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This eBook was prepared by Les Bowler.
THAT STICK
BY
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE
AUTHOR OF 'THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE', 'UNKNOWN TO HISTORY', ETC.
[Picture: She was a little brown mouse of a woman, with soft dark eyes,
smooth hair, and a clear olive complexion]
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1892
_All rights reserved_
Chap. Page
1 HONOURS 1
2 HONOURS REFLECTED 9
3 WHAT IS HONOUR? 20
4 HONOURS WANING 25
5 THE PEER 29
6 THE WEIGHT OF HONOURS 36
7 MORTONS AND MANNERS 41
8 SECOND THOUGHTS 49
9 THE HEIR-PRESUMPTUOUS 53
10 COMING HONOURS 64
11 POSSESSION 70
12 THE BURTHEN OF HONOURS 77
13 THE DOWER HOUSE 81
14 WESTHAVEN VERSIONS OF 88
HONOURS
15 THE PIED ROOK 99
16 WHAT IS REST? 107
17 ON THE SURFACE 114
18 DESDICHADO 120
19 THE DOLOMITES 129
20 RATZES 137
21 THE HEIR-APPARENT 143
22 OUT OF JOINT 147
23 VELVET 155
24 THE REVENGE OF SORDID 163
SPIRITS
25 THE LOVE 169
26 IDA'S WARNING 175
27 THE YOUNG PRETENDER 180
28 TWO BUNDLES OF HAY 187
29 JONES OR RATTLER 193
30 SCARLET FEVER 202
31 MITE 208
32 A SHOCK 216
33 DARKNESS 223
34 THE PHANTOM OF THE 230
STATION
35 THE QUEST 239
36 IDA'S CONFESSION 247
37 HOPE 252
38 THE CLUE 262
39 THE HONOURABLE PAUPER 270
40 JOY WELL-NIGH 277
INCREDIBLE
41 THE CANADIAN NORTHMOOR 284
42 HUMBLE PIE 290
43 THE STAFF 295
CHAPTER I
HONOURS
'Oh, there's that stick. What can he want?' sighed one of a pair of
dignified elderly ladies, in black silk, to the other, as in a quiet
country-town street they saw themselves about to be accosted by a man of
about forty, with the air of a managing clerk, who came up breathlessly,
with a flush on his usually pale cheeks.
'Miss Lang; I beg pardon! May I be allowed a few words with Miss
Marshall? I know it is unusual, but I have something unusual to tell
her.'
'Nothing distressing, I hope, Mr. Morton,' said one of the ladies,
startled.
'Oh no, quite the reverse,' he said, with a nervous laugh; 'in fact, I
have unexpectedly come into a property!'
'Indeed!' with great astonishment, 'I congratulate you,' as the colour
mounted in his face, pleasant, honest, but with the subdued expression
left by long years of patience in a subordinate position.
'May I ask--' began the other sister.
'I hardly understand it yet,' was the answer; 'but I must go to town by
the 5.10 train, and I should like her to hear it from myself.'
'Oh, certainly; it does you honour, Mr. Morton.'
They were entering the sweep of one of those large substantial houses on
the outskirts of country towns that have a tendency to become
boarding-schools, and such had that of the Misses Lang been long before
the days of the High School.
'Fortunately it is recreation-time,' said Miss Lang, as she conducted Mr.
Morton to the drawing-room, hung round with coloured drawings, in good
taste, if stiff, and chiefly devoted to interviews with parents.
'Poor little Miss Marshall!' murmured one sister, when they had shut him
in.
'What a loss she will be!'
'She deserves any good fortune.'
'She does. Is it not twenty years?'
'Twenty-two next August, sister.'
Yes, it was twenty-two years since Mary Marshall had been passed from the
Clergy Orphan Asylum to be English governess at Miss Lang's excellent
school at Hurminster. In that town resided, with her two sons, Mrs.
Morton, the widow of a horse-dealing farmer in the late Mr. Marshall's
parish. On discovering the identity of the English governess with the
little girl who had admired the foals, lambs, and chickens in past times,
Mrs. Morton gave invitations to tea. She was ladylike, the sons
unexceptionable, and no objection could reasonably be made by the Misses
Lang, though the acquaintance was regretted by them.
Mr. Morton, the father, had died in debt and distress, and the eldest son
had been thankful for a clerkship in the office of Mr. Burford, a
solicitor in considerable practice, and man of business to several of the
county magnates. Frank Morton was not remarkable for talent or
enterprise, but he was plodding and trustworthy, methodical and accurate,
and he had continued in the same position, except that time had made him
senior instead of junior clerk. Partly from natural disposition, partly
from weight of responsibility, he had always been a grave, steady youth,
one of those whom their contemporaries rank as sticks and muffs, because
not exalted by youthful spirits or love of daring. His mother and
brother had always been his primary thought; and his recreations were of
the sober-sided sort--the chess club, the institute, the choral society.
He was a useful, though not a distinguished, member of the choir of St.
Basil's Church, and a punctual and diligent Sunday-school teacher of the
least interesting boys. To most of the world of Hurminster he was almost
invisible, to the rest utterly insignificant. Even his mother was far
less occupied with him than with his brother Charles, who was much
handsomer, more amusing and spirited, as well as far less contented or
easy to be reckoned upon. But there was one person to whom he was
everything, namely, little brown-eyed, soft-voiced Mary Marshall.
She felt herself the happiest of creatures when, after two years of
occasional evening teas and walks to Evensong at St. Basil's, it was
settled that she should become his wife as soon as his salary should be
increased, and Charlie be in condition to assist in supporting his
mother. Ever since, Mary had rested on that hope, and the privileges it
gave. She had loyally informed the Misses Lang, who were scarcely
propitious, but could not interfere, as long as their pupils (or they
believed so) surmised nothing. So the Sunday evening intercourse became
more frequent, and in the holidays, when the homeless governess had
always remained to superintend cleaning and repairs, there were many
pleasant hours spent with kind old Mrs. Morton, who, if she had ever
wished that Frank had waited longer and chosen some one with means, never
betrayed it to the girl whom she soon loved as a daughter.
Two years had at first been thought of as the period of patience.
Charles had a situation as clerk in a shipping office at Westhaven, a
small seaport about twenty miles off, and his mother was designing to go
to keep house for him, when he announced that his banns had been asked
with the daughter of the captain and part-owner of a small trading vessel
of the port.
The Hurminster couple must defer their plans till further promotion; and
so far from helping his mother, Charles ere long was applying to her,
when in need, for family expenses.
Then came a terrible catastrophe. Charlie had been ill, and in his
convalescence was taken on a voyage by his father-in-law. There was a
collision in the Channel, and the _Emma Jane_ and all on board were lost.
The insurance did not cover the pecuniary loss; debts came to light, and
nothing was left for the widow and her three children except a seaside
lodging-house in which her father had invested his savings.
The children's education and great part of their maintenance must fall on
their uncle; and again his marriage must wait till this burthen was
lessened. Old Mrs. Morton died; and meetings thus became more difficult
and infrequent. Frank had hoped to retain the little house where he had
lived so long; but his sister-in-law's demands were heavy, and he found
himself obliged to sell his superfluous furniture, and commit himself to
the rough attendance of the housekeeper at the office, where two rooms
were granted to him.
Thus had year after year gone by, unmarked except by the growth of the
young people at Westhaven and the demand of their mother on the savings
that were to have been a nest-egg, while gray threads began to appear in
Mary's hair, and Frank's lighter locks to leave his temples bare.
So things stood when, on this strange afternoon, Miss Marshall was
summoned mysteriously from watching the due performance of an imposition,
and was told, outside the door, that Mr. Morton wanted to speak to her.
It was startling news, for though the Misses Lang were kindly women, and
had never thrown obstacles in the way of her engagement, they had merely
permitted it, and almost ignored it, except when old Mrs. Morton was
dying, and they had freely facilitated her attendance. 'Surely something
as dreadful as the running down of the _Emma Jane_ must have happened!'
thought Mary as she sped to the drawing-room. She was a little brown
mouse of a woman, with soft dark eyes, smooth hair, and a clear olive
complexion, on which thirty-eight years of life and eighteen of waiting
had not left much outward trace; for the mistresses were good women, who
had never oppressed their underling, and though she had not met with much
outward sympathy or companionship, the one well of hope and joy might at
times suffer drought, but had never run dry, any more than the better
fountain within and beyond.
In she came, with eyes alarmed but ready to console. 'Oh, Frank, what is
it? What can I do for you?'
'It is no bad news,' was his greeting, as he put his arm round her
trembling little figure and kissed her brow. 'Only too good.'
'Oh, is Mrs. Charles going to be married?' the only hopeful contingency
she could think of.
'No,' he said; 'but, Mary, an extraordinary incident has taken place. I
have inherited a property.'
'A property? You are well off! Oh, thank God!' and she clasped her
hands, then held his. 'At last! But what? How? Did you know?'
'I knew of the connection, but that the family had never taken notice of
my father. As to the rest I was entirely unprepared. My
great-grandfather was a younger son of the first Lord Northmoor, but for
some misconduct was cast off and proscribed. As you know, my grandfather
and father devoted themselves to horses on the old farm, and made no
pretensions to gentility. The elder branch of the family was once
numerous, but it must have since dwindled till the old lord was left with
only a little grandson, who died of diphtheria a short time before his
grandfather.'
'Poor old man!' began Mary. 'Then--oh! do you mean that he died too?'
'Yes; he was ill before, and this was a fatal blow. It appears that he
was aware that I was next in the succession, and after the boy's death
had desired the solicitor to write to me as heir-at-law.'
'Heir-at-law! Frank, do you mean that you are--' she said, turning pale.
'Baron Northmoor,' he answered, 'and you, my patient Mary, will be the
baroness as soon as may be.'
'Oh, Frank!'--and there was a rush of tears--'dear Frank, your hard work
and cares are all over!'
'I am not sure of that,' he said gravely; 'but, at least, this long
waiting is over, and I can give you everything.'
'But, oh!' she cried, sobbing uncontrollably, with her face hidden in her
handkerchief.
'Mary, Mary! what does this mean? Don't you understand? There's nothing
to hinder it now.'
She made a gesture as if to put him back from her, and struggled for
utterance.
'It is very dear, very good; but--but it can't be now. You must not drag
yourself down with me.'
'That is just nonsense, Mary. You are far fitter for this than I am.
You are the one joy in it to me.'
'You think so now,' she said, striving to hold herself back; 'but you
won't by and by.'
'Do you think me a mere boy to change so easily?' said the new lord
earnestly. 'I look on this as a heavy burthen and very serious
responsibility: but it is to you whom I look to sweeten it, help me
through with it, and guard me from its temptations.'
'If I could.'
'Come, Mary, I am forced to go to London immediately, and then on to the
funeral. I shall miss the train if I remain another minute. Don't send
me away with a sore heart. Tell me that your affection has not been worn
out by these weary years.'
'You cannot think so, Frank,' she sobbed. 'You know it has only grown.
I only want to do what is best for you.'
'Not another word,' he said, with a fresh kiss. 'That is all I want for
the present.'
He was gone, while Mary crept up to her little attic, there to weep out
her agitated, uncertain feelings.
'Oh, he is so good! He deserves to be great. That I should be his first
thought! Dear dear fellow! But I ought to give him up. I ought not to
be a drag on him. It would not be fair on him. I can love him and watch
him all the same; but oh, how dreary it will be to have no Sunday
afternoons! Is this selfish? Is this worldly? Oh, help me to do right,
and hold to what is best for him!'
And whenever poor Mary had any time to herself out of sight of curious
eyes, she spent it in concocting a letter that went near to the breaking
of her constant heart.