 
 fail ! At the best, how long will it be before 
 you begin to make money by painting ? 
 I don't mean selling a stray picture here 
 and there that may chance to take some 
 one's fancy." She held up her hand to stop 
 Lance, who had looked up eagerly ; but the 
 hght faded from his face as she went on — 
 ^'What we need is a fixed sum of money 
 coming in regularly ; and that. Lance, you 
 have it in your power to supply." 
 
 *' You do not know," said Lance, speaking 
 calmly by a great effort. '^ You do not at all 
 know what you are asking me." 
 
 ^' I am asking you to do your duty," she 
 answered in her steadily severe voice. She 
 had pitied Lance until now, there had even 
 been a sort of pathos in her pleading with 
 him ; but his first word of remonstrance 
 hardened her into marble. '' I am dis- 
 appointed in you, Lance." 
 
 *^ Mother, you ask too much." 
 
 She got up to go away. '' I will not listen 
 to this. When you have weighed it coolly
 
 OWEN GT\T'NXE's great WORK. 57 
 
 you will speak differently. I do you that 
 justice, Lance." 
 
 ^' Don't go. Stay one moment." Lance 
 put his hand on her arm and tried to speak 
 gently. '' Can you listen to me for a 
 minute ? " 
 
 *'Yes; but what more can there be to 
 say. You can only come to one conclusion 
 in the end." 
 
 ^' I don't know. I can't tell," said Lance, 
 with a deep sigh; "but I am sure you 
 have not any idea, mother, what my art 
 is to me. I only want you just to try if 
 you can see the thing for an instant from 
 my side of the question, will you? You 
 beheve that I would do anything in the 
 world to help my father " 
 
 "Deeds, not words," interrupted Mrs. 
 G^^mne. 
 
 " Yes " — Lance spoke very sadly — "true. 
 Do not suppose that I mean to draw back 
 from what I have said. But is there 
 really only that one way ? " 
 
 "I do not know what you mean."
 
 58 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 ''If it were possible — I really am getting 
 on well. If you would let me try to help 
 you without giving up my profession : I 
 know I could. Besides " 
 
 '' Go on, Lance," she said coldly. 
 
 ''No. What is the use ? " 
 
 " You had better finish what you w^ere 
 saying. ' Besides ' what ? " 
 
 " I was only wondering whether you 
 could get much good out of people when 
 you have taken from them all they care to 
 hve for." 
 
 ''All they care to live for ! Lance, I am 
 surprised at you." 
 
 " I was wrong." Lance spoke more 
 naturally than he had done hitherto. "I 
 oughtn't to have said that. What I meant 
 was that I have given up my life to paint- 
 ing. I hardly know if it is in my power to 
 take it back." 
 
 "It is in every one's power to do his 
 duty. Notwithstanding all you have said, 
 I expect you to do yours. Lance," she 
 added hurriedly, "there is your father.
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 
 
 Whatever you may do, I trust to your 
 honour not to speali to him of this." 
 
 '' Why not ? Doesn't he know about it?" 
 
 ** Certainly he does." 
 
 ^' And approves of it ? " 
 
 "• Yes," said Mrs. Gwynne; '^ though per- 
 haps he thought more of you than you seem 
 inchned to think of him." 
 
 The tea was ready, and the hghts hghted 
 in the next room. Maxy's couch was 
 drawn up to the table, and the kettle was 
 singing on the hob. In the room where 
 Lance and his mother had been talking it 
 had grown quite dark. Mrs. Gwynne tm^ned 
 to leave it. 
 
 '' Do not stay here," she whispered. 
 ^' Your father will be asking for you." For 
 Lance had fallen back into his former 
 attitude, standing with his head upon his 
 arm. "At least," repeated his mother, '^ we 
 may save him the worry of discussions. 
 Come, Lance." 
 
 Lahce passed his hand over his forehead 
 once or twice, and came out into the hghted
 
 60 OWEN gwynne's geeat wokk. 
 
 room ; came out to meet Maxy's bright, 
 questioning eyes, and his father's haK kind 
 half absent greeting : ^'I have seen nothing 
 of yon to-day, my boy." 
 
 ** Lance, bring me the kettle," interposed 
 Mrs. Gwynne nervously. She did not half 
 trust him. But she need not have been 
 afraid. He might look rather pale, but 
 otherwise he showed little outwardly, 
 though the world was changed for him 
 within the last half-hour. Changed, in- 
 deed ! Yet in this e very-day atmosphere 
 it became hard to realize it. It was impos- 
 sible that his hopes should have suffered 
 shipwreck in such a calm. He looked at 
 Mrs. Gwynne with the four teacups on 
 the tray before her ; at the chairs against 
 the wall, that there was no one to pull 
 forward into comfortable disorder; at the 
 well-remembered pictures, once a dehght, 
 now a marvel in his eyes. The very im- 
 practicability of existing in such an atmos- 
 phere was a kind of comfort to him. '' Give 
 up painting ? Nonsense ! " he said to him-
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 61 
 
 self, and almost laughed aloud at the idea. 
 It was like a bad dream, di'eadful if only 
 it had been true. 
 
 After tea Mr. Gwynne drew his chair up 
 to the fii'e, and began to talk to his son 
 about Koman antiquities. "Yes, do get 
 him to talk a httle," Mrs. Gwynne managed 
 to whisper as she passed behind Lance's 
 chair. "It is good for him to have the 
 current of his thoughts changed for a short 
 time." 
 
 Lance looked after her, thinking, "At 
 aU events she has changed the current of 
 my thoughts. I wonder whether she sup- 
 poses it is very easy to talk when one's life 
 has been aU smashed to pieces." 
 
 But he made a great effort to fix his 
 mind upon the Eoman Capitol, and tried 
 to explain to his father the position of the 
 ruined temples. 
 
 " I have got some sketches of one or two 
 of them here, by the bye." And he brought 
 forward the portfoho he had shown Maxy in 
 the morning.
 
 62 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 Mr. Gwynne, liowever, cared little for tlie 
 picturesque aspect of tlie Forum as it now 
 is. His only interest was in some half- 
 effaced inscription, about which he had a 
 theory of his own, and he held the drawings 
 up to the candle as if he expected to dis- 
 cover it copied there. 
 
 " Then you don't remember whether I am 
 right ? " he asked. 
 
 "I am not sure. I will look when I go 
 back." He stopped suddenly, and coloured. 
 For a moment he had forgotten, but no one 
 took any notice ; his father was absently 
 smoothing one hand over the other, and his 
 mother did not look up from her work. 
 
 The conversation languished after that, 
 Lance could not think of anything more to 
 say. Maxy was carried off to bed, and for a 
 long time the father and son sat opposite 
 to each other, both silent and both looking 
 into the fire. Lance was trying to recall 
 his conversation with his mother, and to 
 go over it again with some attempt at calm- 
 ness. Now and then he raised his eyes to
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 63 
 
 his father's face. He was changed, cer- 
 tainly. Such a Ufe as he led ages a man 
 rapidly, Owen Gwynne looked years older 
 than he really was. He roused himself hy- 
 and-by, turned to the table, and di^ew the 
 inkstand towards him. 
 
 ''Are you going to write any more to- 
 night? " asked Mrs. Gwynne, arranging the 
 candles, however, with great alacrity. 
 
 '' Only a few notes. I have been reading 
 most of the day, not writing. By the way, 
 here is some work for you." 
 
 It was a long translation to be made from 
 an old Itahan history. 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne summoned her son to help 
 her. " Here, Lance, this must be just in 
 your line, all Itahan." 
 
 Lance came up to the table, and tried to 
 do his best, but his attention would not be 
 commanded. The httle room seemed to 
 grow hotter and hotter, and the Itahan 
 words more and more confused. 
 
 "You are thed, Lance," his mother said 
 at last, as he stumbled over a sentence so
 
 64 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 simple that she had translated it for herseK 
 while he was still gazing helplessly at the 
 first word. 
 
 '^Yes — no — am I?" And Lance pushed 
 back his hair and looked at her. 
 
 ^' It seems, so. At all events I don't think 
 you will give me much help to-night." 
 
 ^^ I am sorry, mother. I suppose I am 
 stupid with travelling so many nights.'' 
 But Mrs. Gwynne's head was bent over her 
 work again, and she did not heed him. 
 
 The clock ticked loud and fast. His 
 father's pen went scraping wearily over 
 paper; a large fly, which resented being 
 kept awake by the lamplight, kept on 
 buzzing and fidgeting, and occasionally 
 came against the window pane with a bang 
 that worried Lance as if it had been struck 
 against his own head; and then the rattle 
 of the express train began again in his ears, 
 and all his pulses seemed to be running a 
 race with the loud clock. What a small 
 room this was to live in ! What a tedious 
 ugly kind of room ! An unreasonable feeling
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 65 
 
 came over Lance of being utterly weary of 
 it, as if he had lived in it for months, and 
 was longing for a change of scene. 
 
 ^^ I wonder if I have fallen asleep, and am 
 waking up two or three months hence," he 
 said to himself. ^^ I wish I were." But the 
 loud clock struck ten in a hiu'ried manner, 
 and then went on ticking violently, as if it 
 gi'udged the time wasted in striking, and 
 presently Mrs. Gwyime brought her task 
 to a triumphant conclusion. 
 
 " "WTiy don't you go to bed. Lance, if 
 you're tired?" she said. Lance went, but 
 when he got into the hall he opened the 
 fi'ont door instead, and all at once he was 
 out in the moonhght. The rain had ceased. 
 It was a cloud}^ night, and the sky was grey 
 and troubled, though not dark. The moon 
 shone mistily, the earth was quietly asleep, 
 and rain- drops lay thick upon the grass. 
 
 It was in. no wise a remarkable night. 
 There was nothing particular to be said 
 about it, except that there might be more 
 rain to-mori'ow. But how wonderfully still 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 OWEN GWYNNE S GEE AT WOEK. 
 
 and sympathetic it was, after the hot lamp- 
 Hght, and the lond-ticking clock, that some- 
 how seemed to Lance to be a thing alive, 
 and to have ranged itself against him. 
 
 And here, and now, beneath the misty 
 moon, his battle must be fonght out. Lance's 
 nature was not one that could bear for long 
 the agony of indecision. It was no use 
 waiting until morning brought him calm 
 reflection, or sleep had steadied and cleared 
 his judgment. Now was the time when his 
 resolution must be come to. 
 
 First came a rush of longing to get away, 
 back to Eome, anywhere out of this miser- 
 able place. For a few minutes it swept 
 everything before it. The difficulties 
 seemed nothing. He imagined his talk 
 with his mother, and the words in which 
 she would at last acknowledge herself con- 
 vinced that her plan had been a mistaken 
 one. 
 
 And then the quick journey back to 
 Italy. Its blue sky and golden sunshine, 
 just flashed across his memory ; but it was
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 67 
 
 not on them that his thoughts rested. It 
 was hard work, unremitting study, that he 
 pictured to himself. He would toil day and 
 night ; never rest, or take hohdays, or go 
 on long sketching dawdling expeditions, as 
 he had done hitherto. Thus only could he 
 make up to his father and mother for 
 choosing his own way instead of theirs. 
 His should be no path of seK-indulgence ; 
 but when could he ever need rest from 
 his beloved art ? 
 
 Lance's fancy rushed on to his first gi'eat 
 success, his picture sold, the money sent 
 home to Marlixtowe, orders pouring in, 
 honour on the name of Gw^mne — the name 
 his mother so longed to hear of as famous. 
 What could she wish more ? and at that 
 moment he felt secure in the conviction, 
 that often well-nigh failed him, often shone 
 but dimly and unsteadily upon him, that he 
 had it in him to make a great painter. 
 
 He walked on as he planned, and the 
 night laid a cold hand on his throbbing 
 head. More grey clouds, more intense
 
 68 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 stillness and dewy cool long grass ; and 
 then, close at hand, the calm voice of 
 waters, rippling quietly on, with a peaceful 
 silver music in their flow. 
 
 Lance stopped involuntarily to listen, 
 and the stream was like a voice in the 
 darkness. It spoke to him in no connected 
 sentences, but to his fancy each little on- 
 coming wave brought an image or a name. 
 His father grown grey over his books ; his 
 mother watching him eagerly; Maxy — 
 and at the name the river rang a strange 
 mixed chime of mirth and sadness — little 
 Maxy, whose face lighted up so joyously 
 at the thought of one morning not spent 
 all alone. 
 
 But they would all share his triumphs. 
 His work would be for them. Would not 
 his father be proud of his artist son, and 
 his mother's ambitious heart be satisfied 
 at last ? 
 
 Some of the clouds passed away from the 
 moon, and he saw the little stream gliding 
 steadily onwards.
 
 OWEN gwyxxe's gee at woek. 69 
 
 Would it be the same to liis father that 
 the prize, for which he had worked so 
 patiently, should be won by another ? 
 Could his mother ever set her heart in 
 the same way on a new object ? Had 
 she not struggled, waited, watched, borne 
 poverty and privation, all for that — for 
 Owen Gwynne's great work. 
 
 And Maxy — could he ever give him back 
 the lonely years of his neglected childhood ? 
 
 Lance knew that the battle was going 
 against him, but he struggled fiercely still. 
 
 Why was he to be sacrificed, the trea- 
 siu'e of his hfe torn fi'om him, the passion 
 of his young strong heart stifled and 
 bhghted ? He had never known before what 
 his art was to him — never. He thought 
 of his friends, his rivals, his half-painted 
 picture, of Austin Hope. They had asked 
 too much of him. 
 
 And yet — and yet. In his father's time 
 of need, fi'om his mother's prayer could he 
 turn away ? 
 
 The minutes ofrew into hours. The httle
 
 70 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 waves that liad first seemed to speak to Mm 
 had passed far on towards the sea. The 
 moon had shaken off the clouds that hung 
 around her, and was mounting serenely 
 higher into heaven. Lance did not move. 
 The hattle was over now. He had lost it — 
 or won it. 
 
 But he was fighting no longer. He was 
 determined, and now he said to himself that 
 he would be content. It should be no half 
 sacrifice that he made to duty. Lance 
 found a sort of stern pleasure in the few 
 hard rules he drew up for his life. 
 
 His hand should never touch a pencil. 
 He would never, never once lie idly dream- 
 ing, letting pictures come and paint them- 
 selves before his mental eyes. 
 
 His note-book was in his pocket, haK 
 filled with rough studies and notes on paint- 
 ing. He took it out and launched it into 
 the stream. A spray of diamonds sparkled 
 up in the moonhght as the book struck the 
 water, and then the waves took up their 
 song again and murmured on, closing over
 
 OWEN gayyxne's gee at \yoek. 71 
 
 their spoil. '' xlll alike : ready to accept 
 any sacrifice with the same composure," 
 muttered Lance. 
 
 He turned homewards, taming his im- 
 petuous long strides into an angry imitation 
 of what he fancied a clerk's measured foot- 
 steps ought to be. He had wandered a 
 long way, and the night was waning. 
 When at last he entered the silent house, 
 and noiselessly mounted the stairs, there 
 was already a grey glimmer of coming day- 
 light away in the eastern sky.
 
 72 OWEN gwynne's gkeat work. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne had made an elaborate plan 
 respecting the course of conduct which she 
 thought Lance ought to pursue. 
 
 She mentally allowed him four- and- twenty 
 hours for deliberation, at the expiration of 
 which time it would behove him to come to 
 her and tender his resignation of indepen- 
 dence. This would take place about six 
 o'clock in the evening. Later in the same 
 evening she would compose, with his assist- 
 ance, a letter to Messrs. Deane, bankers, 
 making an offer of his services as clerk, and 
 stating his qualifications for the post. 
 
 This letter would be sent in the course of 
 the following morning, after which prelimi- 
 naries would probably he arranged, and an
 
 OWEN gwynne's gkeat woek. 73 
 
 inteniew take place between Lance and his 
 future employers. 
 
 People are not always satisfied when even 
 theii' greatest wishes are attained too 
 quickly or by an irregular road. 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne scarcely knew whether 
 to be pleased or vexed at the summary 
 manner in which Lance conducted his 
 affairs. Great was her sui-prise when, 
 Having lost sight of him after the silent 
 breakfast, she espied him later in the morn- 
 ing, coming do^m the steps of the Bank, as 
 she was returning home after her daily 
 shoppiQg in the High Street. 
 
 Lance walked slowly, vdth his eyes on 
 the ground, and would have passed his 
 mother without seeing her if she had not 
 crossed the street to join him. He did not 
 look best pleased when she laid her hand 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 "You here. Lance! Have 3'ou been to 
 the Bank abeady ? " 
 
 ''Yes, mother." 
 
 She waited for him to say more, but he
 
 74 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 only added, "Are yoii going home?" and 
 walked on beside her. 
 
 " Well, I must say yon have not lost 
 much time," returned Mrs. Gwynne, rather 
 regretting the excellent business letter 
 which she would no longer be required to 
 write. '' I am not sure that it was a wise 
 step to go like this. Did you see Mr. 
 Deane ? " 
 
 "Yes; as it had to be done there was 
 no use in wasting time." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Oh, it is all settled. There was no diffi- 
 culty. Am not I taking you out of your 
 way?" And Lance made the slightest 
 possible effort to release his arm. 
 
 His mother did not rehnquish it. "My 
 dear Lance," she said, with more feeling 
 than usual in her voice. " You must let me 
 express to you what I feel. You have acted 
 most properly and dutifully in this matter. 
 I was sure that you would eventually do 
 so, as you may remember that I told you 
 last night."
 
 OWEN GWYNNE S GEEAT WOEK. I O 
 
 '' I remember," said Lance, as she seemed 
 to expect an ans^rer. 
 
 "Yes, I knew you better than you knew 
 yourself, and felt sure that right and reason 
 would conquer your repugnance to a change 
 of employment. At the same time I must 
 confess that I did you less than justice. I 
 did not expect such promptitude in action 
 as you have shown, and I am surprised as 
 well as gratified." 
 
 " I am glad," responded Lance wearily. 
 
 "The consciousness of having acted rightly 
 ^\t11 be your best reward," she continued. 
 " SeK-conquest brings with it a satisfaction 
 pecuharly its own ; and you have, besides, 
 the knowledge that we fully appreciate your 
 sacrifice. Your father will value your con- 
 duct greatly." 
 
 Lance bent his head. 
 
 " He will tell you so himself." And ]\Irs. 
 Gwynne rang the door-bell of Xo. -i as she 
 spoke. 
 
 " I hope not," exclaimed Lance. " I 
 had much rather no one said anything 
 more about it." 
 
 A
 
 76 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 ^' Don't you wish it ? Well, perhaps it is 
 wiser not to bring the subject too much 
 before him, for I told you how it distressed 
 him to interfere with your plans. It shall 
 be as you please. Lance. Only you will 
 understand that he feels it just as much as 
 I do.'" 
 
 "All right," said Lance, waxing impatient; 
 and as his mother entered the house he 
 walked across the square lawn, and stood 
 at the other end, with his back to the 
 house, staring at the wall. 
 
 The consciousness of having acted 
 rightly ! The words jarred upon him even 
 more than the rest of his mother's measured 
 exasperating sentences. The consciousness 
 of acting rightly — that was just what Lance 
 had not, for the realization of his own 
 extreme ungraciousness was his strongest 
 feeling at that moment. To make a sacri- 
 fice at all was a small thing. He had no 
 reason to pride himself on the spirit in 
 which it was beine: carried out. 
 
 iD 
 
 Eousing himself presently, Lauce went
 
 OWEN gwyxxe's geeat woek. 77 
 
 up to his room, took out a slieet of thin 
 foreign paper, and resolutely sat doTm to 
 accomplisli what he felt to be the hardest 
 of the many hard things he had to do — 
 writing a letter to Austin Hope. 
 
 The first few words were wiitten rapidly, 
 and then came a pause, while he strove to 
 collect his thoughts. At last he crossed his 
 arms on the table, and laid his head down 
 upon them, and so he remained without 
 stirring for a long time. The sun came 
 pouring in at the window, flooded his room, 
 and streamed gaily across his bowed head 
 without disturbing him. Gradually the 
 bright light ebbed away, and still he did 
 not stir. 
 
 He was not giieving all this time, or 
 even actually thinking, but with the neces- 
 sity for action the power had left him ; he 
 sat quietly on with a soi*t of stunned feeling, 
 which at last merged itself into a sound and 
 dreamless sleep. 
 
 When he awoke at last with a start it 
 was to find the room nearly in darkness, the
 
 78 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 shadows from tlie trees outside stretcMng 
 half across the lawn, and the post-hour 
 close at hand. 
 
 It was a relief to he forced to write 
 hriefly. The facts he had to tell were 
 bitter enough, without adding to them 
 comments or lamentations. But he was 
 surprised to find how composedly he could 
 write about them — how already the coming 
 change was growing familiar to him, and 
 losing its first feeling of horrible impos- 
 sibility. 
 
 ^' Lance," asked Maxy, that evening 
 when they were alone together, ''how long 
 do you mean to stay at home ? " 
 
 '' I can't tell, Maxy," said Lance, laying 
 down the book he was holding, with a sigh 
 and a stretch. 
 
 '' But you are soon going back to Eome," 
 continued Maxy, wistfully; ''you won't be 
 here very much longer, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Why ? Are not you glad to have me at 
 home?" 
 
 "Yes, of course — only " Maxy 
 
 paused and looked eager and doubtful.
 
 OWEN GWTXNe's great WORK. 79 
 
 Lance understood. He came and sat on 
 the edge of the sofa, and said, "Yon see, 
 Maxy, things don't always go straight in 
 the world. I want yon to forget all I told 
 yon about Eome, as soon as you can." 
 
 " About your being a great painter ? " 
 
 " Yes ; all that," said Lance. " After all, 
 Maxy, it might never have come true." 
 
 " And you don't mean to be an artist ? " 
 
 Lance shook his head. Maxy turned 
 scarlet. 
 
 " I mean to stay at home, and try some 
 other work here in Marlixtowe." 
 
 " Did they make you give it up ? " asked 
 Maxy, lowering his voice mysteriously. 
 
 "Who? my father and mother? No, 
 Maxy, they could not make me. I chose 
 it myseK. There was no help for it — it had 
 to be done ; but I had rather never speak 
 about it again." 
 
 "Very well," said Maxy, his hp quiver- 
 ing. 
 
 " But you want to say something now. 
 What is it?" 
 
 " Nothing ; only I am disappointed." And
 
 80 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 Maxy suddenly burst out crying, and hid 
 his face in the pillows of the couch. 
 
 " My dear hoy," Lance said, very much 
 surprised ; and he tried to draw Maxy 
 towards him, hut the hoy resisted indig- 
 nantly — 
 
 "Let me alone. Lance, I tell you." 
 
 Lance was kneehng on one knee beside 
 the sofa, feeling perplexed and touched, and 
 Maxy was pushing him away with all his 
 might, when they both heard their mother's 
 step. In an instant Lance had flung him- 
 self into a chair and taken up a book. 
 Maxy seized his drawing-board, and with 
 crimsoned cheeks and wet eyelashes tried 
 to look as if he had never cried in his hfe. 
 
 Mrs. Gwr^nne glanced from one to the 
 other. 
 
 " Maxy, what is the matter with you ? " 
 
 " Nothing, mother," responded Maxy, 
 with a .gasping attempt to swallow his last 
 sob. 
 
 " Hasn't he been crying ? " asked Mrs. 
 Gwynne of Lance.
 
 OWEN gwyxxe's gee at woek. 81 
 
 ^'No," shouted Maxy recklessly, as his 
 brother hesitated. Then, with rapid re- 
 pentance, he added, "Yes, I have; but I 
 don't mean to tell yon why." 
 
 " I don't want to know," and Mrs. 
 Gwynne turned to leave the room. 
 
 But Maxy drew, and Lance read perse- 
 veringly. Neither spoke again. From that 
 time Maxy never alluded to his brother's 
 altered life. Lance sometimes wondered 
 whether he could possibly have forgotten 
 all that they had talked about when he 
 first came home, Maxy took everything 
 thoroughly as a matter of course, and was 
 so entirely blithe and contented. 
 
 And now for Lance began the prose of life 
 — for it was hard prose to him at first, every 
 bit of it. God, who in His mercy gives the 
 flowers each summer to His w^orld, leaves 
 no life to be all winter, but as He '' sends 
 rain on the just and on the unjust," so to 
 every one there comes some help when it is 
 most needed — some colour, some blossom of 
 happiness or of hope. But at present it was 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 winter for Lance, cold and hard. The 
 change was as great and sudden in his 
 inward as in his outward hfe. From Italy 
 to England, from smishine to the east wind 
 and grey skies of a late spring, from his 
 heloved easel to the high stool of a banker's 
 clerk, and from hope to hopelessness. 
 
 He was very solitary, for excepting little 
 Maxy there was no one whom he cared to 
 speak to. His fellow clerks were uncon- 
 genial, and rightly or wrongly the sober 
 people of Marlixtowe failed to interest him. 
 Not that he felt his loneliness as a grievance, 
 on the contrary. The ties that bound him 
 to his artist friends were broken, and he 
 dreaded nothing so much as meeting any of 
 them again. As for new acquaintances, he 
 had never been less disposed to make any. 
 Among Mr. Deane's clerks he was con- 
 sidered very cold, very reserved, and very 
 industrious. The senior clerk held him up 
 as a model to the rest, and would have 
 made a favourite of him if he had been less 
 indifferent, but he only asked to be left
 
 OWEN GWTNNE's gee at WORK. 83 
 
 alone. He gave no sympathy, and he 
 claimed none. Sometimes the remem- 
 brance crossed him of his old popularity 
 among the artists at Eome, where, in spite 
 of his reserve, few men were better liked 
 than he had been. Were they still ex- 
 pecting him back, he wondered ; and what 
 could they have thought of his sudden 
 disappearance ? He beheved that Austin 
 Hope would never forgive him, and ex- 
 pected no answer to his letter, but in a 
 short time there came, to his sui'prise, a 
 long, kind, persuasive letter, veiy different 
 from the curt matter-of-fact notes Austin 
 was in the habit of writing. He used all 
 the eloquence at his command to induce 
 his fiiend to undo his fatal mistake. He 
 even asked for the true explanation of his 
 motives, declaring that his letter con- 
 tained no good reason for such a decision, 
 and he entreated him to do nothing in a 
 hurry. 
 
 Lance wrote his rejomder fi'om his desk 
 at the Bank : —
 
 84 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 ^' Deae Austin, 
 
 ^' It's no use writing me letters like 
 that, though it's very good of you. I can- 
 not come back, and I have nothing more to 
 explain." 
 
 And there he paused, for that seemed all 
 he had to say, hut his heart warmed to his 
 faithful friend, so after a few minutes he 
 added, "God bless you, old fellow," and thus 
 signed and sealed once more his determin- 
 ation to renounce his old life. 
 
 The months wore away. They were 
 too monotonous to go slowly, but they 
 were heavy and oppressive to look back 
 upon, and by the time the summer was half 
 over Lance had grown to remember his life 
 in Italy as an entirely different state of 
 existence. " All work and no play were 
 making Jack a dull boy," as Jane some- 
 times said to herself, with a shake of the 
 head, when she saw his impassive face, and 
 remembered how different its expression 
 had been when he first came home. 
 
 Lance knew no one, went nowhere, and
 
 OWEN gwynxe's great woek. 85 
 
 shared in none of the diversions of the 
 country town. Sometimes when his work 
 was over he took long sohtary cross-country 
 walks. They were his one amusement, if 
 indeed amusement it could be called, of 
 which the only object was to tire himself, and 
 to get over the greatest possible distance in 
 the shortest possible time. There was not a 
 sight within twenty miles of Marlixtowe that 
 he did not visit that summer — not a ruin, 
 bosky wood, brawling waterfall, old church, 
 or modern factory. It mattered to him very 
 little that he often arrived when it was too 
 dark to see the object of his walk. He was 
 in no humoui' for studying the pictm'esque, 
 and by this time he had got over the habit 
 of feehng in his coat pocket for his sketch- 
 book, whenever the sunshine came filtering 
 through the leaves with a pecuharly enticing 
 traceiy of hght and shade, or when steep 
 lane, untidy cottage, and ragged fir-tree 
 formed themselves into a ready-made pictiu'e. 
 Once or twice he went to Stone Cross by a 
 wild, rough foot-path, that crossed heaths.
 
 86 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 and went by stepping-stones over streams, 
 zigzagged up rugged cliffs, and thought 
 nothing of hedges and ditches and stone 
 walls. Like a man undeterred by diffi- 
 culties, the little path went steadily 
 onwards, and if an obstacle crossed its way 
 got over it somehow, and was found again, 
 narrow but persistent, on the other side. 
 
 Lance had known it well in his school 
 days, when it was the favourite short cut 
 to forbidden Marlixtowe. The track still 
 ended abruptly under the playground wall, 
 in a distant corner where a few top stones 
 were loose. He got over the wall one even- 
 ing when he knew that the boys were all 
 away for the hohdays, and went to look in 
 at the school-room window. 
 
 There was the big bare room, the floor 
 worn by many shuffling feet, the walls 
 dingier still than they had been in his day. 
 Lance looked for his old desk, and almost 
 fancied he could see on it the deeply cut 
 letters of his own name. It was sitting 
 there that he had made up his mind to be
 
 OWEN GWTXNE's great WORK. 87 
 
 an artist, and di'eamed liis first dream of a 
 great success. 
 
 The twilight came on rapidly and stopped 
 his reminiscences. Lance dropped down 
 again on to the grass, feeling very old, and 
 as if all of life that was worth haying lay 
 behind him. He went home by the high 
 road that night, and chewed the sweet and 
 bitter cud of his school memories all the way. 
 
 One of the figures belonging to that time 
 which the sight of the old schoolroom 
 brought back to him the most Yiyidly, was 
 that of a former usher of his father's, John 
 Eutherford by name, with whom he had 
 always been a favourite. 
 
 ]\Ir. Eutherford was an old man, and was 
 supposed in the school to have known better 
 days. He was kind and learned, and Lance, 
 who always took to people much older than 
 himself, spent much of his time with him. 
 To his ears the boy's artistic aspirations 
 used to be confided, and the old usher 
 listened with unfeigned sympathy, prophesy- 
 ing great things for the futui'e. Lance
 
 88 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 presently found out that lie was still living 
 in Marlixtowe, and an impulse came over 
 him to seek out his old friend and tell him 
 what ruin had befallen those fair castles in 
 the air. 
 
 John Eutherford remembered him well, 
 and welcomed him with all his former 
 affection. He was spending his last days 
 alone, and was almost crippled with rheu- 
 matism, but time had only printed more 
 strongly on his face the look of simple 
 kindness and serenity which Lance recol- 
 lected. It was impossible not to respond to 
 his heartfelt interest, and sitting alone with 
 him one evening, Lance told him his story. 
 He told of the bright hopes of his Eoman 
 days, of their sudden downfall ; then of the 
 dreary drudgery of his present hfe, which, 
 however, he was determined to bear without 
 flinching, carrying out his sacrifice unfalter- 
 ingly to the very end. 
 
 'M will never draw back," he said. 
 
 "It is very grand," said Mr. Eutherford 
 after a minute's silence, "very grand."
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 89 
 
 It was quietly spoken, so quietly that 
 Lance looked up quickly to see if there was 
 any sarcasm hidden behind the words, but 
 the kind old face looked only simple and 
 interested. 
 
 ^' Very grand," he repeated again. " But 
 do you think you are able to do it ? " 
 
 ^' I think so," answered Lance, drawing 
 back his head with a resolute gesture pecu- 
 liar to himself. His hearer remembered it 
 well. 
 
 "Ah ! you think so. I used to be like you. 
 I used to think I was strong enough for any- 
 thing. But I have changed my mind. I have 
 found — I have been taught rather — that I 
 am not strong enough for anything alone." 
 
 He paused and looked at the young man, 
 who made no answer. 
 
 So John Eutherford had a story too, — 
 a story with a moral. Lance did not ask to 
 hear it, nor did his old friend offer fco tell it 
 to him "as a warning." Perhaps he knew 
 human nature too well. It is surely a 
 strange mode of consolation, when people
 
 90 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 are in the absorbing interest of a living 
 present trouble, to drag them back by force 
 into the middle of some long past story, 
 some mistake made, some experience dearly 
 bought half a life time ago. 
 
 Who can care about it ? It is over. The 
 pain was suffered, the tears were shed, the 
 irrevocable words were spoken, perhaps 
 before the unwiUing listener was born. 
 Who will learn out of another's lesson 
 book ? Who can call the past back from the 
 land of shadows ? What good does the story 
 do? The hstener hears it out with what 
 patience he may, and goes back to his own 
 need. And yet it is a favourite mode of 
 giving comfort, and doubtless it is consoling 
 — to him who tells the tale. 
 
 John Eutherford was wiser. He only 
 thought for a few minutes, and then re- 
 peated meditatively his former words : ^' We 
 learn that we cannot be strong enough 
 alone. We just have to begin again, unless 
 we find strength greater than our own to 
 fight with. I suppose St. Paul was as
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's great WORK. 91 
 
 strong as you or I, yet he talks of Ms weak- 
 ness — eh, Gwynne ? " 
 
 ^' Certainly," said Lance, bending his 
 head gravely. 
 
 ^' Ah I you know it. I wish, my boy, that 
 you believed it in such a way that the know- 
 ledge need not come to you hardly and pain- 
 fully, as it has to me. 
 
 '' Get the strength St. Paul had, that is 
 all," resumed the old man, '' then there need 
 be no fears ; but without that — " He shook 
 his head. 
 
 They were good and true words, though 
 they rang discordantly in Lance's ears. 
 '' He wanted sympathy," he said to himseK, 
 '' and not discouraging advice." He got up 
 presently, and wished his old tutor good- 
 night. 
 
 " He is a good fellow," he thought, as he 
 walked down the street ; " but he doesn't 
 understand, how should he ? I must fight 
 my battle my own way." 
 
 Perhaps it was Lance who did not under- 
 stand — Lance, who in his proud conscious-
 
 92 OWEN gwynne's geeat work. 
 
 ness of strength, had gone out to fight the 
 battle in armour he had not proved. 
 
 ^' Poor dear hoy," said John Eutherford 
 to himself, when he was left alone — "poor 
 dear hoy ! As brave as David ; as ready to 
 fight the giant, but not so wise, not so 
 humble. I fear there may be a defeat in 
 store for him before he is willing to put 
 away the armour wherein he trusts, and to 
 take up the humble sling and the pebbles 
 from the brook." 
 
 It might be so ; for Lance felt that his 
 life was getting harder than it had been 
 at first. It was like the beginning of a 
 voyage, treacherously quiet. Have not 
 most people known what it is to be in the 
 cabin of a vessel, waiting for the dreaded 
 turning of the paddle-wheels? You don't 
 know what is going on overhead, you- only 
 hear beUs and the trampling of feet, and 
 loud voices on the deck, as you wait in 
 ignorance and resignation for what fate and 
 the waves have in store for you. 
 
 Then suddenly all grows quiet. The
 
 OWEN gwynxe's great woek. 93 
 
 scream with which the steam has heeu 
 making its way out of the chimney ceases. 
 Instead, comes a steady, rushing sound — 
 an imperceptible ghding. ''We are ofP," 
 says somebody, and, looking at the dancing 
 reflection cast through the porthole from 
 the water upon the opposite wall, you see 
 that the waves seem shpping backwards. 
 "How quiet and smooth! How well I 
 am bearing it!" you say, and just then 
 the boat shivers and falls down an un- 
 fathomable precipice over the top of the 
 first breaker. 
 
 So it was with Lance. 
 
 He found, with surprise, that the voyage 
 had begun, the wrench was over, the deed 
 was done, and he was still ahve. He could 
 talk and do his work, and go through his 
 daily routine with great composm-e. He 
 thought he was getting over his seasoning 
 capitally, when suddenly up rose a great 
 wave of bitter regi'et, and dashed liim doT^ii 
 helpless into the very slough of despond. 
 He passed through his ordeal quite silently.
 
 94 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 To draw back was impossible ; to complain 
 would be unmanly. 
 
 But when he came out again, his strong 
 nerves were shaken, much of his fire 
 quenched, and the buoyancy of his youth 
 gone from him for ever. 
 
 Maxy w^as at this time his greatest com- 
 fort. The two brothers unwittingly saved 
 each other. Lance had never yet loved 
 anything as he did this little, frail, bright- 
 hearted being who adored him. The know- 
 ledge that his mere presence brought to 
 Maxy the fulness of content reacted on 
 himself. He was very rarely gloomy when 
 he was with his brother. 
 
 And it was simply new life to Maxy ; his 
 narrow existence was suddenly made broad, 
 his empty heart filled to overflowing. The 
 once lonely hours were laden with expecta- 
 tion, and every evening Lance's returning 
 step brought the colour to his cheeks. 
 
 " Why, you are really getting on, my 
 boy!" the doctor said to him with pleased 
 surprise.
 
 ot\t:n gwynne's gee at work. 95 
 
 *' Of course," responded Maxy, cliuckliiig 
 inwardly at the mere idea of not getting on 
 when he had Lance at home. 
 
 It was worth something to have brought 
 joy and colom' into a Hfe so barren. To 
 make Maxy happy became his brother's 
 greatest interest. It was not a hard task. 
 Lance had taken his measm'e, and knew 
 how to keep him amused with a store of 
 quaint sayings and odd stories that were 
 hidden away in some recess of his grave 
 nature. Earely smiling himself, he liked 
 to hear Maxy's peals of merriment. Mrs. 
 Gwyime might and did say '' Hush " at 
 some of the boy's shouts of laughter, but 
 surely they would have rung like silver in 
 the hearts of most mothers. 
 
 Meanwhile the great work went pon- 
 derously on its way. It demanded vast 
 sacrifices of time and thought and toil, 
 consumed cart-loads of foolscap paper, and 
 remorselessly took up long, bright summer 
 days, and nights from which it banished 
 sleep. It printed deep crows-feet in the
 
 96 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 corners of Owen Gwynne's eyes, and exer- 
 cised Mrs. Gwynne in the virtues of 
 hopefulness and patience. 
 
 Eor the great work had its caprices — 
 its hot and cold fever fits, during which 
 it alternately lifted up its author and 
 his wife to heights of bliss that seemed 
 well-nigh within their grasp, or let them 
 shiver forlornly on the cold verge of 
 despair. 
 
 '' My dear," Mr. Gwynne would say one 
 day — " my dear, I have good news for you. 
 I have been looking over my work this 
 morning, and am pretty well satisfied. In 
 fact, I see no reason, I really don't, — unless 
 something quite unforeseen occurs, — I see 
 no reason why it should not be out by 
 Christmas year." 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne did not exult openly, but 
 a faint spot of colour rose in her sallow 
 cheek, and she gave a little gasp of satis- 
 faction. 
 
 ^' Yes, I think we may fairly look for that. 
 I do indeed," resumed Mr. Gwynne, diving
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 97 
 
 rapidly first into one di'awer and then into 
 another. ^' And what is more, in my opinion, 
 the hook will do. It appears to me to he 
 good and new. It doesn't read hadly. I 
 don't know of any previous writer who has 
 gone over my ground. In fact, my dear, 
 there's matter here," bringing his hand 
 heavily down on to a pile of manuscript, 
 —^^ Matter!" 
 
 ^^ There's httle doubt of that," said 
 Mrs. Gwynne. 
 
 '' I see my w^ay now, I think. Yes, 
 Christmas year. I give myself till then ; 
 but that's about the date, you will find. 
 After that, my dear, I shall put myself in 
 yom- hands. You are a business woman. 
 A poor bookworm knows nothing of bar- 
 gaining. You must settle that. I shall 
 have done my part. 
 
 "It is a very serious business," said 
 Mrs. Gwynne. 
 
 " Well, I give you fair warning. You 
 may be beginning to look about you. I 
 myseK might be incHned to give my old 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 publishers a turn; but I shan't interfere. 
 It's your business, not mine." 
 
 '^ Of course it requires a great deal of 
 consideration." 
 
 ^' Doubtless; but you have some time 
 before you — Christmas year. And now 
 you mustn't keep me talking. If I am to 
 fulfil my share of the bargain, you must 
 leave me undisturbed as much as possible. 
 If you hke to glance over these sheets, I 
 think you will be rather pleased." And 
 Mrs. Gwynne sat down patiently to glance 
 over some dozen pages of her own hand- 
 writing, which she had revised, copied, 
 recopied, and punctuated, until she could 
 have reproduced them easily from memory, 
 without the omission of a comma. 
 
 But there was a reverse side to the 
 shield. "It is not always May," the month 
 of promise. 
 
 There were days when Mrs. Gwynne's 
 heart sunk within her. She had learnt by 
 experience to read quickly the signs of a 
 collapse. The closed drawers, and unHttered
 
 OWEN gwyx:se's great woek. 99 
 
 aspect of the study table ; the spectacles 
 pushed up on to the top of Mr. Gwynne's 
 head ; his ruffled hair, and the meek look of 
 deprecation with which he met her glance 
 as she opened the study door, were to her 
 tokens as clear as any words. 
 
 ''You have had no interruptions to-day, 
 Owen. I trust you have made progress." 
 
 " Well, my dear, I can't say. I am 
 afraid — in point of fact, no. I have not 
 done as much to-day as I could wish." 
 And Mr. Gwynne laid hold nervously on 
 one forlorn blotted sheet of paper, and tried 
 to shuffle it away. 
 
 "Is that all your work?" asked Mrs. 
 Gwynne, potating to it inexorably. 
 
 "All? No, certainly not; at least — 
 Eeally you — you are um-easonable. One 
 can't be always writing," said the poor 
 author, his patience fairly gi^dng way. 
 " But only those few lines all day ? " 
 " Well, if you will have it, only those few 
 lines all day, and they are soon disposed 
 of," said Mr. Gwynne, tearing the paper
 
 100 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 into small pieces, and hastily scattering 
 them on to the fire. 
 
 '' Owen ! " called Mrs. Gwynne, and she 
 seized the tongs and caught at the shrivel- 
 ling fragments as if they were bank-notes. 
 
 Mr. Gwynne seated himseK by the fire- 
 place with a short laugh, and beat his hand 
 upon his knee. 
 
 " Why did you do that ? " asked his wife, 
 facing him tongs in hand. 
 
 * ' I've been thinking seriously of doing 
 the same with the whole of it," said Mr. 
 Gwynne. '^ Upon my word, I beUeve it's 
 all it's good for. Jane had better have it to 
 light the fire with. It would be a weight 
 off my mind." 
 
 '' This is idle talking," she said steadily. 
 *' I am glad to know that you don't mean 
 what you are saying." 
 
 '^Indeed, then, you know a great deal 
 more than I know myself. I do mean what 
 I have said. It is not the first time, either, 
 that I have thought of giving it aU up. 
 I should have done it long since if it had
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 101 
 
 not been for you. Tlie book is not worth. 
 all the sacrifices we have made for it." 
 
 ^^Owen!" 
 
 " I tell yon it is not. Besides, the laboin* 
 is too much for me. I wonder liow much, 
 you know of the research it entails ; and 
 then you expect it to be wiitten straight off 
 like a twopenny-halfpenny novel." 
 
 "I am sorry I spoke as I did," said Mrs. 
 Gwynne quite gently. " Only sometimes 
 the waiting seems rather long." 
 
 *' There you are again — so like a woman. 
 The waiting rather long ! Well, you will 
 have no waiting at all when the book is 
 destroyed. It will be the simplest in every 
 way; and then Lance can go back to his 
 painting, and we shall not have his doleful 
 looks always before us." 
 
 '^ Indeed, you needn't trouble yoiu'self 
 about Lance," said Mrs. Gwynne; "he is 
 doing remarkably weU." 
 
 She had seen her mistake ere this, and 
 was keenly repenting it, the more so that 
 it was one not easily repaii'ed. For nearly
 
 102 OWEN GWYNNE S GEE AT WOEK. 
 
 half an hour she sat by the study fire, 
 waiting and watching her opportunity, and 
 barely answering the bitter sentences by 
 which her husband was unconsciously work- 
 ing off his fit of weariness. 
 
 When she saw that the moment had 
 come, she set to work with wonderful 
 patience, and with a tact that was not 
 natural to her, but was taught her by in- 
 tense anxiety, to rekindle slowly and care- 
 fully the dying lamp of his ambition. 
 
 "Would it not be wrong that the world 
 should be allowed to lose such a work as 
 this would be ? " 
 
 " It would be no loss," sharply returned 
 Mr. Gwynne. 
 
 She let that pass, and went on talking. 
 She spoke of authors who had succeeded — 
 Owen wrote better than they did ; of 
 authors who had failed — how entirely Owen 
 had avoided their mistakes ; and by degrees 
 Owen was brought to acknowledge that he 
 once thought he had done so. She turned 
 the conversation cunningly to passages in
 
 OWEN gwtnne's gee at wokk. 103 
 
 Ids book wlLich she knew to be his favoui'- 
 ites, and asked leading questions about 
 them. She praised, with delicate praise, 
 his industry, his perseverance under diffi- 
 culties — just those points in which he felt 
 that he had failed, and so she enhsted his 
 vanity on her side. Then she spoke of final 
 success as certain, unheeding his depressed 
 attitude and repeated shakes of the head. 
 And she sketched in the outline of one or 
 two castles in the air that it would almost 
 have broken his heai-t to relinquish. 
 
 At last he lifted his head and answered. 
 No matter though it was only to throw 
 scorn on her pleasant assertions. That gave 
 her an opportunity of repeating them more 
 strongly. She saw dii^ectly when he began 
 to wish her to contradict him. He gave 
 melancholy superior smiles, and said women 
 httle knew. His wife cordially admitted 
 that. 
 
 *^ As to success," continued Mr. Gwynne, 
 ^^it depends very little on the intrinsic value 
 of a book. It's all luck and favouritism.'*
 
 104 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 still Mrs. Gwynne was not to be daunted. 
 She returned quietly to the charge, and by- 
 and-by Mr. Gwynne was induced to go back 
 to the study table, unfold his manuscript, 
 and read aloud one or two of the passages 
 she had been praising. When she saw him 
 stop to make a note on the margin, Mrs. 
 Gwynne drew a long breath of rehef. Her 
 work was nearly done, but though it would 
 be unwise to let him write any more this 
 evening, he must leave off with a fresh idea 
 in his head, that would make him eager to 
 begin working the next morning. 
 
 This was presently brought about. 
 
 ''After all, one can but fail," said Mr. 
 Gwynne, with a sigh that was no longer 
 despairing. 
 
 Then Mrs. Gwynne went aw^ay to her 
 own room, and sat down beside the empty 
 fireplace, utterly worn out. 
 
 The escape had been very narrow ; her 
 victory had been hardly won — hardly won, 
 laborious, exhausting. She must be care- 
 ful not to run such a risk again. All was
 
 OWEN GWTNNE's GEEAT WOPwE. 105 
 
 safe tliis time, but was tliere no truth in 
 what Owen Gwynne had said ? Did he not 
 see some things clearly at that moment 
 when all the glamour of self-deception had 
 gone fi'om him ? Would success indeed 
 come at last ? and would it be worth all 
 this stiTiggle? 
 
 Yes ; it should be — it must be. She must 
 not give way to any such weakness as this. 
 She, at least, must never be found faltering 
 or doubting till the end had come. 
 
 And yet Mrs. Gwynne sighed.
 
 106 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 One day in the following spring Lance, 
 coming home at one o'clock, found Maxy 
 flushed and eager, bursting with some 
 tidings. 
 
 ^^ Your friends have come. Lance," he 
 called out as soon as the door was opened. 
 *' They have both been here to see you. 
 They could not wait, but they will come 
 again." 
 
 *^ Who will come — who is it?" asked 
 Lance, coming in with his usual hstless 
 step. 
 
 ^^ Nigel Euthven," answered Maxy, ^' and 
 Austin Hope. They were afraid I should 
 forget their names, but I knew I shouldn't.
 
 OWEN GWYNNE S GEEAT WOEK. 107 
 
 And they sent theii' love. They are great 
 friends of yours, Lance, they said." The 
 last words were spoken questioningly, for 
 Lance's face did not express any special 
 gladness at the thought of seeing his great 
 friends. 
 
 ^' Austin Hope here ? " he said. 
 
 ^' Yes, and Nigel Kuthven, too. You are 
 glad. Lance, are not you ? " 
 
 ^'No," answered Lance abruptly. 
 
 He sat down, and then got up, and 
 walked to the window. Maxy sat upright 
 and watched him wonderingly. 
 
 ^^Dear me," he said, half aloud, "and 
 they seemed so fond of Lance, and so sorry 
 he was out, and sure that he would be glad 
 they were come." 
 
 '^Of all people in the world," thought 
 Lance, looking out into the Abbey Eoad — 
 "of all people in the world, x^ustin Hope ! 
 Is one never to be left alone ? Is the old 
 wound never to heal over ? Is it aU to be 
 dragged out again, and talked over, and 
 discussed, and wondered at ? Is one to be
 
 108 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 argued with, and asked for explanations, 
 and misunderstood, and badgered, and tor- 
 tured ? Why can't they leave one in peace ? 
 Austin Hope, too ! If it had been only 
 Nigel, who hasn't got it in him to care really 
 about art or anything else, but Austin, with 
 his dogged one-sidedness — what on earth 
 can bring him here unless he has come after 
 me!" 
 
 Lance stood at the window, and Maxy 
 watched him, puzzled and disappointed. 
 
 " Lance," said his mother coming in, 
 ^' there have been two young men here 
 asking for you." 
 
 " So Maxy tells me," said Lance, slowly 
 turning round. 
 
 '^ They are Italian painters, are not 
 they? " asked Mrs. Gwynne. 
 
 " No. They are both EngHshmen." 
 
 " Ah, well, artists, I suppose ? " 
 
 ^^Yes," answered Lance, looking at his 
 mother. 
 
 If she had seemed disquieted by the visit 
 of his artist-friends, hnks with the old life,
 
 OWEN gwyxne's geeat woek. 109 
 
 lie would probably have felt injured and in- 
 dignant at her want of trust in him ; but he 
 was perverse, and her genuine indifference, 
 her perfect security and unconsciousness of 
 all that it was so hard for him to bear, 
 ruffled him still more. 
 
 ^' They won't trouble you, mother," he 
 said quietly. 
 
 And she answered as quietly, '' Oh, no. 
 You had better go out to see them: it might 
 distm^b yom' father to have them coming 
 here." 
 
 ^* Are you soriy they came. Lance ? " 
 asked Maxy, w^hen his mother had left the 
 room. 
 
 " I wish they were at Jericho," said 
 Lance. 
 
 *^ Then look here," continued Maxy, with 
 his usual quick acquiescence in cii'cum- 
 stances he did not understand. '' Can't 
 you go off to Daneswood or somewhere 
 directly the Bank shuts, and when they 
 come I can say you are out ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," answered Lance.
 
 110 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 ''What good would that do? You don't 
 suppose I mean to shirk seeing them ? " 
 
 '' Oh, I didn't know," said Maxy, with- 
 out a shade of annoyance on his face, 
 though it was very seldom that Lance 
 spoke to him so sharply. 
 
 In the afternoon, as Lance turned into 
 the High Street on his way home, he saw 
 his two friends some way in front, saunter- 
 ing along in the pale spring sunshine, and 
 evidently waiting for him. 
 
 There was no time for embarrassment. 
 Lance quickened his pace to overtake them, 
 for the moment feeling nothing but pleasure 
 at the sight of the familiar figures, so 
 strongly recalling Eome, that it seemed odd 
 to see them in the broad, clean street of an 
 Enghsh country town. But there was 
 Nigel staring in at the shop windows, and 
 Austin Hope walking by his side with slow 
 meditative strides and his eyes on the 
 ground. 
 
 The meeting w^as a very cordial one on 
 all sides. Whatever remonstrances Austin
 
 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. Ill 
 
 Hope might have in store for Lance, he 
 said nothing about them now, only shook 
 hands warmly, asked questions, and told 
 Eoman news just as heartily as in the good 
 old times. 
 
 "He was staying for a couple of days 
 with Xigel," he said in answer to his friend's 
 inquiries; " and he had come to Marhxtowe 
 on business. Lance should hear about it 
 later," he added, with a momentary glance 
 that told Lance a good deal of what he had 
 to expect. He went on to say ^' that he was 
 on his way to Xorway to fish and sketch 
 after rather a hard winter's work." 
 
 " And you, Nigel ? " asked Lance. 
 
 Nigel, it appeared, had not done anything 
 paii:icular, but he was going to work hard ; 
 and he had come home to see his people. 
 Was it possible that Lance had never found 
 out that his father now possessed a house 
 — a queer, out-of-the-way, Httle old place, 
 within thi'ee or four miles of Marlixtowe, 
 that had been left him by an uncle lately 
 dead ?
 
 112 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 ''After wandering about Europe for tlie 
 last twenty years, lie is trying to live in it, 
 poor man," said Nigel. " He finds it hard 
 work; but you are coming home with us 
 now to judge for yourseK." 
 
 Lance had an engagement, but promised 
 to pay them a visit, foreign fashion, in the 
 evening. " Hope does not mean to favour 
 us with his company long," said Mgel ; 
 " so pray come, if you don't mind the 
 darkest lanes in England." 
 
 "Has he been working at all?" asked 
 Lance, as Nigel turned into a shop, leaving 
 the two others alone for a minute. 
 
 Austin laughed. " Not he. He says he 
 is going to do something wonderful now^, 
 but of course he won't. He'll dawdle at 
 home all the summer, I expect. His 
 father's house is the most picturesque 
 Httle nest of a place I ever saw; and his 
 sister — have you ever seen her ? " 
 
 " Never ! is she hke him ? " 
 
 " I should like to have the painting of 
 her, that's all.
 
 OVTE'S GWTN'Ne's GREAT WORK. 113 
 
 *' AH right, Nigel ; I'm ready. Mind you 
 come as early as you can, Lance. A rive- 
 
 ^^Wonderfully gracious," thought Lance, 
 as he looked after them, *^hut I don't trust 
 him." 
 
 It was raining and very dark that evening 
 when Lance, having lost himself several 
 times among the intricate lanes between 
 Marlixtowe and the Old Bridge House, stood 
 at last in a deep porch, rang a jangling bell, 
 and smelt a scent of violets. 
 
 He could see httle, except a rising height 
 that seemed to be covered with wood, be- 
 hind him, and in front the ground fell away 
 suddenly towards what Lance judged must 
 be the river. ^' A lonely place," he thought, 
 ^* I suppose it is the right house." Ap- 
 parently it was, for he was presently 
 admitted into a dimly hghted Httle hall. 
 Then another door was opened and showed 
 Lance an oak-wainscoted room that struck 
 him with an immediate sense of old- 
 fashioned brightness. It was not much 
 
 TOL. I. . I
 
 114 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 bigger than the square parlour at homey 
 but it was quaintly shaped and full of odd 
 nooks and comers. In a deep recess, raised 
 two steps from the floor, was a long, many- 
 latticed window. A high tile-hned chimney- 
 piece filled another recess, and was made 
 beautiful just now by a glowing wood fire. 
 
 Scattered about were baskets and jars of 
 flowers and greenery, and there were plenty 
 of bright colours harmoniously blended. 
 True, the Turkey carpet was worn thread- 
 bare, and the red baize cushions in the 
 raised window seat were faded yellow by the 
 sun; but somehow, the room looked none 
 the worse for that. 
 
 There were four people gathered in front 
 of the ruddy hearth, Austin Hope was 
 playing backgammon with a shght, grey- 
 haired man, and playing very badly, for 
 he had lost every game, though his antago- 
 nist was only giving hah attention, being 
 more intent on admiring his son Nigel 
 than in making points and covering his 
 blots.
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's gee at WOEK. 115 
 
 Nigel stood by the chimney-piece, playing 
 sweet melancholy old aii's on the violin, 
 making it sigh and sing, and tell without 
 words the stories of its songs. 
 
 Lastly, a gui sat in a high-backed chak, 
 shadowed by the heavy mantelpiece, with 
 a spinning-wheel before her, and the red fire- 
 glow catching her cheek, her raised hand, 
 and the heavy woollen folds of her blue gown. 
 
 ^^ Austin was right," thought Lance, as 
 he stood for a minute looking in upon them ; 
 and then Nigel turned round, and they all 
 got up to greet him. 
 
 The backgammon and the talk, and 
 music went on in an easy lazy way after 
 Lance had been made welcome. 
 
 ^^You have improved, Nigel," said his 
 sister approvingly, as he stopped plajdng. 
 
 ^' Ah! " he answered, with one or two soft 
 parting chords, '^ after all, there's nothing 
 like it in the w^orld. Ursula, sometimes 
 I think I have mistaken my profession." 
 
 '* Nigel ! " exclaimed Ursula indignantly. 
 
 ^' Nigel is always thinking he has mis-
 
 116 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 taken his profession," said Austin Hope 
 quietly. ^' What was it you wished to be the 
 other day at Paris — a doctor, wasn't it ? " 
 
 '' Well," said Nigel, '' I only talk of chang- 
 ing, and there is Lance Gwynne has done it 
 in earnest. Why don't you call him to 
 account? " 
 
 Lance glanced involuntarily at his friend, 
 but Austin never turned his eyes in his 
 direction. 
 
 He moved away from the backgammon 
 board presently, and said to Ursula, ^' I wish 
 you would just stay as you are for a couple 
 of minutes, you would make such a good 
 study." And he took .a note-book from his 
 pocket and began to draw rapidly. 
 
 Ursula sat still, looking patient and a little 
 bored, as people generally do when they are 
 being made into studies. 
 
 ^' May I go on spinning?" she asked 
 resignedly. 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 Nigel laid down his violin. " Always at 
 it/' lie said to Austin,
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's great WORK. 117 
 
 *' Just stand out of my Hght, will you ? 
 Ah, what a bore ! the fire is going down, 
 and I wanted to get that clear Hght." 
 
 Nigel drew^ the logs together, and blew 
 them into a blaze, and then went behind 
 his friend to look. Finally, he got a bit of 
 paper and began to draw also. 
 
 Old Captain Euthven looked on admh- 
 ingly. 
 
 ^^Now, Lance," said Nigel, ^'better try 
 too." 
 
 '^No, thank you," said Lance. 
 
 '' Then keep the fire going, there's a good 
 fellow. The bellows are on the hearth. 
 Don't blow too hard." 
 
 Lance did as he was told, knelt down and 
 blew softly. 
 
 '' This is rather hard on you," said Ursula, 
 looking down at him. 
 
 ''It's aU in the service of art," observed 
 Nigel. 
 
 Lance did not look up, but blew the 
 bellows sedulously. 
 
 No one spoke for a few minutes.
 
 118 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 ^^ I beg your pardon for keeping you 
 waiting so long, Captain Euthven," said 
 Austin at last, ''but tbat effect of light 
 was so good it would have been a pity to 
 lose it." 
 
 " Of course — of course — undoubtedly." 
 
 Captain Euthven was a blind and awe- 
 struck worshipper of art. He watched 
 Austin's fingers reverently, mechanically 
 replacing the pieces on the backgammon 
 board meanwhile. 
 
 '' I shall be ready in one moment now." 
 
 '' No sort of hurry, my dear sir." 
 
 ''There " 
 
 "May I see?" said Ursula. "Oh, is 
 that all?" 
 
 " Quite enough for me, thank you very 
 much." And Austin returned to his game. 
 
 Lance had risen and was standing with 
 his back to the fire. 
 
 "Wish me good luck. Miss Euthven," 
 said Austin, as Ursula stood for a moment 
 behind her father's chair to watch the 
 game. " I have been beaten so often,"
 
 OTTEX GWTNNE S GREAT WORK. 119 
 
 *'Not I," Ursula ansTvered gaily. ^' My 
 sympathy is all for success." 
 
 Somehow the careless words cut Lance 
 to the quick. Why had he come here, 
 where they were aU so happy and hght- 
 hearted, to overshadow them vdth the 
 gloom of a disappointed man. And why 
 did this girl, with the soft brown eyes, pro- 
 nounce against him so hghtly the world's 
 hard verdict against the unsuccessful ? 
 
 It was a disappointment to Captain Euth- 
 ven that evening that neither of his guests 
 could be induced to talk about pictiu'es. 
 Hard as he strove to guide the conversation 
 into an artistic channel, one of the others, 
 either thoughtlessly or by design, invariably 
 caused it to flow back again into the cuiTent 
 of every day topics. Even Austin Hope 
 refused to improve the shining hour, and 
 embarked in an endless discussion about 
 Italian pohtics. Captain Euthven was in 
 despau\ His devotion to art was without 
 Hmit. It was zeal not according to know- 
 ledge, for it had come to him late in hfe,
 
 120 OWEN gwynne's gee at woke. 
 
 and liad grown up from liis intensely 
 sympathetic nature, and his love to his 
 son Nigel. 
 
 To tell the real truth, David Euthven 
 knew nothing in the world about pictures, 
 though his greatest ambition was to be 
 thought a good judge of them. He de- 
 ceived himself, as carefully as he strove 
 to deceive others ; not from vanity — he was 
 as simple-hearted as a child — but because 
 he could not bear to be out of sympathy 
 with those he cared for. Besides, he 
 fancied that Nigel would trust and look 
 up to him more if he shared with him his 
 enthusiasm for his chosen calling. 
 
 So, during the years he had spent abroad, 
 wandering from one foreign city to an- 
 other, Captain Euthven worked very hard. 
 He walked conscientiously through miles 
 of picture gallery, and laboriously learnt 
 by heart the names and works of the old 
 masters. A visit to a new gallery was 
 always an anxious time to him, for he 
 was secretly afraid of admiring the wrong
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 121 
 
 pictiu'es, or, still worse, of not finding out 
 the right ones. With wistful eyes he 
 watched the looks and gestiu'es of happy 
 self-confident judges ; and he never failed 
 honestly to admire anything in which 
 it hecame clear to him he ought to see 
 beauty. 
 
 In all this he flattered himself that he 
 w^as taking Nigel in ; and not for the world 
 would Nigel have undeceived the dear old 
 father. But his own taste was not always 
 orthodox. To see him rave about some 
 obscure fresco ignored by Yasari, and pass 
 by a picture of world-wide renown ^ith 
 doubtful half-patronizing approval, fiUed 
 David Euthven with a mixtm^e of bewilder- 
 ment and admiration. Besides, Nigel was 
 not constant to his objects of enthusiasm, so 
 his father often had to recant his opinions 
 as soon as they were formed. But this was 
 quickly done. A shrug of the shoulders, 
 a shake of the head, a few words of faint 
 praise from Nigel or one of his friends, and 
 it was singular how quickly the glamour
 
 122 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 faded from the picture, and its faults re- 
 vealed themselves to Captain Euthven's 
 eyes. 
 
 Of course it was a weakness, but not 
 quite an unlovable one. His simplicity, 
 humility, and longing still to influence and 
 share the interests of the beloved son made 
 it almost pathetic. 
 
 Lookers-on thought it strange that the 
 son should come before such a daughter as 
 Ursula in his love, but so it was. Ursula 
 knew it, and was content. The knowledge 
 had grown up with her from childhood. 
 Nigel was the idol of his father's heart, 
 though he was often disappointed in him. 
 He did not think his son faultless, for in 
 idolatry there must ever be a lack of rest, 
 and the sense of something wanting ; but 
 he loved him with that large love that 
 hopeth and beheveth all things. 
 
 Nigel was very different from Lance's 
 other friend, Austin Hope. Austin was an 
 artist by the right divine of nature ; Nigel 
 from circumstances, and also by descent on 
 his mother's side.
 
 OWEN GWTNXE's GEEAT WORK. 123 
 
 She was the daughter of a well-known 
 French landscape painter, whom Da^dd 
 Ruthven, home on furlough from India, 
 and wandering about France, had gi'own 
 to know at Avignon. 
 
 In those days Achille la Grange's ateher 
 was one of the Hons of the to^ii, as well 
 known to all the laquais de j^lccce of Avignon 
 as the Palais des Papes itself. Every travel- 
 ler was sent to visit it, and David Ruthven, 
 then a young man, but abeady a painstaking 
 and conscientious tourist, took it in his 
 rormd of sight-seeing as a matter of course. 
 
 It was one of the odd unexpected chances 
 on which a whole hfe turns. He came in 
 one day fi'om the glaring sunny street into 
 the shaded studio. No one was there but 
 the artist himseK, who speedily discerning 
 that his visitor was not a connoisseur, took 
 no further heed of him after a courteous 
 greeting. He went on painting, and David 
 Ruthven, a little bored and rather awe-struck 
 at his silent industry, went softly round the 
 ateher. Finally he stood still for so long a
 
 124 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 time that the painter, missing the sound of 
 his footsteps, looked round carelessly to see 
 which of his works had arrested the young 
 Englishman's attention. He was not look- 
 ing at a picture at all, but was standing at 
 a window that opened upon the court behind 
 the house, and which was one of those 
 picturesque quiet places in which southern 
 houses abound. A fountain trickled plea- 
 santly, some orange-trees and cactuses stood 
 ranged in tubs. The sun shone softly 
 through a trellice of vine leaves. In front 
 of the trellice there was a moss-covered 
 stone bench and table, shadowed by a big 
 plane-tree. 
 
 Monsieur la Grange came, brush in hand, 
 and glanced over the young man's shoulder. 
 Not much to look at, surely. He saw a 
 peasant woman in clattering sabots going to 
 the fountain with a pitcher balanced on 
 her head. He also saw his wife — stout, 
 bustling, and good-humoured — carrying an 
 enormous basket heaped up with grapes and 
 golden melons. A solemn poodle, shaved
 
 OWEN GWTNNE S GREAT TVOEK. lZ5 
 
 into an unsuccessful burlesque of a lion, 
 marched at her side gravely, but glanced 
 back out of the corners of his eyes at Claire, 
 the painter's daughter. She ^ras slyly 
 stealing gi'apes over her mother's shoulder, 
 and making a sign of silence to the poodle, 
 who, though viewing the matter in a serious 
 light, had evidently decided on not betray- 
 ing her. 
 
 David Kuthven had come to see pictures. 
 Well, he had found one that pleased him, 
 and he carried its memory with him to his 
 grave. 
 
 He started when M. La Grange touched 
 his shoulder, and muttered something about 
 the splendid fruit. The old Frenchman 
 was good-natured. His visitor, poor young 
 man, clearly knew nothing about painting, 
 but he had a pleasant face. 
 
 "You love grapes?" he said. '' Allons! 
 my wife shall give us some." 
 
 That was the beginning. Claire la Grange 
 was the darling of the household. All her 
 life she had been her father's model, critic,
 
 126 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 plaything. Slie haunted his ateher like a 
 sunbeam, and played merry tricks on the 
 old artists — Monsieur la Grange's com- 
 peers. Everybody loved her ; even Mal- 
 brook, the poodle, pitied her childishness 
 and forgave her, though it was her fault 
 that half his life was passed on his hind 
 legs, with a palette on one paw, and a mahl 
 stick against his shoulder. 
 
 No one but the shrewd though kindly 
 mother had begun to realize that at seven- 
 teen years old a jparti ought to be sought 
 for Claire. David Euthven was not much 
 of a parti, but he was richer than the young 
 art students, who had nothing, her mother 
 said, to endow her with but their knapsacks 
 and their bad pictures. Besides, Claire 
 liked him. 
 
 Yet there were dark days at Avignon 
 when she had gone to India with her 
 English husband. They need not have 
 grudged him his great happiness, poor 
 fellow; it did not last very long. Just a 
 few cloudless years, and then the oft-re-
 
 o^YEN G Wynne's great ^yoek. 1-27 
 
 peated Indian troubles. Claire and lier 
 little cliildi-en fell ill, and were ordered 
 home. Captain Eutliven could not go with 
 them, for there was fighting' going on at 
 that time, and besides, he must work for 
 his pension. 
 
 So the bitter parting came, and was soon 
 over. David Euthven took his wife on 
 board, and watched the treasm-e-laden ship 
 go slowly out to &ea. The light of his life 
 went with it. 
 
 But the sun, when it sets on one side of 
 the world rises on the other. It was hke 
 a new sumise to the old people at Avignon, 
 when their darhng, with her golden-haired 
 boy and the baby Ursula, came back to her 
 father's house. 
 
 Yet a few more years of hard work and 
 fighting out in India and Captain Euthven 
 was wounded in a skirmish, invahded, and 
 pensioned. Never was a wound more wel- 
 come. He sailed for home in overflowing 
 joy and hope. But he was too late for one 
 thing — just for one.
 
 128 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 Poor David Euthven ! Tears and broken 
 words greeted him at Avignon. Claire — it 
 liad been a sbort illness — an angel, they said, 
 now prayed for him in heaven. Only three 
 weeks ago they had lain Claire in her grave. 
 
 They gave him a paper on which she had 
 tried to trace a few words of comfort and 
 farewell. ^^ The good God bless thee, my 
 friend," she wrote in the English that she 
 had never learnt to speak easily. ^* I leave 
 thee ; but there are great consolations, and 
 our boy — ■■ — " There her strength failed. 
 The pencil dropped on to the floor. 
 
 Tears and kisses had since then oblite- 
 rated the faint pencil marks ; but David 
 Ruthven still kept the folded paper, and the 
 boy became to him a ' great consolation.' 
 
 They said he bore his sorrow very quietly. 
 After the manner of his nation, he spoke 
 little, and seemed chiefly to care about 
 being left alone. 
 
 On the morning after his return, the door 
 was pushed open, and his two children 
 appeared hand in hand, old Malbrook the
 
 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 129 
 
 poodle pacing solemnly between them. 
 Ursula, poor little maiden, came in, brigiit 
 and miconscious, to show her new frock to 
 the stranger, and going straight up to him, 
 held up the little black petticoat joyfully 
 before his eyes. 
 
 Nigel put it aside gravely. ^' Mother 
 sent her love," he said, as if dehvering a 
 message. " She said " 
 
 The boy stopped and hesitated. It was 
 partly shyness, partly fright at the strong 
 convulsive clasp that was laid upon' his 
 shoulder ; perhaps, too, a sudden memory 
 of the weak voice that had taught him his 
 message. He faltered, and then flinging 
 liimseK on to the floor, bmied his face m 
 the woolly part of Malbrook, and sobbed 
 passionately. 
 
 His father picked him up and held him 
 against his breast. '^ Nigel," he whispered 
 presently. '' Hush, Nigel; I am sorry, too, 
 though I can't cry." 
 
 Half an hour afterwards Nigel was going 
 round the garden, talking eagerly, with his 
 
 YOL. I. K
 
 130 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 
 
 hand clasped tightly in his father's. He 
 had forgotten his stormy grief, hut David 
 Euthven remembered it. 
 
 It is easy to guess how Nigel drifted into 
 being an artist. The old painter and his 
 wife dearly loved their grandchildren, and 
 as long as they hved Captain Euthven 
 would not leave Avignon. 
 
 So Nigel and Ursula grew up among 
 pictures and painters, as their mother had 
 done. They had great games of cache- 
 cache among the dusty frames in the ateher, 
 and their play v/as of artists, and sitters, 
 and picture-dealers. No httle girl in Avig- 
 non had such a doll as the lay-figure that 
 Ursula dragged hither and thither from the 
 time she was half its size. 
 
 To each of them the artistic temperament 
 had in some measure descended. Ursula 
 could not draw ; hut in hearty and eye, and 
 taste, she was an artist. Nigel had great 
 mechanical facility, plenty of imagination, 
 and an eye for colour. Sls»: crude attempts 
 at drawing were received with enthusiasm.
 
 OWEN gwynne's GEEAT WuKK. 131 
 
 His grandfather nearly shed tears over his 
 first portrait — a sketch of poor Malbrook, 
 one part of whose body was painted boldly 
 in Chinese white, the other in pink madder. 
 Of course Nigel soon declared that he would 
 be an artist, and nothing else. 
 
 Austin Hope had not grown up in such 
 a bed of roses. No one had the wish or the 
 power to oppose his choice of a profession, 
 which was perhaps fortunate, for opposition 
 w^ould have made httle difference to him. 
 But he had been left to make his own way 
 in the world. Now,. after a hard struggle, 
 fortune was beginning to smile on him, and 
 he took her smiles as calmly as her fi'owns. 
 Success was nothing to him in comparison 
 with the attainment of his ideal ; and as it 
 was always growing higher, he seemed to 
 himself as far from the goal as ever. 
 
 It was his uncompromising criticism that 
 Lance had most dreaded encountering, 
 but he knew that Austin would not let 
 him off. 
 
 *' Can't we have a walk to-morrow," he
 
 132 OWEN gwynne's geeat work. 
 
 asked, when tliey were parting that evening. 
 '' It is my last day here, and I want half a 
 dozen words with you." 
 
 ^^ Without the benefit of my company, I 
 suppose ? " said Nigel, laughing. 
 
 "Just so," returned Austin Hope. 
 '^ Where shall I meet you, Lance." 
 
 Lance made an appointment not with the 
 best grace in the world, and the next after- 
 noon, when the Bank closed, he found his 
 friend waiting for him on the steps. 
 
 '' Well, Austin," said Lance, taking the 
 bull by the horns, as they. left the High 
 Street behind them, " I haven't heard yet 
 what brought you to Marlixtowe." 
 
 "You," answered Austin briefly. 
 
 Then Lance saw that he was in for it, 
 and set himself to me'et the attack. He 
 would not ask any question to help on his 
 friend, but merely uttered a commonplace 
 "Eeally!" 
 
 " You know that as w^ell as I do," said 
 Austin. " You know I came to look after 
 you; so don't humbug."
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 133 
 
 ''1 don't see what is tlie good of it," 
 answered Lance. 
 
 '' I mean to hear the rights of the case," 
 continued Austin, '' and to try and enter 
 into your view of it— if that is possible," he 
 added as an after-thought. 
 
 '' I dare say it isn't possible for you," said 
 Lance. 
 
 '^You mean that you are inexcusable. 
 So I thought." 
 
 ^' I mean nothing of the sort, but I do 
 not expect you to enter into the motives 
 which have influenced me, and I should 
 really be much obhged if you would leave 
 me alone." 
 
 '' So I ^ill presently, when I know the 
 rights of it ; but I have come a long way 
 to see after you, and I am not going aw- ay 
 without trying at least to come to an ujider- 
 standing with you." 
 
 They had left the high road by this time, 
 
 and had turned into a lane with flowery 
 
 hedges, where there was nothing to disturb 
 
 , them but an occasional rabbit scuttling
 
 134 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 across their path, or a hrace of partridges 
 whirring up from the field heyond. 
 
 It was a httle while befoie Lance answered. 
 He was touched by the interest Austin 
 showed in him, and felt that he owed him 
 some confidence in return. But he felt also 
 that it was hopeless to come to an under- 
 standing as his friend proposed. Austin 
 vrould not, perhaps could not, take any hut 
 his own view of the subject. 
 
 What was the use of argument between 
 two people both of whose minds were 
 unalterably made up ? Neither would con- 
 vince the other. Lance knew, besides, 
 that he had but the sheer force of his will 
 to oppose to Austin. In heart and soul, in 
 conviction and sympathy, he sided with 
 him. Austin must not guess at the passion 
 of regret, longing, almost of remorse, that 
 he was trying to hide just then under an 
 indifferent manner. He must go on appear- 
 ing worldly-wise and reasonable, even when 
 Austin's words, hot as they became as the 
 discussion went on, hardly seemed strong 
 enough to express his own feeling.
 
 owEx gwynne's geeat woek. 135 
 
 ^'Well, x\ustin," he said, after a few 
 moments' debate with himself. '' I must 
 say again that I wish yon had been content 
 to leave this alone, though it's awfully good 
 of 3^0 Li to care so much about my concerns. 
 Of course, I feel that. And I'll tell you how 
 it came about if you wish it, only I know 
 that it will make no difference to you, and 
 it's a subject I hate myseK." 
 
 ** Well, go on," said Austin. 
 
 " I must go back to the time when I left 
 you in Italy and came home, if you will 
 have it," said Lance, with an impatient 
 sigh; and then he described it all, and ex- 
 plained the circumstances that had made it 
 impossible for him to disregard his mother's 
 appeal. 
 
 Austin hstened very attentively, only 
 saying *^ Well?" every now and then, and 
 asking, "Is that all?" when Lance 
 finished. 
 
 " Isn't it enough ? " asked Lance. 
 
 " No. Now listen to me." 
 
 Lance did Listen. It was just as he had
 
 136 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 expected. Austin ignored the necessity 
 that had heen upon him, and launched into 
 a vehement appeal to him to return to his 
 true vocation. In a short time he would be 
 able to give his people plenty of help, he 
 said, and so disposed cursorily of that side 
 of the question. In the meantime, did he 
 know what he was sacrificing in giving up 
 art? Lance tried to speak, but Austin 
 stopped him. By every means in his power 
 he tempted his friend. He repeated things 
 that had been said of him by great men at 
 Eome ; men, at the bare mention of whose 
 names Lance metaphorically raised his cap 
 from his head. To hear that they had 
 spoken of his powers with praise, and of 
 his absence with wonder, made the blood 
 rush up hotly into his cheeks. 
 
 Eecalling the past, and picturing a still 
 brighter future, Austin tried to work on 
 Lance by the remembrance of his glowing 
 hopes, the consciousness of his undeveloped 
 power, the greatness of the art to w^hich the 
 service of his hfe had once been pledged.
 
 OWEN GWTNNE's great WORK. 137 
 
 He had a sort of rough-and-ready eloquence 
 at his command, and the vehemence of his 
 feehng lent double strength to all he said. 
 
 They had stopped walking as their talk 
 went on, and were leaning over a gate, and 
 Lance's head was bent down upon his 
 hands. It was a moment of gi'eat tempta- 
 tion. 
 
 ''You'll come back," said Austin, laying 
 his hand heavily on his friend's shoulder. 
 
 ''I cannot," answered Lance, in a half- 
 stifled voice. 
 
 ''And why not? Is this book, this tre- 
 mendous histoiy, worth all you are giving 
 up for it?" 
 
 Lance started up. Suddenly there rushed 
 upon him a vi^id reahzation that his costly 
 sacrifice had indeed been made in vain. 
 The book ! how lengthy, heavy, and unutter- 
 ably dreary it appeared to him just then. 
 He laughed a short, bitter laugh. "You 
 should not cross-question one so, x\ustin." 
 
 " Ai'e you not to coimt the cost, then ? " 
 
 " What's the good ? You think you have
 
 138 OWEN GWYNNE's Gr.EAT WOEK. 
 
 shaken me, Hope ; but you have not — not 
 one bit. I don't know much about my 
 father's book, but that is neither here nor 
 there. I have made my choice, and I must 
 abide by it. And now I think we had better 
 be going home. I have listened patiently to 
 all you had to say. Are you satisfied ? " 
 
 ''Yes, satisfied so far that I see you are 
 not the man I used to believe in." 
 
 '' You judge unfairly, Austin." 
 
 '' On the contrary, I don't judge at all. 
 Most hkely you are right and I am wrong. 
 Only we don't see things from the same 
 point of view any longer, that's all." 
 
 '' Circumstances have changed ; not I." 
 
 '' Circumstances ! It's a convenient word. 
 As if we were to leave our lives to be 
 shaped by every outward thing that hap- 
 pens, and to drift along with the stream ! 
 We must bend our circumstances to us. 
 I am an artist. I serve a stern mistress ; 
 she accepts no divided homage. 
 
 '' You are right there," said Lance, look- 
 ing up and speaking more clearly.
 
 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 139 
 
 '^ And you mean to throw her over ? " 
 
 ^*' I must." 
 
 " Then it's all up. There's notlimg more 
 to be said," and x\ustin Hope lifted a 
 bramble on his stick, and flung it angrily 
 over the hedge. 
 
 "After all," said Lance, wearied and 
 ruffled, " there are other things in the 
 world besides painting." 
 
 Austin did not answer immediately. 
 " Very well," he said after a few minates, 
 '' I give up. Other things ? Of course there 
 are ; but when a man can say that, and feel 
 it, as regards his individual seK, he has 
 ceased to be an artist. I am satisfied." 
 
 ''You know," began Lance, and then 
 stopped. What should he gain by saying 
 more ? Let it be. That which was crooked 
 no words could make straight. 
 
 They walked back to the Old Bridge 
 House in constrained silence, or else made 
 attempts at commonplace talk that were 
 almost more uncomfortable. 
 
 Ursula Kuthven was sitting on the little
 
 140 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 terrace that overliung the river, with her 
 work upon her knees, when the two young 
 men returned. Lance, however, was in 
 haste to he gone, and would not wait to see 
 NigeL Austin made no effort to keep him, 
 and scarcely answered his old friend's 
 promise to see him off next day. 
 
 '' Don't trouble yourself," he said bluntly. 
 
 Lance turned, looked at him wistfully, and 
 went away with a grave greeting to Ursula. 
 
 ^' So you are reaUy going to leave us to- 
 morrow," said Ursula, when she and Austin 
 Hope were left alone. 
 
 "Yes," he answered absently, walking to 
 the end of the little terrace as he spoke, and 
 then returning. ^' Why yes ; I think it's time 
 for me to go, seeing I have failed in all 
 I came here hoping to do." 
 
 ^' Have you ? " asked Ursula, laying down 
 her work and looking up at him. 
 
 '' Thank you," he said, and he sat down 
 on the low wall beside her. 
 
 "Why do you thank me?" she asked, 
 rather puzzled.
 
 OWEN CtTvynxe's great woek. 141 
 
 He made no answer directly. 
 
 ^'I have had a great disappointment since 
 I came here," he said presently. " I have 
 a good mind to tell you about it. I 
 shouldn't, if you had gone on coolly work- 
 ing just now. Why did I thank you ? 
 Because you looked interested, you looked 
 as if you really rather cared ; so I think 
 I should Kke to tell you about it. Shall I ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Ursula. 
 
 '^ Not that there is much to tell, after all. 
 I dare say I shan't be able to make you 
 understand that it is any grievance ; but, 
 you see, I am a man of few fiiends, and 
 I don't Hke losing those I have." 
 
 " No," said Ursula, as he paused; *^ na- 
 turally." 
 
 "■ Xatm-ally, as 3^ou say. You saw Lance 
 Gwynne just now. Well, I have always 
 thought that man and I were as close fiiends 
 as two men could well be, and I find we are 
 not — that's all. 
 
 ''By friendship, you understand, I mean 
 sympathy in thought and opinion," he con-
 
 142 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 tinned, coming back from another of his 
 restless httle tarns along the terrace. ^' I 
 don't say agreement, but sympathy; and 
 I find that since we parted we have got 
 miles asunder. I can't make it out." 
 
 ^'I don't think I quite understand," said 
 Ursula. 
 
 " I said you wouldn't — no. And yet it's 
 plain enough to my thinking. I shouldn't 
 so much mind his having struck out a differ- 
 ent line for himseK — though, mind you, I hold 
 that it is a far lower one — but I can't follow 
 him in the tone he takes up. I can't see 
 what has changed the man so utterly. He 
 used to be as thorough-going an artist as you 
 would wish to see, rather an enthusiast than 
 otherwise, maybe, but as hard working as — 
 I am myself; certainly the last man you 
 would have expected to turn round and 
 sneer at the whole thing, and yet he did 
 to-day." 
 
 "It seems strange," said Ursula. 
 
 '' Strange ! I caa't make it out, I tell you. 
 They say this is a luxurious, shallow, money-
 
 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 143 
 
 getting age, and so I suppose it is ; but 
 Lance Gwynne — liow all force of purpose 
 should have gone out of him in a fe^ 
 months, and left him half-hearted and list- 
 less, talking i-ubbish about prior claims and 
 paramount duties. Duties ! His duty was 
 to work out his vocation ; and it was a high 
 one, if I am not mistaken. Not one of the 
 best of them would have come near him. 
 Can you fancy a man having the powder and 
 losing the will? I declare it's enough to 
 make one beheve in witchcraft. But I've 
 done talking — small thanks one gets." 
 
 ^' You came here to try and persuade him 
 to go back to painting ? " 
 
 '^ I came because I thought I could save 
 him. Why, I thought he would only need 
 to hear again the sound of the old words 
 that used to ring hke trumpet-calls ; but you 
 might as well talk to the dead — the heart 
 has gone out of him." 
 
 ''I don't think he looks satisfied or 
 happy ; Nigel said ' ' 
 
 '' What does Ni^rel know of such a man
 
 144 OWEN gwynne's gkeat wokk. 
 
 as Gwynne is, or used to be, rather," inter- 
 rupted Austin. "Happy! No. Whoever 
 thought he could be when he has turned 
 against his own nature ? Is it really for 
 money, do you suppose ? I say. Miss Ruth- 
 ven, I wish you would watch him and see 
 what you can make of him. I can do no 
 more." 
 
 "I don't think I am likely to succeed 
 where you have failed," said Ursula. 
 
 " Oh, I don't want you to succeed if you 
 mean in getting him back to his work. 
 Heaven forbid ! I wouldn't have him back 
 against his will for anything on earth. What 
 good would he do with haK a heart ? But 
 one can't leave off caring about the poor 
 fellow all at once, and if ever you saw the 
 old nature waking up again, you might let 
 me know. Will you ? As things are now, 
 he and I have nothing left in common." 
 Austin Hope scattered the ivy-leaves he 
 had been stripping off the wall as he talked, 
 down on to the stream below, and looked 
 after them with an expression of perplexed
 
 OWEN gwynne's great WOEK. 14") 
 
 distress that made Ursula like him better 
 than before, notwithstanding his bkintness. 
 
 After he left her, she sat on basking 
 in the spring sunshine, and thinking about 
 her brother's two friends — this rough, out- 
 spoken, down-right Austin Hope, and Lance 
 Gw^'nne, who spoke so Httle, seemed so self- 
 contained, and was supposed to be a recreant 
 to his art. 
 
 Could it be, as Austin Hope had said, 
 that the age w^as shallow, and that its sons 
 squandered their strength on many lesser 
 objects, instead of concentratiug it on one ? 
 
 Alas ! that it was so with Nigel she 
 secretly knew full well. Would it be a 
 consolation, or the reverse, to know that 
 there were others like him ? Ah ! if her 
 brother had only been Hke Austin Hope — 
 patient, concentrated, and enthusiastic, full 
 of faith in himseK and in the worth of the 
 aim he had set before him, how proud she 
 
 would have been of him ; but And 
 
 Ursula sighed. 
 
 Her brothers changeableness wearied 
 
 YOL. I. ^ L
 
 146 OWEN GWYNNE S GEE AT WOEK. 
 
 and saddened her. She was sorry he 
 should have a friend who must be some- 
 thing hke himself ; and yet Lance G-wynne's 
 face was surely a strange one to belong to 
 a man of undecided character. She thought 
 that if he came often to see Nigel, she 
 would try to watch him, as Austin had 
 asked her to do, and to find out for herself 
 whether his old friend judged him justly or 
 harshly. 
 
 Austin Hope left Marlixtowe the next 
 morning. Lance met him at the station, 
 and saw him off. Outwardly their friend- 
 ship remained unaltered. Perhaps it was 
 to both the more irksome, since each knew 
 that the bond between them was already 
 broken, and that when they met again it 
 would be as comparative strangers. 
 
 As Lance looked after the train moving 
 slowly out of the station, and then quicken- 
 ing its pace beyond, his thoughts went 
 back to that evening, a year ago, when he 
 had been the one to start, and Austin Hope 
 had stood in the courtyard of the Post
 
 OWEN GWYNNe's great WORK. 147 
 
 Office at Eome, watcMng the diligence 
 which bore his friend, all unconscious, away 
 fi'om the old life — the life to which Austin 
 w^as now returning. 
 
 Well, all that was over long since. The 
 first volume, generally the best part of a 
 book, was closed for Lance. It w^as just 
 as well that the last tie, Austin Hope's 
 friendship, should be severed with the rest. 
 He had long known that henceforth he 
 must stand alone.
 
 148 o\YEN gwynne's gee at woek' 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 The summer had come, hot and balmy. It 
 was the season of hay and roses, of midges, 
 nightingales, and cricket. 
 
 ^' Not so good for sketching as it had 
 been a month ago," said Nigel, for the 
 tender gaiety of the spring tints had 
 ripened into the green monotony of sum- 
 mer. This was the excuse he made to 
 Ursula for spending more than half the 
 days of the week in playing cricket. 
 
 '^ Every one feels idle in hot weather, 
 even Lance Gwynne," he said, pointing to 
 his friend; and certainly Lance, lying on 
 the bank of the river, and watching the 
 flowing water, did not look the picture of 
 industry.
 
 OAVEN GWYNNE's GREAT WOEK. 140 
 
 He had fallen into the way of spending 
 many of his evenings with Nigel. The Old 
 Bridge House in summer was rather a 
 bemtching place — aU flowery and bowery, 
 with its masses of roses, and its mossy, 
 wooded walks. 
 
 After a long hot day at his desk it was 
 pleasant to come out in the sunset, on to 
 the steep httle ten-ace overhanging the 
 river and the broken bridge, which gave 
 the house its name. 
 
 Very different fi'om the formal tea-table 
 at home to which the seasons brought no 
 variation, was the evening gathering on the 
 terrace : Xigel and his father smoking, and 
 Ursula knitting rapidly, with her eyes fixed 
 on an open book that lay before her, on the 
 low terrace wall. 
 
 It was very bright, Lance used to think, 
 very summer-like, and easy-going. What 
 was it that was wanting ? Just something, 
 to his feeling. If it had been the evening 
 rest after a long day's work, it would have 
 been perfect. But it chafed him to see
 
 150 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 Nigel wasting time and opportunity so 
 placidly. Sometimes the thought would 
 force itself upon him that things were 
 strangely allotted in this world, and though 
 he submitted to the inevitable in silence, 
 it was not in acquiescence. 
 
 After his usual thistle-down fashion, 
 letting himself float where the wind wafted 
 him, Nigel had fallen easily into the quiet 
 routine of his father's house. He was by 
 way of studying English scenery, which 
 just at this moment he considered the only 
 landscape in the world worth painting. So 
 he sketched fitfully, and fished dreamily, 
 and played cricket with all his heart and 
 soul. 
 
 Even Lance was drawn in by his ardour. 
 He had been a capital cricketer in his 
 school days, which, after all, poor fellow, 
 were not so very long ago. He now joined 
 the Marlixtowe cricket club, and attended 
 their practices once or twice to please Nigel, 
 caring very Httle for the game himself 
 But Maxy took such a deep interest in his;
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 151 
 
 play, and heard with such genuine pride of 
 every lucky hit, that Lance, partly in order 
 to have a good score to report at home, 
 began to put more heart into the game. 
 And so the love of cricket, l}ing dormant 
 in most Enghshmen, awoke again. By the 
 time the eve of an important match ar- 
 rived. Lance was nearly as keen as Nigel, 
 and Maxy's excitement was beyond measure. 
 No thought that he was debarred from even 
 looking on at the grand struggle came to 
 damp his enthusiasm. But Lance could 
 not stand the sight of the Httle face 
 sparkling with eagerness, and the thought 
 of his long day of lonely waiting. 
 
 He took his measui'es quietly, after hold- 
 ing council with Jane, whose sanction was 
 given oracularly in the words, '■ Nothing 
 venture, nothing have.' And on the event- 
 ful morning, Maxy, pale with excitement, 
 and almost silent fi'om surprise, found him- 
 self in a wheeled chair, settled for the day 
 in a convenient corner of the cricket- 
 ground.
 
 l'?2 OWEN gwynne's geeat work. 
 
 Was there ever such a day as that one ? 
 Did the sun ever shine half so splendidly 
 before, or the smooth ground look so 
 green ? Maxy, for one, thought not. With 
 Lance in his cricketing dress on the grass 
 beside him, and the level battle-field spread 
 out in front, could life offer anything more ? 
 
 Yes ; that Lance should make a good 
 score. But, 'tis not in mortals to command 
 success. 
 
 Lance is only just in, and Maxy's heart 
 is going like a steam-engine. It is almost 
 the first ball. The bystanders (malicious 
 people all) said Lance hit up; at all events, 
 the ball went spinning high into the air 
 — there was a rush, a clapping of hands. 
 No, it could not really be " caught out." 
 
 Suddenly the sun went out of the sky, 
 the brightness faded from the trees and 
 grass, the warm freshness from the air. 
 Maxy saw his brother go over to the tent ; 
 saw him. answer a few inquiries, receive a 
 few condolences, and then he came across 
 the field to join him. Maxy w^as all but
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 153 
 
 crying; only his pride for Lance, and the 
 eyes on him, kept back the tears. People 
 saw his eyes fill, and his hp quiver, and 
 were sorry for him. Before Lance came 
 the tears were got rid of somehow, but 
 Maxy had rarely felt such pain as was 
 tearing at his heart. 
 
 "The fortune of war, Maxy," was Lance's 
 comment as he thi'ew himself down on the 
 grass beside him. 
 
 " Oh, Lance ! how could the baU — how 
 could it ? " exclaimed Maxy huskily. 
 
 Lance laughed. 
 
 He looked provokingly unmoved, and yet 
 for the moment he felt secretly as if this 
 mischance was the straw that broke the 
 camel's back. It brought, as trifles some- 
 times do, the sense of universal failure over 
 him. Everything seemed against him ; 
 even this, in which he had tried to forget 
 the sorrow of his life — even this only turned 
 out one more disappointment. 
 
 "I am only fit for one thing," he thought, 
 " and that is taken fi*om me. How I hate
 
 154 OWEN gwynne's geeat work. 
 
 this cricket, and the country, and the whole 
 thing ! What a faihire everything that I 
 put my hand to is ! " 
 
 Outwardly he only appeared intent on a 
 book he had taken from his pocket. A 
 cheer rang from the field — another. Lance 
 looked up. His successor was winning 
 laurels. It was almost more than Maxy 
 could bear. Up came Arthur Deane, the 
 captain of their side. 
 
 ^' That was an unlucky business of yours, 
 Gwynne," he said ; but he looked at Maxy, 
 and the boy's face stopped him. '^ Never 
 mind," he added, " Euthven is getting up 
 the score. Better luck next time," and 
 he nodded good-naturedly to Maxy as he 
 went on. 
 
 ^' Next innings " began Maxy. 
 
 ^' Don't count on them," said Lance, 
 without raising his eyes from his book. 
 " It's half of it chance." 
 
 "But you mean to try," said Maxy in 
 dismay. 
 
 " Of course. Only if the luck is dead 
 against one ! "
 
 OWEN GWTNNE S GEE AT WOEK. i-JO 
 
 '^ Oh ! " WTiat a sigh that was ! 
 
 Lance looked up, feeling suddenly 
 ashamed of himseK. 
 
 '' Never mind, Maxy, we won't be heat 
 if we can help it." 
 
 The sun began to shine faintly again for 
 Maxy. ^' Hallo ! that was a good hit ! 
 Well done ! I believe we're ahead now." 
 
 ^' But you didn't make the runs." 
 
 '' What matter, so long as they are made? 
 Come, cheer up, httle Hopeful. Just look 
 at Nigel Euthven, though : I know he'll be 
 run out." 
 
 Nigel, with his quicksilver speed and 
 rashness, was as hkely to lose the match 
 for his side as to win it. He was hardly 
 safer as a friend than as a foe. 
 
 The day went on with varying fortunes, 
 and the excitement rose higher. Things 
 were looking gloomy, and the balance of 
 success hung more than doubtful, when, 
 late in the afternoon, Lance went in for the 
 second time. 
 
 Almost his first hit brought a storm of 
 clapping from the tent. Maxy's heart was
 
 156 OWEN gwynne's gkeat woek. 
 
 in his mouth ; but eye and hand were in 
 now. Lance's play, steady and scientific, 
 w^as such as good judges like to watch. 
 After a few minutes he seemed to do just 
 as he liked with the ball. The score went 
 up rapidly. The rest of the time was to 
 Maxy only one long thrill of triumph, that 
 was so keen as to be almost pain. For 
 once in his life his face w^as as red as a 
 turkey-cock. His hands ached with clap- 
 ping. Again and again, through all the 
 cheering and the shouts. Lance could 
 catch the little thin, '^ Bravo ! run it out, 
 Lance," that in reality was nerving his arm. 
 Nigel, who, like many of the lookers-on, 
 Avas touched and amused by the boy's 
 breathless eagerness, stayed beside him till 
 the victorious close. For — crowning tri- 
 umph — Lance carried out his bat ; and 
 when, a little time after, he went back to 
 Maxy, he found him the centre of a crowd 
 of perfect strangers, who were wishing him 
 joy. As Lance saw him, scarlet and quiver- 
 ing, trying indignantly to get rid of a lump
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's gee at WORE. lo7 
 
 in his throat that would not let him speak, 
 and to behave as if the victory was a simple 
 matter of coui'se, he could not help feeling 
 that for once the game had been well worth 
 fighting for, and Thinning. 
 
 With very different eyes from Maxy's, 
 did Ursula Euthven look upon the noble 
 game of cricket. To her it simply seemed 
 a wondei'ful waste of Nigel's precious time. 
 She had always been very ambitious for 
 her brother, both for his own sake and 
 his father's. But of late, especially since 
 Austin Hope's visit, something sorrowful 
 and full of regret had come into her 
 thoughts of him. She began to weary of 
 the di'eams that never seemed to come any 
 nearer their fulfilment, and dimly to dread 
 for her father the future hearts sickness of 
 hope defeiTed. 
 
 Sometimes she fancied that he blinded 
 himseK vilfully to Nigel's shortcomings. 
 At all events, he fired up at the merest hint 
 of doubt, and resented Ursula's coaxing 
 attempts to keep her brother to his work.
 
 158 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 ^^I'd rather you were not famous at all, 
 Nigel, if you are not in the very first 
 rank," she said to him one day. 
 
 '^ To be sure — ' Victory or Westminster 
 Abbey,' " he answered lazily. 
 
 " That doesn't apply the least," said 
 Ursula, half laughing. 
 
 ^' Sounds well," returned Nigel, getting 
 up to leave the room. 
 
 '^ May I come and watch you paint, 
 Nigel?" 
 
 He laughed, shook his head, and de- 
 parted. Ursula was disappointed, and as 
 she looked up she met her father's eyes. 
 
 ^^ You are always lecturing, Ursula. It is 
 most unwise," he said impatiently. ^' No 
 wonder you weary your brother." 
 
 *^ Do I weary him, father ? " said Ursula, 
 so brightly that it was impossible to resist 
 her smile. ^'I am sorry, but you know 
 Nigel is just a little bit lazy." 
 
 '^Well, well — poor Ursie, I believe you 
 mean well; but" — and Captain Euthven 
 shook his head — '^you don't understand
 
 OWEN gwyxne's geeat wokk. 159 
 
 young men. You must allow them some 
 little amusement." 
 
 On this principle, Ursula was taken to 
 the next cricket-match, played only a short 
 distance from the Old Bridge House; and 
 she sat under the shade of a big oak-tree, 
 watched, wondered, and tried to under- 
 stand. Too much of a foreigner to be able 
 to make it all out, she thought it very 
 odd, very pretty, and utterly mysterious. 
 
 There was the bright sweep of level sward, 
 such turf as you only see in England — nay, 
 there only, on rolled, watered, cherished 
 cricket-gi'ounds. Overhead a blaze of sun- 
 shine, and a glowing sky, that the few thin 
 clouds only seemed to make more intensely 
 blue. On one side of the field a tent with 
 a lazily stilling flag, a water-cart, groups of 
 people, gathered round a big roller, who now 
 and then broke into shouts of approval and 
 encouragement that made Ursula look more 
 eagerly at the white-clad figures gathered 
 round the wickets — some running so fi-aii- 
 tically, others standing apathetically stilL
 
 100 OWEN GWYNNE S GBEAT WORK. 
 
 She can make out Nigel, leaning forward 
 with his hands upon his knees, and Lance, 
 standing quietly with folded arms. Arthur 
 Deane, too — she has been told that he 
 is bowling. She watches him throw the 
 ball, hears the click of the bat, so pleasant 
 to cricket-loving ears, and there goes Lance 
 tearing down the hill like a racer, while a 
 fresh burst of clapping sounds from the 
 opposite tent. Nothing comes of it, as far 
 as Ursula can see ; the ball, which was 
 flung up by Lance, is being tossed leisurely 
 from one player to another. Her father's 
 reminiscences of Indian cricket are rather 
 hazy and only perplex her more. 
 
 The day goes on slowly. By- and -by 
 Nigel and Lance come and sit on the grass 
 and enlighten her ignorance. Lance has 
 been playing well ; but to him, too, the day 
 seem^s rather long, and the match lacks th-e 
 interest of the former one. He would have 
 been surprised if he could have guessed 
 Ursula's thoughts about him as they sat 
 under the trees side by side. She mis-
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. IGl 
 
 trusted him. Austin Hope's' words rankled, 
 and she did not think Lance a good friend 
 for her brother. 
 
 After the match was over, he and Ursula 
 sauntered homewards along the river- side. 
 Nigel remained behind to settle some busi- 
 ness about a retur-n match, and his sister 
 and Lance walked on slowly, drinking in the 
 coolness of the evening air that floated up 
 from the river. 
 
 That river- side ! What more could you 
 want of peaceful beauty? There were no 
 trees here, but the banks sloped up gently 
 to a great corn-field, and there was a sense 
 of space and lightness and fresh air. A 
 cart-track ran along the water's edge just 
 above the rushes, and on either side of it 
 grew ox-eyed daisies, and scarlet poppies, 
 and thistles. The poHshed water reflected 
 here only the surface of the sky, and was 
 darkened only by its clouds. 
 
 How^ different from the passionate river 
 further up, ^ith the gloom of trees and the 
 eddy of rocks vexing its eager heart as it 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 mshed towards the sea — as different as 
 was Ursula's quiet heart from Lance's pent- 
 up pain. 
 
 They walked side by side, but they did 
 not talk much. Neither as yet had found 
 the key to the thoughts of the other. 
 
 Lance was scarcely thinking consciously 
 at all. He was letting the sunset freshness 
 and the cool air have their way with him, 
 and they were comforting him. He was 
 glad to be comforted, for his trouble was a 
 real one — too real for him to nurse it. And 
 this evening, causelessly and transiently, 
 there had come to him a baseless vision of 
 possible peace : some day he would be at 
 one with himseK, and not have to struggle 
 any more ; some day he would no longer 
 feel ruffled and ill-used and injured, but the 
 old feehng of good- will to all the world 
 would have come back to him. How it 
 would be, or when, he did not know; but 
 for the moment life seemed bearable, and 
 the future had gleams of brightness. 
 
 Ursula, for her part, was thinking of her
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's gee at WORK. 163 
 
 silent companion. She was- pitying him for 
 having fallen short of the high promise of 
 his youth, and wondering how it could have 
 come to pass that he should have changed 
 so much. She doubted whether the day 
 would ever come when she could fulfil the 
 mission Austin Hope had left her. Lance 
 was very unapproachable. It was easy 
 enough to see that he was not happy, or, as 
 Ursula expressed it in her thoughts, that the 
 lower life he had chosen failed to satisfy him ; 
 and, with all her frank, fiiendly nature, she 
 longed to be a help to him. But she w^as 
 judging him on mistaken grounds, and her 
 youthful severity was completely thrown away. 
 Lance dimly perceived that she disap- 
 proved of him. He wondered at the httle 
 set speeches she made him, and at the small 
 moral lectures that were dehvered with 
 such an evident effort for his benefit. He 
 saw how shyness and earnestness brought 
 the colour to her cheeks. Once and again 
 she raised her eyes to speak, and then bent 
 suddenly instead to gather the poppies and
 
 164 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 marsh-mallow beside the path. She had 
 gathered a gaudy, quickly-fading nosegay 
 of field-flowers as she walked, and Lance 
 watched her, amused, as she absently added 
 to it, poppies whose red petals dropped off 
 as she lifted them, and dandelion clocks, 
 the down of which floated away upon the 
 evening air. 
 
 " I wish Nigel was not so fond of 
 cricket," she said abruptly at last. 
 
 "It's a great game," answered Lance, 
 his cricketing instinct making him stand 
 on the defensive. 
 
 " Yes, I dare say. Of course it is. Only 
 I should hke him to be doing something 
 else. It is a waste of time for him. An 
 artist " — very emphatically, with a glance at 
 her companion — " should not have time or 
 thought for anything but his work." 
 
 "'All work and no play,' you know," 
 quoted Lance smiling. " Are you not 
 rather hard on artists ? " 
 
 Ursula was shocked; her worst opinion of 
 him was confirmed,
 
 OWEN GWYXNE's great WORK. 16o 
 
 *'If I were a painter," she said gravely, 
 '* I do not think I should want play. I think 
 I could care for nothing hut my work." 
 
 Lance did not answer. Perhaps he 
 agreed with her too heartily. Perhaps he 
 was siu'prised that his hght words should 
 have been taken so seriously. 
 
 " I cannot imagine Mr. Austin Hope 
 playing at cricket," resumed Ursula, retui-n- 
 ing to the charge, after another silence and 
 another raid upon the poor robin and the 
 willow herb. 
 
 " Austin Hope ! Xo more can I," 
 answered Lance with a laugh; "but you 
 have pitched on an exceptional man. If 
 you knew more of artists, I am afi'aid you 
 w^ould find that there are not so very many 
 like him." 
 
 ^' I am afi'aid not, indeed," said Ursula 
 with meainng. 
 
 ^* Besides, I am sm-e iVustin could not hit 
 a ball to save his life," continued Lance, 
 ''whereas Nigel is a very fan* player, con- 
 sidering how little practice he has had."
 
 166 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 Clearly he would not make the matter a 
 personal one. 
 
 ''I wish you would not encourage Nigel 
 to play," she said, returning to the thought 
 that, after all, was nearest to her heart. 
 
 ''I encourage him!" exclaimed Lance, 
 and then stopped to consider. " Well, it is 
 quite true that I have not tried to prevent 
 liim ; but I agree with you. Miss Ruthven, 
 that a real artist needs very little urging on 
 to his work." 
 
 '' You really think that ? " 
 
 ^' Undoubtedly, I do." 
 
 " Then " — the question came out at last 
 — '' do forgive me for asking you : why did 
 you give up " 
 
 ^^ Pardon me," interrupted Lance quickly. 
 " We were talking of Nigel. I was not 
 speaking of myseK. I am not an artist." 
 
 The shadow, deeper than ever, had come 
 down over his face. Ursula drew back, feel- 
 ing almost as if she had received a blow. Her 
 sjanpathy had been rejected, her httle vision 
 of giving help and counsel rudely dispelled.
 
 O^YEN GWTXyE S GEE AT WORK. 16 
 
 Nigel's voice calling their names behind 
 was a relief to both. Perhaps, though, it 
 would have been better if he had stayed 
 away a httle longer. It is always a pity 
 when two people go on playing at cross 
 purposes ; and Lance was not so angry or 
 Ursula so hard-judging as they supposed 
 each other to be. Lance would have been 
 sorry if he could have guessed how she 
 repented her impulsive question ; and for 
 her part it would have consoled her to know 
 that he thought of it much less dming his 
 sohtar}^ walk home, than of how it could be 
 that Nigel was not more hard-working with 
 such a father and sister to spur him on to 
 exertion. 
 
 '^ I dare say he will not come back any 
 more," thought Ursula, '' and I shall not 
 have done a bit what Austin Hope wanted ; 
 besides, he must have thought me very rude.'' 
 
 So when, to her surprise, one or two even- 
 ings afterwards. Lance appeared as usual 
 on the terrace, she met him with a deepen- 
 ing colour and an unspoken entreaty for
 
 168 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 forgiveness in her eyes. Neither did Lance 
 answer her in words, but he shook hands with 
 a sudden sweet smile, so bright and frank 
 that it entirely changed his face, showing 
 liim for a moment to Ursula as he used to 
 be, and making her doubt for the first time 
 whether Austin could have known the whole 
 truth and nothing but the truth. 
 
 After all, their little misunderstanding and 
 silent reconcihation made Lance and Ursula 
 better friends, even while it served to in- 
 crease Ursula's perplexity. She asked her 
 brother about it one day, but he also had 
 only heard the story from Austin. 
 
 ^'I see it worries Lance to be questioned," 
 he said, " so I let him alone. I dare say he 
 knows his own business best." 
 
 *^ Only one might help him ; Austin Hope 
 thought it possible." 
 
 Nigel shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 '^ Laissez couler Veau sous le 'pont^'' he 
 said. "It is no use striving after the un- 
 attainable ; and if Austin could not do any- 
 thing with Lance, I don't suppose that you 
 wiU."
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 169 
 
 "Do yon think as mnch of his talent as 
 Mr. Hope does ? " asked Ursnla. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, that I most certainly do. 
 Talent ? Why it's more than that. He 
 has Genius ! Yes, Genius with a big G, 
 and no mistake ! " 
 
 " Then it's all the more incomprehen- 
 sible." 
 
 "Well, there's no doubt about the fact." 
 
 Nigel was the most generous of people 
 in speaking of others. It was a pleasure 
 to hsten to praise that was so heartily and 
 ungiTidgingly given. 
 
 " Lance's drawing was simply magnifi- 
 cent," he went on — "full of power. I myself 
 used to think his colouring a little cold. 
 I don't know, though ; there was a severe 
 jmrity about it that was very impressive. 
 Yes ; that's the word. It was too har- 
 monious to be called striking, but it im- 
 pressed one." 
 
 " And he w^orked too ? " asked Ursula. 
 
 Nigel gave a little side glance and shake 
 of the head at his sister, as if he sus-
 
 170 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 pected a covered ^hit at himself; but he 
 answered, ''Ah, he did work, just. ' Lotto,' 
 as the EiOrQans used to call him, became a 
 sort of by- word for industry in the whole set. 
 That was what made Hope so tender over 
 Mm. Dear me, what a rage he was in when 
 Lance went home and did not come back. 
 He never told anybody that Lance had 
 written to him, but he moped and cut up 
 rough if we only mentioned his name. Poor 
 old Austin ! I suppose, after all, he has got 
 somethmg in him that Lance has not." 
 
 " Of course he has," said Ursula indig- 
 nantly. '' Genius and perseverance put 
 together " 
 
 ''Oh, my dear, if you are going to point a 
 
 jnoral " And Nigel got up fi'om the 
 
 grass where he was lying under a cherry- 
 tree. 
 
 " I am not," said Ursula musingly. " I 
 was only thinking of your two friends." 
 
 " Austin is a bit of a hero of yours," said 
 Nigel, pelting her softly with big ripe 
 cherries.
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 171 
 
 ^'I don't think so," said Ursula, colouring 
 and laughing. " He interests me because 
 he is strong, and rough* and full of pui-pose. 
 I think he would make rather a good cha- 
 racter in a hook." 
 
 Nigel shook his head, and puffed awa}^ 
 nieditatiyely at his pipe. People are very 
 fond of sapng, " So-and-so would make a 
 good character i,n a book." But it is not 
 so easy to paint a portrait fairly. A human 
 character is a complex thing ; the colours 
 to be used must be various indeed, and very 
 carefully mixed. And, after all, a picture 
 shows you but one side. Of a written por- 
 trait, taken fi'om life, with all the unexpected 
 twists and turns of character inexorably put 
 down, probably the first criticism would be, 
 -'What an inconsistent character! how 
 unnatural ! " 
 
 Some such thoughts as these were in 
 Nigel's mind, but it was too much trouble to 
 put them into words ; he only laughed pre- 
 sently, and said, '^ Why, what on earth 
 would you do with dear old Hope, if you got
 
 172 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek, 
 
 him into a book, or with Lance Gwynne 
 either, for that matter ? " 
 
 ^' No, I could not manage Lance Qwynne : 
 I know too little of him, and my hero 
 should never fail as he has done. Still, 
 you think he would have made a great artist 
 if he had gone on ? " 
 
 "Lance?" — with a yawn, for Nigel 
 thought he had talked quite long enough 
 on the subject — "yes, as sure as you're 
 a French- woman " 
 
 This was a certain diversion, for at this 
 time of her life Ursula was intensely, un- 
 reasoningly English. England had long- 
 been her ideal, the sort of El Dorado that 
 one sometimes sees it become to those 
 whose youth has been spent abroad. 
 
 She had inherited little from her French 
 mother, only the faintest and prettiest touch 
 of a foreign accent when she was much in 
 earnest, and a certain freshness and sunny 
 quickness that made her what the French 
 themselves call facile a vivre. But the 
 solid block of her character was English.
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's great WORK. 173 
 
 This was a memorable summer to her in 
 more ways than one. There was the de- 
 hghtM novelty of English country hfe, 
 more still, perhaps, of Enghsh books. The 
 old uncle fi'om whom Mr. Piuthyen inherited 
 the Old Biidge House, had been something 
 of a book-collector, and had left well-stored 
 shelves behind him that opened out to 
 Ursula unimagined realms of knowledge. 
 Half the day she read, and all day long she 
 thought. Such books as these unclosed for 
 her the doors of a new world, that broke 
 upon her with a flood of hght. 
 
 But there was another dawning too — the 
 breaking of a far grander and more lasting- 
 day, the first streaks of which were begin- 
 ning to touch with dim broken hght the 
 horizon of Ursula's life. 
 
 She had made fiiends, in her simple 
 cordial way, with many of the cottagers 
 who hved near her new home. Among 
 them she found an old woman, unlearned 
 and quaint of speech, but possessing one of 
 those rare souls whom God hi mself seems to
 
 174 OWEN gwynke's gee at work. 
 
 teacli, and His lessons to her were all les- 
 sons of love and joy. 
 
 She talked to Ursula simply, and out of 
 the very fulness of her heart, most uncon- 
 scious that she was speaking a language 
 strange as it was beautiful to the girl who 
 listened to her so earnestly. 
 
 Poor child, the hon Dieii of her mother- 
 less childhood had long since faded into the 
 cold distant memory of a half-learnt lesson. 
 Now she heard of God once more ; heard 
 of Him as a living, loving Father, a very 
 present Friend and source of joy. 
 
 Ursula kept her old friends' sayings, and 
 pondered them in her heart ; she heard, 
 wondering, of homely words spoken to God 
 in loving trust, of answers sent by Him 
 that through faith had become reahties, of 
 tender patient longing to be with the ^' dear 
 Lord," and to see Him whom unseen was 
 yet so loved. 
 
 All this was very strange to Ursula. She 
 stood wistful and awe-struck, with hesi- 
 tating feet, on the threshold of a new life.
 
 OTV^N gwynne's geeat wokk. 175 
 
 It may be that even then good seed was 
 sown ; but new interests, and new cares and 
 thoughts of many kinds were thronging 
 ronnd her. Something she learnt, much she 
 let sHp from her for lack of leism-e, yet with 
 a feeling that some day she must tm^n back 
 to it. And she did so, later, but with bleed- 
 ing feet and an aching heart, and ears that 
 were strained to catch the far-off echoes of 
 those words of peace.
 
 176 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 
 
 CHAPTEE YI. 
 
 '' Don't you think it is a very hot night ? " 
 said Mrs. Gwynne. 
 
 '^ I think it is," responded Lance. 
 
 '' It is bright moonlight, isn't it ? " 
 
 ''I beheve it is." 
 
 Five minutes pause. 
 
 '' I suppose it is getting late." 
 
 ''I suppose it is," answered Lance, with- 
 out looking up from his book. 
 
 He and his mother were spending the 
 evening alone together. Mr. Gwynne, for a 
 wonder, was at Oxford, on a special mission 
 of research in the Bodleian Library, and 
 in default of all her usual occupations Mrs. 
 Gwynne felt a singular and unw^onted inclin- 
 ation to be sociable. But Lance was totally
 
 OWEN GA^TNNE's GEEAT WORK. 177 
 
 unconscious of her good intentions. That 
 his mother should want to ''have a chat'' 
 ^vith him, after the fashion of other mothers, 
 was a thing entu-ely out of the range of 
 his experience. 
 
 He went on reading, perseveringly, while 
 Mrs. Gwynne sat at work on the o^Dposite 
 side of the tahle. Every now and then, as 
 she laid down her scissors, or threaded her 
 needle afresh, she looked across at her son, 
 and ^vished he would shut his book and tall^ 
 to her. She would have begim herself 
 if she could have thought of anything 
 interesting to say ; but it was not easy, and 
 while she was considering, the time sHpped 
 on. The three remarks she did hazard — 
 not very • brilliant ones certainly — Lance 
 allowed to fall very flat. ^^As you bake," 
 Jane would have told her, '' so you will 
 brew." Yet ^hs. Gwynne felt aggrieved. 
 
 They were both aroused at last by the 
 sound of quick-coming carriage w'heels, and 
 horses' hoofs galloping furiously past the 
 house. Lance reached the window, and 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 drew aside the blind just in time to see 
 the fire-engine dash past and vanish like 
 a flash of lightning down the road. A 
 crowd of people were following it on foot, 
 running at full speed in the same direction. 
 
 ^'Where's the fire?" shouted Lance, 
 throwing up the window. 
 
 A dozen voices answered that Mr. Deane's 
 stables were burning, and that the house 
 itself had just caught fire, when the engines 
 were sent for. 
 
 Mr. Deane was the senior partner of the 
 Marlixtowe Bank, 
 
 Lance was at the hall door in a moment. 
 
 *' Lance," called his mother, following 
 him with a candle,^* where are you going ? " 
 
 ^^ Only down there. I shan't be long. 
 Don't let any one sit up for me. Good- 
 night, mother." 
 
 The quiet tone contrasted with the eager 
 way in which he vaulted over the gate, and 
 disappeared down the road after the others. 
 Mrs. Gwynne went back into the empty 
 sitting-room and sighed — she scarcely knew
 
 OWEN' g\yyxne's geeat woek. 170 
 
 why : perhaps because there was a long- 
 lost look of animation on Lance's face 
 when the candle-light fell upon it — per- 
 haps because she felt that he did not care 
 to have her sympathy in his errand — ''Ah, 
 well." 
 
 She sat down and finished her work, then 
 closed her basket and put the room in order 
 for the night. It was tidy enough aheady, 
 almost painfully so; for the books were 
 straightened and the papers folded away 
 wdth the unused look that so soon tells of 
 an absent master. 
 
 The chm'ch clock near at hand solemnly 
 tolled eleven, and was echoed by fainter 
 chimes h'om a distance. There was really 
 nothing to sit up for, but Mrs. Gwynne said 
 to herself that she scarcely liked to go to 
 bed as usual, when Mr. Deane's house was 
 on fire, and Lance was absent. She went 
 to the window and looked out again. Every- 
 thing was quiet enough now. The white 
 moonhght shone upon the road, and the 
 trees cast black shadows across it, Xo one
 
 180 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 was coming or going. Perhaps the fire was 
 out. Then she remembered that the rooms 
 on the other side looked over the fields 
 towards Mr. Deane's house, and there, also, 
 a footpath led to it from Marlixtowe. 
 
 She went up into her own room. Yes, 
 fi'om there she could see flames flashing and 
 blazing through the trees. There was the 
 pall of overhanging smoke, and the lurid 
 light in the sky. A distant shout — another, 
 and the confused hum of many voices 
 faintly reached her. 
 
 Maxy's door was half open, and he 
 called her doubtfully, as she passed his 
 room. He was sitting up in bed, shivering. 
 
 " Why are you not asleep, Maxy?" she 
 asked, going up to his bedside. 
 
 " Oh, I can't sleep. Lance is gone to 
 the fire, isn't he?" 
 
 ^' Yes ; he will be back presently. Who 
 told you there was a fire ? " 
 
 " Jane. They can see it splendidly from 
 the attics; and look, there" — as a shot of 
 brighter flame lighted the room for a
 
 ovrEN gwynne's gee at work. 181 
 
 minute, and the shadows of the trees 
 flickered against the window. 
 
 Mrs. Gw^'nne drew down the blind. 
 '' There, Maxy, he down and go to sleep. 
 Don't look at the window, for the Hght will 
 keep you awake." 
 
 " Oh dear, I wish Lance would come 
 home," said Maxy, with a sigh. ^' What a 
 long time he has been gone ! " 
 
 " He wiU soon be home, I dare say." 
 
 '* Not till the fire is quite, quite put out/' 
 said Maxy proudly ; '' but he has been gone 
 a great while." 
 
 The words echoed in Mrs. G^\wnne's ears 
 uneasily as she went downstairs. It was a 
 long time. Somehow Maxy's restlessness 
 had infected her. The fi'ont door was open, 
 and Jane stood looking out, but Mrs. 
 Gwynne went on into the study without 
 speaking to her, and the church clocks 
 struck twelve. 
 
 She had decided now that she would 
 prefer sitting up for Lance, and hearing how 
 it had fared with Mr. Deane and his family.
 
 182 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 The road still lay white and silent, and the 
 moon shone brilliantly. Mrs. Gwynne stood 
 at the window, and knew that Jane was 
 watching at the door, and that behind the 
 house were roaring flames, and a shouting 
 crowd, and Lance. 
 
 Footsteps at last along the road — distant, 
 nearer, close at hand: the measured tramp 
 of several men. They came on quickly, 
 and, as they cleared the shadow of the trees, 
 she could see that they carried something 
 dark upon their shoulders. The moonlight 
 showed her the outline of a man's figure 
 lying on a shutter, very still, with his face 
 covered. 
 
 For a moment her heart stopped beating, 
 but went on again as the men moved past 
 without pausing, keeping their even step. 
 
 Jane had run down to the garden gate, 
 and was speaking to some stragglers who 
 were following. Mrs. Gwynne called to her 
 as she turned back. 
 
 '' It's a poor man, ma'am, that was hm^t 
 when the roof fell in. They are taking him
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 183 
 
 to the hospital. The stables are all burnt 
 down, and the house is blazing now, they 
 say, and Mr. Lance is in the thick of it." 
 
 '' Mr. Lance is in the thick of it ! I wish 
 Lance would come home " — sentences that 
 Mrs. Gwynne tried in vain to keep from 
 running in her head, and which made her 
 very uncomfortable. 
 
 She wished the boy was safe at home. 
 She wished he had not heard of the fire. 
 Finally, with a chill shadow of remorse 
 creeping over her, she wished he had 
 never come back from Italy. She should 
 be almost glad just now to know he was at 
 Rome. If anything were to happen to him, 
 poor Lance ! And certainly of late he had 
 not been happy. Perhaps she ought never 
 to have sent for him. He had been so full 
 of hope and contentment in his artist-hfe. 
 If it proved to be the last months of his life 
 that had been clouded and saddened ! 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne did not deHberately think 
 all this, but one fancy after another 
 glanced across her mind, as she leant out
 
 1(S1 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 of the wdndow whicli she had thrown wide 
 open now. The moon was higher and the 
 shadows shorter. Surely Lance ought to 
 have been home by this time. He never 
 stayed out late. He had been a good son 
 since he came home, and his mother thought 
 of his grave, patient face and quiet manner. 
 "I wish I had never sent for him; and 
 yet it was quite necessary." She looked 
 back into the room, and at the drawers, 
 where the piles of untidy manuscript that 
 were to compass her husband's greatness 
 lay carefully hoarded. It did not seem 
 worth the trouble to-night. Such sacrifices, 
 and for what ? — an uncertaintj^ Had it all 
 been a mistake ? In that silent room, with 
 the moonbeams streaming in, the realities 
 of Mrs. Gwynne's life seem to have become 
 shadowy and unsubstantial. If the great 
 work should fail ! — nay, if its success 
 should be purchased at too great a price. 
 For earth's possessions must needs be in- 
 secure. Things, perhaps, as precious as her 
 own, were this very night being destroyed by
 
 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 185 
 
 fire. Mrs. Gwymie shivered from liead to 
 foot. Was it fi'om some dim, strange fore- 
 shadowing of a still distant fiitm-e ? ^lio 
 shall say ? Her head simk upon her hands. 
 Fire ! the very word was tenible to her. 
 Oh, if Lance would come back fi*om the 
 thick of the fire ! " And then, even as she 
 thought this, she heard his voice speaking 
 quietly in the hall to Jane. 
 
 " Yes, the fire is out at last. No lives 
 lost." 
 
 '' Oh, Lance I " she cried. '' Oh, Lance ! " 
 
 He came towards her, a black, begrimed 
 figure, scorched and drenched from head to 
 foot. 
 
 " You up still, mother? It must be very 
 late. Were you anxious about the fire ? 
 Everybody is safe, and the fire has not 
 spread beyond one wing." 
 
 '^ My dear Lance, I am so thankful to see 
 you safe. Ai'e you siu^e you are not huii: ? " 
 
 ^^ Not the least, thanlv you ; only rather 
 beat. No ; I am not fit to kiss you," he 
 added, drawing back and laughing : "I am
 
 186 OWEN GWTNNe's gee at YfORK. 
 
 as black as a cliimney- sweep. Good- 
 night, mother." 
 
 That was alL After her long hours of 
 Intense watching and suspense, those few 
 cold, cheery words, and that uadem-onBtra- 
 tive ^^ good-night." 
 
 She followed him upstairs, chilled and 
 weary. He had not gone to his own room. 
 She heard him stop at Maxy's door, and an 
 eager call to him from within. 
 
 Mrs. Gw^mne looked into the dark room. 
 She could just distinguish Lance sitting on 
 fche bed, and Maxy clinging to him, both 
 arms clasped round his brother. They were 
 laughing, though Maxy's laugh was rather 
 tremulous. 
 
 ^^Oh, I am so glad!" 
 
 '^You little muff, to go and get fright- 
 ened. How came you to know an^^thing 
 about it ? I told Jane not to tell you." 
 
 ^' I am sure you saved everybody's life. 
 Are you much hurt, Lance ? " 
 
 " No ; only a little bruised and scorchedj 
 really. I shall be all right to-ujorrow."
 
 OWEN gwtnne's great woek. 187 
 
 "x\nd jou did save some of the people 
 from being burnt ? " 
 
 '' Not I, indeed, Maxy. They were all 
 out of the house before I got there, except 
 — well, for your comfort, I believe there 
 was one deaf old housemaid who might 
 have been burnt in her bed if I hadn't 
 fished her out." 
 
 '' TeU me all about it." 
 
 "Not to-night.' I am too tired, and so 
 are you. Good-night, little Hopeful. Go 
 to sleep." And then for a few minutes, as 
 Lance bent lower down, theii* mother could 
 not hear what they said to each other. 
 
 She went to Lance's room presently, to 
 see if he wanted anything, and there she 
 found grim old Jane tenderly putting cold 
 bandages on his scorched hand and arm. 
 
 '^ Why didn't you call me ? " asked Mrs. 
 Gwynne, rather offended. 
 
 Lance looked up surprised. " Jane is 
 doing it very comfortably, thank you." 
 
 Mrs. Gw^^mie retreated crestfallen. 
 Neither of her sons seemed to want her,
 
 188 
 
 for Maxy had fallen fast asleep ; and when 
 his mother hent over him with a candle, 
 to see if the excitement of the night had 
 done him harm, he did not even move. 
 Mrs. Gwynne saw some very black streaks 
 on his cheek and forehead, rather as if a 
 chimney-sweep had touched him. It was 
 very odd that those black marks should 
 give her an unaccustomed feeling of lone- 
 liness, and she sighed once or twice before 
 she fell asleep thinking of them, and of 
 Maxy's peaceful face. 
 
 The next day Marlixtowe was ringing 
 with the story of the fire ; and it turned 
 out that Lance had been the hero of the 
 night. Maxy lay with burning cheeks and 
 beaming eyes, as one visitor after another 
 came in to tell the tale. Godfrey Deane, 
 Mr. Gwynne 's old pupil, came himself at 
 last. Maxy sat absolutely upright to hear 
 Lance's praises sung with such good- will. 
 
 " I knew he couldn't play cricket so well 
 for nothing," ended Godfrey Deane, laugh- 
 ing. ^' But I fear he got a good deal 
 scorched."
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 189 
 
 ''I believe he was not much hm-t," an- 
 swered Mrs. Gwynne rather coldly, remem- 
 bering her rejected help last night. 
 
 ^^Well, we're immensely obHged to him. 
 You heard how he I'ushed back when every- 
 body was out of the house to bring out 
 the Eembrandt in the Hbrary. We all 
 thought he would never get back safely, for 
 the floors were giving wa}" ; but out he 
 came, picture and all." 
 
 '' He did not mention it," said Mrs. 
 Gwynne. 
 
 " I tell him he thought the Rembrandt 
 worth more than the human beings," said 
 Mr. Deane, vdih another laugh. 
 
 But Mrs. Gwynne would not respond. 
 '' I am glad he was able to be of use," 
 she said stiffly. 
 
 Godfi'ey Deane thought Lance's mother 
 very disagreeable, so he gi'ew less enthusias- 
 tic, repeated his acknowledgments more 
 formally, and went away. 
 
 *' Oh, Lance ! why didn't you tell us 
 about the picture," asked Maxy at dinner.
 
 190 OWEN G Wynne's great w^ohk. 
 
 Lance coloured, and muttered something 
 about there being nothing to tell. 
 
 '^ How did yod know it was there ? " 
 
 " I have seen it once or twice when I 
 went to speak to Mr. Deane." 
 
 " What w^as it a picture of ? " 
 
 "xin old man, with a beard and a brown 
 coat," answered Lance, rather impatiently. 
 
 " Was it a good picture ? " persisted 
 Maxy. 
 
 "Very. Mother, when do yon expect 
 my father home ? " 
 
 He came that afternoon, came with a 
 great accession of raw material for his book, 
 with extracts to be copied, and papers to be 
 set in order. Mrs. Gwynne was hard at work 
 directly. The fire. Lance's gallantry, her 
 evening of suspense, her visitings of com- 
 punction and remorse — all were forgotten, 
 ' like the remembrance of a guest that tarried 
 but a night.' She was in her true element 
 once more. If a warning had been vouch- 
 safed to her in the silent hours, she had 
 let it pass by her unheeded.
 
 OWEN GWYXNE's great WOIIK. 191 
 
 It was a good thing that Maxy had made 
 the most of his morning, for no one was 
 admitted in the afternoon. He lay alone in 
 the sitting-room, and heard the door-bell 
 ring several times ; but Jane always reported 
 Mrs. Gwynne to be engaged, and Maxy was 
 fain to content himseK by listening to the 
 retreating footsteps of Lance's admirers. 
 
 Lance himseK "ran rusty," as Maxy 
 expressed it, on his retm^n home, and would 
 stand no more questioning. 
 
 " What made you go on so about that 
 picture before mother," he said. 
 
 " But did you really care enough for it to 
 risk being burnt to save it ? " 
 
 " No, no ; at all events I didn't want my 
 mother to think so." 
 
 " Well,"*said Maxy candidly, "I suppose 
 I was rather a duffer to talk about it before 
 her." 
 
 There was probably no house in Marlix- 
 towe where the fire was discussed so httle 
 as at Mr. Gwynne's. Lance refused to be 
 made a hero, and liis mother, for some
 
 192 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 reason she could not define, disliked having 
 the thing talked about. Mr. Gwynne 
 would scarcely have heard of it at all, if it 
 had not been for Jane's pride in Mr. Lance's 
 feats, and her indignation at the small fuss 
 that was made over him at home. 
 
 ''His father shall hear of it before I am 
 a day older," she said to Maxy, ''when 
 young Mr. Deane called himself and all, and 
 stopped on the doorstep to tell me Mr. 
 Lance was a brick. Not that that was pro- 
 per language. Master Maxy, and I shouldn't 
 wish you to see much of Mr. Godfrey 
 Deane, for ' evil communications corrupt 
 good manners.' Still I knew him when he 
 was a school-boy, and I believe he meant 
 well." 
 
 ''But so Lance is, no end of a brick," 
 said Maxy. 
 
 " That he may be, Master Maxy, and the 
 master ought to know it, if it is so : 
 ' A wise son maketh a glad father.' " 
 
 "I don't think father ever is glad," said 
 Maxy doubtfully; " he hasn't time."
 
 OTVEN GWYNNE's GEE AT WOEK. 193 
 
 '^ ' It's a poor heart that never rejoices,' " 
 responded Jane. 
 
 ^^ Besides, I don't believe mother ever told 
 him," continued Maxy; ^' and Lance gave me 
 a great poke when I wanted to begin." 
 
 '^ To be sm-e he did," said Jane ; '^and so 
 he ought. You would not have had him 
 proud, and boasting of what he had done. 
 Mr. Lance knows better. ^ Pride goes. 
 before a fall.' " 
 
 ** What a bother you are, old Jane," said 
 Maxy. ^' But here's a fine chance for you. 
 Mother has just gone out, and father is 
 alone in the study. Just you go in and tell 
 him all about it." 
 
 '' Well, Master Maxy, so I will, for 'tis 
 my nature to. He ought to be told, and 
 there's no time like the present." 
 
 "'While the cat is away,' et cetera," 
 suggested Maxy slyly. 
 
 " I am surprised at you. Master Maxy," 
 said Jane, walking off into the study, and 
 plunging straightway into her story, to 
 Mr. Gwynne's blank astonishment. 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 OWEN gwynne's great wokk. 
 
 It would have been a funny scene if some- 
 how there had not been something rather 
 sad about it. The surprised author sat 
 holding his pen arrested between the ink- 
 stand and the paper, gazing helplessly at 
 Jane, with knit brows, and an indescribable 
 expression of injured perplexity on his face. 
 
 What was all this ? It was reaUy too bad. 
 His half- written sentence was slipping from 
 his memory, a large angry-looking blot had 
 splashed down on to his fair manuscript, 
 and here was Jane wasting his precious 
 morning with some cock-and-bull story 
 about a fire, and a deaf housemaid, and 
 a picture by Rembrandt. He could not 
 make it out at all, or what it was that she 
 was driving at with her short dry sentences. 
 She seemed very indignant about something ; 
 but whether she wanted him to blame Lance 
 for being rash and spoiling his clothes, or 
 himself for not appreciating his son's gal- 
 lantry, he really could not pretend to guess. 
 
 '^ Why do you come to me ? What's all 
 this about ? I know nothing of it. No one
 
 OWEN CtWYNNE's great WORK. 195 
 
 has told me," said the man who never had 
 time to be glad. 
 
 '' That's where it is," said Jane. 
 
 *' And I'm siu'e I don't know, for the 
 life of me, what you want me to do now," 
 he continued nervously, pushing his spec- 
 tacles into Ids hair, and his hair to the 
 very back of his head. ''The fire is out, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 ^' Won't you say a word to Mr. Lance, su'?" 
 
 ^'A wwd to Mr. Lance I Who? I? 
 You'd better speak to Mrs. Gwynne about 
 it. She'll say all that's necessary and 
 proper, I am sure." And Mr, Gw^^nne 
 looked relieved, and dipped his pen afresh 
 into the ink. 
 
 " A word fi'om you would go farther with 
 Mr. Lance," said Jane, nothing daunted. 
 
 " Ah ! indeed. I'm aui'e I can't see why. 
 Well, yes, anything in reason. I'll speak, 
 ®f course, some time or other ; but reaUy 
 coming in hke this when I was busy " 
 
 (This would have brought Mrs. Gwynne 
 to his feet at once, but it made no sort of
 
 196 OWEN gwynne's gbeat work. 
 
 impression on Jane. Mr. Gwynne saw it, 
 and felt more hardly used than ever.) 
 
 "' Of course my w^ork is of no sort of 
 importance. I am quite aware of that, and 
 don't expect it to he considered ; everything 
 is to be put on me, but, upon my word, 
 Jane, this is rather strange conduct of 
 yours. Perhaps you'll tell me what you 
 want me to say ? " 
 
 ^" Out of the abundance of the heart, the 
 mouth speaketh,' " grimly quoted Jane. 
 
 " Quite so, yes. Well, I've told you I 
 mean to speak. If only one had some 
 idea — Saved somebody's life, did he ? 
 and got scorched?" 
 
 '' Came home looking just like a used-up 
 Guy Fawkes, Mr.. Gwynne, enough to make 
 any father proud. Not but what I call it 
 a tempting of Providence, and a waste of 
 good clothes ; but there s no use crying over 
 spilt milk, and Mr. Lance will never put on 
 that coat of his again." 
 
 ^'It's very gratifying, of course," said 
 Mr. Gwynne, rubbing his forehead as if to
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's great WORK. 197 
 
 collect his thoughts. "I am glad he did 
 his duty." 
 
 *' Just so, sii-; and any few words it might 
 be your pleasure to speak," continued Jane, 
 dusting the table T\ith her apron, and sud- 
 denly lapsing into demureness, " I am sure 
 Mr. Lance would take them kind." 
 
 ^' Oh, he would, would he ? Ah, I dare 
 say. Better speak at once, perhaps, and get 
 it over, if it is to be done, and then may be 
 (soliloquising) I shall get rid of old Jane. 
 Lance ! " he called, as he saw his son pass 
 the window, and heard his step the next 
 moment in the hall ; "just come in here a 
 minute, will you ? " 
 Lance obeyed. 
 
 ^^ Lance," began Mr. Gwynne, very ner- 
 vous and flurried, '' I have only just been 
 made acquainted -^ith the circumstances of 
 the late fire, and I learn with pleasure that 
 you displayed gi*eat presence of mind in a 
 very trying position. I heartily congratu- 
 late you. I am given to understand that 
 you behaved with considerable coolness and
 
 198 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 propriety, and that your conduct was such 
 as to attract the favourable notice of your 
 employer." 
 
 Here Jane was overcome by her feelings, 
 and hastily withdrew to tell Maxy that 
 the master was talking hke a book to Mr. 
 Lance. It was beautiful to hear him. 
 
 '^ Mr. Deane, I hear, speaks of you in the 
 handsomest terms. In short," continued 
 Mr. Gwynne, for Lance was really too 
 much taken aback by these comphments 
 to speak — '' in short — " He hesitated, and 
 then relapsed into his long- disused school- 
 master's formula. ^' It is a satisfaction to 
 me to add my testimony to his, and to 
 mark my appreciation of your merit. It 
 is both very gratifying to me personally, 
 and calculated to reflect honour on us as a 
 — family. I shall have great pleasure in 
 — in — remembering it. Shake hands, my 
 boy." 
 
 ''My dear father," — and Lance tried 
 vainly to look grave, as he grasped his 
 father's hand across the table — ''it's very
 
 OWEN GWTNNE's great WORK. 199 
 
 kind of yon, bnt I do assni-e yon that it is 
 all a mistake. I have done nothing in the 
 smallest degree praiseworthy, except in old 
 Jane's heated imagination." 
 
 '^ Three cheers for Lance — hooray ! '* 
 sounded fi'om the parlour in ]\Iaxy's treble 
 voice. 
 
 Lance burst out laughing. 
 
 ''WeU, weU, weU," said Mr. Gwynne, 
 joining for a moment in his son's laugh, and 
 then growing very grave again, '^ never 
 mind. I dare say old Jane is in the right. 
 You must forgive me, Lance, if I seem to 
 take httle heed of your doings. I only hve 
 in these " — pointing to his books. '^ I seem 
 to hear and know nothing of the world out- 
 side them," he added rather regi'etfully. 
 
 '^ I know how hard you work, father," 
 said Lance, leaning on the back of a chair, 
 and looking at Mr. Gwynne's care-worn 
 face. 
 
 He always felt more sympathy with his 
 dreamy, hard-working father than with his 
 mother: Sometimes he fancied that thev
 
 200 OWEN gwynne's geeat woee, 
 
 might have had many things in common, 
 if he had been less reserved himself^ and 
 his father less absent and absorbed. 
 
 " Aye," said Mr. Gwynne slowly ; ^' aye, I 
 work hard enough ; but the question is with 
 what result. There comes at times a 
 weariness and a shadow over it all ; a sense 
 of want of progress, as if at . each upward 
 step the ground gave way beneath your feet, 
 and you strove in vain to gain a higher foot- 
 ing. Did you ever have such feehngs when 
 you were painting, Lance ? " 
 
 It was the first allusion his father had 
 ever made in his hearing to the profession 
 he had relinquished, and it might have 
 struck Lance as strange, but that he was 
 not thinking of himself just then. 
 
 ^'I have known the feeling," he answered. 
 " So, I think, must all true artists^ — artists of 
 all sorts, I mean ; but it does not stay." 
 
 '^ Ah, it does not stay — it does not stay; 
 you say that. There is the difference be- 
 tween the young and the old. I tell you 
 the time comes when it does stay. I fear
 
 OWEN GT\TXNE's great WORK. 201 
 
 it, Lance ; I fear it/' And he raised his 
 eyes, full of a strange shadow of dread, to 
 his son's face. 
 
 " Father," said Lance earnestly, ^' yon 
 should give yourself more rest." 
 
 " Kest ! " he echoed bitterly, " rest ! with 
 so much of my work still to he done. Xo, 
 indeed ; rather tell me to work harder. 
 Don't talk to me about rest. What do you 
 know of work like mine ? ^NTry, I ought to 
 be at it now. Go, Lance, go ! " he added 
 with sudden impatience, drawing his papers 
 towards him. " Don't keep me dawdhng 
 any longer. I have wasted hah the day 
 aheady." 
 
 Lance went away disappointed. It had 
 been only a momentary admission into his 
 father's confidence, but it interested him, 
 and he would fain have given sympathy, 
 if nothing else. But when he looked 
 back before closing the door, Owen Gwynine 
 had fallen back into his familiar attitude 
 of abstraction ; aheady his pen was in his 
 hand. And when they met again, neither
 
 202 ovfEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 word nor sign showed any remembrance of 
 the words he had spoken. 
 
 Lance wished he could have forgotten as 
 easily, bnt an old chord had been set jarring 
 by his father's question, '' Did you have 
 such feelings when you were painting ? " 
 and for a long time it would not grow still 
 again. Yes, he remembered only too well. 
 There used to be hard moments of dis- 
 couragement, no doubt, but oh, the joyous 
 flood of hope and conscious power that used 
 to rush back and blot them out ! 
 
 Once more Lance betook himself for con- 
 solation to the congenial atmosphere of the 
 Old Bridge House. There was no one just 
 now to miss him at home, for as the 
 summer heat grew greater Maxy began to 
 droop, and his old doctor ordered him off 
 fco the sea-side. That was a white page in 
 the boy's history. He used to He for hours 
 together on a rug below high- water mark, 
 hoping that Jane would forget him till the 
 waves washed over him, and eagerly watch- 
 ing the glassy tide that sw^ept up lazily and
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's great WORK. 203 
 
 left a curved silver fringe of foam ever 
 nearer to his feet. 
 
 Lance spent a long merry day "witli him 
 on the rocks, dabbling in sea-water pools, 
 and seeing white ships sail by, and sea- 
 gulls float, and boys with shrimping nets go 
 wading out into shallow^ water when the tide 
 was low. 
 
 He left Maxy the centre of a crowed of 
 young fishermen, who were digging rivers 
 and building fortifications under his direc- 
 tions, and seeing him so happy he did not 
 grudge the di'eary silence of the sitting- 
 room at home. 
 
 The woods round the Old Bridge House 
 were dark and fragrant, and the river was 
 beautiful. There w^as a gi'eat charm about 
 the place. Nigel had got hold of an old 
 heavy boat, and he and Ursula nearly hved 
 on the w^ater during those hot days. 
 
 To Lance the river, in its summer 
 loveliness, came to be more than a 
 living friend. It satisfied in some way the 
 craving after beauty that, stifle it as he
 
 204 OWEN gwynne's gkeat woke. 
 
 would, it was out of his power to destroy. 
 There was the water gliding on, with a 
 silver ripple here, a glint of sunlight there. 
 Clear brown depths under the banks, into 
 which the trees were reflected in shadow^s 
 clouded and broken : stones round which 
 the stream eddied and broke into living 
 crystals. On it went into the gloom of 
 leafy greenery, where the water darkened 
 and gathered intensity of colour, where 
 reeds waved and dimpled the glittering 
 surface as they stirred. Here lay the round 
 leaves of white hlies, golden-hearted and set 
 in sun-gleams. The boat passed through 
 them with a soft crushing sound — out again 
 into the level sunbeams that, shot from 
 the burning west, lay like dazzling arrows 
 all across the stream. 
 
 And so they sometimes went far up the 
 river, in and out through the shine and the 
 shadow, past the steep banks and the heavy 
 summer woods and the green meadows, 
 until the light failed and the sky grew 
 purple with the coming night.
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 205 
 
 Lance and Nigel di^dded the labour of 
 rowing between them, as best pleased them 
 both. It suited Lance to pull steadily and 
 vigorously up stream through the glow of 
 evening sunshine, while Nigel lay full length 
 at the bottom of the boat with his straw hat 
 di'awn over his eyes. Often the brother 
 and sister talked and Lance listened. Idle, 
 bright talk it was, yet generally characteristic. 
 Day by day their natm'es were shadowed 
 forth to him more clearly ; day by day the 
 imstable fitfiilness of the one grated against 
 the earnestness of the other. Ursula could 
 not always play with things; and by degrees, 
 as her eyes were turned awa}' in ever- 
 renewed impatience and disappointment 
 from her brother, they learned unconsciously 
 to look for the quick silent sympathy in 
 Lance's face. 
 
 Sometimes the mood was on Nigel to 
 di-aw. Then the boat was left to float in 
 some lovely dreamy river nook, and Lance, 
 leaning his elbow on the side, and his chin 
 upon his hand, would wait the sketcher's 
 pleasure.
 
 206 OWEN gy/ynne's gee at woek. 
 
 Nigel was fond of talking as he drew ; 
 going into rhapsodies over every tint and 
 curve, with a sort of surface . enthusiasm 
 that would have made a stranger wonder 
 w^hy he ever stopped drawing at all. 
 
 It was on one of these evenings that 
 Ursula was struck, as if for the first time, by 
 the look of stern melancholy on Lance's 
 downcast face. He was gazing into the 
 water, absently watching the gold and silver 
 ripples that bubbled up and broke on the 
 stream. He took no heed of Nigel's flow 
 of art jargon. He let the sunset burn itself 
 away in glory without giving it a glance. 
 His attitude was simply one of patient 
 waiting ; and yet, once seen, Ursula could 
 not close her eyes to the resolute endurance 
 of suffering that was expressed in his set 
 features. 
 
 She began from that time to be sorry for 
 bird, and look upon him with another kind 
 of feeling. Those two — Lance and Ursula 
 — would have wondered if they had known 
 how oddly their thoughts sometimes met 
 and crossed each other.
 
 OWEN GWYNNe's great WORK. 20 ( 
 
 Lance thought often of an old sentence 
 of hers, laughingly and carelessly uttered, 
 and yet spoken as if she meant it. " All 
 my sympathy," she had once told Austin 
 Hope — "allmy sympathy is with success."' 
 It was nearly the fii'st thing he had ever 
 heard her say, and he had not forgotten it. 
 Could it be possible that this giii with her 
 sweet, earnest, haunting face was ambitious, 
 like his mother ? Surely not. Xo woman 
 ought to be ambitious. It only brought 
 misery and um-est, both to themseh^es and 
 others. Nigel now, poor fellow, with all his 
 fine talk and his utter want of power to 
 persevere — it was not his fault, perhaps, he 
 could not help it — but he would just break 
 his sister's heart if it was set on his 
 success. Oh, to have the chance of win- 
 ning triumphs just that he might lay them 
 at her feet ! xAad he could — he knew he 
 could. Stop : what was he thinking of ? 
 No. He was chained, powerless, bound 
 hand and foot. No struggle, no victory, 
 no success, such as she loved, for him ; and
 
 208 CWEN gwynne's geeat wokk. 
 
 her own words stood as a barrier between 
 them." 
 
 And Ursula, watching his bowed head 
 and firmly closed lips, was thinking, '' Can 
 this really be the half-hearted, fickle 
 artist that Austin Hope railed against and 
 renounced. He ought to know best, and 
 yet — I wish he could be comforted. I am 
 sure of one thing — if he gave up painting, 
 he is bitterly sorry now. He thinks it is 
 too late, poor fellow. Could nothing be 
 done to help him ? I am sure he cannot 
 hke to see Nigel draw, and tear up his 
 sketches half finished, and go on talking as 
 he does." 
 
 " Even now," thought Lance again, 
 ''Nigel is wearying and disappointing her. 
 I can see it. And yet even Nigel cHngs 
 to the name; he calls himself an artist, 
 and I " 
 
 Well, it must be borne. Long ago she 
 had judged him, and condemned him. She 
 thought of him just as Austin Hope had 
 done ; only, if she knew all as Austin knew
 
 OWEN gwynne's gkeat woek. 209 
 
 it, would she not be less hard than he had 
 been ? might she not have some pity, some 
 kind thought for him ? 
 
 ^^Yon wouldn't make haK a bad picture 
 yourselves, you two," said Nigel from the 
 bank, waking them both out of their 
 musings. ^^ I saw lots like it in the 
 Academy this year. The clumsy old tub 
 of a boat, and Lance cnmipled up over 
 his oai', and you, Ursie, ^ith yom- broad 
 hat and yellowy sca-t of gown, and the wet 
 water-lilies across your knee. Such a back- 
 ground, too ; red-brown tree stems, and 
 blue haze, and a lacework of leaf shadows 
 on the water " 
 
 '' Oh, Nigel, don't ! " 
 
 ^' Don't what, my dear ? Spare yom* 
 blushes : I'm not thinking of you so much 
 as of the queer effect of hght behind you, 
 and of the slanting sunbeam shafts throTSTi 
 back from the pohshed water, and of the 
 jolly tone of that red earth on the bank. 
 Just look, Lance." 
 
 *' Please, Nigel," she said, ^^let us enjoy 
 
 VOL. J. p
 
 210 OWEN gwynne's geeat wokk. 
 
 it our own way. Don't pull it to pieces 
 this evening. Somehow it breaks the 
 charm." 
 
 " Does it ? I should be sorry to interfere 
 with your pleasure ; but I haven't the 
 remotest notion what you mean." 
 
 '* Why, one gets tired of hearing about 
 ' effects,' and * tone,' and ' balance,' and 
 all the rest of it. You talk as if it was only 
 a fine picture." 
 
 ^' Well, isn't it a fine picture? I w^as 
 merely presuming to speak as a painter." 
 
 ^^You are not always so artistic," said 
 his sister, half vexed and half laughing. 
 *^ Suppose you forget your paintership for 
 this evening." 
 
 ^' Consistent ! " said Nigel, raising his 
 eyebrows good-humouredly. ^* What would 
 Austin Hope say to you ? " 
 
 ^^I am sure you know what I mean," 
 continued Ursula, turning to Lance. ^^ Such 
 an evening as this is something more than 
 a good * subject.'" 
 
 '^ Lance can talk shop enough when he
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's great WORK. 211 
 
 pleases," said Nigel, looking at his sketch 
 with his head on one side ; ^' bnt it isn't 
 fair to appeal to him now." 
 
 '^ Oh, don't, Nigel ! " exclaimed Ursula, 
 colouring deeply. 
 
 Lance looked at her surprised, and then 
 fell into a fit of wondering as to what could 
 have made the colour come so hotly into 
 her cheeks just then. What could. Austin 
 Hope have said to her about him? How- 
 much did she kno'W of his affairs ? 
 
 *^ Miss Kuthven," he said, when they had 
 landed, and were walking slowly up towards 
 the house, ^^ when Austin Hope was here, 
 did he talk to you about me ? " 
 
 ^^ Yes, a little," said Ursula frankly. 
 
 *^ Would you mind — may I ask you what 
 he said?" 
 
 Ursula coloured and hesitated, 
 
 ^'Ah, I see!" — L^nce spoke very sadly, 
 and more to himself than to her — '' I under- 
 stand ; but he might have left just that 
 alone." 
 
 ''I think," said Ursula, with a brave
 
 212 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 effort, ^^he cared very much about you, so 
 he was sorry, and puzzled." 
 
 ''And you?" asked Lance, as she paused, 
 ''what did you think?" 
 
 " I did not quite understand," she said, 
 looking up at him for a moment. 
 
 He did not answer directly. 
 
 " I should like you to understand," he 
 said presently. " May I tell you my own 
 story one day — will yon mind listening? — 
 and then you will judge for yourself?" And 
 Lance turned to her with that rare sunbeam 
 smile of his that she had seen once before. 
 
 She was not quite sure what she an- 
 swered. She believed she said, " Yes." 
 When he was gone she hoped she had, for 
 she thought she should like to hear his story 
 very much.
 
 OWEN gwtnne's gee at woek. 213 
 
 CHAPTEE YII. 
 
 It was not often that Ursula and Lance 
 were left alone ; Nigel was generally ^^ith 
 them, so that some time passed before 
 Lance had any opportunity of telling her 
 what he called his '* stoiy." Besides, it was 
 always hard to him to begin speaking of 
 himself. 
 
 But he was with the Kuthvens more 
 constantly thaii ever. He had smTcndered 
 himseK without questioning to the spell 
 the place tln-ew over him ; he knew that 
 the ice of apathy was fast melting from his 
 heart, and that all the world was changiag 
 for him. 
 
 Ursula, on her side, went on as before, 
 reading the diy old fohos she found in her
 
 214 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 uncle's book-room, but she wondered why 
 they had grown so dull lately, and so diffi- 
 cult to fix her thoughts upon. Just now, 
 also, another subject of deep interest had 
 arisen for her, and for her father. Nigel 
 was going to paint a picture. 
 
 The river sketches had borne fruit at 
 last, and he could talk and think of little 
 else. The dust gathered over his viohn 
 case. Cricket was a thing of the past, a 
 mere stop-gap, a good game enough for 
 people who had nothing to do. 
 
 A man could have but one real pur- 
 suit, said Nigel. It was all very well 
 to talk of varied talents — stuff and non- 
 sense. Michael Angelo wrote poetry, and 
 Salvator Eosa composed music, did they ? 
 So they might. There were giants on the 
 earth in those days. All the same his 
 father would find that they let it interfere 
 little enough with their art. At all events 
 he only spoke for himself, and he could not 
 afford to trifle or to lose his time. 
 
 To all of which Captain Euthven, who
 
 OTVEN GWTNNE's GREAT WORK. 215 
 
 had only adventured the mighty names by 
 way of argument, assented fervently, and 
 rejoiced with trembhng. 
 
 Ursula, too, trembled, but she scarcely 
 ventured to rejoice yet. She had seen hei 
 father disappointed before this, and the 
 flame of Xigel's zeal blazed up too fiercely 
 for her not to di'ead its burning itself out 
 before the end was reached. 
 
 The name of the picture was already 
 chosen — ^'Before the Gloaming." The 
 scene was a httle way fi-om the river-side, 
 and the time, of course, sunset, on an even- 
 ing in harvest time. 
 
 Lance and Ursula rowed Nigel down late 
 one afternoon, and landed him at his 
 sketching place, while they waited for him 
 in the boat. 
 
 It was a picked evening, chosen for the 
 especial loveliness of its hghts and shadows. 
 The boat lay, Hke Moses' ark, ensconced in 
 bulrushes. Close by, a Httle brook came 
 hurryong down ''to join the brimming 
 river," ending its meiTy race of inde-
 
 216 OWEN gwynne's gkeat woek. 
 
 pendence with a little, rush and tumble 
 that it would be grandiloquent to call a 
 waterfall. But it made a pleasant splash 
 and gurgle of its own, nevertheless. Some 
 red cows stood placidly mooing in the cool 
 water, and swallows dipped and skimmed 
 above it. 
 
 Neither Lance nor Ursula spoke for some 
 time after the sound of Nigel's whistle had 
 gone out of hearing. Ursula looked down 
 at her own zigzaging reflection in the 
 flowing water, and Lance leant over his oar 
 and watched her. It was the consciousness 
 of this that made her rouse herself pre- 
 sently, and begin to talk. Something she 
 said about the little waterfall caused them 
 to talk of waterfalls in general, then of 
 fountains, and finally of the great Trevi 
 fountain at Rome. 
 
 " Did you drink some of the water before 
 you came away ? " she asked. 
 
 ''1? No." 
 
 *^ Then do you never mean to go back to 
 Rome?"
 
 OWEN gwynne's geeat wokk. 217 
 
 *' Never," answered Lance emphatically; 
 ^'at least," he added, in a lower vwice, *' I 
 hope I never shall." 
 
 '' Yet yon mnst have liked Kome ? " 
 
 He gave a short laugh, as if the question 
 was an odd one, and a sudden stroke of 
 the oars sent the boat crushing in farther 
 amongst the rushes. '^ Yes, I liked it well 
 
 enough, but " He stopped, and shifted 
 
 his oars dehberately. '^ But I have no 
 business there now." 
 
 " No busmess ? " repeatevi Ursula, feeling 
 that they were touching on the debateable 
 ground, and half fearing, haK hoping that 
 he would go on. 
 
 *'No; you shall hear all about it if ycu 
 will — you know you promised me to listen — 
 and then, perhaps, you will be able to tell 
 me if I have done right or wi'ong ; for some- 
 times, since Austin Hope came here, I am 
 haunted by the idea that I have acted 
 like a fool. That's the worst of all, sup- 
 posing it has all been given up for a 
 mistake."
 
 218 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 He was silent for so long after saying 
 this, that Ursula began to wonder whether 
 he would go on at all. Then he spoke again, 
 abruptly. Lance did not tell the first part 
 of his story at all well. He began nearly 
 at the end, took it for granted that Ursula 
 knew^ much more than she really did, and 
 confused her by mixing up his recollections 
 of his life at Eome, and first acquaintance 
 with Austin Hope, with a yet earlier time, 
 of boyish hopes and dreams in his father's 
 school at Stone Cross. But when he came 
 to speak of his summons home, and of the 
 great trouble and sorrow of his Hfe, his 
 manner changed. Every word was telling, 
 and carried with it a certain manly, simple 
 pathos in its rigid truth and utter absence 
 of exaggeration. In speaking to Ursula he 
 could not overrate his struggle, neither 
 could he pass it over lightly. He must 
 speak of things as they were. It was to 
 him as if he were pleading with her to 
 judge kindly of his past acts. Austin 
 Hope's opinion was nothing to him now
 
 OWEN GWTNNE's great WORK. 219 
 
 in comparison with hers. Each word and 
 deed was brought up to the tribunal of her 
 decision. To Mr. and Mrs. Gwynne's side 
 of the question he gave full weight. Nay, 
 in pleading their cause, was he not pleading 
 his own, since their need of him was his 
 greatest justification ? 
 
 In all he said, far fi'om claiming any merit 
 for seK-sacrifice, he only strove to make 
 Ursula understand that it was not Hghtl}" 
 he had resigned his vocation, and wasted 
 the purpose of his life. Well, he went 
 on to say, the choice, rightly or wrongly, 
 had been made ; and until Austin's coming, 
 life had been heavy enough, certainly, but 
 at least simple, in that it was vexed by no 
 seK- questionings and doubts. How drear}^ 
 it was, his pictming, unconsciously strong 
 in its quietness, brought vi^ddly before 
 Ursula — the dull drudgery of his daily work ; 
 his narrow cheerless home ; his father, un- 
 sociable, and abstracted from all common in- 
 terests ; his mother — it was Lance's silence 
 that spoke here, or rather the grave, cold
 
 220 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 respect with which he meutioned her name. 
 And Maxy — the one pleasure that was also 
 the keenest pain, since how could he 
 watch with indifference a childhood already 
 heavily weighted, to ease or hrighten which 
 so little pains were taken — it was only 
 here that for a few moments Lance spoke 
 with bitterness. 
 
 Ursula listened breathlessly. He must 
 have read her sympathy in her face, but 
 she could not say anything, for the very 
 strength of her feeling stifled its utterance. 
 The time passed by unheeded by them 
 both, and Nigel's shout from the bank 
 startled them at last. There he stood, 
 laughing, and waving his straw hat to 
 them. The sun had set, and only the red 
 after-glow rested on woods and river. The 
 cows had gone home, and the boat, neg- 
 lected by Lance, had drifted out into the 
 middle of the stream. He seized the oars 
 and pushed her rapidly back to the bank. 
 
 Ursula never forgot the row home that 
 evening. It was late, and both Lance and
 
 OWEN gwtnne's great woek. 221 
 
 Nigel were rowing too vigorously for many 
 words. The boat shot with quick smooth- 
 ness through the twihght, and the shadowy 
 reaches of the river lay dark and shining 
 before them. Ursula, as she steered, 
 watched the dim banks flitting by, and the 
 rowers bending regularly to their oars. 
 
 ^^ And I never said a word to him," she 
 thought. *^ Somehow everythmg seemed 
 too weak and commonplace to say; and 
 now, after this long silence, how can I 
 begin ? I know I shall not be able to get 
 out a single sentence, and he will be sorry 
 that he told me." The words she would 
 fain have said seemed to have buried them- 
 selves too deep down in her heart for her 
 to be able to reach them. 
 
 Already they had come to the last cuiwe 
 of the river, and passed the rock overhung 
 with ivy that was close to home. There 
 were the hghts in the windows of the Old 
 Bridge House, and the gUmmer of the 
 guelder-roses on the terrace walls. Lance 
 left them at the landing-place, where the
 
 222 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 
 
 dew lay heavy on the grass, and the syringas 
 filled the air with perfume. 
 
 ^^ Good-night/' he said to Ursula; ^*and 
 thank you for your patient listening." 
 
 ^^ But you will come home with us, won't 
 you? " she said. 
 
 ^' Thank you, no, not to-night." 
 
 Lance lingered, turned from her, and 
 looked steadily at the lighted windows 
 above them. ^^ Miss Euthven, you once 
 said that all your sympathy was with 
 success." 
 
 ^*I did not know then," whispered 
 Ursula. 
 
 "I never forgot it," went on Lance;' 
 "for I know that all my life is one great 
 failure." 
 
 " Self-sacrifice is not failure," said Ursula,, 
 almost too low for him to catch the words ; 
 but he turned to her quickly. 
 
 ''God bless you for your kindness in 
 saying that ! I used to think you would 
 speak just as Austin did. I know you better 
 now. Good-night." And he went away. 
 
 %
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's gee at WORK. 223 
 
 Ursula went np to lier own room, and 
 stood at the open window in the dusk, 
 letting the flower-scented air come in and 
 cool her flushed cheeks. 
 
 ^'I never guessed, I never understood," 
 she said to herself. *^ And Austin Hope 
 knew this beautiful story, and yet could 
 speak of him as he did to me. But Austin 
 Hope would never have been capable of such 
 self-denial as this. He could not even 
 understand it. And I have thought and 
 spoken as if he were not worthy of Austin's 
 friendship. I might have kno^Ti, I might 
 have guessed that he had some reason 
 only too noble for other people to enter 
 into." 
 
 Perhaps Ursula thought too highly of 
 Lance's conduct, but it was natural that 
 siie should do so. The reaction of feehng 
 was strong, albeit some time ago she had 
 begun to trust, without understanding, 
 Lance. All that love of self-sacrifice that 
 was inherent in her nature rose up to honour 
 him. ^' Poor fellow, poor fellow," she repeated
 
 224 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 to herself, " so hardly dealt with, so misunder- 
 stood ! How one longs to comfort him ! " 
 
 There were no more evenings on the river 
 for a long time after this. Nigel was too 
 busy. 
 
 " Ursula," said Captain Kuthven, at the 
 close of one of those long, hot days — he 
 came round the angle of the house with 
 hushed footsteps, and spoke almost in a 
 whisper — ^^ Ursula, I am happy to tell you 
 that he is painting still." 
 
 Ursula was sitting on the terrace, with a 
 ponderous volume open upon her knees. 
 She had been bending over it for nearly an 
 hour past, but some link in the triple cord 
 of communication between her book, her 
 eyes, and her understandmg, must have 
 been broken, for the words of wisdom in- 
 scribed on the '^ learned page " carried very 
 little meaning to her mind. 
 
 '' Painting still, father?" she said. ''I 
 am very glad." 
 
 ^' I just looked in upon him," said Captain 
 Euthven, *^ and there he was, hard at it.
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's great WORK. 225 
 
 He hardly even noticed me, so I stole 
 away. I don't think I can have disturbed 
 him." 
 
 *' Oh no, no fear." 
 
 Captain Euthven sat down on the terrace 
 wall. ^' My dear boy ! " he said, with gHsten- 
 ing eyes. ^' I really think, Ursula, that this 
 may be the turning-point. He may really 
 settle down to work now. He wanted a 
 start, you see. Every one wants a start, 
 and I am half inclined to think that he 
 has got his now. I have seen several times 
 lately that you were anxious, Ursula, my 
 dear — veiy natm-al that you should be. I 
 confess I have been a Kttle anxious my- 
 self, off and on; but now I think I see 
 dayhght." 
 
 ^' Yes, I am so glad," repeated Ursula. 
 
 *^ I like the picture," continued Captain 
 Euthven; ^^ I like the picture very much. 
 Of course, one can scarcely judge of it in its 
 present state, but still one gets an idea. 
 Yes, you know of old that I am not easily 
 satisfied ; but I am pleased with this. Just 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 you mark my words, it will be a very fine 
 bit of painting." 
 
 ^* Indeed, I hope it will," said Ursula, 
 striving to make her voice ring a true echo 
 to the glad hopefulness in her father's tone. 
 '' How delightful it will be ! " 
 
 Captain Buthven began to weave visions, 
 as fast as ever did Perrette in the old French 
 fable. Already he saw the name of the 
 picture in the charmed pages of the Eoyal 
 Academy Catalogue. Nay, better still, 
 already the art criticisms were coming out 
 in the Times. Did he read, or did he only 
 dream the words, ^*Mr. Nigel Euthven, by 
 his delicious little picture, * Before the 
 Oloaming ' (No. 694), has at once estab- 
 lished his claim to a place on the walls of 
 
 the Academy. He has shown " What 
 
 had Nigel shown most? — ^* remarkable 
 breadth and freedom of handling, fehcitous 
 combination of colour, masterly power of 
 grouping " 
 
 '* Doesn't Nigel want anything to eat ? " 
 asked Ursula; and therewith the critic and
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 227 
 
 his article went back to dreamland, while 
 the pot-au-lait, fair, fragile thing, fell 
 shattered to the ground. 
 
 *' That's just it, Ursula. I confess I am 
 rather anxious about Nigel. I think he is 
 overdoing it now. For these last three days 
 he has not given himself proper time to eat 
 or sleep. It's a pity he can't do things 
 in moderation. What's the good of over- 
 taxing his strength and brain? Still, I 
 hardly like to interfere. What do you say, 
 Ursula?" 
 
 '' I am a little afraid, too," said Ursula, 
 hesitating. '' I am afraid of his getting 
 tired of his picture, if he works at it so 
 incessantly." 
 
 ^* Nonsense, child ; that's not it. I'm not 
 afraid of that. It doesn't look very Like 
 being tired of painting, when he can scarcely 
 speak to one or swallow a glass of wine. 
 That's not what troubles me. What I am 
 afraid of is that he will make himself ill, 
 and then he won't be able to paint at all." 
 
 '^ Oh, do you know, I am not much afraid
 
 228 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 of that, father dear," said Ui^ula. '' Besides, 
 he must leave off soon. The Hght will not 
 he good enough much longer." 
 
 ^' It isn't good enough for anything now," 
 said Nigel's voice hehind her. " I have had 
 to knock off work. It's pitch dark round 
 there in my painting-room. Dear me ! I'm 
 tired." (He looked more pleased and ex- 
 hilarated than tired.) ** Well, Ursula, what 
 have you heen ahout ? What's your book — 
 '■ Butler's Analogy ? ' Good gracious ! what 
 a tough morsel for a summer's evening ! " 
 
 '' She's quite right — very good book. I 
 like to see girls improving their minds," 
 said Captain Euthven, with his universal 
 complacency. 
 
 '^I wasn't improving my mind, I'm 
 afraid," said Ursula; ^^Iwas only thinking." 
 
 '' So much the better. I'm glad to hear 
 it. Always think over what you have been 
 reading." 
 
 '^ Oh, but, father dear, you see, I w^asn't 
 thinking about my book at aU," said Ursula, 
 with a laugh and a blush ; and then she saw
 
 OTVEN gwtnne's geeat woek. 229 
 
 that Lance had followed Nigel on to the 
 terrace, and, as she got up to shake hands 
 with him, Bishop Butler fell heavily to the 
 ground. 
 
 ^^ Weighty enough inside and out," said 
 Nigel, stooping to pick up the book. ^'It 
 must have been hard work enough to hold 
 the learned Bishop without reading him." 
 
 *' You're hardly the right person to com- 
 plain of any one's doing a hard day's 
 work," said Captain Euthven proudly. 
 
 ^' No," and Nigel spread out his arms 
 stiffly, and clasped them above his head. 
 *^ Haven't I been a good boy? Twelve hours 
 nearly at a stretch! Hope could hardly 
 have beaten that, could he, Lance ? " 
 
 "I am sure you will be pleased with 
 Nigel's picture, Gwynne« I- should hke 
 you to come and look at it, and give us your 
 opinion," 
 
 ^^ The light is hardly good enough," put 
 in Ursula. 
 
 '' No, no ; there's no light at all," said 
 NigeL ^'I don't want Lance to come
 
 230 OWEN gwynne's geeat work. 
 
 bothering just now. I've had enough of 
 the picture for to-day." 
 
 ^'Well, well, as you please, my boy; 
 only remember that criticism is a valuable 
 thing, a very valuable thing." 
 
 '* So it is, dad, very ; and you shall come 
 and criticise yourself as much as ever you 
 like. Here comes some coffee, thank good- 
 ness." 
 
 They drank coffee and sat chatting in the 
 twilight. Captain Euthven was very happy, 
 full of talk ; and Nigel brightened more and 
 more under the influence of his father's 
 pleasure. He drew him out, and got him 
 to tell long stories of his old fighting days in 
 India. 
 
 *'Yes," said Captain Euthven at last, 
 *^ stormy days those; but very long ago. 
 That was before I knew " 
 
 The sentence was left unfinished, for it 
 was very seldom he named his wife except 
 when he was alone with Nigel. 
 
 " I used to think in those days that there 
 was no life like a soldier's, and to dream of
 
 231 
 
 being a great man one day, a general or 
 what not. Times change, and now" — he 
 stroked his son's arm lovingly — "now, 
 I shall be well content, Nigel — well content, 
 my boy, if I see yon an R.A. before I die." 
 
 For an instant there came a look of great 
 sadness over Nigel's face, and he shook his 
 head. The next he turned to his father 
 more gaily than ever. "All right, dad, 
 but let us go to the top of the tree while we 
 are about it. What's the good of stopping 
 haK way? Let's be President of the Eoyal 
 Academy, and Sir Nigel, and all the rest 
 of it." 
 
 " With aU my heart. Sir Nigel, with all 
 my heart," said his father, rubbing his hands 
 in dehght. 
 
 "And now, dad, come and take a turn 
 with me. I haven't had a breath of fresh 
 air all day." 
 
 They sauntered off together, Captahi 
 Ruthven's arm thrown over his son's 
 shoulder, and his laugh coming back 
 cheerily to Lance and Ursula.
 
 232 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 They looked at each other and smiled, 
 but the little scene had touched them. 
 There was something almost mournful 
 about the father's intense pride in, and 
 love for, his ^*boy"; and sister and friend 
 alike shared the forehoding that his hopes 
 were doomed to disappointment. Each 
 had caught the sudden change of expression 
 on Nigel's face, as if the knowledge of his 
 own want of sustained power had flashed 
 across him for an instant. 
 
 Ursula felt that she loved her father and 
 brother both so dearly at that moment. 
 The possibility of sorrow coming to either 
 of them cut her to the heart. Try as she 
 would to stop them, the big tears would 
 well from under her drooped eyelashes, and 
 fall upon her hands. 
 
 ^' Ursula," said Lance in a low voice. 
 
 His eyes, too, had grown dim as he looked 
 after the father and son, but now he had 
 turned back to Ursula. 
 
 She looked up, brushing her hand quickly 
 over her eyes; but something she saw in
 
 OWEN gwtnne's great woek. 233 
 
 Lance's face made it all to do over again, 
 fresh tears would come. 
 
 ^' I oughtn't to ciy," she said hastily, '^ but 
 it seems sad. Poor Nigel, dear Nigel ! he 
 cannot help it, I suppose ; but oh ! our dear, 
 dear old father." 
 
 ^^ He is very hopeful," said Lance. 
 
 *' He always is, and so patient ; but I " 
 
 *' You cannot be hopeful too ? " 
 *^ Oh no. I used to be. I always was. 
 I used to have such dreams for him, but 
 I don't now. I often think now that there 
 never will be anything but dreams for 
 Nigel." 
 
 '' Does he think that himself? " 
 ^' Only for a moment sometimes, as he 
 did just now. No, he is generally quite 
 content to float easily down stream. Oh ! " 
 — and she clasped her hands — "how one does 
 long for something real to rest on and fight 
 for!" 
 
 *^ Ursula," said Lance quickly, and again 
 he stopped as if he could not make his 
 voice as steady as he would, "once I
 
 234 OWEN gwynne's gee at wokk. 
 
 should have said to you, come and help me 
 to fight; but I can't now — I mustn't. There 
 is no struggle for you to share — to brighten. 
 Ursula, I would have done my best." 
 
 She had risen surprised, when he began 
 to speak, and now for one moment she laid 
 her hand lightly on his arm. 
 
 He took it and held it in both of his, and 
 went on in a voice that he kept resolutely 
 quiet — 
 
 *^ I know you were speaking about Nigel. 
 I ought not to have thought about myself. 
 Forgive me ; but it is too hard always to 
 stand aside and to say nothing. Let me 
 speak this once. You said just now that 
 you wanted something real to rest on ; I 
 might have been that, I think, if my life 
 had been as it once was. I know how I 
 could have striven. And, Ursula, indeed it 
 is hard, because if it could have been — if 
 I could have asked — I sometimes have a 
 fancy that you would have come to me." 
 
 ^^ Yes," said Ursula softly, ^' and yet I 
 think I had rather "
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 235 
 
 She tried to draw away her hand, but he 
 held it too fast. 
 
 " You had rather, Ursula ? " 
 
 '^ I think — I had rather come to you as 
 it is." 
 
 He stood silent for a minute, still clasping 
 her hand. 
 
 ^'Will you say that again?" he asked; 
 and his voice changed in spite of his efforts. 
 " I might mistake." 
 
 But Ursula looked up at him this time, 
 and if she did say anything it was only with 
 her eyes. 
 
 A peal of bells, merry and soft, rang out 
 from a distant church-tower. The ringers 
 were practising, perhaps, for some wedding 
 near at hand, who knows ? The river that 
 had been such a good friend to Lance and 
 Ursula, rippled musically down below. The 
 exquisite evening hush was broken by no 
 other sounds, and the two who stood there 
 with their hands clasped together were too 
 happy for more words.
 
 236 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 ^^ Ursula and Lance ! " said Nigel ; 
 *' Lance and Ursula ! Who would have 
 thought it — our little Ursula and Lance 
 Gwynne ! Well, wonders will never cease." 
 
 ** You are very much surprised," said his 
 father. '' I was surprised myself." 
 
 They were talking in Nigel's painting- 
 room. Even the picture had for the moment 
 been postponed to discussing the great 
 event of the evening before, and Nigel was 
 balancing himself on the window-sill, with 
 his palette and brushes in his hand. 
 
 *^ Yes, I must confess I am surprised." 
 
 ^^And yet young Gwynne has been a 
 great deal with you ? " 
 
 ^' Yes, so he has, and he and Ursula have 
 had a good deal of talk to themselves ; but, 
 to tell the truth, I thought that Ursula, 
 poor dear, beheved herself to have a mission 
 to him, and to have been charged to win 
 him back to the noble confraternity of all 
 true artists." 
 
 ^^ Charged by whom ? Austin Hope ? " 
 
 *' Austin Hope, of course; and further- 
 more, father, I used to think "
 
 OWEN GWYXNe's great WOKE. 237 
 
 ^' So did I," quietly said Captain EuthTen. 
 
 Nigel laughed heartily. *^ No ; did you 
 really ? Imagine tlie dear old father match- 
 making ! But I did think that Hope, with 
 his genius and his hrusquerie and his enthu- 
 siasm, had rather caught our Httle Ursula's 
 fancy. She has got plenty of amhition, 
 and I thought she would have liked belong- 
 ing to a successful artist, such as he is." 
 
 *^ It would have been very suitable," said 
 Captain Euthven gravely. ** Hope would 
 have been a most useful fiiend to you." 
 
 '' If being echpsed and lectured is useful, 
 very," muttered Nigel; ''but TU teU you 
 what, father. Lance is one of the best 
 feUows in all the world." 
 
 "I don't much Hke that business of 
 changing his profession, though. It looks 
 to me like a certain amount of instability of 
 character. I like people to stick to one 
 thing, especially when they have chosen 
 such a noble calling as youi's." 
 
 "I suspect Lance had good reasons for 
 changing. Come in, Ursula; we are tahdng
 
 238 OWEN GWYNNE S GEE AT WORK. 
 
 about you," he added, as Ursula's bright 
 face peeped in at the half-open door. ^* You 
 and Lance are making me waste the whole 
 of my valuable morning. ' ' And he went back 
 to his easel. 
 
 '' I was just saying, Ursula, my dear, that 
 I regret Lance Gwynne's having given up 
 his profession." 
 
 *^And I am proud of it," said Ursula, 
 standing in the middle of the floor, with a 
 flush of colour and sparkling eyes^^^ prouder 
 than if he had painted the finest picture 
 that ever was seen in the world." 
 
 Nigel turned haK round and smiled, 
 touching her Hghtly on the cheek with the 
 end of his mahl stick. 
 
 '' I am, Nigel." 
 
 ^' I don't quite understand you, Ursula," 
 observed Captain Ruthven, puzzled and 
 rather shocked. 
 
 " Oh, father," she said, ^' I am sure you 
 don't know how it came about, or you would 
 understand better than anybody." 
 
 Lance's account of himself to her had been
 
 OWEN GWYNNE'S GEEAT WORK. 239 
 
 but a plain, unvarnislied tale. The facts, 
 as Ursula told them, were the same, but her 
 bright imagination lent them quite a new 
 glow of colour. In her hands the mise 
 en scene became really picturesque. Mrs. 
 Gwynne would scarcely have recognized 
 herseK as the stern but beneficent guardian 
 angel, keeping her faithful watch over the 
 entrance of that silent room, where the 
 scholar, pale, worn, yet unwearied, bent early 
 and late over his books. At all events 
 Ursula had not learnt fi'om Lance any 
 bitter feeling towards his mother. She 
 described the anxiety that Mrs. Gwynne 
 kept courageously to herself — the carking 
 care not to be shared by her husband, the 
 burden that by degrees grew too heavy to 
 be carried longer by herself; finally, the 
 sending for her son, and Lance's coming 
 — his feet just firmly fixed on the ladder 
 of fame, his heart filled to overflowing 
 with briUiant hopes — to be met by the 
 chilHng question, " Will you give all up ? " 
 The rest Ursula could not speak of
 
 240 OWEN GWYNNE S GEE AT WOEK. 
 
 calmly. "Words failed her to tell of the 
 shock, the struggle, the victory, and, since 
 then, the silent bearing of hard judgments 
 and of a broken life. She tried to go on, 
 and failed. ^* Father, you see now." 
 
 Her impulsive old father was quite carried 
 away by the story. His own eyes were 
 overflowing. 
 
 ^' See, Ursula? I should think I did, my 
 dear. The poor, good laddie, the brave 
 boy! I say it was well done. I never 
 heard of a finer thing. I long to shake him 
 by the hand, Ursula, and tell him that I am 
 sure such a good son will make the best of 
 husbands to my little girl." 
 
 Nigel was silent, but it was not the 
 silence of indifference. There was a fold 
 between his eyes that told of deep feehng, 
 though he only gave a short nod when his 
 father appealed to him to confirm his praise 
 of Lance. 
 
 *'A bad fellow may admire a good one, 
 Ursie, I suppose?" he said to her with a sort 
 of sad gaiety of manner, when they were
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 241 
 
 leffc alone. '^ I always said yoiir Lance was 
 one of tlie best men I know. I only ^dsli 
 the old man here had got a son Hke him." 
 
 " Dear Nigel, oh, dear Nigel, you are ! 
 you are going to be everything he wants." 
 
 Nigel shrugged his shoulders hke a 
 Frenchman. 
 
 '^ Qui vivra verra,'' he said hghtly. ^' At 
 all events, Httle w^oman, will it please you 
 to stand out of my Kght just now ? " 
 
 Ursula was veiy happy, but perhaps she 
 had never longed so much after the mother 
 she could scarcely remember as at this time. 
 Both her father and Nigel, it is true, gave 
 her the most real sympathy they were 
 capable of, yet Ursula still felt dimly that 
 there was something w^anting to her joy. 
 
 One day she went down to the village to 
 see the old woman there whom she called 
 her friend, and to tell her something of her 
 new happiness. She felt as if what was 
 filling her heart would be better met and 
 shared by the poor old widow tha^n by either 
 father or brother. She could not have put 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 242 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 into words what it was that inspired her 
 with so much confidence in one who differed 
 widely from her in age and Hfe, in mode of 
 speech, and ways of thought. But all the 
 same, when Ursula entered the cottage and 
 drew up a little wooden stool to the side of 
 the old woman's elbow-chair, she was sure 
 already that she had judged rightly. 
 
 It was such an atmosphere of peace ; not 
 outwardly, for though Widow West was 
 alone in the cottage at that moment, she 
 lived in a large noisy household, with her 
 son and his loud-tongued talking wife, and a 
 set of rough grandchildren, who were some- 
 times good to *' granny" and oftener forgot 
 her. But none of these things ruffled her. 
 The peace in her grand old face was not 
 to be broken by *^ earth's ruder noise "—it 
 was more deeply rooted than that ; it was 
 ^'not the peace that brooded over Eden, 
 but that which crowned Gethsemane." 
 Woi'<is cannot give an idea of that look. 
 There was more in it than mere serenity: 
 joy, divine joy, shone round her like a halo.
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 243 
 
 '' Oh, Widow West," said Ursula, lean- 
 ing her arm on the old woman's knee, and 
 looking up into the bright, sweet face, 
 " I ajn so happy — so very happy. I wanted 
 to come and talk to you." And she told her 
 about Lance. 
 
 '^ The Lord be praised," said the old 
 woman, lifting up her hands joyfully. ^^'Tis 
 His doing. A good partner comes from 
 Him. How He does love to see you glad, 
 my dear. I knew He would. I ha' spoke 
 to Him ofttimes in my poor way, and told 
 Him how good you ha' been to me, and 
 that He would reward you for me ; and He 
 has. ' Dear Lord,' I said, * she's a blessed 
 young lady ; you love her more than I do : 
 bless her dear heart, give her all the good 
 things here and a bright coming to the 
 Kingdom.' And He ha' heard. I was right 
 sure He would." 
 
 She looked upwards still, with a smile 
 on her moving lips; and Ursula, awe- 
 struck, felt that indeed she talked with God. 
 
 ''He always listens," she said. ''It's
 
 244 OWEN gwynne's gkeat woek. 
 
 beautiful. I lia' talked with Him this many 
 a year, and ha' told Him all my need, and 
 He ha' holp me. I say to Him, ' I can't 
 sing Thy praises, Lord, with my poor old 
 voice, for you know 'tis cracked ; but I do 
 sing in my heart, and I shall soon sing in 
 your heaven.' " 
 
 ^' Do you love Him so much?" said 
 Ursula wistfully; for she felt that there was 
 something in this joy that went far beyond 
 her own, something in this love that satis- 
 fied. She had read of it, heard of it, but 
 she had never seen it bright and Hving until 
 now. 
 
 '^ Can I choose but love Him," said the 
 old w^oman, *^ for He loves me? Can I help 
 thinking long till I get to Him ? " She 
 folded her hands and sat thinking for a Httle 
 space; then she said, ^^ I never had any 
 learning, you know, my dear, not to call 
 book learning, so I can't speak it out right ; 
 but a while ago I was sitting here in my 
 chair alone, and they were all gone a-glean- 
 ing, as it might be now. Daughter-in-law's
 
 OWEN GVTYN'NE's GREAT WOEK. 245 
 
 bees, they were getting ready to swarm in 
 the apple-tree out yonder; and when I saw 
 them all clustering on one bough, so thick 
 together, one upon another, poor things, 
 thinks I, that's hke Him, that branch; 
 that's like my dear Lord will be in heaven, 
 just weighted with souls, all striving who 
 can get most nigh Him." 
 
 A poor, rude image that Ursula scarcely 
 understood, yet to the old woman's mind 
 bearing a true emblem of Him whom she 
 had long found *' sweeter than honey and 
 the honeycomb." 
 
 ^' I wish that I was hke you," said 
 Ursula, feeling for the moment most truly 
 what she said. 
 
 Widow West took up the girl's hand and 
 kissed it. 
 
 *' My dear," she said, ^'I came to Hhn 
 through a many tears. He found me hard 
 to win ; but, praise be to His name. He 
 didn't tire. He never does tire. Through 
 a sight o' sorrow He have brought me 
 home."
 
 246 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 Words that long afterwards Ursula re- 
 membered — *^Won through a ^ sight ' of 
 sorrow, and through many tears." 
 
 But such things as tears and sorrow 
 seemed very far off now. How happy they 
 were ! Of course there was no thought of 
 their being married for many a long day. 
 That was but a distant air-castle in the 
 golden cloudland, that would become real 
 and descend on to common earth some day, 
 when, oh, so many things had happened — 
 when the Bank had made Lance's fortune ; 
 when the great work was out ; when Lance 
 could buy a little house standing in a 
 garden, into which was to open one sunny, 
 flowery, earthly paradise kind of a room 
 that was to belong to Maxy. 
 
 At first Maxy would not take kindly to 
 that prospective room of his. The idea of 
 Ursula as belonging to Lance was a wonder- 
 fully new and startling one. It came upon 
 him with a sudden jar and shock, and for a 
 time — the truth must out — poor Maxy was 
 jealous.
 
 OWEN gwyxxe's great woek. 247 
 
 He loved Lance so entirely. How could 
 he bear being first with him no longer ? It 
 was not often that Maxy thought much 
 about himself. This was the only time 
 when any good to his brother failed to make 
 his heart tlu'ob fast with joy. 
 
 But when Lance, in the flush of his new 
 gladness, brought Ursula to show her to 
 Maxy — when Maxy saw them coming in 
 together, and caught the proud look in his 
 brother's eyes, a quick sharp pain seemed 
 to strike through his heai-t. He had much 
 of the same temperament as his artist 
 brother, the same appreciation and intense 
 dehght in beauty. He looked now at the 
 delicate oval face, at the sweet loving brown 
 eyes, at the hthe graceful figure. Lance 
 wondered to see a quiver pass over his face, 
 and as Ursula knelt down beside him, he 
 let her take his hand, but turned his head 
 away. 
 
 ^^ She is beautiful," he thought pas^ 
 sionately, ^^ and she is strong and well. 
 She can walk with Lance, she can run
 
 248 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 after him everywhere, and I mnst just lie 
 here." 
 
 '' Maxy," said Lance. He spoke rather 
 low, but there was a shade of displeasure in 
 the tone. 
 
 Maxy flushed crimson. He turned slowly, 
 and raised his eyes to Lance's. His was 
 a strong nature. A brief silence, a brave 
 struggle, and the momentary agony was 
 gone. His faith in Lance rushed back, 
 and, frankly penitent, both his hands were 
 stretched out to Ursula in welcome. 
 
 He did well to trust a love so true and 
 deep as Lance's — a love so real that, even 
 in those first days, he and Ursula could 
 not look at life through their rose-coloured 
 spectacles without trying to fit them on 
 to Maxy's nose also. 
 
 Among Lance's hopes was not one of 
 returning to his old profession. That was 
 entirely out of the question, he told Ursula, 
 silencing her decidedly the first time she 
 spoke about it. But on all other subjects 
 he was ready to build impossible castles
 
 OWEN GWTNNE's great WORK. 249 
 
 in the air, and to laugh over their lack of 
 solid foundation, and to be young and 
 happy beyond anything that Ursula could 
 have imagined of him. 
 
 How meriy they were in those golden 
 harvest days ! Ursula could not shake her 
 head even when Nigel deserted '' Before 
 the Gloaming," and insisted on making a 
 pictm*e of the memorable boat scene. 
 She and Lance were ready enough to sit 
 in their former places, and talk and laugh 
 while Nigel sketched them from the bank. 
 
 But it would not do. Nigel said their 
 attitudes were no longer in harmony with 
 the quiet sunset Hght, and they discovered 
 that the evenings were closing in so fast 
 that it grew chilly on the water. "Was 
 summer over ? Well, brightly tinted 
 autumn would be just as beautiful. Need 
 it bring any clouds ? 
 
 Only just this one — that with, the short 
 days and falling leaves, Nigel's content 
 seemed to fade away. He grew bored and 
 restless, found that the climate depressed
 
 250 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 Mm, and talked of the mat du pays. 
 Among the advantages of being such a 
 cosmopolitan as Nigel was that of being 
 able to indulge in the mat du pays for more 
 countries than one. 
 
 He was only wasting his time now, he 
 said, buried in this little out-of-the-way 
 country corner. Perhaps it was true. At 
 all events, when October came, Nigel went 
 south with the swallows.
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 251 
 
 CHAPTEK YIII. 
 
 MoEE than a year has passed. 
 
 It is a November day, not very cheerful 
 anywhere, but especially gloomy in the 
 large comiting-honse of the Marlixtowe 
 Bank, where there reigns a very tolerable 
 imitation of a London fog. 
 
 Gas is burning here and there, the yellow 
 rays of hght speedily losing themselves in 
 the thick atmosphere. The line of windows 
 looks as if all the blinds were down, but it 
 is only grey mist that shades them. It wiU 
 be dark very early this afternoon. 
 
 An inner door is pushed open, and 
 Lance Gwynne receives a summons into 
 Mr. Deane's private room — no unusual 
 thing ; for ever since the fire that happened
 
 252 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 tlie summer before last, Lance has been 
 rising steadily in the esteem of Messrs. 
 Deane and Co. Perhaps his industry, clear- 
 ness of head, and power of application, had 
 begun to win him golden opinions before, 
 but he had never been conscious of it until 
 then. Since that night he has been treated 
 as a friend, not only by his old school-fellow 
 Godfrey Deane, but by his father, the head 
 of the house. 
 
 Lance takes it very quietly, as he does 
 most things ; but he is glad for many reasons. 
 
 As he rises from his desk and passes 
 under one of the gas-lamps its light falls full 
 upon him for a moment. The months that 
 have passed have brought but Httle change 
 to him outwardly. Perhaps there is more 
 light in his eyes, and his lips have taken 
 a less severe and melancholy curve. He is 
 certainly more friendly and famihar with 
 his brother clerks, and he has the gift, pos- 
 sessed by some reserved people, of winning 
 hearts without trying to do so. Every one 
 likes to be noticed by him ; all say now that
 
 OWEN gwynne's gkeat woek. 253 
 
 Gwynne is one of the best fellows going, 
 when once you come to know him. 
 
 If Lance has his dark hours still— hours 
 in which the old passion rises in his heart 
 as strong as ever — he keeps them closely to 
 himself. If there are times when he thinks 
 of his former friends, with a bitterness he 
 feels powerless to subdue, no one knows it. 
 He had never grudged them their suc- 
 cesses ; if now he still envies them the 
 brush they hold, the canvas they work 
 upon, the very mixing of the colom's on 
 the palette, outwardly he gives no sign. 
 He said long ago that he felt strong enough 
 to carry through his conquest over him- 
 self, and he. has done it. 
 
 At the one time he needed help, when 
 for a space his courage and endurance had 
 seemed about to fail him, help had been 
 given. Ursula had come to bring back 
 hope and purpose into his Hfe ; not his 
 first purpose or his chosen hope, it is true, 
 but he loved her, and his love had saved 
 him. He wishes to get on now, works
 
 254 OWEN gwynne's gee at wosk. 
 
 steadily for promotion, sees that there may 
 be interest even in the drudgery which he 
 used to despise as well as hate. 
 
 He deliberately thinks that he has fallen 
 to a lower level, and this slow dawning of 
 content does not raise him in his own 
 opinion, but he has nerved himseK to walk 
 without flinching in the lowher path, and 
 he has no fear of failure now. This is what 
 the last year has brought to Lance. 
 
 Certainly, in many ways his Hfe is most 
 monotonous; but he expects no changes, 
 and has no wish for any at present. 
 
 ** Gwynne," said Mr. Deane, as Lance 
 opened the door of the banker's private 
 room, ^' is that you ? Come in here a 
 moment. I find that I must send you at 
 once on important business to Eome." 
 
 Mr. Deane was standing before a blat^ing 
 fire ; the small room was fully and brightly 
 lighted. Either that or his words rather 
 dazed Lance for" a minute as he came in 
 from the dull counting-house. 
 
 *^ You speak Italian, I have always under-
 
 OWEN gwynne's great work. 255 
 
 stood. Yes ? And you know Eome. So 
 far good. Besides, my son Godfrey, who 
 is there- — yon are to act with him, yon see 
 — writes to me that he will have no one 
 but yon sent to him from here." 
 
 Lance's head was spinning round. That 
 Fortune, turning her **wild wheel, through 
 sunshine, storm, and cloud," should have 
 turned it to such pui-pose as to send him 
 to Eome, was undoubtedly a thing he had 
 never dreamed of. That he should be sent 
 there as a banker's clerk ! He was ex- 
 cessively disconcerted and perplexed for 
 many reasons. On the whole, he would 
 rather have been told that he was to go 
 to Siberia than to Eome, but it never 
 entered into his thoughts to remonstrate. 
 
 ''In fact," Mr. Deane continued, "God- 
 frey might safely have left me to decide 
 that point myself, for it would be absm-d to 
 send any of the fellows from here who have 
 never been out of England. And Godfrey 
 is such an uncertain man. He may be at 
 Eome, he may be at Naples, he may be at
 
 256 OWEN gwynne's gkeat work. 
 
 Kamschatka, for aught I know. You will 
 have to wait for liim, Gwynne, for the 
 power of attorney to act for us is made 
 out in his name." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Lance, recovering voice 
 enough to pronounce those two syllahles. 
 
 " Y^ou had better start soon, and you had 
 better travel fast, as the best chance of 
 catching Godfrey. Upon my word, I envy 
 you getting a glimpse of the sun," he con- 
 tinued, with a glance out of the window 
 at the twilight of frosty fog. "I wish I 
 could go myself." 
 
 Lance wished so too very cordially. That 
 sentence about starting soon had scattered 
 all his thoughts again, though he managed 
 a smile and a few proper words about 
 " Eather a better chmate than ours just 
 now." 
 
 But to go immediately ! Should he 
 favour Mr. Deane with a page of family 
 history, and ask for a httle delay ? Should 
 he tell him that old Jane was laid up with 
 rheumatic fever, and that Maxy ?
 
 OWEN GWTN'NE S GEEAT WOEK. 257 
 
 But Mr. Deane was still talking. '^ So 
 there's not a day to be lost in the business. 
 I give you my word, Gwynne, you are a 
 perfect godsend to me at this moment. 
 It isn't eveiy day one gets a clerk ready 
 made to one's hand, who has Itahan at his 
 fingers' ends, and is more at home in Eome 
 than at Marlixtowe — and a good business 
 man to boot. Now, just sit down, and I 
 will give you your instructions." 
 
 Lance soon saw that the mission on 
 which he was to be sent was an important 
 and, to some extent, a responsible one. 
 The great man of the Marlixtowe neighbour- 
 hood. Sir John Clavering, had just died 
 suddenly at Eome, and was greatly in debt 
 to the Marhxtowe Bank. It was to assist 
 in recovering this debt that/ Lance was 
 going out. The business promised to be 
 a compUcated one, for Su' John had married 
 an Itahan, and all the unentailed property 
 which he possessed was invested in Italy. 
 It was useless dreaming of delay. 
 
 *^ Well," he said to himself, as he put on 
 
 VOL, I. 8
 
 258 OWEN gwtnne's gkeat wokk. 
 
 his greatcoat presently in the empty count- 
 ing-house, and ran down the bank steps 
 into a sea of fog. *^ Well, wonders will 
 never cease, as poor old Jane said when she 
 got rheumatic fever. Here am I off to 
 Rome ; but that's the least of it." 
 • The least of it, truly. There was some- 
 thing on the eve of happening much more 
 wonderful than that. Mr. and Mrs. Gwynne 
 were going to Madrid ! 
 
 The great work had made astonishing 
 strides during the last year. Several 
 volumes, at least, according to Mrs. Gwynne, 
 had been completely finished. It had very 
 nearly burst upon the world this Christmas, 
 but it was difficult for any one to conceive 
 what a tremendous part of history was that 
 of the fifteenth century. The most com- 
 plicated and mysterious political machinery 
 had been at work; wheels within wheels 
 revolved in the diplomatic circles of that 
 memorable time. Without access to certain 
 documents and rare books, it was quite 
 impossible that the history should be made
 
 OWEN gwynne's gkeat woek. 259 
 
 as compreliensiYe and exhaustive as had 
 always been designed, and these documents 
 were in the hbrary of the Escuiial. 
 
 It followed, as a matter of necessity, that 
 to the Escurial Mrs. Gwynne must go — that, 
 of course, is to say, Mr. Gwynne must go, 
 conducted or escorted by his wife. 
 
 He himseK had been overwhelmed at first 
 by the greatness of the scheme. It was too 
 much. They really should be carrying things 
 too far, and he could not justify the step to 
 himself. No, it would be wiser to remain 
 at home and do the best they could with 
 authorities to be found in London or at 
 Oxford. Besides, he really did not feel 
 equal to the enterprise. 
 
 But Mrs. Gwynne was undaunted, and, as 
 usual, she carried her point. Once more she 
 made an appeal to Lance's generosity. He 
 was getting on well : she knew he would not 
 refuse to help his father. Lance made no 
 remonstrance. Long ago he had learnt to 
 look on the great work as the Leah for 
 whom his term of service must be com-
 
 260 OWEN gwynne's geeat wokk. 
 
 pleted before he could begin to work for 
 Ursula. He used to call her his Kachel, 
 and laughingly to accuse her of not being 
 properly jealous of her rival. 
 
 For Ursula had a queer sort of sympathy 
 with the progress of ** Gwynne's History 
 of the Fifteenth Century " ; she liked to 
 see an enterprise so obstinately carried out, 
 and difficulties so resolutely met. She felt 
 that for any object which Lance had at 
 heart, she could have toiled and striven 
 as Mrs. Gwynne had done ; and now and 
 then she gave a sigh at the thought that 
 none of the self-sacrifice of which she 
 knew herself to be capable was likely to 
 be required of her. At a distance she 
 respected and approved of Mrs. Gwynne. 
 
 It was generous of her, for certainly the 
 welcome Mrs. Gwynne had accorded to her 
 as a future daughter-in-law was of the 
 coldest. Lance's mother, also, seeing the 
 girl beautiful and well-favoured, looked on 
 her as a Eachel, and trembled lest she 
 should come in the way of her son's fealty
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 261 
 
 towards the daiiiug object of her own 
 idolatry. 
 
 There was very little intercourse between 
 the Old Bridge House and the Abbey Koad. 
 Captain Euthven would willingly have 
 lavished the most cordial interest and rever- 
 ence on the great work, but his overtures 
 only covered its author with shyness and 
 embarrassment, and Mrs. Gwynne would 
 not allow him to be ^'unsettled." She 
 would not let Ursula see even Maxy often, 
 and never left them alone together, to 
 Lance's great disappointment. He had so 
 counted on those two making friends. 
 
 It was, however, many months now since 
 Lance himseK had seen Ursula — six long 
 months at least. Yes, he remembered it 
 well — it was early in the month of May 
 (because the Eoyal Academy was just open, 
 and you could not take up a newspaper 
 without finding it full of criticisms on the 
 pictm-es), when he and Ursula went up 
 the hill one evening to see the sun set 
 over the Welsh mountains.
 
 262 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 
 
 Before they set off Ursula happened to 
 keep him waiting for a Httle while, and he 
 noticed that Captain Euthven, who was 
 sitting in a despondent attitude over the 
 fire, seemed unusually silent and out of 
 spirits. He looked up after a time, and 
 folding a newspaper, pushed it to Lance 
 across the table. ^* Have you looked at 
 yesterday's Times'^ They praise your 
 friend Hope's pictures up to the skies." 
 
 Lance read eagerly, and with a glow of 
 pleasure. Austin's pictures were praised 
 heartily, and criticised fairly and kindly. It 
 was the sort of notice to satisfy any young 
 artist. 
 
 ** I once hoped to have seen Nigel's name 
 among them this year," murmured Captain 
 Euthven, speaking more to himself than 
 to his companion. '^ One must be patient, 
 but the waiting tries one, and I fear " 
 
 If Lance heard he did not heed. He 
 turned the pages and read on fascinated. 
 Ah ! this was one of the moments he 
 dreaded — a glimpse of the old world. He
 
 OWEN gwynne's great woek. 263 
 
 stood outside the gate of ^^aradise for an 
 instant, and gazed, entranced, at the glories 
 within. But only for an instant. Ursula 
 came in, and he threw the paper down 
 with a muttered ^' "VMiat a fool I was 
 to read all that ! " 
 
 They went out together. Lance did not 
 talk as usual, but neither did Ursula. The 
 sunset was veiy fine, well worth cHmbing 
 a steeper hill to see, but they gave it 
 none of the attention it merited. Ursula 
 was the first to speak. 
 
 *' Lance," she asked, ^^ something has 
 vexed you? " 
 
 ** Has it ? " Lance took off his hat and 
 passed his hand over his forehead. '^ It 
 was very stupid of me to be vexed," he said 
 with a smile. 
 
 ** If you look troubled," Ursula continued, 
 ^'it will be harder still to go away and 
 leave you. Did not father say anything to 
 you ? I thought he had been teUing you. 
 Yes, dear Lance " — in answer to his start 
 a^d gi'asp on her arm — " we are going away.
 
 264 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 It is better for father. Haven't you seen 
 it ? He is growing restless here, and 
 wearying to get to Nigel. Ever since we 
 heard of Nigel's being at Avignon, father 
 has been longing to go there. I oughtn't 
 to try and keep him here. No, Lance, he 
 and I must go after our poor Nigel." 
 
 There had been trouble about Nigel since 
 he left Marlixtowe in the winter, and it 
 had told heavily on his father. They heard 
 of him at rare intervals ; first at the Hague 
 and Antwerp, then at Dresden. After that 
 he went to Paris, and a long silence fol- 
 lowed. Captain Euthven would never show% 
 even to Ursula, the letter that broke it ; but 
 she knew that Nigel had been gambling, 
 that he asked for money, and that he 
 wrote in bitter penitence and remorse. 
 
 The money was sent without a single 
 harsh word, and Nigel was not there to 
 read that deepest of all reproaches — the 
 sorrow printed on his father's face. 
 
 But, really sad and penitent for the 
 moment, he had left Paris, and had gone
 
 OWEN GWTNXE S GREAT WOEK. 265 
 
 ''home," as he called it, to Avignon. His 
 grandfather's brother, I'Oncle Pierre, now 
 occupied the old atelier. To hear of Nigel 
 working there — living in the dear rooms 
 once brightened by his yomig mother's 
 presence — ^painting on the familiar easel, 
 and looking out of the well-remembered 
 window, across the comi} with the vine 
 treUis and the fountain, made Captain Euth- 
 ven's heaii) yearn hresistibly over his son. 
 
 Nigel wrote charming letters, giving 
 half pla^-fol, haK touching pictm-es of 
 the simple, primitive life he was leading. 
 L'Oncle Pierre, novr a very old man, 
 though he was Achille la Grange's younger 
 brother, longed, so Nigel said, with quite 
 a pitiful longing, to see his niece's daughter 
 once again. She had been his darling as 
 a child, and now la petite Ursule was rarely 
 out of his thoughts. 
 
 "Father thinks," said Ursula, with a 
 smile and a sigh, ''that we are going for 
 his sake. I used to be very fond of I'Oncle 
 Pierre — how bad his pictures were ! — and
 
 266 OWEN gwynne's geeat work. 
 
 perhaps he remembers me a little ; but — 
 Nigel is there." 
 
 So they went, leaving the Old Bridge 
 House just as the tardy sweetness of the 
 English spring was stealing over it like a 
 smile. They went — ^^ rolling stones that 
 gathered no moss," said Ursula, with her 
 pretty sorrowful smile, and the place was 
 left very deserted-looking. Lance used to 
 go over there sometimes, into the closed-up 
 airless rooms, and, unbarring the shutters, 
 look down upon the terrace and the river, 
 w^ondering where the magic of the view 
 had gone. The summer did not bring 
 back Ursula and her father, though Nigel 
 had again left Avignon. ^'He is gone to 
 work in North Italy," wrote Ursula to 
 Lance. *'And whenever we talk of 
 England I'Oncle Pierre says he is dying. 
 He is very well and very happy, poor dear, 
 at other times. It is not only on his 
 account we stay — father is happier, I see, 
 waiting here for Nigel. Lance, how he loves 
 him, with what a sublime and patient love !
 
 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 267 
 
 Sometimes I say to myself, the good God 
 loves us all as father loves Nigel, and it 
 makes me glad to think it." 
 
 Lance had this letter in his pocket at 
 the time of his interview with Mr. Deane, 
 and as he walked quickly down the Ahbey 
 Road, guiding himself through the fog, by 
 feeUng his way along the garden walls, he 
 had time to think that Avignon was on the 
 high-road to Eome, and that either in going 
 or returning, there would surely be in store 
 for him a ghmpse of Ursula's bright face. 
 
 But just now his chief care was for Maxy. 
 Mrs. Gwynne and he were akeady at issue 
 as to where the boy w^as to spend the time 
 of his mother's absence in Spain. Old Jane, 
 in whose faithful care he could have been 
 so safely left, was just recovering from 
 rheumatic fever, and had gone to a nephew 
 in the Isle of Wight to regain her strength. 
 
 Mrs. Gwynne made up her mind to send 
 Maxy to her only sister, and this plan 
 Lance heartily disapproved. 
 
 Mrs. Griffiths was a widow, living in
 
 268 OWEN gwynne's geeat work. 
 
 Wales with a stepson, whose house she 
 kept. This stepson was the manager of 
 some great slate-quarries among the Welsh 
 hills — a grand, wild country, but altogether 
 too bleak and out of the way, Lance thought, 
 to be fit for Maxy. 
 
 The two sisters had met very seldom for 
 many years past, and Lance had not seen 
 his aunt above three times in his hfe ; but 
 these few meetings had been enough to 
 make him dishke trusting her with Maxy. 
 If he had been undutiful enough to clothe 
 his impression of her in words, he might 
 have said that she was too Hke his 
 mother, but Lance tried not to believe 
 that he really felt that. 
 
 Something, however, in her eyes, in her 
 hands, and in her meagre dress suggested to 
 him that she was miserly. But he had no 
 tangible objection to urge, and his remon- 
 strances were in vain. His mother had 
 made her decision irrevocably. Her sister 
 Patience told her of the pure mountain air, 
 and a bracing climate would be the very
 
 OWEN gwtnne's gee at woek. 269 
 
 tiling for Maxy. She supposed Lance 
 would allow her to judge what she thought 
 best for her own child. Lance had no 
 choice but to yield. He made up his mind 
 to watch closely over Maxy's welfare and 
 happiness while he was at Abervelly, and if 
 he saw him flag in any way to take the 
 matter into his own hands at once. This 
 journey to Kome left him helpless. True, 
 it was but a vague mistrust he felt, but it 
 made him uneasy. 
 
 The impression was still strong upon him 
 when, in the darkness of the early morning 
 next day, he went into his brother's room, 
 prepared for a journey, and carrying a 
 candle in his hand. It seemed still the 
 middle of the night to Maxy, but he was 
 wide awake, sitting up shivering in his bed, 
 and trying to keep his heart up. 
 
 ^' Going akeady. Lance ? Isn't it very 
 cold ? " he asked, with chattering teeth. 
 
 Lance put down the candle, and sat on 
 the edge of the bed, his face nearly as 
 troubled as his brother's.
 
 270 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 ^^Maxy," lie said very gravely, ^'I shall 
 be off in a minute or two, and I want yon to 
 listen to me. I don't think there's a chance 
 of my being home before father and mother 
 go, and I can't quite tell you why I am un- 
 easy at leaving you. I dare say I am a fool 
 for my pains " — holding the boy, who was 
 nestling up to him, still closer — ^'but that 
 can't be helped. I want you to give me a 
 promise, a solemn promise, mind. Are you 
 listening? " 
 
 Maxy nodded. 
 
 ^' A promise that if you are ill or unhappy, 
 or want me in any way, you will write to me 
 at once, and I shall come home, by hook or 
 by crook, with Godfrey Deane's permission, 
 or without it." 
 
 ^' Very well," said Maxy. 
 
 ^^ That won't do," resumed Lance. ^' Give 
 me your hand. There, say, ^ I give you my 
 word of honour.' That's right. Now I 
 shall be comfortable. Look, I have put 
 some envelopes ready stamped in this case 
 for you. I must be off now."
 
 OWEN GWYXNE's great WORK. 271 
 
 '' Oh, Lance, not quite dii'ectly." 
 
 '' Yes, now. What's the good of waiting ? 
 After all, Maxy, it may be very jolly over 
 there in Wales." 
 
 '' Oh yes, very jolly," said Maxy with a 
 gasp. 
 
 '' That's right, Httle Hopeful. My boy, 
 God bless you!" 
 
 Gone ! Maxy put his head down on the 
 httle black writing-case that Lance had left 
 upon his pillow. 
 
 Lance's other farewell was much more 
 easily gone thi'ough. His mother accepted 
 his journey to Rome as calmly as if he 
 had been going to London for the day. 
 She was waiting for him in the hall when 
 he went downstaks, with the front door 
 wide open, and a candle flarmg wildly in 
 the draught of cold au\ 
 
 ^'You will be late, Lance. You are too 
 fond of running your time fine." 
 
 " No fear; I shall catch the train. Good- 
 bye, mother. I hope the great journey wiU 
 be pleasant."
 
 272 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 
 
 "I go for duty, not for pleasure," starchly 
 responded Mrs. Gwynne. '^ Good-bye." 
 
 And Lance went out into the starlit, 
 frosty morning. 
 
 His mother closed the door after him 
 carefully, and proceeded to improve the 
 shining hour by hunting up little scraps of 
 forgotten dust in the remote corners of the 
 haU. 
 
 Godfrey Deane led as easy, useless, and 
 idle a life as could well be imagined. . He 
 spent it chiefly in wandering about the 
 world in search of sunshine, antiquities, or 
 sport. 
 
 Everybody liked him, for he was clever 
 and good-natured, a capital scholar, a faith- 
 ful friend, and an easy-going travelling 
 companion. He had got some hunters at 
 Kome, a small yacht in the Bay of Naples, 
 and an intimate acquaintance with every 
 comfortable inn between Chambery and 
 Palermo. 
 
 Therefore he was not the easiest man in
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GEEAT WORK. 273 
 
 the world to find, and when Lance, directly 
 he arrived at Kome, went to inquire for him 
 at his lodgings, he was more vexed than 
 surprised at being met by a nonchalant 
 ''Nonc'e:' 
 
 Further questioning only brought out the 
 fact that he had lately left Eome for a Httle 
 journey, Sipiccolino giro — no one quite knew 
 where ; but that he intended to show the 
 South of Italy to a party of friends. 
 
 *^ Where is he now ? " impatiently asked 
 Lance. 
 
 ** Non saprei,'' responded the Itahan 
 placidly. 
 
 " And when will he be back ? " 
 
 The man held out both his hands, and 
 raised his eyebrows, ^* Eh, cJii lo sa ? " 
 
 '^ Who knows, indeed?" said Lance to 
 himself, as he walked crestfallen away. 
 Clearly there was nothing for it but 
 patience. 
 
 Poor Lance ! he had rarely found time 
 hang on his hands with so sheer a weight 
 as it did on the following morning. 
 
 yoL. I. T
 
 274 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 He stood on the Bridge of Sant' Angelo, 
 looking idly up towards the Castle and 
 St. Peter's, or still more idly down into 
 the tawny stream. 
 
 His own sensations puzzled him. He 
 had expected to feel acute pain in return- 
 ing to Eome, passionate regret, gnawing 
 remorse, loyal yearning love towards the 
 grand old city. But he stood there under 
 the blue sky, amid all the magic of its 
 ancient beauty, and he felt none of these 
 things ; only a dull familiarity with the 
 scene, and a shyness that made him lean 
 over the parapet of the bridge, with his 
 back to the passers-by, lest any old friend 
 crossing over should haply recognize him. 
 
 He thought that a ghost, forced to return 
 to the scenes of its former life, must feel 
 somewhat like this — as strange, as soHtary, 
 as cold, as much ashamed of himself as he 
 did. 
 
 There was only one grain of comfort. 
 Austin Hope was spending this winter in 
 Yenice. His presence would have been
 
 OWEN gwynne's geeat woek. 275 
 
 the straw that breaks the camel's back. 
 ^'Meanwhile," thought Lance, ^^what on 
 earth shall I do with myself?" How should 
 he get through the long days that would 
 probably pass before it pleased Mr. Deane 
 to return from his piccoUno giro? — a giro 
 just as likely as not to land him in Sicily 
 or at Algiers. 
 
 What should he do ? To begin with, 
 that was such an odd question to ask one's 
 seK in Kome. Lance laughed silently and 
 not quite gaily. Do? Whj, absolutely 
 anything that he had never done before — 
 idle, avoid galleries and chui^ches, shun the 
 Gaffe Greco and the dear old back streets 
 where his friends congi-egated and every 
 second house contained a studio, walk on 
 the Pincio perhaps, and see the world — - 
 he should not find many of the artists 
 there. 
 
 Thinking thus, he crossed the bridge and 
 went slowly down into Trastevere. There 
 w^as a bright sun, but a sharp tramontana 
 wind was blowing — the sort of Advent-day
 
 276 OWEN gwynne's gbeat woek. 
 
 every one knows in Eome. Shaggy 'pifferari 
 were piping away; the church bells began 
 tolling and clashing. The mid-day gnn 
 pealed out from Sant' Angelo, 
 
 ^' Only twelve o'clock," continued Lance. 
 *^ Well, I have grown prosaic, and no mis- 
 take. I did expect to feel something tragic 
 at the first sight of old Eome ; but here it 
 is just as jolly, and beautiful, and dirty, the 
 same glorious old place as ever, and I am 
 only wishing for something to do." And he 
 gave an amused sigh, if such a thing be 
 possible, at the remembrance of his high 
 desk at Marlixtowe. 
 
 He came to the Corsini Palace and stood 
 still. There was a man lying on a stone 
 bench in the sun. His hat was drawn over 
 his face, shading his eyes from the light, 
 but there was something familiar to Lance 
 in the outline of the figure and the careless 
 attitude, both hands clasped behind the 
 head to form a pillow. He drew nearer. 
 Yes, he was right. No one but Nigel 
 Euthven could look so comfortable, in
 
 owEX gwy^ne's great work. 277 
 
 what must in reality be a very uneasy 
 position. 
 
 Lance touched his shoulder, and called 
 him by his name. ''Nigel, you oughtn't 
 to go to sleep out of doors on a day like 
 this." 
 
 'Tm not asleep," answered Nigel, with- 
 out stiiTing. Then after a moment he 
 pushed back his hat and looked up. 
 "Lotto," — Lance's Eoman nickname, — 
 *'you here! Where, in the name of for- 
 tune, do you come fi'om ? " 
 
 "■ From England. I have just come over 
 on business from the bank. I had no idea 
 that you were in Eome." 
 
 By this time Nigel had raised himself on 
 to his elbow, and interrupted him. "Is it 
 really you, Lance ? Somehow I didn't take 
 it in at first. Welcome, old man I " 
 
 " Thank you. Why are you lying there ? " 
 
 " Because I couldn't walk when I tried 
 just now," said Nigel, smiling for the first 
 time, " so I thought I might as well wait." 
 
 "W^ait? What for?"
 
 278 OWEN gwynne's geeat work, 
 
 " Nothing," and Nigel sank back again. 
 ^' It's a good thing you have come, or I 
 should never have got home. Oh, those 
 stairs ! " 
 
 ^'You've been iU?" 
 
 '^ Of course I have ; but I'm better now, 
 only I am rather pulled down, I find." 
 
 ^*I should think so. Why, Nigel, how 
 thin you are I " Lance sat down on the 
 bench, and tried to draw Nigel into a 
 more comfortable attitude, leaning on his 
 shoulder. ^^ There ! you oughtn't to have 
 come out. Are you sure you are only 
 weak ? " 
 
 ^' I believe so. Ill tell you what. Lance.'* 
 Nigel stopped, and Lance, bending forward, 
 saw to his dismay that there were big tears 
 in his eyes, " I'm very hungry." 
 
 ** Hungry! Good Heavens! why don't 
 you eat, then ? " 
 
 '^ For one thing," — the voice v/as more 
 like Nigel's now — ^'because I haven't got 
 any money» No, don't rush off to buy food 
 for me just yet. There's no such violent
 
 OWEN gwykne's great woek. 279 
 
 hurry ; I had rather talk to yon. Lance, 
 I know you thought long ago that I should 
 come to grief, and I have. You know — my 
 father and Ursula have told you all about 
 it, of course. Well, can't you understand 
 how cut up I have been? I made sure of 
 winning the money back, but some men 
 never have a stroke of luck by any chance, 
 I always lose, for one." 
 
 ''And a good thing too," observed Lance. 
 
 "That may be; I don't see it myself. 
 Anyhow, I couldn't come on the poor old 
 father a thii'd time ; and the money was 
 all gone, and I had debts. I tried to 
 ■clear myself, and I saved. I ate as Httle 
 as I could — I really did." 
 
 " Starved yourself — just like you ! " 
 
 "And then I got ill. It was at Venice. 
 Of course I wasn't going to have a doctor, 
 and I grew worse and worse. Fevers last 
 so long in Italy, somehow." 
 
 " I wonder you didn't die," said Lance. 
 
 " So do I, but I am better now." And he 
 sat up and shook back his hair with a well-
 
 280 OWEN gwynne's geeat wokk. 
 
 remembered gesture. '^ And I managed to 
 get here — to Kome, I tell you a rich 
 American, Mr. Malcolm — a man I got to 
 know at Milan, gave me a commission before 
 I was ill to copy some Eoman pictures for 
 him, or get them copied. He saw some 
 copies of mine he liked. Well, he wanted 
 the ' Carlo Dolci,' here in the Corsini, you 
 know ; and to-day I thought I could begin, 
 for I must get some money somehow ; but 
 directly I got the brush into my hand I 
 fainted, unluckily. So the custode, or 
 somebody, brought me out here, and I was 
 just wondering what would become of me. 
 I'm glad you are come. Lance, That's my 
 history." 
 
 *^ Can you wait here while I get you 
 something to eat ? " said Lance. 
 
 *' Can I do anything else ? " responded 
 Nigel, laughing. ** I don't believe I can 
 stand alone at present. 
 
 *'And now I'll tell you what you can 
 do," he said presently, as he finished the 
 last morsel of ham and roll and sausage
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's gee at WORK. 281 
 
 that Lance had brought from a neigh- 
 boui-mg shop. "It's a lucky day for Mr. 
 Malcolm. You'll copy the * Cai-lo Dolci' 
 for me." 
 
 '' What do you mean ? I'm not an 
 artist," said Lance shortly. 
 
 '' Humbug ! I know all that. It won't 
 take you long. My dear Lance, you see 
 you must help me, or I shall die or be put 
 in prison, or something of that soi-t. And I 
 know you haven't got any money to spare." 
 
 '* No ; I can't say I have." 
 
 The bank, of course, paid Lance's ex- 
 penses ; but, between his father's journey 
 to Madiid and the sum he had insisted 
 on leaving for Maxy's extra comforts, his 
 own finances were at the lowest ebb. 
 
 "Well then, you'll copy the 'Carlo Dolci.' 
 Mr. Malcolm has gone back to New York, 
 but he left the money at his banker's. 
 I dare say you look down on copying-work ; 
 but I can't help that. There's nothing else 
 to be done." 
 
 " I teU you I can't paint," said Lance.
 
 282 OWEN gwynne's geeat wobk. 
 
 *' I haven't touched a brush for years. I 
 never paint." 
 
 '' Then the sooner you begin again the 
 better. I always thought so. I expected 
 Ursula to have set you painting long before 
 this. I wonder what she has been about." 
 
 " Pray leave my painting alone," said 
 Lance, ^^ and let me take you home." 
 
 This was harder work than he antici- 
 pated. The ruinous old palazzo where 
 Nigel had taken up his abode was in the 
 Borgo not far off; but when they reached 
 it, the stairs seemed to Lance perfectly 
 endless. Nigel was very weak ; he leant 
 against the wall, gasping for breath, after 
 Lance had haK carried, half dragged him 
 up ^YQ flights of steps that grew steeper at 
 each storey. 
 
 '^ Another ? Why, Nigel, where do you 
 live ? " he exclaimed at last, as Nigel still 
 pointed upwards. ''We're coming to the 
 roof." 
 
 But Nigel shook his head, and panted 
 too much for speech. Lance stood looking
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's GKEAT WORK. 283 
 
 at him in an odd confusion of feeling. The 
 proposal that he should copy the picture 
 had strangely ruffled him. He wanted to 
 put it aside as a simple impossibihty, but 
 it would not go out of his head. He could 
 not do it, of com^se ; and yet something 
 must be done for Nigel — Ursula's' brother, 
 too. He must be properly looked after. 
 How hke him it was to spend all his 
 money, get into debt, and then starve him- 
 self into an illness, rather than come again 
 upon his father. And how ill he seemed! 
 When they reached the top of the house 
 at last, Nigel just managed to put his key 
 into Lance's hand, and dnectly the door 
 was opened, he sank down upon the nearest 
 chair. Lance let him recover himseK, and 
 stood looking round in silence. It was a 
 ^\Tetched bare room; scanty furnitm-e, and 
 an uneven red-brick floor made it look very 
 unHke the rather luxurious lodgings which 
 Nigel used to affect. The sun coming in at 
 the uncurtained window, cast a square 
 reflection of yellow gold upon the white-
 
 284 OWEN gwynne's gee at woek. 
 
 washed wall. There stood the narrow little 
 bed in the corner, where a hard battle had 
 been fought between life and death. There 
 also the uncompromising, stiff-backed chair 
 that gave but poor encouragement to the 
 invahd in the first unwelcome attempt at 
 sitting up. And there, in an untidy heap 
 upon the floor, lay some of the drawing 
 apparatus, from which poor Nigel had 
 chosen his materials in the morning, when 
 he started hopefully on the expedition that 
 had so signally failed. 
 
 Lance had plenty of time for his survey, 
 for Nigel, utterly worn out, had fallen 
 asleep, with his head uncomfortably hang- 
 ing over the wooden arm of his chair. 
 
 ^* Poor fellow! " thought Lance, when he 
 had put the pillow from the bed under 
 his friend's head, and been rewarded by an 
 impatiently murmured request to be let 
 alone. ^^ Poor fellow! he must have a 
 doctor, and plenty of nourishing things ; 
 and some one must look after him, for I'm 
 much mistaken if he is not going to be ill
 
 OWEN gwtnne's gee at woek. 2S5 
 
 again. I wonder how he got on before ? " 
 And Lance thought of the careless way in 
 which Nigel had said that ^^ everybody " 
 nursed him. 
 
 ** 'Everybody ' hasn't made a good hand 
 of it, at all events." And then, as he picked 
 up some of the scattered paint-brushes from 
 the floor, the thought of the copy came 
 back to him. *' Something must be done ; 
 though I don't see what. Well, I might 
 have spared myself the trouble of grumbling 
 because I had nothing to do. There's 
 plenty of work to the fore here." And he 
 went and pondered at the window. 
 
 By-and-by Nigel woke up again — woke 
 with an eager look round the room, and a 
 bright smile of pleasure and rehef when his 
 eyes rested on Lance. 
 
 '* That's all right. I was ah'aid I had 
 been di^eaming. I so often di-eamt that 
 somebody came to help me, and you don't 
 
 know what a bore it was to wake. I " 
 
 He dozed again, but suddenly opened his 
 eyes, and called to Lance in a hui'ried, 
 sharp tone that startled him.
 
 286 OWEN gwynne's great work. 
 
 '' Lance, come here. What were you 
 thinking about ? Promise me you won't 
 write and ask my father for money." 
 
 Lance hesitated. 
 
 *^ Give me your word. Lance, do you 
 hear ? " said Nigel, his voice rising. 
 
 *' My dear Nigel, don't excite yourself. I 
 am not going to do anything you don't 
 like ; but surely the wisest thing would be 
 to let your father know you are ill." 
 
 A feverish glare of anger lighted up Nigel's 
 eyes. 
 
 ^^You are a traitor, Lance — abase traitor; 
 you have no honour." He had so entirely 
 lost all control over himself that his words 
 came in a sort of hoarse scream. '' You 
 want to kill the old man. You come and 
 force my confidence from me, and then 
 betray me ! I sw^ear " 
 
 '^ Hush, Nigel," said Lance authorita- 
 tively. ''Be quiet. There — all right " — 
 pushing Nigel down as he struggled to his 
 feet. " I promise anything you like, if you'll 
 only keep still and go to bed."
 
 OWEN GWYXNE'S GKEAT WORK. 287 
 
 The promise was made, and Nigel for 
 the moment was pacified and exhausted. 
 Whether it was one that it was wise to 
 keep is another question; only this much 
 is certain, that Lance never dreamed of 
 breaking it. 
 
 Yet his position was a pei-plexing one. 
 He had plenty of money at his command, 
 but scarcely the power to spend a single 
 bajocco on his hiend. 
 
 As evening came on Nigel began io grow 
 restless and to wander in his speech. Lance, 
 new to illness and feeling solely responsible,, 
 was unreasonably frightened. Some men 
 are bom sick-niu'ses, but, with all the good 
 will in the world, the gift was not in Lance. 
 He wanted to fetch a doctor ; but when he 
 tried to make his friend understand where 
 he was going, Nigel answered at random 
 and seenjed preparing to go too. 
 
 While Lance was coaxing him to He down 
 again, up came the i^adrona di casa, and 
 finding a well-to-do stranger at her lodger's 
 bedside, instantly flew at him in a toiTent of
 
 288 OWEN gwynne's gee at work. 
 
 angry-sounding Italian for the payment of 
 her rent. Nigel clung to him like a fright- 
 ened child. 
 
 Lance's patience fairly gave way. He 
 pushed the woman on to the landing before 
 him, and a rapid altercation followed, noisy 
 on the one side, low but emphatic on the 
 other. When he came back to Nigel's room 
 a few minutes afterwards, he had promised 
 not only to settle the rent, but had made 
 himself answerable for all expenses, if only 
 she would go for a doctor, and leave the 
 sick man undisturbed. 
 
 The doctor came, shook his head — not 
 despondently, but with profound wisdom; 
 talked of time, care, patience, and destroyed 
 Lance's confidence by insisting on bleeding 
 the patient. 
 
 That night was a bad one, and the next 
 morning he saw clearly that he had many 
 anxious days in store. The attack was one 
 of those slow, tedious fevers that must of 
 necessity run its course. Such an illness is 
 a costly thing, and clearly Nigel must want
 
 OWEN GWYNNE's great WORK. 289 
 
 for nothing that money could get for him. 
 How long it was before Lance yielded to 
 the force of circumstances he did not 
 quite remember afterwards. It could not 
 have been long, for he was hemmed in on 
 all sides, and saw no other way of escape. 
 He had to give in at last. 
 
 One day he found himseK, with trembling 
 hands, flushed cheeks, and a beating heart, 
 standing in the gallery of the Corsini Palace, 
 with Nigel's canvas on the easel before 
 him, and the eyes of everybody in the 
 great hall — so it seemed to Lance — fixed 
 wonderingly upon him. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BY WIXLIAM CLOTVES AND SONS, STAMFOED STREET 
 AND CHARING CROSS. 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 /.