silence and the darkness I lay down under a tree, and let my mind dwell
on myself and on my new life to come.



I am Gerard Roylake, son and only child of the late Gerard Roylake of
Trimley Deen.

At twenty-two years of age, my father's death had placed me in possession
of his large landed property. On my arrival from Germany, only a few
hours since, the servants innocently vexed me. When I drove up to the
door, I heard them say to each other: "Here is the young Squire." My
father used to be called "the old Squire." I shrank from being reminded
of him--not as other sons in my position might have said, because it
renewed my sorrow for his death. There was no sorrow in me to be renewed.
It is a shocking confession to make: my heart remained unmoved when I
thought of the father whom I had lost.

Our mothers have the most sacred of all claims on our gratitude and our
love. They have nourished us with their blood; they have risked their
lives in bringing us into the world; they have preserved and guided our
helpless infancy with divine patience and love. What claim equally strong
and equally tender does the other parent establish on his offspring? What
motive does the instinct of his young children find for preferring their
father before any other person who may be a familiar object in their
daily lives? They love him--naturally and rightly love him--because he
lives in their remembrance (if he is a good man) as the first, the best,
the dearest of their friends.

My father was a bad man. He was my mother's worst enemy; and he was never