The Project Gutenberg eBook of Evelyn Manwaring
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Evelyn Manwaring
A tale of Hampton Court Palace
Author: Greville John Chester
Release date: June 27, 2025 [eBook #76400]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Marcus Ward & Co, 1883
Credits: MWS, Laura Natal and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVELYN MANWARING ***
EVELYN MANWARING
BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
_SECOND EDITION, NOW READY._
JULIAN CLOUGHTON; or, Lad-Life in Norfolk.
BY GREVILLE J. CHESTER, B.A.
CROWN OCTAVO, CLOTH, 3S. 6D.
“The author has an eye for the picturesque, and of this there is
more in the old cathedral city and the bold Norfolk sea-coast
than persons unacquainted with the district would be apt to
imagine.”--_Athenœum._
“It is difficult to realise whether ‘Julian Cloughton’ is the history
of a real character, or whether it is a novel. If the former, it is
one of the most charming biographies it has been our good fortune
to meet with for some time; if the latter, Mr. Chester must be
congratulated on a real success.”--_The Graphic._
“The local colour is rich and truthful, and the descriptions of
persons and places are written with the zest and fidelity inspired by
intimate personal knowledge.”--_Scotsman._
_SECOND EDITION, NOW READY._
AURELIA; or, THE CLOSE AT MIXETER.
BY GREVILLE J. CHESTER, B.A.
CROWN OCTAVO, CLOTH, 3S. 6D.
“The author has graphically drawn the chief ecclesiastical dignitaries
of the diocese, the characters and idiosyncracies of the Dean and
Canons being capitally described. The book is written well, and in
laying it down, the reader will only regret that there is no more of
it.”--_Sunday Times._
“A vigorous and well-written story, which abounds with capital
sketches of clerical life and character.”--_The Rock._
“A one-volume story of very considerable cleverness.”--_John
Bull._
_JUST PUBLISHED._
ELLA CUTHULLIN, and other Poems.
BY GREVILLE J. CHESTER, B.A.
SMALL OCTAVO, CLOTH, 5S.
MARCUS WARD & CO.,
67, CHANDOS STREET, LONDON, W.C.
EVELYN MANWARING
A Tale of Hampton Court Palace
BY
GREVILLE J. CHESTER, B.A.
AUTHOR OF “TRANS-ATLANTIC SKETCHES,” “JULIAN CLOUGHTON; OR,
LAD-LIFE IN NORFOLK,” “AURELIA; OR, THE CLOSE AT MIXETER,”
“ELLA CUTHULLIN AND OTHER POEMS, OLD AND NEW,” &c.
London:
MARCUS WARD & CO., 67, 68, CHANDOS STREET
AND AT BELFAST AND NEW YORK
1883
TO MY FRIENDS
I Inscribe this Tale,
IN THE HOPE THAT THEY WILL LOOK MORE
LENIENTLY UPON ITS MANY FAULTS
THAN I DO MYSELF.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--EVELYN MANWARING ARRIVES AT THE PALACE, 9
II.--A GOOD SAMARITAN, 19
III.--HOLMCASTLE MANOR, 28
IV.--THE SQUIRE OF HOLMCASTLE, 33
V.--THE MANWARING “FAMILY TREE,” 42
VI.--“EHRENBREITSTEIN,” 51
VII.--THE FALL OF WILFRED, 60
VIII.--A BLASTED LIFE, 70
IX.--A BRANCH IS LOPPED FROM THE FAMILY TREE, 78
X.--WILFRED MANWARING GOES INTO EXILE, 84
XI.--THE SQUIRE LEARNS THE TRUTH, 91
XII.--THE DUKE OF RIBBLESDALE’S LETTER, 101
XIII.--“IN EXTREMIS,” 112
XIV.--MR. TRESHAM POTTS, 116
XV.--THE TREE IS RE-GRAFTED, 125
XVI.--LAST DAYS AT HOLMCASTLE, 133
XVII.--EVELYN VISITS THE DUCHESS, 140
XVIII.--HER GRACE OF RIBBLESDALE, 151
XIX.--“THE AUNTS,” 161
XX.--THE VEHME-GERICHT OF HAMPTON COURT, 169
XXI.--SERGEANT SMITH, V.C., 181
XXII.--THE LOST FOUND, 194
XXIII.--WILFRED SMITH GOES TO THE JEWS, 202
XXIV.--WILFRED SMITH’S VOYAGE OUT, 210
XXV.--THE MARCH TO CANDAHAR, 220
XXVI.--A PACKET OF LETTERS, 226
XXVII.--THE DUCHESS’S GRAND TABLEAU VIVANT, 233
XXVIII.--COMING OF AGE, 241
XXIX.--“ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL,” 252
EVELYN MANWARING.
CHAPTER I.
EVELYN MANWARING ARRIVES AT THE PALACE.
ALL the morning of that particular 8th of November upon which some of
the events of the ensuing story began, a dense fog had been brooding
over the Essex marshes. The silence of those gloomy expanses of faded
yellow grass and brown slime, deposited by earlier autumnal floods,
was deep and oppressive, and was only broken at times by the cough of
a footsore sheep as it gnawed at a half-rotten turnip brought wearily
down in creaking wains from the sodden uplands, by the distrustful low
of a bullock surprised by the sudden apparition of a fellow-animal of
the same species with himself, or by the shrill alarm-whistle of a
steamer upon the neighbouring, but well-nigh invisible river. By noon
the last-named sounds had ceased, for steamboat traffic had become
impossible from the density of the mist, and then, little by little, a
raw, chilly wind began to blow from the east. This wind gradually drove
the fog up-stream, until it met and mingled with that pall of black
smoke which legislative and municipal incompetence, and that often
fatal English respect for “vested interests,” as confirmed nuisances
are called by their originators, allow to pollute and render deadly the
atmosphere of the first city in the world--wonderful and incomparable
London.
This intermingling of white fog and black smoke speedily produced that
infernal compound which makes the lives of five millions of people
almost intolerable. Stagnation of trade, interruption of business,
stoppage of traffic, depression of spirits, and serious injury to
health ensued. Every Londoner was reduced to a state of utter gloom
and wretchedness, and some two millions of the poorer sort of citizens
“bitterly thought of the morrow,” and feared that the time-honoured
Show of the following day--which, with all its absurdities and all
its anachronisms, still breaks the monotony of countless lives, and
rejoices the hearts of multitudes of toilers who have little else to
rejoice them--would be a failure and a disappointment. The ex-Lord
Mayor felt glad that he was going out of office, and could enjoy the
society of worthy Mrs. Buggins at the domestic hearth at Wimbledon,
instead of at the dusky Mansion House; and the incoming Lord Mayor
sighed involuntarily when he reflected that, on the day ensuing,
as he passed them at noontide by gas-light, he would appear to his
fellow-citizens, and subjects of one year, as a man suffering from a
severe attack of the jaundice. The incoming Lady Mayoress, who was
afflicted, poor thing, with neuralgia in the face, dreaded exposure
next day in the raw fog on the embankment in her state coach; and her
Ladyship’s “Maids of Honour”--buxom, strapping wenches from Finsbury
Square, who laid in a stock of health and jolly red cheeks when
they went every year for six weeks’ sea-bathing to Margate--devised
(by gas-light) all sorts of pretty things in swansdown to protect
their fat shoulders from the cold during next day’s procession. My
Lord Scamperdown at the “Carlton”--and he, to be sure, was a pretty
tough old customer--avowed publicly that “that fog was more than
any fellah alive could stand,” and swore he’d be off to Cadiz, or
Cairo, or Castellamare; and all the men within earshot wished they
were Lord Scamperdown, and could follow his Lordship’s noble example.
Foodles, too, of the “Reform,” who had failed the previous week for
something over the respectable sum of £200,000, committed suicide.
The “intelligent British Jury,” who ought to have known all about
it, found as their verdict that Foodles had committed “the rash act
in aberration of mind, occasioned by miasmatic vapours acting upon
an excitable temperament,” and would have separated, quite happy
at having thus secured Christian burial for Foodles (who, between
ourselves, was the most stony-hearted old heathen imaginable), had
not the Coroner--whose wife had just presented him (for the second
time) with twins, both of whom were doing well, and who lived near
the Lambeth Potteries--remarked, in a hollow voice, that “he hoped he
might not himself be the _next_ victim to a combination of fog and
coal-smoke.” That was a very unpleasant observation to make, and so the
Jury felt it.
Gradually the chilly, searching wind increased in force, and as it did
so, it drove the fog--which, white on the Essex marshes, had become
black as ink in London--up the river, involving town after town, and
village after village, in its sooty folds, so that, as evening fell
over Hampton, the fog was almost as thick there as it had been in
London at midday.
A train was due at the Molesey Station at five o’clock; but there were
several detentions upon the line, and a long one (of course) at Clapham
Junction, and the Palace clock had chimed out a quarter to seven
upon the darkness, when a fly, heavily loaded with luggage, drove up
through the mean barrack court, to the stately principal entrance of
the magnificent dwelling erected by Cardinal Wolsey in the plenitude of
his wealth and power. A single gas-light flickered above the gateway as
the vehicle stopped, and illumined the cloaked figure of Jack Watchet,
a smart young soldier of the 29th Lancers, who stood sentry at the
entrance.
“Some old cat out late!” This was the first irreverent thought which
occurred to Jack’s mind as he stood in the conventional attitude
of military respect, when, to his surprise and delight, a young
lady--without waiting for the slow old coachman to disencumber himself
of his numerous wraps--opened the fly door herself before he had time
to offer his assistance, and springing out, followed by a beautiful
spaniel, confronted him on the pavement.
“Can you be so kind as to direct me to Miss Manwaring’s set of
apartments in the Palace?” asked the young lady in a clear, musical
voice.
“It minded me of a mavish,” said Jack--who was a Norfolk man, and
had loved to hear the throstles singing in the leafy lanes of his
native county--when describing the incident in bed that night to his
particular chum and comrade, Tom Wakefield. On the present occasion
he answered--“Don’t know the name, Miss; but I will soon see;” and so
saying, the young soldier, who felt as if a ray of sunshine had burst
through the fog and darkness, turned from the side into the central
arch of the grand old Tudor gateway, where, by the uncertain light of
a still dimmer lamp than that which flickered outside, he looked down
the list of the names of those ladies and gentlemen who, by the grace
and favour of our Sovereign Lady the Queen, enjoyed the privilege of
occupying apartments in her Royal Palace of Hampton Court. No name of
Manwaring, however, appeared upon the list.
“The rooms I am in search of,” said the young lady, “were those lately
occupied by Lady Glengriskin;” and then Jack pointed out the following
inscription:--
FOUNTAIN COURT.
_Staircase. Number Ten._
GROUND FLOOR.
Lady Lavinia Gathercole.
Admiral Grogrum, C.B.
SECOND FLOOR.
Miss Strong.
Lady Glengriskin.
THIRD FLOOR.
Hon. and Rev. Orlando fforester.
Gen. Sir T. Blazer Brown, K.C.B.
“Thank you very much,” said the young lady; “I am afraid I am giving
you a great deal of trouble; but now, can you tell me where I can find
any one to help the driver to carry my boxes upstairs?”
“Very sorry I can’t go myself, Miss,” answered Jack, hastily, and
looking as if he _was_ sorry; “but I’m going off sentry in a
minute or two, and there’s an odd man about the canteen who does jobs
for the quality in the Palace, and I’ll send him to you in a jiffy.”
In fact, while he was speaking, the clank of arms was heard, and the
relief appeared through the fog, who, leaving another man in his place,
bore back with them Jack Watchet to the barracks, while the young
lady, whose name the reader, from the heading of this chapter, and
from the inquiries she made, will have rightly conjectured to have
been Miss Evelyn Manwaring, remained standing in the cold under the
gateway. So true, however, was Jack to his word, that in the specified
“jiffy,” which in this case was a period of less than five minutes,
the “odd man” arrived, and, showing himself thoroughly acquainted with
the somewhat labyrinthine topography of the Palace, conducted the lady
through the silent and deserted quadrangles and echoing cloisters to
the apartments of the late Lady Glengriskin, where she found a single
candle guttering upon the drawing-room table, and a wretched apology
for a fire glimmering upon the hearth; but her maid, who had preceded
her the previous evening, was nowhere to be found.
Nearly half-an-hour elapsed before the driver and the “odd man”--who
seemed to regard one another with mutual distrust and abhorrence,
and who had several unpleasant differences of opinion upon the
staircase--had brought up the last of Miss Manwaring’s trunks; but
at last these worthies, having been abundantly satisfied for their
trouble, consented to depart, and the young lady found herself alone.
She had, in fact, feared that her two assistants would have broken out
into open warfare. Thus the coachman had remarked that “he’d seed
a lot o’ soft-headed fools in his time, but he’d never seen sich a
soft-headed ’un” as the odd man; and the odd man had replied that “he’d
be ’tarnally shivered if he didn’t knock the coachman’s conk up agen
the doorpost, and see vich vos the ’ardest block o’ the two.”
However, at last Miss Manwaring was happily rid of them. She looked
around, and there in unwonted positions were the articles of furniture,
and the little nicknacks and household goods which she had known
from childhood, and which had been removed from her old home in
the North--that home which was hers no longer--that home which had
been rudely broken up by death, and which was now the property of a
stranger. The girl, for such she was, was dressed in deep mourning, and
as she threw off her hat, long masses of lovely, pale gold hair fell
around and about a beautifully cut face of ashy paleness; out of which,
however, gleamed, like stars, eyes which might have been grey, or
hazel, or violet. Great yearning eyes they were, of marvellous beauty,
like those of Beatrice Cenci, as they look out from the long-dead past
from the canvas at Rome; eyes which it was a joy to have seen once, a
delight even to dream of hereafter. The girl was alone in a strange
place, without friends, without acquaintances, and in a new and unknown
sphere of existence. She was cold, and travel-worn, and tired, and she
felt very desolate, and the sight of the objects around her, connected
as they were with those she had loved and lost, affected her deeply;
and throwing herself upon her knees at a table, she buried her pale,
fair face in her white hands, and burst into an agony of tears.
CHAPTER II.
A GOOD SAMARITAN.
UNKNOWN, however, and unsuspected by herself, Evelyn Manwaring was not
without a witness in this her passion of grief. The “odd man,” who had
been the last to leave the room, had, after the manner of odd men, left
the door open when he took his departure, and it thus fell out that the
scene just described was witnessed by the friendly and sympathising
eyes of a stoutish, middle-aged spinster lady of kindly aspect, who,
on hospitable thoughts intent, had entered the ante-chamber of the
drawing-room. Miss Sarah Strong, for such was this good lady’s name,
watched the new-comer in silence for some little time, as if determined
to allow her grief to take its natural course; and then, hastily
brushing away from her own face what seemed to be a falling tear,
she advanced briskly into the room, and, laying her hand on the young
lady’s shoulder, said in sympathising tones of voice, “Come, my dear,
I’m sure you must be tired and cold after your long journey; so, as I
am your next-door neighbour, Sarah Strong, I have come to beg you to
step across the passage to my rooms, and warm yourself at my fire until
dinner is ready, and take a cup of hot tea which I have made on purpose
for you.”
This friendly invitation, and the kind voice in which it was conveyed,
sent a thrill of comfort into the girl’s sorrowful heart; and seeing,
as she looked up, a homely sympathetic face looking down into her own,
she rose hastily, wiped away her tears, and thankfully accepted the
neighbourly invitation, adding that she had expected to find her maid
awaiting her arrival, but that apparently she had gone out.
“I think,” said Miss Strong, “I can explain the cause of her absence.
When I was coming upstairs about an hour ago, I overheard Lady Lavinia
Gathercole’s maid, who lives below on this staircase, and who is a good
creature, although a sad gossip, making the same request of her that I
am making of you--asking her, I mean, to take a cup of tea.”
As Miss Strong thus spoke, a loud rushing noise was heard without,
and in another moment a strapping, red-cheeked, country girl dashed
into the room, seized her young mistress’s hand, and, shaking it as if
it had been a pump-handle, exclaimed in stentorian tones--“Eh, Miss
Evelyn, on’y to think as you should ha’ come when I was away, like a
nat’ral brute beast! Eh, but I’m main glad to see ’ee! I wor sitting
just moped to dead, when, who should come sailing in, in her silks and
satins, but Mrs. Papfaddle, Lady Lavinia Gathercole’s own maid, and a
lady hersen to look at, that she be, and begged me to go down and tak
a coop o’ tay; and down I went, and got cracking about such a lot o’
things, I forgot where I was; and eh, Miss, Mrs. Papfaddle did tell me
as these rooms is haunted by a Cardinal.”
“Why, Bessie,” said Miss Manwaring, “how you do run on! But what do you
mean when you speak of a Cardinal?”
“Why, Cardinal ’Oolsey, Miss, him as built this place hundreds o’ years
agone, before it was taken from him by that wicked king who cut off his
wives’ heads, like Blue Beard in the story books.”
“You need not be much alarmed,” interposed Miss Strong, smiling; “this
old Palace is supposed to be haunted sometimes by the ghost of the
great Cardinal Wolsey, who, for some unexplained reason, chooses to
appear in the form of a gigantic black spider. I have never seen him
myself, but Lady Glengriskin, your predecessor, who, like most Scotch
women, had a great knack for seeing apparitions, professed that she
was favoured with his company on several occasions. But come, you are
cold and tired, and we can discuss the matter over a cup of tea by my
fireside; come at once, I beg, and bring your beautiful dog with you.”
So saying, the kindly lady led the way to her own sitting-room, which
seemed a very paradise of light and warmth and comfort, and, drawing an
easy chair to the fireside, she placed her guest in it, and begged her
to make herself at home.
A cup of hot tea having been thankfully consumed, Miss Strong, after a
short interval, conducted her new acquaintance into the dining-room,
which in warmth and snugness vied with the room she had left, and,
seating Miss Manwaring at table, ordered dinner to be brought in at
once. A tidy maid-servant obeyed her mistress’s order with almost
miraculous alacrity, and an excellent little dinner was speedily placed
on the table. Hot clear ox-tail soup, a juicy fowl stuffed and roasted
to a turn, with hot potatoes, bread sauce, and a scientifically
constructed winter salad, followed by Albany puddings, served up with
their proper sauce, made up the simple but capital meal, which brought
a tinge of colour back to the cheeks of the traveller in whose especial
behoof it had been prepared; and when the cloth was removed, and Miss
Strong had insisted on her guest’s partaking of a brimming glass of old
port which had belonged to her late brother, Colonel Strong, R.A., Miss
Manwaring felt more at home and more refreshed and rested than an hour
ago she could have imagined to be possible.
Miss Strong was unwilling to detain her guest long after they had
returned to the drawing-room, and urged her early retirement to rest,
advice which Miss Manwaring was by no means loath to follow.
“Now good night, my dear,” said her kind friend, as she prepared to
leave Miss Manwaring’s apartments, to which she had accompanied her;
“and please expect me to-morrow at half after four, when I shall call
and take you to see the Duchess.”
“Oh dear!” cried Evelyn, weariedly, “what Duchess?”
“Why, the Duchess of Ribblesdale, to be sure, our Duchess, the best and
dearest lady in the world; the _Vice-Reine_ of Hampton Court, I
call her. She would have come to call upon you herself, but she has a
cold, and cannot go out; so she desired me to bring you to see her, and
to say she used to know your mother when they were both girls.”
“Ah!” said Miss Manwaring, in a strange, dreamy tone of voice. “Ah! how
strange! Yes, that name ought to be dear to me. I shall be glad to see
her Grace to-morrow.”
Miss Strong now committed her young companion to the care of Bessie
Hudson, her Lancashire maid, and retired to her own apartments; and
Miss Manwaring was soon in bed, and sleeping the peaceful sleep of
youth and innocence.
The good Samaritan who acted this neighbourly part towards the
newly-arrived stranger was the only sister of a certain Colonel Strong,
who had been an excellent and much respected officer of the Royal
Artillery. Colonel Strong was the most humane and tender-hearted of
men, and had been frequently known to remove a snail from a garden
walk, lest it should get trodden under foot. He had made it the great
object of his life to discover and perfect the most deadly of missiles
for the destruction of his fellow-creatures, and had written a book
on “Explosive Bombs,” which was known to all “gunners” as a work of
extraordinary science and the highest authority, and it was the
text-book on the subject in the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich.
But Colonel Strong had done more than theorise and write. He had
himself invented a marvellous shot, which he was prepared to warrant
would go farther into an iron plate and oak backing than any other
projectile known to military science. And this shot had the additional
and paramount advantage over all others, that when it had got to the
extreme end of its beneficent course, and had remained quiescent for
five minutes, it would explode, and blow the ship or fort in which it
was embedded into a hundred thousand atoms. When the French and the
Russian and the United States Governments, and the Emperor of China,
and the Prince of Monaco, heard of this wonderful product of modern
civilisation, they severally offered the inventor vast sums for the
secret of the invention; but Colonel Strong was a good and patriotic
Englishman, and, rejecting all foreign offers with contempt and
strong language, offered it to the English War Office. The War Office
authorities had the offer under consideration for ten years, and seemed
no nearer coming to any decision upon it at the end of that period than
they had been at first. It happened, however, that Colonel Strong had
a friend in the House of Commons who belonged to the Opposition Party,
and this honourable gentleman asked the Secretary for War a vast number
of very disagreeable questions on the subject of the Strong Projectile,
and moved for the entire Correspondence. This could not be refused,
and then it was discovered that it filled three entire Blue Books of
the largest volume, the production of which made the Controller of
H.M. Stationery Office and the Queen’s Printer very much regret that
they had ever been born. The Secretary for War (who several times
contemplated resigning his post) was next badgered into permitting a
trial to be made (at the inventor’s expense), and a day was at length
appointed for that purpose. Colonel Strong was in raptures, and,
although a heavy man, could hardly help jumping for joy when the great
day arrived. His Royal Highness the Field-Marshal Commanding in Chief,
the Secretary for War, the successful M.P. (in volunteer uniform),
Colonel Strong, several General officers and other military experts,
made quite a grand procession as they pranced and caracoled out of
Woolwich on their way to Plumstead Marshes, where the trial was to
take place. When they arrived at the appointed spot, Colonel Strong
was in such a state of excitement and fidget that he could not keep
still a moment. At length the Secretary for War (who secretly hoped the
trial would be a failure) said, in a low voice, “I think, your Royal
Highness, we had perhaps better begin,” and then somebody said “Fire.”
At that moment Colonel Strong popped up his head just in front of the
muzzle of the gun, and the explosion blew it into a thousand pieces.
The Field-Marshal Commanding in Chief was naturally distressed at
this untoward circumstance, and, mentioning the matter to the Queen,
Her Majesty, with her usual kindness, was graciously pleased to offer
apartments in Hampton Court Palace to the late Colonel’s only sister.
Miss Strong gratefully accepted the offer, and that the more so since
the Government, which forthwith adopted her brother’s invention, made
no sort of compensation for it whatsoever.
Miss Strong was a plain, excellent, kind-hearted woman, who lived for
the good of others, and by self-denial made her limited income do
wonders for the benefit of her fellow-creatures. She was gratefully
known as “Sister Sarah,” and whether it was a decayed lady of rank in
the palace, or a private soldier in the adjoining barracks, who was
sick and suffering, she was always ready to act as a kind and efficient
nurse.
CHAPTER III.
HOLMCASTLE MANOR.
SPITE of the natural desire of the reader to plump at once into the
_crême de la crême_ of good society, and to accompany Miss Strong
and her _protégée_ into the company of a live Duchess (Dowager),
I feel it necessary, for the purposes of this narrative, to make him
or her aware, first and foremost, whence Miss Manwaring came, who she
was, what was her family, what her belongings and previous history, and
to explain why it was that she was the recipient of royal favour, and
tenant for life, if so she willed it, of one of the very best sets of
apartments in the noble old Royal Palace of Hampton Court.
Evelyn Manwaring, then, was the only daughter of one Cuthbert Piercey
Manwaring, a gentleman of very ancient family, and of competent,
although not very large estate. Holmcastle Manor, the family place, was
situated amidst beautiful, if somewhat wild and dreary scenery on the
Northern border of the County of Lancaster. Of old time the Manwarings
had been great Seigneurs in those parts, and had owned vast tracts of
fell and fen and moorland, besides more fertile acres; but the loyalty
of some members of the family, who were cavaliers to a man, and the
extravagance of others, had sadly wasted the ancestral patrimony, so
that when Cuthbert Piercey Manwaring succeeded his uncle, Algernon,
the family estate was reduced to the narrower bounds of the parish of
Holmcastle, to a tract of moorland and fell above it which went by the
name of Stanwick Chase, and to a couple of outlying rich farms in the
distant flat country in the neighbourhood of Ormskirk. The Manor-house
of Holmcastle, which had succeeded an ancient castle, whereof the
earthworks and a few shapeless masses of weather-beaten stone were all
that remained, crowned a wooded knoll which rose from nearly the centre
of Arrow Dale; and round nearly three sides of the eminence, which in
places descended precipitously to the river, rippled and raced and
roared and rushed the swift Arrow--now plunging into deep rock-pools,
now flowing over stony shallows, now overhung by huge wych-elms, the
queen of all North-country trees, and now dominated by scarps of grey
or reddish rock. Trout abounded in the deep pools, or lay poising, head
up-stream, in the pebbly shallows, and now and then a noble salmon
might be seen from the old grey bridge below the village of Holmcastle,
which had made its way up past the filth of Preston, and other
manufacturing towns, from the lordly Ribble, whereof the Arrow was one
of the principal tributaries. On either side the valley, and at varying
distances from the river, the arable and pasture land ran up to meet
the broad swathes of brown or purple heather of the stately, swelling
moors; and towards the end of the valley--or “dale,” as the folks
called it--was seen the almost precipitous hill, or rather mountain,
called “Stanwick Edge,” with its bare crest of shivered crags. Here and
there small beck-formed, lateral valleys led up from the Arrow amongst
the hills, and the sides of these were clothed with mountain-ashes,
birches, hollies, and stunted oaks. Far up one of these, on a sort of
platform in the midst of an amphitheatre of solemn hills, which had its
entrance towards the South-West, stood a monument of remote and unknown
antiquity, a monolith of grey, weather-stained stone, known far and
wide to the country folks and dalesmen as the “Long Man,” or more
correctly the “Long _Maen_,” of Stanwick.
The “Manor,” as the Manwaring family house was called, had been
substantially rebuilt in the early part of the last century, and had no
particular pretensions in itself to beauty or picturesqueness; but its
position was perfect, the views from it were delightful, and attached
to it was an ill-kept, but charming old-fashioned garden, with stone
terraces, flights of steps, a sun-dial, and some quaint mutilated
statues--
“Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus,
All standing naked in the open air.”[1]
There was no park, properly so called, but the neighbouring fields,
with their magnificent timber trees, had quite a park-like appearance.
The village of Holmcastle, with its Rectory and small ancient Church,
slept in the valley hard by, at an elevation but a little above the
river, though at a considerable depth below the mansion, and this
circumstance gave the latter a completely feudal appearance. Inside,
the Manor did not differ much from other country houses of the better
class of the same date, save that it contained more family portraits
than usual, and that it had a fine entrance hall, and a remarkably
curious and interesting Library! Upon entering the room, which opened
out of a long corridor upstairs, not a book was visible, but the walls
were panelled in dark Spanish chestnut wood, each panel being divided
from the next by a handsome pilaster. The visitor would then be shown
that, by applying a curiously shaped key which lay on a central table
to a groove in each pilaster, the latter could be turned back, and
then the neighbouring panel flew open, discovering shelves filled with
ancient books, not one of which was of less ancient date than the year
1720, while many of them were of far greater antiquity. One of these
compartments was reserved for books of poetry, another for divinity and
theology, another for the classics, and so on, all the books being in
admirable preservation, and well chosen by the Sir Miles Manwaring who,
on the destruction of the older mansion by fire, had rebuilt the house
in its present form. Underneath the book-shelves were drawers filled
with ancient charters, title-deeds, and other archives of the past.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Father Prout.]
CHAPTER IV.
THE SQUIRE OF HOLMCASTLE.
MR. CUTHBERT MANWARING had succeeded to the estate of Holmcastle under
the provisions of the will of an old bachelor uncle, Algernon by
name, who had seldom visited his estate, and who died, where he had
lived the best, or worst part of his life, in a small street off St.
James’s Square. This Algernon had been a friend of the Prince Regent,
and although a very fine gentleman, as fine gentlemen were in those
days, he was a very worthless person, and had much impoverished the
family estate by his extravagance. Probably there were but few of
the friends of the “First Gentleman in Europe,” so called, who, in
consequence of the intimacy which subsisted between them, escaped
serious injury “in mind, body, and estate,” and to this rule Algernon
Manwaring was certainly no exception. The estate was left in the first
instance to the elder brother, Cuthbert’s father, Captain Crackenrode
Manwaring, and to his heirs male after him; and then, failing these,
to the second brother, Edgar, a somewhat dissipated and dilapidated
Queen’s Counsel; and then, in case of his demise, to his son or sons
after him. It chanced, however, that both the younger brothers,
Crackenrode and Edgar, died in their eldest brother’s lifetime, and
so it fell out that, on the death of Algernon, the estate passed at
once to his nephew, Cuthbert Piercey, the son of Captain Crackenrode
Manwaring, who, brought up to no definite profession, had lately
married the beautiful, but almost penniless daughter of the last Earl
of Ingleborough. This lady bore to her husband three children--first,
a boy named Lionel; and then, after an interval of five years, a
daughter, Evelyn; and lastly, the following year, another boy, who
was christened Wilfred. In giving birth to this her youngest child,
the gentle Lady Honoria herself died. It would be too much to say
that the Squire was much affected or disturbed by the death of his
young wife. He was a cold, or rather a thin-blooded person, who had
married, not for love, but solely and simply to secure a male heir
for the Holmcastle property, and to transmit the name of Manwaring to
succeeding generations in his own line. He looked upon his wife mainly
as a means to that all-important end; and, that end being obtained, he
was not the man to care much about the means.
That Lady Honoria had received nothing but a mere pittance on her
father’s death had in no ways affected her husband’s equanimity. He
knew, before he married her, that Lord Ingleborough’s property would
go away under the law of entail to a distant cousin, as a matter
of course, and just as if there were no such things in the world
as daughters to be provided for; and he was perfectly content that
it should be so. He had felt, and he had felt rightly, that it was
dishonourable to marry a woman for her money, and therefore, since
family considerations compelled him to take a wife, he did not do that,
but he choose her for her blood, which even he, the heir of all the
Manwarings, allowed to be unexceptionable; and when the sweet, bright
little lady, who ought to have been the joy and crown of her husband,
fell asleep a few moments after she had kissed and blessed her new-born
boy, he felt consoled by the idea that henceforth the blood of the
direct line of the Weathercotes would blend with and go to enhance the
blueness of that of his own family.
The fact is that Cuthbert Manwaring was a man of one idea, and that
idea was the importance and honour of his Family. There was indeed
scarcely a family in all Lancashire, except perhaps the Elthornes of
Elthorne, the Formbys of Formby, the extinct Weathercotes, and the
Stanleys, which he would allow even to have any pretensions to vie with
his own. It will be seen, therefore, that the Squire was no vulgar
tuft-hunter. On the contrary, one of his most marked peculiarities was
the supreme contempt with which he regarded the titled aristocracy
of England, and he could scarcely be got to be decently civil to a
Baronet. “Dukes,” he was wont to say to a casual visitor, “are mere
mushrooms; Marquises a modern growth of Frenchified funguses, things
of yesterday; two or three Earls perhaps can claim to be considered
gentlemen; Viscounts I disallow altogether; and of the Barons of
England there are perhaps a score who date the patents of their
creation to a period earlier than that robber and plunderer, Henry
VIII. Baronets! What do I know or care about Baronets? Why, they
were only invented as a means of putting money in the pocket of that
detestable old Scotch snob, James I.! No, the real aristocracy of
England is only to be found amongst the ancient landed gentry, of whom
a few still survive the invasion of millionaire Jew money-lenders and
Brummagem button-makers, and of these there are few, if any, as I am
prepared to prove from muniments in my own possession, who can compete
in antiquity and respectability with the Knightly Family of Manwaring,
of which I have the honour to be the humble representative. Allow me to
show you the Family Tree.”
These views and pretensions, as may be supposed, did not render the
lord of Holmcastle very popular amongst the neighbouring aristocracy;
but for this he didn’t care a rush, and in fact he rather liked the
state of isolation in which his own pride and folly placed him. While,
however, Mr. Manwaring treated his richer and more aristocratic
neighbours with scant civility or ill-concealed contempt, he was
extremely courteous to his own tenantry, and to the class of yeoman
farmers, of whom there were many in the Dale of the Arrow. A porcupine
with quills erect towards those who, he feared, might be disposed to
assert an equality or superiority which he refused to admit, he was as
smooth as a Persian cat (and in some respects as treacherous) towards
those whom he regarded as so immeasurably beneath him as to have no
pretensions at all. The Squire, too, had in many matters the instincts
of a gentleman of the old school. He ceremoniously removed his hat when
he entered the cottage of the humblest labourer, and he always requited
the bobs and curtseys of the village children with a grand bow, worthy
of Sir Charles Grandison himself. Nor was he a bad landlord. His
ancestors, who were richer men than he was himself, had underlet their
farms, and so he conceived it to be a piece of Family Honour not to
raise his rents, although the value of his land had largely increased.
Finding, too, from ancient accounts, that his forebears had given
large doles to the poor, he too was liberal in his Christmas gifts;
and though he would have grudged a cup of cold water for Christ’s
sake, to save a brother as a brother from perishing of thirst, he gave
freely to those who asked, because he thought it accorded with the
ancient dignity of his House to do so. Thus, with the poorer sort of
his neighbours, who appreciated material benefits without too curiously
investigating motives, the Squire of Holmcastle was not otherwise than
popular. Mr. Manwaring’s manner of life, moreover, was eminently
respectable. No one could breathe a word against his moral character,
which indeed was beyond reproach. He was particular, too, in attending
to his “religious duties.” He went regularly to the Parish Church;
but as he sat in the Manwaring Chantry, in the southern isle of the
chancel, his eyes were fixed upon the noble altar-tombs and quaint
brasses of his Family, rather than on his Prayer Book or on the Priest
of the Church of Christ, and his thoughts turned to the rusty swords
and helmets and tattered banners which hung over the monuments of his
race, rather than to the Liturgy and the Word of God. Mr. Manwaring
was, in point of fact, as near a Pagan as a Church-going man of moral
life could be. The very building in which he attended Divine Service
he regarded rather as a Family Shrine, a Tomb-house of the Manwarings,
than as a Consecrated House of Prayer, where all men, rich and poor,
noble and simple, might meet together on equal terms to worship the
common Father of all. There was one thing, however, connected with the
Church and Rectory, which he could neither forget nor forgive. His
predecessor, worn out by the solicitations of parsons’ wives for the
presentation of the benefice of Holmcastle, then vacant, to their own
proper husbands, had, by solemn deed of gift, made over the advowson
of the living to the Bishop of the Diocese. The present Rector was the
first one appointed under the new _regime_, and had he been a man
of less tact than he was, and any other than an Elthorne of Elthorne,
he would, without doubt, have speedily been made to feel that his lines
had fallen in any but pleasant places. As it was, the Squire was on
good terms with his parish Priest, the Rev. Charles Elthorne, and liked
him as well as he was capable in his cold nature of liking anyone. Mr.
Elthorne, who had been fellow of his College at Oxford, was a quiet
man of considerable learning and holy life, and as the Squire held the
common conservative notion that the Church existed to minister to the
wants of the State, he was content to allow the Rector to have his own
way in the religious training of his children. It was “respectable,”
the Squire thought, to be (at all events outwardly) religious; there
had been one or two great churchmen in the Family, and so it was
right that his children should be brought up in the faith of their
forefathers.
In person, Mr. Manwaring was tall and thin, his features were finely
cut, his eyes dark, luminous, and expressive, and his dark eyebrows,
contrasting with his fine white hair, gave a rare distinction to his
otherwise handsome countenance. The poor folks and dalesmen were proud
of him as the most well-favoured Squire in all North Lancashire.
CHAPTER V.
THE MANWARING “FAMILY TREE.”
AVERSE from field sports, and taking little interest in public affairs,
Mr. Manwaring had one hobby which he was never tired of riding.
Genealogy and Heraldry were his favourite studies, and for him the
Fine Arts only existed as the machinery by which Family portraits were
transmitted to posterity, and as a means of emblazoning the Manwaring
Coat of Arms with its sixty quarterings. Though he took no interest in
agriculture or botany, the Family Tree of the Manwarings was an object
of his never-ceasing care and solicitude.
The Squire’s younger uncle, Edgar, who for some years had led a
dissipated and extravagant life at Bath, Cheltenham, and other inland
watering-places, had an only son named Tresham; and as he never
expected him to succeed to the family estates, he apprenticed him to
a Mr. Grubbe, a solicitor of good repute and considerable practice at
Clitheroe, and the young man, on the death of his principal, set up for
himself. Tresham Manwaring had not, or at all events was not supposed
to have, inherited the vices of his father. On the contrary, he was
persevering to a degree, economical, and even parsimonious in his
habits, and his worst enemy (and he had many) could not have accused
him of the crime which Archbishop Whately so bitterly denounced, to
wit, of having ever given a halfpenny to a beggar.
For the rest, Tresham was secretly self-indulgent, when self-indulgence
could be purchased at a cheap rate; rude in his manners; and he took
a delight in affecting a coarseness of behaviour and a vulgarity of
diction which were altogether out of harmony with the education he
had received. A more selfish man never existed, and the ruling maxim
by which he steered his conduct was the base one, “_Take care of
Number One._” When he set up on his own hook, the young lawyer felt
the want of ready money, and he accordingly wooed and won the wealthy
heiress of a retired cheesemonger of Halifax, who rejoiced in the
euphonious name of Sally Potts, on the easy condition of taking the
name of Potts in lieu of his own, and of assuming the newly-granted
arms of that family, to wit, on a Field, Vert, three Milk Pails Or,
with the motto _“Ex Vaccâ, sed Potabilis_.” The lady, who was
considerably older than himself, was a vulgar, ambitious woman, whose
main object in life was to obtain a position amongst the “County
Families.” In her husband’s eyes her sole merit was probably the grist
that she brought to his mill. In nature, she was prolific, and she
annually offered the tribute of a new daughter to her disgusted spouse,
who would have been glad of a male heir to the family of Potts.
When the Head of the Family heard of this ill-starred and ignominious
match, he felt it his duty to make an example of the chief offender,
and accordingly, before witnesses, he solemnly erased his name from the
Family Pedigree, and gave strict orders that his cousin’s name should
never be mentioned in his presence again. Pride, like love, is blind;
and in the performance of this judicial act, the Squire of Holmcastle
forgot that his cousin Tresham was _in the entail_!
It will be seen from all this, that, though in his eccentricities Mr.
Cuthbert Manwaring bore a resemblance to Captain Roland de Caxton, yet
in that nobleness of soul which underlay those eccentricities he was
no Roland at all, but simply his own selfish self. True, he had made
“Honour,” “the Honour of his Family,” the ruling passion of his life;
but he had mistaken the nature and basis of true honour, and had so
misinterpreted it as altogether to ignore the principle of Justice, the
rarest attribute of man, the most glorious attribute of God.
Soon after the death of Lady Honoria, Mr. Manwaring began to compile a
huge history of his family from the earliest known period, which, to
say the truth, was anterior to the Norman Conquest. This work gradually
became the one amusement and the one solace of his isolated life. In a
voluminous preface he expounded the theory that his Race sprang from a
noted Scandinavian “Ver,” “Wer,” or Warrior, and that his descendants
hence acquired the name of “Veringas,” the Sons of the Hero, which was
subsequently corrupted into “Waringas, or Warings.” This theory he
supported by a mass of ponderous arguments, and he held that he had
proved its truth beyond doubt or cavil. He was less positive as to the
prefix “Man.” He showed, however, that from his noble and _manly_
qualities, his first historical progenitor _might_ have been,
and probably _was_ called the “Man” _par excellence_, and
that thus his posterity came to be know as Manwaringas, or Manwarings;
but he rather inclined to the belief that the Family acquired the
prefix on account of their possessing the Long Maen, Man, or Stone
of Stanwick. The last syllable of this name, again, he was at great
pains to connect with the Scandinavian Vik-ingas, or Vik-ings, some of
whom, as was abundantly proved by numerous Northern names of places,
had unquestionably settled on the coast of Lancashire; and he also
conjectured that the Var-angian guard of the Byzantine Emperors was in
all probability formed of members of the Man-war-angian, or Manwaring
Family.
During the progress of this great undertaking, the compiler opened out
correspondence with all sorts and conditions of men whom he thought
would be likely to throw light on his subject. Country clergymen were
almost worried to death with applications for copies of registers,
which were never paid for, as the applicant considered the honour of
assisting in a work of such paramount importance a more than sufficient
recompense for labour and trouble, howsoever great. “Garter” himself
was heard to remark that he regretted he had ever been born; and
“Spotted Leopard” said “he’d be hanged if he wouldn’t go and destroy
himself, if that old fool of a Manwaring didn’t stop his nonsense and
rubbishy questions.”
Meanwhile--for the “Memorials of the Antient and Knightly Family of
Manwaring of Holmcastle Manor, in the County Palatine of Lancaster,”
was in progress for years and years, and indeed was scarcely half
finished at the author’s death--the Squire’s three children grew up
apace. Though he had little or no fatherly sympathy with them, and
probably looked on them rather as necessary evils, than as God-sent
gifts entrusted to him to be loved and cherished above all other
possessions, he was not what would be commonly called a bad father. The
children were not grudged meat or drink, or dress, or even luxuries
becoming their station--the “Honour of the Family” demanded that,--but
it is certain that, as they grew up, the Squire valued them chiefly
as possible producers of more heirs male, or on account of their real
or supposed likeness to their ancestors. Thus Lionel, the first-born,
was supposed to resemble Sir Ralph Manwaring, Governor of Calais under
Henry VII., of whom a fine portrait, by the elder Holbein, hung over
the mantelpiece in the dining-room; Evelyn was credited with a likeness
to Mistress Blanche Manwaring, who was kissed by his Sacred Majesty,
King Charles II., on the occasion of his visit to Holmcastle, and who
rewarded that merry monarch with a sound slap on the royal chops; while
Wilfred, who was a beautiful boy, with dark violet eyes, clustering
dark hair, and nobly-cut forehead, and in whose form grace and strength
were combined, as in that of a Ganymede cut by a Greek chisel, was
esteemed the living image of Sir Godfrey, who had been deemed a great
beauty at Court, and who had lost so many broad pieces to his royal
master in the great gallery at Whitehall, that he was forced to sell
many of the fair acres which the roundheads had left to the family,
when they spoiled gallant old Sir Walter for his attachment to King
Charles the First.
It had been the custom of the Family to educate the children well,
and in accordance with that precedent, no expense was spared by Mr.
Manwaring in the education of his daughter and his two sons. Lionel
went to Eton, where most of his ancestors, for three hundred years, had
been before him; and thence, after a brilliant career at the Academy at
Woolwich, he passed into the army, and speedily gained a reputation as
a young officer of the highest promise.
Evelyn, the pet of her elder, and the constant companion of her younger
brother, as she grew towards maturity, had as many masters over from
Preston, and even from Manchester and Liverpool, as her father thought
becoming to her station. Her bright intelligence and natural aptitude
for learning made her profit to the uttermost by the instruction she
received; while her religious education was lovingly and carefully
superintended by the Rector, whose merry, beaming daughter, Mary,
was her playmate in childhood, and her dearest friend as she grew
older. Left motherless at the birth of her younger brother, Evelyn’s
character, as she grew up to maturity, developed more quickly than
is usual with girls, and ere she was sixteen, she had fallen almost
imperceptibly into the position of mistress of her father’s house.
By her brothers, by the Rectory family, and by the few neighbours
with whom she was acquainted; by the dalesmen, and especially by
the poor around her, Evelyn was perfectly adored, and the charm and
beauty of “the Lily of Arrow Dale”--for she early acquired that pretty
_soubriquet_--was celebrated far and near. If ever the cold nature
of the Squire could be said to warm towards anyone, it was towards
his daughter; but he did not condescend to show the affection, such
as it was, which he may have felt for her, by any outward signs or
demonstrations. In his view, all love, all devotion, all honour was due
to himself as Head of the Family, and to himself alone.
CHAPTER VI.
“EHRENBREITSTEIN.”
WILFRED, the youngest of the Holmcastle Family, after following his
brother to Eton, where, however, he did not remain long, was sent,
in order to prepare for Oxford, to a private tutor, named Massenger,
who lived in a house to which he had given the pedantic name of
“Ehrenbreitstein,” at Fisherswick, near Ossington, on the borders of
Cheshire.
Marmaduke Massenger, although of English parentage, had begun his
education at the University of Glasgow, but before he took his degree
he removed to Bonn, and afterwards to Heidelberg, where, in due time,
he became Doctor of Philosophy. Returning to England, in the full pomp
of his new Doctorate, Dr. Massenger commenced a career as private
tutor, and soon became celebrated for his success in that capacity.
Nor, indeed, was this without reason, for he was a really good scholar,
had the art of instruction, and was successful with his pupils. His
charges were high, but he justified them by keeping a most liberal
table, by making his pupils work hard, and by working hard himself.
Dr. Massenger was suspected by some of being a freethinker; but he
took his pupils to the Parish Church, and, unlike most freethinkers,
did not attempt to proselytize. That, he felt, would not pay in his
profession. Out of work hours, the Doctor did not trouble his head
about his young men, but let them go and come as they liked, and, so
long as they were back by work hours, do exactly as they please. “I am
a cramming machine,” he once said to an intimate friend, “and am paid
for cramming. I don’t pretend to teach morality according to English
notions, and I object to be a spy or a policeman after the ideas of the
French. I teach Greek, and Latin, and Philosophy, and Mathematics, and
History, as far as I know them; if parents want anything else, they
must go to another shop.” The Doctor professed to be very particular as
to the pupils whom he vouchsafed to take, and seldom took one who had
not a handle to his name. For this reason perhaps his house was always
full. Dr. Massenger’s weakness, indeed, was that he was a tuft-hunter
of the deepest dye, and he tacitly held that a nobleman could do
no wrong. As the young noblemen committed to his charge sometimes
_did_ do wrong, this propensity occasionally led to scandals and
awkward circumstances, but the tutor would not see it, and remained as
oblivious of any moral failings in the character of his aristocratic
pupils as he was before. In person he was a large, fat man, with big
fubsy hands and a square red face, with a close-trimmed beard and
moustachios of pale hair much speckled with grey. His wife was a
showy, vulgar woman, with an auburn front, who dressed in ill-assorted
colours, wore showy jewellery, and loved to talk about what she called
“the Upper Ten,” and she was never so happy as when she could get up a
mild flirtation with some young sprig of nobility.
When Wilfred Manwaring arrived at “Ehrenbreitstein,” he found two
pupils in the house, another, Lord Montauburn, having left the previous
term. The elder of these was the Honourable Augustus Cubleigh, only son
and heir of the head of the great Banking firm, Cubleigh and Cubleigh,
who, for services rendered at a critical period to the Government,
had recently been created Lord Guttleborough of Hampstead, in the
County of Middlesex. Cubleigh was a fat, languid, effeminate young
fellow, with a pale, flabby face, full sensual lips, sandy-red hair,
which he wore long, and furtive eyes of a greenish tint. He eschewed
all manly games, professed himself to be æsthetic in his tastes, and
consumed immense quantities of pastry and sweet stuff, for which he had
previously acquired an inordinate taste at Harrow, on which account,
and with a delicate reminiscence of the title of his noble father, his
schoolfellows had distinguished him by the expressive and suggestive
_soubriquet_ of “Young Guttles.” At the present time, he was in
the receipt of an allowance by no means equal to the gratification of
his tastes, for his extravagance at school had been great, and his
father had determined to make an attempt to teach him economy. It may
be doubted, however, whether the peer went the right way to work to
attain that desirable end.
The other pupil was the young Duke of Ribblesdale, a handsome,
unaffected lad, full of high spirits and good temper, whom Wilfred
had already known slightly at Eton. These two lads were delighted to
renew each other’s acquaintance, and soon became fast and inseparable
friends. This friendship soon excited the jealousy of Cubleigh, who was
held by Ribblesdale in great contempt, and Mrs. Massenger, on more than
one occasion in the silent watches of the night, expressed to her lord
and master her surprise that the Duke should find anything to like in
“that Manwaring.” The good lady, you see, spited Wilfred because he had
no handle to his name, and made the common mistake of supposing that,
to be of good blood, a man must needs be an aristocrat.
“My love,” answered the Doctor of Philosophy, “it’s only human nature.
As long as they are young, the children of the aristocracy would make
mud puddings in a gutter with a pack of young beggars, if only you let
’em. Ribblesdale will learn wisdom when he grows older.”
Little, however, cared the two friends either for Cubleigh’s jealousy
or Mrs. Massenger’s wonder. Together they rode, and fished, and shot,
and bathed. Together they explored on foot every old church, and
ruin, and camp within twenty miles of “Ehrenbreitstein.” Together
they made railway excursions, and got out at remote stations, and
then started walking. Together they read poetry and novels, together
pursued those severer studies which their tutor, always conscientious
in that respect, rigorously exacted from them. Once--we need not go
into details--Wilfred discovered that his friend was about to commit
an act unworthy of his high character, and which could not have
failed to entail sin and shame upon the actor, and it was Wilfred’s
tears, and Wilfred’s tender pleadings, and Wilfred’s firmness which
turned the young Duke from his purpose. Ribblesdale never forgot this
circumstance, and respect and gratitude were henceforward added to the
love which he bore to his friend. Thus, then, lived on the two fine
lads, rejoicing in each other’s companionship, and exulting in each
other’s love.
In the course of the second term of Wilfred’s residence, an event
occurred which increased the coldness which subsisted between him and
Cubleigh.
A small shopkeeper at Fisherswick, named Slocombe, who was also the
village postmaster, had a handsome but slatternly daughter named
Betsey, for whose society Cubleigh had a great predilection, and when
his fellow pupils were riding, or scouring the neighbourhood on foot,
he spent a great deal of his time in the shop. As time went on, he was
there more and more, and at length scarcely a day elapsed when he
could not be found ostensibly assisting the girl in sorting or stamping
the letters which were put into the post-box. This sort of familiarity
would have been resented by any prudent father, but Mr. Slocombe rather
encouraged it than not, and often remarked, when he was in a boozy
condition, which was by no means an uncommon occurrence, “what a foine
thing it ’ud be if his smart gal Bet was to ’ook a young lord.”
One day Wilfred went to the post-office to purchase stamps, and,
entering the shop, saw Betsey Slocombe and Augustus Cubleigh in
the little compartment which shut out the letter department from
the groceries. The two were laughing and talking together very
confidentially, and occasionally burst out laughing as they examined
the letters one by one. Presently Cubleigh exclaimed, “Look here,
Betsey, here’s one of that muff Manwaring’s letters; I wonder what he’s
got to say to his sister, he writes to her twice a week, I declare;”
and so saying, he held the letter close to the window on his left hand,
and tried to make out through the envelope what was written inside. In
a moment Wilfred had leaped over the counter, and had seized the letter
out of Cubleigh’s hands. “Look here, Cubleigh,” he cried with flashing
eyes, “don’t let me see you touching a letter of mine in that way
again. It’s a sneaking, blackguardly action which you are committing;
you’ve no business among the letters at all, and if I see you there
again, I’ll give you the soundest thrashing you ever had in your life.
Letters are sacred amongst _gentlemen_.”
The Honourable Augustus seemed thoroughly cowed by this address, and by
the demeanour of the speaker, and his green eyes glared furtively, like
those of a cat caught stealing cream. “I beg your pardon, Manwaring,”
he said at length, as he sneaked round the end of the counter into the
shop, “but really you needn’t be so fierce. I was only helping Betsey
to stamp the letters;” and so saying, he walked out of the shop. The
next moment the postmaster entered. “What’s all this row about, Bet, my
gal?” he said, addressing his daughter.
“It means this, Mr. Slocombe,” said Wilfred, before the girl could
reply, “that if ever again I find anyone with your daughter tampering
with the letters, I will write to the Postmaster-General and get you
turned out of the place;” and so saying, he left the shop abruptly.
After this circumstance, as has already been mentioned, a greater
coldness than ever prevailed between the two lads; but Wilfred, at all
events, was not of a disposition to bear malice, and so the quarrel was
patched up, and before long the two were, at least outwardly, on civil,
if not on friendly terms.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FALL OF WILFRED.
WILFRED MANWARING’S favourite branch of study was history, and to this
he added a taste for antiquities, which, in part perhaps, though with
a different effect, he had inherited from his father. When he had
been at “Ehrenbreitstein” nearly six months, and shortly before the
Christmas vacation, an old gentleman in the neighbourhood, who was a
noted antiquary, and had a fine collection of ancient coins and medals,
invited Dr. Massenger’s pupils to come over to inspect them. On the
appointed day, it chanced that the young Duke had another engagement,
but Wilfred gladly availed himself of the opportunity of seeing objects
so closely connected with his favourite branch of study, and went over
to Holborough for the purpose, accompanied by Cubleigh, who professed
himself interested in such things, “from a purely æsthetic point of
view.” Mr. Wilmot--for so the old gentleman was named--was delighted
to obtain an audience to whom he might descant upon the beauty and
the rarity of his treasures, and when he had finished displaying his
coins, he turned to open a cabinet full of choice antique gems. While
thus engaged, Mr. Wilmot chanced to be called out of the room, and
left his guests to examine the precious stones by themselves. This
was a great delight to Wilfred, who had never seen such fine works of
art before, and he was soon engrossed in the examination of heads,
figures, and groups cut by the subtle fingers of long-dead Greek and
Roman artists. The gems, however, did not seem to suit the taste of
Cubleigh, who presently left the recess in which the cabinet was
placed, and went, as he said, to look at the pictures, of which there
were some fine specimens by ancient masters upon the walls. In a few
minutes Mr. Wilmot returned, and closed his coin chest regretfully,
remarking, as he did so, that he had no one in the neighbourhood to
sympathise with him in his taste for numismatics, and that his medals,
which had scarcely seen the light for years, might be years longer
before they were again brought out for exhibition. The old gentleman
then proceeded to launch out into eulogiums upon his intaglios,
in which Cubleigh now affected to take great interest; and so the
morning passed away. After a good lunch, the two young men returned to
“Ehrenbreitstein,” one of them at least well pleased, and the other
perhaps well satisfied, with the morning’s excursion.
About a week after this visit, when the three young men were all
sitting at their studies, according to their wont, in the dining-room,
an old-fashioned, ramshackle gig drove furiously up to the front door,
and a moment afterwards the servant entered, and informed Dr. Massenger
that Mr. Wilmot was in the drawing-room, and desired to see him
immediately on important business.
In half-an-hour’s time, during which Cubleigh kept evincing a restless
anxiety as to why “the old beggar” had come, and had left the room for
some minutes, and had again returned, Dr. Massenger burst into the
room in a state of violent excitement. “My Lord Duke and gentlemen,”
he cried, “I regret, and am ashamed to inform you, that my worthy
neighbour, Mr. Wilmot, has come over to tell me of a most unpleasant
circumstance. He has been robbed--robbed of a number of his most
valuable gold coins--and I am sorry to say he suspects my pupils;
mine, the sojourners in ‘Ehrenbreitstein,’ to be the robbers. I
have indignantly repelled the base insinuation, but I regret to say
the old man, who I imagine must have lost his wits, is firm in his
determination to place the matter in the hands of the detective police,
unless those gentlemen who visited him at Holborough last week consent
to have their rooms and effects searched in his presence. My Lord Duke,
I remember you were not one of the party; but you, Mr. Cubleigh, and
you, Mr. Manwaring, what do you say?”
“I say it is an insult even to think of such a thing,” cried Wilfred,
colouring deeply.
“And what do you say, Mr. Cubleigh?” asked the Doctor.
“Why,” answered he, as, _more suo_, he bent his furtive eyes upon
the ground, “it seems to me the proposal is a very reasonable one, and
I for my part shall be most happy to assent to it, for of course we
know nothing of the old gentleman’s trumpery, which, after all, has
most likely been stolen by some footman or housemaid.”
“Right,” cried Dr. Massenger, “excellently right indeed; that is just
the sort of sentiment which I should have expected to hear from the
mouth of the son of Lord Guttleborough; and I _do_ wish,” he
added, turning to Wilfred, “I _do_ wish, Mr. Manwaring, I could
more often see you guided by mature reason, like that of Mr. Cubleigh,
rather than by those youthful impulses which are so peculiarly your
own. Ribblesdale, I trust your Grace will accompany us, as, in order to
satisfy my good, although somewhat unreasonable friend and neighbour,
we go through the form of searching the sleeping apartments.”
So saying, the Doctor, who prided himself on his art of mingling the
familiarity proper to a pupil with the respect due to a nobleman of
exalted rank, pompously led the way upstairs, the party being joined in
the hall by Mr. Wilmot.
The first room which Dr. Massenger entered was that of Cubleigh, he
having probably a floating idea that it was one of the prerogatives
of a person of noble birth to take precedence of a mere commoner, in
having one’s room searched in quest of stolen goods. The walls of
this apartment were covered with Japanese fans and handscreens made
of peacocks’ feathers, and they were further decorated with numerous
photographs of ladies in a somewhat _décolleté_ style of costume,
and by crayon drawings of gentlemen with long hair, and faces which
betokened excruciating pains in the stomach.
“Really,” cried Dr. Massenger, in affected rapture, “really I
was _not_ prepared for this, Mr. Cubleigh. I had really no
idea you had made such a remarkably chaste collection of er, er,
er--_likenesses_. Quite classical, to be sure! I am _quite_
surprised. Wilmot, my good friend, you are a judge of art; tell me what
you think of Mr. Cubleigh’s er, er, er, _gallery_.”
“A pack of rubbish, that ought to be put behind the fire!” answered the
old gentleman, testily.
The Honourable Augustus seemed somewhat disconcerted by this
unfavourable criticism upon his art treasures, but he, nevertheless,
showed every disposition to assist in the search which was forthwith
prosecuted amongst his numerous and gorgeous effects. With his own
hands he opened a gold-mounted dressing-case, threw the contents out of
a desk, took the lid off a pot of cold cream, and turned the pockets of
six pairs of trousers inside out. All, however, was in vain; none of
the stolen property was found, and Mr. Wilmot left the room snorting
with disappointment and dissatisfaction.
The whole party then adjourned to the room of Wilfred, which
indeed presented a great contrast to that last examined. Over the
chimney-piece was a large and fine photograph of the S. Cecilia of
Rafael, and beneath it was slung a cross-handled sword, which had
probably been used in the Wars of the Roses. Here hung a fishing-rod,
there were suspended a couple of cricket bats. In one corner stood
a new rifle, and on the walls were disposed at intervals several
water-coloured drawings of wild North-country scenery, and two or three
engravings of dogs after Landseer.
Wilfred’s conduct was certainly widely different upon this occasion
from that of Cubleigh, for he displayed no anxiety whatsoever to assist
in the examination of his goods and chattels. Rather he seemed to
submit to it as an unwelcome necessity, and as an overpowering wrong.
After long search, however, nothing was discovered, and the party
were about to leave the room, when Cubleigh, who had pulled down a
waistcoat from the top shelf of a wardrobe, suddenly cried out, “Hullo,
Manwaring, there’s the very waistcoat you wore the day we went to
Holborough; there’s nothing in it, is there? Dear me, how odd! There’s
something hard in the breast pocket, but of course that’s nothing! What
drawer shall I replace it in?”
“Let me look,” interposed Mr. Wilmot, nervously.
With great apparent reluctance Cubleigh placed the garment in the old
man’s hands, and the latter thrust his trembling fingers into the inner
pocket, and thence drew forth a small, carefully wrapped-up paper
packet, which, on being opened, displayed a broad gold noble of King
Edward the Third.
“My noble, my precious noble with the unique mint-mark,” quavered Mr.
Wilmot; “they’ve not got one like it in the British Museum, and I could
swear to it amongst a thousand. Well, I’m surprised, and I’m sorry, and
I’m shocked; but where are the rest? there are at least fifty coins
missing, and----”
The rest of the sentence was interrupted by a loud, despairing cry,
and then, with a heavy thud, Wilfred Manwaring fell senseless upon the
floor.
“I always feared I had committed an error,” said the Heidelberg Doctor,
“when I admitted to ‘Ehrenbreitstein’ the son of a mere commoner, but I
certainly never expected to find a thief amongst my pupils.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried the Duke of Ribblesdale; “there’s some
villainy here.”
“And I certainly could not have credited it,” said old Mr. Wilmot,
fidgetting about--“such a fine, open-countenanced young gentleman,
too; I certainly never _could_ have credited it.”
“And I,” said Cubleigh, “never would have believed my governor would
have sent me to a tutor’s where there was a thief in the house.
And, now I come to think of it, Manwaring went over to Ossington on
Saturday, and bought a new gun.”
“Ha!” cried Dr. Massenger, “that is important.”
“By Jove, Cubleigh,” exclaimed the Duke, “I think you are a beastly cad
yourself to talk so, when the poor dear fellow is lying on the ground
dead, for all we know to the contrary. Come, is no one going to help
me to lift him up upon the bed?” and so saying, he began to raise the
helpless body. But the Doctor and Cubleigh stood aloof.
“Let me help,” said old Mr. Wilmot, kindly, and the two lifted up the
unconscious frame, and laid it tenderly upon the bed, Doctor Massenger
strutting by their side, like a disconcerted turkeycock, but never
offering to assist. He was thinking how this unpleasant affair would
affect the prestige of his establishment, and of what the stern and
rigidly conscientious Lord Guttleborough would say when he came to hear
of the conduct of the fellow-pupil of his son. A medical man chanced to
be in the village, and was soon in attendance; but so great was the
shock that his nervous system had received, that it was long before
Wilfred recovered consciousness.
“Where am I?” he sighed at last, opening his beautiful violet eyes, and
trying to raise himself on the bed. “Oh! I remember”--and then he sank
back again in utter weakness and prostration.
CHAPTER VIII.
A BLASTED LIFE.
THOUGH, however, Wilfred could not rise, he could, when at last he
found himself alone, think; and Heaven only knows how exceedingly
bitter were his thoughts. For some hours he lay like one stunned,
trying, but trying in vain, to see his way out of the maze of sin and
misery in which he was involved. Lionel, his heroic brother; Evelyn,
his tenderly loved and loving sister; the grey old Rector, who had
been his steadfast friend and adviser from childhood upwards; and Mary
Elthorne, his sister’s friend--what would all these think of him? And
the village lads at Holmcastle, his companions in every manly game, and
to whom erewhile he had been the friend and adviser--would not they
too, when they came to know it, despise him in their honest hearts?
He had loved those rough, honest, true-hearted fellows as friends and
comrades, with that love which, in this country, thank God, so often
subsists between the best-born and the rural poor--a thing which it
enters not into the heart of a United States republican to conceive or
understand; and now Wilfred felt he dare not look one of them in the
face. And his father? His father had indeed been a cold, unsympathetic
parent, so far as personal intercourse was concerned, and there had
been little or no confidence between them; but the boy reflected that
he owed food, and raiment, and education, and many of the joys of
life to him alone, and his grateful heart swelled with grief at the
disappointment he would feel. Wilfred probably appreciated anything
which was of good in his father’s character more, and loved him better,
than did his other children. He had the poet’s gift of idealising. His
own high-strung, enthusiastic nature led him to feel that his father’s
foibles, ridiculous and even wrong as they were when viewed from some
aspects, had yet for their basis something which, if not noble, was
at least unsordid. At all events, they sprang not from that “_fons
et origo mali_,” the base love of money. His father’s family pride
was in some respects redeemed by the fact that he could _make_
nothing by it; and Wilfred mourned as he thought of the shock which
the announcement he would surely receive would have on his father’s
reserved and proud nature. It may seem strange, but it is nevertheless
true, that the thought of attempting to justify himself scarcely even
entered into the lad’s over-sensitive mind. The foul accusation had
been made, that accusation was supported by a chain of circumstantial
evidence, and he felt he was doomed to take the consequences. As
regarded justification, he must let that alone for ever. Bowed down in
the dust of the degradation of the present hour, the boy could look out
with no hope upon the future; all was a blank before him. Heretofore,
to his poetic soul, life itself had been very dear, and his happiness
in that life had been great and vivid. Heretofore, his young life had
been to him as life was to Adam before the fall. That was the outcome
and the reward of his innocence. Where there was no sin, there was no
shame. He had made the poet’s words his own--
“Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,
The strong rending of boughs from the fir trees, the cool, silver shock
Of the plunge in the pool’s living waters----”
He had rejoiced in his strength, as he climbed the crags of Stanwick
Chase; he had joyed in his lonely rambles over the solemn moors with
his gun, with which he had shot the casual grouse, or the rare falcons
which haunted the highest rocks; he had revelled in the swift paces of
his horse; he had loved the excitement of the manly games, in which he
was himself the foremost actor. Not a star shone in the silent midnight
sky, not a bird sang in the leafy copses, not a flower blossomed by the
wayside, not a fern uncurled its fronds in the crevices of the rocks,
that had not been to him a source of living joy.
Now, all that was passed and over; the light had died out from his
life, and the blackness of darkness covered his soul.
Alas, that it should be so! Alas, that to some noble natures a sense of
injustice received is the most crushing and most deadly of all blows
that can be dealt!
It was near nine o’clock in the evening when Dr. Massenger came up to
Wilfred’s room. After the expression of a cold and mechanical hope
that he was feeling better, the Heidelberg Doctor said, “I have come
to inform you, Mr. Manwaring, that I have written to your father, and
have despatched the letter by this evening’s post, to prepare him
for your immediate return to the honourable home you have disgraced,
as, in justice to my other pupils, I can no longer permit you to be
the associate of gentlemen of noble birth and refined feelings, into
whose company I confess I was wrong ever to have permitted one of
your station to enter. No,” pursued the Doctor, as he saw Wilfred
was attempting to speak--“no, I cannot permit any explanation or
any excuses. Your manifest reluctance to have your effects examined
(how widely different was the behaviour of that exemplary young man,
the-heir of Lord Guttleborough!), and the fortuitously fortunate
discovery of a portion of your ill-gotten plunder in the recesses of
a garment which you wore when you were unsuspiciously admitted to
view the Lares--the household gods, I may say--of a gentleman who
is not only an ornament to society, but whom I am proud to reckon
amongst the number of my own personal friends, renders all explanation
superfluous and useless. The restitution of the rest of the plunder
(although I fear that is rendered impossible by your recent purchase
of an expensive instrument calculated to destroy life--I mean a
fowling-piece) will, I apprehend, be a matter for the consideration of
the legal advisers on both sides, since, with what I confess appears
to me to be a misplaced leniency, my outraged friend declines to
prosecute you for the criminal offence. All I have to say at present
is, that you will leave this roof to-morrow, and will return at once
to your parental mansion. For the remainder of the evening, I have to
insist upon your remaining in your own chamber, and you will depart by
the first train in the morning. As I shall not see you again, I now bid
you farewell, with the earnest hope that, not yet utterly hardened in
crime, you may live to redeem the shameful past.” With these words, the
proprietor of “Ehrenbreitstein” turned on his heel, and stumped out of
the room.
Wilfred, who, during the foregoing oration, was prostrate upon his bed,
turned himself to the wall on the Doctor’s exit, a prey to the deepest
shame and sorrow. He was just sinking into a disturbed slumber, when he
was aroused by a friendly arm being thrown round his neck, and, as he
turned in the darkness, he felt a warm kiss imprinted upon his fevered
brow by some one who was leaning over him, as he half-knelt by the
bedside.
“Manwaring, Manwaring, my dear old fellow,” cried a sympathetic
voice, “don’t take this horrid matter so much to heart. All will be
explained; I know it will. I felt sure from the first it was some
devilry of that infernal cad, Cubleigh. You can’t think that I, your
friend and companion, could ever think you guilty--you who are the
dearest and best and noblest fellow I ever saw; you, who I know, and
shall always gratefully remember, have done me good; you, whose advice
and entreaties saved me from sin, and to whom I owe more than I can
ever repay!”
The speaker was the young Duke of Ribblesdale, and as he spoke, he
nestled close to the forlorn youth, and threw his strong arms around
him, and wetted him with his tears.
“Look here,” he continued; “Massenger has told me you are to be sent
home to-morrow in disgrace. It’s a beastly shame. But don’t think I
shall remain here without you; I would bolt first. But I know my mother
will remove me at Christmas if I ask her. Massenger is an old snob, and
I have no pity for, nor patience with him. He told me not to speak to
you again; but you see here I am, come to say good-bye and God bless
you. We shall meet again, I know, in happier times.”
Wilfred felt deeply moved by the affectionate kindness of his friend,
but he was too weak and miserable to speak. He returned, however, the
embrace, and then once more he was left alone to the company of his own
sad thoughts.
It is indeed grievous to reflect upon a blasted life.
CHAPTER IX.
A BRANCH IS LOPPED FROM THE FAMILY TREE.
THE letter in which Dr. Massenger acquainted Mr. Manwaring with his
son’s delinquency was a very matter-of-fact document, and stated the
points which had come to his knowledge with minute and relentless
exactness. It plainly expressed the writer’s deliberate conviction that
Wilfred was a thief, and hinted at his regret that he had not been more
particular before he had admitted him to the companionship of gentlemen
of noble birth.
The reception of this letter was, as may be supposed, a great blow
to the Squire. But it filled him with rage rather than with grief;
and after two or three hours’ consideration, he determined on the
immediate and condign punishment of the offender who had brought
disgrace upon the Family. A son of _his_ not a fit companion for
_anyone_! Here was the sting. A member of the ancient Family of
Manwaring not fit to associate with the son of a _parvenu_ like
Lord Guttleborough! Here was the disgrace! In his self-conceit, so
convinced was he that no one would venture to attempt to deceive him,
that it never even entered into his head to weigh the evidence of the
alleged crime; nor in all that he did, and in all that he determined to
do, did the father once think of the moral wickedness of the act which
he believed his own son to have committed. All he thought of, and all
he thought of punishing him for, was, not the sin committed against
God and man, but the offence committed against the House of Manwaring.
Pride of ancestry, which, kept within due bounds and rightly regulated,
might to some be an incentive to good and to noble action--_Noblesse
oblige_--became, in the case of the Squire of Holmcastle, the parent
of evil in its effects, as well as a positive crime in itself. The
desire of retribution made the old man blind. In his rage and wounded
pride, he forgot what he had once forgotten before, that the acres of
his much-loved Holmcastle were entailed upon the son he was about to
cast out like a dog upon the world, and that if his son Lionel should
die without issue, the castaway, should he survive, would come to reign
in his own stead at the Manor.
Poor Evelyn learned from her father the outline of the story of her
beloved brother’s crime and disgrace, and finding her own urgent
entreaties of no avail, she hastily despatched a letter to the Rectory,
to entreat Mr. Elthorne to visit her father, and try to dissuade him
from any rash course. The Rector, in great distress of mind--for he
loved and valued the boy--came at once, but he altogether failed to
dissuade the Squire from the course on which he had already determined.
Mr. Manwaring was in many respects a weak man, but, like most weak
men, he was as obstinate as a mule. If it was long before he could
come to any definite decision at all, yet, when he had once formed
it, he deemed that it was as irreversible as the laws of the Medes
and Persians, and it was next to impossible to turn him from it. So
it proved on the present occasion. Mr. Elthorne found the Squire as
hard as adamant. As the old and trusted friend of the family, and as
the Parish Priest, he tried to shake his determination, but he tried
in vain. In vain he pointed out the injustice of precipitation. In
vain he prayed the Squire to adopt mild measures towards his son,
who, after all, might not be guilty, and who, even _if_ guilty,
might, by kindness and love, be won back to repentance and virtue.
In vain he set before the Squire the duty of keeping a place in the
fold for the strayed sheep; a seat by the old familiar home-hearth for
the returning prodigal, if such he were. In vain he pointed out that
that “Gospel within a Gospel,” the Parable of the Prodigal Son, had a
double application, and held up to view, for the imitation of his chief
parishioner, the Majestic Figure of the Father running forward with the
outstretched arms of Divine Mercy to embrace him who, lost in the mazes
of sin, had resolved to arise and return to his home. In vain, in vain;
for that tender parable had, for that wretched father, been spoken to
no purpose! At length Mr. Elthorne was stirred to strong indignation,
and sternly rebuked the obstinate old man. “I warn you,” he said, as
he took his leave, “that you are about to commit a sin against God and
against your own son. You are resolved to sacrifice the living to the
dead. Who are you, that you dare to withhold forgiveness from another,
and _that_ one your own flesh and blood? ‘Vengeance is Mine,’
saith God; ‘I will repay.’ And know this, proud man, that if it were
to please God to strike you down in this revengeful frame of mind, my
hands would refuse to administer to you the Blessed Sacrament to soothe
your dying hours!” And so Mr. Elthorne left the house, after a short
interview with Evelyn, in which he assured her of his entire belief in
Wilfred’s innocence.
As soon as the Rector had departed, Mr. Manwaring unlocked his black
oak escritoire, and drew thence the lengthy parchment which contained
the emblazoned pedigree of his Family. He then rang the bell, and when
the old butler entered the room, he said, “Pinfold, I have called
you to witness my act,” and then with penknife and sandpaper he
deliberately erased his younger son’s name from the parchment. This
done, he added, “When he who was my son arrives, show him to his room,
and let him sup there; he leaves for London to-morrow, never to return.
Tell the servants and people never to mention his name in my presence
again. You will make the necessary preparations for his departure by
the first train. In an hour’s time I shall have a letter ready, which
you will put into his hands on his arrival. There, that will do; I
will ring when the letter is ready.”
So Pinfold retired, and the old man was left alone to write and to sign
what, little as he knew it, was in veriest truth his own death-warrant.
CHAPTER X.
WILFRED MANWARING GOES INTO EXILE.
IT was afternoon when Wilfred reached the home of his fathers--that
home which was no longer to be his. The old butler, whom he had known
from childhood, and who, boy and man, had lived at the Manor for close
on seventy years, regarded him with a puzzled air, as, according to the
orders he had received, he showed him to his room. “Here be a letter
for ’ee from the Squire, Master Wilfred,” said he; and, putting a
letter, sealed with a great coat of arms, into his hand, he hurried out
of the room.
Wilfred burst open the missive. It was a terrible communication, and
contained his father’s decision concerning him--an _ultimatum_
from which by experience he knew there was no appeal. Therein his
father refused to see him again, and discarded him as his son for
ever. Under pain of his curse, he commanded him to abandon the name of
Manwaring, and, from the day following forward, to abstain from holding
any correspondence either with himself or with any other member of his
Family. He ordered him to prepare to start next morning by the 7.40
train from Oswaldshaugh, which was the nearest railway station (with
characteristic formality and littleness of mind, the writer prided
himself on inserting this detail), and directed him to go to London,
and present himself at the office of his Town solicitors, Messrs.
Prodgers & Sharpin, who, as he was no longer worthy to bear the Family
Name, had directions to apprentice him under that of Thomas Brown
to some respectable grocer in a distant part of England. “You have
forfeited the right to call yourself a Gentleman, or to associate with
the equals of my Family. I have therefore desired my solicitors to pay
the premium necessary for your apprenticeship to a trade; and lest you
should be tempted to further crime, I enclose a note for £10. This is
the last remittance and the last communication you will ever receive
from him whose disgrace it is that he was once your father.--C. P. M.”
When the boy had read this dreadful letter, he sat like one dazed,
white and still, with silent tears of anguish flowing down his pallid
cheeks. He was roused by the entrance of his sister, who rushed into
the room, flung her arms around him, and mingled her tears with his.
“My darling, darling brother!” she cried at length.
“Then you don’t believe me guilty, Evelyn?” gasped out the wretched boy.
“Guilty? No, impossible!” she cried, clinging to him fondly.
“Then I have some hope left in life,” answered the lad, in low,
measured tones.
“My darling brother,” resumed Evelyn, “how my heart does bleed for you!”
“God bless you, dear,” said Wilfred. “But, tell me, what will Lionel
think, when he hears I am sent away from home as a thief?”
Yes, what would Lionel think? that bright, brave Captain of Dragoons,
whom Wilfred had ever looked up to as his ideal of a knight of old;
that kind and noble brother, who loved him so well, and had taught him
to swim and ride and shoot, and who, from African bivouacs and African
fastnesses, wrote him such tender letters? It was a bitter thought, and
Wilfred wept afresh.
The brother and sister, so lately joined, so soon to be parted, had a
long and sorrowful talk together. At length Evelyn said, “Darling, I
must leave you, and go down to our father. It was only after a dreadful
scene, and with the utmost difficulty, that I got him to consent to my
seeing you at all. Mr. Elthorne wanted to visit you, but our father
would not hear of it, so he has sent his love and blessing by me, and
he charged me to say he _trusts_ you now and ever. Wilfred, we
must bid each other farewell. I feel you will be righted sooner or
later, and in that case our father will no doubt send to you through
the lawyers. Meanwhile, trust in God, and remember that the heart of
your sister will ever cling to you with the fondest love. Here is a
tiny parting gift; take it with you, and open it when you are on your
way to that great, dreadful London. You know our father has willed that
we are not to write to one another; it is hard, but we must obey, and
we can remember each other in our prayers. Now kiss me, dear, and say
good-bye.”
The brother and sister fell into each other’s arms, and after that
long, last, loving embrace, Wilfred found himself alone. Before his
sister’s visit, the cruel sense of injustice, which ere now has
made demons of good men, had well-nigh crushed his highly-strung,
chivalrous nature and refined spirit; he could not think of the future,
he could only _bear_. Now, however, he remembered his friend
Ribblesdale’s words, in connection with those of his sister and with
the message sent him by Mr. Elthorne, and he felt a well-spring of hope
in his stricken heart. Now, once more, he could think, he could plan,
he could determine; and when Pinfold brought his supper up to his room,
he could, what seemed impossible before, make a tolerable meal. So
great is the buoyancy of youth, so great the power of human sympathy.
“So you be going to Lun’on, Master Wilfred?” said Pinfold, when he came
to take away; “I suppose I must put up your dress things as usual?”
“No, Pinfold, no dress things for me,” answered the young man; “I
suppose I shall never want dress things again. Put me up as few things
as possible, and the strongest boots and clothes you can find. Pinfold,
I am going away from home in disgrace, and I want to thank you for all
the kindness you have ever showed me. Don’t let the poor people think
worse of me than they can help, Pinfold.”
So saying, Wilfred put his hand in that of the faithful old servant,
and when he withdrew it, a tear had fallen upon it. There was comfort,
he felt, even in that. But the poor lad was destined to have yet
another visitor. Before Pinfold could shut the door, a scuffling sound
was heard in the passage, and Floss, his beautiful dog Floss, bounded
into the room, and, leaping up against his young master, whined with
delight as he licked his hands.
“_Moreover, the dogs came and licked his sores_:” these words came
into the boy’s mind with a new and touching significance. If the dumb
animals still loved him, surely he might hope for love from Above.
“_When father and mother forsake me, the Lord taketh me up_:”
these words also flashed upon his mind, and he prayed to his Heavenly
Father for the first time since the fatal discovery of the robbery, and
felt a ray of comfort illumine the darkness of his soul. It is strange
how, in the hours of the greatest need, in seasons of sorrow or on the
bed of death, the words of the Hebrew shepherd-king, of the fishermen
of Tiberias, of the Carpenter of Galilee, strike upon the souls of men
with soothing power. It is for these words that men then crave; and
no one ever yet upon a deathbed asked to hear read a speech of Mr.
Bradlaugh’s, a disquisition of Mr. Herbert Spencer’s, or a tract by old
he-she Mrs. Besant!
Next morning, after leaving an envelope on the table directed to his
father, which contained the £10 note he had received the previous
evening, Wilfred Manwaring was carried off to the railway station,
and driven out into the wilderness of that world whereof he knew so
little. The clerk stared when the young gentleman asked for a third
class ticket to London, but he made no observation. The train arrived,
and in five minutes the poor outcast was gone. His foes were they of
his own household. His father had with his own hands drawn the veil of
separation between himself and his son. And he never saw his son again.
As he sowed, so did he reap. Never more, never more.
CHAPTER XI.
THE SQUIRE LEARNS THE TRUTH.
THE return of the £10 note, which at first surprised and somewhat
perplexed Mr. Manwaring, had the after effect of confirming his belief
in his son’s guilt. “Had he not been well off for money,” he argued,
“he would never have refused the sum I so liberally gave him.” A
week, however, had scarcely elapsed since Wilfred’s banishment, when
the Squire received a letter from Messrs. Prodgers and Sharpin, in
which they informed him that they had made arrangements for his son’s
apprenticeship at Yeovil, in Somersetshire, in conformity with his
instructions, and would be glad to know when they might expect the
young gentleman in town, as he was now several days overdue.
This unexpected letter disturbed the Squire not a little, as he had
never in the least degree contemplated that any son of his would
venture to disobey his commands. A brisk exchange of telegrams ensued,
and Mr. Manwaring learned that beyond a doubt his son had disappeared.
Inquiries were made through the police, but no intelligence as to his
whereabouts was forthcoming. At last it was discovered that a young man
named Thomas Brown, whose personal appearance was said to correspond
with that of Wilfred, had taken a deck passage to Melbourne, Australia,
on board the Trans-Atlantic Company’s steamer _Windsor Castle_,
and had already gone on board, and sailed from Gravesend.
The news that his son had actually started for the Antipodes had a
curious effect upon the old man’s mind. At first he was disposed to be
glad that he was so well and easily rid of the Disgrace of the Family,
but yet, somehow, the intelligence filled his mind with doubt and fear.
When he took measures to apprentice his son in some remote place in a
Southern County, he probably, in his heart of hearts, desired him to be
where, at some future and undefined time, he could ascertain that he
was alive and well; but now that he was gone altogether beyond his ken,
he began to doubt whether, after all, he had not been too precipitate.
Some kind of natural affection may perhaps have begun to assert
itself; but at any rate the Squire could not prevent the entrance of
misgivings into his mind. The very fact that his son had dared to
take an independent course, and one which was contrary to his express
commands, suggested the question whether he was so undoubtedly guilty
of the crime imputed to him as he had himself concluded him to be. What
if, after all, that was the case? The Rector was right; he ought to
have demanded and jealously sifted the evidence which incriminated a
Manwaring, and cast so great a slur upon the Family. He would see Mr.
Elthorne again; he would command the attendance of Dr. Massenger.
Harassed by such conflicting views and miserable doubts as these, Mr.
Manwaring was sitting one morning in his study, when he was aroused
by the sound of wheels on the gravel outside. A violent ring at the
door-bell ensued, and then the sound of an altercation was heard in the
hall. Something extraordinary had evidently occurred, and at last Mr.
Manwaring, unable to bear the suspense any longer, opened the door and
looked out. Immediately he caught sight of the fat, burly form of Dr.
Massenger, who was evidently labouring under great excitement, and
vainly endeavouring to pass Pinfold, who, having received strict orders
to deny everyone access to his master, was holding the visitor at bay.
The Squire was struck by the coincidence of Dr. Messenger’s arrival
at the very time when he was meditating the sending of a telegram to
desire his presence, and uneasily led the way back into the library.
The Doctor had indeed come upon no light errand. He had come to tell
the wretched father that his son Wilfred’s character was altogether
cleared, and his innocence established beyond a doubt; and, in
addition, that the real culprit was no other than the Honourable
Augustus Cubleigh.
The distress of the Squire on the receipt of this intelligence
was extreme, and at first he almost seemed to be taking leave of
his senses. He would listen to no extenuation of, or excuses for,
the miserable part Dr. Massenger had played in the matter, and he
overwhelmed that learned person with the most cutting reproaches, which
the private tutor could not but feel to be richly deserved. Deep down
in the Doctor’s nature, howsoever much it was overlaid by pomposity
and the propensity to truckling and tuft-hunting, there was a vein of
honesty and some sense of justice, and the man who had so large a
share in wrecking a young life could not find it in his heart to resent
or reply to the abuse which was heaped upon him by the unhappy father.
At length he took his leave, and Mr. Manwaring was left alone to regret
the irremediable past, and to brood over a crime which could never be
repaired.
Now, too late, his eyes were opened. He himself it was, not his son,
who was the “Disgrace of the Family.” He it was, not his son, who had
sullied the Family Honour, by giving ear to baseless and idle reports
that a Manwaring was a common thief. He it was, who, instead of
jealously guarding the honour of one who bore his name, had, without
inquiry, let himself be the dupe of a Germanised nobody, and had made
his own son the victim of a mere _parvenu_, whose grandfather was
a money-lender on a second floor in a small street off the Strand. Yes,
Wilfred was innocent; his soul was as white as snow; and, driven from
his home, Wilfred had disappeared!
The wretched old man saw it all now. Too late, too late! It was the
white innocence of his boy’s soul, it was his chivalrous sense of
honour, that could not brook falsehood and injustice; it was the
delicate sensitiveness of the true Gentleman which had led the youth
to revolt against the search for stolen goods amongst his property. It
was an indignant protest against a shameful charge, which, when once he
was repulsed, led him rather to suffer in silence than to condescend
to reply or to defend himself. It was the overpowering weight of that
cunningly devised and malignantly arranged circumstantial evidence
which seemed to establish his guilt, which fell upon his soul with such
crushing weight that he despaired of proving his innocence, and so felt
he must let that alone for ever.
Later in the day the Squire visited Wilfred’s room, which had been kept
locked up since his exile. Sure never did a youth’s bed-chamber speak
more eloquently of the pure and noble nature of its possessor than that.
His books, his many books, how well chosen they were! Long lines of the
great English poets adorned the shelves. Chaucer, Shakspere, Spenser,
Wordsworth, Byron, Keats, Tennyson, Longfellow, Browning--all who
had sung nobly and sung well--had there a place; but not a volume of
the slimy and effeminate effusions of the fleshly school, or of the
grovelling and un-English adulators of French infidels, anarchists,
and petroleuses. The unapproachable novels of Sir Walter Scott, and
the works of Dickens, Charles Kingsley, and Hawthorne, seemed, from
the care bestowed upon their bindings, to be the especial favourites
of their owner; and the _Religio Medici_ and _Hydriotaphia_
of Sir Thomas Browne, _The Compleat Angler_ of Izaak Walton,
the _Icon Basilike_ with its quaint frontispiece, Miss Burney’s
_Evelina_, and the _Vicar of Wakefield_, showed that Wilfred
Manwaring was not unappreciative of the older masters of English
literature--“stars in the elder darkness of our loved fatherland.”
Natural Science, too, held a large place in the boy’s collection, and
works on Geology, Natural History, Topography, Antiquities, and History
were largely represented. In one corner was a cabinet of fossils
collected by the owner, in another a collection of local antiquities.
On the walls, amongst the photographs and prints which erewhile had
adorned his snug study at Eton, were hung ancient pikes and swords,
which of old time had done good service for king or parliament in the
hands of stout Lancashire gentry and yeomen; and over the fireplace was
the great Golden Eagle which Wilfred had shot on Stanwick Edge, the
last vacation he spent at home--a trophy he was even prouder of than of
the numerous silver cups he had won at the athletic sports at school.
These, and other like objects, all of which testified to the manly,
innocent, and noble nature of their former owner--household gods loved
and prized by their once possessor--the old man moved among, and saw
as if in a dream. Too late his eyes were opened to the treasure he
had neglected, and to the treasure he had lost. In his banished son
burned as knightly and as chivalrous a soul as had ever ennobled any of
his ancestors, and the Squire felt now, that in the contemplation and
worship of the Dead Past and of the Dead he had neglected the Living,
and had sacrificed the all-important latter to the little-important
former. Then he thought of his young wife, who had just time, ere her
pure soul took flight, to kiss and bless the Babe, whom, almost grown
to man’s estate, he had himself disinherited and cast out in shame and
poverty. And this thought softened him, and anon he sent for Evelyn
to come to him in the lost boy’s room, and there, amidst all his
belongings, he told her of the certainty of her brother’s innocence.
Hearing this, Evelyn shed tears of joy, not because her Wilfred was
innocent--that she _knew_ already--but because his good name was
vindicated; and then she shed tears of sorrow because he was she knew
not where, and at any rate far out of reach of the news that would be
as balm to his wounded soul.
On the day following, two letters of importance as regards this history
were received at the Manor. The first of these was addressed to Mr.
Manwaring, and was written by Lord Guttleborough. His lordship, who
was the head of the great Banking firm which bore his family name, and
a man of almost fabulous wealth, amidst the grief and shame which he
felt on account of the crime of his son and heir, had thought of, and
had felt deeply for, the father and son whom his own son had injured
so deeply. He wrote accordingly to express the sorrow he felt for
both; and in entreating Mr. Manwaring’s forgiveness, he hinted in the
most delicate manner, that if from his position or influence he could
in any way, or at any time, be of use in promoting the welfare of his
son, he would esteem it a privilege to use them in his behalf. Lord
Guttleborough’s letter was essentially that of a gentleman, and, spite
of his old contempt for _parvenus_, the Squire, in his softened
mood, recognised it as such, and felt proportionately grateful.
The other letter was addressed to Wilfred; and after the Squire had
opened and read it, and re-read it countless times, he gave it to
Evelyn for perusal. When, in the course of events, it again came into
her hands, she preserved it amongst her choicest treasures. As it
contained an account of several circumstances which I should otherwise
have to recount in my own words, I will quote it at length in the next
chapter.
CHAPTER XII.
THE DUKE OF RIBBLESDALE’S LETTER.
Ehrenbreitstein. _Tuesday._
MY DEAR MANWARING,
Hurrah! You are cleared of all suspicion, as I always knew you would
be, and--just as I expected--our dear friend, “Young Guttles,” is
convicted of the robbery. I am sorry I was prevented from writing
yesterday, as I should like to have been the first to tell you the good
news; but Lord Guttleborough, who has certainly behaved like a thorough
gentleman in the matter, insisted on Dr. Massenger’s starting at once
to see your father, and I believe wrote himself, so you will already
have heard the good news. We have had quite an exciting time of it the
last two or three days in this not over-and-above lively hole, which
indeed, since your departure, has become duller than ditch water.
First, dear old Eton, and then _your_ coming to Ehrenbreitstein,
have made me feel how impossible it is to live a life worth living
without a friend to love and confide in. But I must tell you how the
affair came about, with all particulars, in proper order.
Well, then, a few days after you left, Mrs. Massenger went to dine with
the Disneys at Pottlehampton, and wore on that solemn occasion the
diamond brooch about which we used to laugh at her, because she was
always boasting of it as the bequest of her Aunt Trickleback. When she
came home at night, she replaced the brooch in her dressing-case, but,
when she opened the latter two or three days afterwards, the brooch had
disappeared, and along with it twenty sovereigns which the old lady
(what a rage she would be in if she knew I called her _old_!) had
hoarded up, “unbeknown” to her husband. _Madame_ was perfectly
furious at her loss, and insisted on the matter being put into the
hands of two detectives from Manchester. These worthies--Diggles and
Breffit were their respective and respectable names--seem to have acted
with great tact and discretion. It was evident that no violence had
been used in opening the box; they therefore decided that it must have
been opened by means of a false key--a wax impression having somehow
been obtained from the original. They accordingly made inquiries at
Ossington, and speedily ascertained that a short time before “a young
gentleman” had brought the pattern of a key to a locksmith there, and
had said he wanted a duplicate made for his desk. Locksmith could
not remember what the “young gent” was like, but had an idea he had
“carrotty” hair. Making further inquiries at Ossington, Diggles and
Breffit discovered that “a young lady,” name unknown, had taken two
diamonds to a jeweller in the High Street, and wanted to sell one of
them, and to have the other made up into a ring. The stones, she said,
had been left her by an aunt. The jeweller, who seems to have been a
consummate rascal, gave the girl £8 for one of the diamonds, which was
worth £20 at the least, and took the commission for the ring. Jeweller
didn’t know the girl by sight, but his shopman “thought she was a
larky one,” and followed her to the door for a bit of chat when she
left the shop, and noticed that she went straight to the establishment
of Messrs. Tackham and Gridray, the Drapers. Tackham and Gridray
remembered the girl’s coming, and that they had sold her a hat--a red
velvet hat, with a yellow feather in it, because she said she wanted
one “fit for the wife of a lord.” Thereupon Messrs. Diggles and Breffit
returned in triumph, and learned that Betsey Slocombe had appeared the
previous Sunday in church in a marvellous hat, which exactly tallied
with Messrs. Tackham and Gridray’s description. The appearance, in
fact, of the young lady in question was so utterly absurd, that I
myself saw lots of people burst out into fits of derisive laughter as
she passed down the aisle. The detectives now had nothing to do but
to get a warrant for Miss Betsey’s apprehension, which they effected
within two hours of their return. The girl was terribly frightened,
but, seeing how much the detectives knew, she acknowledged that she had
had two of the missing diamonds in her possession, but declared that
Cubleigh had put them into her hands, and that she had only disposed of
them in accordance with his directions. The next thing was to test the
truth of her accusation; and to this at length old Massenger consented,
though with great reluctance, and only when _Madame_ positively
insisted on its being done. The detectives effected their purpose
in what you will agree with me in thinking an ingenious manner. To
us--_i.e._, to “Young Guttles” and your humble servant--sitting
grinding over our Tacitus, enters a respectable, middle-aged mechanic
in shirt sleeves and a dirty apron, which had once been white (Diggles
got up to his part to perfection), and begins to boggle over the lock
of old Massenger’s writing-table.
“Bother this ’ere lock!” cries Diggles, “it’s got ’ampered, so as no
key o’ mine will open on it. I on’y wish my mate ’ad the job i’stead
o’ I, for I’m more used to bell’anging than to locksmithing, I am. I
won’er whether one o’ you two young gents ’as got a key as ’ud fit, and
’ud be so werry good as to lend ’un for a minnit?”
Thus adjured, Cubleigh and I, with the innocence of sucking doves,
handed over our bunches of keys to the pseudo-locksmith, who at once
spots the false key amongst those belonging to Cubleigh.
“Why, I’ve the right key arter all on t’other bunch,” cries Diggles;
“what a softy I is, to be sure; but thanks to you, gents, all the
same;” and, so saying, he opened the drawer with a flourish, banged it
to again, returned our keys with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and left
the room to report what he had discovered.
“I believe that fellow’s a fool,” remarked Cubleigh, as the man went
out; “did you notice his idiotic grin as he left the room?”
Upon this, Massenger sent off express to telegraph for Lord
Guttleborough, and next morning the great man arrived soon after
breakfast. He was closeted with the Doctor for more than an hour, and
then the two came into the room where we were sitting. Cubleigh seemed
utterly flabbergasted at the unlooked-for appearance of his father, but
he put on a sickly smile as he went up to greet him.
“No, sir,” cried my Lord, in a terrible voice, “don’t attempt to speak
to me; I’ll bandy no words with you; but come up into your bedroom at
once. And you,” he added, turning to me, “having, as I understand, been
present at another search for stolen goods, I have thought it right to
ask Dr. Massenger’s permission to request your Grace to come upstairs a
second time for a similar purpose.”
All I could do, though I confess I was dying of curiosity, was to
bow assent, and then up we all went into Cubleigh’s room. Lord
Guttleborough seemed in no mood to spare his son. He compelled him to
rummage out even the smallest articles. Once, in a sudden fit of fury,
he tore down a photograph from the wall, and crushed it, frame and all,
under his feet. At length we came to Cubleigh’s desk.
“Open that,” said my Lord, sternly.
Cubleigh obeyed, and ostentatiously threw out all the contents upon the
table. “I don’t know what you expect to find,” said he; “but I hope you
are satisfied now.”
Lord Guttleborough gave a sigh, as if of relief. Dr. Massenger looked
puzzled.
“I suppose I may put these things back now?” said Cubleigh; and as he
spoke I noticed a look of exultation upon his pale countenance. As no
one answered, he moved the desk, when, as he did so, a rattling sound
was heard, and the hand that held it trembled visibly.
“Ha! what’s that?” cried Lord Guttleborough. “Give that desk to me.”
The son obeyed, trembling more and more as he did so.
“Secret drawers!” almost screamed my Lord, and as he shook the desk
violently, the rattling increased, and then a secret drawer fell
out, and disclosed a number of diamonds picked out of their setting,
the gold setting in a paper by itself, and--what do you think,
Manwaring?--why, no less than forty-nine gold coins, the very number
wanting to make up the tale of those stolen from Mr. Wilmot. There was
a dead silence for a few moments, and then Dr. Massenger ejaculated the
word, “Kleptomania!”
“Confound your Kleptomania,” gasped out my Lord, turning on the Doctor
so fiercely that he started as if he were shot; “can’t you call a
spade a spade, man? It’s a clear case of robbery, and my only son is
the thief! And he made another suffer for his crime! There, let me sit
down--I feel faint;” and, so saying, the old lord let the desk fall
from his hands, and would himself have fallen to the ground if I had
not stepped forward and guided him to a sofa. It was a dreadful sight,
Manwaring; the old father with his face buried in his hands, sobbing
aloud, and the son with his green eyes moving furtively here and there,
looking like some trapped beast of prey.
After what seemed a long interval, my Lord looked up, and then I was
shocked to observe that he looked years older than when we entered the
room--quite old, I thought, and broken--but presently he spoke with a
firm, though feeble voice: “Dr. Massenger, there is much to be done;
I think Mr. Wilmot ought at once to be informed of the discovery of
his stolen property, and if you think fit to hand that cowering thief
yonder over to the detectives who are in the house, I shall not say
one word to save him, and if he leaves you now, he will be at your or
Mr. Wilmot’s disposal. I, too, must write at once to the poor father
of this unfortunate young man, whom you expelled from your house upon
evidence upon which I would not have hung a dog.” [You should only
have seen how Massenger winced when my Lord said this!] “I think the
least you can do is to start and go yourself to Mr. Manwaring. There
are other things, too, to do and settle; the case of this wretched
girl will have to be investigated and considered, so I must ask you to
put me up for the night. I can occupy this room,” continued my Lord,
as he glanced around him sadly, “if you allow the thief to depart;
the carriage which brought me here must take him away from an honest
household” (here he indicated his son by a movement of his hand); “I
would not have him pollute it with his presence a moment more than is
needful, and pray remember he will be forthcoming when he is wanted.”
“My Lord, I’m sure we shall be gratified and honoured and delighted,”
cried Mrs. Massenger (who must have been listening at the door), as
she bustled into the room; “that is, if your Lordship will excuse such
poor accommodation as we can offer. I am sure I am extremely sorry for
what has occurred, but I am sure your Lordship will excuse me if I am
glad to recover my diamonds, which were a legacy from my Aunt, Miss
Trickleback--one of the Tricklebacks of Stockport; one must think of
one’s family relics, mustn’t one, my Lord? and I hope, my Lord, you
will use your Lordship’s influence to get back the two diamonds which
that brazen huzzy----”
“Depend upon it, Madam,” interposed Lord Guttleborough, haughtily, “I
will see justice done to all. Augustus,” he added, looking a moment at
his son, and then turning his head away, “you will prepare to leave at
once;” and, so saying, he tottered out of the room.
Now, my dear fellow, confess that I am a brick for having spun this
long yarn. I thought you would like and _ought_ to know everything
as it occurred, and you know I don’t often err on the score of too
great prolixity in my letters. Believe me, I am glad from the bottom of
my heart that you are righted, and believe, also, that if ever you want
or wish for anything that I can do for you, you may always command your
grateful and affectionate friend,
RIBBLESDALE.
_P.S._--How I wish I wasn’t a Duke, and had to consider the
proprieties, for I should _so_ like to go and kick young Guttles
before he goes. I wonder what will become of the young beast.
_P.P.S._--_Wednesday Morning._ There are fresh troubles this
morning. It appears that Betsey Slocombe is expecting her confinement,
and her father threatens to sue young Guttles for seduction, and even
talks about an action for breach of promise of marriage. So much for
æsthetics and peacock fans! I shall go in more than ever for athletics.
I shall depend on your coming to the Castle at Christmas, or rather
after it; only you and I and another fellow, Carisbrooke, whom you will
remember at Eton. My dear mother won’t leave Hampton Court, but we
shall be very jolly together, I am sure.
R.
CHAPTER XIII.
“IN EXTREMIS.”
THE interview which he had had with Dr. Massenger, and the letters
he had received and read from Lord Guttleborough and the young Duke
of Ribblesdale, had day by day a greater effect upon the mind of
the Squire. Not only were Messrs. Prodgers and Sharpin ordered to
redouble their inquiries, but a telegram was despatched to Melbourne to
anticipate the arrival of the _Windsor Castle_, and a trustworthy
messenger was actually despatched to Australia to find out the exile,
and to bring him home with all possible speed. Advertisements also were
inserted in the _Times_ and other daily papers in the following
form:--
THOMAS BROWN is informed that all is satisfactorily explained, and he
is earnestly requested to return at once to his anxious and sorrowing
relations.
These advertisements had no effect whatsoever. At last, one day,
a letter arrived from his London correspondents which for ever
extinguished the hopes of the unhappy and criminal father. It contained
a copy of a despatch from Lloyds’ Agents, declaring that there was no
doubt that, from some at present unexplained cause, the _Windsor
Castle_ had got out of her course, and had foundered in the open
ocean, and that all hands had perished.
Pinfold had brought to his master in the library the letter-bag of the
Manor, upon which was a brass plate with the inscription,
“Cuthbert Piercey Manwaring, Esquire,
Holmcastle Manor,”
and the arms of the Manwarings--to wit, “On a field argent, a chevronel
gules, with three martlets sable,” and he had laid it on the accustomed
table, but going in shortly afterwards, he found the Squire prostrate
on the floor, and insensible, but clutching in his right hand the fatal
letter which told him of the death of his banished son. Evelyn, his
much-tried, much-enduring daughter, was speedily at her father’s side,
and caused him to be removed to bed, and the Rector and the Doctor,
summoned in haste, were speedily in attendance. After the application
of various remedies, the old Squire gradually recovered consciousness,
and then the bystanders discovered to their horror that the sufferer
was almost entirely deprived of speech, and that it was evident his
hours in this world were numbered. Several times he tried to speak,
but in vain, and then, at length, those around him with difficulty
recognised the words, “The Tree! the Tree!” Upon this they brought to
him the emblazoned Pedigree on which he had expended so much thought
and labour, and on account of which, a mere toy and bauble, he had
neglected his duty to God and man. They opened it out before him, like
those who display a picture to a child. The Squire, however, regarded
the early part of it with a stony stare. When they exposed to view the
lowest portion, the old man seemed to rally his failing powers, and
putting out his trembling right hand, he scrabbled feebly at a blank
space close to the lowest margin.
“A p-p-pen,” at last he gibbered out; and then they understood, or at
all events thought they understood, that he wanted to restore to its
original place the name of his drowned son. They brought him a pen, and
he clutched it eagerly in his palsied hand, but it was too late. The
old man uttered one despairing cry, and then fell back--_dead_.
Thus, with a grievous wrong unrepaired, unconsoled by the last solemn
rites of the Church in which he had been baptised, weighed down by the
sense of a great crime, “unhouseled, unannealed,” the erewhile proud
soul of Cuthbert Piercey Manwaring passed away to its “own place” in
the Shadowland of Futurity, the mysterious Intermediate State or Place
of Hades.
What availed it then the “Family” in whose supposed behalf It had been
wrecked? What profited It the coat of sixty quarterings, the long-dead
Knights of high degree, the men of worship in Church and State?
“Let the Dead bury their dead,” but let the Living occupy themselves,
so long as Life remains, with works of love to those that are alive.
CHAPTER XIV.
MR. TRESHAM POTTS.
THE Lord of Holmcastle had left directions that his funeral should
be a grand one, and that no expense should be spared. All that venal
undertakers; all that red-nosed mutes, with a prevailing smell of
gin and beer pervading their dingy habiliments; all that six black
cart-horses, with long, waving tails and manes; all that cloaked
tenants _could_ do to minister to human pride, and folly, and vile
taste, _was_ done in his behalf. For him the “Family Vault,” which
polluted the consecrated House of God, was opened wide, with all its
foul and fusty recesses, in front of the very Altar itself; and there,
amidst dead men’s bones, and oozing coffins of bursten lead, and shreds
of tattered velvet, and rottenness, and all uncleanness, they left the
mortal remains of the proud old Squire, in the company of obscene efts
and bloated toads; while without, in the breezy churchyard, the green
grass waved, and flowers blossomed, and throstles sang over the simple
green graves of the village dead.
Better indeed were it for the human frame to be engulphed in the great
sea, there “to toss with tangle and sea shells,” than to be subjected
to such degradation as this!
Leaning on the friendly arm of Lucy Elthorne, Evelyn attended her
father’s pompous obsequies; and when the ceremony was concluded, and
the vault which never more should receive the bones of a Manwaring
was shut, she returned to the now lonely house of her childhood. Very
sad were her thoughts--her tenderly-loved brother buried beneath the
waves of the “mournful and misty Atlantic;” her father, whom her own
sweetness of disposition rather than his parental sympathy had taught
her to love, consigned to the tomb; her eldest brother exposed to a
thousand dangers amidst the difficulties of an ignominious campaign in
South Africa! To that sole living brother she must now write and unfold
the sorrows which had befallen their house, and until his return she
must nerve herself to discharge the new duties which would now devolve
upon her as his representative. Little did the lonely girl know that
the cup of her many sorrows was not yet full to the brim! Yet so it
was. A letter arrived from Lionel, written in high spirits, to tell her
of his promotion, and how he hoped, “when they had given those black
fellows their final thrashing, he would get leave of absence, and come
home to dear old Holmcastle and his little pet sister.” Then followed
a long and dreary interval without any letter at all, and then the
_Gazette_ announced that the gallant Captain Manwaring, while with
a few soldiers making a desperate resistance against overwhelming odds,
had fallen in the fight, pierced by almost innumerable assegais. The
General in command added that no more brave, promising, and valuable
officer could be found in the British army, and that, had he survived,
it had been his intention to recommend him for further honours.
This terrible news was broken to Evelyn by Mr. Elthorne, and so great
was the shock, that it was feared at first her health would give way
under it. But it was not so. Evelyn Manwaring had learned fortitude
in the school of adversity, and her loving heart had early received
the teaching of the old Rector, that she had a Father in Heaven, who
loved her with more than an earthly father’s love. And amidst her
natural grief she had much to comfort her. Her high spirit, chastened
but not subdued by sorrow, led her to glory in her eldest brother’s
heroic death; and when, in the course of a post or two, she received
letters not a few from his brother officers and from privates in his
regiment, all testifying to the love and honour in which he was held,
she was led to feel that, after all, it was, perchance, better as it
was, and she was able to exclaim--“_Father, not my will, but Thine
be done._” As to her younger brother, she came to regard him as a
martyr to his own nobleness of spirit, and she never doubted that he
was happier where he was. Evelyn, you see, had not learned the doctrine
of the Communion of the Saints in vain. Nevertheless, she kept her room
for a week after the receipt of the fatal news, tended always by Lucy
Elthorne, and visited daily by the Rector. Then she nerved herself to
come down, and set about those needful preparations which had to be
made for her departure from her home; for, as the reader is already
aware, the Holmcastle estate was entailed upon her Cousin Tresham. Nor,
indeed, was that gentleman disposed to forego his legal claims a moment
longer than he could help. Evelyn had been about again for a few days
only, when a hack chaise drove up to the door of the Manor, and from it
descended Mr. Tresham Potts _in propriâ personâ_, who, depositing
a bulky portmanteau in the hall, much to Pinfold’s indignation, sent in
his card, and demanded an immediate interview with his cousin.
Evelyn nerved herself to receive this unwelcome and untimely visitor,
who, after a somewhat brusque salutation, began thus:--“I’ve come,
cousin, because, as I suppose you know--not that women ever _do_
understand matters of business--this tumble-down old shop and all that
belongs to it is now Mine; and as I intend to rub it up a little before
I bring Mrs. Tresham and my gals, I thought I’d best be on the spot
to look arter the alterations. I hear from Merivale that you are left
precious well off, but I don’t want to hurry you to move, and so I hope
you’ll stay and be my housekeeper for the next three weeks or so.”
Evelyn, who was pale and worn enough when her cousin entered the room,
was as white as a sheet when she replied that she believed he was right
as to his being the heir of the Holmcastle estate, now that her eldest
brother had been killed in battle, and her younger brother had been
drowned at sea (“Rum start, that!” interpolated the visitor), so she
hoped he would do as she liked, but that as, in her affliction, she
could make but a poor hostess, she trusted he would excuse her company
as much as possible.
“Well,” was the polite rejoinder, “you must have your own way, of
course; and, to tell you the truth, if you are likely to make a
scene--women are _such_ fools, and always _will_ make
scenes--I’d a deuced deal sooner be without you than with you. Now,
by-bye for the present; and, look here, don’t forget to have something
hot for luncheon. I’m not one as can put up with cold meat--cold meat
be blowed, say I. And as for drink, I daresay you’ve a tolerably good
tap, and anything wet will suit me.”
Thus speaking, the new proprietor stalked majestically out of the room.
In a minute, however, he put his head in at the door, and said, “I say,
cousin, there’s one thing I forgot to say; as I’m boss now, I’ll take
the old Squire’s room--I ain’t afraid of his walking, you see--and mind
you have the sheets well aired, for I don’t mean to let Mrs. Tresham be
a widow just yet, I can assure you.” With this agreeable speech, Mr.
Tresham Potts closed the door, and again disappeared.
When he was quite gone, poor Evelyn threw herself on a couch, and
buried her sweet face in her white hands; but no tear did she shed, so
strong was her indignation at her cousin’s heartless brutality. After
some little time, she heard a gentle tap at the glass door which opened
into the garden, and, looking up, she saw the kindly face of the old
Rector.
“My dearest girl,” he cried as he entered the room, and seizing her by
both hands kissed her on the forehead--“my dearest girl, I have only
this moment heard of the shameless invasion to which you have been
subjected, and I came to offer you the shelter of the Rectory, and to
see whether in any way I could be of any help and comfort to you. God
bless you, my bairn, and be your support, for He is a very Present Help
in trouble. Bear up, my child, as becomes the sister of one with whose
fame all England is ringing.”
The girl, who, during her interview with her cousin, had sat motionless
as a statue, now shook like an aspen leaf, and falling into the old
man’s arms, she sobbed aloud. The Rector laid her gently down upon
a sofa, but did not try to restrain her tears. Presently he kneeled
down beside her, and said a few prayers which he deemed suitable to
the occasion. This soothed her wounded spirit, and she was soon able
to talk calmly and cheerfully to the old and faithful friend who had
baptised her, and had been her spiritual father from childhood upwards,
and whom, after her brothers and her father, she had loved more than
anyone in the world.
Mr. Elthorne, it is proper to mention here, was Evelyn’s guardian,
and, as one of her father’s executors, was fully acquainted with the
business matters of the family. He knew that Evelyn would have a
bare £200 a-year to live upon, and the furniture of her own boudoir,
ante-chamber, and bedroom, which had been her mother’s; for it had been
a fad of the late Mr. Manwaring to make as many things as possible
heirlooms, and these, of course, would now become the property of Mr.
Tresham Potts.
When the Rector heard what had passed between Evelyn and her cousin,
his indignation knew no bounds, and he expressed a wish, which he
certainly felt, that his peaceful profession did not admit of his
administering the personal chastisement which Mr. Potts so richly
deserved. As Evelyn’s guardian, however, he claimed the right to
expostulate with him upon the indecency of his conduct, and to try to
get him to forego his intention of remaining at the Manor, until such
time as she was able to form plans for her future life, and to secure
a new home. To this, however, Evelyn would not consent, asserting that
the effort to entertain her cousin, who, after all, was within the
letter of the law, would brace her up, and be of service in accustoming
her to the new state of affairs which her brother Lionel’s death had
entailed upon her.
After a long and consoling talk, Mr. Elthorne took his leave, having
first extracted from Evelyn a promise to come to the Rectory at the end
of the time allotted for her remaining at the Manor, and he promised
that Lucy would be to her as a sister, and that she would meet with the
affection of a mother from his at present invalid and bed-ridden wife.
CHAPTER XV.
THE TREE IS RE-GRAFTED.
EVELYN felt much comforted by the Rector’s visit and kindness, but she
was not allowed to remain long alone, for the ringing of the door-bell
speedily announced the arrival of Mr. Merivale, the family lawyer. This
gentleman, also, expressed great indignation at the conduct of Mr.
Tresham Potts, but he could see no remedy for it, for the property was
undoubtedly entailed upon him on the failure of the male issue of the
late owner.
After some conversation--“I don’t want to rip up old sores, my dear
Miss Manwaring,” said the old man, in sympathising tones, “but I want
to ask you a curious question, and that is, are you quite sure your
brother Wilfred is no longer alive?”
“Yes,” answered Evelyn, after a pause, “I fear there is no doubt
that such is the case. Remember how, after his innocence was
proved, we advertised for him in every paper, and offered rewards
for any information about him, but all in vain. And then think how
circumstantial were the reports that he had embarked in that poor ship
which went down in the Atlantic. Yes, I fear there cannot be a shadow
of a doubt that such is the case. And yet,” added she, “my foolish
heart sometimes tells me he is alive; but then, if so, why does he not
write, for surely he must have seen some of the advertisements. And
now, Mr. Merivale, don’t think me gone out of my wits when I tell you I
dreamed the other night he was alive and well, and then I awoke, oh! so
happy! Why should I have felt happy if he is dead?”
“I am afraid, my dear young lady,” responded Mr. Merivale, “that you
must not build upon ‘the baseless fabric of a vision;’ and I really
don’t know why I asked you the question. ‘There’s no fool like an old
fool,’ you will say. And now I must tell you, as a lawyer, that I don’t
see how you can refuse to give up possession of the place to this
snobbish cousin of yours, and his vulgar wife and flashy daughters.
That he has intruded upon you in the manner he has, is perfectly
outrageous; and my only comfort is, his conduct will do him no good
amongst the neighbours when he comes to reside.”
After a little more conversation, chiefly upon business matters, Mr.
Merivale, rejecting all offers of hospitality, took his leave; and
shortly afterwards, luncheon being announced, Tresham Potts joined his
cousin in the dining-room.
“Glad to see this rum old place in better condition than I expected,”
was his first observation, as he put an entire grouse upon his plate;
“but I don’t like to see such a lot of wheezy old stagers messing about
the grounds. I shall make a clean sweep on ’em, I can tell ’em, when
I come here. A Scotch gardener, who knows a thing or two, will soon
settle _their_ hash, you bet. But I say, cousin, who was that
seedy old fellow I saw coming across the garden, and marching into the
house by the glass door into the drawing-room?”
“That gentleman was my dear old friend, Mr. Elthorne, the Rector of
Holmcastle,” answered Evelyn.
“Oh! a parson, was it; I thought so. Them locusts are everywhere; but I
shall take care not to let him come prowling about the place when I’m
here, I can tell him. Precious impudent it seems, his coming in as he
did, considering the place belongs to me!”
“As long as I remain, I suppose he regards me as the mistress of the
house,” replied poor Evelyn, with some spirit; “and indeed I consider
myself in that light myself. And though, Cousin Tresham, I receive you
as my guest, I cannot permit you to deny me the company of such old
friends as may come to see me, and comfort me in my sorrow.”
“Oh, certainly,” retorted Tresham, somewhat abashed; “but it’s only
for three weeks, you know. Take a bit of this bird? No? Well, then,
I’ll take it myself, and not let it be wasted on cormorants like them
servants;” and with this elegant sentiment, the lawyer helped himself
to the second grouse, and swallowed his fourth glass of Madeira.
“The wines are all yours, that old fool Merivale writes me,” he
continued, presently; “rather hard that, when a lot of rubbishy old
books are left me as heirlooms! Better let me take it off your hands in
a lot; for my part, I don’t know what women want with wine at all--not
but what Mrs. Tresham drinks like a fish when she’s out o’ sorts or
out o’ temper. I’ll send a fellow over from Clitheroe to value it, if
you’re agreeable; but I shan’t give a fancy price--you may take your
oath of that.”
Evelyn said that, not feeling equal to business matters at present, she
had placed all her affairs in the hands of her old friend, Mr. Merivale.
“Oh! I know him,” cried Tresham, “and a cunning old fox he is too; but
he won’t come over _me_, I can tell you.”
Another day, after dinner, Mr. Potts broke a long silence thus:--“Look
y’here, cousin, I’ve been out marking timber all day, and a precious
good fall I shall have, please the pigs; but I’ve never yet seen the
_Tree_--the Family Tree--which the old Squire set such precious
store by, and from which, I’ve heard, he lopped off the liveliest twig
of all on ’em, and that’s me--ha, ha, ha! Let’s have a look at it, Miss
Evelyn; it’s cur’ous to think he’s lopped off himself now, ain’t it?”
Poor Evelyn went out wearily, and presently returned with the great
scroll, and put it into her cousin’s hand.
“Ha!” cried he, as he unrolled it; “this Tree’s been a long time a
growing, hain’t it? Ha, ha, ha! this beats cock-fighting, don’t it?
Now then, a pen, quick, and I’ll do a little bit o’ grafting. There, it
looks pretty now, don’t it? See what I’ve written.”
|
+---------------------+---------------------+
| |
Tresham, _m._ Belinda: da: of Silas
Assumed the name and Potts, Cheesemonger.
arms of Potts.
As the writer said this, he pushed the parchment before his cousin’s
eyes; she could scarcely see for her tears, as she called to mind the
last time, and under what miserable circumstances, she had seen the
document. And then a curious thing occurred. As Evelyn looked, she
fancied she saw the name of her brother Wilfred written in clear, bold
characters in the space it had formerly occupied before it was erased
by her father’s hand. The characters faded as she gazed fixedly upon
them, and at length totally disappeared; but the impression that she
had really seen them remained firmly fixed upon her mind. Evelyn knew
the whole affair must have been an illusion of the eyes or brain,
but, nevertheless, the circumstance strangely comforted her; and she
dried her tears, and apologised to her cousin for the weakness she had
exhibited.
Tresham, who at first had noticed her fixed gaze, was astonished at
her sudden change of demeanour, and asked the reason of it.
“It was only my fancy,” she made answer, “but I imagined I saw the name
of my poor brother who was drowned at sea in the place which my father
had scratched it out, when he was angry with him.”
“The deuce you did!” exclaimed Tresham, brutally; and then he carefully
examined the pedigree in the place indicated, but he could see nothing.
Nevertheless, he seemed strangely disturbed.
“It was only my fancy,” said Evelyn; “I suppose my nerves are not so
good as they were before all these troubles came upon me.”
“Well,” retorted Tresham, “I wish you’d keep your nerves to yourself,
that’s all; and what’s more, if you can’t manage that, you and I
will fall out one of these days, my pretty cousin. I don’t keep a
lodging-house for women with weak nerves, hang me if I do;” and with
this civil speech, the speaker stumped out of the room.
Left alone, Evelyn took up the emblazoned scroll and narrowly examined
it, but the place from whence her father had elided the much-loved
name, and to which, they thought, he had wished on his deathbed to
restore it, was white and blank. “It must have been a mistake, and
yet----” Evelyn could not reason about the circumstance, but somehow
she felt comforted, and she retired to rest with a less heavy heart
than she had as yet borne with her to her weary couch.
CHAPTER XVI.
LAST DAYS AT HOLMCASTLE.
AT length the weary weeks allotted to Evelyn Manwaring in the home of
her fathers drew to their close. It had in all respects been a trying
time. It had been the girl’s delight to be on friendly terms with all
the poor people in the village, and the hearty North-country folks were
sore at heart at the bare idea of “the Lily of Arrow Dale” being taken
away from them. There was not one of the farmers, there was not one of
the labourers whom she did not visit in order to say good-bye, and to
almost all she contrived to bring some little present as a remembrance.
Wherever she went, she met with the same warm feelings, and the same
hearty yet sorrowful farewell; in every house she had God’s blessing
called down upon her head. The school-children she had petted, the
choir she had taught, and a class of great hobby-de-hoys whom she had
done her best to instruct, and whom on Sunday evenings she used to
amuse by reading aloud in the snug, wainscotted housekeeper’s room--all
these were miserable at her departure. “There will be no spring in
Arrow Dale, Miss Evelyn,” said a burly young farmer from the Yorkshire
side, “when its Lily has ceased to bloom;” and “the Lily” (and I)
thought that a very pretty compliment.
Evelyn only broke down once. One evening, when her cousin chanced
to be absent, she was called out of her sanctum, and there in the
entrance hall she found a _posse_ of great country lads, carters,
carpenters, shepherds, and the like, all painfully dressed in their
best Sunday clothes, and smelling strongly of mottled soap. They bore
with them a huge posy of autumnal flowers, and a great Prayer Book, in
a grand binding, bought far away over at smoky Preston itself, and of
these they begged her acceptance as a remembrance. Jack Woolstanhaugh,
the blacksmith’s son--a great hulking fellow, with an arm which would
have felled an ox--who was deputed formally to present the gift, and
to make a little speech in behalf of the rest, could not get beyond
his second sentence, though North-country lads are proud of the gift
they have of speaking on sufficient occasions. First he came to a full
stop, then he stammered out something quite unintelligible, and then
his voice altogether failed him. The next moment the big, honest fellow
burst into a great fit of crying, and in that he was joined by the rest
of his companions. Such a boohooing was seldom heard. As to Evelyn,
she broke down altogether, and with wild looks of sympathy, and great
beautiful eyes streaming with tears--sorrow mingled this time with
joy--she could only shake hands with each lad in turn as he shambled
sheepishly out of the room. Doubtless those tears were blessed which
bound her in sympathy with her poorer brethren!
Depend upon it, spite of what swells, æsthetes, and cynics may
allege to the contrary, mankind in general are grateful for benefits
received--the poor almost invariably so--and it will probably be found
that those who deny this to be the case have never themselves done
anything whatsoever to deserve the gratitude of their fellow-creatures.
Little by little, Evelyn’s furniture, books, and pictures, to which
were added the possessions of poor Wilfred, were packed up and stowed
away in a barn which Mr. Elthorne had placed at her disposal until such
time as she should have fixed upon a place of residence, and at last
all her arrangements were complete. Her pony, “Mouse,” she had given to
her friend Lucy Elthorne, but on the last afternoon at Holmcastle she
had arranged to take a solitary ride.
It was a warm, but clear day, early in autumn, when Evelyn, mounted
upon “Mouse,” and attended by “Floss,” the beautiful brown and white
spaniel which had belonged to Wilfred, took her lonely way up one of
the lateral valleys which conducted from the main Dale of the Arrow up
upon the Moors. Just as she reached the zone where the last signs of
cultivation melted into the wilder range of Nature, she encountered the
son of one of the small sheep-farmers of the neighbourhood.
“Matthew,” cried the young lady, “I do so want, before I leave
Holmcastle for ever, once more to get to the top of the Edge to see the
sun set; will you come up and hold Mouse, while I scramble up the last
part of the way on foot; I shall not keep you long?”
Would he do so? Of course he would; he would have gone to the end
of the world if the Lily of Arrow Dale had asked him; so the three
or four--for Floss was of the party--went on together. Up, up they
went; now rounding great swelling shoulders of brown moorland, now in
a hollow fording a baby-beck, swollen with the autumnal rains. Up,
further up; now passing warily over a treacherous peat-bog, whereon
flakes of white cotton-grass still flickered in the autumn wind, and
now skirting the edge of a scar of precipitous rock. Up, up, until
at last Mouse could go no farther, and Evelyn, leaving him with her
squire, went on with Floss. Ten minutes’ hard walking brought her to
the summit of the Edge, and then she turned round and faced the fresh
breeze and the sunset. It was a glorious sight, that which met her
view. The sun was low in the Western sky, which burned in hues of amber
and pale yellow, which, as they ascended the heavens, changed into a
tender green. In and over all this floated long crimson and purple
cloudlets, tipped with flame. Afar off, a doubtful shimmer seemed to
mark the Irish Sea. Below, the long, winding valley of the Arrow lay
for the most part in shadow, while far above, on either side, the
tops of the great hills reflected the sunset lights, and seemed to
burn in answering tints of glory. At last, the sun sank into a bank
of clouds, and a half-darkness shrouded the scene. It was then that
a singular circumstance took place. Suddenly, through some rifts in
the cloud-bank, unseen at the height on which the girl stood, the
sun’s rays burst forth, and for a moment illumined the knoll and
house of Holmcastle, and far above it, at the entrance of its solemn
amphitheatre of hills, the Long Maen of Stanwick, the earliest known
possession of her race. Then again the clouds rolled together with
majestic movement, and darkness strode on apace.
It is hard to describe the effect which this natural phenomenon had
on the highly-strung and imaginative mind of Evelyn Manwaring. She
immediately connected it with what a soberer judgment would have
concluded it could have no connection--her belief, namely, that she
saw her brother Wilfred’s name re-instated in the family pedigree.
This may have been--perhaps it was, for it is hard to trace the secret
connection between mind and matter--because she at that moment stood on
the very spot where her lost brother had performed his proudest act of
boyish prowess--the killing, namely, of the golden eagle which, as we
have seen, was the favourite ornament of his room. Be that, however, as
it may, Evelyn, for the first time since her last bereavement, felt a
thrill of hope, almost of joy, and with lightened step she sprang down
the steep descent, and speedily rejoined the young farmer and her pony.
Needs not to say it was long after dark when she arrived at the Manor.
It had been arranged that, instead of visiting the Elthornes at the
Rectory, Evelyn should be their guest in a small house, which, for the
benefit of his wife’s health, the Rector had hired for a couple of
months, upon one of the inlets of Morecambe Bay, near Arnside Knot;
and accordingly, early on the following morning, she repaired to the
Rectory, in order to commence the journey thence with her friends.
Before the party had got far upon the road to the station, they met
the postman, and a letter was put into the hands of Evelyn. Having
read it with deep thankfulness and emotion, she handed it on to Mr.
Elthorne, who forthwith insisted on reading it aloud for the benefit
of the rest. The letter was indeed an important one. It announced
that, in consideration of the great services of her brother, Captain
Lionel Manwaring, to his Queen and Country, Her Majesty was pleased to
offer to his sister, Miss Evelyn Manwaring, the suite of apartments in
Hampton Court Palace which had lately become vacant by the death of
Lady Glengriskin, and that it was the Queen’s gracious intention to put
them in a state of complete repair before she came to occupy them.
CHAPTER XVII.
EVELYN VISITS THE DUCHESS.
THE reader (who is blessed with a good memory) will remember that at
the end of our first chapter Miss Sarah Strong had made an appointment
to take the newly-arrived Miss Manwaring to call upon the Duchess of
Ribblesdale, and punctually at the hour fixed, she arrived to fulfil
her promise.
The entrance to her Grace’s apartments was situated in the first
quadrangle, and after ascending a somewhat narrow flight of stairs,
and passing through a long corridor, the two ladies were ceremoniously
introduced into the presence of the “Vice-reine” of Hampton Court. The
Duchess rose as they entered. She was a little, upright woman, dressed
in plain black silk. A single diamond of great size glistened on her
left hand, and, depending from a plain gold chain which hung around
her neck, she wore a locket or pendant containing a huge emerald. She
wore no cap, but about her hair, which was of a beautiful silver tint,
was disposed, Spanish-fashion, some fine old black lace, beneath which
shone magnificent dark eyes, which lighted up a face beaming with
benevolence, and still retaining some portion of the singular beauty
for which it had formerly been celebrated.
“This is indeed kind,” said the Duchess, shaking Miss Strong’s
masculine-looking hand warmly, “and it is kind of you, Miss Manwaring,”
she added, turning to Evelyn, “to waive ceremony and come to see an old
woman whose doctor would not allow her to come and see you. Ah! I see,”
she continued, holding Evelyn’s hand in hers, and gently kissing her
fair forehead; “you have your mother’s beautiful eyes and hair. Poor
little Honoria! Your mother and I were friends when we were girls, you
know, and I mean that you and I should be friends now. I am most happy
to welcome a _lady_ to the Palace; we have not quite always been
so fortunate of late, have we, Miss Strong? and I venture to promise
that it will not be my fault if Miss Manwaring’s new home is not a
happy one.”
Evelyn was thoroughly set at her ease by this kind address, and the
conversation was becoming general, when Mr. Gilray, the groom of the
chambers, throwing open the door, announced Lady Lavinia Gathercole,
whom Evelyn at once concluded to be the mistress of the Mrs. Papfaddle
who had hospitably entertained her own maid with “the cup that cheers
but not inebriates” the previous evening.
Truth to tell, Lady Lavinia had been bursting with curiosity the whole
morning to see the new-comer--although, till she knew more about her,
she did not like to hazard a call--and being warned by the faithful
Papfaddle that Evelyn was on her way with Miss Strong to visit the
Duchess, she had hastily thrown on her best company bonnet and shawl,
and arrived, as she afterwards told her friend and ally Lady M’Adam, in
the nick of time to see the pert minx currying favour with her betters.
The Duchess looked somewhat annoyed by the interruption, but she
received Lady Lavinia very civilly.
Lady Lavinia (eighth daughter of the late Earl of Beccles), after
fidgeting her quiet little husband, Mr. John Gathercole of the Board
of Trade, into a premature grave, took to writing novels of a mildly
naughty description, and set up as a Blue. The _Morning Post_
(then in its threepenny days) kept constantly printing, in its literary
column and clearest type, announcements like the following:--
“‘_The Debutante and the Debauchee._’ We are charmed to announce
that another Tale of Fashionable Life has just issued from the facile
pen of that well-known and much-appreciated delineator of the Doings
of the Upper Ten, Lady Lavinia Gathercole. We need not say that in her
new Work the talented Authoress will abundantly sustain her reputation
amongst the _Beau Monde_, of which she is herself a brilliant
and accomplished member,” &c., &c. The descent in the price of the
_Morning Post_ having destroyed its reputation with the old
ladies, who were its principal subscribers, and who could not bear
seeing it descend to the level of a “Penny Dreadful,” the sale of
Lady Lavinia’s novels became small by degrees, and alarmingly less,
until it ceased altogether. Upon this, Lady Lavinia, who, at the
instance of Lord Bungay, the then premier, had been given apartments
at Hampton Court, thought it high time that she should be “converted,”
in the evangelical sense of that much-abused word, and the operation
was accordingly performed by Mr. Moodle, the eminent apostle of the
lower grades of the female aristocratic world. This gentleman, who
had been a somewhat fast “Somerset House young man,” had somehow been
pitchforked into the position of Commissioner of Taxes, and having
noticed the commercial success of the trash which Dr. Cumming and other
“religious” quacks annually threw off, he determined to set up in the
same line himself. So well, indeed, did he find this scheme pay, that
he was on the point of marrying the Dowager Marchioness of Scampingham,
when unluckily the young Marquis caught the self-sent apostle in the
act of chucking his lady-mother’s French maid under the chin on the
grand staircase of Scampingham House, and thereupon incontinently
kicked him down stairs, and out into the Square--an operation which
Mr. Moodle bore with much pseudo-Christian meekness. Strange to
say, this little episode did not destroy his popularity amongst his
female devotees. In the first place, he promptly gave out that he had
discovered that Lady Scampingham was of too worldly a disposition to
merit a union with a saint like himself, and that therefore he had felt
it his duty to draw back, as from the pit of Tophet; by which judicious
course he came to be regarded in the light of a martyr and injured
saint, and turned his kicking to his own advantage. In the next place,
Moodle was a good-looking fellow enough, and his admirers, each of
them, felt that, as he had _not_ married the Dowager, he might,
and very likely _would_, marry her own sweet self; and so they
petted him, and believed in him more than ever.
Moodle’s _modus operandi_ was as follows. It was his habit to
give addresses on religious subjects, or, in other words, to preach
self-sent to as many ladies as could be crammed at afternoon tea time
into the drawing-room of one of his devotees; and as he was a strong,
lusty fellow, with a rich, oily voice, and a great gift of the gab,
he drew, you may be sure, large audiences. When the London Season was
over, he would visit one watering-place after another, and then his
addresses were delivered at ten o’clock in the morning, after which the
audience would disperse to write letters, bathe, read French novels on
the sly, and flirt on the beach. Moodle generally contrived on these
occasions to be the guest of a spinster lady of competent fortune,
or of a widow with a comfortable jointure; but he had a particular
_penchant_ for ladies of rank, and it is but fair to say that they
returned his predilection with interest. Moodle took good care never to
give out that he was not a Member of the Church of England, although
his doctrine and practice were utterly at variance with its teaching;
in spite of which fact, however, he was able to boast of having once
had a low-church Bishop amongst his audience at Swimingley-super-Mare.
His doctrine, if such it could be called, was, it is needless to
relate, of a Calvinistic description, but it was entirely without a
tinge of Calvin’s asceticism and sternness, or indeed of anything
which goes to lend respectability to that gloomy and Christless creed.
It was, in fact, a combination of Calvinism and sugarstick, and his
religion was quite consistent with a vast amount of lawn tennis (with
serious young men), flirting, gossip, and tittle-tattle. Moodle
descanted chiefly on the “filthiness” of good works, and as he was
careful to assert the undoubted salvation of all those who believed
in his pretensions, his lady admirers felt remarkably comfortable
under his ministrations, and agreed with him that those who questioned
them were “very dark indeed.” In fact, the ladies, who were so
unhesitatingly assured of their own final acceptance, found a pleasing
zest in contemplating the equally certain damnation of those who
rejected this protestant pontiff. Mr. Moodle had recently established
a footing in Hampton Court Palace, through his intimacy with a certain
Lady M’Adam, of whom more anon; but his only “converts” at present
were Lady Lavinia, her friend Miss Scheimes, and old Admiral Grogrum;
but the Admiral, alas! showed from time to time unmistakable signs of
back-sliding, and an unregenerate desire to kick over the traces.
During her novel-writing days, Lady Lavinia Gathercole had rather
prided herself on exhibiting just a slight spice of naughtiness in her
conversation and behaviour, and she was rather tolerant of naughtiness
in others; but now, since her “conversion,” as was the case with the
Athenians of old, her main occupation in life was to hear (or invent)
some new things. Unluckily, however, these new things were generally
to the disparagement of her neighbours. Her main object was to appear
young, innocent, and lamb-like. Lady Lavinia dressed like a girl,
entered a room with a juvenile skip, spite of a slight lameness in
one leg, and she had a way of moving her shoulders up and down, and
backwards and forwards, which she fondly believed to be alluring. It
certainly caused a responsive shudder to vibrate through the frames of
all beholders, and it irresistibly reminded strangers of calves’ foot
jelly. One of Lady Lavinia’s adulators remarking one day that she was
“fawn-like,” Lord Frederic Fitzfoodles, who had apartments in the
Palace, drily remarked--“Yes, like a fawn, very; but she reminds me
rather of an old nanny-goat with a game leg.” Evelyn was, of course,
presented to Lady Lavinia, who, with an infinite amount of undulatory
movements in her shoulders, expressed herself delighted to make her
acquaintance.
“Really,” she cried, “I am so charmed and delighted to find my new
neighbour is Young. With my poor spirits, I feel I could scarcely put
up with the presence of another Old person on my staircase, paralytic,
perhaps, or with a wooden leg like Admiral Grogrum, and quite--what
is it the poet says?--oh! quite in the queer and mellow leaf; no,
not mellow either, I think, but something like it. Do you know, Miss
Manwaring,” she continued--elevating her shoulders to such an extent
that Miss Strong feared she would emerge from her clothes altogether,
and appear _in puris naturalibus_ in the Duchess’s drawing-room,
which, if Gilray should come in, would, to say the least, be scarcely
proper--“do you know that some of the dear people here are so Old that,
living amongst them, I sometimes think I must be as old as Methoosalem
myself!” (It is a curious question, by the way, why it is that High
Church folks always say “Meth_u_sel_ah_,” and Low Church
people “Meth_oo_sal_em_.”)
Evelyn could only reply that she was happy to make acquaintance with a
lady whose appearance was so remarkably unsuggestive of the patriarchal
personage mentioned, and then the conversation, such as it was, turned
upon general topics. After a short time, the Duchess, begging her other
visitors to excuse her, expressed a wish to speak to Evelyn in private,
and conducted her to her own particular room, which was through that
in which they had been sitting. “I have brought you in here,” said her
Grace, as soon as they were seated, “because I wish to speak to you
a few words without interruption. I want to tell you, my dear Miss
Manwaring, that I wish to be your friend, not only on account of the
excellent qualities which I am sure you possess, and for your dear
mother’s sake, but because I feel I owe a debt of gratitude to one of
your family who now, alas! is no more--I mean your brother Wilfred,
who was my son’s intimate friend when they were together at a private
tutor’s, that Dr. Massenger who behaved so ill. My son has often told
me what a noble lad that brother of yours was, and that his steadfast
friendship and good example were of the utmost value to himself at a
critical point of his life: some day, before long, I trust you will see
my boy yourself.”
Evelyn was inexpressibly gratified at hearing her darling brother thus
lauded by the gracious lady who sat beside her, and, with her eyes
filled with grateful tears, said she had often heard of the young
Duke of Ribblesdale from her brother. She added that she had still in
her possession the letter he had written to Wilfred with the too-late
intention of informing him of his acquittal of the charges brought
against him, and that she felt deeply thankful to him for having
written it.
The Duchess then expressed a hope that Evelyn would not too much
seclude herself. “Take us all round,” said her Grace, smiling, “we
are not a bad sort of people in the Palace, and I am sure you will
meet many kind friends among us. To-morrow I shall insist on your
dining quietly with me, for I am bent on introducing you to the Miss
Hazelhursts, who are the dearest old ladies in the world. And, now
I have said what I wanted, we will go back to Lady Lavinia and Miss
Strong; and remember this, that the Duchess of Ribblesdale only brings
into this little sanctum those who are, or those who she wishes to be,
her intimate personal friends.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
HER GRACE OF RIBBLESDALE.
“I CONGRATULATE you, my dear,” said Miss Strong to her companion, as
they passed along the cloisters at the conclusion of their visit, “that
you have secured the friendship of one of the best women in the world.
I knew what her intentions towards you were the moment we entered
the room. Didn’t you see that the Duchess wore the great Scarswicke
Emerald? And I knew that she had resolved to carry out her intentions
when she took you into her own boudoir. I have never been in there
myself; but then, you see, I wasn’t, as it were, born quite in the
purple. Lady Lavinia would give her shoulders to be so distinguished,
and she hates you already with the excess of jealousy. My dear, your
position in Hampton Court Palace is established, and I heartily wish
you joy.”
It is now high time that the reader should be informed who the great
lady was who had accorded such a kind reception to Evelyn Manwaring.
Catharine, Duchess of Ribblesdale, Baroness Scarswicke in her own right
(she was sixteenth in succession to that ancient dignity), succeeded
her father, the late Baron, at the early age of fifteen. Left to the
charge of an old spinster aunt, and with somewhat narrow means, she
passed the greater part of her youth in the ancient family seat, and
in comparative seclusion. One of the young Baroness’s trustees was
John, fourth Duke of Ribblesdale, a nobleman of mature years, great
experience, and very considerable talents. He had served his country
well upon many critical occasions, and had more than once filled a high
office of State. The Duke was one whose patriotism was acknowledged and
respected by even his bitterest political opponents, and men of all
parties recognised him, as they recognised the late Earl of Derby, as a
high-minded nobleman of the fine old English type. Had he desired it,
he might have aspired to the office of Prime Minister, but the Duke of
Ribblesdale, who was one of the most unselfish men in existence, did
not aspire, but was content to work, and see others reap the fruit of
his labours. A man of wide reading and wider experience, and of the
soundest practical sense, he stood high in the esteem of his Sovereign,
and the advice of no one on any difficult point was more sought for and
more valued than that of the Duke. Wise, however, as he was as regards
the interests of others, he was the very reverse of wise as regards his
own. In any matter which seemed in any way to involve the promotion
of philanthropic schemes, the Duke was the dupe and the victim of
speculators. He was perpetually investing large sums in concerns which
did not and could not pay. Artizans’ Clothing Improvement Societies,
Associations for Providing Country Milk at the Houses of the Labouring
Classes, Waste Lands and Heaths Remunerative Cultivation Leagues--these
and such as these were gulfs into which the Duke cast his money, with
the almost invariable result of seeing it lost to him for ever, while
the Secretaries and the Floaters of the bubble-schemes retired to the
United States of America with large fortunes, and occasionally returned
as Consuls-General and Ambassadors to the Continental Powers. At length
it became generally known that the Duke was seriously embarrassed. He
resigned office, retired to his seat in the country, and--married.
The lady upon whom he fixed his choice was no other than his ward,
the young Baroness Scarswicke, who at that time was barely turned
eighteen years of age. She had long loved the Duke as her father’s
friend, and had long admired him for his personal character, and there
was a great charm in his manner when--which was seldom--he was in the
company of women. Lady Scarswicke, who lived a retired life with her
aunt in a somewhat remote country-house in Lancashire, had seen but few
desirable young men; and when the Duke, who of course was many years
her senior, proposed to her, after taking a week for the consideration
of the offer, she accepted him, and never regretted she had done so.
Little by little they became an extremely attached couple, but years
elapsed before an heir was born to the castle and broad lands of
Ribblesdale. In fact, the Duke’s first cousin, Colonel de Lacy, late
of the Coldstream Guards, and now a dissipated man about town, had
actually succeeded in impressing his own conviction upon the Jews--that
an heir was out of the question, and that he himself would succeed
to the title and estates--and had negotiated a loan in proportion to
his great expectations, when the Duchess (after a winter passed in
a Dahabeyeh on the Nile) astonished the world by giving birth to a
son. Colonel de Lacy was furious, and there was wailing and gnashing
of teeth in Jewry, when this unexpected event occurred, and this rage
was increased when it was reported that the young Earl of Preston (for
such was the Duke’s second title) was a strong little brat, and likely
to make a considerable stay in the world he had so lately entered.
Colonel de Lacy’s friends, too, like Job’s comforters as they were,
represented to him that now the Duchess had once begun there was no
knowing when she would stop, and they quoted, on the highest medical
authority, a formidable array of cases of ladies who had not had a
single child until they were forty, but who had ended by having a
round dozen. Colonel de Lacy, nevertheless, refused to be comforted,
and thereupon went utterly to the dogs. The Duchess, however, spite
of the medical authorities, _did_ stop when the little Earl was
born; and when the boy was ten years old, the Duke himself went the way
of all flesh, leaving the Duchess sole guardian of his son, and heir
to all his estates, until the lad should reach the age of twenty-one.
Shortly after her husband’s death, the Duchess, who wished to retrench
and nurse up the revenues of the estate for her son, accepted the offer
made to her by Her Majesty, and came to live at Hampton Court.
The Duchess, spite of her retirement, was still a considerable social
power. Her rank, the remains of a once splendid beauty, her singular
aptitude for business, her wide charity, and her genuine kindness
of disposition, all conspired to make her a very great personage
indeed. But in addition to all this, she was famous as the possessor
of the Ribblesdale Diamonds, these magnificent stones which Geoffrey,
second Duke, had brought from Russia when he was Ambassador at St.
Petersburgh, which were currently reported to have belonged to the
Empress Catharine, and which had never been re-set. These Diamonds,
too, were the Duchess’s own possession, they were not entailed with
the property; the Duke had given them to her outright on the morning
of their marriage, and she was free to chuck them into the Thames, if
she so willed it, or--which you will agree with me would be the better
course--to leave them to you or me.
More famous, however, even than the Ribblesdale Diamonds, was another
possession of the Duchess’s, that superb stone known as “the Great
Scarswicke Emerald,” which had been named in wills and settlements
for hundreds of years, and which was believed to be without its equal
in Europe. It was indeed a glorious stone, and merits a particular
description.
The Scarswicke Emerald then was of scarabæoid form and of vast size.
Though not free from flaws, these seemed rather to increase than to
diminish the flashing lustre of the gem. The upper surface was of
rounded form, the lower flat, and on the under side was engraved,
by the cunning hand of some long-haired Greek of Alexandria, the
contemporary bust of Cleopatra, with her twisted hair and full,
luscious Egyptian lips, and wearing, like Isis herself, the vulture
head-attire of a Queen. Below the bust, a cartouch or oval contained
the delicately engraved name of the Queen in the hieroglyphs of
the ancient cult of the land of Khem. A thin band of ancient gold
encircled the jewel, on which were several inscriptions. The first, in
minute Cufic characters, contained the words, “_Suleiman-ibn-Am’r
Kul: Allahu Ahad. Allahu-s-Samad._ (_Say, God is One, God the
Eternal._”--Kuran, cxii. i.), followed by the double triangle,
the favourite Muslim charm called the Seal of Solomon, and esteemed
sovereign against evil spirits. Then in beautiful Gothic letters
appeared AMAVRIVS: HIER: REX, and lastly IOHAN DE
SCARSVVIKE, followed by a Cross. It thus appears that the
Emerald had been owned and used as a talisman by the son of the first
Mohammedan Conqueror of Egypt; that it had fallen into the hands of
Amaury, the Latin King of Jerusalem; and family tradition asserted
that it had been given by that monarch to that Sir John de Scarswicke
who, returning from the Crusades, was buried on the South side of the
Chancel of Scarswicke Church, under an altar tomb which supports his
effigy clothed in chain armour. But the story of this marvellous jewel
is not even yet complete. It appears that, some two hundred years
later, a Baron Scarswicke was sent as ambassador to an Italian State,
and taking the Emerald with him, delivered it into the hands of no
less a craftsman than Benvenuto Cellini himself, who wrought for it,
with his matchless skill, in gold and enamels, a frame in the shape
of a pendant, in which, since that time, it had hung, revolving, so
as to show either side at will to the admiring beholder. Such was the
great “Scarswicke Emerald,” and it was observed that, while the Duchess
of Ribblesdale wore her superb Diamonds on state occasions when she
received her acquaintances, she wore the Emerald when she received her
kindred and friends.
On the death of the Duke, the Duchess had been left sole guardian of
their son, for whom, on his leaving Dr. Massenger’s, which he did at
the end of the term of Wilfred Manwaring’s expulsion, a commission
had been obtained in the Royal Life Guards, and the young Duke lived
in handsome chambers in Arlington Street, with a back view over
the park. The great, gaunt mansion in St. James’s Square, known as
Ribblesdale House, was let until such time as he should come of age.
It is scarcely too much to say that there was no finer young fellow
in all England than the Duke of Ribblesdale. To begin with, he was
extremely good-looking. Of middle height and good figure, he was at
once strong and agile. He had bright, open, hazel eyes, brown hair just
waving at the end, though it was seldom long enough to allow a curl
to form, and a brown, ruddy complexion. Fun and good-humour lurked
at the corners of his well-shaped lips, which were shaded by short,
well-trimmed moustachios of a sunny brown. Everyone pronounced him a
capital fellow all round. His brother-officers, or at all events the
better part of them, found him the best and cheeriest of comrades, and
the private soldiers of his regiment loved him to a man. Above all,
there was not a grain even of affectation about him. Young as he was,
he was a thorough _Man_, which in these days of languid, effete,
lackadaisical æsthetes, is saying a good deal. Unlike many other young
nobles of his class, he did not drink, he did not gamble, he did not
bet--except sometimes with ladies, and then he was miserable if he
won--and he did not go shares with any millionaire Jew financier in the
venal affections of a French actress or Italian ballet-dancer. No one,
however, could come near the young Duke at polo; he was a good shot;
could hold his own with most competitors by the side of a salmon river;
and, lastly, he adored his mother, and was an excellent and attentive
son. Not a week elapsed, when he was quartered in London, without his
riding down to Hampton Court, or pulling up the river in order to visit
the Duchess, who, it need scarcely be said, was wrapt up in her only
son.
CHAPTER XIX.
“THE AUNTS.”
THE following evening Evelyn fulfilled her engagement, and punctually
at eight o’clock arrived at the Duchess’s apartments, where, according
to promise, she was introduced to the Miss Hazelhursts. These ladies
were the sisters of the late, and aunts of the present Squire of
Hazelhurst, in the beautiful Weald of Kent. They were now very old,
and were passing a happy and serene old age, honoured and beloved by
all who knew them. The Miss Hazelhursts were twins; but as Miss Grace
had come into the world some three minutes before her sister, Miss
Apollonia, it was settled between them that the former should on all
occasions have the precedence, and be considered as the possessor of
all the rights and privileges of primogeniture. The two old sisters
loved each other tenderly, and in fact their only rivalry was in acts
of kindness and in works of charity. It was “as good as a play” to
hear Miss Apollonia ascribing all the attributes of maturer wisdom to
Miss Grace, and to see Miss Grace deferring to the more youthful and
vigorous intellect of Miss Apollonia. In person the Miss Hazelhursts
were, like most twins, almost exactly alike, but, unlike most twins,
who commonly take a malicious and hateful pleasure in confounding
and mystifying their acquaintances, they made a point of dressing in
distinct colours; thus Miss Grace (the elder) had always about her a
ribbon or something of a pale flame-colour, while Miss Apollonia (the
younger) wore trimmings of sea-green. This was done, doubtless, from
a true ladylike wish to give as little trouble as possible to others.
By friends, as well as by those to whom they actually stood in that
near relationship, the twins were known far and wide as “the Aunts,”
and in every act of their life they studied to justify that name of
respect and affection. The old ladies would have been rich, but they
had in their souls the royal gift of generosity to so great an extent,
that they were compelled at times to curtail their personal expenses.
No poor relation (and they had many) ever visited them without
departing with a substantial proof of their liberality; no schoolboy
ever bid them farewell untipped, and for friends and relatives alike
they seemed to have an inexhaustible stock of beautiful gifts of old
china, antique lace, pieces of ancient jewellery, and other choice
and valuable nick-nacks. In politics the sisters were high Tories of
the old pre-d’Israeli school, but no one had a tenderer love or more
sisterly compassion for the poor than they had; and when, years ago, it
was proposed to admit the public to the Palace gardens upon Sundays, it
was the refusal of the Miss Hazelhursts to sign a memorial to the Queen
against that humane and salutary reform, which went far to confer that
priceless boon upon the working classes of the slums of London.
The Miss Hazelhursts greeted Evelyn with the utmost kindness, and said
they had already intended to call upon her the following day, and that
the Chaplain, Mr. fforester, had asked leave to accompany them. When
Evelyn answered that she would be delighted to see them, the old ladies
said how fortunate they were in having such a quiet, sensible, and wise
man for their Chaplain as Mr. fforester, and then the Duchess warned
her to be careful to respect that good man’s one weakness, which was
his resentment at having his name spelt with a large F; for, like
the ffiendses, and the ffaringdons, and the ffolkeses, Mr. fforester
took it as a personal affront to be addressed without the small ff’s,
which, rightly or wrongly, he held to be the right way of spelling
his name. “We,” he always added, when the subject was mentioned--“we
belong to the original family, you know, while the Foresters are mere
modern upstarts, who may indeed claim a common origin, but of whom we
fforesters know nothing whatsoever. Still I have no reason to doubt
that they are respectable.”
When the four ladies, after an excellent dinner--for the Duchess
studied perfection in all things, small as well as great--had returned
to the drawing-room, and were seated before the fire, the door was
suddenly thrown open, and a handsome young man, bursting into the
room, threw himself into the arms of the Duchess, whom he kissed
affectionately.
“My dear mother,” he cried, “I am so glad to see you; and how are the
Aunts?” he added, shaking hands heartily with the two old ladies,
“plotting, I suppose, as usual, to kill some one with kindness;
I----good heavens! I beg pardon, mother, but I thought you and the
Aunts were alone!”
This last exclamation was caused by the young Duke’s suddenly catching
sight of Evelyn, who, seated in a low easy chair behind a screen, had
hitherto escaped his notice.
“Miss Manwaring,” said the Duchess, “let me present to you my son;
Frank,” she added, “you will find in Miss Manwaring the sister of an
old and dear friend, to whom you have often told me you owe a deep debt
of gratitude.”
“I am sure, Miss Manwaring,” said the young man, as they shook hands,
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance; and do you know, if you will
allow me to say so, there is a strong likeness between you and my late
dear friend? I am so astonished and so glad to see you.”
Evelyn’s great eyes filled with tears, and she could scarcely find
voice sufficient to respond to the young Duke’s salutation. But she
felt very glad to see one who had loved and who had been loved by her
late brother. She would have known the Duke anywhere, for, in point
of fact, she possessed several photographs of him in the book which
Wilfred had left behind him when banished from Holmcastle, and for this
reason she did not look on him as a stranger.
“And now, my dear boy,” said his mother, “to what are we indebted for
this sudden invasion?”
“Why, the fact is, mother, I came over to-day to call on Conger and
Sprattles of the ----th, who are both right good fellows; and when I
had taken pot-luck with them at the barracks, I felt I couldn’t go back
to Town without coming to see how my dear old mother’s bronchitis was
getting on. Now let me sit down, and give me a cup of tea, for I must
be off in a few minutes, the last train on this stupid South Western
line starts at ten.” So saying, the Duke threw himself down on an
ottoman beside Miss Manwaring, and the two were soon engaged in close
and animated conversation.
When at last the young man rose to depart, which he did apparently with
much reluctance, his mother followed him into the corridor. “Where on
earth, mother, did you pick up Miss Manwaring?” said he. “It’s a most
extraordinary thing that I should find her here.”
“Not at all extraordinary,” answered the Duchess, “considering that she
has just come to reside in poor Lady Glengriskin’s apartments. She is
sister to that wonderful Captain Lionel Manwaring, you know.”
“Well, I never was more astonished; why, she’s the living image of her
brother Wilfred; I hope I shall see her again soon. Now, mother, kiss
me, and say good-night;” and then, after giving his mother a great
hug, the young man was gone.
“Lieutenant Sprattles was at the dingy little station to see the Duke
off. By the way, Duke,” he said, “have you seen our new Beauty?”
The Duke objected to this use of the possessive pronoun, but he
answered calmly--“Well, I believe I have. I imagine I met her at my
mother’s ten minutes ago. Do you know Miss Manwaring?”
“Yes; and what did you think of her?”
“I think she’s the prettiest girl I ever saw in my life,” answered
the Duke, lighting his cigar, and getting into an empty first-class
carriage; “but pretty’s not the word--she’s something more than
that--she’s perfectly lovely. Now good-night, Sprattles, and thank you
for coming to see me off.”
Francis, Duke of Ribblesdale, had a very sensitive and impressionable
nature, and he was much affected and delighted by his unexpected
meeting with the sister of the friend he had so dearly loved, and
had never ceased to regret. He was charmed, too, with the young lady
herself, and as he smoked and thought, it came to pass that before he
reached Waterloo, which “the slow South Western” always makes a long
business, he had come to a determination, and that determination was
that he would change regiments--in order to be near his mother, and in
addition to this----But what the young man’s further resolve was will
appear hereafter.
Truth to tell, for some time past, the Duke of Ribblesdale had been but
ill at ease. He was tired of the “trivial round” of fashionable London
life. He wished he had gone into a regiment on foreign service, instead
of into the household troops. He longed for a more active life. He had
had ideas of cutting the army altogether, and of buying a yacht, and
going off to the Faröe Isles, or the Isles of Greece, or, in short,
anywhere to get away from Town, until the following year, when he would
come of age. Now, another and greater idea had struck him, and it will
be seen hereafter whether he was able to carry it out. Anyhow, the Duke
felt it was something to have got a new idea at all, and when he jumped
into a hansom at Waterloo, he felt in better spirits than he had done
for some months past.
Let us thank Providence that “the Jeunesse Dorée” of England are not
yet like those of some other countries, and especially like those of
the Bourgeois Empire of Napoleon the Little, or of the “one-horse”
Republic, as the Yankees have it, which has succeeded his tyrannical
and debasing rule.
CHAPTER XX.
THE VEHME-GERICHT OF HAMPTON COURT.
MENTION having already been casually made of a certain Lady M’Adam, it
will be proper to inform the reader of some of the antecedents of that
bright orange luminary and devoted disciple of the great Mr. Moodle.
Clara M’Dougal, then, was the only daughter of a worthy pork-merchant
of Carrickfergus, who, at the mature age of five-and-twenty, espoused
one Peter M’Adam, an eminent whiskey distiller, and elder of the
Presbyterian sect at Belfast. This Peter M’Adam was a great Orangeman,
and a staunch supporter of a very clever lawyer, who, chiefly through
this distiller’s moral influence and indifferent whiskey, became
Member of Parliament for Lisdoonacorrigan, and afterwards, by his
own talents, Solicitor General, and who finally ascended the woolsack
as Lord Yellowlily of Carrignatuohil in the County of Antrim. His
Lordship, unlike those base wretches who are always ready to kick down
the ladder by which they rose, never forgot a favour, or one who had
rendered it. “He knew a trick worth two of that,” he once coarsely
observed to a colleague. Like Napoleon the Little, Lord Yellowlily
always repaid an obligation, but, like the same _parvenu_ despot,
he repaid it _as_ an obligation, and then he stopt short. He
never repaid it with interest, however small, and he neither felt nor
expressed gratitude. He nicely discriminated the precise amount of the
debt, and as nicely calculated the amount he ought to pay in return;
and then, and not before then, he paid it, and had done with his
benefactor for ever. Thus it was that, when Peter M’Adam, who had been
knighted for presenting an address of congratulation to Her Majesty on
the occasion of the birth of one of her numerous German grand-children,
had gone the way of all flesh, with his claims unsatisfied, Lord
Yellowlily remembered his former supporter, and made personal
application to the Queen in behalf of his widow. It thus happened that
the pork-merchant’s daughter and the whiskey distiller’s widow, much
to her own surprise, found herself in possession of a handsome set of
apartments looking into the royal gardens at Hampton Court. Here at
first her ladyship did certainly feel somewhat fish-out-of-waterish,
but she was a “converted” woman, and she had two great consolations.
The first of these was to keep continually declaiming against the
Chaplain of the Palace, who was one of the simplest, gentlest, and
most charitable of men. His sermons, declared Sir Peter’s relict--for,
like most ultra-Protestant ladies, she considered herself to be
infallible--were not “gospel.” Why, too, didn’t he publicly testify
against the goings-on of those flaunting Jezebels, the Ladies
Skandaliza and Coreopsis Corker, who were creditably reported to have
left the Palace in broad daylight in pink bathing-dresses, and to have
publicly bathed with Lieutenant Sprattles (in blue) in Hampton Lasher?
Why did he continue to visit Lady Rathmullen, who was known to have
fitted up an oratory in her own private apartments? Why didn’t he leave
undone everything he had done, and why didn’t he do everything he had
left undone? And above all, why didn’t he conduct the Services of the
Church in a manner pleasing to herself, Lady M’Adam, who was not a
Churchwoman at all? The widow’s other consolation was to sit and talk
scandal with her dear Christian friends, Lady Lavinia Gathercole and
Miss Helen Scheimes. This last-named lady was the sister of Somebody
or Something diplomatic. The Somebody had held a high consular or
semi-diplomatic post on the borders of the Caucasus, and, under threat
of assassination, had signed a treaty in the directly contrary sense to
the orders he had received from the Foreign Office. He was accordingly
deemed signally worthy of promotion, and was instantly named a
Companion of the Order of SS. Michael and George. Dying, however, at
the seat of his jurisdiction of too great devotion to arraki and French
cognac, apartments were obtained in the Palace for his sister Helen,
who had acted as his secretary and factotum at Tomareyeh. While in
that remote Oriental city, Miss Scheimes had written a work entitled
_Harem Life of the Muslim Circassians of the Nether Caucasus_,
and although it had a considerable run at the circulating libraries,
a very nasty book it was. Therein, the authoress (who at the time
was eight-and-thirty if she was eight) conclusively showed that it
was only by the most heroic and heroine-like display of firmness and
austerity that she had escaped being added to the already overgrown
female establishment of H.H. the Emir. Lady M’Adam had still a share
in the whiskey business; had a very substantial jointure, and owned
a very snug Brougham; and Miss Scheimes--who, like Lady Lavinia, was
by no means averse to creature comforts, and idolised wealth--was her
very particular friend and toady, while in her inmost heart she hated
her like poison. While in person Lady M’Adam was short and stout, had
a broad face with a high colour, not without a suspicion of rouge, and
was gifted with a loud voice, Miss Scheimes, on the contrary, was tall
and thin, and had a sallow face, with dark snaky eyes, which sparkled
with malevolence and cunning. Her lips were thin, and she had an ugly
way of drawing them inwards when she spoke, which was commonly in a
tone but little removed from a whisper. While the widow dressed herself
in rich silks and satins, and rejoiced in flounces and furbelows, the
spinster attired herself in the cheapest materials, and her favourite
colours were drab or some shade of yellow, which certainly accorded
rather than contrasted with her sallow complexion. She wore her “waist”
close under her armpits, and her figure was perfectly straight from her
chin to her very long feet.
A few days after Evelyn’s arrival, these two amiable ladies were
sitting together in Lady M’Adam’s drawing-room, when a visitor was
announced, and in hobbled Admiral Grogrum, known erewhile as “Cursing
Grogrum” of Devonport, but now a sufficiently tame old gentleman, and
one upon whose hard heart the ladies fondly believed Mr. Moodle’s
addresses had had a softening influence. The Admiral, who had a cork
leg, the consequence of an honourable wound received in the service
of his country, made his way to a chair, and was scarcely seated,
when Lady M’Adam exclaimed, with a somewhat spiteful intonation of
the last word, “Well, Admiral, and what do you think of our new
_acquisition_?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I think she’s a doosed pretty girl.”
“Oh! Admiral,” groaned Lady M’Adam. “Profanity! and from you! What
_would_ Mr. Moodle say? Fie!”
The Admiral in his heart of hearts wondered what business in the world
it was of the gentleman named, but he answered penitently, “Well, I’m
sure I’m doosed--I mean to say I’m very sorry; but really this Miss
Manwaring _is_ a very pretty girl. What eyes! What hair!”
“Yes, Admiral,” responded Lady M’Adam, didactically, “that may be all
very true; but what is that but the outward adorning? and what avail
those outward trappings, which are but as dust and ashes, if all the
while she has the old man in her heart?”
“What indeed?” echoed Miss Scheimes.
The Admiral couldn’t help wishing the young lady _had_ the old man
in her heart, but it wouldn’t do to tell Lady M’Adam so, so he said,
“Well, I have only given you my own impression; and now let me ask,
what do _you_ think of her, Lady M’Adam?”
“I think she’s a stuck-up minx, that’s what I think; I’m disgusted with
her, that I am,” answered the widow.
“You have abundant reason,” chimed in Miss Scheimes, as she clasped
together her thin, yellow hands.
“And what’s more, I believe her heart is as hard as a nether
millstone,” pursued Lady M’Adam.
“No, really!” said the Admiral, who was a good-natured old fellow at
bottom; “you surprise me. But what makes you think so? what has she
done?”
“What has she _not_ done?” hissed Miss Scheimes, turning up her
eyes, and looking as much as possible like an elderly and puzzled
sphynx.
“What makes me think so?” continued Lady M’Adam, “why, when I called
on her yesterday afternoon, I asked her point blank whether she had a
converted heart, and what do you think she said?”
“’Pon my honour, I can’t imagine,” answered the Admiral.
“Why, she said she hoped so, but that she made it a rule never to
confide her religious feelings to perfect strangers. Pretty well for a
chit like that! _Hoped_ so, indeed!”
“Well, it certainly looked bad,” said the Admiral, not knowing what
else to say.
“Dreadful!” interpolated Miss Scheimes.
“And then, when I asked her whether she would come to the
Meeting in my rooms of the Hampton Protestant Auxiliary
Eastern-Christians’-Conversion Society, and hear dear Mr. Moodle,
who would be present on the occasion as a Deputation from the Parent
Society, and who would take her by the right hand and lead her into the
right road, she answered that she was much obliged, but that she was
quite content with going to Church, and that if she wanted religious
advice she always consulted a dear old friend, the Rector, at her old
home.”
“Quite a father confessor,” interposed Miss Scheimes.
“And then I noticed on Sunday--for I can tell you I never took my eyes
off her all Service-time--that she turned to the East at the Creed:
depend upon it, she’s a ritualist in disguise!”
“And perhaps a Jesuit,” said Miss Scheimes.
“Well,” said the Admiral, plucking up courage, “the Duchess does that,
and for the matter of that, so does fforester.”
“Duchess! don’t Duchess me, Admiral, I beg,” retorted the distiller’s
widow; as if the possession of that exalted title conferred the
privilege of committing any enormity. “This Miss Manwaring isn’t a
Duchess, is she? And as for that poor Mr. fforester, we all know what
he is; didn’t precious Mr. Moodle say, the last time he addressed us
in this very room, that he is a dry branch that withereth afore it be
plucked up, a--a----”
“A dumb dog,” suggested Miss Scheimes.
“Thank you, love,” continued Lady M’Adam, “I was just coming to that
when you interrupted me; it’s a habit you’ve got at times. A dumb dog
that barketh not when the wolf cometh; a blind lead----” But at that
moment the string of protestant Billingsgate was cut short by the door
being thrown open, and by the servant announcing in harsh Belfast
accent, “The Loidy Laveenia Gatherghoul,” and then in skipped Lady
Lavinia, in as lambkin-like a manner as her lame leg and upwards of
sixty years in this troublous world permitted.
“My _dear_ Lady M’Adam,” cried she, pointing one shoulder at
the widow; “my _dear_ Helen,” pointing the other shoulder at the
spinster; “my _dear_ Admiral,” pointing both shoulders at that
naval commander, “how fortunate I am to find you together, really
quite providential! Do you know, my nerves have had _such_ a
shock. Papfaddle--you know Papfaddle, Admiral? the faithfullest
creature--Papfaddle has found out such a dreadful story from that Miss
Manwaring’s maid. I do really think the dear Queen ought to be more
careful in her choice. Oh! this Palace might be quite a heaven below,
if we could be sure of only having converted persons in our midst! But,
only think--Miss Manwaring’s own brother was accused of committing a
burglary at Lord Guttleborough’s, and then went and committed suicide,
or something dreadful.”
“But was he guilty?” asked the Admiral.
“Guilty? No, not exactly _guilty_,” answered Lady Lavinia,
“but only think, how shocking to be _accused_ even of such
dreadful things. Depend upon it, there is no what-you-may-call ’em
without thingummy! And the worst of it is, that sort of thing runs
in the Blood. Really, if Miss Manwaring should develop a tendency to
Klep-Klep-Klep something--Klepsydra, isn’t it?--and I living on the
same staircase, whatever should I do?”
“Send for the police,” suggested the Admiral.
“And if, say at midnight,” pursued Lady Lavinia, without paying any
attention to the interruption, “you were to wake up and see Miss
Manwaring standing over you with a blunderbuss, or a bayonet, or
some such dreadful thing, and demanding your India shawls and Sevres
teapots, or your life, what would you do then, Admiral?” and the
inevitable shoulders worked up and down like a pump handle.
The Admiral looked puzzled. “’Pon my honour,” said he at last, “it
would be a doosed--I mean a very awkward situation for a man; but I
hope there’s no danger of that.”
“There’s no telling, in these cases,” said Lady M’Adam.
“No, indeed,” echoed Miss Scheimes.
“It’s very dreadful,” continued the widow--looking as virtuous as
if there were no such thing as fifth-rate Irish whiskey in the
world--“it’s very dreadful, but it is something to know what to expect.
No wonder the young person declines the ministrations of dear Mr.
Moodle. O--h, the hardness of the unconverted heart!”
And then, having taken away a sister’s character by spying, innuendo,
malice, and hatred, the three “converted” and “saved” ladies became
quite cheerful, as they sipped their tea, with just a _soupçon_ of
something stronger in it, and turned to small talk and gossip, which in
“unconverted” people would have been deemed worldly enough. But then,
as Miss Scheimes once remarked, “when one _knows_ one’s saved,
it’s so nice to feel that it makes no difference what one says or does,
for it _must_ be all right at the last.”
CHAPTER XXI.
SERGEANT SMITH, V.C.
IN the ensuing few months, save of course from the clique of “saved”
ladies whom we left in the last chapter upon charitable thoughts
intent, Evelyn Manwaring won golden opinions from all the inmates of
the stately old Palace. No one could even see her without being struck
by her grace and beauty, or fascinated by her lustrous eyes; no one
could speak to her without being charmed by her quiet good sense, by
the innocence of her nature, and by the sweetness and simplicity of
her disposition. Her tender, considerate respect delighted the old;
and her girlish buoyancy of spirits and bright cheerfulness--which,
as her last great sorrow became more distant, began to assert itself
more and more--charmed the young. The good Duchess learned to love her
almost as a daughter; the Miss Hazelhursts could not make enough of
her; Miss Strong found the assistant she had longed for in her works
of charity; and poor, paralytic old Lady Stratton, who lived under
the clock, and was cross and sour, felt her lonely life brightened
when the girl came, as she often did, to read aloud to her. Even the
fast daughters of the Countess of Quorndon, the Ladies Skandaliza and
Coreopsis Corker, were awed by the gentle girl’s innocence and purity,
and avowed they must be “good” when she was present. And the stronger
sex? To a man, they were her devoted slaves. Sir Hercules Clarion,
K.C.B., General Sir T. Blazer Brown, Lord Frederic Fitzfoodles, however
much they differed on other points, were all agreed that Evelyn was
perfection. Even Admiral Grogrum emancipated himself from Lady M’Adam,
quarrelled with Lady Lavinia, snubbed Miss Scheimes, told the great
Moodle to mind his own business, and declared that he “was doosed sure
there wasn’t a girl on earth to compare with Miss Manwaring.” As to the
younger men--sons, nephews, and other relations of the inmates of the
Palace, who, holding offices in Town, came down to spend their Sundays
with their friends--they were all over head and ears in love with
her, and Lieutenant Sprattles, a young fellow with small brains but a
tender heart, grew almost desperate on her account, and refused no one
knows what gorgeous offers the Duke of Ribblesdale made him in secret,
to consent to an exchange of regiments. It was fortunate, however, for
the Duke that Jack Sprattles proved so obdurate, for in a few months
an event took place which at all events broke the somewhat monotonous
life of the dwellers at Hampton Court. The troop of the Hussars which,
under Captain Conger and Lieutenant Sprattles, had for a considerable
time been quartered at the barracks, was suddenly moved to Brighton,
and its place was taken by a troop of the Fortieth Dragoons, a most
distinguished regiment now quartered at Hounslow, and but just returned
from India.
At the time of the march to Candahar, the newspapers, and even the
despatches, had made frequent reference to the exploits of a wonderful
Corporal Smith, who belonged to the gallant Fortieth. These exploits
were now to have their reward. Her Majesty having determined to
honour with a visit the Duchess of Ribblesdale, who had formerly held
an office about the royal person, was further graciously pleased
to express her intention of inspecting the troop of the Fortieth on
the occasion of her visit, and of conferring the Victoria Cross at
the same time upon the whilome Corporal Smith, who, upon his return
to England, had been promoted to the rank of Sergeant. When the day
appointed for the royal visit arrived, it was found that “the Queen’s
weather” had for once deserted her. Never was there a wetter day; the
rain fell in buckets, and the barrack court in front of the palace
resembled a lake. At this unfortunate crisis of affairs somebody
official suggested the happy idea that Her Majesty should inspect the
troop, and present the decoration to Sergeant Smith, who had already
arrived from Hounslow, in Cardinal Wolsey’s Hall. The Queen signified
her assent to this proposal, and at the appointed time repaired to
that noble chamber, where a chair of state was placed for her use upon
the edge of the dais. In front of this, and below it, in the body of
the Hall, the troopers were drawn up in a square, open at the upper
end; and the Queen, standing on the step of the dais in front of her
seat, commanded the Sergeant to be brought before her. Meanwhile, the
dense crowd of spectators, which included almost all the inmates of
the Palace, as well as many persons from outside, stood beyond the
line of soldiers, and saw as much of the ceremony as they could. Those
who were tall enough to see anything, were astonished at the personal
beauty and youthful appearance of the Sergeant who had so distinguished
himself. He seemed, in truth, little more than a boy in years, and was
just such a ruddy stripling as he who, of old time, had done battle
with Goliath of Gath. The young man advanced with kindling eyes, but
modest demeanour, to the foot of the dais, and his Sovereign, stepping
forward, addressed to him some gracious words expressive of her
admiration and her appreciation of his noble conduct, and at the same
time pinned the Cross of Honour upon his breast. At that moment a cry,
half-scream, half-exclamation, was heard from the bottom of the Hall,
which seemed to sound like the syllable “Wil----,” and then a stir and
rustle occurred, which showed that something unusual had happened. The
cry seemed to reach the ears of the young hero, who was observed by
some of the bystanders to tremble and turn pale, but this was deemed by
most to proceed from nervousness. Her Majesty, turning to an attendant,
commanded him to ascertain what was the matter. “Only a lady had
fainted in the crowd;” such was the report brought back to the Queen,
who thereupon retired to the apartments of the Duchess of Ribblesdale,
and shortly afterwards set out on her return journey to Windsor. It
was Evelyn who had fainted. Accompanied by Miss Strong, she had come
late into the Hall, and, unable from the crush to penetrate far, had
to be content with standing on the edge of the crowd of spectators,
where little or nothing could be seen. The Queen’s voice, however,
as she addressed the young soldier, was distinctly heard through the
vast chamber, and the next moment, owing to the sudden movement of the
helmeted head of one of the dragoons drawn up in double line in front,
Evelyn caught a momentary glimpse of the heroic young Sergeant. The
effect upon her was electric--to her eyes he seemed the very living
image of her lost brother, and in a moment of uncontrollable impulse
she tried to utter his name, and in the act, fell fainting on the
floor amidst the throng. Willing hands were at once ready to raise
her and carry her into the cloisters, where consciousness returned,
and the party, led by Miss Strong, then bore her upstairs, and laid
her on the sofa in her own drawing-room. As sometimes happens after
a severe fainting fit, the mind of Evelyn seemed deadened, and her
recollection was hazy as to the events immediately preceding the
attack. All she could say, in answer to the inquiries of Miss Strong,
was, that she had imagined Sergeant Smith very strongly to resemble
her brother, and that the shock which the sudden discovery of this
likeness gave her occasioned her to fall to the ground. She now saw
and regretted her weakness, but she could not help feeling an inward
sense of satisfaction that one who had so merited the admiration of his
Sovereign and fellow-countrymen should have resembled a brother whose
character she deemed so noble. “Had he had the chance,” said Evelyn to
her friend, “I think my poor brother would have acted as bravely and as
well.”
Miss Strong took in the _Illustrated London News_, and when it
came to hand the following Saturday, there was a charming portrait of
Sergeant Wilfred Smith, V.C. Miss Strong remarked the coincidence of
Christian names, which, if she was aware of it, had not struck her
before; and although she was in the habit of lending the paper to
her young neighbour, she on this occasion forwarded it straight off
to the Soldiers’ Hospital at Malta, which was invariably its final
destination. Truth to tell, Miss Strong, who was not of a romantic
disposition, and had strong common sense, thought in her heart of
hearts that Evelyn, who had confided everything to her, was just
a wee bit superstitious on the subject of her drowned brother, and
she felt that she would not herself do anything which might tend to
foster that unwholesome feeling. The incident, however, of Evelyn’s
fainting fit was not destined to pass without observation. It formed
abundant subject for remark and discussion at a meeting of the Female
Vehme-Gericht of Hampton Court on the following day.
“Really,” said Lady M’Adam, when the meeting had been duly constituted
in her Ladyship’s drawing-room--“really, I have no patience with people
who have so little command over their nerves as to faint away in the
presence of Royalty; it looks like an insult to the Throne itself, or
like rebellion, which we have the highest authority for saying is worse
than witchcraft.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Lady Lavinia, shrugging the inevitable shoulders;
“but, dear Lady M’Adam, I fear it was much worse than that.”
“What! Worse than witchcraft?” ejaculated Lady M’Adam, in a hollow tone
of voice; “really you frighten me.”
“Yes, dearest Lady M’Adam,” responded Lady Lavinia, “worse than that a
great deal. My firm belief is that that girl is so puffed up with all
that misplaced petting and injudicious putting forward by the poor
dear Duchess, that she couldn’t bear to be--what d’ye call it?--oh!
playing second thingummy, even for a moment, and that she screamed out,
and threw herself down just on purpose to attract the attention of the
men. What do _you_ think, my dearest Helen?”
Miss Scheimes, thus appealed to, nodded her head solemnly three several
times (to the great peril of her front), and then said in oracular
tones, “I fear it was much worse even than that!”
“No?” said Lady M’Adam.
“No?” echoed Lady Lavinia.
“Yes!” responded Miss Scheimes; “unhappily I fear it was. Remember I
was close to her in the crowd, and what did I see with my own, own
eyes?” Miss Scheimes said this as if she was ordinarily in the habit of
using other people’s eyes, but on this great occasion had condescended
to use her own.
“What?” cried Lady M’Adam. “Don’t keep us in suspense, I beg. I trust,
I sincerely trust it was nothing very disgraceful.”
“I fear, I greatly fear it was,” answered Miss Scheimes, solemnly. “I
was standing close to her, remember, and I distinctly saw her fix her
eyes, not on the dear Queen, who looked _so_ well in her black
bonnet--not on the dear Queen, but on the soldier-man they were making
such a fuss about, and then she stretched out her hands, and cried out,
‘Wil----’ and then down she went, flat as a somewhat tasteless fish
they call a flounder. Can you put two and two together, dearest Lady
Lavinia?”
Arithmetic was _not_ one of Lady Lavinia’s strong points, so, with
her shoulders trembling like aspen leaves, she answered nervously, “I
really _don’t_ feel positively certain, my love; but why do you
ask such a very unusual question?”
“Because,” interposed Lady M’Adam, sternly, “any one who can put two
and two together would know this at once, that Miss Manwaring had seen
that man before.”
“Good Heavens!” cried Lady Lavinia.
“Oh! the mysteries of the unconverted heart!” cried the pork-merchant’s
daughter.
“Yes, dear Lady M’Adam, you are right, as you always are; depend upon
it, she had seen that man before,” pursued Miss Scheimes, judicially;
“he is probably some old rustic lover. What was it she cried out too?
‘Will!’ and what is the name of the soldier-man? Why, Wilfred, to be
sure! And pray, how did she know _that_? She must have known the
man before, of course. But now for a proof positive. No sooner did the
young woman blurt out his name before everyone in that brazen-faced and
unseemly manner, than I distinctly saw the soldier-man himself turn
pale--turn pale, and tremble like a leaf! What do you think of that?
‘Nervousness before the Queen,’ folks said; I know better. That’s all a
pack of stuff and nonsense. It was conscience, that’s what it was! And
now tell me, what do you think of that?”
“It is a wonderful chain of thingummy,” answered Lady Lavinia,
drawing down her shoulders almost out of sight; “a wonderful chain of
consumptive evidence--no, not consumptive either, that’s Ventnor and
Madeira, and the River Era; but you know what I mean. But what a head
you have, my dearest Helen; and how dreadful are the revelations you
have made!”
“It’s an awful and instructive instance of human depravity, that’s what
it is,” said Lady M’Adam; “but it’s providential that the mask is torn
betimes from the face of that young Jezebel, and that we at last see
her in the unregenerate nakedness of an unconverted heart. But what are
we to _do_? that’s the question. I suppose it is our bounden duty
to tell the poor deluded Duchess of her mistake.”
“Well, no,” said Lady Lavinia, after a pause; “with all due deference,
dearest Lady M’Adam, to your greatly superior age and experience----”
“Not such a _great_ difference, Lady Lavinia, as you seem to
suppose,” interrupted Lady M’Adam, snappishly.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” answered Lady Lavinia; “I was only going
to say, that knowing the poor dear Duchess’s idiosyncrasies, and
prejudices, and crazes, as we do, I think we had better wait----”
“And watch,” interrupted Miss Scheimes.
“Thank you, dearest Helen,” continued Lady Lavinia; “and watch--yes,
watch and wait. Sir Thomas Clarion was saying only the other day that
the Fortieth are likely to be moved here; then we shall perhaps see
more, and be more in a position to move with effect. I shall tell
Papfaddle--such a faithful creature!--to be on the look-out for the
first soldier that goes up to Miss Manwaring’s apartments, and if I
learn anything, you may depend on hearing from me. Now I must run away
and dress for dinner.”
Lady Lavinia’s prudent counsels prevailed, and forthwith the
Vehme-Gericht was dissolved.
“Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth; and the tongue is
a fire, a world of iniquity; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly
poison.” So speaks the Inspired Word; but Luther having blasphemously
termed the Epistle of S. James an “Epistle of Straw,” these very
protestant ladies probably did not look on his inspired dictum as
binding on their “consciences.”
CHAPTER XXII.
THE LOST FOUND.
EARLY in the ensuing month of May, the expected change of regiments
took place, and a troop of the Fortieth Dragoons succeeded to the troop
of Hussars, which, to the utter despair of Lieutenant Sprattles, was
despatched to Brighton. This honest young warrior had lost his heart
entirely, and his admiration for Miss Manwaring knew no bounds. When
the change took place, the Duke of Ribblesdale probably did not regret
that he had failed to induce Sprattles to consent to effect an exchange
with him.
Two or three days after the arrival of the new troop, upon a tender
spring afternoon, Evelyn went forth to wander by herself in Bushey
Park. The day had been what George Herbert so beautifully calls
“A Bridal of the earth and sky,”
and the afternoon did not belie the fair promise of the morning. The
grand avenue of chestnuts, it is true, had well-nigh lost every one of
its myriad candelabras of silver and pale-rose, and the still lingering
hawthorn blossoms had changed from their creamy tint to a faint red;
but, all around and above, the scene was as lovely as an English May
could make it. The opening leaves were in their livery of tenderest
green; the brownish spirals of the young brakes were curling up amidst
the still beautiful red, dried fronds of last year’s growth, which
now hid and now revealed a belated hyacinth of heavenly blue. In the
more open spaces the fragrant cowslips blossomed, and here and there
a stately oxlip starred the mossy turf. The cuckows gave forth their
familiar note, as they flew from thorn to thorn; the green woodpecker
laughed for very joy; the throstles and blackbirds sang their sweetest;
and once Evelyn fancied she heard the notes of a nightingale issuing
from a thicket of brambles, where perhaps the hen-bird brooded over
her modest nest of dried grass as brown as her own loving little body,
while her mate, with his breast against a thorn, told her his tale
of love. Evelyn chose the part of the Park where the dry, red fern
grew the highest, and where she and Floss--for her faithful dog, as
usual, was her companion--could feel themselves the most alone and
unconstrained; for she heeded not the noble stags and dappled does
which ever and anon she started from their ferny coverts. The girl
loved the country from her heart; and amidst the thankfulness she felt
for the peaceful home which the royal bounty had provided for her, she
was sometimes thrilled with deep yearnings after her wild North-country
fells, for the swelling swathes of purple heath, and for the rocky
banks of the swirling Arrow. “If I did not see the heather once a-year
at the least, I think I should die,” said Sir Walter Scott; and Evelyn
felt a like sentiment with regard to her old home and its surroundings.
On this particular afternoon the girl’s spirits were higher than usual,
and she ran with Floss amongst the bracken and under the ancient thorns
with as light a step as the springing deer around her. She held her
straw hat in her hand, and her wondrous hair streamed out on the wind
behind her like a golden cloud.
“Now, Floss,” cried the girl, “I am tired, and must sit down, and you
must let no one come to disturb me; and you must be a good dog, and sit
quietly beside me, and not hunt the good Queen’s deer.”
So saying, Evelyn made her way through a mass of tall ferns, with the
intention of throwing herself at length upon the soft and mossy turf;
and then, on a sudden, a sight met her eyes which literally transfixed
her to the ground, and caused her to gasp for breath.
There, in the midst of a ring of lofty brakes, on the green grass,
with his forage cap fallen off, and his beautiful bare head pillowed
on a tiny knoll of moss, lay a young soldier asleep--and he the Image,
the express and living Image of Evelyn’s long-lost, much-loved brother
Wilfred. As the girl gazed, spellbound, and motionless as a statue
of Parian marble, and almost as white, a sweet smile broke over and
irradiated the lovely features of the young man as he stirred in his
sleep. Floss evidently saw the same apparition which fixed the gaze of
his young mistress, and he uttered a low, distrustful whine; but in a
moment this was changed into a joyful bark, and, bounding forwards,
the faithful dog threw himself upon the prostrate figure with every
sign and demonstration of joy and affection. The young soldier awoke,
and the first object which met his astonished eyes was the motionless
figure of the girl, with her eyes fixed upon him with affrighted gaze.
“Evelyn!” he cried, springing to his feet; and the voice was the voice
of her long-drowned brother.
“Wilfred!” she gasped; and then, all doubt vanishing, the brother and
sister--for the lost one was indeed found--fell into each other’s arms.
An hour passed, and the two, long parted, but joined at length in God’s
good time, still sat side by side, basking in the sunshine of each
other’s love.
There were long explanations on both sides. Wilfred learned with
almost unutterable joy that his character was cleared. He heard with
grief that he was fatherless and brotherless. He heard that he was
the rightful owner of the old House and Home of Holmcastle, which now
was in the hands of another. He learned that his sister was an inmate
of the Palace close at hand. And Evelyn heard the story of Wilfred’s
wanderings and adventures since they parted; his voyages on the wide
ocean; his exploits in the fastnesses of India and upon the tented
field. She heard from modest lips how he had resolved to redeem the
past, and vindicate his good name; how he had won the proud distinction
of the Victoria Cross; how with wonder he had heard Evelyn’s
exclamation at his investiture by royal hands; how he had striven for,
and still hoped to win, a commission in the army and regiment he had
learned to love. When this was obtained, it had been his intention to
return to his home and claim his birthright. Time sufficed not for all
that their hearts and lips would fain have poured forth to each other,
when the distant clock of the Palace warned the young soldier that he
had to return to duty at the barracks. As he would, moreover, be forced
to go on duty to Hounslow the day following, it was agreed that they
should not meet again until the third evening. Meanwhile, Wilfred would
not reveal his secret; but, nevertheless, Evelyn should be at liberty
to communicate it to her friend the Duchess. Evelyn also promised to
write by that evening’s post to Mr. Elthorne, to announce the happy
news, and also to their old legal friend, Mr. Merivale, to ask his
professional advice. So discussing their hopes and affairs, the brother
and sister took their way, hand in hand, down one of the side avenues,
and when they reached the great gate, they parted, after a loving
embrace--Wilfred to return to the barracks by the high road, Evelyn to
regain her apartments through the wilderness and garden.
So abundantly happy and so absorbed in their happiness had the
re-joined pair been during their walk under the elms and chestnuts,
that they were utterly unconscious of all besides. Their hand-linked
walk, however, and the fond kisses they exchanged when they parted at
the gate of the Park, did not escape the notice of prying and malignant
eyes. Lady M’Adam, returning with Miss Scheimes from their afternoon
drive to Teddington, spied the couple from the recesses of the former
lady’s brougham, and, with malicious joy, they drew their own base
conclusions. On arriving at the Palace, they at once flew to Lady
Lavinia’s rooms, and found that immaculate old widow (who had just time
to hide a French novel under the sofa cushions) poring over a printed
address of the saintly Moodle.
“We’ve caught them at last in the very act!” screamed out Lady M’Adam,
throwing herself into a chair.
“Hugging each other in the royal Park!” shrieked Miss Scheimes.
“Kissing each other on the open turnpike before six pleasure vans,”
continued Lady M’Adam. “Oh! the unutterable wickedness of the
unregenerate human heart!”
“But, my dear friends,” said Lady Lavinia, glad at last to be able
to edge in a word, “whom have you caught? whom have you seen? ah!
ah! hugging, and what did you say?--not kissing? no, I really trust
_not_ kissing, for that sounds shockingly immoral? Really you make
my blood run cold!”--and the shoulders quivered like the undulations of
the earthquake at Chios.
“Come, Lady Lavinia, you know as well as I do,” said Lady M’Adam,
angrily.
“Surely you can guess,” said Miss Scheimes, “now that your own
suspicions are fulfilled! Oh! you dear prophetic soul!”
“Ah, now I have it,” cried Lady Lavinia (who had known all the while),
in accents of amazement; “it _must_ have been Miss Manwaring. Oh!
how very, very dreadful!”
But it is needless to follow the conversation of these amiable and
Christian ladies. Suffice it to say, that the Vehme-Gericht resolved
that no quarter should be given to the offender; and Lady Lavinia,
as the member of the Court who knew the Duchess best, was deputed
to inform Her Grace of the signal mistake she had made, and of the
misconduct of her _protégée_. Lady Lavinia accordingly penned an
epistle, which, being duly approved, received the _imprimatur_
of the Court; and, this missive being despatched, the three ladies
separated, each member retiring in excellent spirits to her apartments
to prepare for dinner.
CHAPTER XXIII.
WILFRED SMITH GOES TO THE JEWS.
THE lost Wilfred having been found, it seems proper to take this
opportunity of informing the reader of the events which followed his
banishment from home.
On leaving Holmcastle, as we have already seen, he took a third class
ticket to London; but on reaching Preston Junction, in pursuance of
a plan he had already formed, he left the train, and took a fresh
ticket to Liverpool. On arriving at that filthy and rowdy city, he
crossed the town, and took a small room in a little dirty inn in a
small thoroughfare off Water Street, which, however, rejoiced in the
imposing title of the “Great Atlantic Hotel.” Having taken his two
bags upstairs, Wilfred sat down to consider his prospects and his
future course of action. His after-plans he had already to a certain
extent determined on; at present the all-engrossing, overmastering
desire of his heart was to get away from England as soon as possible.
The question was, how to effect it. The poor lad took out and counted
his whole stock of money. The amount was small, too small he feared
to suffice for the payment of even a steerage passage across the
Atlantic, even if he should find a ship about to start at once. It
suddenly struck him that he could pawn or sell some of his clothes,
and the next moment he had opened his bags, and spread out his slender
wardrobe on the bed and floor of the tiny chamber he occupied. A spare
suit of clothes and a few flannel shirts were nearly all he would
want for his present purpose, and he soon made his selection, packed
the rest in a single bag, and was speedily on his way with them to a
pawnbroker’s. There was no disgrace in this; but when Wilfred found
himself in a small, stuffy compartment in the shop, and confronted by
a small, yellow-haired Jew, with inflamed eyes of a waterish blue, and
of most villainous aspect, he certainly felt far from comfortable.
The salutary rule of “first come, first served” was observed in the
establishment of Messrs. Cohen and Hart, and Wilfred had to wait until
an old Irish-woman, who bore the appearance of a resuscitated mummy--so
wrinkled and puckered was her face--had transacted her business.
“What! the same petticoat again, Mrs. Maguire?” said the young Jew; “I
wonder you’re not ashamed to bring that old rag again to a respectable
establishment like this.”
“Faith, thin,” said the old woman, “but it’s a dacent undergarmint
intirely, and it’s the wearing of it I’d rather injoy this could
weather; but what can an ould body like me do wid an ould husband
bed-ridden with the rheumatiz, and me daughter’s family down with the
fever? sure ye’ll be givin’ me eighteenpince upon it agen, Mr. Cohen,
and good luck to ye.”
“Devil a ha’penny will I give more than a shilling, Mrs. Maguire, and
that’s more than it would sell for to a rag merchant.”
“Och, honey, for the love o’ heaven, give me one-and-three.”
“A shilling, a shilling, a shilling, and no more!” cried the Jew; and
taking out a shilling from the till under the counter, he threw it
across to the poor old creature, who clutched it in her skinny claws,
and then put it into some receptacle under a thin and ragged, but
clean gown, which draggled around her emaciated form.
“Wait outside till I come out,” whispered Wilfred to the old woman,
who, receiving her pawn-ticket, left the shop.
“And now, young gentleman, what can I do for you?” asked Mr. Cohen,
with a sly leer.
“I want to know what you’ll give me for these clothes and this leather
bag,” answered Wilfred, as he laid them on the counter.
The Jew spread out and examined the things one by one, and then named a
sum which appeared to the owner preposterously small.
“They must be worth much more than that,” said he.
The Jew seemed to examine the things more narrowly than before, and
then he said, “Well, we’ll see what can be done; but as we always like
to do things right and above board, I’d like to know your name first.”
Wilfred thought this a singular request, but he reflected that it might
be the rule of the establishment. But what name should he give? His
father had commanded him to change his surname--that he would do--it
was his father’s name, and in that respect he would obey his father’s
command, however unjust. But his Christian name was his own; no one
had any right to deprive him of _that_; and so, after a pause,
during which the Jew was narrowly scrutinising his face, he answered,
“Wilfred Smith.”
“And the linen’s all marked ‘W.M.,’ and ‘W.M.’ ’s engraved in a
mollorgrum on the lock of the bag--he, he! I thought so,” cried the
little Jew, triumphantly. “But I say, mister, I think yer ought to
be dev’lish glad to get what I offered, and have no questions asked.
Don’t yer know I might get yer into a peck of troubles along of them
fash’nable articles?”
“Why, what do you take me to be?” cried Wilfred, turning very red.
“May be a walley,” answered the Jew.
“What’s that?” asked Wilfred.
“What’s that? Why, a walley-de-sham, stoopid,” responded Mr. Cohen,
severely; “a genelman’s servant as has left his place without giving a
month’s warning--that’s what I mean.”
“You don’t mean to say,” said Wilfred, “that you think I stole those
things, do you?”
“Stole ’em! no,” responded the Jew, grinning from ear to ear, “we never
uses bad language in this respectable establishment; we might get
prosecuted for libel if we said as a genelman _stole_ things,
that we might; but if yer want to know what I _think_, why, I
think yer _took_ ’em, just as a parquisite, you know, and I dessay
your master is at this moment breaking his heart over the loss. Now,
what do yer say? will yer take what I offered, or shall I keep these
things here till the perlice come to take yer to the station? Uncle
Abraham, are yer in?”
A shuffling noise was heard, and an old Jew appeared, a very cheerful
old Jew indeed, who mumbled his skinny lips together, which was his way
of laughing, and seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
“Just go to the door, Uncle Abraham,” said Mr. Cohen, junior, “and if
yer see a perliceman about, ask him what he thinks of the weather,
while I finish my business with--Mr. _Smith_.”
“For heaven’s sake, give me what you can, and let me go,” cried
Wilfred, in an agony.
Mr. Cohen, junior, smiled a very unpleasant smile indeed, and proceeded
to put the money down on the counter, piece by piece. “There, no
hurry, Mr. _Smith_,” said he, leering at his victim, “no hurry in
the least. P’raps I can sell yer some’ut which will be useful on the
voyage out, for I presume yer are bound across the herring-pond. I hope
yer’ll find the air of New York saloobrious to yer health; change of
air is often useful, Mr. _Smith_; I’m sure I hope it ’ill----;”
but before young Mr. Cohen could finish his speech some other customers
came in, and Wilfred, seizing his money, made his escape. At the corner
of the street, in front of a gin-palace--the licensing magistrates
of Liverpool think it necessary to have a gin-palace at the corner
of every street--Wilfred found Mrs. Maguire. When he came up, he put
into her hand no small portion of the pittance he had just received
for his wardrobe. The old woman looked at the money, and then at him,
with amaze. “May God and S. Patrick bless ye,” she cried at length;
“here’s food, and fire, and medicine for me and mine. Ye’ve saved a
poor, honest family from starving, ye have, young gintleman. May the
Holy Angels make your bed. Ye seem in sorrow to-day, but there’s a
day comin’ when your sorrow shall be turned into joy! When that day
comes, remember ould Biddy Maguire, and be shure that to the last days
of her life she will pray to the Blessed Lord for you and yours;” and
so saying, the old woman seized his hand and kissed it, and wetted
it with her tears. Wilfred hurried away, for a crowd of roughs had
begun to gather, but it was with a less heavy heart than he could
have supposed possible a few minutes before. His behaviour was very
unpolitico-economical, no doubt--he ought to have applied to the
Charity Organisation Society, of course, before he relieved a starving
fellow-creature--but after all, he was perhaps rewarded, even in this
world, for not following the example of Archbishop Whately; and at
all events, an honest, needy family received the necessaries of life
without having to wait until some fussy old frump poked her nose into
the cottage, in order to investigate and report on “the circumstances
of the case.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
WILFRED SMITH’S VOYAGE OUT.
ON his way back to the “Great Atlantic Hotel,” it came on to rain (it
generally _does_ rain in Liverpool), and Wilfred, to escape a
drenching, took his stand within the pretentious granite portal of the
office of the “Flaming Star Line” Shipping Company. Presently, two
ships’ Captains came out.
“When do you sail, Captain Barlow?” said one.
“In five minutes,” was the answer. “I ought to have been on board now,
but I caught my steward in the act of helping himself to some loose
money I had left on my cabin table, and I came ashore to see whether
they knew of another at the office. But they don’t, which is awkward,
considering the lot of passengers I have on board. What rascals men
are now-a-days!”
Wilfred turned to the speaker: “Will you try me, Sir?” said he.
The Captain started, and looked at him fixedly. “Have you ever been
afloat before?” he asked.
“Never,” said Wilfred; “but I’ll try to do my duty, and make myself
useful.”
The Captain looked at him fixedly, and Wilfred returned his gaze.
“I like your looks,” said Captain Barlow, “and I think I’ll engage you.”
“More fool you!” interposed his friend. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Smith,” answered Wilfred.
“I’d ha’ gone bail his name was Smith,” said the Captain’s friend.
“When can you come on board?” said Captain Barlow, without paying any
attention to the interruption.
“In ten minutes, Sir,” answered Wilfred; “my things are in the next
street.”
“Well, then, I’ll wait here ten minutes, and if you don’t turn up then,
I’ll sail without you.”
Wilfred was off like a shot, reached “the Great Atlantic,” discharged
his small reckoning, and within the stipulated time was again at
the Shipping Office, before the door of which--for it had now ceased
raining--Captain Barlow was marching up and down like a bear in a cage.
“This looks well,” said Captain Barlow, approvingly, as Wilfred
presented himself with his small bag. “You must prove I’m not such a
confounded fool as my friend Twagham thinks.”
So Wilfred followed the Captain on board the good steamer “Flaming
Comet,” and in an hour’s time the noble ship was out in the wide
Mersey, and before evening was ploughing her stately way down channel
on her way to the New World.
It was a harsh, and in some respects a bitter discipline that to which
the delicately-nurtured young man was subjected on his voyage out,
but it probably served to strengthen and mature his already noble
character, while the constant hard work incident to his position
prevented his mind from repining and dwelling too much upon his
sorrows. The first spare moment he had after he went on board, he
opened the little package which was his sister’s parting gift. It
contained a little Prayer Book, with a metal cross upon either side of
the binding. As he opened the clasp, two papers fell out--the first
was a £5 note, and his eyes filled with tears as he read upon the
second, written in that beautiful handwriting he knew so well, Charles
Kingsley’s beautiful “Farewell.”
“Farewell, sweet _lad_, and let who will be clever,
Do noble things, not dream them all day long,
And so make Life, Death, and the Great Forever
One grand sweet song.”
Sweet was it, after a long day of sickness and harassing toil, when
Wilfred lay down in his close berth and heard the waves of the Atlantic
swishing by close to his head, to think that he still enjoyed the
trustful love of a darling sister and of a friend. He thought, too, of
the quaint frontispiece of his copy of the _Icon Basilike_, now
far away amongst his books at dear old Holmcastle, and of the weighted
palms springing to fresh and verdurous glory, and of the appropriate
motto,
“Crescit sub pondere virtus;”
and he prayed that such might be the case with him.
Four days and a-half out, an adventure occurred. The vast ocean had
been calm all day, and there was no sail in sight, when, in consequence
of something being amiss with the machinery, the steamer suddenly
stopped. Most of the passengers, astonished, if not alarmed, by the
unwonted quiet, had come up on deck, and witnessed the Atlantic
heaving around them in what seemed to be huge platforms of greenish
water, which rose and fell without the slightest disturbance of the
glassy surface by even a breath of wind. Then, almost suddenly, after
an hour’s interval, the East wind began to blow, the mighty screw
turned, and the ship re-commenced its course with what seemed to
be renewed life and activity. At that moment a cry was heard above
the pulsations of the engines and the whirl of the screw--“A child
overboard!” Wilfred chanced to be amidships, and looked over the side.
Then, throwing off his coat, he ran astern, waited a few moments,
and then cast himself into the ocean. His form disappeared for a few
seconds, and then he reappeared, clutching the child in his right hand,
while he supported himself in the water by swimming with his left. The
order to stop ship had been given at once, and a boat was manned and
let down, but by that time the child and its deliverer had drifted
far astern. When at last the boat reached them, Wilfred was nearly
exhausted, and could only clutch the gunwale with his one empty hand,
when he was drawn up into the boat with the child alive and unhurt.
The little boy, thus saved, was the son of a couple of poor emigrants,
and on reaching the ship his rescuer was almost overwhelmed with the
thanks of the father and mother. The saloon passengers that evening
made a collection for the brave steward, which amounted to a handsome
sum, and he was called into the saloon to receive it from the hands of
Captain Barlow, who made a short speech very pertinent to the occasion.
To the surprise of most, the young man respectfully, but positively,
refused to accept the proffered gift. When further pressed to do so,
he replied--“I could not possibly take money for saving the life of a
fellow-creature, but if you will allow me to hand it over to the mother
of the poor little thing who fell overboard, I’m sure the money will be
well bestowed.” This, when they found he was firm in his determination
not to accept it himself, the passengers at length consented to do.
The next evening, when Wilfred had gone up on deck for a few quiet
minutes, “for thought to do her part,” he was joined by a tall, lanky
United States gentleman, who had a wife and family on board. “Lork
here, boy,” said Mr. Caleb W. Lomax--for that was the passenger’s
name--“I don’t wornt to know who you are, or what you are, but you are
coming to my great country, and I wornt to know your plans, for if I
can do anything to forward them I will. Shake hands, Sir; you are a
credit to the old country.”
Wilfred, having shaken hands as desired, said his great wish was to get
across the Continent to S. Francisco, and that he hoped to find some
employment in New York to raise enough money to enable him to do so.
“Jest so,” said Mr. Lomax, “and it’s to ’Frisco I’m going myself. Now
look here, young man, I wornt some one to help me through, and I tell
you what I’ll do. If you’ll come along with me, and help to see after
the baggage and children, I’ll take you with me. There, no thanks,”
continued he, seeing Wilfred was about to speak; “it’s a fair bargain,
and the obligation is mutual, so think over my offer and tell me
to-morrow. Jest one word more. Remember you don’t come as a help, but
as a friend. I know a gentleman when I see one, spite of his coat,
and I’m proud to know you, Sir; shake hands again;” and with that the
United States gentleman gave Wilfred’s hand a terrific squeeze, turned
on his heel, and went below to play a quiet game of euchre with his
wife and two eldest daughters.
It need hardly be stated that Wilfred considered the offer, so kindly
and unexpectedly made, far too good a one to be refused, and next
morning he accepted it with thanks. Four days afterwards, the “Flaming
Comet” entered the noble harbour of New York, and after taking a
cordial leave of Captain Barlow, and being cheered by the steerage
passengers and crew as he went over the side, Wilfred found himself
before nightfall ensconced in the comfortable Westmoreland Hotel, in
Madison Square, as the friend and guest of Mr. Lomax. During their
three days’ stay at New York, Wilfred managed to see most that was
worth seeing in that not very interesting but cosmopolitan city,
which is all length and no breadth, and which looks like a slice of
the outskirts of Paris, stuck, sandwich-fashion, between two slices
of the slums of Liverpool. On the fourth day, the party left New York
by the cars, and in due time Wilfred found himself looking down on S.
Francisco, with the blue waters of the Pacific gleaming and glinting
behind it. Mr. Lomax had a charming country house near the sea upon the
Gulf about twenty miles from the city, and he insisted on Wilfred’s
paying him a visit of a fortnight to recruit from the fatigue of the
journey. At the end of that time this excellent man tried hard to
persuade his young guest to allow him to use his influence, which
was considerable, to get him a situation in a mercantile house, but
Wilfred’s mind had been made up from the first not to remain in the
States, but to go on to China. When Mr. Lomax found that his resolution
could not be shaken, he went one morning by rail to S. Francisco, and
on his return told Wilfred that he had arranged with a friend who
was a large shipowner to give him a free passage in a ship about to
start for Hong Kong--a statement of whose veracity pious doubts may be
entertained, from the circumstance that Mr. Lomax drew that day a far
larger amount of dollars from his bankers than ever he brought home.
The constant change of scene through which Wilfred had passed, and the
genuine and disinterested kindness he had received from his hospitable
hosts, had tended to raise his spirits; and so agreeable did he make
himself, that the whole family, and especially the two eldest girls,
were heartily grieved when the time came for his departure.
“I have never inquired into your family history, Mr. Smith,” said Mr.
Lomax at parting, “and I don’t mean to begin now; but let me tell you
that I am sure your absence from home arises from no cause of which you
need be ashamed; and don’t forget that, should you be restored to it
hereafter, no one will be more glad to hear of your welfare than your
friends at Lomaxville.”
So Wilfred Smith, as we must now call him, was afloat on the great
Pacific Ocean. When they were two days out, the Captain came into the
saloon, and, addressing him, said, “I forgot to give you this little
parcel, which was brought on board by the last boat at ’Frisco.” On
opening the packet, Wilfred found a handsome purse, embroidered by
Carolina, Mr. Lomax’s eldest daughter, and in it a packet of gold,
inscribed, “For use on landing, from your sincere friend, Caleb W.
Lomax.” So, at the end of the voyage, Wilfred went on shore at Hong
Kong with a light heart and no present anxiety.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE MARCH TO CANDAHAR.
IT thrilled Wilfred’s soul, the evening of his arrival, to see the
English uniform in the streets, and to hear his native tongue spoken by
many amidst the motley crowds which throng the streets of Hong Kong.
The young man was not long in making his way to the barracks, and,
reaching them, he felt he had reached his goal. An English sentinel
was pacing up and down before the barrack gate, and a smart young
sergeant was standing before it, tapping his well-polished boot with
a light cane. To him Wilfred forthwith addressed himself, and the two
might shortly afterwards have been seen discussing, at the civilian’s
expense, a couple of cooling drinks at a neighbouring tavern. The
result of this interview was, that on the following morning Wilfred
Smith attained the great purpose of his coming to China, by enlisting
as a private in the ----th Infantry, then under orders to sail for
India.
In a few days all was ready, and the transport sailed. On arriving in
port, Private Smith’s regiment was at once ordered up country, and no
sooner had it reached its destination than Wilfred volunteered to join
the Fortieth Dragoons, then about to start for the seat of war.
Private Smith was at first a mystery to his comrades. That he was
a gentleman by birth they knew at once. That he had nothing of the
“lardy-dardy” fine gentleman about him they found out almost as
quickly. There was no better horseman in the regiment, and he could
groom, and loved to groom, the serviceable creature assigned to him, as
well as he could ride him. He learned his drill in an extraordinarily
short space of time, and seemed to take an interest and delight in
manœuvres which most soldiers would have given worlds or a week’s pay
to be able to shirk. Upon several occasions Private Smith was asked
to become servant to an officer, but he always refused. When it was
pointed out to him that, by accepting the situation, he would have
more liberty, more pay, and various perquisites, he always answered,
“I had rather remain in the ranks and learn my duty,” and remain he
did. One young officer took his refusal very much to heart. “I know
why you refuse, Smith,” he said; “it’s because I am a nobody, and you
are a gentleman; and, to tell you the truth, I thought you could make
a gentleman of me, if we were more together; and you see, with these
confounded rules and customs of the service, I can’t see as much of you
as I wish, while you are in the ranks.” This brave lad and good officer
was a hairdresser’s son from Oxford, and he afterwards fell, sword
in hand, before Candahar. No bad word was ever known to escape from
Smith’s lips, and as he seemed to loathe the coarser temptations of
barrack life, some of the worst set in the regiment took it into their
heads that “Gentleman Smith,” for so they called him, could be bullied
with impunity. They soon found they were mistaken. The troop to which
Smith belonged was quartered in a small barracks in an out-station,
away from the rest of the regiment. One night, the Corporal of Smith’s
room, a man named Tozer, ordered a small trumpeter to climb over the
barrack wall and fetch him a bottle of rum from the shop of a sutler
outside. The boy vainly protested against this order, on the ground
that the drop from the wall was too great, and that, if caught, he
would be severely punished. Upon this, Tozer, who was a big, hulking
fellow, seized the lad with one hand, while with the other he gave him
a violent box on the ear.
“Leave that boy alone,” said Smith, looking up from the camp bed on
which he was sprawling, reading a book.
“What’s that you say?” bellowed the Corporal.
“I said, ‘Leave that boy alone,’ and I say that, if you don’t, it will
be the worse for you.”
The only answer, and that a brutal one, was another buffet upon the
boy’s head. In a moment Smith had sprung from his bed, and with a
well-planted blow had felled the Corporal to the ground. The brute
rose, and muttering, “I’ll make you pay for this,” shambled out of
the room. The boy’s gratitude knew no bounds, and the other men,
crowding about Smith, congratulated him on the discomfiture of the
bully. Next day--for rage, like love, makes men blind--Tozer had the
almost incredible folly to report Private Smith for striking him. An
investigation followed, and it being conclusively proved that Smith had
struck the blow in defence of a lad who had refused to do an illegal
act, he was at once acquitted, and the stripes being cut from Tozer’s
arm, the bully was reduced to the ranks. In a few days Smith was
himself made Corporal. After this, the young fellow grew daily in the
affection of his comrades. Never shirking his own duty, he was always
ready to take upon himself that of another. He sang well, too, and in
the barrack-room was the prince of story-tellers. Sometimes he even
aspired to verse, and his ballads, set to music by the bandmaster of
the regiment, were sung by himself and comrades upon the line of march.
On the first occasion that Corporal Smith came under fire, he had a
narrow escape of his life. A detachment of his regiment had received
orders to eject a strong party of Afghans from an almost inaccessible
position which they held on high ground to the right of the pass by
which they were proceeding to Candahar. As Smith was advancing, a
mounted Afghan fired at him point blank, and the shot striking him in
the region of the heart, he fell off his horse to the ground. The man
was rushing forward, thinking he was dead, when, no doubt, much to his
amazement, Smith rose to his feet and shot him dead with his revolver.
The ball had struck the brass cross upon the little Prayer Book--which,
as his sister’s last gift, Smith always carried inside his uniform,
upon his breast--and, glancing off, gave him a slight flesh wound in
the left arm, while the shock of the concussion brought him to the
ground. A similar escape is said to have occurred at the battle of the
Alma. It was upon the afternoon of August 31st that Corporal Smith won
for himself the proud distinction of the Victoria Cross. He had taken
part in the reconnaisance of the position of the enemy which was made
by the entire Brigade of Cavalry, and the object of the movement having
been effected, he was retiring with the rest of his own troop, when a
young officer was struck by a ball, and was left upon the earth for
dead. Smith, observing this, galloped alone out of the English ranks,
reached the place where the fallen officer was lying, and, finding
he was still alive, put him upon his own horse, and was leading him
back to the English ranks, when two mounted Afghans swooped down upon
him. As the first of these neared him, Smith shot him dead, and with
a second shot brought the horse of the second Afghan to the ground.
Urging the wounded officer to continue his course to the British ranks,
he engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with his dismounted adversary, and,
after a sharp encounter, succeeded in disabling him; then, catching the
horse of his first assailant, he mounted it, overtook his own horse
with its burden, and returned with it triumphantly to his regiment. The
officer’s thigh was broken, and he would undoubtedly have been killed,
had he not been rescued by the gallantry of the brave young Corporal.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A PACKET OF LETTERS.
IT will be remembered that the members of the female Vehme-Gericht had
dispersed after having deputed Lady Lavinia Gathercole to despatch a
letter to the Duchess of Ribblesdale. This she accordingly did, and in
fact for some time her Grace was positively overwhelmed with letters,
which, along with their answers, are here inserted as nearly in due
order as possible.
The Palace.
DEAR DUCHESS OF RIBBLESDALE,
The more than _maternal_ solicitude which your Grace has from the
first exhibited towards _the Last Importation_ into our hitherto
eminently _Proper_ Coterie, imposes on me the painful task of
informing you that the _Young Person in question_ is altogether
unworthy of your countenance and regard. She was this day descried by
two unimpeachable witnesses, as well as by _the General Public_,
walking in the Royal Park of Bushey hand in hand with _a Horse
Soldier_, and with his arm unblushingly placed around her waist.
These Persons were afterwards seen embracing each other on _the
Public Turnpike_, and in immediate propinquity to no less than
_Six Pleasure Vans_, filled with a crowd of Londoners of _both
sexes_. When I add that this revolting scene, which, for the
credit of the Morality of our Common Nature, I trust was altogether
unexampled in the annals of _Brazen Effrontery_, was ocularly
witnessed by our friends Lady M’Adam and Miss Helen Scheimes, your
Grace, I feel sure, will appreciate the _Extreme Gravity_ of the
situation, and will not hesitate to pluck out the _Viper_ which
you have inadvertently cherished in your too-confiding bosom. I am, my
dear Duchess, your Grace’s faithful servant,
LAVINIA GATHERCOLE.
_P.S._--Such occurrences as these are indeed calculated to
impress one with the conviction of the unregenerate condition of the
_Mass of Mankind_.
Scarcely had the Duchess had time to read the above precious epistle,
when Gilray entered the room, and placed another letter in her hands.
It ran as follows:--
H. C. Barracks.
MY DEAREST MOTHER,
I am just starting for Town, but I cannot go without writing one line
to tell you that I have made the most wonderful discovery in the
world. That wonderful Sergeant Smith about whom everyone is talking
is--who do you think? Why, no other than my dear old schoolfellow and
friend, Wilfred Manwaring, and the brother of our Miss Manwaring, or
of _your_ Miss Manwaring, as I ought rather to say. I had come
here to call on Captain Parkhurst, and was waiting in his quarters,
as he was out, when Serjeant Smith entered the room, and we met face
to face. Further _incognito_ was impossible, and I had the whole
matter out with him. He is the noblest fellow. He met his sister
only this very day, and they were made known to each other, but they
do not wish the secret divulged, except to you, until the day after
to-morrow, when they will have had time to hear from their old lawyer
in the North. I got leave to tell you, for I know how fond you are
of Miss Manwaring, and how glad you will be to hear I have found my
friend.
And now for another secret. Smith, or rather Manwaring, who is a V.
C. man--in fact, you saw him invested by the Queen yourself--is to be
given his Commission, and I believe Colonel Hawkins, who commands his
regiment, is to come over from Hounslow on Thursday to give it to him
in person. I am so happy.
Your most affectionate son,
FRANK.
On the receipt of this letter, the Duchess immediately sat down and
wrote the following note:--
H. C., _Tuesday_.
MY DEAR EVELYN,
Will you come over and see me this evening any time after nine, as I am
very anxious to see you about a matter which concerns you nearly.
Yours ever,
CATHARINE R. and S.
No sooner was this note despatched, than the following note from Evelyn
was brought in to the Duchess:--
MY DEAR DUCHESS,
Your great and constant kindness emboldens me to ask a favour at your
hands. If you are alone this evening, may I come across and see you,
as I have something of great importance to communicate? I am your
always grateful and affectionate
EVELYN MANWARING.
To this the Duchess sent an immediate line in return:--
DEAR E.,--I shall expect you at nine. Our notes crossed.
Yours,
C. R. & S.
Having sent off this note, the Duchess sat for some time buried in
thought, and then she wrote the following:--
Hampton Court, _Tuesday Evening_.
DEAR LADY LAVINIA,
I cannot say how grieved I was to receive your communication. I fear I
shall be unable to see you until Thursday evening, when you and your
friends, Lady M’Adam and Miss Scheimes, have kindly promised to come
to me.
I am, truly yours,
CATHARINE RIBBLESDALE & SCARSWICKE.
The reference in this note was to a Reception, to which, according
to her wont, the Duchess had already sent out cards of invitation to
everyone who had apartments in the Palace. The Duchess’s epistolary
labours, however, were not yet concluded. She had still another letter
to write, which it will be necessary to lay before the reader.
H. C., _Tuesday Evening_.
MY DEAREST BOY,
I heartily congratulate you on the unlooked-for recovery of your noble
young friend. It is really quite a romance, and I shall be anxious to
make his acquaintance and learn all the particulars of his story. I
have a little scheme in my head, and shall count on your assistance
to carry it out. You must _insist_ upon Mr. Manwaring coming to
my reception on Thursday evening. Tell him that, when he arrives, he
will be shown into the Book Room, as I want to speak to him before I
present him to the company, and that I shall expect him to appear in
_uniform_, and to wear his Victoria Cross. I shall depend upon
_that_. He will meet his sister, who has just written to demand
an interview with my Grace, and she is coming in after dinner, no
doubt to tell me all the particulars which you have been cruel enough
to forestall. And now, my dear son, I do beg you will try _by all
the means in your power_ to get Colonel Hawkins to come to me on
Friday evening, and to bring the Commission with him. I want him to
assist at a grand _Tableau Vivant_, and I don’t think he will
refuse my particular request and _yours_; for though I have not
seen him for years, he was under obligations to your father. Please
come early yourself, for I want you to receive and make yourself
agreeable to my guests, until such time as I choose to make my solemn
entry. You see I am becoming a schemer in my old age. Now I must go
and get ready for dinner, which I sincerely hope I may be able to eat
in peace, without receiving or having to answer any more letters.
Your most loving mother,
CATHARINE R. & S.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE DUCHESS’S GRAND TABLEAU VIVANT.
THE numerous company which filled the Duchess’s two drawing-rooms,
in point of fact overflowed into the corridor, which, decorated with
beautiful flowers, and having deep window recesses at intervals, formed
a pleasant place either for walking up and down or for sitting in
confidential correspondence. All, or nearly all the Palace folks were
there, but there were three ladies who remarked with satisfaction that
Miss Manwaring was absent, and Lady M’Adam observed to Miss Scheimes
that she thought that Lady Lavinia “had settled that minx’s hash
nicely.” Mr. fforester, the Chaplain, kept running about from group
to group, and astonished friends and enemies alike by occasionally
bursting out into fits of laughter without any apparent cause, and
he steadily refused to give any rational account of his unwonted
tendency to risibility. The young Duke was everywhere, and had a
pleasant word for everyone. Colonel Hawkins, of the Fortieth Dragoons,
who had arrived early, kept strutting up and down with a mysterious
expression upon his bronzed countenance, and looked like a kind of
military Sphynx; while Captain Parkhurst and Lieutenant Grimwood, of
the Hampton Court troop, wore the expression of men who were quite able
to astonish the natives, if only they wished to do so. To the amazement
of all, however, the Duchess, who was usually punctuality itself,
delayed making her appearance. At length, just when Lady M’Adam, in
plum-coloured velvet, was remarking to Lady Lavinia, in yellow silk
and black lace, and to Miss Scheimes, in amber satin, what “a real
satisfaction it was that no hussies were present,” an inner door was
suddenly thrown open, and the Duchess, blazing in all the Ribblesdale
Diamonds, and with the great Scarswicke Emerald hanging round her neck,
entered the room, with one arm in that of Evelyn Manwaring, and with
the other in that of a--Cavalry Soldier! Lady M’Adam gave a violent
start at this unlooked-for apparition; Miss Scheimes turned the colour
of her own dress, and Lady Lavinia’s shoulders almost went out of
sight in the inmost recesses of her yellow silk.
“The woman must be mad!” whispered the pork-merchant’s daughter.
“Or bad?” said the diplomat’s sister, _sotto voce_.
“I think she’s both,” hissed Lady Lavinia; “it really is
_dreadful_!” and so saying, the terrible shoulders oscillated like
the humps of a Bactrian camel on a mountain march.
But the Duchess, although she distinctly overheard these complimentary
remarks, looked no whit abashed, and took no notice of them whatsoever;
but on the contrary, she advanced steadily onwards until she reached
the upper end of the great drawing-room. Then, turning round and
bowing to the company, she said in a clear, ringing tone, “I trust,
my friends, you will pardon my long absence, for I had some important
arrangements to complete. Allow me now to introduce to you a gentleman
upon whom, in the presence of many of you, Her Majesty was pleased
personally to confer the Victoria Cross, the highest distinction it is
in her power to bestow, in reward for his conspicuous gallantry upon
the field of battle. In introducing Sergeant Wilfred Smith, with the
fame of whose exploits all England is ringing, I have also to introduce
a young gentleman of ancient lineage, of great misfortunes nobly
borne, and of stainless honour, Mr. Wilfred Manwaring of Holmcastle
Manor, my son’s best and truest friend, and the brother of a young lady
whose beauty, modesty, and sweet disposition have won for her a host
of friends, and whose misfortunes and friendless condition ought to
have protected her from the baseless calumnies of false and malicious
tongues. Ribblesdale, my dear son, let me make over your friend to your
care, and I beg you will make him personally acquainted with my guests.”
In a moment the young Duke had seized Wilfred by the hand, which he
wrung heartily, amidst a murmur of applause from the company.
“Now, your Grace, let me have my innings,” cried Colonel Hawkins, who
looked as if he would have burst if what he had to say was bottled up
any longer, and pushing through the crowd, he, in his turn, grasped
Wilfred by the hand and thus addressed him:--
“Mr. Manwaring, I wish to tell you that I have had my eye on you ever
since you joined my regiment as a private, and I never knew you to
commit an action unbecoming a soldier and a gentleman; and I would
say the same if you were plain Private Smith, instead of being a man
of ancient family and considerable fortune. For your conspicuous
gallantry in the field, for which, as Colonel of the Regiment, I feel I
personally owe you a debt of gratitude, you have already received the
Victoria Cross from the hands of the Queen; but I have now to inform
you, that H.R.H. the General Commanding-in-Chief has felt it to be his
duty, as it has been also his pleasure, to recommend you for further
promotion, and I have now the satisfaction of putting into your hands
your commission as Lieutenant in the army, and in place of Lieutenant
Grimwood, who retires, in your own Regiment, to which you are a credit
and an ornament. (‘Hear, hear,’ from Captain Parkhurst.) I never had
more pleasure in welcoming a young gentleman to our society than I have
at this moment in welcoming you.”
General applause followed this speech, under cover of which Lady M’Adam
and her two satellites managed to escape from the Duchess’s apartments,
which, it may be added, they never entered again.
Having affectionately bidden good night to her kind hostess, Evelyn
retired as early as possible, and was escorted to her rooms by her
soldier brother. And there a new surprise overtook them, for who should
they find awaiting their return but Mr. Elthorne and his daughter
Mary, and Mr. Merivale.
“We came off at once unknown to each other,” cried both the gentlemen
at once, “and we met at Preston Station, and here we are!”
There they were indeed, and perhaps there never was such a shaking
of hands as that which ensued. Such indeed was the excitement of the
moment, that Mary Elthorne was kissed by the Lieutenant, and the same
operation was performed by the Rector and Mr. Merivale upon Evelyn. In
these greetings these good folks were all very happy, and if
“Kissing and crying kept company,”
the kissing, _pace_ Lady Lavinia, was very innocent, and the tears
that were shed were tears of joy. In fact, the prophecy of old Biddy
Maguire--which, truth to tell, had in the course of his wanderings more
than once occurred to Wilfred’s mind--was fulfilled to the letter. It
was long after twelve when the three men retired, the Lieutenant to
the Barracks, where he found several of his old comrades sitting up
to cheer him on his return, and the two other gentlemen to the Mitre,
where they had already secured beds, and for that night Mary Elthorne
shared the couch of her old friend Evelyn.
Next morning, before the men were dismissed from parade, Colonel
Hawkins informed them of the elevation of their Sergeant and former
comrade. Upon this arose a loud shout of joy, and Messrs. Elthorne and
Merivale, coming in at the gate, beheld Wilfred seized by the men and
carried in triumph round the barrack yard. Fresh shouts arose when it
transpired that Lieutenant Grimwood had resigned, on nomination to a
staff appointment, and that Lieutenant Wilfred Manwaring would take his
place, and remain among them.
Wilfred accompanied his two friends to lunch with his sister, and after
that social meal a great confabulation ensued upon matters of business.
Mr. Merivale informed Wilfred that, immediately he had received the
news of his discovery, he had telegraphed to all the tenants to pay
their rents in future to him instead of to Mr. Potts; and he told him
that, as he was the undoubted owner of Holmcastle, it would probably
be unnecessary for him to serve a notice to quit upon his cousin, who
would most likely be glad enough to evacuate the place quietly, and
that the more so, since the neighbouring gentry had so entirely ignored
the existence of himself and family that they were thoroughly disgusted
with the place. Mr. Tresham Potts had not executed his threat to make
a grand clearance amongst the trees at Holmcastle, for the eminent
landscape-gardener, whose services he had called in, had refused to
have anything to do with the affair if that was insisted on. Potts had,
indeed, done one good thing for the property. It had been discovered
that coal of fine quality underlay the outlying farms near Ormskirk,
in the farther part of the county, and negotiations were even then
in progress to lease the mineral wealth of the soil to a company on
advantageous terms. Mr. Merivale had already written to the company to
stay the execution of the lease until the real owner’s pleasure was
known, and he ended his narrative by congratulating Wilfred on the
prospect of his becoming a very rich man, and by proposing to write a
cheque for any sum which, under his altered circumstances, he might
require for present and future use.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
COMING OF AGE.
SPITE of what he had previously expressed to the contrary, Mr. Merivale
thought it well to serve a formal notice to quit Holmcastle upon Mr.
Tresham Potts, and he accompanied it with an offer to produce any
evidence which might seem necessary as to the identity of Wilfred as
the son of the late Squire. Potts was far too shrewd a lawyer to think
even of disputing the matter, and prepared accordingly, with the idea
of avoiding further expense, to evacuate the property from which he
had obtained but little enjoyment; although, by Wilfred’s especial
desire, he was entreated not to inconvenience himself by hurrying his
departure, but to remain, should he so desire it, for three months upon
the estate. Truth to tell, he was not surprised in his inmost soul
at the turn matters had taken. Deep down in his coarse, sensual, and
overbearing nature there was a vein of superstition, and though over
and over again he had chased the idea from his mind as ridiculous and
impossible, he had never forgotten the conviction of Evelyn, that she
had seen her brother’s name in that place in the Family Tree of the
Manwarings from which it had been erased by her father. When, shortly
after his arrival at Holmcastle, his wife had been brought to bed of
a son--when any new instance occurred of the contempt or dislike in
which he was held by even his poorer neighbours--in fits of depression,
after a bout of unusually hard drinking, the lawyer had been wont to
unlock, examine, and re-examine the pedigree, and each time it was a
positive relief to him to find the space which erewhile had contained
the poor boy’s name white and blank. He knew it could not be there,
and yet he was relieved to find that it was not. His pride had been
deeply mortified by the studied neglect of the surrounding gentry,
who were justly incensed at his treatment of Evelyn, to call upon
himself and his wife, and by their avoidance of him upon all public
occasions; and he was enraged at the independence of manner and plain
speaking of the tenantry and labourers, whom he in vain strove to
intimidate by bluster and assumption. And now, when the day came for
his departure from the Manor, a new mortification awaited him. Passing
with his wife and daughters in two open carriages through the village
street on the way to the station, he saw a large bonfire in an open
space near the stocks, and, stopping to ascertain the cause, he beheld
unmistakable effigies of himself and wife (with large red noses),
and of his two eldest daughters (with red wigs), being committed to
the flames amidst the uproarious applause of a large portion of the
inhabitants. Under such untoward circumstances, a wise man would have
gone on his way without appearing to take any notice; but lawyer Potts
was not a wise man, although he was an angry one withal. Seeing, then,
the village constable surveying the conflagration with a broad grin
upon his somewhat stolid countenance, he stood up in the carriage,
and, with a magisterial air, imperiously commanded that functionary to
take two young men into custody who were assisting at the vicarious
_auto-da-fè_, and whom he indicated by name.
“I don’t see as they’ve done nothing to be took up for,” said the
constable, without moving; “they’s on’y amusing of themselves; and,
to tell ’ee the truth, Master Potts, I don’t see as you’ve no cause to
interfere yoursen, seeing as _you don’t belong to the Parish_;”
and then a loud and angry shout arose from the crowd, amidst which Mr.
Potts, with a curse, ordered the coachman to drive on.
On leaving the Manor, Mr. Potts returned to the house which he had
formerly occupied in Clitheroe, which had remained vacant from the time
of his accession to the property of Holmcastle; but the haughtiness and
bullying attitude which he had displayed on his elevation to his former
friends and clients at Clitheroe was remembered against him on his
return, and, finding that he was no longer consulted on legal business,
he retired to Manchester, where he took to hard drinking, and soon
after died in a fit of _delirium tremens_.
After Mr. Elthorne and Mr. Merivale had returned to Lancashire,
Mary Elthorne remained at Hampton Court as the guest of Evelyn; and
the Duke, obtaining leave of absence, came to stay with his mother,
in order to be near his friend; so the four young people were much
together. It only wanted about three months to the day when Wilfred
would come of age, and when the same important epoch in the Duke’s
life would take place only a few days later. It was therefore agreed
that the Duchess and her son should accompany Evelyn and her brother
to Holmcastle, for the coming of age of the latter, and that the whole
party should then proceed together to Ribblesdale Castle, where great
festivities were projected, to celebrate the Duke’s taking possession
of his estates.
Wilfred soon began to find that his new position as a landowner was not
without its troubles. One morning he received the following letter,
which was but a specimen of many which he received within a short time
of his being gazetted:--
Holmcastle Rectory,
_Saturday Night_.
MY DEAR WILFRED,
I am almost in despair, and I look to you alone to help me. I have
a scare that there will be a severe outbreak of scarlet fever in
Holmcastle, and I am afraid that you are the innocent cause thereof.
As you read this, you will think, I know, that I want you to embark
in some great drainage scheme, and perhaps to poison all Arrow Dale
by the establishment of a Sewage Farm, as a work whereby to signalise
your accession to power. In this, however, you are mistaken. The
fact is, that all the best young men and lads in the village, with
Luke Hebblethwaite at their head, are mad to enlist in the army, in
order that they may serve under “the young Squire,” for so they all
call you already. Only the louts and the ne’er-do-wells will remain
behind, and agriculture and trade will be at a standstill. The fact
is, my dear boy, you _ought_ to leave the army, in which you have
already gained the highest possible distinction and honour, for you
are _wanted_ at home, to fulfil the important duties which now
devolve upon you as a landlord and country gentleman. Do pray, then,
resign your commission, and come home for good. If your martial ardour
should continue to burn hotly, you might join the N. L. Militia; and,
between ourselves, I happen to know that the Lord-Lieutenant is bent
upon offering you the command of the North Lancashire Volunteers.
Think over this, and make up your mind to come home and be of
_use_. My wife joins me in kind love to yourself and Evelyn, and
to our truant Mary, who seems never to intend to come home. I am, as
always, your affectionate friend,
CHARLES ELTHORNE.
Wilfred showed this and other letters of like tenour to his sister,
and she, secretly egged on by her friend Mary, took the same side
with his correspondents. Wilfred had certainly no wish to leave the
army, but little by little he began to waver, and at last resolved to
take counsel on the subject with the young Duke of Ribblesdale. To his
surprise, he found that the Duke was all in favour of his resignation.
And then he heard that great pressure was being brought to bear upon
the Duke also, to induce him to take a similar step. In this way, then,
it came about, that after much discussion, _pro_ and _con_,
the two friends agreed that it was their duty to turn their swords into
ploughshares, to live among their own people, and to endeavour to do
their duty as country gentlemen and county magnates. In a short time
the same gazette announced that Her Majesty had been pleased to accept
the resignation of their commissions by Captain His Grace the Duke of
Ribblesdale, and Lieutenant Wilfred Manwaring, V.C.
On the evening before his departure from Hampton Court, with the
consent and approval of Captain Hawkins (who was himself present, and
sang a remarkably good and much-applauded song), Wilfred gave a grand
dinner to all the men of his troop in an ancient brew-house amongst
the offices of the Palace, which was lent by the authorities, and
gorgeously decorated for the occasion. This banquet went off merrily
enough, but the Lieutenant was affected almost to tears when the
troopers, at its close, presented him with a beautiful gun, purchased
by much self-denial on their part, as a parting gift to the comrade
they had loved, and the officer whom they had honoured.
The following morning the party left for the North. When they reached
the station of Oswaldshaugh, which was the nearest to Holmcastle, they
found themselves in the midst of the greatest excitement. The station
yard was crammed with carriages full of ladies--and those who know
North Lancashire the best, will best imagine how lovely many of those
ladies were--all anxious to see the Victoria Cross man and hero of
Candahar. With them were a goodly number of country gentlemen, mostly
on horseback, and at their head the old white-haired Lord Lieutenant,
the Earl of Grangemouth, and there was not a yeoman or farmer in all
Arrow Dale who was not there, each bestriding his stout nag. The
Clitheroe Volunteers, too, were present in force, and were supposed
to be drawn up in line; but when Wilfred, who, sorely against his
will, and only in accordance with the commands of the Duchess and
the entreaties of his sister, wore his uniform and Victoria Cross,
appeared with his sister outside the station, they broke their ranks,
and hustled and bustled, and roared and shouted, and committed every
possible breach of military decorum and decency. And then it turned
out that the Railway Company, knowing the taste of North-countrymen
for an _aout_, had run an excursion train from Preston up to
Oswaldshaugh, full of fine working-men, who wished to see the arrival
of “the Lancashire Hero,” and among them was a young fellow, in
bandsman’s military uniform, who was shouting at the top of his voice,
with an old, white-haired, widowed mother clinging to him, who cried
for joy as if her old heart would break entirely. And in this brave lad
Wilfred recognised the young trumpeter in whose behalf he had erewhile,
amidst the Himalayan mountains, thrashed the bully, Corporal Tozer.
The lad was indeed a native of Preston, and, being home on furlough,
had come up with his old mother to see and welcome his protector. In
short, _The Preston Guardian_ declared Wilfred’s reception to be
“a magnificent Ovation;” but the worthy reporter might have used a
stronger and (in the absence of a shower of rotten eggs) more correct
expression, for in truth it was a perfect triumph.
It was long before the carriage which contained the Duchess of
Ribblesdale and Evelyn, and the young Duke and Wilfred, was allowed
to depart; and the Lord Lieutenant--who, as a near neighbour and old
friend of the family, insisted on riding beside it, and who was a peer
of over seventy, and a widower--lost his heart completely to the fair
young girl.
When the cavalcade reached the bridge of Holmcastle, there were seen
two triumphal arches. One of these was surmounted by an object remotely
resembling a Catharine wheel, beneath which, without strict regard
to grammatical propriety, was inscribed, “Welcome to our Lancashire
Hero and Victoria Cross,” and the other bore the legend, “Long live
the Lovely Lily of our Dale.” And there the villagers were assembled,
young and old, some cheering, others--for they remembered the sweet
disposition and true brotherhood of the young Squire--crying for very
joy. And when at length they reached the Manor, they were met by a
host of old friends. The good Rector himself was the first to open
the carriage door, and the first person to greet Wilfred was Mary
Elthorne, who had been at home for about a fortnight, looking brighter
and fresher than ever, and wearing the most ravishing of summer hats.
You may be sure Mr. Merivale was not absent, and it was old Pinfold
who, trembling with emotion, conducted the lord of the Manor and his
guests into his own house and home. The Rector and Mr. Merivale, who
had managed everything, had found out and disinterred the faithful old
man from a back street in Manchester, where he had betaken himself upon
the arrival of Mr. Tresham Potts at the Manor.
CHAPTER XXIX.
“ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.”
WHEN the festivities at Holmcastle were over--they lasted three days,
and will long be remembered in the lovely Dale of the Arrow--Wilfred
and Evelyn, as had been previously arranged, went on with the Duchess
of Ribblesdale and her son, in order to be present at the still grander
fêtes which were to celebrate the coming of age of the latter.
The previous day, there was a grand picnic up the Dale to the Old Maen
of Stanwick. It was on that occasion that the young Duke, following
Evelyn, who had expressed a wish once more to stand on the peak of
Stanwick Edge, put into practice the resolution he had formed erewhile
in the railway carriage on his way from Hampton Court to London, viz.,
to make an offer of marriage to the beautiful sister of his friend. It
boots not to tell the precise words in which the young man couched his
proposal, but it is needful to record that the young lady’s answer was
monosyllabic, and in the affirmative. And then, after a few minutes,
during which her lover had held her in his arms, the young girl
murmured, “But oh! what will the Duchess think of me?”
“She would have been broken-hearted if your answer had been any other
than what it was,” said the young man, “and I shall take you to her the
moment we get home, for I know that the dearest wish of her heart is to
call you ‘daughter.’”
“Thank God,” cried the Duchess, as she affectionately embraced the
blushing girl; “and I may now confess that, from the first moment I saw
you, I destined you for my son. It is not often that a match-making old
mother is so entirely happy as I am at this moment.”
Love-making is well known to be more catching (and often far more
dangerous) than measles or scarlet-fever, and that perhaps is the
reason why, upon the self-same afternoon, Wilfred, not to be behind
his friend, proposed to and was accepted by pretty Mary Elthorne, whom
he had known and loved from childhood upwards, and who had all the
qualifications of person and disposition which would render the most
fastidious of men happy.
By the Duchess’s special desire, the Rector of Holmcastle, with his
wife, now happily restored to health, and his affianced daughter,
accompanied the rest of the party to Ribblesdale.
The secret of the Duke’s engagement had been well kept; but when, on
the evening of the day of his coming of age, Evelyn Manwaring entered
the state ballroom of Ribblesdale Castle between the Duchess and her
son, and in a perfect blaze of diamonds, then the County came to know
that the wide lands and ancient Castle of Ribblesdale would have a
worthy mistress as well as a noble master.
The Duchess (_Dowager_, as she would thenceforward be rightly
called) had that morning made over to her daughter-in-law elect the
whole of the superb Ribblesdale Diamonds, and henceforward she appeared
wearing the great Scarswicke Emerald alone.
Arrangements were made to hasten on both marriages, and in little more
than a month the newspapers announced that the Lord Bishop of Carlisle,
assisted by the Reverend Charles Elthorne, Rector of Holmcastle, and
the Reverend Peter Butterthwaite, Vicar of Ribblesdale-cum-Wappenshaw,
had united both couples in Ribblesdale Church in the bonds of Holy
Matrimony. His Grace of York, whose taste for aristocratic celebrations
of a matrimonial kind is well known, would have been glad to officiate
himself--but he was not asked.
Wilfred, who, as Mr. Elthorne had predicted, was speedily appointed to
the command of the North Lancashire Volunteers, at once took up his
abode at Holmcastle, which, assisted by his wife’s cultivated taste, he
is gradually beautifying--for, thanks to the coal discovered under his
farms near Ormskirk, he is now a rich man. There is no more popular a
couple in all Lancashire than Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Manwaring.
The good Duchess Dowager, resisting all the entreaties of her son and
daughter to take up her abode with them at Ribblesdale, now, thanks to
her wise administration during her son’s minority, happily freed from
all encumbrances, remains at Hampton Court; but the reigning Duchess
has resigned her apartments in that ancient Palace, having, as mistress
of Ribblesdale, no longer any need to occupy them.
During a flying visit to Town, in endeavouring to cross Regent Street,
Wilfred was cannoned against by another foot-passenger, in whom he was
glad to recognise his kind friend, Mr. Caleb Lomax, of San Francisco,
who was then staying at the Northumberland Hotel with his wife and
family. These worthy people accepted Wilfred’s cordial invitation
that they should visit him in the North; and when the visit to
Holmcastle came to an end, they went on to visit the Duke and Duchess
of Ribblesdale. It was the latter distinguished lady who presented
Mrs. Caleb Lomax, Miss Lomax, Miss Olivia and Miss Aurelia Lomax, of
the United States, to Her Most Gracious Majesty--a fact which you may
be sure was duly recorded, with full particulars of the very handsome
and becoming dresses they wore upon the occasion, in the San Francisco
Dailies.
In a cheerful room, in a snug almshouse overlooking the busy Mersey, an
aged woman may be seen, thankfully passing a serene and peaceful old
age, and awaiting her summons to another and less weary world. This is
no other than old Biddy Maguire, and she owes her comfortable retreat
to the influence of the young Squire of Holmcastle, who never forgot
the blessing she had erewhile invoked upon his head in his hour of
trial and disgrace, and who feels that his present prosperity may be in
some degree owing to the prayers she offered up in his behalf.
Marcus Ward & Co., Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.
=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES=
Simple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced
quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and
otherwise left unbalanced.
Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
preference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not
changed.
Inconsistent hyphens left as printed.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVELYN MANWARING ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
