THE PRIDE O' THE MORNING
CHAPTER I
COLIN'S RETURN
A BEAM of sunshine from the far west came in at the oriel window of Castle Hill library. As its name might imply, Castle Hill stood somewhat high, at least for English Midlands. The house, an old one, often added to in the course of centuries, was two hundred feet above the village of Castlemere.
It had, therefore, benefits of breeze and light; and this lengthy irregular room, with its four windows, its carved black oak, its hangings of dull green and old gold, enjoyed the latest kisses of the monarch of day. The hour for those kisses was not yet come. Wavelets of ether, shimmering billions to each beat of the venerable clock, speeding across ninety-three millions of miles, still landed on wall and carpet.
Mrs. Keith's mind was occupied with other matters than scientific causes for everyday phenomena, as she paced the room with impatient steps, glancing in turn through each front window, in quest of the expected dog-cart.
She was a handsome woman, tall, with dark eyes of unusual size. The rich brown hair, which held many silver threads, was well-dressed, and she carried herself with a touch of conscious stateliness, which failed to hide her present restless mood. A fixed red spot on either cheek made the rest of her pale face paler; her lips worked; and she continuously clenched and unclenched her right hand.
Giles Randolph had risen when she rose, and he now stood in the oriel window, reading; a man of large build, six feet in height and robust in make. The face had strong outlines, with a straight solid nose, a good mouth under the heavy brown moustache, sombre blue eyes dragged downward at their outer corners, and a complexion of deep red-brown. In the features was something not easy to decipher. There was fibre of character, and a will to crush difficulty; yet that dim inscription seemed to speak of something in the past that had mastered him, and had given a bias to his life.
"Half-past six! He ought to be here. I can't think why he is not," Mrs. Keith was saying. "The train was due half-an-hour ago."
She took another turn.
"He must have missed it. How vexatious! When does the next come in? I do wish you would look it out for me."
Giles put down his book and walked to a side-table, where some fumbling ended in the remark—"I don't see Bradshaw."
"It's there, I know—on the top shelf of that bookcase."
He took down the volume, remarking in his deep voice, which contrasted with her somewhat querulous tones—"This train is often late."
"O don't be sensible, pray! I'm not in the mood for it."
Possibly her companion was at a loss how to be the reverse. He turned over the pages, and remarked, "In case Colin should have missed—"
"Yes, yes; I understand all that. The time of the train is what I want." Then came an apology. "I really don't mean to be cross, Giles. Somehow, I can't help it."
He looked at her kindly. "Of course—I understand. One knows what this must be to you—your own boy coming home!"
"Yes. That is—he may be different."
"No fear. Colin will be Colin still. Ah! Here is the page."
She had moved again and now stood behind him. A breeze of feeling swept over her face; something of protestation, for which nothing present seemed to account. Tears filled her eyes and were with difficulty blinked away; but she spoke in a tone of forced gaiety.
"You have no business to talk like that. To speak as if Colin were more to me than yourself. You know that you both are my boys—always have been and always will be."
He spoke soothingly. "At all events, if there has been any difference it has lain the other way—more indulgence for me, more strictness for him."
"O surely not!" That which he meant to comfort her proved exciting. "Don't say it, Giles! So hard as I have tried to make no difference—even in my love!"
"You have made none, beyond what was inevitable. Colin has the right to your greater love, and he is infinitely more lovable. Venetian glass can't be handled like granite. Come, you are not going to worry yourself! Things are all right."
"I hope so. I shouldn't like to think—" She left the sentence unfinished, and began anew—"I often wonder—'can' one hold oneself even? I know what you mean by 'greater strictness' and 'Venetian glass.' Just because he is my own, I have tried to be more severe with him, and his sweetness has made it impossible. He is so lovable, as you say."
"Of course your own boy is and must be more to you than all the world beside."
"Yes—true," she murmured.
"I should be the last ever to wish Colin to come second." Giles spoke pointedly; for Mrs. Keith's endeavours to give her ward his full rights had often resulted in giving her son less than his rights. "But here is the dog-cart."
Mrs. Keith's attempts at self-analysing were brushed aside. Colin was through the front door before they could leave the library, moving with an absence of hurry, yet forestalling them. He kissed his mother, shook hands with Giles, patted the old hound who followed him with sniffs and whines, exchanged some chaff with the stout butler which set that excellent retainer grinning with delight, and finally took possession of an armchair, asking and answering questions in a soft deliberate undertone, which was the precise antithesis of his mother's variable voice.
He and Giles were made after different models. A stranger might easily have set down the latter as a man of four-and-thirty, while few guessed Colin to have passed his twenty-third year. Yet less than six weeks had divided the birth of the one from the birth of the other; and each now had passed his twenty-eighth birthday.
Colin was the shorter, though he gained in apparent height from his slightness. His fair pale complexion and chiselled delicacy of feature contrasted with the powerful outlines of Giles, while the finely-developed forehead spoke of intellect. The blue eyes were singular, not unlike those of Giles in colour, observant, yet dreamy.
He had suffered severely in health from an accident in boyhood. A heavy blow on the head had resulted in disabling headaches, which for years prevented study. His high spirit had made him less of an invalid than might have been the case; still, education had been a negligible quantity, so far as any regular "curriculum" was concerned. He had read much by fits and starts, picking up any amount of general information, but steady work had been impossible. Foreign travel at last had been recommended, and much was expected from the three years of absence, now ended.
Glad to be back! Yes, certainly. Though he had enjoyed himself no end—thanks to Giles!—with a glance at the latter.
Then, presently—"Giles, I've been thinking—it is cool of me to talk of this as 'home.' As if I had a shadow of right!"
"You have every right."
"Not a particle. Now I am stronger, I don't mean to be dependent."
"Nonsense!" came emphatically.
And Mrs. Keith stood up.
"Going to dress for dinner," she murmured; and Colin showed surprise, since the hour was early. He did not protest, but when she had disappeared, his glance went to Giles.
"Nervous!" came in reply.
"What about?"
"I haven't a notion."
Colin dropped the subject, and reverted to what he had been saying. "That's all very well, you know; but I happen to have a trifle of self-respect. Call it pride, if you like."
"Between you and me pride is impossible."
"The future Mrs. Randolph—"
"Will feel as I feel, or she won't exist. What is mine is yours. And not a man in the Empire is less likely to marry."
"Bosh! Anyhow, I mean to work."
"You shall do what you can, without suffering for it. But for pleasure, not necessity."
"It's a moral necessity that I should be independent."
"And deprive me of the one thing—" A word of protest cut into the utterance. "Yes, I know! I promised not to say it again. No need; for you understand. I wish you also to understand that never while I live will Castle Hill cease to be your home."
"So be it! Meanwhile, I intend to work."
"At what?"
"Modelling, of course. Will the mater be exercised?" His words dropped slowly.
"I don't see why she should."
"She hates to see me fingering clay. I never can conceive why. It is the one thing I can do."
"Better for you, at any rate, than head-work."
"My dear fellow! Do you suppose sculpture is not head-work?"
"Better than books, I should have said. We must fit up a studio."
Colin murmured a "Thanks." He added, "I've done a lot of modelling lately—in Paris first, of course."
"Ah, that was what kept you so long."
"I went through a regular course. This winter I've had a fine time in Italy, studying the great masters. Plaster casts want a lot of practice. I've not made much way with them yet."
"Don't try for the present. Modelling in clay will give scope for your powers, and a practised moulder will do the casting better. For a wonder, I know just the man in Market Oakley—a young fellow with talent. I shall like to encourage him."
"I dare say! But the cost—"
"Will be my concern, till you can stand alone. When you are receiving hundreds for a bust, you shall pay for your own casting."
"Ah—when!! But I mean to stand alone."
"What are a few pounds between you and me?"
"Well, perhaps for a time!" reluctantly. "I had no end of encouragement abroad. Some of my attempts won great praise."
"Delighted to hear it," Giles said cordially. "What do you think of the old schoolroom for your studio? It is out of the way, and has no room over. You will want skylight windows, I fancy, and a tap of water, and a modelling-stool, and instruments. There's a small inner room, which will be useful. We will have it put in order at once. You must be properly equipped at the outset."
"Giles, you 'are' a good fellow!" murmured Colin.