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THE STORY OF CHARLES STRANGE
A Novel
BY
MRS. HENRY WOOD
AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. I.
LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1888
[_All Rights Reserved_]
CONTENTS OF VOL. I
CHAPTER PAGE
I. EARLY DAYS 1
II. CHANGES 21
III. MR. SERJEANT STILLINGFAR 47
IV. IN ESSEX STREET 73
V. WATTS'S WIFE 95
VI. BLANCHE HERIOT 114
VII. TRIED AT THE OLD BAILEY 144
VIII. THE VINE-COVERED COTTAGE AT PISA 175
IX. COMPLICATIONS 194
X. THE HOUSE AT MARSHDALE 216
XI. THE QUARREL 244
XII. MYSTERY 274
THE STORY OF CHARLES STRANGE.
CHAPTER I.
EARLY DAYS.
I, Charles Strange, have called this my own story, and shall myself
tell a portion of it to the reader; not all.
* * * * *
May was quickly passing. The drawing-room window of White Littleham
Rectory stood open to the sunshine and the summer air: for the years
of warm springs and long summers had not then left the land. The
incumbent of the parish of White Littleham, in Hampshire, was the
Reverend Eustace Strange. On a sofa, near the window, lay his wife, in
her white dress and yellow silk shawl. A young and lovely lady, with a
sweet countenance; her eyes the colour of blue-bells, her face growing
more transparent day by day, her cheeks too often a fatal hectic;
altogether looking so delicately fragile that the Rector must surely
be blind not to suspect the truth. _She_ suspected it. Nay, she no
longer suspected; she knew. Perhaps it was that he would not do so.
"Charley!"
I sat at the end of the room in my little state chair, reading a new
book of fairy tales that papa had given me that morning. He was as
orthodox a divine as ever lived, but not strait-laced, and he liked
children to read fairy tales. At the moment I was deep in a tale
called "Finetta," about a young princess shut up in a high tower. To
me it was enchanting.
"Yes, mamma."
"Come to me, dear."
Leaving the precious book behind me, I crossed the room to the sofa.
My mother raised herself. Holding me to her with one hand, she pushed
with the other the hair from my face and gazed into it. That my face
was very much like hers, I knew. It had been said a hundred times in
my hearing that I had her dark-blue eyes and her soft brown hair and
her well-carved features.
"My pretty boy," she said caressingly, "I am so sorry! I fear you are
disappointed. I think we might have had them. You were always promised
a birthday party, you know, when you should be seven years old."
There had been some discussion about it. My mother thought the little
boys and girls might come; but papa and Leah said, "No--it would
fatigue her."
"I don't mind a bit, mamma," I answered. "I have my book, and it is so
pretty. They can come next year, you know, when you are well again."
She sighed deeply. Getting up from the sofa, she took up two books
that were on the stand behind her, and sat down again. Early in the
spring some illness had seized her that I did not understand. She
ought to have been well again by this time, but was not so. She left
her room and came downstairs, and saw friends when they called: but
instead of growing stronger she grew weaker.
"She was never robust, and it has been too much for her," I overheard
Leah say to one of the other servants, in allusion to the illness.
"What if I should not be here at your next birthday, Charley?" she
asked sadly, holding me to her side as she sat.
"But where should you be, mamma?"
"Well, my child, I think--sometimes I think--that by that time I may
be in heaven."
I felt suddenly seized with a sort of shivering. I neither spoke nor
cried; at seven years old many a child only imperfectly realizes the
full meaning of anything like this. My eyes became misty.
"Don't cry, Charley. All that God does must be for the best, you know:
and heaven is a better world than this."
"Oh, mamma, you must get well; you must!" I cried, words and tears
bursting forth together. "Won't you come out, and grow strong in the
sunshine? See how warm and bright it is! Look at the flowers in the
grass!"
"Ay, dear; it is all very bright and warm and beautiful," she said,
looking across the garden to the field beyond it. "The grass is
growing long, and the buttercups and cowslips and blue-bells are all
there. Soon they will be cut down and the field will be bare. Next
year the grass and the flowers will spring up again, Charlie: but we,
once we are taken, will spring up no more in this world: only in
heaven."
"But don't you think you _will_ get well, mamma? Can't you _try_ to?"
"Well, dear--yes, I will try to do so. I _have_ tried. I am trying
every day, Charley, for I should not like to go away and leave my
little boy."
With a long sigh, that it seemed to me I often heard from her now, she
lay for a moment with her head on the back of the sofa and closed her
eyes. Then she sat forward again, and took up one of the books.
"I meant to give you a little book to-day, Charley, as well as papa.
Look, it is called 'Sintram.' A lady gave it me when I was twelve
years old; and I have always liked it. You are too young to understand
it yet, but you will do so later."
"Here's some poetry!" I cried, turning the leaves over. The
pleasure of the gift had chased away my tears. Young minds are
impressionable--and had she not just said she would try to get well?
"I will repeat it to you, Charley," she answered. "Listen."
"Repeat it?" I interrupted. "Do you know it by heart?--all?"
"Yes, all; every line of it.
"'When death is drawing near,
And thy heart sinks with fear,
And thy limbs fail,
Then raise thy hands and pray
To Him who cheers the way,
Through the dark vale.
"'See'st thou the eastern dawn?
Hear'st thou, in the red morn,
The angels' song?
Oh! lift thy drooping head,
Thou who in gloom and dread
Hast lain so long.
"'Death comes to set thee free;
Oh! meet him cheerily,
As thy true friend;
And all thy fears shall cease,
And in eternal peace
Thy penance end.'
You see, Charley, death comes not as a foe, but as a friend to those
who have learnt to look for him, for he is sent by God," she continued
in a loving voice as she smoothed back my hair with her gentle hand.
"I want you to learn this bit of poetry by heart, and to say it
sometimes to yourself in future years. And--and--should mamma have
gone away, then it will be pleasant to you to remember that the
angels' song came to cheer her--as I know it will come--when she was
setting out on her journey. Oh! very pleasant! and the same song and
the same angel will cheer your departure, my darling child, when the
appointed hour for it shall come to you."
"Shall we _see_ the angel?"
"Well--yes--with the eye of faith. And it is said that some good
people have really seen him; have seen the radiant messenger who has
come to take them to the eternal shores. You will learn it, Charley,
won't you--and never forget it?"
"I'll learn it all, every verse; and I will never forget it, mamma."
"I am going to give you this book, also, Charley," she went on,
bringing forward the other. "You----"
"Why, that's your Bible, mamma!"
"Yes, dear, it is my Bible; but I should like it to be yours. And I
hope it will be as good a friend to you as it is now to me. I shall
still use it myself, Charley, for a little while. You will lend it me,
won't you? and later, it will be all your own."
"Shall you buy another for yourself, then?"
She did not answer. Her face was turned to the window; her yearning
eyes were fixed in thought upon the blue sky; her hot hands were
holding mine. In a moment, to my consternation, she bent her face upon
mine and burst into a flood of tears. What I should have said or done,
I know not; but at that moment my father came swiftly out of his
study, into the room. He was a rather tall man with a pale, grave
face, very much older than his wife.
"Do you chance to remember, Lucy, where that catalogue of books was
put that came last week? I want----"
Thus far had he spoken, when he saw the state of things; both crying
together. He broke off in vexation.
"How can you be so silly, Lucy--so imprudent! I will not have it. You
don't allow yourself a chance to get well--giving way to these low
spirits! What is the matter?"
"It is nothing," she replied, with another of those long sighs. "I was
talking a little to Charley, and a fit of crying came on. It has not
harmed me, Eustace."
"Charley, boy, I saw some fresh sweet violets down in the dingle this
morning. Go you and pick some for mamma," he said. "Never mind your
hat: it is as warm as midsummer."
I was ready for the dingle, which was only across the field, and to
pick violets at any time, and I ran out. Leah Williams was coming in
at the garden gate.
"Now, Master Charles! Where are you off to? And without your hat!"
"I'm going to the dingle, to get some fresh violets for mamma. Papa
said my hat did not matter."
"Oh," said Leah, glancing doubtfully at the window. I glanced too. He
had sat down on the sofa by mamma then, and was talking to her
earnestly, his head bent. She had her handkerchief up to her face.
Leah attacked me again.
"You've been crying, you naughty boy! Your eyes are wet still. What
was that for?"
I did not say what: though I had much ado to keep the tears from
falling. "Leah," I whispered, "do you think mamma will get well?"
"Bless the child!" she exclaimed, after a pause, during which she had
looked again at the window and back at me. "Why, what's to hinder
it?--with all this fine, beautiful warm weather! Don't you turn
fanciful, Master Charley, there's a darling! And when you've picked
the violets, you come to me; I'll find a slice of cake for you."
Leah had been with us about two years, as upper servant, attending
upon mamma and me, and doing the sewing. She was between twenty and
thirty then, an upright, superior young woman, kind in the main,
though with rather a hard face, and faithful as the day. The other
servants called her Mrs. Williams, for she had been married and was a
widow. Not tall, she yet looked so, she was so remarkably thin. Her
gray eyes were deep-set, her curls were black, and she had a high,
fresh colour. Everyone, gentle and simple, wore curls at that time.
The violets were there in the dingle, sure enough; both blue and
white. I picked a handful, ran in with them, and put them on my
mother's lap. The Rector was sitting by her still, but he got up then.
"Oh, Charley, they are very sweet," she said with a smile--"very sweet
and lovely. Thank you, my precious boy, my darling."
She kissed me a hundred times. She might have kissed me a hundred
more, but papa drew me away.
"Do not tire yourself any more to-day, Lucy; it is not good for you.
Charley, boy, you can take your fairy tales and show them to Leah."
* * * * *
The day of the funeral will never fade from my memory; and yet I can
only recall some of its incidents. What impressed me most was that
papa did not stand at the grave in his surplice reading the service,
as I had seen him do at other funerals. Another clergyman was in his
place, and he stood by me in silence, holding my hand. And he told me,
after we returned home, that mamma was not herself in the cold dark
grave, but a happy angel in heaven looking down upon me.
And so the time went on. Papa was more grave than of yore, and taught
me my lessons daily. Leah indulged and scolded me alternately, often
sang to me, for she had a clear voice, and when she was in a good
humour would let me read "Sintram" and the fairy tales to her.
The interest of mamma's money--which was now mine--brought in three
hundred a year. She had enjoyed it all; I was to have (or, rather, my
father for me) just as much of it as the two trustees chose to allow,
for it was strictly tied up in their hands. When I was twenty-four
years of age--not before--the duties of the trustees would cease, and
the whole sum, six thousand pounds, would come into my uncontrolled
possession. One of the trustees was my mother's uncle, Mr. Serjeant
Stillingfar; the other I did not know. Of course the reader will
understand that I do not explain these matters from my knowledge at
that time; but from what I learnt when I was older.
* * * * *
Nearly a year had gone by, and it was warm spring weather again. I sat
in my brown-holland dress in the dingle amidst the wild flowers. A lot
of cowslips lay about me; I had been picking the flowers from the
stalks to make into a ball. The sunlight flickered through the trees,
still in their tender green; the sky was blue and cloudless. My straw
hat, with broad black ribbons, had fallen off; my white socks and
shoes were stretched out before me. Fashion is always in extremes.
Then it was the custom to dress a child simply up to quite an
advanced age.
Why it should have been so, I know not; but while I sat, there came
over me a sudden remembrance of the day when I had come to the dingle
to pick those violets for mamma, and a rush of tears came on. Leah
took good care of me, but she was not my mother. My father was good,
and grave, and kind, but he did not give me the love that she had
given. A mother's love would never be mine again, and I knew it; and
in that moment was bitterly feeling it.
One end of the string was held between my teeth, the other end in my
left hand, and my eyes were wet with tears. I strung the cowslips as
well as I could. But it was not easy, and I made little progress.
"S'all I hold it for oo?"
Lifting my eyes in surprise--for I had thought the movement in the
dingle was only Leah, coming to see after me--there stood the sweetest
fairy of a child before me. The sleeves of her cotton frock and white
pinafore were tied up with black ribbons; her face was delicately
fair, her eyes were blue as the sky, and her light curls fell low on
her pretty neck. My child heart went out to her with a bound, then and
there.
"What oo trying for, 'ittle boy?"
"I was crying for mamma. She's gone away from me to heaven."
"S'all I tiss oo?"
And she put her little arms round my neck, without waiting for
permission, and gave me a dozen kisses.
"Now we make the ball, 'ittle boy. S'all oo dive it to me?"
"Yes, I will give it to you. What is your name?"
"Baby. What is oors?"
"Charles. Do you----"
"You little toad of a monkey!--giving me this hunt! How came you to
run away?"
The words were spoken by a tall, handsome boy, quite old compared with
me, who had come dashing through the dingle. He caught up the child
and began kissing her fondly. So the words were not meant to hurt her.
"It was oo ran away, Tom."
"But I ordered you to stop where I left you--and to sit still till I
came back again. If you run away by yourself in the wood, you'll meet
a great bear some day and he'll eat you up. Mind that, Miss Blanche.
The mamsie is in a fine way; thinks you're lost, you silly little
thing."
"Dat 'towslip ball for me, Tom."
Master Tom condescended to turn his attention upon me and the ball. I
guessed now who they were: a family named Heriot, who had recently
come to live at the pretty white cottage on the other side the copse.
Tom was looking at me with his fine dark eyes.
"You are the parson's son, I take it, youngster. I saw you in the
parson's pew on Sunday with an old woman."
"She is not an old woman," I said, jealous for Leah.
"A young one, then. What's your name?"
"Charles Strange."
"He dot no mamma, he try for her," put in the child. "Oo come to my
mamma, ittle boy; she love oo and tiss oo."
"When I have made your ball."
"Oh, bother the ball!" put in Tom. "We can't wait for that: the
mamsie's in a rare way already. You can come home with us if you like,
youngster, and finish your ball afterwards."
Leaving the cowslips, I caught up my hat and we started, Tom carrying
the child. I was a timid, sensitive little fellow, but took courage to
ask him a question.
"Is your name Tom Heriot?"
"Well, yes, it _is_ Tom Heriot--if it does you any good to know it.
And this is Miss Blanche Heriot. And I wish you were a bit bigger and
older; I'd make you my playfellow."
We were through the copse in a minute or two and in sight of the white
cottage, over the field beyond it. Mrs. Heriot stood at the garden
gate, looking out. She was a pretty little plump woman, with a soft
voice, and wore a widow's cap. A servant in a check apron was with
her, and knew me. Mrs. Heriot scolded Blanche for running away from
Tom while she caressed her, and turned to smile at me.
"It is little Master Strange," I heard the maid say to her. "He lost
his mother a year ago."
"Oh, poor little fellow!" sighed Mrs. Heriot, as she held me before
her and kissed me twice. "What a nice little lad it is!--what lovely
eyes! My dear, you can come here whenever you like, and play with Tom
and Blanche."
Some few years before, this lady had married Colonel Heriot, a widower
with one little boy--Thomas. After that, Blanche was born: so that she
and Tom were, you see, only half-brother-and sister. When Blanche was
two years old--she was three now--Colonel Heriot died, and Mrs. Heriot
had come into the country to economize. She was not at all well off;
had, indeed, little beyond what was allowed her with the two children:
all their father's fortune had lapsed to them, and she had no control
over it. Tom had more than Blanche, and was to be brought up for a
soldier.
As we stood in a group outside the gate, papa came by. Seeing me, he
naturally stopped, took off his hat to Mrs. Heriot, and spoke. That is
how the acquaintanceship began, without formal introduction on either
side. Taking the pretty little girl in his arms, he began talking to
her: for he was very fond of children. Mrs. Heriot said something to
him in a low, feeling tone about his wife's death.
"Yes," he sighed in answer, as he put down the child: "I shall never
recover her loss. I live only in the hope of rejoining her THERE."
He glanced up at the blue sky: the pure, calm, peaceful canopy of
heaven.